Aces with Love
Episode 6 - The Last Waltz Arc [II]
SWAN SONG
Beser had calmed
considerably. Less so because of Spike, more so because the situation
was going in their favor so far. The primary library-study was a
beautiful piece of architecture and hardly one unfamiliar to the
university grounds. Virtually every library had an atrium to allow for
some natural light for mid-day reading, but there was another purpose
to it all. A bit of witchery, in other words. The architecture was
blatantly made with something in mind. The light of the moonlight
gilded stars was evident everywhere.
Beneath the central library was yet another Hellmouth, albeit smaller.
Rather, it was an extension of an existing orifice to the Other Side.
The library and university was created by the Church to largely cover
up the fact they had their own distinct interest in studying it. The
university itself did not only just hold books and manuscripts of the
many prescribed philosophies or theology of the Church, but also -
there was a tremendous archive of scientific utensils. All for the sake
of advanced, esoteric studies of both the celestial and terrestrials.
It was not merely formal education taking place here, but also a deep
investigation into all the maps of the knowledge world and perhaps even
the human spirit. Before, after, in between - an education that was
unstuck-in-time and found any restraints upon it to be easily
unshackled.
Despite its existence originally as a Church-State institute, the
University and its libraries were amongst the first in Europe to take a
considerable step away from the typical dogmatic nature of the medieval
times. The Vatican knew that it had to gently weave a needle through
the silk of this tear in reality, rather than drive a sword through it
or cover it with a slab of stone like a desolate, pilfered grave. The
architecture was largely formulated by mathematical geniuses who
applied their mastery to the concepts of perfect symmetry. Every stone
was deliberate, every flaw in its design was too - to ensure the
transaction of certain powers. The entire place was meant to be
possessed by the magic that laid just below the marbled flooring.
One does not simply come to such a university. The university, rather,
sought out its own students. Those destined to be Watchers, Slayers,
Butchers, Witches even. Good or evil, it did not matter, for this was
something beyond the cloak of black and white thinking. It forced even
the most zealous of Church advisors to simply allow causality’s
pull to bring both future heroes and devils here.
It was without question that there were elements of the Vatican that
actually took brave and stark inspiration from the university. Much
like everything regarding the location, this was far from common
knowledge. Those that had even worked here as professors for decades
had little concept of what they were truly standing on.
Spike took charge in the closer examination of the main
building’s body. The library was proud of its collection. Rather
than stored in bays that were placed at right angles, the area was open
and the shelving cases were along the walls itself.
“There must be tens of thousands of books here in this one room
alone.” Spike smiled, he silently hoped that even a single shred
of his work had managed to be entombed here in complete immortality.
However, he knew deeply that was not the case. But even he was able to
spot some remarkable titles, ranging from philosophy to politics and
poetry - in all languages, from Latin, Spanish, English to Italian,
even Greek, French, Arabic, Persian, Hebrew, Nahuatl - the language of
the Aztecs. “History must begin and end, right here. All in one
place. All above a hellmouth, at that. Hm. Civilization is always
closer to its end than its beginning.”
The ceilings were adorned with paintings of classical history. The
facilities themselves were dedicated to the seven arts, those being
that of grammar, rhetoric, dialectics, arithmetics,
music, geometry and astronomy. The fresco paintings above, in all of
their colourful glory, pointed toward the atrium. A total of fourteen,
artistic apparitions of great leaders, a man and woman to represent one
of each of the seven arts - were rendered beyond the cornice.
Beser stopped before an ornate globe. The golden crown of it had caught
his eyes and he did not look away. The baroque design and armillary
spheres were a part of a grand collection, possibly even some were
borrowed from King Phillip himself.
A flickering candle light of wonder was in him. That made him want to
wander. Before the terrible circumstances of this night, Beser had felt
hollowed out. A mere reflection of his youthful self. His more
ambitious self. A husk of a husk of a memory’s ghost’s
shadow of a husk. The type of burnout and fatigue that made him
question everything. Who he was, who he was destined to be. The things
that were once so simple for him to do, they all came with great
difficulty now. If he had been a little more alert, a little more
eyes-wide and forward, maybe he could have done more.
The shroud of guilt had become more and more heavy. But to see this
ornate globe in his grasp, with all of its makings and wondrous
mysteries, a small glimmer of his enthusiastic, enthralled youth had
finally shown through the bleakness. There was an entire world to
experience still.
“Can be a bit overwhlemin’, can’t it?” Spike
asked as he casually strolled by and glanced through a tome of lore.
