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opalescent-cheetah · 3 years

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I Don’t Know What To Do (About This Dream And You), 2/5 - Methydoll

Summary: Baseball players and mythical beings are a potent combination. After Crystal catches her eye on the baseball field, Nicky makes a decision that turns her entire world upside down. Meanwhile, Crystal is caught in a mysterious dreamscape, chasing a creature with eyes like liquid gold.

Inspired by these songs: “She’s So High” - Tal Bachman; “Digital Love” - Daft Punk; “Baby” - Francesca Blanchard

Chapter Summary: Crystal is visited by a mystical bird person in the middle of the night. Nobody believes her.

A/N: Part 2 of my fic for @cobblestaubrey . Now, we get into the magical side of things...

Ao3 // Previous Chapter

Chapter 2 - Crystal

The air is heavy, dark, pressing on Crystal’s bruised ribs like a weighted blanket. She draws another laboured breath, trying to ignore the pain searing through her chest. Her wrist is no better; it wouldn’t stop throbbing for the better part of the afternoon, and even now, it aches dully, constantly reminding her of its presence.

The pain isn’t the worst thing, though. It hurts more to know that she won’t be able to play for a week, maybe two. Today, she’d only had to spend two innings in the dugout, but she still felt useless, doing nothing but pressing ice to her wrist and her ribs.

She stiffens when her open window creaks. In this oppressive silence, every sound is deafening, and Crystal doesn’t miss the rustling noise of movement. It’s more than the whistling breeze through the curtains. Something - or someone - is outside.

It’s probably just some funky night creature having a good time, she tries to assure herself, but is immediately proven wrong when a dark figure creeps in through the window.

What the fuck.

Crystal is too terrified to scream. Instead, her mind runs in chaotic circles as the figure straightens. They are clearly humanoid, with slender legs and fair hair, shining silver in the watery half-light. Crystal can barely see more than the edges of moonlight on their gentle jawline, but it’s enough. Whoever this is, they shouldn’t be here.

How did they get in, anyways? She’s on the second floor, and they couldn’t possibly have climbed up here so silently that Crystal only noticed them when they were sneaking into the window.

The figure takes a step closer, moving one arm into the moonlight, and it’s only then that Crystal notices the feathers.

Wings.

They aren’t human.

Maybe they’re a sleep paralysis demon, Crystal thinks. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t screamed yet.

She lies, frozen but for the constant throbbing of her injuries, as the figure steps closer to her bed, moving with all the elegant grace of a goddess. Their feathers, silvery-white in the moonlight, billow around them like a cape. When they finally turn their gaze towards Crystal, her breath catches in her throat.

They have the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen: a luminescent gold, inhumanly bright, brilliant in the hazy dark of the room. The figure blinks, and Crystal swears she sees them smile.

You’re too pretty to be a demon, she thinks. The stray thought catches her off-guard, and she averts her eyes again.

A rustling of feathers reclaims her attention almost immediately. The figure has raised a wing, and a moment later, Crystal feels the brush of feathers along her wrist and chest. In an instant, all her pain vanishes, and the creature briefly seems to tremble.

Crystal wants to speak, wants to call out, wait, what did you do to me? but the figure has already turned away. They hesitate at the window, casting one last look over their shoulder before they disappear into the night.

Crystal flexes her fingers, swivelling the bat around in her hands. Her wrist moves painlessly; if anything, it’s stronger than it was before she injured it.

“I’m telling you, it was like magic,” she says, propping the bat back up against the wall. “I was just in my room, and--”

“And some crazy bird person crawled in through the window, touched you, and took away all your pain. We know,” Jaida interrupts dryly, cocking a brow in clear disbelief.

“But that - that’s really what happened, I swear!”

Jaida purses her lips but doesn’t comment further.

“Seriously!” Crystal insists, knowing full well that she probably sounds like she’s lost her mind. It’s too late now, though - and besides, how else is she supposed to explain her fully-healed injuries? “I know I saw them. They came up right by my bedside, and they had these piercing golden eyes, like… like, I don’t know, the sun or something, they were so bright. And - and they had wings instead of arms, with all these feathers, and--”

“Look,” Jan says gently, “what matters is that you’re able to play today. I’m just glad to see you better.”

Crystal sighs, defeated.

“Yeah. Me too.” She flexes her hand again before brushing her fingers along her ribcage. She remembers how it felt, waking up the next morning feeling not just better, but completely new. Nothing short of a miracle could have made that happen.

