Shallah disapparated at the gates and broke contact with Calixtus as soon as she was certain that the transportation spell had completed itself, her hands lingered in the space near his shoulder blades. Some found apparating disorienting and she wouldn’t want him to fall down into the mud. He was dressed in a manner she believed to be described as suave, or dapper or some amalgamation of the two. Black slacks, a shirt that hung down past the line of his coat more on one side than the other and…. Shallah reached a hand out tentatively and plucked the pair of spectacles from his breast pocket. With the ear bits unfolded she held them to eye level and smiled at the effect. . “What are they for?”


With swift little movements she replaced the spectacles into Cal’s breast pocket, patting them lightly before turning abruptly to walk toward the large manor house at the end of the pathway. Baldur’s family home was sprawling and surprisingly well maintained, hedges still trimmed, lawns mowed, all the shutters of the home were still attached. From Shallah’s limited understanding it did not look the part of an evil organizations head quarters, that fact brought more charm to the establishment. As if it was hiding a secret along with the rest of them.

She ascended the steps in quick hopping movements, turning once she had reached the top and then waited for Cal to follow. “There will be a taller man, red hair, Deacon. Do not speak to him, he believes creatures such as yourself should be exposed at birth.” Her smile was apologetic when she added. “He is crude, but necessary. The others should be amiable enough. But know this, I will not tolerate fighting.” Her warning voiced she gripped handle to the door and shoved, the wood creaked and then opened inward allowing the two entrance.

The light inside the foyer was the same as the light outside, dull, and tinged heavily with grey. Sheets covered most of the foyers furnishing, only a few paintings of the wizarding variety having been sparred the same treatment. The paintings said nothing, merely watched as Shallah crossed the tile floors, heading to the left and toward a set of double doors. These opened without her even reaching for them and admitted Czolgosz. He had been one of the first to join with her. His unruly brown hair was graying at the sides but the look he shot past her and into Cal was as sharp as it had always been. His gaze was still steadfastly pinning Cal when he spoke, “This is the scientist that you are bringing to us?” The words were difficult to decipher to one not used to hearing the mercenary, his tongue tended to form words strangely, especially after that third facial reconstruction following the Blood Revolution and English was a language he only deigned to use when Shallah expressly requested it.

She replied back in his native tongue, using words to soothe, until his eyes left Cal and moved to her. “He will do great things for us.” She concluded in English. “Mind….he will need something with which to defend himself if he means to accompany into the field. You and Tuatha could discuss what you think best.” Moving back to Cal’s side she lifted one of his arms, examining hand and forearm. “Grenades, a gun possibly? Is there anything you would prefer Calixtus? Czolgosz is a gifted weapons smith,” Czolgosz straightened, squaring his shoulders. “He would have no qualms about collaborating with you to find a weapon of your liking. Time enough for that later.” She released her grip on Cal’s arm and began walking down the hallway, Czolgosz falling into step beside her. “Is everyone here?”

“Everyone who is important.” The man piped up. “Baldur has sent his regards but he stays to guard our prospects.”

“I knew as much already.” Czolgosz was looking at Cal again and then back at her an unspoken question in his eyes. “He knows as he needs to. It is the same with all of us.” She stopped in front of a rather unassuming looking mahogany door. Czolgosz entered first, pressing past her and grumbling low in Slovak, Shallah waited for Cal to enter before stepping into the well-lit room herself and closing the door.

In contrast to the foyer the numerous couches and chairs in this room were exposed, and the light from the chandeliers on its ceiling and the fire currently burning strong in the large hearth gave it a warm, almost inviting atmosphere. There were numerous openings on the furniture, only a few of the spaces filled by men who turned expectantly when the group entered. There were a few murmured greetings, some more enthusiastic than others. Mostly the gazes settled upon Cal. Deacon’s eyes traveled up and down the scientist’s body before he turned his head and spit into the fire, Shallah let it go, he would show no more deviance to her openly. Czolgosz settled himself on the arm of a plush overstuffed chair and began chatting to Tuatha excitedly; the two no doubt discussing what could be done in terms of an arsenal for the man.

