Circus Grounds

[Okimiyage]

Bastchilde lit up like the spotlight on the corpse had been turned on her. "Bastchilde de Regenciere," she crooned. "Although 'de Regenciere' is really just a stage name; I was an orphan, you see, so I've no idea who my family is." She lowered her eyes briefly, the lush fringe of her eyelashes stark upon the porcelain curve of her cheeks. "And no, I haven't spent a lot of time around witches." Raising her eyes back to Aaron as she tucked a strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear, the girl's lips curved up into a cherry-red smile. "For which I thank my stars. I hear they're rather unpleasant folk, aren't they?"
Across the room, Grigor's brow knit in a frown. He hated watching Bastchilde turn her charm on and off like a water faucet. It made him remember how stupidly in love with her he had been when she'd first come to the circus. But the entrance of David Talbot distracted him enough that he forgot entirely about Bastchilde, at least for a few moments. "Grigor Malkovitch," he introduced himself, coming forward to shake the man's hand. He had heard the name of David Talbot before, and always spoken so reverently that it would have been an insult not to add, "And it is a great honor to meet you, sir."
Releasing his grasp, Grigor stepped back and crossed his arms; listening to David's announcements with a grim face. Grigor was savvy enough on city politics--it was difficult not to be when circus folk attracted rumors and gossip like rotting meat attracted maggots--to understand that this meant a huge bloody mess was in the making.
Bastchilde, who had been watching the corpse-handling during what she determined as 'boring conversation' was going on, turned back upon hearing the dulcet tones of deference. She was starting to wish she'd kept Eglantine's hankerchief; a few artfully produced tears would not have gone amiss when describing the full extent of her 'trauma'. Bastchilde had seen dead bodies before; she just didn't like to admit to it. "Oh, yes," she breathed. "It was dreadful. I heard--strange noises, you see, coming from this tent--I was on my way back to my dressing room--I thought it was probably practice for some sort of act, but when I looked in--" Bastchilde had practiced the fine art of crying beautifully; her crystalline eyes filled with tears, which dripped silently from her lashes without so much as a sniffle as she went on, "--it was horrid! There was so much blood--he--he looked at me, before he died--he was trying to say something--"
Grigor gave out a loud hah!
"Oh, come off it. That is such a crock. I am not a medical man, Bastchilde, but even I can see that man did not die today. The--what is the word?--the decompost is too far along."
Bastchilde stamped her foot, her delicate hands closing into fists that looked like they'd hardly bruise a butterfly. "Grigor Malkovitch, I know what I saw! You hush up!"
Grigor only snorted and crossed his arms, turning back to David Talbot. "Mr. Talbot, I beg you, do not put your faith in her 'embellishments'. She is only craving of attention."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

"Yes, well..." David gave a tactful clearing of his throat as Aaron, facing away from the woman, rolled his eyes, "Mr. Malkovitch, could I perhaps persuade you to take me around to speak with the rest of the mortal staff? I would like to see if any of them have noticed anything...peculiar, as of late." David rounded on Aaron then, adjusting his tie meaningfully as the men let their eyes meet. "Aaron, you are going to go work on the Mayfair case file. I will hear no more protests."
Aaron, running a hand through his white-blonde hair with artful distress, sighed. "Fine." And like any good Talamascan, the man left and went to St. Louis cathedral. He watched the funeral procession, stood behind tombstones and watched Stefan Mayfair be laid to rest, even walked into Sleet's crypt in the light of day.
When darkness fell---not to mention the rain---Nicholas appeared back in his tent to meet with David, who was puzzled to find...well, nothing. No one knew anything. "Vikteren d'Argnet has fled the city," the man sighed, seated wearily on the divan that Adeline usually occupied, "He was the only one who might know, excluding Antha."
"And Antha...?" This from William, who knew that if she wasn't there already, laughing at David as he grasped at shadows, something was happening.
"Grieving," he murmured in response, "And angry and frightened and preparing to be married off as in the days of old. It has been a very long day."
"It's about to get longer," Nicholas murmured, distracted and amused as he glanced off towards backstage.
It was from this direction that Sirius appeared, clutching his boa and biting down on his opium pipe. "Someone to see Mr. Talbot," he said, giving a wave of his hand over his shoulder, "A Mayfair. I don't seem to recall which one."
"There is no need. We are...acquainted."
David started at the voice, his eyes gone incredulously wide as he watched the boy enter the dressing room, brushing the glitter from his finely tailored suit. "Lawrence Mayfair," he acknowledged him coolly, "Is this the day you've finally come to kill me like your ancestors have my predecessors?"
"No, not today," came his clipped voice, "Not at all. Rather, as greatly as it pains me to say this, I need your assistance."
"Lawrence Mayfair asking the Talamasca for help?" David asked, with none of the amusement that the vampires present displayed, "This must be a joke."
"No joke," Lawrence assured him, quietly, with that cool seriousness he was known for, "With his last breaths, my uncle Stefan said something very truly bizarre. Something about Antha." Now he had David's attention. "I have no hope of puzzling it out myself, I know this now. The Talamasca are the only ones with the information that might make sense of it."
David, as if he had forgotten to whom he spoke, said instantly, "I will call Aaron and have him meet you at the motherhouse."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

