Mayfair Manor

[Okimiyage]

Rynn sat up, or attempted to. His legs had mysteriously gotten caught, burrito-like, in the blankets again. After a moment he gave up, and sank back into the coverlet with a huff that lifted the tips of his bangs. His nails traced a pattern over Airi’s exposed chest, some long-ago, half-learned remnant of a magic circle. Maybe a love spell. “My brother used to say that the first rule of negotiation was to never name your price. Never tell someone else what it is that you really want, because then they can hold that over you. Use it against you.” He let his eyes drift shut for a moment. “So it’s safer, you see, to never tell someone that you care about them, to let them know they have that kind of power. Even if…sometimes, they know anyways.” He peeked at Alistair, slit-eyed, beneath the fringe of his lashes, like the expression of a satisfied cat. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about me eloping while you’re off carrying on with an education of some sort. Nobody else is stubborn enough to tolerate me, remember?”
He reached out, tentatively, and worked his fingers cautiously into Airi’s hand. “Really, if you wanted someone to pine after you, you picked the wrong man. I’ll just have to focus on improving myself in the meantime, too. It wouldn’t do at all if you came back to be some sort of rampant success and I was doing nothing except—waiting—all the while.” Rynn worried his lower lip between his teeth. He didn’t want to think about what that self-improvement entailed. It was funny, somehow—in the Calais household, he had never once concerned himself with living up to anyone else’s expectations. Now, it seemed to be what he was constantly striving for—acceptance, approval, to be worthy of love and respect. Maybe that was a good thing; there was never anything wrong with self-improvement. But he found himself second-guessing his own decisions in ways that he had never done before. The sensation was unnerving, to say the least. He didn’t even know what he was good at, besides magic, and that wouldn’t help in the real world unless he wanted to set up shop as Osiris City’s local lichlord. This was going to take more effort than he expected.

Dorian seemed to brighten momentarily at the glowing description that he had received at Antha’s hands. Not that he didn’t always enjoy flattery, but somehow it meant more hearing it had come from her. The only thing more delightful was hearing someone else tell him how others had flatteringly described him.
No, wait, focus. This was the one that all the fuss had been about, earlier. He took one of the seats at the far end of the table and sipped his coffee, giving the stranger a hard look over the rim of his mug.
Cian was a good deal less relaxed about it. He started to bristle, protectively—the words were lining themselves up in his head to be fired off, already—what do you mean i’m not good enough—

and then he stopped, and forced himself to dismantle the armory of words that he had constructed, the walls of defense that were already mounting behind it. Magnus had a good eye. It only stung sharply because he hadn’t expected the man to be able to read him this quickly.
After all, Magnus was right. He wasn’t good enough for Antha. Her family was a ‘pillar of the community’, as the papers like to endearingly refer to them, and his was—had been—quintessentially a glorified order of hermits, obsessed with death and heritage and power. It was the reason why it had been such a scandal when they had married, because everyone knew the Mayfairs, and the Calais—well, they hadn’t been mentioned in local news since a 1912 wedding to a foreign countess of some discernible wealth (The obituaries were obviously never reported, as their bodies were interred on-site.) His reputation as a man about the town hadn’t helped. Everyone had assumed—with both of their lurid histories combined—that there was something fishy about the convenient announcement of their wedding. The accelerated speed of Antha’s pregnancy had only added fuel to the fire.
But Courtland’s teasing didn’t help, either. He sighed, and resisted the urge to clobber his cousin by marriage. Then again, defending his actions right now, with Magnus hovering like a mother bear over Antha’s honor—his idea of it, anyways—seemed like a venture that was doomed to failure.
Dorian squinted hard at Courtland, but didn’t protest. Not loudly, anyways.
“hope you get roofied by a gang of fairies one day, too…”
When Antha returned to the kitchen with the twins in either arm, Cian stood up to greet her, coming forward to take Vanessa as she was transferred into his arms. It was a somewhat awkward handling, but she seemed to settle naturally against him, and was soon enough happily clutching for his collar.
However well she took to her father, though, even Cain was astonished by how quickly Magnus could soothe Sebastien. Sidling closer to Antha, he looked meaningfully in their direction and nudged his wife. “…were we in the market for a nursemaid before now?”
Assuming that he didn’t make the children move to Stockholm, of course.
But soon enough, there was a rapid crossfire of Swedish; it was hard to tell what they were saying, but their expressions conveyed that stalemate had been reached. Dorian’s head seemed like it would never stop swiveling between the two of them. “If nothing else, do it for the children,” he chimed in, at the last. “After all, it’s going to be so awkward at holidays if their uncle and their dad aren’t on speaking terms.”
Can gave Dorian a barbed look, then glanced at Magnus. “I’m sure we’ll get used to one another.”
it was, as Antha said, a start. He could work with that.
Almost as if on cue, breaking the awkward silence, Liesse scrambled through the door. Her hair was in two long braids today, which was presumably part of what had taken her so long to get ready. “Has anyone seen my book bag?” she asked anxiously, fiddling with the collar of her uniform. “I can’t find it, I think Rynn might’ve moved it somewhere—oh.“ She stopped, staring at Magnus, then swiveled to Antha. “This is the one you were all worried about? He doesn’t look so terrible.”
Very quietly, Dorian muttered, "You might be surprised."
Cian turned his head to the side and cleared his throat. "Liesse, this is Magnus. Magnus, Liesse--she's new to the city, as well."
He deliberately left her origins ambiguous; introducing her as his younger sister, when her borrowed body so clearly bore the hallmarks of the Mayfair genes, would have only cast Magnus into further confusion.
He'd never asked what the girl whose body it had been before had done to deserve having her soul cast out of it, and he was slightly afraid of the answer if he had.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Humming deep in his throat, Airi leaned his head against Rynn’s, his cheek against his hair. “Safer, certainly,” he agreed in that thoughtful little purr, “It’s always safer to keep to yourself. Rather like locking yourself in a padded room---safe, cold, and colorless. A complete waste of life.” His arm slipped around the other boy, his fingertips gently skimming across his skin, up his back and over his shoulder, back down across his chest. “But are we negotiating, Rynn? Even if we were…we’re more or less on the same level, don’t you think? We have, shall we say, corresponding weaknesses.”
After another moment of thought, listening to Rynn, he gave a sudden laugh. “You? Rynn Calais? Just waiting, quietly? Oh no, not you, only a fool would expect it. There’s always something in the distance for you, something to claw your way towards. You’ll outlive god trying to get everything the way you want it.” Rather like Antha, he thought, but didn’t even begin to consider saying it out loud. And then, flashing a little grin, he ducked his head and whispered in Rynn’s ear, “But you lie. Say what you want now, while it’s distant, but it’ll be a different story when I’m not in arm’s reach. Of course you’ll pine after me, Rynn. You already do when I’m right in front of you, you think it won’t be worse when I’m gone for days or weeks at a time?”
Inadvertently, Alistair seemed to have unnerved himself. He was quiet for a moment, his muscles tensing slightly, and then ducked his head to bury his face in the crook of Rynn’s neck, pressing a light kiss against the earlier mark he’d made in his skin. “I’ll never stay away for long,” he murmured, in a cadence something like a contrite child, “No matter where I go. I’ll never give you the chance to forget me for even a moment.” Never let himself become faint enough in Rynn’s mind that he might decide it was more important to settle down with some girl instead, for the continuation of the Calais line. But that was one of those things that Alistair tactfully didn’t mention aloud.

Magnus cast Cian a dubious glance at the suggestion that they would get used to one another, but Antha caught his eye and he held his tongue. Instead he glanced at Liesse, flatly, murmuring, “Trevligt att träffas.”
Beneath her breath, Antha admonished him quietly, “English, Magnus.”
“Pleasure to meet,” he corrected himself, only slightly annoyed. But the girl’s arrival had brought the time to his attention and, after glancing around the room for a clock, made a little noise to himself. “I go to hotel now, for check-in. Come back in afternoon to take Ahnsa to lunch, ja?”
Reluctantly, he tried handing Sebastien back to Antha only for Michael to snatch the infant, holding him lovingly to himself. “I’ve got him, Evie, you go show Magnus out.”
“Tack, Herr York.” Antha nodded appreciatively, taking her brother’s arm and leading him back out. There was something both protective in the way she handled him and yet very ready to get him the hell out of the house.
Once they were out of earshot, Jack lifted his head and said bluntly, “You’re jealous.”
Michael reacted too quickly for it not to be true. “I most certainly am not! No. I’m only glad he’s leaving before Julien decides to present himself.”
“He doesn’t like Julien?”
“No, and Julien doesn’t like him. He hates him. Hates, hates, hates him. And the feeling is mutual.” Michael shook his head, gently bouncing Sebastien on his shoulder and pacing a line across the kitchen floor. “According to Antha, Leon told the worst stories of all about Julien---hardly surprising, really---and Magnus never really shook the predisposition. And Julien didn’t like this strange Swedish boy being snarky to him over the phone and it just spiraled out of control from there.”
Jack hummed to himself, nodding that he understood. “You’re also jealous.”
“I am not having this argument with you this morning.”
The boy shrugged, turning his gaze on Cian. “More importantly, how are you doing? That was rough.”
The front door shut and Antha’s footsteps pattered back to the kitchen, where she dropped into a chair with a little groan and slunk back, her head lulled on the back of the chair, closing her eyes. “I would like just one brother that’s not exhausting. Is that asking too much?”
“Probably,” Jack muttered, shrugging, “How you holding up, champ?”
Antha ignored him, her eyes flickering open and turning wearily on Cian. “It’s not true,” she said bluntly, just a little glimmer of concern in her eyes, “You know that, right?”
“I don’t know,” Courtland interrupted, slinking back into the kitchen now that the lanky giant of a Swede was safely out of striking range, “You’re pretty impressive, Evie. Most people would feel unworthy next to you.”
“Shut up,” Antha commanded him, leaning her head back with her palm to her forehead, eyes sliding closed again. To Cian she said simply, “It’s ridiculous. Nothing’s ever going to change his mind, of course, but it’s still ridiculous. I was a total effing wreck before I met you, and incredibly overdue on some disastrous mishap killing me. I was crazy, reckless, and terrifying, I don’t see how that equates to being impressive.”
Courtland shrugged. “If you’re into that sort of thing, it does.”
“I said shut up.” Giving a little sigh, she worked herself up and straight again with some effort, turning and pressing a reassuring kiss to Cian’s cheek as she prepared to stand. “Magnus doesn’t see that we’re perfectly matched, but you ought to, darling.”
Crossing the kitchen, she made to take her son from Michael, but the man took a step back and shook his head. “I’ve got him. It’s been a long morning already, we can take the twins. You two go back to bed.” He turned, maneuvering to take up Sebastien’s bear from the table as Jack swiped Vanessa from her father. “I think it’ll do you both a world of good to get some---” He turned back around and then abruptly went quiet. Antha and Cian were nowhere in sight. “Where---?”
Courtland grinned, pointing a finger at the stairs a moment before their bedroom door shut down the upstairs hallway. “And I don’t think Evie intends to let him sleep.”
“She moves quick,” Jack added with a hint of admiration, “I don’t blame her, the babies don’t leave a lot of time or energy for, shall we say, ‘recreational activity’. Seems frustrating.”
“Speaking of,” Michael began, turning his gaze on Dorian, “You’re about due for a little time off, don’t you think?”
“He has a point,” Courtland concurred, humming to himself, “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you don’t take a little break every now and then. I think we could manage without you for a night.”
“Not that they won’t still completely consume your thoughts,” Michael added in warning.
Jack gave a sudden laugh at that, exclaiming gleefully, “Oh man, remember the first night Evie went out after the twins were born? Dorian, were you here for that? She put the number for the CDC on the fridge three times to make sure we had it. Practically had to drag her out the door, all nervous and weepy. And going out was her idea!”
“It’s terrifying the first time,” Michael excused her lightly, stroking Sebastien’s wispy little curls, “And all the others, for months and months. It gets easier after that. At least with well-behaved children, like Malakai. With the mischievous ones, like Nicolae, it’s always terrifying. You’re always panicking about what new sharp things they might find in the split second when no one is looking.”
“Now that you mention it, I do recall Nikki hoarding a lot of forks when we were really little…”
“I will need to require that we switch to rubber tableware when Adair starts crawling,” Courtland interrupted then, sobering into complete seriousness to make his ridiculous demand, “And knick-knacks. There should be no access to anything breakable.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Court’s going to be a troublesome parent. For us, mainly.”
“Why don’t you call up your friends and get out of the house for a bit tonight?” Michael continued to Dorian, ignoring the bickering married couple, “The children will be down by eight or nine.”
“I’m just saying, how do you expect us to eat?”
“With spoons, mostly.”
“You’re impossible, you know that? Impossible and ridiculous. Do you expect for a moment that Antha’s going to give up her fruit tarts because you’ve banned forks from the house?”
“No, she---” At the very same moment, the boys and Michael all went still and silent, glancing away from one another. There was no point in speculating, because Antha would be long gone by then, but none of them was willing to acknowledge that fact. Neither, however, could they bear to pretend everything would be fine.

