Secunda Facie

Year 33: The ritual was neither painful or traumatic. The decision and the aftermath would not be nearly so pleasant Georg warned. After ten days, Michael was now a new person.

“I don't feel different,” he commented.

“You won't immediately, but give it time. At the core, you're the same, but it's all the details that have changed.”

Four weeks later, Michael felt bloated and vaguely ill. Another two days passed and he started excreting a white fluid and experiencing hot flashes. He found himself irritated at small matters and had trouble concentrating. Georg took careful notes from Michael's journal while commenting that this was all unremarkable, considering the circumstances. Morgan's only comment was “if someone who normally gives one hundred fifty percent is now only giving a hundred ten, is it really lethargy?”

One night, Michael dragged himself into Morgan's bedroom and clung to his brother for comfort. Morgan sensed agitation and nausea from Michael and tolerated Michael scraping skin from him. Morgan fell asleep with blood welling up from his arms.

The next morning, Michael was asleep still curled around Morgan's arm. Morgan could smell dried and fresh blood. Morgan checked his arm. The bloody welts were crusted. The fresher smell wasn't straight blood. It smelled rich with hormones. Michael groaned subconsciously as Morgan sat up. Morgan's hand probed his brother's leg. It came away wet. The scent was pungent. “Michael, wake up.”

It took some prodding to get Michael aware enough to notice the blood on Morgan's hand. A pang went through him like he'd been stabbed with skewers. The sheets had a deep garnet stain beneath him. “Wha...?”

Morgan wrinkled his nose, a mild expression of surprise on his face. He blandly observed, “You are menstruating.”

Details of the Dead

Ante Mortis

In the Cold of the Eve of a New Year

We trudged back out to the gravesite, but selfishly wanted to believe that the grave would be settling in the wet, cold mud and my uncle merely gone. I kept telling myself he went off traveling, despite the fact that his normal travel method had been buried with my father. Others murmured to themselves that Morgan was an adult and could take care of himself. Denial and rationalizations were shattered when we found him half-supine in the mud. From the looks of it, he'd had a major seizure and was lucky to have landed face-down so fluids could drain from his mouth. In our deluded self-assertions that he couldn't be here, we neglected to bring any servents to help lift him. We crudely dragged him back, apologizing several times along the way.

He was washed up and laid in the infirmiry. Several times in the day his lips turned blue. When Georg arrived, he listened to his chest and heart, drugged him and sadly said he was severely incapacitated. Long exposure to the cold and his waxiness had led to nervous shutdown in his lungs and other organs. It was a trait that he didn't share with humans. He would repair eventually, but it would be months, possibly years, before he was close to what we would recognize as normal for him.

Mr. Shay turned to me as next executor. I looked at him in numb shock. My brother was six years old and obviously not old enough to manage the barony or the proprietorship. Morgan was named regent. If he was unable to fulfill that duty, I was the next in line for regency. My stepmother Margaret was next. I was also named to the proprietor's seat until Charles was deemed capable of running a company.

I couldn't think of filling my father's vaunted shoes. He was a great man by many measures. My uncle was, too, if by different measures. To add to the responsibilities, my father left me the lion's share of his money and the exhortation to “see to the family's needs.” I also inherited powers of attorney over my uncle. I had no idea my uncle was deemed incompetent. The only separate stipend went to Margaret who ran the household and “should be obeyed as a dowager.”

Oddly, only a quarter of my father's fortune was to be granted. With another quarter to be released after five, ten, then finally, twenty years. “After twenty years, if I have not been seen alive, nor any claims of me living have been put forth, I can be considered dead. Habeas corpus is not to be considered sufficient proof of my death for the release of my total funds to the beneficieries.”

Mr. Shay said the unusual stipulation was also in Morgan's will and I suddenly understood its purpose.

Routine Procedure

“Daddy!”

Michael grabbed up Krystie in one arm and lifted her up. He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you been well-behaved while I was gone, sweetie?”

