Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

WHITECHAPEL, LONDON, 1891

It was a bitter night in London, colder still for the wretched inhabitants of the Rookery. The air was laden with the overpowering blood-stink of slaughterhouses and smokestacks. Snow mixed with ash and fell to the narrow streets, quickly stamped into gray slush by hundreds of feet and hooves, perpetually adding to the buildup of slime pooling from between the cobblestones and into the gutters. Not even the coppers dared to set foot in Ogre Street; in these parts of London, an intact window was a rarity that would in short order be smashed by the starving wolves that prowled the night.

One such place on Ogre Street where food and warmth could be found, for a cost, was at the Crimson King public house. Those that could not afford a penny or two for a meal could still pay a farthing for the privilege of standing in the hearth-warmed space, provided they looked “clean enough” not to scare off customers.

Unfortunately for Mary Kelly, she could neither afford food nor warmth, and it was not long before she was, in a rather undignified manner, tossed  out of the crowded pub and into the streets. She fell on her arse into a puddle, slime and mud soiling her skirt. Wrapping a patchwork shawl tight around her thin shoulders more for comfort than whatever little warmth it could provide, the girl gazed desperately at the barkeep.

“Please, good sir, mercy… It wasn’t three weeks ago that I was employed by the shirt factory ‘till the coppers shut it down, an’ I’ve got nowhere and no one… I haven’t eaten in days… some work is all I ask for; I’ll earn my keep! I can wash dishes, and the like…”

The pub owner scratched his chin in contemplation. He furrowed his centipede brows and examined the Irish girl as a butcher would inspect a cut of meat. Bone-thin with sunken cheeks, now scarlet from the cold, and her skin still had the smooth radiance of youthful beauty, beneath the greasy film of slime from the city streets. Her mane of frizzy red hair could probably be tamed into something less feral, and there was something pretty about her blue eyes, even when they glittered with tears.

“Miss… with a face like yours, there’ll always be plenty of work for you at Aunt Dorsey’s knocking-house down the road. But if that’s too low for you, if you tidy up and don’t show your teeth, I reckon you could even be some fancy-man’s pet. Not too fancy, but fancy enough for your lot.”

Mary let out a noise of astonishment. “Y-you misunderstand me! That’s… not the kind of work I want!” she cried.

The pub owner flicked the butt of his cigarette at the girl and turned around. “Not my problem, is it?” he said, walking back inside and closing the door after him with a thud loud enough to make her jump.

She sat there in that slimy puddle of Ogre Street filth for about a minute, too dumbstruck to weep. When she stood up, she lost her balance from the dizzying hunger, and danced backwards, her vision fading a moment.

Velvet-gloved hands caught her by the arms before she could fall on her arse again.

“Careful, love…” a gentle voice murmured in her ear. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt…”

As her sight un-blurred, Mary looked down at the man’s boots. Well-made. Shiny black leather. This gent had come out of nowhere and he was wearing first-rate boots for a stroll around Ogre Street?

“Uh… are you a skid?” she asked before she realized the audacity of her assumption. “I mean– begging your pardon, but your boots seem too nice for going about these filthy streets…”

The man chuckled. “No. I’m merely a landlord. I own the flats at Miller’s Court…”

“Oh, the doss-houses?” Mary asked brightly, then immediately corrected herself. “N-not to denigrate those flats! That’s just what we call ‘em.”

She finally looked up at the gentleman’s face. He was… certainly not of stunning height, but his grizzled countenance was still handsome enough for a man that appeared in his fifties; eyes like green absinthe, blonde hair beginning to show a peppering of gray, tied neatly in the back with a ribbon.

He gave a good-natured laugh at Mary’s awkwardness. “Never you mind. I know what my tenants call them. Speaking of… I could not help but overhear your conversation with the proprietor of that public house. Seems you're in a predicament… why don’t we go back inside, have something warm to eat and drink? I’ve got a proposition that may interest you…”

His breath smelled of whisky. Mary’s mother always used to say, “Booze on his breath, lies on his tongue,” but Mary’s hunger for a proper meal and a half hour of warmth was powerful enough to banish away the memory of the stern Irishwoman.

By the time the church bells rang out for nine o’clock, Mary was full of wine and food and warmth, telling her life story to this stranger – family fled Ireland to escape debts, only to end up in a London workhouse after accruing more debts. Then her parents died of cholera from the unsanitary city water, leaving Mary to fend for herself at 15. She worked four years in a factory that made gentlemans’ shirts, but it had been shut down less than a month ago and now she had nowhere else to go. The stranger listened intently, and ordered more wine whenever Mary’s glass ran out.

His proposition involved putting her up in a flat for one month, free of charge, and that he would help find work for her at the London docks, where he had "connections." Mary agreed without hesitation; she trusted this man as she might have trusted her own father by that point.

He allowed her to cling to his arm as they exited the pub to brave the icy winds yet again. It had grown even colder, but Mary was still happily babbling away, nose red as a cherry from her drunkenness. 

“You know… I’ve heard folks saying that sometimes the wind around Miller’s Court sounds like it’s screaming. Or howling.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. It’s not… haunted, is it, sir?”

“Well, Mary… Ireland’s got the real nasty spirits… the banshees and fairy-folk… If Miller’s Court is indeed haunted, I imagine English ghosts are far more… dull. They’d just… complain about the rain and ask for tea and biscuits and rugby scores. Am I wrong?”

Mary laughed so heartily that other passers-bys glanced at them.

The stranger guided Mary through an alley, towards the door with "13" nailed to the door in wrought iron numbers.

“Number thirteen, eh?” She stamped her feet on the ground, partly to keep warm, but also out of giddiness to see her new flat. She knew it would be a one-room type of joint, nothing fancy, but it would be her room, not shared with ten other people in a filthy common-lodging house.

The man’s keyring jangled as he found the proper key, then turned it into the lock. It made a dull click and the door opened.

“I’ll show you inside. In case you’re still afraid of ghosts…”

The room was pitch-black until the landlord lit an oil lamp in the center table of the room, the only other furnishing besides the bedframe and ragged mattress.  Not that Mary was in any state to care about the conditions. She twirled around the room, simply overjoyed to have met this man by chance.

She did not even notice he closed the door and locked it behind him. 

“What’s this bucket, ‘ere? Does it come with the room?” she asked, pointing to a plain wooden bucket on the table, the sort that looked like it was for the wash. Mary could use a bucket like that, with her skirt all drenched in mud. In fact, all of the clothes she wore could use a good wash. She could use a good wash.

“Ah, that bucket…” the man smiled, which shifted the direction of the  shadows flickering across his face. “Why don’t you take a peek inside?”

Mary obliged…. But as she peered within the depths of the unassuming bucket, squinting in the dim lamplight, she let out a shriek, quickly covering her mouth to muffle the noise.

Inside the bucket was an assortment of bones. A pair of ribs, a vertebra or two, a pelvis… finger bones… She quickly counted seven. Seven bones. Scrubbed clean of any flesh and blood.

"These are… from… an animal, I’d hope?”

“As opposed to what? A human bone? Most scientists classify humans as animals, you know,” the man said with chilling nonchalance. Though nothing in his voice or countenance had changed, Mary was struck by a deep discomfort and instinctively glanced towards the door, only to see the landlord was leaning with his back against it.

Mary tried to swallow, but her mouth suddenly felt dry.

“I’m… begging your pardon, sir… without the– without carrying-on like this is a joke, tell me… why is there a bucket full of bones in here? Do they belong to a human?”

The man pulled a cigarette from his tin and lit it with a match, offering another to Mary. She declined with a slight shake of the head, eyes sharpening with defiance in spite of her fear.

The man met her stare with his glass-green eyes, taking a few puffs of the cigarette before he spoke again. “Truthfully, Mary… I haven't the faintest idea where that old bucket originally came from, but I can't seem to get rid of it, regardless. It's got a unique quality to it. Ah… but it would be more effective if you witness this effect yourself, of course. Go on… try pulling a bone from out of it. I promise it won’t hurt you.”

“I– I’m in no mood for whimsy or-or parlor tricks, sir!” Mary retorted, surprising herself with her own boldness. “I’d appreciate if you could answer my questions… there’s a strangeness about you… a strangeness I never sensed when we were at the pub…”

“Take a bone out of the bucket, Mary.” 

There was an implicit threat behind this gently-intoned command, and she felt compelled to obey yet again.

The girl pulled one of the ribs from out of the bucket.

A faint whoosh of cool air brushed against her cheek, and but a second later, another bone instantly appeared in the bucket, making a rattling sound as it dropped and settled alongside the others.

It was a completely different bone than the rib still in her hand, possibly an arm bone or a leg bone; Mary did not have the know-how to tell the difference. She shrieked again in terror, dropping the rib on the table.

“Sir, this… this is a trick, right?”

“Count the bones, Mary.”

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… seven bones in the bucket, and one on the table withal. Eight bones. Eight.

“There were seven in the bucket… and when I took one out… another bone appeared in the bucket to make it seven again. Is this merely an illusion, or is it the handiwork of some devil?! Answer me!"

The landlord chuckled coolly.

“In sooth, Mary, I have no idea why this bucket bound itself to me, or why it has this ability. You did not see it, but after you took the bone, a tiny phantom appeared. It moves so swiftly that all I can catch is a glimpse of it, and no one else seems to be able to see it at all. Ah, but the bones… yes… why did another bone re-appear, just like magic? The simplest explanation of its ability is that this ‘phantom’ or spirit I mentioned makes certain that there are always seven bones from seven different human bodies in this bucket. It does not matter from who the bones came from, so long as there are always seven. If there are not seven bones, the phantom kills someone and brings one of their bones back to the bucket. There must always be seven bones."

“K-kills someone?! Who?”

The man shrugged. “Anyone. Any random one person on this earth dies instantly. Could be someone here in London, or it could be some unfortunate bloke all the way in India. I like to think of this phantom as the ‘Grim Reaper.’ Or, perhaps, in Ireland you may have called it a Dullahan, no?"

The girl was at a loss for words. “You’re– you… but why ?” she gasped, unable to properly articulate the thousand and one horrors in her head.

“As I said, Mary, I was not the one that created the bucket, so I kindly request that you stop asking questions I cannot properly answer. Granted, the bucket has certainly provided me with endless amusement, and one of my favorite pastimes is perusing the international newspapers for reports on unexplained deaths. I look for notices of individuals that died instantly… a ten-year-old girl dropped dead gathering berries in a Prussian village, found missing a tibia… a 65-year-old man found floating in a public bath in Rome, with a rib cleanly removed… neither of them with any evidence of surgical scars…”

He placed his hands on Mary’s shoulders. She immediately recoiled and stumbled backwards, bumping into the table. The bone bucket rattled, and Mary grabbed it with her hands, preventing it from falling. 

If the entire bucket were to fall, and all the bones spill out to the floor… seven more would die…

“So, Mary Kelly… knowing how this bucket works, and how it must always replenish itself when a bone is removed… would you remove another bone? What if that was the only way I might spare your life?"

Mary stared without blinking. She said nothing. 

"If you take another bone… perhaps you and I can forget all of this ever happened, and true to my word, I’ll speak to my contacts at the docks, and maybe you can eke out a decent living for yourself, drink the guilt away. Convince yourself I was simply playing an awful trick. Mary, you’ve got a good heart. That’s why you’re so poor and so hungry and so desperate. You don’t have it in you to step over others. You wouldn’t kill or steal or even cheat at cards. You’re miserable and pathetic and dirty because your softness forces reliance on charity from strangers. You don’t have it in you to harm another soul for your own survival… do you? Unless… you can take another bone from the bucket? Just like that…" He snapped his fingers.  "…Someone you don’t even know… you don’t even have to think about who they may have been…”

He said these terrible words with that hollow affability, as if he were attempting to soothe a child. Mary looked at the assortment of bones in the bucket. Her heart lodged in her throat as the dread realization overcame her: Mary had, though unintentionally, ended a life when she took that rib from the bucket. And for his own sick amusement, he was asking her to end another life?

Without thinking, Mary brandished the discarded rib as if she were about to fight him with it.

“You– you’re not a man, you’re a monster! You’re the one that's– that's been killing girls! You're Jack the Ripper, aren’t you?!”

Though the landlord made no urgency of movement at the sudden gesture, Mary knew she was trapped. And though he was a couple meters away, the sensation of… something she could not see tightened around her neck, like an invisible piano wire. She desperately grasped at her throat, trying in vain to defend against the phantom forces strangling the breath out of her. Was this ‘the reaper’ he spoke about? The evil spirit bound to this bucket of bones?

The man calmly walked towards her again, his absinthe eyes shimmering with mirth, the most emotion Mary had seen out of him thus far. He placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned close to her face as she gagged and sputtered for breath, weakly slashing the air with the rib bone in a feeble attempt to defend herself.

The stranger wrested the bone from the girl’s frenzied hands. He tapped Mary gently on the head with the end of the rib as if he were knighting her.

“I suppose that’s what they call me, yes, but my real name is Dario. Not that you’ll live long enough to call me that… poppet.”

The wind around 13 Miller’s Court sounded like a scream.

Chapter Text

EN ROUTE TO LE HAVRE, January 1891

“Hey, H.P., what do you know about these diamonds, anyway?”

Diego held a walnut-sized blue diamond between his thumb and forefinger, one eye closed as he examined it. The facets of the gemstone scattered the sunlight into a dazzling array of royal blues and violets.

“I was given a briefing on their origins…” Hot Pants leaned with her back against the ship’s taffrail, even the diamond’s luster incomparable to the brilliant blue sea behind her. “I know that at least one of the diamonds is… infamous. Said to be terribly cursed…”

Diego raised an eyebrow, turning slightly to look at her. “Cursed?”

“The one you’re holding now, as a matter of fact. The ‘French Blue’...” Hot Pants smiled.

Diego made a loud hmph sound. “No such thing as curses… You don’t believe in any of that, do you, H.P.? Superstition and happenstance will make any fool believe coincidence is the result of ‘fate’ or some ‘curse’... complete rubbish…”

A pause. The wind lapped against their faces as both pairs of eyes remained fixed on the diamond.

“That said…” Diego started, running his free hand through already unkempt blonde hair, now tossed in all directions by the sea breeze. “We’re on this ship for a good few more days. We’ve got nothing else to talk about.  May as well hear out your so-called curse… good for a laugh, if anything…”

“Dio… are you feigning disinterest?” Hot Pants teased. “Well, it is an interesting tale, whether you believe in curses or not…”

There was no sound of protest, or any sound at all from Diego, who remained focused on the diamond, waiting for Hot Pants to continue.

“As the story goes, an enormous uncut diamond was found in a mine in India by two miners, childhood friends. So blinded were they by greed, they fought to the death over who found it first. The victor claimed that the ‘dark energies’ of the diamond compelled him to do it… to murder his own best friend!”

Diego scoffed. “Sure… the diamond made him do it… because men aren’t known at all to kill each other over far less.”

Hot Pants ignored him. “Eventually, it was purchased in the 17th century, and cut in a rather… crude manner. During this time, the diamond was called the ‘Tavernier Blue’, named after the merchant that later sold it to the French aristocracy. It was re-cut to fit as a crown jewel worn by a good many French royals, including… Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, and I’m sure I needn’t remind you of their misfortunes…” 

Hot Pants used an index finger to make a slicing motion across her neck with a hand, complete with a gurgling sound in her throat.

“Ha! So the French royals get what’s coming to ‘em, and you say it’s caused by some curse?!” His entire countenance had noticeably brightened, eyes wide and sparkling. Perhaps it was excitement over the topic changing to aristocrats having their heads chopped off.

Hot Pants let out a good laugh. “I’m not the one that says it’s cursed. I’m just repeating the diamond’s history…" She lowered her voice some, leaning closer to Diego's ear so that he could still hear her over the ship’s propellers. "By the by, you may want to quell your enthusiasm over the King of France’s execution… there are a lot of Frenchmen aboard this ship; maybe even royalists!”

"Spare me, H.P., that was a hundred years ago, weren't it?"

“There’s been another revolution, you dolt. At least two that I can recall!”

Diego snickered. “So… they killed the king, and then they just let him come back…? I’d be embarrassed if I were French, personally…”

Hot Pants covered her mouth to stifle her laughter, to little success. Both of them were laughing. 

“I can assure you…” Hot Pants said in a breathy voice between laughs. “The French are anything but embarrassed to be French.”

When the laughter finally subsided, Diego held the diamond up to the light, rolling it between his fingers.

“Right… back to the curse, then. So what happened to it after the royals got done in?”

“The diamond was stolen, re-cut yet again to hide its origins, and passed through the hands of several different aristocrats and wealthy members of elite society. Many, but not all, suffered some terrible misfortune… be it bankruptcy, crippling injury, suicide, death of a spouse, death of a child, or some other terrible scandal…"

"Ha! Serves them right! I don't feel sorry for them at all!"

"Nor do I, but despite its beauty, the diamond’s macabre past is undeniable… Perhaps it was mere coincidence that misfortune should befall so many of its owners… perhaps…”

The overdramatic solemnity in her voice punctuated her tone with playful mystery as she trailed off, standing up to her full height now. Diego straightened his own back in response, though he still stood a good two inches shorter than her. 

"Hmph. Well, curses aren’t real, but I do believe in the power of a fantastic tale to fool the masses into believing that rot…” Diego started, rolling the diamond around in his palm. His eyelids lowered halfway and his lips parted slightly, which meant he was thinking intently about something. “It would… be prudent to prioritize offloading this diamond first before we try to sell the others, eh? Especially before the American press starts warning about the President’s assassins being ‘diamond thieves’... we gotta get rid of this one in particular before it gets too hot to sell, you know what I mean?”

Hot Pants looked away from him, turning to face the sea, not having any words to answer him with.

“C’mon, H.P… we gotta start thinking about how we’re gonna offload these…” Diego squeezed her shoulder.

Hot Pants flinched at his touch, at this gesture of performative camaraderie. They got along well enough. They fought side by side, they listened to each other and adapted to each other’s tactics on the fly. They were exceptional teammates , but their morals, their ambitions, their goals were diametrically opposed. She knew very well that when it all came down to it, they would fight each other to the death over these diamonds, like those two desperate miners in India. 

“Dio, I…” Hot Pants had a thousand rumbling thoughts in her head that vanished as soon as she opened her mouth. She knew better than to make empty placations. Diego would see right through her. The prospect of their inevitable battle once they reached the shores of France was accumulating as a smothering black stormcloud, and it grew heavier and more oppressive the longer they refused to acknowledge it.

Diego drew his face inches away from hers, forcing her to make eye contact with him. In such close proximity she was reminded of how sharp and handsome his features were. This comically made him more intimidating to her for reasons she could not even begin to explain.

“We’re gonna sell them, and split the profits. That’s fair…” His voice was low, almost intimate, almost pleading. Almost . No matter how much he behaved as though he were her friend, Hot Pants knew she couldn’t trust him. “HP… I don’t want to fight you… believe me…”

“Oh, I believe you. I don’t want to fight you, either, but….”

She met his gaze with equal intensity. Diego’s eyes were an inscrutable blue-green. Oh, she secretly wished she could interpret a hint of endearment, a trace of genuine attachment in that sparkling sea of uncertainty, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down around him. 

 “... if you’re so certain we’ll be international fugitives for assassinating the president, the Vatican could be our only hope at gaining diplomatic immunity… think about it, Dio…”

Was she bluffing? Even Hot Pants wasn’t certain. The original plan was never to assassinate President Valentine, only to rob the diamonds from his train compartment, but they had no choice…

After all we had been through on that train… the other world… was it a shared hallucination, or did it really happen…?

No. That wasn’t something she was ready to think about just yet. She had to remain focused on the current mission.

She couldn’t question what the Catholic church wanted with the diamonds. These orders came directly from the Vatican; that was all she needed to know. Her mission was righteous, her actions were pure. Everything she did… would have to be an extension of God’s will. Her devotion had to be uncompromisable. Her resolve had to be unyielding.

Yet Diego persisted. “Is this really how it’ll end? They’re using you, Hot Pants, and they’re going to dispose of you as soon as they have the diamonds. Listen, H.P… are you listening to me?"

Hot Pants swallowed. She nodded.

"In this world, there are only two kinds of people. There are the ones on top, pulling the strings, like… the Queen… the Prime Minister… the President… or even your Pope and his Cardinals. Yes, even them! And then there's the ones forced to dance like marionettes for them. You're doing a fine dance, but your strings have already gotten tangled in an affair they don’t want to get you out of. We assassinated a world leader, Hot Pants… don't you see? Instead of trying to untangle you, it’d be in their best interest to cut the strings and throw you out…! Don't think for a moment that you're anything but a tool for them… they’ll murder you in a dungeon cell and call it justice. They’ll pretend they had nothing to do with you…"

Tears stung Hot Pants' eyes.

"I… am a servant of God, and a servant of God must be willing to sacrifice herself for a righteous cause… if I could sacrifice myself for a righteous cause, perhaps then… I could be…."

Her voice caught in her throat. Diego was already quick with some response, but his words were distorted and unintelligible, as if spoken underwater. 

It coalesced so rapidly like a swarm of angry bees, that awful noise, his grotesque screeching, shrieking, crying, a phantasm that only she could hear. She could feel it rattling within her bones, a ship’s horn pressed directly against her ears, stabbing her eardrum with needles shaped in the sound of a child’s dying screams. The breath was crushed out of her lungs, heart twisted and wrung out like a washrag. The sound grew louder, louder, louder, ‘till her head felt it was going to explode.  

Matt… Matty… Matteo…. My mother’s precious son… my father’s brave little boy… oh, God… what have I done?

Two massive claws gripped her shoulders, wracking her body back and forth. A voice came from this faceless entity…

"OI…! Can you hear me? HP!"

Dio.

Ah… those weren't claws… those were just his hands. And he wasn't wracking her body, he was shaking her out of this waking nightmare…

“Ungh… I…” was all she could vocalize. Her vision slowly began to come into focus.

His face was close to hers again, eyebrows knit in confusion.

 “Seasick?” he asked. 

“No… I’m alright… gimme a moment, will you?”

“Sure. Water?”

“P-please.”

While Diego busied himself rummaging through his rucksack for his canteen, Hot Pants turned away and inhaled deep gulps of salty sea air. The sudden intake of oxygen made her brain felt as if it were full of spiders.

“We’ve been dancing around this conversation for days, you know…” Diego’s voice had a touch of gentleness as he handed her the canteen.

“Yes… and that’s what we’ll keep doing for a few more days, right up until we reach the port of Le Havre,” Hot Pants said, the vulnerability in her voice from moments ago completely seared away, replaced with harsh cynicism. She took a long draught of water and handed the canteen back to her friend. Leaning her entire body against a crate, Hot Pants closed her eyes and slowly slid to the floor. She was tired… she’d slept terribly the night before… ghosts of past horrors and spectres of present fears kept her awake.

A minute went by. Then two. Then somewhere around ten minutes, though Hot pants had already dozed off by that point.

 Diego was the one to break the silence yet again.

“You know those little uh, black spots? What are those?”

Hot Pants stirred. She opened one eye. Diego was staring at the French Blue again.

“The little… what?” she asked, still dazed.

“The little black spots in the diamond. You know. Look at it. Look, H.P!”

His energy had become oddly manic. Eyes darting in all directions as if he were under the influence of some kind of stimulating drug. He shoved the French Blue towards her, holding it under her nose. Hot Pants glanced down at it, but her brain was still too sleepy to process what her eyes were seeing.

“Uhm… you’re talking about impurities, right? Sometimes it’s bits of carbon that didn’t fully crystallize when the diamond was formed. No diamond is perfect…” H.P. yawned, hugging her knees to her chest. “Don't get so worked up… it’s nothing…”

 She tried to close her eyes again, but Diego was still going on about the little black spots. 

“Right. Right. Then… those little spots, they’re not supposed to… move, are they?”

Both eyes shot open immediately. “Move?! What the hell are you talking about, Dio?!” 

That had woken her up, for sure.

Before Diego had the chance to reply, they heard the crunchy step, step, step of a pair of hobnail boots approaching. The gait was uneven, yet the time between strides was consistent enough that it sounded like a military march.

“Put away the diamond,” Hot Pants hissed.

Diego closed his hand into a fist around the “French Blue” diamond and shoved it into his pocket…

Chapter Text

Thump. Th-thump. Thump. Th-thump.

Diego listened to the irregular march. Perhaps an injury? Or one of those… "unfortunates", born short-legged or club-footed or with some other physical deformity?

Eager as he was to glance behind him, Hot Pants caught his head mid-turn. She crouched to block his body from view, and pushed his face towards the direction of the sea again.

 She whipped out Cream Starter, and before Diego had any time to react, he heard that whoooooosh sound of liquid flesh splurting out of the can as she sprayed his face.

Her "meat spray" felt like a mask of wet clay sticking to his own skin, slimy and dense. It was… not a pleasant sensation, but he was grateful that she had the foresight to disguise him first before the stranger could see what they were doing.

She didn’t have time to disguise herself.  Would this cause an issue? Diego hoped not. The government agents had their designs on apprehending Diego. They didn’t know H.P. was a nun, or even a woman. How could they? No time to think longer on any of that, though. The stranger was fast approaching. 

"Splendid day, isn't it? I reckon you couldn't find a single cloud over the entire Atlantic!" came a booming voice from behind. 

Diego twitched. Small talk was detestable, and worse were the people that instigated it. That first gooey "splendid"  betrayed him as an Englishman, and a well-breeched, full-feathered Englishman at that. This caused Diego’s contempt to surge to boiling before he’d even gotten a look at the man.

"On a ship with so many fine and interesting people…" Diego said through clenched teeth, head swiveling around slowly. "Why would you single us out in particular to prattle about the clouds ?"

He took a hard up-and-down survey of the man. 

The first thing he noticed was the metal boot encasing his left foot, with leather soles, probably to prevent it from scratching up the floor at some pub. He was clad in a double-breasted military coat with brass buttons… Diego did not see any recognizable insignias, but the saber at his side and the tassels on his shoulders gave the impression he was an officer.

"A thousand pardons! The pair of you must have been quite absorbed in conversation to have found my intrusion so disagreeable!  Lieutenant Merriweather Post of the U.S. Army Signal Corps, at your service."

Diego sucked in his breath at the claim, forcing down the urge to erupt in a fit of laughter. This "Merriweather Post" spoke in the most infuriatingly pompous example of the Queen's English he could fathom, and he claimed to be a lieutenant in the U.S. army? He even pronounced it lef- tenant instead of lieutenant.

Diego slouched against the taffrail, narrowing his eyes to scrutinize “Lieutenant Post” further. Reed-thick eyebrows, a prominent Roman nose with a bump in the middle, and hair black as petrol… with those dark features and his suntanned skin, he didn’t look like a typical Lord Nobby, but he looked like a typical… man, for whatever that statement was worth. Nothing particularly distinct or indistinct about his features.

The most atypical thing about him was the mantis-like way his elbows were bent and his forearms lowered, palms turned upwards, as if he were holding an invisible box. He’d maintained this odd position since he approached them; did not even move to make a frivolous bow during his introduction (as nobs and ‘gentlemen’ were oft inclined to do).

He glanced over at Hot Pants, who had her eyes fixed upon Merriweather's upturned hands. The lieutenant was awkwardly waiting, as if in anticipation of their introductions in return. When neither Diego nor Hot Pants offered one, he opted to continue.

"I could not help but notice…" he tilted his head in Diego’s direction. "Judging by your uniform, you are a New York City police officer, no?"

Diego nodded curtly. He’d stolen the coat and the Colt from a copper before they’d gotten on the ship.

 Merriweather Post ventured further. "'Tis… a rather striking thing to witness a Holy Sister traveling with an Officer of the Law. Surely there is some sort of… fascinating story behind this arrangement?"

Ah. Right. He sometimes forgot that Hot Pants was a genuine nun, with solemn vows and everything. He’d forgotten that her habit was not merely a disguise, but the vestments of a Servant of God. Servant of God, my arse, he thought to himself, but as much as he’d tried to jimmy out the story of whatever personal demons drove her to don the cloth, Hot Pants kept her past locked inside a stone reliquary.

She finally spoke.

"I'm afraid to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but the situation is far more mundane than you imagine. I am returning to my convent in France. Excuse his gruff manner; he’s merely concerned for my safety… this officer was appointed as my escort by the New York Police Department, and he is here to ensure my passage is uneventful. The Archdiocese of New York has always been on good terms with the Archdiocese of Rouen, you see, and the Church pulled some strings with the police to spare one of their men…”

Diego thought it sounded like a fine explanation. Give him just enough details to weave a believable story, but not so many details that he could prick holes into it. She must have rehearsed this in her head. He supposed that Hot Pants was used to play-acting; even he had been fooled by her manly disguise for the first half of the race.

"Well! You'll pardon me my meddling, but I had been watching you from a distance, and found something… intimate about the casual way you sat together that did not immediately convey the professional distance of a young servant of God and her escort. Almost…. begging my pardon, almost as if you were close friends already, or… lovers, perhaps?"

Hot Pants gasped, crossing herself.

"Lieutenant Post… your question is terribly indecent. I have taken a solemn vow of chastity with the Order of St. Francis, and I am insulted at the mere suggestion that I would have untoward relations with this man in any form whatsoever…”

Her cheeks were flushed red. Was her indignation genuine, or part of her act? Diego didn't know, but he stifled another urge to snicker. 

Deciding to play up the perceived slight to H.P.'s dignity, Diego straightened his back and took a bold stride towards the man, closing the distance between them. 

"That's an awfully presumptuous thing to say to two strangers based on some cursory glance from afar. You have deeply offended a Sister of God, and I find your presence and conversation to be rather odious, myself. Do us all a favor and get straight to the point, quickly, so that we may be rid of you sooner." 

He rubbed his ear. It was itchy from the flesh spray. He wondered what sort of face H.P. had given him. Apparently Merriweather thought it handsome enough for a nun to break her vows.

Merriweather smiled, pointedly not looking at Diego. "I see… as a gentleman, I would never overstay my welcome in a place where I am clearly undesired. I shall get 'straight to the point', as our gruff acquaintance put it, eh, Sister…. Sister… what shall I call you?"

"Just 'Sister' is fine, unless there is a reason for us to be on a first-name basis," Hot Pants coolly quipped.

"Well! Since you won't deign to reveal your name on your own accord, I pray it will not discomfit you too terribly if I referred to you as Sister Hazel Plainview?”

He heard Hot Pants inhale sharply at the sound of that name. From the corner of his eye, Diego noticed Hot Pants locking her arms tight across her chest.

Hazel Plainview… the initials matched up, at least. Was this H.P.'s real name?

Diego gnashed his teeth. Hot Pants remained silent. Merriweather took the liberty of continuing. 

"...Or would you prefer Sister Plainview? I seem to have offended you so terribly that you do not wish to be on a first-name basis, but I find it appropriate enough to be on a last-name basis. You’ll have to find it in your heart to forgive me, but I refuse to call you by some made-up name like ‘Hot Pants’... after all, we have some unpleasant business to discuss, and I’d prefer to keep as few pretenses between us as possible, Sister Plainview…”

Diego's hand twitched, fingers beginning to curl around the revolver holstered beneath his cape. 

A soft warmth gently grazed the back of his hand. Hot Pants' hand was touching his, only for a brief moment before it flitted away.

Her simple gesture was a wordless caveat not to fire a gun on this ship. Diego exhaled, releasing some tension. She was right. Gunshots were loud. They were on a ship with several armed men. It would not be a pretty ending, likely with the both of them in the brig. Or dead. 

"What… business do you have with Sister Plainview?" Hot Pants asked, tremors in her voice. Soft. High-pitched. A choir girl’s voice. "Is this… am I in trouble for posing as a man to compete in the Steel Ball Run race?"

Diego’s frustrations rang loudly in his head. He wanted to kick something. This situation was rotten. The Vatican snitched to the Americans that they had sent a spy to compete in the race? Hot Pants was dead meat if this Lieutenant decided to take her back to the States to charge her with treason. It was just as he’d said… she was nothing more than a tool to the papists, but he’d have to wait for a more appropriate moment to say “I told you so.”

Merriweather chuckled. There was something uncanny about the way he attempted to affect a natural geniality in his speech with his arms still outstretched quite unnaturally like a wooden soldier.

"I'm afraid the crime is far more dire than cross-dressing. There's someone you might be familiar with. A certain… Diego Brando, commonly known as Dio?"

Merriweather then did an oddish thing. He shifted his weight to the left and lowered one arm, as if balancing his invisible “box” in one hand. He then used his “free” hand to pull a photographic print out of his coat pocket and passed it to Hot Pants between two fingers. Once the photo was in her hands, the officer defaulted back to his wooden soldier pose.

All 3,652 participants in the Steel Ball Run race had a mandatory portrait taken at registration. Diego paid ten cents extra to keep a copy for himself. The novelty of a photograph was amusing to him at the time, but now… now he had the urge to swipe it from H.P.’s hands and tear it to shreds. 

The coolness was returning to Hot Pants' demeanor as she pretended to examine the photograph. Her mouth was a straight line, no discernible emotion. "Yes… I am familiar with this likeness. I did some research on him before the race, just as I looked into every high-profile participant… everyone that I predicted would be my fiercest competition. Johnny Joestar, Gyro Zeppeli, and yes, the Mr. Brando in this photograph, among others. What did you want to know?" 

She handed the photograph back to Merriweather, who moved in that unwieldy manner again to return it to his pocket, staggering as before to balance his “box.”

Out of sight. Good.

He once enjoyed the novelty of seeing himself in a photograph, but now Diego didn’t want to see it ever again. It was a perfect memory of his failure, frozen in time. He hated the cocksure smirk of the Diego Brando posing for a portrait. "This is what they'll print in the papers after I cross the finish line!"   he’d thought in that moment, just as the shutter clicked.

But he lost.  He lost to some Southern freedman and that Johnny Joestar prick. 

He hated the Diego Brando sitting like a king on his throne, as if he had already conquered the world…! He didn’t deserve that confidence! He won fuck all but some diamonds that were like as not to get him killed.

His promising career as a jockey was ruined. These diamonds were all he had left. And now, she wasn't even going to let him have that…

Merriweather was shaking his head at what Hot Pants had just said. "No. No, no, no. I can easily obtain that sort of public information, but you raced with him, and my sources indicate that you were acquainted with one another… one even witnessed you in conversation with him in Philadelphia. What can you tell us? What was he like ? Were you aware of any future plans he may have had? Plans of espionage, robbery, or even murder ?"

"I… was never acquainted with him as well as you may think, I’m afraid. Yes, we exchanged a few short words at the watering holes and the stables and the like, but that sums up our interactions. Dio was neither polite nor impolite. Simply… curt. He kept to himself, and I kept to myself. There were thousands of people in the race… I spoke with quite a few of them, but I wouldn’t say I was acquainted with everyone I spoke to, and I certainly don't remember every single word I exchanged with Diego Brando … ”

Silence.

Diego tapped his foot. The sun was lowering over the horizon. He shielded his eyes with a hand.

That Merriweather bastard spoke again. "I see… that does not provide us with any new information, but you do not seem to have been well-acquainted with Brando, based on what you’ve told me. I do wish I could have taken you back with me to West Point for further questioning, but… alas… I already have an agreement with your handlers about where to send you…"

"What about me?" H.P. blurted out. “What sort of agreement did you make? Send me where ?!” 

"Hm? What about you?" Merriweather deadpanned. He glanced down at his hands, mouthing words to himself.

A faint clicking sound made Diego bristle. Tap tap taptaptap. Taptap tap taptap. Fast, irregular clicks, like Morse code… Diego wished he had bothered to learn how to interpret Morse when he had the chance.

Hot Pants gained the courage to speak again. "What is that odd device you are carrying? Some sort of telegraph machine?"

Taptaptap. Tap tap tap.

Diego blinked his eyes a few times. What did she say? Machine? Yes, Merriweather had his arms out in a queer sort of way, as if he carried a box, but Diego could clearly see the man's upturned palms facing the sky; nothing but air in the space where H.P. was apparently seeing some phantasmagorical device. Still… he was more inclined to believe her than not. The sound of that incessant clicking in his head seemed an awful lot like a telegraph machine…

Merriweather blanched. "Wh-what could you p-possibly–?" He looked down at his hands, then at Hot Pants, his big dumb mouth agape for a second until he forced out a laugh. "What ever do you mean? I haven't the slightest idea what manner of 'device' you are on about…"

Diego couldn't see the "device", but he knew at once that Merriweather could. Time to make him sweat…

"Bloody hell you don't! It's right there in your hands! Like a telegraph box you ripped out of an office or som'!" Diego wagged an aggressive finger at the man’s face.

But instead of quaking, Merriweather’s initial nervousness began to subside. His shoulders relaxed. He smiled, still focused on the invisible device in his hands and not at the index finger pointed just an inch from his nose. He radiated nonchalance. Dammit.

"Curious… I did not know there were others that could see this ‘Stand’ ability of mine… I’m rather fond of it, and it’s simply delightful to know there are others who can marvel at it. I named it ‘London Calling.’ You are correct to surmise that its abilities are comparable to that of a mundane telegraph machine, but I will show you what’s truly first-rate about it…”

No. Diego didn’t want to waste any time listening to him explain what was truly ‘first-rate’ about his invisible box. He had to act, without hesitating with the gun this time. In one swift motion, he pulled the black Colt out from the holster while cocking the safety hammer down with his thumb. He pointed the cylinder between Merriweather Post’s eyes, ready to squeeze the trigger depending on what he was about to say.

Though the Lieutenant flinched ever so slightly, he did not seem to drop the “box” he carried. He smiled again, that mealy smile. What was wrong with him? He wasn't reacting to the most threatening gesture anyone could do to a man!

“Ah… I understand you are hired to protect this Holy Sister, and so far, you have been performing your duties just splendidly. A first-rate job! I commend you for your moxie, genuinely! I have no qualms with you, but if you shoot me now, your mission will end in the most tragic way imaginable. More tragic for her, mind, but I fancy you’d get quite the brow-beating from your superiors as well. Turn around slowly, and I will show you why… turn around, for my ‘London Calling’ is already active…! It has already begun its transfer!”

Chapter Text

“…Turn around, for my ‘London Calling’ is already active…! It has already begun its transfer!”

Merriweather did not need to use his hands to control the telegraph machine – the transmitter key was automatically tap-tap-tapping as if an invisible hand were pressing down upon it. 

Hot Pants immediately became aware of  an odd sensation afflicting her left hand… itching? Prickling? No… more like tickling. As she raised her hand to examine it, some other force continued the motion and jerked it forward. A thin strip of paper peeling from her left thumb, long enough to bridge the distance between her and Merriweather. The paper seemed to be attached to this machine by a winding spool, reeling in the strip of paper like a fishing pole as it quickly unraveled…. her , starting from the tip of her thumb. The paper tape was about an inch wide and punched with a series of holes, uniform in size. 

Hot Pants shrieked. She staggered backwards, but the tape line grew taut, preventing her from stepping more than a couple feet away. 

Within two seconds, her left thumb was completely unraveled into paper. The spool was feeding the tape through the machine. Aside from the ticklish sensation (which she realized now was due to the edges of the paper brushing against her skin), there was no physical pain. Her thumb was gone, yet there was absolutely no pain at all! Was she in shock? No… it did not seem to be amputated by any normal means. There was no sign of exposed bone or blood or muscle; her thumb was cleanly missing at the base.

Though she could not see it, Hot Pants bent her thumb at the knuckle. I can still bend my thumb! She thought, nonplussed. But where IS it?!

Diego reacted faster than Hot Pants. In one slice, he cut the line of tape tethering her to the machine.

Hot Pants screamed. An agonizing, percussive pain with the precision of a million white-hot needles stabbed her left hand. Blood splurted from the now-open wound where her thumb and index finger once were.

Merriweather frowned, looking down at the two loose ends of tape fluttering in the breeze. He clicked his tongue and tilted his head at Diego with heavy disappointment, as if he were admonishing a disobedient child.

“Respectfully, sir… you have no one to blame but yourself. I offered you a caveat, cloudless as the azure sky: do not interrupt ‘London Calling’ in the middle of a transmission. ”

As he spoke, the tapping of the machine resumed. Through her pain, Hot Pants saw the tape peel out from her hand again, pulled towards the machine and winding around the spool.

“It is of no consequence to me …” Merriweather carried on, as dry as before. “I have already begun to send another telegram to Paris. Alas… it will be an unpleasant experience for her to arrive in two separate messages, but at least she only lost a couple fingers.”

The “gentleman” paused. Then, he laughed. “Oh! Not lost, per se – worry not! Your fingers have already arrived at their destination. They are sitting pretty – well, perhaps not quite so pretty – at the telegraph office. I imagine someone at the convent should be able to sew them back on.” He laughed again, a phlegmy laugh from the throat.

Even as her entire forearm quickly finished unraveling, spirited away to some unseen place, she could still feel the limb somewhere. She felt the excruciating pain of her gaping wounds, she felt the sticky wet blood coating her hand, wherever it was. Paris? Her convent was in Rouen… why was he sending her to Paris?

Diego had the gun pointed at Merriweather Post’s forehead again. The officer raised a thick eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smile. He was confident that Diego would not pull that trigger. Confident, but wrong. If the transfer was interrupted again, Hot Pants would lose an arm. An arm Merriweather did not realize she was willing to lose. Diego knew, however, that she could merely restore it with Cream Starter. And  he wasn’t the sort to dally about with empty threats.

But Hot Pants knew it was a bad idea for Diego to shoot Merriweather. At least, not here. Not now. 

He's already got a bounty on his head…

“No! Shoot the machine, not him!” Hot Pants cried.

There was no time to question her command, and Diego did exactly as she said. He immediately aimed lower and fired a round at the telegraph machine in Merriweather’s hands. 

Plink! The wooden box deflected the bullet. When it struck the wood, it made a sound that was more akin to that of metal hitting metal.

“Wh–what is this?!” Diego sputtered, firing again at the box. The casing clattered to the deck, there was another metallic plink , and again, the device in Merriweather’s hands did not even suffer a scratch to its surface.

“Hmph. As previously stated, ‘London Calling’ is no ordinary telegraph machine, and as such it cannot be harmed by mundane means. Please… why are you so insistent on making yourself my enemy? My business was never with you …”

Hot Pants was on the ground now, an armless, legless torso and head unable to do anything but watch helplessly. The pain in her displaced hand radiated across her displaced arm. The rest of her body felt cold and numb; even her brain was too numb to focus on anything but the pain.

Diego crouched to address Hot Pants at eye level. His voice was low, trembling with some combination of anger and uncertainty. “Why the hell did you tell me not to shoot him , HP?! It’s too late now!”

He grabbed her by the collar, but she was so light that he had pulled the entirety of her towards him, just a head and shoulders and torso that was unraveling into encoded paper by the waist. Diego’s eyes widened. “Huh….” he vocalized, mouth hanging open.

Hot Pants stared up at him woozily. Through the disguise, his eyes were the same. Dangerously pretty eyes; sea-green and sharp as cut glass... 

“You…” she started, whispering to him with a particular gentleness, an attempt to put him at ease. “You’re too greedy… didn’t want you getting arrested for murder… they’d figure out who you really are and ship you back to America, put a noose around your neck… I thought, maybe you could shoot the machine, instead of murdering him… oh, well …”

The tapping of the telegraph machine and the churning of the ship propellers were loud enough to muffle their words from Merriweather, and besides, Hot Pants was too lightheaded to attempt to shroud her words in any coded language.

“But then I wouldn’t–” Diego protested.

“Get my diamonds?” Hot Pants interrupted. “You’re too greedy… you’ve got your own share, and you want more ? The three in your pocket… you could buy an island with that… or whatever else you want...”

“You don’t know shit about what I want. An island? Don’t make me laugh. Unless that island is the entirety of Great Britain, I’m going to need more.”

His eyebrows coupled into a knot. Hasty words tumbled out of his mouth, words spoken quickly before he could change his mind.

“But– but– why do you even care about protecting me and my name, anyway? I’m the one that got you into this fix. It was my crime, ultimately, but by working with me further, you’ve made it your crime, too. Why didn’t you just… betray me? Before we got on the ship. You ought to have betrayed me, you know… I’d have betrayed you without a second thought…”

Diego’s grip on Hot Pants was slipping as her shoulders were now displaced. Without breaking his gaze, he shifted so that he could hold her by the head, her cheeks squeezed between both of his hands.

“Hey…” Hot Pants murmured. Despite her respiratory system existing somewhere miles away, she was surprised at how coherent her voice was. “It was fun. I don’t regret any of it. I hope you find your happiness in this world…I mean it.”

 She mustered a wobbly smile as her lips were stripped away into paper, and she could no longer speak.

It was not long until her eyes were gone, too. Diego’s face disappeared from view.

She no longer felt the sun on her face or his hands on her cheeks. She no longer heard the crashing of the sea, no seagulls calling above, no tap-tap-tapping of Merriweather Post’s London Calling.

—

Hot Pants opened her eyes. She was laying in a crumpled heap on an unpolished wooden floor, the planks dull and splintered. 

Hot Pants fumbled around with her uninjured hand until she came to the horrifying realization that she was laying on top of her severed thumb and index finger.

She used her right hand to pick up the bloody fingers. This felt oddly repulsive to her. She resisted the urge to vomit.

Hot Pants used a bit of flesh from Cream Starter to graft the thumb and forefinger back on to her hand. Morbidly, she was reminded of a puttying tool for sealing cracks in the wall. The re-attached fingers were ghostly pale, and felt so numb they may as well be dead. Hot Pants rubbed the fingers vigorously with her right hand and the color gradually restored as fresh blood circulated through her veins. She gave the fingers a few wriggles for good measure, to make certain they were still functional. 

At last, she laid back down, staring at the diagonally-arched ceiling beams above. Hot Pants placed a hand on her chest as it heaved up and down with rapid breaths. She was in a quiet little office. An unassuming wooden crucifix hung in a frame on the wall above the desk. A  telegraph machine – not quite as grand as the contraption used by Merriweather Post – rested atop the surface of the desk, flanked by two untidy stacks of paper and a pen and inkwell.

Hot Pants was disinterested in the contents of the desk. She reached a hand up the underskirt of her habit for a small pouch sewn into her linen drawers. She tugged it out hard enough to tear the loose stitches.

If my mission has been compromised… if my captors are working in defiance of the Holy See… I must take additional measures to protect the diamonds.

Without opening the drawstring cinch, Hot Pants kneaded the exterior of the pouch with her hands to feel its contents. One… two… three. The gems click-clacked together like unwieldy marbles. 

Her thoughts drifted momentarily to her conversation with Dio, just before Merriweather’s unwelcome arrival.

"Those little spots… they're not supposed to move, are they?"

What on Earth could that possibly be about?

Hot Pants never had the chance to further investigate Diego's observations, and tempted as she was to examine the diamonds now, she knew time was of the essence. It could be a matter of seconds before the office attendant returned from lunch, or wherever they were.

Hot Pants knew what she had to do. It was going to feel unpleasant, but… to protect the diamonds, she would endure anything.

For you, Matteo…

I am prepared to sacrifice everything.

Chapter Text

“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!”

A gaggle of French sailors clambered across the upper deck just as Hot Pants’ head finished unraveling before Diego’s eyes.

He stood stunned, his boots rooted in place. The sailors assaulted him with a cacophony of rapid accusations, but Diego did not react. Even if they were shouting in English, it would still be indecipherable noise to him.

They restrained him. Wrenched the Colt from his hands. As Diego regained his wits, he spat at the sailors and kicked their shins. That earned him a strong punch in the gut.

“W-wait! Arrest him , not me!” Diego choked, trying to catch his breath. “That–  military gent! Right there!”

In the scuffle, Diego had not noticed the sound of London Calling tapping away again until just now.

That bloody prig’s sending himself as a telegram…! He’s getting away!

It seemed that Merriweather Post was able to use London Calling to encode his own body into a telegram with far more efficiency than he was able to with Hot Pants; he was already half-gone. His floating head and torso rested calmly atop a shipping crate as hole-punched paper unraveled and fed his existence into that invisible machine.

“Perhaps if you had displayed to me the tiniest morsel of courtesy…” the officer opined, looking like a Shakespearean bust in all his melodrama. “Perhaps if you had even attempted the barest apology for your murderous actions against me… I might have returned the favor. As is, I have no desire whatsoever to assist in clearing your name of any wrongdoings committed aboard this vessel.”

Diego hissed, squirming uselessly against the restraints like a feral cat.  “You foppish, bantam-pricked son of a poxy bitch, you–”

Merriweather cut him off with a theatrical shout. “ Au revoir! Or, as our own countrymen might say… Cheerio! ” He winked.

And with that, the transfer was complete. Diego no longer heard the whirring and tapping of machinery or the fluttering of tape.

Merriweather was gone. Sent god-knows-where as a telegram.

A hubbub of French confusion erupted among the sailors as they attempted to make any sense at all of what had just transpired, but their words withered into dust as the huge captain stomped up from below deck. The two that were not occupied with restraining Diego turned on their heels and straightened their backs, holding their arms at their sides.

The captain barked a rough command in French, and the two sailors clambered back down below deck, tripping over each other on the steps. 

“Unhand me! You saw it with your own eyes – it was that Lieutenant! Tell your captain what you saw… I was hired to escort the Sister and that man that approached us – you saw him – he's the one that’s done it, not me!"

The captain – a burly man with tattooed arms and a thick mustache – struck Diego across the face.

When he spoke, his accented English was deep and lumbering, like a sleepy bear. 

"Shut up, American."

—

The steamship did not have a proper brig to speak of. It was not a military vessel, after all. Diego was bound and tossed rather unceremoniously into the cargo hold below deck, where it was not long until he was visited by the big Captain himself.

“Howdy,” Diego said, hoping that employing his limited knowledge of American slang would keep the Frenchmen convinced that he was one. “What’s the reason you’ve got me tied up here?”

“Do not play the fool. What do you know about the nun?”

Diego snickered. “You mean H.P.? Well… not as much as I’d like to know about her, if’m being honest. What do you know about her?”

The Frenchman struck Diego’s face, this time with a closed fist.

“I ask the questions, bastard!”

His cheek smarting, Diego still managed a smirk. “Hmph. Some higher-ups must’ve paid you a lot of money to ship her across the Atlantic, and paid even more for your discretion. Now you’re in a real crib ‘cause the nun got delivered somewhere else, and you don’t know where, eh? Is that the crib?”

He took note that the Captain’s breathing seemed to become slightly heavier at this statement. He could capitalize on this…

Diego looked down at his lap, continuing in a mumble, pretending to think out loud. “This is all above my paygrade, but… why would a simple woman of the cloth be treated like precious cargo? What’s so special about her…?”

“You are asking questions again, American.” The Captain readied his fist for another blow.

“Just thinking to myself, Capitaine. Just thinking to myself…” Diego paused for a calculated beat. He narrowed his eyes. “You must think it strange, too… that a nun would require so much protection. An entire ship to herself. A police officer to escort her. Maybe you’re privy to more secrets than I, Capitaine. Just thinking it’s strange, is all…”

The Frenchman blinked, placing a finger on his lower lip as his dark eyes darted away from Diego, then back.

“You would do us a favor by thinking less,” he said, but the aggression in his tone had dampened. The captain’s demeanor took on a more contemplative aspect. Diego could tell that he didn’t know shit about Hot Pants. Rather, that he didn’t know shit about the diamonds she carried. Good… this gave him an opportunity to continue feigning ignorance.

“Right. Seems you’re as blind as I am,” Diego ventured. “Guess I’ll tell you how I got myself in this pretty to-do. The Chief of Police told me he had a special mission. Secret affair, with all the red tape. Couldn’t even tell the other boys about it. Thought it’d be a first-rate deal; free trip to France for an easy fiddling. All I had to do was board a ship to Le Havre with a Sister, and escort her through your beautiful French countryside to deliver her safely to a convent in Rouen.”

The lies came easy to him. Diego fashioned his own tale on the one Hot Pants spun to Merriweather Post.

“But… we were told an escort would be waiting for her at the port of Le Havre,” the Frenchman said. “The nun convinced me to let you aboard, but… she did not say why you were needed.”

“Right, I guess plans change,” Diego said quickly. “Sad to say, she didn’t shed light on any specifics, either. Her… handlers probably found it prudent to hire me to protect her during her sea-travels.” 

“ Putain de merde ,” the Captain spat. “If only they had hired better.”

Diego looked down at his lap with pretend solemnity. “Aye… if only…”

He wriggled his arms behind his back. The rope chafed against his wrists. Sailors were good at tying knots, sure, but they were a lot better at tying up rigging than keeping a human restrained.  He thought he might be able to break loose from his bindings, but he wasn’t going to pull anything brash like an escape attempt. Not yet. The ship wouldn’t reach port for a few days… it’d be foolish to try to escape until his feet were on solid ground.

Apparently satisfied with his present round of questions, the Captain turned towards the door.

“By the by, Capitaine…” Diego said. “I know you said ‘no questions’, but… I’ve got some information to provide that could make the question more palatable…”

The Captain stopped walking. He tilted his head to the right, slightly, but did not turn around. Diego took his silence as affirmation to continue.

“The other American that took the Sister away... he said his name was Lieutenant Merriweather Post. Claimed to be with the U.S. Army Signal Corps. Do you know anything about him, or how he managed to get aboard your ship?”

“I know of no one named Merriweather Post. I must scold my men later; they were meant to check for stowaways before we left. But… you say you conversed with this man?”

“Only briefly,” Diego said. “He said he had no quarrel with me, and was under someone else’s orders to take H.P. … somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Diego lied. He wasn’t covering for her; he just didn’t want to give the Captain any information that’d help the gospel grinders find her first. Not while he still had business with her.

The Captain made a harumph sound and resumed his exit. The cargo hold shuddered with the slam of the door. As the footsteps faded into the distance, Diego closed his eyes and let out a long exhale. 

Your name’s Hazel Plainview, huh? What other secrets are you hiding from me, H.P….?

With nothing else to keep his mind occupied, Diego’s thoughts kept drifting back to her . Paris… Why was she sent to a place like Paris? Merriweather seemed to be wholly ignorant of the diamonds; he was only after Diego. This entire situation was confusing to think about, but Diego could only assume that some third party – aligned with neither the Vatican nor the Americans – had cut a deal with the lieutenant, offering some useful intel in exchange for… “telegraphing” Hot Pants all the way to Paris. 

The more he thought about it, the more unanswered questions filled his head. What was this “London Calling” ability, anyway? Diego would never admit this, but he was jealous that Hot Pants could see the telegraph machine when he could not.

Of course, he was infinitely more jealous of the fact that she had a special ability of her own. Her flesh spray. Hot Pants called it Cream Starter. According to her, its existence defied any natural explanation, so she tried not to think about its origins, as she believed it was a futile effort to try to explain the inexplicable. Perhaps London Calling was a similar case.

While thinking these idle thoughts, Diego “idly” worked on shimmying his way out of his restraints. It was a good thing he had the foresight to keep his elbows wide apart while they bound him; he had created enough slack between the wrists to pick apart the knots with his fingers.  

Based on the lively din of conversation coming from the galley and the orange late-day sunlight filtering through the porthole window, Diego figured it was time for supper. He wondered if they were going to remember to feed him. At least he was not too parched; he had taken a long drink of water a couple hours ago when he had brought his canteen out for Hot Pants.

She was in Paris, now…

Diego had never visited France before, but he’d already heard a lot of things about the City of Light. Named for the streetlamps that illuminated each boulevard. Good for the rich, bad for the thieves. A well-lit city was not a place he’d like to live, no matter how beautiful the romantics claimed it to be. Yet Diego figured Hot Pants was not having a leisurely stroll along the brightened thoroughfares or sitting in some Bohemian café sipping chocolat . She was a prisoner, somewhere, at the mercy of her captors. Or killed for her diamonds, already…

Diego swallowed. There was a good chance she was already dead.

"I hope you find your happiness in this world…I mean it.”

That was the last thing she said to him, but thinking on it now, the way she smiled at him made it seem like a farewell.

Find his happiness… what the hell did she mean by that? He felt an odd sort of tightness in his chest. He’d gotten a similar feeling when he had to leave Silver Bullet behind in New York. His beloved horse… 

The bindings finally came loose, and Diego slid a hand out of the restraints. He kept the rope wrapped around the other wrist in case the captain or crew returned. He wasn’t planning an escape now; he simply needed a mental distraction instead of driving himself mad thinking of all the questions that were impossible for him to answer.

He reached into one of the square pouches on his belt and pulled out a leather-bound notebook, about as thin as a deck of playing cards.

Dr. Ferdinand was lying dead in a ravine, but perhaps the secrets of his "special ability" were recorded in his journal…

Diego had made previous attempts to read Ferdinand's handwritten notes, but most of it was too dense and scientific for him to parse. Hot Pants might have fared better if she’d given it a go. But for whatever reason, he’d never bothered to show her the notebook. Too late now…

With one hand, Diego flipped the cover to the first page. While he knew very little about stationery, he could tell the paper was first-rate; it was smooth and creamy, with very little grain, and thick enough that the ink didn’t bleed through.

24. April 1889

Paris, France

I, Dr. Franz Ferdinand, wish to immortalize this SPLENDIFEROUS day with the very first entry in this journal gifted to me by my beloved new friend, Dr. Desmond Ashbury. At present, we are here in Paris, France, preparing for the presentation of our paleontology work at the Exposition Universelle (the “World’s Fair” to be held this May). I admit, I was a bundle of nerves in anticipation of meeting Dr. Ashbury of Oxford University; our epistolary relationship had soured last year after he stubbornly dismissed orthogenesis in favor of Darwin’s (frankly outdated) theory of natural selection and how it applies to the development of post-Ordovician jawed fish. Luckily, I found Desmond to be most agreeable upon finally meeting him “in the flesh.” He was quite impressed by my discovery of a new raptor species from my latest excavation in the Utah Territory, and we had a fascinating conversation on the subject. Ah, but I find myself growing weary of talk of ancient bones and long-dead monsters, and my thoughts at present are centered on Desmond. Perhaps it is the champagne. Perhaps the high altitude of our balloon flight left my heart aflutter from the thin air. Perhaps I am simply caught up in the romance of la ville d’amour , but… I cannot extricate his visage from my thoughts. From his letters, I had envisioned him to perfectly embody his choleric demeanor – forgive me – I believed Desmond to be a stout, blustery little man. I was astonished (but not at all disappointed) to find the ill-mannered academic was instead a tall, gorgeous creature; a man whose undeniable masculinity still affected a certain Byronic delicacy in his brooding aspect. Let me begin by describing his porcelain-doll skin…

Diego had to stop himself from throwing the book across the room in frustration. 

"Wasting paper on useless rot when he could write about dinosaurs …" he muttered, skipping a few pages ahead to get past the lurid details of Dr. Ferdinand's subsequent tryst with Dr. Ashbury. The light coming through the porthole was fading with the setting sun, and Diego did not want to waste the little reading time he had left on the useless matter of Desmond’s skin …

3. May 1889

Paris, France

Two days before the exposition opens to the public, and my heart is still ablaze with passion! Dessie and I were allowed to privately tour the pavilions without having to bump elbows with the common riff-raff or tolerate the stink of the crowds. One exhibit had an item that immediately caught our attention – the Imperial Diamond. At 185 carats, it is the largest cut diamond in the world! My companion seemed to go into a sort of trance upon seeing its kaleidoscopic brilliance, and he could not be stirred from it for several minutes. I wished with all my heart that I could reach into its glass display and hand it to him, right there. 

Diamond. Imperial Diamond.

Diego’s hands were trembling with excitement.

Did Ferdinand steal the fucking Imperial Diamond?

If he did… then that damned heavy thing in the pocket of Diego’s jodhpurs was the largest cut diamond in the entire world .

The real secret was that he still didn’t know horseshit about what the diamonds were truly worth. He didn’t even know rough estimates. Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A hundred million? A hundred billion? The larger the sum, the more of an incomprehensible blur it was to him; it was dizzying to imagine that numbers could even go that high. It was a lot of money. A lot. The specifics, though… he still needed to learn the specifics. Diego’s heart raced as quickly as his thoughts. 

We’d have to find an appraiser immediately. A gemstone expert. Can’t keep the diamonds on us for too long. Too much heat. Too much risk. But even after it’s appraised, it’d surely take us a while to find someone with enough money to purchase it. Can’t be some self-righteous prig. Gotta find ourselves a shady aristocrat with rotten morals, one that doesn’t care we’re wanted criminals. Or some new-money crammer. We’ll take a ferry to England, and we can offload the—

He stopped himself.

We.

He was thinking ahead in terms of “we” and “us” as if she were still his partner. Diego chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head. Even if they reunited in Paris by some miracle, there was no way she would want to do anything with those diamonds except deliver them to her Catholic handlers.

It was dark now, too dark to read any more of Ferdinand’s writing. Diego returned the diary to his belt pouch and brought his hands behind his back again, making a loose knot in the rope between his wrists. By this point he assumed the crew wasn’t going to bring him any food or water tonight. It was disappointing, but he supposed he never was a stranger to hunger anyway.

Diego curled up on the floor beside a wooden crate. The placid waves rocked the ship gently, like a cradle. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not take him.

“Don’t you bloody dare wish for my ‘happiness’ when I’ve still got business with you…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

By The Beautiful Blue Danube, Part 2

Hot Pants was not in a prison. She was in a convent.

A convent did, however, function perfectly as a prison, with its cloistered walls and structured days. Hot Pants was surrounded by familiar sights and sounds – hushed prayers echoing through the corridor, sisters walking two-by-two, rosary beads clicking, musky remnants of incense – yet there was no comfort to be found in the calm that once soothed her.

In her own convent, the daily observed silence was a sanctuary for her soul. But within these unknown walls, it was an oppressive reinforcement of uncertainty. Hot Pants implored the Sisters for answers regarding her situation, her captors, their motives, anything . They shushed her each time. An older nun shoved La Sainte Bible into her hands, needling H.P.’s side with an index finger until she opened it.

Hot Pants could not focus on any sort of prayer. Fortunately, it took little effort to feign spiritual contemplation as she idly flipped the pages of the Bible. Her schedule was rather similar to how she spent her days in Rouen: Vigils, Mass, Lauds, Sext, Vespers, Compline. Prayers, songs, and an ever-present silence between the canonical hours, when Sisters were expected to whisper to each other only when necessary. The difference between Paris and Rouen was that Hot Pants had even less freedom here. She was not allowed in the courtyard to work in the herb and vegetable gardens. She was not allowed to sit in the refectory during communal mealtimes. She was not allowed to converse with the other Sisters during the hour of free time before bed. And she was not, under any circumstances, allowed to roam the corridors without a Sister escorting her at all times. 

------

The first morning, her "handlers" left a new habit to match the dress of the other nuns. It contained a starched white wimple with unwieldy "wings" on the sides of the head. Hot Pants disliked its stiffness, yet she wore it reluctantly; obedience was a solemn vow, and she did not wish to come to blows with another Sister. She truly believed these women (or most of them, at least) had nothing to do with whoever ordered Hot Pants' captivity. They too had sworn vows of obedience. They had to comply with the abbess or prioress or who ever was giving orders around here.

To prevent her from conversing with the other Sisters during mealtimes, Hot Pants was locked within her own private room above a spiral flight of stairs, confined to a tower separate from the nuns’ dormitories. Though she was indeed a prisoner, the chamber was too luxurious to be compared with a cell; the oaken furnishings were of sturdy make and consisted of a bookshelf, a writing desk, a chair, and a four-poster bed. Tapestries with allegorical scenes adorned the walls, and a statue of the Black Madonna hung above the desk. Wax candles protruded from sconces along the walls, and the domed ceiling was painted a spectacular ultramarine blue with little gold stars. Hot Pants assumed the finery of her surroundings was not intended for a simple nun such as herself, but for visitors of some distinction. Perhaps a Cardinal had stayed, years ago, and the space quickly furnished to accommodate.

It was the third morning, or perhaps the fourth – the days were monotonous and easy to lose track of – that the hawk-eyed old Sister Jeanne who had given her the Bible arrived to deliver breakfast. She scrunched her face up in obvious disdain at the sight of Hot Pants’ untouched supper tray from the evening before, clicking her tongue like a mother hen.

“Your devotion to your monastic asceticism is admirable,” the Sister said in French. “Yet… you are committing a venial sin by allowing good food go to waste…”

Already dressed in her habit and wimple, Hot Pants sat primly with her hands folded atop the Holy Bible in her lap. She lifted her head just barely, meeting the nun’s stare with aloof disinterest. 

“The scraps can be fed to the hounds, or the pigs – you keep livestock here, yes? Or – better yet – this is Paris; you need only step outside to find a beggar far hungrier than I am. Would that not be charitable, Sister Jeanne?” She opened the Bible to the page where her rosary was kept as a place-holder. After a pause, her eyes peered up from behind the pages to stare at the Sister again. “Do not mistake my abstention for a religious fast, or an adherence to asceticism. I refuse to eat until I am given satisfactory answers regarding my present situation.”

The elder nun wagged a gnarled finger of reproach in Hot Pants’ face. “Hmph. What a prideful creature you are.”

The younger nun returned this gesture with a glacial stare. “If you do not mind, I wish to be left alone, so that I may take advantage of this silent hour of prayer before Mass.” Her eyes flitted back to the words on the page.

Sister Jeanne opened her mouth, unable to utter anything beyond some syllables of astonishment. She dropped the breakfast tray on the end table with a clatter of bowls and utensils, and smoothed her skirts out in indignation. “Lord, forgive this prideful creature…” she whispered, crossing herself before exiting with the uneaten supper tray.

Hot Pants listened for the key clicking in the lock and the stomping footsteps fading from the stairway, and fell back onto the downy bed with a sigh. She let go of the Bible and gazed up at the starry blue ceiling, pushing her hands against her abdomen in the hopes that applying pressure might alleviate some of the pain of emptiness. It didn’t work.

Dio wouldn’t have put up with this for so long if he were here , Hot Pants thought to herself. Probably for the better that he wasn’t with her. Ultimately, he acted in self-preservation above all else. He had no invisible chains of obedience or piety to hold him back from hurting these peaceful Sisters with no means or will to fight back - yes, even that mean old Sister Jeanne that scolded her for having the gall to ask questions about her situation. Hot Pants did not even wish harm upon her, much as she secretly relished striking at the elder nun’s pride this morning. Dio would have hurt all of them.

Part of her deeply admired Dio. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met, surviving for most his life on nothing but anger and ambition and whatever he could steal. He’d clawed his way up from the filthiest, most squalid hole imaginable, and carved his way into the cutthroat world of elite horseracing.  And after winning the Epsom Derby at 16, Diego kept winning and winning, yet… scarcity was all his mind could understand. Security and trust were foreign concepts.

The scenery of his situation had changed, but he was still an urchin fighting for his life in a darkened alley. A feral cat, killing over scraps.

Hot Pants sometimes prayed for his soul, but even God had little mercy for people like him.

And why do I believe him deserving of happiness?

Was it pity? No… he’d have squeezed all he could out of her by now if her heart were that soft. It was empathy – a cautious empathy – that she could only reasonably maintain so long as he did not see her vulnerability.

This feeling was rendered hopelessly complex by one simple fact: she found him intriguing. Magnetic, even. When he gazed at her, the dead leaves stirred within her heart. When she overheard him murmuring sweetly to the horses like one would to their beloved, she felt goosebumps rise along her arms. Hot Pants was by no means enamored with Dio, but the bitter cold mornings were made tolerable when sharing coffee and a cigarette with him over quiet conversation. 

She sat up and smoothed out the wrinkles on her habit. Although she was lightheaded from hunger, a schedule consisting of prayers and sitting was hardly vigorous. Her abstention would be sustainable a few more days, at least. She had already gone this far to prove a point; it would feel shameful to back down on it now. 

It was 6:15. Hot Pants had already spent several minutes of "prayer" time reminiscing about a man . Such sentimentality was hardly becoming of her.

She made the mistake of glancing at the breakfast tray, which sharpened the pangs in her side. It was standard monastic fare; barley bread, a boiled egg, and a glass of watered-down milk. Hot Pants gulped down the milk at least, though it sat unpleasantly on an empty stomach.

Then, she noticed something peculiar. A single white carnation resting on the tray, petals spread in perfect bloom. This was… different. Hot Pants couldn’t think of a reason why a convent in France would have a fresh carnation in the middle of January, let alone a flawless blossom such as this one. She knew of the existence of greenhouses and orangeries, but flowers in winter were a bourgeois luxury, not to be wasted on the breakfast tray of a simple nun.

Curiosity overcoming her, Hot Pants lifted the flower. The petals were dewy and fragrant, yet their moisture was cold, as if the carnation had recently thawed from a freeze.

There was a scrap of paper rolled around the stem. A clandestine message for her? Hot Pants unfurled it gingerly. The writing was in English, in a neat (yet unremarkable) cursive:

And the Lord said to Cain: What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the earth.

Hot Pants closed her fist around the scrap of paper and slammed it against the oaken desk. The tray rattled. Sickness twisted within like insects gnawing at her insides. The starry ceiling blurred into a blue and gold haze.

"Who…" she said out loud. She could feel the bile rising up her esophagus.

The note… she had to get rid of it. She could not simply tear it up; someone could piece it back together and discover her sin. Panic ringing in her ears, Hot Pants rolled the paper as tight as she could and popped it in her mouth. She swallowed it whole, like a tablet. 

Thy brother's blood…

She sat upon the bed again, hunched over.

Who could possibly know?  

Hot Pants had never told anyone, not even a priest, not even the Abbess at Rouen. It was her sin and hers alone; she could not allow them to grant her God's absolution. Never. Her brother was the only one whose forgiveness she would accept. As Cain himself said to the Lord, " My iniquity is greater than that I may deserve pardon ."

The tormentor wrote the verse in English. Not in French, or Latin. English. Her head pounded and her thoughts were a mess of tangled threads, unable to form connections. Her breathing stabilized, eventually, but she remained nauseous and wobbly.