She’s oddly unfocused during the game, missing an easy catch and fumbling with the ball. Her mind is elsewhere, the darkness behind her eyelids filled only with luminescent golden eyes. She’s forced to confront it when Jaida glances over at her from the pitching mound, a quizzical yet concerned look on her face.

“You good, Crys?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I--” Crystal falters. “God, I’m sorry, I really suck today, don’t I?” It’s not a question, but she phrases it like one anyway, hoping for a little bit of reassurance.

But this is Jaida, and while she is a lot of things - a talented sportswoman, a bit of a goofball and a great friend - she isn’t one to sugarcoat a bad situation.

“Child, you know I love you, but I think you need a break,” she says simply. “You still thinking about your bird person?”

Crystal frowns, sure that Jaida is going to tease her, but she nods anyways.

“Thought so,” Jaida says, offering her a sympathetic smile. “I still can’t say I believe you, but you’ll have to tell me more about them later, alright? We’ll figure it out. We’ve got to get you back on your game, after all.” She speaks with a cool, collected air about her, but Crystal can sense the genuine care beneath her words. “Batter’s up now. You’ve got this. See if you can take a break after this inning, alright?”

“Will do. Thanks,” Crystal murmurs gratefully.

Jaida simply nods, returning her attention to the game. Crystal adjusts her baseball mitt.

She doesn’t get a chance to discuss the winged person with Jaida, because shortly after they return to the locker room, Jan drags two people in. Crystal recognises Jackie, Jan’s girlfriend, who is loved by the entire team for her unwavering support, but the girl standing next to her is unfamiliar. It takes Crystal a moment to realise that she was the other person in the car when Jan drove her home last week, but this time, she notices something new.

The girl has the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen.

They shine a luminescent gold, just like the eyes of the creature that took Crystal’s pain away.

She doesn’t give herself time to hesitate before she marches over to the girl, who is standing idly by while Jan talks to Jackie. The girl is tall and lean, with a beautifully sculpted face and chin-length, pale blonde hair. She’s gorgeous, yet imposing, and Crystal regrets not talking to her more last week.

In fact, she doesn’t even know the girl’s name. She can’t help but be washed with guilt when she realises that the girl had had to quietly sit by as Crystal and Jan rambled about baseball, but she swallows her guilt as quickly as it came. Now is the time to make amends.

“Hey! I’m sorry, I don’t think I properly introduced myself last time we met,” Crystal says, masking her awkwardness with her characteristic enthusiasm. “I’m Crystal.”

“Pleased to formally meet you. I’m Nicky,” the girl says, smirking ever so slightly, and the French lilt to her words nearly makes Crystal swoon. “How’s that wrist of yours going? I was surprised to see you play today.”

“Oh, well, about that…” Crystal falters. “Painkillers work wonders, I must say.”

Nicky laughs. “I’m sure they do.”

“So…” Crystal mumbles, not quite sure what to say now. “You come here often?”

“You mean to watch baseball?”

“Yeah. Are you a big fan?” Crystal puffs out her chest with pride. “If you are, well, I can’t say I blame you. Me and the girls, we’re all pretty great.”

Nicky grins, clearly amused, and Crystal decides then and there that she’d like to make this girl smile as much as possible.

“To be perfectly honest, I’ve only watched two games,” Nicky admits. “But yes, I’d say I’m a fan. You’re fun to watch.”

“Ah, good. I do love putting on a show.” Crystal mock-bows, tipping her baseball cap at Nicky. “Now, I’d love to keep chatting, but I’ve got to get changed, so…” she fishes her phone out of her bag. “Might I request your number, m’lady?”

Nicky snorts, shaking her head slightly as she takes the phone.

“You sure are something,” she says, so quietly that Crystal probably wouldn’t have heard if she hadn’t been listening. She adds herself to Crystal’s contacts - with a cute bird emoji next to her name, Crystal notices - and hands back her phone.

“Thanks!” Crystal says, grinning, as a little shiver of delight runs up her spine.

Next Chapter

#rpdr fanfiction #nicky doll #crystal methyd #jan sport #jaida essence hall #methydoll #crystal x nicky #songfic #mythical au #baseball au #opal writes

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aria-i-adagio · 5 years

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Ch 16: Directions to See a Ghost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: Lime, very lime

Wordcount: 5600

Masterpost

Prior Chapter

a/n: @ilyarium co-wrote this chapter!

