Darker Angels

Miss Murder, Tazzy and DarkCrusnikMagician: So happy you all enjoyed the paddling of Esther. I know I was certainly entertained just writing it.

To everyone else still reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy.



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“Princess,” Tres said once they had left the club. “I know you’re extremely angry with her for almost compromising a mission.”



“But you think I was too harsh with her,” Takara said, wandering aimlessly down the streets of Londinium and musing on how little of it had changed even after the wars. “I know she’s a child, Tres. But I know little to nothing of children as a whole. Everyone I’ve ever been around all of my existence was either an adult or a not very “normal” child.”



“You were never a child yourself?” he asked. There was very little data concerning her younger years. Most of what he knew about her was technical information.



“No. I was never really ‘born’ in any sense; I just suddenly ‘existed’ through my father’s will. He wanted a daughter so badly that was a combination of himself, my other father and my mother but considering they’re all shinigami that couldn’t happen. Not to mention combining the genetics of three people instead of just two into a child was not exactly feasible at the time. So, he was working on a scientific way to make it happen and I think he either forgot how much magickal power thoughts have or it never actually registered in the first place. I think part of my coming to be also resides in his ability to make inanimate objects live. Real magick is only applied quantum physics, if you believe it enough, it manifests because you put it into the universe so strongly.”



“That seems sensible. The first part of your name is the last part of his, isn’t it?”



She smiled. “Yes. The Taka part anyway and loosely translated my name means treasure. Which is what Daddy always said a daughter would be.”



“He’s the blonde that I saw briefly when they came to get Blaze,” Tres said, smiling slightly at the memory and wondering if Blaze had indeed killed them again. “And the other is where your last name comes from.”



“Yes and yes. Seiichiro Tatsumi is a descendant of noble Japanese blood so it was important to him that I have his last name. Since Mom never really had a last name to begin with it wasn’t a big deal to her.”



“You have an interesting story of origin,” Tres said thoughtfully.



She laughed. “Not nearly as ‘interesting’ as Hunt and Gun’s is. They were created because Skye was dead and their father was alive at the time. They also have two half siblings who were created because their parentage was two men and again that couldn’t really happen at the time in any normal sort of way. Skye figured they needed a mother figure, especially since one of them was a little girl, so she just adopted them too. But that’s another long and confusing story.” She looked up, suddenly realizing how far they had wandered. “I didn’t realize we’d walked so much,” she said, looking up at the stained glass and stone of Westminster Abbey. “At least I managed to walk off the pissed off.” She started toward the huge oak doorway, Tres following behind her carefully.



“I hardly think it’s open this time of night, Princess,” he said.



She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. “It is for me,” she said just as the door swung open at her touch.









“Excusez, m’sieur. Tu faites voir une petite femme avec cheveux rouges?”



Again noticing the odd dialect that he could never quite place Hugue turned to look at the speaker. The young woman he found himself face to face with was as tall as he was; he was presuming four inches or so of her height was due to the heels she was wearing. She was impeccably dressed in what had to be an expensive suit, with her dark hair trailing over one shoulder. He couldn’t quite tell what color her eyes were as they seemed to change from blue to almost gold in the dimly lit corridor. Had to be a trick of the light, he thought.



“Quel un, Mademoiselle? Star ou Skye?”



“Skye.”



“Oui. Permettez-moi de vous escorter,” he said, offering the young woman his arm.



“Merci. J’ai Circe.”



“Enchante,” he said, tucking her hand into the bend of his arm. “Hugue.”



“Parle anglais?”



“Yes.”



“Oh, thank the gods! I’m afraid my French is so rusty I barely remember any of it,” she said sheepishly.



“I thought you were doing quite well, actually. The dialect is odd though, I’ve never heard it before.”



“And you probably never will again outside of this group. It’s an ancient dialect from the Americas called Cajun French or mal Francais. One of my fathers is of that particular group of people as is my adopted mother.”