A timid knock sounded against the door. Hot Pants perked her head up. A visitor? She did not believe it was Sister Jeanne; the old lady was the sort to barge in unannounced.

"Y-yes? Who is it?" Hot Pants called out, standing and smoothing out her skirts. Her hands trembled. She clasped them behind her back.

"Sister Eulalie," came a whisper through the keyhole. "May I enter?"

Hot Pants cleared her throat and stiffened her posture. "Uh. Yes. You may enter, Sister Eulalie," she said.

A key turned in the lock and the door opened, revealing a young woman with glassy blue eyes. Her eyebrows were so blonde they nearly disappeared against her pale skin, and her lower lip was red and cracked, as if she had the habit of biting it.

"The… visiting priest wishes to see you at the Great Chapel. I'm to escort you…" Sister Eulalie said.

"Hm. Visiting priest, you say?" Hot Pants narrowed her eyes at the newcomer. Nervous posture, fleeting eye contact, restless hands… she was the meekest thing she had ever laid eyes upon. A field mouse had more gumption.

"Yes. Father Styx is from England, and he doesn’t know any French, so you’ll have to… to…” Eulalie broke off mid-sentence.

“Speak English?” Hot Pants inferred. “No problem. I grew up in America.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “But – Sister! You couldn’t possibly be American! Your French is impeccable!”

Hot Pants chuckled. “I spent… hm, five years, I believe? Yes. Five years at a convent in Rouen. It’s hardly impressive that I learned the language.” She mustered a small smile, hoping to put the fretful young Sister at ease.

“My English is… not good,” Eulalie said, her gaze dropping. “Father Styx kindly offered to teach me, but I…” she trailed off yet again.

“Teach you! Is he not simply a visiting priest?” Hot Pants asked. “Or does he intend to write letters after he returns to England?”

The girl winced.

“He’s – He’s been visiting for a while…”

A dark suspicion suddenly pinched H.P.’s mind. A suspicion she would not utter out loud. She would not make Eulalie more frightened than she already was.

Hot Pants was determined to find out. In her own way. She had business with this “Father Styx” anyhow, but this suspicion raised a matter that would be quite discomfiting if she left it unresolved.

“Hey. We’re supposed to be heading to the Great Chapel, yes?” Hot Pants reminded the younger nun.

“Ah… but you haven’t eaten your breakfast! I help bake the bread every day, you know. Roll the dough myself,” she said, her chest puffing with pride. “Do you hate the barley bread? Is that why you didn’t touch it? I don’t like it much, either. I know… it’s coarse and grainy. We have to use up the leftover barley though, ‘cause not all of it got made into barleywine. I wish we could bake brioche… if only you’d been here in August! We picked blackberries and baked them into the brioche, and it was such a wonderful tart–”

“The barley bread is fine,” Hot Pants interrupted sharply before Sister Eulalie could continue rambling about delicious foodstuffs. “I’m… not particularly hungry. Say, could you come here, just a moment? I was having difficulty with my cincture, and was wondering if your order had a special way of tying it…”

Unquestioningly obedient, the younger woman trotted a few steps closer.

Hot Pants deftly brought out her Cream Starter. A flick of the wrist, and she sprayed the girl’s face. Whoosh. A thick fleshy coating spurted out of the can to seal her mouth shut, screams muffled before they could leave her throat.

Sister Eulalie’s hands flew up, not in retaliation, but in defense. She crossed her arms over her face in an attempt to shield herself from any further attacks. It was… easy, too easy for Hot Pants to grab both of Eulalie’s wrists and tie them behind her back with the rope cincture, giving it a few sturdy knots. The girl was very passive. Likely would not even attempt to escape. Hot Pants kept the bindings loose for her.

“I am very sorry, Sister Eulalie. I need to borrow your face for a few minutes. I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

Hot Pants searched the younger nun’s pocket until she found the brass key to her tower-prison. She then turned the can of Cream Starter towards herself and sprayed flesh all over her face, molding it into a perfect mask to resemble Sister Eulalie.

By now, the younger nun had already resigned herself to her fate. She didn’t put up a fight at all… not even a feeble one. She merely stared up with confusion and fear, tears welling in her eyes. 

“I will return shortly,” Hot Pants reassured her as she backed out of the room, closing the door and locking Eulalie in the tower. She lifted her skirts and flew down the spiral staircase. Time was precious. She would not squander any of it.

Rather than her typical brusque stride, Hot Pants attempted to affect the cautious, light-footed steps of Sister Eulalie. She tiptoed as quick as she could without drawing attention, nodding as she passed the other Sisters while keeping her head down.

Hot Pants made the sign of the cross as she entered the Great Chapel.

The sanctuary was spacious and octagonal, with eight pillars holding up a vaulted ceiling. The room was dusky; the sun had not yet risen, and the stained glass windows remained darkened, visible only by the dozens of altar lights illuminating each wall.

There was a man sitting alone in one of the pews. Though she only saw the back of his head, Hot Pants knew he was the one. Men were only allowed in convents under “special circumstances,” and Father Styx was the only “special circumstance” she knew of. At the sound of her entry, the man leaned his arm against the back of the pew, turning his head towards the doorway. Hot Pants nearly blew her cover; she wanted to laugh at his sorry sight. Dirty, unkempt blonde hair. Tired, hooded eyelids. Prickly stubble shadowed the lower half of his face. Even the collar of his office was askew. It was as if someone had picked a drunken lowlife from the streets and dressed him in vestments.

“Ah… F-Father Styx!” Hot Pants started in a loud whisper, mimicking a heavily accented broken English. “Father Styx, I am sorry…!”

“Sister Eulalie…” The priest began in cloying tones that made her blood curdle. “No need to fret… where is Sister Hazel?”

“She– she needs… how you say? To prepare – she needs more time to prepare!”

The priest raised himself from the pew and walked lackadaisically down the aisle towards Hot Pants, his arms outstretched. “Ah… perhaps I ought not to have given her quite the shock at breakfast-time…” he mused. “Let us allow her ten more minutes, my sweet Sister.”

So he was responsible for the Bible verse wrapped around the flower stem…

Hot Pants shifted the weight between her feet. “Yes, Father.”

Father Styx smiled. He brought his face close to hers. Hot Pants wrinkled her nose. His clothes smelled of old sweat. His breath smelled of wine.

“Uhm…” she started. “Is Sister Hazel a wicked woman…?”

“Oh, my dear child… That is for her to decide.” He moved behind Hot Pants and squeezed her shoulders as if giving an intimate massage. Hot Pants resisted every fiber of her being that wanted to elbow him in the gut.

The priest continued. “Sister Hazel has… something priceless squirreled away somewhere, but if she confesses, the sins of her past shall be forgiven, and she may re-join the flock. It is wicked to hoard riches beyond measure for personal gain, when such things could be used for the benefit of all in the name of our Lord… would you not agree?”

Father Styx drew Hot Pants closer. A chill spread through her veins when she felt the stiff rod of his lust through his cassock. Blood pulsed in her ears.

Get your filthy claws off me, abomination. 

She wanted to scream.

The fog of hunger dissipated, replaced by a cold blue flame of rage. She desired nothing more than to break him against the altar, put a carving-knife to his throat, and force him to reveal everything he knew. Was he the mastermind behind this entire conspiracy? A drunk, lecherous priest like him? His mien on its own confirmed that which she was already nearly-certain of: This man was definitely not with the Vatican.

Hot Pants resolved to kill him. Regardless of what information he might have about the last three diamonds, her very foundation screamed to spill his blood. 

Not yet, though. Mass would begin shortly, and Hot Pants still had an appointment to attend as herself. And, of course, she still needed information from this maggot-mouthed wretch. No matter. She could simply create a new appointment for “Eulalie” to attend. 

Stepping backwards, she detached herself from his grip.

“Father Styx, I… I wish to better my English,” she said, affecting demureness, ill as it made her to play-act as such. “You were kind to… offer me…” she trailed her voice off in a characteristically Sister Eulalie manner.

The priest smiled. Lips shaped like fat worms…. 

“Yes… why won’t you meet me in the rectory tomorrow evening, after supper?” He took a step forward to close the distance between them again, leaning closer. Closer. Too close. That sour breath tickled her ear.

“You can tell me anything, you know… think of me not simply as a priest, but as a… friend.”

Hot Pants stepped away from him. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I…”

She inhaled sharply and gazed down at her feet. Not out of timidity. If she continued to look at his face any longer she wouldn’t hold back. She’d wring his neck with her bare hands. 

Her stomach began releasing an ill-timed groan. She quickly spoke over the noise. “I’ll bring Sister Hazel down to meet you.”

As she turned to leave, Father Styx slapped her rear twice. Hot Pants bristled and whirled around. She shoved her hands in her pockets, clenching and unclenching her fists. Acid rose to feed the fire burning in her throat. Yet she said nothing.

“Do see that you get yourself some breakfast before Mass, as well, dear Sister. Lest the entire congregation believe the thundering of your belly is the wrath of the heavens upon us…" he chuckled at his own joke.

Hot Pants mustered a smile, and clasped her hands together as she retreated down the aisle.

You have profaned this sanctuary, priest.

When she slammed the chapel doors behind her, Hot Pants blinked rapidly. Her eyelashes stuck together with beads of moisture. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sniffled. She turned a corner and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths to compose herself.

No man in her hometown dared to touch her that way. Not since she was 13, when she’d beaten the silversmith’s son after he slid a hand up her Sunday dress.

For what Father Styx had done to her in the sanctuary, Hot Pants felt her honor had been besmirched. But it was not for her own dignity that she boiled with rage. It was for Sister Eulalie’s sake. 

What has he already done to her…?

Perhaps God, whose vengeance was legendary, would understand her actions. Murder was a mortal sin, and Hot Pants did not take this lightly. Yet… was it unjust to kill to protect the virtue of a holy Sister? There was no other way; she had to use her own hands to put an end to this. A man such as him could influence the courts, and a meek little nun had no power. If Eulalie even wanted to testify against him at all, she would be dragged through the mud and humiliated, accused of being a wicked temptress that incited the lust of a holy man. Hot Pants already knew how such a farcical trial would ensue… and she had no patience for that.

------

Hot Pants burst through the tower door, startling the bound Sister Eulalie. She was in exactly the same place she’d been left, sitting on the ground at the end of the bed. Pink flesh still covered her mouth.

Hot Pants locked the door behind her.

“Sister. I’m going to untie you and remove the flesh that covers your mouth. Promise you won’t scream?” she asked. She knelt in front of Sister Eulalie, boring her eyes into the girl’s.

Eulalie’s head bobbed up and down quickly.

“Are you certain you won’t scream? Do you swear it? Swear it in the name of our Lord?”

Eulalie hesitated a moment, as it was indecent to swear on the Lord, but she nodded just as vigorously as before.

Hot Pants ripped off the strip of flesh over the girl’s mouth in one swift action, like an adhesive bandage. 

Though the meat spray had not restricted her breathing in any way, as it did not cover her nose, Eulalie gasped for air as though she had been suffocating this entire time.

“Sister Hazel… you have an ability…! Are you a Saint, or… a devil?”

“Never mind that. No time to explain things you wouldn’t understand,” H.P. said, regretting the sharpness in her tone. She slid the bindings off Eulalie’s wrists, peeled off her own flesh mask, and seated herself promptly before the breakfast tray. She bit off a huge bite of barley bread, chewing and swallowing in chunks. “This… Father Styx. Has he… taken your virtue?”

“No… well, not yet…”

“ Not yet? ” Hot Pants exclaimed, mouth still full of bread. “No, Sister Eulalie, not ever . I’m going to put an end to this.” She took another bite. It was dry and gritty, and H.P. wished she had some milk left to wash it down. Much as she resented giving in to her captors’ whims by eating their food, it was better to keep her strength up so that she would be able to kill this man. 

She continued eating while Eulalie fidgeted with her response.

“Don’t… tell anyone,” the girl finally said. 

Hot Pants began peeling the boiled egg’s hard exterior shell.

“Of course I won’t tell anyone. I told you I’d end it. That doesn’t mean I’d disgrace you before the entire convent.”

“Then…” Sister Eulalie looked down at her feet. “If you aren’t going to tell the Abbess… how do you expect to… to…” she trailed off, spark of determination fading from her voice.

Hot Pants stopped peeling. She plucked the eggshells off her hands.

“He is not a holy man, Sister Eulalie.”

Eulalie gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth. “You can’t…”

“Yes. I will.”

“NO!”

Sister Eulalie slammed both hands onto the desk. The tray rattled.

“I…” the girl’s voice was thin glass, cracking. She brought her trembling hands to her heart. “I… can’t allow this… !”

Nonplussed, Hot Pants glanced up from her meal to meet Sister Eulalie’s eyes. “And why not?”

Eulalie looked down at her boots, unable to meet Hot Pants’ intense stare.

"My mother… she needs surgery… she has a growth, and the doctor says it’s killing her…"

Hot Pants put the egg down. The chair screeched against the floors. She stood up, face pinched and harrowed as if she’d eaten a lime.

At her full height, she towered a foot above the poor girl. Hot Pants said nothing. She merely stood and stared down. Sister Eulalie shrank back, averting her eyes, yet she still had some dash-fire left to continue talking. “If– if I could… do what he wants… you know … f-for the money… I think the Lord might forgive me, if it’s for my mother… don’t you think? I know I’d be wicked for it, but… I’ll do it for Mother… please understand…”

Hot Pants dropped to her knees in front of Eulalie. A pressure had been building up across the bridge of her nose, and she could suppress it no longer. Her eyes stung, flooding her sight. She tilted her head upwards to stop from crying, but the welled-up tears streamed out the corners of her eyes, down her face.

“But you’re only… a child…"

Chapter Text

“Mum… wake up! We’ll get in trouble… hurry!”

Diego started to pull at her hand, but recoiled instantly. Her skin was ice cold. She’d burned with fever for weeks, and her skin had always been hot to the touch. But this morning, she was so cold…. 

He let go of her. The arm fell across her chest. A stiff, wooden doll arm.

“You’re freezing…” 

Diego grabbed a horse blanket from the stable. In her illness, she’d wasted away to nothing more than skin stretched across bones; even the six year old child did not find it difficult to turn over her body as he wrapped the blanket around.

 “Please get warm… and please wake up… I know you’re tired, but they– they’ll start a row with us again if you’re not working! They’ll hurt you if you don’t wake up!” He raised his voice, nearly shouting in her ear. “WAKE UP! MUM!!”

Diego forced open her eyelids. Dull blue eyes drifted upwards in their sockets. Whimpering in desperation and fear, the boy tugged at her arm again. She HAD to get up! He pulled, using both hands now, with all the strength his tiny body could muster. He pulled as if to drag her out of the very depths of Hell, he pulled in tug-of-war with the Grim Reaper, with the Devil, and anyone else that’d dare try and take her from him. But the emaciated woman did not stir. The boy didn’t give up. His small frame heaved with sobs and he pulled harder and harder until the delicate limb snapped.

 Diego stumbled backwards, holding her pale arm, torn completely out from his mother’s shoulder. “Ah…!”

She was rotting…

He looked at her face again, and her skin had turned mottled and blue. Marmalade pus leaked out from sores opening on the arm Diego still gripped in his little hands. 

She was rotting…

His mother's body spasmed into an upright position. Her eyelids fluttered open, but the eyeballs liquefied into milk-froth tears that oozed down her face. Locusts flew out of the empty black sockets. Tied around her head, the wilting daisy-chain Diego had made for her transformed into a crown of dead rats. When she opened her mouth, the flesh over her jaw tore, exposing her cheekbones gnashing up and down, teeth rattling together as she wheezed in a desiccated voice.

“DIO… MY PRECIOUS SON.  I SUFFERED CONSTANTLY SINCE THE DAY I GAVE BIRTH TO YOU… YET YOU GREW UP TO BE SUCH A ROTTEN BOY! HOW COULD YOU GROW UP TO BE SO ROTTEN?”

“It’s not your fault, mum… it’s not your fault I’m like this…”

 “NO… YOUR EVIL IS MY SIN. I’M SO ASHAMED, DIO. DON’T TURN YOUR HEAD; LOOK AT ME! THEY CURSE MY NAME IN HELL, FOR I HAVE RAISED A DEVIL TO WALK THIS EARTH!”

Her words echoed infinitely. Diego’s breathing grew shallow and rapid. A drum was thumping in his ears, its rhythm fast and irregular. His sight narrowed, closing like an aperture, and then he realized that everything was dark. He clutched his mother’s severed arm tight to his chest and screamed into the abyss with all the pain in his heart. The world shook, for the utterance was no longer the crying of a little boy, but the screeching of some monstrous creature.

“WRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

He opened his eyes again. The drum was his heartbeat, pulsing in his ears. Blood… so much blood painted the floors and the walls, but the blood was not a normal red as he imagined. The blood was a chromatic feast of hues Diego did not even know the names of. His mouth tasted of iron and some… savory, gamey flavor. Some unidentifiable raw meat. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his stomach. It took Diego a few moments to realize it was over-fullness, the satiety after indulging in too large a meal, yet the blood-rich air still made him salivate with hunger. He flicked his tongue about his mouth, running it across rows of shark-like teeth. 

Diego then noticed he was still holding on to that arm for dear life, having gripped so tightly his claws were sinking into its flesh.

Something was wrong. 

This was not his mother’s arm. Diego glanced down at the limb. It was not rail-thin and pale; it was hairy and sun-tanned and muscular and tattooed. This was not his mother’s arm, yet he knew this arm… he had seen it before… he knew its scent…

The French captain…?

His claws retracted immediately and the dead arm dropped to the ground. Three deep holes punctured the forearm where his fingers had held it. The tantalizing scent of blood still enticed him, yet his inexplicably ravenous appetite twisted into sickness the moment he noticed the dismembered body on the floor. 

The captain’s throat was torn wide open, the gash a yawning red smile. His guts spilled out like a bucket of offal, small intestines a bile-soaked tangle on the floor. His broad chest had been opened, ribs jutting out like tusks, exposing the hollowed cavity where his heart should have been. Conspicuous teeth marks lined the areas where chunks of flesh were missing from his body, revealing bone and blood and yellow fat. 

No human could have mutilated a body in such a way. Very few animals were capable of this, and none of them had any right to be aboard a cargo ship. Diego staggered backwards, but lost his footing as the ship swayed with the waves. He fell with a heavy thud, swollen and sluggish as a milk-gorged calf ready for slaughter. 

“Ugh… what have I done?”

No. He cut that line of thought before it festered, fishing for some reasonable explanation for the wretched sight before him. He was probably still hallucinating after waking from that terrible nightmare. It wasn’t him that caused this. An… alligator might have sneaked on board the ship while loading cargo – they were swifter than most people realized – it had to be an alligator. Diego’s teeth were no longer endless rows of deadly knives, and he had no “claws” to rip and tear through flesh; his fingernails only looked slightly longer and sharper than usual. He must have imagined everything… if it weren’t for the blood still on his hands. That was real. Diego immediately wiped them off, staining his trousers with the evidence he tried to hide from himself. His mind was desperately building a barricade of rationalizations and denials that kept crumbling into dust under the most basic scrutiny. Perspiration formed on his brow and his sickness grew unbearably worse the longer he tried to ignore that feeling in his stomach, that painful throbbing as his abdomen felt it was close to bursting, that throbbing reminding him of the beating of the heart – not his own heart – the heart the captain’s heart was still beating as he sank his teeth into the dense muscle and swallowed it whole – it thump-thumped one last heartbeat as it slid down his th

Diego retched. His memory was a disjointed mess, and he struggled to piece together the events that led him here but nothing made a lick of sense. Last thing he clearly remembered, before having a nightmare about the worst goddamn day of his life, was trying to read that stupid journal in the cargo hold. His anger sharpened each morning as they gave him nothing but thin gruel, a miserable “food” that only made him feel worse for the awful memories it dredged up. Someone – a sailor, most likely, but this was where his memory became grainy and out-of-focus – informed him that they were about to drop anchor in Le Havre, where Diego would be out of their hands and passed along to the local authorities. Yes… now he was starting to remember… there was an altercation after Diego refused the morning gruel with some choice words, and the sailor cruelly splashed it at his face, dissolving part of Cream Starter’s disguise. A panic ensued, and something… primal, something indescribable and predatory overpowered Diego’s capacity for critical thought, and he could not recall anything after that, save for brief violent glimpses of…

He nearly retched again. It was not the fact that he’d killed this man. It was a grisly, disturbing scene, of course, and were he in the right mind he would have granted the captain a cleaner death, but… it was not the kill itself that disgusted him beyond belief. His bloated abdomen ached as he rose on wobbling legs. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and looked away.

On an abstract level, he could comprehend the necessity of such an act in times of shipwreck or famine, and even Diego himself imagined it a couple times in his youth when he was lost to the delirium of starvation. He couldn’t justify this as an act of necessity, though. He wasn’t even starving. Angry and unsatiated by the pitiful rations? Sure. But he wasn’t starving. He knew the difference between hunger and starvation. He knew it very well.

Usually he didn’t need to hold himself accountable or attempt to justify even the worst of his actions. Diego had long learned how to compartmentalize. Harden himself. He’d be the first to admit he was a right bastard in more ways than one; he’d committed some vile crimes that’d make his mother weep if she’d have seen it, and not all was for the sake of survival. But this …

THEY CURSE MY NAME IN HELL, FOR I HAVE RAISED A DEVIL TO WALK THIS EARTH!

Her emaciated corpse still haunted his dreams. He barely even remembered what she looked like when she was healthy, but he would never forget her corpse. Diego’s eyes misted with tears and he nearly wanted to return to his nightmare so that he could lay beside her again and weep for forgiveness.

 “Do you think I’m a monster, mum? Do you think I’m the devil?” he whispered.

Footsteps thundered above deck. More sailors. Less than a minute had passed since he awakened from his stupor, yet it felt as if he’d been in the captain’s cabin for an agonizing eternity.

“Capitaine! Capitaine!” were the only words he recognized from the panicked shouting above.

Two sailors arrived at the doorway. One became sick at the sight of the captain. The other drew a pistol with trembling hands. The safety clicked back…

Get them before they get you.

He barely needed to think about the transformation; there was no reason to repress his instincts now. His skin hardened into scales. His mouth grew wide and terrible to fit rows of shark-like teeth, and his arms curled into talons. As his body grew, a tail sprouted from behind him. The euphoria was indescribable; there was no reason to fear anyone. No one could hurt him anymore. He was an apex predator, an unfathomable prehistoric creature with senses far superior to that of any human.

“C'est un monstre! Tirez lui dessus! Merde, TIREZ LUI DESSUS!”

Get them before they get you.

Claws extended, Diego leaped towards the man with the gun just as he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The bullet lodged itself in Diego’s elongating torso, but it could not penetrate through the thick armor of his scales. He pinned the sailor to the floor. The gun flew across the room. Diego thought he heard something like glass crunching beneath his massive form, but then he realized it was the Frenchman’s bones. His body flopped limply beneath him. Dead? He could not feel the vibrations of his heartbeat any longer. The other sailor turned and ran in horror. That was a mistake. The dinosaur’s chase instinct activated with an immediate lunge, and he sunk his talons in the back of the fleeing sailor. He pulled his claws to split him open like a vivisection.

The smell was intoxicating, and Diego longed to remain to feast on his latest prey. 

No. I’ve already gorged enough.

He pushed down his basal instincts to retain some semblance of intelligent thought. He didn’t want to lose control again. He had to get off this ship. It was a death-trap; they’d no way of forcing him off the ship without burning the whole thing, and Diego did not care to be on a burning ship. His nostrils flared, letting out a hiss as he stomped up the steps above deck, his monstrous form barely able to squeeze through the narrow corridor. Sunlight stabbed his eyes and he could actually feel his pupils constricting. He could see the warmth of the sun’s rays, he could see the radiant spectrum of colors of sunlight now that he couldn’t describe in human words. He hissed again, tail bouncing left and right as he made a running jump from the ship and onto the docks of Le Havre.

A cacophony of screams and shouts racked his eardrums, and the overwhelming smell of the city proper disoriented him. The air was heavy with seawater, yet he distinctly made out the nauseating flowery, citrusy aroma of Eau de Cologne from the wrists of ladies and gentlemen, the filthy babies with soiled diapers, the wet dog rolling in the puddles. Even the nearby cinnamon from the bakery turned his stomach. And beneath the superficial scents of sweat and pheromones and perfumes was the unique smell of each human – all of them had different scents, all of them had warm, sticky blood coursing through their veins, blood that he could smell through their pores…

Diego started to run. Dock-workers dropped shipping crates and fled. That mangy wet dog began to bark. Dirty, stinky children screamed. No one dared give chase. Not that it mattered; he would be able to outrun them all. He ran past rows of townhouses with hanging garden-boxes. Even the flowers, with fragrances once subtle and sweet, overwhelmed him. His body was only half-dinosaur now, but his senses were still unbearably keen. Diego ran into a modest church and slammed the doors shut, pulling the crossbar over the latch to secure it. His mind overflowed with stimuli; the sounds, the scents, the four-dimensionality of light and color… it was too much at once.

Alone in the darkened sanctuary, Diego crouched with his rucksack in front of him, rummaging until he found something containing the comforting scent of the person he wanted to find more than anything else…

A pair of gloves. Hot Pants’ riding gloves. 

Diego buried his face in the gloves, inhaling her lingering scent. Familiar…

It grounded him, re-oriented him. The overstimulation faded as he focused on her scent mingling with the well-worn leather of the gloves, overpowering all the other chaos of the city. He’d been alone most of his life but now he knew he had to find her. For the diamonds, yes, for the diamonds of course. 

No…

The diamonds were part of it. Not all of it. But he wanted to keep justifying it that way in his head. It was easier that way. Easier to lie and tell himself he hadn’t grown attached than to make himself vulnerable enough for her to hurt him. Get them before they get you…

But that was a worry for the future. He banished thoughts of their inevitable fight yet again and focused on his plan.

He’d go to Paris. That’s where Merriweather Post said he was sending her. Paris. The City of Light. Diego didn’t know where in Paris, but he had the nose to track her scent down, wherever she’d gone.

Diego couldn’t even begin to process anything, and he didn’t try; all he knew was he needed to find her. He was host to some savage monster beyond his understanding. It was incredible to wield such a power, but loathe as he was to admit it, he was… afraid. Afraid of himself. Afraid of being alone again. Afraid of losing that little shred of humanity he left alive, that flickering flame of a candle he kept burning only for his mother’s sake.

He needed to see her. Hot Pants would know what to do. She always knew what to do.

Chapter Text

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" asked the shadow behind the metal grid.

"Nothing at all I wish to confess to you," Hot Pants confirmed.

"Then… do you claim to be free of sin?"

Hot Pants was silent for a few seconds. She shifted her weight between her knees. The wooden step creaked slightly. 

"No one on Earth is free of sin, Father. Not even you."

"Ah…” The shadow on the other side chuckled. “I apologize if you assumed I was testing your knowledge. Of course you know the concept of original sin. Every child is born in sin, inheriting the transgressions of their parents… Yet it is not for the concupiscence of Man alone that we must repent, is it? What of the newborn infant, who knows only trust and love for his mother, from whose teat he suckles? What sins ought he to confess?"

"I apologize if you assumed I was interested in discussing doctrine with you,” Hot Pants replied curtly.

 Her eyes kept darting towards the thick velvet curtain. Only a curtain, a single plush layer of velvet separated this wooden torture box from the open sanctuary. Hot Pants desperately wanted to flee. A hundred thousand fibrous thoughts screamed at her to escape the confines of the confessional. Yet she couldn’t move. She tried to regulate a “natural” rhythm in her breathing, but a sudden sharp inhale betrayed her fear and was commented upon in short order by the Priest:

"Sister Hazel… we are alone in this hallowed sanctuary. I am merely an instrument through which the Lord is listening. There is no need for any discomfiture, child…”

Hot Pants bit her lower lip at being called child in such an unctuous tone. Only when she tasted blood did she stop chewing her lip.

"There is nothing I wish to confess, Father.  Must I repeat myself? I refuse to deliver the diamonds to anyone but the Pope himself. If you are truly beholden to the Papal authority, you would understand the solemnity of my orders, and why I must obey them with exactitude!”

Laying out the situation in plain words made its absurdity even more apparent, and her cheeks grew warm with indignation as she continued.

“I doubt it is a sin to withhold information about my holy mission from an English priest I’ve never met; a strange priest who is holding me captive and preventing me from fulfilling my duty to God! So please, Father, illuminate me! What do you expect me to confess? This booth is cramped enough already without the elephant we're dancing around. Get on with it." 

That’s right. Anger to mask my fear. I suppose we’re more alike than I thought, Dio.

Hot Pants stifled a laugh. She didn’t know why she was thinking of him again, but that bitter man and his sardonic humor would have been a welcome relief in her present situation. Tight spaces made her uncomfortable. Closing her eyes only made it worse; worse that she couldn’t see if there was a monster about to rear its head at the only exit, trapping her inside with no way out.

"An 'elephant in the room’ is the idiom you refer to, yes?” Father Styx chortled. He tapped his fingers on the Bible rhythmically. “I wonder… is it a phantasmal elephant in the booth with us? Or is it… a bear ?"

Hot Pants tried to swallow. It felt as if a block of lead were caught in her throat. All the air had been squeezed out of her lungs. 

And the Lord said to Cain: What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the earth.

With that note she’d received at breakfast, Hot Pants came into the confessional with a suspicion that Father Styx would attempt to wheedle a cruel truth from her lips. Yet all these mental preparations crumbled to dust the moment he said the word bear .

“How…” Deprived of air, her voice was a tiny whisper she could barely hear against the galloping of her own heart. “How do you know anything about that?”

The priest chuckled. His laughter had taken on a more sinister undertone; a stark departure from the affability he feigned a moment ago.

"Before you competed in the Steel Ball Run, we – that is to say, your Vatican handlers – provided information on Diego Brando, Gyro Zeppeli, Johnny Joestar, among the other noteworthy participants. We supplied you with details you would not find in public records. You remember this, of course…”

Hot Pants nodded, finally catching her breath. She gripped her rosary tight. The edges of the crucifix dug into her palm.

"But how were you privy to my secrets without any record?" she demanded. "I've told no one what happened that day!"

"No one? Never scribbled in the margins of pages you thought you burned? Never whispered into a corridor you thought was empty? I cannot divulge how we know, but I can assure you, child, we know ."

Hot Pants chewed on her lip again. 

"We have our ways…" the priest continued. "Do you think Johnny Joestar was in the habit of telling anyone why he was shot? Do you think Diego Brando ever talked about his whore mother?"

"She wasn't a–" Hot Pants was still choking on her own breath, struggling to get the words out, but anger rippled through her heart again. "Don't talk about his mother that way."

How dare you degrade Dio's mother when you have designs to steal the virtue of a mere child!

She wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow and sat on her hands so that he could not see them shake. The sun must be rising; more light leaked into the booth from the space beneath the curtain. Monstrous shapes danced in the shadows along the walls, and she kept glancing behind her shoulder to ensure that it was still the drafty movements of the curtain, a trick of the light. Hot Pants could finally hear the orderly footsteps of nuns filtering into the sanctuary, making no other audible sounds but the rustling of skirts and the creaking of pews as they sat. Each nun that passed the confessional cast an unknowable shadow she could see in the space between the curtain and the booth. Each set of feet electrified a surge of panic starting in her fingertips, running up through the veins of her arms all the way to her pounding heart. She couldn’t breathe. Any air sucked into her lungs was expelled too quickly. Any attempt to ground herself with the reality of the situation was futile; she touched the wood panels of the walls to reassure herself she was not surrounded by damp stone, but she was rendered powerless. Cowardly. Like that little girl in the cave eight years ago, or was it ten? Was it twelve? How old was she today?

Hot Pants used the last bit of her strength and lucidity to pull back the curtain and stumble out of the booth. Her legs buckled as soon as she was out and she crumpled doll-like in a heap, but she was free. She gazed up at the huge vaulted ceiling and tears of relief welled in her eyes, blurring the colored lights filtering in from the stained glass windows.

"Only absolution from God can ease your suffering, Sister Hazel…" 

Her head snapped back around to the confessional. The priest drew back his own curtain and stepped out, still tapping his Bible. He stared down at Hot Pants, stringy hair framing his rat-face.

"You have left the confessional, but you will never leave the prison of your own mind…" he taunted.

Then… she heard music.

The pipe organ began to play a melody.

This was not a hymn, or any godly music for that matter. 

This was a waltz . And a waltz so familiar that even Hot Pants recognized its lilting, airy tune. The sort of waltz that could be heard at a carnival or a street corner.

"I have never seen the Danube River myself, but I've heard it is quite beautiful this time of year," he said.

Each note stabbed her ears like an icicle, the cold seeping into her bloodstream. Still sprawled on the ground, she tilted her head up with some effort. The nuns walked past, continuing to filter into their pews as if they hadn't taken any notice.

Her numb lips struggled to form words as her body temperature continued to lower at an alarming rate with each upbeat note. "St– stop!"

"This is what happens when you defy the will of God," Father Styx said, raising his arms as if he were giving a sermon.

The Blue Danube played on, and Hot Pants grew colder and colder. She reached beneath her habit for her Cream Starter, the movement sending another icy shock through her veins.

The other Sisters appeared unaffected. Could they not hear the music? Only Sister Eulalie cast Hot Pants a pitiful glance from where she stood across the aisle, fidgeting with her rosary.

She squeezed the trigger of her Cream Starter, but nothing came out. The flesh inside was already frozen…

When Hot Pants came to, she found herself sitting on a stone-tiled floor, staring blankly into a fire. Her hands cupped a mug of hot tea that she did not remember taking.

She was shivering, though she no longer felt nearly as cold as she did in the sanctuary. It was a coldness in her core, a lingering feeling that went beyond body temperature. She was cold from mental exhaustion, cold from the misery of defeat.. She brought the cup to her lips, but did not take a sip, unsure where this tea came from and what might be in it. The towels over the washbasin, the stack of unwashed plates, and the little cooking-hearth she sat in front of all indicated she was in the convent’s kitchen.

“I’m… sorry,” came a tiny voice, and Hot Pants immediately recognized it as meek little Sister Eulalie without even looking. “I’m not brave or… or strong like you. I wanted to do something, but…”

“Don’t,” Hot Pants heard herself saying, not turning to face her. “I’m not brave as you think I am.”

She sipped her tea. "And besides," she added. "They'd tear you to shreds if you deviated even slightly from the obedience they expected from you. Father Styx must have given strict instructions not to intervene. Didn’t he?"

"Then.. it's true? Are you free? Did he exorcize the demon that possessed you?!"

"Sister…"  Hot Pants exhaled. "I was never possessed by a demon. What lies are this priest serving to you?”

The girl's eyes widened, owl-like.

"He told us to put rags in our ears to protect us from harm. He said… he said… he plays an ‘instrument’ that channels the Lord's divine judgment!"

Hot Pants took a long sip of tea, narrowing her eyes at Sister Eulalie. "If that ‘instrument’ is indeed delivering judgment from the heavens, why would Father Styx tell you to plug your ears with rags? Surely… surely righteous souls such as yourself, Sister, would remain unharmed… if this ability channels the wrath of God, it must also channel his mercy, no?”

“But– b-but Sister Hazel!” Eulalie babbled. “I do not understand! You have a strange ability too… and if Father Styx says you are wicked, perhaps your ability is that of the Devil! The exorcism… did it rid you of… of your powers?”

Hot Pants lowered her eyes, sighing with an eternity of exhaustion. She patted her pockets to ensure that yes, both cans of Cream Starter were indeed still on her person. “No, my abilities were not exorcized, ” she said, a touch of relief in spite of her annoyance. “I made no deal with the Devil at a crossroads…”

I prayed to all the rest, though. I prayed to God, to Jesus, to the Blessed Virgin Mary, to Holy Michael the Archangel … I prayed to Saint Joseph, Saint Luke, and every other Saint whose name I could remember.

Blood and grief burned that night into her memory forever. She couldn't forget it if she tried. She had no way of knowing which of those names answered her prayers. Cream Starter could have been the miracle of an angel, a saint, or even the devil , but she chose not to dwell on the whims of cosmic forces beyond mortal comprehension. That’s what she told Dio, each time he stared enviously at her canisters and asked how she acquired her Stand. “Yes, but how ?! What were you doing when it happened? What caused it to manifest?!” each time he insisted. And each time, Hot Pants was silent. Answers she did not wish to provide. Those memories were sealed away in a stone reliquary within her heart; she would never lay herself so vulnerable to anyone, especially not one such as Dio, who would gladly feast on her weakness…

“Then what is it? Why were you chosen?” Eulalie’s protruding eyes implored her for the same answers she couldn't tell Diego. Why was she chosen, indeed…

Hot Pants ignored the question, fixing her gaze on the fire again. "I have a favor to ask of you, Sister Eulalie. Tomorrow, after supper… can you find a reason to come to my room?"

The next evening, Hot Pants arrived at the rectory before Father Styx. It was not his rectory, though; she assumed this was the residence of the Abbess before Styx's indefinite visitation. Alas, it already bore his trappings, with a gaudy yellow tin of Gold Leaf tobacco on his desk and a bottle of gin in a lower shelf he probably thought looked discrete.

Again, she was borrowing the cherub-like visage of Sister Eulalie. With a serrated knife hidden in the folds of her sleeve, Hot Pants was prepared to kill him this time. First, she hoped to extract more information from him, but if she couldn't, she supposed she would manage. Much as she longed for answers of her own, she would not allow him to take advantage of the Sisters in this convent any longer.

Hot Pants thought she heard a noise outside. She strained to hear anything above the whistling winds. Looking out the window revealed nothing but the inky depths of night. Cautiously, she rose, keeping the knife nestled safely within her sleeve.

As she approached the window, Hot Pants heard the scratching of branches against the glass. As if some creature were climbing the tree by the window…

She unhooked the latch and pulled it open slowly, the cool winter air whispering against her face. The night was cloudy, and without the moon and stars she could barely see the silhouette of the tree, a shadowy figure scaling its trunk.

"Who's there?!" Hot Pants called out.

The creature nimbly jumped to a large bough about three feet from the building, perched and staring in her direction. Though it was still in silhouette, its eyes reflected a pale green shine, like those of a cat in the dark.

Hot Pants inhaled, then exhaled. Shit. It was making eye contact with her. Any sudden motion could be perceived as a threat. Moving slowly, without dropping her eyes from the creature, she took a step backwards, sliding the knife from her sleeve to grip it in her right hand, and reaching for the oil lamp on the desk with her left. 

The creature leaped from the bough, landing with surprising grace on the windowsill. Hot Pants entered a defensive stance, brandishing the knife and lamp at the unknown creature of the night.

As the shadowy "monster" was revealed by the glow of the lamp, Hot Pants gasped in shock, not fear; she would have been less surprised to see a vampire or bogeyman.

Perched like a bobcat on the ledge was unmistakably Diego Brando, staring back at her.

Something was strange about him. His teeth were terribly long and sharp, unnaturally so – well, it would have been natural for a shark or crocodile, perhaps, but nothing human . The hands that gripped the windowsill resembled claws more than hands, though it was difficult to tell with his gloves on. 

Beyond the obvious differences in his appearance, Diego looked like hell; eyes ringed by dark circles, hair matted and unwashed, and a significant amount of blood stained his uniform, some of it fresh.  He sniffed the air a couple times, then alighted like a jack o' lantern at Hot Pants; his toothy grin especially ghoulish in the orange lamp-glow. 

"H.P.! It's you, innit? Smells like you, in any case!"

He dropped from the ledge into the room, his voice and bearing inconceivably casual, as if finding her in Paris within six days hadn't been an impossible feat.

"Glad I found you before the Frenchies could put you in the guillotine! By the by… do you still have the diamonds?"

Chapter Text

Diego wanted to shock and awe Hot Pants with his entrance, and he’d succeeded. A five-second melodrama played out on her face – a wider range of emotions than he’d seen from that stone pillar in an entire week. First sheer astonishment, mouth agape, fish-like, silently mouthing words. Then, a glimpse of joy overtook her, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile, half-laughing, half-choking. “Dio, you…!”

But her mirth was suddenly replaced with a glimmer of anger.

“You’re not – supposed to be here! How did you even know it was me?" she asked.

It took Diego a moment to realize she was talking about her face. "Oh… you mean this disguise? Hmph! H.P., you don’t know what’s happened yet, but I didn’t need sight to find you!” he boasted. “I tracked you by your scent alone!"

Hot Pants wrinkled her nose. "My… scent? Come off it! You’re the one that reeks like you’ve been crawling around the Paris sewers…!”

Diego burst into hyena laughter, finding this utterly hilarious for some reason, but Hot Pants quickly covered his mouth.

“Shut up! I’m trying to – ugh!” she hissed, stamping her feet. “This is an awful time for you to show up!”

“Why’s that?” he asked, voice muffled by her hand.

“No time to explain. There’s a– a priest that’s coming soon. Father Styx. He has some answers I need, hence my being disguised as Sister Eulalie. It's more likely he'd reveal those answers to the girl he was trying to – to…” She stopped herself from completing that sentence and shook her head. “Either way, I’m going to kill that priest. Whether he gives me the answers or not. I’m going to kill him.”

Diego quirked an eyebrow. “Not that I’m… objecting, but aren’t you usually the thou-shalt-not-kill type?”

“Dio, I don’t have time to explain it to you! He’s on his way as we speak! I need you to hide, or- or- go back outside; you’ll completely ruin my cover if he sees you! We’ll talk later – I can handle him on my own. I don’t need you here right now.”

Her words stung him like a needle to a balloon, immediately deflating all of his bravado. 

Did I want her to… ‘need’ me?

His body burned from days of running with barely any sleep or food. He’d been shot at by terrified farmers and hunters who had never seen a dinosaur before, passed out in the woods when his legs gave way and nearly freezing to death before he woke up… But he had no desire to tell her of his trials, to tell her exactly how far he’d pushed past the mortal limits of pain and exhaustion to see her; he realized how desperate it would make him look.

“Well, I’ll… hide out here, I s’pose,” Diego said, hunching over the window. “Shoot me a halloo if you’re in a pickle…”

He scampered out the window, clinging to the side of the wall with his extended claws to remain unseen. He really didn’t feel like keeping this position for long; he’d rather take a brief nap somewhere in the courtyard. His arms were already sore, and she didn’t need him, right?

Through the wall, he felt vibrations of two sets of brisk footsteps making their way down the hall. Two people? H.P. spoke as if she only expected one person. 

"There's two of them," he hissed towards the open window, unsure if she could hear him. "Two of them, heading in our direction!"

"No… it should only be the priest!" she hissed back.

“Well, there’s two. One of them weighs about twelve stone. I gather that’s your priest? The other is smaller, much lighter steps – less than nine stone, I’d shoot. Kind of an uncertain gait. Cautious.”

“But– Sister Eulalie would never…”

“Betray you?” Diego climbed back through the window, landing with a thud as he leaped into the room. He leaned his elbow on Hot Pants’ shoulder and a smirk widened across his face. “Feh… can’t trust anyone in this wretched world, can you?” His eyes took a brief sweep of the office. All the furniture was bolted to the ground for some reason. No easy way to barricade the door. They’d have to face them head-on. Great.

Hot Pants shrugged Diego’s arm off her shoulder. “You don’t understand her situation…” 

“Ha! Does it matter? I know enough to know you’ve been double-crossed, and now you’re in need of an ally more than you thought, eh?” Adrenaline prickled his brain like static electricity, re-energizing him enough to forget his exhaustion at the promise of a new fight. Hot Pants wasn’t paying much attention, though; she was too busy removing her wimple and coif. He continued without waiting for any acknowledgement from her side. “Unless, of course, you still don’t think you ‘need’ me…”

“Dio,” she interrupted. She had a can of Cream Starter up to her head and squirted some flesh into her left ear. 

“His ability – cover your ears, or stuff them with rags, anything; as long as you can’t hear the Blue Danube…”

The two sets of footsteps stopped just outside the door. He heard the shuffling of feet and unintelligible murmuring. “They’re here,” he told Hot Pants, though he imagined the steps were audible enough by now that even she could hear. She then sealed her right ear with her flesh spray, and offered the can to Diego. 

Before he could grab the canister from her hand, Diego was distracted by a blue flash of light from the corner of his eye. He glanced all around and heard the releasing of a spring.

Looking over his shoulder to Styx’s desk, he saw an ornate little box he thought up until this very moment was a snuffbox. Its lid had sprung open on its own to reveal a tiny mechanical bird, painted blue and white. The wind-up bird started chirping out a pleasant melody. An airy sort of waltz. Music one would hear at a fair. Diego picked up the box with two fingers, perplexed.

A chill shuddered through his body, and all of a sudden he felt colder even than when he was outside. Diego wondered if it was too late to move to close the window. Hot Pants was still watching the door, waiting for them to enter. She couldn’t hear the bird’s singing, of course; her ears were flesh-muffled.

Then, it clicked. This was the noise Hot Pants was warning him about; the reason why she'd plugged her ears in the first place. Diego smashed the box against the desk, shattering the bird into a pile of gears and porcelain fragments. His arm resisted painfully, numb with cold. He attempted to rub the sensation back into it with his left hand.

"Bloody coward, I'll show you a real fight!" Diego growled, heading for the door.

"Behold the power of my Stand, Blue Danube!" shouted a voice behind the door. The orb of blue light flickered in the remnants of the broken china bird and flew towards Hot Pants, disappearing into her open mouth before she could shout.

"Just as the Lord imbued me with His light to grant me this power… I can imbue any instrument with His song! Sing praises to our God, sing ye: sing praises to our king, sing ye! "

Deep from within Hot Pants’ throat came terrible vocalizations. Nothing resembling human speech; it was the song of a dying bird. Her body started trembling all over and she covered her mouth with her hands, eyes wide in disbelief, but Diego could still hear the muffled noise through her fingers.

Diego stumbled towards her, his feet so numb and frozen that he tripped, catching himself on the edge of the desk, fingers feeling like icicles ready to snap at the slightest bend. 

“H.P.! What’s going on?!” he shouted, realizing immediately after she couldn’t hear him.

Hot Pants’ lips were blue and shivering, and her skin already was paper-white. She, too, appeared to be rapidly freezing from the effects of the Blue Danube, despite her deafness…

But she can hear herself…

The realization crushed him like a boulder: the Blue Danube was playing her vocal cords like an instrument, forcing a grotesque version of its melody from her throat.

Even though she deafened herself to external noise, the sound waves created from her own vocal cords could be heard internally! 

Diego grit his teeth. Though his limbs felt they might snap, he kicked the door open, pins and needles shooting into his numb foot from the impact. Standing in the hallway were two figures, difficult to discern in the dim lamplight. One figure was tall and thin, the other short and mousy. Diego surmised the tall man was the priest.

At the sight of them, Hot Pants used Cream Starter to fling her own right hand – wielding a serrated knife – towards the lanky silhouette. But the trail of flesh froze, hardening mid-air, and the severed appendage broke off. The knife clattered to the ground near Diego.

Her frozen hand shattered like glass. Hot Pants' agonized screams took the form of Blue Danube's melody, keeping horrifyingly perfect pitch and rhythm. The louder the song, the more intense its freezing effect was. Diego fell to the ground, covering his ears, but it was still too loud.

Father Styx turned and ran, his little underling lifting her skirts and trotting behind. The injured Hot Pants was doing her best to cover her screams with her remaining hand, but Diego couldn't imagine the kind of agony she was in right now.

At least her wound is so frozen she’s not losing much blood , he thought to himself, but he knew that her body – both of their bodies – would likely go into hypothermic shock in just a few more minutes.

Cold and physical exhaustion rendered Diego helpless as he laid there, unable to even lift his arms. 

This can't be how it ends…

His fingers began to twitch. It was an automatic gesture; he was barely aware he was even doing it. Tapping in time with the waltz, keeping rhythm as he’d been conditioned to whenever he heard a song in ¾ time. One-two-three, one-two-three... 

This song took him back to Sibyl's mind-numbing lessons from years ago. She played the piano with her gnarled old fingers, endlessly counting one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three as she watched Diego practice a waltz step without a partner. 

"I look ridiculous," he complained to her after bungling a pivot again. "Are you certain I need to learn how to dance like a fop?"

"When I die, you won't be able to use your elderly, infirm wife as an excuse for not dancing at formal events. What if a Countess invites you to a dance after the Derby? What would you do?"

"Can't you at least find a partner for my lessons? Feels foolish to dance by myself…"

"And embarrass yourself with your sloppy footwork in front of a young lady of good breeding? By noon all her friends will be giggling that Diego Brando dances like a country cousin, and you’ll never find a suitable partner when it matters. No, I shan't have that happen to you."

"Doesn't have to be a lady of good breeding. I'll dance with a kitchen maid if I have to."

"And create a household scandal?! Come February when she's pregnant with the valet's baby, she’ll swear you're the father. You want to climb the social hierarchy, yes? There's still so much you have to learn, Dio… so much you don't understand about this world. Instead of cutting each other up in back-alleys like you might be used to, their weapons are dirty little rumors and petty words, and unfortunately the cards are already stacked against an outsider like you; one missed pivot in the social game can destroy your reputation in the blink of an eye."

"It'd be easier if I could just shiv 'em in a back-alley…" Diego grumbled.

"As amusing as that would be, understand that you have to learn the rules of propriety before they'll allow you to break them. Now, let's start from the beginning, without that sorry excuse for a pivot."

—

As Diego kept tapping out the rhythm of the waltz, a bit of warmth returned to his fingertips, then spread throughout his fingers and hand as if a surge of heat were traveling through his bloodstream. He tapped with his hand now instead of his fingers, and gradually he could feel his arm again. So long as he kept the rhythm…

The realization made Diego laugh out loud.

This was the secret to countering the Blue Danube?! He had to move in… waltz time ?

Eventually, he thawed out enough to be able to stand. He box-stepped towards Hot Pants. 

Her eyes were glazing over, half-closed, eyelashes frozen together. The Blue Danube was still scratching a melody out of her vocal cords, but she obviously wasn't in any control of it, or in any physical state to start waltzing to counter its effects.

 Diego glanced wistfully at the open window. The sheer white curtains floating in the wintry breeze formed an ethereal veil, framing the window as a tantalizing portal of his escape… he could disappear in the city right now, if he wanted to. No one knew he was in Paris…

No . He couldn’t abandon H.P. like that. Not after all he'd gone through just to find her.

He picked the Cream Starter canister up from the ground. The cold metal stuck to his hand like an icy lamppost. 

"Your… flesh…" Hot Pants croaked.

"My flesh? What about my flesh?"

But the realization dawned on him a second later.

The canister contained her flesh. It was all but useless; frozen too solid for her to spray.

But if he could spray his flesh, which was still warm…

Diego rolled up his sleeve, jabbing the nozzle of Cream Starter into his bicep as if administering a vaccine. He gritted his teeth and extracted a chunk of flesh from his own left arm, losing his dance-footing for a couple beats from the momentary flash of nerve pain.

Hot Pants tilted her head back to expose her neck to Diego. Pulsing behind her skin was the blue light…

They had the same idea, after all. 

So trusting…

Diego crouched in front of H.P. and took her hand. She weakly laced her icy fingers between his. 

With his other hand, he extended a sickle-shaped claw and pierced her in the windpipe.

The blue light flickered out and the song came to an end. Blood spurted from the hole in H.P.'s throat and her grip on Diego's hand tightened. Her entire body was convulsing, legs flailing wildly. Diego retracted his claw and picked up the canister, feeling a lot like a clueless surgeon's assistant being told to operate. The hardening flesh oozed slowly out of the nozzle, but it was still warm enough to seal the hole and repair her larynx. Diego finally exhaled a sigh of relief. Hot Pants released Diego's hand and clasped her throat, taking pained, wheezing gulps of air. She wasn't speaking, but she was breathing, and that was all he needed to know; he didn't have time to inquire further into her physical condition right now.

Right now… there was something else in the room that required his immediate attention.

The Blue Danube was no longer a flickering orb of light. It appeared before them as a tall, spectral blue humanoid, with wobbly arms adorned in bangles. Its head was funnel-shaped, like a trumpet horn. It appeared to be… wounded, in some capacity, clutching its chest as if that was where Diego had stabbed it.

Iridescent green scales protruded from Diego's arm and his hands elongated into claws. He lunged at the Blue Danube, slicing at its "head" and torso. But it was nothing like tearing the flesh of a human; it felt… almost like carving into a block of ice. And then, mist-like, the Blue Danube vanished completely.

H.P.'s breathing had regulated into longer, shuddering inhales. Her eyes were closed and she was clutching the bloody stump at her wrist. Diego removed his overcoat and draped it over H.P.'s body for whatever meager bit of warmth it could provide. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again.

"I'll be back," he promised.

Jogging out the door, Diego sniffed around, having caught a whiff of fresh blood from another room down the corridor. He picked up his pace to a sprint, but his energy reserves were so depleted that he was winded by the time he got to the double doors of the great chapel, pausing a moment to catch his breath. 

Creaking the door open just wide enough to slip through, Diego skulked through the sanctuary, keeping his footfalls light. The chamber was dark, illuminated only by some candles on the altars, but Diego preferred the dark. The remnants of incense hung in the air, its musky scent weaving with the tantalizing blood of a fresh kill.

Yes… kill. Styx was already dead. Diego could smell it. He walked up the steps to the pulpit and crouched over the priest's body. Styx's cassock was ripped in exactly the same spot where Diego attacked the Blue Danube. Four jagged lines cut deep across his chest and up to his throat, blood coagulating to a rusty brown color. There was no doubt about it; the priest was definitely dead, eyes staring unfocused into nothing, mouth forever petrified as a silent scream. 

Diego's head perked up as he heard a whimper coming from the other side of the aisles. He narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air. Yes… it was the scent of that girl, the one that'd double-crossed Hot Pants. Admittedly, he didn't notice her unobtrusive odor before, as the priest's death-scent was so overpowering. But he focused on it now.

Diego leaped off the pulpit and ran across the pews, making a rush towards the wooden confessional booth. He gripped the velvet curtain and pulled it back all the way to reveal the scared young Sister sitting on the step, clutching her knees to her chest, tears pooling in her eyes. 

" Seigneur, sauve-moi du Diable…! " she prayed, clasping her rosary. She took a deep breath as if she were about to scream.

Diego clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent exactly that scream from happening.

"You're coming with me."

By the time Diego returned to the rectory, Sister Eulalie in tow, he was relieved to see Hot Pants on her feet, overcoat hanging over her shoulders as she rifled through Father Styx's desk, shoving things into Diego's rucksack. She'd already grafted her right hand back on and peeled off her disguise, looking her ordinary stone-faced self again.

Hot Pants gave a sigh upon seeing Diego drag that girl into the room. "Don't hurt her."

"Wasn't planning on it. Didn't want her to squeal on us and wake the whole damn convent, so I took her with me. By the way, Father Styx is dead.  Very dead. It's odd; the damage I dealt to that 'Stand' as he called it seemed to transfer directly to his physical body… same wounds and all," he said. Hot Pants gave a curt nod, then slammed a shoebox-sized aluminum chest on the desk.

"Can you pry that lock open?" It sounded more like an order than a question.

Diego crossed his arms. "What, you think I'm some kind of thief?"

Hot Pants cast him a withering stare. Diego snickered, pulling a knife and a thin metal file from his boot.

 He went to fast work on the lock, keeping an eye on the whimpering girl in the corner in case she tried to pull anything. The lock wasn't too difficult to pick; after taking a minute to get the pins aligned, it clicked open.

Hot Pants loomed over his shoulder as he opened the lid to the lockbox, hinges creaking. 

Though it hardly looked like a pirate's treasure cache, there were a lot of francs in there. A pile of big gold coins. Diego didn't know the exchange value of francs to quid, but it looked like a fat sum.

"Father Styx must’ve been palming from the collection plates," he said, ignoring the coins for now as he picked up an unassuming English-language Bible from the box. But when he opened the cover, his eyebrows raised all the way up his forehead.

"Hallelujah…" he murmured. A hole was carved into the pages. Glittering in the lamplight were two acorn-sized diamonds resting in the niche. Diego pocketed them in one swift movement. Behind him, Hot Pants let out a sigh of apparent disapproval, but she did not attempt to stop him.

Yet as Diego began scooping up the coins, Hot Pants grabbed his wrist.

"Give the francs to Sister Eulalie," she ordered, locking her eyes onto his.

"You a nutter?" Diego spat. "She betrayed you, H.P.! That snot-nosed little shitwit can burn in the circle of Hell reserved for traitors for all I–"

Hot Pants struck him in the face with an open palm. 

"W-Wha–" Diego stammered. He raised a hand to his cheek. It smarted, but not nearly as much as his pride. He felt the heat rising to his face. "What was that for?"

H.P.'s face was a thunderstorm. "You don't understand her situation,” she said through a clenched jaw.

"Yeah, yeah, that's what you told me before we nearly got killed by her beloved priest. Go on – enlighten me as to her situation . Why would we owe anything to a rat?"

"Her mother needs money for surgery. She’ll die without that operation…”

Diego lowered his gaze, avoiding her quicksilver eyes. "People are dying every day when they shouldn't.” His voice was spiritless. Distant as the moon in a desert. "What’s that to do with us?"

"Dio…" Hot Pants brought a hand to the mark she’d left on his cheek. Diego flinched at her cool touch and turned away. "Dio, this girl was about to degrade herself in an unspeakable way. If – if some stranger like me had claimed she would pay for your mother to see a doctor, you wouldn't trust a word of it, would you? You'd have done the same… wouldn't you…?"

A feverish rage boiled so quickly in the center of his chest that he was nearly overcome with nausea. His head pounded. He grabbed Hot Pants by the collar and jerked her towards him. Her expression still affected an emotionless mask, and this enraged him further.

" No . I’d have believed everything… everything. I was six years old when she died," he hissed in her face. "... and I still believed there was good on this earth. I believed in all the useless, well-intentioned lies my mum told me about human kindness, about kind souls like you, but when she left me behind I was too soft and unprepared to exist all alone in this wretched world. That’s – that’s all your useless kindness will do…"

She didn't look away. He was so close he could see his own face reflected in her blasé eyes. He looked like a snarling monster…

He was losing it…

Defeated, Diego released Hot Pants and slammed a fist on the table, the coins rattling in the box. "Do what you will with the money. Just don't–" He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then wiped his brow. He exhaled, his voice a ragged plea. "Don't ever use my mother to manipulate me again."

She’d invoked this outburst on purpose. Worse, she twisted that dagger precisely where the pain was still raw. Diego’s heart often ached to think of what could have been. If a "kind soul" had intervened, paid for a doctor to treat his mother's infection…

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but that was where the core of his anger lied. She was getting something that Diego never had. Eulalie wouldn't have to watch her mother waste away in a slow and agonizing death, and it infuriated him. 

He knew this line of thought was… utterly stupid. It was the mentality of a bitter, jealous child. Long ago, it’d taken root when he watched the rich kids at Prince’s Park holding their mothers' hands, a porcelain doll in the crook of their other arm, wearing shiny new shoes and fur-trimmed coats. He watched them with searing hatred, wishing poxes and misfortune upon them, for they had things he did not, and he wanted them to be cold, suffering, and hungry as he was. It was an embarrassing, childish thing to feel such a bilious anger at Sister Eulalie even today, but he wasn't kind like Hot Pants. He could never be like her.

Diego pointed a finger at the mousy-looking nun. "Well, you've got the money you were after. Now, do us a favor and tell us what you know: who was Styx working for?"

The girl swallowed, shrinking away from him. She started hesitantly, voice deeply accented.

"Three weeks ago… Sister Heloise saw a woman visit the rectory at night. Italian. Without shadow. She was… angry. Angry at Father Styx.”

“This… Italian woman had no shadow?”

“ Oui, Sœur Hazel . Without shadow.”

“Sounds like a fairy tale.” Diego rubbed his eyes. “What did this woman say?”

“She accused him of… betraying the Pope – but… perhaps Sister Heloise misheard? Ah… then, Father Styx said something about ‘the yanks,’ and that they’d pay a lot for Sister Hazel, and a lot more if she knew where to find the… the…” She fidgeted with her rosary. “Ah… the… it's a vulgar word…”

“Spit it out,” Diego said. “We’re a bit strapped for time.”

The girl ignored Diego, staring up at H.P. with huge blue saucers for eyes. “Sister, I do not wish to say that word!”

Hot Pants lowered herself to one knee so that she was on Sister Eulalie’s level. “Then say it just to me. In French, if you’re more comfortable. You are merely repeating the words of a vulgar man; you are not speaking them with vulgar intent.”

Crossing herself, Sister Eulalie whispered something into Hot Pants’ ear. 

“Oh.” H.P.’s frown deepened.

“Well?” asked Diego.

Hot Pants swallowed. There were cracks in her impassive mask. “Apparently, he planned to question me about Diego Brando’s movements.”

“What was the vulgar word?”

“You don’t want to–”

“ What did Styx call me, Hot Pants?!”

She placed a hand on his back and paused for two seconds. “Whoreson jockey,” she mumbled as quietly as she could without whispering. She, too, crossed herself.

Diego gritted his teeth. His mouth tasted like metal. Too exhausted for another outburst, his fist dropped weakly against the table. Anger was useless here; catharsis was no longer an option when Father Styx was already dead.

His thoughts were interrupted when an audible scream cut through the hallway. Brisk footsteps, shouted prayers.

“Sounds like someone found the body already,” Diego said. “We’ve got to scram, Hot Pants!”

Chapter Text

Hot Pants was still trying to process all that had transpired in the past ten minutes or so. She felt as though she were on a runaway mine cart, too fast for her to exert any control over the situation.

“Wear this,” Diego said, extending the rucksack to her. He spoke with confidence, as if he had a plan. “Keep that coat on, too.”

She’d forgotten she still had Diego’s heavy overcoat, wearing it draped over her shoulders as if it were a cape. It was made of a coarse gray wool, but warm. He must have snatched it from one of the sailors. She pulled her arms through the sleeves of the coat and secured the rucksack over her back.

Diego gestured with his thumb towards the open window. “We’ll jump. Get on my back.”

Hot Pants blinked incredulously. “You expect to carry me? I ought to be the one to carry you – you’re slighter of frame than I!”

“Am I?”

His eyes glimmered in the lamplight. The jack o’lantern smirk widened across his face again, the corners of his mouth extending all the way across the sides, opening to reveal a maw of terribly sharp teeth.

Diego grabbed the windowsill with his claws – yes, his hands were now claws – and Hot Pants watched in horrified fascination as his slight frame transformed into some prehistoric creature. Turquoise scales with the iridescence of a butterfly wing hardened across his skin, legs shortening and abdomen becoming longer and wider. A thick tail sprouted from the rear, swishing across the stone-tiled floor.

The shouting and footsteps were fast approaching. There was no way they’d be able to leave out the door. Hot Pants swung a leg across the dinosaur’s back. Society had drilled into her head all the mores of prudishness expected of a woman – particularly of a nun. The part of her that still held her solemn vows in some reverence screamed in apprehension at the thought of mounting her friend as one might mount a horse, but when she wrapped her arms tightly around his reptilian neck, she knew she was left with no other choice but to trust the situation.

She turned over her shoulder to Sister Eulalie. “Don’t tell them what you saw. I doubt they’d even believe you. Best wishes to your mother’s recovery.”

Expelling a hiss from his nostrils like an alligator, Diego leaped out the second-story window.

For a moment, they were flying across the enclosed courtyard of the convent. H.P.’s hair whipped in all directions and she let out a peal of laughter as the wintry air hit her face. Distant street lamps twinkled like stars over the horizon. She hadn’t felt this thrill since she was a child; that same thrill of jumping off a swing-set at the peak of its momentum, with that same lurch in her stomach as they fell towards the ground. Diego landed on his feet, the shockwave of the impact rattling both their bones, but he immediately took off running, springing up onto an overhang, climbing onto the second story of the building across from the rectory. Squeezing her legs as close to his sides as she could and desperately gripping his neck, Hot Pants had to duck to avoid the arched buttresses as Diego ran across the roof, his talons clicking against the slate tiles.

At last, they were free. Hot Pants laughed again in childlike glee as Diego leapt down to the open streets of Paris. He bounded down the avenue, apparently unperturbed by the shrieks of bewildered passers-by; gentlemen in opera coats and black gloves holding the mutton-sleeved arms of ladies in wide-brimmed hats, carriage drivers immediately halting at the sight with their cries of “Mon dieu!” among more profane exclamations, all illuminated under the gas-lamps of the City of Light. Diego clumsily avoided these shiny black cabs, spooking the horses as they passed, but the streets were wide enough that they were able to move unhampered. Diego did not seem to know where he was heading, but in spite of that, he showed no sign of stopping. Paris was unfamiliar to both of them, and Hot Pants would not have had any notion where to lead him in this twinkling labyrinth either. It was a breathtaking city like none other she’d seen before; a city where gothic cathedrals with sky-piercing spires could be found between cabarets and other dens of excess. Without a saddle, Hot Pants found it uncomfortable to bounce around on Diego’s back, flung in all directions by his breakneck sprinting. The street led to an intersection of many other avenues, at the center an enormous stone arch that Hot Pants immediately recognized from engravings and paintings as the Arc de Triomphe. As Diego passed under it, even Hot Pants felt some obligatory awe stirring in her heart to see the stone-cut reliefs, the goddess of victory upon a magnificent horse leading the French soldiers into battle. 

The street then led to a part of the city where the lights abruptly ended, a dark forest in the middle of Paris. Diego slowed his pace as they entered the woods. Hot Pants glanced behind her as the city’s glow became dimmer and dimmer, until all she could see of it was a tiny bead of light in the distance.

"This was once the king's hunting grounds," she said, completely blinded in the darkness. She'd lived with French nuns long enough to have heard plenty of stories of Paris, including the Bois de Boulogne. A vast forest in the middle of a noisy city… the sort of thing one could only expect in fairy tales. "At the end of the woods is a racecourse. I can’t even imagine…"

They were deeper into the forest, and Hot Pants felt brambles and twigs brushing against her. She gazed up, catching only glimpses of spindly branches silhouetted against the indigo sky.

Diego's movements became wobbly. Hot Pants immediately recognized something was amiss, and she dismounted, sliding off his back and landing on solid ground, frozen blades of grass crunching under her boots.

"Dio?" she asked, voice ringing out with concern.

Diego didn't answer. His silhouette shrunk into its human shape, staggering towards her.

His legs buckled. Hot Pants caught him as he fell.

“Longchamp. That’s the name of the course in these woods, innit? Longchamp…” Diego rasped, as if trying to affect a casual tone while clinging to Hot Pants’ arms. She knew well enough that he was attempting to hide his exhaustion. Both of them were like that, she’d come to realize a while ago; wholly uncomfortable revealing any weakness or vulnerability. 

The darkness enveloped them in its silence, save for the patter of a nearby stream and the occasional scritch-scratch of some unseen animal. 

“Shall we rest here? I don’t hear any trumpets or alarms. Doubt anyone pursued us all this way through the woods…”

“I can keep going. Wanna see the course…”

“You’re exhausted, Dio.”

“Couple minutes to refresh… I’ll be fine…”

Hot Pants crouched down, gently lowering Dio to the ground with her. He slumped against H.P.’s shoulder as she fumbled to unclasp the lantern from the pack

“Was fun, eh…?” Diego said after a minute. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t. I heard you laughing…”

“I suppose…” Hot Pants admitted. “Though it was the roughest ride I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience.”

“Feh… I wasn’t worried for you. When I first laid eyes on you during the Steel Ball Run, up on that big wild Mustang of yours? Figured you could ride anything…”

“Well, I… uh…” Hot Pants paused, mind suddenly blanking. Hearing what sounded like a compliment from Dio, especially in equestrian matters, caught her off-guard. “I can’t imagine why you’d be impressed. I’ve not trained nearly as much with horses as a professional jockey like you.”

“Sure, but all I got to ride on the turf were thoroughbreds. These blokes at the Jockey Club, well, they’d say anything without a certificate of pedigree is a ‘ wild ’ horse.” He laughed. “I’d like to ride lots of different horses if ever I have the chance, though. Get to know their personalities, their temperaments…”

Hot Pants smiled. She liked to listen to him talk about horses. It was one of the few things that truly seemed to make him happy. “I’ve never ridden a thoroughbred,” she said.

“Hope I get to watch when you do. That’d be a sight…”

She finally lit the lantern, and its orange glow illuminated Diego’s face. His eyes were half-closed, and his expression looked almost peaceful. Dazed. 

“So, we moving on?” he asked, sitting up and pulling his gloves on.

Hot Pants sighed. “If you’re fit to walk… but here’s a fair place as any to make camp, if you’d rather rest…"

"Hah! My watch says it's only half past seven. That's the tricky thing about these winter nights; it's dark too early."

Their breaths made puffs of frost in the cold air. Diego was trembling slightly. 

"Your coat," Hot Pants suddenly remembered, beginning to unfasten the clasps.

Diego shook his head. "No, no. Leave it on. The cold keeps me sharp."

“Perhaps you ought to eat something before we continue? You’ve got food cans in your pack.”

“Are you… concerned about me?” Diego jabbed her with his elbow. “The last three things you’ve said have been after my well-being.”

“When a man nearly collapses from exhaustion in front of me, it’s hardly abnormal to ask after his well-being,” she said with a practiced neutrality.

“I feel splendid.” Diego clapped his hands, the leather of his gloves muffling the noise. “Shall we? I want to see Longchamp!”

Hot Pants stood up, extending a hand. He blinked at her for a moment and snickered, pulling himself up with her help.

They continued through the woods, Diego using his heightened sense of smell to lead them in the direction of the racecourse.

“I don’t believe there are any racehorses stabled there at present , but I smell lingering traces of their excrement in that direction. Now, you may think it’s just horse-shit, but… but…” Diego trailed off a moment to laugh at his own joke. “Thoroughbreds smell completely different from the draft horses that pull carriages and the like. From their spit to their shit. It all smells different. Trust me. I can tell.”

