The study as it was called was really the only place in this house of stone and bent, bound wood, that Shallah felt at ease. In this room the cold and unyielding stone walls of the rest of house receded leaving walls of wood, deep colored and stained, dead but within it there were echoes of what it had been. The walls met with the ceiling where great wooden support beams were visible, the knots of trees glinting in the fire light coming from the far side of the room. The lushness of the carpets was nothing like mud, or grass, but they were deep and cupped the sounds one made in much the same way. Then there were the books lining the walls, they too had been trees once, living, and like the walls, and the floors, and the desk they maintained (even through the abuse the humans had subjected them to) a vestige of their past selves. She breathed deep from her perch atop the great oaken desk of the windowless room and futile tried to see the room as a composition of its past self.

There was too much interference. Smells of ink, and sawdust, and wood stain. Snorting to try and drive the stench away her attention feel back to the papers lying in front of her. Tuatha, while hesitant to travel into the field any longer had been kind enough to offer his investigative skills. But the file in front of her was not a composite of someone who had lurked in the shadows for weeks, creeped along walls and watched; it had been as easy as walking through a sequence of doors and asking. Shallah had witnessed many weapons in her time away from home but bureaucracy was the mightiest weapon the humans had ever constructed for themselves. They created webs and traps using nothing more than quill and ink. Tuatha had seemed surprised himself at how much information was readily available on their target. She extended a finger and shuffled a few of the less interesting scraps aside until she saw the face.

This man had overstepped his bounds. Had done grievous injury to something that was not his to harm. She had asked Calixtus that night two weeks ago what outcome he desired. I want him dead. She had promised in turn, a verbal contract and she had all intentions of fulfilling it. They had planned for the Baking place to be first, it would have been fitting. Then this complication had arose and she would not allow this offense to go on. First though she needed to see Calixtus. She had sent Tuatha to collect him about 20 minutes before; he would be arriving at any moment. Shallah lifted the one of the documents, a police photo from some years before. The person depicted within it was doing his utmost to avoid the camera, eyes slated and to the side.

Zora was seated on the floor next to the fire, chin cupped in her hands and her eyes fixed on the flames. Shallah had found her three years ago wandering lost and mute, a very rare discovery. She was what wizards referred to as a legimens, able to walk into the minds of others, finding all manner of sins and secrets on her way. She had had no formal training in her gift when Shallah and the others had taken her in and though child like in appearance and largely mute she had developed into a formidable power. Zora glanced up at her; unfurling herself and taking her way over to the desk where she placed her palms on the desk top and examined the pictures.

“You will be going with us then?” Shallah asked, placing the fingers of her right hand on the girls shoulder. Zora nodded in the affirmative moving away from Shallahs finger’s, proximity to her was always just the slightest bit unnerving, the thoughts were different and strange and left her with a bad feeling down in her guts. Rather than taking a seat on the floor again she glided over to the unoccupied desk chair and sat, swinging her feet, which hung just above the floor.

They needed only wait for the final two members of tonight’s party. The documents could tell them only so much for the rest she would need Calixtus and his words. There was a creak as the old hinges on the door gave way to admit Calixtus, two weeks past and he still seemed pale, skittish, her anger redoubled itself. “Calixtus, forgive me for not coming personally to escort you. I was familiarizing myself with these.” The barest nod toward the desk top. “In preparation for the fulfillment of my promise to you.”

Tuatha had now entered the number of people Cal trusted, however marginally he managed to trust anyone. Well--trust wasn't exactly the right world. The elder man had simple become a fixture, a predictable quantity. Very few people were predictable quantities to Cal. Often he felt as though he lived in a strange sort of bubble-world, impermeable and scorned by ordinary humans. The exceptions--whether hostile or friendly--it didn't matter--he always met the exceptions with a certain degree of gratitude. Resentful gratitude, of course, because he shouldn't be grateful at all; but gratitude nonetheless.

Tuatha had found him in his hall, just after Jasper had Apparated him back. At least he had Jasper again. He'd put his lips to the scar, looked at it, et cetera. He still thought of Caedmon. And that--

Cal was, therefore, dressed impeccably. He'd also taken a vial from Jasper's house, one he had left months ago in the depths of the freezer. It defrosted against his palm while Tuatha sidealong Apparated him into the echoing antechamber of Baldur's mansion. He kept it in his hand while they followed a twisting oak stairway and padded down a carpeted hall. The house was very quiet--that's what struck Cal--and very dark. It absorbed light and noise. Not scent. It smelled a little musty and a little birdish, some weird twang of animal without mammalian warmth.

