Stranglehold/Start Spreading the Noose
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
It's a Christmas story. I like it. It's very Christmessy, too.
Contents |
Chapter 1
Might as well get in the mood for this trip, he figured. And Frank Sinatra wasn't the worst way to do it. Poor guy. The MP3s of his songs had to feel a bit estranged among the other stuff saved to Gideon's iPod, caught between cold electronics and angry guitars and sad sad voices. Ultimately, his tastes were probably varied enough to transcend the stereotype of the pale kid with the fashionable, semi-long black hair, but only barely so. Of course, as soon as shadow and darkness poured from his form, all attempts to suppress prejudice were void anyways. But who cared?
Maybe the people he was going to meet tomorrow night did, but maybe they were unaware of his prolific exploits into the belly of the beast. The invitation they'd sent him even suggested that they didn't realize he knew who they were... who he was, had to be. Or maybe they just took a chance and hoped his cockiness got the better of him.
Which, of course, it had. But immortality was the prerogative of youth -- and Gideon St.John was, he knew, still young in many ways. A thought he might have cherished in another time or -more likely- another world.
Whatever, he had work lying ahead of him: A supposed Christmas Party hosted by the rich and the famous and the damned, for the rich and the famous and the damned (or as in his case, soon to be damned). Conspiciously placed ever so slightly ahead of the actual Christmas days, but straight on Midwinter eve. Which was actually slightly odd, considering that the 'return of the light' was generally considered a good omen. Either this group of 'friends of the family' didn't care for folklore that came into being after their own world had perished or they simply couldn't resist the fact that it was the longest night nevertheless. They might as well have reminded him to wax and wash his chest in the invitation.
Whatever frayed thoughts shot through Gideon's head came to a halt the same moment the train did. Grand Central Station, this was it. The new solar year was just a day and two nights away, and he planned to start it with a bang. But there was much to do. Shouldering the backpack and grabbing his briefcase, he stepped out of the Faraday's cage of the wagon and into the city, pushed and shoved his way out of the station and into the grayish New York noon.
Just as he remembered. He'd already felt it he moment he'd set foot on the city's soil for the first time, and every time in between, though his presence had usually been confined to a JFK terminal... always having been in transit, in transition, in transubstantiation. But for once, he had brought some time.
Chapter 2
Gideon found his cigarettes and a lighter, lit up and just inhaled. Sweet, so sweet was the taste. As the nicotine filled his bloodstream, so did the steady pulse of the city fill his arteries. Despair and anger and fear. So much of it. For a moment, he wondered how Detroit would taste, before he exhaled and traced a symbol through the blue smoke, in red cherry glow. With all this fuel to draw on, maybe there was no need for plan B tomorrow night. Who could tell?
Might as well find out, he figured.
Despite the superficial checkerboard setup, this was a city that had naturally grown. Organically, and for longer than Paragon City. There were more alleys threatening to swallow up unsuspecting passerbys, to lead them into temptation or downfall. In its decay, Manhattan was more vibrant than bustling Founders Falls -- but also more pungent than festering rundown Kings Row. It simply was more of a living organism than the city he had spent the last year in. And he felt it. His subconscious arcane sensibilities reacted to the steady pulse he could feel ever more clearly through the day and into the evening.
With his belongings mostly stowed in a hotel room, he was just following his instincts now. Unfettered, at least for this one night, he felt his way through the city, as if navigating a maze by scent alone. It wasn't that hard, admittedly. Gideon could feel what he was looking for all around him and everything else was simply a matter of homing in on the stronger emotions over the weaker ones.
The man was huddled into the entrance of an alley, wrapped in a frayed blanket, with newspapers stuffed under it for insulation. Gideon had felt his misery from three blocks away. It was more than despair. This man didn't simply have a deathwish, wasn't teetering on the edge but actively crossing it. He was dead set to kill himself soon, on Christmas or Christmas Eve, Gideon surmised. Had probably seen 'It's a Wonderful Life' once too often back when he had a TV. Three blocks through the softly falling snow and he stood in front of the homeless man. He'd had a paper cup and a cardboard sign set up in front of himself at some point, but they were now pushed aside, into the snow. Probably by himself or so the angle at which they'd been moved suggested.
"I have got something for you." Gideon said and stepped closer, casting his shadow over the man, his voice... no, not his voice per se. This was not Gideon St.John speaking. It was the raspy, hoarse whisper of Stranglehold. The tattered man looked up at him, moving his head slowly, the motion obviously unwilling and then he had to squint against the streetlight that shone begind Gideon's form. He watched the younger man slowly pluck the leather glove from his right hand, just watched him, without saying a word.
Gideon hadn't thought on it, but given the state the homeless man was in, he might well have interpreted the figure in front of him in a bad light, despite Stranglehold's merciful intentions. A pale young man, tall and -in as far as the black coat allowed it to be seen- athletic. Impeccably groomed and wearing gloves, he only needed a Fedora to appear as some bloodless mafia hitman. Of course, there was no particular reason for the mafia to come after a nobody. Only some kind of mass murderer, a psychopath or sociopath or other weirdo would approach the ragged figure with malicious intentions. Which, at this point, he probably would have welcomed.