“I believe you, but… Dio, are you going to tell me how your abilities manifested? It’s been less than a week, and now you can become a dinosaur ? This warrants some form of explanation…”

Diego chortled. “Oh, H.P., I’m glad to see you again, you know,” he stopped in his tracks and turned around, wearing a face of mock contrition. “But… time and time again I’ve asked about Cream Starter… and you’ve told me naught.”

“That’s…” Hot Pants clenched her teeth as she side-stepped him and continued walking, pointedly avoiding his stare again. “That’s different.”

“How so?” he pressed, moving to block her path again.

Hot Pants looked down and walked around him, opting not to answer. She did not wish to tell him it was a personal matter; Diego always got incredibly nosy each time he caught a whiff of her “personal matters.”

“If you ever deign to tell me about Cream Starter, I’ll gladly return the favor about my Scary Monsters.” He walked on ahead, waving a hand dismissively. “And that’s all I’ll say for now.”

They continued without conversation for another mile. Diego’s condition seemed to worsen, despite his insistence that he was in good health. He occasionally had to pause and hang on to H.P.’s arm for support. It wasn’t until he nearly collapsed again that he grunted “Don’t know if I can go much further… if I’m being honest… goddammit ! We’re so close…”

Hot Pants drew her hands under his arms to help him stand. “Look up. See the awnings of the grandstand peeking over that hill?”

Indeed, the clearing ahead was unshrouded by the canopy of trees, just barely visible under the ghostly light of the moon.

They took another short rest, and Diego was revived just enough to drag himself the extra distance over the hill to the grandstand. They climbed up the wooden steps to one of the raised square platforms overlooking the turf, about thirty to forty feet above the hundreds of “common” seats.

“Oh, this is one of the boxes where the nobbys sit,” Diego said, catching his breath as he sunk to the floor, rubbing his knees. “Trust me; this spot is first-rate. This is where I’d choose to watch the race, if there were a race, of course.”

“You say that, and yet you’re slumped in the corner instead of seated where you can admire the view.”

“Nah. I’d rather watch with you, when the sun comes up. You’ve never seen a proper racecourse, have you?”

“That, I have not, but…!”

“Well, I’ve seen plenty on my own; there’s no point in me looking all by myself if you can’t see it in the dark, is there?”

Hot Pants blanched. “But you’re the one that insisted we make it to Longchamp tonight !”

“Yeah. It was kind of a riot, watching you fuss over me like that.”

Hot Pants gave an exasperated huff, looking all around. She didn’t know what sort of game Diego was playing, but it did not erase her concern for him.

 “At the very least, you still ought to eat something.” She hooked the lantern to a chair and found a can of beef stew in Diego’s rucksack, which she popped open with a knife. “It’d be a bad idea to make a fire here, ‘cause the city watch might see the smoke, but… should be fine to have it unheated.”

“I don’t mind cold stew.” And indeed, he soon clearly proved he didn’t; Diego ate it quickly, clearly more hungry than he'd let on earlier. He finished about two-thirds of it before glancing up at Hot Pants, closing one eye. “Hey… did they feed you properly at that convent? You look a mite pinched.”

“Are you… concerned about me?” Hot Pants drolled, mimicking his accent.

Diego covered his mouth to hide a smirk, running a hand through matted blonde hair. “Hmph. Assume what you want. Here – eat the rest,” he said, passing the tin can to Hot Pants.

It was mostly salty broth he'd left for her, but Hot Pants used the spoon to scrape up the  remnants of beef at the bottom of the can. She’d had a modest supper a few hours ago and though she wasn’t particularly hungry, this morsel still made her feel a little better. When she was finished, she sat beside Diego and unfastened the overcoat, draping it over his shoulders.

"You were asking about the diamonds earlier," she said. "I imagine it's left you uneasy, not knowing where they're hidden. That's what you came all this way for, after all–"

Diego interrupted with a grunt, casting her an inscrutable glare. The two of them had pointedly ignored that topic all evening, but she wanted to address it now, to alleviate any distrust.

Hot Pants lifted the skirt of her habit. Modesty was a nonsensical worry at this point. She rolled up her drawers, exposing her legs to the brisk air.

As she was pointing out to Diego the discrete crevices from the flesh within her thighs she had created to hide the diamonds, Diego stared at her left leg the entire time, apparently more transfixed by her scars than the diamonds.

"This…" Diego traced a finger along the raised scar tissue that twisted from her calf all the way up to her thigh. Four claw marks raked into her skin, angry and red. It was the mark of her survival. It was the proof of her sin.

"These are old scars," she said matter-of-factly.

"Couldn’t you use Cream Starter to heal it?" he ventured, characteristically nosy.

"I… am capable of that." 

"Why don't you?"

"If I did that… I would be disavowing his memory," she said. "This disfigurement is nothing compared to his suffering."

Diego started to say something, and then he changed his mind. Hot Pants smoothed out the skirt of her habit over her legs and folded her hands in her lap, breaking the solemn silence after a minute.

"We were attacked by a grizzly bear in the woods near town, my brother and I. He was only six years old. I was eleven. Obviously, I survived…"

"He didn't, I gather?"

Hot Pants shook her head slowly.

"I crawled my way back to town and the men went out to… to… find him," she tried to sound detached. "Or… what was left of him. They brought him back in a gunny sack, dripping with blood, and when they unloaded it… how do I describe it?" Hot Pants cleared her throat. It felt as if it were coated with sandpaper. "All the loose entrails, the bones… I don't know if you've ever seen a human gored by a wild animal, b-but…"

"I might be able to imagine," Diego said curtly.

Her eyes fogged. She blinked to clear her vision. "Pieces. He was in bloody pieces, scattered all across the floor, and I was so terrible at sewing. C-couldn't even sew a curtain… but I was up all night, trying to… to stitch together his mangled body. I thought… for him to go to Heaven, he… he couldn’t be like that… he couldn’t be so broken…" her voice had taken on a fragile pitch. She felt small. Weak. A little girl made of glass.

Diego drew her closer with a one-armed embrace, wrapping half of the woolen coat around her.

"That’s a Catholic thing, innit? The body is reunited with the soul for the resurrection or some such? That's why your lot pumps the dead with chemicals, I s'pose… to keep themselves fresh for Judgment Day. Wouldn't be proper to meet the Lord in pieces, now, would it?"

Despite his coarse wording, Hot Pants was relieved she didn't have to explain. "That's the reason I so desperately wanted to fix him. I kept crying. His skin was so soft, it tore easily with my clumsy stitches… but even if I were a capable surgeon, there was… too much of his body missing to be able to fix him. I prayed all through the night. I prayed to God, to Jesus, to the Blessed Virgin Mary, to Holy Michael the Archangel… I prayed to Saint Joseph, Saint Luke, and every other Saint whose name I could remember. I prayed for my innocent baby brother, for sweet little Matteo, who deserved none of this, who was mangled beyond recognition, all because of me. I prayed that his mortal body may be healed, so that it could serve as the vessel of his soul and carry him to Heaven. I… I… just wanted him to go to Heaven…"

A choking sob escaped her throat. Her teeth were chattering. There were cold, wet trails down her face and she realized tears were still falling from her eyes.

"Easy… easy…" he murmured into her ear, using his free hand to comb through her hair, loosening tangles with his fingers.

Hot Pants felt her heart quiver. He spoke to her the way he did when he was soothing the horses. Shadows flickered across his face, his prominent lips slightly parted. "Easy… you're all right," he whispered, stroking her hair as she had seen him stroke Silver Bullet's mane countless times. So gentle… it made her chest ache with guilt and longing.

Diego wrapped his other arm around her so that they were both completely enveloped within the overcoat. H.P. wiped her tear-stained face off on his shirt. She didn't care that he smelled like blood and sweat and God-knows-what; he also smelled of the earth, of a rainy meadow, of horses and she wanted to be close. 

Hot Pants held up one of her canisters, turning it over and over, methodically. It sparkled in the lamplight as if it had been newly polished. But Cream Starter never needed polishing, for it never tarnished. 

"The next day, we held a vigil. His body was completely intact, not a single scar or stitch on him. It was a miracle, they all said. Only I knew the truth…"

Diego stared at the canister, eyes glassy and distant. "You didn't believe it to be a miracle, yourself?"

"I suppose I cannot discount the possibility entirely… but even as a child, I couldn’t convince myself it was a miracle. Cream Starter always felt like… an extension of me . I desperately, desperately wanted to fix him. And just as desperately, I wanted penance for my terrible sin. When a tool manifested, granting me the ability to heal his body with my own flesh and blood…” She brushed her thumb along the ridges of the handle. “Well, how could that ‘tool’ be anything but the crystallization of my soul?”

"Your soul, huh..?" Diego kept his gaze fixed on the canister, eyes lidded, lower lip protruding. His hand grazed hers as he touched the metal casing. She shuddered, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden.

He is staring into my soul. He knows what I am.

Abruptly, she extricated herself from his embrace and rose to her feet, abandoning warmth and comfort. She walked to the other side of the platform and leaned over the railing, staring at the ink-black darkness below. 

“There you have it. The story about how I got Cream Starter.” She was gripping the canister so tight that her fist trembled. “Was that– was that satisfactory? Has your curiosity been sated?”

Diego didn’t respond. How had he disarmed her so easily? He’d tickled her heart with a simple embrace and some gentle words, plucking secrets from her lips she ought to have kept locked away. She wished she could un-tell him everything; how could he ever look at Cream Starter the same, now that he knew it was the container of her tormented soul?

Hot Pants heard something that sounded like a sniffle from him. She was sniffling, too. From the cold, naturally…

“Well…” she began, the harsh edges of her voice sanded down. She pocketed her Cream Starter and extinguished the lantern. “We should get some rest. Good night, Dio.”

She couldn’t see his face anymore, but she didn’t want to. Her head was pounding from reliving her darkest moments, inescapable; when she squeezed her eyes shut, she saw the blood-red memories as clear as if it were a moving picture in full, disgusting color. Matteo’s tiny, trusting hands… She was supposed to keep him safe, and she’d slapped his hands away…

After several minutes, Hot Pants tiptoed to Diego’s corner again, wordlessly laying beside him. He woke with a sharp intake of breath and sniffed the air, looking in all directions. When he saw it was only her, his shoulders relaxed and he drew the overcoat over the both of them as if it were a blanket.

“Hey, H.P…” he murmured, voice hazy from sleepiness. “It wasn’t just… for the diamonds, you know. Of course I still want ‘em. I just… wanted to see you, too. Thought you should know that.”

Hot Pants didn't say anything for a while. She crawled under the coat so that she could benefit from the heat trapped beneath it from both their bodies. It was too dark to see his face, but she was aware of his closeness, of the softness of his breath against her throat.

She wrapped her arms around his slim waist. His muscles tensed, then eased, curling up to fit himself neatly into her embrace. All sinew and bone, he was… it drew out some silly, inexplicable desire to protect him.

“I wanted to see you, too,” she finally whispered.

She nestled her face into his shoulder and closed her eyes. Diego yawned, mumbled some sleepy gibberish, and his breathing became steady within minutes.

There was no need for either of them to comment on the sudden intimacy; they had slept like this once before, out of necessity. After losing half their supplies making an escape down the Hudson River they spent a drenched night huddled together so that they wouldn’t freeze to death.

Tonight was different, though. Hot Pants wanted to be close to him for reasons more than sharing warmth, but she'd rather die than admit it.

As she drifted off to sleep, awash in his scent, Hot Pants imagined wild horses cantering through a rainy meadow…

Chapter Text

With fresh disguises courtesy of Cream Starter, Diego and Hot Pants were able to weave through the Parisian streets unnoticed the next morning. Diego “found” an old-fashioned inverness coat for Hot Pants at a secondhand clothing shop, and although she objected to the petty thievery, she certainly didn’t hesitate in putting it on. She’d be a fool to attempt to rough it coatless in the middle of January; her thou shalt not steal was far less important than his own personal commandment of thou shalt not freeze to death .

“So… I have an idea. You may not like it, but…” Diego said as they walked along the train tracks, once they were safely outside the city limits. “Instead of heading straightaway to England, I think it would be in our best interests to take a quick trip south, to Geneva.”

“ A quick trip…” Hot Pants whirled around. “To Geneva , Switzerland?!”

“I knew you wouldn’t like the idea, but hear me out,” Diego said quickly, knowing he was about to test the limits of his silver tongue against an immovable pillar. “I’ve got some things I need to pick up first. Need to move some assets around. There's something in it for you, too...”

"By the ever-living jumping Moses, Dio, have you never looked at a map before?! That’s not a quick trip on the way to the ferry! It's completely in the opposite direction, and a great distance at that!” She was waving her arms in incredulity, reminding Diego of a bird flapping its wings. He resisted the urge to snicker.

“Listen, H.P., I said there’s something in it for you.”

“Oh?" Hot Pants crossed her arms.

"You must have heard about my late wife, and the fortune she left behind.”

“Sibyl Brando. Widow of Lord Amberlyn. Yes, I know you married a wealthy old lady to inherit her fortune. But I'm not interested in money, Dio. I'm not like you. My interest in the diamonds is– is not for riches or glory, but as part of a solemn duty I must perform…"

Ah, yes, she always brought up her “solemn duty” whenever it was convenient for her to take some moral high ground she already knew was meaningless to him. But this time, Diego detected a hint of weakness in her voice. Unlikely as she was to admit it, her confidence in her faith had been steadily dwindling; Diego could hear it in her quavering tone, could see it in her furtive eye contact. It was only natural her faith had been shaken after being kidnapped, imprisoned, and tortured by a rogue agent of the Vatican who also happened to be a kid-diddler. And now, the spot was vulnerable enough that he could dig his claws into it.

"Are you that excited to prostrate yourself before the Pope and give him the diamonds? The papists have given you nothing but strife in exchange for all your hard work. In case you’d forgotten , they’ve already snitched to the Americans that you were sent as a spy; you’re as much a fugitive as I am, now. What are your plans after seeing the Pope, hmm? Go back to the convent, hide behind a new face for the rest of your life? Or maybe you’ll hang up the wimple and rosary… go back to your provincial little village in America. But do you really think there’d be anyone back home still waiting for you, now that they know you were a traitor to their country? Anyone…?"

"You're… the most sour, disagreeable man–"

"And you've got a stick so far up your arse you're becoming Jacob's Ladder," he retorted. "Maybe you don't need ‘riches’ or ‘glory’, but how about starting a new life for yourself, when all this nastiness is behind us? I can give you more than enough to have a nice little farm in the French countryside, with horses… but if the pastoral life no longer suits you, why not open up a school, or an orphanage in the city…? Help the poor … you're into that sort of thing, eh, H.P.?"

Hot Pants stared at him. Diego stared back. They were locking horns again, but Diego knew the cogs were turning in her head. Cold as her demeanor was, H.P. was a good person; he knew the idea of using that money to serve the public would be meaningful to her. He didn’t care what she’d do with that money, frankly, but at least she’d know how to put it to good, practical use.

Hot Pants did not drop eye contact. "You know that this would mean extending our 'truce'... are you prepared for that?"

"Sure. I don't mind working with you a bit longer," Diego said.

"You don't mind ? Wha–” She was so flustered she needed to pause and catch her breath before she could speak again. “ You're the one that's trying to convince me why we should go to a Swiss bank when we're…" She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper.  "We're international fugitives, wanted for the assassination of the President of the United States of America!"

“Don’t get so worked up, H.P… Switzerland is politically neutral. We’d be safer there, at least safer than in France. If you trust me enough, we could even put our diamonds in my vault for safekeeping… though, I suppose you could open up your own account with them.” He then deliberately inflected his voice in a stuffy manner, to mock Hot Pants whenever she lectured him on history or politics. “Were you not aware ? Swiss bankers are beholden to secrecy, and cannot be strong-armed into bending to the whims of foreign countries…”

Hot Pants covered her mouth to stifle her laughter, to little success.

"Let it be known that I was the one who told you it was a terrible idea…" she said, smiling and shaking her head.

Diego grinned so widely he must have appeared a bit touched upstairs.

"I know you find the idea… precarious, at best. But trust me. Our journey to England will be much smoother when we've got some clink with us. We won't have to sleep under some bridge or scrounge around for food like vagrants ."

Bitterness suddenly marked his tone as he said that last word, and he jammed his fists in his pockets and turned away. He was all too familiar with roughing it , and he was not keen on returning to that way of life. Not after how hard he'd worked to drag himself out of poverty.

He glanced over his shoulder again at Hot Pants in an attempt to read her expression. Stolid as ever. Even during the race, she'd faced miserable weather, spoiled food, and the ever-present threat of attack with an enviable tranquility. Diego probably complained more than she did throughout their time together, despite being more accustomed to those conditions. Yet, this did not make her any less vigilant or fastidious. He wondered how she did it. Some religious fanatics voluntarily chose a life of extreme asceticism, living without material possessions, choosing to eat only the barest scraps needed for survival, but… H.P. wasn't a fanatic nut. She was a different variety of nut, and a nut with a hard exterior at that. Patient. Strong. Enduring. Even now, as he looked into her gray eyes, he saw a world of unreadable depths beneath the surface of that glacial stare.

"Why… do you always look at me so intently?" she asked, her voice pulling Diego back into reality, to the stacked-up wooden shipping crates surrounding them, the chugging of the engine, the railcar jolting each time the wheels passed over a bearing on the track. H.P. rubbed her hands together for the bit of extra warmth before pulling her gloves back on. 

Diego tapped a line of ash from his cigarette and passed it to Hot Pants. "Well… why do you stare back?"

"...You have pretty eyes," she admitted, taking the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger and bringing it to her lips.

Diego scoffed, but there was a hint of sincerity in his smile. 

"You ever… look into a horse's eyes before?” he asked.

H.P. nodded. "Of course," she said, exhaling smoke with her words.

"It's… overwhelming, sometimes. Easy to lose yourself. Horses know more than what they let on. You can see it in those huge eyes– they're looking straight into our core. Your mustang, Brown… oh, he knew how rotten I was. Remember? At first, he didn't trust me at all…"

An effervescent smile lit up H.P.'s face. "He almost kicked you when you were checking his shoes."

"Now, I don't ordinarily have issues speaking to a horse's needs, but Brown knew exactly what I was and what my intentions were. He could see through our shaky alliance, just like that." He snapped his fingers.

Hot Pants tilted her head. "Silver Bullet always liked me, though… even when I, too, had ulterior motives…"

Diego chuckled. "Ah… he's a sharp horse. He knew you had ambitions of your own, but he also knew you weren't going to hurt us, and that’s all that mattered. When I saw the way he looked at you while you were brushing his mane, with his huge, trusting eyes… I knew right away I could trust you, too. Well, until the race was over, least. Horses… are funny creatures in that regard. They have so many complicated emotions that they communicate to us – their own special way of feeling pride, shame, anxiety, joy, and yet… to form a bond, they only need two simple things from the rider: safety, and trust."

Hot Pants nodded in agreement. "If you don't trust a horse, it will never trust you. I know… they can sense when someone isn't confident in their ability to ride…"

"Precisely. And when I say safety, it's a different kind of safety than just proper food and shelter. Dogs and cats… you know, humans treat them as pets, and they'll play catch and sit in their laps but at their core, they're vicious predators. Even the tamest family dogs have been known to tear apart small children without provocation, seeing them as the weaker prey…"

Hot Pants shuddered slightly, taking a drag on the cigarette, and Diego felt some tightness in his chest as he realized he'd made a terrible mistake. He shouldn't have said anything about children torn apart by animals…

"Sorry," he mumbled. "The point I'm getting to is… horses are not predators. In the wild, they're prey creatures, and they keep that instinct even when domesticated. For them to trust humans , the most cruel, dangerous predators in the world… well, that's…" Diego cleared his throat, looking away from Hot Pants. "When I see that trust in their enormous eyes, that empathy, that… compassion, I… never want to do anything to betray that trust again."

"Again?" Hot Pants’ voice was cool, but not cold. It took Diego a moment to realize she was holding the thin cigarette out to him. He took it and tapped away the ash, but when he brought it to his lips, his mouth felt too dry to take another puff. He held it back out to her, but she shook her head.

"Black Rose…” Diego said. “Her eyes are gonna haunt me for the rest of my life. I've never regretted anything else, but…"

Hot Pants clamped a hand on Diego's shoulder and squeezed it. This brought him some comfort, but he turned away from her; he couldn't bear the kind look in her eyes. He fixed his sight on the tuft of smoke rising from the cig in the cold air. 

"When George Joestar put that pistol in my hand, and told me to shoot Black Rose, I…"

Diego stared at his hands. The stitching along the right index finger of his glove had come apart to expose bare skin.

"You wanna be a jockey, boy? You can't go crying each time they shoot a horse with a broken leg – that's what we do. You'll be seeing that a lot, even right there on the turf, and you can't be going soft like this, y'hear?"

"With… with all due respect, sir, she's in excellent health. Black Rose isn't lame; she's more’n fit to race! Why not auction her, so your money doesn't go to waste?"

"Damn the money. Damn it all to Hell! No amount of money in the world can bring back my son. This is justice, lad. Justice. I'd shoot her myself, but she keeps goin' wild at the sight of me. Won't stay still. But she's sweet on you, for some reason…"

It had happened nine years ago, but the memory was seared into his head. He remembered what it felt to be a scrawny underfed 11-year-old shitstain woollyback from the country, constantly reminded how grateful a by-blow orphan of his background ought to be for the privilege of working long hours for pennies at the Joestar estate. He remembered the way the gun felt too unwieldy for his little hands, how he pressed the barrel right up between Black Rose's eyes; two big globes of liquid obsidian, full of trust and compassion up to the very moment he pulled that trigger.

Diego swallowed. He passed the fag back to Hot Pants to finish it off. It was down to the nub, but she was like to get another drag or two from it.

“I don’t think I want to tell this story. Not here. Not now,” he said, in a pale shadow of his voice, gaze flickering towards the strange third person at the other end of the rail car, a filthy tramp, still fast asleep. The presence of another made him cautious, made his tongue taste metallic.

“You don’t have to…” Hot Pants reassured him. She tapped his knee. “… You never answered my question, anywho.”

“Eh?”

“Why do you stare at me so often?”

Diego scratched his head. “Well… I think I just explained it to you.”

“You said a lot about horses.”

"Never you mind. If you don’t get it, you don’t get it," Diego said. "You ought to sleep a wink. I'll keep first watch."

H.P. sighed. "Wake me when your eyelids start to feel heavy…" She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her head against her crossed arms. 

It only took a few minutes for her breathing to become steady. She was a lot better at falling asleep quickly for these short naps than Diego; he was always too alert, too perceptive. But last night, when she held him in a particular way… he’d never fallen asleep that fast before. In truth, he wasn’t sure what to think of that.

Diego watched H.P. sleeping for a while. She looked peaceful, with her eyes shut, her lips slightly open, ultimately vulnerable and exposed for attack. Somehow, she trusted him… Diego could not understand why.

He tried to focus his smell on the aroma of coffee beans within the shipping crates. The uncirculated air trapped inside the railcar would have been entirely pleasant to his keen nose were it not for that tramp on the other side, overpowering all other scents with his wet-dog odor. He’d apparently just stirred from his nap, fingers working through some clasps on an unwieldy bag. Diego’s head snapped to glare in his direction.

" Bonjour ," the tramp said, with more cheer than Diego appreciated from a stranger. He grit his teeth and tensed up, not responding, merely staring.

The man had the telltale markings of terminal vagrancy. Skin tanned to leather, scraggly beard, coat made up more of patchwork rags than any uniform cloth, and scatty boots that weren’t even good for making soup anymore. His smile was a proper horror-show; half his teeth missing, the other half black and rotting. Diego resented the sight of bums like him, stinking up every train car and doss-house. Always claiming to be too sick or too lame to work, yet miraculously spry enough to race to the front of the line wherever alms were distributed. Diego hated the idle rich with just as much fervor, of course, but the sight of the idle poor evoked a special discomfort he could not describe. He never wanted to be a blister like that; the most dependent parasite-class of low society, eyes sunken and rheumy from so little ambition, content enough with a pitiful lot in life to be able to smile with teeth like that and say bonjour to strangers. 

In the few seconds after that first greeting, he had already formed a litany of silent, unfounded judgments against this stranger’s character and ethic.

He looked again at H.P., and her sleeping face calmed him some. His shoulders relaxed their tension, and he exhaled slowly, leaning against the crate. Even Diego realized his contempt for this stranger was unnatural and disproportionate, but he’d always felt things with abnormal intensity. His mother used to call him a sensitive boy, always feeling things so strongly; joy, sorrow, pain... She meant it positively, but to Diego, it was a weakness he needed to scrape away, to replace pain with anger, joy with suspicion, sorrow with apathy…

The car was silent for a while. Least, as silent as it could be. Diego still heard H.P.’s steady breath, the rhythmic bumping of the car against the rails, the distant huffing of the steam locomotive. He closed his eyes, just for a moment…

And then, he heard an awful trill that re-ignited his anger towards the tramp all over again. His eyes shot open and he stood up now, seeing the stranger with an accordion in his hands, working a jaunty, caterwauling tune from the bellows. To an ordinary listener, it already might have been too loud; the buzzing notes bouncing endlessly off of the aluminum walls of the car, trapped in this enclosed space, but to Diego’s heightened sense of hearing, it was unbearable. 

“Oi, this car ain’t for busking; sod off with that racket or I’ll give you what-for!” he shouted over the instrument.

The vagrant accordionist ceased his playing. “ QUOI?! ” he shouted back in a reedy voice, as if he were hard of hearing.

“I said , me mate’s tryn’a sleep; sod off, will ya? Else I’ll crush your fingers something awful ‘till you can’t even play Frère Jacques .”

“Dio, please…” Hot Pants murmured, her voice still fuzzy in a half-sleep, eyelids droopy. “Don’t be so… so…” she yawned loudly. “...rude…”

But the old Frenchman’s confused expression lit up joyously. He smiled his toothless smile again and nodded enthusiastically. “ Alors..! Frère Jacques… oui, oui… ”

The tramp’s bony fingers worked the keys and pulled the bellows again, this time to play that stupid French nursery rhyme he thought Diego wanted to hear. His rage bubbled within him again, the music making his head throb with each note that assaulted his ear drums.

“I said SOD OFF , will ya?! I’ll ding-dang-dong yer arse, ya bloody scat-brained FROG !” Diego yelled at the top of his lungs.

“It’s alright, Dio…” Hot Pants mumbled, even her silly, sleepy voice failing to soothe his temper. She searched for him with a fumbling hand, tugging at the cape over his hunched-up back. “You’re… too loud…”

As if in defiance, the tramp quickened the melody, though Diego remembered this was the sort of song that was played faster with each repetition. How many verses did this damn thing have? Could Diego restrain himself from attacking him for that long? How angry would H.P. be at him if he killed a random bum…? Just one… Just this one time…

Diego felt a light, cool breeze brush against his cheek. His eyes darted around, but no one had opened the door. The glow radiating from H.P.’s lantern atop a crate was suddenly extinguished, and the merry accordion tune stopped in that same instant. Diego heard the bellows weakly blowing some final dissonant chord, as if the instrument had been carelessly dropped, along with the unmistakable wheeze of a death-rattle, the final air squeezed out of a man’s lungs in gross unison with the instrument.

Diego had sensed an oppressive presence in the railcar, only for a fleeting, terrible moment, and he glanced in the direction of the now-silent Frenchman in the darkness, slumped over his accordion. He wished he’d start playing that stupid song again, so that Diego would know that everything was alright, that his mounting anxiety was playing tricks on him, that he didn’t actually see a bone-colored phantasm crossing his line of sight for an instant.

“Dio…?” H.P. asked, voice ringing out with clarity, shaking off her sleepiness.

“I’m here,” Diego said, finding her hands and pulling her to her feet.

“The light…” Hot Pants fumbled helplessly around the crates in the complete wrong direction. She couldn’t see anything in this darkness, of course. With his dinosaur eyes, Diego could see a lot more than she could, but it was still only shapes and outlines. He bit off his glove and struck a match with unsteady hands, a deep sense of dread clawing its way up his throat, making his breathing shallow and rapid.

As he re-lit the candle and closed the little glass compartment of the lantern, he heard Hot Pants gasp. She was already paces away, staring down at the tramp, hands clamped over her mouth. Diego drew closer with the lantern, suddenly conscious of how loudly his boots echoed in the compartment.

The man’s face was… like a deflated pig’s bladder or rugby ball that’d lost all its air. The back half was fine, but the front… the tramp’s eyes hung out by their red muscles, no bony sockets to keep them in place. Dark blood oozed out of his nose.

“It’s like… his skull’s gone missing. Or the top shelf, at least,” Hot Pants whispered. “Never seen anything like it… no incisions, no wounds. It’s as if the cranium just… vanished .”

Diego’s heartbeat quickened, and he looked all around for an escape but knew that wasn’t possible yet. The train was still moving along its tracks, steadily, and the bumping of the car made him feel as though he were in a hearse. H.P. seemed disturbed, yet still calm enough to function, but Diego was losing it. She noticed his distress immediately and took the lantern from his hand, placing it safely atop a crate again.

"I felt something. A breeze. But with it, a presence …" he trailed off.

Diego wasn't even going to try to explain. He didn't know how. All twenty years of his life had been markedly affected by the absence of this presence that he never thought he’d be able to recognize it if ever he felt it. But now, he had felt it, he felt a repulsive familiarity; that half a second lasted an eternity and it made his skin crawl.

“ Him. That worthless scum… that Dario. He was here. I’m certain it was him. I…”

Stars overtook his vision, and he felt a combination of nausea and dizziness. He staggered backwards into a crate, and Hot Pants caught him before his sight closed like an aperture and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Crisp snowflakes were falling from the sky by the time the train reached Lyon. Diego and H.P. had already leaped from the rail car before the locomotive could come to a full stop at the station, just outside of the city proper.

Upon picking themselves up, dusting the snow off their coats, they stood in silence, staring face-to-face for a moment as the train whirred past them.

Dio’s irises glowed a dangerous phosphorescent green. His pupils narrowed into two vertical slits. Inscrutable and reptilian, he reared back on his hind legs, bolting away from her.

Hot Pants blinked, watching his tail swaying violently back and forth as he vanished into the darkness of the woods.

Diego was gone. 

Not that she was upset about being let alone. He’d left all the supplies behind, so she wasn’t going to die from exposure, and she found a certain meditative calm as she walked through the quiet, dead world. White sky, white ground. No animals in sight. As the hours passed and the snowfall built up, it almost felt like a sin to walk over the snow, destroying the pristine sheet of white with her footprints. Yet she trudged on, largely unbothered by the numbness of her fingers and toes.

It’s going to be a cold night…

She was concerned for Dio, but she wasn’t going to allow his absence to burden her mind. When he wanted to, he would find her. It did not dispel her worries that he would injure himself or do something reckless in his distress, but at least she consoled herself with the thought that his sense of smell was keen enough that he could find her.

The monochrome sky gradually darkened, and her legs became too weary to go on. She found a stone bridge that looked as good a place as any to set up camp under, more or less sheltered from the elements.

She began to build a fire with some dry kindling she had saved. The water of the Rhône was frozen over, but fortunately, Hot Pants was able to shatter through the superficial sheet of ice to the cold water beneath. She filled a copper pot and put it over the fire, heating the water to brew some coffee.

Though she was feeling rather weak, Hot Pants still hesitated to eat any of the food Diego had left with her in the rucksack. Not because she feared his ire at helping herself to “his” food, but because she didn’t know when they would be able to replenish their supplies. She took a quick inventory of what they had left, and it made her heart sink. Two cans of beans, and a couple strips of cured beef. At least they had plenty of coffee and tobacco to make the wretched situation slightly more tolerable.

As soon as it was boiling, Hot Pants poured herself a cup of black coffee. It scorched her tongue and throat, but she was grateful for the heat that radiated to her hands as she held the cup. Out of habit (or expectation), she’d brewed enough for two people. Sure enough, she soon felt the trembling of the ground and saw Diego emerging from the pine forest. His back was hunched as he trudged towards the dying fire, eyes downcast.

“Coffee…?” was all he asked as he crouched across from her, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. Slung over his shoulder were two rabbits he held by the ears, freshly caught. She exchanged a steaming cup of coffee for his rabbits, and set to work at skinning the first.

Diego warmed himself as best as he could by the fire, clutching the cup in both hands as he sipped. Hot Pants made a careful incision into the rabbit with a knife, carving up from its belly towards the neck. Dio certainly hadn’t bothered to make it a clean kill; the teeth marks and gashes around the rabbits’ necks sent an involuntary shudder down her spine. 

“Thank you for catching these,” Hot Pants said, the first words she’d spoken since his return. Diego made a grunt of acknowledgement, glaring sullenly at the fire as he stoked it with a branch. Apparently, his little “stroll” in the winter wilderness had done nothing to cool his head.

“You know how to skin the other?” she asked once she’d peeled the rest of the fur from the carcass, chopping off the head and feet. The fire didn’t look like it was going to last long enough for her to skin and cook both rabbits if she was doing all the work.

Diego cleared his throat. “Nah. Well, I can , but not as good as the way you do it. I can cook that one while you skin the other, though.” His voice sounded odd, as if he were trying to remember how to speak. H.P. handed the skinned rabbit to Diego and he set to work, roasting it on a makeshift spit over the pot.

“You’re pretty good at that,” he said. “Skinning rabbits, I mean. You learned it as a kid?”

“Mhm. My father was a hunter and trapper. Or… he is one, rather. I believe he’s still alive.”

“You got along with your father?”

"More or less." Hot Pants paused, wiping the blood off her hands with a rag. “Had I been born a boy, maybe we would have gotten along better. Even though I was tougher than all the boys in town, could ride longer than them, could shoot better… he only ever wanted a son…”

She trailed off.

He got his wish when Matteo was born… but then I…

Diego turned the spit with one hand, reaching over with the other to grab his coffee and take a sip. “Well, he’s a bloody idiot…” he grumbled. “You’d have been twice as good as any son, I reckon. In truth? Sometimes I forget you’re even a woman.”

“I forget too, until I am cruelly reminded of the societal restrictions imposed upon me, but alas.” She chuckled sardonically. “It was far more convenient to race as a man, to travel as a man…”

Once she was done, they traded rabbits again, her skinned rabbit for his cooked one, but instead of putting it on the spit, Diego sank his teeth into the raw pink flesh and began to tear into it.

“Dio–!” H.P. said out loud, utterly bewildered.

“Oh,” Diego looked up, mouth covered in blood. His teeth were long and sharp and terrible. A wild animal. “It smelled so good this way, I didn’t want to cook it. You’re not… cross with me, are you?”

The way he’d said that last sentence, gazing at her with the contrite innocence of a scolded child sent Hot Pants into a short fit of laughter. She’d never seen him look at her that way before, and when she calmed down she shook her head. “No, Dio. It just shocked me, is all. You’re becoming more reptilian by the day, it seems. Go on… you can eat…” she made a gesture with a hand, and burst into laughter again. Diego grinned sheepishly, looking as if he didn’t understand what she found so hilarious but was smiling along anyway.

Fortunately, Diego’s bizarre behavior did nothing to put her off her own appetite. Hot Pants immediately felt rejuvenated after finishing the rabbit; though it was a scrawny thing, it’d been a long time since she had felt so full. She noticed some color was returning to Diego’s face as well after he ate, though he was back to that brooding expression again, staring blankly into the fire.

Hot Pants moved to sit behind him. “Misfortune seems to follow us whenever we get on a train…” She ran a hand through his hair, picking the pine needles out as she spoke. “Maybe it’s best that we go the rest of the way on foot. Or horseback, if we manage to find some horses…”

“Yeah… horses. I’d like that.”

Though he was sitting right there with her, Diego’s voice was a hundred miles away.

— — —

For two more days, Diego and Hot Pants trudged along the snowy bank of the frozen Rhône. The beautiful, soaring mountains that dotted the surrounding landscape were barely visible through the blistering cold winds that pelted them with snow and ice. On the third day, they stumbled into a border village along the river. To the locals, the pair must have appeared more like abominable snowmen than humans. Their faces were obscured by hoods, and they were covered in snow from head to toe. They said nothing to the villagers they passed, making their way towards the largest building at the top of a hill.

It was a rustic two-story wood-timbered building that served as a lodge for travelers and hunters alike, as well as any that availed themselves of the bar during the day. Diego and Hot Pants stamped the snow off their boots at the entry, guests shouting at them in French to close the door behind them to not let all the warm air out.

Snow-blind, it took Hot Pants about a minute for her eyes to adjust to the orange glow from the enormous stone hearth. When her vision cleared, she found herself face-to-face with a taxidermied bear head mounted on the wall. She took a step backwards, placing a hand across her throat as she sharply inhaled. The bear’s eyes were two cold black marbles. She could see her distorted reflection within them. A reflection she did not recognize, for she was not wearing her own face. In the bear’s polished eye she saw Diego’s reflection placing a hand on her shoulder, guiding her out of her reverie towards the counter, where the innkeeper was wiping off some plates and bowls with a rag.

“Do you have any rooms available for the night?” she asked in French. 

The innkeeper blinked at the two travelers. “Only one room. An Englishman came here before you; he’s occupying the other room.”

“An Englishman, you say?” Hot Pants glanced over her shoulder at Diego, but he did not react to the conversation; he wouldn't be able to understand it, after all.

“Aye. An Englishman.” The innkeeper did not volunteer to elaborate any further on the mystery guest. “Two francs for the room; 15 centimes for board."

Hot Pants rummaged for the coins and smacked them down onto the counter. The innkeeper poured two mugs of beer from the massive keg behind him and passed them to Diego and Hot Pants.

"There's stew on the fire," he said, pointing to a cast iron cauldron hanging over the hearth.

The two sat in front of the hearth, on a bench covered in animal furs. The timbers above had more plaques mounted with animal heads. Deer, wolves, foxes… and bears. She passed the time by whispering in Diego’s ear, amusing him with translations of the conversations between villagers.

“That man over there – standing on the chair with a boastful swagger – he swears he saw monstrous footprints in the snow. Nothing from any beast he’s ever seen. Talons, like a bird of prey, but bigger, much bigger. The men have had far too much beer… they’re saying they must… they must protect their wives and children from the monstrous lizard … they're forming a hunting party and swear to set out tomorrow morning.”

"I think they’ll be searching for a long time. Their ass-cheeks will freeze together before they find their monster.” 

H.P. pointed at the plaques hanging from the wood timbers above. “Oh, but imagine how impressive it’d be to have a dinosaur head mounted in a place like this…"

Diego’s smile appeared genuine for a moment, but it faded just as quickly as it’d come, half-lidded eyes staring into the fire, lips slightly parted in contemplation.

“Hey, H.P…” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “You think that Englishman might be someone we know?”

“Only one Englishman we both know…”

Merriweather Post . They both turned to each other and mouthed his name at the same time, not wanting to vocalize it. It was dangerous to even speak English above a whisper in this place, lest they reveal themselves as foreigners.

In silence, they finished their drinks, filled their empty stomachs with stew, and headed up the stairs to the guest rooms. Physically, they were feeling far less miserable than when they'd arrived cold and hungry, but Hot Pants felt her anxiety accumulating like a densely-packed snowball in the center of her chest. She imagined Diego felt similar, judging by the tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes darted all around… 

They were wearing disguises, of course; Diego with the face of a grizzled man in his fifties, Hot Pants with the freckle-faced visage of a young chauffeur she'd seen outside Paris. To an ordinary observer, they may have looked like a father and son. 

They had scarcely finished setting their belongings down when a gallant knock-knock-knock rapped at their door like some sort of Morse code. Diego and Hot Pants glanced at each other in momentary horror. 

Let me handle this , she told him with her eyes.

Hot Pants opened the wooden door and – sure enough – found herself face to face with Merriweather Post. Tall as ever, with that curious copper boot on his left foot. His features were not unattractive, but more than ever she had to swallow the temptation to punch him in the smug, mustachioed face. He was not in a military uniform this time; instead, he dressed in olive jodhpurs and a tartan cape. “Undercover” so as not to unsettle the residents of a provincial village, perhaps.

"Good day, sir!" Merriweather said jauntily, looking not at Hot Pants, but addressing Diego, the “older man” behind her. Diego's mouth hung agape, but Hot Pants quickly stood in front to address Merriweather.

"Pardon, monsieur.  My father… he does not speak English," she said in her best imitation of a French accent.

" Désolé! My sincerest apologies. Terribly, terribly ill-mannered of me to forget that not everyone in your beautiful country is fluent in the Queen's English. Ah, but I have a small favor to ask of you… you see, I wish to do some reading before I retire for the night, but I can't light a candle when my matchbook is all wet…”

"Ours is, too. I can give it a try. See if we've got a good match between the two of us," she said. 

Merriweather ushered her across the landing and into his room. Though the fading light outside only cast a dim glow through the window, Hot Pants immediately noticed the telegraph machine, comically large on the little end table. She shivered. It was a contraption of spools and keys and brass knobs that she wanted nothing to do with.

"What's that you're looking at? Something on the table?" Merriweather asked with dangerous nonchalance.

"There's–" Hot Pants felt her blood go cold. He had almost succeeded at catching her off-guard; only those with special abilities could see London Calling, after all. "There's nothing there, sir."

"Of course not. What a foolish thing for me to say. Ah! Here's the little candle."

Hot Pants withdrew a matchbook from her coat pocket. The cardboard box was somewhat soggy, but not completely waterlogged; perhaps a match or two could still be salvaged. It read L'étoile, Paris and was illustrated like the tarot card representing The Star: a woman kneeling by a stream, pouring water from two jugs.

The first match was a dud. The second one, too. Before she attempted a third match, Hot Pants glanced at Merriweather, who was so tall that he had to stoop slightly beneath the gabled ceiling.

"Would it be… rude of me to ask what an English gentleman is doing in a place like this?" Hot Pants ventured.

"Fear not; I was about to bring it up myself. In particular, I am looking for another Englishman. It is possible he is traveling with a woman. American. She speaks French fluently, though, so she might be passing herself off as French. Or even as a man! I have reason to believe these rapscallions are heading towards Geneva from…" Merriweather glanced down at the matchbox cover. 

L'étoile.

Paris.

"Paris," he finished after a two second pause that felt like an eternity.

"Haven’t encountered any foreigners here, sir. My father and I just arrived, ourselves. We came from the opposite direction; we were visiting his sister in Geneva.” The lies came so easily, she even surprised herself at her nonchalance.

Hot Pants struck the third match against the box and it took light.

"Aha! Third time lucky; there’s a good match. Thank you kindly, thank you kindly," Merriweather exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. Hot Pants lit the candle and shook the flame out of the match.

"Not a problem. Good luck finding your quarry,” Hot Pants said, turning to leave.

"Ah! Before you leave, please take my card. Please… if you even pick up a mere scrap of information on your travels north, you can wire me at any hour.”

Hot Pants looked down at the thick square of paper. There was no name, no post number. Only a single bold printed word indicating a telegraphic address: LONDONCALLING . 

Merriweather crossed his arms. “Do be careful on your travels! The pair I am searching for are of the worst order of criminals; they may be responsible for that gruesome murder of a priest printed all over the papers. You read about that? Those poor, helpless nuns at the convent… to think that the sensitive eyes of women had to bear witness such an atrocity…”

"I’ve heard none of this dreadful news; we haven't seen a Parisian newspaper all week," Hot Pants said distantly.

The Englishman tapped a finger to his chin. "Parisian? I don't believe I mentioned the murder occurred in Paris…"

Hot Pants swallowed. The fist of anxiety around her heart squeezed it tighter. "Sorry – you mentioned that the criminals were fleeing from Paris. I only assumed…"

"But of course… a most percipient lad, you are! Your father is fortunate to be in your company," Merriweather exclaimed.  He pushed a copy of Le Petit Parisien into her hands. "You'll find the story here. I can't read French, myself; keep it. Consider it thanks for your help in lighting my candle. Really, I do appreciate your strenuous effort."

"Thanks for the paper…" Hot Pants said, feeling a bit dazed. She backed away while maintaining uncomfortably prolonged eye contact, then quickly turned and slipped out, nearly slamming the door behind her.

His aggressive affability…  his condescending agreeableness…

These traits made Merriweather one of the most stressful individuals she’d ever spoken to. Hot Pants stood at the landing between the two rooms for a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was still thundering with adrenaline and her hands shook, clutching Le Petit Parisien. The newspaper – a weekly broadsheet known for sensationalist coverage of Paris happenings – was complete with a lurid illustration on the front cover of the murdered Father Styx, surrounded by sobbing, dopey-looking nuns crying out to the heavens. 

PRIEST MURDERED, HIS BODY  DESECRATED! BLOOD SPILLED IN THE SANCTUARY OF THE ABBEY OF SAINTE-MARIA read the headline in bold letters. Then, the sub-heading below: Investigators baffled by beastly claw-marks left on the victim’s body.

She didn’t care to read the rest of the article right now. Her thoughts raced on more immediately pressing matters. Merriweather seemed to know more about Styx’s murder than the “baffled” local authorities did. Namely, Diego’s involvement. Hot Pants was bound to be implicated to some extent, given her absconsion, but how could Merriweather have known that Diego traveled from Le Havre to Paris in less than five days? 

Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

She knew that sound. London Calling was activating.

Now, the door on the opposite end of the room burst open, revealing a bewildered Diego who had of course been listening with his ear pressed against the door the entire time. He hissed, “Now he’s–”

“Getting away…” Hot Pants finished, her voice low and completely lacking emotion.

Indeed, in the few seconds it took Diego to cross the landing to Merriweather’s room and throw open the door, the Englishman was already gone. The only trace of him remaining was the single lit candle on the end table, its tiny flame quavering from the sudden draft.

“What the blazes– you were alone with him!” Diego pointed a finger in her face, right between her eyes. “You ought’ve slit his throat, or better yet – suffocate him with your meat spray! Is this your bloody moral code ? Are you that much of a self-righteous idiot ?!” He kept punctuating his words by pointing, and Hot Pants’ anger surged. She wanted to bite that stupid finger off his hand, but instead, she pushed him away and locked her eyes onto his.

“You have no right to speak to me that way,” she said in the lowest possible voice above a whisper. “It was your idea to go to Switzerland. We can’t start murdering everyone that becomes an inconvenience to us!”

“Merriweather Post is not just an inconvenience. He’s a screaming pain in the arse – how many other folks do you know with an ability that can telegraph you straight to prison? You had your chance to eliminate our only serious threat, and you mucked it!”

“Look, Dio! Look at the mess we made in Paris!” She shoved the newspaper at him. “Look at the panic it’s caused! The more messes we make, the harder it'll be for us to stay hidden!”

“Oh, chuff it.” Diego eyed her coldly. “You were the one dead-set on killing that priest. And have you forgotten that I saved your life ? Maybe I ought've abandoned you to freeze to death, eh, Hazel Plainview ?"

Hot Pants cast him a withering stare at the invocation of her birth name. "You wanted the diamonds too much to let me die," she said flatly.

"You… really believe that's the only reason?"

“Yes, Dio, for the same reason why it was so easy for them to predict your movements! You want to know how they found us? It’s because you’re always where the money’s at; that’s why you married an 83-year-old widow, and that’s why you had the grand idea to drag us all the way to Switzerland to empty her bank account! It’s ‘cause you’re a greedy bastard that–”

The moment the word bastard left her mouth, Hot Pants realized she’d made a mistake. Diego flinched, then flew into an unbridled rage. Cracks appeared in his face and he grabbed her arms with his clawed hands, talons digging into her skin.

“If the diamonds were all I wanted,  I’d have killed you by now. You’re not the only one with a ‘Stand ability’ anymore; between the two of us, I’m the strongest now,” he snarled.

“Is this… merely posturing…” Hot Pants whispered. “Or are you threatening me?”

Diego exhaled sharply through his nose. His breath tickled her face. “I could rend you in half, you know. T-t-tear out your innards. I could do it.”

“And I…” Hot Pants wrenched her left arm free and slowly raised her hand, holding a canister of Cream Starter to his head. She spoke to him softly, in a gentle tone she might have used with a small child. “I can melt your brain…"

The two remained locked in a standoff, neither of them daring to make the first act of aggression. The flickering candlelight accentuated the shadows on the faces they wore, strangers’ aspects; the fleshy disguises alienating each other further from the comforting familiarity they once felt from one another’s true features.

Minutes passed. Diego's eyes returned to normal, his pupils becoming round again. His claws retracted, releasing H.P.'s right arm.

She rubbed the soreness out of her arm from where he’d gripped her. The anger in her heart had cooled, but at this moment, she did not want to be in the same room as him. Hot Pants stepped backwards out of the doorway and turned her back on him only when she reached the landing. She stumbled down the creaky wooden steps into the warmth of the bar below. The hearth was still blazing, and the revelers were still reveling. She sank into a bench draped with furs and unfolded the map in front of her. She traced the Prime Meridian with her finger, pausing where the line cut through the city of London. 

It was all for him that she was risking everything to help him find his father. All because she’d made a promise to him. Perhaps they were expecting too much from each other. Hot Pants mulled over the topic, not even looking at the map spread out on her lap anymore, eyes unfocused.

The heat of the fire was making her sleepy. When did they last sleep…? She couldn’t remember. It’d been dangerous to sleep in the blizzard, and they’d kept walking through the night and the next day, desperate for shelter… she was just so tired…

The merry French chatter of the locals became an indistinct buzz. Hot Pants closed her eyes and exhaustion overtook her…

A hand gently squeezed her shoulder, rousing her from her nap. Disoriented, Hot Pants began glancing in all directions, unsure if she had been dozing for minutes or hours. The fire in the hearth had become all but embers, and most of the patrons had filtered out, the last blue stragglers at the ends of their drinks.

“Hey, H.P…” came an all-too-familiar voice in her ear. “What’s a… loop garrow?”

“Uhngh… a what?” Hot Pants murmured, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Diego was holding the French newspaper in his hands and pointed the word out to her.

“Oh,” she said. “ Loup-garou . It means ‘werewolf.’”

“Hah! Did you know that a werewolf is the prime suspect the most esteemed Parisian detectives could come up with for the murder of that priest? Isn’t that funny?”

His voice sounded so fragile, as if he would be shattered if she didn’t agree.

Hot Pants nodded. “Yes. That’s quite funny.” However, her face remained stony as ever.

Diego shifted his weight between his feet. “I kicked up a row. Said some rotten things.”

“Hm. Yes. I said some regrettable words as well. We can leave it at that. I still intend to uphold my end of the deal and travel to London with you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Diego opened his mouth as if to say something, then leaned his forehead against the mantle. Hot Pants knew he was terrible with apologies, and she imagined all the gears in his brain were spinning as he struggled to think of the words to say. Diego let out a prolonged exhale, slamming a clenched fist on the bricks of the mantle and turning to face H.P. again.

“Shit,” he said. “Capital. It’s all square. All serene. Right as ninepence. Splendid, eh, cully?”

“Dio, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“Hold your hand out.”

Hot Pants obeyed, her expression unchanged.

Diego placed some hard object with sharp edges into her palm and closed her fingers around it.

“Don’t open it until you’re sure no one’s watching,” he said. “I just… want us to be even, is all. Want you to know I’m not full of bosh.”

Hot Pants already had an idea of what the item was. She blinked at him incredulously. “Dio, are you…”

But he’d already turned to leave, vanishing light-footed up the stairs.

Hot Pants looked about. Several feet away, the innkeeper was arguing with a man over his unpaid tab, and the others were setting out to leave. She slowly uncurled her fingers.

In the palm of her hand was a cut diamond the size of an almond, its facets glittering in the candlelight.

Four diamonds each. They were even.

Hot Pants smiled.

Chapter Text

Like two starving wolves, Diego and Hot Pants skulked along the narrow cobblestone streets of Geneva, faces rigid with determination. Their attention was fixed on the path ahead. Passing endless rows of tall, square buildings of uniform height, facades of pale yellow and pink, they knew they had no time to tarry in spite of their fatigue. They'd donned new faces, but their encounter with Merriweather had rattled them, and coming so soon after that incident with the tramp in the rail car, they could not shake the constant feeling they were being watched. The lady at the tobacco shop, the boy selling newspapers, the aristocrats narrowing their eyes at them through the windows of their carriages… any of them could be an enemy.

The Banque Lamont & Cie was a conspicuously new building in an older district, its high-domed façade and sunburst of golden ornaments perhaps attempting to match the showy opulence of the surrounding baroque buildings of centuries past, but it just didn’t look right to Diego. The marble steps led to an entrance framed by soaring colonnades, and he found it too… much. Diego could not pretend to have any knowledge on the architectural merits of this or that, but he knew that at least the older buildings had been constructed with more care and artistry, a communicable meaning behind each ornate detail. This bank, as tall as a cathedral, appeared little more than an ostentatious nouveau riche display of wealth.

“You remember the plan?” he asked his companion, keeping his voice low. 

Hot Pants nodded. “Don’t reveal anything of our identities until we are speaking directly to Monsieur René Lamont himself."

"Exactly. No matter how they try to intimidate us, no matter how they scrutinize and look down on us on account of our appearance… we take it all in stride, you hear?"

Hot Pants nodded again. Then, remembering the "roles" they were meant to play, she opened the door for him like a manservant and gestured for him to enter.

The bank’s atrium was enormous. Well-lit with natural sunlight filtering through the glazed-glass tiles of the skylight ceiling, the three stories of open galleries above made the chamber feel almost palatial. Patrons and employees milled about on all levels, a low reverberating din of conversation bouncing off the marble walls and floors.

The most distinctive thing about this building was how much gold was used in its decor. Well, not solid gold, Diego assumed, but even the balustrades along the galleries were gilded, the wall-sconces, the decorative festoons. Diego had a magpie-like draw to shiny accouterments, yet even he found it all too ostentatious.

“Your coat, monsieur, ” Hot Pants said to Diego, and he held his arms up to allow her to remove his coat. In spite of their play-acting, the two of them could not hide how comically out-of-place their drab, weathered travel clothes appeared among all the sumptuous finery of the bank. Still, Diego knew that clothes were but a small part of appearing distinguished; presence was far more important. Heads turned and he could almost hear the hand-wringing from the onlookers as he strode to the semi-circular desk at the front, not allowing the confidence in his steps to falter for a moment. So long as he carried himself with a self-important swagger as though he were the wealthiest man in the room, his shabby appearance would only be a mere curiosity. It was not unheard-of for aristocrats to travel in plainer clothes to deter attention from thieves, after all.

At the counter was a fresh-eyed young lady, brown hair twisted into a chignon bun that hung at the nape of her neck. Its shape was delicious; it made Diego think of a jelly roll, but maybe that was just because of how hungry he was.

“I require an audience with Monsieur Lamont regarding my account,” he demanded of the secretary. Forgoing niceties, his tone affected a haughty, genteel sort of nasality.

The girl smiled brightly, her lips full and painted dark red.

“Certainly. Do you have an appointment?” she responded in perfect English. Her voice had a pleasant ring to it, like a bell.

“I am afraid not, miss. There were… factors that made it too risky to even send a telegram in anticipation of my arrival. The urgency of my situation is one that I only feel comfortable disclosing my identity to Monsieur René Lamont himself. Certainly you understand my need for discretion above all else?”

The attendant smiled again, this time even wider.

“We at Banque Lamont & Cie pride ourselves on the level of care and secrecy that our clients have come to expect from our establishment, which has been operated by one of the most prestigious and long-lived banking families in all of Geneva for generations. We appreciate that you trust us with your assets and understand your need for anonymity.” 

Her little speech sounded rehearsed. As if she had delivered this a thousand times to clients. “However… Monsieur Lamont is of course a busy man, and without an appointment, I am afraid that you may find the wait to see him quite inconvenient, if he even agrees to see a man that cannot even give us his name…” She still sounded chipper, to the point where Diego was slightly irritated.

“Monsieur Lamont will want to see us,” he insisted. “I cannot tell you my name, but I can assure you that my account is one of the largest at your establishment, and the banker will be quite disappointed if I decide to take my business, and my great fortune, to another bank…”

“Ah… I intend no disrespect, Monsieur, but if he finds that your name is not to match with your boasting, Monsieur Lamont will also be quite disappointed if I had to cancel an appointment to fit you into his schedule,” she said breezily. “Ah, but my name is no secret. Call me Odette. Follow me, if you please, and let me see what can be done for you…”

She took a book from her desk and moved towards one of the many low, circular tables in the waiting area. Hot Pants pulled out an upholstered seat which Diego sank into like a throne, crossing a leg over his knee and taking a cigarette from his case. He put the end of it in his mouth and tapped his fingers on the table in mock impatience. Hot Pants let out a sigh, striking a match and lighting Diego’s cigarette. She would probably kick him if he ever admitted it, but he found some secret amusement at having someone as proud and stubborn as H.P. waiting on him, even if it were all an act.

Diego took a few light puffs of the cigarette as he gazed disdainfully at Odette poring over the appointments book. He tried in vain not to sweat at the sight of the pastry stand tormenting him from the center of the table, laden with macarons of different powdery colors. Hunger scraped his stomach; Hot Pants had been tightly rationing the last of their food the past few days with the generosity of a medieval gaoler. He cursed his keen sense of smell; the sweet sugary aromas of meringue and buttercream were nearly torturous, but he was unwilling to risk appearing ill-bred by indulging in sweets before tea time, and especially not without being offered any. 

“Oh, please avail yourself to as many as you’d like,” Odette said with a friendly gesture, as if she had been reading his thoughts. “I baked them myself; I’m quite the amateur pâtissière . It would please me if you found yourself partial to them.” 

There was something about her unfalteringly bright smile, her over-eagerness to offer him pastries that Diego found slightly unsettling, but he lacked the willpower to refuse. Appearing as disinterested and casual as he could, he picked up a chocolate macaron with two fingers and affected a jaded expression, examining it a moment before taking a bite. That first bite into the sandwiched pastry was indescribable; so unused to sugary treats was Diego that the chocolate explosion of creamy ganache melting in his mouth brought a mild rush of euphoria to his head. Unpleasant as it was to be hungry all the time, he could not deny that everything tasted so delicious immediately after experiencing that sort of deprivation. 

He took another bite, the intensity of the cloying sweetness almost overwhelming, but he didn’t care. He finished it off in a few more bites.

“Well? Was it to your liking?” Odette asked, clasping her hands in eagerness as though his opinion on her confections meant the world to her.

“Screaming good. Truly, a first-rate job. Now, I’m not usually one to lay it on thick, but this is the sort of thing I might have expected on the Queen’s tea-tray,” he said, surprising himself at how easily these words of high praise tumbled out. He had wanted to continue his haughty and unimpressed act and say something to the respect of “ Adequate, but not spectacular, ” but the macaron was so spectacular that something compelled him to speak the truth about it.

Odette looked utterly delighted. “Oh, wonderful… that is wonderful to hear…” she said, going back to her book.

He started on another one with lemon custard filling. Behind him, he could hear Hot Pants shifting her weight uncomfortably, could hear the clenching of her jaw, could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. Naturally, servants were not allowed to snack on the job, and he imagined it must be torture for her to watch him indulging in pastries while she stood there starving. He admittedly found it quite amusing, in the same way that her having to pretend to be his servant was amusing, but he was feeling merciful enough to toss her a bone…

“Come now, H.P., I’ll let you forget propriety for a moment to have one, too,” he said, but his blood suddenly went cold when he realized he’d spoken her nickname out loud. Even H.P.’s breathing changed ever so slightly in surprise.

Why did I say that?

Were the macarons truly so intoxicating that they were affecting his judgment? At the very least, H.P. was a vague enough nickname that it could have stood for anything. Herman Percival. Hector Prince. Hen-Pecked. Hellish Prig. Odette did not seem to react in any observable way to hearing the name, so Diego tried to let go of that unease. Hot Pants cautiously took a macaron from the tray and began to nibble on it.

Odette’s pen scritched something in the book and she glanced up. “I must first speak to my superior to confirm the scheduling, but fortune appears in your favor today, Monsieur of Mysteries! Might I inquire as to the nature of your transaction? Only so that we can predict how much of Monsieur Lamont’s time you may need for an engagement…”

“Sure. I’m in a pretty to-do, so I figure I’ll withdraw some funds from my late wife’s account, and transfer the remainder to a new account under a different name. Before the authorities seize my assets and all that,” Diego said matter-of-factly.

He froze again after realizing what had just left his lips. Hot Pants choked on her macaron. Diego wanted to die of shame.

Devil hang me if I keep blathering…!

It was so odd; as he talked, he’d thought he was delivering the lies he had rehearsed in his head. But something had gone wrong between his brain and his mouth, and he’d said exactly what he was trying to obfuscate.

Odette’s face wore the same cheery mask; Diego had no way of knowing if she found his conduct concerning, or if she truly was so empty-headed.

“Wonderful to hear. I will pass that information along to my superior, and–”

Diego grabbed her by the skinny wrist before she could leave, leaning over the table to stare at her. His voice was low and calmly contained, yet implicitly threatening. “I would appreciate it if you passed no such information along to anyone, unless that superior is Monsieur René Lamont himself. Do you understand?”

Odette’s wrist twisted in his grasp, but she made no attempt to try to pull away. She quickly began to chirp out her speech again. “We at Banque Lamont & Cie pride ourselves on the level of care and secrecy that our clients have come to expect from our establishment, which–” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know the story. Now, don’t do anything to betray that banker-client confidentiality you Swiss are famous for, or I’ll make you regret it,” he warned. He released the woman’s wrist.

“Understood, monsieur!” Odette said, then stood up in a hurry, clutching the appointments book to her chest, stumbling over her high heels for a moment as she walked towards the lift.

As soon as she was gone, Diego and Hot Pants descended greedily upon the rest of the macarons, forfeiting all pretense of propriety. As he ate, he rolled two up his sleeve to save for later, and saw H.P. stuffing some in her pockets as well. They paused for a moment, looking at each other and laughing at the absurdity, in spite of the tension of the situation.

“You think she’s going to wire Merriweather?” Hot Pants asked, cheeks full of pastry like a squirrel. She swallowed it down. “I can only assume he’s made the rounds, and given his card to all the banks in Geneva with a description of us...”

“The concern has crossed my mind, but I doubt old Lamont would want my account cleared out. Money is a universal language; the Americans will almost certainly seize my assets if I am discovered, which would be a significant financial loss for the bank. That said, keep your wits about you. There’s something I don’t like about this place, but I can’t put my finger on it…”

“Why did you blow our cover so badly like that?” Hot Pants glanced at him reproachfully.

“Honest to God, I haven’t the slightest idea why. Maybe all the sugar got to my head, or some such...” Admittedly, he was not used to rich foods such as this, and he did feel his stomach beginning to disagree with it. Still… could that have really caused such a blatant lapse in common sense?

Diego craned his neck to look behind him as he heard the click-clack of high heels against the marble tile. He saw Odette approaching again, with a far more dour expression on her face instead of that vapid cheer. She walked briskly, her bun bobbing up and down.

Diego quickly finished chewing. He swallowed hard, snapping his fingers to get Odette’s attention as she walked by.

“Oi, forgot something? Me mate and I just polished off the last of the sweets; be a good bird and bring us seconds, will you?” Diego snapped his fingers again. “Not for eatin’, mind. In truth, we’re already stuffed to the gills; I was ‘oping to palm some gob for the road, you know ‘ow it is…”

Diego trailed off once he realized that literally everything was wrong with the way he was talking.

His natural working-class diction was coming out, and he’d ordered her so crassly, as if she were a serving girl at the pub. Not to mention the boneheaded way he’d just confessed to his plan to steal the pastries for later. Now he knew something was very, very wrong; more than a foolish conversational blunder, it was as if he’d been rendered incapable of any sort of deception.

Even the good-natured Odette appeared insulted by his poor manners. Her face contorted, icy blue eyes staring down at him in disgust.

“Do you have any idea who I am, you ill-bred rogue?” she asked. Her voice was breathy and dangerous, nothing at all like the pleasant little chirping bell she sounded like minutes ago.

“Hmph, you sure sing big for a puffed-up secretary,” Diego said drolly, meeting her stare with equal contempt.

“Secretary–?!” The young woman threw her head back and laughed for a moment, then slammed a fist on the table, causing Diego to flinch. Her personality was completely opposite of the daft, merry girl at the desk, and she was wearing some ostentatious rings on each finger that he hadn’t notice before. “You misunderstand… you misunderstand completely .” she said. “My name is Odile Lamont, and you have made a grave mistake by insulting me…”

“Odile… Lamont ?!” Diego exclaimed. “Then, does that means Odette is…”

“My idiot twin sister, regrettably, but I suppose no prestigious family is complete without its own ‘fool.’ And… you two insects are…?”

“Diego Brando,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “Shit. Shit! ” he exclaimed, slapping his knee in anger.

“Hazel Plainview,” said Hot Pants behind him at the same time. She hissed at herself.

Fuck . She was under the same curse, both of them compelled to speak the truth! Diego’s eyes darted around. Could there be a Stand user in the bank?! Another person with supernatural abilities, like Styx or Merriweather? Well, the obvious suspect at this point was Odette's evil twin sister. Diego stood abruptly, his chair nearly toppling over from the momentum, and whipped out a switchblade.

“What did you do to us?” he demanded, holding the knife to Odile’s throat.

She blinked at him languidly.

“My sister is almost entirely useless, but I do appreciate this ability she’s developed… she calls it ‘Soul Kitchen’...”

“The macarons…” Hot Pants said. “She must have baked something into the macarons…”

“And it appears you’ve eaten a surfeit of them. How delightful,” Odile said. “The more Soul Kitchen you eat, the harder it becomes to conceal yourself with falsehoods… it is like a truth serum, but far more special. You can’t even hide that dreadfully low-class accent, Brando. When all the pretenses are stripped away, you truly are nothing more than a violent churl of the slums…”

“I’m done with your horseshit,” Diego said, keeping the knife at her throat. “Take us to René Lamont. Take us to the banker or I’ll slit your goddamned throat, and you know I’m not bluffing.”

Odile stared at him with blasé, half-lidded eyes, as if Diego were more of an annoyance than an actual threat.

“Hmph…” she said. “What an intolerable specimen you are. Very well. I’ll take you to ‘the banker’, but you may find him to be quite… indisposed.”

Chapter Text

As Diego led Odile towards the lift at knifepoint, Hot Pants kept her left hand in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the can of Cream Starter concealed therein.

"Would it not be a better idea to take the stairs?" H.P. asked.

Diego answered without turning. “Why? Bet that other girl’s already calling the authorities. We’ve got no time to climb all those stairs. We need to finish our business with Lamont, and fast.”

“I don’t do well in confined spaces,” Hot Pants admitted before she could think of an excuse. The effects of Soul Kitchen were still active, forcing her to speak the truth. “I feel the same terror I did when I was trapped in that cave. As though it were happening again.”

“Shit,” Diego’s shoulders hunched ever-so-slightly more than usual. “Didn’t think it proper to put me in the know until now, eh?!” he hissed under his breath.

He was cross with her for this omission, and for good reason. H.P.’s face became hot with shame. She had little control over the fear that gripped her mind, nor the shadow of the beast that haunted her steps. This weakness was not something she wanted to lay bare to a stranger. She hadn’t even told Dio before, out of embarrassment, and she cursed her own wretched timing; it would have been pertinent information for him to know in the event that it came up, such as right now . And it was a weakness Odile could easily exploit, now that she knew.

Odile chortled within her throat. “I’m afraid we’ve no choice, cherie . For security reasons, Lamont’s office is only accessible from the lift.”

“That’s a hazard, innit?” Diego reached. “What if there’s a fire?”

Odile laughed again, this time out loud. “Then… I suppose my dear brother will perish, surrounded by that which he loved in life more than anything: His wealth."

The lift was cylindrical, with plush red upholstery semi-circling around the perimeter of the cage. Nose up in the air, Odile entered first at the urging of Diego’s switchblade. He followed her closely. Hot Pants was last to enter the already-cramped lift, closing the criss-crossed metal door behind her.

Odile suddenly moved her hand. Diego reacted with reptilian instinct, catching her arm with his free hand, thin cracks emerging from his skin.

“I was only moving to control the lift. You can put the knife away, Mr. Brando,” Odile sighed.

“I’m rather partial to where my knife is, at present,” Diego responded. The cracks on his skin faded.

Hot Pants reached for the lever. “No need. I’m ah… quite c-capable of operating a lift,” she said, immediately wincing at the way she dithered her words. Soul Kitchen apparently would not allow her to affect a cool, masculine shield to conceal her mounting dread.

Heavens, I’m mewling like Sister Eulalie… best to remain silent from here on.

Diego made a noise that was something between a grunt and a sharp laugh. Not a laugh at her misfortune, but an automatic nervous laugh. H.P. sensed his palpable discomfort at the situation, and her mind was screaming, ordering her to vocalize some subtle words of reassurance, or just a wink or smile to convey to Dio that she was able to handle this. Yet even such a simple gesture was too deceitful for her to manage; the words caught in her throat, her lips twitched into a grimace. Hot anger intermingled with shame in an unfamiliar new emotion she did not know how to describe.

Hot Pants slammed the lever down hard, reduced to brutishness in her frustration. The lift  shuddered into motion, and her stomach lurched. She could see the atrium through bars as the gilded jail cell ascended up the shaft.

“I doubt you understand what it means to be a Lamont," Odile said, arms crossed like a fortress. "Can either of you trace your lineage beyond… say, two generations? Maybe three?"

Both Diego and Hot Pants shook their heads. The cage continued its ascent. The arrow on the floor indicator above the door ticked from one to two . Hot Pants swallowed. Diego narrowed his eyes at her as if to inquire after her nervous state. Unable, yet again, to communicate any reassurance as nausea curdled her insides, Hot Pants avoided his eyes and stared down at her feet. 

We’re trapped inside a tin can…

Odile spoke again.

"The Lamont family can be traced back to 13th-century France. For centuries, we were a prominent banking family, until we fled to Geneva to escape religious persecution. We were Protestants, you see. Ah, but do you wonder why I am saying 'we' instead of 'they', even though I obviously was not alive in 1572 France when Catherine de’ Medici instigated the massacre of five thousand Huguenots?"

