Work Text:
Tuesday, 1:26 PM
Lucanis pressed the call button and waited, trying not to obsess over the meeting he’d just escaped. His jaw ached from clenching, and his voice was husky from trying to keep his tone concilatory. His tie felt too tight. The hallway was quiet—too quiet, like the building itself was holding its breath.
He needed risotto and a chat with Xiqaa; the endorphin hit of both possibly the only things keeping him contained in his skin at the moment.
It felt as though Caterina had assigned him the worst accounts lately, but with the Blight squeezing the financial markets so tight, businesses were keeping a firm grip on their money—and an even tighter one on their workforces.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
Inside stood a man in a charcoal suit, polished shoes, and a briefcase tucked neatly under one arm. He adjusted his cufflinks with deliberate care. Posture: impeccable. Expression: unreadable.
Lucanis froze.
The man looked just like him.
Not similar. Not vaguely reminiscent. Exactly. Same height, same bone structure, same hair, same tailored severity. Even the suit was close—just a shade darker, like someone had run Lucanis through a copier and selected “grayscale.”
The man glanced up, met Lucanis’ eyes, and nodded once. It was the kind of perfectly correct greeting one might offer a stranger—but Lucanis felt certain this man couldn’t be a stranger. He was, though.
Lucanis stepped back, shivering as if a ghost had run its fingers up his spine.
The man didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply returned to his cufflinks, as if Lucanis were a minor glitch in the hallway’s architecture.
Lucanis turned and took quick steps toward the stairs—quick, but not so quick they could be labeled running.
He didn’t look back, but the sound of the doors closing was a relief.
Tuesday, 1:34 PM
No knock. Lucanis stormed into Viago de Riva’s office like a man pursued by a ghost, because, in a way, he was.
Behind the desk, Viago didn’t look up. He was sipping a NUGG shake and annotating a calendar with a fountain pen that probably cost more than Lucanis’ monthly rent. No doubt a gift from Caterina for his years of faithful service, or something.
“I just saw someone in the elevator,” Lucanis said. “He looked exactly like me.”
Viago turned a page, comparing something. “Yes. That would be Spite.”
“Spite.”
“Legal counsel. On retainer for Caterina. His real name, if you believe it, is Lorem I. Candleslut. His penchant for extreme prejudice in legal matters—he once dissolved a partnership over a shared calendar—earned him the nickname.”
It went without saying that Viago approved.
Lucanis stared. “Why is he here?”
With a sigh, Viago set the pen down, as if Lucanis had asked why the sun rises. “He’s finalizing the contingency clause in the family trust. The one that activates if Illario ever attempts to organize or participate in unionization.”
Lucanis shifted from one foot to the other, trying to make sense of the words, and why Viago knew so much about his family’s private business. He was far more than just a minor VP, but the realization was startling.
“That’s not a real clause,” he objected.
“It is now,” Viago said. “Also, there’s a property transfer involved. Something about a cursed Kirkwall timeshare.”
“What timeshare?”
“The one Illario tried to write off as a business expense. Apparently he listed it as a ‘parallel base of operations.’”
Lucanis sat down heavily. “And this Spite person—he’s handling all of that?”
Finally, Viago looked up. “Yes. He’s very good.”
Rubbing his temples, Lucanis tried to make sense of the lawyer. “He looks like me and he’s here to prevent labor solidarity. That’s… comforting, from a business perspective, I suppose.”
Viago nodded. “Yes. Naturally.”
In the corner, a young man with greyish-white hair was typing furiously, eyes wide, trying very hard not to react. Lucanis could practically see the word Naturally floating above his head.
Viago returned to his shake. “Also, he requested natural light only for the conference room this week. Said it helps with alignment.”
Lucanis blinked. “Alignment.”
“Sensory alignment,” Viago clarified. “He’s very thorough.”
A vivid vision struck Lucanis: the invoice from Flora & Fadeworks—embossed, scented, and ruinously itemized—sliding across Caterina’s desk with his name on it. It would be so simple to pin this Candleslut’s sins on him instead.
He rubbed his temples again. “This is not normal.”
Viago took another sip of NUGG. “Neither is the Kirkwall property tax code. We all make sacrifices.”
“You have a new assistant?” Lucanis asked belatedly.