Something regarding a doomed expedition to the Far East, by some Dutch
sailors who had ironically named their ships such things as Faith and
Glory and Presence. “Libraries are pleasant little places.
Reminds you that all of people’s sciences and their cultures and
their skeptics and their critics and their critics’ critics once
survived. Even if the entire slate is scraped clean, like someone
sliding a dull enough against a plate for the last bit of gravy - there
is still a lot of ‘flavour’ left in the stains. No matter
how much you try to wash history, it has a bloody resonance,
doesn’t it?”
“I was just… thinking about the globe and all the places I’ve yet to go.”
“What? You got plans to see them all? Every little country on
this big spinning ball?” Spike glanced over his shoulder with a
smirk that could conquer any mountain. “Well, make it through the
night and I am sure you will.”
“Yeah. Right. I’d sooner make it to the moon.”
“The moon? Aiming small.” The blonde-haired head shook
without hesitance. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…” His finger waved
like a ticking clock hand.
“What? Just because they are trying to put people on Mars now - I
can’t possibly make it out there. I can barely make it
here.” Beser shot his rocket of hope down before it could even
lift off. “I’m okay with just-”
The sound of twisting, winding wood creaked. What followed afterwards
was the sound of a hundred branches snapping. Or a few dozen trees -
completely bent by the wind. No, instead, it was the true form of the
Antiquarian Demon.
The wooden body had twisted to its true form. Some hideous wolven knot
of wood and bark. A living lycan-tree abomination, a corruption of
magic and possession. From the measly source of wood it had for its
vessel prior, it had grown into its true - horrific shape.
Wooden talons sliced the air like several scythes in a field. The claws
gilded Spike in vermillion red. The blood from Beser soaked everywhere
as it bloomed from his body. His body stiffened at first, before
gravity plucked him like a flower from a field of growing red. And like
rose petals being carried by a storm’s breath, he practically
danced in the air as his joints became loose. His body was now a limp
sack of meat and broken bones. The guttural, sloshing sound of his
demise concluded with a loud thud as the human carrion met its end
across the floor. Nothing but a blood smear to dictate where he had
landed in the dark that was only barely lacerated with moonlight.
“Bloody atrocious! Agh!” Spike was able to shake most of it
off. However, the book he had randomly decided to pluck his fingers
through had become stained. Once it was discarded, he prepared a
ferocious stance and charged toward the shadow-laden Antiquarian Beast.
“I’ll break you down into some firewood and let you warm me
up for the rest of the night!”
As fast and agile as ever, Spike maneuvered beneath a swipe from the
creature and pummeled its head with a booted-kick. Splinters erupted
from its maw, as well as wood-chip teeth. The click and clatter of
wooden bits against the marble floor was only satisfying for a moment.
Spike wanted some proper feedback.
“Had to strike at the weakest one of us?! Pluck the straw before
it could even break a camel’s back?!” Spike allowed himself
some brief insurance from the distance he made upon knocking the beast
back with that kick. He used it to take a proper gander at what
remained of Beser. The boy had no chance against this form. Even his
rifle had been utterly bent beyond any recognizable form. Just as his
body was. “You hideous block of wood. I am going to chisel
something really inappropriate out of your head!”
When the Beast snarled, the audible effect was none other than the
sound of wood-whining as it was bent slowly over a knee. The tension of
its structure as it finally snapped.
“You sound like a squeaky ol’ bridge. Not too intimidating,
I’ll tell you that much!” Taunted Spike yet again. However,
while he was able to jump over one of the slashes toward him, he was
caught by a back-paw from the creature just as he was about to beat
some sense into its head from above. Spike stumbled and then recoiled,
only to take a gazing glance across his right arm. “Agh! This
jacket is worth more than all the furniture I could make out of
you!”
It didn’t matter if his body hurt, he could work through the
pain. His body could withstand what Beser’s could not. Every inch
of Spike crawled with the need to rip apart this wooden pup. He would
nearly succeed as he succeeded in landing on top of him after another
athletic jump, just as the Antiquarian nearly pounced on him.
Spike dug his fingers into the bark of the creature’s head, if he
dug in deep enough, he could split its head. This was easier said than
done. Shoving his hand into a thick trunk of a tree would be one thing,
but this damn beast was so layered and so quick to repair itself,
he’d sooner dig to China at this rate.
The Antiquarian rolled forward and crushed Spike nearly flat against
the floor. The marble surface developed a web of cracks throughout it.