"If'm being honest? Didn't give enough of a rap to notice," Diego said flatly.

Click . Third floor.

Hot Pants swallowed the urge to laugh. At the very least, this was providing some levity to distract her from feelings of impending doom.

Odile Lamont tilted her chin up and stared at the both of them, eyes glowing with the cold fire of blue-blooded scorn.

"Our brief lives will crumble away to insignificance after our deaths, but the Lamont dynasty is immortal so long as we continue to build upon the foundational stones placed by our proud ancestors. Even de’ Medici was acting to protect her own dynasty when she slaughtered the French Protestants, just as we Lamonts have had to make sacrifices to protect our livelihoods. The likes of you – dredged-up sewer scum with no houses of your own – always try to tear down what others have worked for centuries to build up, rather than setting your own foundational stones…”

“That’s ‘cos your lot hoard all the ‘stones’ to yourself and work us to death,” Diego growled.

“Don’t blame me for that; blame your ancestors for not securing their legacy,” Odile quipped coolly.

Click . The arrow was now pointing to the fourth floor. 

She glanced at Diego. He gnashed his teeth in silent contempt. Odile was prodding a wasp’s nest. Hot Pants knew why he was angry, though she never knew that specific pain herself; class-consciousness did not exist in the small Californian mining town she grew up in, and once she’d donned the habit and wimple, she was treated the same as any Sister, even one born into old money. Diego’s experiences had been far less kind to him. He bore visible and invisible scars from forcing himself into a hierarchical world that wanted nothing to do with a bastard. That pain forged a proud defiance of the social order, and he was not one to be cowed into submission by anyone that would treat him as less-than. While H.P. found it admirable, in this situation she hoped he could refrain from murdering anyone until they’d secured his fortune from the Lamont patriarch.

“Seven years ago, we were the victims of a robbery by insurgents of a certain country. They did not take kindly to the fact that Banque Lamont & Cie held an account for one of their governing body’s most hated figureheads. These insurgents came, and they murdered our father.” Odile snapped her fingers. “Gun to his head, like that. Painted these lovely walls with his brains. Odette and I were but children; René took us all in the vault to keep us safe. How do you think the three of us survived…?”

Neither Diego nor Hot Pants knew how to answer her rhetorical question, of course, but they found no answer from the proud Lamont, either. Instead, Odile sent a swift knee into Diego’s groin, and wrested the knife from him as he doubled over.

Hot Pants released the lever, bringing the lift to an abrupt halt between the fourth and fifth floors. Yet before she could move to tackle Odile, glowing red symbols appeared all along the gilded bars of their cage. H.P. recognized the symbol as the star-sign of Aries – the line formed from the junction between two arches, like the curved horns of a goat.

“Ecstasy of Gold…” Odile said.

A shimmering, haloed figure pirouetted above them, so beautiful and unearthly Hot Pants momentarily believed the three of them were all about to receive divine judgment from an angel. It wore a rigid hoopskirt with an uneven, webbed lattice, like a ballerina tutu twisted from industrial wires of all different sorts of metals. Two golden wings folded at the head to cover the upper half of its face, leaving only its mouth visible; lips onyx black against sculpted marble skin.

The gilded bars of the lift’s doors coiled around H.P.’s wrists and arms, trapping her to the wall like a set of shackles. The metal felt hot through her clothes. Hot Pants fought against the restraints with as much strength as she could muster, but the metal had rapidly cooled, no longer malleable. 

Having recovered somewhat from the unfortunate blow he’d received moments ago, Diego lunged at Odile with his talons to reach for the blade, but Odile flicked her wrist, and the scrap-metal angel moved to grab it. Another glowing white symbol appeared on the blade of the knife. A triangle of three interlocking circles atop a cross.

The metal of the blade rapidly corroded, combusting into a noxious blue powder. Hot Pants turned her head and buried her mouth and nose into her shirt to avoid inhalation, but Diego was too close to avoid it. He caught the full spray in his face and fell into a coughing fit, his talons retracting.

Scales erupted along his arms, then faded back into skin.

"I can't…" he wheezed. "Can't transform…"

Hot Pants didn't know much about dinosaurs. She did know that they were prehistoric megafauna, from a world before humans, before industrialization. When vast oceans covered the planet, the atmosphere was laden with oxygen. And larger organisms required more air to sustain cellular respiration…

"Dio! Stop trying to transform! You'll starve your brain of oxygen!" she shouted, still pulling against the metal bars, fighting in vain against her restraints.

Odile removed her heavy golden necklace. The symbols of Aries glowed upon it for a moment before fading, and it morphed into a “rope”, coiling itself around Diego’s wrists. As he tried to headbutt her, she kicked him in the face, forcing him to the ground again. The woman stood over him with a triumphant sneer.

“The secrets of the Hermetica? The Tabula Smaragdina? The Ripley Scrolls? Hah! The alchemists of old were charlatans ingratiating themselves into the royal courts; they could not even transmute lead into gold. But I can do far more than that… with my Ecstasy of Gold, I can manipulate any metal I desire, and perform any process upon it!”

Trust me… please don't try to transform… Hot Pants thought, as if she could project her thoughts to him with enough intensity. She understood how strong the temptation must be; how weak and helpless Diego must be feeling, unable to fight back. But attempting to become a dinosaur would be worse for him while he was still struggling to breathe.

Odile had enough slack on her golden rope to tug it like a leash.

When Diego resisted, Odile muttered another word. Her Stand scratched another symbol onto the gold rope and it glowed white-hot for a moment.

" Shit –!" Diego exclaimed.

"I’ll return for you , later,” she wagged an index finger at Hot Pants. “Be grateful that I need to capture you both alive. I could have easily transmuted the iron within your bloodstreams into arsenic, and if you prove to be too much of a nuisance, I shan’t hesitate…”

With that, she pulled the golden chain again, forcing the bound Diego to his feet, tilting her head in the direction of the gap between floors, about a meter wide. 

“You first,” she commanded.

With a scornful mutter, Diego was forced to obey. He glanced over his shoulder at Hot Pants, then swung his leg over the gap to climb out of the lift to solid ground. With her end of the glittering chain still wrapped around her arm, Odile pulled up her skirts and followed.

H.P. could only watch in silent frustration, chained against the mesh of metal behind her. She was ashamed, angry, afraid, but above all, helpless; a fool in a medieval pillory.

Through the gap between floors, Hot Pants now saw two pairs of feet. Odile's pumps were a shiny gold-enameled patent leather, laced up with a pretty satin bow. The elegant curvature of the heel, the pointed toe… Hot Pants had in mind the court shoe of a rococo-era princess. This was a contrast to Diego’s scuffed-up boots, the leather cracked and water-stained from days trudging through the snow, the soles worn nearly through. The stark disparity made her recall something Diego said to her, once:

You can always tell a man’s worth by how tidy his shoes are. Not his coat or hat; those you can easily borrow, or purchase secondhand. But if you look down and see a pair of pristine Barker blacks, well, then you know he ain’t full of bosh…

Hot Pants bit her lip as she heard the sound of the chain tug again, and Diego’s boots stumbled as they followed Odile’s courtly golden shoes. 

Their footsteps soon faded. Restrained against the elevator wall, and utterly alone, Hot Pants began to tremble. She wanted to scream and cry at the same time, opting only to curse Diego in her head, blaming his hubris for the utterly rotten predicament they were in at present.

She kicked the lattice wall behind her, and the metal rattled, sending vibrations up to her clenched teeth.

If only she could reach her Cream Starter…

Still… that kick brought Hot Pants to a sudden revelation.

Odile had overlooked something. She’d only restrained H.P.’s arms; not her legs.

And Hot Pants had rather long legs… perhaps she could put them to good use.

Hot Pants swung her legs upwards, walking up the opposite wall with her feet to suspend her torso flat and bridge-like in the air across the length of the elevator. Hot Pants sucked in her breath, straining her arms against the bindings, but she couldn’t reach the pockets of her trousers. Arching her back, she walked her feet up further, contorting herself as far as her body would allow.

Still, her wrists were stuck too high to reach her pockets…

Suspended midair in this way, gravity eventually won out, pulling the Cream Starter can out of her right pocket. It clattered, rolling across the floor, coming to a halt dead-center of the platform. Hot Pants dropped her legs, and her boots caused the entire compartment to shudder as she hit the ground.

She heard a noise. A scream? Not Dio. Definitely not one of the Lamont Sisters. 

Claws scraping against slate. Her baby brother’s phantom, the little hands in front of her face. His scream, like a siren beckoning her soul to the rocky shores of Hell…

Sis…!

Hot Pants squeezed her eyes shut, and swallowed the lump of tears crawling up her throat. You’re not real. It’s not you… I’m not in that cave; I’m trapped in a lift, in a bank more ostentatious than the palace of Versailles, and with far less tasteful decor .

She began searching the floor blindly with her boot. 

“ In a cavern, in a canyon… excavating, for a mine… ” she sang, voice quavering like a twig in the wind. “Lived a miner, Forty-Niner, and his daughter, Clementine…”

Hot Pants thought it was a foolish song, but it always used to calm him down.

“Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine…”

Matteo’s sobs grew softer.

Eyes still shut, Hot Pants caught the can of Cream Starter within the instep of her boot.

“ You are lost and gone forever…”

She needed a quiet head for what she was about to do; she could not afford a messy state of mind, and for now, the song was soothing that phantasm. 

Hot Pants opened one eye to gauge the distance between the canister and the gap between the fourth and fifth floor.

“Dreadful sorry, Clementine.”

With her boot, she pressed down on the nozzle.

Fwssshhhhhhh….

Cream Starter liquefied her entire body, melting and mingling with the strangers’ flesh stored in the can. She was gooey… like an egg yolk squeezed through a hole in its eggshell. Spraying herself through the metal lattice, she reconstructed her body on the landing just outside the lift.

Rising to her feet, Hot Pants stumbled on the red carpet beneath her, catching herself on the bannister and glancing backwards to stare at the lift.

Free at last from that dreadful cage, it took five breaths for her to regain her composure, shaking off the phantasmal fears from moments ago. 

She began her ascent of the remainder of the stairs, creeping close to the wall. The carpet muffled her footsteps, and she kept a cautious pace. Though her heart pounded with urgency, Hot Pants reminded herself that Odile specifically mentioned she had been instructed to apprehend the two of them alive . She imagined Diego would not be treated gently by his captor, but at the very least, so long as he behaved, he was not yet in any mortal peril. So long as he behaved.

The walls were adorned with strange golden faces, sculpted with extraordinarily realistic features, eyes closed in peaceful repose. She could even see the subtle veins on the eyelids, the wrinkles around the mouths…

Death masks , Hot Pants thought to herself, but upon closer examination, she realized there was merit to her assumption – beneath each mask was a nameplate.

Mme. Julie Lamont. 1644-1708

Jean-Edmond Lamont. 1672-1749

Alois Lamont. 1706-1731

Mme. Lavenza Arendt-Lamont. 1733-1824

Hot Pants wanted to ignore the gilded names and faces of the Lamont dynasty, but a bizarre fascination compelled her to examine each plate, the years becoming more recent the higher she climbed up the staircase. Names began to repeat; younger generations bestowed the names of their elder ancestors upon their offspring, but whether it was out of familial love or dutiful obligation would remain a mystery. Hot Pants recalled the way Dio clenched his jaw in silent rage while Odile extolled the superiority of her bloodline, and although she knew she ought to have been repulsed by her as well, these masks struck H.P. with… an odd sort of pity for that woman. A feeling that her heart could not sort out. Is this what you want, Odile Lamont? To be remembered only as a golden ornament on the wall, after giving your entire life as a tool in service to your house?

At the landing of the sixth floor, the final mask on the wall gave her a start, a frisson of goosebumps forming over her arms.

This face was contorted into an expression of agony or horror; Hot Pants could not decide which. His jaw hung open in a final scream, while his eyes were wide open, 

This handsome young man, with the same high cheekbones and delicate, pointed nose of Odette and Odile… this man had not died peacefully.

Hot Pants peeled her eyes away from the terrifying face to glance down at the name.

1883. René Lamont. 1857-1883.

“René…” Hot Pants whispered. Diego and Odile’s voices chirped through her head. A minutes-old memory, though it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago since they’d entered the lift.

“I’m done with your horseshit. Take us to René Lamont. Take us to the banker or I’ll slit your goddamned throat, and you know I’m not bluffing.”

“Hmph… What an intolerable specimen you are. Very well. I’ll take you to ‘the banker’, but you may find him to be quite… indisposed.”

Indisposed… indisposed… indisposed …

Hot Pants removed the golden mask from the wall, staring through the empty holes for eyes. The details were even more uncanny up close; the cracks in his lips, the barest trace of pockmarks on his cheeks. She flipped the mask over to its concave backside, poking a finger through the hollow metal crevasse of the gentleman’s golden nose, feeling the length of its ridge from the inside. Closing her eyes, she moved her hands along the shapes of his features, constructing an image in her mind’s eye of how the young gentleman may have appeared in life, the way his bones shaped his flesh...

She brought a hand to her face to peel off the old disguise, only to touch her own bare skin. H.P. smiled to herself, realizing she had already been wearing her true face since she’d sprayed her entire body through Cream Starter.

She pointed the nozzle of the can towards herself and applied a new layer of flesh upon her face, sculpting herself into a living simulacrum of the death mask of René Lamont. She guessed at the hair, skin, and eye color, opting for the same dark tresses, blue eyes, and alabaster skin of the twins.

Wearing this new façade, Hot Pants stared at the double doors, patiently waiting for Odile to emerge. She felt more prepared than ever; not with schematics nor a plan of attack, but with a deeper understanding of who that woman truly was, from one damned soul to another.

We share a sin… don’t we, Odile Lamont?

Chapter Text

Diego hadn’t felt this specific kind of humiliation in a long time. The abrasive powder stuck to the inside of his throat and lungs. Each hacking wheeze brought him pain as he struggled to breathe, stumbling blindly as he was forced into a room.

The gold chain securing his wrists chafed against his open wounds. More than ever, he fought to contain the reptilian instinct to protect himself.

“Dio! Stop trying to transform! You’ll starve your brain of oxygen!”

Her warning looped over and over in his head, and he knew she was correct; when he tried to transform earlier while struggling to breathe, he’d nearly blacked out, feeling pins and needles crawling over his entire body.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined a candle. The flame was his humanity, and he focused on keeping it alight.

Through watery eyes, he saw that he was in an office of sorts. Commanding his immediate attention was an enormous circular vault door at the opposite end of the chamber, tall enough to reach the ceiling. Impenetrable. Reinforced steel.

Seated primly at one of the desks was that other twin, Odette. She was focused on a telegraph machine in front of her, right leg crossed over left leg which was bouncing up and down. She turned around and beamed at her sister.

“Oh! You were only able to apprehend one of them?” she asked.

Odile grabbed Odette by the earlobe.

"I dislike the cheerful way you said that,” she hissed into her ear. “To answer your question, no. The other pest is trapped in the lift. I made sure of it. I will return for… him? Her? Ah… that's inconsequential. I will return for it later."

Diego bristled, but said nothing.

"Now, Odette, you've sent the telegram to that Englishman like I ordered you?"

Odile shoved Odette towards the desk. Odette caught herself and smiled sheepishly, twirling a lock of hair with her finger.

"Ah… mmmh… yes, what was the address again? BRISTOLCALLING?"

Odile used her free hand to slap her identical twin. The momentum of her swing was so forceful that Odette was nearly launched into the desk again.

"LONDONCALLING, you feather-brained twit! L-O-N-D-O-N calling! Send it again! I have to lock this one up in the vault; he's so ill-bred he's practically feral."

Odette rubbed the red spot on her cheek. "But, dear sister… does this not violate our oath of banker-client confidentiality? If the Lamont family can no longer be trusted to protect the identities of our account holders, and if we are turning them over to foreign authorities, well… does that not go against the very principles our bank was founded upon? Why, if word gets out, there would be no reason for them not to move their accounts to, say, Fleury & Messier down the street!"

Odile raised a hand to strike Odette again, but Diego interjected.

"She's right, you know. Right before the yanks hang me, my final words'll be 'The Lamonts are swindlers and snitches! I ought've banked with Fleury & Messier!' Oh, you'll be raked through the coals. You'll be ruined!"

Odile snapped her head in Diego's direction with an icicle stare. A stray lock of hair loosened itself from her chignon bun.

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

As she spoke, she activated her ability again, and the gilded decorations on the wall molded into long spikes. The angelic humanoid Stand, Ecstasy of Gold, threw them with the force and precision of throwing knives.

Diego raised his arms like a shield, moving them as a singular unit against his bindings. He managed to deflect two, but one spike embedded itself into his shoulder. Diego attempted to shake it off, wincing in pain as it only tore itself deeper into his flesh.

Damn…

What the hell was Hot Pants doing? Cream Starter made her more than capable of escaping those restraints on her own, but Diego knew she was having a rough time of it in that lift. By now, she was either reduced to a blubbering mess, or on her way upstairs.

Or… most likely, she’s abandoned me by now.

The little candle light was flickering.

In a situation like this, it was safer to assume she’d prioritize her own safety over rescuing him. She didn’t even want any of his money; no, she didn’t even want to come here in the first place. His fault.

The flame within his mind fluttered again, as if a breeze passed through his ears.

Diego couldn’t hold his Stand back any longer, no matter how dangerous it was to call it out. If he didn’t act now, he may never get the opportunity again.

The candlelight snuffed out. His blood turned cold in his veins. Teeth pierced his gums as his mouth elongated. Scales cracked from beneath his skin. His hands became claws and with the might of a dinosaur, he was able to yank the chain apart, releasing himself from his bindings. His shoulder still hurt, but he hid the pain into another compartment of his mind and bared his fangs, lunging forth at Odile.

The woman flicked her wrist, and her angelic Stand made a pirouette, twirling its metal hoop skirt.

Diego felt a pulsation from the spike embedded in his shoulder. Citric symbols glistened upon its lustrous surface, and the odor cut his nose again like sharp tacks. His windpipe narrowed, trapping his breath in his throat as he couldn’t even gasp for air. Spiders were crawling inside of his brain. He blacked out before he even hit the ground.

— — —

As Diego regained consciousness, he felt the aching in his shoulder first, and the sensation of something touching his arm. No, someone. He registered their smell faster than his brain could process sight. The scent of an almost-stranger. Didn’t matter if they were a stranger, an almost-stranger, or even a friend. There was only one living soul on Earth he’d allow to touch him while his guard was down, and this human did not match that particular scent-profile.

Snarling, Diego leaped to his feet and pinned the almost-stranger against the wall.

The almost-stranger shrieked. At first, he could only see the vague shape of her, a pale and slim silhouette. In his present state, his mind efficiently categorized the sensory input it received based on order of importance, and full-color sight was low in priority compared to smell and sound.

The only light was a dim gas lamp overhead, catching the droplets glistening in her eyes. Tears?

"P-please…" she whimpered. "I'm on your side…!"

The details of her form began to sharpen as his vision caught up to the rest of his senses.

Diego retracted his claws, realizing he was gripping her shoulders.

Though her face was identical to that of Odile, Diego instinctively knew this was her sister Odette Lamont. He smelled it on her clothes, he smelled it on her fear. The fear she radiated was not borne from hatred or malice. No, it was pure terror; terror at the monstrous, cracking face reflected in her doe-eyes. She was frozen like a pillar, unable to react. Prey behavior. Diego released her and took three cautious steps backwards, human sensibilities returning. He realized he hadn’t been pinning her against a wall, it was a door. A huge, round vault door with a hopelessly complex locking mechanism made of gears and pulleys.

"You're not on my side…" he grumbled. "You're on the bank's side. I'm just fortunate our interests seem to have aligned… for now. But I’m not your mate, and you sure’s hell ain’t mine."

Odette said nothing in response.

Diego's face felt sore after retracting his fangs; his mouth had split his cheeks again to accommodate his teeth, leaving a characteristic wound. A smile scarred onto his cheeks. Usually H.P. fixed it for him. But she wasn't here. She wasn't here and Diego felt like a cornered animal without her to watch his back. He kept his eye on Odette, prepared to go for the throat if she made any threatening motions.

"So what were you doing while I was out cold? Trying to rob me?" Diego patted down his pants and breathed a sigh of relief to find the diamonds still in his pockets. “Or– you a pervert, nimming a feel like some back-alley creeper?”

His shoulder was still throbbing. He placed a hand on the wound and was surprised when he touched a silky fabric instead of his own coarse shirt. His sleeve had been torn away, and the lady’s scarf was neatly wrapped around the gash in his shoulder, the pearl white fabric stained by his blood.

"I… had no such designs on you, and I d-didn't intend to startle you," the woman said. "You were bleeding, so I…"

Diego interrupted her with a loud exhale.

"Fancy scarf like that's worth ten quid at least, and now it's ruined. Real silk, innit?"

"Well, of course it's real, what do you take me for?!” Odette’s fear snapped into indignation, but she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, I… yes. It’s real.”

Diego let out a short laugh. “Oh, you’re funnier than your sister, I’ll give you that. How’s the face treating you?”

“Pardon? The… face, monsieur?” Odette raised a hand up to the fresh bruise on her cheek.

“She clobbered you something awful, didn’t she?”

“I…” Odette looked away from him. “I apologize you had to witness such unprofessional conduct from the Lamonts, Monsieur.” She was forcing herself to impart the bright client-facing mien she’d used in the bank’s atrium, but Diego heard the tension in her voice, like an over-tightened guitar string.

Diego walked towards her. Out of reflex, she jumped backwards, as a rabbit would.

“Not gonna hurt you,” Diego grumbled. Making slow and deliberate movements, he leaned in close, squinting at the slightly puffed-up skin around her right eye. He brushed it with his thumb. A bit of powder rubbed off, revealing a plum-colored bruise she’d been covering with makeup.

“She beats you on the regular, then?”

Odette nodded.

A thin sheen of sweat formed on her brow, and realizing his close proximity was making her nervous, Diego stepped back, cocking his head.

“When I see a girl with her daylights darkened, usually it’s a husband or father doing the beating. But you’re buckling to your own sister? She’s no bigger than you; why not return the favor?”

“I’m not much of a fighter, Monsieur…” Odette shook her head, eyebrows knotting as she rubbed her temples. “Nor do I stand even a threadbare chance against her Ecstasy of Gold. Oh, but it’s inconsequential! I willingly defend the principles this bank was founded upon. For what am I but flesh and blood, compared to something eternal as the Lamont dynasty? Do you understand, Monsieur?!”

“No.” Diego leaned his arm against the vault door, waving his other hand at her dismissively. “And cut the patronizing attitude. ‘Monsieur’ this, ‘monsieur’ that; gonna make me break out in hives. You already wheedled out my name with your… what was it, your Soul Kitchen? Call me Dio.”

Although he still didn’t trust her, he’d conversed long enough to sufficiently determine that Odette did not possess an ounce of fighting spirit, and it was unlikely she’d jump him while his back was turned. Diego unclenched his jaw and finally examined the physical space in greater detail.

It appeared they were not in the “vault proper”, but in a smaller “anteroom” between the vault door and the room where all the riches were kept. Facing opposite the vault door was a far more modest rectangular door, also of steel, but secured with a simple enough padlock.

The vault door, on the other hand, was enormous, floor-to-ceiling, perhaps fifteen to twenty feet. He counted twenty steel cylinders arranged around the door like spokes on a wheel or hours on a clock. Diego knew how to pick ordinary locks with proficiency, but a contraption like this was completely outside even his scope…

“Ah… if I may say something else…” Odette tittered, breaking Diego out of his thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Thank you. I appreciate what you did for me, back there. It was… quite gallant of you.”

“Gallant? What are you on about?” Diego squinted at her.

“When Odile was about to hit me again, you made a joke at her expense, and she redirected her fury towards you.” She held up the golden spike that she’d apparently dislodged from Diego’s shoulder. “That’s why she wounded you instead.”

Diego placed a finger to his chin. “Oh… I remember now. Honest, I just wanted to follow with a roast of my own; it’s bloody amusing to watch her in fits. Didn’t do it to protect you, but I’ll take your praise all the same. Gallant, huh…?” He tapped his chin and smirked, imagining the look on H.P.’s face when he told her that a proper lady had just called him gallant.

Hot Pants. The memory of her face pierced his chest with a pang of disquietude. He banged a fist against the vault door. Impenetrable. Twenty-something tons of steel and concrete prevented him from reaching her. He knew nothing about her present situation. Had she managed to escape? Was she still in the lift? Was she even alive? Everything was uncertain and the stuffy air in the room felt suffocating.

He slammed his fists again and again, feeling the pain in his right shoulder as his arm flexed. He was an animal in a cage, pounding in helpless fury. When his knuckles were cracked and raw, he stopped.

Diego pressed his forehead against the cold steel of the door and neither of them spoke for nearly a minute.

“Hey, Odette…” Diego was smiling. The corners of his lips twitched. His mouth tasted metallic.

“Yes, Dio?”

The wounds across his cheeks split open again as his smile broadened. A wire snapped within his brain and he turned around and rushed forward. He brought his nose so close it was nearly touching hers. Close enough to hear the rapid thump-thump of her heart, close enough to hear her swallow.

His face contorted with distress. Unkempt hair half-covered his face. Diego stared up at her with feral eyes, blood pooling with saliva between the cracks of his cheeks.

“I’m not gallant. Your world can burn to cinders for all I care. The only people that matter in my world are people that are useful to me. That’s the value of any human life; how useful we are to whoever’s above us. So what’s it gonna be?” Diego placed his hands on her shoulders. “You know anything about this door? How to open it? How to get the hell out of here? ANYTHING?! I don’t even know if she’s– if she’s alive or not ‘cause we can’t hear shit through these bloody steel walls! I’ll burn this place to the ground if I have to! I’ll burn this whole miserable world!”

“Dio… p-please don’t lunge at me like a wild animal. It frightens me so…” she fidgeted with the skirt of her dress, avoiding the intensity of his eyes. “But… I still believe you are very gallant.”

“Do you even know what ‘gallant’ means?

“Yes! Of course I do… goodness, if someone said they would burn the whole world to ash on my behalf, well… the very thought makes me shiver.” Odette smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and turning away. “To be quite honest, I’m thrilled to have encountered the two of you after having followed the papers. The unlikely pair – a nun that disguised herself as a man, a jockey whose ambition drove him from poverty to fame, desperados on the run after assassinating a world leader! Oh, it’s so romantic, like something you’d read in a novel!”

Diego’s arms fell to his side. He hunched over and stared at her, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “It’s… hardly a fairy tale.”

“Oh! Well, of course it’s not a fairy tale…” She bit her lip, pondering for a moment. “It’s more akin to one of Alexandre Dumas’ great adventures!”

“It more resembles a penny dreadful,” Diego retorted dryly.

He couldn’t believe Odette was romanticizing their lives and hardships as if it were some frivolous novel she’d read from the comfort of her divan. Still, Diego supposed he could use this to his advantage.

“If you’re so keen on reading more about our ‘adventures’ in the papers, then you’ve got to get me out of here.”

“I… I want to be useful! I truly, truly do! But I haven’t the faintest idea how…”

She was so earnest that Diego almost felt bad for his earlier outburst. Almost. His candle had been reduced to a smoldering wick, only the faintest ember remaining.

“Start with the vault door. Know anything that can help us get it open?”

“The cylinders are locked into place by a hydraulic mechanism…” She turned on her heel, walking in the direction of the small rectangular door.

“You daft?! I’m talking about the big door, not that one!” Diego waved his hands to try to get her attention, but she paid him no mind. “Oi! I don’t give a whit about that door! Not yet, anyway – I’ll worry about robbing this bank after!”

Diego realized that he was, indeed, still under the influence of Soul Kitchen.

But Odette was unfazed by his utterances. She gripped the handle, though she did not pull.

“That’s not where we keep the money… we’re not in the money room... We’re in the generator room...” Dull eyes. Flat voice. All the light had faded. “Did you wonder what was moving the elevators up and down?”

“Uhh… steam?” Diego glanced up at the array of pipes along the ceiling. Odd place for a boiler room. Odder still to have a vault door protecting it.

“Yes, steam. But where did you think the steam came from?”

Diego scratched his head. “I don’t know much about engineering. Uh, you’ve got some workers shoveling coal into a furnace, or sum’. Heat goes into the boiler, water becomes steam, and the steam goes through the pipes to spin the turbines that power the engine that lifts the lift. That’s the elementary idea, innit?"

“Yes… but our ‘heat source’ is different.”

She was hiding her face. Diego side-stepped her to get to the padlock, pulling a thin knife and hook from his boot.

“You only need two simple tools to crack most locks. A file, and something with a hook at the end. You could even bend a hat pin into shape.” Diego held the tools in front of her face and knelt in front of the door, closing one eye as his hands began to work the padlock. His enhanced hearing made lockpicking much easier than before; he could clearly hear the tumblers click into place. “Oi, Miss Odette, pay attention; you ought to learn how to do this yourself.”

“Why? I’m a banker, not a thief…” Her voice quavered. She didn’t turn her head.

Diego let out a short laugh. “Locksmiths hire thieves to test the security of their locks; don’t see why a banker oughtn’t learn from dishonest folk to protect against us. Aaaaand… you hear that click? Got all the pins lined up. Lock’s open already. Missed out on a free lesson. Your loss.” He tossed the padlock aside and shoved his tools back into his boot.

He glanced back at her and she was still rooted into place, avoiding looking at him or the door for some reason. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled.

“Hey, uh… I’m gonna open the door, alright?”

Odette only answered with another sniffle.

Diego pulled the handle towards him, and his nostrils were immediately filled with a noxious odor of rotten eggs combined with blood. Bucket-loads of blood.

The air was damp and steamy like a public wash-house, but the blood-stink was so overwhelming he recoiled. Diego had to bury his nose and mouth into the crook of his arm, but it did little to mitigate the assault on his olfactory sensitivities.

Daring to take a step forward, he found the chamber through the doorway was only twice as wide as the door itself. It was a long and narrow corridor, busy with a din of effervescence; fluids popping and bubbling and splashing. Unease was brewing in the pit of his stomach at the constant noise, but Diego swallowed the bile rising in his throat and continued to walk, his footfalls drowned out by the bubbling.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw an oversized glass receptacle at the end of the hallway, taller than he was; a chemistry flask for giants. The flask’s bottom was round and wide, with three narrow necks connecting to the pipes along the walls and ceiling of the room.

Diego peered through the glass, fogged-up with condensation, squinting to make out the details better. Dark, syrupy ichor boiled within the flask, creating a disgusting wine-red froth along the glass walls, which were stained a yellowish plasma tint.

Diego drew closer to the round body of the flask, and nearly tripped when he was met with the vacant stare of a tallow-white face through the steam. A hideous, bald creature with a bulbous head, stick-thin arms and legs, black holes for eye sockets, and a toothless mouth contorted into unimaginable agony. Its flesh was malleable and sagging, like half-melted wax. Alchemical symbols were carved all along its body, and a steady supply of frothy blood oozed out from the thousands of cuts. The creature stood knee-deep in its own boiling bodily fluids, trembling, its visage screaming only silence. Diego saw a ruby gem embedded into a hole in its chest cavity, pulsating a faint glow with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

“Odile says that homunculi are merely a pale simulacrum of the human form, devoid of souls, b-but…” Odette wiped her face with a handkerchief. Her tears left dark streaks of eye makeup down her cheeks. “They may be misshapen, unfortunate creatures, but they’re made of him all the same…”

Diego had so many questions he didn’t even know where to begin. “Made of who?”

“I know little of the vagaries of alchemy, but Odile says the Philosopher’s Stone allows Ecstasy of Gold to contort and multiply human flesh and bone in the same way she would metals. Each time a homunculus dies, she sculpts a new one from its skin, fat, and blood. And with his flesh recycled again and again, its appearance strays further from my brother’s living form with each incarnation. Yet… I still cannot bear to see the homunculus in pain. Oh, Dio, if I kill it, she’ll only use her stores of flesh to make another! It’s a wretched existence! I wish they didn’t suffer…”

She blew her nose loudly into her handkerchief. Diego stood up. He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side without turning his eyes from the flask.

“And this… is your ‘heat source’ that powers the lifts, that heats the rooms, that… keeps the vault doors locked. Steam from the blood of a pathetic creature like that? Well, answer me this, Miss Odette Lamont: how are we going to shut off that ‘hydro-lick mechanism’ you mentioned that’s keeping the vault door closed?”

Odette held the golden spike out to Diego.

“Smash it. Put an end to its misery.”

Chapter Text

Tall and upright, unyielding as a Greek hero, Hot Pants waited for her quarry, wearing the face of René Lamont. She stood at the landing of the sixth floor, staring at the mahogany double doors in front of her.

H.P. wasn’t afraid. Now that she knew Odile's secret, she could never be afraid of someone like her.

As she heard a key jiggling in the lock, she shoved her hands in her trouser pockets and gripped both cans of Cream Starter.

The door creaked on its hinges as it was pulled open. The figure in the doorway was Odile Lamont, bell sleeves fluttering as she placed a manicured hand over her heart.

“Mon Dieu…” she whispered at the sight of her deceased brother’s face.

A wintery queen in pale blue silks, Odile's chill facade was splintering like thin ice over the river.

She shut her eyes and attempted to slam the door, but Hot Pants wedged herself through the doorway, grabbing her by the wrists.

“How do you sleep at night?” Hot Pants asked with a cold stillness, using Cream Starter to fuse Odile’s arms together. “Does René Lamont haunt your dreams? You’re closing your eyes, hoping I will vanish, but you still see him behind your eyelids, don’t you…? It’s burned into your memory, ubiquitous, like a carte-de-visite. Do you beg the Lord for forgiveness, or do you know your soul is already damned?” She shoved Odile into a three-legged chair.

H.P. stood as Odile mouthed silent prayers for nearly a minute. The woman opened one eye to see if “René” was still there, and quickly closed it again.

“Why did you kill your brother?” H.P. whispered into the woman’s ear, voice placid and devoid of any aggression. “I would rather not kill you. I would prefer to understand you.”

“You are not his ghost.” Odile’s eyes suddenly fluttered open and she spat at H.P.’s face.

Hot Pants wiped the saliva off with a sleeve. “Indeed, I am not.”

“Ecstasy of Gold!” Odile’s Stand materialized, a hollow angel of twisted metal.

Hot Pants whipped out her Cream Starter and pressed down on the nozzle, making a few precise flicks with her wrist to aim at Odile’s face.

She had drawn a symbol in flesh on Odile’s cheek, the sign of Scorpio; in alchemy, it represented a process of separation.

The symbol glowed. Odile tried to clutch at her throat with her fused-together arms. Then, she fell to a coughing fit.

Hot Pants watched Odile as she writhed on the ground like a worm, forced to endure the same suffocation she’d subjected Diego to in the lift.

“Your Ecstasy of Gold works automatically, doesn’t it?” Hot Pants said, standing over Odile like a statue. “Regardless of who draws the symbol, so long as it can see it…”

“You filthy, common, Catholic wench–” Odile croaked out, hacking and wheezing for air.

“I transformed the mercury of your dental fillings into powder. It’s not very pleasant to inhale, as you had Dio demonstrate for us earlier.”

H.P. was glad that she had learned about alchemical processes and symbols at the convent; the Abbess naturally found it a blasphemous science, but the Sisters quite often exchanged forbidden materials between themselves. Along with gothic horrors and romances, this included mystic pamphlets and esoteric books, hiding them under their bunks like children hiding dime novels from their parents.

“Rotten little bint,” Odile choked out, spitting at H.P. again. This time, she missed her face entirely.

“You and I share a sin. I only seek to understand,” Hot Pants said. She stood on top of the desk and kicked the telegraph machine to the floor, satisfied to watch it break.

Wouldn’t want that Merriweather Post to come calling at this hour.

“Never compare yourself to me. How could you possibly understand?! You’re a stupid inbred creature from a mining town in America. How dare you confront me while wearing my brother’s face?! How– how dare–”

Odile fell into another coughing fit, choking on her own saliva.

“Why?” Hot Pants crouched atop the desk, leaning forward. Her voice was flat, yet uncompromising. “Why did you kill him?”

“I’m not content to be– to be shallow and vapid like my sister. Nor was I about to be relegated to helping men achieve their greatness, staying at home and embroidering and getting fat,” Odile growled, spitting out mercury from her mouth. Her voice was gravelly. “You’re a woman, too, but that doesn’t mean you understand what it is to be a woman from an aristocratic family. They wanted to enslave my flesh and blood to secure the future of their dynasty.”

“I was under the assumption you were proud to continue the dynasty.”

“Yes, but not as a broodmare, shitwit,” snarled Odile. “I am the only woman in the entire world to possess a Doctorate of Physics. My writings on thermodynamics were published in scholarly journals and recognized by tenured professors. Yet instead of celebrating my achievements and trusting me to manage the family business, my brother had already arranged a marriage, selling me like a filly to some nouveau-riche Belgian. Had I not killed René, I never would have been an inheritor.”

Hot Pants listened, neither judging nor pitying her. In sooth, she had been hoping Odile’s motive for murder had not been something like this. It only strengthened the intensity with which she judged her own terrible sin. H.P. had loved her own brother dearly, but a secret, shameful side of her resented him from the day he was born for reasons not unlike what Odile had described, albeit on a far more provincial level.

“I will tell you something I have not even told Dio, Madame Lamont. It haunts me to think some evil phantom of my subconscious may have pushed Matteo out of jealousy, for taking what I thought ought to have been mine. I want to see you as a monster, but instead… perhaps I, too…”

“Are you not living a better life this way?” Odile suddenly asked, without waiting for Hot Pants to complete her thought.

H.P. blinked. She did not like Odile’s mean little smirk at all. “What are you saying? Not a day passes that I don’t–"

“Hmph… You’re what they call the New Woman! Liberated from the mores and expectations of society! Look at you… traducing yourself as a man, riding horses, and going on daring escapades with a dashing criminal! Is that not preferable to being chained to some country house, with six kids to feed and another on the way?”

“You’re mocking me…"

"No, Hazel Plainview, I envy you. I envy your freedom. And I was a fool… so foolish… to think my own legacy mattered more than that of the Lamont Dynasty. When I met Giovanna, and she showed me what I was capable of, I… thought I could use this power to enslave his flesh and blood… but in the end, I’d merely become Giovanna’s tool instead…”

“Giovanna...?” Hot Pants asked.

There was a dull buzzing overhead. The lights began to flicker.

Hot Pants glanced up. The lamps above, she realized, were not fueled by gas or oil as she had assumed, but electric lights. As the lights cut out, plunging them entirely in darkness, Hot Pants leaped to the ground to keep Odile’s legs pinned. She pressed the nozzle of Cream Starter against her forehead.

“If you try to fight me, I’ll melt your brain. I do not cast judgment on your sins, but there is someone behind that vault I need to protect.”

Somewhere in the distance, in another part of the complex, several floors beneath them, Hot Pants heard an echoing THUD. The force was so powerful that Hot Pants felt the floorboards shudder for an instant.

The lift…?

Across the room, there was the sound of several rods clicking in unison, like twenty locks unlocking all at once. Through the darkness, she could make out three hazy white symbols glowing on the vault door across the room.

“Ah… it appears my sister has betrayed me once again,” Odile croaked. “That, or she lost… either way, I won’t be making the curtain call…”

She made a wretched noise and then coughed. Perhaps she was attempting to laugh.

“The locking mechanism on the vault door has been disabled, but good luck getting past my countermeasure…” Odile laughed again. “Relax… you won’t need to melt my brain… Ecstasy of Gold…!”

Hot Pants held her finger on the can, but the glowing symbols only appeared on Odile’s skin, or what was visible – her hands, wrists, neck, and face. Two interlocking circles, repeated again and again. She recognized this symbol.

“Arsenic?” H.P. whispered.

“I transformed the iron within my blood into arsenic… I’ll be dead in less than a minute,” Odile said. Her body was convulsing. “I made a grave mistake, seven years ago…”

Hot Pants released her, nearly tripping over a chair as she backed up. “If you do this… you’ll never be forgiven. Your soul will be trapped in purgatory, or worse! You– you know what the Church says about suicide…” she blathered out these words, so bewildered that she had resorted to automatically parroting the dogma instilled in her.

“And you know what it says about murder… hah!” Odile let out a slew of phlegmatic coughs. “I don’t believe in your God; surely He’d have struck me down for blasphemy by now if He existed. I’d sooner die by my own hand than yours, especially when you’d go about like some penitent. You haven’t even gotten over the first… time…” her words became an indecipherable crackling, croaking, rattling, and Hot Pants began mumbling the Lord’s Prayer out of habit, placing a hand on her own chest where her rosary was hidden beneath her shirt.

Odile expelled her soul with one final wheeze. She ceased convulsing, and the glowing symbols on her skin faded.

And then, the room was still.

“Were you… trying to spare me the guilt of killing you?” she asked the silence.

And I was prepared to murder her. I’m sinning to save another sinner. I’m breaking my own principles for a man that never asked to be saved.

Liquid threads of thought formed in H.P,’s head, too fleeting for her to focus on any single line. There was so much she didn’t understand about what she had just witnessed, and how it touched her soul, but she knew Diego was still trapped in that vault. She vaguely processed that the air in the room was becoming warmer. Thicker.

Hot Pants arranged Odile’s hands over her chest and looked across the room.

The symbols on the vault door had not faded. The wheel was glowing a dull red, providing just enough illumination to be seen through the darkness. As Hot Pants moved towards it, peeling the flesh-mask off her face like an orange peel, she could feel the heat radiating from the vault door, warming her cheeks.

Hot Pants pulled her riding gloves over her hands and gripped the wheel. The hot steel permeated through her gloves, becoming painful in a matter of seconds as she turned the wheel to the left, like touching a hot stove over and over.

The cylinders began moving into place at an agonizingly slow rate. The wheel was growing cherry red and even hotter. Blisters quickly formed on her hands beneath the gloves, then burst. The agony was unbearable. Sweat dripped from her brow to her nose and into her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut and kept turning the wheel. The heat electrified her entire body and she was shaking so badly that she nearly lost the strength to continue.

It’s going to burn me through my bones…

Once the cylinders were in place, Hot Pants began stepping backwards, pulling on the wheel that was now orange steel, so bright it stung her eyes. She closed her eyelids but could feel the pain through her eyesockets, somehow, like rods pushing into her skull. She screamed and screamed like a tormented soul in Hell.

At some point, she smelled something acrid. Hot Pants realized her gloves were melting into her skin. Fusing with her burning flesh. Nausea overcame her; the sweltering heat, the unbearable pain, the repugnant stench and she vomited, releasing the door and staggering backwards. The room was a whirlwind of red and orange hues and as she fell she wondered if she was going to die in the depths of this furnace…

“H.P.! Oi, Hot Pants! Wake up!”

Hot Pants didn’t know if it was his arms or his voice that reached her senses first, but his presence was tethering her back to consciousness. She was drenched in sweat and pain. He hooked his arms under hers and led her, half-dragging her slack and clumsy legs like a wooden marionette.

“Sorry, the lift’s out of order. We’ve got to take the stairs,” he said. “Best we get out quickly though. Don’t want Odette coming after you for revenge.”

“I…” her throat was raw from screaming so much. “I prefer the stairs…”

Diego laughed, and H.P. could feel his muscles releasing tension.

Her hands were like two gigantic mittens and she couldn’t move anything beyond her wrists; all she felt was pain.

Vaguely, she realized they were not going down the main stairway, but a secret side passage. She became concerned that she was missing time, as she didn’t remember when they’d gone into a separate room. There was no reason to bring it up, though; she had to trust Diego to get them out of here, for she was unable to process her surroundings on her own. It was cool and drafty in here and another wave of nausea roiled up from the sudden change in atmosphere. “Hey, I’m…” Hot Pants said. “I’m gonna be sick. I don’t wanna be sick all over you. I think my hands are melted… can you take a look? Sorry, I’m gonna be sick…”

“That’s fine; I won’t be cross if you spew,” Diego let out a strained laugh. “Well, not too cross. And don’t you worry about your hands, either; I’ll fix you up. You burned yourself badly opening that vault door, but you saved us both, Odette and I. We didn’t have a way to open the door from our side; we’d have died in there from the heat. Rather gallant of you, I’d say.”

“Gallant…” Hot Pants felt some nausea fading, and she shakily began to support herself on her own legs. Diego still led her by the arm, catching her as she stumbled like a foal learning to walk. Her head pounded with each step.

“Yeah. You’re very gallant. Always saving me… but now it’s my turn. Now I’m the gallant one, eh, Hot Pants?”

“Is gallant your new favorite word?”

Diego seemed to find that rather funny, and even Hot Pants managed a weak smile. She couldn’t see much in front of her, but she knew they had reached a door when Diego had stopped. There was a rattling as Diego grunted, fiddling with what was probably a lock. Hot Pants heard a click, and he pulled the door open. They were immediately awash in bright daylight as they stepped outside into an alleyway. The rush of cold air nipped at their warm faces, and the sunlight reflected off the snow and ice, piercing their eyes.

Hot Pants immediately ran out and dove to the ground, shoving her hands into a slushy gray pile of snow in the hopes that it would assuage the throbbing, burning pain. The coldness brought some relief, and she let out a shuddering “Ahhh…”

But Diego gripped by the her collar and tore her away unexpectedly. “Don’t you touch that gray slush! It’s– H.P., it’s got all the scat and mud off the streets! And with your wounds — why’d you stick your bloody hands in that?! God, that’s so– so— GAH!” he kicked the sludge down the street.

H.P. squinted up at him through bleary eyes. She held her hands out, sleeves soaked and dripping. “But it hurts. I need to cool them off,” she said with the confusion of a scolded child, tilting her head. She wasn’t in any state to understand why he was yelling up a storm. Hot Pants wanted to take off the charred remains of her gloves, but she couldn’t move her fingers.

Diego ushered a dazed Hot Pants down the alley until they were in a secluded spot, away from any curious passers-by behind what looked to be a clothing shop that’d closed for the day. He sat H.P. down on a stoop, putting a flask of whiskey in her mouth and tilting her head back to allow her to take a long draught.

Hot Pants swallowed, grimacing at the taste. She never liked hard liquors.

“Sorry. It’s not sacramental wine, but it’ll help numb the pain regardless,” Diego teased.

Sitting cross-legged in front of her, he brought her seared hands into his lap, palms facing upwards. He began to cut her gloves off with a switchblade and recoiled at the sight and smell of her exposed flesh, turning away and coughing for a moment. “Goddammit, H.P…”

She looked down at her shredded skin, and could only think of the texture of roast beef. Hot Pants began to hyperventilate too, but she forced her gaze back to Diego. His prominent brows were knitted as he worked on her hands with a can of Cream Starter, muttering “Why would you do that? Getting all that filthy slush in your open wounds… can’t believe you’d do something so stupid…”

“I’ve… upset you, Dio. I’m sorry.” Hot Pants wasn’t certain what she was apologizing for, but she was naturally more inclined to mend bridges than break them.

“No, it’s just– goddammit. How do I say this? My… mum, she…”

“Oh…” Hot Pants suddenly remembered the way she had died. “Tetanus… you’re worried about tetanus?”

Diego nodded. He was biting his lip. He worked quickly to repair her flesh, and Hot Pants began to regain her wits. Her brain still felt numb from shock, but the pain was subsiding, merely an afterimage of what it once was.

He didn’t speak until he’d finished treating her burns.

“Everything in order?” His voice was a dull monotone. Hot Pants noticed a drop of fresh red blood from where he’d bitten his lip.

Hot Pants bent and flexed all ten of her fingers separately to ensure they were in fact in order. The smooth, pinkish skin felt foreign to her, fresh and unblemished by her usual calluses. She supposed her hands wouldn’t be soft for very long, especially once she started riding again.

Across from her, Diego was trembling, staring down at the pavement. His unruly bangs covered his face and H.P. could not see his eyes, only his cracked, bleeding lips.

“Thank you, Dio. That was very… gallant of you,” she said.

Diego’s mouth drew into a quivering smile. Two teardrops trailed down his face, caught in the crevasses of the scarred lines across his cheeks.

H.P. brought her hands to his face, wiping away his tears with a thumb, using her other hand to caress his cheek. But Diego grabbed onto both and held tightly. He burrowed his nose into her hands, taking a long and greedy inhale as if he were trying to inundate himself with her scent.

She allowed this without comment; odd behavior from him was expected after he’d acquired Scary Monsters.

“Her hands always smelled like peppermint… ‘cause she liked to take a peppermint leaf and rub it between her palms. Said it soothed her burns, too.” His voice was muffled. He inhaled through his nose again, deeply. “Your hands, though, they just smell like you…”

An icicle cracked and fell off a nearby rail. Diego jumped a little. Hot Pants glanced to the side, where the alley ended at a tall gate that led to the open street.

“No one’s there. It’s just us,” she reassured him. “Oh, Dio. Your shoulder is hurt…”

It took a while before she could pry her hands from Diego, or at least her left. He continued to clutch her right while she worked on healing the open wound in his shoulder, and he soon began grumbling about the money and the cold and their squalid situation; the usual. H.P. only smiled. He was complaining again. That meant his mood was returning to its baseline.

They stayed a few moments longer to drink some water. Though their spot was secluded, they kept a wary eye on the gate each time they heard a carriage drive by, or the screams of children playing. Diego took his pair of gloves from the bag and passed the left-handed glove to H.P. while pulling the remaining glove over his right hand.

“You were right,” Diego said suddenly. “My fault. Monumentally stupid idea, going to Geneva.”

“You should have heeded my advice…”

Diego stood up, dusting the snow off his clothes. “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your gloating. You’ve earned it this time. C’mon. Let’s get out of here. There’s…” he glanced up at the sky and exhaled, his breath crystallized in the cold air. “Something I ought to tell you. Once we’re out of the city proper.”

Thus, walking hand-in-hand, Diego and Hot Pants departed Geneva as broke as they’d arrived.

Chapter Text

Tetanus. Damn right Diego was concerned about tetanus, and he'd carried his concerns with him from Geneva, silent and sullen. They were traveling on their way through the woods, down the river again in the crisp air, boots squishing in the snowmelt-soaked earth. The two of them were exhausted, Hot Pants particularly so (Diego could tell), and they were looking for a suitable spot to make camp before the sun went down.

That filthy sludge could have infected her open wounds. All it took was a bit of dirt. A bit of dirt caused that horrific disease that’d killed his mum…

Diego distracted himself by recounting to Hot Pants his side of the story, what all had transpired while he was trapped behind the vault door with Odette Lamont. Hot Pants had a good laugh as he mentioned Odette’s insistence of Diego’s gallantry, and the sound eased his mind. He wondered what Odette was going to do now that both of her siblings were dead. She wasn’t as daft as she fronted; perhaps she’d take a crack at running the bank herself. It wasn’t Diego’s problem, and he certainly couldn’t count on any more pretenses of an alliance with her now that they were responsible for her sister’s death, but he couldn’t help but ponder it as they walked through the gathering fog.

"By the way, H.P… when we were at the convent in Paris, didn't that nun mention a woman without a shadow meeting with Father Styx, or somesuch?"

Hot Pants stopped in her tracks. “Yes… An Italian woman without a shadow… apparently working with the Vatican… connected to the diamonds in some way. I remember.”

Diego stopped a few paces ahead of her. “Right, so, at the time I thought that girl was full of horseshit, but… back there in the vault, Odette told me that Odile was also having meetings with a strange Italian woman without a shadow. Said that that was when her sister’s behavior started getting more erratic. Paranoid, touchier than usual, poring over weird old books…”

“Giovanna.” H.P. said. Diego raised his eyebrows at her, motioning for her to keep talking. “Before Odile died, she… she mentioned… someone named Giovanna. Said she was the one who showed her what she was truly capable of. Odile wanted to… enslave Rene’s ‘flesh and blood’, or something to that respect…”

“That’s gotta be the creature in the flask. Sure did enslave his ‘flesh and blood’…"

"Do you think Giovanna is after me?" Hot Pants asked. "It's hard to believe her involvement with the Lamont family was coincidence…"

"Could be," Diego said, kicking a stone away as they resumed their walking pace. "Merriweather Post's out to cook me in particular, but the shady folks from the Vatican are your lot."

"Goodness, Dio, have you seen fog like this?" H.P. suddenly changed the subject. The fog had thickened, enveloping them in a misty veil so opaque that they couldn't see more than twenty or so feet away.

"Rather! Reminds me of jolly ol' London," he gave her a playful punch on the shoulder. "Best get accustomed to it, eh? You'll be seeing a lot more of it once we get there."

"I suppose you're the expert on foggy locales…”

Indeed, even by London standards, this was a particularly bad fog they’d stumbled into. They were relieved when they happened upon an overgrown farm through the milky haze, an abandoned barn at its edge.

The grass in the surrounding field was too high to have been grazed on in years, and the wood of the barn was eroded with rot and the roof timbers charred, but it at least provided some semblance of shelter from the elements.

"You feeling alright?" Diego asked H.P. as she set her things down and huddled over the lantern, shivering, a distant stare in her eyes. He didn't want to reveal how concerned he'd been since they'd left Geneva, but he couldn’t stop thinking what kind of bacteria may have been in that filthy slush pile.

"I'm fine. Just cold," she said. "Very cold… but I suppose it would be a bad idea to start a fire here.”

Diego cleared out a space to unfurl the bed roll. "Least it'll be a milder night than the last few." He uncapped his flask and offered it to her. "Whiskey? It'll warm you up some."

Hot Pants shook her head, drawing her knees to her chest.

"Suit yourself. Let me know if you get the stick from out your arse," Diego said, taking a swig before capping the flask and shoving it back in the bag.

He kept glancing over at her crouched, trembling figure. A moth was banging its head against the lantern glass. Ghostly wisps of fog snaked along the ground, giving the barn interior an eerie atmosphere.

"Hey…" Diego tried to make his voice sound gentler. "Why don't you doff your boots? You'll be warmer in the sack."

No response. He began unknotting the laces of his own boots, eyeing her the entire time.

I'm making a spectacle of myself, worrying for nothing. She's always stone-quiet. She’s just tired.

Diego reached out and helped her fumbling hands with her laces. As his skin brushed against hers, it sent a shiver up his spine. Not because it was cold, no.

He brought an ungloved hand to her face, pushing her bangs out of the way to feel her forehead.

"You're not cold. You're burning up," he said. He watched the shadows play along her face in the soft glow of the lantern. Her eyes were glassy and lidded.

"Just tired," she murmured, avoiding his eyes while she mechanically removed her shoes.

A flash of anger twisted his mouth into a scowl. "You're not being truthful with me."

He dug into his pocket and produced one of Odette's macarons, shoving it under H.P.'s nose. It was crumbling in his hand, bits falling through his fingers. "If you won't give the truth, I'll force it from you. This still has Soul Kitchen baked into it. I'll make you eat it and tell me how you really feel."

He glared at her with liquid steel in his eyes, grinding his teeth. Hot Pants met his stare, then glanced down at the crumbly pink mess of pastry in his hand.

She brought her knuckles to her mouth to hide the glimmer of a smile, then she began to chortle out loud. He put the pastry down, unable to stop the smile gracing his own lips, some tightness in his chest loosening. Her laughter was something Diego wished he could capture in a box to save for later, to open whenever he felt anxious or overwhelmed.

I’m making a spectacle of myself.

"You needn’t force-feed me macarons," H.P. said. "Yes, I'm feeling unwell. Quite awful, in fact, since we got to the barn. Just didn't think it worth mentioning."

"Worth mentioning… hah! You don't need to conceal these things from me. I won’t think you any less tough for it.”

"It's not about that, Dio… didn’t want you still thinking about tetanus.”

The way she said it so matter-of-factly, Diego felt as if he had been slapped. She had seen right through him. Had he been that obvious? His hands fell to his lap and all emotion drained from his face. He couldn’t think of any words to say to her, and she continued.

“I’m certain I don’t need to remind you, but it takes a fair time for tetanus to begin manifesting symptoms after exposure. Days, weeks, months even. It’s only been a few hours, and you fixed my hands up fast enough, so I doubt any infection had enough time to set. I’m fine. It’s probably just a cold. We’re in dire need of sleep…”

Diego remained silent as she continued to speak, shaking his head. He felt numb on the inside. The coward within him wanted to run away from here and scrape his memories clean of Hazel fucking Plainview so that he wouldn’t have to sit here and agonize over whether she would live or die. He’d never grown so attached to another human being since his mother, and just as she’d begun to unlock his heart, the scythe of death had returned to hack it to shreds. His fault. He should have known better than to allow his feelings to become a liability.

“... Dio, what happened to your mother is… a horror I cannot even fathom, but–”

“This isn’t about her,” Diego interrupted sharply. “This is about you. Maybe we ought to… to go back to Geneva, get you to a city doctor… I don’t want some country quack in a border town sucking you dry with leeches, or som’...” Diego buried his face in his hands, taking short, shallow breaths.

Was he overreacting to a fever? Perhaps. And much as he refused to admit it to her, she was right that the specific conditions of his mother’s death were in fact affecting his ability to think rationally at this moment.

He didn’t want to be alone again.

His face still covered by his hands, Hot Pants drew closer, squeezing his shoulders.

She leaned in to whisper to him, her voice gently tickling his ear. “Do you really think me so weak to fall victim to a common cold? Look at you… I’m having to soothe your worries while you ought to be the one taking care of me.”

“I’m hardly famous for my bedside manner,” Diego snickered, peering at her through his fingers. “Didn’t think you fancied that sort of thing, anyhow.”

“Everyone likes to be cared for, sometimes…” A weary smile flickered across her lips. “I've seen the way you care for the horses, so gentle… it's lovely.”

Diego covered his eyes with his fingers again, a flush of heat rising to his face. Maybe it was the whiskey getting to his head. No. He’d only had a sip; he wasn’t even tipsy. Then why was he blushing like a foolish maidservant?

"You want that?" he asked, and the meekness of his voice surprised him, as if he were asking for permission. He suddenly cleared his throat, loud and coarse to preemptively interrupt her answer, sharpening his tone. “You want that, really? Like a horse? Put a sack of oats over your head and lock you in a stall for the night?” He was forcing a jeer, trying to hide how much she had flustered him.

H.P. didn't answer him. She extinguished the lantern and crawled into the bedroll, curling her body up. She was still shivering beneath the blankets.

Diego sighed, tapping his fingers against his knee for a moment. He scooted to the edge of the woolen blanket, pulling H.P.'s head into his lap, running his fingers through the tangles in her hair. The ends were blunt and uneven; she simply chopped her hair with a knife whenever it grew too long for her taste, and left it at that. In many such ways, she was an uncomplicated person in her day to day; stolid and reliable. But at night, in their private moments like this, the secret facets of her vulnerability sparkled in the moonlight, revealing glimpses of the maelstrom beneath the surface.

"Like a horse, eh…?" He murmured, keeping his fingers laced in her copper hair. "You're a lot like a horse, too…"

Hot Pants let out an airy yawn. "Coming from you, that's quite a compliment…"

"Of course it is. Horses are strong… enduring… dependable… loyal…" Diego stroked a thumb against her cheek. He felt her muscles contracting, pulling into a smile, and he cupped both hands around it to feel more of that smile. Her skin warmed his hands. "I’ve said it before, but when they look at me with those big eyes, it's as if they can see straight into my soul. But when I gaze back, there's an entire world that I can only catch glimpses of. Even so, I… always feel at peace around horses.”

"And me?" she asked.

Diego paused a moment. It was one thing to couch his feelings for her in coy allusions, but another entirely to admit it outright. But she’d already made a mockery of all his defenses, her soft words and shy little smiles besieging his castle walls. If she didn’t have such an iron-hard exterior, if she weren’t so damned tough and practical and impassive and stubborn and aloof and secretive and all the other hundreds of words he could use to describe her that still wouldn’t be enough, then maybe it wouldn’t be so utterly disarming when she exposed such a precious sweetness, a fragility for him and him alone to see.

And perhaps, it was the same for her. Perhaps when his words were kind instead of vulgar, sincere instead of sneering…

I've seen the way you care for the horses, so gentle… it's lovely.

"Yes, you. Especially you.” His voice was hardly above a whisper. His thumb stroked her lower lip, which she parted eagerly. Diego briefly thought something unchaste about those lips, then perished the idea immediately. Not while she’s sick, you rogue.

Her eyelids fluttered, struggling to keep herself awake. "You're so beautiful… it makes my heart ache…” she mumbled.

He grinned. Many people had called him all variations of that word. Gorgeous, handsome, comely… yes, he was attractive, and he felt his conceit was well-deserved. But she said it to him in the dark, where she could not see his face. She said it to him when she knew his rotten soul, his wicked ambition. Somehow, she still plucked golden threads of beauty amidst the violence and hatred in his heart.

Diego leaned in and kissed her eyelids, one after the other, until they were still. “Good night, Hazel.”

The name felt forbidden on his tongue. Speaking it out loud entailed a risk he was well-aware of. But she only reacted with a contented sigh.

“Sleep well, Dio…”

The drowsiness of her voice as she drifted off to sleep, her breath whistling through her stuffy noise, her heart thumping… there was a steady rhythm to the sounds that indicated her body was alive, and it calmed Diego’s nerves.

Feeling rather cold himself, he curled up beside her beneath the covers. The heat radiating from her feverish skin made it cozy to be near her, in spite of his worries. He’d wanted to stay awake to ensure her condition did not worsen through the night, but the more he feared falling asleep, the heavier his eyelids felt…

— — —

A kick to his side jolted Diego from his slumber unceremoniously. He sprung to a crouching position, poised to attack, head snapping in all directions to search for the outside threat, sniffing the crisp air.

It was the blue hour before dawn. The sky was a deep hue of painter’s ultramarine and the wraiths of fog glowed in the twilight that shone through the holes in the barn roof.

A few seconds passed. Diego heard a muffled sound coming from the lump beneath the blankets. A whimper? A moan? H.P.’s breathing was irregular. He focused his keen ear on her and could make out an elevated heartbeat. The piquant odor of fear prickled his nose.

Diego pulled the covers back to reveal her violently shaking body, her face contorted into silent terror.

Diego felt a lump form in his throat. Had her fever progressed so quickly through the night? Or was it merely a bad dream?

“Hey, hey, hey…” he said, giving her a gentle push. When she did not stir, Diego placed the back of his hand on her forehead, expecting it to be burning hot.

Her skin was ice-cold, with the pallor of death. Her lips were blue and shivering.

“OI! H.P.! Wake up!” he shouted, shaking her by the rigid shoulders. Her head bounced back and forth until her eyes fluttered open and she sat up on her own.

“Dio…?” she could barely whisper, immediately hugging her chest, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her teeth chattered.

Diego laid beside her and took her by the wrists, pulling her hands beneath his shirt to transfer the heat radiating from his core. Her hands felt like ice against his bare chest.

“I had a nightmare…” H.P. rasped. “Thanks for waking me up.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of nightmare?” Diego asked, trying not to make it obvious how unsettled he was.

“I was in a ballroom… the floor tiles were black and white, like a chessboard, and everyone looked like chess pieces. The only song that the orchestra could play was the Blue Danube. You know. That dreadful song that came from Father Styx’s Stand. But I couldn’t dance…”

“Yeah. I know you can’t,” Diego chuckled mirthlessly.

“And the others… the knights and bishops and kings and queens, even the pawns waltzed around me while I kept getting colder and colder… I feared I was going to freeze to death, in the same manner that we almost froze at the convent. It was terrible…”

Her voice was returning to normal. Her hands beneath his shirt were warm enough now, but she kept them there. Her fingers seemed to enjoy exploring his chest, and Diego allowed it.

“But it was only a dream… wasn’t it?” Even Hot Pants seemed unsure of herself.

“You… were awful cold when I roused you,” Diego said. It was very strange. Regardless, he was relieved it was only a dream, and not her fever. “I don’t know… I’ll make some coffee. Think we both could use a spot of coffee to warm us up and wake us up, eh, H.P.?”

“Let me help gather wood,” H.P. said, pulling her hands free and rising from the bedroll. “I believe my fever is gone.”

Diego stood with her and pressed a doubtful hand against her forehead yet again. This time, it was indeed a normal temperature, but he was unconvinced that she was completely fine as she said. He wasn’t going to stop worrying until he could be sure that she didn’t have tetanus.

But he wasn’t going to keep her cooped up in the barn against her will, either. Gone was all of her softness from last night, replaced with her usual hard demeanor, and the idea of babying her like a sick child felt ridiculous now. “Sure,” he said, against his better judgment. “No… actually, I have a better idea.” Diego grinned.

He summoned his tiny raptors, sending them out to gather any dry branches they could find. Transmuted from mice and rats, they were too small to be much help in combat except as a distraction, but they were perfect scouts and gatherers.

“Let’s go for a walk while they work for us,” he said, watching their little tails bouncing back and forth as the raptors scattered in all directions to fulfill their task.

The dusky light peeked over the horizon, though it barely penetrated the opaque fog. The tall, ungrazed grass of the field came up to their knees, and Diego and Hot Pants explored the perimeter of the abandoned farm.

Hot Pants pointed out a low-lying hawthorn tree that still bore some waxy red berries upon its spreading branches. Between the two of them, they managed to gather a pitiful handful, the sour haw fruit doing little to satiate their hunger.

“If I’m being honest, I think that just made me hungrier,” Hot Pants admitted.

“Same as here. We’ll cook some beans before we hit the trail,” Diego said. He was feeling peckish, too, but he wondered if he ought to give his share to H.P., to help her regain her strength. He cast a furtive glance at her.

The corners of her lips suddenly twitched into an unnatural grimace. She placed a hand to her face and looked away.

“H.P….” Diego started, walking towards her. “Hold on, a moment. H.P., let me see your face.”

Hot Pants shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice strained through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t ask how you were doing. I asked to see your face.”

Diego felt nauseous. He gripped her shoulder, turning her around with force.

A hand obscured her mouth, and her eyes were darting to the side.

“Distressingly painful spasms of the jaw and facial muscles are the first symptoms of the disease…” Diego said, measured and emotionless, reciting from memory the page he’d torn from a reference book at a library in London years ago. “When such a spasm occurs, the corners of the mouth are drawn downwards and backwards, and fixed in this position. The teeth are firmly set, thereby causing difficulty with speaking or swallowing. This characteristic symptom of tetanus is known as risus sardonicus, or ‘lockjaw’, in laymen’s terms.”

Hot Pants only shook her head again, hand still clamped over her mouth. Beads of moisture collected on her skin.

Diego placed both hands on her shoulders. “Let me see...” This time, it was a plea, not an order.

But as she began lowering her hand, the sky let out a low, long rumble. He felt her shoulders jump. She sucked in a sharp breath. Her entire body was tensing up, straightening like an arrow.

Was she unsettled by the sound? Did it remind her of a wild bear, or something?

“Just thunder…” Diego said. “You’re not afraid of thunder, are you?”

Hot Pants shook her head quickly. At last, she put Diego out of his agony and dropped her hand from her face. She was smiling. A tense smile to cover her fear, but a smile nonetheless. He breathed a sigh of relief, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Thunder?” Hot Pants asked. “That wasn’t your stomach?”

“I’m so bloody hungry, I reckon it would’ve been louder if that were the case,” Diego placed a hand on his abdomen and let out a good laugh. Hot Pants was laughing, too. There was an underlying nervousness, a certain awkwardness behind their laughter at their own mediocre jokes, a pitiful attempt at concealing the fears they were hiding from each other.

And then…

Grrrraaaaaaarghhhh….

They silenced their laughter and stared at each other in shock.

The low, animalistic growl had not come from the sky, nor had it come from anyone’s stomach.

“No…” Hot Pants whimpered, looking in all directions.

A musky predator-scent filled the air. Perhaps it detected Diego’s predator-scent, too. But H.P.’s fear made her a target, and he knew this beast would go straight for her. Diego’s transformation was immediate and instinctual, and he perched on his hind legs, tail swishing back and forth. His eyes remained focused on the opaque haze in front of him.

His reptilian brain processed information about the enemy from its footfalls. A slow and lumbering thing. Walking on four legs. Heavy. Like a horse. No, a bit less than a horse. Over 40 stone, at least.

Diego was not seeing in colors or textures; he saw in shapes and motion and heat. And as the beast emerged through the fog, Diego leaped at it, chomping at its thick neck with his maw of pointed teeth. The bear was larger, but Diego was faster. He pinned it to the ground, his sickle-shaped claws sinking into its tough hide. The bear let out another roar, its spittle hitting Diego in the face. With brute force alone, it was able to roll them over, pressing its own forepaws into Diego’s shoulders, penetrating through his scales. He processed the pain, but stored it in another part of his mind for now and kicked the bear off of him with his hind legs. He descended upon the beast for the kill like a bird of prey, tearing a visceral chunk out of its jugular. Blood gushed from its gaping wound, splattering all over the melted snow. Diego kept slashing and tearing at it long after it was dead, feasting on strips of raw flesh, until a clear voice rang out, like a bell.

“Dio.”

He knew this voice. Safe. Not a threat. He cocked his head up, sniffing the air. Amidst the metallic blood-stink that choked the air was a scent familiar and comforting.

“Dio.”

He heard the voice again and it reminded him of who he was. It reminded him of who she was.

Diego’s scales began to turn back into skin, his tail receded, his form shortened.

Hot Pants surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye and sniffled.

“You’re wounded,” she said in a low voice, wielding a can of Cream Starter. Her hands were shaking, though she was affecting a cool demeanor. Diego knelt in front of her and she worked on the wounds in his back and shoulders. He scraped his tongue against his teeth and tasted blood.

“That was a grizzly bear,” Hot Pants said. She was trying not to look at its mangled body. “I can tell by the hump on its back. The length of its claws. Grizzly bears are only native to North America.”

“Huh… then why is it here, on an abandoned farm in Switzerland?”

“Dio… it’s our fears. They’re coming to life in the fog.”