Tuatha stood back and let him open the door himself. It took a push--the oak was heavy. Its hinges creaked. He stepped inside and saw Shallah standing in the middle of the room, the silent woman--Flora? Something--sitting on a chair. Her legs swung. She appeared small.

“Calixtus, forgive me for not coming personally to escort you. I was familiarizing myself with these.” The barest nod toward the desk top. “In preparation for the fulfillment of my promise to you.”

She--begging his forgiveness? How strange--no, not even--how weird. Weird perhaps with a y. Eldritch connotations. Troubled, Cal merely nodded and hunched his shoulders, drifting over to examine the documents. A picture of Atlas blinked up at him and he receded hastily, still clutching the Everard polyjuice. "No--not a problem. Thank you. I--"

Behind him, the door swung open again. Cal went quiet and turned to face it.

------------

Deacon rubbed his palms together, flat, throwing off the friction of annoyance, and shoved open the door with one shoulder. The Squib was standing hunched next to the desk, sunk in on himself and silent--probably scared of him, as well he should be. Zora stared at him with that look. Tuatha was a good little lapdog--he stood in abeyance. And then there was Shallah.

He'd do what she said, and only because she said it. He put one hand to his wand-holster. This was just business like any other. Even if it made no sense not to hit the bakery first. Some Squib's grudge? Useless. But he'd make it not useless. Leave everyone a message.

"You wanted me?" His voice was just a little clipped. He addressed Shallah, no one else.

He approached her with caution, always caution even now and then craned his neck outward from the cradle of his shoulders to gaze upon the matters laid out on the surface of the wood. He gazed at the photo and when the eyes in it looked back and locked he withdrew as if scalded, as if the acid were still burning through the tender skin at his throat. The damage was largely covered she observed beneath fabric and the chocking frivolous object used to keep the collar of the shirt closed. Some would have worn the mark as a badge to their honor, a relief of past battles, ones that they had survived, and something as artistic as a piercing or a tattoo. These were laid upon the body with little thought of care but in Calixtus case it seemed different.
No- not a problem. Thank you. I... Shallah was unsure why she was being thanked in this situation, language was such a twisted and complicated system, she would never learn all of its turns.

She was interrupted from further musings when the doors creaked a second time, she did not have to look up immediately to know whom it was. Zora ceased her exercises and Tuatha's eyes glanced up and over. The sound of the door and heavy boots (not completely muffled even by the rich carpeting) drew the attention of Cal as well who’s eyes widened slightly before he turned to gain visual confirmation of the rooms newest inhabitant. Shallah looked up last, flared her nostrils as she inhaled a smell like sweat and mud and conviction, absolute conviction.

This task was not to his liking; she needed nothing but his expression and the set of his jaw and shoulders to make that fact plain. He looked at no one, no one but her and somewhere in the recesses of her mind that pleased her. They two had discussed this matter in private as she told him sweet words, words that were largely true. She needed him for this job, his speed, skills and capacity for cruelty because that was what this needed. It was what Cal wanted and what she had promised.

You wanted me?.

“Always.” She answered with an easy smile leaning backwards with her chin down. “This is a matter that will require your unique skill set. From what Tuatha,” She acknowledged the man with a nod, he tipped his hat, Deacons eyes didn’t move. “Has been able to gather our target may have the ability to not only defend himself but retaliate against our actions. That would not be acceptable.” Finally sliding off the desk she reached behind her and offered a few of the documents to Deacon for review.

“We also require some information from Mr. Caedmon concerning his recent research endeavors. For this Zora will be invaluable. We need him alive only long enough to gain the information pertinent to our operations. Then we will do as we will.”

She shifted her attention back to Cal, not wishing for him to feel neglected. This was to be his gift after all. “Now Calixtus….” She paused, looking around the room as if puzzled. “You may all sit if you like.” Re-perching on the desk she took up the thread of the conversation again. “Calixtus we can only garner so much information from our rudimentary investigations. You are the most intimately knowledgeable of this man. I leave it to you to determine the time and the day of our strike. Tell us strengths, weaknesses, any detail that will give us the advantage.”

Deacon preferred not to sit. He remained standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, feet spread in military stance. He nodded back at Shallah, eyes flickering away from Cal.

Unique skill set, he thought, meant that he was one of the only ones in Shallah's cabal who really did things, did them well, did them cleanly, and did them without compunction. His eyes flickered back to the Squib, and he set his jaw with an audible grating of tooth and bone.



