random snippets (stalling, stalling)
Jul. 10th, 2006 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI'm sure everyone would prefer to see whole, completed things, but for anyone that cares, is bored, or requires assistance in procrastinating, I offer several things I have been working on in the past few weeks/months (some of which you'll recognize):
*A/N* I loved these sorts of beginnings, cheezy as they are. Anyone recognize the boys involved?
Two Knights
The family of Silverlake was a proud and prosperous one, with a noble lineage of fine lords, beautiful ladies and loyal knights. They served the royal family of the South Kingdom unfailingly. None could compare to the name of Silverlake.
Into this family was born Keverick, a fine son and the very definition of what it meant to be Silverlake. Almost from birth, he determined to become a knight in order to serve the Queen to the fullest of his ability. When he was old enough to be fostered, he was sent to a neighboring family and there began to learn the ways of knighthood.
On his twelfth birthday, Keverick was squired to an exemplary knight and took to his training with all the ease of a fish in water.
At seventeen, a year ahead of most of his peers, Keverick wons his spurs and joined the ranks of the knights. He continued his training and word spread rapidly that he was the finest Silverlake yet. Some said that he might even be the finest knight.
When he turned nineteen, Keverick was sent to help put down a group of bandits along the southern border. A year later, he was abruptly summoned to the castle, and ordered to be there with all possible haste. The message was written by the Queen herself.
Upon his return, mere days from his twentieth birthday, Sir Keverick of Silverlake watched as his entirely family was hanged for treason. He was then stripped of the Silverlake title. Many said he should be hung with them, but there was no evidence to suggest that he had shared in his family’s crimes.
On his twentieth birthday, Keverick locked himself in his room and drank himself nearly to death. He did not move from his bed for several days, and then only because the Queen herself commanded it of her Knight. In him, the Queen said, she had not lost faith. He would do well to prove that her faith was not unfounded.
Eight days after his twentieth birthday, Keverick reassumed his armor and did as his Queen bid, finishing with the bandits to the south and then moving on to quell problems in various parts of the Southern Kingdom.
On his twenty-first birthday, Keverick was called to the throne. In reward for his unfailing loyalty and skillful work, the Queen gave him new land and thenceforth he was known as Keverick of Cherrior. But wherever he went, the taint of his family followed him.
Keverick never faltered in his duty, and was in every way a perfect knight. Despite this, and though his men were loyal, his servants and tenants hard working and faithful, Keverick had no peers to call friends. No one would risk befriending a man who could very well be a traitor. All that he did, he did alone. Eventually he stopped trying to make friends and resigned himself to his solitary life. Over time, people came to call him the Solitary Knight.
The day before his twenty-sixth birthday, Keverick returned to the Queen’s castle, summoned by the Queen herself.
The Queen appointed him to a special task; to carry a treasure in secret to a ship waiting on the western coast. The treasure had been taken by pirates from a kingdom across the sea, and the Queen, having realized it’s true value when the pirate were routed by her knights, immediately contacted the kingdom across the sea. A bargain had been arranged, and now she would fulfill her half.
Keverick of Cherrior was to take the treasure to the waiting ship, along with one other knight. They were to travel in secrecy and go with all haste. Keverick bowed and immediately agreed to do his Queen’s bidding.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, Keverick once more presented himself to the Queen, who placed the treasure in his keeping and introduced him to his companion for the journey.
His companion was none other than Sir Gerald of Longmoore, the Queen’s own cousin, whom the Queen regarded with such esteem that it was said had they not been cousins, she would have taken him for her consort. Keverick had heard much about the Knight of Longmoore, but his own duties had prevented his ever meeting the man.
Keverick of Cherrior met Gerald of Longmoore and immediately knew two things. One, he was in love. Two, it was completely hopeless.
Accepting this as only to be expected, one more painful turn in a life full of them, Keverick determined to bury his love and do his duty.
“I’ve heard much of you, Sir Keverick,” Gerald said as they rode away from the palace, along the old roads that were seldom used after the Queen had new, safer roads laid. His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him.
Not beautiful in the ordinary sense; he doubted anyone had described Sir Gerald thus the entirety of his life. For one thing he was slender, his entire body composed of thin lines and sharp angles. But he moved with a sinewy grace, a lazy confidence Keverick associated with cats. There were also plenty of stories to support him – and the crossbow strung casually across his back. If anything, Gerald reminded him of a whip. Thin and sinuous, harmless until it was uncoiled and snapped against flesh.
Those thin lines and sharp angles continued in his face, drawing attention to bright blue-green eyes. Like the sea he’d so much admired while ridding the coast of pirates and other brigands. If he were stupid, they would be just as easy to get lost in. His hair, the color of sand, only resurrected more memories of the beach.
So no, certainly not beautiful as most would define the word. But Keverick positively ached to touch him, and hated himself for it. Was his life not miserable enough that he had to add this last wrenching misery to it?
Of course he did.
“Then I apologize for unintentionally boring you,” Keverick finally replied. “I cannot imagine why anyone thought I would make an entertaining subject for conversation.”
Gerald chuckled, taking the level words for a joke. “Boring? Not by far. I have long been curious to meet you; strange that the Queen’s two favorites have not crossed paths before this.”
Keverick glanced at him, not trusting himself to take a longer look. “No doubt we are most useful set to separate tasks.”
“Yet she saw fit to appoint this task to us both.” He could feel Gerald’s eyes on him, but did not
“If you seek suppositions from me,” Keverick said. “You waste time and effort.”
Gerald laughed again. “You are, indeed, as brief in speech as they say. A pity, I was looking forward to interesting conversation on this journey. I grow weary of courtly gossip and blatant attempts to pass good word to my Queen.”
Keverick shrugged. “If you wish to speak, I will not stop you.”
“I do not wish to speak, Sir Knight. I wish to converse.”
“An hour into our journey, Sir Knight, and I already can see you’re capable of holding up both ends of the conversation. I see no need for me to speak.”
Gerald threw his head back and laughed. Keverick forced himself to look the other way, determined not to look at Gerald unless he absolutely must.
“Already rumors about you are proving false. ‘Twas said you could not make a joke to save your life.”
Keverick rolled his eyes. “I do not recall making a jest, Sir. ‘Twas merely an observation.”
“I see,” Gerald said, and lapsed into silence. “So if that rumor is true, what of the one that says you turn into a wolf on full moons?”
“You do not?” Keverick asked.
“Ah ha!” Gerald said, sounding quite pleased. “That was most certainly a jest.” A soft laugh. “A weak one, but a good effort for a first try.”
Keverick dared a look, unable to believe that the man beside him was the notorious bowman about whom he’d heard much.
Gerald grinned shamelessly back. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever look at me. Am I so repulsive, Sir?”
“You are…” Keverick faltered briefly, words warring on his tongue. “Not what rumors said of you, either.”
“Oh?” Gerald asked, one thin brow arching in surprise. “Unless the rumors are that I am unfailingly polite, somber and given to quite introspection I cannot imagine how they could be wrong.”
Keverick blinked, then jerked his head the other way.
“You, Sir, are caught,” Gerald said, voice full of gleeful amusement. “I saw that smile.”
“And you, Sir, are proving most infuriating.” Keverick glared at him, eyes blazing, fighting hard not to return the other knight’s infectious grin.
Gerald scoffed. “Now I know there are rumors of that. If you did not heed them, that is not my problem. Best, Sir, if you simply conceded defeat and converse with me.”
“I do not concede defeat so easily, Sir.”
“A challenge, then.” Gerald eyes glinted with mischief. Or perhaps outright trouble. “Those I like. Very well then, Sir. I accept.”
Keverick wondered if it were possible to love a man even while you wanted desperately to strangle him. No one spoke to him as Gerald was.