Diego scratched his head. “Fears…”

“Think about it.” H.P. pocketed her Cream Starter and stood up, walking towards the hawthorn tree. Diego remained on his knees, staring at the back of her head. “You spent hours worrying about my well-being, thinking I was going to get sick with tetanus. Then, I started displaying those very same symptoms you feared, with my jaw locking up. Last night, I heard the Blue Danube in my nightmares, and woke up freezing. And now, after I was momentarily frightened by the thunder, this grizzly bear attacked us, which… well, unless it escaped from a traveling circus or something, it’d be impossible for it to be here. There are too many outlandish occurrences for this to be coincidental.”

She placed a hand against the trunk of the hawthorn tree. Turning her head halfway, the rising sun cast a silhouette against her profile.

"What this means, is…" she started, deep and somber. "Until we leave this unearthly fog… if you cannot dispel your fear of tetanus, I will die."

“That's…”

“Easier said than done” was what Diego wanted to say. But his mouth blurted out something far more cruel than he intended.

“That's rich, saying this after manifesting a grizzly bear in the middle of Switzerland ‘cause you were afraid of some thunder. You’re a scared little girl each time something reminds you of that day; was plain to see you fall apart inside that lift. And you have the audacity to tell me that I need to conquer my fear?”

Hot Pants cast her gaze downwards, letting her hand slide down the bark of the tree. He knew his words had cut her, though she was trying not to reveal it. “You were able to deal with that grizzly, were you not? But there’s no cure for tetanus.”

Shit. Why did I say that to her?

He was killing her. When his mother burned her hands, when she fed him her share of food, I am killing her, he remembered thinking to himself. I am killing her. I am killing her.

His eyes misted with tears.

“I am killing you…” His voice cracked.

Hot Pants moved closer again, kneeling in front of him. Diego was too ashamed and disgusted with himself to meet her eyes.

“We’re killing each other to keep a pale memory alive. Your mother, my brother…” she whispered, running a hand through his matted hair in an attempt to soothe him. Diego wrapped his helpless arms around her sturdy frame, clinging to her like a child. How weak, how pathetic he felt.

“It’s ‘cause we never killed our past,” he whispered back.

Chapter Text

As Diego and Hot Pants attempted to make their way back to the barn, the white shroud of fog grew in opacity and cover. They stayed close to each other, for they’d lose sight of one another if they strayed more than five feet away.

“Maybe the Stand user realizes we’ve caught on to their tricks, and they’re raising the fog to unnavigable levels,” Diego said, sniffing the air in all directions as they walked.

“Or perhaps…” H.P. started, surreptitiously wiping beads of perspiration from her feverish brow before Diego could notice. “Perhaps we’ve been too preoccupied with worries about getting lost in the fog, thereby manifesting a labyrinth of our own fears.”

“Right.” Diego rubbed his hands together. “Can’t be helped on account of this dour atmosphere. And I’m not talking about the fog, if you catch me.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s you. I’m throwing out conversation hooks left and right, but you’re no good at keeping up light chatter. I ask a question, you give me one or two words if’m lucky.”

“Uh…” H.P. had no excuses. She had the tendency to clam up in serious situations and focus on her immediate surroundings, while Diego was more inclined to use humor as a distraction. Certainly, that strategy was the more salient when their lives depended on halting the natural formation of fears. “Sorry. Maybe you have… another joke for me?” she suggested.

“Yeah, I thought one up the other day. So…!” Diego grinned, his strides becoming bouncier. “A Frenchman, an Irishman, and a German walk into a pub. The Frenchman orders a beef tongue in roux sauce, the Irishman orders a beef tongue in madeira sauce, but the German is short on clink and only orders a glass of water. Wait, no. Sorry. I mucked it up. Actually, he orders nothing. Got that, H.P.? The German orders nothing. He says nothing to the proprietor.”

Hot Pants smirked at him stumbling on his own joke. “I got it. Go on…” she encouraged.

“Well, both holding particularly strong convictions on beef tongue and how it ought to be cooked, the Frenchman and the Irishman soon get into a heated argument while waiting for their meals. The Frenchman posits that the acidity of madeira sauce strips away the natural flavors of the tongue rather than complimenting it, while the Irishman ridicules the Frenchman for having such bland, unimaginative taste to pair a savory sauce such as roux with a savory food. Now, during their tiff, they’ve asked the German several times for his opinion, but he’s kept mum. Got it? He’s not opened his gob since they’ve arrived.”

Hot Pants nodded to acknowledge that she was still listening, although she suspected she had the punchline figured out already. But it was amusing to watch him so animated, so she was not going to ruin the joke. The oppressive fog around them seemed to be thinning.

“Anyhow, both parties are so distracted by their row that they don’t notice when their food is set out in front of them. They just keep going at each other! At last, when they’re too hungry and tired to continue arguing, they look at their meals in front of them… only to find two empty plates, completely licked clean! The Frenchman and the Irishman look at each other, and know what they do?”

Without waiting for an answer, Diego continued.

“They give the German a sound thrashing for eating their food, that’s what they do! Wanna know how they knew it was ‘im?” His eyes were lit up in manic anticipation.

“Let me guess…” Hot Pants deadpanned before he had time to finish. “It’s because he was tongue-tied.”

“Exactly!!” Diego exclaimed, slapping his knee several times for good measure, bursting into a boyish fit of laughter. “He was – tongue-tied! You get it! Oi, you’re not laughing! What’d you think? Are you– are you tongue-tied yourself?”

Hot Pants shook her head, humoring him with a small smile more at his enthusiasm than the quality of the joke. “It was alright.”

Diego scowled. “Come off it, H.P.! You wouldn’t know a good joke if it hit you like an anvil!”

“Well… the joke had potential for a chuckle, I suppose, but it took such an ambling story to arrive at the dénouement that most listeners would have lost interest.”

“Hmph!” Diego gave her a small punch on the shoulder. “The least-funny person in the world suddenly thinks she’s some kind of joke-artist? Well, I’ve known a real joke-artist in London, and he told me that a long, detailed setup adds an element of absurdity to a joke. Perhaps you’re too unsophisticated to understand, but my ‘ambling story’ as you call it is merely a spice in my arsenal.”

“You don’t keep spices in an arsenal, Dio.” Hot Pants was trying to keep herself from laughing that he was going to such lengths to defend his joke. “Your ah, ‘joke-artist’ does make a fine point, but when your punchline is middling at best, perhaps it is better to be succinct. The sweetest barbs are often the shortest.”

Diego threw his hands in the air in frustration and walked ahead of her. “Know what? Maybe I wasn’t confident enough. In the back of my head, I had this fear you weren’t gonna laugh at my joke. It’s this damned fog, ruining my delivery…”

Now, Hot Pants couldn’t hold it in any longer. She erupted into uproarious laughter, having to stop in her tracks for several seconds, leaning forward with her palms on her thighs. It’d been a long while since she’d laughed so hard, feeling it in her entire body, and she felt giddy.

Diego hunched up his shoulders, turning to face her with a scowl, but in her euphoria, Hot Pants found herself suddenly embracing him, much to his confusion. He tensed up at first in shock, then hesitantly patted her on the back, as if unsure how to react.

“I find you extraordinarily charming, this way. You’re so earnest,” she said, feeling warm as though it were a summer’s day rather than the middle of February.

“Hmph…” Diego groused, though his muscles were relaxing in her arms. He gave her a squeeze. “It’s good to hear you laugh like that, even though it was at my expense…”

He pulled away and pressed his palm against Hot Pants’s forehead. She sighed in mild annoyance, yet allowed it.

“You’re cooling down,” he said, eyes alight with a fresh surge of hope.

“Funny. I’m actually feeling warmer.”

Diego chuckled. “That’s how fevers work, you dunce.” He locked his sea-green eyes on her, lips slightly parted as if he were about to say something else.

Then, he sniffed the air, craning his neck almost a half-circle behind him. Sniff. Sniff.

He crept in the direction of whatever he was smelling, his back bent as he scurried like a goblin.

“What is it?” H.P. asked, though Diego held up a hand to hush her. She reached into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around a canister of Cream Starter.

In true bloodhound fashion, Diego had his nose closer to the ground; thus, Hot Pants was the first to see the outline of the wood-timbered cottage through the fog, the slopes of its thatched roof meeting at a steep pitch like an "A".

A fairy tale cottage… like Hansel and Gretel, H.P. thought.

"Don't know how we missed that," Diego said. “I smell a person inside. Maybe two. Hard to tell. The fog… it’s been doing something funny to my sense of smell. Makes everything muddled. Don’t like it.”

The chimney was puffing out a steady stream of smoke. Weeds and tall grasses overtook an enclosed kitchen garden that, years ago, may have grown herbs and vegetables for the household.

"Should we avoid it?" H.P. whispered. “The land hasn’t been worked in a long while, but it’s clearly inhabited. Possibly an elderly farmer, too old to work, living off of charity from the town…”

“Or some ne’er-do-wells like us, squatting in an abandoned farmhouse,” said her cynical partner. “Or… could be where the Stand user is hiding. Let’s reconnoiter about; see what’s down.”

Cautiously, the pair approached the lone house. The windows were still intact, though caked with grime and impossible to peer through. They crept along the ivy-wreathed walls and stepped over a broken link in the fence to the back garden. The fog was particularly dense behind the cottage, and H.P. squinted at an odd metal fixture in the ground. A tall and narrow bronze column weathered to a dark green patina, she initially believed it to be some elaborate water pump or lamp-post. It nearly appeared anachronistic in its setting, a modern-looking structure more evocative of the industrialized cities than the rustic idylls of the Swiss countryside. As they drew closer, Hot Pants saw that the main column was made up of pipes of varying lengths and widths, and a decorative sculpture in the center bore four cherub-like heads, their mouths gaping open and spouting snakelike wisps of fog like a fountain.

“There’s the source of our troubles,” Diego said. “Dunno how we’re gonna destroy a thing like this, though.”

Hot Pants covered one of the sculpted mouths with a hand. The fog passed effortlessly through the cracks in her fingers. “Maybe I can use Cream Starter to plug the openings…”

A sudden squealing of rusty door hinges alerted Diego and Hot Pants to the cottage behind them. A hunched figure hobbled towards them, hazy in the fog.

“Allô! Who’s there?” called out a quavering, elderly voice in an unplaceable rural dialect. “I hear your voices...”

“You’ll pardon our rudeness,” Hot Pants quickly responded in French, her voice affecting the tenor of a young man. “The fog grew so thick around us, we lost our bearings. May we avail ourselves to your, ah… water pump?”

Diego was hiding behind the column, perched and ready to attack.

The old man drew closer, and his silhouette sharpened into a proper form. Hot Pants saw that he wore mismatched socks and shabby patchwork trousers that reached above his ankles. Draped over his shoulders was a plain shawl of undyed wool. With his big ears, loose-sagging jowls, and sunken, rheumy eyes, Hot Pants found him resembling a sleepy old hound.

The elder shook his head. “Ah… you can’t, you can’t. Oma and Opa don’t like it when strangers use our pump. They took the handle off and keep it inside.”

Oma… Opa…

H.P. blinked incredulously. “You… live here with your grandparents?”

“I do. They’re kind to me when I’m not loud, though I miss my mum and brother…”

Something’s wrong, here. Though his voice had the raspy warble of an elderly man, and he slurred as if he were missing several teeth, he had the twinkle of youth in his eyes, and he fidgeted with boyish timidity.

“I’m sorry, but… how old are you?”

“Let’s see… I’m almost ten, I think… no, that’s not right. My birthday isn’t until April, but I thought we had one this morning when I found a juniper branch…”

A shiver ran through her heart. Hot Pants peered behind her shoulder. “He’s a bit touched upstairs. Thinks he’s a little boy,” she whispered to Diego in English.

At the convent, old Sister Augustine had a similar mental affliction. Come to think of it, her great-uncle Errol had been like that before he passed, as well, constantly mistaking H.P. for his dead son.

Upon closer examination of the bronze fixture, Hot Pants noticed there was indeed a fulcrum fastened to the column, holes where a lever ought to be bolted to.

Maybe that’s the only way to shut off the fog…

Hot Pants took on a warmer, nurturing tone. “You’re a good lad, looking out for your grandparents, but we really need the handle to the water pump. Why don’t you let us in? We’ll speak to them, let them know we have no ill intentions…”

“Hmm… ah…” the old man made some clucking noises with his mouth. “I don’t want to get in trouble…”

“You won’t. I promise,” Hot Pants assured him, using every ounce of her capacity to sound kind and matronly. “I won’t allow it.”

The “lad” began hobbling back, though Diego and Hot Pants raced ahead to reach the front door before him.

As they entered, their cheeks became ruddy from the sudden heat of the fire. The cottage was about what she expected it to be; cozy, but cluttered by a disorganized mind. Cast-iron kettles, ladles, and pans hanging from hooks on the walls, gathering dust, a little stove burning wood for the heat alone, playing cards tacked to a wall for no apparent reason. The kitchen was in disarray, unwashed earthenware cups and bowls and silverware strewn across the table along with a woven basket with a cloth covering. Hot Pants lifted the cloth and saw a hearty loaf of pumpernickel bread, fat links of smoked blood sausages, and a generous wedge of cheese. Though it was modest country fare, the sight of any real food may as well have been a sumptuous banquet to her and a sharp pang of hunger pierced her side. How long had it been since she’d eaten that scrawny rabbit? Over a week ago? And so very little in-between but tightly-rationed mouthfuls of beans and some sugary pastries at the bank that she’d thrown up anyway. Momentarily, she felt a lightheaded combination of nausea and craving, and needed to steady herself on the table.

Diego seemed to be faring much better than her, though; he’d eaten plenty of that bear from before. Still, he began stashing the food in the leather pouches at the sides of his pants. “Seems he’s eating well off the charity of the town,” he groused.

“Dio!” H.P. hissed. “He’s a senile old man! He can’t fend for himself!”

Diego groaned in annoyance, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, he’s got some people around that care for him quite a lot. They won’t let him go hungry. I’ll leave the bread, though, if you’re really concerned,” he said. “You’ll appreciate it later. Least your stomach will.”

A simple wooden statuette of the Madonna was tucked into a niche in the wall. Hot Pants made the sign of the cross in front of her, placing a hand on the rosary she wore hidden beneath her shirt. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” She prayed, though there was little power of force behind it. Her mind was too preoccupied with the thought of getting to sit down and eat those smoked sausages with Diego after all of this was done.

“Wait.” Diego sniffed the air. His head turned in all directions, eyes wide. “There’s someone…” He leaped onto a wooden chair, yet again poised like a bird of prey. The two of them waited in silence, hairs prickling up with alarm, watching the doorway.

At last, the elderly man blustered through the door. “Oma’s here,” he said, smiling a toothy grin. He held the door open.

Standing outside was a woman with queenly posture, clad from head to toe in black. From her dress, all fitted with laces and ruffles, to the velvet gloves, to the crepe mourning veil secured into place by a wide-brimmed hat, she cast no shadow as she stood in the doorway with the rays of the sun behind her; she was the shadow. The only exception to this gloomy attire was a silver crucifix around her neck, and her face, pale and round like a half-moon shrouded by the veil, with only a set of painted red lips visible.

If this is a fairy tale cottage, she is the evil queen.

“You.” Diego stood now, pointing an accusatory finger at the newcomer. “You’re the one in control of the fog, aren’t you?” His voice was threatening and sibilant. H.P. could tell he was itching for another fight, the way the cracks were already erupting from his skin.

The stranger’s red lips parted a moment before she spoke in a lilting Italian accent, her voice sultry and commanding. “Oh, not me.” She unclasped her pocketbook and stuck a hand inside. “That fountain is under the old man’s control. Ah… perhaps ‘control’ is an overstatement. He’s not been able to find the handle to shut it off in years. Bit of an inconvenience, but… I don’t think he even notices.” As she spoke, she casually pulled a silver pistol from the pocketbook and, with the dexterity of a duelist, aimed it arms-length at Diego and pulled the trigger before either of them could react.

The deafening crack of the pistol rattled the pots and pans along the wall. H.P.’s ears were ringing. Diego swayed, eyes huge with shock, and Hot Pants caught him as he fell from the chair.

The smoke from the gunshot carried the putrid odor of rotten eggs. Black powder. The gun was a flintlock Queen Anne pistol with a long, stylish barrel, small enough to fit in a lady’s handbag or an overcoat pocket. This sort of pistol hadn’t been in practical use for nearly a hundred years.

“What?!” Hot Pants screamed at the top of her lungs, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “He wasn’t– he wasn’t attacking!” She gently lowered Diego to the hardwood floor and pulled a canister of Cream Starter from her pocket.

The lady placed her free hand over her heart melodramatically. “He is possessed by the soul of a prehistoric creature. I had to defend myself, for I feared that he might have attacked me!” she exclaimed. “And while under the influence of Monsieur Blanc’s Tears For Fears, our fears become reality. Surely you’ve noticed by now?” Her red lips curled into a smile. It was unsettling to see her smile while her eyes were hidden behind the black veil. “Don’t heal him just yet. We have some words to exchange, first.” The woman kicked H.P.’s canister from her hand with the pointed black toe of her shoe. It rolled beneath the table, stopping as it hit the leg of a chair.

Hot Pants rose to her feet, surprised that she was roughly the same height as the Italian. From her domineering presence alone, she’d assumed the woman would have towered over her.

“Now, where are my manners–”

“Let’s forgo the introductions, Giovanna,” H.P. interrupted curtly. By now, she was convinced this was the Italian woman without a shadow they had heard about from Sister Eulalie and the Lamont sisters. “Why are you here?”

On the ground, Diego writhed and shuddered in excruciating pain, moaning, unable to even vocalize proper words. It sent a shockwave through her heart, and Hot Pants swallowed, knowing she had to bury that emotion. Beneath the hand that clutched the wound in his side, Hot Pants saw his shirt was already stained with his own blood and she looked away from him, facing Giovanna with a vitriolic stare. She wished she could shoot streams of acid from her eyes and kill her now.

But I don’t care if Dio dies, she quickly thought to herself, trying very hard to condition her brain to believe it. I don’t care about him. I fear he’ll survive and continue to interfere with my holy mission… I fear that he’s always, always going to stand in the way of my atonement…

“Alors, Sister… may we converse in French?” Giovanna was already speaking in French without waiting for a response. “I despise the English language. It is the vulgar tongue of conquerors and invaders. It was born from the vikings of the Germanic tribes, and now the British Empire proliferates this linguistic blight throughout her colonies. When will it end?”

Giovanna let out a laugh and sat down on a chair, crossing her legs. With a single swipe of her arm across the table, she flung all the clutter to the floor. Some cups and plates shattered as they hit the ground.

“Clumsy Oma…” muttered the old man from the other end of the room as he rummaged through a drawer. “I still can’t find the lever…”

“Ah, but the English and the Americans die nicely, I’ll allow them that…” Giovanna pointed downwards, motioning for Hot Pants to sit in the chair across from her. H.P. wordlessly acquiesced while Giovanna continued. “Their language may be dull and uninspired, but they possess all manner of creative insults and epithets. The last Englishman that died in front of me made some unique threats while laying in a pool of his own blood. Said he’d, ah…” she leaned across the table to Hot Pants, lowering her voice as if she were revealing a secret. “‘Shove a broomstick up my un-moistened bint’ among other things. Oh, how amusing he was.” Giovanna brought a gloved hand to her mouth and laughed again.

“You’re twisted… You relish the thought of watching others suffer?!”

“No, no, no. Do not misunderstand me, Sister. That man was guilty of unconscionable crimes too rotten to even mention here. He deserved his slow and painful death. I wash my hands of him.”

“And Dio? D-does he deserve this, too?”

“I’m not certain, yet.” Giovanna set her handgun on the table, casually cleaning it as she spoke. “He is an unrepentant sinner; that much is apparent. I do not know if he can ever be redeemed in the eyes of the Lord, or the Church, for that matter, and yet… you, Sister Hazel, a consecrated nun, believe this murderer and villain deserving of mercy?”

Hot Pants slowly nodded, saying nothing. The cottage was alive with other noises. Diego groaned in pain while his body rocked on the ground. The logs in the stove crackled as they burned. And old Monsieur Blanc continued to rummage through the drawers. “I can’t find it, Oma… I’ll keep looking…”

Giovanna ignored him, focusing on Hot Pants. “You are an interesting character, Sister Hazel Plainview. But I fear I must test your judgment before I allow you to save this man’s life.”

“How long will this take?! He’s bleeding out!” H.P. shouted, banging a fist on the table. She was a hair’s width away from attacking Giovanna; all that held her back was the fact that she knew nothing about what sort of powers this mysterious woman possessed.

“Hmph, yes. A bullet wound to the stomach will do that. But it isn’t the blood that you need to worry. It is the stomach acid slowly leaking into his abdominal cavity that will eventually kill him. They say it is one of the most agonizing ways to die, internal organs eaten away by acid... Isn’t that fascinating?” Giovanna stood and walked towards the wood-burning stove.

He won’t die, though. Unfortunately. Like a pesky cockroach I can’t get rid of… always getting in my way… leading me down a sinful path.

From the ground, as if he could understand they were talking about him, Diego let out a particularly guttural howl, kicking the floor with his heels as he choked on his own saliva.

“Shut up, Dio,” H.P. hissed. If I make him fear that I don’t care about him… perhaps it will become the truth.

Giovanna opened the small iron door to the stove. She stuck a hand in the chamber, and the flames momentarily flashed cherry red, building in intensity until she removed her hand, producing what appeared to be a newspaper clipping. Neither her glove nor the paper were singed in the slightest.

The woman leaned gracefully across the table, placing the article in front of Hot Pants as if she were serving a course of a meal. “That doddering old man’s name is Heliotrope Blanc, but his wife is the one that made a name for herself.”

H.P.’s eyes scanned the paper, dated November 10, 1867.

ANGELICA BLANC, ‘L’ANGE DE LA MORT’ SENTENCED TO EXECUTION BY GUILLOTINE!

“Angelica Blanc, the angel of death…?” H.P. murmured.

“Angelica? Oh, she’s not just a girl, she’s a proper lady from Paris, with a governess and everything,” said Heliotrope Blanc from the other end of the room, slamming a cabinet shut.

Hot Pants continued to read the article.

The trial of Mme. Blanc concluded yesterday afternoon at the Palais de Justice with the verdict sentencing her to death by guillotine, to be executed within two months with no chance for appeal. She is charged with twenty-three counts of infanticide, though there are countless other deaths she may have been responsible for. The proprietress of an illegal adoption enterprise, Mme. Blanc took advantage of unwed or impoverished mothers and accepted payment to keep their infants in her permanent care at her home, often for as little as 5 francs. It is well-known that the infants left to such illegitimate ‘baby farms’ as they are known in England more often than not perish due to neglect or outright murder, whether by drowning or…

Feeling nauseous at the details, H.P. skimmed to the end.

Her husband, Heliotrope Blanc, was extensively questioned by the prosecution as a witness. He vehemently denied any participation or knowledge in his wife’s crimes committed at their shared home, and the court concluded that M. Blanc need not be tried as an accessory, owing to the lack of evidence. However, he was charged with negligence and keeping a disorderly house, and ordered to pay a fine of 53 francs.

“A proper lady, she is…” Heliotrope continued to murmur. “Proper lady, that Angelica…”

“Infanticide may be all the rage in England, as your friend on the floor could tell you, but you know how Parisians turn their noses at the London fashions…” mused Giovanna. She tapped a small tube of black powder with her finger to pour it down the barrel of her pistol, then loaded a small round ball into the chamber.

“Was he innocent?” H.P. whispered.

Giovanna idly began ramming a bit of cloth wadding down the barrel with a wooden rod. “I’m pleased you possess a curious mind. Do you really believe he was ignorant of his wife’s crimes? That he never questioned what happened to all of the babies she took into their home? Or perhaps… was he complicit, looking the other way while his wife fed them rat poison and buried their little bodies in the woods? Or was he more than just complicit… maybe he was killing babies, too!”

“Unnghhh….” Diego groaned. His breathing was becoming sharp and shallow, each inhale shivering with pain.

Dio was nearly killed as an infant, too. I fear he’s too persistent to die here like a fool… That’s why we’re on our way to England. He’ll keep getting in my way, like he always does…

Giovanna snapped the barrel of the pistol back into place. “I am not your enemy, Sister Hazel. I hope you understand that. We can be… allies, Sister Hazel.”

Hot Pants set her acid stare at the spot where she could see the vague outline of Giovanna’s eyes behind the veil. Maybe if she willed it hard enough, she could truly shoot beams from her eyes…

“That is why I will make a show of my good will.” Giovanna produced a red envelope from her cloak and set it in the center of the table. “That envelope contains a letter of pardon, signed by the Pope. All you need do is present it to any Cardinal in the Kingdom of Naples, and you will immediately be granted sanctuary, permanent Neapolitan citizenship, and a holy pardon for any wrongdoings committed while fulfilling your holy mission.”

“And Dio?”

“What about him? Oh, you want one for him, too? Hah…” Giovanna tittered. “I only have one letter, but I suppose you could give it to him if you’re feeling particularly thick-headed. There are no names specified as the recipient of that letter; it could theoretically be fulfilled by anyone.”

Giovanna spun the pistol around on the table to face Hot Pants. “If you believe Heliotrope Blanc ought to have been executed with his wife, take that pistol and finish him. But if you believe, regardless of his innocence or guilt, that Monsieur Blanc is a poor old man that ought to be left alone to live out his boyhood again, then don’t shoot him. Simple as that. If I like your judgment, I will allow you to tend to Brando, and hand the letter of pardon to you. If I don’t like your judgment, you may only choose one. Brando, or the letter of pardon.”

“And if I take that pistol and shoot you, instead?”

The red lips pulled into a frown. “That wouldn’t be very sporting, would it? Alas, you could, but it would only complicate your situation further. And you do not wish to make even more powerful enemies than you already have between the two of you, believe me. Why not make powerful friends, instead? Friends like Giovanna Vitale. My ability is the reason you knew anything at all about Dario, you know, and I can be exceptionally useful to those I take a liking to…”

Hot Pants stared at the Queen Anne pistol. It was exquisitely carved, and as she wrapped her hand around the grip, she wondered why a killing device should be designed to look so sleek and beautiful.

“Hey, lad. You want to hear a funny joke?” H.P. asked. She stood up, chair scraping against the floor. Her feet felt like two bricks of lead as she walked towards him. She cocked the hammer of the pistol with a click.

“I like jokes. Opa told me a joke that I’m not allowed to say in front of Oma.”

Hot Pants pointed the pistol at the back of Heliotrope’s head. She laced her finger around the trigger, eyes misting with tears.

Her voice trembled as she spoke. “So… an Englishman, an American, and a Switzer walk into a pub…”

Chapter Text

"Shit!"

Diego watched helplessly as the canteen slipped from his grasp, the water evaporating in the merciless heat as it poured out onto the red sands of the Arizona Desert. He quickly brought the canteen to his cracked lips, but the few remaining drops weren't even enough to moisten his parched mouth. Diego groaned and tossed the canteen aside.

His skin was baking like clay in an oven. Fortunately Silver Bullet was faring better than he, munching on some patches of desert grass while Diego lay clutching his head. The thoroughbred’s Arabian stock made him better-suited to the arid wasteland than a British jockey who’d spent an entire life walking dampened streets beneath cool, cloudy skies. His head was pounding from the fall, and he felt a wave of nausea whenever he attempted to force himself to a seated position.

Need to get up… the other racers are passing me…

Yet whenever he opened his eyes even just a sliver, the sunlight pierced all the way through to his eye sockets with a white-hot, blinding pain. He'd be able to regain his strength if he rested his head, just for a moment…

Hooves trotted, then stopped. A nearby rider dismounted. Slow, cautious footfalls crunched in the sand, making their way towards Diego. Silver Bullet nickered, but not aggressively, apparently not perceiving the stranger as a threat to either of them.

“Sod off,” he grumbled. “I told those other bastards not to call for emergency services.”

“I’m not with emergency services, Diego Brando. Just another racer…” came the brisk, masculine voice. As the stranger knelt in front of him, he at least provided some shade from the sun. “Seems you’re suffering from head trauma, and… probably mild heat exhaustion if you’ve been laying there for long. I’m going to treat that nasty wound, so hold still…”

“Sod off,” Diego repeated, but the stranger would not leave. “Touch me and you're dead. This is your only warning…”

He opened one eye, squinting. Kneeling in front of him was a young man with copper hair in a pageboy cut, sharply-pronounced cheekbones and a dour expression. His belt buckle bore the initials H.P. in shiny brass.

“H.P… stands for Hot Pants, yeah? Finished the second stage in 5th place; overall ranked 4th,” Diego idly observed.

The American’s hands, rough and callused, held his face still. He'd coolly called Diego’s bluff, and it was embarrassing. He needed to think of something, anything to establish control over the situation again.

Diego looked down at H.P.’s boots. Rugged leather workboots, more suitable for wrangling cattle than riding horses. He was even riding a mustang. A country yokel. Utterly unsophisticated. He scoffed. “Well, the race is open to anyone, I suppose. Even farm hands. How did you manage to afford the entry fee, cowboy? Cattle rustling?”

Hot Pants didn’t answer. He continued treating Diego’s wound, applying a strange flesh-colored ointment from a metal canister. The ointment seemed to graft itself to his skin on its own, like a bandage of flesh.

“Oi, wot’s the duff in the can?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“A nun from a convent in France discovered a new technique for sealing wounds without the need for sutures,” H.P. answered. “That’s all it is. Not sure how it works, but it works, alright. It’s called ‘Cream Starter.’”

“I see…” Diego was still skeptical, though his head was already beginning to feel better. He touched the area where his wound used to be, and he wasn’t bleeding out anymore.

Hot Pants picked up the canteen from the ground and gave it a shake. Empty, of course. “Tch. Out here in the desert, water is more precious than silver,” he said, walking back to his horse to retrieve his own canteen from the saddlebag. He popped open the cap and held it out to Diego.

Diego stared at it for a moment, briefly wondering if he was trying to poison him. As if reading his thoughts, Hot Pants took a small sip from his own canteen and offered it again. It was a little more than half-full.

Diego grabbed the canteen with both hands and began chugging, the water sliding down his throat in luscious relief. When he’d finished drinking his fill, he poured the rest over his head and sighed as it soothed the sunburn on his face. He shook out the water in his hair and smirked triumphantly, watching H.P.’s frown deepen.

Though his head was still pounding and he didn’t feel quite up to scratch yet, the water had served to replenish him. Invigorated with a burst of enough energy to stand, he swaggered past H.P. to pick up his discarded helmet.

The American snatched his canteen back, scowling. “You used all my water.”

“Here’s some free advice, from me to you. First place to fourth place,” Diego said, wiping the blood off his hands and pulling his gloves back on. “You ever hear that saying, ‘give him a yard and he’ll take the whole mile’? That’s the truth for every man in this race. Anyone that says he’s your friend is only out to take what he can get from you. That’s the truth, Hot Pants, fourth place. Least I’m honest about it.”

“Arrogant bastard,” the American spat, making his way back to his brown mustang.

“It takes an arrogant bastard to win a race like this!” Diego called out after him, laughing.

— — —

Diego woke up to the smell of smoke. Though the ground was cold and damp, he felt warmth all around him. The sound of wood crackling, like the hearth, except it was much louder.

"Ungh… where's that bitch that shot me…"

He clutched his abdomen as if by instinct, though the pain was a whisper of what it was before. He felt the sensation of the liquid flesh hardening, the blood rapidly clotting, sealing the wound in his side.

"She's gone. Not dead. She disappeared through the fire. Don't know where she went."

Diego relaxed at the sound of her voice, the scent of her presence beside him. He reached a feeble hand out to touch her shoulder.

“Hey, H.P. … sorry for being an insufferable arse to you, that one time.”

H.P. turned her head around halfway to look at him. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Back at the Steel Ball Run. When we first met. You treated my head wound and gave me water, but I was an arse to you…"

“Oh, I remember. It wasn’t very gallant of you,” H.P. remarked, which elicited a burst of weak laughter from Diego. She began to pull him into a seated position. "But we need to get out of here. Right now.”

"I'm fine where I am. Besides, you ought to eat something before we go anywhere,” Diego said. “Keep your strength up… look in my belt pouch, will you? I've got those smoked sausages…"

“Dio, the cottage is on fire! We don't have time for a picnic!”

“Huh… that, it is…” Diego groaned. He looked through bleary eyes and saw that she spoke the truth; they were sitting outside in the overgrown field, about fifty yards from the blaze. Dark plumes of smoke billowed from the cottage like a filthy fabric, polluting the sky with a gray-green hue. Timbers cracked and fell. The air was choked with ash and it was difficult to breathe. No wonder Diego had felt so light-headed.

"I was able to drag you out of there, but I can’t run while carrying you. The… the smoke’ll attract the attention of the nearby towns, and that won’t be good for us. Let’s go!” she urged.

As Diego took H.P.’s hand to stand up, he looked all around. The curtain of fog was indeed gone, though the smoke that’d replaced it was not much better for visibility. “Least the fog’s gone. You found out a way to shut it off?”

H.P. crossed her arms, walking ahead of Diego. All emotion had vanished from her face. “Yes. I did.”

— — —

After ramping up to a brisk pace, Diego and Hot Pants made their way along the Rhône, saying very little to one another. She was not volunteering any information about her little showdown with Giovanna, and Diego knew better than to keep pounding at a brick wall. With the aid of the compass, they crossed the border into France again, following the river and going up a winding path through the hills to a town noted as Bellegarde on their map, a sleepy little place significant only for its train station.

They sat beneath an old stone bridge on the outskirts, taking a break for lunch. While Diego set up a fire to boil some water, Hot Pants nibbled on some blood sausage, eyes dull with that morose world-weariness, that funeral parlor demeanor.

Why does she have to be so bloody serious all the time?

"Something rattled you back at the cottage,” he ventured, watching her for any subtle changes in her expression.

H.P. turned her face out towards the horizon, as if she’d sensed why Diego was examining her. "Dio…” she started, softly. “The people you’ve killed… does it still haunt you?”

"Sometimes.” Diego quirked an eyebrow. The question had caught him off-guard. “Wish I could lie and say it didn't. Doesn’t occupy my daily thoughts or anything, but some nights when I can’t fall asleep ‘cause I’m thinking too much, I’ll remember them in passing… like that bum on the train to Geneva? I didn't kill him, but… last words he heard was that rubbish I shouted at him. Wasn't… gallant of me at all. Wonder if I… ought've been kinder, or somesuch. Doesn't matter now, though. Holding on to regrets like that’ll only wear you down."

When he was younger, he’d killed a few guttersnipes that’d scrapped with him on the streets of London for food or money he didn’t have. Small, hungry children like him. But Diego was smaller, which made him an easy target, and he had to sleep with a switchblade. Get them before they get you. He’d internalized that early on, and in this way he could rationalize all that he did for survival. Hot Pants was different. She was a walking cemetery, dragging coffins filled with regret behind her no matter how justified the reason for ending a life.

"I killed Heliotrope Blanc," she finally said.

"The old man in the cottage?" Diego yawned and leaned back. "What'd you do that for?"

"Dio, please…"

Diego straightened himself up. He couldn't even try to pretend he gave a lick about the old man so long as he and H.P. were safe, but he realized he ought to at least affect a bit more gravity to his voice instead of casually asking her in the same idle tone as asking why she’d taken the sugar out of the cupboard.

“You did it to save me, huh…?” Diego lowered his voice.

She bit her lip. "In… a roundabout way, I suppose. Don't feel like talking about it. I can tell you later."

"That's fine."

They sat in silence for a while. The water was boiling over, but Diego ignored it.

H.P.’s voice cracked as she spoke again. "He thought your joke was funny. I couldn't think of anything… well, profound to say to him, so I told him your stupid joke. That was the last thing he heard before he died. And he… he laughed."

"You see? It was a funny joke, after all."

Hot Pants pursed her lips while Diego poured the coffee. He handed her a tin cup, and after taking a sip, she winced. “Oh, that’s hot. Burned my tongue.” She then offered him the barest hint of a smile. "Perhaps the joke sounded funnier in French.”

"Shit! I ought to learn French, expand my reach. There’s an entire audience I’m leaving untapped."

“You ought to have picked up some French by now. You could try speaking it.” She took a bite of the sausage and chewed thoughtfully, another flickering smile gracing her lips as if she were imagining such a spectacle.

"I can count to ten at least," Diego said. "Un, deux, trois, quatre…"

Hot Pants's face scrunched up. She clamped a hand over her mouth, choking on her food as she swallowed it hard.

“Oi…” Diego took a sip of scalding hot coffee, glaring with mock ire across the rim of the cup.

"It's– it's not bad!" H.P. added quickly, coughing and laughing at the same time. "It's only that I can hear your accent through it so plainly..!"

Diego grinned sheepishly. As soon as H.P. caught her breath, he continued, deliberately exaggerating his English accent. "Sooiink, seeass, zett, hooh-witt, noweff, deese."

"The Parisians will weep!" Hot Pants exclaimed, momentarily losing her breath again to a renewed fit of laughter.

Though there would always be a certain solemnity to her aspect, her eyes were shining with temporary mirth, color returning to her cheeks. Diego smiled in return and gazed up at the sky. Bright blue, with big puffy clouds over the evergreen hills of the countryside, the chill air sharpened by the scent of pine needles. It was a beautiful winter day, and Diego hadn’t stopped to think about that until now. He wondered how many beautiful days passed by unnoticed because he was stuck in his own head. He wondered how many beautiful days passed by her too, for the same reason.

He sniffed, detecting the smell of horses and saddle leather nearby…

"Hey, H.P., lovely day, innit? Perfect day for riding. Rare to have a day like this in February…"

Diego laid back, resting his head against the grass as he watched the clouds drift by, basking in the rays of the sun. He missed riding… no feeling on earth could compare to being up on a horse.

Diego's ears twitched at a sudden crack, and a whinny. He bolted upright, glancing in all directions.

"You hear that?" he asked, setting down his coffee.

H.P. shook her head, but Diego was already crawling up the hill, heading in the direction of the noise. It was a small town, and he reached the train station in half a minute.

He pushed past the throng of people gathered already at the commotion. Amidst the excited din of French chatter, a man's voice clearly rang out in English, "Runaway horse!"

Diego’s jaw dropped when he saw it bucking at its handlers, rearing on its chiseled hind legs. A gorgeous marble-white stallion with the raw strength of a medieval destrier, and the baroque elegance of a royal Spanish breed. This was a proud animal that was cornered, and he did not like to be cornered. His nostrils flared in aggression as his long head rapidly moved from side to side, attempting to assert his authority over the crowd.

One of the handlers, a tall bald man, approached the stallion from the front with a rope halter, arms held up in a gesture he likely thought was non-threatening. But this horse’s respect had to be earned; he responded to the man’s “whoah, easy” by charging at him like a bull, mane and tail glimmering like stardust behind him. The man dodged out of the way just in time, the crowd parting for him.

The tall bald man was right beside him now. Diego took advantage of his panicked state to snatch the rope halter from him.

“Oi, this ain’t a hanging!” Diego called out to the noissome crowd. “Shut up! You’ll only spook him further.”

The stallion was pawing at the ground with his hoof, snorting aggressively and snapping his head at anyone that dared to come any closer.

Halter in hand, Diego strode diagonally towards the horse, approaching its left shoulder. The crowd gave him a wide berth. The chatter hushed to whispers.

The stallion’s ears twitched, and Diego ran an ungloved hand along his coat, so lustrous it was nearly pearlescent. White silk. Beautiful…

Before the horse could turn around, Diego pulled the lead rope across his neck. The stallion brought his head up fast, bucking up, but Diego held on to his neck, keeping his feet firmly grounded.

“Oh, you’re beautiful…” He stroked its silky neck, holding fast on to the lead rope. "So beautiful… I know. It's loud here, and I hate them too. I hate the lot of them, making noise for the sake of noise. A majestic horse like you? You're better than anyone in this provincial town... They don’t understand you. And you’ll never respect them. Why should you?”

The horse snorted at Diego, but he knew it was aggressive posturing. He was no longer struggling against the halter. Diego continued to stroke his mane for half a minute, the crowd gradually wandering off with the excitement of a runaway horse over.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Diego glared over his shoulder to see who was clapping.

“An impressive display!” The ruddy bald man from earlier was approaching. Northern English. New money, trying to affect a posh accent. But he was just as common as Diego. It was plain as day.

His jabot was crooked. The hem of his jacket was frayed. His shoes were unpolished. His beard had crumbs stuck to it. Diego’s nose wrinkled involuntarily at the smell of cheap citrus cologne. Before he had even exchanged words with the man, his pre-judgements were already fermenting. But he didn’t like anyone that owned a horse they couldn’t handle, and so he was not inclined to be particularly forgiving.

The bald man stretched his upturned palm out. Diego stared at it quizzically, then passed the lead rope of the stallion to him.

This elicited a great, booming laughter. “Only wanted to shake your hand, m’boy! You calmed that stallion as if he were a foal! The name’s Hiram Kite. Now, you're an Englishman yourself, eh? Perhaps you've heard of me.”

Yes. Diego had heard of Hiram Kite. Primary ringleader of the Kite & Gunn Hippodrome, a dubious troupe of equestrians and other circus performers based in London.

“Beautiful horse…” Diego murmured, pointedly refusing to acknowledge any familiarity with the name Hiram Kite. He traced a finger along the stallion's flawless pearlescent coat, stopping at the branded symbol on the horse's left haunch: a crown atop the letter 'P'.

"He a Lipizzaner?" Diego raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

“Aye; got him for a steal, we did. His name’s Changeling,” he replied. “Say… you seem to know a thing or two about horses."

"Not too much, sir." Diego averted his eyes, stroking the Lipizzan's mane again. "Worked in the stables as a kid."

"And what's your line of work now, boy?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "Lookin' for work, I s'pose."

Hiram slapped a meaty hand on Diego's back, causing him to stagger forward slightly.

"Well! It's every lad's dream to work for the circus, ain't it?"

I'm going to steal your horse, he thought, keeping his gaze lowered so that the hatred in his eyes could not betray his intent. A noble stallion didn't belong in a hot, dusty threepenny circus to be gawked at, overworked and underfed by sorry excuses for "equestrians" and then sold for glue or meat when he was too broken to perform anymore. Diego had been to the circus once and found it appalling. No, a Lipizzaner did not belong in a circus.

Without waiting for a response from Diego, the bigger man spoke again. "Ah, but I'm parched. Let's have a spot of ale, on me, and we can talk about some sort of contract..."

Contract.

The word alone made him bristle as he was already beginning to guess the sort of terms that would be imposed on him for this "employment." Yet, in spite of his disgust, sheer curiosity compelled Diego to continue the ruse, see what kind of information he could draw from Mr. Kite after a round of drinks. Rotten men were apt to keep rotten company, and perhaps Kite knew about a particularly rotten Londoner…

Hiram passed the ropes to Diego again, boldly treating him like a servant already. Along with a third character named Luc, a lithe French acrobat in the employ of Mr. Kite, they headed for the pub.

—

When the three entered the public house, they were met with a barren counter; no guests or host to speak of. The only other individual was a girl hunched over an upright piano, practicing from a ragged songbook with her foot on the muffler pedal so as not to disrupt the patrons.

After some time, a hawk-faced middle-aged woman appeared from the back room.

"EDITH!" she screamed in the shrillest voice Diego had ever heard.

The girl scrambled off the piano bench, tripping over her feet to get to the counter. The older woman gave her a light slap and a scolding in French, and shoved her towards the group of three.

Edith was in that awkward stage of adolescence where her arms and legs were far too long unwieldy, giving her a spidery appearance. “Désolée messieurs,” she said, looking at her feet.

Luc dictated the order for the three of them, being the only one fluent in French. The girl scampered off, and as they waited for their drinks, Hiram began the buttery cajole that men of his kind engaged in.

"So… let me make a conjecture about this awful fix you’re in. You're a good English lad, but your previous employer abandoned you in Southern France without a sous to your name?”

Diego gave only the slightest hint of a nod.

"Well!" Hiram Kite smacked the table. "What a fortuitous meeting indeed! Perhaps it were fate, weaving us together. Now, I can get you back to England. I'll purchase your train ticket, and pay for the ferry across the Channel. You'll be traveling back with me to London, and you'll get your own spot in the room with the other boys. All good lads such as yourself."

The door behind them opened and closed. Diego took one whiff of the air and immediately knew it was Hot Pants.

Making sure I don’t get into any trouble on my own? he thought, not daring to turn around to look at her.

Diego glanced up at Hiram now, feigning ignorance. Playing the role of the poor illiterate sod that’d be fooled by him. "But sir… how can I repay you?"

"Well, lad, if you work hard every day and don't slack off, I'd reckon… five years? Though, with food and lodgings and any other expenses you incur coming out of your wages, that might add a year or two. That adds up to about seven years, maybe. But of course we can always extend your contract if you find the work agreeable.”

Edith brushed past them to take H.P.'s order. The two had a brusque exchange in French, but Hiram's voice was so loud it drowned them out. Diego scratched the underside of the table, in a repetitive nervous gesture. His nails were growing long and sharp, carving into the wood.

“Course… is it really work when you’re doin’ what you love? I saw the way you handled that stallion. You're a natural, lad. You want to work with the pretty horse, don't ya?"

Diego swallowed the bile rising in his throat at the man’s condescension. “Sure. Always wanted to ride a horse like Changeling."

"Ride Ch–" Hiram Kite choked on his words, sputtering all over the table. "Ride!" He slapped Luc on the back, trying to get the reticent Frenchman to laugh with him. Luc managed an awkward chuckle to appease his boss.

Diego scratched the underside of the table harder, gathering wood splinters beneath his nails. He forced a smile, but the ends of his lips were twitching.

Eventually, Hiram’s raucous laughter faded into heavy breathing. He pounded a fist against his chest. "Oh, lad, that was bad for my heart. No insult intended; the best trainer in Austria couldn't break him. Changeling is unrideable in his current state."

"But if he's untrainable, how will your circus troupe train him to do tricks?"

"Ah, see, Changeling can be broken… any horse can be broken. But a horse broken as far as he needs to be broken won't be able to do any tricks. We'll have to geld him first," Hiram made a snipping gesture with two fingers. "Then it'll be simple enough to beat all the remaining spirit out of him. Then we'll put him at the entrance, charge the kiddies a tuppence for a ride around the track on the big pretty horse."

Dead broken. Hiram Kite wanted Changeling dead broken. Like the old, tired ponies at fairgrounds, led along by a handler. It had always unsettled Diego to see such flat and unresponsive eyes in a horse, so broken they even seemed unaware of the child in the saddle as they sadly trudged around and around. A husk. The same empty, catatonic stare he'd seen in Civil War veterans. Dead broken. And that vile man wanted to do this to a proud Lipizzaner like Changeling?

Diego could hear his own pulse pounding against his eardrum, faster and faster. His anger was intensifying into sickness, a sharp wrenching in his guts. His mouth tasted metallic, and he realized it was his own blood from biting his tongue with his sharpening teeth.

Hiram was still talking, oblivious to the animal rage overcoming the heart of the trembling young man across from him, the man he abased as a stupid lad, an illiterate boy, a piece of property he could brand like cattle. The sound of his voice prickled Diego's brain like needles.

"... Course, if you still want to ride him, mayhaps I'll only charge you a ha'penny, on account of all your hard work shoveling his manure. You'll have to wait in line with the other children, though." Hiram chuckled as if it were amusing.

Diego's grin widened, the edges of his mouth cracking open the sides of his face. Hiram barked in horror when he finally noticed the transformation in front of him, knocking over his chair as he bolted upright.

As Diego leaped onto the table in pursuit of his prey, another noise rang loud and clear.

“Dio–”

Diego's head did not turn to look in the direction of that shout, for he already knew where it came from. The sound of her voice triggered a cavalcade of conflicting messages. It was enough to give him a millisecond of pause, but it was not enough to override his instinct; the wildfire of rage already burned away the little amount of human sentimentality he had left. And that millisecond of pause transpired in the space between her first and last word, but by then he was already lost.

"--stop!"

Diego did not stop. His claws went into Hiram Kite's sedentary body like a hot knife through butter. The kill overwhelmed his senses with a cacophony of stimuli; the throat-gurgling as Hiram choked on blood, the odor of shit as he soiled himself, the warmth and wetness of his innards as Diego tore into him again and again. A heady aroma filled the air; the smell of death intermingling with fear from the other humans in the room. None of them posed any threat to him, and thus he felt no need to acknowledge them. Prey-creatures, scattering to the corners of the room.

No. Diego sniffed the air again, letting Hiram's corpse fall to the ground. One of them – the voice that had shouted before – was not a prey-creature. This one had a familiar, human-like odor. But he did not register their scent-profile as human.

This was no human. This was his kin. His hunting partner, with whom he shared food and territory.

And yet, her fear was piquant, cutting into Diego’s nostrils. Was she in danger? Some new threat even he had not noticed?

He scanned the room again. No other predators.

Only him.

Her fear was distressing, incomprehensible to him. As he stalked towards her, ready to defend her from any imminent danger, her fear only intensified, radiating at his approach as if she feared…

Him.

Diego stopped in his tracks, rearing on his hind legs. His chest tightened. He straightened his back, jaw painfully retracting back into his face. Blood pooled in the cracked corners of his mouth and he began to understand the present reality as his human side overcame his dinosaur instincts.

Hot Pants stood like a bulwark across the room, wingspan extended, shielding the cowering Edith behind her. Her chest heaved up and down, perspiration sparkling on her brow.

"I…" Diego started, but his voice trailed off, dampened by his shame.

Fear. Fear in her eyes and she’s looking at me. She saw what I did. She knows what I am.

He swallowed, glancing down at the worn floorboards, barely able to muster a whisper.

"Do you… think I’m a monster?”

Hot Pants did not answer him. He wasn’t sure if she’d even heard him.

Diego turned on his heel and ran out the door.

No one pursued him.

Changeling was still in the stall, treading the ground with his hoof and snorting. Diego paid his posturing no mind; he already knew how to work with him. As he began to tack up the horse, unfastening the belts of a saddle, he spoke in that soft voice he reserved for horses.

“Don’t regret what I did. Don’t like that she saw it, but I don’t regret it at all. Men like Kite, they’re the lowest scumbags on the planet. A festering sack of the foulest-smelling rot you can even imagine. Same as that– that farmer that put his filthy hands on my mum, ‘cause he thought she owed him sum’ for the privilege of being worked to the bone. You and me, Changeling, we know what it is to be indentured… Not even H.P. knows what that’s like, being treated as property, bought and sold like chattel, but you do. And both of us are too proud to tolerate captivity. A big, gorgeous stallion with a royal lineage like you? Dead broken with your balls chopped off, ridden by drooling brats at the circus? Not on my life or yours. I swear, I’ll never let them do that to you. I’ll never let a charlatan like Kite put his filthy hands on you again. You deserve so much better’n that.”

Once the horse was saddled, he slipped the bridle over the stallion’s head. This time, he dared to look directly in the horse’s eyes.

“That’s a promise, Changeling.”

Chapter Text

For a small village in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, the dry goods store was remarkably well-stocked; the proprietor was obviously clever enough to have anticipated the Steel Ball Run racers flooding into town, and ordered extra to accommodate.

Sore and bow-legged from a long day of riding, Hot Pants shifted her weight between her feet as she stood in the center of a narrow aisle, examining the varieties of dry beans on display. Red beans… black beans… pinto beans… butter beans… so many beans, even some she’d never seen before. Her eyes glazed over, pondering the options again and again, too exhausted to make an executive decision.

The shadow of another customer loomed at the end of the aisle, leg jostling up and down in some nervous gesture. H.P. glanced over her shoulder and made a noticeable sound of disgust the moment she saw a familiar head of wild, windswept blonde hair.

It was none other than the British “prince” of jockeys, Diego Brando, leaning against a shelf, apparently spectating her dilemma with an eyebrow quirked in amusement. With his helmet removed and strapped to his side, his face was plainly visible: fair skin burnt salmon-red, eyes ringed with fatigue… yet even in such a disheveled state, he was annoyingly handsome. Not that it affected Hot Pants - after experiencing the depths of his arrogance firsthand, the only desire she had for Diego Brando was for him to stay far away from her.

H.P. quickly looked back at the bean display, pretending that she was so deeply engrossed in her task that she had not noticed him.

Perhaps he’ll go away if I ignore him.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty, but Hot Pants could still feel his stare like an auger drilling into her back. It went on for half a minute. There was an entire store for him to browse through; why couldn’t he leave and come back? H.P. hastily shoveled some kidney beans into a small cloth sack and stepped aside, gesturing with a wave of a hand that the aisle was free.

But Diego still didn’t move in. He started sniffing the air, as if oblivious to the fact that Hot Pants was finished. She cleared the dust out of her throat and gave a more exaggerated wave.

“Hm? Something you’re trying to tell me, Fourth Place?”

“The aisle. I’m done here. You can shop for beans now.”

“Beans…? That’s the beans aisle, then?” Diego asked, head twitching in several directions like a bird’s.

“Uhm…” Hot Pants glanced at the colorful rows of bean-filled buckets down the aisle. “Yeah. Plenty of beans. Can’t miss it. That’s… why you were waiting there, right?”

“Heh. I don’t need crummy little beans. I’ve got a surfeit of meat. Killed a bear, I did. Right outside the village.”

H.P. felt a chill down her spine. “A bear… so close to the village? Goodness, perhaps we ought to warn the rest–”

“Fear not! I kilt it already!” Diego announced proudly. “With my bare hands. Get it? Bare hands? Couldn’t bear the sight of— oi, oi, oi, Hot Pants, wait up! Rather rude to cut away while someone’s addressing you, innit?”

As he leaped to chase after her, Diego stumbled headfirst into a shelf and fell, triggering an avalanche of soap bars, candles, and canning jars. The glass shattered as it hit the floor.

“Ow…” Diego rubbed his head with his free hand. “Didn’t see that…”

Sitting up, the jockey frantically tried to place items back on the shelves, but he kept missing the display entirely, as if he couldn’t see it right in front of him. Candles fell from his hands and rolled out of sight.

“Goddamn limey…” grumbled the shopkeeper from the counter. “Just pay for what you need and beat it.”

Hot Pants wanted to abscond from this embarrassing scene, but the sight of Diego struggling to perform such a simple task was concerning, in spite of how vexed she still was at him. By now, everyone in the store was staring and whispering among themselves.

H.P. knelt beside him, guiding his hands towards the shelf. She saw bits of broken glass stuck between his fingers and winced. He didn’t seem to notice that he was bleeding until H.P. focused her efforts on pulling the shards out of his skin and sealing his wounds with Cream Starter.

“You hit your head something awful when I found you the other day,” she said. “Seems you’re having trouble with spatial awareness, depth perception…”

“Oh!” Diego’s head snapped up to look at her. His grin was just wide enough to be unsettling. “Don’t get the wrong impression! In sooth, I’ve never felt better! Completely rejuvenated, out-and-out.”

His eyes were plastered open and bloodshot, pupils constricted to narrow slits. Like lizard eyes. He licked his lips. Did not even seem to care how badly he had humiliated himself in public.

H.P. lowered her voice. “Are you… under the effects of some intoxicant?”

“Not at all,” then, dropping his voice to a whisper as well, “Though, if you’re in need of a fix… ya ken that old Nipponese, Norisuke? The o’clock is he’s got an exceptional stash of the midnight oil. You didn’t hear it from me!”

Hot Pants was not sure how to handle Diego's bizarre mood swing. He was behaving like a completely different person. Gone was the smug churlishness, the smirking side remarks, replaced with wide-eyed euphoria. He almost seemed like a child, the way he sniffed a bar of soap, made a face of revulsion, then tossed it aside.

A child… or something inhuman.

H.P. quickly found the rest of the necessary supplies around the store. A flannel horse blanket, a grindstone, a can of coffee, and a bar of soap. It had a speck of Diego's blood on it. She scraped it off with a fingernail and dropped everything on the counter for payment. The prices were marked up from what the locals would pay, but her mind was too frayed to attempt to haggle. She still had plenty from the generous stipend given to her by the Vatican, and expected to be able to stretch that money all the way to New York.

"You, ah, gonna pay for the damages caused by your friend?"

"I'm Diego fuckin’ Brando! I can pay for my own damages, thank you kindly!" he barked from the other end of the store.

He then gave H.P. a wink, as if to say I can pay for my own damages, but I won't.

Hot Pants shook her head and turned back to the counter, counting out the change returned to her before dropping it in her belt pouch.

The proprietor blinked in disbelief. "That drunken limey? Is he really Diego Brando?"

"Unfortunately," Hot Pants scoffed, gathering the newly purchased supplies in her arms and heading out the door.

The mountain air was chilly, but refreshing. Hot Pants tried to process all that had just transpired, but it was too strange for her to make any sense of it. Much as she wanted to avoid any further interactions with such an unpredictable adversary, Hot Pants resolved to check on him early in the morning, see if he was still in this odd state. Her conscience couldn't simply leave it alone; like the stray cats she fed at the convent, treating Diego's head wound had her feeling somewhat responsible for his well-being, as ridiculous as it felt to compare a grown man to a feral animal.

The only light cast along the streets came from the glow of candles still lit in the villagers' windows. Hot Pants thought of taking out her lantern, but she didn't feel like putting down her supplies. The inn was only a few blocks away…

A distinct growl echoed through the darkness. All of the hairs on H.P.'s arms rose straight up. She stopped in her tracks, feeling her heart beating in her throat.

Again it roared, and she heard stomping footfalls, its shadow approaching like an enormous, lumbering wagon.

In the warm glow from a nearby window, H.P. caught a glimpse of the monster. It was an unholy amalgamation of fur and scales, eyes reflecting a bright yellow. Half its face was torn off, exposing its jawbones and teeth. Standing on its hind legs, it appeared seven or eight feet tall, taller than any human or bear.

Hot Pants dropped everything and ran as fast as her feet could take her back to the dry goods store. She slammed the door behind her and bolted it shut.

"Dio! That thing wasn't a bear, and you definitely didn't kill it!"

The only response she received was a deep, sibilant croaking. Hot Pants turned around slowly, a drop of cold perspiration sliding down her nose.

There were no more customers in the store. No human customers, at least.

Instead, she was met with six pairs of reflective, reptilian eyes, all fixated on her with predatory hunger. They continued their terrible hissing, long exhales through the nostrils of their crocodilian snouts.

Hot Pants backed up until she was pressed against the door. One of the creatures screeched so loudly it rattled the pots and pans hanging from the walls. It bounded towards her without any regard for the merchandise on display, knocking buckets of beans all over the floor.

“Dio?!”

- - -

H.P. felt a tingling numbness all over her body, and she momentarily lost sense of time. She felt as though her fear had rooted her feet to the floorboards for hours, though likely only seconds had passed since Diego dashed out the door after disemboweling the Englishman right before their eyes.

Such a revolting display. The others were still hiding behind the counter. She knelt beside the bloodied mass that used to be Hiram Kite, crossing herself and whispering a prayer.

"Accourez à son aide, saints et saintes de Dieu;

Venez à sa rencontre, anges du Seigneur…"

As Hot Pants prayed for a soul that was already twice-damned, Luc, the lithe acrobat, gracefully slinked out from his hiding place. He moved silent and cat-like on his satin slippers, cautiously approaching, yet saying nothing.

"...Amen." Hot Pants unclasped her fingers and reached for the dead man's pocketbook that stuck out from his trousers like a flag. Her hands shook for a few seconds, hesitating until the ingrained fear of divine retribution was overpowered by her practicality, and grasped the leather wallet.

With her other hand, she used her Cream Starter to absorb all of Hiram Kite's corpse into the can. Skin, organs, fat, and bones became flesh to fuel her Stand. All that remained of the evidence of foul murder was a dark stain on the wooden floor.

I am complicit with Dio's sins, she thought, staring at the blood that coated her palms. Again, I darken my own heart even further to protect him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Luc smirking at her. The acrobat's face was done up in stage makeup: moon-white complexion and cherry lips, like a mummer.

Though Hot Pants was disquieted by the acrobat, she pulled a fifty pound note from Hiram’s wallet and held it out to him.

“You had nothing to do with any of this. Until you find a new employer, this ought to hold you over," she said.

But instead of taking the money, Luc crossed his arms, leaning his hip against the bar in a feminine affectation.

"Tell me, Sister…" he responded in English, with an Italian accent. "Do you always pray before robbing the dead?"

Then, he laughed. Sardonic, cruel laughter she remembered all too well from the cottage.

All of a sudden H.P. realized why the shape of Luc's red-lipped smirk filled her with so much dread. She glanced down, and saw only her own faint shadow cast by the light, not Luc’s.

"Giovanna?!" she whispered.

Gone was her funereal attire, replaced with a velvet cloak drawn over a black leotard, yet Hot Pants saw now it was unmistakably her. With a dramatic flourish, Giovanna removed her sequined skullcap, shaking out thick tresses of black hair that reached her shoulders. At last Hot Pants could see the woman's eyes; two coal-dark almonds, ready to pierce any weakness with an invisible spear.

She was the most beautiful woman that H.P. had ever seen, yet she carried an unearthly terror with her presence, divine certainty with every step she took.

"I am not your enemy, Sister Hazel Plainview…" Giovanna said.

H.P. narrowed her eyes, tightening her grip on Cream Starter. "Then why are you following me around in such a disguise?"

"Oh, this?" Giovanna spread her arms, holding the sides of the cloak out like bat wings. "Don’t you find it rather hypocritical to point out my simple costume, while you wear a mask made of someone else's skin?” She placed a hand on her mouth and laughed.

Unamused, Hot Pants crossed her arms, waiting for Giovanna to speak again.

“Ah, dear Sister… while I was not here for you, I am pleased that happenstance brought us together again. How is your mission proceeding?"

"I told you before. I have not betrayed my divine purpose. I will bring the diamonds to the Vatican after I resolve some… unrelated business."

"Hmph. I'm not concerned about that. Not yet, at least. If you betrayed us, we would know, of course. And yet… speaking of betrayal, how will that nasty little creature react once he learns of the piece of paper in your pocket? I'm rather curious to know. Considering you’re still intact, I assume you haven’t told him yet?"

H.P. placed a hand on her trouser leg. The knowledge of that red envelope in her secret pocket was a heavier burden to carry than anything in the rucksack slung across her back.

"He hasn't killed me for the diamonds; why would he kill me for a pardon?"

Giovanna tapped her chin with a gloved finger. "You dear little sproutling. You've been on the run for how long, and you haven't realized? Your pursuers are resourceful, dangerous, and they will catch up to you. In spite of his ill breeding, Diego Brando is an intelligent man, and above all else an opportunist. He knows his best chance of survival is by cooperating with you, but do you honestly believe that if he could have his slate wiped clean, he wouldn't do everything in his power to seize that envelope from you? Even if he had to… well, you know." Giovanna tilted her head towards the blood stain on the floor.

"He wouldn't…"

"You think he'll give up on his ambitions that he's been sharpening since childhood? Do away with his crude obsession with wealth and power? You think he'll forgo all of that because he… what? Because he enjoys your company?" Giovanna threw her head back and laughed, as if the notion were utterly hilarious.

Hot Pants clenched her teeth, suddenly exhausted by this conversation. She placed the fifty pound note on the counter, peering down at the frightened faces of the woman and child that were still uncertain of their safety.

“Sorry about all that,” she said, switching to French, sliding the bill closer. “Take it. For the mess on the floor.”

And your silence, she said with her eyes.

“I’m leaving,” she said to Giovanna, making her way towards the latticed double doors.

Giovanna caught H.P. by the tail of her coat. “Mr. Kite had another horse… just to let you know. Break On Through. That’s the name.”

- - -

And indeed, Hot Pants availed herself to Kite's horse. It was a black Friesian gelding, an older horse with signs of neglect: frizzy mane, underfed, with a poorly-fitted saddle. H.P. rather understood Diego's perspective, as the sight of a maltreated animal always filled her with helpless anger at the injustice.

"Humankind domesticated horses to serve us. In return for their service, we take responsibility for their care. It's wretched to see what happens to a horse at the mercy of an owner that is indifferent to even its basic needs," she said to Break On Through as she stroked his nose, ensuring he was calm before putting the bit in his mouth. He knickered pleasantly, clearly more docile in temperament than the hot-blooded stallion Diego had taken such a fancy to.

Break On Through was the easiest horse she had ridden in her life. He was not fast, but he was steady, galloping through the sleet and cold without complaint.

The cobblestones taking her out of the village led into a muddy path, and the muddy path gradually became overtaken by tall grasses.

The icy wind pelted her face as she rode. Hot Pants squinted at the vanishing road, eyes stinging with tears. With surgical precision, Giovanna's words had cut into the secret insecurity that had been festering in her heart since the beginning, and the noxious thoughts stabbed her like a thousand needles.

It would be fitting, though. For the one I’ve bared my soul to, whispered so many secrets to… with the sin I have committed, would his betrayal not be a cruel irony that I wholly deserve?

The violet sky was darkening to indigo, and she still could not find him. She thought of making camp wherever she could find shelter, but when she caught sight of a plume of smoke in the distance, hoof-trodden grass leading to an abandoned barn, she had a good feeling he was there.

Indeed, as H.P. slowly creaked open the barn door, Diego was hunched over some burning scraps of rubbish to stay warm. He sat on an overturned crate, dejected, stoking the flames with a long stick. H.P. realized Diego had spread his own coat over the horse, and he was shivering.

Wordlessly, he stood up to help H.P. with Break On Through. After removing the saddle and tack, the two of them filtered their fingers through his mane to detangle as much as they could without a brush. Diego ran a hand along the horse’s flank, then abdomen, feeling his emaciation.

“That Kite bastard…” he growled.

Hot Pants produced an apple from the rucksack and held it out to Break On Through. The horse eagerly ate it from her hand, his tongue dripping saliva onto her. H.P. wiped her hand off and smiled as the horse nudged her affectionately with his big head.

Diego cleared his throat. “Hey, uh…”

H.P. turned around to look at him. His wet bangs clung to his forehead, obscuring his eyes. Pausing to search for the proper words, he frowned, kicking some hay with his boot.

“Sorry you had to see all that. Didn’t mean to frighten you so. I know it might’ve… reminded you of things from your, uhm… from your past…”

“Never mind that,” H.P. cut him off, squeezing his shoulder and offering a gentle, fleeting smile.

Diego exhaled in clear relief. He’d apparently been more troubled over this than H.P. initially thought…

She bit her lip, then continued speaking. “I do have a question, though. It’s a very important matter. If, say, I had a… a piece of paper, signed by the Pope…”

As she spoke, she brushed his wayward bangs out of his face, revealing a shimmering island oasis in his eyes. At meeting her stare, his lower lip began to quiver and he blinked, staring upwards in defiance of the tears threatening to fall. The beauty of his vulnerability struck her, and she no longer cared to hear an immediate answer. She did not wish to hear ugly lies or bitter truths. Not tonight. Another day.

“You’ve been… crying?” she whispered.

“You, too.” he whispered back.

“It was the wind.”

Diego chuckled mirthlessly. “Likewise.”

She placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled his face inches within hers. Her gaze lingered on those pretty eyes a moment longer, and then without any forewarning, she drew even closer, muffling his gasp with her lips.

Her kiss was a silent confession in the dark, a radiant sin warming their frozen lips. Diego meshed his hands in her hair at first, gradually moving down to her waist, locking them both in a tight embrace. Within the courtyard of his arms, all the chaos and uncertainty of the outside world melted away and she no longer felt the numbness in her toes, nor did she hear the sleet pounding on the tin roof.

Old, dormant emotions stirred. Happiness blossomed within her bosom. She was free and made of light, her heart filling with the compassion he gave her, all of the love she'd strictly forbidden herself from receiving for over a decade.

Yet she was only allowed to feel alive for one blissful minute, until the voice of a dead child whispered in her ear,

You don't deserve this happiness.

Abruptly, she pulled away. The weight returned all at once; the unbearable burden of her guilt seized her breath and she could not even speak, could give no excuse. The world was cold and gray and wet again. She turned from Dio’s longing stare, from his expectant lips, ashamed that she’d stung him, teased his feelings with this momentary lapse of self-restraint.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

Diego caressed her unresponsive cheek, then broke the chilly tension with a grunt. "It's... fine. I understand. You still have your vows..."

"It's not about that. No... not my vows to the Church." Hot Pants said bitterly. "I am fond of you, Dio. I say this with unrepentant sincerity, even when such designs are hardly becoming of a consecrated nun. But I… cannot act upon these thoughts."

For I have not yet suffered enough. Not nearly enough.

Chapter Text

Riding northbound, Diego and Hot Pants departed towards the port city of Le Havre. Flush with cash from Hiram Kite's pocketbook, they had their horses fitted with new shoes, saddles and tack, and of course replenished their own supply of canned food and coffee. This hardly put a dent in their funds, but Hot Pants quickly assumed the role of a strict purser and disallowed any unnecessary spending, much to Diego's vexation.

Each time they dismounted for the evening to set up camp, the two of them would survey the perimeter before setting down. Marked with wariness from past experiences, they always expected some nefarious individual to spring from the tree canopies, to crawl from the bushes, to sidle out from a dark alleyway and unleash some new and terrifying ability on them.

Yet, their journey was remarkably uneventful. It appeared they had thrown off their pursuers for the time being.

"Or they're simply biding their time as they watch us from afar, waiting for the best moment to strike," said Hot Pants, not glancing up from her book as she read by the campfire.

"Cor, they could've got me a minute ago when I was squatting by the tree, having a rough time of it. I was in a right weakened state. Thought it'd never pass out of my intestines."

"It's because of all the stones you swallow."

"Gastroliths. I've told you about this, Hot Pants."

"Yes. Many times." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Diego caught the hint of a smile, but it was gone just as quickly.

He crouched beside her, watching her in silence as she read. She was squinting at the pages, bringing the book closer to her face.

"They say it's bad for your eyes to read in dim light," Diego said.

"Mm. So I've heard," H.P. said distantly, turning the page.

Diego sighed, unlacing his boots. Reticent as always. Though he couldn't stand a clap-trap that prattled on about the weather and the latest fashions and all that bosh, he rather enjoyed when H.P. was in a talkative mood. He supposed he couldn't force it; from his experience, that only seemed to make her lips tighten even more.