Upstairs, Antha gave a great groan when she and Cian were alone, turning and tumbling face down on the bed. “He doesn’t change at all, the Swedish b*****d. He’s my brother and I love him and all, but he’s really, really overwhelming, in the most maddeningly stoic way.” Sighing, she drew herself back up and reached a beckoning hand out for her husband, drawing him close enough to loosen the collar of his shirt. “And you’re a damned fool, you know that?” she purred, oddly with affection, laying a gentle kiss to his lips, “Listening to an even bigger fool like that, with that awful look in your eyes.” Her arms drew around his neck, all alluringly soft, warm flesh, a longer kiss pressing to his lips, all of it counteracting the vile words that came out of her mouth next. “My family is made up of incestuous murderers with very charming smiles---not that family prestige is worth a damn anyways---and I’m a psychopath. A very ‘accomplished’ psychopath with more than my fair share of sex appeal, mind you, but really just a terrifying crazy person. You know that about me. And if half of the nonsense I do seems impressive to you, it only proves that you are a match for me because mon dieu, no one else will put up with it.”
She gave a sudden laugh as if something had struck her memory, falling on her back in the sheets with the back of her hand cast across her eyes. “When they were trying to marry me off to Christian Parker, nearly the only words we spoke to one another were lists of things he said he wouldn’t tolerate when we were married. No contact with the mafia, no Russian Roulette, no wrestling werewolves, no setting fires, no vampire bite marks, no public intoxication, no opium dens, no reckless driving, no ‘inappropriate attire’---my sundresses, Cian, he wanted to take away my sundresses!” She shook her head, giving a little sound of disgust, and slipped her legs around his waist to coerce him into joining her. Once again, she was inadvertently displaying how effortlessly her aforementioned sex appeal manifested, her body spilled across the white sheets as languidly as a cat, clothes in inviting disarray, her arms pale as cream against the lush coils of scarlet all around her shoulders. She had that particular look in her eyes that Cian was no doubt intimately familiar with, that dark and suggestive glimmer matching the impish smirk on her lips. “Never mind what anyone else thinks, they’re wrong about everything all the time anyways. My opinion is the only one that matters, n’est pas? Besides…they don’t know us, either of us. Who’s to decide any of this nonsense when they don’t know the first thing about you or me?”  

[Okimiyage]

After a moment, the tension in Rynn’s spine seemed to loosen, and he fell back against Alistair’s chest with a sigh, taking those wandering hands by the wrist and crossing them loosely over his torso, a halfway effort to limit the distractions that Alistair could produce. You think it won’t be worse when I’m gone for days or weeks at a time? seemed to have undone him.
“It might be worse,” he admitted, reluctantly. “But the alternative is to follow you around the globe like—like Snowy following Tintin. That wouldn’t be so bad, either, but…I think…what I want…is to build something where I am.” He turned his head, slightly, watching Alistair’s expression from out of the corner of his eye. “Something that you can come home to. Something that I can be proud of, so that if we ever…” he stopped himself, and rearranged the next sentence with decorum inside of his head. “…if we ever stand side-by-side, I can be seen as your equal. Although I have the slightest suspicion that desire may never truly come to pass, in certain regards.” Rynn laughed, a breath that escaped him like a bird winging out of its cage. “But that’s part of why I like you, I think. You make up for what I lack, like all the times your charm has saved me from seeming like a completely irredeemable a**.” Impulsively, he took one of Alistair’s hands, turned it over in his own, and pressed his lips briefly to the other boy’s palm.
“And who knows? Give me enough time, and I may surprise you with whom I’ve become.”
With this, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Rynn’s mouth.

Dorian stopped at this suggestion, infused by a sudden awkwardness that was completely out-of-character for him. It was like seeing a cat trip over its own paws. Like a cat, he also immediately tried to reassemble the fragments of his dignity. “Michael, I’m surprised you’d suggest such a thing. I’m a responsible parent, now, I have to set a good example.”
Lies tilted her head. “Dorian, they’re infants. It’s darling of you to worry, but Michael and I wouldn’t mind taking care of them for an evening.”
“Well, I—“ Dorian crossed his arms, defensively. “I wouldn’t. Anyways, I wouldn’t even know where to go. It’s like—“ He scrunched up his nose, and made a haphazard guess. “—Thursday or something, not even a proper weekend.”
Liesse’s expression turned quizzical. She glanced between Dorian, Michael and Courtland, her brow creasing in confusion. “Did something happen? I’d never imagine Dorian would be one to pass up on a night out.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to be mature, for once,” Dorian huffed.
“That sounds far-fetched.”
“Exactly why I have to prove you wrong. Nobody takes me seriously. And the people who did—“ Dorian fell silent, suddenly, leaving a noted absence in the air.
“—well, we’re not on speaking terms anymore, it would seem.” he finished, brusquely.
The truth was, none of his ‘friends’ had spoken to him—or tried to contact him—since he’d come back. It would seem that, in the intervening months after his disappearance, most of them had assumed he was dead. It wasn’t so hard to believe in a city like Osiris. He had occupied a flat in the middle of the city, before his seemingly-permanent move into Mayfair Manor, but he had not revisited it—did not want to shovel through a mailslot-ful of bills, if there were one, given that the property hadn’t been leased to another tenant in his absence. Dorian hated the thought. If there was anything that terrified him more than even death, it was being forgotten, being replaced.
And out of sheer, stubborn ego, he had not reached out to the friends who had forgotten him. So what if they forgot? It wasn’t as though he needed them, the lying sycophants. Perhaps he had just liked how it felt, being surrounded by a crowd of admirers—a glass of whiskey in his hand, their smiles on his back like daggers, but it was worth all of that and anything not to feel quite so alone—anything—
The mug of coffee exploded in his hands, and the white damask robe he wore was suddenly ruined, brown stains streaked across the woven pattern of peacock feathers. He opened his fist—chips of ceramic dropped onto the carpet, white porcelain with the bright bloom of fresh blood on it. Dorian was visibly shaken, but he did his best to recover from it. Wiping his hand across the skirt of his robe, he stated, with dispassionate humor. “I guess that’s another thing we’ll have to get rid of. Ceramics.”
“Oh, honestly, Dorian.” Liesse’s pronouncement of his name could have been mistaken for an expletive. She stood up, wiping droplets of warm coffee from the skirt of her uniform. “Even a child has more self-control. I don’t see how you can call yourself responsible in one breath and then implode a mug at me in the next.”
Dorian looked startled. Seeing Liesse lose her temper on anyone was like seeing a lop-eared rabbit turn vicious. “It was an accident,” he protested, faintly, turning away and gently coaxing the torn edges of his palm to knit together. “I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning, Liesse, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, impatiently. “There’s no time. I’m already late, waiting on Rynn—where the devil is he?—I’ll just have to go as I am. Uncle Michael—“ she turned imploring eyes on him. “Could Andrew drive me to school? The bus will have come and gone at this point. Not the limo, though, it’s too ostentatious—people will think we’re showing off. I suppose I could—Katie mentioned it yesterday, whatsitcalled—Oober?”
Dorian, in the meantime, wrapped one of the table napkins loosely around his hand and knelt down, carefully picking the remains of his coffee mug out of the carpet. Courtland was right, in some regards—he’d have to get used to this sort of thing. Once the children were of age to start roaming about of their own accord, there was no telling what kind of accidents they would get up to. Ordinary human children were enough of a burden, to say nothing of witch-children or his own half-fae brood upstairs.
And he thought that perhaps, Michael was right. He needed to get out of the house.