The possessed, wood-lycan rolled off of Spike and made itself scarce
once more in the darkness it so enjoyed to hide in. Obviously, it had
the ability to demanifest and turn into a mere shadow at its own will.
That was the only way it could have succeeded so frequently in escaping
its pursuers. A terribly devious bastard, he was. Who enjoyed to sit at
the top of ill lit shelves.
“Aghhh…” Spike groaned through gritted teeth. An
entire planet’s worth of weight had rolled over him and he felt
every extra gram of weight. His body had just barely sustained its
integrity. Luckily, his chest did not give in and his bodily form did
not get crushed flat. But,
clearly, from the pain he did feel throughout his body - there were
more cracks along his bones than the marble floor around him. “I
better get… the best royalty check possible, every month as
passive income, for the lovely smear-poem I am writing just for your
grave stone.”
The darkness around him was deeper than any blackness had the right to
be. Even Spike’s augmented vision was unable to pierce the veil
of the lack-of-light. This advanced, magically induced darkness was yet
another devious trick that Demon was capable of. “How difficult
can something made of wood really be? It's just some bloody
puppet.” Spike reminded himself. “Well… I suppose
it's a bit more of a monster than a puppet now. Really growin’
into its terrible skin. Or lack thereof…” Any attempt to
categorize the Antiquarian Demon would be a futile effort. All that
really ended to be known was that it was an especially heinous
contraption and the egg-heads back at HQ would have a lot of fun
debating and critiquing one another over where exactly to place it in
their files.
Spike insisted upon himself that it would be nothing but a pile of
furnace-wood when he was done with it. “Come on, now! Hiding in
the dark and instead of playing with your toys? You’re a little
meek with meaks, aren’t you?”
“That is not the only thing in the dark you have to worry
about.” Another voice had entered the fray and from the darkness,
another competitor. Although this was one that Spike had not expected
whatsoever. “Don’t worry. The Church’s blessing will
be passed onto that devil next. But first, I have to close the loose
end that you are. William Pratt.”
“A fan?!” Spike spat back at the dark. “It is like
they say… the first century is the hardest for a
writer…”
Glistening, silver steel winked like a star through the blackness. A
silver-tipped bolt from a crossbow nearly cleaved his cheek off. A red
smear from the wound’s brief graze would remain, but Spike was as
ferocious as ever in appearance. It only validated the fact that he was
one of the many monsters that gathered here on this night.
“Something of a fan, I suppose. I understand why they called you the Bloody Worst
of your time.” With a panther-like pounce, Cecilia landed upon
the cracked marble. Effortlessly, another bolt was loaded into her
weapon. The fact she could pull the string back with but two fingers,
showed just how much strength was in her otherwise small body.
“Been a long time since I had the honour of slaying a Vampire and
a Demon in the same night.”
“Ooh…” With jazzy, sassy hands - Spike waved them in
a mocking gesture. “Charming. Another choir girl. Haven’t
had a date with a Church girl in some time, myself. Surprised they have
any of you left. Pretty sure those Fathers enjoy the choir boys a lot
more.”
A disgusted glare came forward on Cecilia’s face.
“Pft. Do you get all of your opinions from tabloids?”
“Don’t you get your opinions from the biggest tabloid of
them all?” Spike had a laugh at her expense. “What a lovely
night to die, the Church really must not care about how much firewood
they put into the flames.”
“Firewood…?” Cecilia bit her tongue. “Why did you call me that?”
“You think I don’t know about your little… condition?”
“Condition? What do you mean…?”
“Oh, dollface, you’re really hopeless, you know
that?” The remarks from Spike would be interrupted by another
bolt, this one placed a proper hole into his jacket and rendered more
crimson from a wound at his side. “I’ll carve you up and
whittle you into wood chips!”
Before he knew it, the crossbow was being swung at him by Cecilia, who
was now before him. The weapon had been fastened with a crescent blade.
A curved bayonet scythe for a crossbow? What a monstrous creation. Of
course it was the Church’s doing. And under the moonlight, this
crescent blade would nearly sever his neck if not for his own fast
reflexes.
An exhale. The excitement is gone, there is only survival. Spike
slashed at her face, but Cecilia’s expression was as cold as the
night sky above. Her heavy boot is planted against the wound on his
torso and soon, it is Spike who is once again on the ground.
Another bolt in the flight-groove, another streak of silver is spiked
into the marble floor. A gasp of shock, this time. Spike has not been
so close to dying in a long time. Before he could even get up again,
Cecilia pursued him with a fist against his face. His brain pancaked
against one side of his skull and in a spiral, his body span and
twisted - only to slide across the blood gilded surface and into one of
the bookshelves’ lower compartments.