Viago waved a hand. “Aydenne de Riva is my shadow. No relation, as I’m sure you know.” He gave Aydenne a long, evaluative scowl, as though tallying sins against merits. “Soon to enjoy his own office—if he doesn’t get cocky. In matters of Dellamorte family business, he has observational clearance only.”
The glare he leveled at Aydenne would have caused a lesser man to spontaneously combust.
Never taking his eyes off his laptop, Aydenne responeded, “I’m not here.”
“You’re very here,” Lucanis replied, frowning.
Aydenne de Riva…Illario's boyfriend? That was where he'd heard the name before.
The non-existent man kept typing. “Not in any actionable capacity.”
Lucanis squinted, knowing he might regret the answer to his next question. “Observational clearance?”
Viago nodded. “He may witness. He may record. He may not intervene or make observations of his own, whether audible or mental.”
Lucanis turned to Aydenne. “So you’re like… a ghost in meetings that don’t concern you.”
Aydenne kept typing, but one corner of his mouth turned up fractionally. “I prefer ‘non-corporeal analyst.’”
Lucanis refused to laugh in Viago’s presence, though Aydenne’s charm tempted him. “Do you get paid?”
Aydenne hesitated. “I receive a paycheck for my work but for some things…exposure is the best way to describe what I get the most of.”
Lucanis looked horrified. “To what?”
Viago checked his watch. “Mostly to me.”
“Congratulations on your upcoming promotion, then, Aydenne,” Lucanis said, with the air of someone offering sympathy for a hospitalization.
Aydenne gave a solemn nod, as if accepting a fate he’d long suspected but never dared name.
Without looking up, Viago adjusted his cuffs. “He’s earned it. Shows remarkable restraint. Hasn’t screamed once.”
“That’s a metric?” Lucanis asked, incredulous.
Viago shrugged. “It’s a start.”
The typing didn’t falter, but Aydenne’s eyes had the distant sheen of someone who’d seen too much and been permitted to say nothing. Working for Viago was less employment and more penance for unutterable sins.
Lucanis leaned back, exhaling. “I need risotto. Today has been exhausting.”
A glance at his watch. Viago hummed, almost pleased. “I have an extraoffice meeting this afternoon.”
The rapid-fire tapping of keys cut off mid-stroke. Sepulchral silence bloomed. Two pairs of incredulous eyes regarded Viago de Riva, Senior Vice President of Corporate Resource Optimization & Workforce Strategy.
“Is this what it feels like when you find out the Maker stopped His work of creation to have brunch?” Aydenne asked, voice light but not entirely unserious.
Lucanis couldn’t help it—he laughed. Just once, sharp and startled, like a cork popping loose.
Viago didn’t react. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He stood, smoothing the front of his jacket. “I’m meeting Emmrich for lunch.”
That earned a look of open-mouthed surprise from Aydenne, who had seen Viago’s calendar for the day. “Emmrich Volkarin…the art expert?”
Viago nodded. “We met at an exhibition at the Vintiver Gallery of Fine Forms. He was standing too close to a painting I liked. We disagreed about brushwork. Then we aligned—on the chiaroscuro of the background, and our mutual interest in the artist’s early work. He asked for my number.”
Lucanis stared. “You gave another human being your phone number. For non-work related purposes?”
“I’d question his humanity,” Aydenne muttered.
“Reluctantly,” Viago said. “Over time, we became… compatible.”
Aydenne looked like he’d just witnessed Viago grow a second head. “You go to art exhibitions?”
“Regularly. Emmrich prattles. I prefer to critique in silence. Occasionally I nod.”
Lucanis felt the way Aydenne looked. “You have a friend.”
“I have a colleague with shared aesthetic tolerances,” Viago corrected. “Today I suggested lunch beforehand.”
Aydenne whispered, “I’ve witnessed The Horrors firsthand. I’ll say a prayer for Emmrich.”
Another glance at the watch. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone,” Viago said, already halfway to the door.
Lucanis watched the door swing shut behind Viago, then turned to Aydenne with the expression of a man who’d just remembered he had agency.
“I was already thinking about lunch,” he said. “And there’s only one place Viago would go.”
Aydenne’s winning smile made Lucanis feel they’d known each other for longer than the last ten minutes. “You mean—”
“La Piazza,” Lucanis confirmed. “If he’s meeting someone voluntarily, in daylight, with the intent to consume nutrients in public, there’s nowhere else.”