When they got to the room, Cian did not come immediately to the bed. He lingered by the door, watching her tumble onto the sheets in apparent relief. “I see why you warned me, now. He’s, uh…he’s very chilly, isn’t he?” ‘Stoic’ was a lovely way of putting it, but seemed slightly inaccurate. From what Cian could tell, if Antha had not been there to referee, Magnus would have been more than happy to rip them all a new one and whisk Antha away back to Stockholm with him.
But eventually, he drew close to the bed, and let his wife have her way with his buttons.
“I can fool almost ******** else, can’t I?” Cian said, quietly. “But not you. It comes in handy, sometimes, having a psychopath as a spouse. They don’t tolerate a bad acting job. And I’ll need to get better, won’t I, to fool Magnus.” In a single, fluid motion, Cain leaned over her, pushing back the wave of red curls that had fallen to the side of her brow, settling his hips against hers in a familiar tableau. “I’m trying not to rile him, Evie, but it is admittedly difficult to earn someone’s trust when the entire household is…well, none of us are capable of exactly being honest in this situation, are we?” His hand traced the curve of her hip, from thigh to navel, rucking up her skirt, and then paused, tantalizingly. “I almost wish Magnus had a chance to meet that Christian Parker. I’d look like a veritable saint in comparison. Although—I suppose—I can understand why he would want to turn you into some prim, dull society wife. Men like that never see the beauty in wild things. Sundresses.” And he laughed, and shook his head at that, and there was the old, irresistible carelessness—there and gone, like a lens flare in the sunlight. With a strength that Cian always possessed, but rarely used, he took hold of his wife from the small of her back and pulled her up with him in one swift motion so they were sitting nose-to-nose, lips nearly meeting, with her legs wrapped around him. His gaze was steady, but earnest.
“Now, there’s one thing that I can agree with you on. Your opinion is what matters. Which is why I’m going to such pains to hold my tongue around your brother. Believe me, if he wasn’t so important to you, I wouldn’t mind setting him straight on one or two matters. But since he is, then…my pride can take a few punches.” No matter what anyone else thought or said, Antha was worth it.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

“Ah.” Alistair chuckled to himself, quietly amused. “You don’t think I lack things?” he whispered, rolling over to face him directly, “I lack direction, Rynn. Ambition. No matter how much I want to do something, I don’t even know what. All I ever wanted was to be alive, and then you. My ambitions pretty much ended there.” A slow grin spread across his lips, soft and amused. “Julien tells me all the time, I have my head up in the clouds. Just…floating through life. The rest of the city thinks I’m just a pretty airhead.” He laughed at that. “They’re almost right. I have trouble staying serious for long. We’re two extremes---you with your eyes always focused like knives on something, and me never focused on anything in particular, just little ideas without shape.”
Taking the hand that he’d kissed, he intertwined his fingers with Rynn’s, touching his lips to his wrist and trailing them up his arm. “But I already told you, didn’t I? You’re always surprising me. Either you do exactly what I expect, or something I never expected. No one else does that.” His lips moved from Rynn’s shoulder to his own lips, laying the gentlest kiss on them, unusually without blatantly suggestive intention. “I like you the way you are. I’ll probably like you no matter what you change into. Just don’t ever become someone I can’t recognize, Rynn. Don’t turn into someone I can’t come back to, it’ll break my heart.”

Courtland chuckled to himself, flashing Liesse a suggestive glance. “Evie could always disappear into thin air when she wanted to, for days at a time, and often with someone else in tow. I imagine Airi could do the same if he wanted to. Say, if some Swedish giant who thinks he’s just an imaginary friend came into town and he wanted to hide.” He winked. “He would steal Rynn if that were the case, don’t you think? Pretending for a moment that Rynn wouldn’t follow Alistair into hell itself if he just gave that pretty smile of his.”
“You know, I really thought he was joking when he announced Rynn was going to be his first,” Jack sighed, flashing a little winsome grin, “You’ve got to give it to the kid, he knows what he wants and he goes after it guns blazing. None of this coy or insecure nonsense like the rest of us.”
“I’m just surprised it worked,” Courtland chuckled.
“Are you? You’ve actually seen Airi, right? He’s a giant sack of sunshine and charm all wrapped up in a package as pretty as Evie. And that damned straightforwardness of his---I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t just shock and confound Rynn into falling in love with him.”
Michael sighed, handing his honorary grandson over to Courtland and fetching his keys from the hook. “Come on Liesse, I’ll drive you. If they say anything, I’ll write you an excuse note.”
When the two were gone, Courtland turned his attention back to Dorian. “You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to do what’s ‘technically responsible’. Besides, it’s responsible to give yourself some mental health time every now and then. You went from lone wolf to father of three overnight, and then four. Time off is necessary---nay, mandatory. I’m making it mandatory.”
Rolling his eyes at Court’s usual grandiose babbling, Jack flickered a gaze at Dorian and then out the door, adding begrudgingly but earnestly, “You did good, kid. Take a night off.”
“You don’t have to go out,” Courtland pointed out, rolling his eyes, “Go sit in a café or something. Enjoy the quiet. Lord knows there’s none of that around here.” With Sebastien in one arm, he laid his free hand across the top of Dorian’s head, looking him straight in the eye to say earnestly, “Dorian, we’re your biggest critics. If it’s us saying you deserve a break, take it. You’ve…ah, well, you’ve proven yourself, for the time being.” Unusually, Courtland had a hint of a blush in his cheeks, and looked away to conceal it. “You did good. So, we won’t blame you for taking one night off every once in a while. We’ll hold down the fort for you.”
Liesse and Michael had just left when the door opened again, followed by Vittorio’s trademark heavy tread before he appeared in the kitchen door, weary. His cousins had hardly opened their mouths to ask how the tests had gone before he interrupted gruffly, “I’ll be in the parlor. Coffee, if you please, little brother.” And then he was gone, leaving Jack and Courtland to trade veiled glances, saying nothing. The doctor’s mood did not bode well for Melody. But the latter poured a cup of coffee---unsurprisingly, Tori took it black---and pushed it towards Dorian, murmuring gently that he should probably take it to him.
In the parlor, Vittorio had settled in one of the armchairs by the window, glancing up at Dorian as he entered and motioning for him to close the door and sit down. If nothing else had been a bad omen, the two glasses of bourbon he’d already poured sitting on the table between them certainly was.
Vittorio had never been the type to mix words, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. He only waited until his brother was seated, quietly sipping at his drink (the coffee went ignored, it was only a pretense), before announcing bluntly, “It’s an optimistic son of a b***h that gave her six months to live.” He put his glass back to his lips, eyes flashing, giving that a moment to sink in before continuing. “The lab technicians are still examining her, but I’ve seen all I need to. She’s more likely to go before next week. The cancer is in the control center of her brain, it’s---” He sighed, making a little gesture and sipping his drink. “It’s advanced, and highly aggressive. I don’t even dare to touch it, it would only do more harm. Getting too close to it could completely wipe her memories, or destroy her central nervous system.” A deep sigh spilled through his lips before he took a particularly large gulp of his drink. “Don’t worry about Magdalena,” he added then, hastily, “She badgered me as soon as I came out of the lab. Fortunate, I think, for the poor intern she’d captured. You’d think she’d grown up intently studying at Antha’s knee, that little daughter of yours. It’s terrifying to watch her work.” He shook his head, acknowledging that he’d been sidetracked. “She understands surprisingly well for a child. She knows the terms, the implications, and she understands that there’s nothing we can do. Impressive really, for her age. Not to say she took it well, but…she’s coping, at least. It won’t take her by surprise in the end. And Melody…” He made a gruff little hum in his throat. Melody was harder to figure out, especially for someone like Vittorio. “She doesn’t want anyone to fuss over her. I see that type all the time, I know it when they’re in front of me. But I can’t say how she’s really feeling. She seemed almost relieved when I told her she probably wouldn’t last six months. Understandable, I suppose, with the severity of her affliction, it has to be constant agony. If I knew her better, I’d say she’s made peace with her fate. Patients like her often do, they prefer a quick death to the alternative. But I don’t, so…” The glass touched down on the table with a low clink after he’d thrown the rest of his drink back, Vittorio watching the gleam of light on the cut glass.
“I’m sorry, little brother,” he said quietly, not looking at Dorian, “I won’t pretend I understand your…feelings, in this matter. But I don’t imagine this news is easy for you.” He cleared his throat, his gaze wandering uncomfortably out the window. “If you, uh, wanted to resolve things with her…well, I would suggest doing it immediately.” What he couldn’t quite bring himself to say directly was that with Melody, it was best to assume there would be no tomorrow.

Giving a little sound of surprise at being moved so suddenly, Antha blinked at her husband, and then abruptly broke out into thoroughly pleased, wicked grin. “Magnus and I have something in common, when it comes to you,” she purred, resting her hands on his shoulders as her lips traced the line of his jaw, “It doesn’t matter to either of us how good of an actor you are, because Magnus doesn’t care, he’ll always see what he wants to and never change his mind about it, and because I’m always staring at you until I see through your act.” Her fingers slipped down to his chest, pushing just enough that she could slide into his lap, leaving less than an inch between the length of their bodies. Close enough to taunt, for the heat of their skin to mingle, but not touching, save for the languorously slow movement of her fingertips tracing idle patterns beneath his shirt. Say what you would, Antha at least knew how to draw a moment out, how to build anticipation. “I’m not worried what you might say to Magnus, and you shouldn’t worry what he says. You usurped him, Cian. It was inevitable that someone would eventually, but that doesn’t make him any less bitter about it. You can’t argue with him because the better you are, the less he’ll like you. He could forgive someone like Christian Parker, a man who doesn’t appreciate me, bonded to me lovelessly, because then he would still be the prince of my universe. But with you, he sees someone who’s finally outranked him. You took away his precious little angel, and the only way he can cope is by convincing himself that you’re an unworthy scoundrel.”
Finally, after practically an eternity of teasing him, she brought her lips against his, the sort of deep and lingering kiss that signaled she meant business. “That roguish charm of yours probably doesn’t help, though,” she murmured, pulling back a half inch and running her thumb gently over his lower lip, a teasing grin spread across her own. “Especially as much as I like it. No, you were always bound to be Magnus’s worst nightmare, as deeply and indecently as I love you.” Bringing her fingers to his hair, she gave a low hum of a laugh, very gently running her fingertips across his tousled locks. “Hmm…you’re at your best like that, you know,” she whispered, her fingers slipping around his head and pulling him into another kiss, “I wonder where it went to, that heedless self-confidence of yours. It always looked so good on you.”  

[Okimiyage]

Can lifted his head, baring his throat to her mouth and teeth. His vocal chords thrummed beneath her lips: “Mmm. Heedless is a good word for it. It’s easy to be reckless when you don’t particularly care very much for—well, for anything. Other people were boring and—well, petty. Not just their personalities, but everything about their simple, monotonous existences, all their cares and concerns.” He had allowed his eyes to close, briefly; now, one peeked open in a slit, watching her expression to see how she responded. “I didn’t like anyone, not even myself. But because of my bloodline, there were times when I still felt superior to ‘ordinary’ people…and there were times when I envied them, too, because their lives seemed so uncomplicated.” Cain’s breath came out in a short, rueful sigh, causing the tousled locks of hair that Antha had finger-combed over his eyes to flutter. For a moment, he was quiet, spreading his fingers where they rested at the small of her back and working his the tips of his fingers, almost absentmindedly, up the column of her spine, until they cupped the nape of her neck.
“And then, without ever looking for it, I found something that I did care about, something that I was afraid of losing…something that made me want to go on living, instead of abusing my body into an early and well-earned grave.” he said, quietly. “Three of them, now. And if you want something or someone badly enough, for long enough, it changes you. It affects the way you think, the risks you’re willing to take. If you want an explanation, it isn’t the self-confidence that’s lacking. I have so much to be proud of, here.” Dipping his head against her shoulder, he made it clear to what he was referring to. “If that meant passing up on some of the more reckless choices that I could have made, it’s a good trade. If I was the person that I was even a year ago this morning, well…” He flashed a grin. “I must say, I suspect Magnus would probably be clamoring at our door right now for you to sign the divorce papers.”

