It was an hour and a half since New Years Day had passed for the people of London. Shallah, for her part, had spent the previous evening and all of that day taking in the festivities. She hadn't seen London during this time of the year and had been curious to see how the holiday's events would unfold. There had been street vendors, music, bars whose patrons overflowed into the streets to mingle with the youths and the families who stood out in the cold, waiting for a clock to chime and tell them that the world had turned again. She had stood with them all, the place was different but many of the customs remained the same. When the time came she counted with them, from ten down to zero, then she had been largely occupied with reprimanding those who attempted to partake in one of the days other traditions.

For a time she had drifted between different bars, different parties where people welcomed her with open arms and full glasses. This had become tiresome and the rest of the night she drifted through the abandoned squares and small parks of the city before returning to Baldur's estate in order to compose and prepare herself for the evening ahead.

Tuatha had left the explosives for that nights operation in the room that was hers, lying out on top of the duvet as one would lay out their clothes for an evening at the theater. She took a mental stock of them as she dressed. Her hair was swept back and bound in tight intricate knots. Shallah opened the dresser drawers, examining articles and then discarding them, finally settling on a simple black cloak. It was one of the first she had ever owned, a gift from the man who had organized the Quidditch world cup all those years ago. At the time she recalled thinking how plainly beautiful it was, like humans. In the time since she had come to know how cheap the fabric was, how inexpensive it had been for the organizer to purchase. Her fascination with humans had remained. The cloak was placed around her shoulders and once her gloves were on she buttoned the buttons and carefully tied to straps to keep it closed.

Now to inspect the arsenal. Crossing the room took little time, she lifted some of the bombs, tested their heft and weight, examined the timers and, finding them to her liking she loaded them into the satchel that normally hung from one of the bedposts. Last came the port key, wizards had a tendency to make them from such strange objects, this one was created from a simple bottle. Small and deep blue, Shallah had discovered it in one of the dens of the west wing and taken it for her own.

A knock on the door signaled Zora's arrival, it was time to go. Deacon and Calixtus would both be coming separately and meeting Shallah and the girl several blocks away from their target location. Shallah opened the door with a wave of her hand and then ushered the girl in. Zora's dark eyes scanned the room but as was typical she said nothing, simply stood and waited for Shallah to come closer and grip her shoulder before apparating both of them to the appointed meeting place.

They disapparated in a cold side alley and Zora moved away, pressing herself to the wall and peeking out around the corner. Shallah merely stood and waited, the others would be there presently.

Deacon knew how to live. More to the point, he knew how to live when other people--for whatever reason--couldn't. Quite. Manage it. New Year's had swaggered in as usual, all bells, whistles, and whiskey. He'd kicked around Hogsmeade for awhile, then Knockturn. Wished Shallah were there, Merlin's guts. He knew why, but damn, she got under your skin. He'd spent the night alone anyway, unwilling to take the edge off.

That Squib and Shallah's little vengeance game. Let him get what he wanted, so he'd... whatever the hell she wanted from him. He'd have fun tonight, anyway. Heh. Caedmon, bloody madman, he was. He'd enjoy this job, and he didn't mind stopping a little short sometimes. Long as he didn't have to use only Muggle stuff... blades were fine, and he could take guns, but it hurt so much more when you added magic to the mix.

He Disapparated with a sharp, easy crack and came to, wand in hand, next to the dank alleyway they'd chosen as their recon spot. He came up silently, moving from foot to foot, sliding his wand restlessly between his fingers. He stopped next to Shallah and gave her a careful and restrained salute. The kind that said here's the pro.

Because he bloody well was.


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


Cal woke up feeling sick, and not because he'd drunk too much with Jasper. He very carefully hadn't, though he'd spent the night nervously jittering from hit to hit of doxy powder. No time to wake Jas up for a sobering charm, and anyway--Jas... enough. He rolled out of bed, tucking the blankets back around his sleeping boyfriend, who shifted and groaned some sort of patrician complaint at the disturbance. He'd been asleep since that afternoon, when, thanks to some sort of time spell Cal hadn't had a thing to do with, the last of the guests had dispersed and left them alone.

He didn't bother showering, and got dressed in loose clothes. Everard was a bit bigger than he was. Checking the clock--damn, he tucked the Polyjuice into his pocket, scribbled a hasty note to Jasper (Going to the lab, there's a martini for you in the icebox--there was), and clattered downstairs. He was still all ashake. Half awake. He ran a hand through his hair and shivered, twitched...

On his way to their meeting-place, he kept his jacket tucked tightly around his body and his head pulled in. At last, he rounded the corner. He hadn't chosen to show up as Everard--fear of being cursed on sight--but he'd change right away now he was--

Cal almost bumped into Deacon and took a careful step back, legs jerking, fingers opening and shutting spasmodically. His breath hissed steam into the cold blue air.

"Hey," he said, in a half-awake croak, and blinked rapidly. The chill caught in his lashes and clung there. "I--hang on. I'm." He took out the Polyjuice and waited for confirmation.

Zora had become disinterested with the scenery around the alley and had drifted back toward Shallah, shuffling restlessly from foot to foot. The Veela's eyes flickered over the girl, had they more time she would have permitted Zora to investigate their surroundings further, but they did not and this was not a tourist outing. She ignored the nervous fidgeting and in order to avoid mimicking the action she stepped away from the alcove and glanced up at the large clock face, visible above the rooftops and chimneys that populated this small district of wizarding London. It seemed so strange that those humans with magical ability would choose to place themselves in these reservations. They held pockets and low lying areas but unlike the Veela (who had been driven to occupy a space no one else had any use for) they did this all voluntarily.

But with the simplest exercise of their power they could easily overtake their non magical fellows. Why choose to hide and worry and steal yourself when you could rule? She had come to understand the anger and resentment of families like Deacon's and Cal's. Purebloods. They were old and with age came a sense of entitlement and a sense that they knew how things were meant to be done. A drive to rule and manage. But then the purebloods were some of the greatest supporters of the division between magical and non-magical. Contradictions everywhere. So many that no one ever saw.

A sound like a whip echoed in the stillness, Shallah drew back toward the wall and followed the direction of Zora's gaze to find Deacon making his way up the alley. He made no sound as he approached, an admirable feat for a man of his size. One of many skills she recalled as her eyes trained on the his wand. A display of restless agitation, he saluted her stiffly, a retrained gesture. She nodded in return and upturned her lips on the right side. “A Happy New Year to you.” Energy thrummed from the man, just as strong as that of many of the men from the bars the night previously. Had she known what it was to feel pity she might have pitied Atlas Caedmon.

They need only wait for Calixtus and shortly after the clock tower above Gringotts finished chiming two o'clock he arrived. Hugging his loose clothing around his body and clutching the vial of polyjuice as if it were a lifeline. His chest heaved when he breathed and the span of time from one blink to another was negligible. There was an air of being within and without himself, high, or coming down from being so. It hardly mattered, Shallah had been in contact with the man long enough to know that his physical state did not directly correlate to his level of functionality. She returned his greeting with the same nod she had awarded Deacon.

I—hang on. I'm.

He shuffled the bottle, glanced at it, spasmed. “Now is the appropriate time.” Shallah watched him uncork the bottle and consume the liquid then turned her head for the duration of the change. The shifting of forms was sacred, it was private, and though she was far from home some customs she observed everywhere. When the strange liquid smell of the potion working itself into Cal's system ceased she looked back, and then laughed. His build had incresed, that had to have been the reason for the baggy clothing. “An inspired choice Calixtus, I do not know the face. Handsome, if a bit refined.” She surveyed her team. “We proceed then.”
They moved out of the alley Shallah crossing the street and heading into another one of the alleys, passing through it and a short time later stopped in front of their location. Shallah tipped her head upwards, frowning at the hand painted sign as she reached a hand out for the door handle. She could feel some of the spells binding the door closed, she concentrated, circumnavigated them, disrupted them with a few words, a few gestures and then pushed the door open. Zora, in an act of rare confidence eased past her and was the first to enter the place. There were dim lights attached to the front of each shelf, going back a considerable distance.

Shallah stepped in after her, waving a hand for the two men to follow. Something skittered underneath the boards supporting their feet. She glanced at Cal, who seemed unbothered by the sound. Nothing to be bothered by then. Shallah undid the strap of the sachel and handed the pack to Cal. “Explosives, to be placed around this place. You are more familiar with it than any of us here. You may enlist Deacon or Zora to assist you if you wish.”

Once Cal's hands took on the weight of the pack Shallah acted upon memory and moved to where she knew the hatch door to the basement to be located. It was underneath a carpet, one of the latches giving away the location. With one booted toe she moved the covering away, flooding the room with a strange neon glow. Squinting she examined the hatchway, etched with runes and bound shut with enchantments. “We will need Caedmon to open this.” She concluded and broad casted into the darkness.

Cal's shoulder sagged beneath the weight of the satchel, and he hiked it up, staggering to one side. It took him a moment to find his balance and to remember he was in Everard's body. It did not affect his carriage, but he seemed to have muscles he didn't know what to do with, and his shoulders felt out of balance. He still hummed with doxy powder, but there was some indefinable vitality, good health, red blood and upright bearing.

"Right," he said, palely, in a rough parody of his own voice. It was still cold. The dust on the floorboards was weighted with chill, and the air glimmered. He did not want to bring Deacon, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, wand in hand and tapping against the broad side of his ribcage.

Cal flinched. "I don't need assistance," he said at last, ducking his head in front of Shallah. His hair didn't, as accustomed, fall over his face. He felt even more exposed in this body, as though all of the things he had left behind in his old body shadowed him, and all the things he hadn't were grotesquely caricatured. It appalled him that he'd be thinking this way now.

But it was hardly the moment for second thoughts. He stared down at the basement door. The taste of blood. If you had magic. Atlas's face, twisted. Jasper. Nothing. White.

He set his shoulders, hiked up the bag, and moved toward a far corner. Atlas's shop was largely Unplottable, a sensible if irritating precaution. It made it hard to navigate, but then, Cal had been there before. He set one explosive in each corner, roughly speaking, and spread the rest out in a roughly approximate Fermat spiral.

Kneeling beside the last, he could hear the skritch of lobster bandits beneath the floorboards. He wondered, idly, if they would survive. Probably. Like cockroaches, Atlas had said.

"Done," he called back. His voice echoed past shelves of clinking glass. The one behind which he was crouched held a crocodile's eyeball, which twisted toward him, a pair of false teeth, and a miniature stuffed ostrich. It was all so Atlas, and so empty, and so benign.

Atlas shifted his weight for the fourth time in the last quarter of an hour and huffed into the wintry air. He'd been crouched behind the dumpster behind Flourish and Botts ice cream parlor for the better part of the evenings outing. He had obtained a tip that they might be concealing a flavor capable of inducing a low level form of mind control if consumed. His goal had been to infiltrate the facility, obtain a sample and then take it back for analysis. Maybe he would pick up a pint or two for Margot as well, she had been terribly tolerant of his dower moods of late. Careful not to let his mind stray back to the cause of his recent misery he shifted a fifth time and reached into his pocket for his watch.

There was a moment where all he saw was as blur and the nearly imperceptible forward ticking of the second hand. Atlas rubbed furiously at his eyes, blinking a few times before trying again. It was getting on to be 2 am. On a normal night he would have continued until around 4, or at least until he had reached whatever goal he had set for himself that evening. Circumstances hadn't allowed for a normal night in several weeks. Sleeping was difficult and commonly interrupted, leaving him feeling drained and melancholy and to add to it he had been unable to bring himself to commit at all to continuing his research on Garrow's spell. Sometimes he thought of Holywell and the other victims, trying to goad himself into activity but the bursts of energy were just that. Bursts, novas of brilliance that faded all too quickly and then he remembered that he hadn't stopped it when he had had the chance, that he had chosen to research a dead end, that in doing so he had caused irreparable damage.