People seldom spoke to him at all. Yet Gerald was teasing him, and simply because the man was bored. Nor was he pressing Keverick with obnoxious questions; asking about his family, his battles. On top of all that, the man was making fun of himself.
At least that gave him some small reason for his affection, because Keverick was confounded as to how someone fell in love at a glance. Yet he knew it was so, and wished the journey over before he did himself further harm.
Beside him Gerald began to sing. Not war ballads or travel songs, not even bawdy pieces. Keverick shook his head, certain he was not hearing properly. But at last he had to concede he was.
Duets of late had grown quite popular in court; a beautiful lady and handsome knight singing to or about each other. Gerald was currently singing half of the most popular of those ballads – the female half. Matching the words to the tunes of well-known bawdy ballads.
Keverick eyes him warily, then attempted to distract himself with somber thoughts, the long road ahead before their mission found an end. But when Gerald matched a verse on how skillfully his noble knight wielded his sword in battle to a tune that should by all rights be elaborating on how to appreciate a different kind of sword altogether, Keverick could not help the grin that tugged at his lips, though he managed not to turn around to look at the man who had drawn it out.
*A/N* I have not had the patience to do this properly. This is the second total rehaul, but I never can manage to pace it. It's always rushed, and I'm confounded as to how to make myself slow the fuck down. Mostly it's just Sable -- he's not the slow type. He just does shit. =_= I have nine pages of it written, this is just the first few.
407: Wolves and Demons
Sable sat up, moving before he was entirely awake.
He woke angry. Angry about something in the dream that had driven him into consciousness, and angry that he’d also woken up feeling scared.
Shoving haphazard curls from his face, he lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Moonlight filtered in between the heavy curtains that blocked out the city lights. Scrubbing his face with his hands, displeased that he was still unsettled, Sable tried desperately to cling to the shreds of his dream, but they slipped away and left him feeling only angry, scared and restless.
Turning on his side, Sable reached out and ran his hand down Christian’s cheek, across his shoulder and down the length of his body, reassuring himself that his consort still slept soundly at his side. Realizing what he was doing, Sable snatched his hand away again and turned to climb out of bed, locating and putting on a pair of black silk pants.
A thought revived the fire as he sat down on his leather couch facing it. Though the room was cool, Sable did not feel it. Outside, beyond the windows, the city was also oddly still. The occasional ripples of abnormal power but nothing unusual. It was three in the morning. Save for a few more nocturnally inclined, the city slept. In bed, Christian was fast asleep. Only Sable seemed to be at odds with the world.
Annoyed with himself, Sable wandered to the windows and jerked the curtains back. Light spilled into the middle of the room and he gazed down at the city far below. Throughout most of it the buildings were dark. Only Sable’s hotels shone brightly, offering far more to it’s guests and city natives than mere room and board. From the top of the Tantalus, he could easily see the shining red lights of the Seventh Circle and the cool blue of the Seraphim. Once the three buildings had been his dearest treasures. Far more than hotels, the triad of buildings were the palace at the center of his territory. Everyone for miles around could see them. They were something to be proud of, but they were no longer his greatest joy.
“Sable?” Chris said from the bed.
He let the curtains fall shut as he turned, storm-cloud eyes easily spotting his lover in the dark. Always a breathtaking sight, his consort. His. Christian had always been beautiful, the way he radiated that strange combination of energies – palest gold mixed with purest black. But now those two colors were suffused with Sable’s own silver-gray. To all demons, and those few other creatures who could sense the energies, Christian was marked brightly and loudly as belonging to Sable. It only made him want to mark Chris more, made him ever hungry for his lover, his consort. “Yes, beautiful?”
“What are you doing up?”
Sable moved toward the bed, pressing Chris down before he could get up. “I woke up and could not settle. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He brushed Chris’s lips softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Come back to bed,” Chris said in reply.
“I’m not tired,” Sable protested. “I’d just keep you awake.”
Chris smirked. “I never said anything about sleeping. And later maybe you’ll tell me why you’re upset.”
Sable laughed as Chris kissed him, allowing himself to be dragged back into bed. “As you wish, beloved.” Then proceeded to make sure Chris forgot everything but his name.
“So how long will you be gone?” Sable asked with a frown.
Chris kissed the corner of his mouth, then darted away to finish dressing. He pulled on a red t-shirt and brushed his hair. Diamonds sparkled in his ears, at complete odds with his casual appearance. “I should be back by lunch,” he said tolerantly.
“I don’t see why you have to go at all. Nor do I like it.”
“It’s just to talk to a witness.” Chris shrugged into his beat up leather coat, forestalling the protest Sable was about to make. “Just a few hours, Sable.”
Sable shook his head and dragged him close, kissing Chris hard enough to bruise his lips. “Fine. But be back by lunch. You weren’t supposed to be working today.”
“I know,” Chris said, suddenly letting his weariness show. “But its best if I do this. It shouldn’t take long.” Sable let him move away. “I’ll be back soon.” He stepped close again, reaching up to give Sable a deep kiss goodbye. “I’m sorry, Sable.”
Sable sighed. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, beloved. It’s my own problem if I don’t want to share you.”
Chris laughed. “Only my time, Sable. The rest is yours.”
“Yes, it is,” Sable said, folding his arms to keep him where he belonged a moment longer. “I’ll see you for lunch then. Try not to cause too much trouble.”
“I never cause trouble. It just finds me.” Grumbling about the sort of trouble that always found him, Chris departed.
Sighing again, never quite comfortable when his consort was away, Sable forced himself to get on with the day. Downstairs in the main lobby of the Tantalus he fell into dealing with the day to day problems of his hotels, tending to guests both normal and abnormal.
At ten o’clock one of his assistants brought him something to drink. Sable reached out to take it, but at the last moment missed. The sound of shattering glass filled the spacious lobby and startled everyone into silence. Scattered around him were broken pieces of glass and dark red juice.
Sable didn’t notice. A heartbeat later the silence was shattered by his scream. “Christian!” His terrified scream turned into one of rage. Power rippled, echoing his fury, and throughout the hotel and nearby buildings normals and weaker abnormals dropped unconscious the floor. Even several stronger abnormals fell to the ground or stopped short from sudden weakness and a heavy sense of dread.
Outside, the normally gray weather turned nasty, thunder rumbling hard enough to shake buildings, lightning splitting the sky and striking wildly, dangerously.
With a snarl Sable vanished from the hotel, rumbling thunder chasing him as he appeared at the far northwest end of his property.
Alpha Sandalio waited for him just beyond the point that Sable could go.
Sable barely noticed, eyes only for the unconscious form of his consort, his energies dimmed, barely glowing, trapped in the most complicated spellcage he’d ever seen. Too complicated. Demon level magic. Werewolves shouldn’t be capable of magic even a fifth so strong. “You will die,” he vowed. “More horribly than you can possibly imagine.”
Sandalio laughed. “Stupid, foolish, arrogant demon. What can you do to me? You can’t use your power outside of your own territory.” His eyes flicked past Sable, to the four figures that had appeared with a faint ripple of imp-magic. “If the whore’s lackeys try anything, I’ll kill him.” He sneered. “Which will send you straight back to hell, demon. So don’t waste time with empty threats.”
“It was not a threat,” Sable said softly but with chilling certainty. “You will die slowly, screaming in pain and begging for mercy, and I will stand here and laugh. Only a fool would dare to mess with a demon’s consort.”