Chapter 3
What he got, then, was this young man (who might be possessed of a few sociopathic tendencies anyways) stretching his now bare hand down towards the sitting figure's forehead. The homeless man passed out at the merest touch of Stranglehold's fingertips, sagging back against the wall he'd been propped against before. Shifting his weight forwards, Gideon maintained the contact and, shutting his eyes, went to work.
The next day, Gideon actually got in some leisure time. Just enough to play tourist for a bit. Buy cigarettes on top of the Empire State Building, look out over the city that never sleeps and see none of the good but all of the bad that existed and was yet to come. Shop for a nice Armani suit for the evening, and a new pair of Doc Marten's that would very probably clash with that suit. In the end, he was bored before the winter sun had even bothered to begin setting, and this on the supposedly shortest day.
So he crashed at his hotel room early, took an extensive shower and sampled his less sordid pay tv options, but nothing really wanted to interest him. Neither did the book he brought along for the trip manage to captivate him. Should have brought Umberto Eco instead.
Gideon had to admit that he was nervous. It was a bad situation as it was. He was likely to be the only sane human in a room filled with ancient wizards and their mortal lackeys. In fact, chances were he wouldn't get out of there alive. Certainly, he had a plan -two actually- but he was yet lucid enough to know what befell the best laid plans of mice and men. He'd have to give this his all at the drop of a hat, and even then that might not be enough... Then, letting his mind wander the slightest bit, he recalled two words that would set him at ease, for the moment.
Critical Mass.
Stranglehold was a battery of empowered and awakened souls. If he absorbed more than he could contain, the results would make Coventry or Guernica look pretty. At least that was the theory. He had no real idea where his threshold lay. He'd know it when he got there, though. It was a final option, but, like all final options it was one better not contemplated too much.
A shower, a shave and a pack of cigarettes later, his mobile phone finally rang to inform him that a car would come to pick him up to take him to the 'Christmas party' he was in town for. This was it. No retreat, no surrender. Gideon lit another cigarette and began to type a text message into his phone. Relayed to a web server it would finally end up in two email accounts. The message was short and simple:
- Check the news tomorrow (that is the 22nd). If anything nasty went down in NYC at midnight best erase all traces of my existence. For your own sake. --Gideon
Anybody else would probably have worked in the words 'merry Christmas' somewhere along the way, but Gideon probably had forgotten that it was only three days away. Slipping into his coat, he pocketed cigarettes and phone and made his way down to the hotel lobby and out into the winter's evening, the snow and the cold. He didn't notice any of it, anything about his surroundings until the silver Mercedes Benz pulled up.
Chapter 4
Gideon put the little metal-plated notebook and pen, his mobile phone as well as lighter and cigarette case into the little tray. "We are sorry about the metal detector, sir." one of the security guards said apologetically. "I understand, these are dangerous times." was the young man's ambiguous answer. "Oh, and we'll have to ask you to keep your cellphone turned off. House rules. You can leave it here if you'd rather not carry around the dead weight."
"Splendid idea. Just don't call Australia if you can at all help it." The little joke was as lame as his nonchalance was fake. But this, he at least assumed, was what was expected of him. For his own part, Gideon had expected something a little bit more refined. Not that the Auberge Beausoleil, a sprawling colonial complex probably somehwere on the cusp between city proper and upstate, wasn't beautiful with its old-fashioned interieur. It was the rest of it. The name of the place to begin with. Beausoleil, the 'Beautiful Sun' was, among the initiated or those who thought they were, something of a code name. The Beautiful Sun was identified as the Star of Morning. Lucifer.
The terminology had been discontinued after director Kenneth Anger cast Manson Family member Bobby Beausoleil as Lucifer in an experimental short film, either giving the secret away or lending credence to various thaumaturgical meme theories, depending on interpretation. It was a dead giveaway, even if it was not more than an in-joke among mystics who -to his knowledge- held no particular allegiance to the Star of Morning in particular. And it all culminated in the massive security and the subtle suggestion he give up his mobile phone. Gideon could be rather sure part of the effort was to keep people in and/or keep them from calling in help.
The evening might actually become interesting. And the overtness of his adversaries almost made him feel clever.
"Ah, you must be young Mr. St.John." No more than an inch shorter than Gideon and thereby still above average, the older man seemed massive from good life without having turned soft or obese. In his ready smile and full bariton swung more than a hint of sincerity, which was the one thing that actually seemed surprising so far.
"Gideon will suffice. After all, I'm among friends here, no?" Even though the smile was forced, Gideon didn't feel he needed to worry. His plan was to seem a bit cordial and a bit timid and socially awkward. The latter shouldn't be an issue at all.
"Indeed you are, Gideon." The older man paused. "You don't remember me, do you? Last time we met you were what? Six? Seven at most." Gideon merely shook his head, but remained attentive, even curious. "Damocles Grant. Your father and I were very close. We worked together on..."