She nodded coyly. “Daddy,” she said tentatively, her fingers playing with his tie. “Uncle Morgan came home hurt.”

“Hurt? Badly hurt?”

“He wouldn't let us near him. Not even Mr. Holmes.”

Michael took a deep breath. “I'm sure he'll be okay, love.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Nothing serious. I got a small injury and will need to wear a sling while it heals.”

Michael put Krystie down and walked inside. The servents were taken aback by his visible injury. Michael smiled pleasantly and greeted them individually on the way to the third floor. The head butler was busily inspecting the dust layers on a sculpture in the hall. Michael whistled sharply. The servent quickly came to attention. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, Gilbert. As you can see, I'm somewhat incapacitated and will need someone to serve as a valet until my arm heals.”

“I'll see to it immediately.”

Michael nodded and continued on to Morgan's apartment. Michael found him hunched up on the floor of his bathroom. Some blood had seeped to the floor, but Morgan was still wearing his cloak and God only knew how much was being collected in the shadow void. “Morgan?” he said quietly, while kneeling.

“Did not mean to come here...”

Morgan's voice was faint. Michael lifted up the edge of the cloak. Morgan's viscera was visible from the top of his ribcage to his bladder. He'd been flayed open. Michael almost subconsiously started chanting while collecting his brother into his good arm. When he's done, a thin, almost translucent skin had formed over the exposed areas. Michael unclasps the cloak and drags Morgan off of it. He folds it as best he can and puts it away. When he looks towards the bedroom door, Holmes is standing there.

“He's badly injured,” Michael said without preamble or emotion. “He needs to be taken to the infirmiry.”

Holmes merely nodded acknowledgement and left. Michael went back to his brother's side. “Was it Sethiel?” he asks.

“Yes, she flayed me with a healing knife.”

Michael gently stroked Morgan's temple with his thumb. “I would take you to your bed if I were able to lift you.”

Morgan's eyelids fluttered. “I was told you lost your arm.”

Michael shook his head vocally. “No, I slipped and fell on a stairway. Overflexed my elbow. Nothing serious.”

Michael felt a sympathetic pain shoot through his chest as Morgan coughed. Some foamy blood came up at the corners of Morgan's mouth. Morgan lingered far past the point most people would have died from shock. Michael realized sickeningly that he was denied even the comfort of being unconscious right now. Morgan tried to lift his arm to touch his brother's hand. The hand shudderingly moved halfway before it collapsed and Morgan pulled into a tighter ball of pain.

Michael slipped off his sling and shifted around Morgan, then lay down on the floor next to him. He worked his good arm under Morgan's body and pulled him into an embrace. Pain shot from his wrist to his shoulder. He ignored it. He held Morgan closely until he heard his breathing shift to a sleeping pattern. He gently pulled his tender arm back to himself while continuing to cradle using the other. The embrace was comforting to both, reminiscent of how they would sleep from cradle to adulthood.

Miami Spice

Michael found that upscale clubs anywhere tended to have elements of machismo that came off as overly arrogant and silly. Hired muscle and eye candy were used to make such hauteur seem important and more than a little seedy. He found himself in one such club in Tel Aviv. He'd waylaid two pickpocket attempts and was “foolishly” mingling with locals. Of course, the embassy couldn't really keep him from doing business that did not interfere with his diplomatic duites. His fingers drummed a briefcase on the seat next to him.

He sat half-slumped, as if the watered scotch he was drinking was going to his head too fast. It prevented, by design, anyone from making casual eye contact. A body sat down opposite him. He looked up. The man across from him looked more like the sleaze one would expect in Miami, but he had two hefty, artificially tanned bruisers and a underwhelmingly charming Latina with him and a humongous diamond in his ear. Exactly the kind of thing to scare away Michael's contact. “I'm sorry, I believe you've mistaken me for someone else,” Michael said through his glass.

“Well, mebbe you can gimme the 'case. And if I'm wrong. I'll give it back.”

Michael's face resolved from unaware to adamant. “No.”