Julian’s mood seems to improve as Portia leads us up the hill that I had stumbled my way down twice the other night. Sunlight, perhaps, or the effect of the alcohol working its way out of his system. He’s quiet, but as he promised, sure footed, even during a scramble up a particularly steep part of the path. Portia unlocks the lemonstone gate that leads into the garden. We follow her around one turn of the hedge maze and she two in front of two statues and grins. “There are all these passages and portals throughout the palace. I’ve been, um, mapping them in my free time. Deep breath, both of you.” She takes Julian’s hand and mine then steps between the statues, pulling us both with her. There’s a sudden lurch and a sickening sensation of falling up, then we land in a dark hallway. Julian loses his balance, pulling both Portia and me to the floor with him. “Graceful, Ilya.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t, um, expecting that . . . damn, it’s dark in here . . .”

I try to summon a light to my hands. Like the other night, my magic doesn’t quite seem to work. The light flickers for a moment, then flares, and extinguishes itself. “Sorry. Not much help right now.”

“No matter. This is Lucio’s old wing right?” Julian’s long limbs unfolding as he gets to his feet is just barely visible as my eyes adjust to the dim light. “There were candelabras all along the walls. Sure there’s still a candle or two in one.”

As he paws along the wall, looking for something to create some light, I get to my feet and dust off my clothes. Like before the air here doesn’t feel quite right - more that the staleness of an unused room. It’s heavy around me and moving - slowly, but strongly, like a current in a river. Hands extended in front of me, I walk down the hall, leaving Portia and Julian to their search for a candle. My hand finds a door knob and without thinking I pull it open.

The ground is cold under my feet, like ice through the soles of my shoes, and as slick as ice too. Did I step in? I can't really remember making that decision, but I must have made it. It feels oddly wet, and feel how I slide and start to fall and... something catches me. I think something did, or did I just react fast enough to catch myself for once?

You. Again. I remember you.

A little wisp of wind against my ear makes me shiver, the sudden little current like an unexpected breath.

"Hello?" No response. I'm not certain if I should even have expected one. Or if I even wanted one. There's a rectangle of light on the opposite wall, just barely pushing through heavy drapes. I pick my way across to it, stepping with care on a floor that has no business being so slick. The room smells of ash. Ash and dogs and years of neglect. A cloud of dust rises like smoke when I push aside the curtain.

The light that falls through a dirty window feels muted, faded like an old memory. This is... a bathroom? Polished marble and a giant bathtub with golden claws, somehow reminding me of the one in my own rooms, just far, far more... absurdly opulent? Is that a thing? The palace seemed a lot at first, but I've somehow grown used to it, but this.... A swan is engraved into the window, proud wings spread in flight, leaving a trail of little crystals set in the glass as he leaves the water. It must be a spectacle when the sun shines through it.

Something touches my back as I trail my finger through the dust on the edge of the tub. I turn, expecting Julian or Portia, but there's no one behind me, at least not that I can see. The sensation of fingers - icy cold - close around my wrist. "Who's there?" My voice shakes softly. Foolish question, really, how many ghosts could one expect from a single wing of the palace? I glance to my right, at a wall of mirrors. There's a faint form towering beside me, though it could be a trick of the light or the cobwebs that coat the surface. I see the shape move, shimmering, just a slight tilt at the top - a nod to acknowledge my presence? "Lucio?"

Was that so hard? Foolish girl. Of course it is I, always have been, always will be, and... ah, so warm, I have forgotten how warm you were. Can feel it down to my bones. Well, metaphorical bones, or metaphysical ones, whatever. Pretty enough. You'll do for now.

I step closer to the mirror, lifting my free hand, fingers skimming slowly over the surface. My mind is one step behind my body and the cold is seeping slowly, so slowly into both. "Can you speak?" This might be a bad idea. Or it could be a good one. If he knows what happened, how he died, who killed him. Do you even remember your life, once you're dead?

I see in the mirror how he leans down to me, about to whisper in my ear. Maybe? A cool gust of wind again, washing over my skin. Is he touching me?

Aah. Your fragrance. Human. Not ash and not fire and not nothing, most of all not nothing, and I inhale again, deeply, trying to inhale some of your very life back into me. Never thought I'd miss that so much. A question. What was it again? Oh, right. Can I speak? No, I say and giggle, because I can't, not here, not now, and yet your ears seem to prick like Melchior's when he hears something interesting. How I miss his soft fur...