Buried beneath hundreds of years worth of literature, Spike emerged
with two heavy volumes of lore in hand. “You pesky little
bitch…”
Cecilia completely underestimated getting hit with a book. She let the
first one strike her in the shoulder and it merely was a bit of
discomfort. The next one hit her face so hard that it knocked the habit
off of her head. “Dammit…” She swore, turning her
body back to the attacker. Spike had thrown himself into the air and
now it was he who placed a boot against her chest. He practically
launched himself off of her with a stomp against her torso, that forced
her to crumble down to the ground and roll viciously.
“Nghh… Calm down.” The nun reassured herself. “No need for that…”
“What is the difference between you Church girls and all of the
slashers out there?” Inquired Spike, as he moved in a circular
pattern around her. Stalking her like a tasty little animal to be
eaten. “Is it the difference between a serial killing and a
massacre? Everyone is a lunatic until the fourth kill, then they are a
mad man. Anything above six and suddenly they are a menace, a
genius… and what of twenty? Thirty? An artist?”
“I’m not like you, don’t think you and I even occupy the same realm of Hell, let alone Heaven.”
“Ahh… come on.” The vampire shook his head.
“Hell is a literary construct. Taken from a bloody poem. A
comedy, even. Heaven, Hell, not even in the bible. Not the way your
little Church makes it seem, though. You all have a habit of making
complicated answers for questions nobody ever asked.”
“Oh? And have you not walked through hell, yourself? Is there not another world beneath this very floor?”
“You know what’s the sad thing about all of this?”
Spike asked with genuine vigor. “Heaven, Hell, both still have to
pay taxes. That really shows you the real priorities of both sides,
doesn't it? Ain’t nothing free. Everyone’s payin’
some collector. Reaper, Priest or Holy Spirit - it's all just
bureaucracy.”
A grimace. Cecilia could not believe that for a second. “Do you
not see yourself as a good person? As misguided as you may be.”
“Good. Bad. All that matters is whoever is holding the gun at
whose head.” With two fingers, Spike gestured this perspective by
placing them against his temple. “My entire life, every
institution, academy, government, bloody cricket club, critic lounge
and social commentary television… they’re just holding a
loaded gun to everyone’s face. Trying to tell everyone that it is
all black and white, like an old telly flick with the cowboys and
indians. And well.” Spike shrugged. “The Indians were smart
enough not to build shit on top of Hellmouths. Knowing what kind of
boogeymen crawl up to see who is knocking on their door every
day.”
“Cute. You’re capable of a few opinions of your own after
all.” Despite the wording, it was still a critique from Cecilia.
“William. You’ve written your own eulogy several times. No
one is going to hear your last Swan Song besides me, so just fight and
don’t even bother.”
“You know, there is a wolf made of wood, knockin’ around on
some wood right now, just hoping that we kill one another so that it
can finish off whoever is left barely alive by the end.”
“How considerate. It will be much easier killing you both
consecutively than both at the same time. I’m not a fan of the
battle royale, all against one arenas.”
“Shall we then?”
Another bolt passed through his abdomen. This time, he really felt just
how painful that could be. Spike glanced up again only to get cleaved
by the bladed crossbow again, already loaded with a bolt that would pin
his foot to the floor. There was something in Cecilia’s hand, a
crucifix with a heart-stabbing stake as its base.
“Charming.” A not so amused Spike uttered. The girl managed
to slam it down past a clavicle, but she ultimately missed the mark.
Spike meanwhile, punched her directly in the sternum with all he could
muster, raising his foot up from its previously pierced position -
freeing it in the most bloody manner. “Grow up now, will
you?”
“Grow up…!?” Cecilia felt herself pull back from the
darkness of unconsciousness. She had lost it only for a moment, but now
she stared at another strike aimed at her chest. This time, it would do
more than knock the air out of her. Her rib cage felt like it collapsed
the minute her sternum was crushed. “I’m… perfectly
grown up…”
She thought she was so much stronger than this. Her white teeth gritted
and the crimson painted themselves over her gums. Yet, it was going to
end like this. Spike, bloodied and battered, stood above her with the
crucifix-stake in hand. In Cecilia’s left hand, the crossbow was
still grasped. However, she when began to raise it - Spike stomped down
on the wrist and simply broke it. “Nghgh! Aghghh!”