The faux mobster looked surprised, then pissed. “I don't think you heard me.”

Michael muttered something under his breath. “I heard you just fine. Leave. Now.”

The annoyance actually stood up and leaned across the table into his face. “I paid good money for those forgeries. Hand 'm over.”

Michael reached into his jacket pocket for his embassy passport and flipped it open in his antagonist's face. “What forgeries?” he asked slowly.

The aggressor suddenly looked a lot less comfortable and slowly sat back down. “Listen. You're right. I was mistaken....”

“There is an empty booth two places behind you. You're going to that booth, and you're going to sit there until I'm done with my actual business here. Bolting and running isn't a good idea with her shoes and dress. And I can squeeze her for information just as easily as you.”

Michael watched them sullenly move down to their appointed seats and went back to looking down at his hand on his glass. Any pretense of intoxication was gone, leaving a veneer of irritation. Mr. Cynosure was loudly lamenting his situation and now annoying all the patrons of the bar, not just him. Luckily, he'd managed to be rid of him as the person for whom he'd been waiting arrived not two minutes later.

Ten minutes passed quietly and pleasantly while Michael went over some points of a venture loan. Suddenly, his guest went white and silent and Michael felt something metallic press into his shoulder. Michael made a hand gesture to the other gentleman to duck. He took two cleansing breaths and then slid down himself while reaching up to grab the gunman's wrist. He incanted quickly, shattering the bones in the wrist. The gun fired into the tabletop.

The guy Michael labeled Cynosure came around and grabbed the gun and pointed it in his face. Michael barked something that sounded like an insult. The floor rippled like water beneath Cynosure's feet throwing him off balance. Michael felt a bullet graze his forearm.

“Let me apologize,” he said in German to the shaken, pale businessman that had merely come searching for an investor. “I don't know who these people are or who they think I am, but I certainly am going to beat them further if they cause any more interruptions.”

Michael went over and kicked the gun away. Half the patrons of the club were now looking their way in frozen terror. The other half had fled. Michael grabbed Cynosure by his shirt and dragged him back to the booth he'd assigned to him earlier. “I told you to stay there.”

“Faggot!”

Michael's fist fit neatly into the man's face. His ring broke the guy's nose. He turned to walk away when “Guess we're not secure in our masculinity, are we?” rang out between blood and spittle behind him.

Michael turned around, smiling gamely. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, poured a pitcher of water on Cynosure's face, yanked him by the shirt front, and pulled him into a liplock. The floundering, bloodied, humiliated poseur fought persistently to break away from Michael's grip, but it was like breaking out of steel. After two tense minutes, Michael finally let go. “So, how secure did that feel?”

He turned to the moll and clacked his tongue while winking before sitting back down. At that moment, the local authorities arrived...

Designated Miss

Designated Hit

Bound and gagged, Morgan considered the man pacing about him. Whatever specie inhabited this place, they seemed capable of shielding their mind from his ability to read them. He tried manifesting a knife in his hand to cut his bonds, but that sensation of having his mind squeezed like a sponge returned. Most of the chatter in his head was gone, save one precious inherent link, which they apparently couldn't suppress.

Morgan wondered why they had gagged him, but perhaps they thought he cast like most scafir do. They left him laying there for the length of several hours. He heard them argue, copulate, sleep, and eat. During a quiet period, their leader removed his gag. He handled Morgan's eyelids and tapped his forehead.

“If you were born here, you would have been left to die,” the leader said evenly.

“Mother wanted to do that, I am told.”

“You are alive. Someone stopped her.”

“My human foster father.”

“Gratitude.”

“Profusely so.”

“You fight well for a scafir, child. They teach you confusing thoughts.”

“No. The humans taught me higher mathematics.”

Magish was a passable language for discussion, but it had its shortcomings. The habitual lack of interrogatives was one of them. Its limited vocabulary was another. Morgan was forced to transliterate mathematics into “number studies.” The term still confounded his captor.

Morgan tried to force a sentence into a question. “You know you are my father?”