He glanced up at the shop, running his thumb over the watches glass surface. Employees were still there and his cramped legs and tired eyes were exhausted with waiting for them to leave. Atlas unfurled himself, stood and stretched, languishing in the little pops from his spine and neck.

Against his usual custom Atlas hadn't wandered far from home. Only a few blocks, short distances where he knew the way back by hand, unmotivated to become lost in the city. It took little time for him to reach the part of the alley that he had regarded as home for several years. There was still glitter and streamers littering the streets. A mound of neon purple and green rolled down the alleyway like a tumbleweed and Atlas side stepped around a large pair of glasses shaped like the new years date. The 'one' must have been very difficult to see out of. Blue eyes scanned over the rest of the street, finally lighting on home. There was light in the window....odd. Atlas stopped, frowning as the wind whipped lightly at the hem of his coat. Tucking his head down into the collar as a particularly chill gust tried to make its way past his neck he considered this development.

He hadn't left any of the lamps on, which would have been a warmer color. Oranges, reds, touches of yellow, inviting. A rundown of all things that could emit a blue glow was conducted. There were the jars of moonlight, more silver than blue, not them. Or there was the mermaids pelt....locked in the back room. He thought of and discarded several more possibilities. Locking runes. Someone was trying to get into the basement. None of the security precautions had been triggered... Rudolph maybe? Sometimes he tripped taking the carpet with him. Margot was another option, despite warnings she had once or twice ventured down into the SHOP at night, looking for him or just exploring the place at her leisure. A decidedly feminine figure moved in front of the window. The silhouette the only thing visible. Atlas rubbed at his eyes again but when he looked up there was no one there. Lips set in a thin line he removed his wand, made his way across the alley and opened the door, all the locks disabled. Inside he blinked in the different light of the darkened establishment and jumped when he opened them to find himself starring down at a dark haired girl leaning against one of the shelves.

“Not open at the moment, Miss.” Even as he spoke he became aware of other eyes watching him. Keeping his breathing level his eyes slid to where the only light in the place was coming from. There was another woman standing there....or he thought she was a woman. The glow caught in her hair and across her cheekbones, sharp enough to cut. His neck felt stiff as he turned it in the other direction, noticing a third intruder.

This one had his wand drawn, point extended toward Atlas and an expression like he meant to use it. Atlas could think of few business associates who would be holding any kind of grudge. A robbery? “You are free to use that sir, but I will warn you that I might retaliate.”

He didn't know which one to watch, which would be the most dangerous, the easiest to subdue. The door behind him closed, exit one blocked. He didn't see Margot, she would be upstairs, sleeping. Breaching SHOP wasn't a particularly difficult task. Atlas had never cared enough to fortify it properly; his home was a much different story. It couldn't be breached, not without his explicit assistance or several days worth the spell craft. So long as no one opened it from the inside it wouldn't be open to these visitors. He settled for looking at the man with the wand, keeping his eyes trained on the tip, calmly asked. “What is it that you want exactly?”

Cal vanished from sight as he moved further into the dregs of the aisles. It was easy to keep track of his movements, the creaks in the floor boards followed by the clunk and whistle of the explosives being placed provided enough sound to give her an approximate knowledge of his location.

Done. He said finally, Shallah looked up, eyes meeting with Deacon's whose mouth turned up into a smile. They were ready all there was left to do was to wait. Silence reighned over the small band, only interrupted by occasional strange incidental sounds that bubbled up from the shelves, floors, and very walls of this place. Several of which were strange even to Shallah's ears. Once there was the clink of something robotic and a man's voice from the back of shop had informed them that their lucky color was potatoes heads. There had been silence for a time when Shallah's sharp eyes caught movement on the street outside. Craning her head forward she stepped into the window space she saw a tall, hunched figure coming out of one of the lesser spaces that ran into the main alley. Eyes still on the figure, who had now stopped, she flicked a hand in Deacon's direction, a sign for him to be at the ready.

Caedmon stopped in the center of the alley, some long buried human instinct altering him to the danger. It was a useful instinct, but one weakened from a lack of practical use. Cuiosity would win, or the human would tell himself he was being silly, like seeing shapes in the darkness as a child. Excuses would be made for anything out of the ordinary and then he would continue on his planned path. The man stared moving toward the SHOP, typical. Shallah walked away from the window, back to the basement door.

No one moved as the door to the SHOP swung open, their target walking in directly to meet them. The muscles along his jaw and neck flexed, that instinct flaring again. No doubt shouting for him to run, to escape, but he was suppressing it, looking at Zora, sweet and harmless little Zora. When he spoke it wasn't in anger or fear but rather as one would speak when addressing a child or the confused elderly.

Not open at the moment, Miss.

He didn't see her, Shallah shifted sending beam of the light from the basement onto Caedmon's face. He squinted and his head turned. Now he saw. The eyes that looked back at her were calculating, pupils that retracted slightly in the changed light. Caedmon's head swung in the other direction taking in Deacon, whose wand was poised and hovering at the level of the targets chest. It was only when he saw the wand that Atlas tensed. Deacon had just identified himself as the greater threat and so it was little surprise that he was the one Caedmon choose to address first.

What is it that you want exactly?

Shallah cleared her throat, Caedmon twitched but didn't look away from Deacon. “You have information about the so called 4th Unforgivable. We will need that information from you. It is located here,” She stomped a foot down on the hatch of the basement, idly wondering where Calixtus had gone, “Is it not? You will open the chamber, explain your research if necessary and then measures will be taken to ensure that you do not commit any further acts against us.”

“Should you hesitate in meeting our demands, my associates and I will be forced to take measures to remedy that.” She looked up at Deacon. “Would you secure him please?”

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the back of the shop, and Deacon tensed for just a moment before he recalled it was only the Squib.

Traitor, he thought, his mental voice a snarl. He wouldn't be surprised if the Squib turned traitor, or if it were all some sort of--didn't matter. When Caedmon stepped inside, a quick, wordless spell charmed the SHOP unwatchable from outside. He'd used it many times. It came in handy. Anyone watching would see dark, silent shutters go down, and hear nothing at all.

Deacon wasn't the type to waste time. Shallah had barely finished asking when he had his wand pointed at the stooped SHOP owner. He had the look of a suddenly revived zombie. Weirdly alert. Deacon sensed power, which he respected, and confused madness, which he didn't.

"Petrificus Totalus." He swept his wand through the spell and immediately into a shield, in case it didn't land. It had. The shopkeeper rocked side to side, frozen, and toppled to the floor, throwing up a puff of gray dust. Deacon let one corner of his mouth crimp into a smile, then, with an efficient flick of his wand, bound the motionless shopkeeper in rope. He took a thumping step over toward the motionless man and, with the faintest twitch of his wand, loosened the petrificus just a little--just enough. Then he brought one booted foot down on his wand hand. With a crack like glacial ice, his hand opened, and Deacon casually Summoned the wand. It leapt up into his grasp.

"Easy," he said, turning to Shallah, taking a step back from the supine Caedmon.




Cal hung back, stomach caught in an unexpected (not unexpected, no, it wasn't) clutch of nervousness and (guilt). He tried to stand in a way that wasn't Cal, with his shoulders open and his hands, rather than locked under his arms, shoved into his pockets. But he did that too, or crossed them over his chest, or... he decided to stay in one position, and tried to keep his fingers from curling and uncurling as he watched Deacon stamp on one of Atlas's hands. It wasn't as satisfying as he'd--it wasn't satisfying at all.

Cal swallowed. No. It was viciously pleasurable to see Caedmon on the floor, powerless, immobile, suffering. He looked toward Shallah, who stood out in sharp relief against the darkness, her hair much too brilliant a gold, her skin backlit by nothing. He felt dizzy.

Atlas hadn’t been particularly concerned. Uneasy, tense, but not concerned. There were three of them and one of himself but one had always been enough. The ginger man with the wand sealed the exit and Atlas sensed rather than saw the concealment charm he added a moment later. Even this didn’t tip him into a realm that included fear, or dread. This could still be a robbery, or a misunderstanding. Auror’s were stretched thin and he had a reputation as something of a harmless eccentric, they could be hard up and here to take advantage of the rumor they had heard.

So he waited for one of them to say something, some sort of explanation. One of the floorboards creaked with human weight and in his peripheral vision Atlas saw the outline of a fourth assailant. He frowned but didn’t have the confidence to take his eyes away from their current mark. The fourth shuffled, as if trying to draw his attention. In the pit of his stomach he started to feel a tug, a dragging down. Think. Surrounded, four possibly more bodies. One definitely armed, he studied the man’s face, most certainly dangerous. The first of the women seemed small and appeared to be doing her best to mold into the shelf that was supporting her back. The second woman, that was another matter even smaller and unarmed as she was there was an air of malice that seemed to radiate from her. He could feel her eyes boring into him, coring him and although years of dueling and defense against the dark arts classes had taught him otherwise he was beginning to think that he was watching the wrong person.

When he asked what they wanted it was the woman who spoke first, her voice slid over the word Fourth unforgivable and it was as if the world had unwound around him. How? Muscles tensed as they were flooded with adrenaline. His ears rang, teeth grounding as his mind tried to lock down on the best method for ending this, for getting far far away. But his efforts were interrupted with every word carefully and calmly spoken by the shining woman and by the persistent questions of how, how could they possibly know. He had thought Garrow might ascertain his identity, might come for him, but Garrow would have no need for the spell...Secure him?

Atlas tried to get his hand up, preparing a defense, a deflection, watching the man's lips to see what words he might be forming. It had been years since he had been in a proper duel, more years since he had ever had to call spell craft forward in defense of his own life. He wasn't ignorant, he knew what 'steps' would eventually be taken to guarantee he would not pose any further harm to whoever these people were. In the end he proved to be to slow, both with his wand and his words, he found himself on the ground a moment later, head frozen in place, locked onto watching the dirtied boots of his attacker.

Petrify His mind supplied a moment later, already working to try and reverse it, even as the extra precaution of binding him was taken. Petrifies had always been terrifying, more claustrophobic than anything else. You breathed, but your chest stayed in one position, crushing your lungs against the walls of your rib cage. Blinking was impossible, everything was locked and flinty feeling, and no clear way to retaliate. The boots stepped forward and Atlas knew what was coming a moment before the right boot came down hard on his hand. One of the only advantages to a petrify spell was that at full force it made the body difficult to injure. What froze you also worked to make skin and bone impervious to injury. So it seemed odd not only when the fragile bones emitted a sound like pine needles in a fire but sent a spike of hot white pain radiating across his arm. It took a moment to register that the groan he had heard had been his own something the man had done. There was a chance he could fight the bindings, wandless and wordless, he dismissed the plan as soon as he thought of it. Even if he broke the hold he was unarmed, and bound. The best strategy was to ignore their questions, and if he could spare the breath express his innocence and his ignorance. It hadn't failed yet.

He opened his mouth and made a hissing sound that was nothing like speech. Concentrated and tried again. “There's nothing there, you have the wrong information. I don't know anything about the spell....” His air ran out and he stopped, trying to breath past the crushing weight in his chest and the pain in his hand.

There’s nothing there, you have the wrong information. I don’t know anything about the spell….

This would not do. Shallah’s slated pupils met with Deacon, who’s lip turned into the shape of a snarl. His face and mannerisms were not unlike a dog, his loyalty the same. Cal was starring at Caedmon, or more specifically his hand and pleasure showed on his face not at all. Shallah blinked, flicked her head to the side Cal’s expression morphed to apprehension as blues and purples began to crop up on under the grey tint of the fallen man’s hand. For a moment she is confused, is this not what he had requested, his first request to her? The matter would be considered later. Lying was a serious offense and it needed to be dealt with.

“You would paint yourself a liar in its defense. This is noble.” She crossed the space to where he lay, stepped over his form and then crouched, craning her head until she could see his eyes. “But it will only cause you further injury. I will ask a second time if you persist in this foolish act measures will need to be taken.” With one pointed nail she turned Caedmon’s head, watched the way his pupils retracted with the slight shift in the light. It would take very little for her nails to pierce skin. That would wait; humans were predictable in their actions. Deacon needed to be the one who promised little more than pain she could be the alternative.

