Illa's guard closed the prison room door behind them. The wards flaring, locking them in the room together.
"I hate this shit," the guard said. "Stupid fucking orders."
Illa stared up at the guard. Unable to speak, barely able to stand.
"Don't sit your ass down yet, I've gotta figure how to get this off you. Fiddly bullshit."
Was this guard one of Gabriel's suborned?
Either way, Illa could do little but let himself be taken in hand while the guard handled the binds, locks and veils. Not bothering with knives or keys, just searing fire as fine as a knife blade. The guard had to be undead, given the chill of his touch and the fact that he was undoing Illa's binds at all. But he still had this much magic? Usually coming back as a zombie took a chunk out. (And took one's mind, if there wasn't a chunk of magic to give.) Then again, Malachi's file did say he'd picked his men for their evocation bloodlines.
"Pretty sure you can't talk," the guard said, "saw the brat dose you up. But you can listen, can't you?"
Illa nodded.
"I'm gonna untie you and leave you in here. I don't got the talking juice, so you're out of luck there for a while. Fucking Mickey Morley is coming soon. Maybe if you look pretty enough, he'll come heal you."
Illa cocked his head, confused.
The guard answered, "Gabriel's the one holding my leash, and Mickey's learned how to kiss his ass, so I've gotta pave the way and take care of his toys while he leaves Malachi to rot." A derisive snort. "Didn't like someone having the balls to stand up to the Wingless, I guess."
The veil came off, fully, as did the wrist binds. Illa stumbled back from the guard, rubbing his wrists. Started to stretch his wings, despite the pain, but then the air played along the holes.
He froze stock-still. Riddled through with sick horror.
"Knock if you have to," the guard said. "Gabriel's even making me follow your orders if they don't contradict his and Eric's and fucking Mickey. And ordered me to tell you, for all I'd rather see all four of you rot. Anyway, it's safer in here than out there, so don't make my job harder, just sit quiet until the coup's done."
Illa nodded, slowly. Trying to figure out how he could give orders when he couldn't talk. The guard didn't seem likely to make a lot of effort to understand nonverbal communication, given that he didn't want to be following Illa's orders in the first place. But still, Illa wracked his brain for how to communicate things like "find out where 'Alanna' is and bring her here safe". The guard had to know she'd been one of Mickey's allies. If the guard used vagueness as an excuse to hurt her...
The guard turned to leave.
Wait--"No."
"What?" the guard asked, frustration in his voice.
What was the damn... "Find." Yes! A word he could use. "Find."
"Find what?"
Illa tried, but the name refused to form. He pointed to his wings instead. "Find."
"Your wings are right there. I found 'em. You happy?"
Illa shook his head.
"Stupid fucking compulsion. Fine. What do you want?"
Illa pointed to his wings again. "Her. Her. Find."
"What, you want me to kill that faerie bitch?"
"No." Illa pointed at the floor. "Here." Come on. He had to do this. "Here. Okay."
The guard looked amused, as if he'd just come up with the perfect way to fuck with Illa. "Here, alone with you and okay? Sure. I'll give her another go at you."
Illa nodded. The guard stared at him, lip caught halfway between a sneer and confused distaste.
"Fine. Your wish is my command." The guard stalked out of the room.
Might be less safe, having the guard away. Might be safer. There were wards, at least. Illa sat on the floor without bothering to assess any of the furniture. Held his wings closed tight, for all they ached, just to keep the air from touching them. Thairn would be here soon. And her lover was on his way. With Gabriel, but Gabriel would let them both heal him, Illa was sure of it.
Please, just let them be safe, and let this be over.
When Michelle and Marco made it back to the prison hall, their plan ready, they arrived to find the guard in front of Red-Eyes's prison room gone. The ward still up and the other two guards still there, though. Had to hope Red-Eyes was, too.
The guard being missing might actually make this plan work.
The shadow-work was complicated, stretched Michelle's limits. First, to guide her shadow in a long, thin thread, concealing it in the shadows beneath the baseboard that ran along the hall, until it got all the way to the prison door. The whole while, having to keep her breathing slow and steady, her emotions distant and empty, her thoughts focused on what she wanted. She couldn't afford to let them flicker or form shapes.