William had been waiting for the Mayfairs, that much was clear when the car came to a rather abrupt halt some five feet before him outside of the main tent. "William, mon dieu," Antha sighed in exasperation as she stepped from the car, staring him down from over her door, "And here I thought you the only member of this coven that didn't crave dangerous thrills."
"Mademoiselle Mayfair," he greeted her familiarly, the french word rolling beautifully from his British tongue. The corners of his mouth tugged up the faintest bit then, as she shut her door and made her way to him, a fantastic figure even against the shimmering lights of the circus decorations, and with William it passed wholly and completely for a smile. "I trust in your abilities, Antha." He glanced then to the others in her party, Courtland and Jack a chorus of laughter as they spilled out of the backseat, turning to her then with curious eyes. "Your husband...?"
"Cian," she responded, flitting to his side and taking his hand, bringing him to stand before William.
"Mister Calais," William greeted him politely, giving a little bow of his head, "Or is it Mayfair? I am not certain of the politics when another house joins the Mayfairs."
"William," Antha scolded him in a quiet warning, mere moments before Nicholas was at his shoulder, a grin from ear to ear.
He was dressed for his part already, a dazzling Julius Caesar scantily clad in shimmering white robes barely distinguishable from his white flesh layered with glitter, a wreath of golden laurels secured in his mane of white and black hair. "Ma cherie amour," he greeted her sweetly, breathless with anticipation, "Nous avons pensé que tu ne le ferais jamais. Vous êtes le relâchement, ma cherie."
"I would be slacking if I did not make you wait," came her responding purr, her eyes sharp and glittering dangerously.
"Ah, but look at you!" he announced, his accent purposefully, unrelentingly French as he appeared before her, his hands cupping her cheeks as his eyes inspected her, "All aglow with the light of impending motherhood! Otherwise I might never know it true. And you haven't even gotten blood splattered on my coat." He grinned all the wider, which one might have previously thought impossible, the teasing glimmer in his eyes brightening like stars. "I am glad I gave it to you, it could only pale in comparison to my beauty if I were to wear it, but it does look so very impressive on you, Evie," he teased very matter-of-factly. Nicholas was one of the very few people outside of the Mayfair family to ever refer to Antha by that loving nickname, Evie, and like Singe he did it very purposefully, even if her cousins and brother had finally relented on that point.
"Jealousy does not suit you Nicholas, I'm afraid," she sighed errantly, as if it were such a pity, tracing his glittering cheekbones lightly with the tip of her finger, "It contorts your features right around here and it looks absolutely hideous. Or is that why you finally just glued the entire bucket of glitter here, because you realized this already and you wanted to be prepared? Very clever of you, Nicholas."
Courtland and Jack, quite used to the banter between their princess and the circus master, had chosen instead to preoccupy themselves with Sirius, slinking out of the tent to join their little party, the smell of opium drifting with him from the curl of smoke around his pipe. He was dressed in even scantier robes than Nicholas, and seemed to draw more attention to his half clothed state with absolutely no effort, with a little less glitter and a little web of silver trinkets on delicate chains worked into his hair in place of laurels. When his greetings to them were finished for the moment he paused to turn to the others, murmuring in his lazy drawl, "Darling Antha, a pleasure as always to have you come see the production's last show. You've done well to influence him with the new one, it's going to be a true masterpiece. A pity you won't be our princess though."
"Perhaps in another life, Sirius," she sighed airily, and then turning back to Cian, "Oh, but you remember my husband Cian, don't you?"
"How could I forget?" was the low hum of a response, holding a glittering, jangling hand out to Cian, "Though you were but an orphan and a lover the last time we met. The days do go by so fast in the lives of mortals."
"So this is Cian Calais, then?" Nicholas interrupted, moving from Antha to Cian to rake an appraising eye over him, picking thoughtfully at his clothes, his curls, studying his eyes. "I must admit I'm surprised, Antha. I always thought it would be a blonde." Antha, who knew exactly what he meant by the slight, only hit his shoulder, marring the delicate painted pattern of glitter on his skin. "I never said he was not beautiful," Nicholas defended himself, bracing himself against further attacks, "But we always knew you would have a pretty boy, that was not a question."
"Of course Antha would only settle for something pretty," Adeline responded, appearing at Antha's shoulder to stroke her curls, and all the men present paused for just a moment to appreciate the look that passed between the two lovely girls, "Boy or not."
"Nicholas is only seething with envy again," Antha sighed, returning the kiss of greeting upon Adeline's cheek, "I've told him again and again how hideous he is with it, but he just can't seem to help himself."
"Of course not," Adeline affirmed, busying herself arranging Antha's curls around her shoulders, "Not around a girl that is so much more beautiful than him even without the transformation, married to a boy that is prettier than him with more charm."
"More charm?" Nicholas cried incredulously, and when he turned to look at Cian again, sizing him up, a conspiring look of triumph passed between the girls, "Prettier perhaps, though not more attractive on the whole, but more charm? He's still wet behind the ears, an American mortal boy with, what, twenty years to his name? Non, c'est horriblement mal! Il est seulement un garçon aveugle."
"Your English, Nicholas," Antha chided him, going to take Cian's arm, "Use it."
"And you're one to talk?" This from Nicolae, appearing like a phantom in their loose ring of bodies. "All I have to do is make you angry or put Julien before you and you forget English exists."
It did not go entirely unnoticed that her eyes tactfully diverted from her brother, though it went unmentioned. "Ah, big brother, you made it."
"And just in time," Nicholas added, grinning again as the curtain call resounded from within the tent.
Antha was gone almost immediately, running inside to see Klaus before he took his position, and Adeline and Nicholas were close behind her with Sirius following lazily behind. William, with a polite little smile, was the one to gesture to the tent, murmuring, "Shall we?" They entered just as the performers were being hurried through the small opening on the side of the stage, Antha adjusting Klaus's robe before he vanished into the expectant darkness, a shimmering white phantom.
"You all go handle your business," Antha said with a little motion to William, "We're going to go watch the show."
Ten minutes later, with the Mayfairs seated in the direct center of the audience, Courtland and Jack on the edges of their seats, Antha settled demurely in her own, her fingers twined with Cian's, and Lawrence just joining them, the first light came to dazzling, shimmering life upon Klaus, seated familiarly upon his trapeze, his sparkling figure emitting a calm, clear backstory of Rome before he rose, swung first this way to stand beside Nicholas as Julius Caesar, introducing him, then that way to Allen, the darkly clad Brutus, through all of the main characters until concluding the prologue, the stage burst into light and color, fog and a haze of glitter, graceful movement as the vampires began twirling through the air.
William watched backstage for a moment, spying through a little slit in the canvas before finally he murmured, "We have a grave problem. That corpse, even removed from our grounds, has left a stain of magic behind it. A dark, sickly magic none of us even felt until our human staff began dropping like flies. And we haven't the faintest idea what it is, where it comes from, much less how to dispel it." He paused long enough to give a small sigh, the sound of which betrayed the sheer amount of stress he was under with the entire ordeal. "This Cyrus...he wouldn't happen to have any witches in his employ, would he?"  

[Okimiyage]