“Open the basement.” She leaned closer. “What do you know about the spell?”

Deacon, his rhythms matched to her whims with years of learned familiarity loosens the petrify fractionally. In response the man gasped in a hasty breath and with pained effort turned his head back to the side, her nail caught across the tender skin of his chin, close to his throat. A line of red appeared there and then a faint smell like iron.

“I know nothing.” Is all he says.

Her face is hard when she stands and turns to Deacon. “I need words from him.”

Deacon half-turned and grinned at Shallah with one side of his mouth. Easy.

With a slash of his wand, he'd jerked Atlas Caedmon upright, still half-petrified, head lolling just a little to one side, and yanked a chair from some dusty corner. He deposited the man on the chair and with another flick of his wand sent the bonds writhing their way from Caedmon's arms and legs onto the chair. They snapped into place, rippled, and stilled. Deacon stopped in front of him and kicked the chair back against one wall. It wobbled and fell into place.

By now the last of the petrify had faded, and he kept a careful eye on Caedmon's movements, just in case he tried something. The key thing was to start with enough pain that he'd distract him. What many otherwise successful operators in his field tended to ignore was what pain really did. It wasn't the end, it was the means to the end. The end was to crush the other guy into a weak, incoherent, babbling Muggleheaded muddle. And all inflicting pain and injury really did was send energy, hot lots of it, from him to you.

He pointed his wand at Atlas, letting it rove carefully up and down his body. "Just give me a reason. Answer the lady's question."

Snap.

"Constringo." Atlas would feel a skipped heartbeat and an increasing sense of pressure. He'd breathe less easily. Deacon twisted the spell to one side. He liked the feeling of wrong it gave. Next he'd move on the kneecaps, but this kind of fear was delicious. Another sideways movement with his wand and flooded Caedmon's body with a sudden surge of blood, then constricted his heart once again.

"Quare cruor."

Little needles of pain broke off and flowed through his veins, stabbing the sides. He'd been pleased to learn this spell. It caused no harm--not much--only a mottling of the lips (they went blueish purple) and jerking spasms. But it spread agony wherever blood went.

The floor wasn't so unpleasant really, he could feel the petrify slowly beginning to lose its effect and with it went its side effect of dampening the pain from his hand. He noted that he needed to dust more, watching the way the little particles jumped with each expulsion of breath. With the petrify loosened there was a chance he would be able to wandlessly apparat. Upstairs, into the house, thats as far as he would need to go but apparates could be tricky under the best circumstances. Without anything to focus the energy he would empty his reserves and be left all but powerless. Their were options but none of them good.

The boards underneath him gave slightly, someone else was approaching, a booted foot appeared and then he was looking into the face of the woman. There was something.....wait, the veela. She had come to the SHOP weeks ago why was a veela interested in Garrow's spell. They seemed such benign creatures, or he had thought so at the time. She had seemed vague and almost childlike as she had wandered around the store, asking a question here and there but largely keeping to herself. He'd thought nothing of it at the time, only that it had seemed a strange and rare happening for such a creature to just wander in off the street. It hadn't seemed important, which usually meant that it was, should have paid more attention, should have at least investigated the matter. But he had been too wrapped up in his prize from Level 9 and in Calixtus and....he didn't want to think about it. Luckily the veela spoke, pulling his attention.

You would make yourself a liar in its defense. This is noble. He guessed that one could look at it that way. One of her fingers was pressed at the point above his adams apple. Her words were honey dipped but they carried no semblance of human warmth. Open the basement. Tell me what you know about the spell..

Bluffing wasn't going to work, he realized that as he looked into eyes that were nothing like a humans and felt fear for his situation for the first time. Somehow the information had gotten out, considering how or from what source would do little good now. Priorities needed to be altered. The spell needed to be protected, defended at all costs, first priority.
This sadly left his own safety as a second but at least he could answer the veela, he had ceased thinking of her as a woman.

“I know nothing.”

This was, of course, not the correct answer and she made that clear as her nail dug into the tender skin along his throat. Atlas would have hissed had he been able to make his lips form the sound. As it was though the sharp sting was a change from the thrumming in his hand. The spell was almost completely gone now, he was able to flex his fingers, to blink. I need words from him. This was how it was going to start, when the man who had crushed his hand flicked his wand Atlas let his head lull to the side. He needed to avoid eye contact until he could be sure what expression his face would take on.

A moment later he found himself bound to a chair, nice change of scenery, now he could see the dust clinging to some of the less frequented shelves. Like the one with the bottle cap collection and the antique soda bottles full of glitter and pop rocks. He swallowed uncomfortably, breathed and then glanced up and found himself at the end of a wand. Just give me a reason. Answer the ladies question. Constringo..

Something in his chest lurched awkwardly, stopped, began again. His heart. He hitched in a breath just to insure that he was still able. Don't make a sound. Do not give them what they want.. Atlas looked down, away, the wand was still moving, something else was wrong....when his heart ceased and skipped again he wondered if they would be foolish enough to kill him before they were able to get anything. Quare cruor.. His heart beat once, twice, and then his entire body lit up. Someone had once told him about a man in prison, his enemies had fed him glass, ground and nearly invisible for months, until there was enough to tear his apart. It was the only equivalent he could think of. Like glass, hurtling through his veins, tearing him apart. The places the ropes pressed against his skin and where his body met with the wood of the chair seemed to be the epicenters. It was horrible, he didn't know the spell. He could be hemorrhaging right now, dying, it certainly felt that way. Muscles spasming he made a sound that he wouldn't admit came out as a whimper.

He threw his head back, panted, thought. The instruction had been to answer the question, not an option. “She's....” he retched as the spasms reached his stomach and chest, panted. “She's not a lady actually. Veela, classic signs include iridescent skin, charming abilities, irregular pupils, and a strange unexplainable tendency to couple themselves with humans.” His head fell to the side, which did nothing to decrease the fire that was tearing through him, he could finally see the other male. Everand...something with a P....Jasper had mentioned him, this night got progressively stranger. “Aggression is atypical behavior, as is using humans as tools.”

He looked back at the veela. “A fair assessment?”. He broke off, tried to breath, fighting down the panic that was starting to build.

The man writhed as Deacon's spell wound its way through the fragile tunnels of his veins. What Deacon did was a job, but their was an artistry to it, it simply took distance to appreciate it. Since meeting him and enlisting his services she had always been fascinated by his work. He was efficient, confident and in each situation could and did bend his craft to whatever was needed of him. There were too many in the world who used one method, claiming it as a signature but what Shallah really saw it as was an inability to be flexible, to grow. Just as every human was different so to needed to be the ways in which they were dealt with.

Deacon was a brute but there was a place for that and every time she had the opportunity to observe the way he demonstrated his craft he managed to come up with something new. She knew not where he acquired these skills, the time and energy that might go into their development but their demonstration always reassured her that she had made the correct decision in taking him on. She counted the skips in Caedmon's heart and inhaled deeply, smelling fear and blood. It had been too long since they had acted, she had almost forgotten the scent.

There was silence and she glanced at Deacon wondering if he had misjudged, if the spell might be affecting the man to the point that speech became impossible, She's....

No, of course not, wrong of her to doubt. She lowered her chin and took a step forward, placed a hand on Deacon's shoulder and listened.

She's not a lady actually..

Her lips pursed, then curled upwards into what she knew to be a smile. The words were not framed to be insulting, but informative. As if her nature would be a secret from her cohorts. He continued giving The Monsters Book of Monsters summary of her people, of the way in which the wizarding community had decided veela were like to conduct themselves.

A fair assessment?.

The smile was still in place as she stepped next to Deacon, her hand still playing on the fabric covering his shoulder. She leaned her head close to him, turned her face, as if imparting a secret. “Is my species of consequence to you?” She asked Deacon lightly. She looked back at Caedmon who's head was resting flat against his chest, eyes screwed shut, muscles jerking against their restraints. “Your assessment is text based and ill educated. Shame on you to place all of us into one category because that is all you have observed. I could make as many assumptions concerning your own species. But this is not the matter currently up for discussion.”

“Your willful ignorance is merely an annoyance, one that I can only assuage using the resources I have at hand.” With thumb and forefinger she squeezed Deacon's shoulder. “Now once again please Mr. Caedmon, what do you know?”

Shallah came in beside him, but Deacon didn't let his attention waver, even though he felt her draw in a warm breath near his ear. She set one hand on his shoulder. That shock of power, it was power--well, lust and power. It was almost like what he got from his victim's pain.

"She's.."

Deacon let up on the spell for a split second--not removing but lessening the pain.

"She's not a lady actually [...] Aggression is atypical behavior, as is using humans as tools.”

He looked back at the veela. “A fair assessment?”

Deacon snarled mentally but didn't let the mask of his face move. He did take a tense half-step away from Shallah, though he did not remove her hand from his shoulder, and pointed his wand at Caedmon's throat. The SHOP owner would feel the sparks of pain surge more thickly in his blood. The sick spawn of the Caedmon line and some filth--clearly jealous, and, clearly, he saw so little of what Shallah was. Not a woman. She stepped in again, and Deacon let himself, suddenly, relax into a broad smile.

“Is my species of consequence to you?”

"No," Deacon whispered, turning his head so his lips were close to Shallah's ear. He kept his gaze cold as a shark's and fixed on Caedmon. And Shallah and her warm glow faded to a background, like the flickering of a banked fire. He soaked in the heat of power.

“Now once again please Mr. Caedmon, what do you know?”

He needed incentive. Deacon took another step forward, face set in a smile, and let his wand travel over Caedmon's body, moving from face (he would not yet, he still needed to speak) down to his chest (not yet, he still needed to live) down to his knees (not yet, he'd do it when the man was weak enough to let free and watch what happened when he tried to walk) and over to one arm. He drew a searing line of heat down one sleeve, cutting the cloth free. It fell away, exposing the ropey swarm of tortured veins.

"Dilabo."

Carefully, he brought his wand down across two of the bulging, branching veins. The skin opened in his wake and blood pooled--no, swarmed, sticky and tentacled, out onto the flesh, glinting with things that did not belong in blood. Hissing, it sank into Atlas's flesh and started to devour it. It would continue until Shallah called Deacon off. He could feel pain and fear emanating from his victim in waves. This one always worked. Atlas's arm, still tied to the chair, twitched in the way they always did--the automatic way in which creatures tried to escape agony. He took a careful step back, hefting his wand lightly in one hand, and came to rest beside Shallah once again.





Cal strained to watch the interplay, repulsed by the redheaded Wizard's pomposity. His stomach twisted. He could not think clearly, but found his mind skipping forward in time, to when he would have Atlas, subjected, objected, at his feet, begging for mercy, that was what he ought to imagine? But the reality of what happened--infernally, eternally the victim, Cal could only imagine himself in Atlas's place. He swallowed, too-muscular arms crossed twitchily at his sides, one finger tapping his broadened ribcage. He had to turn away when Deacon coaxed the blood out of Atlas's vein, and carefully stared at a bookshelf and focused on his rage until the bile went away.

Your assessment is text based and ill educated.It was speaking to him, he wondered if failing to lift his eyes and acknowledge the Veela's presence would be enough to tip the other man over the edge. Surely he was more professional than that and nothing he had said had been all that inflammatory. Had the situation been different, had he not been tied to a chair with a burred nail digging into the back of one thigh, with what felt very much like bladed sand running through his veins, and a man standing in front of him who looked as if he raped and murdered children for sport, Atlas might have very much enjoyed conversing with the veela about what she saw as the failings in wizarding research concerning her species. As if was though any curiosity he might have had was unavailable and he doubted anyone would have been in the mood for the discussion anyway.

Your willful ignorance is merely an annoyance, one that I can only assuage using the resources I have at hand. And Oh whatever would those be? Atlas looked up and made a very decided effort to look at the veela and not the man at the end of her arm. It was easier to do that she expressions were painted on and lacked the complete and utter contempt he could clearly mark out in the room's human occupants. Their wasn't hate in her strangely iridescent eyes, just calculating interest. That was almost worse. The expression read, 'I don't particularly care if you live or die, convince me'.