*A/N* This story still depressed me, bu the first few pages are solid. It's just the rest I have to totally rehaul and expand =_= so much for *mini* series. I'm so imcompetent at writing anything remotely resembling short. *shakes head* Still, Black Magic will eventually be a trilogy: The Necromancer, The Alchemist, and The Sorcerer. Except I have to rehaul Alchemist as well, b/c it's obvious I was reading too much Tsubasa at the time of creation (I wanted to give the alchemist a special eye for sensing magic, msotly so he's sort of creepy, but it rings of Tsubasa so I'm probably gonna scrap that too. Alas.)
I. The Necromancer
He walked with his head down so the hood fell forward, shadowing his face though he ached to feel the sun on it. It was inadequate as warmth went, but the best he could get outside the flask tucked beneath his tunic.
Silence fell as he walked along, matching him step for step. He knew without looking up that people were stopping in the middle of their chores, their conversations, to stare at him.
A short figure dressed in dark, bedraggled clothes that were meant to be worn in winter, not the middle of summer. They watched him, hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘death-pale skin’ or perhaps the ‘bones and blood’ his type always carried to perform their evil spells. Later, he knew, they would all claim to have smelled death on him, to have seen grave dirt in the folds of his robes.
His thoughts were interrupted by a child’s laugh as two of them ran across his path, one obviously chasing the other, playing a game that made them oblivious to the morbid curiosity and barely restrained hostility of the adults.
The chaser fell with a sharp cry on the hard cobblestone street, and Koray reached unthinkingly to help her up.
“Don’t touch my child you filthy monster!” A woman shrieked, and it was immediately joined by a cacophony of threats and epithets. Koray drew his hand back into the folds of his robe, feeling colder than ever. “My apologies,” he said, though he didn’t think the furious, trembling woman heard him – not that she would care if he did.
Tamping down on the familiar pain, telling himself it was all right, it didn’t matter, he was used to it, Koray pulled his head further into his hood and continued on, laughing bitterly at the way the people parted to let him pass.
Because as strong as their hate was, their fear was greater. If you angered a normal mage, the worst he could do was kill you.
Necromancers could do far worse than mere death.
Ignoring them, focusing only on the street and where he had to go, Koray left the people behind and made his way to the castle. He stopped at the gate and reached into his tunic, pulling out a small scroll and presenting it to the guards.
He pretended not to see the way they flinched, ignored the way they refused to touch the scroll. “The King is expecting you,” one guard managed, not looking at him as he motioned for the gate to be opened, then waved him inside.
“Thank you,” Koray murmured as he passed by them and into the castle proper.
The courtyard was simple stone, all of it well-laid and obviously quality, but simple all the same. Functional, but appealing for all that. He ignored the way guards and servants milling about stopped to stare at him.
Or tried. Everyone stared at Necromancers. After fifteen years of it, he should be accustomed. He wished someone would teach him the trick of growing used to being hated and feared before they even bothered to learn so much as his name.
Why had he agreed to this audience? The King could have found another necromancer. Eventually.
Koray hunched his shoulders, fisting his hands to keep them from trembling as palace ghosts began to assault him – sapping his energy to appear, pleading with him, crying, showing what had been done to them, begging him to help, the words all soundless because he had not the strength – nor the inclination – to give any of them voice. He shivered, cold, and pulled his robes more tightly around him, envious of those who could gain warmth simply by standing in the sun.
He presented his scroll, a royal order from the King, to the next set of guards. They backed hastily away, pointing down the hallway. Koray murmured a thank you and moved on, not waiting for a reply that would never come, hearing the way they muttered once they believed him well away.
Freak
Monster
Killer
Corpse lover
Blood drinker
The epithets were old, familiar, but they made him tired all the same. He passed through the doorway at the end of the hall, pausing only briefly to admire the bright paintings, the beautiful furniture, the soft rug and the way sunlight spilled across all of it. So much light and warmth.
Koray shivered and huddled in his robes, braced himself as he prepared to continue on past the waiting room and toward the throne room beyond. He began to move, feet trailing just a bit in the deep, soft carpet – then he faltered, stopped.
Just the slightest bit of warmth struck him, like the heat of distant flames, as he heard a door open. He turned, eyes widening in the shadows of his hood.
The Paladin. Bright steel armor edged with gold, deep violet under tunic, the starburst crest over his heart. The sheer warmth that emanated from him. Koray fisted his hands in the ragged ends of his old tunic, burying them deep within the folds of his robe, making his feet hold still before he did something stupid and painful.
He was as beautiful as all the stories said, tall and proud, the elegant lines of noble breeding combined with the experience of a soldier. Blonde hair with the faintest hints of red deep within, skin darkened by the touch of the sun, eyes as clear and blue as a summer lake.
Eyes that currently looked at Koray with as much fear and distrust as everyone else showed.
Somehow…he’d been stupid enough to hope. The Paladin. The greatest of Knights, blessed by crown and Goddess, sworn to defend and protect all who dwelt in the King’s realm. Surely this man, a holy warrior who had promised to defend all, would give him the benefit of the doubt.
It would seem not. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheeks, focusing on that pain, ignoring all the rest – the endless cold, the ghosts that lurked even in this sun bright room, the constant loneliness – he drove it back, shoved it away, focused on what he knew.
His world was death, not life.
“You are the necromancer,” the Paladin said.
“Yes,” Koray answered. “My name is—“
“This way,” the Paladin interrupted, though Koray couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. “He’s been most anxious to see this matter finished. Why was I not summoned immediately?” He seemed to say the last more to himself, leading the way through the set of doors in front of Koray, down the hallway and past the guards stationed at the end.
“Your Highness,” the Paladin, falling to one knee before the King.
Who also looked exactly as the few rumors he’d managed to hear had said. Were all Kings fat? It must be nice, to be so well fed. And dressed. So much silk and lawn, jewels the like of which he’d never seen…
Koray narrowed his eyes, grateful as ever for the shadows that hid his face. There was something about the King he didn’t like. The gleam in his brown eyes seemed…wrong.
The Ghosts in the room did not draw close, put off by the warmth and light of the unknowing Paladin. Koray fought the urge to move closer, to reach out and touch, see how warm the Paladin truly was.
The Paladin who feared him, disliked him, had not bothered even to hear his name.
He realized suddenly the King was speaking to him. “Majesty?” Belatedly he dropped to his knees, cringing at his own stupidity.
“Reveal yourself, Necromancer,” the King ordered.
Reluctantly, every part of him screaming a protest, Koray reached up and pulled back his hood, keeping his pale gray eyes fastened on the carpet. He knew what they’d see, how they’d react.
His skin was indeed pale. Certainly not “deathly” but if he bared enough skin to let the sun brown it, he’d freeze to death. Only his enchanted robes kept him warm enough to survive.
Once his hair had been as black as pitch. Some of it still was, but there were streaks of white and gray in it now. Too many ghosts that he could barely control. Too many spells that left him aching for a warm touch.
His eyes, like his hair, had changed. He thought maybe they’d been green, but he no longer remembered for certain.
Barely eating, the constant taxing of his spiritual strength by ghosts, the high cost of necromantic spells had all left him far too thin. The final touch on giving him the very image all held of a necromancer.
Perfectly logical explanations for his appearance, but no one had ever cared to search for them. He could see in the faces of the King and Paladin that they were the same as all the rest. It would be depressing if he let himself care. Which he didn’t. He refused to. Besides, if he angered either man the Paladin would leave his sight that much sooner, and take that warmth with him.
“For all our sakes, Necromancer,” the king said at last, “I hope you solve our problems quickly.”
*A/N* The problems are obvious, I won't list them. It's limping along, once I finally hit a point where I *get* it, I'll go back and fix everything. But struggling along, I'm learning, is less frustrating than doing nothing at all. The switching b/t "I" and "II" is just b/c I didn't feel like writing anything else.
Beauty vs. Beast
I.