Cal moved halfway across the room in a jittery arc. He tucked the vial of Polyjuice in his pocket and then let his hands shiver up and down over his biceps up to his shoulders back down to his elbows. His fingers felt cold, and he realized he was digging them into the little spaces between the bones in his elbows. Shallah took a seat on the desk. Cal found himself pressed against a wall, far from Deacon and far from Zora. It was quite difficult to think. His senses had set themselves to 'flight.' The air buzzed with menace.

“Calixtus," Shallah said. She sounded, as usual, reasonable and bland. Cal had come to notice that she often sounded most reasonable and bland when beginning the discussion of something most people would not--would not at all--couch in reasonable or bland terms. It was both comforting (because it was alien) and horrifying (for the same reason, or for the opposite reason; because the unfamiliar, with Shallah Kosa, merged into the deep, mulchy layers of instinct and came to seem intuitively true). She continued. "...we can only garner so much information from our rudimentary investigations. You are the most intimately knowledgeable of this man. I leave it to you to determine the time and the day of our strike. Tell us strengths, weaknesses, any detail that will give us the advantage.”

Cal winced, shoulders shifting against the wall. Deacon's glance in his direction was pale and full of contempt. Cal cleared his throat. "I. His strengths, such as they are--I know he is not a bad duelist. He--has rituals. Every Tuesday at four in the morning he goes out to collect garbage. He has many wards on his SHOP but neglects some of the most basic. I can provide spells that would get through easily. He can often be found in a room in his basement, but after he--" Cal swallowed. "That is where he decided to torture me for information, I'm not sure he will return. Inanycase. I am sorry. I am not intimately familiar with Caedmon's habits, I--suggest--can suggest nothing."

He thought for just a second of Margot. She didn't deserve anything. He hoped they wouldn't involve her. But if he mentioned her; well, that wasn't the point. What was done was done. He was involved, Jasper was involved, and it was all Caedmon.

The rooms gathered members all looked at Calixtus and his stance showed how the enhanced scrutiny made him feel. Muscles began to coil up together, visible through the think fabric of his clothes. Nicer ones than many Shallah had seen, they were missing the haphazard and assorted blots and stains and the scents that accompanied them. There was still a chemical smell to him but it was less acrid, more pleasant. Cologne she realized after a few absent moments, expensive judging from the layers of odors and ingredients. It helped to cover up some of the fear and apprehension that seems to radiate from Cal whenever startled or nervous, she had hoped some that would have been gone by now.

I. His strengts, such as they are--b]. Shallah caught Tuatha's smile and turned her own reflexively. [b]I know he is not a bad duelist And this time it was Deacon's turn to smile, the upturning of the lips conveying joy but no warmth. He—has rituals. Every Tuesday at four in the morning he goes out to collect garbage. He has many wards on his SHOP but neglects some of the most basic. I can provide spells that would get through easily. He can often be found in a room in his basement, but after he—That is where he decided o torture me for information, I'm not sure he will return.inanycase. I am sorry..

Shallah was preparing to instruct Calixtus that, as she had said before, there was little to be apologetic about in this situation. “Dispatch with the apologies Cal, you have suggested a worthy amount. Tuatha, you stand by your decision not to accompany?” A nod. “Very well, what is your strategic assessment of the proceedings?”

Tuatha spoke as he chewed around his thumb, “Spells and a definite time table of his whereabouts at any time is more than enough, Sir. More n' we've had to work with in the past. Garbage you said? Man's a looney, be doing the general population a favor I should think.” He glanced up at Shallah and then over at Cal before lowering his hand, rubbing it against his pant leg. “Not to mention getting back for our own blood. Man's a duelist then it would be best to take him off guard, disable him as soon as possible.” Deacon huffed from across the room, next the verbal jabs would begin. “Man's paranoid, least that was the basic impression I got, its what the Ministries recruitment files said, there are probably traps we don't even know about, wouldn't think to know about.”

“So my suggestion is you go in while hes out doing whatever it is psychopaths do for kicks on a Tuesday night, get the jump, immobilize, get the information that you need and then have done with him. None of Deacon's toying about with him,” He made effort to avoid looking over at the other man. “Man could be dangerous and it'd be a rather s—t showing of power if one of us ended up bein taken out in our first major fire fight.”

“You'll have to do something about Cal. He'll need some sort of disguise.” Tuatha used one finger to draw a frame around his face. “Should the target survive, or should there be witnesses.”

“There won't be.” Shallah hissed in repsonse. Tuatha riased a hand in apology and settling back. “ But your concern is no less valid. Calixtus, suggestions? We will move the Tuesday following New Years. The streets will be quiet due to the festivities of past days, it is the best time. After we have received the information we are looking for and made certain that Mr. Caedmon has paid for the damage caused to us, the establishment will then be destroyed. Cal any spells you can offer to counter act the wards in place in SHOP, any other information at all, this would be the time to voice it.”