“Shhh, quiet now, Pinocchio…” He smiled. “Time
for you to become a real girl.” “A real-” Cecilia
didn’t get another word out when the stake struck her heart. In
her head, in her internal church, all of the stained glass windows blew
out at once and she was trapped in the darkness without any light to
guide her way. No prayer to save her.
“I do hope the Church stops playing with souls like they are
puppets.” The remark was not as profound as it was before he said
it, Spike realized as he gazed upon the puppet body that was Cecilia.
There she was, nothing too different in appearance than Sid even. With
all the hard parts, seams and ball-joints. A sad replica of a person. A
human mirage applied to a wooden body. The Antiquarian Demon being
something similar. But Spike, someone familiar with blood, felt that
the magically manifested blood of Cecilia was more ‘real’
than the sinful, disgusting blood the Demon produced. Even if both were
merely a tangible spillage of spiritual essence.
“Hm. I guess there is some spiritual value to aesthetic, after
all…”Mused Spike as he stepped away from the doll in
Nun’s clothing with a bejeweled, crucifix stake in her chest.
“The difference between swatting a butterfly and a fly,
frankly…”
“You’re a really sick guy, you know that?” A bestial
voice, corrupted from that of De Ascanio, spoke from the dark. A pair
of glowing eyes, fastened to the perched shadow within the darkness
above - previously admiring a mural dedicated to some feminine body of
past history - condescendingly gave Spike their attention yet again.
“Gross, even. You must really have gotten off to killing her,
didn’t you?”
“It's not like that.”
“Sure, it isn’t… Hmm. A shame, I really wanted to
carve her myself.” De Ascanio’s twisted form mused over it.
“Her being a mere block of wood possessed by some spirit of a
naive, tortured girl… Well. Heh. Ha ha! Her and I shared some
subconsciousness. We’re all connected by strings of magic. A
forum, if you will.”
“Agh… yeah. I heard you puppets are all perverts.”
Spike raised an eyebrow at the set of illuminated eyes.
“You’re telling me you buggered the poor girl in her dreams
or something?” “It was all consensual, I swear.” The
Antiquarian Demon lapped at Spike’s blood from its claws.
“A puppet’s body… is a perversion of the human body.
An image, an idol in place of man. In place of the flesh. You know, the
original word ‘fetish’ referred to Voodoo Talismans, made
of wood, to resemble numerous animals of indigenious peoples.”
“What the bloody hell are you even talking about? Come down like
a good little doggie and I’ll put you into the furnace next, how
does that sound?”
“Tschh… No civilization, no matter where I go.” The
Wooden Wolf moaned in a very human way. “I really cannot escape
you all. No matter how far I remove myself from my wretched
body…”
“You want to… ehh… explain? Why you would even do
that?” Spike’s eyes were rolling so much over the dramatic
De Ascanio that they were practically doing backflips. “Or can we
just get to the part where we fight to the death or something?”
“Ohhh… you’re boring. Weren’t you a poet or
something? I thought you’d enjoy long monologues or some such. A
bit of purple prose to end your ‘swan song’ on a high
note.” “That girl…” With a sudden turn, Spike
pointed at the body of Cecilia. “Had an entire story I will
never hear. Because she came between you and I. If you want to tell me
whatever insecure backstory you have, feel free to. It won’t
change a thing, I’m telling you this now…”
“No, no… you’re right. It is just a waste,
isn’t it? There is no grand plot or anything to life. It is all
written spontaneously by some scribe.” The beast eyed the atrium
window and resentfully took in the sight of the late night stars.
“I’m so tired of it all. I was so tired of it all. Being a
pawn of the Church like everyone else. I wanted to tempt dear Cecilia
into embracing her… roots. Her literal wooden roots. You see,
I’m returning everything back to nature. No more men, true - pure
magic. No gods, no saints. All back to nature.”
“Like… Wicca?” Spike asked with a smirk. “You
know… I met the creator of Wicca. Gerald Gardner. The Father of Modern Witchcraft.
He is just like any old man with some creative ideas. Failed author,
but charismatic enough to make a religion to sell more books.”
“For all I know, you could have done the very same thing if you tried, William the Bloody.”
“But I didn’t.” Spike clapped his hands together.
“Because I bloody have more integrity than the Geralds and the
Ron L Hubbards of the world. There’s more to life than money and
fame. Not like you would know, how many Churches did you cycle through
before you finally got a proper publisher, De Ascanio?”
“Fuck off.” Sneered the Beast.