Aydenne considered this. “You think he’ll actually eat?”
“I think he’ll nod at the ravioli and critique the menu font.” Lucanis smiled faintly. “The food is unforgivably good, though. You should join me. It would be my treat.”
They exchanged a glance of equal parts dread and curiosity.
Two birds. One mutually curious stone.
Lucanis stood. “Let’s go observe the extraoffice habitat.”
Aydenne grabbed his phone and laptop. “I don't plan on working, but I'll bring this just in case.”
Tuesday, 2:07 PM
La Piazza was always quiet at this hour—Lucanis’ favorite thing about it. The lunch crowd had thinned, with only a few lingering over their wine or coffee, and the street outside had begun its transition to the evening hush before the bar crowd awoke. The restaurant’s exterior didn’t advertise its presence so much as suggest it, like a secret kept for dignitaries and people who knew how to order without looking at the menu.
Inside, cloudy skies at sunset bloomed across painted walls and the brick façade gave the impression of an open-air courtyard suspended in twilight. The ludicrous cherub fountain murmured softly at the center, its carved expressions unreadable.
Lucanis scanned the main dining room, eyes landing on Xiqaa behind the host stand. Their blazer was immaculate. Their expression was not.
Xiqaa first, then Viago, then risotto, Lucanis thought.
They approached the host stand. Xiqaa clocked them instantly, one brow lifting in a quizzical expression.
“Lucanis. I should have known you’d follow him. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”
Lucanis leaned in. “Is he here?”
A tilt of the head toward the back corner. “Table twelve. He’s been nodding at his companion for seven minutes. They’re debating whether sea salt or Maldon salt better supports the emotional integrity of the tableside experience. Never mind that we don’t have many tableside options here.”
Aydenne whispered, “Viago never disappoints.”
Lucanis chuckled, noting with pleasure the way his smile was reciprocated on Xi’s face. “We’ll take a table nearby. And I’ll have the usual.”
“Risotto and a side of dread, with a glass of It Never Ends, right?” Xiqaa teased. “Coming right up.”
Viago’s expression soured the moment he noted their approach. Good manners forbade anything overtly rude, but he scowled over the rim of his glass—wine, Aydenne pointed out to Lucanis, not a NUGG shake or his usual bottled water.
The deviation was noted.
Once seated, the two conspirators exchanged a glance. Aydenne tilted his head toward Viago’s table; Lucanis responded with a near-imperceptible nod.
Viago’s eyes widened in warning. His lips thinned to a line of pure disapproval.
Ignoring it entirely, Aydenne adopted a falsely cheerful tone. “Viago! What a surprise to see you here.”
His companion, a slim man of indeterminate elderliness, turned toward Aydenne with polite interest; missing, entirely, the fury radiating from Viago’s stare.
“Viago, are these some of your colleagues?” The man rose, striding to their table with the confident ease of someone who’d never once doubted his own welcome. He looked down at Aydenne and Lucanis, a pleasant smile fixed in place. “A pleasure. Emmrich Volkarin, Dean of Lighthouse University, Nevarra College branch. Viago and I have the pleasure of being acquainted.”
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Aydenne said, eyes twinkling, not a trace of mockery in sight. “I work for Viago at A.N.T.I.V.A.—Advanced Negotiation & Tactical International Vacancy Alignment.”
“Lucanis Dellamorte, also of A.N.T.I.V.A.,” Lucanis added, voice neutral, head inclined.
Emmrich nodded thoughtfully. “Viago doesn’t often speak of his work, save to say it’s of vital importance to your operations.”
Lucanis took a long drink of water, as if additional hydration might help him process that sentence.
“I must say it’s refreshing to meet you. Viago speaks so sparingly of anything personal, I was beginning to wonder if he even existed outside the art gallery!”
Aydenne mirrored Lucanis, reaching for his own glass. The statement had struck too close to home—an echo of every whispered theory about Viago’s off-hours existence.
“I assure you, he is passionate about his work,” Lucanis said, recovering smoothly.
“He did mention a great sentimentality toward analytics,” Emmrich recalled. “He once mentioned that a well-presented dataset was enough to make him weep.”