Cian was, quite justly, blown away. He’d been in cars with reckless drivers before—had driven his own fair share of wrecks into being—but none that drove quite like Antha and got away with it. More than once he’d had the opportunity to stare into the terror-stricken eyes of fellow motorists scant inches away from collision as they skidded through an intersection in maneuvers more likely to be witnessed in theaters than on the streets of Osiris City.
When the car stopped, at last, Cian let out a long sigh. “That was strangely therapeutic. I don’t think I’ve ever had the opportunity to witness my life flashing before my eyes so many times in such a short drive. I’m surprised the tires aren’t smoking.” Climbing out, he inhaled the scent of burned rubber and coughed. “Close, though.” Their party was greeted, as he disembarked, by statues painted with shimmering flecks of light, who immediately addressed Antha as they approached. Vikteren, behind him, emerged in turn from the forest with Nicolae in hot pursuit. In the distance, performers flitted from tent to tent, ducking through brightly colored fabric flaps in various stages of undress. It had been a long time since Cian had been to the circus. He’d heard rumors about this one in particular; all the glitter and makeup and glimmering, smoky low lights, entrancing as they may be, served the purpose of concealing the dead skin of its performers from detection. The mask of glitter that Nicolas wore was immaculate in this regard; only the ringmaster’s eyes would give him away, bold enough to make Cian’s cheeks heat as he was studied, and his collar plucked at like a schoolboy whose uniform was up for inspection. “I beg you, don’t take offense. There are many different kinds of charm. Without a femme fatale to contrast with, would we find the role of ingénue half as appealing?” Holding up an open palm, Cian offered a smile to the vampire. “—mind you, I personally suspect it was simply the novel lack of ulterior motivation that appealed in comparison with the agendas of my brethren.” With that parting remark, and his fingers intertwined with Antha’s, they slipped past the ringmaster and disappeared into the steady stream of audience members as they entered the tent.
In the gloom of the performer’s dressing rooms, Bastchilde peeked through a rip in the seam of the tent out into the sparkling night. The pale fringe of her lashes fluttered in excitement as the Mayfairs passed, their red hair shining under the stage lights. “What do you think, Grigor?” she whispered, to the man who stood behind her, his arms encircling an enormous bouquet of roses, his expression one of customary grim stoicism. “Just look at the newest attendees—a whole flock of pretty children. I wonder—shall we play with them, do you think we should, after the performance? Just think of what fun—“ Grigor, who was weaving thorns into the mass of white-blonde curls Bastchilde possessed, interrupted her sternly: “Don’t even think about it.” Deftly, he withdrew a scarlet blossom from the pile of flowers and sheathed its stem in one of her braids. “They’re Mayfairs, every last one. Even the ones not redheads. Nicolas will be supremely pissed if you happen to irritate one of his honored guests.”
He knew immediately that he should not have mentioned that surname; immediately, Bastchilde’s eyes glittered, and she turned slowly around to face him. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t need to; Grigor recognized that look. Instead, she crossed to one of the lightbulb-rimmed vanities on the other side of the tent and carefully painted her upper lip with another glistening layer of carmine red. She was playing a pillar twined all about with roses in the next scene. Studying her reflection, she almost didn’t notice William enter the tent—but her attention was certainly gotten by the stranger that followed, and stood at his side as the prologue opened in jubilant orchestration and wreathes of colored smoke. Grigor, obviously uncomfortable with the way Bastchilde was staring, sidled over and hissed, “Stop that. You’re on cue in five minutes, don’t even think about it.” Irritated, he began adjusting the blossoms on the spine of her costume, more to have a hold on her if he needed it rather than because the petals needed tweaking.
Vikteren, for his own part, looked out onto the audience, his gaze averted from the dazzling acrobatics above. Antha’s cloud of red hair was dimly visible even from such a distance, a testimony to its brilliant coloration. “When first I encountered him, he had many such creatures bound into his service. Some of them he had taught—some, he claimed to have ‘rescued’ from the covens of other masters. He was a powerful sorcerer in his own right, from what I understood, although his magic was derived from runes and grimoires rather than a natural manifestation of his ability. What little he was willing to teach me was…ancient knowledge, from the eastern empires, sought out even before Christ walked this earth. I am afraid that I no longer know the count of those in his service, beyond the Calais boy, and whatever manner of creature accompanied him.” Vikteren rubbed his brow, smoothing out the creases that this train of thought inscribed without conscious permission. “There was one other amongst his soldiers, perhaps, who still might be with him. He respected her as an equal in this regard. Her name was Lisaveta—she was perhaps seventeen, when he turned her, and it was said that she was one of his first children. She was a northerner, from the wilds there, with all the stories that such an upbringing entailed—born and christened in her mother’s blood, raised by grandmother ‘Baba Yaga’, taught to hunt and track as keenly as any wolf. She said she learned her magic from demons; Cyrus considered her one of his finest lieutenants. I know that she survived the massacre of his coven; she travelled with him for centuries after, seeking their revenge. Her magic is…distinctive, to say the least. It reeks of madness, of feral insanity.” He stopped, his eyes flitting across the audience to finally turn and rest on William, and then added, “It has been a long time since I have encountered it, but I would remember the stench. This stain—where is it strongest, on the grounds?”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