“No, really. I skimmed through your autobiography a bit. Probably
one of the first people to ever read it that wasn’t a bot on the
internet, giving it a mindless five stars on Amazon.”
“You… you read my book?”
“Five out of ten.”
“What…?”
“Five out of ten. Very underwhelming. You obviously had a
ghostwriter.” The vampire tapped his finger against his chin in
contemplation. “The same one as Taylor Swift’s, right?
Naughty, naughty. What? Did Scientology offer someone less? Oh, let me
guess, the ghost writer for Bruce Willis!”
“You speak far too much, William. For a poet, you honestly
don’t have a lot to say.” The body of the Antiquarian is
hideous. Composed of the roots of the rotting tree of life. Despite its
seemingly organic appearance, the overwhelming aroma of death is
impossible to ignore. Its roar is like a dying man’s final crys.
The wailing of a corpse on a cross, unaware of how close it is to the
end.
“I’ll poke you full of holes, a stigmata that even the Nun would have been blessed to see…”
Monster against Vampire, their fight is something to behold indeed. An
enduring body that healed quickly, against a body that nearly was
immune to any and all attack. But for every swipe of its claws, Spike
would carve into its wooden body. More and more bark, vines and roots
would be splintered off of its form. This damned thing did not bleed,
but it did chip and leave behind a sappy substance. Sticky and
ill-smelling, this rotting tree carcass had to be broken into many more
pieces before it could be finally snapped like the twig it was.
“We have to help…” Mati gulped, in her hands, she
cradled many books from De Ascanio’s private collection. Surely,
one of them had to help. Upon her shoulders and head, a dark green hood
with golden tassels. An artifact known as the Magus Shawl. Its blessed
threading would elevate the existing magical prowess from within her.
It would drain the murky waters from the bog of her human vessel. All
of the contaminants of her humanity would be stripped away. “Even
if there is no going back.”
“Mati… is what you said about that thing for real?”
Sid asked with great concern, adjusting a small suit of chainmail and
plates. His own armour was borrowed from the mummified, artifact corpse
of a child known only as the ‘Dragontooth the Young Magus’.
Supposedly dated back to 13th century France. “I rather
you’s have a suit of armour than somethin’ that will just
turn you into a puppet…”
“I’m hardly a Joan of Arc…” Admitted Mati, the
two entered from one of the adjacent hallways. The scene before them
was nothing short of a horror story unfolding in real time. “Is
that…?”
“Hm. That doll of a roommate of your’s was an actual
doll.” Sid was able to visibly frown. As of now, he was more
human than what remained of Mati. “Dolls always the perfect
vessel for a soul… Gotta say, Demon Slayers always been
puttin’ people in dolls and augmentin’ they’s
abilities. Ya think my soul was cursed to this body as some sort of
joke? Nah, it was a joke - but a cruel irony. In fact, lost my left arm
during my second ever slayin’ and hand a livin’ prosthetic
ever since! Guess that is why I was so comfortable with this
form…” At this point, he wondered how much of his soul was
actually embedded in that hand all those years ago. “Ayy,
look… that’s the boy and uhh… some
blondie…”
What remained of Beser was nothing short of a massacre. A man turned
into minced meat. As for Spike, he was still mostly in one piece. But
the guy had been cut to more than a few ribbons and he was placed on
display beneath the moonlight of the atrium. The fight had just ended
and the Antiquarian was happy to show off his prey. Or perhaps, it was
another ritual - he had just not yet flayed the body entirely?
“Matilde… you’ve been digging through my boxes
again.” De Ascanio stroked Spike’s face with a claw. The
Vampire still breathed, but was on death’s door. Likely, his form
was just barely sustained by the second Hellmouth backdoor beneath the
marble. “Wearing my precious artifacts like that…
aren’t you tired of dressing up like a witch?”
“You… You told me I am one.” She stepped forward.
Hardly as confident as she sounded. “I am more than a page
turning, book worm…”
“No. No, no, no, you are not. At most, you can cast a spell or
two from a book. Those books have more power than you ever will.”
The Antiquarian snarled and chuckled. “You don’t have what
it takes. Light or black magic. It is all above you. I kept you around
because you’re cute and it would be easy to groom you into being
a secretary… Ever since the Church cut my budget a bit, I
couldn’t afford to reinstate Alisa’s contract.”
With narrowed eyes, Mati stared at him from beneath the hood. Her
glasses caught the glare of moonlight. “The stars are just right,
tonight… The Hellmouths are stirring. And I have more than
enough conduits to face you now.”