He's here. Yet not here. I take a deep, slow breath and close my eyes, thumbing through the pages of the books in my shop in my head. At least one related to the question of spirits and communication between the living and the dead. The twisting pattern of a sigil that strengthens the link between the spirit and our world appears behind my eyes. At the shop, I'd use chalk or a sand tray, but technically anything will do, even the dust overlaying the surface of a mirror or a pattern held carefully in the mind. I lift the hand that still feels like it's being held by cold fingers and carefully trace the design onto the mirror, hoping that my recall is clear enough.

I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to remember how it felt. Touching someone out of pride, rare as it was, one of my mercenaries when he did a particularly good job, because I sense what she's doing, even if I don't know the details. Who needs details anyway? Bureaucrats and tailors, and that's it. She's drawing me towards her, or into the mirror, or in her head, and she feels almost solid under my palms, and I press down a little more.

The feeling of someone standing over me only grows stronger as I finish the sigil. The cold touch shifts from my wrist to my shoulder, and I swear I can feel a breath on the top of my head like a lover’s faint sigh. I shiver, both from the chill in the air and the thought of a ghost hovering so uncomfortably close. Once I've drawn in the least few lines, I lean close to the diagram and breath on it, to activate spell. Breath and blood - the two symbols of life, and I don't want to mess with blood magic. Not unless I must. Just for a moment, the diagram glows - a faint pulse of blue green light. I wait, hands at my sides, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt as I tried to keep them from shaking.

Are you scared? I whisper and chuckle. I'm scared too, or giddy, or maybe both. It's nice to see someone with actual competency trying for once, not the courtiers, not that one time - just a single time, that Val showed up, around deep in his cups and another bottle at hand. I feel her magic wash over me like a wave, and then, it's almost there. I'm almost there, almost, can see myself forming in the mirror, my glorious human self, and then it's gone again. Lost in the sea. That's how the afterlife feels for me. Sometimes almost at the safe shores, but then again so far out between the waves that I can feel myself drowning, becoming another one of the sad shapes that haunt the palace. But not me. Not Lucio.

The presence was stronger, but only for a moment. Breath alone isn't going to be enough. I gnaw at my bottom lip, then with a sigh dig a penknife out of my bag. The chance that he knows - that he could clear Julian of his death - it's too important to not pressure. I add six lines to the diagram, a hexagon - regular as I can make without a compass - framing the sigil. Any spellwork I do within the frame will last only as long as the frame itself, no matter how powerful. The limiting frame might keep Asra from killing me, once he finds out about this little adventure. I prick my finger and allow a bead of blood to form before touching it to the center of the diagram.

The sensation is a bit like cumming, and I shudder in delight. Maybe I just moaned, not quite sure. A heartbeat full of life pumping through me from that tiny drop, and my nails dig into her clothes. Damn magicians, always holding back their power. Greedy things. More. I need more... but I smile. My old charm is still there, somewhere.

I wince. The feeling of a hands grasping at my side is stronger. Nearly painful. I'd be proud of myself for recalling the sigil well enough for it to be effective, if there wasn't a very insistent voice in the back of my head declaring that I was certainly going to regret this mistake.

"Speak if you can, Lucio."

Silence. But the phantom hand tightens on my waist.

You'd be the first to want that. I chuckle. Does she hear me as I whisper in her ear? Briefly muse to lick along the shell, make her shudder as she made me.

Rude, I think, even as I feel my head tipping just slightly to the side. And not enough, yet, it seems. Damn. The trouble with this spell - with most spells - is the sequential increase in power that is geometric, not arithmetic in nature. The next step adds four drops of blood to the cardinal points, not simply a second drop. But I want - I need - answers. Fuck it. I squeeze the pad of that finger and touch it to the mirror right to left, lower to upper. Whispering to myself, because it seems odd to work in silence when I know someone else is here, I dot more blood onto the diagram. Sixteen drops more, makes for twenty one total, the product of three and seven. Three for stability and creation, seven for completion and expectation.

The sigh of the dead man is clearly audible this time, or maybe it's a moan. I'm not quite sure.

"What gives me the pleasure of your presence?" The ghost’s voice grows stronger as he speaks. "Did you miss me so much?"