Rynn was silent: he seemed to be seriously considering something. He tipped his head back, letting his head fall onto Alistair’s shoulders, his hair spill across those sharp collarbones, and raised his eyes to meet his lover’s. “Well, that is sort of indicative of the way we see time, isn’t it? You remember…entire lifetimes, the rise and fall of empires. For you, it’s not a finite resource— if you lack the ambition to accomplish anything in this life, there will certainly be another opportunity to exercise your aspirations. For me…” Rynn shut his eyes. Then, he leaned forward, pulling out of Alistair’s grasp. “Time feels like a box, a cage, a trap. We have a little bit of it on this earth, just long enough to acquire a taste for living, and then we are resigned to another box in the ground, to decay, and then we find ourselves boxed up in the labyrinth, so we won’t escape and go wandering about dispersing our energy unnecessarily, so that our souls can be unified and harnessed like an enormous battery.” Rynn grimaced. “D’you know that there are people in that maze that have forgotten their own faces? Their own names? All they are is energy, now, the last vestiges of human souls as we suck them dry. But the people who did something, oh, we remembered them. We hung up their portraits and taught our children their names and their feats like they were heroes from some ancient-world mythology. They remembered, too, by dint of our recognition. So I always wanted to be one of those, someone who made an impact, who changed the world for better or worse. I suppose that being the last of my line has a certain measure of significance—it’s just that there will be none of us to remember it, after I am gone.” Rynn half-turned, but did not quite face Alistair; there was something luminous about his profile, the reflected light in his eyes, as he sat there, quite straight-backed, swathed below the waist in crumpled sheets. “But if you remember, then maybe that is enough.” He lifted his chin. “And in return, I won’t forget you, whether it’s for a summer, or a few years, or the rest of my lifetime. I know that I can’t remember for as long, perhaps, but it’s all that I’m capable of.”
Lies looked relieved—“I’ll grab Rynn’s books for him, then—just in case he shows up—give me a minute—“ before she darted out of the room once again.
When Dorian came back from disposing of the shards of coffee cup in the trash, the gash in his hand was already healed, a red welt that ran from thumb to forefinger. Nevertheless, he appeared pained. It was weird to suddenly receive the encouragement of—not just Courtland, who was almost the most forgiving of the Mayfair cousins, but Jack. He glanced aside, to the floor, and pushed his hair nervously out of his eyes. It was telling of his abilities that Dorian could make even acute discomfort look like a photoshoot scheduled to appear in Vogue. “I, uh.” For once, he seemed at a loss for words. It had been so long since his cousins had seemed to accept him that at first, Dorian hadn’t been sure whether they were joking or not.
But even if they were, even if they were mocking him outright, it felt…good to see that expression—not quite a smile, but close enough—on Courtland’s face. It felt good to hear those words from Jack. So finally, Dorian caved. “Thanks,” he said, only a tad gruffly. “I owe you one. But you’re on the line for anything that happens tonight, okay? If I come home to a nursery full of squalling infants, you’re going to be in deep trouble.”
He pointed to both members of the union, in turn, and narrowed his eyes in the most evil stare that he could conjure. It didn’t last for long, though; when Vittorio appeared in the doorway, Dorian’s intimidation attempt melted away into sheer anxiety. He could tell, by the other’s face, that something was wrong.
The bourbon offering only confirmed it. Stepping carefully into the parlor, Dorian shut the door behind him with his heel and set aside the two mugs of coffee. Obviously, it was going to be *that* kind of morning.
Vittorio didn’t give him long to worry, at least. His fingers closed slowly around the base of the cut-crystal tumbler, and dragged it slowly towards the edge of the table and himself. Surprisingly, though, he did not drink. He watched the light filter through the amber liquor for several minutes before lifting the glass.
When he did, he drained it. The burn seemed to muddle his thoughts, dull the pain, distract from the incessant repetition of what Vittorio had said. “Is she still in the hospital?” he asked, quietly, when the burn had cleared from his throat. “I don’t have…contact information for her, or Magdalena. If I can have the afternoon to myself, I’d like to take them out.” To the circus, perhaps. Or perhaps that would be too trying for Melody. Ice-cream, then, a peaceful little cafe like the ones that lines the corners of the walking district downtown.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Finally, Antha gave a little sigh to herself and simply dropped her attempts to seduce her husband, instead slumping against him, her arms draping around his shoulders and forehead leaning against his chest. “You’re probably right,” she agreed quietly, “Magnus never would have accepted my marriage to the boy I met in Llyr’s Court, drugged and careless and shamelessly flirtatious. But then, he would have been appalled at the girl who walked in there in the first place, reckless to the point of walking into a death trap just for kicks. Not that those people even exist anymore.” She went slightly more limp, her face turning and burying into his collar. “That girl wouldn’t have cared about any of this. I never did before. I took up lovers and, sometimes, I broke them. I left them hurt and desolate and bitter, I scarred them for life, and I never cared because that was just what you were getting yourself into when you took up with Antha Mayfair, everybody knew that. If someone had told me that night in the library that one day I would be completely consumed with the fear that I’m going to hurt you…I would have turned around and locked myself in my room, probably.” She’d never let herself get in that deep before, not since Nicolae and the great hurt she’d let him inflict on her because she cared too much. As charming as the Calais boy had been, she’d been blindsided by the feelings that developed between them.
“I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to you when I’m gone,” she said at length, in a terrible little whisper as if she’d barely managed to summon the confession at all. Nothing more, not that she was afraid how he would feel when their children grew up and looked like her, acted like her, asked about her, and not her fears that despite everything she’d done to insure against it, they would manage to recover her corpse when Nero was finished with it and he would never get the grotesque image out of his head. Certainly nothing about her fear that their youngest child wouldn’t survive his hastily invented transplant, that Cian would have to suffer the deep and acute pain of losing a child when she was hardly cold in the ground…or wherever her body ended up. The swamp or a pyre, more likely.
She slumped against him, bowed over his shoulder, her fingers stilling over the steady thrumming of his heart. “Can we be stupid kids again for an hour?” she whispered, almost desperately, “That was all we ever got, one hour, and the next thing we knew, I was pregnant. Can we just pretend everything isn’t madness and responsibility for one more hour in our entire lives?”

For a moment, Alistair simply blinked at Rynn, surprised. And then he gave the smallest laugh, turning and sitting up, a hand raking back through his hair. “Ah…sorry. Sometimes I forget what it’s like, talking to people who aren’t already in my head. I only talked to Evie for twenty years, and she already knew everything I was thinking.” Which might have accounted for that straightforwardness everyone was so astonished with. Alistair wasn’t used to being able to keep secrets, much less wanting to. “It’s not the way you’re thinking. I’m only Alistair as long as I’m in this body. Once I’m gone, he’ll just slip away, a piece of me but also something else. I might remember this life, but my time ends when I die, just like everyone else. Just like Deborah, and all the others before her. Her memories are in my head, but I’m not her, she was gone as soon as she died. Eventually, in thousands of years, Deborah’s memories will fade away and I won’t have anything left of her either, and the same will happen to who I am now, to Alistair, when I die. But…” He sighed, his gaze drifting out the window as he draped an arm over his knees, contemplating his next words. “I don’t intend to die, Rynn. I’m tired of it, the whole carousel. I don’t want to get back on it, and I don’t---” A little helpless sound came from his lips, his fingers grasping for something in the air. “I don’t want to go back to that place where we’re two parts of the same thing. It’s uncomfortable like this, being Alistair and Antha when we used to be one entity, but out there? Out there, we’ll just be two ripped pieces of one whole. No separation between us, no distinction, but never quite able to be one whole again. We only existed that way for a moment before, right before we were bound back to the flesh, but it was excruciating and I won’t go back. Evie and I already agreed, it’s better this way. She’s bound to me, so even when she’s gone, she’ll still be Antha. And if I don’t die, we can stay that way. That’s what we want…to be Alistair and Antha for as long as we can, so we don’t lose them like all the others and somewhere along the line, become other people.”
Finally, he turned his gaze back on Rynn, as innocent and placid as ever. “I don’t mean immediately. I don’t even mean soon. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do, if I’m going to find a vampire or werewolf to turn me or surrender to the path of an enmortal, but…I don’t intend to get old and die and get cast off into the void again.” His eyes narrowed, flashing very seriously. “And I don’t intend to let you go, whatever happens to you. Even if you die, I’ll find you, I won’t let you lose yourself like all the others. Even if you step back on the carousel, I’ll find you again. I’m good at that.” A little wry grin flickered across his lips, his eyes softening back into their usual twinkling clarity. “You’re dreaming if you think I’d let you forget me after a summer, or a few years, or the rest of your life. If I have to carve myself into your very soul, I’ll do it.”

Shaking his head, Vittorio gave a little gesture as if he was at a loss. “The tests should be done in a few hours, but she’ll need to rest. After that---” Sliding a business card out of his pocket, printed with the information for a real estate company with an address written in Lawrence’s neat script across the bottom, he slid it across the table at his brother. “Lawrence sent this for you. It’s a Mayfair property, he’s arranged for them to stay there for the time being. I promised to help them unpack tonight, Melody is forbidden from exertion and Magdalena can hardly help with the heavy lifting, so I’ll need you there at five o’clock. Besides…you should spend some time with your daughter. You’re half of all she can talk about, it’s constantly ‘what does this very expensive medical device do and can I touch it’ and ‘isn’t my daddy just the loveliest person in the whole world’.” He rolled his eyes at that. He had never been particularly struck by his brother’s ‘loveliness’---Vittorio had an intrinsic complete lack of interest in charm, he thought it frivolous and distracting. Hardly surprising, given his personality, all logic and cool, collected reason, a high-functioning sociopath to the bone. “Your more psychotically obsessed stalkers weren’t half as taken with you as that little girl.”
He rose then, without much ado in the way of parting pleasantries. When he paused at the door, half-turning to his brother with his hands in his pockets, it was only to muse quietly, “I think Melody knows you, Dorian. Maybe she focuses on the bad parts, which is hard to blame her for, but I think she honestly knows you. Maybe that’s why you’re so scared of her.” He shrugged as if it was inconsequential, turning back towards the door. “That’s probably important. Could you ever really be in love with someone who didn’t honestly know you?” And Vittorio of all people would know that. The darkness in him, though small and buried deep, was more intense than that of most of his cousins. Their bad parts were mostly irresponsible, or mischievous, or selfish, but Vittorio…his little bit of darkness might have been truly evil. Must have been, if even Antha was afraid of what he was capable of. He never would have been able to be with someone who didn’t know that about him, who couldn’t accept it and see past it. Not that he’d ever had any interest in being with anyone but Dolly Jean since he was a child anyways, but he didn’t think he could have even been with her if she didn’t know that terrible part of him.
“‘Twisted in a strangely endearing way, like someone else I know,’” he quoted, thoughtfully slow, “Certainly Magdalena has that in common with you. And yet…Melody never seems to try and correct that part of her, never tries to guide her away from it. She rolls her eyes and sighs and subtly mocks it, but she never rebukes those twisted little personality flaws she got from you. It must mean she accepts that bad side of you, don’t you think? Or would, if you ever stopped snapping at each other long enough.” Again that shrug of his shoulders.
“Oh…” And then he fully turned back to his brother, with a softly serious expression on his face. “Dolly and I decided to elope. She doesn’t want a bunch of people staring at her on the altar. Her brothers would sooner punch me, so I’ll need you to be the witness. I’ll let you know when. Don’t tell anyone.” Then he was gone, with his usual lack of pleasantries or formality.  