"The tent where you first found the body," William murmured, his brows knit suddenly with deep thought and worry, "Mortals were blacking out in the vicinity until we had that section of the grounds quarantined off. But even then some of the mortals in our employ began to fall ill, fainting and vomiting, burning with fever, plagued by hallucinations. The Talamasca have the body and are performing a thorough investigation. The man had symbols upon his skin they say, though they are not certain just what symbols as of yet. But here, if you would follow me."
Quietly, William exited the tent, slipping gracefully through the crowds and through the ropes sectioning off the area, nodding politely to the vampires guarding it. The tent itself, when he neared it, did not seem to affect William. As he said, they had never even noticed any miasma of magic about it. It was Nicolae, the vampire made from a powerful Mayfair witch, who went stiff, eyes sharp, staring down the shabby cloth structure as if it were a snarling beast of venom and claws. "I don't like this place," he announced shortly, stopping still where he was, "It feels like the airship, and the Calais vault. Dead magic."
"Dead magic?" William repeated questioningly.
"Magic derived from ghosts," he hissed, still locked in a death stare with the tent, "From that dark, sick void where angry spirits go to fester."
"And how does one call up this magic?"
"Lots of ways. I did it by accident when I was a kid. Antha's found half a dozen ways. And the Calais boy, it was his family's thing, with their damn vault and sacrifices." He went silent as one of the employees came calling for William, exclaiming that the Talamasca had arrived again.
"Perhaps it is best to remove Mr. Mayfair from the area anyways," he announced bleakly, trying with utmost polite caution to turn Nicolae away from the tent and finally leading him away.
As it was, Antha came across the Talamascans before William had the chance. When the last explosion of light and glitter had concluded the play and Klaus had dropped with great ceremony from his trapeze into the darkness, she was quick to slip backstage while the crowd still applauded, dragging Cian along as her cousins followed, dodging photographers that clamored for pictures of the newlyweds. Antha was still laughing when she stepped into the cool, dim space backstage, exclaiming with mildly pleasant surprise, "David!"
"Antha," he returned, giving a polite little bow and taking the hand she offered, laying a fleeting kiss on the back of it, "I wasn't aware you would be attending tonight."
"You thought I would miss such pageantry? David, do you know me at all?" And she laughed sweetly, every bit the wanton, charming princess. "Besides, Cian hadn't seen the show."
"Of course," David murmured, as if he had been a fool not to realize it, "How did you like the show, Mr. Calais? It can be quite an experience the first time."
"And what are you doing here, David?"
"Investigation of course. That body, you know."
"Of course." She grinned, and for just a moment David's eyes spoke of suspicion.
Whatever accusation he might have subtly hinted at, he was interrupted as William, Nicolae, and Vikteren returned, making their quick, formal greetings. Aaron slunk up as they did so, silent, but nothing he could do would ever mask his presence from Antha's attention. Her eyes cut at him, her lips twisting briefly into such a devious smile that it was all he could do not to shudder. She had always been the only creature that could push his buttons, that made five different assaults on his sanity all at once.
Thankfully, Courtland and Jack entered just as he braced himself, Courtland stealing Antha's attention as he snatched her bodily from her husband, one arm around her waist and the other hand clasped with hers, twirling her around, his feet moving expertly despite his less than lucid state. Aaron supposed the Mayfairs forced these things on their children early on, that dancing was as natural to them as walking. Antha was certainly always doing it, waltzing around the Talamasca motherhouse. Though, she'd spent a lot less time there recently, and he hated how much that annoyed him.
"Any luck?" the girl questioned William, turning her head this way and that to face him as Courtland twirled her about.
He sighed inconclusively, glancing at Nicolae. For his part, her brother grabbed her from Courtland, despite the way she tried to brush him off, and finally locked her tight in his arms. She calmed then, understanding seeming to wash over her, and lovingly pet his curls. "It isn't the same," she whispered reassuringly to him, gently disentangling their bodies. In the same way that Nicolae had forced what he felt upon Antha, the touch of their skin, their once identical blood so close, he could take the answers to the questions she wouldn't let him ask from her head, and she wasn't going to allow that. "Any news, David my pet?"
"There were runes marked on the body, faint, but seared into his skin. He was a puppet, nothing more, forged by magic. He had no fingerprints and his blood was polluted, there is no way to tell who he was or where he came from."
"Complex magic, by the sounds of it," she murmured, but almost immediately was distracted as the rest of the cast glided in. There were a few photographers that slipped in with them, and the Mayfairs smiled pretty for the cameras before William had them thrown out.
"You can't keep out of the society pages, can you Antha?" Nicholas purred, tapping the tip of her nose.
"I can't help it that everyone loves me," she shot back very surely, flashing her most dazzling smile.
"Bastchilde, you may retire to your lodgings for the evening," Nicholas said to the only mortal amongst the cast, his tone carrying that hint of authority, the suggestion that it was an order. He knew her character too well to let her prance around the vampires and the witches as she pleased.
"You do make an excellent pillar," Adeline offered briefly in the guise of a compliment, before her attention was upon Antha again.
"Oh, but I never did congratulate you, Nicolae," Nicholas began with a start, cracking a sudden grin, "Coven master, maitre coven. A weighted title in this city."
"A gilded one, perhaps," he muttered, ruffling his golden curls, "And a true hassle. But perhaps it might be worth it when everything is set in order."
"I suppose," Sirius murmured, again in the slow drawl that came so naturally to him offstage, "This means you Mayfairs are staking your claim in this city as a family now, preparing for when Antha is gone."
"Well someone has to do something," Nicholas mused, "When Antha is gone there will be such a gaping hole in the power structure that complete anarchy will ensue if measures are not taken. They tell me that before you, ma belle, it was all territories, the feudal era of Osiris City."
"Quite. Julien still has a map of the city with the territories charted. I suppose I wasn't thinking quite this long-term when I took control over the city," Antha sighed, and then shrugged as if it were inconsequential.
"You may not know, Mr. Calais," David began politely to Cian, and then glancing around, "Many of you newcomers may not, but the term princess Mayfair was never contrived from Antha's personality. The Mayfairs were always a great presence in this city, but they were passive. Sleet. Khayman, Persephone, the three wolf packs, the lesser witching families, the mafia, they warred openly in the streets, ruled their pieces of territory like tyrants. But Antha decided at age fourteen that she did not like this arrangement. Being already so close to Khayman she talked him into submission, pressed back Sleet and Persephone and the werewolves' forces, drove most of the more unruly rogues out of the city, charmed Claire Leonelli to bend to her will, and stripped the witching families of their power one by one until the entire city was under her thumb. I think it may have been the most impressive thing I've ever seen, and I have seen many things in my time."
"And as much as you all resent my takeover, as frequently as you whine about it, how many more of you survive because you did not wander into the wrong territory?" Antha questioned with unmistakeable self-satisfaction, "Brat princess as I may be, how much less of a tyrant am I than the vampire masters or alpha wolves or the power hungry families that I made quiet?"
"And what of your empire after your demise, Antha?"
"My son wants it," she announced simply, as if it was perfectly natural that an unborn child should have wishes, aspirations, a hunger for power, "It will be maintained until he can take it for himself. But as that is a very, very long way off, may we get back to the matter at hand?"
David, nodding his agreement, murmured a thoughtful, "Could the magic be traced, perhaps?"
"It's possible. But dead magic is...complicated. Perhaps the stain of magic can be expelled and the culprit detected wherever they've hidden away at, perhaps not." In the thoughtful silence that followed, Antha's eyes found Vikteren's and she whispered, wordlessly, They still want Rynn Calais, the fools. This was shielded from the rest of their party, the vampires that knew nothing of the current predicament, the delusional Talamascans, Cian whom she chose not to speak to concerning his brother, and Nicolae who simply wanted the boy dead. The very latter of this group knew however that he was missing something, he picked up on that subtle hint of magic from her, saw it in the stare that narrowed at Vikteren, and his gaze slid between them suspiciously.
"Vikteren?" With most eyes settling upon the vampire as David turned to him, Antha took the opportunity to slip over to Cian's side, her hand closing over his. "Any ideas? You are the only one that knows him, and his magic, the magic of this lieutenant of his. Do you think they could be traced by a witch such as Antha?"
Again that narrowing of her eyes. They want me to kill him. Desperately so. They're afraid for him to be in this city when I am gone and the power structure is in shambles.  

[Okimiyage]

When at last the company of vampires were ushered before the tent, Vikteren did not speak. He simply sighed, and his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, and years sloughed away from his jade-green eyes as memories swept upon him. "I've inconvenienced you a great deal, however unintentionally." he said, at last. "For this, you have my apologies." Stepping forward, he lifted a hand, stirring up the still air and the scents it contained--although, truth be told, he did not need the motion to detect the stinking perfume of his sire’s ancient and ugly magic. It was impossible to forget, rotting flesh masked by sweet magnolia, a cold Northern wind, cutting through skin and muscle and reaching down through flesh to gnaw at one’s very bones. It was in Lisaveta's wolf-rough hair, streaked with blood and knotted in heavy braids, in Cyrus's long finger-nails, which had been painted in blood by the time he finished carving his runes into the skin of his victim. Vikteren knew, remembered intimately, the searing touch, the laughter that his pain would have provoked.
The miasma had sunk into the earth here; the entire tent reeked of its taint, glowing with malicious intent. It made the hair on the back of Vikteren's neck prickle and rise, like the hackles of an uneasy dog. "The prophet could not have been occupied by this magic for long." Vikteren said, turning back to William. "I would have recognised it, had it not been masked briefly by that shell of a creature they made to house their sending. This spell ate him from the inside out, and now it leaks from where his blood was spilled like springwaters." Stepping back, he shook his head. “I can confirm, for what good it may do—this is of Lisaveta’s hand. My sire’s methods have not changed over the centuries.” He would’ve burned the whole damn tent to the ground, if it had been his land, and then sown the ground with salt for good measure. But since it was not… he turned, and followed as Nicolae was led from the field. Antha should be informed of this first, or at least of Vikteren’s plans where it concerned their quarry. His quarry. He remembered all too well her taunts, spoken in the dead man’s gravel-stone voice: the labyrinth, king and sundering.