I can feel sharp nails trailing along my jaw and a thumb being over my bottom lip. Miss him? Why would I, specifically, miss him? Or does he simply assume that everyone in the city, process and paupers alike, long for his presence?

"Nadia wants, needs to know . . .” My voice shakes as I try to figure out a way to ask the question that will get me an answer. “How did you die, Lucio?"

"Dead?" A melancholic laugh. He's bitterly amused by the question it seems. "I'm not dead, my dove. I'm like you, not quite alive."

She's not. I knew the first moment I touched her. Two sides of the same coin, her side wiped clean, mine engraved too deeply. I want to take her, suddenly, urgently, to become one, but know that won't do the trick. I was told by trustworthy sources.

"Like me?” What does he mean by not quite alive? Fingers trail through my hair. I can make out more of his image now. Blonde, average height, trim physique, face still lost in dust and shadow. "How are you like me?"

"You do not know? Oh, of course not."

She's their pawn. A perfect little doll, ignorant of how they toy with her. Liars and cowards, all of them, and I feel the heat of my hate returning, and it feels so good.

"There's quite a lot I don't know.” For a second, my temper flares and I have to shove back thoughts of Asra and everything he's hidden from me - even if it's true that he withholds information to keep me safe.

"They are horrible, aren't they? Always telling that you don't need to concern yourself with this and that...."

Heavens, I hate being sober. Happier to be a drunken fool. No wonder Val stays that way. The realization they did that - that they lied, manipulated, despised me, only came after my little accident. For a moment, her face has fallen. She knows what I mean. Could I bring her around to my side? Would she help me? Not it she understood what would happen, how we're alike, but then she needn't understand, only obey.

"Who are they?" I can't decide whether he's being condescending or if he'd commenting on his own experience. "For you, that is?"

"Take a wild guess, my dove. Isn't it always those that claim to love you?"

Liars, selfish liars, all of them!

The people who claim to love us, eh? The blood on the diagram drips slowly, pooling into oval drops. The dream, the dream where Asra cut Julian's hand and allowed the blood to fall. The one that was more than a dream, if what Julian said about Asra involving himself with blood magic was true. I pull away from the cold hand on my shoulder and sit down on the edge of the tub. The people who claim to love us and blood. There's a connection here, one I can't quite put into language. "What do you know about Asra?"

Any number of things would have met my expectations for what would happen next, but not hysterical laughter. It starts with a low giggle and rises and rises until the whole room around me seems to be shaking with it.

Of course that little bastard is behind this! Of-fucking-course! Not enough that he fucks my wife, he also sends -her- of all people to find out... find out... No. Nonono. Not this time. Fuck this.

Suddenly, there is silence. I see one of the red pearls loose its shape, run down the shining surface like a tear, and then, I scream. Scream before I realize that it was the mirror cracking into pieces, shattering the image of me and the room and the not-quite-there man, destroying the connection we had.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" The mirror crumbles leaving between a raw plaster wall. There's a shriek from the hallway - Portia, or maybe Julian. They run in from the hallway, door slamming behind them.

“Dema! What is it are you alright?” Julian fumbles with a half burned candle, that they appear to have finally managed to light. “What happened?”

Portia runs a hand through her hair. "My god, what a mess! You didn't get hurt did you?"

"I'm okay. Lucio, um, he's definitely here."

"You spoke to him? What did he say? Does he know who killed him?”

"I - we didn't get that far.”

"Is he still here?" Portia spins about on her heels. "Hey, Count, I need to know who killed you.”

"I don't think it'll be that easy." My spell is gone shattered along with the mirror. Casting another one, well, it was possible, but I'm not at all sure that it would be wise. No, definitely not. The first hadn't been wise.

A crash from the next room interrupts Portia's next question. Perhaps I won't need another spell, not if Lucio’s ghost is capable of property destruction.

Julian holds his candle to the door like some sort of ward. It quivers against the darkness of the hall beyond. "What was that?”

"Maybe the dogs." Portia doesn't sound particularly convinced by her own statement.

"Came from his bedroom."

No, no, Mercedes, don't look at me like this and wag your tail just because daddy made a fun mess. That bust was expensive and I looked so regal in it, and now it's gone just because of that damned witch. He and his kind make me so angry, still do. What did I expect? Anything Noddy does being actually useful and not another selfish act? Ha!