[Okimiyage]

For a moment, Rynn seemed quite startled; his whole body tensed, like a bow, and his spine straightened like it had been pulled by a string while Alistair spoke. Finally, after a beat of silence had concluded, he leaned slightly forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, you can be quite frightening at times with that sort of talk, Airi.” Despite that confession, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. “It wouldn’t be quite as unnerving if I didn’t believe you completely. Although…” the smile faded slightly. “You might not have to look far, if I did die. You probably would find me haunting that old maze with the rest of my kin. Family traditions and all.” He paused, and tucked his chin in. “If we got a choice, though, I’d choose to haunt your place instead. I’d be the poltergeist that straightens up your room, and writes encouraging notes on the bathroom mirror in blood, and I could learn to play spooky but soothing melodies on the grand piano.” Rynn was being ridiculous, but at least he had relaxed slightly, and his hands had stopped restlessly twisting the sheets. “And if you were a—whatsitcalled—an enmortal, I could just haunt you forever. It sounds like a television show—handsome vampire protagonist and his ghost butler. You’d probably fight crime or solve mysteries or something.” He gave a small huff of laughter. “What would you choose, anyways? A vampire might be alright, except for the relentless thirst for blood— I can’t quite see you as a werewolf, though. I suppose you could always become a lich, too. Some of my bloodline have tried that. I remember receiving a Christmas card, and a present, from my great-great-great-great uncle one year when we still celebrated it. Unfortunately, his mind had quite gone by that time; the card was in Russian, and the ‘present’ was a dead pigeon in a box.” He sighed. “That was a difficult thank-you card to write. Oh—er, not to be discouraging. I’m sure that you’d be fine.” Rynn met Alistair’s eyes briefly, before glancing again down to his hands in embarrassment. “That’s one of the things I like about you. If it’s for the sake of anchoring Antha here, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do, I think. And while you may not have direction, or—or ambition, perhaps, by god, have you got the passion. You never seem to think twice, or hesitate, or regret. I love that about you, and…hah!…s’pose I’m a bit jealous of it, too.”

Cian looked at his wife, brow creasing slightly, and then reached forward and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Come here.” His tone would brook no argument. His hands dropped to her hips, and in one powerful tug, he slid off the bed and onto his knees, pulling her forward with him. Resting one arm on either of her knees, Cian presented his offer. “I’ll make you a deal. Once that door is closed,” and he gave a brief jerk of his his to the one behind him, “It doesn’t matter what is on the other side of it, or what they think of us, or what they’re doing. You’re right. We both need a sanctuary, someplace where we can…forget about all the noise. How much can any of that really matter? While we have the chance to be with one another, I shouldn’t be wasting it talking about some petty scandal. I have you.” He laid a kiss gently upon the top of her right knee. “I don’t need to focus on anything else. However…”
He lifted his eyes, and they glimmered with mischief as his fingers coaxingly trailed along the inside of her thigh.
“Are you sure you can only spare an hour?”

Dorian’s hand closed into a fist on the table after his brother had gone. Trust Vittorio to drop this kind of news with his customary nonchalance. Unpacking with Melody sounded like a nightmare—he could only imagine the tension between them right now—but if Magdalena was there, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Vittorio wasn’t the type to exaggerate, and what he referred to as ‘taken with’, others might call ‘hero worship’. And what kind of father would he be to disappoint her? His hand unclenched, and he tapped his fingers restlessly on the lacquered tabletop. They were a strange pair, Magdalena and Melody. They had waltzed back into his life as effortlessly as they had vanished from it, but more than that—Melody seemed to see all the bad parts of him, perhaps only the worst parts of him, the bits that his glib charm and pretty face usually covered up. Lena, on the other hand, only saw the best in him, so much so that he felt the standards he was expected to live up to were approaching truly mythological levels.
And what kind of father would he be to disappoint her?
Which was part of the reason why the prospect of spending time with seemed nerve-wracking. Dorian had a talent for ******** these things up, to put it in layman’s terms, and the thought of that little face staring up at him in revulsion—or even worse, disappointment—made Dorian want to pitch himself head-first into a river like Ophelia.
Of course, Vittorio didn’t stay long enough to allow Dorian time to construct an adequate response to that other news. “Well, good for them,” Dorian muttered. Dolly Jean wouldn’t have wanted a big wedding, anyways, it would have been too much pressure and attention. This way they’d have as much privacy and romance as they could stomach—although it was hard to imagine how well Vittorio understood the concept of ‘romance’, considering that, with the sole exception of Dolly Jean, Dorian had never seen his brother display an inkling of tenderness or sensitivity in his lifetime. He was always utterly poised, though sometimes this also meant that he was as stiff as a mannequin.
Well, maybe Dorian could give him some tips. Collecting the business card and tucking it into his breast pocket, Dorian strode out of the room. He had to pick out an outfit, after all; it wouldn’t do to let Magda see him at anything less than his best.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

“What’s not to believe?” he asked, with those usual twinkling eyes and puckish smile, but there was something serious beneath it, “It’s not difficult. If I decide on vampire, I’ll get Khayman to turn me. If I decide on werewolf, Fenrir. They’d do it. I’d rather one of those. If I became an enmortal…” Leaning back against the headboard, he blew out a long sigh, closing his eyes. “I’ve seen it before, a long time ago. Devouring souls is...dangerous, terrible business. You never know what you’ll end up doing to yourself. But my kind are always drawn to it, somehow. The more powerful your soul is, the larger and more hardened by time, the more you crave. You feel it less when you’re in the flesh, but there’s always that glimmer of it left over, that power is stability. It’s such a deep hunger, sometimes it makes you do irrational things, like risking your entire being for a chance at more power.” He shook his head, shuddering at the idea. “Nicolae tried it once. Well---not Nicolae, but someone he used to be. He did the ritual and started consuming souls and he nearly lost himself completely. He finally had to cut and run, and it took him centuries and centuries after the flesh was destroyed to undo the damage, and centuries more to build himself back up.” Finally, he slid over onto his side, burrowing into the sheets with a little sigh.
“Don’t talk like that,” he murmured after a few moments, flickering a puppy dog gaze at Rynn. Though he played up the poutiness, there was a glimmer of something genuinely disturbed in his eyes. “I don’t like the thought of you being a ghost. I’m resurrected, I can’t even go down in that crypt or I’ll get snatched. I don’t want to think about not being able to get to you.” He spent another moment wallowing in the sheets, for all the world like a cat basking in the sun, finally peeking out at Rynn with those big, imploring eyes through the fringe of his mussed curls. “We have at least three hours to kill before we can go home. How many ways do you think I can violate you before then?”

When they finally did stroll back into the house some hours later, Alistair did so shamelessly, with the most innocent smile and challenging flutter of his eyelashes at Julien when he asked why they weren’t in school. Antha had only just returned from lunch with Magnus---the event her brother had been carefully keeping his distance from, in case he dared to step back into the forbidden house so soon---and was muttering irritably under her breath at the kitchen table as she fed Sebastien his lunch. “How did it go, then?” her brother asked when no one else dared to, as if he couldn’t feel the roil of her mind.
She pressed her lips into a hard line, giving a heavy, agitated sigh. “Mmmmm…” she hummed, tilting her head as if she had to think how to say it, “Not well.” Balancing her son on her shoulder, she pulled some crumpled papers from her pocket which he picked up and smoothed out.
“Application for Swedish residency,” he read out, cocking an eyebrow, “Well, he is pretty meticulous in these things.” Balling the papers back up, he dropped them in the trash and went to the fridge, surveying the contents.
“He’ll calm down,” Antha said with a little sigh, more like she was trying to convince herself than anyone else, “When he starts to adjust. He’ll get used to it.”
Rolling his eyes, Courtland replied, “You should just tell him about the witchiness. It’ll be easier to understand when he knows we’re witches.”
“You’ve never actually had a normal friend before, have you Court?”
The boy pursed his lips and honestly thought about it, for several long moments, before finally replying, “I’ve spoken with them before.”
“There are reasons we don’t blurt these things out,” Julien reprehended him, grumbling, “The rumors are one thing, but our kind can still get in a lot of trouble, even these days. Salem was not so long ago. People are fearful, and we are dangerous. The news has to be broken the right way.”
“It could also just melt his brain,” Jack jumped in, “He could just like, you know, not be able to handle it and implode.”
Antha cut in then, sharply, “Thank you, I think that’s quite enough.”
“I do what I can.”
Courtland snickered at his cousin’s disgruntled look, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “You leave us with your children for the whole morning, we’re going to ******** with you.”
But the girl shrugged, adjusting her son on her shoulder to rub his back now that he was finished. “Completely worth it.”
Taking the opportunity to change the topic, Michael turned to Dorian. “With Alistair, I think we’ll be okay from here. Why don’t you head on out? I’m sure Melody would be like to get things unpacked as soon as possible.”
Hiding a laugh in his teacup, Courtland muttered, “I would pay good money to see this.”
“He’ll be fine,” Antha interrupted, shooting her cousins a glare of warning, “Just, you know…bite your tongue if you think you’re about to get into a fight.”
“But not too hard,” Jack added, growing suddenly serious, “Because then you open your mouth and blood goes everywhere and it’s just…awkward.”
Pierce knitted his eyebrows, muttering lowly, “You should really be in a padded room being studied somewhere.” Jack’s only response was to laugh, dazedly.
“Oh, just ignore them,” Lucy finally interrupted, getting up and pushing at Dorian’s back, “Go on, go do some heavy lifting for your baby mama. Just maybe save the mattress for last, okay Casanova?”