Cian was briefly dazzled by the field of flashbulbs that greeted him as their party exited the main tent. He could see why the paparazzi was often compared to jackals, as they howled out for “Mrs. Mayfair! Look this way!” “How does it feel? Where’s the honeymoon gonna be?” and, less frequently, “Hey YOU in the suit!”
Cian grinned. The Calais clan had nothing to fear from the media; they’d always been a photogenic lot, and it would be a shrewd reporter who managed to dig up any dirt on the Calais name where the Talamasca could not. He was quite looking forward to the slew of expected articles in which he would be alternatively romanticized as a fairy-tale prince, rescuing Antha Mayfair from her immoral lifestyle of debauchery and sin, and villainized as a notorious gold-digger, only interested in securing a personal stake in the illustrious Mayfair fortunes. Cian found gossip to be a source of great amusement, especially when none of the gossipers had any clue what the hell was really going on. Laughing at the reporters who tugged at their coattails, he was drawn along by his linked hands with Antha into the performer’s tent, the ‘back-stage’ of the circus and all it entailed. “Well!” he sighed, when at last the sea of photographers was ushered away. “A spectacle worthy of the old Empire, I think. I have new standards for Caesar.” Then, to the man who watched him with old and wary eyes, and made blithe inquiry of his opinion, he answered, “It was superb; of course, one could not expect less from such a cast.” He’d heard of the Cirque du Graal Rouge before, but had never the opportunity nor inclination to attend a performance; too drunk, too high, or the tickets sold out on the very night they announced the next performance. To be fair, he’d snuck in once with a handful of his ne’er-do-well peers, but only for the side-show attractions. Never had the opportunity to go backstage, though, and he busied himself with observation. Vanities across the tent, half-concealed by racks of gauzy costumes, stained the room with flattering incandescent light, as gentle as candle-flames. He supposed it suited the skins of their performers better, although the girl who sat at the mirror wiping porcelain paint from her skin still held the rosy bloom of blood in her cheeks. He recognized her as one of the pillars, the silent chorus which had climbed silken dangling scarves suspended from impossible heights throughout the performance.

Vikteren entered just in time to watch as Antha spun away from Courtland, graceful as ever, the skirt of her white frock floating out from her body like the petals of some vast, night-blooming flower. Nicolae caught her, of course, possessive as only a brother could be. Vikteren wondered, watching their interactions, what would become of Cian after Antha’s demise. Oh, as father to the designees, no doubt he would be accorded some minor level of respect, but who amongst Antha’s lovers would not resent him in secrecy? And Vikteren wondered whether the wild young boy—for he was a boy, by the standards of the vampires, and the Talamasca, and perhaps even Antha—would be capable of holding up under the immense grief that was due to come. What did Mayfairs do with their honorary members after such events? Well—he supposed that Cian would find out soon enough. “Luck isn’t quite the word for it,” he answered Antha, when William did not.

Bastchilde, for her part, was irked beyond belief. Someone interesting finally came to the circus, someone important, and Nicolas had the gall to send her away. Not Grigor--no, the loyal janitor, barely capable of speaking English, could stay and hob-knob with the elite, but powers forbid that any mere mortal happen to share the same dimly-lit space with the Mayfair heiress. Nevermind the fact that the Russian was busying himself coiling rope for one of Eglantine’s unfathomable acrobatic contraptions, Nicolas’s choice of companions was entirely inscrutable. Personally, Bastchilde didn't see what all the fuss was about. The girl wasn't even that pretty. Oh, she had glamour, alright--that kind of interestingly feigned allure that drew men like moths to flames--but how that slip of a redheaded child herded about the most powerful men in the city like they were a flock of wind-up toys, Bastchilde had no idea. Invariably, she supposed, it came down to a matter of pride. What their dignity could not accept from any mere mortal woman, it would swallow whole from a witch who might dismember you on a whim. Bastchilde decided that Nicolas was a grovelling sycophant, unworthy of even contempt. Rather than dignify his command with a response, she finished removing the final rose from her coiffure--her white-blonde hair tumbled to her waist, a theatrical flourish which Bastchilde had long since perfected the art of--and then turned and stood from her vanity. Arching a perfectly groomed brow at the lot of them, she let her gaze slide languidly from face to face before sweeping past. With the rose she still held, she indicated Adeline; one master of the backhanded compliment could not miss an opportunity to acknowledge another pro. “How sweet.” The platinum-haired woman answered, with a dazzling smile. Then, adding in her most saccharine purr: “And may your own talent may achieve such recognition one day.” Cue exit, end scene.
Eglantine was waiting outside, prepared for the worst with a heaping armful of gardenia, baby’s breath, and a badly-composed-but-lavish-with-praise calling card from one of Bastchilde’s devotees. He had suspected that her stormy little heart would be in need of soothing after Antha Mayfair’s arrival.

Cian listened to the revelation of Antha’s history, with a half-smile playing about the corners of his mouth. When he was fourteen, his goals had been much more short-sighted. They primarily had to do with drugs and sex; but that was the difference between Antha and everyone else, wasn’t it? She had grand ambitions. If she had the misfortune to be born into the Calais lineage, he suspected that she wouldn’t have simply settled with escaping the family manor, she would have brought the entire damn labyrinth down around their ears. “I think I remember this, actually.” He mused. If he was correct, then Antha had been the reason why a number of his peers had gone underground during this time. Cian recalled bearing witness to long-winded discussions in the backs of bars, beautiful faces marred with worry, once-lively voices made hushed and grim. He hadn’t cared; his own heritage was safely hidden away, he did not share the concerns of those who had believed their lineage made them omnipotent. Most of his ‘friends’ only knew him as the go-to for any quantity of drug one cared to name. “Rather glad I didn’t get involved, now.” And he tried not to laugh at the thought of the huge, burly alpha weres of the city running with their tails between their legs from exploits of a green-eyed girl-child. Most of them were still skittish about venturing out after dark. Twining his fingers into those of his wife’s, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Even if it was a nickname that had been given in mockery, the title ‘princess’ suited Antha altogether too well. Once she was gone, the city would be thrown into turmoil; the balance of power suddenly unhinged. He remembered what it had been like, before that fearful time. He’d been one of the most practiced and carefree members of the city’s underground, but even so, there had been areas that you didn’t go into after dark. It didn’t matter if you were a witch, whether you carried a gun or were six-foot-three and built like a brick wall—you didn’t walk down certain streets after twilight. Most humans didn’t go out after dark, because even in the ‘good’ parts of Osiris, there were still those that liked their prey to be pretty and well-dressed. Cian, well, he had made it through those times by dint of being a good sport. He was quick-witted and easy-going—no one could hold a grudge against him, at least not for long--and had enough skill to scent trouble and get out well before he got involved. But he still remembered the silent, miserable terror that had permeated the soul of the city. He did not welcome the thought of its return.