"The Midian Foundation." This time, the smile was actually an honest one. A bit proud, a bit triumphant.
"Well, you have done your homework. I presume I don't need to ramble about the old days anymore then? Did I hear right that you are going to become a doctor, like your old man?" Grant seemed at ease now, having crossed the first bridge towards getting to know the young man. He allowed himself a closer study of the specimen in front of him. Pausing, almost starting, for the briefest of moments as he scanned Gideon's chest.
"Forensic pathology. Not quite the same. I am not the philantropist my father was. But I am curious about the human condition. I think understanding how humans work is best tackled on the physical level first..." In a natural gesture, he reached inside his jacket and produced the pompous silver cigarette case and lighter he'd bought for the night. "That, and I'll only get at the full inheritance once I've got a college degree under my belt. Not that the trust fund is composed of peanuts."
Act human. Think human. Be human. He was actually getting into this. And to his surprise, he found it much easier to be this social among people who -for all he knew- were his enemies than in normal society. But maybe that was the whole trick. He knew he had to kill all of these people, one by one, eventually. There was never any question, never any ambiguity, no matter how friendly the faces and how white the smiles.
"You are not going to smoke those, are you?" Grant immediately intersected when he noted the case, quickly adding, "I have a case of Cu... Dominican cigars of course, upstairs in the office." Inexplicably, the old man, who very likely was far far older than the sixty or so years he showed, seemed to be warming to a man who was very likely more than he let on. And didn't mind rubbing it in his face.
Gideon gave an obligatory chuckle and then a deferential nod, "I'll admit to not having tried cigars at all so far, but I couldn't say no, could I?" He pocketed the cigarette case again, carefully straightening his jacket and subtly adjusting the button he wore on his chest. It was a silly little test. Resorting to banal formulaic magic, he'd surrounded it with the weakest of illusions so as not to be visible to the naked eye. Anybody possessing a hint of magical inclination or predilection however could easily pierce through it. He was baiting them, and hopefully warning them. Stating that he knew, that he was not a pushover or simpleton. And that he had come anyways.
"You're a bit early anyways. I figure we can go for the cigars now and introduce you and the others to our little circle later tonight." Noting the questioning expression in Gideon's eyes, Damocles Grant added, "This is our debutante ball of sorts. Once a year, we gather as family and friends and business associates and invite others to mingle so we can see who fits and who doesn't. Consider us a nepocracy." Grant lead him up a vast staircase in the antechamber between the lobby and the hotel's dining hall, one, two, three stories up and another one.
"Your place in our midst is of course preordained already. We couldn't do without a St.John, could we? But there'll be others too. Friends of friends, some promising graduates... But even for those who are pretty much 'in' already, we like to keep our little rituals up and see how new arrivals fare in our midst." At the end of the hallway on the fourth floor, Grant stopped to knock on an otheriwse unremarkable oak door, then entered swiftly.
"That applies for everyone, even my own daughter."
Chapter 5
The scene had something from a bad movie. Fuzzy lighting, slow motion pictures and all that. In his head anyways. It wasn't that the girl -a few years younger than Gideon at best, just out of highschool or going to be out any moment now- was necessarily a smashing beauty that immediately pushed all of his (rather vestigial to begin with) buttons with regards to looks. It wasn't the thrill (or cliché) of her being nominally part of the enemy either. It took a few seconds before he decided it had to be her smell. Probably not the expensive perfume he smelled, even though he liked the spicy fragrance, but more likely something along the lines of pheromones. Whatever it was, it almost cut through his armor in its surprising and surprisingly simple onslaught.
Gideon's eyes came to rest on the girl for a few seconds. She was a bit too short and too tanned for his tastes, he thought. Only to wonder when he actually developed a taste for women to begin with a mere heartbeat later. Not that he preferred men. Rather, he had spent the last five or so years living like a monk. It plain hadn't ever come up.
The little office was not too terribly lit, and maybe that was what made him look harder at the girl. Mostly, what light there was came from the security monitors she had been studying with some amusement before the two men entered. Now she looked up, shifting a few streaks of wavy nut-brown hair from her face in the motion.
"Speak of the devil. Gideon, this is my daughter Salome." Grant's baritone was ever as smooth as dark honey, not bothering to sound terribly surprised to find his daughter here. The real question, of course, was whether this was some kind of trap within the trap or whether the presence of a seemly girl of roughly Gideon's age was supposed to set him at ease. "Sally, this is Gideon St.John..."
"Hi." Sally in turn hit the appropriate note. Not too excited, not too unfriendly. Complacent but not thrilled. "Dad's only been talking about you for the last month or so. Keeps saying how your presence here marks some kind of family reunion." The smile seemed rather genuine then, as did her obvious amusement.
Gideon himself gave her a slow nod along with a reserved smile. "That's one advantage you have over me. I don't know anyone at this party I believe. But hey, best way to learn to swim is to dive right in, right?" He really did his best to sound at the same time nice and natural. And without a single expletive so far. It was indeed a learning experience.