She let her shadow seep along the edges of the ward. Looking for holes. It had been hastily constructed, and it had been built wrong, though she didn't have the expertise to say--
Oh. Oh, she could feel it.
They'd installed it backwards.
Easy, then. If she could just find a hole, and feed a piece of shadow through... there. Mr. Morley called this a Thesean shadestring--a variant on the normal Thesean strings people used to sneakily hold wards open. If she held onto the shadestring, kept it in place, then she could convince the ward she was already inside it, and therefore that it should let the rest of her in.
Why the hell would they have made such a simple mistake?
No, no. Her thoughts were getting unfocused, her emotions starting to flare. Shut that down. Breathe. Next part.
She guided another thread of shadow, this time behind the guards' feet. Had to keep them from seeing this one. No room to hide it under the baseboard. The shadow was carrying burrs from the garden, the kind that always got caught on Marco's clothes when he weeded. The kind Marco had to be careful of, because of how they reacted to fire. Ease them past the guards, into the hall, all while holding her control over the shadestring...
There. She'd gotten it around the corner. She reshaped the shadow, focusing on the image of the guard who'd left, how he moved, how his shadow felt. Enough that one of the guards spotted him "walking" and called a greeting.
Marco hadn't yet returned the weeding wand to Mrs. Vernon. He touched the tip of it against the burr-bearing shadow where it emerged from Michelle's hand. Breathed in.
Breathed out, and sent fire down the thread.
The guard-shaped shadow lit aflame, and the burning burrs screamed like the souls of the damned.
The guards distracted, the ward held open, Marco and Michelle snuck into the prison room.
The room was dark, all the lights off. Curled up on the floor next to the bed was a slender, familiar figure. Red eyes gleamed in the light from the hallway as they shut the door behind them, and they were alone in the room with the faerie Ms. Abercorn had tortured in front of them in class.
They--Michelle couldn't think of them as an "it", not really--lifted an eyebrow on seeing Michelle and Marco. Leaned back slightly, and Michelle heard a sharp intake of breath from them.
Marco lit a fireball in his hand, and the faerie's eyes widened.
"No," the faerie said. They were naked, skin reddened and raw. Their shoulder still bore the angry red cuts from the blood samples they'd taken for class, and she felt a hollow in the pit of her stomach at the memory. Of keeping Jenna from stopping it. Of going ahead and participating in it.
"We're not here to hurt you," Michelle said, with a wary glance towards Marco. "We're here because we want to know what's going on."
There was a light of recognition in the faerie's eyes, though they still looked confused. And strained, flinches every few breaths. They'd been in a similar way when Ms. Abercorn had put the veil on them for class. And then they'd been much worse. They had to wonder if Michelle and Marco had come to do that "much worse", too.
"Are you willing to talk to us?" Michelle asked.
They gave a shrug, hissed, and curled in on themselves, digging into their own skin with their nails. There were scratches on them already that had to be from earlier such gestures.
But Marco noticed something else. "It's not wearing the veil." The fire in his hand intensified, until Michelle could feel the heat off of it.
The faerie's eyes widened. "No." They looked to the door, and then back to Michelle and Marco. "Please."
"The veil is there on the bed," Marco said. "We should make the faerie put it back on."
"We came here to talk to them, not hurt them."
"It's the cloth one, that won't hurt it. And veils are the only thing that'll stop those wings from spelling us."
The faerie was looking between them, eyes darting around the room. This was going to end up in a fight--a pointless fight--if Michelle didn't do anything about it.
"We'll make them agree to a bargain," Michelle said, thinking quickly. "They're binding with fae, just like the ones between wizards."
"It'll probably twist it, that's what they're known for."
Michelle was exasperated. "Are you fucking kidding me? Marco, you dosed them with Broca Burn when we were in the garden. They can't talk. We'll be wording the bargain. It's fine."
The faerie watched her with alien patience and all-too-humanlike pain.
How did this go again? She'd gotten warning after warning after warning about bargains, mostly to never do them. They could always go wrong. If they weren't worth damaging her magic over, they weren't worth doing.
But this was life or death. Worse, Jenna's mind was on the line, and maybe everyone else's, too.