A muscle in his throat rippled and spasmed gathering hurt there and again he wondered what exactly this spell was doing to him. His skin crawled and every time his heart pumped his clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth against the sharp nova of pain that resulted. Now once again please Mr. Caedmon, what do you know?.

One beat, two, Atlas swallowed. One beat, two. Concentrating as he was he didn't notice that the man was in front of him, almost didn't perceive it when the he cut away the sleeve of his right arm. Dilabo.. Atlas's head snapped up at the sound of the word and a moment later at the sound of his skin being seared open. Don't say anything and don't make a sound, that had been his mantra. He'd been able to hold on to both thoughts not he only held on to the first.

He didn't often raise his voice, so the sound of his own scream, short and low pitched came as a surprise. Wide eyed he starred down at the thing now devouring his arm. It flowed across the skin, embedding itself, he screamed again wrenching his body to the side, his left arm struggled in its restraints as he tried to get it free, if he could just get his hand free he could claw this thing off his arm, dislodge it. It wounded deeper and he looked down at it again. That was yours. His mind supplied. That was in you..

Tell us what you know..

Fine.. He didn't know if he had said it aloud of not. “I know that fluoride does nothing to prevent tooth decay but it does render teeth visible by spy satellites.” More, he knew more. “Captain Kirk did see a gremlin on the plane wing, it was covered up to stop a boost to cruise lines. Sporty Spice's hair is an elaborate coded messaging system that communicates to Communists through a chain of alien satellites orbiting the planet Zeta. Various curl patterns relay messages about America's nuclear advancements. Rapunzel had hair extensions.” More surely he knew more.... He looked up at the man, “The Irish Potato famine was a Pure Blood concoction meant to starve out muggles in an attempt to reassert their dominance over Ireland. The Irish Blood revolution was another failed attempt. Though as far as I know it had nothing to do with root based vegetation..."

The monstrosity on his arm bit into something hard, he bit down on his bottom lip and didn’t think it was strange when his teeth clacked together a few seconds later. “The….there are….protein codes….diet plans…..”

Deacon's breath was hot on the side of her face when he turned to her uttering one word, no. It had always shocked her, how warm they were, the way that they burned, in so many different ways. He stepped away from her, toward Caedmon and she let him go, her hand moving from the air to lie flat along her breast bone. Eyes alert and ears perked to see just what he was planning to do next. He smiled, merry in his work as his mouth formed a distinctive 'd' shape.

Zora saw it too and she pushed herself away from the shelf, venturing forward a few cautious stepps. Her hands came up to cover he ears, she knew what was to come. Caedmon apparently did not. His attack on Cal must have been induced by the strong emotions that ran strong in all like himself, because when she looked in his eyes she saw no torturer only a human, small and slight and more fragile than he imagined. She let none of it show in her face, even when Deacon slashed a trail down the tender underside of his arm. When he screamed she smiled, satisfied at last that they would be getting somewhere. She watched a bead of sweat form and run down one side of Ceadmon's face while his chest heaved and he tore at his bindings. A scared animal caught in a trap. The sounds he made were not dissimilar.

He gathered himself carefully, looking away from the way his own animated blood was consuming him, and then opened his mouth. She sucked in a breath, nails pressing slightly into her own skin, neck forward. Deacon too was paying rapt attention. Then he spoke and she found herself not understanding much of what spilled from his lips.

Rapunzel had hair extensions. Next to her Zora's shoulders shook, as close as the girl came to laughter and a moment later the meaning of his litany made sense. She had asked 'what do you know' and was not being instructed, in meaningless pain staking detail. When she had first gone into this world she hadn't grasped sarcasm or the other niceties of speech. Questions needed to be direct in order that confusion not result and not Caedmon had made use of the same quirk. She suspected that Deacon would not find himself as amused as Zora.

She watched his back, the movement of the sinew and muscle below the fabric worn to shield and otherwise fragile exterior.

Another scream rent the air and Shallah examined his arm, the damage might become permanent soon.

Caedmon's unexpected scream only made Deacon angry. Shallah had told him to talk, not bleat; and he hadn't broken yet. Wait for it.

“I know that fluoride does nothing to prevent tooth decay but it does render teeth visible by spy satellites.”

He paused for just a second, nonplussed, and shot a look at Shallah. The man continued, looking up at him with dull earnestness writ large over the pain in his face. Deacon twitched his wand, paying more attention to his spell than the words. The Dilabo writhed and kept feeding, growing, throwing out its tentacles. Keep talking, chappie. He was gratified to see Atlas pause, open-mouthed, before he bit through his own bottom lip.

“The….there are….protein codes….diet plans…..”

In the background, he caught a glimpse of Zora. The mute woman was smiling, and she'd managed to make the noise of a laugh. Caedmon was mocking him. Damned if he'd let Shallah throw this madman to her. Deacon took a smart step forward and didn't pause, just smashed Atlas across the face with the back of his hand, glad of his old Brass-Knuckle Charm. He heard the crunch of teeth. Again, the other way.

Deacon spat to one side, then set his wand to Caedmon's neck, hard enough that it'd hurt when his blood moved. Well, that hurt anyway... He pressed harder. It was, in his experience, much harder to talk in circles when danger was this close. He let his wand rove higher, toward the SHOP owner's ear. Its inner whorls were damped with sweat. He was afraid. F-ckin' halfbreeds.

Only needed one ear to hear Shallah's questions. Deacon reached into his pocket, removing a switchblade, which he clicked open. Just in case, it was best to take a bit of precaution. Swiftly, he sliced the ear off. A quick spell twisted the flow of blood and sent it streaming down to join the amoebic body of the Dilabo. He held the ear up in front of Atlas.

"Like to listen to the sound of your own voice, huh?" he said, and pantomimed speaking into the now-disconnected ear. It was slippery. Maybe he would feed it to the Dilabo later, if Shallah let him. For now he dropped it into Atlas's lap, where he could see it. "I'll make it easier. Stop the bloody playin' round or it'll get..."

He paused, because you had to make them squirm. He had practiced saying this. "... a lot bloodier."

Behind him, he heard the sound of someone throwing up--doubtless the Squib. He ignored it.

The man didn’t even look shocked when Deacon’s fist jarred the side of his face. Blood pooled and then slipped through the tear at the base of his mouth. Humans worshipped symmetry and so it came as little surprise when Deacon drew back and struck an equal blow to the other side. Caedmon’s head lulled along with the blows, Shallah heard the delicate porcelain cracks of teeth tearing free from enamel and gum line. The expression she leveled at Deacon’s back was warning, if he bit through his tongue they would have to stop and heal it before continuing. She was wrong to worry, he was better than that and the color now rising to Caedmon’s face being equal on both sides the man stepped back.

Deacon spat, the wad landing on the floorboards next to Caedmon’s chair, evidently he was not amused at all. Too caught up in the heat of the moment to allow something to distract him, or perhaps he had found the joke vulgar, perhaps the teller wasn’t to his liking. He wasn’t going to play anymore, a pity really, so many things they could do.

Wand to the man’s throat Deacon shifted grubbed about in his pocket before pulling out something thin, silvery, and intricately carved. Blades were of great pride to these people and they kept them as a courtesan kept her hair or a dancer their legs. This one was of special pride, and heirloom one of the talismans left by humans long dead to guard their memory against the void. She wondered if this was dominance, she was so unfamiliar with blood and how it came to affect the movements of those in power, of those not. Deacon would not even dirty his wand with this mans blood, as if he was undeserving of the privilege.

Caedmon’s eyes strayed to the blade and widened and for a moment she thought he would panic, try to move, and end up losing an eye for his troubles. She had seen it but Atlas remained stationary, frozen, whether by fear or self-preservation. The blade flashed in the light and a moment later red pooled in the hollow of his neck, along his collar before traveling down to join with the Diablo making a ravage of his arm.

The creature shivered as its new feed met with the source. Another trophy for Deacon, cleaner than scalps at least. Deacon dangled the severed appendage, as if baiting a wounded dog, which Shallah supposed, was the way he saw things. Zora laughed again as he held the ear to his lips, intoning, Caedmon said nothing.

I'll make it easier. Stop the bloody playin' round or it'll get...a lot bloodier..

A pun, and blood and self satisfaction from Deacon. Caedmon radiating dread and fear and loathing, and hate….how now, that was interesting.

“Tell me about the 4th unforgivable Mr. Ceadmon.” She came forward, kneeling down in front of him smiled as he darted his head back. “You have lovely eyes,” she purred, lifting his head, fingers making contact with warm skin, “They will be next if you say nothing of value.”

It hadn’t worked and Atlas knew that. Speaking would only provoke them but maybe that had been the plan. It was a lot of what Atlas was the way he was, the babbling, the inane long winded speeches, and overused colloquial phrases, it annoyed people, it made them mad and that made them stupid. Or at least that had been the goal, if this man flew off the handle, if Atlas could get him to lose his cool he might do harm that Atlas wouldn’t walk away from. He might smash in his head, slit his throat. It occurred to Atlas that all the things he was considered fell into the small category of relatively painful deaths and the man before him didn’t look like the sort who was going to pass those out.

Atlas let his speech peater out, it hurt, everything hurt, his lips felt dry and sticky and he darted his tongue out to wet them. He discovered that once outside of his body the blood seemed to hurt less, the stinging diminished as if air could nullify the affects of the spell. The fingers on his left hand twitched, balled into a fist, his dug his nails into his palm…if he could just filter it…find a way to get it into the open air. What am I thinking? His fist opened right as the red head’s first made contact with his face. First on the left, then the right, blood filled Atlas mouth and he clamped his mouth shut, if there was enough there was a chance he could choke himself. He had read that it was difficult to drown oneself but plenty of people had managed, although Virginia Wolf did have those rocks. The thought became mute a moment later when he realized he had swallowed and was gasping in breaths and that his attack was very close, wand to his throat.

Something metallic sparked in the side of Atlas’ vision, he didn’t see it, too occupied starring into the other man’s eyes. Looking for a reason, finding none. They were going to kill him, he had known from the beginning but now it was settling in, burrowing down to his core and pressing panic upwards. In the dim light the metal glowed blue and when it flashed up Atlas, for a moment, imagined that it had just been a scare tactic. He didn’t feel anything, except dampness on one side and everything suddenly seemed muted, as if he had water in his ear. The dampness traveled down his arm and Atlas watched with detached fascination as the progressively more formed. Where was that blood coming from?

Then something pink and fleshy was dangled inches from him nose. The head shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes….head and shoulders knees and toes….he starred in muted shock, this was not the appropriate time for a mental sing-a-long, eyes and ears….Oh God.. The pain hit a second later and he ducked his head, trying to grate the area into a shoulder, do something.

Like to listen to the sound of your own voice, huh? He wiggled the ear and a stray fleck of blood fell from it to land on Atlas’s knee. His stomach turned. A moment later the whole thing was there and Atlas looked down at it, blinking about as rapidly as a humming bird in flight. That is not where ears go, that is not where they belong..

I'll make it easier. Stop the bloody playin' round or it'll get.... Atlas mouth was open, he wanted to scream but feared if he tried he’d just be sick. And then there was Margot….the sounds might draw her in and then…he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about anything. Nothing at all.

Someone was touching him. Atlas jerked his head back and away, grimacing at the stab of pain from the left section of his head. No one ever touches you the way you want them to…. Her voice was soft and soothing and Atlas found that he didn’t see the hard edges anymore, the glow that he had thought unnatural was calming, she smelled nice. You have lovely eyes.. Helena had said as much to him, he’d rather have her here….They will be next if you say nothing of value. He looked away from her and tried to pretend that it was a different pair of hands cupping his face, looked at the knife in the man’s hands. Blinked, thought about what it would be like to not do it again.