“Yes, I remember your mother. You smell of her.”

Morgan presumed he meant he smelled like her. It occurred to him that he might simply smell like a scafir.

“Your race?”

“We are the the'pf. The greatest hunters in all the cosmos.”

“And yet, I was able to overcome you with trigonometric functions,” Morgan murmured to himself. His “father” apparently understood the intent, if not the words.

“You have a vocation.”

“Generally, I kill people. I am an assassin.”

“And you killed many.”

“Yes, more than there are in your tribe five times over.” Morgan estimated the “tribe's” size from differences in cadence of movements.

“If that's true, you are an impressive.”

A Morning After

Toronto looked no cheerier in the daylight and the previous evening's event replayed incessently in Michael's mind. When sleep eluded him, he'd set up a divination. It didn't ease his mind any to see the blood spray. He eventually passed out with his hands in the divination bowl sitting naked on the hotel room floor. Holmes, who had grown accustomed to the brothers' oddities, merely shook him awake and commented on the bed being comfortable.

Moving to the bed did, indeed, prove more comfortable, but the brief bout of sleep gave Michael's mind the break it needed to once again play last night's events ad infinitum. He lay still for ten minutes before telling Holmes to order him breakfast. He found he had no appetite but forced the food into himself anyway. The pain in his stomach afterward was almost a welcome break from the monotony of his obsessive thoughts. He fell back into a fitful, stress-induced sleep, clutching pillows to his chest.

The room phone ringing startled him awake. Holmes answered it in half a ring. Michael arose and mechanically went through his morning routine. He vaguely remembered his diplomatic agenda. When he emerged, he finally spoke. “Who was that?”

“A Miss Linda Dwight, sir.”

“Did she leave a number? She's supposed to be serving as my attache.”

“I told her you were indisposed. She stated she understood and would come by to collect your abstracts. They'll try to continue without your aid.”

His hands fumbled with the lock on his briefcase. He carefully went through a folder and placed it in Holmes's hands. “This is what she needs. I'm going to get dressed,” he said blearily.

Michael washed his face and went through the motions of shaving, but after nicking himself twice, he tossed his straight-edge razor aside, wiped his face off and pulled out an electric shaver. Afterwards, he realized he'd neglected to sharpen his straight edge beforehand and his hand was shaking.

“Sir, your face is bleeding.”

“Yes, I know. I should have let you do it. Is there any blood on my shirt?”

Holmes carefully straightened Michael's shirt that was carelessly laid on the basin counter and inspected his singlet. “No, sir.”

Michael considered foregoing a necktie and collar and even dispensing with a simple, single-breasted suit. His poor mood didn't seem to tolerate the complex dressing rituals he normally favored. “I begin to see why so many prefer simple oxfords and casual Fridays. Holmes, I hate to keep imposing on you, but...”

“Hardly an imposition, sir. And it's quite understandable, given the situation.”

Michael passively stood while Holmes attached and stayed his collar, folded and cuffed his sleeves, knotted his tie and gartered his socks and even slid on his belt. Michael thanked him and wandered to the door before turning and asking Holmes if he wanted to go to the hospital with him. Holmes answered he might visit for a brief period later.

As he left the hotel, he felt a keen sense of emptiness, almost a sharp echo of pain in his psyche. Suddenly, he understood his mood. The emptiness receded a moment later, fading back to the soporific depression. He suddenly moved with a more quick purpose.

Always a Lady of Worth

Margaret surprised him by meeting him at the airport when he came home. He hugged her and smiled and wondered if she'd merely been bored that day and came to see him home. She said she didn't know what motivated her to come out. While sitting next to him in the limosine, she confessed she wondered if he kept women in other places where he did business. He considered her for a minute before responding. “Do I keep other women? No, just Karen. Do I stray occasionally? Yes.”

“I always wondered why you were open with our marriage. It was just a formality for you.”

“You knew it was a formality when you agreed to it. I need a son, and am desperate enough to be lobbying for special remainder for Charles. It looks likely that it will be granted.”

