Chapter Text
It’s a beautiful day – clear skies, the sun warm but not yet blisteringly hot, and a soft breeze that carries smells of barbecue and faint children’s laughter. It’s the sort of calm happiness that sinks into one’s bones, and not even Lambert’s general grumpiness can keep it from taking him, too.
How could it? Aiden’s lap is a soft pillow under his head while his kitty fiddles with a new mechanism for his claws, and the book Geralt dropped off the last time Lambert and Aiden hosted their clan is actually pretty engaging.
So – yeah, it’s a really fucking nice day.
Maybe that fact alone should have been enough to tip Lambert off that things would shortly go tits over ass.
Lambert has just reached a point in the story that is compelling as fuck – the protagonist’s been fucking stabbed and it’s not quite clear who fucking did it except that it was probably to get him out of the way to woo his love interest, which: even Lambert can tell that’s a stupid fucking plan – when there’s the distant sound of thunder.
Lambert turns the page and almost sinks back into the story before the incongruity registers: the sun is still shining brightly here, not a cloud in sight.
Aiden has gone still, too, and he doesn’t stop Lambert from levering himself up. The sky is black in the distance, roiling storm clouds towering above the city. Vicious bolts of lightning streak down as they watch and it doesn’t take long at all for the corresponding thunder to roll in.
That’s all there is for several breaths; just the distant spectacle and Lambert and Aiden as the silent on-lookers.
“Vengerberg not get her lunch on time?” Aiden finally jests halfheartedly.
Lambert chuckles, trying to swallow past the uncomfortable feeling that is spreading through him. Aiden’s right in that this is Vengerberg’s signature move, but – Well. Vengerberg doesn’t just lose control over her powers like this. And these days, she’s damn-hard to get a rise out of, too, unless someone threatens the people she cares about. Not that Lambert has personal experience with that: they care about a lot of the same people, these days, and on the rare occasion someone gets the drop on one of them, he’s right there with her, guns blazing.
Or rather, swords flashing.
All of which is to say: Vengerberg putting her powers on display like this truly doesn’t bode well at all.
“Should we –” Lambert’s phone rings before he can finish his questions, which is answer enough.
Aiden gives him a grim smile as Lambert fumbles his phone out of his pocket and starts reassembling his claw.
“Your Cat with you?”
“Good afternoon to you, too, beloved brother of mine,” Lambert drawls, eyeing the jagged bolts of lightning at the horizon warily.
For once, Coën doesn’t rise to the bait. Combined with the fact that he asked after Lambert’s Cat and not his sidekick, as he usually does, means Lambert has a very bad feeling about all of this indeed.
“The Lark’s been captured.”
“What.”
Coën snorts, not even a smidge of amusement in his voice. “He was meant to pick up the cub from school. The cub’s fine if distraught, but he was snatched somewhere on the way.”
“Fuck.”
“That’s putting it mildly. So – ten minutes, then my lady will come get you.”
“Your lady?” It’s not that Triss isn’t able, she just usually prefers alchemy and potions over active magic. Before Coën can answer, another wave of thunder rolls over them, which – right. Maybe Vengerberg is the one better at portals ordinarily, but right now it would probably not be advisable to take a portal by her even if she managed to keep it open. “Never mind.”
Coën huffs. “Yeah. So. Nine minutes.” He hangs up without a goodbye.
“Fuck,” Aiden says, quiet but heartfelt and not even pretending that he wasn’t listening.
“Yeah.”
So much for a nice and chill summer afternoon.
Lambert and Aiden are ready to go in less than six minutes, and the final three until Triss opens the portal for them to step through stretch like a whole eternity.
Lambert keep rechecking his weapons again and again, right up until Aiden sighs and reels him in, pulling him down until their foreheads are resting together. “We’ll get him back.”
“Don’t know who’s taken him yet,” Lambert points out with a scoff. Just saying it out loud feels like spitting up sandpaper.
“Doesn’t matter.” Aiden’s eyes are very green this close and almost round from proximity or the dim lighting in their ready-room. “‘S our Lark. Your brother and that sorceress of his would raze the whole county to get him back.”
Lambert snorts. “The whole county? The whole country. And I’d sure as hell help.”
Their medallions start humming before Aiden can reply, and with one last, deep breath, they part.
“Age before beauty,” Aiden says and gallantly gestures Lambert on, barely a moment before Lambert disappears through the portal ahead of him. The portal may be near-instantaneous, but Lambert still manages to throw Aiden a dirty look before he disappears. As if that fucking measly year matters.
The portal doesn’t spit them out in Geralt’s own ready-room. Instead they appear in the living room, and a brief glance around reveals why: there’s enough people to almost count as a crowd, and certainly more than the ready-room would have held.