“Y-yeah, you’s tell that ugly, wet-wood dog, Mati!”
Sid honestly had nothing. For once, he was the bystander. “That
is uhh… De Ascanio, right? He’s lookin’ pretty
different.”
“Ughh… if anyone is a wet-wood dog, it is that miserable
puppet.” The Beast stated resentfully. “You always liked
older men, I knew that, Mati. I used that to my advantage. But this is
just gross. Ha!”
“Don’t… laugh at me.” A tome of magic was
opened in her hand. She could only understand half of the runes and
sigils, but she knew that she was approaching a useful casting-conduit
by how the pages heated up. Responding to the magic within her.
“All my life, everyone said you can’t learn about life from
books. All those people were wrong… they won’t amount to
anything. All of their nothingness is not worth a book…”
“Oh… you’re mad. I am so glad to see something from
you that isn’t timidness…” The taloned feet marched
toward her in its gross emulation of a bipedal step. Standing on rear
legs, the height of this form of the Antiquarian was truly grotesque.
“But I liked that timid little girl. The one who listened to all
of my advice and always listened to what I had to say. Don’t you?
Don’t you want to just be a bystander as you always have been,
Mati? Trust me, it is a lot easier. You don’t have to be strong,
I can be strong for you.”
“She doesn’t need savin’, never asked for it!”
Sid was just a few inches away from running at him full sprint with the
small daggers that he had prepared for the occasion of giving him a few
blows to buy Mati some time. “She neva needed a chump like
you!”
“What are you going to do, you miserable little puppet? You
really think you are anything but a wise guy in a small body?
You’re a decoration, hardly an artifact worth keeping
around… I regret buying you, the most of all. You splintering
eye-sore…” De Ascanio’s claws dug into the marble
and from here, he lifted up a large shard of the flooring. Lurched over
like a dog once more, he looked like he was about to bark when he
suddenly, instead, flung the cut of marble directly at him. “Just
fall apart already!”
“Sid!” She had not found a proper place to launch a spell
from within the book. Not yet. If only she had found it sooner…
“Sid! Are you okay?!”
The small body of the Demon Slayer had been flung across the room. The
armour had saved his life, but some blood still was smeared across his
wooden face. Sid gave a small thumbs up to show that he was in one
piece. Mostly. “I’m go-good! The armour did its job! Not
even a dent!” He coughed in pain steadily after the declaration.
“This mutt is basically allergic to magic, righto?! Ya gotta be
the hero of this story, Mati! Finish him off!”
“Allergic… tsch!” Scoffed De Ascanio. “Mati,
you told your little wooden-fucktoy that I was allergic to
magic…?”
“Because you are!” She knew she had to keep him going on a
tangent. Mati needed more time to finger through the pages. “That
is why… you could never achieve something on your own. Every
spell, every ritual, made you sicker and sicker… And
you’re still sick, aren’t you! You’re
physically… unbreakable. But magic is still your greatest
weakness! P-pathetic…! For a wizard, or warlock, whatever you
think you are!”
“Mati, I should really just crush your little bones into a
hundred pieces for thinking you can talk to me like that. Put the book
down. Now.” A bloodied claw was tapped against the floor.
“Otherwise, I am going to drink your blood and defile your
twitching corpse.”
Of course, the girl was shaken by this. Her whole body shook. But if
she didn’t do something now, could she ever forgive herself?
Could she ever live in this world any longer with what had happened?
Knowing she had helped De Ascanio, even a little bit, in becoming this
horrible thing?
“I was… never meant for this world. This time. I was born
in the wrong era.” As Mati admitted this, the book in her hand
began to flip the pages by itself. The more she admitted these inherent
truths to herself, the more the book ‘knew’ her. And with
that synchronization, the book was now actively finding the
‘truest’ spell that only Mati could cast from it. “I
knew from a young age that these books were more than just friends.
They had my empathy. They were sentient. And this book… was
always one that spoke to me the most! That I enjoyed reading the
most!”
“Its not even a magic book, you stupid brat.” De Ascanio
prepared himself for a sudden pounce. That is all it would take. Her
little body would fold around his claws with just one attack.
“That’s just a historical catalog! A timeline of magical
history from the last century! Not even a single spell in it!”
The book suddenly closed. Visible spectrums of colour basically oozed
out of its binding, like light passing through a crystal. Mati smiled
as a single tear rolled down her face. “You really think that is
all it is…? Heh. You really were not as smart as you claimed to
be. This was never just a little history book…” The
binding was raised high above her head, the green cloak around her
flowed with unnatural winds that the book generated. A spiral of force
had converted the entire building into a spinning centrifuge. “It
was… instructions! The entire time!”