Eyes back on the women, thought about what it would be like not to see her again. “It separates soul from body, preserving the soul while at the same time allowing for the original body to be used as a puppet. It appears to be a conglomeration between all three of the previous Unforgivables.” The woman moved her thumb along one cheekbone, wiping away at something wet. He didn’t remember starting to cry. “But sometimes it goes wrong, the soul can be severed and then eradicated…the resulting energy surge is dangerous, unstable, the spell isn’t finished….” She made a sort of clucking sound and he drew back, startled, remembering that there was something about her he shouldn’t trust. “Tests on humans have varying results….”

His eyes stung almost as bad as his ear, or what had been his ear. “Release me and I can open the basement….”

He'd hit the first break point. A shallow one, but they'd get somewhere; and he could tell he'd seen death. Had the look. Deacon backed up, folding his arms, and let Shallah do her work. She leaned in, and the dangerous glow of her pulsed through the room.

"You have lovely eyes.. They will be next if you say nothing of value."

Deacon had tensed, but now he unwound into a smirk. Now that was style. He knew she could crush the shopkeeper in a heartbeat if she so chose, and she might. He'd enjoy it. But her methods worked best after he had applied his own. Now Caedmon was speaking. Deacon sneered, lip caught between his teeth. Not quite there yet, ya bastard. A tear slid down one cheek, and Deacon bit down on a scornful laugh. He wouldn't talk--really talk--until he'd spent more time crying. And screaming. He let the Dilabo idle, stretching itself along Atlas's arm...




Cal straightened up, gasping, clutching the corner of whateveritwas he'd vomited into. He found he was clutching the gnarled foot of an umbrella, which led into... a hollow badger. Thing. He hated throwing up. His head thrummed and his blood felt thick and sluggish. Too much cocaine, too much... he looked back toward Atlas. The air had taken on a light golden breathless feel, sparkling and still. It still smelled like blood and raw screaming. He looked up and saw Shallah crouching very close to Atlas. Atlas himself slid in and out of focus. Cal couldn't look at the place where his ear had been. The whole of him looked--looked like a raw wound.

It's not fair. Cal cleared his throat and tasted the last painful pang of something sharp that had come up too fast. Not fair. He was supposed to be stronger. This couldn't be real. Almost certainly, something would happen, would... eventuate... if he used different words he would achieve some different result, or wring it from the world.

Atlas was speaking.

“It separates soul from body, [..] Tests on humans have varying results….”

Tests on humans with varying results--Cal's stomach jumped and settled, pressing on itself painfully. He let go his clench on the umbrella, pried his fingers from the brass rim that had replaced the top bit of the badger's head, and sidled past Zora, avoiding her gaze, to stand behind a shelf closer to Atlas, Shallah, and Deacon. He did not look at Deacon. Deacon made his teeth clench and sent the electric nerve impulse that said run racing through him. Atlas knew nothing, then. Nothing. He wasn't sure whether to feel jealous or elated or still horribly ill. He had the odd and troubling feeling that if he had been in his own body he would have felt faint.

“Release me and I can open the basement….”

Yes. Cal's jealousy settled into curiosity. Jealousy? Still. He took a step forward, swallowing... and then back, when Deacon's glass-hard glare hit him.



Deacon nodded worldlessly at Shallah, catching the order in her glance back at him. A flick of his wand, and the bonds rewound themselves. Always good policy to let the captive open things himself, by way of avoiding clever traps. And there might always be. He gave Caedmon his legs--for now--let the ear fall discarded onto the floor. They'd see what he had down there.

And if he tried anything, well, he still had lots of parts to spare.

She felt the moment where he slipped over the first edge that delicious moment between fighting and losing. It looked different in everyone, in some in came across as silent boiling rage, others shouted, struggled as if the sound of their own voices might protect from, Caedmon had tried that tactic and now he went eerily silent. With the thumb of her hand she massaged the reddened skin of one cheek. The gesture was tender and so to were her words when she spoke. Veela did exert charm all on their own but they could also control it to a certain degree and as she looked into Atlas's wide blue eyes she let more of it loose. Saturating his confused and and pained senses. With no words and the barest of gestures she reassured him, made promises to protect him so long as he did what she asked and nothing more. Nothing more at all.

His heart rate slowed and he began to divest his burden into the open air. When the tears began, as she knew they eventually would, she adjusted her hand to wipe them away. She had always thought humans too transient for true grief and so whenever she saw tears from them she thought it something to cherish, beautiful and short lived. He agreed to open the cellar door. She smiled, glanced back in Deacon's direction and when the ropes let loose and Ceadmon pitched forward, she stood to meet him, one hand to his chest and the other make sure that he would not fall. She maneuvered her body between his chest, head, and right arm. The Dilabo was quiet but should he try and dislodge it the temperamental thing could do a great deal of harm.

He seemed more preoccupied looking down at his ear which had fallen to the floor with a barely audible but by her mind satisfying 'squish'. She let go and knelt, lifting it up and offered it to him, like a sweet to a child who had just answered a question. What she felt in response was a wave of shame and nausea and the man's hand twitched in the direction of her but he did not take what she had offered. She leaned forward and slipped the object into the breast pocket of his shirt, patting the place with one hand, making sure he would not forget where it was.

“After you sir.” She swept a hand in the direction of the basement and waited for Caedmon to move.

As she stepped after him she caught sight of Cal, he had inched closer. Arms still pressed firmly against himself, maybe reminding himself that he was there. The smile she leveled at him was kindly and encouraging. She forgot easily that this was his first time, that this must all seem rather barbaric to his eyes, she flicked the fingers of one hand forward, indicating that he was free to follow.

The gnashing teeth against the muscle and bone of his arm had stopped, or maybe nerves had been severed and he simply no longer felt it. Atlas looked down, not daring to move his head, had seen earlier, what felt like a life time ago just how sharp the veela's nails were and more blood would only feed into the Dilabo. The ultimate blood parasite, capable of growing massive, semi sentient, dark arts, so much so that Atlas had never thought to see one in real life. Even at his most morbid he had never entertained the notion that he might have his very own one day. His very own....like a puppy. Or, he amended looking at the creature which had flattened itself and now lay stretched out upon the entire length of his arm, more like a cat. One of those bald ones, the kind favored by evil over lords.

The woman's...no he mentally chided himself, veela's hand was still tracing along the tear tracts on his face. He looked at her to tell her to stop, though more probably to plead but found once he was looking at her that the words didn't come. He had talked, but he hadn't said much, the man didn't move. It was enough to keep his eyes for now but they would want more and so he offered them the cellar. Betrayed Holywell's memory and those of countless others Garrow's spell had and would hurt and for what? His eyes? The hope of a quick death that he knew he wouldn't receive. There was chance though, the runes along the cellar door were security oriented but they were also rigged with several distress and call alarms. Three of which led directly to aurors. One to Will himself....and Atlas was disheartened to recall that with Will's premotion it was doubtful he would receive it let alone be allowed to answer and the other two connected into the Level 2 offices.

There was another to Jasper....Atlas didn't even consider activating it. The ropes fell away and he would have fallen as well if not for the veela's arms going around him. She was stronger than her small frame should have allowed, the muscles of her arm flexed against the skin but didn't strain, and the expression on her face remained the same. She was like a one of the porcelain dolls his grandmother was so found of collecting. Lips painted on, eyes that wouldn't shut. Something hit the ground and made a wet sound and he was again reminded of why things all sounded a bit off.

When the veela offered the object back to him, as if they were standing in a bank line and he had dropped a few galleons he felt like laughing. Just letting go, detaching and maybe it wouldn't hurt to much when the man decided to silence him. He wanted to take what she offered, it was his, belonged to him attached or not, but the presence of the man with the knife, and the new presence of Everand rooted him to spot. Maybe it was a trick they were playing, maybe if he moved the torturer would get him in the back, carve up his skin like a turkey. He didn't take the ear and a few moments later it was given to him. His skin shivered and he wanted to crawl away from the moisture soaking through his pocket.

Instead thanked the veela, lips forming the words soundlessly, before turning and moving toward the basement. It felt like moving toward death, he fell to his knees at the door watching the runes and glymphs move in lazy patterns over the surface of the wood. Runes were ancient, complicated and beautiful, the ultimate puzzles, Atlas had always loved them. Painstaking learned everything he could, it also had the duel purpose of being a much better security system than any spoken magic. Plenty of people could learn some paltry locking spells, there were a very very few who could master and read rune script, he just had to hope and pray that none of the people in the room were capable. His right arm was tucked along his chest, he didn't need it, the Dilabo rattled along his arm and he felt the movement through the fabric of his clothes. His stomach turned again.

He inched forward, placing his left hand against the wood and began shuffling the shapes, erasing lines here and there with the smudge of a hand and using his pinky to redraw them. The security glymphs wafted in the third and fourth layers of the overall drawing. Without hesitation he activated the first that would alert level 2, sweeping his hand into the the runes that would unlock the first few parameters of the door in the same motion. He debated upon activating the second, he'd have to stall in order to do it and it would draw at least some attention. He'd have to hope upon the first, he took away his hand and stumped to his feet as the last of the locks disabled and the door flew open. Shallah stepped in front of him, closed her eyes and inhaled, he made a face and would have stepped back if the knife man weren't so close behind him.

She caught up his hand in hers and tugged him toward the opening. He didn't want to go in, knew that his usefulness was quickly coming to an end. The knife pressed against the side of his throat and he drew in a sharp breath then allowed himself to be led. At the bottom of the stairs he indicated two of the work tables pressed against the back wall. “Those are the formulas I have been working on...attempting to reconstruct the spell backwards. Looking for a counter curse. I don't believe there is one.”

Caedmon's hands roved over the surface blocking their path from the cellar. Runes were one of the more ancient Magiks known to the wizards one of the more difficult to master.
Had she been capable she might have felt pity, for the ill use his apt mind had been put to in this dreary place, for the possible forces it would never influence, but at the moment she only thought of what it might have done. How the synapses and neurons might have poured over and altered Garrow's spell, what that mind might know about it. Garrow did not trust her and rightly so as she trsuted him not at all. She still had her spell but she desired his. It was not right that I human should be able to hold sway over her. Caedmon continued to work and she looked over his head at Cal, huddled back against a shelf as if for support, Deacon, tapping his blade against his pant leg, cleaning the blood, and then to Zora who's eyes were occupied with the swift and graceful motions of Atlas's left hand.

Deacon was being allowed the first go and thus far his methods had led to results, Zora was the second option. If given the command she could peel and core Atlas's mind, but there was danger in that order. Her legimency was unschooled and undisciplined, she was capable of entering the mind of another but the way was barbed and forced. It wasn't nearly as visual stimulating as the work done by Deacon. That, and Acquisition of the information sought was never a guarantee and the victim was usually left in such a condition that neither the skills of Deacon nor the persuasion of her own true born charming abilities were sufficient to rouse them from the state Zora's invasion left them in. Perhaps she would let Zora try once they were done with him, practice, another look at Cal, she wondered how aware he would want his kill to be.

The door opened and she moved forward, caught up the shop keeper's hand in her own and led him forward. His resistance was momentary as Deacon approached with the blade that had severed both ear and confidence and together they went down into the cellar. She sniffed the air, felt the swirl of spell layered upon spell swarm in the air. It was almost cozy.

Those are the formulas I have been working on...attempting to reconstruct the spell backwards. Looking for a counter curse. I don't believe there is one..

She blinked in the adjusting light before making her way to the table and perching upon it catching up the thick parchments. Her eyes flicked over them, understanding nothing. Languages she did not understand, gibberish, cyphers spanned the page obscuring the information that should be hers. Rage coiled in her, slow and hot, and very old. She stood handing the papers to Deacon, allowing him to see for himself. “He mocks us with his ravings and rewards us with naught at all.”

Eye's narrowed she felt the edges of the skin she used to paint herself as one like them fraying. The pin pricks of feathers and claws, she suppressed it, it was vulgar and would not do. A lady was what she masqueraded as and that was what she had to remain as.