“Deacon you will be taking point, immobilize and interrogate but the final blow is Calixtus's by right. If you cannot make him speak, or give us access to what we have come for, then Zora will be used for a more in invasive line of questioning.”

"Tuesday's New Year's Day," Deacon said.

He rocked back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest.

Cal could tell what he was thinking; he could feel the oily self-satisfaction of it. Deacon had labeled himself the one for practical considerations... well, Cal might be a useless Squib, but he knew praxis, and he knew theory.

"I'm sure the date doesn't matter. Caedmon would have no reason to--" Because Jasper wouldn't invite him to anything. "--no reason to deviate from his routine simply because it's a holiday." Cal fidgeted. The carpet was very dark, and, once again, he fought down the overwhelming sense that he was standing in a swamp, dark, miasmic, and utterly disconnected from all norms and equivalencies. He shifted the polyjuice from pocket to palm and held it out.

"As for disguise, I thought of that," he said, a little sharply, to Tuatha. "I assure you I am not incapable of planning."

Deacon looked about to spit, but merely twisted his mouth to one side and ran the back of one hand over his lips. He ignored Cal, for which Cal was--grateful?--enraged. He hated Deacon, hated him and--at the same time--Cal had a delicate sort of fascination with everyone who could feel that sort of contempt. It clung like its own glamorous aura. And hatred--the desire to destroy--and fascination--they clove so closely. Deacon--Shallah--Jasper. No; that wasn't--no...

"I can make him talk," Deacon said, looking at Shallah.

Tuesday's New Year's Day, Shallah cocked her head in his direction, an expression of mild confusion settled across her features. Then she recalled the significance placed upon the day by the population the world over. An arbitrary marker of their construct of time. Humans plotted out there lives with calendars and clocks and days, always reminded themselves how their impending ends. Hurry up you're almost dead, thats what all of these days meant, hurry for soon you will surely die. Once she had expressed this thought to a man in a crowded and cold bar in the middle of Russia. He had looked at her in that glazed and uninhibited manner of the inebriated and then with the eloquence of a drunk had informed her of her misconception.

He had expressed that it was a time of renewal and beginnings, a way to celebrate that everyone had survived another year upon the earth. The meaning of the day persisted in eluding her but that mattered little. It was not her holiday it was theirs and these distinctions needed to be maintained. New beginnings though, she considered their goals, the day meant nothing to her but it had an abundance of symbolism in the minds of the people they intended to do harm. The day was perfect, accept Deacon's tone implied otherwise.

I'm sure the date doesn't matter. Caedmon would have no reason to.... His pregnant pause drew Shallah's attention away from Deacon's scowl. ...no reason to deviate from his routine simply because it's a holiday.. There it was. Shallah smiled at Calixtus, in clear view of Deacon. It could be hazardous to show too much favor one way or the other but Cal had handled the challenge admirably. Deacon shrunk further back into the wall, his lip twitched upwards and disgust dripped from him.

The fire light caught on something sending lances of light reflecting around the room. One of the beams flashed in her eyes, she blinked for a moment before frowning at the object being juggled in Cal's extended and upturned palm. As for a disguise, I thought of that. I assure you I am not incapable of planning.. This said with his head toward Tuatha.

Shallah craned her neck and sniffed at the air. Whatever the substance was no scent leaked from the glasses confines. She could sense it though, something liminal and unsettled about it. “Polyjuice potion.” She expressed her pleasure for Cal's fine feat of planning.

Tuatha for his part glanced at the faces around the room before tipping his hat to Cal, muttering an apology for any insult before pressing back further into the chair. Tuatha had such an odd respect for hierarchy's and an exceptional amount of tack when he perceived that he had done something to disrupt that hierarchy. Deacon less so and although he resisted whatever violent urge he felt toward the Squib he contained himself, scrubbing at his face.

I can make him talk..

He always did. Shallah slid off and away from the desk, making sure all of her attire were in their proper place. She extended a hand and touched Deacon's face for the briefest of moments. Then she approached Cal, shifting her head forward to look down at the vial. “A fine amount. No doubt brewed to allow for the proper amount of time to accomplish our mission. I am eager to see whose form you have chosen to wear.”

“The mission is New Year's day then, those who are coming will meet here.” She looked up from the vial to Cal's face. “I trust the date causes no conflict for anyone?” She perceived no movement around her, took it as an answer in the negative. “Good. Atlas Caedmon will be killed and his establishment destroyed. This will be our grand coming out. New Year's Day is a most fitting time.”