"Sally's starting college next year. Economics and Sociology." The older man explained. "And Gideon's currently enrolled at Paragon City University studying... forensic pathology? Is that right?"
"Correct. Not quite as prestigious as some other majors, but it's of personal interest to me." Now this was a topic he'd gladly tackle. His studies were wonderfully neutral ground without danger of slipping up. And if he wanted to kill the conversation he could begin talking about burn victims or the specifics of decomposition. Most people trying to strike up a conversation about his major regretted it in the end.
"Like on CSI? That's so cool."
Or not. But then, what was the worst that could happen? Aside from a Spirit Thorn in his chest anyways. Still, Gideon had to smirk.
"Well, reality is not exactly like..."
"Kids? I'm sorry but I have to bow out for the moment. Need to welcome a few more guests. The main throng should arrive in about fifteen to twenty. Sally, I promised Gideon here a good cigar, you know where they are. I'll see you downstairs in thirty at the latest. Alright?" Setup. In a less dangerous overall situation it might even have been amusing. Hell, it was amusing, period, even though it made no sense unless...
Both Gideon and Sally nodded their agreement, then Damocles Grant slid out the door and closed it behind him, leaving the two youngsters alone. There was a moment of silence while the two seemed to measure each other. They both seemed too careless to hide it. Too brash or too proud of too arrogant. It was Sally that finally broke the tension by opening a drawer in the large oak desk upon which the security monitors rested and producing a cigar case.
"I always loved the smell of daddy's cigars. If he wouldn't let me at them I'd be sneaking in here to steal them. So he relents." Sally opened the case and took one of the cigars out of it. She also swiped a guilloutine-like cigar cutter and a box of matches from the desk, obviously preparing a cigar for herself. In a casual motion, she sat down on top of desk, shoving the cigar box into Gideon's direction with her hip. "Help yourself."
He stepped in closer, then casually flopped into one of the two comfortable leather chairs that stood in front of the desk. He reached out then, his hand hovering over the box. "To a cigar?" Gideon heard himself say, much to his own amazement.
Sally gave a little chuckle, then began to slowly light the prepared cigar with a match while Gideon admitted, "I usually prefer cigarettes. I can understand ritual, but I'll admit I've never smoked a proper cigar before."
"Well, then take this one." She took a single drag from the cigar and slowly let the smoke run from her lips while she turned the cigar in her hand and offered it to Gideon. As he stretched his fingers for it, he noticed traces of her lipstick on the end of it, glistening in the red light of the developing cherry. Accepting the cigar from Salome Grant, his fingertips ever so slightly brushed against her hand, and he found himself wondering whether it was cold or hot. He could not tell, if he was honest. But he knew to discontinue a silly thought when he found it, and so he only lingered two or three seconds like that before he leaned back into his chair.
"So, I assume we'll be the youngest ones tonight, eh? I mean, I'm all for upholding tradition and all that, but despite the suit I'm really just... eh, I don't even know. Fuck, I'm just happy I can feel like I can talk straight." Gideon watched her prepare another cigar while he spoke, then took a drag from his own, savouring the taste in his mouth and finally exhaling the smoke. "As you can probably tell I'm not the smoothest talker or anything, or the most social kind of guy."
"Mhmmm. But I'm sure you make up for it in effort. At least I hope so." She gave him a wry smile, then lit the second cigar. In between puffs of smoke, she finally clarified, "I mean, they seem to put a lot of stock in you. You see, the core of their little circle of friends isn't getting any younger and not all are married or have kids. When your parents died that was two people they lost... and now they're looking to you to fill the... wound that that tore."
"Sounds like a lot of responsibility. Seriously, I'm just a shithead with a trust fund right now. Noone special..." He shrugged. This time he managed to sound both convincing and relaxed. Probably because it was partially true. He was that, too, only he barely ever allowed this part of him to surface. Gideon particularly didn't like to wave his money at people in general. For one, solving problems as Stranglehold was more personal and more rewarding, and then it was just a means to an end to him. Another weapon he could throw at people at best. So Gideon St.John really was that kid with the trust fund. Only Gideon wasn't quite here most of the time.
"If you're here tonight, you're special, Gideon." Sally leaned over the desk and towards him now. To the point where he probably could have taken a good long look down the cleavage of her dress had he wanted to (and a part of him, a very small one at that, did want to), closing in on him. "We're all special..." She gave him a smile that seemed too smug and knowing. "Nice button by the way. Maybe I'll think about it."
Chapter 6
Another quandary. Either she was in on it, or she was a natural. Either way, she'd seen right through the little joke he'd played on them and himself. The little button that read -in a seldom flight of humour- 'Now that you've come this close, mind giving me a handjob?' in very small print. Which he'd hidden from mundane sight with the weakest of glamours. Just to provoke a reaction. Just to show them that he could. Probably, just to ruin his night.