Itching the flesh of one arm and kept her voice low, level, and very human. “You will need to get him to translate. These are useless to us as they are.” She heard Caedmon's heart rate skip, accelerate, it would take less this time.

Cal hung back while Shallah and Deacon cut Atlas free. He watched with bile still struggling between esophagus and throat while Shallah bent to retrieve Atlas's... he had to look away, blinking hard and rapidly. He could feel his heart thumping very fast, as though trying to erase the sight with a rush of blood to the head. The way Shallah looked at Atlas, that faint, golden concern, the halo of flickering light she seemed to drag in her wake, the breathy way she spoke... he recognized that.

It reminded him of Jasper. The moments of misplaced tenderness, when he realized how cheap it all was, and how easily fabricated. Cal cast a sideways look at Zora and swallowed, then, once Atlas had tottered upright, followed him down to the basement. He saw Atlas look at him, eyes bright and blank, as though he had a fever, and the paintstreaks of blood all down on side of his head, but he looked away. He was afraid he could see through Everard's eyes to Cal.



Yes. Deacon holstered his wand with a grunt of satisfaction and twirled the knife in his free hand. The SHOP owner fiddled with some glowing runes on the door; Deacon couldn't make them out, which annoyed him. He got about half of it, some kind of locking spell, but the combination was beyond him. He chanced a snarling glance at the Squib, who was supposed to be some sort of... who cared. The gaunt man was swaying and looked green. Pathetic. Shallah stepped forward, leading the hesitant Caedmon onward. He stopped, and Deacon stepped forward after him, growling in the back of his throat, knife pressed to Caedmon's neck.

He went down.

Inside, he felt the crawling itch of protective magic, but unraveling that could be dangerous. They'd have to keep Caedmon distracted. Well, he could do that. He stood aside, cleaning his knife against one pant leg. He flipped it open--shut--open. Click. Caedmon was scared. He knew he'd come to the end. Deacon loved that feeling, that moment when they knew they were done, cornered, in a hole, with all the open blackness all around. It channeled so much power and vastness, a whole life's worth.

Shallah bent over the papers, and he felt the air change. Where it had felt warmly of Shallah, now it felt coldly of something eerie. Something curdled, as it often did before she... changed. Deacon stepped forward to examine the papers she held up. Nonsense.

“He mocks us with his ravings and rewards us with naught at all. [...] You will need to get him to translate. These are useless to us as they are.”

Deacon's lips slid into a grin, and, handing back the papers, he flipped the wand from his holder, the knife still in his other hand. The dilabo twitched and bit into Caedmon's arm again, and he twisted the bonds that held his wrists so his arms slid in behind him, tightly tied. The Dilabo writhed from one arm to the other, and, now strong enough to open flesh, sucked holes into the skin.

"You heard her." There was little to do right now. He kept the wand pressed to Caedmon's back and shoved him toward the table, then pressed the knife to the back of his spine, at the base of his skull. Any untoward movement... "Make it quick."

There were a variety of sounds in the room. Breathing, heart beats, the low level hum of experimental magic that never really left the room. But the only sound that Atlas could be bothered to pay any attention to was the sound that the pages upon which his notes were written was the veela leafed through them. He listened to the paper but he watched her face, knowing what she would find, or more specifically what she wouldn't, waiting to watch the perfect lie painted across her face fall away. At his side metal clicked against metal as the man holding the knife used it to taunt him. Turning it in the dim light the reflection flashed across Atlas's eyes causing him to blink. Life and experience had taught Atlas to fear all sorts of things; walking across the street without having looked both ways, not chewing your food, following will o the wisps through any kind of wet land, going into knockturn alley unarmed, Apollo and a bedazzle, but he had never thought to be afraid of a knife, or someone who had lowered themselves to wielding one.

Now he was and there was shame to go along with that fear, to go along with this whole situation. Another click and he flinched, hating himself and, in an effort to look anywhere but at its edge, or the stain of red on the man's pant leg, made eye contact with Everand. It didn't fit....the Everand's were scoundrels, thieves the lot of them, but this behavior wasn't in keeping with the information that Atlas had at his disposal. Everand didn't let him look long and after a moment, with an expression that seemed both pained and disgusted he looked away.

Something was wrong...the air had shifted as something else began to encroach upon the other spells in the room. The veela. Eyes back on her and she seemed to be less solid than she had a moment ago. The air around her shimmered and her eyes, which had been a smooth and inviting sight only a few minutes before had gone black and hard. His work was thrust toward the red head and it was a moment before she spoke. He mocks us with his ravings and rewards us with naught at all. You will need to get him to translate. These are useless to us as they are. He wanted to run, or stay rooted to the spot and just disappear. Adrenalin flooded into his system, saturating pained muscles and heating his skin. The papers feel to the table top and Atlas watched, as if in slow motion as the man loosed his wand from his hold.

Atlas opened his mouth to say...something, he wasn't sure what but the sound twisted into a moan when the Dilabo recommenced gnawing into his arm. Enough, Atlas sent an impulse to his left arm to disentangle the creature from his right, but rather than forward the limb twisted back. There was a moment of brief and horrible confusion before both arms slid in next to each other and the wet, sticky heat from the Dilabo began a slow crawl over and onto the sleeve of his left arm. It took but the work of a moment for the creature to tear through and consume the heavy material of his coat and cotton of his sleeve. There was little time for Atlas to classify this new level of pain before he was being shoved toward the discarded documents on the table top. Without his hands of catch himself with he feel painfully against the wood, struggling to right himself, as wand and knife were employed to keep him in place. Make it quick..

And he did laugh then, small and breathy as he craned his head slightly to look back at the man. “Why? I'll only be rushing to my own death. Correct?” The blade nicked the skin at the base of his neck, threatening to press further. Aware of the threat to his eyes that had come before he looked back down at the notes, examining the first sheet. “Its a focall formula...advanced charms to extract life essence and attempt to transfer the energy . It needs unicorns blood to be added as a catalyst....” One of the tendrils was creeping up his arm, past his elbow. stop.. He didn't. “Likely it needs to be consumed by the user but I have been hesitant to test the theory.” The Dilabo had made short use of the thin skin along the joint between lower and upper arm on the right side, white flashed in his vision and he slumped forward. “Please.” His voice, even through the filter of his severed ear sounded strange and nothing like his own. “Please stop.” A hand fisted into his hair, pulled him upright.

“As they are they're no good to you...” He reasoned. “You won't remember them all verbally. It's too much information.” Asking for his wand would be met with a resounding no and very probably the loss of some non vital part of his anatomy. Something else....his eyes roved around the room and settled on a set of quills on the table at the opposite side of the room. “I can...I'll write a second copy. One of those will do but I need my hands.”

There was a pause in which Atlas was left to wonder if his request had been a terrible idea. Far too risky. One of them must have sensed something, perceived the lie and the plan that he was working to bring to fruition. Then the wand moved away from his back and he found that his arms were his own to move again. His right hand was going to be useless, that much he could tell from the way it was bulging in odd places and its off pallor. Luckily it wouldn’t be entirely needed...or at all really. The collection of quills was thrust at him and he only had to feel around for a moment to find the parchment he was looking for.

The knife was still poised against his neck but that wasn’t insurmountable. Pulling an arbitrary page from the completed notes toward himself Atlas began to write out a basic activation formula. Nothing especially complicated, or suspicious. Unless of course you knew about the array spanning the entire floor of the basement, buried under several inches of dirt. If you knew about that....well, suddenly what he was doing would have seemed a great deal more threatening. As would the rune line and the arithmancy Atlas quickly added, glancing between the two papers. He barely had to pretend the flinch that caused the sheet he had been writing on to fall to the floor. The man behind him made a sound of disgust and stepped slightly back, barking that he should get a move on. Fine..

Rather than lifting the paper from the ground Atlas instead brought his left hand down onto it, pressing it into the ground there was a brief crackling sound and then the ground underneath the mans feet exploded sending dirt, rocks, and several lances of light up into the air of the room. Atlas heard rather than saw the man go down and he stayed crouched just long enough to set off one of the second protocols, a temporal lock of slime pus, sticky as hell and difficult to disentangle ones self from. Maybe he’d be lucky and there would be enough to trap the veela as well.

Blind, he stumbled upright and made a dash for the stairs, if he could reach the top he might be able to slam the door closed, re do the locks, buy time. He hit the first stair, nearly fell, caught himself on the railing and climbed. Apparating was a consideration but the Dilabo might cause interference, if he splinched himself (as he felt likely to do) the thing would have enough food to consume him. Middle of the stairwell, something behind him made a tearing sound and a high pitched squawk drifted up the stairs. Almost there, his hand gripped the side of the hatch to the top, closed. He turned and rammed one shoulder hard against it, the hinges creaked but gave slightly. Again. The pain was negligible. He readied himself to try a third time when he looked to the side of the railing and caught a pair of glinting black eyes.

He had two, last coherent thoughts at that moment. The first thought was that the plan had rather, sort of the failed, and the second was a simple and deadpanned. “Oh.” Pressing himself to the back of the wall he had just enough time to glance up and activate one of the other security glyphs, completely unsure of which one it had been. A moment later the monster moved and all he could do was scream.

The room was changed since the last time she had stepped foot within. The wall where Cal's blood had served as morbid decoration now had several shelves lined against it. An effort to forget she mused. It was possible to hide the work of the physical, with paint, a shelf, some good scrubbing, fresh dirt, but the magical residue of the events that had taken place remained; an unpleasant tang that hung in the air. Her senses roamed but her eyes stayed on Caedmon and on Deacon who would coax the spell out into the open. An explanation bubbled into the air, mentions of formulas and crude constrictions that at least Cal would be familiar with. The drone of his voice was cut abruptly short and Shallah took a step toward the pair, unsure of what the pause was for.

Please. Please stop..

There was a brief moment where she believed that he had broken and that she had missed the moment. A bittersweet thing that, their demands would be met but the game would be at an end and there was little sport in its conclusion. It was his tone that left her unconvinced, his request for a halt was presented in a tone containing no despair, only a pair pain and a sort of annoyance. Not proper at all. Deacon righted him a moment later, appearing to have come to the same conclusion that Shallah had only a moment before.

Words began again but they were not the ones that she sought. Fingers itching still along the skin of her human arms she nodded her permission for Deacon.

“Let him his hands, lest we be here until the dawn rise listening to half memorable prattle.”

As he wrote, she observed. The space between her brows crinkled as formulas made their way from the quill to parchment. Arithmancy, the Pythagoreans had imagined themselves to be so clever, worshiping their tetractus and deca's as gods. It seemed a strange choice for such a spell, that was the way of it though. Seemingly random lines of information combining to make up a usable whole. If this spell truly took its place among the other so called 'unforgivables' then this was a monumental moment. Never before had one of these spells been disected and exposed. Never. And soon she would have it. Caedmon crouched suddenly, his unbroken hand scraping along the floor and making no move to lift the notes from where they had fallen.

Her warning to Deacon was half formed when the floor below them rocked and then pitched upwards, spewing earth and light up into the chocking air of the cellar and something else. A scent like murk and decay. slime. The stuff coated the arm she had lifted to shield her eyes from the light and she hissed at it in futile annoyance. Something moved past her and the air that followed in its wake revealed it as Atlas. Not broken after all then but he would be.

She allowed the change to come, welcomed it as feathers seeped out to replace the soft and supple flesh coating her body, talons sprung where once only small and clipped nails had been before. It was all but the span of a moment and then she was off. The light made her blind, which made her angry, but Caedmon was making noise enough for her ears and there was but one place for him to go in order to obtain escape. Drifting to the side of the chamber, past Calixtus she clasped onto the railing, hoisting herself along the thick and worn wood. She blinked at Caedmon in the darkness, watched as he hurled himself against the solid wood constituting the basement hatch. Once, twice, and before the third he saw her and she saw him.