"If we promise not to put the veil back on you," she said, "do you promise not to cast any magic on us?" Wait, think of how that might screw things up if they did make an ally of this faerie. "That is, any magic we don't seem likely to freely consent to."
"Michelle--"
"Marco, deal with it." She'd left herself a loophole enough, though she didn't want to reveal that to the faerie. No saying the two of them couldn't ask someone else to put the veil back on the faerie. And the subjective consent thing seemed less likely to get fucked-up than something rigid, right?
"And nothing you think we'd be stupid to consent to," Marco added. "I promise under these terms."
Clever enough. She felt a little bad for snapping at him. "I promise, too."
The faerie nodded. The nod was enough. She could feel the tug of the magic, like a small weight had been added to her heart.
The faerie slowly, carefully stretched their wings. Marco's fireball flared, but the faerie put up their hand and shook their head. The holes flickering in the firelight. The faerie probably couldn't cast a spell if they wanted to.
The faerie settled back down with a sigh, stared at Marco and Michelle. Gave a look to the door behind them, then back to Marco's fireball. Assessing.
"There's students acting like their minds have been messed with," Marco said. "Do you know why?"
The faerie cocked their head. Shrugged.
Michelle tried another tack. "I think you might have at least seen my friend Jenna, when she went to talk to Ms. Abercorn. Jenna's not acting like herself. Do you know why that is?"
The faerie nodded.
"Tell--" Michelle cut herself off. It wasn't like the faerie'd be able to tell them much of anything. "Marco, you don't happen to have the cure to the Burn, do you?"
"No." Marco frowned. "I think it can still draw pictures." He pulled some pencils and crumpled-up paper out of his jacket. "Here."
The faerie started drawing, left-handed, little sketches that told a story.
A picture of a woman with straight, dark lines of hair. Scars, and lines around her to show her glowing. Just like when Michelle had seen her last.
"Is that Dr. Morley?" Michelle asked. "Lucía Morley, I mean."
The faerie nodded.
"What did she do?"
The faerie drew a potion bottle into Dr. Morley's hand. An arrow from the bottle to a stick figure with close-capped coily hair and a pair of buns.
"That's Jenna?"
The faerie nodded. Then bit their lip, and started another drawing. Dr. Morley and Jenna again, the potion bottle empty. Jenna kneeling in front of Dr. Morley, bowing down.
"Is there a cure?" Marco asked.
The faerie shrugged.
The shadows in the room thrashed as Michelle swallowed down the urge to scream.
Thairn woke to a sensation that crawled under skin and cuticle alike. The sickening touch of chainmail draped along her wings, gloved her bound hands. As if she were being rubbed raw by sandpaper dipped in sewage. Every breath and shift snagged her against the chain links, shot lances into her body, her psyche.
Rip it off. The mail, her wings, her skin. Anything to make this stop. The pain of her broken arm was nothing to the iron taint. If anything, the splint held that arm's chainmail at bay.
She deserved this. A kinder fate than she'd given Illa, under Magdalena's orders. How had Illa survived this?
Illa. She looked around, but there was no sign of him. Being kept in another room, she hoped. Harder, not to have him near. He was someone to be strong for. She could handle this if he were here to be strong for, couldn't she?
She tried to sing. Flower of England, fruit of Spain... "Flower." Only the one word?" "...fruit." There, there, she had it. "Flower. Fruit." No, no, no.
She clenched strands of carpet between the mailed fingers of her good hand as the panic overwhelmed her. The steel, her voice, it was too much, she'd rather die--
Mickey's heart beat with hers. Something of solace in that. He was still alive. There was a chance, if he was still alive. And she was still alive. And Illa... Illa had to be, because Illa would never die, it was his job to survive all of her lovers. So if Mickey was still alive, it meant Illa hadn't the universe's permission to die yet. And. And because they'd kept her alive, and why have one faerie when you could have two?
Had they put the chainmail on him, too? The mansion's stores had multiple. She knew. She'd seen, in the boxes of equipment for class.
She tried to open her wings, to see if she could play them. She could feel the muscle strain, just at the effort, and it twisted something inside of her to try. But as soon as she got free a note, she felt her body convulse. The TENS device, just as she'd demonstrated to her class. Her wings snagged, the chainmail catching tight on one and keeping it from fully closing. She had to rub against the wall to loose it, pressing her further against the steel.