For the moment, though, he couldn't retreat, couldn't pull back to get a clearer image of what was going on. Things were falling apart, he noticed. He hadn't thought everything through to the end. Could he actually see a Spirit Thorn once it had been used on someone? He hadn't bothered to check, always happy to just beat on people or flood their heads with agony and fear. Did Spirit Thorns leave scars? Only one way to find out, and he was not going to go down that road. The only way out was straight ahead... and for this situation, there was probably only one way to play it without causing undue concern.
So he cracked a wide smirk at her, lazily reclining in the chair. "It's a start." Gideon even managed to wink at her without blowing it completely. If this was what it was like to be human, he might have been better off just firebombing this whole party. But that had been too fallible of a plan, why he had resorted to this. And now he was trapped in it.
"Maybe." Salome just repeated herself and smirked back at him. With any luck, he'd struck a cord with her by sheer accident and this wouldn't all blow up in his face this very second. With any luck.
Some twenty minutes of smirking and smoking and the occasional ambiguous (and not so ambigous) expression passed quickly. Eventually, Salome excused herself, citing the need to powder her nose or something to that extent. Gideon asked her the way to the men's room in turn, feeling the need to look all prim and proper when meeting the 'rest of the family'. After closing and locking the door to the office, she pointed him down the hallway and in the right direction.
They were about to part ways above the massive staircase when Sally paused. Wanting to ask whether anything was wrong, Gideon turned towards her. She just flashed a smirk at him, then, suddenly, darted forward and pressed her lips to his for the tiniest fleeting moment, withdrawing just as quickly and fleeing the scene of the crime as quickly as her heels allowed. Gideon thought he could hear her giggle, and that made him smirk, too. Worse, or at least more surprising, he thought he could feel his lips tingle. It had been strongest when they touched, but was still lingering. A bit like touching one's tongue to both poles of a nine volt battery, he thought. No. A bit like magic. The thought made him grunt. It was the only expression his confusion allowed.
Chapter 7
From hereon, it was probably like any other gathering of this sort. If gatherings of this sort existed outside of Stranglehold's world, twisted and bleak as it so often seemed. A bit to his surprise, they really were whole families. Grandparents, parents and children. They raised their own hosts, probably. Not as fast as mass conversions of abductees, but certainly providing for better suited vessels. This was something to take back to Akarist. Or maybe other sources. That was of course still assuming he could get out of here alive. The bathroom window was sealed with a cast iron grate he would need to power up to overcome... and the magical protection of the place was sure to interdict his trans-dimensional capabilities, never mind alerting everyone and their host.
More importantly, he noticed a generational gap of about ten years in this particular group. Of the young ones, he was the oldest, followed by Sally and half a dozen teenagers, as well as as many children. The next oldest people were in their early thirties. At least this gave him an excuse to hover around Salome and the little entourage of two teenage girls she had quickly acquired here and there. Out here in public, they both of course played it quiet and mellow. He shook all the hands that were offered, flattered the ladies and complimented the men. Damocles Grant was usually on hand to introduce him, explaining who his new friends were, one by one.
Only, there was no pattern. No real pattern anyhow. They were all nominally successful people. Lawyers and bankers, college professors and doctors. It had something of a country club or so. Very high society, and that was the striking part. These people had actual lives on the side. Most of them were in positions that did not require hands-on work, but they obviously maintained well-groomed screens they hid behind. What had his parents been a part of? Was this the Circle of Thorns' Fifth Column, undermining society in key positions in preparation of a non-magical conflict? Were they separatists or sleepers... or... breeders?
"Lost in thought, big guy?" Sally smiled up at him for the few inches of height difference that there were between them. "Here, I got you a drink. Tell me whether you like it." Smiling some more, she handed him a wide glass filled with a blood-red liquid and the inevitable ice. The smell of alcohol was hard to ignore either way.
"Vodka. And...?" Gideon took a testing sip, then he had to guess anyways. "Tart, slightly bitter. But no tomato. Not a Bloody Mary." He smirked at her, but didn't say anything beyond that. The smirk was probably enough. Or his mind was wandering into spots it shouldn't be. At least not tonight, but probably never.
"It's blood orange. Think orange with a touch of grapefruit and less acid. I could drink that stuff all day." In a clandestine motion, she just barely pressed her shoulder to his upper arm. "You don't have to drink it, but they're about to start dinner in a bit, and this is my last chance to get some time with you in."
"Didn't know you cared that much." Gideon heard himself say, his tone of voice calm, even casual. Her response was an insulted gasp which in turn provoked a wide smirk to grace Gideon's mouth. Realizing she'd run afoul of a trap, her singular reaction was to shift the contact she kept with him towards an elbow slamming into his side.
"Fuck you." She hissed at him, nearly inaudible. "Not before dinner." Tipsy with victory, his response was an unnaturally smug whisper.
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Modern cross-over influences but old-fashioned helpings. And the company was not that bad either. Unfortunately, Damocles, his would-be father-in-law-figure for all it seemed sat to Gideon's right. Smack between him and Sally. But Damocles himself was surprisingly good company as well. It turned out that he owned the Beausoleil but did not run it himself, though he had an office here. The hotel was intended for Sally to 'sharpen her claws on' as he put it once she graduated. Beyond that, Damocles knew tons of trivial but often entertaining stories and anecdotes about just about anyone present at the table.