Bond kissed Annette until she finally shut up. Her husband had complained incessantly the other night about how noisome she was. But Bond hadn’t really been surprised when, after meeting her, all he’d heard throughout the night were those things which he wanted most to hear. ‘Oh, James’ and ‘Mm, yes’ and ‘Come back here’ and ‘Oh, that silly old thing? Of course I know…”
With morning’s light, however, he could see why the man complained. So Bond kissed her until she was pliant. A pity he didn’t have time for more. He rolled out of bed while she was still quiet and after slipping on his pants, returned to his own room across the hall.
Two hours later he was ready to get to work, and stepped out into the hallway – and barely avoided barreling into a man so quiet Bond hadn’t heard him coming. Hadn’t even seen. Strange. Immediately annoyed with himself and the stranger, Bond gave him a quick, thorough look.
His height, or very nearly so. Blonde hair, not the neatest. Plain clothes. And Bond would bet his license to kill the man was American. “Pardon me.”
“No problem,” the blonde said, barely flicking his eyes at Bond before continuing on down the hallway.
Definitely American, accent not withstanding.
At least this assignment shouldn’t take more than a weekend. It had only taken one night – one woman – and he had all he needed to get started. Smirking, a trace of something like weariness slipping into it, Bond followed the American down the hall to the elevators.
Glass elevators, yet another chance for the hotel to show off its gorgeous, wonderfully expensive view. Lush greens, white beach, blue water – honestly did the enemy ever pick anything besides expensive beaches?
Though, perhaps they were better than the last mountain fiasco. But that hadn’t been the enemy so much as a misunderstanding between comrades.
James gave the American a longer, surreptitious look. Something about the man was niggling at him. Like he should know the man, which made no sense at all. He’d never seen him before, he was certain of that. It was almost like being briefed on someone without having a picture and then encountering that person.
Except he’d had pictures for anyone he might possibly need to know about. Then he’d gone out and gotten information on their wives, lovers and secretaries.
And M claimed he never prepared for anything.
II.
MacGyver wondered what sort of kinks Mr. Bond was going to throw into his plans. Almost without actually having to think about it, he began to reevaluate and adjust his plans to account for the presence of the man who was perhaps the most infamous secret agent on the map. Also the only secret agent who had not only managed to fail completely at being a secret but was still both alive and employed.
He was going to kill Pete when he talked to him later – it figured they’d neglect to mention that James Bond would be here. Was he here for the same reason? Heaven forbid. Up until two minutes ago, it had looked like an inordinately easy case – at least compared to what the Phoenix Foundation normally gave him to handle.
Too easy, of course. Well, he'd just have to work more quickly than he'd estimated. Get in and out before Bond blew everything up and ran off with someone's wife or mistress or whatever.
Damn it, Pete should have told him.
MacGyver barely managed to keep from bolting as the elevator at last reached the ground floor, and allowed Bond to step out first, eyes following the tall, lanky frame of his latest headache. Bond was dressed in khakis and a shirt that had, to judge by the way Bond wore it, appeared to have lost most of its buttons.
Bond had come out of a room that MacGyver knew wasn’t his. No, that particular suite belonged to Annette, wife of a good friend of Robert Germaine. Germaine was suspected of kidnapping Kathy Greene, the daughter of a scientist who was currently doing his best to ruin Germaine’s pharmaceutical company.
An American scientist. The Brits had nothing to do with this. Why was James Bond here?
So Bond was here. Was already sleeping with women close to Germaine. Mac rather doubted it was coincidence. He could always hope Bond was here for reasons other than Germaine, but he rather doubted it.
Mac followed him through most of the lobby, continuing straight when Bond turned down the hallways that led to a handful of rooms rented out for meetings and banquets. The minute he got back to his room, Pete was getting a phone call. He was half tempted to go do it now.
But he had a job to do and he’d never let minor problems like annoying people get in his way before.
First order of business was to establish where they were keeping Kathy. She’d vanished flying home from a vacation in the Caribbean. She’d gotten on the plane home but hadn’t gotten off.
No messages. No ransom demands. Just silence.
So they’d called him. Never failed. He went on vacation, someone important got kidnapped.
Best guess was that she was being kept here, on Germaine’s favorite little island home away from home. All other known possibilities had already been cleared. If she wasn’t here, his job was to determine where else she could be.
So easiest to start with determining where on the island she might be. In the hotel was most likely. Valuable girl like that, Germaine would want to keep her close.
Given all the publicity, and how heavily under suspicion the man was – though of course there was absolutely no evidence whatsoever – he’d have been sure to stash her where she couldn’t cause problems and no one who might be investigating on the sly might find her.
Or somewhere James Bond couldn’t screw the secret out of someone.
On the bright side, at least Bond would provide an unexpected distraction. They’d be so busy scrambling to figure out what double oh seven was up to they’d completely miss his own snooping around.
Germaine’s rooms were at the top, obviously. Most logical place to keep her, except Germaine had been more than accommodating when police asked to search the premises. There’d been no sign of anything suspicious.
Mac planned to take his own look around.
Getting up there was the first trick, and tonight would be his first chance. Party downstairs meant no one upstairs. Simple. Easy. He’d start with taking a look and make the rest up as he went along.
If he found Kathy, all he had to do was get her to the airport. Simple.
Hopefully he could do it all before Bond ruined everything, as Bond always did.
MacGyver stepped outside and hit the footpath that surrounded the hotel, joining the dozen or so mid-morning strollers out with tiny dogs and expensive cups of coffee. Have a look around, get a feel for the place.
He’d planned to do this methodically – quickly but without haste. They wouldn’t kill her until they got what they wanted, and so far Pete had convinced Dr. Greene to hold steady.
Bond always messed things up. If the man was here, there was going to be trouble. He’d have to be hasty. Damn it.
I.
James stepped back out into the main lobby as the American strode past him, watched as he strode outside.
Something about the man was bothering him. It definitely felt as though he should know the man, though he couldn’t pin why he felt that way. But the man had definitely been watching him, and following him for a bit. Bond knew when he was being watched.
Was it anything to do with his mission?
Surely not. The kidnapped girl was bad, yes, but nothing for the CIA to care about. The scandal with Germaine was interesting, to be sure, but not of international importance.
The fact that Kathy Greene had been with a secret lover at the time, however, was important. Except the CIA didn’t know about him. Until three days ago Her Majesty hadn’t known about it either.
Now he was here to rescue the idiot son of an important parliament figure before all the wrong people realized who was being held right alongside Kathy Greene. Then it would become of international importance and Her Majesty preferred to avoid that.
Perhaps the American was an agent, and the bloody CIA knew something they shouldn’t.
He hoped not. The very last thing he needed on this assignment was to be stuck babysitting some hot shot American determined to save the day. They were always sloppy about things. Honestly, things should always be done in style.
Annette had been most useful in providing ways of sneaking around the security on the upper floors. The stairwells there were coded so that anyone could get out, but precious few could get in. Nothing his little watch from Q couldn’t handle. He’d have to wing the rest of the security issues, but that’s what the pen and new credit cards were for. Q was a man with style – if a little stiff and strict about it.
The boat, especially, was quite the masterpiece. All he had to do was fetch the idiot son and he could take the sweet little speedboat for a grand test ride.
Now he had to figure out if Kathy Greene was really the victim of the kidnapping, or if the idiot son was the true target.
Asking Robert Germaine wasn’t an option. James grinned. Asking Germaine’s girlfriend, however, was an option. Girlfriend’s always talked, especially this sort – kept on an island, surrounded by luxury, spoiled brats who felt they never got enough attention, loved the danger of getting mixed up in their lover’s business.
It was rather boring, really, how easy it always was.
Bond crossed back across the hotel room and out through the doors that led to the dining patio and the pool beyond. He waved off the hostess with a smile and searched the patio, at last alighting on his target.