The house that Lawrence had designated to Melody and Magdalena was in midtown, directly across the street from a playground. It was from here that, as Dorian was looking for the place, Cyrus called out to him. “Magdalena said you’d be by,” he called, grinning and motioning for him to come over, “I came to introduce her to her cousins. Vittorio said Melody would need to rest anyway, so it seemed like a good time.” Patting the seat beside him, he turned back to observe the playground equipment, eagle-eyed. “It’s…ah, well, it’s interesting, anyway. Magdalena and Belle are…alike. Very alike.” In his usual fashion, he did not say the bad parts outright, only skirted them with a conflicted expression. “Only Magdalena is more, well, like you. It’s, ah…interesting.” Clearing his throat, he flickered a gaze sidelong at Dorian and then back, suppressing a laugh as he mentioned casually, “Do you know what she told me? She asked if it was true that you could seduce anyone, because Ryan told her that you did---he got a time-out and a stern talking-to about gossiping, I promise---and then she got this sort of dreamy look on her face and said how lovely it must be to make anyone fall in love with you. And then she added quickly that of course seducing a lot of people is bad, because her mama says it is and she should stop flirting with all the boys in her class, but it still had to be just lovely, and her papa is just so very, very impressive that he can.” He did chuckle at that, guiltily because he knew he should be more alarmed about it. “I don’t know how Melody thought she was going to convince her not to seduce anyone she can. Putting aside your genes, she has this little troupe of boys following her around and doing everything she says. I’m warning you now, she’s going to be worlds of trouble once puberty kicks in, you’ll have to nail all of her windows shut and bolt her door at night. She mentioned something about a shotgun…”
He stopped then, as the children came in sight of the adults and Magdalena made a shriek of delight, darting over to the bench to climb in Dorian’s lap and lay a kiss on his cheek, her arms closing firmly around his neck. “Papa, Belle doesn’t like me,” she announced, with a decidedly wicked and amused grin on her lips, continuing imperiously, “I think it’s because Henry likes me and she just makes him cry. She tried to make him kiss her and he screamed and ran away. I think there’s something wrong with him, he got this funny look in his eyes, and he doesn’t like the other boys.” Cyrus glanced away, scratching his head. He was hardly going to explain the abuse Henry had suffered from the other boys at the orphanage to her. “I don’t blame him, they’re all so dirty and loud. I guess most boys are---” She glanced inquiringly first at her father and then at Cyrus and back, seeking confirmation for her suspicions. “---but I don’t really know, I never played with them much. Once you read their minds just a little, they all freak out and then mama makes us move somewhere else in the middle of the night. But Victoria says they don’t freak out as much here.”
Abruptly, Cyrus interrupted, “Magdalena, please, stop and take a breath. You’ll pass out at this rate.”
The little girl glanced at him, the color still high in her cheeks from running around as she puffed them out in a pout, but did stop to take a dramatically large breath, rolling her eyes, and then release it again before continuing seamlessly, “Can we go inside now, papa? I want to show you my dolls, and the pretty fairytale book I got for Christmas. Mama’s making dinner for us, but she doesn’t know you’re coming.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows shot up at this, sensing trouble. “She doesn’t?”
“Oh, no!” Magdalena answered, with a conspiratorial little giggle, “Uncle Tori told her he’d help us move things today, but then he told me that he’d help by sending my papa to do it and not to tell mama, because she’d make up an excuse. And she would.” Another little pout crossed her face, indignant and mystified this time. “She’s been acting so weird every time I mention papa, ever since yesterday. And she’s singing extra loud in her head so I won’t know what she’s thinking---not that I would.” She assured this hastily, but was given away by a faint incriminating blush on her cheeks. “But I wanted to see what she would do, so I didn’t tell her. Mama’s funny when she’s shocked.”
While Magdalena giggled to herself, Cyrus gave out a little sigh, murmuring beneath his breath, “Dorian’s child, alright. Mischief incarnate.” Aloud, he said, “You should at least tell your new friends that you’re leaving.”
The child, climbing gracefully down from Dorian’s lap, gave a dismissive gesture of her hand. “They’ll forgive me.”
Cyrus only gave a little amused wave then as daughter dragged father off across the street and up to a brick townhouse, her chattering only interrupted by the call of, “Mama, we’re home!” as she threw open the door and made a line for the stairs.
Across the living room, which was mostly a pile of boxes, there was a clatter of breaking china in the connected kitchen as Melody caught sight of Dorian and froze, eyes wide, the plate simply slipping out of her hand. “Ah,” she murmured, remaining motionless for a moment and then returning to herself all at once, focusing all of her attention on the mess at her feet. “…damn it, that was my only serving dish.”
“Mama, where do you want us to start?” Magdalena demanded, ignoring her mother’s frustration.
“What?” Melody took pains not to look in their direction, instead keeping her gaze on the floor as she fetched the broom and set about cleaning her mess up. “Oh…right, the boxes. They’re all in the living room, Maggie. They’re labeled, you know where they go.”
“Oh, right.” Magdalena smiled, pointing to the stacks of boxes nearby. “Papa, I’ll show you where they go. My room is upstairs on the right, and mama’s is back there, next to the kitchen. Uncle Tori said she shouldn’t be climbing stairs. That’s the bathroom under the stairs there, and this is the living room. Mama, where are the boxes for the kitchen?”
“I already unpacked them, Maggie. Where do you think these pots came from?”
“But mama, Uncle Tori said---!”
“Oh for the love of god, Maggie, it was three boxes. I don’t even see why we need help, we barely own anything, it’ll take fifteen minutes, and the movers put the furniture where it goes.”
But Magdalena finally ignored her with a roll of her eyes, taking up a nearby box labeled with her own name in her own unsteady script. “Papa, will you take mama’s boxes to her room before she starts trying to move them herself? She’s so stubborn, she’ll never listen to the doctors.”
As the child tromped off up the stairs, her mother leaned across the counter, calling, “Is the apple calling the tree stubborn?” Sighing, she turned back to the stove, idly tugging on her ponytail to make sure it was secure and muttering, “I forgot how tricky he was, that brother of yours. I should’ve asked. Very clever, that b*****d.”
Up the stairs, Magdalena called, “Mama, you be nice to papa! He came to help!”
“I didn’t say anything!” she called back defensively, and then gave a little sigh before settling again, her eyes flickering halfway in Dorian’s direction without ever reaching him before finally, quietly, she murmured, “Thank you. For helping. I, uh…” She made an awkward gesture at the pots on the stove, bubbling with sauce and boiling water. “Spaghetti. If you want to stay for dinner. I haven’t really gotten around to grocery shopping yet.”
Once again, Magdalena’s voice sounded down the stairs, this time calling, “Where’s the box with my books? I wanted to show papa my poetry books, we didn’t leave them, did we?!”
“Did you look in the box beside your bookcase labeled ‘Magdalena’s books’?” There was a moment of silence, and then the impetuous slamming of the girl’s door in embarrassment. Her mother, running an exhausted hand back through her hair, could only give an exhausted sigh, leaning back against the counter and watching the tomato sauce simmering. “Honestly, that child hasn’t shut up about you for twenty-four hours. This morning she asked me if I ever noticed you both have the same eye color, and I was the one who told her that in the first place. I swear, she’s worse than your groupies back in high school, all starry eyes and blind adoration. From what I remember, I mean. But hell, apparently my memory isn’t that good.” Taking up her wooden spoon, she began stirring the sauce again, checking the pot of noodles, her movements oddly stiff and agitated before finally violently setting them aside, bracing herself on the counter with one hand and putting the other to her forehead. Quietly, darkly, she murmured, “What the hell did that mean, Dorian? ‘Reciprocating your feelings,’ ‘glimmer of hope,’ what does that even mean? Why would you say it?”  

[Okimiyage]

“What does it mean,” Dorian said, quietly. Not a question, but a refrain. Something he had asked himself all too often in the intervening years.
He sat down, slowly, at the kitchen table. There was a box nearby, neat round lumps of brown wrapping paper laid inside of neat cardboard rows. Methodically, he reached for one of the lumps and began to unwrap it. He was here to help, after all.
“Malakai and I were never close. I’m sorry we weren’t, now. Maybe it would have been different between us—maybe I could have been happy for him, then. But you know my faults.
I’m self-centered, and vicious when I have a mind to be, and I’ve very little regard for the feelings of others, and I run away from consequences, and—I’m too much of a dreamer.” Dorian laughed at the last one, but not by much, considering how inescapably real the consequences of his own ‘Midsummer’s Night Dream’ had turned out to be.
He turned over the unwrapped object in his hands. It was a white china teacup, with a pattern of blue roses twining around the rim, and a thin stripe of silver on the elegantly curved handle. He couldn’t see it being Melody’s taste, but Magdalena would have matched the set like a doll. He set it aside and reached for another wrapped package, his hands restless for something to do. It made the talking easier. That was an unpleasant realization for Dorian, noticing that he was nervous.
“There was a time after you disappeared that I kept hoping that you’d show up on my doorstep. And then weeks turned into months, and into years, and…I knew you weren’t coming back, after a while. I didn’t think that I would ever see you again. It was easier to be angry, then. I felt abandoned, and I blamed you.”
After a moment’s pause, he continued unwrapping the teacups. He didn’t think it would be this hard, dredging up those old memories, and feelings. Somehow, in the past, he had managed to put all of this behind a locked door in his mind, and opening it was ugly. He wasn’t prepared for how his heart had begun to ache, his lungs like lead weights in his chest. “That night…”
He nearly stopped himself, but forged on. This was probably one of the few chances they would ever have to speak unchaperoned—Dorian had to make the most of it, before anyone could stop him. “…it would be a lie to say that I didn’t know what I was doing, what you were doing, even if we were both drunk. I’m not an idiot—I knew what it meant, you showing up plastered after midnight. But you know how—when you really want to believe it—even a pitiful lie will start to sound like the truth? That’s what I did: lie to myself. I let myself imagine—let myself hope—that you’d finally seen through all the resentment that witnessing you and Malakai together stirred up in me. I had held it in all those months, knowing that I would just…spoil everything that you had with him, and—in the end, despite all of that, I ended up spoiling it anyways.” His voice grew small at the end, although he was making a concerted effort to keep it level, knowing that any rise in volume or change in tone would certainly summon Magdalena to see what was the matter. Then, quick as a flash of lightning, Dorian lifted his head and gave Melody an incredulous glance. “I knew that your opinion of me was low, but there’s still a part of me that can’t believe you never noticed.” His dates definitely had. He remembered being berated by whatshername—Samantha?—one of the less respectable daughters of the city that he had dated at the time—for how he’d ‘mooned’ over Malakai’s date when he thought she wasn’t looking.
“All of this, now…is probably too far gone to fix. There are things that should have been said years ago, and they weren’t. But for Lena’s sake, I want to try. If there’s any way that we could—“ He reached for another teacup, sighed, and then met Melody’s eyes, a piercing blue stare that lanced into her like a blade.
“It’s not my place to ask, now, but I don’t want to be the person you remember me as. If there’s any way that we could just—start over—if we could be civil to one other, without me…just pissing you off, every time that we speak, I would make the effort.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