To his left, Gideon had a former Florida State Linebacker who'd entered college on a football scholarship but finished with a degree in law. In his mid-thirties now, he was a rising star in the New York DA's office. And still a mountain of a man. Had he been placed there to keep Gideon in check if things went south? He certainly would be big enough. Under normal circumstances anyways. When not facing a man whose body had been steeled beyond human capability by eleven years of channelling demons and spirits directly through himself. When not facing the irate disciple of several martial arts, no matter how ignorant of their peaceful philosophies that disciple kept himself. Then again, he had likely received a Thorn himself and who could say which arcane secrets rested within the man?
Looking up and down the table, Gideon noted that both the head and foot of the long table the whole group sat on (which perfectly fit the room as long and slender as the table itself) were empty. There stood chairs and plates and empty wine glasses, but noone was using them. Mentioning it to the men surrounding him, they noted that the spot at the nominal head of the table was reserved for a guest of honour who would not partake in the actual meal, and one was left empty in honour of 'absent friends, past and present'. Of course he could read between the lies, knowing what he did about the Circle of Thorns. Part of him had been affected by a morbid curiosity ever since he had received the invitation. Who exactly were they planning to put inside him? Who had they been long long ago in the days of Oranbega and Mu?
And who would this mysterious guest of honour be? Up to here, he had assumed Damocles was more or less running the show, but now he knew he was only a Secondary Target. Which, oddly enough, set Gideon at ease as he did not really mind the man on a personal level. Grant was a bridge to a made-up childhood he would never have had. He told tall tales and created illusions that Gideon wanted to believe. Because oddly enough, they made him feel normal. Like a real human being instead of the walking gate to hell that he knew he was in reality.
He washed the thought down with a swig of water before returning his attention to his plate. And yet, the absurdity of it all would not let go of him. In the lap of the enemy, he felt more at home than in the company of his supposed friends. The thought had crossed his mind so many times this night, and still, it would not let go of him. Was this truly his home? Was it simply the cursed call of the St.John blood? Stockholm syndrome? Or was the cancer he harbored in his soul finally beginning to unfold its full extent?
Chapter 8
This time, Gideon got pulled from his thoughts by the hulk on his left excusing himself to use the bathroom. Ever the opportunist, Damocles Grant casually used the opening for his own purposes. "You know, I might be a few years older, but I'm not blind. Neither do I assume you to be a total idiot." His voice was subdued. Obviously he cared not for anyone else to hear.
"Yeah. I might not be wise in the ways of the world, but that was a bit of an obvious set-up there. You knew she was in there, and I'm the only one in the right age in your esteemed circle." He raised his glass and slowly turned it in his hand, watching the water shift along with the motion. "I'd lie if I said I didn't like her. But you and me both know it's not that easy."
"Of course not. Frankly, I do not know you well enough yet, Gideon. But I've known your parents, and your uncle. If you have inherited but a sliver of them, you'll come out just fine." At this point, both of the men had to accommodate the waiters who brought the next course -three varieties of fish, it seemed- to the table.
"Yeah well, we'll see." Gideon's voice took a slightly darker tone. More somber, more like Stranglehold sounded. "After tonight, I doubt it really matters, will it?" It was better to be safe than sorry, even if it meant leaning out a bit further than he already had tonight.
"What do you mean?" Reflected in his glass, Gideon could see Damocles' face. That was why he held it after all. The reaction was not as extreme as what he had hoped to get, but not subdued enough to be hidden from him either.
"Isn't that obvious?" Slowly but surely, he was overdoing it. He knew that. But this extra step was required in his mind. Just so it all made sense in the end. "After tonight, we will be one big happy family, I thought." And then, he smirked. "And I couldn't pursue a first cousin now, could I?" With a smirk, he added the obligatory and utterly terrible pun. "Not in this State anyways."
He earned a barely restrained flood of subtle, warm laughter from Grant. "And here I thought you didn't enjoy the evening."
"Please. You and your daughter alone make my night. Even though it's a bit odd for a first date." Gideon flashed a wan smile. "That said, I am utterly curious as to who the mystery guest would be. With such an eclectic group, you'd expect the President." Best to change topics. He was not too keen on discussing his inexplicable attraction to a girl he barely knew with her father of sorts. Besides, he did have a mission here.
"Actually, you're not that far off, after a fashion. But just you wait and see, Gideon. Just wait and see."
And he would.
When the end came, it came hard and fast. Over the course of two hours, the comfortable dinner and party had turned into a scene from Rosemary's Baby, except noone had screamed 'Hail Satan'. Maybe that would have come later. But it wouldn't. Not tonight. Probably not for a while, Gideon hoped as the cityscape of New York City flashed past below him. He was slipping in and out of the Rainbow Bridges as fast as he could, and as often as he could so as to confuse his trail. At least, New York was not Paragon. They were not as open about their business here as they were elsewhere...