Vikteren diverted his gaze from Antha and Cian’s clasped hands; his eyes briefly met hers, before flicking away altogether too quickly. He did not enjoy the odd mélange of emotions which Antha was still capable of stirring up at a moment’s notice--especially not as she stood, all smiles, beside her lovely, human husband. He very nearly flinched to hear her almost-forgotten-whisper interrupt his own thoughts, but at the last moment kept his eyes straight ahead and unfaltering. “I can confirm that my sire was involved in the creation of this sending, and that Lisaveta still accompanies him.” Vikteren answered, with a long sigh. “And although it may seem evident to you already, I feel I must reiterate: this distinctly resembles a trap. They created that puppet for a purpose much like that of a plague-bearer, both taunt and bait. If the body has not already disintegrated from the inside out, then it will soon. What remains of the sending has settled already on the land where it first emerged, and only awaits a suitable target to latch onto. Most likely, the illness it imparts is a symptom of its search for such a candidate. It would be very like Cyrus to leave us poisoned bread-crumbs to follow in this way.” Then, the vampire paused, and when he spoke again the words came carefully. “I would offer myself up as this candidate, for I think prior experience would perhaps leave myself less vulnerable to Cyrus’s machinations than others. And I feel that I must take responsibility, in some way, for these events--if I had not come to your fair-grounds, the sending would likely have sought out another venue in which to lie in wait.” The Calais home, or perhaps that of the Mayfairs—Cyrus liked to seek out that which he called ‘new talent’, and to destroy what he could not attain. So, at last, Vikteren answered Antha's concern: I know. And yet, we cannot risk a power like his on the leash of our enemies, Antha—especially not now. If we cannot reconcile him to our cause, then we have little choice but to declare the Calais heir anathema. No matter how much it may pain your husband, Rynn is capable of creating much greater tragedy for us all. He is a danger, Antha—perhaps not to you, but to all others. As things stand now, he will seek out the most immediate path of your family’s destruction as soon as capability allows.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

There is nothing you could tell me about Rynn Calais that I have not surmised for myself, came that voiceless whisper, all words floating through his mind in place of his ears, After all, in essence, he may as well be me. "I assume the area is sectioned off?" This question she posed to William, those brilliant eyes darkening as the polite smile on her lips grew sharper, more devious.
"Of course," was his murmured response, "We could hardly risk innocent mortals going too near to it."
"Good. Clear any visitors off of the grounds. David darling, I need Atticus."
"I'm not exactly sure he---" His eyes slipped less than tactfully towards Cian, but Antha was quick to interrupt him. She did not have to be reminded of Atticus's feelings towards the Calais blood, full of curses and poison.
"He'll come," she said surely, leaving no question to it and David with nothing to do but excuse himself and make the call. And then, before anyone could question her, as invariably they would, "When is the new production to start, Nicholas?"
The coven master, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation, began in a mild stammer, blinking furiously as he tried to recall the information. "Three weeks. Long enough to break down the scenery from Julius Caesar and have the new scenery put up, with some extra time to practice. The costumes are almost finished, there are only a few adjustments to be made..."
"And who is to play Sleeping Beauty?" she continued relentlessly, leaving no time for interruption.
"Adeline of course, since you will not play it for us."
"I hardly think I'm in a position to go letting you turn me so that I might take the role. But perhaps when I am dead I might find some way to haunt your stage. I think it might be more interesting to haunt the circus than to be trapped in Mayfair Manor with Marguerite and Lestan and that dreadful Emaleth, and all the other dozen Mayfair spirits roaming our house. Malakai claims he even saw Bianca once, and God help me if I run into her in the afterlife, I shall spend all of eternity devising ways to torture her for what she did to oncle Louis. No, I'm really not looking forward to being dead."
Despite themselves, Courtland and Jack couldn't help but stifle laughs. Nicholas, who did not enjoy the black humor quite so much as the Mayfair boys---half of them anyways, as Lawrence had blanched and Nicolae had fallen to stony silence---was quick to change the subject, blabbering ceaselessly about the new production, and Antha merely smirked at a job well done until Atticus arrived, his sharp eyes furtive and slight immortal body tense as he moved carefully to Antha, keeping her as something of a shield between himself and the Calais boy. When William confirmed then that all of the guests were gone from their grounds, she took Atticus by the hand and, suggesting that everyone else should stay where they were, was gone before they could so much as protest, let alone follow.
"I dread her son," Lawrence sighed suddenly, fingers to his temples, "I always thought she would be the one to worry me into an early grave, and she has half done so already, but if he's to be her little prodigy, her heir...ah, I don't want to think about it. Cian, for my sake, teach him some sense of restraint."
Courtland and Jack laughed outright. "Look who you're talking to! It's Cian and Antha's child, restraint will never be an option! And Nicolae and I will be the favorite uncles, we'll make damn sure of that, this kid has no chance, he's going to have what he wants, when he wants, and nothing will ever stop him, because anything less and he won't be his mother's successor."
Distantly, the ground rumbled and the Mayfairs present all seemed to flinch subtly, going still and quiet as their eyes surreptitiously settled on a point beyond the canvas walls. "She called it," Courtland murmured in quiet dread, the color seeping out of his skin, and those present were familiar enough with the Mayfair familial spirit that they did not ask questions.
Nicolae, both craving a distraction and sensing a rare opportunity to pry information from David without Antha as an audience, said quietly, "Do you think her brother would have been that way too? Her twin, I mean." Amongst the sudden confusion, only David and Aaron seemed unphased by the news. "Perhaps not. After all, Malakai is nothing like me, and Allen is nothing like Aidan, from what Antha has seen of her children Sebastien will be nothing like Vanessa, and as far as I could tell Liesse was not the wrathful little monstrosity that Rynn is."
"It's hard to say what he would have been like," David muttered uncomfortably, "He was gone too quickly to leave an imprint on this world, a spirit to haunt the house in which they were born."
"So you did know." There was an unmistakeable trace of bitterness in his hard voice, his gaze as it burned the ground.
"We are researchers. When Antha was born, and reportedly died, we found upturned earth behind the house and found the infant's body. We thought it was the only one. When Antha was discovered, we bargained the truth for our silence. Michael brought her to the motherhouse, and she told us everything so we wouldn't go digging for it, alerting people to her secret. She was born the elder twin, and her brother died mere hours after birth. Leon merely buried the infant's body, rather than ever mention him. She said her mother never bothered to name him, hardly surprising considering how she treated her other sons once the next designee was in her sights."
Aaron, the cigarette hanging from his lips burning quietly, piped in then long enough to add through the lazy haze of smoke, "She said your monstrosity of a familial spirit referred to him as Alastair." Flash of memory, her slight fifteen-year-old body swallowed by one of his shirts, sitting against the post of the great, stately bed in his dim stone chamber of a room, one leg sliding off of the side as she lit her match and put it to the cigarette between her lips. He's always here, somewhere. The thick scarlet curls falling over one piercing emerald eye, the other staring at him, through him, the candles at his bedside throwing a flickering glow on her porcelain skin, and it crossed his mind that a girl of her age had no business giving off such an aura. She had been at her absolute eeriest back then, with that hint of childhood about her, that nymphet grace, and that quiet, seething hatred all about her from the airship, from the title of Princess of the Red Rose, that feeling that she knew she was being looked at like a monster, a psychopathic killer, and she didn't give a damn either way. Even when he doesn't know who I am, or what he is, Alistair is always here. He is always looking after me. "I think she said it meant something like 'defender'."
"I don't understand," Jack muttered, flustered, his gaze oddly piercing as he stared David in the eyes, "I never knew Antha had a twin, but...what does it matter? Why is it even referring to him?"
"Because twins are not normal people. They have strange connections to one another. I don't think the spirit---Alastair, apparently---could leave Antha even if it so chose. But then, the only one who knows the truth of these things is Antha, and she would hardly tell us. As a matter of fact, it seems something of a sore spot with her."
Courtland, watching those conversing with a semblance of amusement but seemingly unconcerned, was the one to gaze off in curiosity, interrupting to ask, "Is that smoke?"
William was the first out of the tent, revealing the glow against the night sky, the pillar of black in the near distance that he went running for with the other vampires at his heels. Not surprisingly in the least, when they found the fire, they found Antha beside it, perched upon a crate they used to move equipment, simply watching. Atticus appeared only a moment later, stepping out of the flames that curved around him, brushing ash from his black sweater as he went to stand beside her and stare with her at the blaze. Above them the sky was clear, the twinkling stars drowned out with the flickering glow, and the feathery clouds that drifted through the sky moved strangely through it, curving around the spot in which they sat against all physics. Even the fire itself was strange William realized as he neared it, the flames were not orange like any usual fire, they were actually quite red, as scarlet as Antha's hair.
"What in the hell did you two do?!" was the immediate demand made as the group converged around the fire, issued by David.
"Taking care of the situation," Antha purred, staring lovingly at her flames, toying with an unlit cigarette held longingly against her lips, "You wanted the stain of magic gone from your grounds, William. Now it is." Atticus, his eyes glued to the flames alongside Antha, held up a pendant as she spoke, a thick silver chain with a round bauble suspended from it, carved in intricate patterns of runes, and as it swayed a little bell within it chimed. "Really, you're always worrying about things. Have Atticus and I ever let you down? No. Between the two of us, we can handle anything."
"But this---"
"Anything," Atticus murmured in the softest whisper, and the other vampire was silenced.
"The old ones all make the same mistakes," came the continuing purr from Antha as she hopped down from the crate, tossing the cigarette errantly into the fire and cradling the pendant between her fingers as Atticus held it aloft, "They put too much of themselves into their magic. It's egoism, pure and simple, they think their magic is invincible if it has so much of themselves in it. But as it is, such traces of magic are not hard to cleanse, and the piece of the caster is easily trapped." And she kissed the little bell, which flickered briefly before Atticus dropped it into her hands. "I do not like powerful beings coming into my territory uninvited and unannounced such as either of these creatures has done, it's just plain rude, and the next time they offend me with their acts, I know how to find this old spellcaster."
As Antha's gaze bore into the flames, there came that whisper in her mind, that flash cutting through her thoughts. Abominable, all of it. Blood on the floor, too much to be distinguished from the red flames physically before her eyes, and then bodies, half a dozen, torn and discarded, void of the faintest hint of life. Magic as filthy as yours.
Antha didn't respond. She never did, he knew the shape of her thoughts without being told. It was something of a curiosity and it occurred briefly to Antha that she should ask Khayman who had made him, and who had made that one, how close in blood he was to Nero that he had such access to her mind. Beyond that, it further occurred to her that Nero had become attached to her in a twisted way. He had been asleep so long, alone, and even now that he was awake he took no company, saw no one that was not dead before their eyes locked. The urge to dispose of her had been what gave him the drive to awaken himself, despite the magic holding to him, it had given him strength, and as he slowly made his way towards that goal she was his only form of companionship.
You want Cyrus and his spellcaster dead with me and the Calais boy, don't you? They were the first words Antha had ever spoken to the dark shadow in her mind, the fiend, and he could not quite disguise his surprise.
All abominations, you who try to emanate the power of the gods, which is theirs alone. I will put you with your brother and the Calais child with his sister, your split souls mended on the same side of death.
If I am such an abomination, a demigod, then what are you, half dead and half living, father of immortals?
In the next moment, outside of her mind, Antha swooned slightly, just enough for someone watching her with hawk eyes to notice, and before anything could happen Nicolae had her, his arm around her shoulders, and the presence in her mind was gone, leaving her firmly back in reality. She glanced briefly then at the fire, which abruptly collapsed upon itself, leaving the space where the tent had been razed, the earth scorched, black. Looking back to Nicolae, who was so concerned, she muttered only a brief, "I really hate that guy," before shaking her head and separating herself from her brother, turning away from the smoldering ground, and Atticus followed. "Get rid of the body, we have no use for it. Atticus---" He held out his hand and she dropped the talisman in it, leaving it in his safe keeping. If there was anywhere in the city safer than Mayfair Manor, it was Atticus's keep in the talamasca motherhouse, steeped in his own magic for over a century. "Now, was there anything else on the agenda, or can I get on with my evening now?"  