Yet as the fire began to wither away, twigs warping and snapping, Hot Pants's eyes stopped moving across the page.

"That kiss… it wasn't your first, was it?" she asked, completely unprompted.

Diego raised an eyebrow at H.P.'s question.

"Nah." He finished untying his boots and then pulled them off. Right boot first, then the left. "Was it yours?"

She didn't respond.

Diego crouched right beside her face, wearing an impish smirk. He grabbed the book from her hand and stuffed it in the rucksack, still keeping his face close to hers. "Heh. You don’t have to answer. I could feel it in your tongue."

In a slow and deliberate manner, Diego licked his lips.

Hot Pants pushed his face away. "What a vulgar thing to say."

"Not saying it was bad, mind. Better’n my first, least."

"Tell me about your first," Hot Pants said, kicking some dirt onto the last of the fire. She laid down in the bedroll again and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

"Oh, that was a while ago. I was… hmm, let’s see. Twelve, if’m not mistaken.

You may recall I mentioned before that I’d briefly worked for the Joestars, but after Nicholas died in that accident, they sailed back to America. I was out of work, but not for long; George Joestar’s recommendation soon got me in the graces of Lord Nightingale – another big-shot horse owner, and I was hired as a stable hand. Now, he had a daughter, about the same age as me. Her name was Nerissa."

As he spoke, Diego nestled himself beside her, stealing some of the blanket.

"Do you remember what she looked like?" H.P. asked.

Diego sighed as the memory stirred, a warm spring breeze with the scent of plum blossoms and fresh hay and thoroughbreds. "She had brown hair, always done in them spiral ringlets that bounced up and down as she rode. She was… a little plump, well, perhaps more than a little, but I liked how soft her arms were. Pretty smile. Long eyelashes. Rather fancied her, I did."

"Ah, the innocence of young love, not yet chained by the mores of upper class society…"

"Oh, you think I didn’t know it was wrong, just ‘cause we were children? Nah… I knew it wouldn’t fadge. I was well aware I wasn’t worthy to lick her boots, far as they were concerned. But I fancied her all the same. Couldn't help it.

We spent some time in each other's company. Her father would have me take Nerissa out on her horse, teach her to ride. Alone. Alone! Imagine that.

Now, you’re a bit… heh, unsophisticated, so let me tell you something about how genteel ladies in England are bred. A proper lady, if she were seen accompanied by a man that's not a relative or on a very small list of approved acquaintances… that would cause a devastating scandal.

Maybe it’s ‘cause we were still considered children, or maybe it’s ‘cause I was so low I was invisible to them, but we were allowed to spend a lot of time alone. Not that we had any untoward conversations, mind. Most of it was her prattling on about piano lessons, her little dog, her friends... I didn't talk much; more listened, with the occasional ‘ah-huh’ or ‘I see’. What of interest could a dirty working boy say to her? She was untouchable to me. But I was sweet for her, so I didn't mind listening."

"Did she return those feelings?"

"I fear she was more fond of the attention I gave. But we’ll get to that later. So, Nerissa had this dog, right? A Papillon. One of those tiny little rat-dogs with the big fluffy ears. She loved that stupid dog more than life itself. Always wanted to take him out with her, even when I warned her it’d spook the horse. One day, the little doggy started yapping and running around the horse's legs. The horse was startled, and threw Nerissa off as she was dismounting. She fell on her ankle badly. Couldn't walk."

"Did you carry her back to the mansion in a gallant fashion?"

"Ha! Would if I could, but as said before, she was rather heavy, and I was rather small. I couldn't manage to lift her onto her horse, neither. I said to her, I'll run back and get help, but oddly enough, she wanted me to stay. And I did. But her ankle was swelling up awfully large, the size of a cricket ball; I had to do something, else her father would be angry that I kept her out this late, with injury, no less.

I used my natural affinity to get that horse to lay down on his belly, so Nerissa could crawl on his back. That way, I could lead the horse to the estate with her atop it. Fortunately he was a gelding, and rather mild in countenance, and he listened to me.

The girl was so impressed by this, though, that she said I was allowed to kiss her if I’d like.

So… I did. Right on the lips, as I'd seen others do before."

Hot Pants shifted her position slightly, turning on her side so that she could balance her head on her arm. "How did it feel?" she asked.

"Like nothing," Diego admitted. "It felt more like payment for a service than out of any genuine affection. I felt… nothing from it. Except a touch of shame. 'Cause I really liked her, but knew at that point she was playing my heart."

"Did it sting?"

"Sure, it smarted, but not as much as what would come later. Now, I forgot the details entirely, but something I said, or… perhaps something I didn't say after the kiss, she took great offense to, and she regarded me coldly for the ride. When we reached the estate, she was whisked away to have her ankle treated, and I thought that'd be the end of it.

But later that day, one of the older servants accosted me. His face was red as a tomato. He was on the rampage, stomping his feet and blustering 'Oi, Brando! Lord Nightingale says he’ll murder your arse. You wicked boy, you! How could you do such a thing to his daughter?!'"

Here, Diego had changed his accent to a ridiculous parody of an elderly scouser, which Hot Pants apparently found quite amusing. Diego watched her face, energized at the way she lit up with laughter from his storytelling.

"I asked him what the devil he was on about. He was positively apoplectic! I thought his heart would give out then and there. He said, 'To force a kiss on an injured girl… oh, that's the lowest! You fiend! You churl! You knave! You ought to be ashamed!'"

Abruptly, H.P. stopped laughing.

"She lied about the kiss, then?! What a rotten little girl!" she spat, surprising even Diego with the intensity of her anger.

"Oh, I was hurt by her betrayal, I was livid beyond comprehension, but more than anything I was frightened for my life! I knew I was in so much danger, I'd be lucky if all I lost were my job!

I hid on the roof tiles so’s they couldn't punish me, and that night I crept out of hiding and climbed through her bedroom window. I grabbed her and put a hand on her mouth so she couldn’t scream.

I said to her, 'That wasn’t sporting, you saucy moll. Tell your father you were spinning a yarn. Tell him it was only a jest. If you don't, I'll roast your precious dog in the oven.' And I was serious. My heart was broken and I was spiteful enough to do it."

"Now I regret feeling sorry for you...!"

"What else was I supposed to do?! Anywho, given you’re clearly more concerned about the dog than the fate of that poor stable boy…"

Hot Pants erupted into laughter again.

"I know you made it out alive, else you wouldn’t be here to tell the story! What happened to the dog?!"

"Alright, alright, I won't leave you in suspense. I didn't have to kill her dog. 'Cause she came clean to her father about the lie, and I kept my job and my life. The end. Never did trust rich girls after that."

"You've never trusted rich people to begin with. Or… anyone at all, really," she said. In the dark, Diego could see the moon reflected in her eyes.

"Listen, listen. In my callow youth, I made exceptions for pretty faces."

"Hah… wonder how you ever made an exception for me. Not that I care much, but I know I’m not a pretty face. ‘What a Plain View!’ the boys sitting on the fence always hollered as I went by, as if it were the funniest thing…"

Diego frowned, gently brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. She took a sharp inhale of breath at his touch, eliciting another smirk from him. "Hmph. Doesn’t matter what some hick from your podunk town thinks. Yours is the only face I find worth looking at, these days…"

Diego could smell the seawater well before they entered the city proper. He'd known in an abstract sense that he had been to Le Havre before, of course, well over a month ago, but it was simply another dot on the map until that salty air hit his nostrils. His memories of his frantic escape from the ship were not encoded in words or pictures to be recalled on command, but in the primal language of scents and vibrations that formed a web of associations he could not easily describe in human terms. The seawater made him recall the scent of the captain's blood all over him as he dashed through the alleys, overwhelmed by the sunlight stabbing his eyes, the inescapable cacophony of sound too multidimensional for him to process all at once. He'd since grown accustomed to filtering out excessive stimuli when he had no need for it; only his dinosaur brain was able to handle that barrage of sensory information in an efficient way, after all.

Though it felt like a miracle that they had not run into any enemies in their entire journey to Le Havre, neither of them dared comment on it. Diego was not superstitious, but he did not want to curse their good fortune by mentioning it out loud. No jockey would brag about the winning streak of the horse he was taking to the gate unless he wanted to throw the race. It was common sense.

Booking passage for two across the English Channel to Southampton proved easy enough; getting their horses to cooperate was another story. Changeling especially required a lot of coaxing simply to cross the gangway, though once he was down in the cargo hold with Break On Through, the two horses had some small comfort in each other's company. He'd known some prized racehorses, intact thoroughbred stallions, that were too spirited to get along with other stallions in the stable. But they often found lifelong companionship when stabled with geldings. Break On Through and Changeling seemed to have such a partnership, and it warmed Diego's heart to see.

"Being on unstable ground, all this bobbing and rocking, that's what spooks them so," Diego said, brushing the Lipizzaner's pearly mane.

"We'll be on land soon enough." Hot Pants said, feeding a carrot to each horse. "The attendant said the trip will take four hours at most."

A chipper voice from behind some shipping crates piped up. "Customs'll take longer'n that, I reckon!"

Diego and Hot Pants looked at each other, then towards the cargo, then at each other again.

At the silent count of three, they rushed towards the stacked cluster of shipping crates, H.P. approaching it from the front with Diego flanking it from the rear.

The crates had been arranged to form a makeshift corner room against the hull, and seated in the center in an opening no larger than five square feet was a young boy, his scruffy red curls flattened by a cap. His hands, clad in patchwork gloves, held a copy of The Observer.

"Halloa," the boy said.

Diego exhaled, dropping the tension from his shoulders. "You’re chatty for a stowaway," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be hiding?"

"It gets boring," the child replied simply. "And the two of you talk like you’ve got secrets of your own. I know you won’t snitch."

A large headline from the broadsheet caught Diego's attention.

ANOTHER GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST END. WOMAN FOUND IN OGRE STREET SHOP WINDOW MUTILATED BEYOND RECOGNITION.

"Give me that," he said, attempting to snatch the newspaper from the boy's hands. The boy held on fast, though.

"Oi, you want my paper, do ya? That'll be a shilling!"

"A shilling!" Diego shouted incredulously, knocking the boy’s cap off. "A shilling! For last week's paper? The lad's touched in the head! It's two pennies at the newsstand!"

"It's called supply and demand; a basic economic principle. Surely you’re not trying to suppress the growth of a free market economy with your cabalistic notion of fixed pricing? It's a tuppence at the newsstand, but you’d be pressed to find a newsstand on a ferry."

"Such an enterprising young man…" remarked Hot Pants, mildly impressed. "Here's a sixpence."

The boy immediately released his grip on the newspaper. "That'll do, sir! That’ll do! Thank ye kindly!" he chirped.

"Don't encourage him… he only sees you as a mark," Diego grumbled, smoothing out the page. "So, Jack the Ripper's at it again, eh? What a piece of work…"

He sat on a chest, crossing his leg as he skimmed the article. Wretched murders. He'd read about the Irish girl from a few weeks ago, her mutilated corpse laying in her bloodied bedsheets at 13 Miller's Court, organs cut out and strewn around her body like some disgusting avant-garde piece. This time, it was a prostitute, gashes all over her body, face sliced clean off, propped up on display in an abandoned dress shop window. The passers-by had initially thought she was a gruesome mannequin, a ghastly decoration from a prankster.

Diego repeated the important parts to Hot Pants as he read.

"Listen to this. When they did the post-mortem, they found a snuffbox lodged into her, uh…" he glanced at the boy, then at Hot Pants. "Orifice."

The boy piped up again, puffing out his scrawny chest. "Don’t hold back on account of my ears. I've read the article twice now. I'm nine and a half, but I’m mature for me age!"

"Shut yer gob." He turned back to Hot Pants. "Inside the snuffbox, there was a square of paper, folded up real tiny. And… on that paper was a limerick, written by her killer. Gives me the colly-wobbles to think about."

"Was the poem good?"

Diego couldn't help but laugh at the fact that she was asking about that. "He– well, he's no Shakespeare. But it rhymes at least." he cleared his throat and began to read.

"If you've been to the baths on George Street

You'll know where I found Sarah Wheat.

I cleaned up her face

Wormy bits I replaced

And now she's a shop window sweet!"

"No…" said Hot Pants, shaking her head. "That's no good at all. There's no punch at the end, it's just tawdry and obscene."

Diego waved a hand in mock indignation. "The man is cutting up women in the East End and you're fixated on his poetry. Hah! Oh, look… here's another. This one they found on the last victim:

A maid had my bantling in Devvy

Her dowry a cheap shant of bevvy

No blood I could spill

For the thrill of the kill

Was stolen from me by the…"

Diego's voice gradually slowed, faltering as he read the last line. The last word he could only speak as a whisper.

"Tavy."

He set the paper down, rubbing his eyes.

"I didn't understand half of that," H.P. said. She was too perceptive of his usual idiosyncrasies to have not taken notice of his discomfort, but Diego was monumentally grateful that she had the sense not to draw any attention to it.

"Devvy… I think he means Devonshire. A bantling is a bastard. Bevvy, that's beer, or– or it could be any drink, really, but I think he means beer… and the Tavy, that's the name of a river. The River Tavy. In, uh. In Devonshire." He tried to speak with the crisp impassivity of a dictionary, but his thoughts were a mess, and he stumbled on his words.

H.P. placed a hand on his shoulder. He barely felt it.

"I think we ought to get some fresh air above deck," she said, but her voice sounded so far away, as though she were underwater.

He could only nod, numbly allowing himself to be led up the stairs and across the deck like an invalid. They moved past the other passengers and sat upon a secluded bench on the starboard side of the boat.

"The details in that poem…" Diego stared out at the choppy water, drawing his arms over his chest. He felt sick to his stomach. He found he didn't have enough breath to speak, and so he couldn't complete his sentence.

Hot Pants offered some much-needed help. "As I understand it… you were born in a small village in the county of Devonshire…"

Diego nodded, burying his face in his hands. "Aye. Near Dartmoor Prison. Surrounded by moorland and farmland and inescapable poverty on all sides. The River Tavy, well… that's where me mum and I nearly drowned when I was a baby. That's what she told me. She told me it was the Tavy."

"But you didn't drown, while the author of this poem suggests the mother and infant perished."

"That man left us to die. He must've… he must've thought we was taken by the Tavy. Don't think he even knows I'm alive."

"Dio… do you think that a limerick alone is proof that your father is…"

"Don't say it. Don't say it out loud. You'll curse it to come true if it's spoken plainly," he growled. "It's not proof of nothing. It's not even a hypothesis, but it's a… a… bloody hell. It means that there's a chance of it. A sliver of a chance. A greater than zero percent chance."

"Well…" H.P. glanced at the article again. "It looks as though the police have a cornucopia of suspects, and none have the name ‘Dario.’ I'm sure you could say that hundreds of thousands of people have a greater than zero percent chance of being the Ripper. Could even be my father."

Diego stared at her blankly. "Isn't he in California?"

H.P. shrugged. "Haven't heard from him in… nearly ten years. I've no clue what he's up to. How do I know he didn't make his way to Devonshire to comport himself in an ungentlemanly way for a shant of ah, bevvy?"

"Your story doesn't hold water. Why the deuce would anyone choose to go there?"

They both laughed, and Diego felt the ballast of dread lifting from his heart. He took H.P.'s hand and placed it in his lap. She laced her fingers between his, and they sat in silence. The sounds of the sea became familiar after a while, and he became aware that the crew were shouting reports and commands at each other in English. After all, the steamboat was a Royal Mail Service vessel, and it’d make sense that they’d speak English. There was some comfort to hearing his own language again after more than a month of all that French babble. And though he did not feel some grand sense of homecoming as he squinted through the mists, seeing the colossal smokestacks of ocean liners gathering at the port of Southampton, he felt an odd combination of hope and trepidation. His entire soul ached to kill Dario, and he'd fantasized killing him a thousand times with his own hands, his human hands, but he realized in this moment that he'd not thought about what he'd do after he'd satisfied that need for revenge. The diamonds… the diamonds… of course he'd thought about the diamonds, but the more time he spent with Hot Pants, the less certain he was that he needed to be obscenely wealthy at the expense of losing her companionship forever.

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were half-closed, as she was in that twilight slumber, not fully asleep but not awake either.

"Hey…" he murmured, in a voice low enough so as not to wake her. "Doesn't matter if I have more money than a Spanish treasure fleet when I sell the diamonds. There’s a lot I don’t know about my future, but what I do know is that no matter how many mansions I own by the sea, no matter how many prizewinning horses… if it’s a life without you, Hazel Plainview, I’ll never be rich."

Chapter Text

Disembarking at Southampton proved far too much of a hassle. Due to a nasty typhus outbreak, customs was unreasonably backlogged with a long queue of ships gathered at the harbor. The Captain made the decision to travel further east to alight at Brighton, issuing rail vouchers to Southampton upon request. Time was money, indeed.

Hot Pants knew nothing of Brighton, but Diego was all too eager to fill her in, finally acting as the tour guide.

“I've never been there, myself, but Brighton’s where the middle-class day trippers go on holiday. The beach is adequate, but I could name five others that are cleaner and less infested by insufferable arses and snotty kids.”

The customs office at the port of call required a health inspector to examine each passenger's head for lice. With a pencil and comb, he poked around their scalps.

"You've got lice, both of ye," he said. "You'll have to be de-loused before we can let you go. Just wait in the queue over at that counter, and the nurse will take care of you."

Hot Pants placed a coin on top of his clipboard. "Perhaps you could take another look?"

The man furrowed his brow, not looking up from his paper. "Re-inspection would cost a crown, at least."

Hot Pants sighed. She rummaged in her pocket for another half-crown and set it on his board.

With a grin and a flourish, the inspector crossed out a line and scribbled some extra marks on the paper. "You're all clear. Welcome to Brighton!"

Coaxing their horses back on to solid ground proved to be an ordeal, and they still weren't in any state for riding. The sea journey had left the horses in an odd state, and Diego and Hot Pants made the decision to spend the night in Brighton before heading to London.

And, they needed to take care of this lice problem.

After finding proper boarding for their horses, they checked into a dingy (but thankfully clean) hotel room. H.P. eyed with some suspicion the two bottles Diego had purchased and brought with him. Kerosene and surgical spirit.

"We could shave our heads instead," H.P. suggested.

"You might be fine with looking like a monk, but I'm not!" he said, pouring the two bottles into a bowl, his wild hair making him look like a mad scientist concocting some bizarre creation. "Trust me. I've gotten rid of nits and lice plenty of times."

They took turns using the single washbasin, scrubbing each other's scalps with the foul-smelling mixture, and rinsing until they could see no more visible traces of the tiny bugs.

"Once our hair dries, we'll have to wash again, make sure we kill any eggs that survived," Diego said.

Hot Pants stuck her head out the window, breathing in the crisp air to escape the smell of oil and ethanol.

"Oi, get back here; you'll catch your death with your hair still wet!" Diego teased, changing his voice to sound like an old lady.

"Shh, listen… I think that's a calliope."

The window was overlooking the pleasure pier, that enormous wooden scaffolding over the beach. The organ was playing a jaunty carousel tune, steam pushing music through its pipes.

"Why don't we have a stroll along the pier?" Diego suggested, slapping H.P. on the back.

She whirled around. "And do… what, exactly?"

Diego shrugged. "Stroll. Eat ice cream. Go to the arcade. It's fun, Hot Pants. Do you know what fun is?"

H.P. looked out the window again, avoiding his eyes. "It would be a frivolous waste of our money, and our time."

"Time? We've got plenty of that; our horses aren't going anywhere and we've got this room for the night. Come on. Let's go to the amusement arcade. Truth be told, I've never been to one, either."

Hot Pants still did not dare look him in the eye, out of fear he just might be able to convince her. "If you'd like to go by yourself, I won't stop you. Try not to spend more than a pound."

"Nah, you're the one needs it more than me."

Hot Pants spun around to face him again. "Why would I ever fritter money away on such a childish diversion?"

Diego simply laughed. "That's exactly why you need it. I've started to figure you out. I know why you act as if you've got a stick up your arse. It's 'cause you've got this asinine need to feel so bloody miserable all the time. Even smiling or laughing is too sinful for you to bear." He rested his elbow on the windowsill, drawing his face closer. His voice became low, a playful hum. "And it's the reason why you pulled away from me that night instead of letting yourself finish the kiss…"

Hot Pants felt the heat rising to her face. To deny it would be a lie, but to acknowledge it would be even worse.

"You've… never been to an arcade, either?" she asked, awkwardly trying to redirect the conversation.

"As a young boy, I was too poor. As I got older… didn't have much free time between races and training and appearances. Still wanted to go. Once, I thought I'd stop by the Winchester in London on a day off, but I realized all of the notes in my pocketbook were too large to be exchanged for pennies. I was too rich!"

Hot Pants covered her mouth to suppress a laugh, but seeing Diego immediately smirk at the way she'd proven his point annoyed her profoundly.

She threw her hands up and walked away from the window, taking her coat from the hook and pulling her arms through the sleeves. "Alright. I yield. We'll go to the arcade."

"Unless you'd prefer to finish what we started, that night we kissed…"

"Arcade. Sounds like a smashing time. Let's go."

They walked along the pier, the sea air scented with powdered sugar and fried dough. The golden light of the sunset reflected on the water, a shimmering glob of melted butter. Even in the winter, music played and children laughed, though only a few were brave enough to bathe in the cold water.

"We ought to get ice cream, after," Diego said. "Have you ever had ice cream?"

H.P. shook her head. "Is it like eating snow, but with sugar?"

"Not at all. It's creamy and smooth and delicious. You've got to try it. Even if it's only once. You've got to know what it's like."

They stopped at a colorful painted sign hanging above an enclosed pavilion. Written ornate gold letters against a turquoise background were the words:

ELFMAN'S PARLOR OF AMUSEMENTS

There was nothing at all to indicate who this Elfman was or what kind of amusements one might find within his "parlor", but the façade was rather cheerful in a garish, faux-rococo way, plaster turrets with conical roofs painted pink and white like a fairy tale castle. It was exactly the sort of place a child would be enthralled by.

She stole a glimpse at Diego's face, staring up at the “castle” and the amusements within. His grin was radiant, ear to ear. Not a trace of his usual sardonic, smug energy. He was alive, exuding pure, undistilled boyish wonder. Through the open doors, they could see rows of coin-operated machines, games of luck and skill, kinetoscopes with moving pictures, mechanical dioramas, the overlapping melodies of the oversized music boxes playing different tunes, a half–penny for a few minutes. It was like a coin-op carnival.

Diego, she found, was someone that had never quite grown up, in more ways than one. Often self-centered, deliberately obtuse wherever the feelings of others were concerned, and he seemed to categorize just about everyone as either an enemy to be eliminated, or a mark to be manipulated. With the sole exception of her, for some reason (and of course his late mother, permanently canonized in his memory as an angel incapable of any wrongdoing). Though he’d grown up to be dangerously smart and cunning, he had the same binary perspective that he’d adopted as an abused, embittered child to protect himself from the world that had hurt him so badly, still reacting to any stranger with fear-borne aggression like the street urchin he used to be.

But there was so much more to him than that. When he wasn’t making mean-spirited quips, his sense of humor was goofy and endearing. He purposely walked through puddles to splash the water all over. The way he talked about horses, so happy to be around a horse, any horse, no matter the breed or the age or the ability. The way he showed off, doing tricks on horseback just to impress her… Hot Pants sometimes envied that boyish wonder he still kept within his heart. She felt she’d all but lost that ability to feel unadulterated joy, scrubbed away through her self-imposed deprivation that Diego had denounced a half hour ago.

Yet she hadn’t denied her heart of all happiness; sometimes it was impossible not to be happy when she was with Diego. Even the gray winter was full of life and color whenever he got excited about something mundane. For someone that claimed to despise the world, he seemed to experience joy just as vividly as he did pain, and that joy was admittedly infectious, especially now.

As they walked in, Diego sheepishly pointed out a kinetoscope, tall as a pulpit, with a step stool to reach its viewing window. The arched display had three silhouetted nuns in prayer painted against a scarlet background, advertising that "THE SISTERS OF CHASTITY – MORTIFICATION OF THE FLESH" may be viewed twice for 1p.

"Somehow, I have the feeling these Sisters are anything but chaste…" H.P. said, inserting a penny into the slot out of sheer curiosity. She peered down the view window, face pressed against the cold bronze frame. She turned the hand crank, and the hundreds of monochrome still photographs flipped into motion to create the illusion of animation. The three "Sisters" were indeed wearing nun's habits, but the youngest sister was pressed against a choir stall while another held up her skirts, exposing her frilly white drawers. The third sister, with a riding crop, gave the vulnerable girl's bottom a few whacks, though H.P. found it amusing that there didn't appear to be much force behind her beatings, and the girl's silent screams looked to be more out of pleasure than pain. It was incredibly blasphemous, but also hilarious, and when she reached the end of the flipbook she turned the wheel to watch it in reverse. There was a good click as it reached the beginning again, and she stepped aside to let Diego have his turn.

Diego started laughing like a hyena just a few seconds into his peep show. "Is this – is this the sort of thing you did at the convent?"

"Well, the beating of young initiates is accurate, but it seems she's having quite a lot more fun with it than I did when I was at the receiving end," she admitted.

"Come now, I've got a riding crop you can borrow if you'd like to play out your revenge!"

Hot Pants kicked the back of his ankles repeatedly, but at this Diego cried out "Yes! O yes, Sister of Chastity, punish me for my sins!"

Both of them were laughing and making a great deal of noise, which went ignored by the shabbier clientele, but caught the judgmental stares of a few "respectable" ladies and the gentlemen on their arms.

"We're causing a spectacle," H.P. hissed between her own bursts of laughter. "People are looking at us."

"Right. Right. Let's cool off before the nobs call us ill-bred."

But as soon as he resumed his viewing pleasure, he lost his mind and doubled over with guffaws again. "Sisters of Chastity… hah…!"

He reached the end of the moving picture and stepped back from the kinetoscope. "Well, H.P., I feel as if I've gained some valuable insight into your way of life," he said, which earned him a playful, yet surprisingly forceful jab in the side from her elbow.

There were many other attractions to be enjoyed, one of which was a spring-loaded bagatelle table that dispensed six wooden balls for a penny. The player could pull back on the wooden plunger and release it to launch a ball into the upright maze of wooden pins, where by chance of its trajectory it might manage to fall into a hole. Diego and Hot Pants took turns, managing to sink three out of six balls between the two of them and winning three red tickets.

"I suppose we can exchange these for prizes or somesuch," Diego said, gesturing over to the counter where toys and sundries were offered in exchange for tickets. Most of them were nominal kids' prizes, like cloth dolls, candies, and playing cards, but the jewel of the keep was a "mystery watch" – one of those tricky watches with a completely glass, transparent face and inner casing, making it appear as if the hands were moving on their own, without clockwork. Hot Pants saw the sparkle of hunger in his eyes as he stared at the contraption; though it wasn't Swiss, it was still a well-crafted and expensive enough bauble to attract his magpie greed.

It was offered up for a whopping one thousand tickets, far more, it seemed, than what any normal person could earn without spending more of their capital in pennies than what the watch itself was worth. However, it would be difficult to simply find it in a shop or catalogue. Mystery watches had fallen out of vogue several years ago, and H.P. would bet that it had been gathering dust in that display for exactly that long, as a prize to be dangled as incentive, never meant to be earned.

"Your wristwatch broke some months ago, didn't it?" she asked.

Diego nodded. "Shattered into pieces. That Sandman wanted to show off his ability, at the expense of my £25 watch."

"I hope we can earn enough tickets to get your new watch, then," she said.

Diego cocked his head to the side. "Eh..?"

"You like the watch behind the display, yes?"

"I do, but… you… want to give… me…" Diego was stammering for some reason.

"Are you not accustomed to being showered with gifts, Mister Famous Jockey?"

Diego crossed his arms, eyeing her with suspicion. "Not the same. Not the same at all. You're different. If you wanted to get me a gift, you'd do it for pure function and necessity. A cheap and reliable Ingersoll watch for £1. Not something so… beautiful and impractical. You aren't a flatterer. And why would you need to flatter me when I'm already so… y'know…" he trailed off, having fumbled his interrogation terribly.

Hot Pants shrugged.

"If you wanted cheap and practical, you'd have replaced it by now. And you needn't act so flustered yet; we still need to win, ah…" she looked down at the three measly tickets in her hand. "Nine hundred and ninety-seven more tickets before this place closes for the day."

Completing such a task seemed impossible, but H.P. felt a strange kind of hopefulness, that blind resolve one could only get when they set their heart to impossible tasks. She wanted to see the look on his face when he held the watch in his hands. That was all. She wanted to see him grin like a doofy child with a pile of candy again.

Diego immediately amplified his own energy at the whiff of a challenge. "Ha! Let's give it a crack!"

He was never one to settle for the possible, after all. Why should she?

They only had about three hours before the venue closed for the night, and they immediately began to strategize. They exchanged an entire sovereign at the counter, overloading their pockets with pennies.

Bagatelle was soon ruled out for being too unpredictable, even when they cheated by tilting the machine. There were fruit machines and roulette games, but they were heavily rigged in favor of the house, and even the occasional win did not provide satisfactory reward. The shooting gallery proved to be the most reliable, as both were fair shots, but they found the games very time-consuming.

After an hour, they reconvened and counted their tickets. 37 between the two of them. Enough for a deck of playing cards, but nowhere near enough for the watch. Their early enthusiasm was beginning to wane as they came to the cold realization that there was no way they would win 963 tickets in two hours.

"Least, we can't win that many through legitimate means…" Diego said, leaning against a fortune-telling machine. Suddenly, the machine whirred to life, the clockwork within apparently turning on its own without the use of the handle on the side.

"Huh. Strange. A coin must’ve been jammed in the slot…” Diego said, backing away from the machine.

"Weird Science! Predictions are 100% accurate!" Hot Pants read the sign out loud. She narrowed her eyes, watching the hand-crank continue to spin on its own accord. It was an oddity for a coin-op machine to be fully automatic, especially when it did not appear to be connected to any electrical wires, but she imagined there could be a hidden battery within its casing. These machines were getting more and more advanced; their inner workings may as well be magic as far as she was concerned.

Eventually, the machine dispensed a single notecard from its slot. Diego and H.P. both reached for the card at the same time, but Diego got to it faster. H.P. peered over his shoulder. Printed in blue ink was their fortune, the card decorated with planetary symbols to give it an esoteric motif.

“Lucky Numbers: 001, 044.”

“Those are our…” H.P. placed a hand on the cabinet, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Registration numbers from the Steel Ball Run,” Diego finished her sentence.

She remembered. These were the numbers that Silver Bullet and Gets Up wore during the race.

“What a strange coincidence…” H.P. said.

“Coincidence? I don’t trust coincidence.” Diego put a penny in the slot and began to turn the crank. The machinery whirred again, and it dispensed another card.

“According to my calculations, you’ll find what you’re looking for (and quite a lot more!) on Ogre Street.”

“Ogre Street?” Hot Pants asked.

“Real crummy place in the East End of London. Not even the coppers set foot there. Don’t know what this glorified rubbish bin thinks I’ll find in Ogre–”

Then, his jaw hung open as he remembered. “Jack the Ripper. They found the body of one of the victims on Ogre Street. What the deuce are you playing at?!”

His hand curled into a fist, crumpling the fortune card. He delivered several vicious blows to the brass top of the machine. As if in response, the gears within began to whir again, the hand-crank turning on its own.

H.P. took the newly-printed card. “Applying such strength to the Liberty Bell machine instead will earn you a tidy sum, just in time…”

“The box of bolts is messing with us. Someone’s inside of it. I’ll bet you the rest of my pennies that it’s Merriweather Post. Oi! You in there having a laugh at my expense, eh?!” Diego banged on the Weird Science machine a few more times for good measure.

Click. Another fortune.

“Fear not; you shan’t encounter Merriweather Post for the next two weeks, but be wary of the Sticks and Scraps public house!”

Diego’s eyes were wide as saucers. He glanced towards the exit. “We’ve got to get out of here. Someone’s on to us,” he said.

The air was beginning to feel hot and stifling. Her eyes darted left and right. In a matter of minutes, all of the patrons in Elfman’s Parlor of Amusements had become potential enemies. From the merry group of dock workers in flatcaps and corduroys taking turns at the peep shows, to the lady in fox furs trying her luck at the fruit machine, not one of them was free of suspicion. And though all of the guests seemed occupied with the amusements, paying no apparent attention to the pair at all, Hot Pants felt exposed, wondering who among them knew their secrets.

They hurried out of the establishment, their brisk walk turning into a run across the pier until the spires of the “castle” were out of sight. The pennies in their pockets jangled heavily as they ran, finding a secluded spot to catch their breath.

"I don't feel good about that Weird Science machine. I don't feel good about it at all," Diego said.

Hot Pants stared out towards the evening sky, an artist's palette of pinks and oranges and purples. Sea gulls circled overhead, the setting sun lengthening and distorting their winged shadows.

"For what it's worth… the machine didn't seem, well… malicious."

"Assuming it's to be believed, it isn't affiliated with Merriweather Post either. But we don't know if it has motives of its own." His brow was furrowed so deeply his eyebrows were converging.

Hot Pants chuckled. Diego quickly spun around and glared at her, his sea-green eyes sparkling from the golden light.

"I don't mean to laugh," H.P. said quickly. "I find the situation as disturbing as you do. But there's something rather… comical, about us discussing the agenda of a mechanical device, as if it had feelings and purpose and a will of its own."

"Sure seemed to have a lot of personality when it told me off for hitting it."

Hot Pants snorted. "That wasn't a telling-off! It merely suggested that you hit a different machine! Rather politely, to boot!"

"Have – have you never punched a toff before? That's how they tell you off! 'I beg your pardon, lad. Here's a shilling; if it's not a bother, I'd prefer it if you'd thrash that bothersome Lord Botherby Botherson instead.'"

Hot Pants threw her head back and laughed. "You're – you're lying!" she exclaimed. "I imagine the exchange would be more like 'I'll have you clapped in irons and tortured with thumbscrews and your assets confiscated and your dogs killed and your family sent to the coal mines and your wife to get venereal disease from the milkman and your–'" Hot Pants clapped a hand over her mouth, stopping herself after making such an uncharacteristically vulgar joke.

But Diego – already finding her mockery of an English accent hilarious – was soon howling with uncontrollable laughter, doubling over with his hands on his knees.

"Hah…" he wheezed, as the two of them began to regain their composure. "You can be real funny when you want to be. You know that?"

Hot Pants smiled, turning out to sea and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not as funny as you."

"You're ribbing me."

"I'm completely serious."

Diego leaned against the handrail next to her, staring.

Hot Pants wondered if there would ever be a day when her heart didn't make a tiny flutter whenever he gave her that relaxed smile, eyes soft as if he were in a dream.

"It was a first-rate watch," he sighed. "I suppose it's fallen out of fashion over the years, but I don't care what high society thinks is fashionable. Mystery watch… I think I've heard how the trick works. The hands are fixed to glass plates, while the clockwork hidden in the outer casing is moving the plates, so it gives the illusion that it's moving by magic, without any gears…"

"That's quite ingenious."

"Yeah. Everything in that parlor is ingenious… would love to take apart one of those machines, look into its guts to see how it works…"

"You know, Dio… we never did humor the fortune-teller's suggestion." Hot Pants smoothed out one of the crumpled cards from Weird Science. “Applying such strength to the Liberty Bell machine instead will earn you a tidy sum, just in time.”

Diego didn't say anything. He squinted at the reflection of the descending sun over the water, lower lip parting slightly.

"Why don't we give it a try?" H.P. ventured. "One more try? We've still got time before it closes…"

Diego’s brow furrowed. "I still don't trust it. Don't trust it at all. I want us to be in one piece when we get ice cream, with or without the watch."

"We'll get ice cream later, yes, with or without the watch…" An impish grin spread across her face. "... but it'd be better with the watch, wouldn't it?"

Chapter Text

Upon their return to Elfman's Parlor of Amusements, the first thing Diego and Hot Pants did was insert another penny into the slot of the Weird Science fortune-telling machine.

The machine whirred as it dispensed another slip of cardstock. They read the printed blue text out loud, in unison:

"A stranger will soon move into your life. Do not shun him; seek to understand him, and you will make a lifelong friend."

Diego frowned. “That could apply to anyone,” he said.

For want of a second opinion, he put another coin into the slot and turned the hand-crank.

"The objective is just within your reach; now is the time to take risks and try new things."

Diego compared the printed blue letters of these two new fortunes with their previous four readings, fanning out all six cards in front of him like a hand at poker.

“These last two fortunes are stock responses,” Hot Pants said. “I've no doubt there's something peculiar about this Weird Science machine, but…”

“But it seems to have run out of peculiar responses for the time being," Diego finished. He didn't feel relieved about this, but he wasn't displeased either. He still wasn't sure how to feel about Weird Science, but he decided to put it in the back of his head for now.

They made their way to the "Liberty Bell" machine, as suggested by Weird Science. It was about the size of a shop till, with a bare resemblance to one in its general shape.

"It's a new kind of gambling machine from America. Some people call it a 'one-armed bandit' on account of its odds being fixed in your disfavor. I never understood the appeal. I'd rather lose my money at cards, if I had to gamble at anything…" Diego said. He put a coin in the slot and pulled the lever. When he released it, the three reels began to spin, stopping one at a time on the images.

Heart, spade, horseshoe.

No tickets.

Hot Pants dropped another penny in the slot and gave it a spin.

Horseshoe, horseshoe, diamond.

The machine dispensed four tickets.

"Try it again. The fortune card recommended 'applying force', right…?"

Diego already had his hand balled in a fist.

Hot Pants pulled the lever, and while the reels were spinning, Diego gave the top of the machine a good hard slam, like bringing down a hammer. The first reel immediately stopped in place. It just so happened to stop with the painted image of the liberty bell in the first window.

As the other two reels continued to spin, Diego focused on the subtle changes in their movement. He'd always had a keen eye and ear for detecting "habits" that others seemed to either overlook or not even notice at all. Yet it was this attention to detail that often gave him the edge in the races. Knowing that a particular horse would hesitate and bank if he crowded him and his rider near a muddy patch along the track, or monitoring the rhythm of his own horse's breathing to determine the ideal moment to accelerate, every horse had these "habits" just waiting to be exploited.

It was, of course, far more obvious in machines designed to have such "habits", and Diego's eyes and reaction time were far superior to any ordinary human's now that he could channel the dynamic vision of a dinosaur. With ease, he determined the trick – the reels were grooved in such a way that they would spin past the liberty bell symbol much faster if a liberty bell was already locked into the first slot, and impossibly fast if two bells were locked into place. This taste of an almost jackpot gave the player incentive to keep playing again and again, believing that surely next time they could win in spite of such carefully programmed miniscule odds.

Diego punched the machine again. Another liberty bell clicked into place. His timing for the third bell had to be even more quick and precise. When he slammed it a third time, lining up three liberty bells, a little bell within the machine rang out.

"Jackpot!" he exclaimed, and Hot Pants stared in disbelief as she turned the handle, dispensing ten, twenty, thirty, forty fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety…

"One hundred tickets!" she shouted, elated, holding the line of tickets across her shoulders as if it were a feather boa.

Diego smirked. "Just got lucky, I s'pose," he said, winking at the other patrons that had stopped to stare at them in awe and envy.

Noticing the attention they had drawn to themselves, Hot Pants's smile faded, flushing with what seemed like momentary shame at her outburst. She turned away from them, avoiding eye contact with the strangers, quickly folding up her tickets and stashing them away.

Diego tapped H.P.'s shoulder with his fist, with far more playful force than the way he'd slammed down on the slot machine. "Let's have a crack at it again, eh?"

"But…" H.P. said, lowering her voice, having seemed to have already astutely deduced the means of his success. "What if the proprietor comes out and accuses us of cheating?"

Diego instinctively glanced up. He'd caught glimpses of a shadowy figure strolling around the gallery above. They were being watched, but so were the other patrons, and it didn't bother him too much.

"Pah! I'd like to see him try to prove it! He can kick us out for any fancy, sure, but he can't have us arrested on such flimsy charges. Promise."

H.P. gave a little nod of assent, then placed another penny in the slot and pulled down the lever.

As she released it, the reels spun in much the same manner. Diego was able to time his hits with precision, and punched out another jackpot within seconds.

And another.

And another.

And another.

The jackpot bell was ringing so much that the other patrons had begun to crowd around the machine, threatening grievous bodily harm upon the two of them if they didn't allow others a go at it.

"There's another Liberty Bell machine of this same model," Diego said, gesturing down the counter. "Nothing particularly special about this one."

A teenager with pimples around his mouth wagged a finger at Diego.

"This one's broken, giving you win after win! Now, I ain't good with figures and percentages and the like, but I gather the odds of winning six times in a row are… are…"

"Impossible!" interjected another bystander. "Give us a go at this machine, or we'll be helping ourselves to your winnings after we take care of your ugly faces!"

Tensions were mounting, and more angry words exchanged, until a gentle, clear voice rose above all the arguing.

"None of my father's machines are malfunctioning. I examine every single one of them, each morning."

All eyes darted towards the source of that voice.

A boy, about ten or eleven, hopped off the front counter with cool grace, twirling a small cane custom-made for his diminutive frame. His complexion was a Levantine olive and he was immaculately dressed in a tuxedo jacket and ironed pants, dark brown hair parted neatly in the center and curling off at the sides.

Diego (and everyone else, it seemed) had been stunned into silence by the appearance of this smart little gentleman. A hush fell over the crowd.

"When you come into Elfman's Parlor of Amusements…" the boy continued, tapping the counter with his stick. "You choose which machine to play. But rarely do you consider if a machine has chosen you…"

He glanced in Diego's direction, winking as if to punctuate his last word. Diego was momentarily so put-off by his sanguine inner calm that his eyes flickered down to his feet before he could meet the youth's stare again.

"Chosen? The devil do you mean by that?"

"You were chosen by Weird Science, were you not…?" asked the boy. His eyes were enormous and nut-brown.

Infuriated at the boy answering his question with another question, and his unfaltering calm, Diego had the mind to seize him by the collar. But just as he rose, Hot Pants immediately held him back with a gentle palm on his shoulder, reading his twitchy intent in the way she always knew how.

"Why would we be chosen?" she asked the boy. "Could it perceive anything… special about us?"

Hot Pants had deftly avoided any implication that there was indeed something special about them and their abilities, but still worded her question to ask about it, indirectly.

"I wouldn't know…" the boy smiled, turning around now. "A machine can still have dreadfully poor taste… excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Carry on."

Spinning a keyring around his index finger, the boy sauntered off, disappearing through a door into the back room. For a few seconds, no one spoke, needing time to allow that bizarre encounter to settle. Diego broke the silence.

"How many tickets you got?" He asked the teen that had threatened him moments earlier.

"Fifty-one," the boy replied.

"Give it to us and I'll let you have as many spins as you'd like on this machine," he said.

Hot Pants pursed her lips at Diego, clearly finding this bit of trickery distasteful. Yet in spite of her silent objections, she stepped aside, taking the boy's tickets and adding it to their own stash.

The boy gave the lever a spin, while Diego and Hot Pants quickly set up at the other Liberty Bell machine at the opposite end of the counter. The crowd circled the boy now, all fighting for their turn at the spot Diego and H.P. abandoned.

"692 tickets…" Hot Pants said, glancing at the clock. Diego's eyes followed hers. Fifteen minutes past seven. Less than an hour until closing time. "Well, let's bang out a couple more jackpots," she said.

Diego grinned. "That's what I like to hear!"

They did indeed bang out two more jackpots, with Hot Pants suggesting they space out their wins between several losses so as not to draw attention to themselves again from the players still crowded around the "lucky" machine, baffled that they couldn't win a jackpot of their own.

Yet, with 892 tickets in hand and 108 left to gather for the grand prize, sudden disaster befell them.

The machine only dispensed thirty-five tickets for the next jackpot, and none at all on Diego's next attempt.

"It's out of tickets," H.P. said.

"Where's that tiny blighter when you need him…" Diego grumbled, looking around for the boy that apparently worked on the machines. But the boy was nowhere to be found.

"927 tickets…" Hot Pants said.

Three jealous vultures came by to circle them again, their eyes filled with a particular kind of hatred Diego recognized all too well.

"Seems our luck's run out, eh, Joe?" he said, giving H.P. a playful punch and making up a name for her on the spot.

"Yer winning less, but yer still winning, ain't you? But ten minutes ago you had a jackpot, how about that?" a man said, crossing his arms. The other two men also crossed their arms, but did not speak, allowing their trenchant eyes to articulate their threats.

"Gentlemen, please…" Hot Pants said. "I'm willing to purchase tickets from the lot of you. Two tickets for one penny."

This interruption seemed mostly unwelcome from the three goons, but when Hot Pants produced a handful of pennies and reminded them of the time by tilting her head towards the clock, a man wearing mismatched boots was the first to acquiesce, producing ten tickets. Hot Pants exchanged five pennies, and the man shoved his hands in his pockets and grumbled off. In this way they were able to procure another twenty-four tickets from the other two men, but H.P.'s enterprising idea was too little, too late; with 961 tickets and eight minutes left on the clock, they needed to cobble together 39 tickets. The ungainly teenager was still rooted to the original Liberty Bell machine. He looked like he didn't have a thimbleful of courage, and Diego briefly considered threatening him with a knife to step away from the machine, or break his nose, or the like. But he didn't want to ruin H.P.'s day by starting a fight or attract the attention of the mysterious Mr. Elfman above, so he refrained.

Diego's mind raced as he considered his other options. Games of bagatelle and shooting could earn them a few more tickets, but the games were too lengthy and they no longer had the luxury of time on their side. While Hot Pants continued bartering for tickets by the door as the other patrons filtered out, Diego made his way to the row of fortune-telling machines until he found the painted sign he was looking for.

Weird Science! Predictions are 100% accurate!

He placed a penny into the slot of Weird Science and turned the crank.

"Sorry for those blows I dealt you earlier," he said. "We… we had something special, you and I. You'd 'chosen' us and I was too pigheaded to understand." He felt immensely ridiculous, attempting to make amends with the machine he may or may not have offended, if a machine had the capacity to even feel offense, but he was desperate.

The fortune-telling machine dispensed another card, and Diego read the familiar blue ink eagerly.

"Everyone knows that it's a crime to steal! But if one just so happened to notice the cabinet was unlocked, and if one just so happened to take what was inside, is it then 'finding' or 'stealing'?"

Diego didn't give a whit about the moral question posed by the fortune. He did, however, care quite a lot about the tip, implying an unlocked cabinet was somewhere out on the parlor floor.

Each of the arcade cabinets had a simple keyhole in back. Diego knew he could easily break into any of them, and probably get away with it, but he hadn't resorted to theft yet. That was hardly sporting. Not when Hot Pants was so determined to win this prize through mostly legitimate means. Cheating the Liberty Bell machines was one thing; Diego didn't consider it wrong to cheat at a game that was designed for him to lose. Hot Pants raised no objections to it either; likely she recognized that a large amount of skill and focus went into Diego timing his punches just right, and could reconcile their exploits as the same as winning squarely at any other game of skill, like the shooting gallery. But Diego knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn't feel right if he simply stole the remainder of the tickets for the watch.

This was her gift. No matter how many tickets he'd contributed to their pool (and he knew it was most of them), he'd always consider it her gift. That the dour, stick-up-her-arse self-denying Sister of No Fun would be so determined to acquire something frivolous and beautiful for him simply because she watched him admire it behind the display, well… it touched Diego more than he cared to admit. And for that reason, and that reason alone, he found that perhaps he did give a whit about the moral question posed by the fortune, only because H.P. would give a whit.

He walked along the counters, casually brushing his hand along the rows of coin-operated machines. One machine – he wasn't sure what the game exactly was; some Old West rodeo-themed get-the-ball-in-the-hole game – had a loose panel in the back. Diego pried it open and saw first the metal hopper full of pennies, then the roll of tickets. Leaving the pennies, Diego tore off a strip of forty tickets and quickly stashed it in his pocket.

He hurried across the hall to wave at H.P., capturing her attention. She covered her mouth and began running faster when she saw him dangling the tickets in front of him like an angler with a big fish.

"Come on, come on," Diego said, urging her towards the glass counter where the boy in the tuxedo stood.

Hot Pants emptied her pockets of tickets, piling long and short strips onto the counter. A tangle of red snakes. Diego placed his tickets in the pile as well.

"Count 'em. You should find one thousand tickets there," he said, placing his hands on his hips.

"And some change," added Hot Pants.

The well-dressed young lad began counting out the tickets, whispering the numbers to himself as he ran the strips of tickets through his fingers.

After an agonizingly slow minute, the boy finished counting and nodded.

"One thousand and fifteen tickets. If I were to make a guess, I'd imagine you intended on redeeming the mystery watch?"

"But where is it?" Hot Pants asked, crouching in front of the glass display, pointing out an empty pedestal where the watch once was.

In all his excitement, Diego hadn't realized that the watch was gone.

"There's no way someone else got to it first. There's no way!" Diego emphasized his point by slamming the palm of his hand on the counter, bringing his face close to the boy's.

The lad was a cool professional, just as impassive as the machines he worked with. He did not react to Diego's threatening gesture. He only blinked at him with large brown eyes, then pointed his index finger upwards.

Above them was a second level, a gallery overlooking the game parlor below. Diego squinted, at last able to see the form of the shadowy man that was pacing about.

A singular figure stood above with one hand on the wrought iron banister, gazing down at them like a king addressing his subjects. He had the same dark features as the child, and wore a black cowboy hat and vest with gold brocade. An ostentatiously large gemstone was tacked to his bolo tie, glittering as it caught the lamp light.

In his other hand, he dangled the watch on a silver chain.

"Would you look at the time?" he said. The hands of the watch displayed the time as 8:01, as did the larger clock in the parlor. "I'm afraid we're closed…"

A surge of anger electrified Diego. He balled his hands in and out of fists, but managed to contain himself. "We made it to the counter just before closing. We won that watch fair and square, we did."

"Boingo, would you kindly lock the door?"

"Yes, father."

The well-dressed young lad brushed past Diego and Hot Pants. Diego wrinkled his nose, catching a whiff of cologne on him. Kids shouldn't be wearing that, he thought to himself.

If they had wanted to rush out the door before Boingo could lock it, the two of them had ample time; the lad's gait seemed intentionally languid as he spun the keyring around his finger, heading towards the front. But Diego stood his ground, and so did Hot Pants as the tension in the room grew heavier when they heard the key clicking the lock into place.

"Fair and square? Somehow, I doubt that… and I know my son would never let a malfunctioning machine stay on the floor for long. I'm rather curious how you achieved this…" His English was perfectly articulate, with the hint of a foreign accent. Diego assumed this man was the proprietor of the parlor of amusements, the illustrious Mr. Elfman.

Boingo returned to the counter where the massive pile of red tickets still lay. In their frenzy to get all the tickets out of their pockets, Diego and Hot Pants had also left some crumpled-up fortune cards. Boingo took it on himself to smooth out these cards, until he read one out loud.

"Applying such strength to the Liberty Bell machine instead will earn you a tidy sum, just in time…"

Still watching from the gallery above, Elfman sighed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Boingo… I know you can't control who the machine chooses, but time and time again I have to tell you not to leave your Weird Science out on the parlor floor…"

"I apologize, father," Boingo said, not looking apologetic in the least.

"Alas, what's done is done, but I'm afraid this is proof you two did not play by the rules of the game," Elfman said, wagging a finger at them.

"The game was rigged from the start, intending us to lose over and over. All I did was make it fair," Diego protested.

Now, Elfman began walking down the spiral staircase. "Fair? What a charmingly innocent notion. If the games were meant to be fair, I'd be making lousy profits. The prizes are mostly sundries, a trivial consolation when compared to the coin spent on the games, but that's not the reason why you play. Elfman's Parlor of Amusements exists solely for that – amusement! I watched you as you came in, and I saw your smiles, your laughter. Did you not enjoy yourselves, before your eyes were clouded with greed?"

He was in front of them now, hands outstretched as he waited for a response.

Hot Pants cleared her throat, awkwardly attempting diplomacy as she shifted her weight between her feet. "Yes, Mr. Elfman. We enjoyed ourselves, and we apologize if you found our conduct offensive. We were merely traveling through, and, being from the country, were unaware of the etiquette and rules in such an establishment. We'll be on our way. We don't need any prizes."

Diego wanted to object, but he understood her position all too well. He knew he ought to swallow his pride and cut his losses too. It wasn't worth it to start a row in this place, not when the law would be on Elfman's side, and Diego and H.P. had good reason to avoid confrontation: they wanted to spend the night in an actual bed in an actual room in town instead of having to flee and hide into the cold wilderness and create new disguises again. And Diego knew, had he been in Elfman's shoes, he'd have called himself a rotten cheater too.

"Ah…" Elfman stopped them before they could reach the door. He stood in front, tipping his cowboy hat at them. "I'm not upset with you. In fact… I was considering allowing you to leave with this lovely pocketwatch, if you would kindly show me just how you managed to cheat the Liberty Bell machine."

Diego grimaced. There was no use denying the cheating; Elfman had been watching them from above the entire time. Likely he had watched as Diego pounded out jackpot after jackpot, merely observing rather than intervening.

"If it were simply a matter of punching the machine, anyone could have accomplished what you did. Yet… your timing was exact. The reels move too fast for any ordinary human's reaction time to be able to stop on exactly the liberty bell with consistency each time. Could you tell me how you did it?"

"No. Sorry," Diego said flatly. "If you'll excuse us…"

But Elfman did not excuse them. He continued to stand at the door with his half-smirk, a glitzy sham of a cowboy in black and gold snakeskin boots.

"If you'll excuse us…" Hot Pants repeated, louder than Diego had.

Yet Elfman still did not budge from the door.

"If… you'll excuse us," Diego growled the loudest, attempting to shove Elfman.

But the moment he laid hands on the gold-brocaded shoulders of Elfman's expensive suit, Diego saw a flash of blue light, and his wrists contorted into an unnatural position.

"Oh hell–" he shouted, doubling over in pain. Both of his wrists seemed to have dislocated on their own.

Hot Pants bent over, immediately tending to Diego's wrists. Elfman sauntered away from the door, across the marble floor of the circular room. The starburst pattern on the floor converged towards the center, where a large, oblong cabinet the size and length of a dining table stood, covered by a tarp all this time. Diego had assumed that it was an unfinished or broken game, covered until it was ready for service, and thus curiosity had not compelled him to peek under the tarp. But now his pulse quickened, and his hot pain was numbed by the cool adrenaline now flowing through his veins.

Elfman wiggled his fingers, then pinched the corner of the draping fabric.

"If you won't show me your 'special ability', I'm afraid I'll have to show you mine. Behold! Dead Man’s Party!"

Chapter Text

"Behold! Dead Man’s Party!"

Mr. Elfman pulled the white sheet from the table, whipping his arm up with a flourish like a toreador and tossing it behind him.

Revealed on the table was a perfect wooden model of a horse racing course. The turf was meticulously textured, yet simply painted: green grass surrounding brown dirt for the track. At the start of the race course, ten stalls held eight horses, each with their own miniature jockey astride wearing eight little caps in different colors.

H.P. didn't know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

"Well, that’s a sight," Diego said, with barely-concealed incredulity. "It’s a first-rate facsimile of Epsom. See the grandstand? And that bend right there with a bit of an incline, that’s Tattenham Corner. And there’s the little tent for weigh-ins, and the clerk of the course! It’s all exactly as I remember…"

Hot Pants had never seen the track at Epsom, not even in a picture, but she trusted his word, of course – he'd raced the Derby before, and he'd won it, to boot.

“I take it you like the races, Mister… ah, pardon, I don’t believe either of you have given me your names,” Elfman said.

H.P. tugged on Diego’s sleeve. “We ought to be leaving.”

She looked down and took notice of Elfman's snakeskin boots. Much like the rattlesnake used its rattle to warn others of its dire poison, Elfman’s showy display of Dead Man’s Party served a similar purpose, and Hot Pants was not keen on finding out just how dangerous it was.

“Ah, yes. Well, if you’d like, you’re free to leave on your own. After all, it is only your reprobate friend who has violated the spirit of the game. Therefore, I’ve his soul in my hands as collateral.”

Diego squinted. “Collateral?”

Elfman giggled. He held up a manicured hand, gilded with rings.

Surrounded again by the crackling blue aura, Diego's hands balled into fists and were slammed down onto the table by forces unknown. His arms twitched in resistance, to no avail.

"Since your memory of Epsom Downs is so keen, perhaps you'll remember the outcome of the 1887 Derby, four years ago?"

Hot Pants felt a shiver down her spine. What did he know?

She did not follow the races, yet even she knew the outcome of the 1887 Derby at Epsom. That was the year of that rolled-up, yellow newspaper Diego kept hidden in his bag, one of the few treasures of his past that he kept close to his heart.

Diego scowled. "Why that year in particular?"

"The 1887 Derby had an interesting outcome. Anyone who follows the races would know why."

Diego certainly had to be having an internal struggle from where he was sitting. Feigning complete ignorance would be too obvious, now that he'd already revealed some interest in thoroughbred racing, but knowing too much could reveal his identity…

He tapped his chin. "Well, lessee… if'm not mistaken, the winner that year was a filly by the name of Flower Waltz. That what you meant? S'pose a filly winning a race was notable, not to mention her being an extreme outsider with her odds at 200 to 1."

"And what else?" Elfman pressed.

"Well… it came to be known that the filly belonged to none other than Lord Nightingale's widow, Sibyl. 'Course, she listed herself as owner under the pseudonym of Mr. Waverly…"

"And the jockey?"

Diego paused, his eyebrows knitting as if contemplating whether to be flippant or not.

“Diego Brando. A complete unknown at the time. Just a kid plucked from the rookeries. And, well, now…”

“And now he’s on the run as a prime suspect for the assassination of the President of the United States. How far he’s come…” Elfman giggled again.

H.P. watched Diego’s shoulders hunch up, then slacken just as quickly. She could guess at what he was thinking. If he died today, all he’d be remembered for was killing the President. Not for winning the Derby at 16 against insurmountable odds, and certainly not for whatever vague plans of world domination he had – she found that bit rather silly, but he was still quite serious about it – no, he’d die maligned and maledicted for killing America's beloved President Valentine.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Elfman’s voice, now honeyed with malice. “How far you’ve come, Mr. Brando.”

He tossed a crumpled-up card on the table. One of the fortunes from Weird Science. In their haste to empty all of their tickets from their pockets onto the counter, she’d also left something important. Hot Pants slowly unfolded the card, almost afraid to read the printed blue ink:

Lucky Numbers: 001, 044.

“They say, Mr. Brando…” Elfman said, tapping his chin. “They say you waited weeks before registration opened, just to be the first to sign up for the Steel Ball Run. You were so keen on being Number 001, eh? It’s too bad you lost that race…”

"I didn't lose; I was disqualified," Diego hissed. “Well, you’ve caught me alive; what’s your office? What’re you tryna shake from me?”

Elfman walked the length of the long oval table, running a finger along the grooves of the race track, the gold chains on his outfit jingling like little bells. He closed one eye and turned to face them.

“I don’t want to ‘shake’ anything from you. I don’t even want to turn you in to the authorities, or inform the U.S. embassy, if that’s what you and your partner are thinking. Loosen up those scowls! You look like a couple of Tartars!” He tittered at his own comment. “You’re an equestrian; why don’t we race?”

“Race? With these… wooden horses? This children's game?”

"With what else? If we wanted to race with real horses, we'd be lacking a venue for it. Not to mention…" another giggle. "I'm afraid I wouldn't stand a chance in a proper flat race against Diego Brando."

"Enough with the giggling. I find it irritating. And you're forgetting something very important…"

Diego flashed a characteristic smirk at Elfman.

"I don't lose at anything. Not even at your wooden toy. I’ll race you, sure… if you’re prepared to lose."

"Good," Elfman said, his odd accent placing particular emphasis on the d.

"Dio…" H.P. spoke in an undertone. "Must I remind you that he intends you to play for your very soul?"

"Not like he's giving me much of a choice," he replied nonchalantly, or at least with an affectation of nonchalance; H.P. couldn't tell. "Hey…" He used a thumb to brush a lock of hair from H.P.'s eyes. "I'll be alright. Look at you, all worried. Wish you could see yourself in the mirror; you're a riot. There's a wrinkle between your eyebrows and cracks all over your icy façade… You're going to make me nervous if you keep that up. No matter what they throw at me, you should know by now I always come out on top. Number one. Remember that, Hot Pants!"

"Good," Elfman said again. "Your confidence is inspiring, but take care you do not tread the razor-thin line between confidence and hubris…"

"I think true 'confidence' is going out in public wearing that hat of yours. Though… others may call it hubris for one to prance about in that ostentatious sort of getup and believe oneself fashionable," Diego shot back.

Elfman pinched the brim of his black and gold cowboy hat, frowning. "Clearly you do not understand that the art of haute couture was never about conforming to tired trends, but cultivating new styles and redefining what is called ‘fashionable.’ One's attire blossoms from an individualized self-expression; part of that je ne sais quoi that distinguishes us from the rabble at the secondhand shop. And even while you have the hubris to dare to insult another's self-expression, I look at your attire and, well, pardon – I find something left to be desired in your… je ne sais quoi."

“That’s not–” Hot Pants was about to correct him on his dire misuse of the French expression, when Diego loudly interrupted her with a snicker.

"This shoddy getup is a disguise; if you find it unremarkable, then my clothes are serving their purpose quite adequately. And while I'm moved by your impassioned speech and your genuine appreciation of haute couture, if your confidence is so fragile that it shatters when someone doesn't like your hat, perhaps you have too much, aha, hubris to wear your own… bold statements."

"Would you two quit chaffering and get on with the game already?" Hot Pants cut in before Elfman could retort. As far as she was concerned, both men were boiling over with a surfeit of hubris.

"Very well. I shall explain how to play the game. It's rather simple, as there is only one button. You press the button, and… ta-da! Your horse moves!"

There were several “stations” at the table with a singular button. Elfman tapped the button on his side of the table several times. A brown miniature horse glided forward along the track. Its limbs were stationary, as it was being pulled along a rail.

Diego crossed his arms, staring intently at the table. "Then… the faster you push the button, the faster the horse moves?"

Elfman grinned. "Exactly. Think of the button the same way you might a riding crop."

Hot Pants exhaled, feeling some of the pressure release from her face. Thanks to Scary Monsters, Diego's speed could not be matched by any normal human. Assuming Elfman had no other tricks up his brocade sleeve, she felt more confident that Diego could win this game.

Diego turned back to face the track again, his focus renewed. He narrowed his eyes. "That, uh… that horse and jockey there, number 001. He wasn't there before."

H.P. looked to where he was pointing. Indeed, where there once were eight horses, there now were nine – nine horses and nine jockeys. And the one he pointed at, number 001, was a white horse with a silver mane. The jockey astride wore a teal shirt with gold lines in a diagonal criss-cross pattern.

Dio’s colors…

The helmet and shirt pattern was a miniature version of what Diego wore in the Steel Ball Run. Squinting closer, she could even make out the tiny hat pins spelling “DIO” on his helmet.

Obviously Elfman could not have painted a new miniature in Diego’s colors so quickly without either of them noticing. He let out another giggle. “Ah, yes, sometimes my Dead Man’s Party works in mysterious ways. Your soul has already imprinted itself into the game. Is that not extraordinary?”

“It’s positively morbid, if you ask my honest opinion.”

“Hmph. No matter.” Elfman used the foot pedal below to reverse all of the horses back into the starting stalls. The wooden gates seemed to shut on their own without the help of any machinery. “Let’s race.”

Knowing that jockeys considered it bad luck to say good luck before a race, H.P. leaned in close, her lips nearly brushing against Diego’s ear.

"Don't fuck up," she whispered.

Diego raised his eyebrows and grinned at hearing a vulgarism from her lips, though H.P. couldn’t find it in herself to smile back. She swallowed instead, and heard Diego swallowing, too. He was warming up by stretching his fingers against the palm of his opposite hand, one after the other.

“Are you ready?” Elfman asked.

Diego placed his index and middle fingers against the button and nodded.

“Then… Open the gates!” Elfman cried out loud.

The doors of all ten wooden stalls slammed opened in unison.

Diego immediately pressed the button as rapidly as possible. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. H.P. watched the scales erupting along his arm and reaching up to his face as his dinosaur instincts took over his body. His pupils narrowed into oval slits as he remained fixated on that singular task, his entire body shaking from the force of effort. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. It was fascinating to watch Scary Monsters… least, when he wasn’t goring men of their intestines.

His horse propelled forward rapidly, already ten or fifteen paces ahead of the others plodding along. 001 was exponentially gaining speed as it slid along the metal rail. He was pressing the button so fast that H.P. could hear the hidden machinery below turning and whirring.

Elfman’s horse, number 75, plowed ahead at a respectable speed in second place, about five paces ahead of the horse in third place yet well behind Diego’s horse… fifteen paces, then twenty paces, then twenty-two…

Yet Elfman maintained his smarmy grin, his confidence (or “hubris”) clearly unruffled by Diego’s meteoric lead.

Then, as she looked down at Elfman’s fingers, Hot Pants realized something.

H.P. jolted out of her seat. “Dio! You’re going too fast!” she cried out.

Unlike Diego, Elfman was not pressing his “crop” button as quickly as he humanly could; in fact, there was an interval of several seconds between each press.

The same rhythm that one might use a riding crop on a real horse…

As soon as she said this, the speed of Diego’s horse began to peter out. 001 was still in the lead, was still plodding along, but he was no longer accelerating. He was slowing down as Elfman gained on him; eighteen paces behind, fifteen paces behind…

Eyes bugging out in astonishment, Diego glanced at Elfman and adjusted his own button-pressing to try to match his rhythm, but it was too late; his horse was only inching ahead at a glacial pace.

The master of the game laughed. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? These horses behave much as they do in reality! Hit a horse too hard for too long, it’ll tire out before the race is halfway through!”

Diego hissed through clenched teeth. “Come on, Changeling,” he pleaded, just loud enough for H.P. to hear. “Come on, Changeling, my beloved. We’ll put it to rights. We’ll put it to rights… my beloved Changeling…”

The painted white horse with the silvery mane did indeed resemble his horse, Changeling. But “Changeling” was unable to answer Diego’s pleas; it continued to trudge along, only gaining a bit of momentum as it came down the steep hill rounding Tattenham Corner.

Elfman’s jockey quickly closed the distance between himself and Diego for the home stretch of the racecourse.

“And number 75 takes the lead, passing 001 in an extraordinary turnabout!” he called out as though he were the announcer. “We’re in the home stretch now, about 40 lengths to the finish line… 30… 20…”

Diego’s face bore a raging storm. His mouth, already bleeding and cracked wide open to accommodate for his extra large sharpened teeth in his hybrid form, was a primal horrorshow, grotesque anger twisting into despair.

“Come on, Changeling. We’ll soon put it to rights,” he begged, suddenly pressing the button as fast as he could for a last stand.

“Changeling” had a momentary second wind, and Number 001 sped up. He managed to get just a few lengths behind Elfman, but…

At the same time that Diego increased his speed, Elfman had also begun pressing the button as fast as he could. Number 75’s energy reserves were greater, and it easily tore ahead, able to put distance between himself and 001 again.

“10 lengths… 5… aaaaaaaaaand Number 75 crosses the finish line! What a race! What an outcome! What a comeback!”

Diego took quick, gasping breaths. “I lost–?!”

The flames in the gas lamps flared brighter than before, casting elongated shadows along the wall. The atmosphere crackled with static electricity again. Diego let out a forcible exhale, the breath ripped from his lungs as his eyes rolled up into their sockets. A blinding sphere of blue light exited his chest and flew into the teal jockey figurine, and Diego’s flesh-and-blood body crumpled into the chair like a marionette whose strings had suddenly been cut.

H.P. could only watch in helpless horror, eyes stretched wide. Green and black splotches from the light clouded her field of vision for several moments, but she couldn’t even blink. Tears welled up in her eyes and she opened her mouth to scream, yet no noise came out.

Elfman slowly walked up the spiral staircase to the gallery.

“Would you care for a mint julep?” he called downstairs, busying himself at what appeared to be a minibar. “Just like they serve at the Kentucky Derby in America. Though we’re at Epsom, and not Churchill, heh… But you’re American, aren’t you, ‘Hot Pants’? That’s what you call yourself? Never heard of a name like that… more fitting of a name for a racehorse, if you ask me…”

H.P. didn’t respond.

“Not as talkative as your friend, are you?” he asked.

Hot Pants continued to ignore him, stumbling towards Diego to check his pulse.

His wrist was still warm, and his heartbeat was steady, if a bit slow. She placed a hand under his nose and mouth, feeling a faint breath tickling her fingers.

“He’s alive,” Elfman said at the same time she thought the very same words with relief. “At least, his body is functioning. But how long can a body function without a soul, I wonder? Would you like ice with your julep?”

Though she still did not answer him, H.P. heard the sound of a blade cutting into a block of ice from above. The weather was cold, and she supposed ice would be plentiful enough for something as frivolous as an arcade owner’s personal cocktails. Still, it all seemed rather excessive, especially when she did not even express any desire for a drink at all.

“Catholics concern themselves far more with matters of the eternal spirit than we do; what’s your opinion? You’ve studied Aquinas and the like at your convent, no doubt... How long can a body function without a soul?” Elfman pressed.

Hot Pants didn’t know the answer, of course. From a medical perspective, his body could be kept alive for days, weeks even, if she tended to his physical needs, administering liquid nourishment. But it was a sham of life, and he would eventually waste away; his muscles and brain would surely atrophy without the very essence of his existence. And keeping him alive would be unnatural. Against God. Hot Pants had indeed studied this in her convent, and she knew that the soul, according to the aforementioned St. Thomas Aquinas, was what moved the body. The body’s anima, or animating principle. Therefore the soul was the body, or that which gave any meaning at all to its life. Living things were animate, while un-living things were inanimate. To imbue something inanimate with the anima, the animating principle, the soul… it went against God. Much as she pretended to, H.P. didn’t understand a good deal of the babble within the Summa Theologica, but that section had been fairly straightforward. Elfman was playing at God, trapping souls in unnatural reliquaries.