Stranglehold would see what the rest of the night would bring.
Chapter 9
Meanwhile, the would-be friends he left behind were faced with a different problem altogether. "They're through the wards. Three breaches that I can make out." Several of their number were actively scrying the outside world, relaying the activities of the uniformed men outside while the really important people were busy destroying evidence and coming up with a story to tell the authorities. At first they thought it was only the FBI with some local SWAT troopers. Then the black limousine with the DOJ logo pulled up, and from there it had gone downhill.
Two more vans pulled up. No license plates at all -- they obviously didn't need them. One of the attending Mages relayed the entire scene into the room. They didn't look like cops. Their movements spoke of a confidence that went beyond the swagger of a SWAT veteran. Not a iota of energy was wasted, every motion perfect and perfectly synchronous. Then their leader spoke. "Alright guys, we have received a tip about an MHI in progress. Move with extreme caution. Deadly force is authorized." At these words, two of the men powered up excessively large energy weapons. As they moved in on the Beausoleil, only the defensive magics around the compound stopped them.
"You did well." Gideon had come full circle. Same place, though several hours past the same time. "Thanks." It was time for a cigarette now. Stranglehold covered for him, cool and calm, affecting something between a cruel smirk and a wry smile while Gideon's heart was pounding like a jackhammer. In the light of the gasoline flame, he could see the other man's face. He'd been a suicidal bum yesterday. Today he was clean-shaven and his gaze contained a certain... firmness. That was good.
"I'll admit it was a bit odd. But I did as you told me. Called the number you gave me, gave them the security code and told them what you told me to say... even though I have no idea what happened." The older man gave Gideon a smile that was more than warm. "No idea what happened, man. Don't know why I'm even here. Don't know what you did to me but I know... I know..."
With a gesture, Gideon silenced him. Then he met his gaze and did his best to give him a smile as well. "It was nothing." He took a drag from his cigarette and moved to turn away and leave, but the homeless man stopped him. "What was it? What DID you do to me?"
"I gave you a spark. It's something I do. Not usually like this, but the world needs a certain balance." A reassuring nod, and again, Gideon wanted to turn away, but again, the man hadn't heard enough. "Would it kill ya to speak straight with me?"
With a sigh, Gideon turned back to face the man fully, once again. "Hope. It's that simple. I gave you hope. You have all the tools, all the means to pick your life up again, but you'd lost hope. Now you can go forward."
"But, what about the others? I mean, there's so many more...?" His first instinct was to shrug the question off. He hadn't really thought that far. In fact, the old man had really only been a pawn in his little game. Stranglehold figured it was an even exchange. A life for a life, albeit indirectly. Now, however, he had an idea. So he gave the man his best smile.
"That's gonna be *your* job. Hope has to come from somewhere. Like all emotions, it can be sown and grown. Only, I can't do that. I could only give you some of what I don't need. But you can do it... Sound like a plan?" Another drag from the cigarette. Gideon held his breath while he waited for the man's answer, then exhaled through the words. "I guess that's a damn good start."
With that, Gideon gave his final nod and walked away. As he neared the corner of the block, he heard the old man yell, "Oh, and merry Christmas!" but Gideon pretended not to hear him.
Chapter 10
He pretended not to hear it, even though he already had gotten his present tonight. Reaching into his coat pocket, he could feel the coolness of the Soul Gem. Colder even than the winter night. It had been a piece of beauty. It had been so stupid of a plan to simply have to work. The Spirit Thorn hidden in his jacket, the crude little button with its crude little glamour that so impressively masked the signature aura of the Thorn beneath. The same Thorn that now stuck in the chest of the man whose soul he held in his pocket. That also nicely answered the question whether a body could be affected twice by the magic of the Thorn.
And as a bonus, they couldn't say he hadn't brought any presents, could they? One downside to the whole issue existed, of course. Now they knew he was their enemy. Even though he didn't even mind them. Stranglehold couldn't afford a Spirit Thorn in his chest after all. Maybe, just maybe his particular brand of magic might give him an edge in fighting the Thorn. But more likely, it wouldn't. And so it was better placed in the hands of whomever with the mummy face.
But the real coup de grace had been to get the bloody Malta Group in on this. It had been more than a gamble to just assume they had people in the DOJ, but they seemed to have people everywhere. Or at least a tap that lit up on certain codewords or -phrases. Whichever it was, this one wasn't his fight for the moment, though he was glad to help. If they started killing each other back at the Beausoleil, then it would be a damn good Christmas.
Gideon lit another cigarette and hailed a cab. Suddenly, he felt very tired. Time to go back to his hotel. Though he should probably sleep in a circle of salt tonight.
Chapter 11
The next day, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not even the local news covered the incident, probably due to the amounts of political clout involved on both sides of the equation. On the upside that meant that noone would be burning any records of his existence (though he had sent off negative text messages anyhow), but on the downside Gideon would have loved to see a tiny smidgen about the fruit of his labors. Well, his bluff anyways. He hadn't really had to work, just let things run their course and make his move at the right time.