There’s Triss, already turning away and pulling the fabric of space-time apart anew to create a shortcut to fuck-knows-where, with Coën by her side, armoured up and with his dual swords strapped to his back just like Lambert; Eskel, similarly ready and with his arms crossed as he listens to Vesemir in a corner of the room; Istredd, bent over a shallow bowl – scrying, Lambert assumes – and utterly oblivious to the chaos around him; Aubry, still pasty in a way that suggests Triss also portalled him in from up in Kaedwen; and of course Geralt himself, dark and forbidding in his studded black leathers and his white hair pulled back haphazardly from his face, pacing like a caged wolf.
It’s a who’s who of Novigrad’s elite heroes – even if Lambert would usually argue against being called that – and the only two missing are the cub herself (too fucking dangerous, if they’ve already taken their lark) and –
“Vengerberg already go ahead?”
Geralt doesn’t even spare Lambert a glance, and so it’s Coën who takes pity on him. “She’s outside.” He nods at the door-sized window out to the balcony, before pointedly looking at a rather damp patch on the fluffy rug. “Had a minor… mishap.”
Lambert grimaces. Thank fuck Vengerberg is outside; he’s never been particularly good at keeping his mouth shut and feet out of places they shouldn’t go, and he’d rather fucking not get struck by lightning before going out.
“Do we know who’s taken him?” Aiden asks, chin hooked over Lambert’s shoulder.
Coën rubs his hand over his scalp. “We’ll get you up to speed once everyone’s here. Just waiting on Letho and someone called Callonetta – someone from the Sandpiper’s network?”
“Huh.” If the Sandpiper’s network is getting involved, that means… that means that whoever took their lark probably has a lot more blood on their hands than just a random upstart. The Sandpiper’s people are secretive, and for all the years Lambert’s worked with them on the sly, he’s never actually seen any of them. Just dropped off supplies and people – sometimes innocents, sometimes villains – at rendezvous points sent to the burner that Geralt passed on to him. (Lambert’s wondered, from time to time, if their lark, what with his bird name and all that, is involved with them; this Callonetta’s involvement suddenly makes that theory seem a lot more likely once more).
“Yeah,” Coën agrees, and then hastily steps to the side as Letho stumbles out of the portal. Lambert is probably a little more vindicated than strictly proper that he hasn’t been this inelegant in years. Then again, who the fuck would expect Lambert to be fucking proper?
It doesn’t take long for Triss to open one final portal, swaying enough that Coën hurries over to steady her, admitting a petite blonde woman with eyes so blue she could be their lark’s sister. The portal collapses moments after she’s stepped through, and Coën wastes no time to guide Triss over to the couch. Once she’s set up with what looks a lot like hot chocolate, Eskel straightens and clears his throat.
“Thank you all for coming so quickly,” he says, giving them all a serious look. “About half an hour ago, our lark was taken – his tracker sent a distress signal half a mile away from the cub’s school but lost connection.”
A mutter of disgust goes through the room as everyone grimaces; it screams of magical interference, which definitely means it’s one of the big guys. That’s never fun – and even less so is the thought that whoever it was managed to get the drop on their lark. Fucking hell.
“We – and by that I mostly mean Istredd – have managed to narrow it down to an industrial complex a little north of the city, but we can’t say for sure who’s taken him.”
“It screams The Emperor, doesn’t it?” Aiden offers.
“It would certainly fit his MO.” Eskel sighs. “We don’t know. Tensions have been running high enough here recently that it might also be a copycat.”
“What’s the plan?” If it were up to Lambert, they’d go in with their fucking guns – or swords – blazing, mowing down their enemies until they have their lark safely back in their hands. But if it is the Emperor or one of his cronies, it’s probably better that it’s not up to Lambert.
A small smile settles into the hale corner of Eskel’s mouth like he’s thinking along the same lines. Fucker probably is, like as not. “It’s a lightweight net of plans.” Eskel nods towards Istredd, still bent over his scrying dish. “Istredd will send you all in, and then it depends on what you find. Teams of two, combing through – Callonetta here believes that the complex might also be used to keep refugees, possibly for experiments, which makes this more complicated, but ideally, it will fit into one of the following plans…”
Eskel starts sketching the broad strokes and the likeliest alternate situations on the whiteboard that usually holds the chore list for Geralt’s family, and they all crowd around to see and offer suggestions differing in their usefulness.
Even Geralt comes closer, less growly now that they are moving in towards action instead of simple waiting around.
This is something they all know – and with their lark on the line, they’ll sure be even more alert and careful than usual.