If I kill Elfman… would that free Dio’s soul? Or would that damn him to the eternal purgatory of Dead Man’s Party?

With two crystal goblets in hand, Elfman descended the stairs as he talked, his voice alternating louder and quieter as he walked in a spiral.

“Perhaps… perhaps you are thinking of what might happen if you kill me. I regret to inform you that the only way to free your friend’s soul is by winning it back from me. Through the game, of course. Hah…”

He slid one of the glasses towards Hot Pants. She peered down. The goblet was filled with ice shavings and some brown, probably alcoholic substance. A leafy sprig of mint stuck out over the rim of the glass.

The soul is the body, just as the Stand is the soul. She did not believe Elfman was lying when he said that she could not free Diego’s soul simply by killing him, or destroying Dead Man’s Party. As they’d discovered months ago when fighting the Blue Danube, destroying a Stand would destroy its user, for the Stand was an extension of one’s soul, that which drives the body. And now Diego's soul was trapped within the extension of Elfman's!

Elfman raised his glass for a toast, but when H.P. did not return it, he began to down his drink anyway. Hot Pants did not touch her own goblet, not because she believed it to be poisoned, but because she was convinced that she would vomit if she attempted to ingest anything at all, even a sip.

Elfman stood idle, dangling the prize watch from its chain. It moved slowly back and forth, like a pendulum. His beetle-black eyes followed the motion.

Pointing his pinky finger at Diego's unconscious body, Elfman spoke again. "He was the one that wanted the watch, yes?"

Hot Pants nodded, swallowing back the coagulation in her throat.

"I see… hah! That reminds me of a joke I heard the other day. This one's a real doozy. Care to hear?"

Hot Pants said nothing.

Elfman took the liberty of continuing without her assent. "Why don't women wear watches?"

He paused, fruitlessly expecting a response from Hot Pants, yet received nothing. No noise at all, save a moth fluttering against the lamp. H.P. stared straight ahead, her gaze as hard and impenetrable as the lamp glass.

Elfman took a deep breath and resumed.

"Well, I reckon they wouldn't need a watch, given there's a perfectly fine clock in the kitchen!"

Elfman's giggles quickly evolved into full-blown laughter, overstaying long enough to be uncomfortable. When he broke off to catch a breath, Hot Pants thought for sure he was finished, but he simply resumed laughing again after a moment.

Elfman paused, glanced at her, then sputtered into laughter again. “The kitchen… do you get it? Of course you do… hah…!”

“Yes. Yes. I understand why you must find it very funny. However, I do not find it particularly humorous.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Well, how about I tell you a ‘joke’ of my own?” Hot Pants glanced to the side, crossing her arms. Her voice was cool as aloe. “Why don’t… I wear a watch?”

“Why don’t you?”

“I reckon I wouldn’t need a watch, given there’s a perfectly fine watch on my partner. Or, at least… there will be. Once I win back his soul.”

Hot Pants slammed a fist down on the table. The wooden miniatures rattled.

“A soul for a soul. I bet my own soul… for the soul of Diego Brando. Ante up, Elfman.”

They locked eyes, staring at each other for a tense several seconds until Elfman broke the silence again.

“Good,” he said. “Ah, but I forgot to mention. We do not have to bet on ourselves. We can bet on other horses, as one might in a real race. Therefore, I will place my bets on… Number 001!”

"You're betting on… Dio?" she asked. Her throat suddenly felt very dry, and her nausea returned. She already guessed what he was about to explain next, but she allowed him to confirm her suspicions.

If the horses act as they do in reality life, then Dio's figurine is…

"When Dead Man's Party absorbed Mr. Brando's soul, his representation took on all of his abilities, his personality, his essence. He isn't aware of you or I; in his strange wooden existence, he knows nothing but the fact that he is racing the Derby. Isn't that charming? If you weren't about to lose your own soul too, I'd have let you visit whenever you'd like to play with Mr. Brando. Alas, at least your souls will be together forever."

"You're a sick, depraved warlock playing God…"

Elfman made a yapping motion with his hand. "Yes, yes, I've heard all the bad words one could possibly sling at me. Perhaps I am, but remember: you both could have easily avoided this situation and walked out with a brand new pocketwatch, had you simply explained your abilities to me, and the manner in which you cheated my machines. This is more fun, though. Ah, I nearly forgot!"

He used a foot pedal beneath the table to draw his horse back into the starting line. The gate of the stall closed behind his miniature. "Which horse, aside from 001, of course, would you like to place your bet on? Your own?"

H.P. noticed there were now ten miniature horses with ten miniature jockeys. Ostensibly, the new horse and rider were meant to represent Break On Through, with his glossy black coat, and herself, wearing the number 044 on the saddle blanket just as she did in the Steel Ball Run.

"My own. Number 044," she confirmed.

“Any last prayers?”

Elfman was clearly mocking her, but she pulled out her rosary regardless.

“Lord…” Hot Pants whispered. She clasped her rosary between her hands, but she could not think of anything to say. She wished she had Diego here to tell her “Don’t fuck up” just as she’d said to him, but now she was all alone. All she had was the unyielding silence of her God. “Lord, don’t let me fuck up. Amen.”

Not much of a prayer, but the Lord was likely not inclined to help a consecrated nun gamble her own soul to save an unrepentant sinner.

Her vision blurred as she stared at the row of ten jockeys lined up at the racetrack.

Diego knew this course like the palm of his hand. Did she stand any chance of beating him at his own game? Even a wooden facsimile?

Both of them had been riding since they were big enough to fit in a saddle, but Diego was a professional. Not only that, he had a precision of timing very few jockeys possessed. This was what gave him the edge against everyone he raced.

"Open the gates!" Elfman cried with a theatrical flourish of his left hand, while lackadaisically tapping the button with his right.

He doesn't have to care about winning. He's got his "money" on Dio. H.P. thought to herself.

Indeed, Diego's wooden doppelgänger glided along the track, taking an impressive lead by the first bend. With five to six seconds between each button press, Hot Pants managed to crawl her way to second place, but she was still at least 10 paces behind Diego, his lead only increasing.

Had she known she was allowed to bet on another racer, of course she would have placed her bets on 001 before Elfman had the chance. But just as he conveniently neglected to explain the full rules to Diego, he'd withheld this pertinent information from H.P. as well.

No way she could beat him fair and square. Yet she had not yet resigned herself to defeat…

Like an orchid blossoming in the desert, a beautiful idea suddenly unfurled within her mind. She knew she was likely to get caught, but…

While Elfman was focused on the track, H.P. surreptitiously pulled out a canister of Cream Starter in her right hand, squeezed the trigger, and…

___

The machinery beneath the table whirred as 001 bolted ahead.

"001 accelerates! Faster, faster, he's more than 35 lengths ahead of second place, 044! Yet 044 doesn’t try to close the distance! No, instead, she’s… slowed to a crawl..? What is 044 doing?”

As 001 flew across the rails, still more than halfway to the finish line, his horse expectedly took a break, its pace creeping to a devastating near-halt.

“Sorry, Changeling…” H.P. said, biting her lip to suppress a smile.

Elfman stood on his chair to survey the other side.

Before he could catch her in the act, H.P.’s disembodied hand crawled under the table, hanging upside-down like a spider.

Elfman shook his head, then climbed down from his chair and returned to his own station. “I can’t fathom why 001 would accelerate so quickly and tire his horse out before the home stretch… his figurine ought to know how to play! It’s got the soul of an undefeated jockey!”

Elfman stood as he was talking, and this caused him to bang into the table, rattling each of the miniature horses. Everyone slowed down except for Numbers 044 and 75.

Hot Pants moved the disembodied hand back to the button in front of Diego and began to mash it again and again, to tire out his horse even further. “Changeling” was spooked from the “earthquake” that Elfman had just caused, and still exhausted. He stood rooted in place as 044 took the lead. It would be a sad loss for Dio, for by the time H.P. rounded the steep Tattenham Corner, her horse had enough juice left for a final burst of speed. She retracted her left hand, dropped Cream Starter into her pocket, and tapped her own button as fast as she could, her temples throbbing, her teeth chattering as she put her entire body into it. Yes… she passed Dio! Four paces, five paces, ten paces…!

“And in an unexpected comeback, 044 crosses the finish line…!” Elfman broke off his usual theatrics to shoot venom at H.P. through his eyes. “How? You cheated, didn’t you? You ill-bred Catholic slut, what did you do?! Tell me!” He tossed his cowboy hat to the ground, grabbing clumps of his own black hair in his fists.

Hot Pants kept her hands folded primly in her lap. “This spectacle is hardly becoming of a gentleman, Mr. Elfman, and especially in front of your innocent son. Accusing me of cheating without any proof… what a disgrace! As I’ve won the game, you must return Dio’s soul to his body…”

“It can’t be… it’s impossible! Dio should have won!”

The sphere of blue light hovered in the air above the racetrack for a moment, before finding its way back into Diego’s chest. He lurched forward, eyelashes fluttering as he stirred.

“Ungh… I feel as if I fell off my horse…” he groaned, clutching his head.

Tears shimmered in H.P.’s eyes. “Dio, you’re…”

She suddenly cleared her throat, cutting herself off. Her heart was pounding, her vision still blurry and her face still hot. She decided to take this moment to gulp down the entire mint julep in one go. It was syrupy-sweet, yet with a heavy amount of alcohol – she couldn’t tell which kind. The spearmint sharpened the sweetness so that it wasn’t too saccharine, though, and, the chill from the ice headed straight to her brain. She slammed the goblet down when she was done.

Elfman was crawling beneath the table, still desperately searching for any clues of her deceit.

“Unbelievable… unbelievable…”

H.P. glanced down at him on his hands and knees, and held her hand out.

“The watch. I believe you owe it to us. He showed you his ability, after all.”

Elfman coughed out some curses in a foreign language and dropped the pocketwatch in her upturned palm.

Hot Pants stored the watch in Diego’s pocket and stirred him awake again.

“Ungh…”

His eyes were lidded, and he didn’t appear in any state to walk on his own.

Hot Pants squatted down and wrapped an arm around his lower back. “Put your arms around my neck,” she commanded, and he acquiesced. The alcohol was getting into her blood, giving her a surge of unexpectedly masculine confidence.

“Boingo…” she said. She spied the top of the young gentleman’s head peeking out from the gallery, having been hiding there the entire time. “Boingo, dear boy, could you get the door for us?”

Boingo glanced down at his father, as if to ask for approval. Elfman threw his hands up. “Let them out, Boingo, and don’t ever you let them in again!”

Boingo rushed downstairs to unlock the door, and Hot Pants raised Dio in both her arms, as if she were a knight, and he a princess. The frigid night air from the open door nipped at her face as she carried him outside of Elfman’s Parlor of Amusements, out to the pleasure pier, the silvery moonlight guiding her way.

Chapter Text

"You don't have to carry me like this, H.P.," Diego groused.

His only saving grace was the fact that the streets were mostly empty, and under the shroud of night nobody could see that there was not a young lady or child in H.P.'s arms but a grown man.

"In your weakened state, you might suffer a fall," H.P. said between labored breaths. "This is far safer."

"What I meant was…" Diego felt the hot, emasculating shame rise up from his chest to his head. "You don't have to carry me like this."

Hot Pants laughed breathlessly. "But this way, when I look down I see your lovely face."

"Wha–?!"

She'd been drinking. Quite unnatural for a stick in the mud like H.P. to drink, but Diego didn't know what Elfman made her do to win back his soul. And after smelling bourbon on her breath, he was almost afraid to ask. It was strange for him to feel guilty or ashamed about anything, but now he felt both emotions keenly.

H.P. began to grunt as she ascended the stairs at the inn. Their room was on the second story, reachable only through a cast-iron stairway outside.

Diego felt that H.P.'s knees were bending lower, her steps becoming slower as she was finally straining under his weight. This only increased his shame at being such a heavy burden.

"Hey, I think I can walk now," he said, though he still felt somewhat dazed.

"No." The singular word was cold, solid metal. That was final.

He realized that she seemed to enjoy carrying him as if he were a fainting maiden. And while it was all rather embarrassing, unraveling the small amount of masculine pride he had left, part of him… also enjoyed being served, spoiled, waited on like royalty. He recalled the day they put up a farce at the Swiss bank, with H.P. playing the role of a servant to an aristocrat, taking Diego’s coat and lighting his cigarette. He admitted it – he loved being pampered. Once he’d overcome his shame, he also noticed that she was warm and her sweat smelled pleasant and familiar to him; all comforting to his hyperactive senses.

Alas, by the time he found himself enjoying the experience, they were already at the door of their rented room. Hot Pants set him down on his feet carefully, and he leaned against the railing as he watched her unlock the door.

She did not pick him up again, but she guided him into the modest room and towards the mattress, collapsing into it herself the moment she reached it. She turned over on her back and closed her eyes, chest rising up and down with each rapid breath.

Diego sank down on the bed and curled up next to her, close enough to hear her heartbeat as it gradually returned to normal, along with the rate of her breathing. Both of them had been too tired to remove their boots, so their feet hung off the edge of the frame. He stared up at a crack in the ceiling.

"Don't know what you did to save me, but… thanks," he murmured.

He was hoping she’d elaborate on just what happened while he was dead to the world, but all she did was yawn and turned to her side, facing away from him. "Sorry…” she said. “It's too late for us to get ice… cream…" her words dissolving into a sleepy murmur.

Ice cream…?

Diego was warm and content beside her, and H.P.'s words barely processed in his mind. “Ice cream… sounds good right now,” He was ready to fall asleep, just like her, but something unwieldy and heavy in his pants pocket was making it difficult for him to succumb. He reached a hand in and clasped his fingers around a cold and circular bit of metal, something that felt like a pocketwatch.

Diego froze.

The pocketwatch! The ice cream!

That's right. He'd promised they'd get to have ice cream today, whether they won the pocketwatch or not. She’d never had the pleasure of eating it before, and eating it was an experience he wanted to share with her. They had plans to leave Brighton early the next morning, and their usual travel schedule did not leave time for leisure. Diego didn't know when the opportunity would come again, or if he could even convince her to have another evening of fun. Not to mention, winter would soon be melting into spring, and ice cream tended to be harder to come by in the warmer months when ice cost a small fortune.

Adrenaline blew away the hazy clouds of imminent sleep, and he was thinking clearly again.

"If we're fast enough, we might be able to catch a cart leaving the pier," he said, jolting upright.

"Dio, I'm worn out," Hot Pants said. "I'm not getting up again, not even for ice cream…"

"Not to worry. Be back in a kick!"

Diego grabbed his coat from the hook and flew out the door, running two steps at a time down the stairs as he shoved his arms through the sleeves.

The cold air pressed hard against his lungs, and he was winded by the time he reached the pier, clutching the stitch in his side. He looked all about him and sniffed the air, finding a trail of vanilla down an alleyway where a dumpy man pushed a cart along the cobblestones.

The cart was clearly visible even at night, for it was freshly whitewashed, with words and prices painted in flowery cursive:

PURE VANILLA ICE CREAM

CUP 2d.

WAFFLE CONE 3d.

Beneath the words was an illustration of said ice cream and cone. The cart carried a large domed receptacle made of pewter, not unlike a tureen.

"Give me two cones," Diego demanded, counting out sixpence from the mounds of coins still in his coat pockets.

"Done for the day. Come back to the pier tomorrow," said the peddler, quickening his pace without even looking at Diego.

Diego forced his way in front of the cart, blocking it with his body. He grabbed the wheels by their spokes.

“I told you I'm done for the day; go on, walk yer chalks,” said the ice cream seller.

"And I’m dead-set on acquiring two waffle cones.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, jangling the coins to show he wasn’t full of it. “Hear all that clank? It’s yours! I'll pay you a lot, ‘cause I can't wait until tomorrow. I need your ice cream now. Now!"

He barked that last word, but suddenly, he realized the man’s face was pale and aghast in the moonlight. He attempted to soften his own expression, offering a smile to show that he meant no harm.

Yet all of the stress and frustration was transforming him, and his grin split open to reveal a ghoulish horror-show of sharpened teeth and bleeding gums.

Diego accidentally tore his coat with a claw in his haste to grab fistfuls of pennies in his raptor hands, shoving the money in the man's face. The man began to hyperventilate as he watched the coins spill through between Diego’s fingers. He kept offering the rest of the money to the petrified man, even as most of the pennies clattered to the ground.

"I reckon there's ten shillings there if you pluck up what I dropped," he said, head looking around in all directions like a bird.

Sobbing the Lord's Prayer out loud, the peddler began to stumble backwards, glancing back and forth as if in search of an opening to run away.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy now. No need for that. C’mon. Someone saved my goddamn soul today; I need that ice cream now!”

As he shouted that last word, he tried to reach out across the cart to grab the man and stop him from bolting off, but he couldn’t reach far enough. He unintentionally transformed even further, tail extending to wrap around the ice cream seller like a boa constrictor. He didn’t want it to get to the point where he had to threaten the man, but it wouldn’t do to have him alert the police.

The man squirmed against Diego’s tail, completely rooted in place. "Are – are you the devil, come to take me to Hell?" he asked.

Diego tried taking a step forward, but he hit the cart. "No, but if you don’t serve me, that’s where I’ll send you! I doubt you'll find much business in Hell when the ice cream's all melted from the eternal flames and such.”

Diego paused for a beat, then flashed his teeth again. The ice cream peddler shrunk back.

“Oh, that’s just a lark. Just a joke! Come on. Give me two ice creams. I've paid you, now serve me, serve me!"

“Yes, yes! Alright! Just release me!” The man bobbed his head up and down, his pudgy jowls flapping in a vigorous nod.

But when Diego uncurled his tail, releasing his hold, the ice cream peddler sprinted down the alley towards the main thoroughfare, waving his arms and shouting hysterically.

"It's the Devil himself! Help me! Police! Anyone who can hear me! The devil's loose in Brighton, he is!"

"Shit," Diego spat. Dots of lamplight flickered on in nearby windows like fireflies.

Moving quickly, Diego opened the lid of the domed pewter receptacle and sighed with relief. There was still enough of the creamy goodness to share; Diego had been worried the man's reluctance was due to being sold out. He folded two thin waffles into cone shapes and plopped one scoop of vanilla ice cream into each. He wanted to be greedy and take a bit more for the two of them, but he heard shouting again and knew he had to move.

"'e's down that alley, constable! God's honest truth, I was accosted by the Devil himself!"

"The devil himself pinched your ice cream, eh? Sounds a mite lumpy to me," came the sneering reply of a policeman.

The clacking and thumping of hobnail boots echoed down the alley. Diego saw elongated shadows cast by a lantern as the constable approached.

Gripping one waffle cone in each hand, Diego let his legs warp into full raptor form. He crouched close to the ground and leaped to a bounding start, running digitigrade to stabilize himself and preserve the ice cream. He was going faster than any human. His tail swished behind him back and forth, his maw agape in exhilaration. His pulse was hammering away while the wind whistled past his ears and he was flying through the maze of alleys. He didn't know a lick about the streets of Brighton, but he didn't have to – when he focused hard, he could thread the path of H.P.’s scent. Primal instinct took over. He had to find his mate. The ice cream was the spoils of the hunt. He had to present it to his mate.

Diego at last made it back to the inn. Hair wild and windswept, he transformed back into his human form and burst through the door, grinning like a madman. The waffles were a bit crushed since he’d gripped them so hard, some of the ice cream was melting down his fingers, but when he proffered one of the cones to H.P., the shadow of a smile flitted across her lips for a moment.

She looked up at him, smile fading, brow suddenly furrowing in concern.

“You had to transform?” she asked, wiping away the blood that’d pooled in the corners of his mouth. He realized he must have looked a proper mess.

“Yeah, but I’m right as ninepence. Promise.”

“You didn’t frighten anyone, did you?”

Diego only laughed. “C’mon. I got you ice cream! It’ll melt soon if you don’t eat it.”

He sat at the edge of the bed and watched her eagerly. She sniffed the ice cream, turning the cone around in her hand with curiosity, and then as she took a bite, her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“It’s so smooth, and creamy… like eating the clouds in a dream,” she said.

“I told you! It’s not like eating snow at all…” Diego took a bite of his own ice cream. The coldness soothed his bloodied gums, and the vanilla and sugar overwhelmed his senses, transporting him back to the memory of an opulent rose garden in Chelsea for a moment. The ice cream that day, served with a silver bowl and spoon at some heiress’s manor, was just as good as the ice cream they were eating tonight from the cheap little whitewashed cart. No, tonight’s was even better. Ice cream once was a luxury enjoyed only by royals, and though all Diego was ‘king’ of was this cold little room that smelled faintly of mildew and mouse droppings, he felt like a king tonight. “Sometimes they flavor it with things like blackberries or raspberries, but… I’ve always liked the plain vanilla,” he said, taking a bite out of the cone.

“Plain? I’d hardly call it plain!” H.P. exclaimed. “And this sugary waffle is a perfect complement to its flavor…!"

Diego smiled, taking a bite out of the waffle cone himself. It was brittle, crumbling even more in his hand but he didn’t care.

“You think it was alright to leave Elfman alive?” he finally asked as he polished off the cone.

By now, Hot Pants had already finished hers too, and was still licking melted ice cream off her hands. “And leave his boy an orphan?”

“Not that I care at all, but if he keeps taking souls like he almost did to us, he’ll be making a lot more children into orphans.”

“Oh. Suppose you’re right about that. I…” Hot Pants stared down at her lap. “I don’t know. Should we go back? Threaten him, rough him up, anything to put some fear into him so he’ll never do it again?”

“That’s rather naive. He’ll keep doing it, you know, unless we off him.”

“Maybe…”

Hot Pants looked deflated, and Diego was already starting to feel a tinge of regret for bringing it up at all.

No… it was his bad habit again. His fault.

He didn't give a damn about Elfman or anyone else's souls but his own and H.P.'s; he had no honorable reason to broach this topic. He tried to salvage the situation.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. They all deserve it, anyway. We might’ve deserved it, too. No one in this miserable world is innocent.”

It was such a bad habit that he hadn’t even realized he was doing it until it was too late. Sometimes, he asked her moral questions because a sick part of him enjoyed watching her squirm whenever he pointed out her hypocrisy, but today had been a special day and he was already spoiling it.

He knelt at the foot of the bed and, feeling somewhat contrite, began to unlace her boots for her as he changed the subject.

“Hey, H.P., wanna hear something funny?”

“What?”

"Had a wild dream about Epsom while I was out cold. I mean, I've had bad dreams about the races before – where something goes wrong and I lose a race – but this felt… odd. Not sure why it was different, but it was. I don't know what compelled me, but I kept beating my horse, even when he couldn't go any faster. Just kept hitting him and hitting him with the crop, though I didn't want to. Then, the ground began to shake; I think it was an earthquake! My horse was too spooked to go on – in fact, the only one that seemed to be doing well was… some jockey that rode like a country bumpkin. And he won! Pissed me right off!"

"Dio, what if I told you that all of that really happened?"

Hot Pants was trying to hide a smirk, but Diego saw it before it flickered away. She then proceeded to regale him with the tale of her harrowing victory against Elfman at the racing game. Even the "earthquake" was real, caused by Elfman bumping into the table.

"I'm relieved…" Diego said when she was finished, not realizing he'd said it out loud.

"You're not angry with me, then? Angry that I cheated you at your game?”

Though he knew she was teasing, Diego couldn't match her mirth. Goosebumps rose on his flesh. He pulled her closer with one arm and didn't say anything for a while.

Some agonizing minutes passed in silence, and then Hot Pants snuffed the little candle at the bedside table without extricating herself from Diego's one-armed embrace. She was used to his idiosyncrasies, and for that he was grateful.

"I…" Diego finally said, voice wobbling. "I was worried he'd forced you to do something… untoward, in order to win back my soul."

"Untoward–?" she started, cocking her head until realization hit her. “Oh. Oh. No, I did nothing of the sort. I was properly gallant."

"I'm relieved…" he said again.

Another few minutes passed. Their odd half-embrace and utter silence might have appeared awkward to any observer, but to Diego and Hot Pants, it felt perfectly natural.

This time, H.P. broke the silence again.

“Thank you for the ice cream, Dio. That was very kind of you. I found it most agreeable.”

“Thank you for the pocket watch. And… for saving my soul, of course.”

At last, they laid themselves beneath the covers, facing each other, though he knew that only he could see through the darkness.

Diego felt H.P.’s hands crawling beneath his shirt, exploring his chest as she sometimes liked to do, but only in the dark.

“Thank you for…" she whispered. "...being here."

Wearing fresh disguises on their faces, Diego and Hot Pants woke early. They saddled and tacked up their horses in the cold blue twilight before dawn and set out, following the aptly-named London Road northbound, towards London. It was a clear day, and the glittering frost encasing the grass melted by late morning.

"Seems we're just a breath away from spring," Hot Pants said when they'd slowed to a walk, looking for a roadside tavern to water their horses.

"Not quite," Diego said. "Don't be fooled by today's uncharacteristic sunshine. English winters always overstay their welcome. I should know." Unpleasantly so, he neglected to add, disinclined to bring up his miserable childhood and spoil such a clear day.

Yet he could not shake the pressing feeling that something else was about to cloud up their day. He grew paranoid, compulsively running a hand through Changeling's mane over and over as a nervous gesture.

He and H.P. had a bit of a back and forth over where to stop, until he finally agreed with her suggestion to take a break at the town of Crawley to feed and water their horses (and themselves). He would have rather gone to some cheap and dirty roadhouse, believing Crawley to be, well, crawling with mercenaries like Merriweather Post, but Hot Pants argued the opposite – the authorities would assume instead that Diego and H.P. would prefer the seedier haunts of thieves and highwaymen, because they ordinarily would choose to stay in such places where the proprietors were less likely to ask questions. Diego was still wary; they'd enjoyed a (mostly) uneventful journey from France to Brighton, and he could only assume that was because their "bounty hunters" were lying in wait, planning to intercept them on the way to London.

Crawley was an odd sort of place; formerly a sleepy medieval village, it survived through the age of industry simply for being on the way between Brighton and London, becoming a popular stopping-place for stagecoaches. They dismounted once they reached the town's main thoroughfare, and Diego quickly located the nearest coaching inn: the White Hart.

After settling matters indoors and ordering food for themselves, Diego and H.P. went around the back to stable their horses. Diego never liked the tiny box-stalls of coaching inns such as these, but they had to make do with what they had; it was better than forcing their horses to sleep somewhere without proper shelter.

Diego's ears perked at the sound of spurs jangling towards the open door of the stable. He held up a hand to silence Hot Pants, who was in the middle of planning out their next day.

Boots against cobblestones, and then Diego sniffed out a familiar scent. Then, an even more familiar silhouette approached with the midday sun behind him as he stopped in his tracks and leaned against the doorway, crossing one foot over the other.

The man flashed a grin. Diego squinted at the glimmer of sunlight reflected against his golden teeth. The tall newcomer did not even bother to change his clothes to suit Victorian sensibilities, looking wholly shocking and out-of-place amidst the wood-timbered inns and medieval churches of a little English town. With a wide-brimmed hat and leather chaps, he appeared as the popular image of the "Wild West" seen in dime novels, wearing a Mexican blanket as a shawl, with dust in his clothes and dirt beneath his nails, unwashed hair the color of ash-bark, hanging long enough to touch his shoulders. But while he certainly looked the part, Diego knew he was as much of a cowboy, as much of an American as Elfman was – that is to say, not at all!

Gyro Zeppeli tipped the wide brim of his cowboy hat. "Howdy, strangers."

Chapter Text

"Howdy, strangers."

Hot Pants did not dare look at Diego, but out of the edge of her vision she saw his eyes shooting I-told-you-so venom at her.

Yes, yes, it was her magnificent idea to go to Crawley, and if they made it out of here alive, she knew he'd never let her hear the end of it.

She gave a disinterested wave in Zeppeli's general direction, and then slung her saddle over her shoulder.

Internally, she was screaming.

Why is he here?! He's got to be looking for us; no way he's on unrelated business in a sleepy English town like Crawley!

"Didn't see a stagecoach coming into town," the Italian remarked loudly, clearly set on forcing small-talk. He took a step forward into the shade of the stable.

"Careful," Diego held up a hand. "My horse doesn't like strange men."

"Then it's a miracle he's taken a liking to you," Gyro retorted. "Nyo-ho! What brings you both to Crawley?"

"What's it to you?" Diego asked, voice dry as wheat. He hunched over his horse as he undid the saddle straps, turning to give Gyro a one-eyed scowl.

H.P. placed a hand on Diego’s shoulder. “Sorry. My partner isn’t terribly fond of strange men, either,” she said, affecting a French accent and a forced smile. “We’re just looking for work. Don’t want no trouble.”

“Work? What’s your occupation?”

“We’re bricklayers.”

“Don’t know why you need to go to London for that. Plenty of bricks need laying anywhere.”

"Plenty more bricks to be laid in London," she said with a placid smile.

"So you are going to London?"

Hot Pants opened her mouth, then nodded. Shit. She'd fallen for his trick so easily.

Ah, well. Not much reason to travel through Crawley unless it's to London, she figured.

"If you'll excuse us…"

As Hot Pants passed Gyro, who was resting his palm on a steel ball holstered at his side, she recognized something in his face. The hooded eyes that seemed to stare off into another dimension, dry and cracked lips that'd been bitten too many times, and the general twitchy alertness about a man that'd been surviving on coffee and cigarettes rather than a good night's sleep. In short, reflected in him was the same accumulation of several weeks' physical exhaustion and mental stress that she saw in herself and Diego.

And judging by the way he raised one eyebrow as she went by, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing when he saw her own rough appearance up close.

Diego caught up quickly, saddle tucked under his arm. Neither of them dared to speak, knowing exactly who was in earshot, but the silent agreement seemed to be to head to the White Hart as planned, eat their meal, and leave as soon as their horses were rested. Fain as they were to simply pack up again and leave immediately, they couldn't do so without arousing Zeppeli's suspicion; they had to play out their farce.

Unfortunately, Gyro followed them into the inn.

Only one thought continued running on repeat within her mind.

Why is he here?! Why is he here?! Why is he here?!

He was ruining everything. She would've been less confounded to see Merriweather Post; at least they knew his means and motives. But Gyro Zeppeli? Had his aristocratic father cut him off from the family trust, forcing Gyro on some mercenary quest to make a quick fortune? What on earth did he want with Valentine's alleged assassins?

The interior of the White Hart was dark, with dusty wood paneling covering most of the walls. The clientele was a segregation of middle-class stagecoach passengers decked in coats and bowler hats seated at their own tables, and local regulars in corduroy dungarees hunched at the bar, deep in their ales. The proprietor handed a plate with a generous heap of oysters to Diego and H.P. while Gyro took the stool at the edge of the bar, leg bouncing up and down in impatience.

Hot Pants had never had the pleasure of consuming the teardrop-shaped mollusks before, and she found their very nature befuddling. Having not the slightest notion on how to proceed with the meal, she elected to watch Diego first. Yet, perceptive as always, he noticed her apprehension, and delighted to explain:

"Insert the knife between the two halves, like so… give it a jimmy, and take care not to spill any of the juices; that's the best part!"

With the experience of a man that had shucked thousands of oysters in his lifetime he popped the shell open and tipped one half into his mouth, slurping the contents within.

"Real choice, innit?" he asked, before Hot Pants had even tried one for herself. He then took the liberty of opening one for her.

The gray "meat" of the oyster looked about as appetizing as an embryonic specimen in a jar, and Hot Pants briefly wondered who was the first person to even consider eating one. But she trusted Diego, and, being careful not to spill, she brought the shell to her lips, closed her eyes, and slurped. The "juices" Diego mentioned was brine from the sea, and after the salty, slimy meat slid down her throat, H.P. nodded slowly.

"Tastes like… the ocean," she said, which was about all she could say about oysters. Not bad, but clearly Diego relished them far more than her.

The innkeeper laughed. "I'll have you know, the swells at the Savoy serve it on the half-shell and call it fine dining. If it's good enough for the Queen, it's good enough for us."

Hot Pants forced a smile, but she couldn't relax with the knowledge that Gyro was still within earshot. She glanced in his direction and saw him pick up an old guitar standing upright in the corner of the pub, well-worn from the many drunken hands that'd played it before.

He began to tune it by ear, plucking each string and adjusting slightly.

"Say, cowboy! Got a song for us?" asked the friendly innkeeper, who was in the process of examining all of the rags in his apron pocket to find the cleanest one.

"Sure. But I'll warn you… it's an American song."

"Bah, I daresay a yank song's better'n no song at all," proclaimed the innkeeper. "Play, play!"

Gyro began strumming a few chords, playing a folksy, upbeat tune.

"This one's called 'By the Philadelphia Coastline'. I wrote it last month, and it's been a hit in Washington," he said over the twang of the guitar.

Hot Pants was about to correct his geographical blunder, but he immediately proceeded to sing the first verse.

"Valentine stood for progress,

Under the red white and blue,

His right hand administered justice

So bold and so brave and so true!"

Diego was already scowling into his plate of oysters, his bowed head practically perpendicular to the table. Hot Pants' mouth was a thin, unamused line.

The proprietor of the White Hart seemed to like the "yank song" in spite of its syrupy patriotism, tapping his foot as he finally located a somewhat-clean rag and scrubbed pint glasses. The other patrons were too drunk or too tired to care one way or another what they were listening to, and they swayed back and forth to the rhythm.

Then, Zeppeli took a deep breath and enthusiastically belted out the chorus:

"By the Philadelphia coastline,

Those cowards and traitors did kill

The belov'd president Valentine

In cold blood and of their free will!"

Again, Hot Pants was mildly perturbed by the fact that there was no coastline in Philadelphia in spite of the Italian's enthusiasm, but her annoyance was nowhere near Diego's level, who stabbed his knife into an oyster as if to re-create the murder of President Valentine.

"It was traitors that killed him, they did!

During the Steel Ball Run race,

A cowardly jockey, in his greed,

And the nun that was sweet for his face!"

Hot Pants inhaled sharply at the last line. Blood pulsed in her ear and she gripped the knife as if it were a dirk. Now her anger rivaled, perhaps even surpassed Diego's, and she clenched her teeth.

She had been the one to orchestrate the train robbery, merely asking Diego for his assistance. And while… present circumstances were different, at the time she cared nothing for his face; pretty as he was, she found him wholly arrogant and insufferable, albeit useful. That that damned Italian would write a song reducing her to… to a mere trollop or camp follower, oh, it was infuriating!

"Their names are Diego and Hazel!

Let the world know these cowards by name!

Murdered him by the Liberty Bell!

When they catch them they will be hanged!"

H.P. was still grinding her teeth about the earlier verse that she couldn't think about the implications of her true name being made into a public spectacle, but what brought her vexation to its pinnacle was when the other patrons of the pub, as well as the proprietor, joined in as Zeppeli crooned the reprise of that geographically-inaccurate chorus:

"By the Philadelphia coastline,

Those cowards and traitors did kill

The belov'd president Valentine

In cold blood and of their free will!"

Gyro strummed out a final series of chords, made a modest little bow and set down the guitar in its cobwebbed little corner. He took a seat, smirking triumphantly in the direction of Diego and Hot Pants. The drunk men clapped, with some clumsily rummaging through pockets for pennies. The innkeeper slid a mug of beer in Zeppeli's direction.

"I believe you've earned that," he said.

Gyro tipped his hat at him and quaffed the beverage eagerly. “Well, my good men… now that I have your attention, I reckon you know those bastards are still on the lam. Rumor has it they’re en route to London, ‘cause Brando wants to off his mean old pa…”

The men booed and hollered, slamming their fists on the table. “Let me at ‘em!” one of them cried out. “He’s gon’ to murder again!”

Gyro brought his hands to his cheeks in mock contrition. “Now, I know you men are serious about your horse racing, and I reckon you ain’t too pleased to hear about your star jockey put to the gallows…”

The men squawked out a cacophony to the negative, “Not so!” “Let the yanks have ‘im!” “Make him dance the Tyburn Jig!”

Hot Pants did not dare look at Diego, mostly to spare him his pride.

The proprietor placed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Oh dear,” he said to Diego and H.P. as the rancor dwindled. “They might not mourn him, but their poor wives will be sad to hear of Dio's fate…”

This statement, just loud enough for the room to hear, inspired a renewed enthusiasm of calls to administer many other creative means of torture upon Diego Brando.

“You’re forgetting something important, cowboy,” growled Diego once his second verbal thrashing was over, his face now a slightly reddish hue. “In the States, men are innocent until proven guilty by trial. America ain’t run by a Sultan, you know.”

Gyro finished another gulp of beer and smacked his lips. “Hah! You really believe anyone cares about justice anymore? Out in Dakota, or even Nebraska, they can shoot you ‘cause you looked at someone funny. But that ain’t my point. That Brando bastard and his lackeys planted some evidence before he fled the country, see? And now an innocent man is held on death row in their stead. The government needed a scapegoat to save appearances, ‘cause Diego Brando and Hazel Plainview were awful late to their own hanging.”

At this, Hot Pants felt an icy hand grip her heart, seizing the breath from her throat.

“An…” she could barely get the words out, her lips had grown so cold. “An innocent man, on death row?”

Because of us?

“Aye. Johnny Joestar. Another ex-jockey.”

“Johnny… Joestar?” Hot Pants could only mumble these words. Though the other patrons were already distracted back to their own side-conversations, to her, it felt as if the room had come to a silent standstill. “I… I forgot something in the stable… would ah, would you…?”

Gyro slid off his stool immediately. “I’ll come with,” he said, picking up on the meaning of her fumbled lines. Diego was trying to get her attention, but H.P. shook her head at him.

I need to listen to his side of the story first, before you try to convince me it’s all a lie.

She wanted to trust Diego, and at this point she trusted him not to betray her, at least. Yet she had no illusions about his nature – he could burn the rest of the world to cinders without shedding a single tear. Planting false evidence against Johnny Joestar to protect their own hides was easy for him.

But she hoped she could be proven wrong.

By now, the sun was at its highest point in the sky, and the vertical shadows cast by the rafters of the stable were reminiscent of jail bars.

Once he’d barred shut the door, Gyro drew a steel ball as if drawing a revolver, and threw it at Hot Pants.

Instinctively, she brought her hands to her face and cried out, but the ball curved around her, barely grazing her skin. It scraped off her flesh mask, peeled off her entire disguise like a potato skin.

“Nyo ho ho. Knew it was yer lot.”

Now she stared at him in defiance, brown eyes squinting at gray eyes as they stood on opposite ends of the stable, ten feet of space between them, stalls and horses on both sides.

“Well?” H.P. asked.

“Well?” Gyro mocked in a falsetto, though H.P. had spoken in a deep voice.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Well, I know Brando’s a wicked bastard, out to steal all he can get. I reckon he’s the one did Valentine in. I reckon that switchblade belonged to him. What I don’t know is how deep you’re in; are you in cahoots, or are you just hanging on to him, spreading your legs to a limey jockey that can’t spell ‘brilliant’?”

“And I reckon,” H.P. spat with all the venom she could muster, “that you ought to stop talking like a cowboy. Gregorio Zeppeli did not train you to slice off the heads of political dissenters simply so you could play at being a plains drifter–”

Gyro raised a fist and struck Hot Pants across the face. Hard enough to turn her head to the opposite side.

Her ears rang. Momentarily stunned, she then realized a horrible pain in her nose and, bringing up a shaky hand, touched warm blood coming from her nostrils.

“Did that make you feel like… more, or less of a man?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t hit a nun. But for you, Sister Hazel Plainview, I’ll make an exception.”

“Less, then.”

A loud thump came from the ceiling above, as if a large animal had landed on the stable rooftop. Dust fell from the rafters. The horses nickered as if talking with each other.

“Thought we were s’posed to be conversing alone.”

“Oh. That’s right. You don’t know. Dio's waiting for my signal, you know…” H.P. said. She knocked thrice on a wooden beam to indicate she was in no danger. “There. He can smell my blood miles away, according to him. I imagine he was ready to jump through the roof and tear your face off the moment he smelled that you'd hurt me...”

“You speak as if he’s some kind of animal…”

“Indeed. As a matter of fact, he is 'some kind of animal.' You've followed our movements closely, yes? You've read those strange, sensational news reports… first the crew of a cargo ship, then a priest in Paris… bodies disemboweled and maimed beyond recognition by a… 'Scary Monster'? Those reports were no exaggeration."

"And if I don't believe you?"

The stream of blood from her broken nose began to drip down her chin. "Then underestimating him will be your final mistake, Gyro Zeppeli."

"Hmph… we ain't here to talk about him. We're here to talk about Johnny. And I've got something else to say to you. You don't want me to talk like a cowboy? That's fine. I can talk like your people, too." Gyro crossed himself, puffing out his chest and taking on a deep and pompous tone, mocking the timbre of an aged Roman Catholic priest. "Non occides, non furtum facies, non loqueris contra proximum tuum falsum testimonium…"

Hot Pants licked her lips, tasting blood mixed with the sour aftertaste of briny oysters. She swallowed, but the taste remained. Her nose was still throbbing, but she ignored the pain, electing not to fix her nose yet. "Yes. I have violated commandments. I have committed… and aided and abetted to murder. I have stolen. But… to bear false testimony? I have not. My sins are my own. I make no excuses, and acknowledge them in the presence of the Lord."

"That’s not good enough, Sister. Come with me back to America. Acknowledge your sins in the presence of the Supreme Court. Or an innocent man will hang because of you and Dio. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way…"

Gyro's eyebrows knitted together. His entire countenance exuded a frightful desperation. His hands twitched near the steel balls holstered at his hips, but Hot Pants knew that no matter how much rage was boiling in his heart, something important was holding him back from killing her.

He still needed her admittance of guilt before a court of law.

"That 'animal companion' of yours really pulled the wool over your eyes, hasn't he?" Gyro remarked.

"By all means, elaborate."

"He never told you about the three goons he paid off before you went on your European holiday? How he instructed them to plant evidence framing Johnny Joestar as a Masonic terrorist?"

"I know nothing of this. How are you so certain they acted on Dio's instructions?"

Gyro grabbed a steel ball. Hot Pants kept a wary hand on her Cream Starter, but Gyro only spun the ball around on his finger, as casually as if he were spinning a baseball. "I have my ways."

"You tortured them?"

"Barely. Mr. Brando didn't pay them enough for their loyalty. But after the federal intelligence agents made Johnny confess, I knew I had to act quickly."

Hot Pants arched an eyebrow. "Johnny confessed?"

"I suppose anyone might confess to anything after being tortured and starved for that long, not to mention having his family and friends and everyone else he holds dear threatened. They told him they'd kill me, too, if he didn't confess. And… well… Steven Steel is paying for the best defense lawyer in the Capital, on Lucy's insistence, of course, but he’s not got much time left…"

Gyro's voice trailed off. He looked away, rubbing his face. His posture and mien had begun to falter. With the fire of machismo extinguished from his eyes, he looked like a tired and broken man. Beaten down. A desperado, above all else.

Guilt pressed against her chest like crushing stones. She could no longer bear it; the load she always carried was heavy enough, and her conscience was not strong enough to hold another body.

"Listen to me, Gyro Zeppeli. I won't allow an innocent man hang on account of my crimes. I shan't… I shan't allow it."

Gyro blinked at her, his gray eyes widening in astonishment. "Then… you'll cooperate? Wasn't expecting you to come so easy…"

"Not to America. No. That, I cannot do until I have completed my holy mission. But until then, I… I have the next best thing. Are you capable of smuggling Johnny out of prison?"

"Sure. I can take care of any ordinary guards. But the real problem is what happens next, see? Me and Johnny already talked about this, and we don't want to be fugitives. You and Brando are always two steps away from being apprehended; even I caught up to you without the help of any government. And that's with your 'special abilities', but me and Johnny? We only got my steel balls. Not to mention he can't use his legs. And he's taken ill in prison, so roughing it in the woods like your lot's out of the question. Maybe I could get him on a boat to Italy, take him to my father – he’s a good doctor, you know – but after treating him he'd… turn us in to the Americans for sure…"

"Your own father?"

Gyro rubbed his face again, a bitter smile flickering on his lips. "He does not believe justice can ever be fallible. Nor does he believe in sentimentality."

"But… does he believe in the Papal authority?"

As Hot Pants reached into her pocket, Gyro stopped lazily spinning his ball and gripped it in his hand, ready to sling it at her again.

Hot Pants held both hands up. "I mean no harm, Zeppeli, but if you're too twitchy to trust me... there's a red envelope in my left pocket. You're going to take that envelope from my pocket and open it. Inside of that envelope is a letter from a cardinal, and it's got the seal and signature of Pope Leo XIII. You can read Latin, of course?"

H.P. kept her hands up as Gyro fished the crimson envelope out of her pocket. As he saw that the wax seal of the Vatican was legitimate, he wiped the grease from his hands off on his shirt before handling the letter itself.

I killed Heliotrope Blanc for that pardon. And now I’m simply giving it away…

Hot Pants watched Gyro’s facial expressions change as his eyes skimmed the letter. His defeated face contorted into a look of first disbelief, then surprise, and then revitalized itself with a surge of hope.

"There's no names specified," he said.

"That is deliberate. Take Johnny Joestar to Rome. Or to Naples. Or to any Roman Catholic church in Italy at all, and show them that letter and demand an audience with the Bishop. With a papal pardon, guaranteed sanctuary, and citizenship, he’ll have their full protection."

Gyro read the letter again, putting away his steel ball to hold it in both hands. He shook his head in disbelief, but she watched as the spark of life began to restore to his eyes.

"Just one question. Why are you helping me? You could've gotten off scot-free if you'd used it yourself."

"I won't throw another innocent life to the bears."

She turned her back on Gyro and walked towards the door, removing the metal bar.

Hot Pants was physically, mentally, and spiritually drained from this conversation and was ready to disengage. Abstractly, she knew she would be furious with Dio later (and he would be furious with her), but the pressing guilt within her chest was now replaced by emptiness, and she did not feel any emotions at all.

“By the way…” she tilted her head ever so slightly to the left, though did not turn around to look at him. “Philadelphia doesn’t have a coastline. Thought you should know.”

Chapter Text

Diego waited on the roof, pulse pumping loudly in his ears. Never had he felt such a grip on his heart, as if an invisible hand were squeezing the blood from the organ with each pulse. The emotion was indescribable – hot rage, yes, but that was only one facet of it. He gave up on trying to identify how and why he felt this way; it was easier to simply express all of it as undistilled anger.

Gyro and Hot Pants exited the stable, Gyro astride his horse, H.P. unmounted. They went in opposite directions without any parting words to one another, Gyro's ash-brown hair fluttering in the wind as he disappeared into the horizon.

Diego leaped from the roof, nimbly landing directly in front of Hot Pants as she walked back towards the coaching inn.

Yet when he saw her bloodied nose, and was reminded of his alarm from earlier, he put a pause on his rage, temporarily redirecting it to another outlet.

"He did this to you?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. He sniffed in the direction Gyro Zeppeli had left, tracking the location of his scent. Even with Zeppeli on horseback, Diego could catch up on foot in less than a minute.

Hot Pants did not answer him. With one hand, she wiped the red off her face and dabbed a bit of Cream Starter on her nose to fix it.

Diego was uncomfortably reminded of the sight of upper-class women powdering their faces to appear immaculate – and to hide the bruises gifted to them by their husbands.

"He hurt you?" he asked again, intercepting her path as she tried to side-step him.

H.P. averted her eyes. She straightened her back and faced the other way. "It was… merely an argument between 'men'."

"Do you believe a real man would have given up a… a holy pardon so easily?"

At this insult, H.P. balled her hands into fists. "An honest man would've." She stalked away from Diego, towards the inn. "And fear not – no one will ever accuse you of honesty!"

Diego caught up to her. "You… You're mad at me?" He was baffled, until he remembered the Johnny ordeal. He'd been so angry at her that he'd forgotten she might have feelings about the matter, too.

“Well? Is it true?” she asked, not slowing her pace.

Diego crossed his arms impatiently. "Yes, yes. It’s all true. I put Joestar in a mean pickle; I had three hanger-ons tip off the feds, associating Johnny with some Masonic gammon, but he’d’ve done the same to me, had the shoe been on the other foot! I don’t give a horse’s arse if they have ‘m fullied—"

"How can you be so gentle and caring to me, yet so cruel, so self-serving, so callous where any other human being is concerned?!"

Diego flared his nostrils, exhaling sharply. "Does the wolf hunt with those outside his pack? Does the lion hunt with those outside his pride? I'm not like other humans, H.P., I'm a predator." He leaned against a tree.

Hot Pants whirled around, her copper hair brilliant, catching the sun like a burning bush. She advanced towards him and pushed her palms into his shoulders, pinning him upright against the trunk of the tree.

She was trembling. "You want to know why I was hurt? You want to know what happened to my face? I was humiliated by Gyro Zeppeli – on your account. That's all that was. But you? You've hurt me infinitely worse!" She gave him another shove against the tree, even though he was not struggling against her hold.

Diego was speechless. He opened his mouth to try to defend himself, but no words came out. She was livid. He'd never seen her eyes blaze with such violent intent the way he saw them now, and it was almost frightening to behold.

"You'd – You'd sell the world to the Devil if you could turn a profit, wouldn't you?! Wouldn't you?!" she shouted at him.

Diego simply nodded, meeting her unforgiving eyes.

"I'd sell out every last one of them…" he said, moving a free hand up to reach her hair. She swatted him away. He strained against her grip to whisper in her ear. "Every last one of them… except for you."

Her eyes were mercurial and unfathomable. She refused to let him in.

Diego continued pleading his case, feeling much like a criminal testifying before an unsympathetic judge.

"We're partners. We watch each other's backs, and everyone else may as well be meat to us. I did it to protect us…"

"Awful lot of good it did for us, when we're still pursued!" she retorted, and Diego couldn't argue with that. She was right. She was right, all his efforts had been for naught.

He then met her eyes solemnly. "Why didn't you tell me about the pardon?"

She held his stare for what felt like ages.

Diego heard his pitch rise, his voice cracking as he spoke again, realizing mid-sentence exactly why it'd wounded him so badly: "Well? Don't you trust me?"

H.P. suddenly released her grip on Diego and turned away, crossing her arms.

"I trust you…" she said, stonelike and apparently unmoved. "I trust you to always be where the money's at."

Like a glass bottle underfoot, she crushed him with her words. Diego slouched against the tree, staring at her back, emotions churning within. He was angry that she'd caused him pain, but ashamed of his own vulnerability, and in turn allowed the tides of his anger to rise, drowning out his pain and its associated humiliation with blind, stupid fury.

"Oi…" he said, at first pathetically quiet, then much louder. "Oi! Call me a bastard while you're at it; it's what you're really getting at, innit?!"

She didn’t answer.

Tired of shouting at her back, Diego turned her around forcibly with his claw. "Save your words and call me a right bastard, why don't you?! Call me a…"

Diego trailed off, for the scent of her blood turned his own into ice.

He retracted a bloody claw, but it was too late.

She was bleeding; three puncture wounds in her shoulder.

I did this to her.

Before he could say a word, she was already reacting, sinking her fist into the front of Diego’s face so hard it knocked his head into the tree and rattled his teeth.

"How…" she whimpered, eyes sparkling with tears that she still fiercely tried to blink back. "How many men are going to hurt me today?"

Then, she punched him again. And again. When his fleshy disguise ripped off, she didn’t seem to notice, continuing to punch at his exposed skin. Diego didn't resist; he allowed the wounded Hot Pants to pummel him against the tree until the air was salty with their blood and tears.

Then, the beating stopped. Hot Pants staggered backwards.

Diego sunk down against the tree in shock and disorientation, feeling pain all over but mostly in his teeth.

"Oh… oh, Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. What have I done to you?" he heard her sobbing.

Diego cracked open his swollen eyes and saw four H.P.s in front of him making the sign of the cross.

He wriggled a loose tooth with his tongue, grinning ghoulishly up at her, blood pooling in his mouth and running down his chin. "Maybe… we're even," he croaked.

Hot Pants crouched in front of him, pulling out her Cream Starter; without that magic panacea, Diego privately knew he'd be far less cavalier about any lasting injuries to his face.

But before she could press the trigger and spray away both of their wounds, Diego grabbed her wrist and stared up at her without blinking.

"I don't give a shit about the pardon…" Diego said. "I… it's only that… I wish you'd told me about it."

"I should have told you," H.P. said. "And I tried, over and over, thinking 'it isn't the right time; I'll tell him later', and then I never did. I was too afraid. I…"

She'd also apparently lost the courage to talk, for she stopped mid-sentence and tried to wrench her arm free. But Diego didn’t want her to heal him just yet; he knew his battered appearance was disconcerting to her.

She swallowed. "Dio, I was afraid you'd take it and leave me behind."

Diego released his hold on her, mouth agape.

"Me… leave you behind?" he said back to her stupidly, at a loss for any other words than to parrot her own, individually emphasizing different words with each repetition. "Leave you behind? Leave you behind? Leave you behind?" He spoke as if he barely understood what he was saying, but he knew exactly what she was saying, so keenly that he scrunched up his face. He felt tingling all over his body and he sniffed, loudly.

He understood so well that he was forced to swallow back the lump in his throat, for deep within his soul – buried beneath bitter memories and baleful ambition – was the same fear. The fear that she'd tire of his unchangeable nature and leave him behind, eventually.

Diego balanced himself against the tree and crouched down again, still feeling rather dizzy from her beating. He couldn’t keep a standing position for long. He rested his head in H.P.'s lap and closed his eyes, feeling the cool soothing touch of her hands against his face as she healed him. She fixed her own wounds only after, and then ran her fingers through his hair, pulling at the tangles.

Some time passed. Diego might have cried. It didn't matter.

Diego's mystery watch rested heavily in his pocket, a bittersweet reminder of all of the pain and joy and love and hate they'd experienced together, and the mutual trust they'd briefly violated.

We had ice cream last night, for God’s sake. Ice cream!

Though Cream Starter erased all evidence of their respective abuse, just as it had with H.P.'s broken nose, part of Diego understood that they'd done something inexcusable to one another today. They were "even" perhaps in terms of physical wounds; both had lost control of their anger, and while perhaps Hot Pants doled more than enough retribution upon him, Diego knew the consequences were different when he lost control. When he lost control, he transformed into a monstrous form, just as he had with the ice cream seller. As natural as it felt to succumb to his primal rage, it was gentle moments like this – his head in her lap, her fingers brushing his hair – unquestionably human moments that a reptilian brain could not fathom, even when his trust and affection for her was still intact in that form. The longer he spent transformed, the more he felt his humanity slipping from his fingers, compassion replaced with territorial instinct, memories becoming encoded strands of scents and sounds without feeling. He didn't want to lose her because of it. He didn't want to lose himself.

The cheery weather faded the closer they got to London, the persistent haze of the city like a white fabric shrouding the sun.

Across the gloomy bridge, past the scaffoldings, past the iron-black spires of Parliament piercing the sky, past the bell towers tolling the six o'clock chimes in all directions, Diego found his surroundings paradoxically familiar and alienating at the same time. Indeed, like most large cities, London was a bustling jumble of contradictions; shining towers soared over shithole slums, casting long, triangular shadows along the roads like devilish shadow creatures in pointed hats. Gentlemen in covered hackney cabs resembling oversized prams paid no mind to the soot-covered guttersnipes walking barefoot alongside them. A tall woman in a gingham dress used her hands to shield the eyes of her two daughters as they passed a house of ill repute, as if the mere sight of the buxom slattern leaning out the window would inspire the girls to paint their own lips and smear rouge on their cheeks.

He leaned into his horse’s mane to sniff Changeling’s scent, deliberately drowning out the noxious “perfume” in the air, from the ever-present stink of the River Thames to the shit and piss in the streets to the fresh fish and days-old fish in the market and the people, so many people, overwhelming him with hundreds of thousands of scent-signatures he couldn’t distinguish from one another.

A factory whistle screeched suddenly, causing him to jump a bit in his saddle. He was still on edge. Diego had lived here for more than half a decade, yet while the toffs liked to proclaim there was no place like London, there had never been a place so dangerous to him. He remembered that danger now just as strongly as he did in his youth. Danger that another villain would slit his throat for the sixpence in his pocket. Danger of being rounded up by the coppers and forced into a workhouse worse than the streets. Danger of well-dressed strangers offering sweets to lure children into dens of the most abhorrent form of depravity. It was, in some way, humbling to be reminded of those close calls as they made their way through the east end, each alley they passed grimier than the last, each alley holding memories of those terrifying nights on the street. Had Diego not been such a clever and slippery lad, had he not been so lucky, he knew his fate could have been far worse. But the danger had not yet passed; he felt it still, perhaps phantoms conjured by his past, or perhaps the stranglehold of anxiety and anticipation was manifesting a different sense of danger.

Dario could be lurking in any one of these alleys, hiding in plain sight.

He glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Hot Pants had fallen behind while he was lost in thought.

About ten paces behind, Diego saw a swarm of barefoot children with dirty faces surrounding her horse, their palms outstretched as H.P. doled out pennies to each, half-heartedly attempting to shoo away the greedy hands that had already received multiple alms.

He dismounted and walked towards the group, shaking his head. "You're meant to ignore them, you know," he called out to her.

"But I cannot…" she said, with such wide-eyed earnestness that it elicited a hollow laugh from Diego.

"Move along, you little blighters. Piss off," he said, physically blocking the children from getting any closer to H.P.'s horse. They began to make vulgar gestures at Diego, but all he had to do was open a switchblade; the noise of the spring was enough to make the kids squeal and scatter in all directions like rodents.

"You can't do that in London, giving money to those pint-sized purloiners. Pah! They’ll stab you just to cut your purse strings," he chastised, retracting the blade and offering the knife out to her.

H.P. did not take the switchblade. Her mouth was drawn like its own knife, thin and sharp. "This city… I've never seen so much poverty concentrated in one place. I cannot simply turn away like you and pretend I do not see the eyes of those hungry children."

"I was one of them, once. And I'm telling you now, after taking your ha'penny I'd have dogged you into some dark place and robbed you blind."

"Hmph. You wouldn't have been able to, if you tried," she said, placing a hand on the Cream Starter holstered at her hip.

Diego grinned sardonically. "I know you, Hot Pants. You wouldn't hurt a child. Not even if he came at you with blade or gun."

She turned away. "I'll take your advisory into consideration, unsolicited as it was, but know that I am perfectly capable of defending myself from any common rogue of the street, no matter how tiny their form may be."

Again, she was back to that cool, haughty attitude. Gone had been their usual repartee during their journey from Crawley to London, replaced by silence and glares and snipes, and Diego felt its absence keenly. He knew she was still upset with him about Johnny Joestar, and he found it terribly unjust, especially when he had already forgiven her so easily for not informing him about the holy pardon. Diego even began to wonder if causing such a deliberate scene while helping the poor little children was her way of putting the spotlight on his "cruelty" again, to prod and prod at him on all the ways he was so callous and unsympathetic to the plights of strangers so that she could feel morally superior–

No. Diego stopped this venomous line of thought before it festered. It was no use getting even more upset with her. The tension in the air was already thicker than the smog, and all they had was each other.

Perhaps the situation required a pinch of levity to clear the atmosphere…

Diego glanced all around. His eyes grew wide and he pointed at a barber shop on the opposite side of the street.

"Look! Right there! It's him!" he cried with urgency, wagging his finger at the window by the candy-striped barber pole.

H.P.'s head snapped in the direction his finger was pointing at instantly. "Who?" she asked in a low voice, drawing the reins closer to her chest. Through the window they could see a man in the chair, bib draped over his front as the barber sharpened his razor. H.P.'s breathing became shallower as she watched the barber hold the gleaming razor at arm's width.

"Who?!" she asked again, louder.

"It's Jack…" Diego whispered. "Jack… the Clipper!"

Hot Pants' eyes bugged out. Her mouth contorted into all manner of forms except the smile she was obviously trying to suppress.

"I do believe that was… quite possibly the worst joke you’ve ever told," she said, kicking her stirrups.

Diego ran to Changeling, lifting himself quickly into the saddle and trotting after her. "But you did find it funny, didn't you?"

"Perhaps… but only because it was so terrible."

"Aha! Then it was still funny!" To Diego, that was enough of a victory. The air was cleared – the metaphorical air, at least. The real air was still choked with smog and the stink of the fish-market they were riding through, and for a moment Diego wished he could have another helping of oysters.

"Where are you leading us, by the by?" H.P. asked. "You… do have some inkling of a plan, don't you?"

"I'm chuffed you asked!" Diego said, their horses now trotting side-by-side, hooves clip-clopping in unison against the cobblestones. "I've got a potential contact I want to see first. A physician. Yes, a proper physician with a capital P! Helped me out of a right awful crib years ago."

"You don't reckon he'll turn us in?"

"Well, see, I don't know. Not yet. But I got the perfect plan to test his loyalty. He's got a practice on Bow Road and he's as cockney as they come, but he ain't a quack; as I said, he's a proper physician, with papers and the like. He’s got a queer name, though. Speedwagon. Doctor Speedwagon."

Chapter Text

LONDON, 1884

Dr. Speedwagon dipped his hands in a water basin and glanced at his next patient: a young mite seated in the examination chair, one leg bouncing up and down. The skinny husk of a boy had an angelic face and unruly blond hair sticking out in all directions like straw, yet his eyebrows were dark and prominently arched, like capital A's. He was small, but when Speedwagon saw the intensity of his stare, the hardness of his cut jade eyes beneath those thick brows, he had to assume the boy was no younger than 14 or 15. With eyes like that, he could hardly be called a child anymore.

The doctor took his time drying his hands and re-adjusted his cravat, then held his arms out.

"What're you in for?"

“Here,” the youth said, squinting up at the doctor. “Need you to sign this, if you please.”

He drew a neatly folded square from his trouser pocket and passed it to Speedwagon. His hands were warm as they brushed against the doctor's.

"Hm? What's this?" Speedwagon unfolded the paper, reaching for his spectacles on the counter.

"You don't need to read it. Just an acknowledgement that you gave me a physical examination today," the boy said, narrowing his eyes even further that they were a crack away from being fully shut.

Speedwagon found the boy’s manners to be quite wanting, yet he did not forsake his own. "After that time I was bamboozled into a year’s subscription of The Sporting Times, I've been in the habit of reading before putting my signature on anything."

“Then you read the pink 'un, eh?” the boy said, in reference to the salmon-colored paper the sporting magazine was printed on. “You'll read about me in there, soon enough. I’ll be famous. Everyone’ll know my name.”

He said it so coolly, as if stating a simple fact; the grass was green, the kettle was hot, and his name would be printed in The Sporting Times soon enough.

"Tch… What's this for, then, eh?" Speedwagon put on his spectacles to finally read the paper.

“THIS INDENTURE witnesseth that DIEGO BRANDO now at the age of FOURTEEN years, by consent of his FATHER, MOTHER, OR GUARDIAN, LORD SAMUEL MORDECAI NIGHTINGALE II, doth put himself apprenticed to LORD SAMUEL MORDECAI NIGHTINGALE II, to learn the art of HORSEMANSHIP at THE ESTATE OF LORD SAMUEL MORDECAI NIGHTINGALE II beginning in the month of NOVEMBER in the FORTY-EIGHTH year of the reign of Queen Victoria, Of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and So Forth, By the Grace of God, in the Year of Our Lord one Thousand eight hundred and EIGHTY-FOUR...”

“Oh, you’ll be wanting the paper behind that,” the boy said. He coughed discreetly into his arm.

Speedwagon turned to the next page, which was hand-written in an elegant cursive:

I, ______, being an accredited physician in sound mind, hereby acknowledge that Diego Brando is in exceptional physical health and free from any deformities, diseases, nervous symptoms, or other maladies henceforth that would be deleterious to his ability to adequately perform the duties of an apprentice jockey. A physical examination was performed on the _______ day of _______ in the year of our Lord _______."

“So you want to be a jockey, eh, lad?” Speedwagon tapped the counter with the bundle of papers. He knew how this industry thrived on a constant supply of impoverished stable boys like Diego, green as grass, eager for their time in the sun, only to be chewed up and spat back out by their merciless handlers when they were no longer useful. Few of them would ever get to race for high stakes; most would never climb out of poverty or even repay their equipment debts. Many contracted tuberculosis, even more sustained riding injuries, but only the lucky ones could dream of retirement. “It’s a hard life being a jockey, you know...”

“Begging your pardon, doc, but I know what it is to be a jockey. I know what it is to be a winning jockey, too. I can ride better than anyone I know, and I know a lot of jockeys, winners and losers alike, but they’ll all be fodder when I’m racing with them. You’ll see. You’ll see, ‘cause you’ll read about me in the pink ‘un. You’ll see, all right. And you’ll be the one to have helped me get there. All I need is your signature.”

Well. This boy was certainly overflowing with confidence. There was a hunger in his eyes, not for food (though he did appear in want of a good meal); a hunger that wouldn't be satiated until he had the entire world to spin on his finger. But just from a sweeping glance, the doctor could tell the lad wasn't in "exceptional" physical health at all. It was good for a jockey to be small, but not quite so malnourished and tired as the boy appeared.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

The boy complied, with an "Aaaah..."

"White patches on the tongue, indicative of a poor diet," Speedwagon announced, affecting a stuffier tone. He pretended to be scribbling in a notebook.

He tapped the boy's knee with an instrument. The leg jumped in turn.

"Reflexes look good, though," he said, then pulled out a stethoscope to listen to his breathing.

With each inhale, Speedwagon heard the traces of a phlegmy, bronchial rattling.

He made some more imaginary notes in his book. “Recovering from illness, I hear?”

Diego crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “What’s it to you?”

“The boy asks ‘what’s it to’ the physician giving the physical examination he asked for! Would you believe it?”

“Didn’t ask for no physical examination.”

“Your papers seem to be ordering one. And the more churlish your behavior, the less inclined I'll be to sign off for a clean bill of health (and I'm already rather disinclined), so you'd do well to stow it and allow me to proceed with my work.”

After some more poking, prodding, and tapping, the doctor came to the conclusion that the boy was still at the tail end of a bout of influenza and ought not to have walked the couple miles from Lord Nightingale's estate in his condition, in the middle of November, no less. Yet as he scolded Diego, the boy avoided eye contact and simply used a finger to trace the golden pineapples on the wallpaper behind him.

"Didn't want to see no well-heeled doctor. He’d send me away. I saw one before I came to you. He uh… said I had lice, so I got rid of the lice, but he still said I weren't fit for ‘prenticeship. That's why I needed a second opinion. You'll be compensated for your services by Lord Nightingale, but I've got somethin' extra, for your troubles… if’n we understand one another…"

Diego pulled a sovereign from his pocket, holding the coin to the light to show off its newly-minted luster. As he dropped it back in his pocket, Speedwagon noticed the absence of a clink – all he had was that one sovereign, and it was no doubt stolen!

"You think just 'cause my practice is in a seedy corner house on Bow Road, ‘cause I don't talk like some bang-up genteel doctor, that you can bribe me into abandoning my integrity as a physician? For one pound? You think my integrity is worth a single sovereign? Devil take us, I won’t buckle to the likes of you, I won’t!"

Mind your blood pressure, Robert...

Speedwagon took a deep breath, then pressed one nostril shut to exhale slowly through the other. Then, he repeated this with the other nostril. The boy tilted his head up and disinterestedly watched this ritual, and Speedwagon imagined the wheels in Diego's brain were turning as he pondered whether or not it was worth his time to stay, or if he ought to find an even less reputable doctor to ply his trade to.

"Why do you want to be a jockey, boy?" Speedwagon asked.

The spark returned to the boy’s eyes. He crossed one leg over the other and laid his arms flat on the armrests, as if the examination chair were his throne.

"Cause I'm climbing my way to the top. I'm unstoppable. All the wretched slime of this city will wriggle like worms after me, but they'll never catch up. I'll beat those that ever beat me, and they'll all serve me, Dio!"

Speedwagon did not wish to embarrass the lad by telling him that he was about as threatening as a hissing barn cat, but perhaps he could still temper his ambitions with some common sense. "Well, 'Dio', that’s all very good, but a jockey ain't a king, you know."

"But it's the sport of kings. Fred Archer was once like me, and now he dines with royalty, he does."

Speedwagon let out an incredulous laugh. "Most jockeys will never earn even a fraction of Fred Archer's prestige. He's the best known flat racer in the world!"

"Aye, but I'm better. I'd like to race him, one day. Even Fred Archer will have to get used to the sight of my horse's arse. They all will."

Speedwagon picked up the notepad and pretended to write more notes. "...the patient's head has swollen to the size of a continent and must be drained immediately."

"You laugh," Diego said. "But do you remember George Joestar's boy, Nicholas? His young protégé?"

Speedwagon tapped his fingers on the counter as he recollected all he could of the story. He did not follow the racing news religiously, but he remembered the incident from about three years ago all over the papers. George Joestar, a wealthy American and one of the most prominent horse owners in England, had moved back to his homeland after his eldest son fell from a horse and died.

“I saw him die,” Diego said. His eyes became vacant, as if momentarily lost in recollection, then he shook his head. “But uh… that’s not what’s important. What’s important is what George said to me before the accident. He said he's only ever known two people with an innate, uncanny sense of timing, precise down to the centisecond. The first was his son, Nicholas Joestar. And the second?”

Before Speedwagon could answer the rhetorical question, Diego banged his own chest with a fist.

"Me. Dio. I can demonstrate, if you've got a stopwatch."

Speedwagon did in fact have a stopwatch, and out of sheer curiosity, he pulled it out to test the boy's claims. He let the stopwatch run for some time. After clicking it, the boy, eyes closed, answered serenely, "11.65 seconds."

Speedwagon glanced at the hands of the watch. The boy was correct. He tested him again, to ensure it was not merely a lucky guess, and the boy counted exactly 5.89 seconds, then 7.20.