“But what if my feelings have changed since?”

Michael smiled and unsuccessfully tried to muffle a laugh with his hand. “Aaaah.... I apologize, and I am sincerely sorry that my feelings haven't developed to quite the same ... depth that yours have. I do find you a charming, companionate, intelligent and lively woman and a commendable lady, but I don't ...” He stopped talking when her eyes went glassy.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You've fallen in love with me?”

“You make it sound so unbelievable.”

“I have been desired for my looks, my wealth, my power, my cologne. I'm used to women and one-night-stand lust. I never thought of myself as the kind of man a lady would want on character.”

“I have never seen you not comport yourself as a gentleman. You are a tolerant and loving father, a devoted brother, an attentive husband, and a forgiving employer. And you always made me feel special. The day we met, when you looked at me, it was like you didn't expect me to be-”

“I didn't. Beautiful wasn't on my list of prerequisites.”

“Eh... you had a list?”

“Oh, yes. Intelligent, organized, educated, diplomatic, well-bred. You fit the bill. No one told me ahead of time you were an English rose.”

She smiled abashedly. “And if you'd met me the evening before would I have just been a conquest?”

“Only if you wanted to be. I don't prefer disposible women, but sometimes they offer themselves up. After Nicole and Krystie, though, I've been a lot more careful with how and whom.”

Michael took Margaret's hand in his and cozily kissed it. “I can't say I'm deeply in love with you, but I do find you pleasant company and I have no plans of replacing you.”

“I don't know if I would have seen you the same way after a fling.”

“It would have altered my view of you, too. I would have seen you as shallow or impressionable, neither of which you are.”

“Then, I guess it's a good thing I didn't speak to you the night before.”

Michael smiled, leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

In the Cold of the Eve of a New Year

Ante Mortis

On the day of Dad's funeral, Marius Holmes, my uncle's life-long valet, retired. He stayed for the funeral service and to see the young man he watched grow up get interred. It was chilly, bleak, and gray. My father had held the family's title of baron, and was entitled to entombment in the masoleum, but he wanted “to be buried outside, in the earth with which I share I kinship, and so that my brother may be laid to rest beside me at the end of his days.”

The audience hall had been packed with friends, relatives, well-wishers, diplomatic acquaintances and business associates. I got a awe-inspiring sense of how many people my father touched from the large crowd that gathered to eulogize him.

When asked to speak during the funeral service, Uncle Morgan stood up and, after going nearly mute for the past week, started singing. His voice was dry and melancholy, and yet he managed to convey Dad's joie de vivre fairly well. My Dad was such a vivacious, outgoing, and florid man, that my uncle often seemed more like the lodestone around Dad's neck or, more benignly, Dad's shadow he kept in the closet. But listening to Morgan sing made me realize he probably understood Dad better than any of us.

At the end of the service, the casket was opened for immediate family. We left tokens of our life with him. I left a ring Dad gave me as a little girl in his jacket pocket. I whispered goodbye to him and kissed his waxy forehead. My pocket cloth was already soggy by that point. After everyone else had gone, no one wanted to disturb my uncle who sat head down, eyes vacant. My stepmother finally nudged him and told him he should say goodbye to his brother. When he stood, he had a dark square of fabric folded in his hands.

“Every time I brought this out, you felt like you were losing your brother. Every time I put it on, it broke your heart that I was I going away. You never said it to me, but I heard what your heart was saying, and it was true. There is so little of me left. I have lost my dearest friend and my dearest servant and my life's work. Your son will be in good hands. Margaret is far better at running the barony than you or I ever were. Nicole will run your company. I ... I do not know what I have left or if there is any place left in this world for me. So, I leave this to you, Michael, to keep you warm, wherever you may go, because I cannot follow.”

He tucked it under Dad's folded hands. Then, he kissed him. As Uncle Morgan knelt before Dad's casket, a slight, fine-boned woman walked up behind him, grabbed the cloth and hissed at him, “How dare you!”