Only, he hadn't counted on actually liking these people. For one, they were rich fucks like he'd be once he graduated and got his hands on the family fortune. And then, they were for the most part involved in magic, just like he was and had been for the past decade or so. Of course, there was the whole Circle of Thorns issue to consider. The fact that they had conspired to put an ancient undead wizard in his body and put his soul in a gemstone -like he had done to what was likely the enclave's leader- didn't really seem that bad though. He certainly would have been more stoked had they succeeded. But then again, that was never an option. Had all else failed, he could have turned the hotel's ballroom into a charnel house.
Still. There was a feeling he couldn't shake. Kinship? For better or worse, these people shared the same roots as him. For better or worse, they had seemed sympathetic, even if they had tried to set him up.
There was a knock on the door. He hadn't ordered room service, so that was not it. Stranglehold shut his eyes and reached out into the city. Obviously, not much had changed in the last two days. Drawing on the corruption and depression of the city didn't cost him any effort at all. Gideon stepped towards the door and opened it ever so slowly. And he was very surprised to see who was on the other side of it. More so because she was all alone.
Salome Grant cracked a smile that seemed a bit too shy for her style. Badly camouflaged as some kind of 30s gangster in a baggy trenchcoat and a fedora, she snuck into the room through the partially opened door. Despite himself, Gideon simply closed the door and leaned against it with his back, crossing his arms over his chest. For obvious reasons, he wasn't sure what to think of this visitor. Might as well give her the time of day. "This is quite the surprise..."
"After what you pulled? Fuck yeah. Never seen them like this. It was a thing of beauty." Her smile increasing, she grabbed his cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand and lit herself a cigarette while walking around the spacious hotel room. "I don't think it was the kill as much as the fact that they completely underestimated you. Each single one of them."
"Not that I mind the flattery." Gideon barely returned her smile, but could not quite stop himself. Possibly because he smelled that heady perfume once again, a smell that somehow got to him, even through the cigarette smoke. "But you're factually one of them. And how do I know you're still yourself either way?"
Now, Sally smirked. "You can check me for a Thorn if you like." With a few swift motions, she undid the coat and shrugged it off along with the fedora. Below the trenchcoat she wore... a pair of boots, and no sign of a Spirit Thorn. Salome gave Gideon a predator's grin as she slowly walked up to him, met him, pressing her body closely to his and slinging her arms around his neck.
Chapter 12
"Ready to go again, big fella?" He must have been stupid. This was the literal meaning of the term sleeping with the enemy, and it was going to be a huge problem. The one positive thing about it that he had had the possibility to note the lack of a Spirit Thorn in Sally's chest after a more than thorough examination. Whether it was lust, repressed urges bursting out or something absolutely silly like a romantic attraction, he had wanted her. It was on his head, and his head alone. If this was the straw that broke the camel's back and damned him for good, it had been worth it. "I was ready five minutes ago, honey. But you were busy basking and smoking my cigarettes."
The words felt natural. He didn't have to think about them. Casually, she straddled his belly, rearing up on top of him, and with a smirk Sally bent over him to kiss him. Instinctively, Gideon wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
Only to be disturbed by another knock on the door.
"This is the police, open the door." The voices sounded urgent.
Eyes wide with shock, Gideon turned his head towards the door. Three, four people outside, their hearts beating fast with adrenaline. All young and healthy. Were they really cops? Even while he thought it, he felt Sally move. But when he looked at her, she wasn't moving per se. Her whole body was... shifting, before his eyes. Her features rounded out while her body flattened... shrunk. The young woman became a teenager, almost a child.
The only thing that saved him was that for once, his instincts chose flight over fight. Grabbing 'Sally' by the hair while his mind tapped into the ether and through it into the local transdimensional matrix, he pulled them both into the space between Worlds, discarding her there and quickly stepping back into the place he came from. Just in time, too. Barely had Gideon materialized in his hotel room again when two shots rang. In typical police fashion, they'd shot out the hinges rather than the lock of the door which now fell into the room as four men in bulletproof vests burst in.
"Sorry, must have dozed off." Gideon, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying hard to look and sound sleepy, hadn't even gotten the time to dress. "What's wrong?"
They didn't answer him. Instead, two of the men pointed handguns at him and instructed him to make no sudden moves while the other two swept the bedroom and the adjacent bathroom. Of course they barely found anything. Turned out that someone had tipped them off about a suspicious person entering a certain hotel room with a struggling child. Gideon assured them that he completely understood, suggested that maybe the anonymous tipper had gotten the room wrong and encouraged them to go looking. He'd be right here when they got back, only dressed.
And so they left him to dress. To wallow in his anger. In his pain. He had enough of either to drown the whole world in in that moment.
With any luck -for him, not for her- she'd still be there when next he'd enter the Weave. Gideon had a whole lot of questions, and he wanted answers to them.
And what Gideon wanted, Stranglehold got. For better or worse.