Speedwagon pursed his lips and nodded slowly, taking care that he did not show just how utterly baffled he was by the little man before him. "You, ah…" he turned away for a moment, drew a handkerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed his own forehead. "You are uncommon. Uncommon, indeed… mayhaps you'll make somethin' of yourself yet."

And maybe he'll be alright out there, on his own.

Diego brightened, showing a smile of crooked but well-kept teeth, most still intact. "Then you'll help me, doc?"

"On one condition," Speedwagon pointed a finger at the boy, inches away from his nose. "Can't have you blustering about, making your illness worse and coughing in old ladies’ faces, can we? How long till your Lord Nightingale expects you back?"

"A week's time, doc."

"And where do you plan on hanging your hat until then?"

The boy merely shrugged.

"You can stay here, at my home. I've got a pallet bed in the attic you can use. I'll get Martha to make two meals a day for a growing young man. Lord knows it'll give that old cook something to do; she's been bored out of her wits since I began my diet, and heavens, you look like you've never been warm or full in your life."

"I get warm in the summer, 'least," Diego fidgeted in the chair, closing one eye to stare up at Speedwagon. "Hey, you're not some kind of pervert, are you?"

"God!" The question was so vulgar and direct it made Speedwagon drop his handkerchief in shock. "God, no! I'm not a bloody Catholic!"

LONDON, 1891

Dr. Speedwagon pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to look at his next patient. A nun, draped in black, looking more like a pallbearer with her wide-jawboned scowl. The cheery wallpaper behind her contrasted her dour appearance, the same as it always had been; bright green with golden pineapples, though it was old and starting to peel.

"What're you in for?" he asked, washing his hands in the same porcelain basin.

The nun did not reply. Speedwagon could only imagine how desperate her situation was that she'd seek him for help, knowing the type of procedure he performed was an open secret to anyone looking closely enough at his advertisement. He could only surmise that her silence was out of profound shame for her sins, and he didn't have the heart to force her to admit to anything untoward; confessions were for her priest and her God, not for doctors.

He softened his tone. "No need to feel ashamed. Ain’t the first time I've had a Sister in that chair," he said, fiddling with his cravat and tucking it back into his waistcoat.

She did not appear far along at all, thankfully, and Speedwagon was already considering that he could make the process easier on her by resolving her pains with a simple pill, without the need of any instruments.

"Never mind any of that. Dr. Speedwagon, I'm afraid I've approached you under false pretenses…" she answered, her stare cold enough to freeze seawater.

Speedwagon quirked an eyebrow at her. She had a face that could have been twenty years old or forty years old, but with her looking so weary with exhaustion, it was difficult to tell.

"Someone put you up to this, eh? The church? The coppers? The stops? Are you even a nun, or did they just dress you like one to put the fear of God in me?"

Still, he felt protective enough of his "patient" he'd known for just one minute that he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was merely the pawn of some larger entity, and not acting out of any malice herself.

The nun shook her head. "Yes, I'm truly a nun. I've taken my vows."

Her voice was low and husky, more masculine than feminine. Yet here she was, a real, consecrated nun commanding reverence from a Bow Road doctor in his dingy little examination room.

"Ah," she continued. "But we are not here to talk about me. I understand that… oh, about six years ago, you gave a health examination to a young man by the name of Diego Brando. Goes by the nickname 'Dio.' Surely you've heard the… mischief he's done to attract international attention…"

"Sister. With all due respect, are you familiar with the first law of the Hippocratic Oath?"

"Do no harm?"

"I meant the next law."

The nun folded her hands in her lap and stared up at him from the chair. "Administer no poison or use no pessary upon a woman to induce abortion?"

Speedwagon put one hand on his bowler hat, tipping it to cover his reddening face, while waving the other hand in a rather sheepish gesture.

"Aha… no, no! The next law."

"Never divulge the secrets of one's patients to unrelated parties?"

"Exactly. And that part of my oath I hold as holy as you do your catechisms or commandments."

"Not even for…" for the first time, the woman smiled, though not with her eyes. "A twenty pound note?"

"Twenty quid?! Sell my integrity for twenty quid?!” Speedwagon grabbed the little reflex hammer, brandishing it as if it were an actual weapon. “You could make it twenty thousand and I wouldn’t buckle to the likes of you! You think I’m some shabby quack, do you? Just ‘cause my practice is on Bow Road? Well, you’re sorely mistaken to have thought that of Dr. Robert Edward Oliver Speedwagon! Get out of here! Get out!"

The truth was, twenty pounds was a tempting amount, and though the lad and his subsequent fame (and infamy) had certainly left an impression on the doctor, he didn't believe any of the details he remembered of their meeting would be enough to help anyone's investigation. Still, it was the principle of the matter, and Speedwagon considered himself a scrupulous man, and his scruples were worth a lot more than twenty pounds.

"Get out, I said! Go on!" he shouted even louder, when the woman, still relaxed in the chair as if she owned it, showed no intention of even standing up.

The door burst open, and the young man that had accompanied the nun to the waiting room rushed in. Speedwagon held up his little hammer defensively, as if anticipating an attack.

"Wait, doc! It's me! It's me!"

In one fluid motion, the man peeled his face off to reveal another face, discarding the excess flesh on the ground like it was a theatrical mask.

Speedwagon blinked as he watched the spectacle before him. It took a moment for him to recognize the man without his characteristic smirk, but there he was again: that handsome, blond-haired, green-eyed troublemaker. A former jockey who, if the newspapers were to be believed, assassinated the President of the United States. But Speedwagon would always remember this man as the underfed, clever little devil that sat in his exam chair years ago, and because of that, he still felt some amount of responsibility for him.

“You–!!” Speedwagon compulsively dusted off his waistcoat, then pointed at Diego, unable to come up with anything intelligible to say.

"I apologize for the song and dance, Dr. Speedwagon. We only did this to make certain we could trust you…" the nun said from her chair.

But when Diego opened his mouth to speak, Speedwagon cut him off by slashing the air in front of him.

"You've done it now, Brando! Oh, you've really done it, lad. You've done a bad thing, a very bad thing! What were you thinking?! Did they fill your head with rocks?!"

Diego quickly tried to get some words in. "You may not believe me, but the president wasn't as good a man as the yanks say he was–"

"Never mind that! I'm talking about the Sister of God you've defiled! You've done a terrible affront by the laws of man and God, Brando, positively abhorrent! I ought to throw you out with the dogs; you'd do better among your own kind! Have you no shame?! Putting a bastard in a real, consecrated nun… who's next in your line of conquest? The Queen?"

"I… what?!" Diego's jaw hung open. "We never– engaged in anything like that, and she's not with child!"

Speedwagon plopped down on the stool, taking deep breaths and exhaling through one nostril. He repeated the process with the other nostril until his anger subsided.

Mind your blood pressure, Robert…

When he was finally calm enough to speak again, Speedwagon addressed the odd pair in front of him.

"My apologies for assuming, but… well, you have to understand that many of my patients are women in… interesting situations."

Diego tilted his head, apparently still not getting it.

"He's an abortionist," the nun said bluntly.

Diego hunched over and squinted at her. "How did you know?"

The nun sighed and stood up from the exam chair, idly moving to look at an anatomy illustration on the wall. "What do you think he meant by 'women in interesting situations?' Surely you've seen similar advertisements in the papers that offer services to relieve women of… 'menstrual disruption', 'feminine ailments', 'abdominal swelling'..."

"S'pose I always thought that was women's troubles, didn't concern me."

"That's exactly the point," Speedwagon remarked cheerily. "Clear enough for a woman to understand exactly what it means, and vague enough for a copper not to give a half-damn. But if you ain’t seeking an illegal operation, why are you two here? Surely your lot would be safer having a good swim out in the country, if the price on your heads is to be believed."

He gave the nun another good look, now understanding she was his accomplice. The papers made it clear Diego Brando had a partner known by the initials H.P., but their identity was reported inconsistently; depending on which publication one read, H.P. was either a cowboy, a French man, a French woman, a presidential bodyguard, or, most unbelievably, a nun. But H.P. apparently was a nun, and Diego apparently did indeed grow up to become as famous as Fred Archer, and Speedwagon was wondering if he now ought to reconsider his opinion on other unbelievables, like astrology or ghosts.

Diego walked over to the window and drew the curtains shut.

"Now that I know we have your discretion, I'll tell you why we're here. See, doc, we're looking for someone…"

Chapter Text

"I’ll catch you up to the time of day, doc. See, during the Steel Ball Run, the two of us were collecting diamonds. Independently of each other at first, mind. We'd crossed paths, saved each other's lives once or twice, you know how it is, but we would've slit each other's throats in our sleep if we had the chance. We were rivals primarily. Still are, in a sense, but…"

As Diego trailed off, Hot Pants picked up. "But it grew convenient for us to become partners, especially when we needed to go up against the president of the United States himself."

"Yeah, well, I would've rather done it alone; only agreed to team up with you 'cause you promised you'd help me find that bastard progenitor of mine."

"Oh, spare us your lone wolf theatrics, Dio. You'd be six feet underground if you'd have gone up against Valentine without me."

Diego smirked, picking up a paperweight from the counter and tossing it back and forth between his hands. "Still testy, Hazel?” he teased, invoking her real name for an extra pinch of annoyance. “Anyhow, we never intended to do him in. Not at first… That wasn't the plan."

Hot Pants turned to Speedwagon. "When we boarded that train, our plan was twofold: rob Valentine of his diamonds and rescue the girl he’d kidnapped.”

"No, no, rescuing the girl was your plan, not mine."

"You agreed to my terms!"

"I tell you what, going after the girl's what got us in this fix."

"It was not, and to pretend otherwise is clownery!"

“Clownery? I'd call your little rescue plan clownery, but I wouldn’t want to insult all the fine clowns out there that could’ve formed a cooler plan!”

This bickering in front of the patiently-listening doctor was not out of any genuine resentment, but a deliberate blockade. It was all a farce, a conscious effort to stall the conversation. Neither of them wanted to talk about Valentine’s ability, or the other world, or the identical Diego and Hot Pants that had miraculously outplayed them.

They only occasionally whispered of it in the darkness between themselves, for speaking it out loud granted more validity to its existence. They wished more than anything that it wasn’t real, that it never happened. Even thinking about “the other world” struck a chord of fear into their hearts; they knew nothing of what this one peek beyond the veil, this one shred of forbidden knowledge meant or why the two of them had to bear it alone. How could they expect a physician, a man of science like Dr. Speedwagon to believe in a parallel universe, let alone fathom the existential terror they always left unspoken?

Fortunately, they were interrupted by the door bursting open. But instead of looking at the intruder, Diego and Hot Pants immediately turned in the opposite direction to hide their undisguised faces.

A man’s breathless voice rang out with great urgency.

“Doctor! There’s been a terrible accident at the cotton mill! A terrible, terrible accident! A boy… he got his arm sliced right off by the spinning mule, and– God, there’s so much blood!”

Dr. Speedwagon was galvanized into action, stomping about the room and throwing tools into his black doctor’s kit. “That’s a task for a sawbones, not a physician! If the lad’s not lost too much blood by the time it took you to run here…!”

“All due respect, doc, the nearest barber-surgeon won’t work for… promise of payment at a later date.”

“He won’t work for free, you mean,” Speedwagon said gruffly. “I’ll be off. We ain’t finished here; don’t you two go running away.”

“No,” said Hot Pants. “I’m coming with you.”

With Diego trailing behind at a distance, Hot Pants and Speedwagon strode briskly to the factory some blocks away to where the huge rectangular building loomed, smokestacks belching black clouds into the air.

Inside, they were ushered to the makeshift infirmary: a spare room with a single pallet-bed where the boy lay, squirming and shouting in agony. His stump, cut off at the forearm, was wrapped in sheets soaked dark with his blood.

“Gave him some laudanum, but the poor lad still won’t stop screaming,” said a woman who worked at the factory, her roughspun dress all bloodied like a butcher's apron. "Are you Dr. Speedwagon’s nurse, Sister?”

“Today, I am. Where’s the rest of his arm?”

“It’s too late for that,” interrupted Speedwagon. He had his sleeves rolled up and was laying out his surgical tools. Forceps, needles, silk thread, small rags, antiseptic. With the forceps, he held a needle over the open flame of a candle. “The arm may as well be dead now. Sew it back on, it’ll rot, infect the rest of his blood. Best we can do is patch up what’s left of his arm and pray he lives.”

H.P. ignored him, turning in the direction of the woman again. “Retrieve his arm."

Dr. Speedwagon hunched his shoulders and growled something to himself, rightfully displeased at having his own statements as a doctor ignored. The factory worker did not know what to do and glanced back and forth between the doctor and his “nurse”, then ran off, thin soles of her shoes lightly padding against the floor.

“Keep applying pressure to the wound while I tourniquet it,” Speedwagon ordered.

Hot Pants silently obeyed, though she was tempted to tell him that none of this would be necessary. Blood seeped from the fabric and onto her hands as she pressed down on the wound. The boy's shrieks increased in volume.

Still holding on, she crouched down so that her face was level with the boy's.

"In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine…" she sang softly, the words she remembered crooning a thousand times to her brother whenever he was afraid. "Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine."

The boy's sobs did not subside, but she hoped it at least brought some comfort. He was a poor, underfed little creature, as all boys purchased for factory work were, but he had a head of handsome black curls and brown eyes filled with tears.

The woman returned with the corpse-white forearm, just as Speedwagon peeled back the fabric and was about to make the first stitch.

"Wait," H.P. said. She took the arm from the factory worker. The flesh was already cold, and its fingers were curled up like a dead spider. Withdrawing Cream Starter from its holster, she quickly aligned the boy's arm with its mangled socket, using a thin stream of flesh to adhere it in place.

"Light she was, and like a fairy, and her shoes were number nine…" she sang, rubbing the boy's arm to encourage blood flow. His forearm was still whiter than the rest of his bicep. "Herring boxes, without topses, sandals were for Clementine."

The child’s screams had been replaced by whimpers, softer than the muffled roar of machinery in the next room.

The boy wriggled his fingers, and the doctor's eyes bulged out into big blue globes. He used a rag to wipe the sweat off the boy's forehead, then another rag to wipe off his own.

"It's a special technique, developed by a nun in a French convent," H.P. calmly addressed the factory worker, who was also aghast at the miraculous surgery she had just witnessed. "She developed a… sort of balm that can treat wounds without sutures. It hasn't been patented yet, so it's very rare."

She then glanced over her shoulder at Speedwagon, who shook his head at her. A proper physician like him would know that no such thing existed in the world. But this was not an appropriate scene to explain her ability to him. Not in front of the others.

The other woman muttered something about the foreman needing her at her post, and Speedwagon loudly declared that he wasn’t leaving until he could speak to said foreman, taking time to denounce the working conditions.

“... even the grimiest workhouse in Southwark has a poor-law infirmary, and yes, they have a proper barber-surgeon on call…” Speedwagon rambled on, though no one was particularly listening to him anymore.

The child's cracked lips began to move, and H.P. knelt by him again.

"Sing the rest of the song, would you, Sister? Can you… sing it for me?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Hot Pants stood up abruptly, her vision narrowing like an aperture.

Hazel! You didn't sing the other parts!

There's seven verses. I don't have time to sing them all! Dreadful sorry, Matteo…

I want to hear them all! Sing the rest of the song! No one sings pretty like you, not even ma!

The voices of the past coalesced into shrill, discordant noise, a buzzing like an orchestra of the Devil's trombones. Louder, it grew, louder until she felt her head would burst.

"I cannot…" she said to the poor child, unable to hear her own voice. "Please forgive me."

She pushed past Speedwagon, out to the factory, but even the gnashing limbs of the machinery could not drown out the riot in her head.

The cool air outside slapped against her face, making it tingle. She barely noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks and walked without direction, unmindful of the cabs forced to halt as she crossed the street. Men shouted at her, but the terrible noise was too loud for her to hear their words.

"Oi!"

Diego's voice was the only one that managed to pierce through the discord in her brain. He was running after her. H.P. kept walking, into an alley, where her trancelike journey stopped at a dead end.

A hand clamped on her shoulder. She shrugged him off, not turning around. Teeth gritted, fists clenched, her entire body tightened up, she screamed, expelling all the pressure building up like a steam whistle.

The scream echoed farther than she thought it would. She glanced around quickly to see if she'd attracted any onlookers, then remembered they were in London, in a neighborhood where folks would walk right past a murder. No one was paying them any mind.

Expelling that noise had lessened the heaviness of her heart, at least.

Diego placed a hand on her shoulder again. She’d tired herself so much from her small outburst that she allowed it this time.

"It's ironic, isn't it?" Her voice caught in her throat. She addressed no one in particular, though Dio was forced to listen to her now. "That the world would call me ‘Sister.’ I am like Cain, who murdered Abel, yet they all call me 'Sister' as if I had not discarded my only brother."

"I don't call you Sister."

"No," she spat. "You know I am no more worthy of the title than any common murderer."

"Nah, that's not the truth of it. I just like your other names better. H.P., Hot Pants… Hazel." he whispered that last name. The warmth of his breath on her ear was bringing her back to her senses, and she turned around, suddenly wanting to be even closer.

"You…" she started, biting her lip. He jumped slightly in surprise as she wrapped her arms around him and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. She inhaled deeply. His unwashed clothes smelled of mildew but it didn’t matter, for she knew she likely smelled just as rank. The bees in her ears quieted to a dull hum, and then the sound went away altogether and she could breathe again.

"You like saying that name, don't you?"

"It feels… forbidden, somehow," Diego admitted. "That's what makes it more exciting to say it. Can't say it too often, though. Then it loses all that specialness."

When H.P. finally calmed down enough and crudely wiped off her face with her veil, they made their way back to Speedwagon's house. Diego did not ask what had happened at the cotton mill, and Hot Pants did not volunteer that information. He could not alleviate her pain, but he could distract her from it, and for that she was grateful.

When they reached Speedwagon’s corner-house at the end of the row, Hot Pants quickly discerned that the majority of the ragtag patients who had already congregated outside his door to await his return weren’t paying customers. The lot’s collective fortune couldn’t be more than a single pound.

It wasn't until a young lady in a gauzy dress came to call, casually twirling the strand of pearls around her neck with one finger as she asked H.P. whether she knew Dr. Speedwagon was as discreet as he was effective at resolving female complaints, that she finally understood how he was able to make a decent living. Indeed, it made sense why upper-class ladies would pay a premium to a Bow Road physician in a corner-house to ensure complete confidentiality; a genteel doctor would surely tell all of genteel society what sort of illegal procedure Lady Pearl-Necklace sought and she would be a social pariah for the rest of her life.

"Yes," was all Hot Pants said, for it was the honest truth. "Dr. Speedwagon is nothing if not discreet."

"Splendid," said the woman. There was something artificial about her haughty accent, articulating each syllable clear as crystal. "Let him know I called, would you, Sister?"

She gathered her plentiful skirts and began to walk off without even giving a name, opting out of waiting with the rest of the rabble.

"Take caution, ma'am," H.P. felt the need to say after her. "Take caution walking alone in these parts. There's a killer roaming the streets."

"Oh!" The woman brought a velvet-gloved hand to her mouth and laughed merrily. "If you mean Jack the Ripper, well, he only murders low women! And now you've placed me in quite the conundrum, for politeness dictates I must return an expression of concern for your safety, but by doing so after my previous statement I would be implying something low about your character, so I will simply bid you adieu, Sister."

"Your name," H.P. remembered to ask after all of that flummery. "I did not catch it."

The woman paused to give another incredulous laugh, as if the thought that anyone might not recognize her was absurd. She suddenly tugged harder on her strand of pearls, betraying a glimpse of self-consciousness. Then, it was all coquetry again. "Mrs. Vera Willock. But only tell that to the Doctor. Ta-ta."

The lady's heels click-clacked against the cobblestones as her figure became a silhouette in the city haze. Hot Pants cast a furtive glance at Diego, who had his head obediently bowed and was biting his lip, apparently trying his best not to burst into hysterics.

"I take it you recognize the name?" she asked him.

Diego leaned in close, voice hushed. "Oh, it was quite the scandal two years ago. Mr. Willock – decrepit old codger – is one of the richest men in London. Among his other holdings, he also owns a theater or two on Drury Lane, and he married an actress young enough to be his granddaughter," he said. "Stunning of her to strut around talking of ‘low women’ when two years ago, she was dancing in a music hall with her face painted. And now she's with child? If I may be frank, I wonder who the father is. Didn't think old Willock had anything left in his shriveled-up–"

"How vulgar," Hot Pants said, cutting him off by pushing his face away from her ear. "And how stunning of you to laugh about her affairs – you likewise married someone well above your station, and well above your years, yet you gossip about Mrs. Willock like an old lady!"

Diego grinned sheepishly. "The wife taught me the art of gossiping like an old lady; can't help that."

When the good doctor returned, he raised his eyebrows at H.P.’s report of a Mrs. Vera Willock dropping by, but he made no comment.

As the day passed, Speedwagon attended to his patients, a motley assortment from all walks of life. Hot Pants paid close attention to each exchange. They all looked up to him, and they were certainly looking up; the man was a beast standing just over six feet tall. His head nearly reached the ceiling. Despite this, the doctor was not intimidating; his size was tempered by his sanguine disposition. He greeted everyone enthusiastically as they came through the receiving room, fastidiously washed his big, gentle hands in the basin after each patient. He spoke neither condescendingly to the poor nor sycophantically to the wealthy, and listened to all his patients’ ailments with the same concerned furrow to his bushy eyebrows. Hot Pants concluded that Speedwagon was a good man–a rarity in this modern age.

Though he'd shooed Diego up into the attic to "tidy up", Speedwagon allowed Hot Pants to assist him, her Cream Starter making short work of fractures, lacerations and the like.

"If I'm to lodge two wanted fugitives under my roof, I may as well put them to work," he said cheerily between patients.

"You’re… taking us in?"

"Like bringing a pair of lost birds into my nest," he replied.

Finally, when the last patient of the day shut the door behind her, Speedwagon let out a great sigh of exhaustion and sank into his chair.

"I s'pose you ought to tell me the rest of your story over supper," he said. “And if you’re willing, I may have a task for you in particular.”

Dr. Speedwagon’s parlor was still clearly haunted by the Ghost of Christmas Past, for the smell of pine and stale gingerbread permeated the room. Drooping garlands of popcorn and dried cranberries festooned the windows, and the walls were plastered with a collage of postcards and magazine prints of idyllic Christmas scenes: rosy-cheeked children watching with glee at their mother pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven, Father Christmas hauling the Yule log through a pine forest, ice skaters in the Dutch canals…

But the centerpiece of the room was the monstrous, ceiling-scraping fir tree. Or… the remains of one. At its peak, it must have been impressive, with green boughs reaching out to the walls, too big for the room. But now, it was dry and skeletal, hemorrhaging needles to the striped skirt wrapped around its base and the floor surrounding it. The sharp little things were everywhere, even littering a poor nearby armchair. Its branches were sagging under the weight of so many tin stars, paper snowflakes, old gingerbread cookies, and (thankfully unlit) candles. It was so dry, so withered, so dead, that it looked as if a stray spark might produce a spectacular blaze in an instant.

Hot Pants was not sure what to make of this. Doctor Speedwagon was a bachelor, and the only servant she knew he had was a cook. Perhaps he had difficulty finding time to take down the decorations? She decided to offer her help, only to be promptly rebuffed.

"Taking the tree– Why would I want to do a thing like that?!" Speedwagon exclaimed.

"It's hardly the season for it. It’s nearly March…"

"Aye, it's only February! That's… one, two…" Speedwagon counted on his fingers, then held two fingers in H.P.'s face. "Only two months after Christmas!"

"Your tree's dead," Diego said, his voice as dry as the dead fir. "Quite dead. Christmas is well over, doc. Get it out of here before it catches fire all of a sudden."

Apparently, he shared the same fear of the tree's sudden conflagration that Hot Pants left unmentioned to spare the good doctor’s feelings, but she was pleased that he agreed with her.

"Not another word, not another word!” Speedwagon cut the air with a sweeping hand gesture. “Christmas spirit does not merely vanish on December 26! If a man’s sincere about what he claims to be, goodwill and cheer ought to be a perennial state of mind, savvy me? There's something magical about a Christmas tree, there is. You should've seen it when it was all lit up and, ah…"

"Alive?" Diego deadpanned.

Speedwagon cut the air again. "It may be dry and withered, but what it represents is evergreen! Ha! Now, come off it; I refuse to entertain a Scrooge’s sentiments."

Diego looked ready to get another quip in, but Hot Pants shook her head at him. Everyone had their own peculiarities, and while Dr. Speedwagon's defensiveness over his overstayed Christmas decor was rather peculiar, it wasn't causing anyone harm as far as she knew. At least, it wouldn’t until someone left an open flame near those withered branches…

The three of them sat around a modest, round table for supper in the adjoining kitchen. Curiously, the table was set for a fourth person, but there was no sign of them.

At the doctor’s urging, Diego and Hot Pants finally delivered to him a pared-down version of their adventures thus far (albeit side-stepping the entire ordeal with the other world) over an adequate repast of haddock and potatoes.

“I had Martha go out to find a fish on account of your Lenten fast. I may not agree with your Pope, or his demands that you don’t eat no meat during Lent, but I won’t have anyone going hungry under my roof, no sir.”

“That’s… very mindful of you, doctor,” Hot Pants said. She looked down at her lap, feeling heat rise to her face at the sudden attention and consideration placed upon her religious observations, and she quickly changed the subject. “Ah, but… you mentioned you had a task for us?”

“No, a task for you alone,” he said.

The spurned Diego opened his mouth, full of potatoes. “Only her?! What do you mean by that, eh?!”

Before Speedwagon could explain, the front door opened with a jingle-jangle of bells.

A small girl stood at the door for a moment, unmindful of the cold air blustering in, tilting her head with curiosity at the two guests in the other room. She wore a man’s military-style peacoat that reached her ankles, comically oversized for her diminutive frame. Her face, small and round like a button, was very dark, which momentarily surprised H.P., for she was not accustomed to seeing such skin tones outside of America. The girl’s hair was cropped short, yet fluffed out pleasantly like candy floss.

“Welcome back, Shirelle,” said Speedwagon, his entire countenance seeming to brighten. “Don’t be alarmed by the guests at the table; there's an old mate and a new mate.”

Without answering Speedwagon’s greeting, Shirelle closed the door behind her and walked into the adjoining room, her boots shuffling beneath her long coat. When she reached the table, instead of taking the empty chair, she stood beside Diego's seat and waited, patiently watching him chew, swallow, and shove more potatoes into his mouth. She clasped her hands behind her back and swayed from side to side, without taking her huge dark eyes off of him.

"Uh… What do you want?" Diego asked.

"You're in her seat," Speedwagon said. "She always sits there."

"There's a perfectly fine seat beside me," he said. "I'm not playing Level-Coil in the middle of supper."

“Then she’ll be staring at you all night. She won’t sit in no other chair,” Speedwagon said.

And, true to his word, the girl did not budge. She blinked at him with her long, doll-like lashes and tilted her head to the side again as if she were observing a strange animal at the table.

Diego grumbled a curse under his breath and stood up now, swapping his plates and utensils with the setting at the empty seat, making a purposefully loud show of clink-clanking dishes together. He then slammed his rear down into the chair.

"Do you always let the bloody help order around your guests?" he asked, twirling a fork at Shirelle, who ignored him as she happily plopped down in her chosen seat.

“The help?!” Thunder crackled across Speedwagon’s face. He slammed a beefy hand on the table, causing the silverware to rattle again. "Cheese your saucebox! She's got more right to be here than a cadger like you, and she ain't a bloody servant! Shirelle’s my ward, and you’ll be treating her with every ounce of respect you’d treat me, or I’ll shunt both of ye out to the cold! Hear me, cully?"

Diego scoffed. "You always had a habit of taking in wayward children," he said. "But what I really want to know is whether we can trust her not to say anything.”

Speedwagon let out a great sigh, gazing at the blaze in the wood-stove with a sudden melancholy. "If there's one thing you can trust her not to do, it's talk. I've never heard a word from her. She sometimes laughs, though." He paused, turning back to his guests. "No, she often laughs."

Shirelle giggled.

"See? She understands everything we say. She's smarter'n all of us. She just chooses not to talk. Can hardly blame her."

"Sure," said Diego, rolling his eyes in disbelief. He watched the girl heap fish and potatoes onto her plate, then he went back to his own supper, head bowed and still muttering curses into the table.

"The task, doctor?" Hot Pants asked again.

Speedwagon’s face was blank for two seconds, then his eyebrows perked up as he remembered what he was about to say.

"You are, of course, familiar with leprosy? There's a public nuisance you can help me with. They refuse treatment 'cause they don't trust a man of medicine like me, but they might listen to reason if it's coming from a nun…"

Hot Pants left immediately after supper. The setting sun was like cheesecloth stretched across a lamp, casting an orange glow over the city.

She approached the dilapidated cathedral with tenacity, suppressing the odd feeling of not having Dio standing beside her.

It was the sort of place children were warned not to play in front of, and even grown men and women seemed to quicken their pace as they walked past it. Whether they knew what was inside or not, it was a blighted, medieval artifact of gray stone; it had lost the test of time, yet its crumbling, gothic buttresses were too stubborn to be scraped from the landscape entirely. The once-grand steeple had split in half and fallen into the graveyard, knocking several headstones down like dominoes. The etchings on these slabs were worn away by the elements into mysterious runes, likely having once bore the names of long-forgotten parishioners.

Though it appeared God had long abandoned this place, Hot Pants made the sign of the cross as if it were any other church.

Inside, it smelled of rainwater.

There was no roof or door; the entire sanctuary was exposed to the elements, yet the walls were tall enough to mire the cathedral into almost complete darkness. There were no whispering voices, only the cooing of unseen pigeons that had also made this place their home.

“Hello?” she called out.

In the dim orange light, Hot Pants saw the shadows of ghastly, misshapen figures approaching her without a word.

Something tugged at the skirt of her habit. Another pulled at her veil. Hands bloated from disease reached out to her from the darkness–first two, then four, then six, all touching her habit.

Wrenching an arm free from the hand that grabbed her sleeve, Hot Pants unholstered her Cream Starter, but before she could issue a warning to these silent molesters, she heard the scratch of a matchstick echoing across the sanctuary.

One candle at the stone altar was lit, then a second. The figure shook the flame from the match and tossed it over his shoulder. In the light that pierced through the darkness, Hot Pants could see now dimly the disfigured face at the candlelight. His cheeks protruded the most, so heavily pockmarked as if they were made of a spongy material, and his upturned nose appeared as if it were disappearing into his face. He had no hair, save for an uneven tonsure, and he wore a single piece of burlap fabric wrapped around him like a pitiful toga. His arms were bare and covered with oozing sores.

"Do not touch her," he ordered. "Do you hope that if you may touch her garment, you 'shall be made whole'? You should not hope for such things. Have you forgotten that our affliction is a gift? A divine gift that sees the actuation of our atonement?"

The other lepers released her and retreated into the darkness, bowing their heads in penitence.

"And you, Sister," said the apparent leader. "If you have come to ease our suffering, your miracles are better performed on more worthy souls. Ah, but… that canister you wield! I've seen it before!"

Hot Pants saw the glimmer of her Cream Starter, which she still brandished, reflected in the lenses of the man's dark tinted spectacles.

"Yes… we've met before." The man at the pulpit let out a wheezing laugh. "Perhaps you do not recognize me. My face was more handsome, then. Your face was different, too. Curious, that."

She rifled through her memories. Many supplicants came to the gates of the convent each day. Some sought alms, others sought medical treatment, and some were young girls like Hazel Plainview once was, searching for a chance at salvation. She did recall a few lepers among the sick, but no significant encounters came to mind.

Hot Pants swallowed. "I don't remember you. I apologize."

"My name on the street was Mack the Knife, ‘cause that glint of metal was the first and last warning they'd ever get. I was a gang enforcer. I couldn't say how many men I've killed. And before this disease ravaged my face and my body, oh, the fairer sex was sweet upon me… I played with their pretty little hearts, stole my fill from them, and tossed molls aside like rubbish. A filthy soul like mine, Sister, is beyond redemption. Would you not agree?"

A pause, as if he expected her to answer his rhetorical question. She did not.

Mack the Knife continued.

"Well, I won't subject you to my tale of woe. But I will say this: Kill as many men as I have, and it's not their screams that haunt you anymore, no. It's your own mortal coil. As I grew older, I understood the only reason I was still alive was cause I was a meaner bastard than anyone else. And when I became a leper, it was my own fear of death that made me regret all those lifespans I'd cut short. Why? I don't know. Maybe once I believed my own life had value, I began to place worth on the lives of others."

Hot Pants listened to his confession stoically. “Then…what have I to do with all of this?”

"I traveled the world, searching for meaning. I was in the depths of destitution and despair when I came to the gates of your convent in France. The others feared my disfigurement already, but not you. You healed my weeping wounds with that can of miracles. I told you I was a terrible sinner, and that I surely ought to be dead on account of what I've done. But… do you remember what you said? You said this to me:

'When we plunge into the depths of Hell, our suffering will be profane, for it is under the Devil's purview. By distinction, our suffering in this earthly domain is divine, for it is a gift to us from God.'"

Hot Pants took a step backwards. "It… is possible I said that."

No. It was more than possible. Those words almost certainly were ripped verbatim from her heart.

Oh, Lord. Have my words inspired such madness?

"When my wounds burst open again, I knew the Lord was with me. Sister, I've spread your words far and wide. I've gathered my flock, you see? All of us know this disease is a gift! Our suffering is divine, and we want nothing to do with any curatives or ‘treatments’ offered by any doctor!"

Mack raised his spongy hands like a preacher, and Hot Pants saw the moisture in the atmosphere coalescing into shimmering orbs, like fat raindrops suspended mid-air.

"You're… a Stand User?" she breathed.

"Do you see it, Sister? Do you see my Mojo Hand? You should… for you are the Saint that can bring us salvation!"

The rain fell horizontally, shooting towards H.P.’s open mouth.

Chapter Text

Tick. Tock.

To anyone else, the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel might have been pleasant, inducing a sleepy, cozy feeling of domesticity. But Diego had a mind to smash that clock. Each second that passed was another second that H.P. was on her own, and the clock’s ticking served as an incessant reminder of that fact.

Tick. Tock.

At least Speedwagon promised to introduce them to an informant if Hot Pants was successful, but having no control over her situation put Diego on edge. He leaned back in the armchair, though it was hardly relaxing. Every few minutes, he picked up a book at the end table and leafed through it, finding it impossible to focus on the words. This time, he ran his fingers along the raised gilding on the spine, reading the title first. The Romance of the Forest, by Ann Radcliffe. It was an older volume, possibly second- or third-hand, its corners scuffed by the wear of many readers.

Disinterested, he put it down yet again. A proper physician, reading a romance?

Had the situation not been so dire, he might have had to suppress the urge to laugh.

Tick. Tock.

When he focused hard enough, he could isolate her trail, very faintly, but it ended about a mile away. There were too many flesh-bags in London overpowering her scent, and the constant stink of the Thames drowned his efforts to uselessness.

To render his vigil even more torturous, that insouciant girl was staring at him from across the room, almost completely still save for the fluttering of her long, black eyelashes as she blinked in perfect unison with the ticking of the clock.

Deliberately avoiding her eyes, he examined the Christmas cards along the walls and mantel until he memorized their images. In his sour mood, he found their smiling subjects inordinately ugly. An ugly, emaciated old man in the woods with a snow-covered beard, bending over the weight of a gnarled log. Two ugly children baking cookies with their ugly mother. Ugly people skating in the ugly, gray canals. Artificial joy, mass-produced for the sentimental middle class. He grew to hate looking at these pictures, so he finally looked at Shirelle, who still had her eyes fixed on him.

Diego scoffed. “What is it now? Have a special fancy for this chair, too?”

Shirelle only continued to blink.

"Well...!" Diego stood up, brushing dry Christmas tree needles from his trousers. They were sticking to him everywhere. God, what a mess. "It's yours. I'm heading out.”

When Diego walked to the hat stand to retrieve his coat, Shirelle shuffled after him, taking one of Speedwagon’s big coats instead of the girl-sized one. The same coat she’d been wearing when she’d arrived to interrupt supper. Diego thought it looked ridiculous on her, like a tent.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You’re not coming with me,” he said, pulling his arms through his own coat. “Last thing I need is a kid tripping and crying, getting in my way. It’s bedtime for little girls. Go away.”

Shirelle did not go away, or make any indication at all that she intended to listen to him.

Time to change that.

“Get lost…” Diego turned on his heel suddenly, tearing his mouth wide open to reveal rows of razor-sharp dinosaur teeth. Scales erupted along his arms and he extended his claws like a cat ready to strike.

He exhaled with a sibilant noise from his snout and growled, “I could snap your spine in half, girl.”

Doc wouldn’t like this, but it's not as if she can tell him.

Shirelle pursed her lips. Having ceased her blinking, her eyes were two inscrutable bits of charcoal.

Diego eagerly anticipated her reaction. He did not smell any fear pheromones emanating from her, but he knew the human nervous system could be slow to process sensory input, especially after experiencing such a shock.

Shoulders hunching, the girl placed her hands on her knees, took a deep inhale, and…

She laughed.

This was no giggle, but a full-bodied guffaw. Her grin was stretched so far across her cheeks that Diego briefly wondered if she was going to tear open a maw of pointed teeth of her own.

Diego was utterly nonplussed. He couldn't believe it. Any child ought to have run away screaming in terror. Even in spite of all the horrors he had already witnessed by the time he was her age, Diego knew that his younger self would have ran away from that monster until he dropped from exhaustion.

Once she was finished laughing, Shirelle opened her mouth and hissed, brandishing her curled-up fingers at him as if they were claws of her own.

She was mocking him with a pantomime…

What a rotten girl!

Diego heard footsteps bounding down the stairs. Dr. Speedwagon appeared all of a sudden, his waistcoat unbuttoned.

"What larks you been telling her to set her off like a powder keg? Come now, don't leave me out of the fun!"

Larks? Diego wished the ground beneath him would open up and swallow him whole. He wiped the blood off his face from where his cheeks had torn, but the wounds were still visible. He knew he couldn't pretend he was simply "telling larks." Speedwagon knew about his ability, and he wasn't stupid.

"She's missing something upstairs, she is," Diego growled. "She laughs when she ought to be frightened. It'll get her killed."

"Aye," said Speedwagon. "You’re right. She's missing something. In the most literal sense imaginable."

Diego motioned for him to elaborate, but Speedwagon's face suddenly looked exponentially wearier, the flickering fire casting deep shadows under his eyes.

He pulled Diego into the kitchen, speaking hastily under his breath.

"A former colleague of mine, what called himself a 'neuro-surgeon,' he plucked her from an orphanage asylum and… experimented on her."

The doctor had to pause to catch his breath. His entire countenance was stormy, several wrinkles deepening in his forehead. He balanced himself with a splayed hand on the table, fingers dragging the tablecloth towards him.

"He messed with her brain, Dio…"

Diego glanced over his shoulder at Shirelle, who was hunched again staring at her feet. But when she saw him looking at her, the girl immediately brightened like a marionette pulled upright. She bared her teeth at him, silently clawing at the air again.

Diego shook his head, turning back to Speedwagon. "Thought brain surgery was all quackery. What'd he do to her?"

"There's something called the 'amygdala.' That's the part of the brain that controls fear. Fear, and all of its accompanying responses – such as when a hound barks or growls at you, it's 'cause it perceives you as a threat to self or home. When you’re accosted in the street, whether you decide you're gonna fight the cadger or make a clean escape, that decision is made by the amygdala, serving its God-given duty. No one knows what Shirelle's life was before the asylum, cause she's not exactly talkative, but she might have had an… overactive amygdala. She was an explosive child, prone to biting and hitting. Not just her handlers, the other orphans, too. Had to be restrained and locked up by herself more often than not, from what I was told. I suppose children that've been brought up ‘by hand’ don't always break – sometimes they just become meaner – but there ought to be a better way to handle them than to tinker with their brains, I tell you. The operation was only done on vicious dogs before, to great success. It rid them of their fear and aggression, rendering them as docile as fawns. But dogs are dogs, and people are people. Still, some doctors wanted to replicate the surgery on humans, while I questioned if there was any benefit at all to such a risky procedure, one that stripped away a… a fundamental piece of one’s self-preservation! Now, this colleague of mine, this surgeon, this butcher from the Royal Society, he…"

Speedwagon grabbed a fistful of tablecloth. The glassware shifted with the cloth.

"He did it. He took it clean out. Shirelle's amygdala. Obviously she survived, but…"

There was another weighty pause for Speedwagon to catch his breath again; telling this story was clearly the equivalent of hard labor to him.

"After the operation, he was looking to tour her, show her off like she were some kind of World's Fair exhibition. I penned a letter to the Royal Society, voicing my concerns that the girl had been operated upon like a dog, and when I received no answer I presented myself uninvited to one of their seminars to denounce his actions. They laughed at me. They said Shirelle was already an 'imbecile' and lucky the orphanage hadn't put her down like a dog. Well, that was when I came to find out, the Royal Society was the ones funding his research. They viewed his work – making mincemeat out of a healthy girl’s brain – as a success."

Diego closed one eye, staring up at the larger man.

"That's quite horrid and all, but ah, doc… there’s one detail that also appears to have been surgically removed from your story. How did you come to be her guardian?"

Speedwagon tugged on his bowtie until it came undone. "Ah, lad… sometimes, you have to do something bad to do something good. And that's all I have to say. No more questions! I'm closing the book on this subject. Shame on you, for trying to frighten a little girl! Shame on you…"

Diego wanted to prod him further on this “something bad”, but the reptilian part of his mind was fixed on H.P.'s trail again. He sniffed the air, and thought he smelled her scent drawing closer to the house.

He turned his face towards the door as he felt familiar vibrations: footsteps of a cautious and long-strided gait. But… as for the weight of the steps, they did not have the same volume behind them as he could remember, unless she was…

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Hot Pants wasted no time entering the warmth of the parlor, her cheeks blossoming fluorescent red as she strode in with the purpose and countenance of a holy crusader.

Still, the footsteps were lighter than he was used to. Diego looked down.

On the hardwood floor, peeking out from under the skirt of her nun's habit were her two bare feet, blackened from walking in the filth of the city.

"Uh… what happened to your boots?" Diego asked, immediately forgetting any other questions.

"I gave them away," she replied matter-of-factly, as if it were a perfectly ordinary thing to do.

“Why?!"

Hot Pants rubbed her hands together by the fire. "Someone else needed them more than I did."

"What the deuce are you on about? Let's get your boots back!" Diego went to the hat rack again, then realized he was already wearing his coat.

"No, Dio." Hot Pants placed a hand on Diego's shoulder. "I've… come to bid you farewell."

Farewell?

"You're…"

Time froze for Diego. He even stopped hearing the clock ticking.

Farewell…

It had to be a joke. A cruel joke. Revenge for yesterday's fight.

No. She doesn't joke like that.

Before he gave himself time to feel hurt, Diego's initial shock was quickly plowed over by anger. "Are you out of your bloody mind?!"

"Quite the opposite. I've never seen the world so clearly, Dio!"

Hot Pants clasped his hands. Diego twitched at the sudden coldness of her skin. There was something uncomfortably sanctimonious about her smile. She was opening up, beaming like a flower, while his own retreating, turbulent face was the complete inverse.

"I've found my purpose, Dio! To walk the earth, barefooted if I must, devoting my life to healing the sick and wounded. Any other use of my time would be wasting this miracle granted to me by God. The life of a Saint is that of self-denial and sacrifice, after all…"

"Hey, now… we had a promise, Hot Pants! You can't back out of it now!"

"My contract with God overrides any other contracts I may have made," she said coolly. "Do not fall into despair. I, too, enjoyed our time together, and it tears my heart into a thousand pieces to say goodbye, but… I understand now that I was merely a blind and lost child, ignorant to the miracle I possessed–"

"That's just it. Twice now you’ve called Cream Starter a ‘miracle.’ That's not what you said in the past. Remember that night? We were all cold and huddled up, and you said to me, no matter how much you wanted it to be a miracle, you knew it wasn’t? That it could only be the crystallization of your soul or, or summin’ like that!?”

The glowing stove cast a halo behind her, and her black and white cowl framed her penitent gaze like the icon of a Saint.

It was her voice, her scent, her eyes, her posture, her gait, her touch, her pulse; it was unmistakably Hot Pants in the flesh and not an imitator. Yet these words, these ideas… they could not have materialized from her head.

Diego released her hands and took a step backwards. “What did they do to you, Hot Pants?”

Images of Shirelle's gruesome surgery flashed through his head, with an unconscious H.P. instead receiving incisions in her exposed brain, her copper hair soaked with blood. If such an operation existed to remove all fear and aggression from a human, surely there was an operation to remove all common sense!

Diego felt the pressure in the air suddenly dip. It was the same feeling he got when someone activated a Stand ability, like the calm before a storm. Something behind him began to buzz continuously, like the wings of a bee, and Diego turned around and saw a small… thing floating around the room. It almost resembled a hummingbird, with narrow wings and a long needle-like proboscis, only instead of feathers it appeared to be made of bits of multicolored glass, cobbled together with many screws. Diego’s eyes followed this thing as it floated; in spite of its clumsy, hodgepodge appearance, it moved with natural grace like a real bird or insect.

He watched, mouth agape as the mechanical bird flew right to H.P.’s arm. Its pointed beak pierced through the fabric of her habit and into her skin like a syringe.

“Oh…” she said out loud, swatting at her arm as if it were a simple insect. “What is this thing?”

The “bird” took a second to suck from her arm, its translucent torso filling up with fluid, then fluttered away, deftly avoiding her hand.

“You two can see them? You can see Shirelle’s Pixies?” Speedwagon asked. He scratched his chin. “Maybe she has her own name for them, but I call them Pixies.”

That’s right. Doc doesn’t have a Stand ability, so he can’t see ‘em…

Diego glanced at Shirelle again. She was moving up the stairs as if on her own mission, her little bird following her.

“Now, here’s the exciting part…” Speedwagon said. “We’ll see what Pixies extracted.”

Diego followed Shirelle and the doctor upstairs, leaving Hot Pants to continue warming herself by the fire.

Back in Speedwagon’s examination room, Shirelle made some bizarre motions with her hands at the doctor.

“Yes, yes, I’ll get the slides,” he said, seemingly able to decipher her pantomimes. Placing the oil lamp on a desk, he retrieved two glass plates from the drawer. All Diego could do was watch; everything was happening so fast and this appeared to be routine for the two.

Shirelle’s little bird, her “Pixies”, squirted a dollop of water onto one of the glass slides. Speedwagon carefully placed another thin piece of glass over the first slide, then he put it into an odd brass apparatus laying on the desk. It had a tube with a lens like a telescope, but it was pointed downwards. It took a moment for Diego to realize that this was a microscope, for he had never seen one before.

Standing on her toes to reach the device, Shirelle closed one eye and peered down first. She spent some time staring, then spun herself around and marched to the bookshelf. From the stacks of periodicals she pulled out a journal with a red spine, flipped through the pages, then tossed it over her shoulder.

“Oi…” Diego growled. “You’re just going to let her do that to your books?”

But Speedwagon waved his hands. “Let her, let her…” he said, with a strained laugh. “Don’t know if she can read the words, but she’s memorized all the pictures; it may not look it, but she’s helping us.”

Diego found Speedwagon’s inability to even raise his voice to discipline Shirelle to be an astoundingly weak-minded character trait, but he filed this knowledge away for later.

Shirelle grabbed another of the same journal with a red spine, then tossed that one over her shoulder. This time, Diego gleaned the cover. British Medical Journal.

The third volume of the British Medical Journal she selected was the correct one, apparently, as she found the page she was looking for and hopped back to the microscope, ending her reign of terror upon Speedwagon’s library.

Speedwagon stared into the microscope, then at the page Shirelle had opened to.

Diego looked at the page, too.

Leprosy Bacillus. An illustration of… some microscopic specimen. Looked like tiny, featureless grubs. According to the caption, this was the bacterium that caused the leprosy disease, and there were a lot of medical words he did not understand.

Speedwagon made some adjustments with the brass knobs, then squinted back into the microscope.

“No doubt about it, that’s the Leprosy Bacillus,” he murmured. “Odd, that…”

Diego’s anger surged like an oiled flame. He lunged forward and grabbed Speedwagon by the collar of his shirt, standing on his toes so that their vast difference in height was less apparent. “Odd…” he spat the word as though it were poison. “Odd? Is that all you have to say? Odd?! H.P.’s got leprosy and I’d like to mention that it’s all your fault, sending her out on her tod like that! What’s it gonna take to make her better? You… you can make her better, right? You’re such a first-rate doctor… right?” Diego’s mouth tore again into a sharp-toothed smile, if an alligator’s grin could even be called a smile. Scales were bursting from his arms. His head moved in all directions to sweep the room for any other threats as he pushed the doctor against the bookshelf. “Choose your words carefully; you don’t want me to make you regret anything, eh, Ssssspeeedwagon…?”

As he spoke, his voice regressed to a reptilian hiss. His field of vision narrowed to objects in motion immediately in front of him, and that was the trembling Speedwagon, saturating the air with his delicious fear, like a prey animal. For such a big man, bigger than Diego, he wasn’t keen on defending himself. Yet it would have been futile either way; even in his hybrid form, Diego was far superior in strength and speed. Any complex thoughts, motives, and emotions he had were distilled to a singular impulse: protect Hot Pants. And if Speedwagon said something that he didn’t like, Diego knew that nothing could restrain him. Not even the “friendly” terms they were on when he was human could factor into his decision-making.

“Devil take you, son! It’s– the leprosy’s all gone from her now! That’s what Pixies did! Her– her ability – By the ever-living jumping Moses, I can’t think when you’ve got your demon eyes set on me. Come off it now! Unhand me!”

In his peripheral vision, he saw movement. Diego contorted his neck as far as it would go over his shoulder.

Shirelle was grinning, hands clawing the air in her grotesque pantomime of Diego again, incapable of perceiving the immediate threat to her guardian's life.

Diego twisted his head back again and locked eyes with Speedwagon. The doctor’s gaze was a combination of fear and pity.

He retracted his talons, releasing the doctor from his grip.

Speedwagon rubbed the marks on his shoulder. Tiny pinpricks of blood seeped through his shirt and he took deep, shuddering breaths until he could finally speak.

“Shirelle’s ability can isolate and extract different liquids from its source, no matter how mixed they are – in this case, it was some water infected with the leprosy bacteria that’d somehow gotten into her bloodstream. Your mate never ‘had’ leprosy to begin with! It hadn’t been metabolized by her system into the proper disease. She’s fine, save for whatever’s wrong with her head. And gallows take you, getting so riled up at me! Harrumph! I was concerned at first you were taking advantage of a good Sister, having her come all this way with you from America, but by God, you do have a passion for her, lad!”

“Don’t call me ‘lad’. I’m not fourteen years old anymore,” Diego muttered, turning away, heat rising to his face. His bones turned to glass at the realization of his shame. That she could do this to him was a weakness. A weakness he could not bury with hatred, a weakness he could not keep from a soft, sensitive old lump like Speedwagon.

“You’re absolutely certain?”

Speedwagon nodded. “Sure as sixpence. Shirelle’s ability is a powerful one. But why don’t we go down the apples, see how your mate is faring? Mayhaps it took out whatever was afflicting her head, too.”

Diego nodded slowly in agreement, hoping Speedwagon was right. But there was still the fact that she had walked at least a mile barefooted, on these filthy East End streets! He hated to even consider it, but if she'd stepped on a nail or anything sharp, and her open wound had been infected by the sludge of the streets…

How enviable he found Shirelle's condition now. Fear was a little dagger, prodding and stabbing him until he attacked like an angry bull. Poor, undeserving Speedwagon had been the target of his rage this time, and he knew that good society would deem it proper to at least apologize to his generous host for his outburst, but to apologize meant to acknowledge the aforementioned weakness he hated even admitting to himself. Thus, he would simply refrain from ever mentioning it again.

Downstairs, Hot Pants was slumped over in the armchair, her head resting on the back of her hand.

“Hey…” Diego shook her shoulder.

“Nngh…” Hot Pants stirred from her repose, squinting and shielding her eyes as if Diego were a bright light. Her lips made a wide ‘O’ as she spoke, mid-yawn. “It was Mack the Knife. He's the one that… made me believe in things that weren't true. He's got an ability. Splashed some water in my mouth, and told me I was a Saint…”

“He the one took your shoes?”

H.P. nodded, then curled up in the chair again like a cat, tucking her bare feet beneath her. “I'm tired, Dio… my head's all misty…”

“All square. All serene. What you gotta do now is rest up. I'll get your boots back. Can't have you walking barefoot, not on these disgusting streets. You didn't step on any nails or the like, did you?”

She shook her head, but Diego coaxed her feet out so that he could investigate all the same.

Once he confirmed that she had no open wounds on her feet, Diego let out a long exhale, releasing fifty pounds of dread weight from his shoulders. If the doctor could be trusted (and Diego had a feeling Speedwagon was too square to lie about a thing like this), Hot Pants was going to be fine.

“I'll get your boots back,” he said again, tying a handkerchief around his mouth. “And I'll settle the score.”

Hot Pants raised a finger. “Don't… kill… anyone,” she called out weakly, just as the clock on the mantel began to chime out the hour.

Suddenly, Diego swung the door open, and the clock's dings were joined by the grander chimes of nearby cathedrals. “What's that? Didn't catch what you said; the damned bells are too loud,” he shouted over the noise, cackling as he slid out the door before she could repeat herself.

Chapter Text

Someone was following him.

He’d been hearing their quick little pitter-patter of footsteps ever since he’d left Speedwagon’s house.

Diego knew it was too much of a coincidence for anyone to have followed him this far. He was deliberately taking a discursive path, darting along the backstreets, after ten minutes into his walk, he still saw the little shadow hounding his steps.

He stopped to sniff the air, and though his nose was already numb from the cold, he detected his pursuer's scent mingling with a trace of… pine?

Realization clicked. Diego let out a groan, knowing exactly who it was. Not an enemy, no. He would have preferred to deal with an enemy, for that was something he at least knew how to do.

Though he did not need his eyes to identify who it was, Diego sighed and turned on his heel, waiting for his follower to come into the light of a nearby streetlamp. Sure enough, it was that Shirelle girl again, waddling along in Speedwagon's oversized pea coat.

“Hey, hey. I told you it was bedtime for little girls. You shouldn’t be out at this hour. Do you want Jack the Ripper to chop you into pieces? I bet he’s hiding in one of them alleys, thinking your liver is smelling awful tasty…”

Shirelle kept walking blithely past him, as if Diego had never spoken at all. She was humming Oranges and Lemons to herself.

“Just… don't get in my way if you want to live,” Diego added in an exhale, realizing his warnings would be futile.“Understand? I know you can hear me. C’mon, just nod your head…”

Still no acknowledgement from the girl. Not even a nod. A stone wall would have been more responsive.

It took the wind out of his sails to have his words completely ignored, no matter how audibly dictated, no matter how direct the meaning. Least of all by a common orphan girl no older than thirteen! but snapping at Shirelle would only lead to humiliation, as nothing could phase the girl. If he dared breathe another threatening word, he would be the loser of this mental confrontation, and he grudgingly allowed her to follow him without any further objections.

Keeping her at a ten-foot distance, he could still hear Shirelle humming Oranges and Lemons as they walked for another mile, all the way to the cathedral ruins. That insipid, repetitive nursery rhyme was sanding down his patience. A little girl without fear was more irritating of an adversary than he could have possibly imagined, but he stubbornly refused to let his anger boil. No way he could give her that satisfaction. Not here, and certainly not at her. Any display of anger would be an admission of defeat, and Diego was determined to be the victor.

The old cathedral ruins were a familiar place to him; in his youth, he’d always made it a point to close his eyes and dash past it, for the crumbling Gothic buttresses painted an otherworldly landscape in his imagination. The mist above the graves shaped into dour-faced spectres, and the overgrowth of ivy clung to the walls like a great verdant dragon. Diego was less prone to childish caprice now, yet he still quickened his pace as he passed it–for different reasons. He saw it for what it was: a blighted eyesore, a mire for wretches and ne'er-do-wells that he did not want to risk an encounter with. The lepers were very new tenants, ones that even Diego had not yet heard about, but he supposed wretches were wretches no matter the disease.

The door was rotted away, and the windows obviously had not held any glass for decades, leaving all of the cathedral’s innards exposed to the elements. Even from the outside, Diego heard the sound of many voices praying in unison:

“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

About eleven or twelve voices repeated this again and again, some sounding out much stronger than the others.

Yet Diego paid this chanting no reverence, striding into the sanctuary like a Roman soldier interrupting a heathen ritual.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, but his sensitive nose was a different story. A damp, fetid odor inundated his senses, rendering him so nauseous that he had to catch his footing. There were twelve men in total, their skin canvasses of suffering, painted with weeping ulcers that stunk like rotten meat. Their prayers did not cease with Diego and Shirelle’s arrival, echoing up to the exposed, starless night sky above. None of the lepers said anything to the two interlopers in their “home”, though as they chanted, some stared with squashed, misshapen faces and dead eyes. There was something strange about their reactions, or lack thereof – they were under some kind of religious trance, repeating their prayers again and again with urgency, as if commanded by God himself.

Determined not to stay longer than he had to, Diego immediately began to investigate the place for H.P.’s boots. He looked down at their feet. Most of the diseased men were wearing rags for shoes, or none at all. Years of refuse piled up in the aisles between the pews, and with each stride he narrowly avoided stepping in animal bones or maggot-infested feces.

They’re living like hogs down here.

Much as he hated to focus his olfactory senses in a cesspool of foul odors, Diego took a good sniff, nearly gagging.

Amidst the overpowering stink of piss and shit and sickness, Diego could detect a trace of H.P.’s familiar scent imprinted upon leather. Crouching low, he kept sniffing and following that trail until he found the source. Those were H.P.’s boots, without a doubt: a solid, first-rate pair made of sturdy leather. Unfortunately, when Diego looked up, he saw that they were attached to the man at the remains of the pulpit, ostensibly their leader. The light from the two candles upon the altar reflected off his dark-tinted shades, and he spoke the prayer louder than everyone.

“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

“Good day.” Diego raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the prayers. He straightened his back and extended a hand as if to shake, then suddenly retracted it as an afterthought, not wanting to risk touching a leper. “You must be Mack the Knife. I'm going to take these boots, now. Someone else needs them far more than you do.”

To assign some hierarchy to how much any given person needed a proper pair of shoes was perhaps irrelevant when everyone needed shoes, but to Diego, it was simple. These were H.P.’s boots, and he didn't give a lick about anyone else having bare feet, no matter how poor or suffering they were.

“Where is the Saint?” demanded Mack. Diego saw a flash of metal, and a cold blade was pressed against his throat. The other lepers continued to pray, their bloated, asymmetric hands still clasped together.

Diego rolled his eyes.

“Eager to live up to your name, eh, Mack the Knife? I’m in a kind mood, so I’ll allow you to keep the knife at my throat if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

Indeed, if he really wanted to, he could kill Mack in a second. Induce Scary Monsters and crush his still-beating heart in his claws. But H.P.’s last request echoed in his memory:

Don’t… kill… anyone.

Ordinarily, he’d allot no more care than a speck of dirt to such an entreaty, but an annoying little feeling was anchoring Diego’s humanity this time. He did not want to heap another disappointment onto her shoulders, did not want to face her arm-crossed admonishments when he returned.

“Where is the Saint?” Mack repeated.

“The saint? Oh… if you mean H.P., well, she won't be coming back here. And she ain't a Saint!”

Shirelle giggled at Diego's unintentional rhyme, which elicited a groan from him. He'd nearly forgotten she was still there.

Mack spoke again, bringing his face a bit too close than what Diego was comfortable with. He smelled of unwash and rusted iron. “If you’re here on her account, you must be Diego Brando, then. You’re… not quite the handsome buck shewn in the papers.”

Diego contorted his disguised face in mock disdain. “Really? Did she give me a cribbage-face again?”

In spite of his nonchalant quip, he found the reveal of his identity in front of all these people to be more jarring than he let on. His eyes darted across the sanctuary, sizing up each of the unfortunate creatures. He was outnumbered twelve to one, sure, but they were all sickly and malnourished. He could easily decimate every last one of them with Scary Monsters, plug the leak of information before it spread anywhere else that Diego Brando and Hazel Plainview were here in London. He'd killed to save his own hide before, and he was willing to kill to save her; what made this any different?

No.

Killing the man with a knife at his throat was different from slaughtering a church full of defenseless people, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. He would never claim to hold any sanctity for human life, but it gave him a… disagreeable feeling, to imagine having all that excess blood on his hands simply because he felt threatened by a gaggle of lepers.

And she would never be able to look at him with softened eyes ever again.

Even if I do it to protect us…

As he struggled to balance his primal instincts against his threadbare conscience, Diego kept up his smirk. “Oh, never mind that. I’m just here to get her boots back. If you don’t mind doffing ‘em, we can avoid the unpleasantness of an altercation.”

Mack’s lips twisted into what was probably a smile. “She’s the one gave me these boots. The selfless heart of a saint. And to take them from me, even to return them to her, would be in defiance of her wishes. Would you truly go against the will of a Saint?”

“Stop calling her that. I don’t know your history with her, but if you knew her like I do, you’d know that Hot Pants ain’t a saint. Like you, she wants to suffer for whatever sins she’s got, and I s'pose that's the sentiment that you've teased out of her with your ability. Now… you freaks can suffer in private all you like, and I wouldn't care a tinker's damn. The problem is you, Mack. You don't want to suffer alone, do you? You can't just be miserable all on your own… isn’t that right? Doc says that leprosy isn't as common as it used to be, especially not in a modern city like London, which makes me curious as to how you’ve collected so many lepers into your, ah, ‘congregation’, especially when you… heh, well, anyone could see that you lack the natural charisma of a cult leader…”

Mack’s ‘smile’ fell. Any emotion in his expression – if any existed – was hidden in the folds of his bulbous face.

“You do not understand. You could never understand. Our suffering is a gift directly from God. Our mortal flesh is ravaged to the bone to purify the immortal spirit…”

He pressed the knife deeper into Diego’s throat. Diego smelled his own blood before he felt the pinprick of pain from the blade nicking his skin.

Then, he felt that strange sensation again. That dry static in the air, that drop in pressure, as if a storm were approaching…

At once, the air was saturated with beads of water coalescing mid-air, all around them. The droplets emanated a cool blue light that contrasted the flickering orange of the candle flames, reflecting against Mack’s dark sunglasses.

Diego glanced back up at Mack. “You're the one that's infected all these men with leprosy… aren't you? And then you kept them from going to the doctor for the treatment they needed.”

“It is a gift,” Mack said with finality, addressing his congregation as the droplets around them grew in size. “Why would we seek drugs and ointments in an effort to rid ourselves of a gift from God? It is because of His merciful gift that we may suffer for our sins, under His divine purview. For matters of this earthly realm are governed by the Lord, and the Lord has appointed me our shepherd…”

“Yes, yes, if pain and suffering is a ‘gift’, I suppose you fancy yourself quite generous. But I'm still going to take these boots back.”

“Do not cease your prayers! Ignore the hollow words from this envious serpent!”

“Keep your mouth closed,” Diego muttered to Shirelle, rubbing his neck where the knife had been.

The shimmering veil of water shattered, flinging drops into all of the lepers’ mouths as they stretched wide in prayer. None reacted. Diego wondered if they felt or tasted anything.

The puzzle was beginning to make some sense to Diego. Most doctors worth their salt these days would agree that diseases like leprosy were transmitted through bodily fluids. Coughing, spitting, kissing…

As an extension of himself, the water from Mack’s Mojo Hand was a “bodily fluid” too. And they had proven under a microscope that it contained his leprosy bacteria. Not only had Mack’s ability infected all of these men with leprosy, it was also forcing them to believe in anything they were told. That was why the lepers followed an otherwise unremarkable man like Mack the Knife like mindless drones in a hive. That was why Hot Pants would have been lost to the miasma too, had Shirelle not extracted the Stand juice from her.

Behind him, Diego heard a cacophony of buzzing. The still air began to swirl, as if a wind were blowing through the chamber. When he turned around, he saw a swarm of mechanical hummingbirds, their tiny wings a blur, beating the air so quickly. Their kaleidoscopic colors danced around the sanctuary, and yet, none of the lepers seemed to notice the beautiful sight.

None of them except for Mack, who could of course see them quite clearly. The leader pushed the bridge of his sunglasses up his nose and took a step backwards. His knife fell from his hands. Diego caught it before it clattered to the ground, spinning the blade with his fingers before he tucked it into his belt.

Shirelle's Pixies flew to the lepers, beaks piercing into their arms like syringes as they siphoned the water from Mojo Hand out of their bloodstreams and into their glass-like bodies, just as they had done with Hot Pants.

Once each little bird had drunk its fill of Stand juice, they hovered in the air again, awaiting orders.

Then, Shirelle did something Diego did not expect: she pointed a finger, turning her swarm against Mack the Knife. All the little hummingbirds flew towards the man at the crumbling pulpit.

Mack held his bloated hands up helplessly, turning towards the exit, yet Diego quickly stepped in to block his path.

The swarm of hummingbirds injected Mack, draining the fluids into his arms.

Shirelle tugged on Diego’s sleeve. Her eyes were urgent, expectant.

You want me to say something?

Diego wasn’t sure if Mack’s Stand worked that way, but it was worth a try.

“If you ever use your Stand again… if you ever spread your ‘gifts’ again…” he stated, a smirk involuntarily gracing his lips. “The Lord will never forgive you.”

With a tinkling noise like wind chimes, the swarm of Pixies vanished into sparkling clouds.

Shirelle giggled.

Mack covered his face with his hands. He shook his head back and forth, muttering nonsense to himself.

The question pressed on Diego's mind. Did it work?

The other lepers had ceased their prayers. They now stumbled over each other, crumbling in lethargy, just as Hot Pants had been so fatigued back at Speedwagon's house.

“What did you do to– to—”

“To the slaves of your disease? They'll be alright,” he said. “But what about you? How does it feel, Mack the Knife? Or should I say… Mack the un-knifed?” Diego patted the knife at his belt.

Mack held his hands up as if he were going to activate his Mojo Hand again, then lowered them slowly. He gazed at the starless sky above.

“Didn’t… want to be alone. I just didn’t want to be alone. Could you ever know what it feels like to be so alone? Every man and woman recoils at the sight of me. Children throw snowballs at me filled with rocks and glass… can't scrape up enough pity from them to get enough to eat. I know it's part of my divine punishment, but that don’t make the isolation any easier. You cast your judgment upon me, yet you know nothing about what it is to be a pariah.”

“Well…” Diego thought for a moment, tapping his chin. “I know what it is to be a bastard. Which I s’pose isn’t the same, but in the eyes of genteel society, I may as well be a leper.”

“I’ve been a bastard all my life.”

“Well!” Diego exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “You’re a leper and a bastard? With an unremarkable personality, to boot? There really is no hope for you left in this world, Mack! I don't feel too sorry for you, though. You infected all of these people with an incurable disease. And even worse than that, you stole my mate's boots. You tried to steal her!”

Beside him, Shirelle was nodding vigorously in agreement.

Still gazing at the heavens above, Mack lowered himself to his knees. “I could have given her life meaning. You think a life of crime is what she wants? Gallivanting around with a guttersnipe like you, sleeping in filthy alleys, using her miracle only as a tool for subterfuge instead of healing the poor and infirm?”

Diego's smug façade cracked, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. He was bothered by Mack's words, because there was a hint of truth to what he was saying. Left to her own devices, Hot Pants would let her guilt and self-loathing eventually drive her to sacrifice her own life to some foolish cause if she thought it could absolve her. That was what she wanted, but whether or not she would be “happier” that way was up for debate, for she did not even believe herself deserving of happiness.

Yet in spite of all that, Diego remembered all the people she'd been able to save throughout their journey. Sister Eulalie. Odette Lamont. Johnny Joestar's undeserving arse. The maimed boy from the factory. And Diego himself, in many different ways. Many different ways…

“She's no saint…” Diego felt the need to deny her sainthood yet again, as if reaffirming her humanity somehow validated his own by association. “but she's saved more souls than you ever will. Even while living as a criminal. You, though? You only spread your disease and make them believe it's a gift. But now… everyone knows the truth about your ‘gift’, Mack…” Diego drew the knife from his belt and held it to Mack's throat. “Unlace those boots.”

Still kneeling, Mack brought his legs out from under him, his trembling hands barely able to work the bootlaces. “Are you going to kill me?” he whispered. Diego could smell his fear.

The other men were beginning to awaken from their stupor.

They knew. Diego did not pay attention to their words, but he could feel the angry vibrations of their murmurs. They knew, and they were not happy with Mack the Knife.

“No,” Diego said. “I will leave you at the mercy of your ‘flock’, shepherd.”

As they walked back to Speedwagon’s house, darting through the backstreets again, Diego no longer felt a need to keep Shirelle at a distance.

Of course, she was still an insufferable little girl, and he was not known for humoring insufferable little girls, but… he decided he could tolerate the presence of this particular insufferable little girl.

With H.P.’s boots tucked under one arm, Diego used his free hand to ruffle Shirelle's cropped hair.

“That was a useful thing you did, back there. You and your Pixies saved me from having to do an awful lot of nastiness. I used to think you were the most annoying goblin I'd ever encountered, but now…? I suppose you’re a decent enough kid.”

She began to hum Oranges and Lemons again, kicking up puddles of grimy slush as she skipped around him. Though the tune had driven him mad earlier, Diego didn't mind anymore. He even sang along for a couple verses, it having wedged itself into his head:

“When will you pay me?

Say the bells of Old Bailey

When I grow rich

Say the bells of Shoreditch

And when will that be?

Say the bells of Stepney

Oh, I do not know

Say the great bells of Bow.”