Germaine had a whole string of girlfriends, one for each of his homes and getaways.
*A/N* I loved these sorts of beginnings, cheezy as they are. Anyone recognize the boys involved?
Two Knights
The family of Silverlake was a proud and prosperous one, with a noble lineage of fine lords, beautiful ladies and loyal knights. They served the royal family of the South Kingdom unfailingly. None could compare to the name of Silverlake.
Into this family was born Keverick, a fine son and the very definition of what it meant to be Silverlake. Almost from birth, he determined to become a knight in order to serve the Queen to the fullest of his ability. When he was old enough to be fostered, he was sent to a neighboring family and there began to learn the ways of knighthood.
On his twelfth birthday, Keverick was squired to an exemplary knight and took to his training with all the ease of a fish in water.
At seventeen, a year ahead of most of his peers, Keverick wons his spurs and joined the ranks of the knights. He continued his training and word spread rapidly that he was the finest Silverlake yet. Some said that he might even be the finest knight.
When he turned nineteen, Keverick was sent to help put down a group of bandits along the southern border. A year later, he was abruptly summoned to the castle, and ordered to be there with all possible haste. The message was written by the Queen herself.
Upon his return, mere days from his twentieth birthday, Sir Keverick of Silverlake watched as his entirely family was hanged for treason. He was then stripped of the Silverlake title. Many said he should be hung with them, but there was no evidence to suggest that he had shared in his family’s crimes.
On his twentieth birthday, Keverick locked himself in his room and drank himself nearly to death. He did not move from his bed for several days, and then only because the Queen herself commanded it of her Knight. In him, the Queen said, she had not lost faith. He would do well to prove that her faith was not unfounded.
Eight days after his twentieth birthday, Keverick reassumed his armor and did as his Queen bid, finishing with the bandits to the south and then moving on to quell problems in various parts of the Southern Kingdom.
On his twenty-first birthday, Keverick was called to the throne. In reward for his unfailing loyalty and skillful work, the Queen gave him new land and thenceforth he was known as Keverick of Cherrior. But wherever he went, the taint of his family followed him.
Keverick never faltered in his duty, and was in every way a perfect knight. Despite this, and though his men were loyal, his servants and tenants hard working and faithful, Keverick had no peers to call friends. No one would risk befriending a man who could very well be a traitor. All that he did, he did alone. Eventually he stopped trying to make friends and resigned himself to his solitary life. Over time, people came to call him the Solitary Knight.
The day before his twenty-sixth birthday, Keverick returned to the Queen’s castle, summoned by the Queen herself.
The Queen appointed him to a special task; to carry a treasure in secret to a ship waiting on the western coast. The treasure had been taken by pirates from a kingdom across the sea, and the Queen, having realized it’s true value when the pirate were routed by her knights, immediately contacted the kingdom across the sea. A bargain had been arranged, and now she would fulfill her half.
Keverick of Cherrior was to take the treasure to the waiting ship, along with one other knight. They were to travel in secrecy and go with all haste. Keverick bowed and immediately agreed to do his Queen’s bidding.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, Keverick once more presented himself to the Queen, who placed the treasure in his keeping and introduced him to his companion for the journey.
His companion was none other than Sir Gerald of Longmoore, the Queen’s own cousin, whom the Queen regarded with such esteem that it was said had they not been cousins, she would have taken him for her consort. Keverick had heard much about the Knight of Longmoore, but his own duties had prevented his ever meeting the man.
Keverick of Cherrior met Gerald of Longmoore and immediately knew two things. One, he was in love. Two, it was completely hopeless.
Accepting this as only to be expected, one more painful turn in a life full of them, Keverick determined to bury his love and do his duty.
“I’ve heard much of you, Sir Keverick,” Gerald said as they rode away from the palace, along the old roads that were seldom used after the Queen had new, safer roads laid. His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him.
Not beautiful in the ordinary sense; he doubted anyone had described Sir Gerald thus the entirety of his life. For one thing he was slender, his entire body composed of thin lines and sharp angles. But he moved with a sinewy grace, a lazy confidence Keverick associated with cats. There were also plenty of stories to support him – and the crossbow strung casually across his back. If anything, Gerald reminded him of a whip. Thin and sinuous, harmless until it was uncoiled and snapped against flesh.
Those thin lines and sharp angles continued in his face, drawing attention to bright blue-green eyes. Like the sea he’d so much admired while ridding the coast of pirates and other brigands. If he were stupid, they would be just as easy to get lost in. His hair, the color of sand, only resurrected more memories of the beach.
So no, certainly not beautiful as most would define the word. But Keverick positively ached to touch him, and hated himself for it. Was his life not miserable enough that he had to add this last wrenching misery to it?
Of course he did.
“Then I apologize for unintentionally boring you,” Keverick finally replied. “I cannot imagine why anyone thought I would make an entertaining subject for conversation.”
Gerald chuckled, taking the level words for a joke. “Boring? Not by far. I have long been curious to meet you; strange that the Queen’s two favorites have not crossed paths before this.”
Keverick glanced at him, not trusting himself to take a longer look. “No doubt we are most useful set to separate tasks.”
“Yet she saw fit to appoint this task to us both.” He could feel Gerald’s eyes on him, but did not
“If you seek suppositions from me,” Keverick said. “You waste time and effort.”
Gerald laughed again. “You are, indeed, as brief in speech as they say. A pity, I was looking forward to interesting conversation on this journey. I grow weary of courtly gossip and blatant attempts to pass good word to my Queen.”
Keverick shrugged. “If you wish to speak, I will not stop you.”
“I do not wish to speak, Sir Knight. I wish to converse.”
“An hour into our journey, Sir Knight, and I already can see you’re capable of holding up both ends of the conversation. I see no need for me to speak.”
Gerald threw his head back and laughed. Keverick forced himself to look the other way, determined not to look at Gerald unless he absolutely must.
“Already rumors about you are proving false. ‘Twas said you could not make a joke to save your life.”
Keverick rolled his eyes. “I do not recall making a jest, Sir. ‘Twas merely an observation.”
“I see,” Gerald said, and lapsed into silence. “So if that rumor is true, what of the one that says you turn into a wolf on full moons?”
“You do not?” Keverick asked.
“Ah ha!” Gerald said, sounding quite pleased. “That was most certainly a jest.” A soft laugh. “A weak one, but a good effort for a first try.”
Keverick dared a look, unable to believe that the man beside him was the notorious bowman about whom he’d heard much.
Gerald grinned shamelessly back. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever look at me. Am I so repulsive, Sir?”
“You are…” Keverick faltered briefly, words warring on his tongue. “Not what rumors said of you, either.”
“Oh?” Gerald asked, one thin brow arching in surprise. “Unless the rumors are that I am unfailingly polite, somber and given to quite introspection I cannot imagine how they could be wrong.”
Keverick blinked, then jerked his head the other way.
“You, Sir, are caught,” Gerald said, voice full of gleeful amusement. “I saw that smile.”
“And you, Sir, are proving most infuriating.” Keverick glared at him, eyes blazing, fighting hard not to return the other knight’s infectious grin.
Gerald scoffed. “Now I know there are rumors of that. If you did not heed them, that is not my problem. Best, Sir, if you simply conceded defeat and converse with me.”
“I do not concede defeat so easily, Sir.”
“A challenge, then.” Gerald eyes glinted with mischief. Or perhaps outright trouble. “Those I like. Very well then, Sir. I accept.”
Keverick wondered if it were possible to love a man even while you wanted desperately to strangle him. No one spoke to him as Gerald was.