“Ah, that explains it. How did you know to address me in French?”



Circe shrugged. “Everyone has a tendency to think in their native language and I happened to catch a thought from you.”



“What thought might that have been?”



“That you’re worried about Abel and even more worried about the ritual to fix him. A myriad of things are carried within a thought.”



He nodded. They walked the rest of the way to Abel’s room in silence, each seeming to be lost in their own thoughts for the moment. She knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open.



“Mama?”



Skye looked up from where she had been trying to put Abel back together. “Circe? What are you doing here?”



Circe shrugged and moved into the room to hug her adopted mother. “Dad ‘saw’ that you’d need someone to be a channel for a massive amount of power. Since the boys can’t quite manage it at that level or frequency, I’m here.”



“Leave it to Bradley to ‘see’ things I’ve missed.”



Hugue was still standing in the doorway, frowning in confusion.



“Women’s voices usually resonate at a much higher frequency than men’s,” Skye explained, sensing his curiosity and reticence to express it. “Since the higher pitches are healing we need as many females as we can get for this ritual. Younger men’s voices will work as well. Then there’s the added benefit of Circe being an accomplished healer in her own right.”



“And I know Abel fairly well,” Circe said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “Hmmm. Watari really misdiagnosed this one, didn’t he.”



Skye sighed. “You can’t really blame him. He hasn’t seen anything like this before and was going on a scientific inclination rather than a healer’s.”



“Why is he nearly comatose?” Circe asked, lifting one of Abel’s eyelids with her fingers and seeing only white.



Skye explained the extent of the damage and watched Circe’s expression grow more worried with every word. She stroked the lines of his face gently with her fingertips, feeling him relax under her touch.



“Oh, Abel, you never could do anything the easy way, could you. Do we know where Cain is and what he’s up to?”



“I believe Taka is working on that. I didn’t ask because I’m not entirely certain I want to know. Goddess is out checking both Stone and Woodhenge to make certain they are secure and ready to go for ritual tomorrow night.”



Circe sighed. “Does she per chance remember what happened last time we did ritual at either of those sites?”



“This one is entirely my fault if it happens again considering I’m the one who suggested it. We need somewhere safe that has a massive power draw.”



“It was only logical to use those sites since they’re close by.” Circe turned slightly to look at Hugue. “Is your group participating or is that too much like sacrilege to you?”



“I don’t know yet.”



“Hmm. I understand Seth is here as well.”



“She is.”



“I’ll go find her. I haven’t seen her in ages.”



“Well, she is busy being the mother figure for an entire line of people.”







Cain was pacing his office when he felt a sudden uproar within the confines of the catacombs. He made his way almost leisurely to the source of the commotion. The throng of bodies parted as he made his way toward his formerly missing subordinates. Isaak was practically carrying Dietrich, who seemed to be only semi conscious.



“Isaak, your beautiful hair,” Cain said, reaching out to touch the other man’s greatly shortened locks. It looked as though the mass of it had been hacked off with a knife rather than scissors. The cuts were rough and uneven. Isaak turned his face away from Cain as though trying to hide some shameful secret. “You escaped?”



“Yes, Mein Herr.”



Cain shocked the assembled coven by backhanding Isaak in the face. He rocked back on his heels, still holding on to Dietrich, but remained standing.



“Fool. You didn’t escape. She released you. My office. Now. Leave that baggage you’re carrying. I’ll deal with him later.”



“Of course, Mein Herr,” Isaak said hollowly, handing Dietrich’s limp form over to one of the other coven members. He then resolutely followed Cain, praying to any and every god that might be listening that he could hold on through what he knew would undoubtedly occur.





********Author's Notes********

Anyone who needs the translations for the French, let me know. In case anyone was wondering, all I know is mal Francais having learned it from my Aunts in Louisiana. Needless to say my French teacher had a perpetual tick from my pronounciation and general mauling of the language.