Shallah returned a few of the greetings, either with a look or a series of short clipped words before moving to seat herself on an unoccupied couch to the right of the fire. “This is Calixtus Ferox.” She said rather unnecessarily. “He is the scientist, chemist and potions smith who had been assisting Baldur. His blood is pure as the family who owns this house, and that if nothing else will be respected.” There was no protest. “If there are no challenges,” She paused inviting any of them voice a complaint. “I will be conducting this meeting in Baldur’s absence. As discussed last venture, we will be selecting a target for our first attack upon the city. Deacon has suggested two locations in Hogsmeade. While Albert has submitted two locations not only within London but in Diagon Alley itself. Both are relatively close to one another, though we know relatively little about their fortifications. The first is a bakery,” She glanced to Albert, a gawkish wizard in his mid 30s, who nodded. “Owned by a Muggle born, the second is the establishment of a half blood. I have no preference. If anyone can present an argument for one or the other the matter is open for discussion.”

There were mutterings, slurs, thrown across the room from all directions. Shallah sighed and let her posture go, sitting back heavily against the smooth cushion of the couch.

The skin on Cal's back crawled. Shallah Kosa had set her hands on his shoulders for the apparition, standing behind him, and he had half-expected talons to pierce him through the space above his clavicles, hideously. He staggered sideways when they arrived, then wheeled around halfway, body swinging like a hinged door. She looked him over, curiously, head to one side--birdlike.

His sunglasses (a fanciful 'I am James Bond' touch) were apparently an object of fascination. He wasn't sure why; he couldn't quite comprehend her worldview. He supposed the Wizarding world in Britain was distinctly lacking in sunglasses, not that he'd considered the matter. America was more integrated. And Shallah Kosa had come from a swamp--well, and worked for the Syndicate; and he wondered how much of her self-removal from human or Wizarding society was quite purposeful. He himself, he thought, twitching a little as she replaced the sunglasses, purposefully removed himself, pretended ignorance, and generally shied away from so many things he found hateful or ignominious.

He followed her into the manor house, a large, broad building, set, dollhouselike, amidst golf-green grass. The stillness of the place, the rake of its well-kept hedges and brief, self-effacing metal gate, intimidated him.

They stopped before the heavy front door.

“There will be a taller man, red hair, Deacon. Do not speak to him, he believes creatures such as yourself should be exposed at birth.”

Cal stared stiffly at her and said nothing. She created the facsimile of a smile--a strange thing to watch, particularly as it seemed she'd tried to infuse it with sympathy. Her voice remained cold, as always, and not quite human.

“He is crude, but necessary. The others should be amiable enough. But know this, I will not tolerate fighting.”

He looked up briefly, surprised, one eyebrow up; or rather the skin of his forehead bunched, he could never manage the expression, it was a Jasper expression. It was flattering--that she thought him volatile, potentially dangerous, unstable. Or maybe it wasn't. Her judgments took place on an unreal plane outside of his purview. He nodded gravely and chose, for the moment, to take it as a compliment; he'd need it, always needed the bolstering, and he would have difficulty avoiding this Deacon character. He wanted to hit him already.

They wound through the foyer, the air humming with stillness and dust. Paintings watched them pass, and Cal, trained in Pureblood mannerliness, nodded briefly at each wall. Their first encounter, obviously on alert, emerged from double doors set to one side; Cal stared at him, trying to work out what was off (something was off, something was not quite right, not quite human or simply surreal; not like Shallah Kosa but quite unlike most he'd ever met, too). He hung back, fingers moving on their own, bunching, cramping. He waited for his breathing to slow itself. This was not Deacon--he had immediately jumped, thinking--but no. He'd wait.

Czolgosz stared at him with something between suspicion and disdain. His face appeared plastic, slightly jowly. Shallah spoke to him in a language Cal didn't understand, which made him paranoid. What was she saying? What. Some soothing tones. Some manipulation. Something that would hold off judgment but appease him. She concluded ostentatiously and her conclusion, in its ostentation and appeasement, struck Cal strangely across the throat; he swallowed. It sounded wrong.

“He will do great things for us," she said, and Cal wanted very much to look away, but didn't, though one leg shook. “Mind….he will need something with which to defend himself if he means to accompany into the field. You and Tuatha could discuss what you think best.”

Shallah closed one cold hand on his arm. “Grenades, a gun possibly? Is there anything you would prefer Calixtus? [...] Time enough for that later.” She let go and Cal could breathe again.

They spoke again--about Baldur, a name he'd heard often enough in conjunction with his research. When he looked up in curiosity he was surprised to intercept a similar glance from Czolgosz.

“He knows as he needs to," said Shallah Kosa. "It is the same with all of us.”

All of us, Cal wondered.