Viago choked. Not dramatically—just a sharp, involuntary sound, like a cough ambushed by emotion. He reached for his wine, composed himself, and said nothing.
Aydenne, ever gracious, offered a nod. “I recall having had moments with formatting.”
Lucanis added, “We’ve all tried to quantify emotions with pivot tables. It never ends well.”
Emmrich sighed. “Ah, but grief resists sorting, does it not?”
Lucanis’ eyes cut to Viago, who looked as though he’d like to highlight the entire table, right-click, and select Delete Row.
“Conditional formatting aside,” Viago said tightly, “we would hate to keep you from your meal.”
Xiqaa appeared as if summoned, tablet in hand. With an antiquated bow, Emmrich smiled at them both. “That is my cue to leave, but I look forward to meeting you again, and perhaps learning more about what it is you do for a living.”
“What can I get for you? Or would you like a little longer to look over the wine list?” Xi inquired.
Aydenne put his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Lucanis pretended to look over the menu, though he’d long-memorized the offerings and had tried everything listed at least once.
“I’ll have the risotto with osso bucco,” he said, feigning indecision.
“A good choice,” Xi said, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “And for you, sir?”
“What do you recommend?” Aydenne’s voice was muffled by his hands.
“The gentleman at table twelve ordered a half-order of mushroom ravioli, salad with mustard vinaigrette, dressing on the side, no walnuts,” Xiqaa offered mischievously.
Aydenne couldn’t help the laugh that burst from him; loud and entirely sincere.
Viago and Emmrich looked over. Viago’s expression darkened, clearly suspecting the laugh was at his expense. But Emmrich, unfazed, showed him something on his phone that redirected his attention back to their own table.
“Seriously,” Xiqaa said, dropping into a less formal tone, “you can’t go wrong with the risotto with osso bucco. Mr. Dellamorte here orders it at least twice a week.”
Aydenne shook his head disbelievingly. “It’s like there’s something addictive in the food here. We’re all hooked.”
“It does feel that way sometimes,” Xi agreed. “Or maybe the restaurant’s owned by a master vampire who’s had centuries to perfect the recipes.”
“If so, he’s serving eternity one bite at a time,” Lucanis joked with a straight face. “I respect the business model.”
Xi snorted. Aydenne wheezed into his napkin.
“I’ll enter your orders and be right back. Pull me up a chair,” Xiqaa said, already halfway gone.
Lucanis watched Xi disappear into the kitchen, her braids swinging in punctuation.
“She’s very good at what she does,” he said, almost to himself.
“I suddenly see why you like this restaurant,” Aydenne observerd dryly.
Caught out, and unable to deny it, Lucanis laughed, feeling his cheeks color. “The food is really very good.”
Lucanis checked his email and Aydenne got out his laptop, and the time before the food arrived passed quickly. Xi returned with their plates, setting each down with the playful reverence of a ritual offering before joining them with her usual glass of whiskey and water.
The risotto with beef and sauce steamed gently, its scent rich and layered—just like something that had been simmering since the 14th century.
Aydenne took one bite and closed his eyes. “It’s criminal how good this is. I’d defect for this risotto.”
Xiqaa sipped her drink. “I told you. Master vampire.”
Lucanis nodded, already halfway through his first spoonful. “It’s the marrow. It knows things, and imparted that knowledge to the sauce.”
Before Aydenne could respond, a shadow fell across the table.
Lucanis looked up, dread crawling along his nerves.
Spite stood there, hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate. His suit was unwrinkled, his shoes unscuffed, his tie a shade closer to blood than wine. He looked, as before, exactly like Lucanis—but drained of warmth, of humor, of anything human.
He looked like what Lucanis might become if he embraced Viago’s workaholic ways and outsourced his soul for efficiency.
Aydenne took one look at Spite and excused himself, laughter leaking out like steam from a cracked pipe.
“Lucanis Dellamorte,” the lawyer intoned. “I was told you’d be here.”
Lucanis set down his fork with exaggerated care. “Did the risotto call your name?”
“No,” Spite replied. “But your signature did.”
Spite produced a folder from somewhere—Lucanis didn’t see exactly—and placed it on the table like a communion wafer. “The revised clause for your grandmother’s succession plan. Initial here, here, and here.”
Xiqaa raised an eyebrow. “You’re serving legal documents during lunch?”