She strangled down the urge to scream. But her tears refused to obey her. Streaked her face, cold and unquenchable.
Awful.
She was naked, she came to realize, her skin reddened and raw. Truly naked, no glamours left to her, her breast form gone, and it felt like her false nails had been torn away. What, had she been dipped wholesale in acetone? She could smell it now that she knew what to smell for, a searing fume she now could not ignore. It made sense, in some terrible way. How else to know where to look for a glamour key so well-hidden?
What did she have left to her? Mickey's magic.
She willed the magic through her broken hand. A purple glow, straightening her snapped finger-bones. Mickey's healing, but warmed by her own power. She extended it further, up her broken arm, the fragments fusing, the pain easing. The magic flowing effortlessly at her command.
She could work with this.
Next, the door. If her captors hadn't realized wizard magic was how she'd killed Magdalena, they might not have secured against it... She tested it with a trickle of ice. Out through the crevices of her chainmail glove. Past the ward and into the moisture of the wood of the door, making it crack.
Ha. That was power. Ice from a wizard's heart to save her, ah? Irony.
A guard had been posted to this isolated prison room. She slid ice beneath the door, crept it up the guard's body. Began freezing tissues. The guard fell, banging on her door with a desperate touch. There'd be a counterspell if she didn't finish this soon.
She shot the ice up the inside of the guard's body, the crystals branching and cracking, until the guard finally fell still.
Lucía might have a scrying spell in this hall. Thairn needed to get past the ward and out of here, as fast as she could.
Mickey, he had a hand with wards, didn't he? She'd seen him tear Xavier's apart before. She tried to remember what that had looked like, project what that felt like. She lifted her hand--
The weight of the chainmail glove pulled, a hot wave of nausea surging through her body. She found herself whimpering. Shameful.
Had to. Had to handle this. She had done this to Illa, after all. She had done worse to Illa. Had to push past this.
She tried to raise her hand, and instead slid beneath the foul waters of that terrible taint.
She'd pierced Illa's wings with this stuff, and he hadn't even cried out.
She held herself as distant from her own senses as she could. Reached her hands up in claws, and angled it this time so that gravity would make them fall the right direction when she succumbed. Dragged her fingers, Mickey's magic, through those wards. And tore them to shreds.
She went down, all the way to the ground. Lingered there in a turtle-like curl, laughing, hurting.
She forced herself forward. Pressed one mailed hand against the door, for all the awful, crawling touch, pushed the ice magic into it, out through the gaps between the chains. Expanded the moisture in the wood, made the cells burst and crack, set it to crumbling.
But there on the other side, another guard, standing over the body of the one she'd downed.
He moved to cast something. She grabbed his ankle. Didn't hurt him, yet. He could read the threat just off her touch, off what had happened to the door. He stared down at her, face... exasperated?
He flicked his hand, and suddenly the chainmail glove was searing hot, forcing her grip open. She rimed the glove with ice as fast as she could to ward off the burns, and while she did, he crouched down low enough to whisper in her ear.
"Look. I didn't want to come get you, either. But that dumbass faerie you tortured wants you in its room, so get up and act like a real prisoner before someone spots us."
He hauled her up to her feet while she was still figuring out how to respond, thoughts lurching out of reach as the chainmail over her wings and hands shifted. On her feet and having to rely on the guard to stay upright. Heavens.
Think. Read his face. Try to figure out why he was doing what he said he was doing.
First, who was he? She didn't know everyone in the mansion, but she'd tried to memorize as many names and faces as possible. There. That was it. Brant Kennard. One of Malachi's top men. He was sure to have been on the mission to attack the Wingless. Did that mean...?
He was gripping her arm, and Thairn focused on that point of contact. Usually Thairn could only extend her healing sense through her lips, but with the new versatility she'd gained from Mickey's heart...
Her senses told her plainly. The man guiding her down the hall was dead.
And therefore, one of Gabriel's suborned. Who would treat Illa as an ally. And who was taking her to Illa. Relief flooded through her, enough to ward away the chainmail's touch for a moment.
At last, hope.