For several long moments, Melody stood at the counter staring somewhat wide-eyed at Dorian, as if he were a cat that had suddenly begun to speak. She remained that way a little longer after he’d stopped, frozen, until very suddenly her hand came up over her mouth and she began to laugh, hurriedly making gestures for him to excuse her. “Oh god, I shouldn’t laugh,” she admonished herself as she did, “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She gave one final laugh beneath her breath, shaking her head and leaning back against the counter, her arms crossed. “Honestly, I always assumed it was some weird grudge I couldn’t even begin to fathom. I thought I’d fallen into some kind of trap of all the Mayfair nonsense. It’s just…funny how simple it all was.” Forcing herself back into seriousness with the clearing of her throat, she turned back to the stove and switched off the burners, getting a strainer down from the shelf but setting it aside, her gaze focusing distantly on the dying bubbles in the pot. “The thought honestly never crossed my mind. It’s a horrible thing to say, especially now, but I don’t think I ever thought of you like a person. You were always high, or drunk, and always chasing skirts. You were more like a caricature than a person. Then, after everything that happened, I didn’t really get the chance to think about it. Once I’d made up my mind what to tell Magdalena about her father, I had to stick to it. I mean you’ve met her, you know what she’s like, always watching, always asking a thousand questions, you can’t waver for a second with her or she jumps all over it.”
The woman shook her head, sighing, setting back into motion draining the noodles and scraping meat and mushrooms from the skillet into the pan of sauce. And then, once again, she cast the utensils aside as if she just couldn’t tolerate them anymore, only this time she turned and went to the kitchen table, falling into the seat across from Dorian and dropping her head onto the table with a little groan. “I don’t know how to do this either, Dorian. We have a child together, have you actually stopped to think about how effing crazy that is? There is a little person with both of our genes running around. This situation is already so complicated it’s dizzying, and then I lost about four months off of my life this afternoon, and now I don’t even know how to process this. I’ve barely even been on a date in the last seven years---god knows I never had a lover, with the way Maggie is. This is all so out of my comfort zone, I can’t even see it.”
When she sighed, it was oddly childlike, her entire body shifting as her chest rose and the air came out in a great whoosh. Only then did she lift herself again, her arms laying across the table as she slumped back in her seat. “I never resented you, Dorian. I was the one who started it, you were just…being yourself, which was what I’d wanted. I really want to slap you when you don’t seem to be taking this seriously, because it’s nerve-wracking enough knowing you have to leave your child with a virtual stranger, but I never blamed you. It was an ugly mess, the way it played out, but what was the worst thing that happened, really? Malakai and I were on borrowed time anyways. I seriously doubt you have any idea what a mess our relationship was, we actually sat down and had talks about how wrong we were for each other, and then just ignored it because that was easier.” She shook her head, sighing and glancing off, her teeth briefly closing on the tips of her nails as she admitted in a low, guilty sigh, "You asked before why it was you that night. It was because I felt bad about myself. I was never as upper-class as the other girls at school, and god knows there's no comparing myself with a Mayfair in any way. Looking back on it, Malakai was just...terribly, terribly innocent, and had the most life-shattering complex about himself because of Nicolae. But I was a teenager, so I was completely fixated on myself and needed some kind of validation that he wouldn't give me. I honestly can't remember what my thought process was in going to you, if I thought you were the only one who might actually go through with it or if I thought it was somehow more, I don't know, impactful. I mean you were hardly known for being picky, but at least you had a very broad spectrum for comparison." Another shake of her head, folding her lips as her eyes flashed. "That sounded mean. I didn't mean it like that. I'm not completely in control of what I say these days, there's a lot of pressure on the impulse control and speech filtering parts of my brain, apparently."
And then, venturing a glance at Dorian, her expression turning serious, she asked, “Why didn’t you ever say anything? If it was so bad, why didn’t you just say something? I mean, god, you were never exactly the shy type, and it’s not like Malakai of all people, with that infuriating saintliness of his, would have been mad at you for being honest. How did it take a decade, an illicit night in the garage, and me showing up with our child for you to just say something?”  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian seemed to think about this for a second, clasping his hands in front of him on the table, before he gave a light shrug and met her eyes. Might as well be straight-forward—he was in deep enough, already.
“I wasn’t in love with you at first. You were just…another pretty face. But I’d see you around when Malakai came out with us—it was so much easier to convince him, when you were coming along—and at the house, and at some point…” He stopped. He remembered that point quite clearly, but it felt foolish to confess that. They’d been to a few too many bars that night, and the remaining of those who could stand upright had staggered home and into the parlor, and they’d put an old swing record on the victrola, and danced until dizziness overcame them and they all collapsed, grinning and out of breath, on the old velvet couches. Dorian couldn’t remember what she had said that made them burst into laughter, but he remembered distinctly the flash of passionate jealousy—perhaps the first time that Dorian had ever felt such a thing in his life—that rose up in him. “…by the time I realized it, things were too far gone. What was I supposed to say? I was the womanizing hedonist, and you were the one girl that Malakai had shown interest in for years. What could I have possibly said that would excuse that? Don’t get me wrong, I thought about it, I plotted like a madman, but I never carried through with anything. I always told myself—” and he smiled at this, a trifle sadly. “—you had already made your choice, and it wasn’t me. It would have been like being the one to stand up at a wedding when it comes to the bit, ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’. Which isn’t too far off from the truth; everyone expected you two to become engaged. It had gotten to the point where people were already discussing appropriate venues for the wedding—Malakai’s ears would go beet-red at this, and he’d all but run out of the room…”
Dorian trailed off, the nostalgic smile fading from his lips.
“And then, afterwards, it was just…easier.”
“Letting everyone believe that it was my fault, that I had seduced you—I don’t know. Perhaps I felt like it gave them a target, and I was fine with being that as long as it meant you weren’t the one in the cross-hairs.” Dorian leaned back in the dark oak kitchen chair, pushing his fingers back through the hair at his temple while he stared ahead, a preening gesture that had once been used to catch roaming eyes at the bar and was now a habit more unconscious than not. His motivations had not been wholly altruistic. It had been the giddy possibility, the what-if of her imminent return, that had kept him ‘nobly’ mum during the duration of his penance. “They did give me hell for that. I play a pretty good scapegoat, it turns out. Malakai didn’t talk to me, or even look at me, for weeks. It was like I was a ghost.” He folded his arms across his chest, and tilted his head back. “And by the time I came back, everyone just pretended that it had never happened. They were all a little colder, an little less playful, but it was as though everyone had agreed to wipe the slate clean while I was away. Nobody asked for an explanation, so I never tried to give one. Which…was fine, I figured, because at that point I had realized that I probably wasn’t ever going to see you again.” He sighed; his hands groped for a cigarette inside of the pocket of his blazer, before stilling and withdrawing, empty. Not in the house, not with Magdalena around.
“We were all kids, then, and…I suppose that I didn’t know how to handle it any more than you did. I can’t blame you for leaving. But I wondered, for years, what things would have been like if I…” his fingers clenched the air. “If I had just been brave enough. If I had tried to stop you, or…” Hesitating, he let his hand fall to the table. “It’s pointless to speculate now. All I can say is that I wish things had been different between us. Knowing what you were dealing with—realizing that I’ve been a father, for all these years—” he glanced behind him, towards the empty stairwell, as though expecting their daughter to clatter down the steps at any moment. “I need to make it up to you. To her, too.” He was quiet for a moment, although his fingertips rapped out a staccato tattoo on the tabletop. When he was small, he had used to fantasize about having a family. He had been one of the few cousins that Antha had ever played ‘house’ with, mostly because he was as good at it as any of the girls. And he had promised himself, when he grew up, that he wouldn’t be like his own parents, absent and neglectful. Yet without realizing it, he’d fallen into the same trap as they had, too wrapped up in his own problems to notice the wake of destruction that he was leaving behind.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Too little, too late, but it needed to be voiced. “But I’m glad you’re here, now.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

In response, Melody gave a slow, amused chuckling beneath her breath, nearly a snicker. “They were in for a rude awakening. Especially Suzette, poor little old thing. Maybe that’s why we never got around to breaking up---sheer awkwardness.” But then she sighed, inwardly reprimanding herself for making light of it. “Don’t judge him for what happened. I’m sure his reaction was strange---it always is, even yesterday. But I don’t think either of us can ever understand Malakai. I can’t imagine how it feels, being the lesser twin, having someone out there just like you except better at everything. That’s probably why Antha went so far when everything happened, throwing me out on threat of death. I mean she never liked me to begin with, but things really went south when Malakai got suicidal. She blamed me, Nicolae blamed me---which was just another kind of bullshit, because it was his fault---and…you didn’t know that, did you?” Guessing from the reaction on his face, she dropped her gaze to the table, guiltily biting her lip. “Well…I told you, things were bad. But let’s not get into that.”
It was then that she finally returned to her feet, sighing and shaking her head as she set back into motion in the kitchen. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know? Because you’re pretty stupid.” Taking a sheet of bread from the oven, she pushed it closed with her knee, sounding a little clang. “I was already exiled, and they’re your family. What kind of sense does it make to let them blame you?”
She fell silent then, as the sound of the oven drew Magdalena back downstairs and into the kitchen, automatically reaching to take the plates from her mother and set the table. Only when they were in her hands did she unleash a dissatisfied little pout, correcting her curtly, “Papa’s not cute. He’s lovely.”
Melody dismissed her with a hand on the top of her head, turning her physically around. “Go set the table, little eavesdropper, before I decide to give you a time-out.”
The child hurried to do as told, anxious not to lose a moment of her time with Dorian to a time-out. But while she was laying out plates, she did stop to flash him a wide, conspiratorial grin, her eyes outright glittering, just to make sure he’d know that she heard more than they’d wanted her to.
After dinner, she took her bath while Dorian moved boxes and her mother cleaned up, and then immediately demanded that her papa read her a bedtime story. On the way up, clutching Dorian’s hand like the jaws of life, she chattered excitedly about how much she liked the house, the city, her cousins---except for Belle, obviously---and how much she was looking forward to school. “But you know,” she began, climbing gracefully under her bunny-patterned comforter and settling against her frilled pillows with a little pout, “Uncle Lawrence came by twice today. Twice! Uncle Courtland told me mama used to like him, and now he just keeps showing up. I don’t like it, he’s trying to snatch her. You should snatch her first. Uncle Lawrence is too high and mighty anyways, and he’s not half as lovely as you---not a hundredth!” Still fuming, she scooted over to make room for Dorian to sit next to her, grabbing a book of fairytales from the bedside table and putting it in his hands. “Will you read me the ones with witches? Mama never will, she says she doesn’t want me to get ‘the wrong idea’. It’s the same reason she won’t let me have Barbie dolls. But then she thinks that it’s probably pointless because I’ll grow up looking like a Barbie doll anyway, with your genes.” Glancing up at him, her eyes secretive and eyelashes fluttering---a look Dorian was probably familiar with, since it was his own---she gave a little carefully constructed smile and added, quietly “Mama likes you, you know. She doesn’t know she does, but I can tell. She thinks you’re lovely too, even if she won’t admit it when I say it. That’s why she’s been so jumpy about you today, I think. And then she thinks about the garage, and then tries really hard not to think about it. Probably because of me. Mama doesn’t like it when I see things, especially those things, but she thinks about it a lot. Probably because she never did it again. Ah, this one! Hansel and Gretel!” Her attention narrowing single-mindedly on the book, she settled happily against her father to listen. And then continued demanding stories for over two hours, until the heavy book was nearly exhausted of them and she succumbed to sleep.
When Dorian came back downstairs Melody was sitting cross-legged in the living room floor with a box of books in front of her, hurriedly shoving something out of sight before casting an inquiring gaze on the stairwell. Once she had determined that it was not her daughter, she gave a little sigh of relief and retrieved the wine bottle again, taking a grateful sip. “Do not tell your brother,” she warned him sharply, before offering the bottle to him, “He’s really, really strict. Like terrifyingly, ridiculously strict. Not that it matters a lot at this stage, I imagine.” Shrugging---she didn’t like to dwell on the subject, or even face it when she had an audience---she motioned to a stack of photo albums piled on the coffee table beside her, one of which was opened in her lap. “Maggie brought it up earlier, and I thought you might want to see. Baby pictures, birthdays, that sort of thing. I couldn’t help it, I probably have five pictures for every day of her life. I’ve got two more in here somewhere…” Putting the album with the others, she dove back into the box, sorting through books as she began, almost offhand, “You know, you never did tell me, how on earth did you even end up with fairies? Maybe this is the six years of children’s books talking, but aren’t they supposed to be, like, tiny and green?” Pulling another photo album from the box, she offered it to him with a little lightly teasing smile. “Lawrence said that was probably the real reason you’ve been so ‘good’ lately---PTSD. Do you see what you’ve done? You have Laurie cracking jokes now. Next thing you know, the sun’s going to start revolving around the earth.”  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian had relaxed somewhat since she started talking, and he rested his elbows on the table now and leaned forward. That Malakai had been suicidal did not shock him as much as it might once have. His had not been an easy life. That nobody had noticed, outside of—well, Antha, of course, but Melody—was more surprising. Malakai had always been private, but…Dorian hadn’t expected him to be the kind of actor that this suggested.
But she had said, ‘let’s not get into that’, and so he didn’t, composing his features before Magdalena entered the room.
The dinner was light-hearted, and they turned the conversation towards less loaded subjects—the current events of the city, and whether he might take Magdalena to the carnival at some point in the weekend. Afterwards, his daughter held his hand like a vise when they climbed up to her room. He could hear Melody humming in the kitchen below, over the clatter of dishes and the rush of the faucet.