Spite didn’t look at her. “Your risotto is hot. So is my deadline.”
Lucanis flipped the folder open. The clause had metastasized. What had once been a paragraph was now a page and a half, with subpoints, footnotes, and a flowchart titled Emotionally Affected Risk Factors: L. Dellamorte Variant.
“Um, if it’s not a rude question,” Xiqaa said, knocking back the rest of her whiskey, “who the fuck are you?”
“Lorem I. Candleslut. Senior and managing partner of Candleslut & Associates. For Caterina Dellamorte—and Caterina alone—do I make housecalls,” the man replied. “I’m told they call me Spite. Something to do with my motivations. I don’t take it personally; it can be a positive trait in the practice of law.”
Xiqaa closed her eyes, then looked between them again, searchingly. “Are you brothers from another mother, or am I having a stroke?”
Lucanis rubbed his temples. “Spite, why do you look like me?”
Spite tilted his head. “Inasfar as I’m able to discuss your name, face and likeness, I was told conformity increases compliance.”
“By whom?” Lucanis and Xiqaa chorused.
“Caterina,” Spite said flatly.
Lucanis felt something cold settle in his chest. “That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Spite said. “It was meant to be effective. You are required to sign these forms as a condition of your inheritance and the continuance of the Dellamorte family business.”
Lucanis stared at the paperwork again. “You know, I used to think Illario was the worst thing I’d encountered in a lifetime of doing business. But you’re like… if my coping mechanisms united to form a person.”
Spite didn’t so much as flinch. “I take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” Lucanis said, but his voice had softened. “Do you ever wonder what you’d be like if you weren’t this?”
Spite was silent for a moment. Then: “I don’t wonder. It’s not in my contract.”
Lucanis closed the folder. “Of course it isn’t.”
Spite turned to go, then paused. “The food smells excellent. I’ll make a note.”
And then he was gone.
Xiqaa let out a long breath. “That man is a taxidermied version of you, in an even more expensive suit. If that’s possible.”
Lucanis picked up his fork again. “He’s what happens when you let the sauce reduce too long and forget to stir.”
Aydenne returned, eyes wide. “Did I miss the good part where you served yourself a cease and desist?”
Lucanis gestured to the folder. “He left evidence.”
Aydenne flipped it open, scanned the cover page with its embossed letterhead, and whistled. “That’s you, er, him, right there—looking like someone printed a screenshot of you from an internet video at 144p.”
Opening the document, his eyes skimmed the first paragraph. Then he blinked, leaned closer, and read aloud: “Demonstrates non-standard emotional responses under professional duress, including but not limited to: unsolicited empathy…”
He looked up, expression somewhere between horror and delight. “Lucanis. You’ve been legally classified as a wild card.”
“Damn right he has,” Xi put in.
Lucanis took another bite of risotto. “It’s fine. The marrow and I are in negotiations right now, and I’ll take it up with my grandmother later. The undead version of myself can wait until I’ve finished lunch and had a glass of wine.”
“I think I should ask for a really big raise if I decide to keep working for you people.” Aydenne drained his glass with a shudder.
“What did I tell you about observational clearance?” Viago chided from the next table.
“I may not intervene or make observations of his own, whether audible or mental,” Aydenne recited dutifully.
Xiqaa leaned in and muttered, “Dude, your boss is a serious killjoy.”
Viago remained undeterred—whether he’d heard her or simply refused to acknowledge commentary from non-CROW personnel. “Don’t make me threaten everyone here with an NDA. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. I have art to view.”
Xiqaa rose to take their payment and clear their table. Lucanis swirled his wine, hoping for clarity in the bottom of this glass, or perhaps the next. “I’m starting to think I’m not even the weirdest part of my own legacy.”
Aydenne tapped the folder, still open beside his plate. “You’re not. But you are the only one with a flowchart about your feelings.”
From behind the bar, Xiqaa offered, “Anyone want to day drink about emotional risk factors? First round’s on me.”
Lucanis raised his glass. “Only if it’s paired with an NDA and a side of risotto.”
Aydenne sighed. “I knew I should’ve majored in something less cursed than data analysis—like necromancy. Think Viago’s friend would take my application? It’s never too late to go back to school.”
Xiqaa slid the whiskey bottle down the bar. “It is too late. Just like me, you’re already implicated, or some shit.”