Julian pushes the door to the bedchamber over and enters first, candle held out before him. There's a pile of broken ceramic in the floor, flanked by Lucio's hounds. They looked surprised for a moment, then rush Julian with happy barks, tails wagging as they prance around him, demanding attention.

"Old friends?"

"Umm, yeah." Julian hands the candle to Portia before the dogs can knock it from his hands and kneels in the floor. He rubs Melchior's ears as the hound pushes his nose against Julian’s face. Mercedes huffs and sprawls in the floor, rolling over and exposing her belly for rubs.

Jules. You too. Of course. We're getting the band back together, and the witch is the new lead singer. You're looking like shit, old friend, and I've seen you looking like shit before.

A massive portrait of the Count in a gilded frame dominates the far wall of the bedroom. Like the painting in the dining room, red is the dominant color. Lucio is depicted in profile, standing with his heel on a horse’s skull, triumphant over the death’s head that haunted the right corner of the dining room portrait. Death’s smiles is as pronounced as it is for any skull, but the cobwebs, dust, and ash surrounding it add an additional layer to the grin.

The door crashes shut. Beside me, Julian jumps. His fingers twist into mine, then just as quickly twist away. “Helluva draft.”

Air pushes past my face, warmth incongruent with the rest of the room. I don’t think that’s a draft.

At my feet lie the crumbled remains of a statue, gold and translucent oranges and browns, some precious stone. Agate maybe? I see the remains of an armored arm broken from the body that's lying over there, half of a sword still in its clutches. It's gilded, and I know quite well whom it belongs to. How can somebody have so many depictions of himself in his own bedroom? I'm happy to avoid my face after waking up for the longest time, while the count seems to be somebody who'd consider a mirror over his mattress an excellent idea.

If Lucio has enough energy remaining from my spell to shatter a bust, perhaps he has enough left to interact with us. "Lucio?" There’s another push of air between me and Julian, and then his chin tilts down, as it touched by a hand.

“Now this is a face I didn’t expect to see again.” The ghost’s voice is more distant than before, but still very present.

“Lucio?” Julian’s whisper is barely audible.

A laugh from the ghost and a flash of white in the corner of my eye. “Jules, you somehow escaped the dungeon. And survived. Fascinating.” Air brushes past my face again, followed by the stinging sensation of claws brushing along my cheek. "And your pretty little friend you brought to the Masquerade too." Cold claws wrap around my hand, jerking me away from Julian. "I almost didn't recognize her the other night." The pale form spins me around.

That's a lie. I do recognize her, the way she feels, something of Jules, but that she's another one of Asra's pawns... I should have known. Should have known from the start. Why are they looking like that? Don't they know? Don't they remember? I may be missing one thing or the other, that's a mix of booze and drugs and death, but they...

"Montag . . . Lucio, what happened to you?” Julian speaks the first name - the one I don't recognize - softly, almost affectionately, and I’m reminded of Valerius’s comment that he and Julian knew the Count better than anyone else in the court.

I let her go, suddenly losing all interest in her. Jules sounds like he used to, back in the day, the good, old, bloody days, and I decide to be at his side to bop his silly old nose. Always liked that nose. Liked him. Yes, I think I did? Then something happened. Did the magician fuck him, like he did with anybody back then? Would you do that to me, Jules? Could you? Suddenly, I feel a bit like weeping, and don't like it at all.

My fingers are running through those red curls, and I grab one tweaking it sharply. "Well, what's your diagnosis, doctor?" I spit. No need for them to think me sentimental.

"I . . . I don't really know. There was a fire. Here, I thought I might have . . ." Julian's voice trails off and he lifts his hand, as if he's trying to curl his fingers around Lucio's.

Portia breaks in, hands on her hips and single minded. "Who killed you, Lucio?"

"And who might you be, little girl?" The ghost sounds lost in thought, hand still dancing over Julian's skin. I feel a sudden wave of aggression rolling through the room. He doesn't like being spoken to like this.

Portia's own glare, as formidable as a thunderclap, knocks into the aggression rolling from Lucio's ghost. "Ilya's my brother, and I'm not about to let him die for something he didn't do."

"Are you still trying to die dramatically, Jules? I told you to stop that nonsense more than once, didn't I, my silly puppy?" The claws follow the line of the high cheekbone.