They stopped in a corner, in front of a door that seemed it might lead into a closet, a servant's room; it seemed it had, until recently, been part of the wall. Cal followed Czolgosz inside and wondered why he hated to have Shallah Kosa behind him. Within he scanned the room, eyes catching on the only redhead inside, a broad-shouldered, weathered-looking man with small, hard eyes and thoroughly uncheerful pink skin. The moment caught on a snag and he forced himself to look away, aware of how spindly his body, even in its black overcoat and heavy boots, must appear. Cal heard the fire hiss and looked up again to catch Deacon turning his head back from a spit, one hard hand running across his mouth.


He'll be expendable, thought Deacon, watching the gaunt man. He looked like what he was, scrubby, half-formed, with bloodshot eyes and the stooping posture of someone much older than he was. He huffed in disapproval but could not do more in front of Kosa. She didn't like that and she wouldn't hesitate to do real damage to anyone who stepped over the line. But he'd let her know--whatever she'd said in private--he didn't bloody like it. Sometimes he wondered about her. Sometimes he thought she didn't think the right way. Sometimes he thought she was just as bad as a Mudblood. But then he'd look at her and not think. He wanted her very much. He figured most of them did. But she treated him with respect. If only she'd listened to him about the Squib. He caught her eye again, searching for commiseration, then looked away again and leaned against the warm brick of the fireplace.


There was no time for further altercation, Cal thought, looking around the room. He noticed Czolgosz had taken a seat amongst the many caverous couches and chairs, leather and firelight, but he hung back. There was no unspoken invitation. Cal favored--had always favored--didn't have to--but did--he favored discretion; he wouldn't come forward into a space no one had made.

He'd done the right thing (or hadn't). Or perhaps he'd never do the right thing; he did what Cal did, he ought to have--he ought to have tried to act like someone else. But then he'd still have the same motives. He wondered if anyone in the room were a Legilimens, and kept his gaze liquid, floating, settling in no particular place. Shallah's introduction was matter-of-fact and sunk without comment into the judgmental amber of the moment. Then she moved on. Cal took a step forward, tried to keep his shoulders up, but found at the last that in a jump-cut--those jumps in time that nervousness imposed--he had settled as usual, in a hunched fashion, into an armchair in one corner. He forced himself to sit up straight, to set both feet on the floor, to fold his hands so he wouldn't fidget in the fashion of the classically autistic.

He hadn't been aware that the organization was so--Purist--it was a culture strange to him and he felt disguised somehow, covered over. He bit the insides of his lips. The bakery? He did not belong here. At the same time he found he didn't mind the idea, he had a childish sort of satisfaction, he thought nothing of the consequences but only a sort of flattened out, world-as-toy, 'Hey. That's funny'; because he thought Daphne was angling for Jasper; he didn't like her; it would serve her right. Then he felt deep shame at his shallowness, and covered his cheeks with his palms.

Carmen tried poisoning it, but alas, her well-tended immunity to the stuff was stronger than her desire to murder. Her connections in Knockturn Alley and elsewhere had failed her this time. Perhaps her lifestyle choices would be more effective. Maybe terrorism would kill--or at least seriously injure--the parasite that was currently growing inside her. A hex to the belly while on the mission, overworking herself, anything would do. Just so long as she didn't have to deal with it. She didn't want it. She hated it and she hated the way it made her feel, the complications it put on her life. Most of all she hated how it had happened. One moment of weakness! One!

God, her grandmother had always been right.

Now she waited in a shadowy room of a house she didn't know and sat straight-backed in a plush chair, waiting for her potential savior to arrive. Although the danger of Garrow had passed, she did not trust the world she was trying to succeed in. After the fourth unforgivable upset and her pregnancy she had come to the devastating realization that she had nowhere she could go. There was nothing left for her but this; a chance to break another huge story, a chance to get rid of the bastard, a chance to kill the bastard that made the bastard.

Today: terrorism. Tomorrow: murder. She would be successful, one way or another. Each obstacle was another chance to prove her worth. Carmen Snidgeton could do more. She could be better than anyone else. And she was, she knew it!

Although she carried no parchment or quill, her hand lay curved on the arm of the chair as if it held a writing utensil. She realized she was sitting as if poised to jot down the location of Potter. She stood from her chair and began walking about the room--populated by a few unpleasant men, but no one she knew and not as many as she would have liked to see--and flexed her hands as she walked. When she was making her third round about the room, the veela woman appeared. With her came a twitchy man whose face had been seared into her memory.

Jasper Christie's boyfriend.

For a moment her face took on an appearance that could have rivaled Shallah's bird form veela ferocity, but in another moment the expression disappeared and her tension settled back in her hands and shoulders. Carmen took the nearest seat.

“This is Calixtus Ferox.”