[Okimiyage]

Vikteren watched the designee with protective, snake-slitted eyes.
He found himself smiling at the idea of Antha's haunting the theatre. She would make a good ghost for that, wouldn't she?
A red-haired spectre flitting amongst mirrors and wires, darting into rafters and shadows.
That would suit her quite well. She could have been one of the consumptive actresses Vikteren had known in the London slums before the turn of the century. What luminous eyes they had, all of them--quite like Antha's, now that he thought of it, alive with the knowledge that they were soon to die. Doomed and desperate little birds, souls trapped in the cages of their own bodies. Several of them had begged him for death, had pleaded with him to give them--oh, just a single, sweet kiss goodbye.
Of course when Antha left them all, he could not let her go alone. But he waited only the briefest of moments to allow her to walk ahead, and darted behind in the blue shadows to make certain that nothing else dared to do the same.

Cian found himself, amidst the swell of people discussing his future children, unexpectedly pensive and silent.
He thought about it. It would be those two, wouldn't they, resemblances of both Antha and himself in their fragile, doll-like features--
such bright children, everyone would remark. Brilliant for their ages, in all areas, trained by the best tutors in any field they wished to pursue.
He thought of the pale, lace-trimmed frocks Vanessa would wear, Sebastien's dour scowl in a crisply-pressed suit.
He wondered if he would live to see them grown. (That was invariably the fear of all parents, though, wasn't it?)
He thought, and he let Antha think too, his voice seeping amidst her thoughts--
they'll be little ghost-children, won't they? born of your lines and mine, I don't think
that they could help it if they wished to.
and then his voice within her mind gave out a great sigh, and ebbed away.
For some reason it depressed Cian to think about those early years. If they were anything like his own--
Well, sometimes the presence of ghosts was a great discomfort.
But they would have each other, of course, as Liesse and Rynn had each other,
and had held one another in the very dark nights, in the cold--
in those early years, when Father locked them in the tombs all night, when they had been bad--
or if they had fought one another, or cursed, or cried when it was not appropriate--
Furiously hissing, children all the way through the labryinth, as the hedges parted for their master
and the ghosts moaned, and lashed out briars from the path to catch hold of your ankles as you were dragged along.
He thought, bitterly--at least there would be no labyrinth for them. No ghosts too terrible that the little witchlings could not tatter into shreds--
oh, they would have all that they desired, that much was true. There would be no opposing force that they together would not not be capable of commanding.
That, at least, he could give them.
Cian could feel thunder stirring in the distance.
Abruptly he brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. It didn't do to be having visions in polite company. That was like something Liesse would have done---and he laughed a little about it inside, because it was true, and her visions--
well, he could only hope they wouldn't be passed down to his daughter, was all.
awful, nerve-wracking fits, they'd been. Worth fainting for, sometimes, and Liesse's pale eyes would roll back into her head, her fingers clawing the air as she sank rigidly back, and spit out awful, smoke-raddled prophecies in a voice like smoke and ashes, like Vesuvius sending forth her clouds of roiling death.
Nobody had thought it worth paying attention to at the time. It was referred to as Liesse's 'ailments'.
He wondered if her aunt would pay Sebastien and Vanessa the night-time visits that their own deceased ancestors had.
They would be kindly, at least. That, at least, he could give them. He said, dully, in response to the unspoken questions,
"It would have been kinder if Liesse had survived. She was much different from Rynn. That much is accurate. Not half the witch, of course, but she had her talents. Liesse could calm Rynn when no-one else could. She steadied him. I think that when her...ailments...came on, it left him much unhinged.
He was unbalanced, a scale that had never known the loss of its equilibrium. From the moment they were born, they always completed one another. Liesse had said what Rynn's pride would not allow him to; he had given form to the wishes she had never been bold enough to express. It had been easy to understand how Rynn had gone crazy, and perhaps that was the frightening part. His brothers had stood by in silent compliance as he had slipped deeper and deeper into madness. And perhaps even more so that he had been able to feign sanity long enough to lure others into the Manor.