I choose to ignore the little brat for now, because there are tears forming in Jules' eyes, nostalgia, maybe love even, and they give me more than the witch ever could. He's the last one with a kind thought left for me, and a part of me cherishes that more than I expected.

The Count's obvious affection for Julian surprises me, but perhaps it's a way to persuade him to help us. "Please, Lucio, the courtiers have Nadia convinced that Julian murdered you. What really happened?” The ghost returns his attention to me, red eyes flashing with anger.

"So Noddy is a beautiful and dumb as ever. Ha! Some things never change. Noddy and Asra and their ilk . . ." That obviously means means me, and it sounds amazingly offensive for such a little word.

Portia snaps again, fearless in her anger at the comment. "Don't speak of Milady that way."

Julian sighs, but speaks kindly, as if he's had to calm the Count's temper many times before. "Lucio, you know her better than that."

"And now she's looking for you to put up a statue of Vesuvia's hero?"

I know what she thinks of me. Of course I do. I used to love the challenge I thought her to be, but now I know better. A beautiful waste of space.

"You don't know what happened to you, do you?" I know that the question is going to piss him off even more, but pissed off people often reveal a lot. "At least Nadia is interested in finding out the truth."

The witch is right. I do not know, and I wonder if I care. When things come together, not a single one of them will remain anyway, and still...

"I have seen Jules try to kill as it was about saving his own bony ass. He didn't manage, even then."

"So what the hell happened?” The limited amount of patience that Portia began with has clearly run its course, and if I haven’t managed to piss Lucio’s ghost off she certainly will. "Why are you even still here? You're dead."

The whole room seems to inhale and hold its breath, and I see Julian duck defensively. "Please, don't..." He whimpers, the sounds echoed by one of the dogs, obviously knowing and fearing what might come now, and I feel it too, feel death in the air and feel my fingers weave energy to fend off whatever might be coming and . . .

"Jules? Would you kindly take your lovely sister for a walk before I rip her fucking head off?” The dead count's voice cuts like a knife, and suddenly I can imagine him wreaking havoc on the battlefield so very easily.

I take a step, placing myself between Portia and the Count's ghost. Why the hell did I use blood to summon him? And what did I do wrong with the framing that he still has residual power from it? Better question: how do I undo the it now? But it’s my blood he’s drawing energy from, that should give me some control over him.

"That's enough, Lucio."

Behind me, Julian is frantically pulling at Portia's hand, whatever spell Lucio had him under broken by the threat. My fingers twitch through the movements of a ward to banish evil spirits, holding it in the air. But I can't resist one last attempt to get something from him. "What happened? What did Asra and my 'ilk' have to do with it?”

"Sit down, witch, will you?" A nod towards the bed. Now that his attention is on me, I have an idea what happened with Julian. The world around us feels like it's under water, Julian's scramble to get Portia out before she tries to choke a dead goat somehow far away and not of any significance. He is. Lucio is.

Is this what people mean when they speak of charisma? Or some perversion of the idea? One foot starts to move in the direction of the bed, and I pull it back, trying to ignore the part of me that so very much wants to follow his command.

There's a sudden movement, a blur of white and red, and a cold arm wraps around my waist and tosses me onto the bed. Greasy gray ash stirs around, clouding the air. I cough, then choke as it dawns on me that this is all that remains of Lucio's body.

"Always resisting. Just like him! Just like Asra! You want to know what happened? Fine." The pitch if the voice rises and a cold draft swirls around the room. "It was supposed to be mine! But Asra stole it. Thief! A new body for that dead lover he was always weeping about.” When he speaks the last line, there’s sharp stab behind my eyes, like one of those claws pressed through my head. All the air in the room seems to rise to the ceiling, lifting the drapes around the bed. The draft becomes hotter as it swirls, painfully hot. "Dirty, conniving little thief!" The air settles and the voice lowers. "So now, I'm . . . I'm this . . . But not for much longer."

The very thought of him makes my blood boil even worse than the impertinent little Devorak. The witch remembers, almost does, I can feel her rising panic, washing away some of the things Asra did to her to wipe her clean for him. His own little virgin sacrifice, tabula rasa because she could not stand him anymore, because nobody could, and I lie her down gently on my sorry remains. It surely would have been a nice body. Drape myself at her side, looking down through glowing eyes. Well, that maybe would work better if I was in better shape. She's scared, and angry. I like that in a lover.