For a moment she simply watched him, blinking the dirt and the light from her eyes. His heart hammered in his chest, pulse visible at his throat, just below the line of red she had etched into him at the beginning of all this. There would be no more kindness. Shallah opened her mouth emitting a high pitched series of clicking sounds, a warning, and then she was upon him. Her talon's sank into the skin between shoulder and collar bone, hooking down into the skin before she hurled him back against the railing. A series of dry crackling sounds were a pleasing reward to her ears and so, her hand still entangled with his flesh she reeled back and repeated the motion. This time the railing gave sending both of them the span of 10 feet and back to the floor. Caedmon landed on his back, twisting in the manner of all small prey and his left hand came up wildly, trying to strike out at her. Stunned. The blows did not land and she, who had landed with more grace and poise, tore free of him. Stepped back and observed as the man pressed his hand to the wound, curling up as he tried to staunch the blood.

She observed her own hand, the red coating it, already the feathers were receding and her voice was almost normal when she spoke. “A vulgar display.” Angling her body and head she lifted a hand in Deacon's direction, he was red faced upon the ground, wand and knife pinned by the repulsive slime. She lifted her own hand, dispensing fire enough to burn through the mess and free him. “And one with little point.”

Now she addressed Deacon. “Do as you will, within reason. Another chance will be gifted you and then it will be another's turn.” she looked meaningfully at Zora, who had shuffled back from the explosion and was intently watching Atlas. “We linger in this place too long.”

Something had broken; there was new pain though it took a moment of fumbling blind twisting before he could begin to search for its location. There were still claws embedded in the soft tissue of his left shoulder, he tried not to look at them and instead concentrated on breathing. The fall had knocked all the air from his lungs. There were splinters from the railing were digging through the material of his coat, every time he shifted they embedded themselves a little more firmly. There was a wet squelching noise and then the veela had stepped back. Without being entirely aware of doing so Atlas turned to his side, knees coming up toward his chest while he crushed his left hand against the wound, the Dilabo must have smelled or sensed the new supply because it threw out more tentacles, pulled itself upwards until Atlas removed his hand, afraid that the Dilabo might make a meal of that as well.

Someone was speaking, a voice that was all at once human and not and woman and not, his ears were ringing. He didn’t want to expend the effort to lift his head and so instead looked down, noting that his left leg had not followed the right in its journey north, it also appeared to be twitching. He’d discovered the break…. maybe in the hip, it was hard to tell with the cursed stinging blood singing in his veins.

A second voice joined with the ethereal one and a moment later, it sounded like an animal, a growl and a few curses and then something was touching him. Atlas made one weak uncoordinated movement to try and dislodge them before the air was filled with a loud crack and the whole of the universe went sickly white. He’d managed not to vomit before now all he could think of was getting away from the tearing pressure and the iron smell that reminded him strangely of farm equipment. For a moment he was violently sick, there were questions that he ignored and sometimes a nova of pain from his shoulder or the place where until very recently he had been sure he had a leg, occasionally there was a more slight, almost negligible wave from the Dilabo and all of it just above the thrum that was his entire blood system.

He was pulled upright, there was nothing gentle in the gesture and as soon as the hand was gone he went back to the floor, back slumped against the stairs, blinking up blearily into the faces of the people who were going to kill him. There were more questions, coming now from the veela as the other man stalked up and down, casting off spells the broke fingers, smaller bones, tore through tendons, Atlas didn’t have the air to scream. Then there was noise above him and everyone in the room froze.

The alarms had worked…maybe it was the aurors, he never thought he’d be so glad to have them in his vicinity. But no…something was wrong the steps were too light, careful, and they knew the path above too well. Margot. He tried to pull himself upwards, opened his mouth to speak but didn’t manage it around the nausea and pain.

Who was screaming? Margot sat up slowly, listening carefully. The noises were coming from the shop. Atlas had always warned her about unusual noises, and she'd certainly heard the odd sounds the contents of SHOP could make at night, but these were different. Human. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. The screams were terrifyingly recognizable.

It was Atlas.

He'd told her never to leave the rooms above SHOP at night unless he was with her. She'd never bothered to question the need for such caution; she knew that Atlas was incurably paranoid, but she'd never considered the fortification of his home a bad thing, and she wasn't the kind of person to rebel or question someone else's lifestyle either. She had been sure that Atlas had his own reasons for such levels of protection.

Obviously that had been the case. Margot was forcibly reminded of how little she actually knew about Atlas's past, and indeed his present dealings. She'd been living with him for weeks, yes, and they talked extensively, but never about anything specific. Their conversations focused on abstract concepts about life and people, mostly, and that had always been good enough. Now Margot sat in her bed, half-awake, listening to the screams of the man who had taken her in and she was terrified. Who was he? Who had she been living with? What kind of horrible people was he involved with? What had he done that would lead those people to come to his home and torture him?

She buried her face in her knees and put her arms over her head, trying to block out the sounds of Atlas's pain. Hot tears fell on her exposed thighs. Don't leave the house. Don't leave the house. How many times had Atlas told her that? His home--her home--was the safest place in the wizarding world. Whatever was going on downstairs had nothing to do with her, and Atlas had always told her not to leave the house at night no matter what she might hear downstairs. Atlas had never lied to her or steered her in a dangerous direction. He was very concerned with keeping her safe. He would want her to stay upstairs.

But she couldn't. She couldn't sit by and do nothing while he was being hurt, probably dying. He meant too much to her. He was the only living friend she'd ever had, the only living person she'd connected to. He was such a good man; people thought he was crazy, but he was a good man and he'd been good to her. He'd taken her in and showed her a magical world. He'd accepted her oddities unlike anyone else. She didn't know what she could do, but she certainly couldn't do nothing.

She threw back her comforters and leapt from the bed. She flung the door open and ran down the hallway to the stairs that led down into SHOP. The screams got louder the closer she got, and her tears were running freely down her pale cheeks, making her vision blurry as she reached the shop door. She ripped it open and saw him--saw Atlas--lying in a pool of blood, missing an ear, his limbs twisted out at odd angles, his blue eyes staring emptily up at her and something a horrible shade of red moving gluttonously over him--



Margot woke herself with her own screaming. She sat up and looked around her room, breathing heavily--but it looked normal. Everything looked right. She sighed and put a hand to her forehead, which was clammy with cold sweat. Shaking her head and chuckling weakly, she laid back on her pillow. It had just been a nightmare. She closed her eyes--

and saw Atlas again, lying there--

She opened her eyes and got out of bed. She needed to see that Atlas was alive and well. She went down the hall to Atlas's bedroom, a place in the house where she had yet to enter. She paused before it, wondering if he'd be back from his trash diving yet or not. She had no idea what time it was, but she got the sense that it was very late, almost to the point of being early. Making a decision, she reached up and knocked on the door.

"Atlas?" she called. She knocked again, louder. "Atlas, are you there?" Still no answer. Margot swallowed uncomfortably as a tightness began to grow in her chest. Stop worrying, Margot, she told herself. He's just not home yet. She shook her head and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and wait for Atlas to return. She knew she wasn't going to get back to sleep until she saw him. She stood at the counter and raised the glass to her lips--

And that's when she heard the thud. A crash. She jumped and turned around. Rudolph was standing in the entryway, looking paler than usual (which was quite a feat for a skeleton). Margot put her glass down slowly.

"What is it, Rudolph?" Margot asked, the hint of a tremor in her normally unflappable, calm voice.

"Strangers are in the shop," Rudolph said.

Margot inhaled sharply as the end of her dream flashed through her mind. Had she seen other people there? No, her eyes had only been on Atlas. There could have been people there. She didn't get premonitions very often; in fact, she'd only had one before. It was unlikely that her dream had been a premonition. Very unlikely. What was that noise?

Screaming.

"He's in danger! We've got to do something!" Rudolph screamed, and turned and clattered out of the kitchen. Margot leapt up and ran after him.

"No! Rudolph, we've got to stay up here! It's safe here!" she cried. But he was off down the hallway. Luckily, she had the advantage of ligaments and muscles and could run faster than the ungainly skeleton. She caught up to him, catching him from behind in a bear hug that almost separated his spine from his pelvis, but she managed to stop him before he opened the door.

She held onto him tightly, but the bony Rudolph offered little comfort for her as she listened to the sounds from her dream coming clearly from the other side of the door. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore them. She started crying silently. Rudolph twisted and she squeezed tighter. She wanted to go help too--but what could either of them do? He was a skeleton who fell apart if someone looked at him too hard, and she was a Muggle. Just a normal, unexceptional human with no abilities whatsoever--none that could help Atlas, anyway.

The noises became softer, like they were getting farther away, and Margot opened her eyes. She let go of Rudolph and put her ear to the door.

"I can't hear them anymore," she said. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or if it frightened her more. "I can't hear them anymore!"

"Maybe they've gone. Maybe they've left him there. Let's go out and look," Rudolph said. Margot shook her head.

"No. We can't. We're supposed to stay here. Atlas has always said to stay here," she said, very unconvincingly. Rudolph gave her an exasperated look, and he didn't need to speak for her to know what it meant: it didn't matter what Atlas said. He was in serious danger and needed help. Margot shook her head again. "What help could we possibly give him, Rudolph? No, no, we have to stay--"

She was interrupted by a heartbreakingly bloodcurdling scream, worse than any of the ones before, louder even though it was from further away. Margot let out an involuntary sob and grasped at the door handle, fumbling in her desperation. She finally latched onto it and flung it open, stumbling out into the shop--but there was nothing there. Nothing there but blood and...a human ear. Atlas's ear. Margot stood gaping for a second, but quickly marshaled herself. Atlas and his attackers were still in the shop somewhere. She started to look around--but then she heard an explosion, and felt the tremors go up her legs. Her knees buckled and she dropped to them. Rudolph stumbled around shakily, trying to maintain his balance and keep himself together.

"Rudolph, get out of here," she said, rising. She lifted her hand to wave away his protests before he could say them and pointed at the door. "Go. Get someone who can actually help--Jasper, Artemis, someone. Okay? Go!" Reluctantly, the skeleton turned and left the shop. Margot watched him go down the street through the window before turning back into the shop, taking a few careful, light steps into the interior. Nothing seemed disturbed on the sales floor, and the tremor she'd felt implied that the explosion had come from underground.

She approached the basement hatch carefully. Margot had never been in the basement, either. Atlas had shown her where it was once, and only to inform her that she should never go in without him, no matter how hard Rudolph tried to convince her to take him down there. The rug that usually covered it was thrown back, but the door was still shut. She could hear thuds coming from inside. They didn't know she was there; Rudolph had gone for help. She could go back upstairs to safety and wait for the authorities, and they would know what to do--

She realized, suddenly, that the noises from the basement had stopped. The shop was eerily silent. She couldn't stand it anymore. She knelt down and seized the ring in the door, pulling the heavy wooden hatch with all her strength. She managed to lift it a few inches and shoved her knee under it, rising slowly and using the leverage to lift it the rest of the way. She pushed it over and it fell with a loud, resounding and very obvious thud. Well. They know I'm here now. Nothing to lose.

"Atlas!" she cried, running down the stairs clumsily.

“This is ineffective.” Shallah remarked to Deacon as she finished cleaning the blood from her nails. There was no answer as such, simply a low curse and then another flick of his wand to punctuate it. Caedmon answered with a cry but nothing more. Stepping between the two men Shallah knelt on the floor in front of the fallen SHOP owner, surveyed the damage. The Dilabo was quiet large now and various muscles twitched and leapt up beneath the skin of their own volition. She extended a finger and brushed away the hair that obscured the man's face.

Some of the light was gone, dulled, but the pupils focused on her, irises retracting slightly with the change of the light. He was still with them then. It was rather impressive all things considered but there was little more that could be done to force words he was unwilling to give. She stood and cocked her head and Zora, it was the time for a change of strategy. The girl took a few steps forward and then stopped suddenly, her eyes sweeping over the ceiling above. There was a brief moment of confusion and then Shallah heard it as well. The sound of feet and then metal as the basement door was lifted from its hatch.