People seldom spoke to him at all. Yet Gerald was teasing him, and simply because the man was bored. Nor was he pressing Keverick with obnoxious questions; asking about his family, his battles. On top of all that, the man was making fun of himself.
At least that gave him some small reason for his affection, because Keverick was confounded as to how someone fell in love at a glance. Yet he knew it was so, and wished the journey over before he did himself further harm.
Beside him Gerald began to sing. Not war ballads or travel songs, not even bawdy pieces. Keverick shook his head, certain he was not hearing properly. But at last he had to concede he was.
Duets of late had grown quite popular in court; a beautiful lady and handsome knight singing to or about each other. Gerald was currently singing half of the most popular of those ballads – the female half. Matching the words to the tunes of well-known bawdy ballads.
Keverick eyes him warily, then attempted to distract himself with somber thoughts, the long road ahead before their mission found an end. But when Gerald matched a verse on how skillfully his noble knight wielded his sword in battle to a tune that should by all rights be elaborating on how to appreciate a different kind of sword altogether, Keverick could not help the grin that tugged at his lips, though he managed not to turn around to look at the man who had drawn it out.
*A/N* I have not had the patience to do this properly. This is the second total rehaul, but I never can manage to pace it. It's always rushed, and I'm confounded as to how to make myself slow the fuck down. Mostly it's just Sable -- he's not the slow type. He just does shit. =_= I have nine pages of it written, this is just the first few.
407: Wolves and Demons
Sable sat up, moving before he was entirely awake.
He woke angry. Angry about something in the dream that had driven him into consciousness, and angry that he’d also woken up feeling scared.
Shoving haphazard curls from his face, he lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Moonlight filtered in between the heavy curtains that blocked out the city lights. Scrubbing his face with his hands, displeased that he was still unsettled, Sable tried desperately to cling to the shreds of his dream, but they slipped away and left him feeling only angry, scared and restless.
Turning on his side, Sable reached out and ran his hand down Christian’s cheek, across his shoulder and down the length of his body, reassuring himself that his consort still slept soundly at his side. Realizing what he was doing, Sable snatched his hand away again and turned to climb out of bed, locating and putting on a pair of black silk pants.
A thought revived the fire as he sat down on his leather couch facing it. Though the room was cool, Sable did not feel it. Outside, beyond the windows, the city was also oddly still. The occasional ripples of abnormal power but nothing unusual. It was three in the morning. Save for a few more nocturnally inclined, the city slept. In bed, Christian was fast asleep. Only Sable seemed to be at odds with the world.
Annoyed with himself, Sable wandered to the windows and jerked the curtains back. Light spilled into the middle of the room and he gazed down at the city far below. Throughout most of it the buildings were dark. Only Sable’s hotels shone brightly, offering far more to it’s guests and city natives than mere room and board. From the top of the Tantalus, he could easily see the shining red lights of the Seventh Circle and the cool blue of the Seraphim. Once the three buildings had been his dearest treasures. Far more than hotels, the triad of buildings were the palace at the center of his territory. Everyone for miles around could see them. They were something to be proud of, but they were no longer his greatest joy.
“Sable?” Chris said from the bed.
He let the curtains fall shut as he turned, storm-cloud eyes easily spotting his lover in the dark. Always a breathtaking sight, his consort. His. Christian had always been beautiful, the way he radiated that strange combination of energies – palest gold mixed with purest black. But now those two colors were suffused with Sable’s own silver-gray. To all demons, and those few other creatures who could sense the energies, Christian was marked brightly and loudly as belonging to Sable. It only made him want to mark Chris more, made him ever hungry for his lover, his consort. “Yes, beautiful?”
“What are you doing up?”
Sable moved toward the bed, pressing Chris down before he could get up. “I woke up and could not settle. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He brushed Chris’s lips softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Come back to bed,” Chris said in reply.
“I’m not tired,” Sable protested. “I’d just keep you awake.”
Chris smirked. “I never said anything about sleeping. And later maybe you’ll tell me why you’re upset.”
Sable laughed as Chris kissed him, allowing himself to be dragged back into bed. “As you wish, beloved.” Then proceeded to make sure Chris forgot everything but his name.
“So how long will you be gone?” Sable asked with a frown.
Chris kissed the corner of his mouth, then darted away to finish dressing. He pulled on a red t-shirt and brushed his hair. Diamonds sparkled in his ears, at complete odds with his casual appearance. “I should be back by lunch,” he said tolerantly.
“I don’t see why you have to go at all. Nor do I like it.”
“It’s just to talk to a witness.” Chris shrugged into his beat up leather coat, forestalling the protest Sable was about to make. “Just a few hours, Sable.”
Sable shook his head and dragged him close, kissing Chris hard enough to bruise his lips. “Fine. But be back by lunch. You weren’t supposed to be working today.”
“I know,” Chris said, suddenly letting his weariness show. “But its best if I do this. It shouldn’t take long.” Sable let him move away. “I’ll be back soon.” He stepped close again, reaching up to give Sable a deep kiss goodbye. “I’m sorry, Sable.”
Sable sighed. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, beloved. It’s my own problem if I don’t want to share you.”
Chris laughed. “Only my time, Sable. The rest is yours.”
“Yes, it is,” Sable said, folding his arms to keep him where he belonged a moment longer. “I’ll see you for lunch then. Try not to cause too much trouble.”
“I never cause trouble. It just finds me.” Grumbling about the sort of trouble that always found him, Chris departed.
Sighing again, never quite comfortable when his consort was away, Sable forced himself to get on with the day. Downstairs in the main lobby of the Tantalus he fell into dealing with the day to day problems of his hotels, tending to guests both normal and abnormal.
At ten o’clock one of his assistants brought him something to drink. Sable reached out to take it, but at the last moment missed. The sound of shattering glass filled the spacious lobby and startled everyone into silence. Scattered around him were broken pieces of glass and dark red juice.
Sable didn’t notice. A heartbeat later the silence was shattered by his scream. “Christian!” His terrified scream turned into one of rage. Power rippled, echoing his fury, and throughout the hotel and nearby buildings normals and weaker abnormals dropped unconscious the floor. Even several stronger abnormals fell to the ground or stopped short from sudden weakness and a heavy sense of dread.
Outside, the normally gray weather turned nasty, thunder rumbling hard enough to shake buildings, lightning splitting the sky and striking wildly, dangerously.
With a snarl Sable vanished from the hotel, rumbling thunder chasing him as he appeared at the far northwest end of his property.
Alpha Sandalio waited for him just beyond the point that Sable could go.
Sable barely noticed, eyes only for the unconscious form of his consort, his energies dimmed, barely glowing, trapped in the most complicated spellcage he’d ever seen. Too complicated. Demon level magic. Werewolves shouldn’t be capable of magic even a fifth so strong. “You will die,” he vowed. “More horribly than you can possibly imagine.”
Sandalio laughed. “Stupid, foolish, arrogant demon. What can you do to me? You can’t use your power outside of your own territory.” His eyes flicked past Sable, to the four figures that had appeared with a faint ripple of imp-magic. “If the whore’s lackeys try anything, I’ll kill him.” He sneered. “Which will send you straight back to hell, demon. So don’t waste time with empty threats.”
“It was not a threat,” Sable said softly but with chilling certainty. “You will die slowly, screaming in pain and begging for mercy, and I will stand here and laugh. Only a fool would dare to mess with a demon’s consort.”
*A/N* This story still depressed me, bu the first few pages are solid. It's just the rest I have to totally rehaul and expand =_= so much for *mini* series. I'm so imcompetent at writing anything remotely resembling short. *shakes head* Still, Black Magic will eventually be a trilogy: The Necromancer, The Alchemist, and The Sorcerer. Except I have to rehaul Alchemist as well, b/c it's obvious I was reading too much Tsubasa at the time of creation (I wanted to give the alchemist a special eye for sensing magic, msotly so he's sort of creepy, but it rings of Tsubasa so I'm probably gonna scrap that too. Alas.)