“Matilde, go on! Do something! Make me proud!” De Ascanio
egged her on. “Show me how far you have come!”
Mati tossed the book down into the center of the room. It slid past
Spike’s barely breathing body, smeared his blood to the center
and directly settled where the moonlight from the atrium was most
concentrated. The spirals of wind soon began to retreat into the
book’s very essence. And everything began to be sucked into it,
within an instant, as it suddenly opened and a vortex of magic emerged.
Into another time.
Spike and the doll that was Mati were the first to be consumed by it.
Wordlessly, their bodies had been drawn in with ease. Like water down a
drain. Mati, however, screeched at the surprise of how quickly it
sucked her in. “Sid! Sid!”
“Don’t be scared, I’m here!” As she was dragged
across the floor, Sid’s body latched onto her grasp. The two held
each other in a tight embrace as the unknown drew them in. “I
trust ya! I just hope ya bringin’ us to a more peaceful time,
capice?!”
“I don’t know! I let the book choose!”
“Oh, ya did?!” Sid was reminded that it was a book
specifically on the last century. “Oh boy, we’re in for a
ride then kid…”
“Noooughh! I won’t go!” De Ascanio dug his claws into
the marble, but it all gave away. “I’m not a spider that
can be so easily washed down a rain gutter!” Despite his best
efforts, even though he would be the last one to succumb to the vortex,
he would eventually fall into it just like the rest.
“Haa… De Ascanio, you always wanted to be in a book of
history…” He calmed himself. “I guess I am going to
finall get what I-”
The Beast screeched like a young, frightened girl as it was finally
devoured by the vortex. The book itself, seemingly, was dragged into
the vortex generated.
Time.
Time - such an absurd concept.
Truly, even time could not stand its own test and was bound to consume itself.
VANISHING ACT
Mati coughed and pulled the hood from her face. To her confusion, she
was in the same library before. But there was no atrium above. No, it
was a clear, blue sky - hardly a cloud in it. Yet, she was covered in
what felt like ancient dust. It was only when she gazed upon her hands
did she realize it was ashes. Embers of yellowish-red flew past and
floated and danced in the sky. Nearby, there must have been many fires.
“Sid, did you-” As she looked over to her side, she was
greeted with the remains of a burnt corpse. “Uhhh…
uhhh…”
Even when standing, the picture failed to be fully clear. The library
had not a single book in it, besides the ones she retrieved from De
Ascanio’s study. The ashen room was littered with bronze casings
for numerous cartridge types. There was actually more blood in this
room now, than there had been before. If this was truly before…?
“Another one!” A voice in an almost old-fashioned dialect
echoed out toward her. Shaking still, Matilde did not respond, all she
could do was turn toward the voice. “Another one just
appeared!”
Several Spanish soldiers alongside a man with a clearly darker uniform
and fairly northern European heritage stood before her. Nearby, the
soldiers were dusting off the dolls that were both Sid and Mati. Both
seemed awake and responsive, even. But the others…?”
“Find that Aryan, blonde fellow as soon as you can.”
Spanish spoken in a very Germanic-tinge had told another soldier to run
off on a mission. “Him and that devilish dog of
his…”
Matilde felt like she had to vomit. Her hands grasped her stomach as
her entire body cramped. The Nationalist troops stared at her with
intrigue, but more and more - she found herself more focused on the men
who wore jackets very similar to that Blonde guy they saw in the
Library.
“Hmmm. Judging by her appearance, she may be a witch.” The
soldiers discussed this among themselves. “Who are the
Republicans calling in favours of now? First the Soviet Union and
foreign volunteers, now they have fucking recruits from where?
Salem?” “She’s a young girl… maybe she is that
blonde guy’s apprentice?”
“Think so? He didn’t look like a wizard or anything…”
“No, but he had a Hugo Boss Jacket. Either he is one of
Himmler’s rogues or he looted it from one of the advisors.”
As they all bickered, the clear leader of the group approached with his
gloved hands behind his back. His eyes an azure shade of blue and his
face as pale as a Greek statue. Only slight redness to his cheeks. The
man’s features were otherwise carved from stone and his black cap
designated a frightening visage to his entire physique, restrained by
the stylings of Nazi Germany.
“Little girl. I sincerely hope you aren’t a Republican.”