The intel Mickey had gotten from the suborned guards thus far had been both dire and confusing. Magdalena was dead and Lucía was alive and taking over the family, allegedly. Except, hadn't that been Magdalena's plan all along? To pick a convenient heir and take their face?
Aunt Greta would know the truth, since she would feel it when Magdalena died, but those same oath-chains would force her to lie to them if Magdalena had survived.
But the rumor was, Alanna had killed Magdalena. So Thairn would know the truth. But, she'd been unveiled as fae and captured. Lucía--or Fauxcía--had secured her separately from the other prisoners, with no convenient suborned guard. Further hint of a plot. Thankfully, the last intel they got before they had to go radio-silent to sneak into the mansion said that Rhett had already sent Brant to retrieve her.
Soon.
Mickey knew enough secret ways in and out of the mansion to make Gabriel's plan work. That balcony there had a scalable trellis to a window close to the prison rooms. On the other side of the building, there was a smoking pavilion. The servants who did smoke used it so frequently, there was nearly always someone who forgot to lock it. And finally, there was both a main entrance by the gardens and a sneaky way in through the gardens' maintenance shed.
Mickey and Gabriel headed together for the trellis entrance. For Gabriel, because Eric's prison room was serving as command central. For Mickey, to heal Rhett, and persuade Thairn. No way she would trust Gabriel, but she would trust Mickey, he had to hope.
He also wanted the chance to see Aunt Greta, for all it was risky.
Gabriel's people, meanwhile, headed for the smoking pavilion. They reeked of tobacco smoke, anyway, so that would help. They had their own orders about what to secure in the mansion, to make sure the takeover went smoothly.
Finally, Luke and Xavier took the garden entrance, under strict instructions to recruit Tricia Vernon if they saw her. Tricia liked Alanna and Mickey both a decent bit, and despised Lucía. So, it had a chance of working out. If it didn't, they would still be in a good position to accomplish other objectives.
All the pieces in place. Time to play the game.
The trellis window was warded, and not with a ward Mickey'd had a chance to order subverted. He reached his hand out to tear it to shreds, but Gabriel got to it first. The man had a small, rune-carved wand shaped like a cigar holder, and he let forth a puff of magical smoke. It billowed into the ward, ate the rainbow colors away like a cloud of acid.
Mickey did his part, then, by running a surge of magic through the walls. Just enough to drive off the ever-present scry spells. Whoever had cast them would probably notice them going dark, but better that than letting them see exactly who had come knocking.
Into the hall they went. There were scorch marks on the floor. Curious. Worrying. They made their careful way around the corner, but things seemed alright. The correct guards. The correct wards. Even the soaking bloodstains that Mickey's near-death must have left had been cleaned up.
Those correct guards didn't look particularly welcoming, of course, but what more could they expect? Malachi's men had no love lost for either Gabriel or Mickey, for all magic had bound them to obey.
Normally, Mickey would have something snappy to hand. Rile them up a little. It was always so fun to mess with Malachi's people--they took things far too seriously. But with this necromantic control... he couldn't stomach it. Creepy shit, for all it was convenient. So Mickey let the quips go, and silently hoped he never ended up on the wrong end of this magic.
Gabriel had only just asked after Eric when the last of the guards arrived. Brant, bringing Thairn with him. And having to hold her up as he did, because she could barely stand.
Mickey's hand clenched around the handle of his cane when he saw the chainmail. Not to mention that they'd stripped her, same as they'd done to Rhett.
"Brant," Mickey said, "I've killed the scry spells here. Are you able to get the chainmail off her?" Brant had had some serious skill with concentrated fire in life.
"Yeah."
"Then do that, please. Without hurting her, to the extent you can."
Brant did, Thairn holding herself as still as possible. Her face pale, her body giving involuntary shudders as sweat sheened on her brow.
"I'll take her from here," Mickey said when Brant was done, holding his voice in tight control.
Brant passed her off, letting Mickey take on her weight. Mickey held her up as best as possible. Fought to think up exactly how much worry was safe to express, now that they were playing the role of bargain-bound allies instead of lovers.
"They Broca Burn you?" Mickey asked her.
She nodded.