I. The Necromancer
He walked with his head down so the hood fell forward, shadowing his face though he ached to feel the sun on it. It was inadequate as warmth went, but the best he could get outside the flask tucked beneath his tunic.
Silence fell as he walked along, matching him step for step. He knew without looking up that people were stopping in the middle of their chores, their conversations, to stare at him.
A short figure dressed in dark, bedraggled clothes that were meant to be worn in winter, not the middle of summer. They watched him, hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘death-pale skin’ or perhaps the ‘bones and blood’ his type always carried to perform their evil spells. Later, he knew, they would all claim to have smelled death on him, to have seen grave dirt in the folds of his robes.
His thoughts were interrupted by a child’s laugh as two of them ran across his path, one obviously chasing the other, playing a game that made them oblivious to the morbid curiosity and barely restrained hostility of the adults.
The chaser fell with a sharp cry on the hard cobblestone street, and Koray reached unthinkingly to help her up.
“Don’t touch my child you filthy monster!” A woman shrieked, and it was immediately joined by a cacophony of threats and epithets. Koray drew his hand back into the folds of his robe, feeling colder than ever. “My apologies,” he said, though he didn’t think the furious, trembling woman heard him – not that she would care if he did.
Tamping down on the familiar pain, telling himself it was all right, it didn’t matter, he was used to it, Koray pulled his head further into his hood and continued on, laughing bitterly at the way the people parted to let him pass.
Because as strong as their hate was, their fear was greater. If you angered a normal mage, the worst he could do was kill you.
Necromancers could do far worse than mere death.
Ignoring them, focusing only on the street and where he had to go, Koray left the people behind and made his way to the castle. He stopped at the gate and reached into his tunic, pulling out a small scroll and presenting it to the guards.
He pretended not to see the way they flinched, ignored the way they refused to touch the scroll. “The King is expecting you,” one guard managed, not looking at him as he motioned for the gate to be opened, then waved him inside.
“Thank you,” Koray murmured as he passed by them and into the castle proper.
The courtyard was simple stone, all of it well-laid and obviously quality, but simple all the same. Functional, but appealing for all that. He ignored the way guards and servants milling about stopped to stare at him.
Or tried. Everyone stared at Necromancers. After fifteen years of it, he should be accustomed. He wished someone would teach him the trick of growing used to being hated and feared before they even bothered to learn so much as his name.
Why had he agreed to this audience? The King could have found another necromancer. Eventually.
Koray hunched his shoulders, fisting his hands to keep them from trembling as palace ghosts began to assault him – sapping his energy to appear, pleading with him, crying, showing what had been done to them, begging him to help, the words all soundless because he had not the strength – nor the inclination – to give any of them voice. He shivered, cold, and pulled his robes more tightly around him, envious of those who could gain warmth simply by standing in the sun.
He presented his scroll, a royal order from the King, to the next set of guards. They backed hastily away, pointing down the hallway. Koray murmured a thank you and moved on, not waiting for a reply that would never come, hearing the way they muttered once they believed him well away.
Freak
Monster
Killer
Corpse lover
Blood drinker
The epithets were old, familiar, but they made him tired all the same. He passed through the doorway at the end of the hall, pausing only briefly to admire the bright paintings, the beautiful furniture, the soft rug and the way sunlight spilled across all of it. So much light and warmth.
Koray shivered and huddled in his robes, braced himself as he prepared to continue on past the waiting room and toward the throne room beyond. He began to move, feet trailing just a bit in the deep, soft carpet – then he faltered, stopped.
Just the slightest bit of warmth struck him, like the heat of distant flames, as he heard a door open. He turned, eyes widening in the shadows of his hood.
The Paladin. Bright steel armor edged with gold, deep violet under tunic, the starburst crest over his heart. The sheer warmth that emanated from him. Koray fisted his hands in the ragged ends of his old tunic, burying them deep within the folds of his robe, making his feet hold still before he did something stupid and painful.
He was as beautiful as all the stories said, tall and proud, the elegant lines of noble breeding combined with the experience of a soldier. Blonde hair with the faintest hints of red deep within, skin darkened by the touch of the sun, eyes as clear and blue as a summer lake.
Eyes that currently looked at Koray with as much fear and distrust as everyone else showed.
Somehow…he’d been stupid enough to hope. The Paladin. The greatest of Knights, blessed by crown and Goddess, sworn to defend and protect all who dwelt in the King’s realm. Surely this man, a holy warrior who had promised to defend all, would give him the benefit of the doubt.
It would seem not. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheeks, focusing on that pain, ignoring all the rest – the endless cold, the ghosts that lurked even in this sun bright room, the constant loneliness – he drove it back, shoved it away, focused on what he knew.
His world was death, not life.
“You are the necromancer,” the Paladin said.
“Yes,” Koray answered. “My name is—“
“This way,” the Paladin interrupted, though Koray couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. “He’s been most anxious to see this matter finished. Why was I not summoned immediately?” He seemed to say the last more to himself, leading the way through the set of doors in front of Koray, down the hallway and past the guards stationed at the end.
“Your Highness,” the Paladin, falling to one knee before the King.
Who also looked exactly as the few rumors he’d managed to hear had said. Were all Kings fat? It must be nice, to be so well fed. And dressed. So much silk and lawn, jewels the like of which he’d never seen…
Koray narrowed his eyes, grateful as ever for the shadows that hid his face. There was something about the King he didn’t like. The gleam in his brown eyes seemed…wrong.
The Ghosts in the room did not draw close, put off by the warmth and light of the unknowing Paladin. Koray fought the urge to move closer, to reach out and touch, see how warm the Paladin truly was.
The Paladin who feared him, disliked him, had not bothered even to hear his name.
He realized suddenly the King was speaking to him. “Majesty?” Belatedly he dropped to his knees, cringing at his own stupidity.
“Reveal yourself, Necromancer,” the King ordered.
Reluctantly, every part of him screaming a protest, Koray reached up and pulled back his hood, keeping his pale gray eyes fastened on the carpet. He knew what they’d see, how they’d react.
His skin was indeed pale. Certainly not “deathly” but if he bared enough skin to let the sun brown it, he’d freeze to death. Only his enchanted robes kept him warm enough to survive.
Once his hair had been as black as pitch. Some of it still was, but there were streaks of white and gray in it now. Too many ghosts that he could barely control. Too many spells that left him aching for a warm touch.
His eyes, like his hair, had changed. He thought maybe they’d been green, but he no longer remembered for certain.
Barely eating, the constant taxing of his spiritual strength by ghosts, the high cost of necromantic spells had all left him far too thin. The final touch on giving him the very image all held of a necromancer.
Perfectly logical explanations for his appearance, but no one had ever cared to search for them. He could see in the faces of the King and Paladin that they were the same as all the rest. It would be depressing if he let himself care. Which he didn’t. He refused to. Besides, if he angered either man the Paladin would leave his sight that much sooner, and take that warmth with him.
“For all our sakes, Necromancer,” the king said at last, “I hope you solve our problems quickly.”
*A/N* The problems are obvious, I won't list them. It's limping along, once I finally hit a point where I *get* it, I'll go back and fix everything. But struggling along, I'm learning, is less frustrating than doing nothing at all. The switching b/t "I" and "II" is just b/c I didn't feel like writing anything else.
Beauty vs. Beast
I.