"You know that you are like me, don't you? Surrounded by liars and traitors, only thinking about their own desires. Aah, yes, of course you know, and you also know your owner only means well. Such a waste of talent, being nothing but an assistant to a thieving scalawag that took even your truth away."

His voice is low now, sensuous.

Truth? My truth? What is the truth? A freezing finger traces along my jaw, and despite the cold - almost cold enough to burn, I want to tilt my face into his hand. Let the chill of his fingers push back the pain in my skull. Just give in and obey whatever command I'm given. I also want to lash out at him! Owner? Oh hell no! The second part of me wins and I roll away from him, catching another lungful of ash, escape interrupted by a second coughing fit.

A disappointed little sound, and then he chuckles, and it sounds more human than anything else that came from him. "What is it, dove?"

A hand, both welcome and unwelcome, settles on my hip. It would be easy enough to let him turn me back over, do whatever it is he wants . . . No, no, no. I don't want . . .

Portia's voice breaks the spell. "Leave her the fuck alone!”

And suddenly, I can scramble backwards, our if the bed, nearly falling into floor before hands - warm, human - catch me and pull me tight against a chest that's rising and falling with breath. Julian.

"Dema, are you alright?”

A laugh fills the room. "You know I wouldn't hurt her, Jules, not unless she wanted me to. And oh -" I can see Lucio stand before Julian spins me around and tightens his arms around me, holding me close against him. Another cold breath ghosts over my neck, and then a not quite solid, but ever so definitely present, weight presses against my back, as if the ghost leaned over me to press a kiss to Julian's cheek. “I’d do that so well.”

I hold my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh as they leave. This time, it's not an impressive, manly one, but the mad giggle the huff the ladies are in and the blush that threatens to burn Jules' cheeks deserve. I let them leave for now, even if it dreads me to be so awfully alone again. Melchior gives me one long longing look, and I allow him to go and play with them. Real pets are better than anything I can offer.

Why does Noddy want to know what happened all of a sudden? And why wasn't I informed about that new idiocy the courtiers are trying? If I didn't need them, I . . . .

Julian seems frozen in place. I pull away from him and bolt for the door. Lucio’s amused laugh follows me as I stumble out of his room and fall hard on my knees. The hallway shifts in and out of focus along with the throbbing in my temples, stabbing through my skull each time I cough. The ash still coats my mouth and throat, choking and disgusting. A wave of nausea hits me and I curl over myself dry heaving in the floor. A cold nose presses against the back of my next and one of the dogs whines, briefly pushing against me then pulling away.

Gentle hands close around my shoulder. "It's okay. He's gone." Portia kneels beside me, sitting me up, a supportive arm around my shoulders. "Ilya, do you have something, anything to drink?”

A rustling of fabric and then he closes by fingers around a metal flask. The alcohol burn is a welcome distraction from the pain in my head as I swish the liquid around my mouth. I spit it back out on the floor, more concerned with getting as much of the body remains of Lucio out of my mouth than with dignity. Another sip. This one I swallow and try to pay more attention to the cheap liquor burning it's way to my gut than to the pounding in my head.

"Dema?" Julian's voice. Cool fingers on my forehead.

"I'm -” I want to say fine. But I'm not. Colors explode behind my eyes when I close them, but even the dim light of the hall is too much, too bright, too painful to keep them open. The liquor washed the grit from my mouth and throat, but it's done nothing for the nausea. "Head's killing me."

"Migraine like?”

Nodding is painful. I feel like my skull is about to disintegrate, to crumble from the inside out. My skin crawls over my arms, and where Lucio's ghost grabbed my shoulders, I can still feel his claws scorching my skin. Despite the lingering heat, I'm shivering, the shakes starting in my chest and radiating out.

"Let's get you to your room." Portia stands, pulling me along with her. Even with her arm around me, I stumble, balance lost to the migraine. The world turns around me, and I don't have enough concentration to both not throw up and to stay on my feet. Strong arms catch me and lift me off my feet.

"I've got you, darling." He cradled me against him, one arm under my thighs, other pressing me to his chest. I tuck my head against his neck, trying to block out as much light as I can from my eyes.

a/n: Directions to See a Ghost is the title of a nice, trippy album by The Black Angels. Highly recommended.

Next chapter: SFW version and 18+ version

#the arcana #the arcana fanfiction #julian devorak #portia devorak #count lucio #julian x apprentice #fan apprentice #dema #whatever i've done

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