But the process was slow, the hinges creaked and ground against one another, why did this new interlooper not simply blast the door? Shallah lifted her head and sniffed at the air, once and then again, and she felt with her other senses as well. With her eyes she looked down at Caedmon, alert now and making stunted little movements, one of his ruined fingers caught against her heel. Equilibrium took the door bringing it down to the ground, revealing a par of slim, pajama clad legs. Slim beneath the fabric, delicate, Shallah knew it was a woman mere miliseconds before the girl came bounding down the stairs. Calling out like one lost. Shallah made the barest of movements with her hands, Deacon was on standby but she gave no command to attack.

Atlas!

Shallah glared at Cal who's face registered surprise, he hadn't known then. Hadn't known that another might be occupying the dwelling. There was something strange about the girl, something off. She was at the bottom now, her eyes finally registering not only the fallen man who she cried for, but the others standing scattered in the room. Her eyes were wide like a deers and she seemed torn between comforting Atlas and fleeing from the room. It was rather too late for either.

“Truly a place of oddities and rarities is it not?” Shallah asked the empty air, eyes never leaving the girl. “That a Muggle girl should be found here. So many secrets Mr. Caedmon and none that will work in your favor.” She beckoned the girl, hand open, palm up. While with a wave of the other hand she slammed the basement hatch behind her.

“A poor choice to summon for assistance but the valor is....impressive. Now Mr. Caedmon I believe your pet has rather upped the stakes. You will conceded to our demands and I will make her suffering swift and but the span of a moment.”

Atlas.

It really was the very last voice on the planet that he wanted to hear right now. The wrong voice, the wrong tone, in the wrong place. Nothing about it was right and she was here and he needed to turn around and tell her to run, get out but there was sawdust in his joints and acid coating his throat. He needed to tell her because in a moment it was going to be too late, it might be too late already.

No, no, no, no, no.

A moment later she was at the bottom of the stairs, too late then. No one moved, except for the Dilabo who seemed less than impressed by Margot’s grand entrance; it was more content to continue its meal. The veela looked to be sizing up her next as she looked over Margot. Struggling, Atlas pushed himself upright slightly, back grating against the step currently supporting his weight. He reached for her and caught onto the edge of her shirt, trying to pull her back and away from the creature. He had never told her about veela, they had never really seemed important. Pretty things but innocuous, trinkets that you sometimes saw wandering around on the arms of the influential and wealthy when they thought that no one was looking. There had been no need to mention them, to warn her about what they could do, because really Atlas hadn’t known. Now he did and it was too late because the Veela had started to talk.

Truly a place of oddities and rarities is it not? That a Muggle girl should be found here. So many secrets Mr. Caedmon and none that will work in your favor..

She knew but then of course she would. Urgently he tugged Margot back as well as he could. She didn’t move far, a few centimeters at the most. Her eyes were huge as they searched around the room.

A poor choice to summon for assistance but the valor is....impressive. Now Mr. Caedmon I believe your pet has rather upped the stakes. You will conceded to our demands and I will make her suffering swift and but the span of a moment..

Now Margot was looking down at him, the expression on her face very much in the present and very different from the one he was used to seeing. They wouldn’t let her go and he wondered for a moment if begging, no matter how much in vain, for her life would make it better somehow. Would it matter if he threw himself at the veela’s feet? Denied what she already knew and told her that Margot was a squib, that her blood was pure but something in genetics had cursed her? And what would happen if he did? He looked up at her and realized that it didn’t matter and it wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” They felt like the first words he had ever spoken, guttural at their beginning. He tried again. “I am so sorry.” He managed to lace his fingers into hers, carefully squeezed them before looking at Shallah. It wasn’t Margot’s place to be tortured for his secrets. “Take what you came for.”

The woman was beautiful; too beautiful, so beautiful it almost made Margot sick to look at her. Something was wrong with her beauty, something off in the pallor of her marble-smooth skin. The paranormal had never scared Margot before, but it had always been intangible, never posing a real threat to her. This woman was a living, breathing creature with the same metallic tang in the air around her as an evil or restless spirit. This woman meant her harm, and unlike a demon whose hatred of all things living could barely manifest in noises and breezes, Margot understood that this was not the case with her.

One pale hand reached out to her, fingers gently curling in a summons. Margot simultaneously wished to recoil and step forward, get closer to this woman. She registered with some surprise her foot inching forward, succumbing to the latter half of her reaction, but something was holding her back; her shirt was stretching across her torso. The loud crash of the hatch falling shut again startled her and she fell to her knees. She looked around, wide-eyed, and realized suddenly that she was next to Atlas on the floor. Tears welled up again; his eyes, normally quick and bright, were so dull.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

"No," she said, reaching up. Her hand hovered shakily over his head. She wanted to touch him, but even under the circumstances it seemed too intimate; too intimate for them. They had very little physical contact. Occasionally he would take her by the hand, if they were out in the Alley somewhere or if SHOP was particularly treacherous on any given day, and lead her through the safest path; but that was the fullest extent. To lay her hand on his forehead or cheek, blood-streaked and pain-stricken as he was, still seemed like too much.

"Don't be sorry, Atlas," Margot said quietly. "I don't blame you."

His hand found hers, their fingers interlocking as he squeezed, a gesture both reassuring and desperate. The contact was warm, but sticky; Margot's lip trembled with stifled cries and she struggled to keep from pulling her hand away. She didn't have to look to know it was blood. Instead she shut her eyes tightly and squeezed Atlas's hand in return. Did she regret coming down here, out of the safety of Atlas's home? No. At the very least, neither of them would be alone when they died. It was some small comfort.

“Take what you came for.”

Margot didn't know what he was talking about, and she didn't care. His secrets were none of her concern, and they were certainly his to do with what he wanted. If he wanted to give them up to these awful people, so be it; but she hated the defeat in his voice. He was giving up, letting go, and it seemed so out of character for him. She started shaking her head but couldn't think of anything to say. Instead she cupped his cheek, trying to ignore the horrible juxtaposition of warm blood and clammy flesh, and gently moved her thumb back and forth over his skin.

The Muggle girl had fallen to the ground, knees gathered up under herself and one hand lilting over her companion's body. It would drop now and then but never made contact, as if some invisible force held her back from contact. Was it the blood Shallah wondered as she observed the pair. It was a liquid they were all very familiar with but its appearance alone could cause a certain degree of panic, a clear indication of their mortality running onto the floor.

Their were hushed words exchanged between the two which she tried not to listen to. Privacy was an important virtue to them and something that she could respect. Caedmon had held fast to his decision to give them nothing, even broken and helpless on the ground. It was more than a great many she had encountered in her time among all of them. It was not the norm, most could be broken at the mere threat of pain and death, and it was somewhat rare that Deacon or herself were required to delve fully into their respective talents to exact information.

The two human's joined hands Deacon's sound of disgust was almost covered by a fresh set of whimpering, melancholy sounds from the Muggle. Shallah was deeply curious as to her story. They were illegal and rare to her eyes though the crawled over the whole of the world like hungry ants. How had one come to be here? Caedmon's head lulled in his direction and she lifted her chin, waiting for the answer to her offer.

Take what you came for.

He did not beg. She did not know whether to mourn this or to add it into the column of respectable attributes. The Muggle's hand finally found a place to stay, attaching to one cheek and stroking the stained skined. Comforting.

“This is a wise decision Mr. Caedmon it pleases me that you have chosen to see reason. It is unfortunate however that my methods for the extraction of the spell must now come from a second source.” She did not have to say or do anything to draw Zora out from whatever place she had retreated to when Atlas' would be rescuer had made her sudden appearance. The Muggle tensed as the mute approached the two of them. “There is little for you to fear from her child. Do you know what a legimens is?” Caedmon tensed, flinching away as Zora got closer, she glanced up at Shallah, wand out, ready to begin. “They are those wizards particularly skilled in walking into the mind of another. I fear I can no longer trust the words from his mouth so I will have my assistant retrieve it from a much more reliable source. You are free to remain where you are for the time being as your presence may prove to be a comfort.”

She addressed Zora. “Do you require he be held somehow?” She shook her head in the negative. “Then proceed.”

Zora made a sharp movement with her wand, eyes closed as she tried to concentrate. She met with a wall, little surprise there because it was the easiest defense to visualize. Taking her time and knowing that what she did here, though it may seem like minutes to hours was the work of a few seconds in the world outside. She walked the length of the wall, knocking here and there and being met with a song. One she recognized, though it took her a moment, as Oh Danny Boy. Then tune was always the same but when the song ended it would being again in a few language, some which she recognized and others that she did not.

A second layer to the overall defense system. The notes were sluggish though and strained Atlas was tired, he would be unable to put up much of a fight. Carefully was she could she located a few of the weak points if she could find the right memory to work as a conduit she would be able to gain access to those that she really wanted. Gently because it would have been a pity to destroy his mind before she had Shallah had ordered her to obtain, she fashioned her own mind into a point. Testing its edge for a moment before driving it into one of the weak spots. Everything shuddered but the wall stayed in tact, she applied more pressure and this time it gave. There was no dramatic crumbling of mortal breaking loose they merely vanished. The song replaced with a low kneeing sound that might have come from this space only or for from the basement outside of it. She rifled through memories. A careless child looking for a lost toy and leaving chaos in her wake. Their were faces, and scraped knees, and all manner of the usual fair. It seemed to take forever and she felt as if she had scowered very part of his mind in vain before she found it.

The memories concerning the spell were all gathered in the same place, clustered together and she snatched at them, pushed back against what little resistance she found. She was preparing her exit from this place when she caught sometime else...something about the hatch, the place where his hand had touched. She could read the alert....aurors were coming. Exiting swiftly and ignoring the others in the room she moved to the work bench, plucked up the documents and found that their meaning was as clear as if she had written them herself.

She gathered all the others swiftly, cross referencing them with the information from Atlas to make sure that she would not leave anything of importance. With her free hand she plucked up one of the discarded pens, jotting down what he had done during his failed escape and passed it off to Shallah. The veela's claws dug into the paper.

“Unfortunate.” She stated flatly. “However it appears that you have all thats needed. Just in case though I propose a test. To ensure we have not been deceived yet again. Write the incantation.” Zora complied handing it over a few moments later.

Shallah looked first at it and then at the Muggle before handing the spell off to Deacon. She wanted to watch. “I do not know if this will hurt or not little Miss.” She began affectionately. “But I did promise Mr. Caedmon a swift end for you and in keeping with the customs of your people I intend to keep my word.”

Deacon stepped forward his face reading nothing but pleasure at the prospect of trying a new toy and on a Muggle as well. It was something akin to Christmas for him. He lifted his wand, "Extraxi Phasma!"

She watched with utter fascination as the spell took hold winding its way around the room before striking at its target and then...lingering. The light stayed attachted for a moment, prying and then the soul came with it. Shallah drew back away from the light and the glowing element that spewed what looked like magma.

"This is your moment." She told Cal, who was pressed to the wall, watching the spell with eyes almost as wide as the muggle girls had been moments ago. Reaching into her bag she handed him the gun that she had prepared for the occasion. He took his numbly, lifted it but his finger did not move to pull the trigger. She waited the span of several heart beats and then made a chiding sound.

"We have no time and must depart, he has alterted the authorities. Your decision must come now." Still nothing, only his eyes looking at Caedmon's crumbled form. "Then we go....the plan remains, travel to your perspective safe havens and we shall meet to debrief."

Zora and Deacon departed swiftly and Cal fumbled with his port key before he managed to clasp it and disapeer from the basement as well. Shallah surveryed the pair at the bottom of the stairs and the soul not occupying a large portion of the center of the room. She would not take it with her, she could see the fine lines it was quickly etching into reality. It would stay here.

Moving to the pair she lifted one talon, cooing as she turned Atlas' cheek and etched a fine, '1/2' into the flesh, applying fire to ensure the mark did not become lost among the rest of the injuries. With the girl she lifted on pale arm, carefully burning 'muggle' into the soft flesh, breathing in the smell. Suverying her work she nudged the Dilabo from its perch, cradling the creature to her before taking her leave of the place.