The name! The face! The pieces clicked together and her rage transfigured into a pleasantly smug smile. And then, moments later, the look shifted into something else, though it was hard to say what.

"He is the scientist, chemist and potions smith who had been assisting Baldur. His blood is pure as the family who owns this house, and that if nothing else will be respected. If there are no challenges...?"

"None," said Carmen blandly. She watched the man with hawkish eyes. His presence was a surprise--his name a delightful discovery--but she could not yet decide how she would proceed. If they would be working together, well, that changed things. She would have to be more careful in the ways she attacked him.

"I will be conducting this meeting in Baldur’s absence. As discussed last venture, we will be selecting a target for our first attack upon the city. Deacon has suggested two locations in Hogsmeade. While Albert has submitted two locations not only within London but in Diagon Alley itself. Both are relatively close to one another, though we know relatively little about their fortifications. The first is a bakery. Owned by a Muggle born, the second is the establishment of a half blood. I have no preference. If anyone can present an argument for one or the other the matter is open for discussion.”

Honeycutt's was the bakery, but the second location was too vague for Snidgeton to pinpoint.

Her eyes glanced over the others in the room, to their muttering mouths, and her lips pinched together. If she were picking, she would have chosen the Sinistra's to go first. Popular, disgraceful, attention-grabbing. But with Ferox in the room she would make no mention of them.

"I doubt Honeycutt even locks her door at night. She's an utter fool and would be a convenient start. The Ministry would most likely write our attack off as the work of Knockturn Alley trash. What is the name of the second establishment?"

Shallah surveyed the assembly from her seat, Cal sitting stiff as a corpse, trying to look at everything and nothing all at the time, most of the others were taking him in, dissecting. She had proposed the two locations for their grand entrance into London and now the natural human instinct to squabble had come up. There was a chorus of voices, all disjointed, some speaking shouts, but nothing that was discernable. It was just noise.

I doubt Honeycutt even locks her door at night. She's an utter fool and would be a convenient start. The Ministry would most likely write our attack off as the work of Knocturn Alley trash. What is the name of the second establishment? A voice rose from above the general murmur and Shallah smiled as she turned her gaze to Carmen. The woman had been here for sometime and at no moment had she not been looking for a way to undo everything around them. Carmen was more predator than human and Shallah had no doubt that the woman was simply waiting, for an opportunity, for an advantage. Carmen would not be swayed to the cause Shallah had erected by anything more than her physical well being and once the threat to that was removed she would turn.

Not even the skittish little creature taking hold in her seemed to deter her. It was fascinating; in every other case imaginable the maternal instinct had been insurmountable, capable of giving super human strength, endurance, drive but here in the only true woman in the room it seemed to have stilted somehow. It was no more a child to Carmen than a leech was a child to its host. The relationship was symbiotic for only one and it seemed as if the group’s activities were just the newest method of eradication Snidgeton was undertaking.

“SHOP.” She looked over the crowd. “Odd title. Does anyone have any information about this place? I am unfamiliar with both locations but Carmen seems to imply that the bakery is not fortified. Though we would of course need to come up with a way to, distinguish ourselves from mere.” She paused long enough to remember the word, “Trash.”

"Oh, I know how to leave a mark." Deacon grinned through the firelight and Cal jittered back, hands going to his elbows, then to clasp nervously in front of his chin. He wondered if the man had been a Death Eater or--no, he was too young--affiliated somehow. Family. The Feroxes had stayed well clear, for their part.

He was so taken up with Deacon that for a long time he didn't quite register Carmen's identity. Then--then his mind flipped back like calendar pages in a high cinematic wind. They stopped at Doomsday. Carmen Snidgeton? Jasper's remembered voice, sardonic, silky, and oddly comforting, whispered, Well, she is evil. Cal set the judgment aside and tried to look away from her cruel stare.

He'd only seen eyes like that once before. The example case was still in the room. Shallah. He managed to drag his gaze aside, and it came to rest on his hands, the fingers fumbling over potions-stained knuckles and nails much less ragged, he only now noticed, than they had been in the pre-Jasperian era.

"I say we hit the Mudblood first," Deacon added. Cal shrunk back into the shadows; the terrorist's eyes glittered with a cold kind of madness. "Show 'em what we're really about, aye?"

Cal said nothing. He disliked Atlas powerfully--but--Jasper's friend, he couldn't--Honeycutt was entirely different. He couldn't stop that, and he didn't wish to. He let himself be borne along on the dark current of the meeting, and said nothing. He'd come this far.