The book of fairy-tales that Magdalena offered up was obviously much-loved. The pages were dog-eared to mark the best illustrations; ‘the ones with the witches’ were noticeable untouched. Dorian combed through the pages, skimming the text thoughtfully, while he listened to her complaints about Uncle Lawrence. “Lawrence, that cad,” he muttered to himself, flipping back to the beginning of the story. “Well, I’ll have to have a word with him, won’t I?” he told Magdalena, marking his place with his thumb and giving her a confident nod. “But don’t fret. Your mama has a good head on her shoulders. She’s not going to be snatched up by just anyone.” He did raise an eyebrow at hearing that Barbie dolls were contraband goods, but—to each their own. He couldn’t exactly critique someone else’s parenting techniques yet, not when they’d been doing it for seven years longer than he had. Settling in against the hillock of ruffle-bedecked pillows, Dorian put his arm loosely around Magdalena’s shoulders and smoothed out the open face of her story-book. “Well, you should never believe what people say about witches in stories,” he warned her. “Just because it’s written down doesn’t mean it’s true.” Like the whole cannibalism thing— Dorian didn’t know about those Calais folks, but he certainly had yet to hear of any Mayfairs eating children in his lifetime. “And back in the old days, most of the people they called ‘witches’ were mostly nothing more than people who were…a little out of the ordinary.” The real witches, after all, rarely got caught.
He flipped through a few pages, and frowned at the ending.
“I may tweak this a bit.”
Hansel and Gretel ended up teaming up with the witch and traveling home to evict their wicked stepmother. The father was reunited with his children in a lurid scene of all-inclusive rejoicing, and the witch was named godmother to the pair in honor of her assistance. The sea witch in ‘The Little Mermaid’ gave the princess some excellent relationship advice about the difference between infatuation and love, and Snow White’s evil stepmother—“Oh.” he said, stopping and wrinkling his nose in distaste. “They left out the part about the red-hot shoes in this version. Well, don’t worry. She ends up getting hers.” Noticing Lena’s look, he blinked. “I never said that all witches are nice. Some of them can be quite as awful as the rest of the human race.”
He didn’t tell her ‘Rapunzel’, though. Somehow, that witch felt…a little too relatable. Don’t you know what’s out there in the world? Someone has to shield you from the world.
By the time he left, she was out like a rock. Escaping the clutch she had on his waist was a painstaking, inch-by-inch process took nearly ten minutes, but eventually he did make it out of the door, which was shut as quietly as possible. The one good thing about this house is that is didn’t creak quite as terribly as the old Mayfair Manor, the groaning timbers of which nearly every child raised within had learned to play as skillfully as an instrument.
Nevertheless, Melody noticed immediately when he descended the stairs, although he had taken pains to be as noiseless as possible. The way she shoved the wine out of sight indicated that she had expected him to come downstairs toting, perhaps, a sleepless and insistent Magdalena behind him.
“It’s alright,” he said, holding up his hands, and unable to stifle a chuckle. “She went down fighting, but she’s out. It was a long day for her.”
Drawing nearer, he leaned over one of the cardboard albums scattered over the coffee table, reading the faded label on it with difficulty. “Your handwriting is still as illegible as it ever was, I see.” Dorian teased her, using the tips of his fingers to open the book’s cover and examine the inscription. He didn’t turn more than a page, though, before she was offering him another from inside the box—a slim volume bound in red paper, with a bit of gilt on the spine. The year written out in those little gold letters was six years ago.
“They’re not tiny and green. They look like people.” He thought about this, and then amended it. “Well, they look like people some of the time. Not all of the time. And maybe there are some of them that don’t look like people any of the time, but it was hard to tell. I wasn’t at their party—they called it a ‘revel’—for too long.” Dorian considered that it might be best to sit down if he was going to dwell on the subject for any length of time, and finally settled on the ottoman. “Or at least, I didn’t think that I was. But when I came out, months had gone by. If I had stayed even an hour or two longer, it’s doubtful that we would have ever met again.” He traced the edge of one of Magdalena’s photos, the gap-toothed grin of a child whose first tooth had just fallen out. “Maybe PTSD isn’t too far off the mark. It was like—“ Being given a hit of a drug that caused instant addiction. Peeling the blinkers off either side of his brain. A different dimension. The way people talked about heaven.
The pause had gone on too long, and Dorian shook his head, trying to smile and shrug off the memory. “It was like a dream. And when I ‘woke up’, that’s all I thought it would be, because the how and why of what had happened was too surreal to confront.” He sighed, and did not look up from the book for a while as he flipped through it. “It’s never that simple. There are always consequences, I guess.” Then, cocking an eye at her, he asked, “It’s Laurie who arranged for you to stay here for the meantime, wasn’t it? He picked one of the nicer properties. Magdalena seems somewhat less than taken with him, more’s the shame.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Melody cocked an eyebrow at Dorian’s explanation, something flickering in her eyes---it was part curiosity and something else, something more difficult to place---but didn’t press the subject. Instead, taking the last photo album from the box, she rose to her feet and handed it to him as she crossed over to the kitchen, taking two wine glasses from the cabinets as she responded. “He did. Antha told him to take care of us and, well, you know Lawrence, an hour later he handed me the keys to this place, Magdalena’s enrollment forms for school, patient forms for Mayfair Medical, everything. He really hasn’t changed, has he? As meticulous as ever.” Shaking her head, she sat down on the couch beside Dorian and put the glasses on the coffee table, pouring them both half-full. “But oh god, I know, Maggie just did not take to him. He came over twice today and the first time wasn’t bad, she just sort of glared at him and kept quiet, but she was so rude to him to him the second time! Knocked his tea over and everything. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, she’s usually such an angel when there’s a pretty face involved, and god knows she loves a well-dressed man. I have no idea why she’s got some sort of vendetta against poor Laurie, he’s been nothing but nice to us.” Taking a deep drink of her wine, she finally gave an exasperated sigh, running a hand back through her hair. “I’m half afraid meeting you has upped her standards impossibly high. It’s bad enough that she’s a sucker for any pretty face, but if she starts spurning anyone who’s not as pretty as her ‘lovely, lovely daddy’, she’s going to be impossible to deal with. Just, for the love of god, can you try to n** this fixation she has on Nicolae in the bud? I don’t think I could physically stand having my only daughter mooning over that---” She very nearly called him a name, but automatically stopped herself, instead taking a deep, irritated drink of her wine. Not cursing was a difficult habit for a parent to break, once they’d acquired it. “Ugh. He’s a terrible human being, always has been. Told the whole school I had a crush on Lawrence in middle school. Then told me that Malakai had a crush on me. And then he told me I wasn’t pretty enough for Malakai. God, he was the worst kind of fire-starter, I refuse to let my daughter be that bad of a judge of character.” Another small laugh, dry and derisive this time. “Not that she listens to me. ‘Mama, you don’t even know anything about men.’ You have no idea how strange it is having your six-year-old daughter chide you for your own inexperience. Completely compromises my authority. But, well, not an issue you’ll have, I imagine.” And then, hastily making a gesture for him to wait, added, “Not judging you. Promise. And Maggie’s oddly enraptured with the idea of her father being a rampant ladies’ man. I think it’s the gap---one parent with no seductive powers to speak of and one with too much for his own good. She likes the change, I suppose.”  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian accepted the glass that she offered, but did not drink at first.
Well, that was good. Lawrence was taking care of everything. He didn’t have to worry, not that there was much he might have contributed in any case. He didn’t even know whether the rent on his apartment had been paid for the past three months, although he assumed that the trust had taken care of everything, as usual.
“She’ll get used to Lawrence,” he said, taking a sip of the wine. “He’s family, after all.” Dorian lifted an eyebrow over his glass. “As is Nicolae. Which, one would thing, would be enough of a deterrent…” he trailed off, moodily. He hadn’t gone without noticing Lena’s crush on Nicolae, either. “I’ve always thought it was good for children to figure these things out by themselves. Lena’s certainly intelligent enough to. But maybe I can talk to Nicolae about…discouraging her.” Then was time for a deep draught, nearly draining the wine flute.
“He’s not a bad person, despite what you remember, but he does enjoy his role in the family dramas. If you thought going to school with him was difficult, try living with the boy. He and Antha were absolute monsters. They fed off’ve one another, in fact. And now that she’s settled down, well…” Dorian sighed. “I don’t know. The city is enough of a distraction, I think, but it won’t always be. People outgrow the cages that they make for themselves.” Anther had been enough of a chain to keep him tethered to Osiris City, but who knew after…? After…?
He didn’t let himself think about that. Nobody in the family did, not for that long.
Cocking an eye at Melody, he stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “I didn’t know that you used to have a crush on Lawrence.” Well, ‘used to’ was an assumption, but…
“Not that I can blame you. Out of all the cousins, I expect he’s the most stable.” Mentally, not merely in a material sense. And it made sense. Next to him, Malakai seemed like a wounded child, Dorian a wandering rat. “Magdalena thinks he’s courting you.” The statement was flat, without accusation, but it held an unspoken question. A child could be mistaken about many things, after all, and it was…polite…to give the benefit of the doubt. And he had said it, at least partially, because Dorian wanted to see her response to it. He watched her face carefully, half-expecting to catch some hidden flicker of joy in it when he announced the reasoning behind their daughter’s grudge.
It wouldn’t be a terrible option, she had to know that as well as he did. Lawrence was successful, independent, wealthy in the way that only one of those eight-year career path types could be at his age. And if anything happened to Melody, he would take care of Magdalena like his own. Raise her like a princess. “I know that I’m not exactly an…ideal father figure.” he continued, toying with his nearly-empty glass, raising it high so that the light could seep through the dregs. “But I do have some paternal instincts, and—” he directed his glass at the stairs that he had just descended from. “I want what’s best for her, whatever it costs.”