Vikteren was moments behind Antha, one of the first on the scene. When he arrived, for a moment, he was stricken. His eyes flicked upwards, to the great tower of smoke, and then to Antha--and then slowly, the porcelain of his skin creased, and he smiled,
and laughed, because all of a sudden he could not help it. That was very much like her, wasn't it? Rather than wade into the mire of Cyrus's games, she'd rather just burn the think to the ground.
And he laughed, and had to resist the sudden and blinding impulse to stagger forth and kiss Antha, that was so like her, and he loved her for it. It would have made a strange sight to come across, Antha perched upon the burning crate and watching the bonfire with her brilliant, glassy stare, and the vampire doubled over in silent, spine-wracking hysteria.
And it was probably--although Cyrus's pride would have never allowed him to see it--the best way to deal with Vikteren's sire. He was very much embroiled in the tactics of old, the days when Vikteren had first been born, in which the fiefdoms had waged complicated and centuries-long games with one another over the most trivial of slights, and their children had served as most entertaining pawns in the meantime.
Yes, the best thing to do was just burn the damn thing.
It would most likely infuriate Cyrus. He took pride in his magic, he didn't like to have his spells ignored.

Cian, when he arrived moments later, was not quite as enthused. His brow creased, and he went forward and cupped a hand against his face--for the heat was immense, the tent was reducing itself to ashes at a breakneck pace--and then, catching sight of Antha silhouetted so close to the blaze, he went forward anyways.
Musingly, staring up at the flames, he gave out his opinion: "I wish I'd brought marshmallows now. This makes me wish for a bonfire." And an awful thought sprang into his head--
He would like to burn the labyrinth. It would be festering by now. So much dead wood, it would go up like a haystack--lord! He could picture it now. He wanted to roast hot dogs on the damn thing. He wanted to bring Antha with him, and make love in the dim dawn light when everything around them was reduced to ashes and the Calais ghosts all banished by morning birdsong.
Briefly, he spun the imagining into a beautifully wrapped package, and allowed Antha to open it in her own mind. If only we were not such responsible adults now, hmm?  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Antha remained silent for several moments, watching the smoldering ruins of ash with an unusually pensive air before finally her voice brushed Cian's mind, as smooth as silk. Whatever shall unfortunately plague our children---visions, ghosts, uncontrollable powers, at least a touch of insanity, and believe me, all of these shall plague them---they will have an advantage over us, one thing neither of us ever had. They will have you. You are their father, by blood and name and everything, and you will love them and you will bring them up right. And however Sebastien will mourn me, whatever intense and undying loyalty he develops for my memory, he will be a strong boy, and my death will not mean as much to Vanessa, it will not haunt her as it does her brother, because you will be her favored parent and she will love you more than anything in the whole world. And you my darling, with your knack for survival, will see them grown and thriving.
"Was that really necessary, Antha?" Aaron muttered in a deep sigh, putting a new cigarette to his lips only moments after the old one had been crushed underfoot, his gaze settling with great consideration upon the scorched ground.
"Quite," she murmured seriously, only barely tearing her gaze from the haze of lingering smoke to turn back towards the others, her fingers busily brushing the ash from her coat, "I am not such an egomaniac that I cannot admit Cyrus's magic is dangerous, and his is a game I do not wish to play. I have a nasty feeling that should I try my hand at it, win or lose, I would still be the loser for it in the end."
It is favorable for us, though, that he puts such stock into his own magic, came that whisper in Vikteren's mind, that scrap of a thoughtful reply, almost an afterthought, He may be stronger than me, than any of us, but all ego aside, my magic is stronger than his. If he does not recognize this for his own ego, then it will be his downfall if he ever challenges me.
"I don't think I've ever heard you make decisions so wisely," he purred in return, "Exercising caution in your last days, I take it?"
The girl merely gave a vague, careless shrug of her thin shoulders, hands raised and palms upturned emphatically. "What's the point? I have too little time to go wasting it with every little thing. Speaking of which---" And she dropped the conversation abruptly, breezing gracefully past Aaron as Atticus secured the pendant around his neck and appeared at David's back, far from the Calais boy.
"But you have me thinking," she murmured in the softest whisper when she stood beside Cian, her words carefully guarded from prying vampire ears, "I shouldn't ever like to return to your family's vault, those razed lands, and I certainly shouldn't like you to return to them, their stain of magic is not so easily removed as this. However..." She glanced off, her eyes seeming to settle on something that none present could see before she continued thoughtfully, "If Alistair cannot leave this plane while I exist within it, then surely Liesse cannot leave it while Rynn lives on, and if she still lingers, I think I should like to speak with her." Her face flashed something dark for a brief moment, lines settling into her pale flesh, her eyes taking on an intensely annoyed edge as she murmured seemingly to herself, "Perhaps she'll have some idea how to knock some sense into her fool of a brother."
"Maybe we should be going," Lawrence announced uneasily, clearing his throat as the vampires of the circus inspected the smoldering ground, "It's getting rather late and the vampires will need to settle down for the daytime soon."
As expected, the change in topic snapped Antha out of her thoughts all at once, that dazzling smile spreading back across her face as she said her goodbyes to Nicholas and his coven, assuring them she would be back for the premiere of their next performance, if not sooner. No such promises needed to be made to the Talamascans, they knew they would see each other again sooner rather than later, and with the boys' ardent and exuberant displays of affection the Mayfairs climbed into their cars and departed, Nicolae opting to hop into Lawrence's otherwise empty car where, once out of earshot, their solemn words began to flow rapidly, and Antha did not entirely trust this even as she allowed it.