Bond kissed Annette until she finally shut up. Her husband had complained incessantly the other night about how noisome she was. But Bond hadn’t really been surprised when, after meeting her, all he’d heard throughout the night were those things which he wanted most to hear. ‘Oh, James’ and ‘Mm, yes’ and ‘Come back here’ and ‘Oh, that silly old thing? Of course I know…”
With morning’s light, however, he could see why the man complained. So Bond kissed her until she was pliant. A pity he didn’t have time for more. He rolled out of bed while she was still quiet and after slipping on his pants, returned to his own room across the hall.
Two hours later he was ready to get to work, and stepped out into the hallway – and barely avoided barreling into a man so quiet Bond hadn’t heard him coming. Hadn’t even seen. Strange. Immediately annoyed with himself and the stranger, Bond gave him a quick, thorough look.
His height, or very nearly so. Blonde hair, not the neatest. Plain clothes. And Bond would bet his license to kill the man was American. “Pardon me.”
“No problem,” the blonde said, barely flicking his eyes at Bond before continuing on down the hallway.
Definitely American, accent not withstanding.
At least this assignment shouldn’t take more than a weekend. It had only taken one night – one woman – and he had all he needed to get started. Smirking, a trace of something like weariness slipping into it, Bond followed the American down the hall to the elevators.
Glass elevators, yet another chance for the hotel to show off its gorgeous, wonderfully expensive view. Lush greens, white beach, blue water – honestly did the enemy ever pick anything besides expensive beaches?
Though, perhaps they were better than the last mountain fiasco. But that hadn’t been the enemy so much as a misunderstanding between comrades.
James gave the American a longer, surreptitious look. Something about the man was niggling at him. Like he should know the man, which made no sense at all. He’d never seen him before, he was certain of that. It was almost like being briefed on someone without having a picture and then encountering that person.
Except he’d had pictures for anyone he might possibly need to know about. Then he’d gone out and gotten information on their wives, lovers and secretaries.
And M claimed he never prepared for anything.
II.
MacGyver wondered what sort of kinks Mr. Bond was going to throw into his plans. Almost without actually having to think about it, he began to reevaluate and adjust his plans to account for the presence of the man who was perhaps the most infamous secret agent on the map. Also the only secret agent who had not only managed to fail completely at being a secret but was still both alive and employed.
He was going to kill Pete when he talked to him later – it figured they’d neglect to mention that James Bond would be here. Was he here for the same reason? Heaven forbid. Up until two minutes ago, it had looked like an inordinately easy case – at least compared to what the Phoenix Foundation normally gave him to handle.
Too easy, of course. Well, he'd just have to work more quickly than he'd estimated. Get in and out before Bond blew everything up and ran off with someone's wife or mistress or whatever.
Damn it, Pete should have told him.
MacGyver barely managed to keep from bolting as the elevator at last reached the ground floor, and allowed Bond to step out first, eyes following the tall, lanky frame of his latest headache. Bond was dressed in khakis and a shirt that had, to judge by the way Bond wore it, appeared to have lost most of its buttons.
Bond had come out of a room that MacGyver knew wasn’t his. No, that particular suite belonged to Annette, wife of a good friend of Robert Germaine. Germaine was suspected of kidnapping Kathy Greene, the daughter of a scientist who was currently doing his best to ruin Germaine’s pharmaceutical company.
An American scientist. The Brits had nothing to do with this. Why was James Bond here?
So Bond was here. Was already sleeping with women close to Germaine. Mac rather doubted it was coincidence. He could always hope Bond was here for reasons other than Germaine, but he rather doubted it.
Mac followed him through most of the lobby, continuing straight when Bond turned down the hallways that led to a handful of rooms rented out for meetings and banquets. The minute he got back to his room, Pete was getting a phone call. He was half tempted to go do it now.
But he had a job to do and he’d never let minor problems like annoying people get in his way before.
First order of business was to establish where they were keeping Kathy. She’d vanished flying home from a vacation in the Caribbean. She’d gotten on the plane home but hadn’t gotten off.
No messages. No ransom demands. Just silence.
So they’d called him. Never failed. He went on vacation, someone important got kidnapped.
Best guess was that she was being kept here, on Germaine’s favorite little island home away from home. All other known possibilities had already been cleared. If she wasn’t here, his job was to determine where else she could be.
So easiest to start with determining where on the island she might be. In the hotel was most likely. Valuable girl like that, Germaine would want to keep her close.
Given all the publicity, and how heavily under suspicion the man was – though of course there was absolutely no evidence whatsoever – he’d have been sure to stash her where she couldn’t cause problems and no one who might be investigating on the sly might find her.
Or somewhere James Bond couldn’t screw the secret out of someone.
On the bright side, at least Bond would provide an unexpected distraction. They’d be so busy scrambling to figure out what double oh seven was up to they’d completely miss his own snooping around.
Germaine’s rooms were at the top, obviously. Most logical place to keep her, except Germaine had been more than accommodating when police asked to search the premises. There’d been no sign of anything suspicious.
Mac planned to take his own look around.
Getting up there was the first trick, and tonight would be his first chance. Party downstairs meant no one upstairs. Simple. Easy. He’d start with taking a look and make the rest up as he went along.
If he found Kathy, all he had to do was get her to the airport. Simple.
Hopefully he could do it all before Bond ruined everything, as Bond always did.
MacGyver stepped outside and hit the footpath that surrounded the hotel, joining the dozen or so mid-morning strollers out with tiny dogs and expensive cups of coffee. Have a look around, get a feel for the place.
He’d planned to do this methodically – quickly but without haste. They wouldn’t kill her until they got what they wanted, and so far Pete had convinced Dr. Greene to hold steady.
Bond always messed things up. If the man was here, there was going to be trouble. He’d have to be hasty. Damn it.
I.
James stepped back out into the main lobby as the American strode past him, watched as he strode outside.
Something about the man was bothering him. It definitely felt as though he should know the man, though he couldn’t pin why he felt that way. But the man had definitely been watching him, and following him for a bit. Bond knew when he was being watched.
Was it anything to do with his mission?
Surely not. The kidnapped girl was bad, yes, but nothing for the CIA to care about. The scandal with Germaine was interesting, to be sure, but not of international importance.
The fact that Kathy Greene had been with a secret lover at the time, however, was important. Except the CIA didn’t know about him. Until three days ago Her Majesty hadn’t known about it either.
Now he was here to rescue the idiot son of an important parliament figure before all the wrong people realized who was being held right alongside Kathy Greene. Then it would become of international importance and Her Majesty preferred to avoid that.
Perhaps the American was an agent, and the bloody CIA knew something they shouldn’t.
He hoped not. The very last thing he needed on this assignment was to be stuck babysitting some hot shot American determined to save the day. They were always sloppy about things. Honestly, things should always be done in style.
Annette had been most useful in providing ways of sneaking around the security on the upper floors. The stairwells there were coded so that anyone could get out, but precious few could get in. Nothing his little watch from Q couldn’t handle. He’d have to wing the rest of the security issues, but that’s what the pen and new credit cards were for. Q was a man with style – if a little stiff and strict about it.
The boat, especially, was quite the masterpiece. All he had to do was fetch the idiot son and he could take the sweet little speedboat for a grand test ride.
Now he had to figure out if Kathy Greene was really the victim of the kidnapping, or if the idiot son was the true target.
Asking Robert Germaine wasn’t an option. James grinned. Asking Germaine’s girlfriend, however, was an option. Girlfriend’s always talked, especially this sort – kept on an island, surrounded by luxury, spoiled brats who felt they never got enough attention, loved the danger of getting mixed up in their lover’s business.
It was rather boring, really, how easy it always was.
Bond crossed back across the hotel room and out through the doors that led to the dining patio and the pool beyond. He waved off the hostess with a smile and searched the patio, at last alighting on his target.
Germaine had a whole string of girlfriends, one for each of his homes and getaways.