He wriggled the antidote he'd stolen from Lucía earlier out his pocket. Held her up with the crook of his elbow while he eyeballed a dose's worth into the cap. Pressed it to her lips and had her drink.
She swallowed, eyes clenched shut, then nodded. "It's working."
"Good." That done, "Question for you: Is Magdalena dead, or is Lucía?"
"Magdalena." Thairn's hands shook as she tried to hold them still. "I did it myself. She tried to... the pumpkins in the garden, they can hold bits of Faerie in them. One was ripe. She brought Rhett down there to make him eat and drink."
A chill down Mickey's spine. "That works on faeries, too?"
Thairn nodded.
"You're sure you got there in time?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad, then. He's here, we have him safe, but not yet healed. Brant, tell me which room is Rhett's, and tell me if there are any traps or attackers waiting there."
"It's that one," Brant pointed it out, "and the hell do I know? Weren't any when I went in there last."
"So charming." Mickey shook his head. Right. Being kind to the necromantically controlled. "Thank you." Mickey returned his attention to Thairn, pressed the bottle of Broca Burn antidote into her hands. "Alanna, could you go in there and heal him? I'll join you after I've spoken to my aunt." Now that Thairn had confirmed Magdalena was dead, Aunt Greta was finally safe to speak to. And more, he wanted to give Thairn and her Rhett a few moments of privacy, while she repaired the wreck of Rhett's wings.
She accepted the bottle, clenched it tight. "See you soon." And let Brant key her past the wards.
Mickey had Brant point him to Greta's room, then had the guard there confirm there weren't any known traps or assailants waiting.
Despite that, the crackle of lightning magic sounded as he entered, the blue electricity around Greta's hands the only light in the room.
"Relax, Aunt Greta. It's me. And I know you're on my side, faeries or no."
A bolt raced down her arm, and she did nothing to extinguish it. "What's been done to you?"
He planted a reassuring grin on his face, for all it wanted to flicker. "What do you mean?"
"Part of you is missing, and some other aura is bleeding in from the void. Did Magdalena do this to you, before she died?"
"You know she's dead, then."
"I had oaths to her. And I can feel those chains fallen away now. There's so much I need to tell you... but not until you tell me what put that hole there, what's polluting you."
"Ah. Oaths. That explains a lot." He wished he had his cane to twirl, to conceal the way he wanted to fidget. What was the best way to explain this?
The air around her hand gave a threatening pop.
"It's your fault, actually," he tried, thinking quickly.
"My fault." Still skeptical.
"You and that oath you had Alanna swear. She told me about that, how you were looking out for me."
"Alanna did this?" A threatening note.
Talk faster. "She didn't have a whole lot of choice. She couldn't protect me from getting the succession, I managed to win it despite her. But what she promised you, technically, was to protect me from its dangers. So that's what this is. Magical protection."
"This doesn't look like protection."
"You said you can feel your bargain with Magdalena is gone. What about your bargain with Alanna? Do you still feel that?"
Greta frowned. But he'd won her, he knew it.
"You're sure it's protection?" she asked.
"Dead certain. It's saved my life already."
"What's been happening, that it's needed saving?"
"Gabriel's people decided to reenact their plan for Malachi on me." He reached out his hand to her, now that her electricity was dulling to a dim static. "I've met Gabriel. You know who he really is, don't you?"
"They told me."
He undid Greta's chains, healed the bruises they'd left on her wrists.
"Now that you've got me freed, how can I help?" Greta asked.
"We're using this hallway to coordinate our operations. I'm not sure how keen Gabriel is on having you join in, but now that your oaths to Magdalena are done, I think you could persuade him. You know this mansion inside and out, right? You're the one who bought it?"
"I am. I know all the hidden passages, even the ones we haven't told the servants."
"Then your knowledge is the most valuable thing we have. I'll tell the guards to let you into the planning room."
"And what are you going to do?"
"First, check in on Alanna and Rhett. Alanna got found out as fae, and one of the guards has brought her here for safety. Gabriel's told me about Rhett's role in his whole plan. They're good allies you got for us."
"If you say so."
"And also, auntie... thank you. For making a bargain to save me."
He kissed her cheeks, and she squeezed his shoulders. It felt good, to know she was watching out for him. Good, and strange. Like what real family was supposed to be.
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