The acoustics of the hall made her words reverberate much louder than she expected. My uncle seemed to develop a wheeze. “Mother, I dare because I love him and I am mourning his passing and honouring his memory. Now, how dare you?”

The woman's eyes widened a bit and he took the cloth from her and reverently placed it back. “Morgan, you...”

“Are no longer under your control? No. It was his final gift to me.”

He proceeded to say something in an odd language. The woman fled.

Graveside, my uncle stood in stony silence. He hugged Mr. Holmes and we left him standing next to the headstone marker. Mr. Holmes reminded us to check on him or he might stay frozen out there. We said we would and he sadly departed.

As the day wore on, my mother showed up. She apologized for being late, but had gotten lost on the way. Krystie and I hugged and welcomed her. She seemed in better health than the few times I'd seen her before. She mentioned that an icy rain had started falling. We looked out the window and small hailstones were smacking the building.

We spent a good couple days reacquainting ourselves with our mother. Finally, Mr. Shay came calling and said Dad's will was ready to be executed. He stated he just needed Uncle Morgan to approve a couple of things. We realized in horror that no one had seen him since the burial.

Jumping Off the Ladder

Valerie left the throne room as her now ex-husband bled in the center arcana circle. He would survive, whether she helped him or not. She sheathed her sword and padded away barefoot. As she left the magic-dead zone, a wash of arcane energy prickled about her. She heard whispers of others who'd fallen in the council chambers. They spoke to her of bitterness and bravery, anger and remorse. It echoed the way she felt. Right now, she thought being a con artist in NYC was a far more palatable vocation than being queen of these powermongering misfits. As she walked away, she thought about the ratty old tenements and the clogged sewer grates and yowling cats in heat. A moment later, she looked and found herself there. She stood among the towers of lower Manhattan. No wallet, no ID, no money. Things were looking up.

Job Related Stress

“Target acquired, requesting permission to proceed...(if the premises is clear, you may proceed) ... acknowledged.. (wait, if you proceed and there are witnesses, use stealth (and caution) that goes without saying (just making sure, wise one)) ...(hey, can you describe the world you are on for our archives)... I am preoccupied right now ... (just a synopsis of what it looks like) ... I am blind ... (oh, tarnation..) (Are you really going through with this?) (Of course he is, whether he succeeeds is an entirely different question. He won't..) (Who are you?) (None of your concern. I'm his mother.) I need to concentrate. (Oops, I'll be quieter.) (Don't give in to his weaknesses, if he can't do his work while listening to a few voices, he should just slit his throat.) ( slit your throat) ... (Keep on your mission.) (slit your throat) (slit...) (dance with your blood) (Are you listening?) ... eh.. (blood... slit... dance...) (Are you listening!) (death awaits... dance... slit ... death. ... blood) ....”

The words wrapped around his brain. His brain started shutting down his consciousness. Blood started to seep from his nose. His body pitched around helplessly, seizing. The words kept reverberating. The talking would not cease, until it filled up his head and it exploded.

Reality seeps back to him slowly. A pool of bile-and-blood-flavoured liquid rests in his cheek. He tries to spit it out, but his coordination is slow and unresponsive. His eyelids seem caked shut. His mind mulls over whether it might be mucus or blood sealing them, but they can be dealt with later. The voices have shut up. If he acts awake and aware, they will start up again. He remains quiet, still, unmoving, unthinking, so they don't sense him.

Hands grab at him. They rip open his eyelid and yell questions at him. His mind shuts them out too. They pull at his clothes and pick through his pockets. Sirens blare. He lets the world continue. He does not let himself move, think, or hear. He barely breathes.

~~~~~

“Sir, your butler is on the line.”

Michael looked up at his executive assistant.

“My butler?”

Yolanda nodded quickly. Michael hit the speaker button. “Yes, Gilbert?”

“It's Holmes, sir.”

“Yes, Holmes.”

“Your brother is in hospital in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? Wasn't he in bed this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael rubbed his forehead. “Yolanda, I need my jet ready to head to California.”