Chapter 11

Minerva sat on the bed in her room while Bellatrix - who was still in the room by dint of being her roommate - watched Kat as one might watch a dangerous beast. That did have something to do with the fact that Kat was currently pacing back and forth like she wanted to go prowling.

“I’ll find the little-” She made a clenching gesture with her hands and wrung them, like she had a particular witch’s throat between her hands and was resolving the situation in a permanent, terminal fashion.

“It’s okay,” Minerva said, dazedly.

“It’s not okay!” Kat said.

“I think it’s rather famous,” Bellatrix said, nervously, her eyes darting from Kat to her. “W-What did that little Glintfaire snoot say about us?”

Minerva and Kat both looked at her.

“You are thinking this is about House stuff?” Kat asked.

“Well, of course, what else would it be about?” Bellatrix asked, her brow knitting above her dainty nose. Minerva wanted to laugh. She sprawled back onto the bed and tried to focus on the pressing issue: An Ars Magicka fanatic had just challenged her to a duel and she had chosen a wand and a shortsword for her weapon. Who chose swords for weapons in duels these days? It felt...

Well, it felt as surreal as magic and wizards and such.

Minerva rubbed her palms against her face.

Despite that, she found she kept worrying away at the Enragé and the vampire in the school. She knew there was a connection. She knew it was of vital importance. And that had nothing on the rumors of the Silver Wand. Hexgramatica was the most secure prison in the world - what better place to store horrors and dangers? Her mind whirled more and more as Kat continued her pacing - and then Bellatrix sighed. “Well, whatever it is about, I have a bit of a duty. You were raised among the Mundanes, so, you don’t know how to duel, right?”

“I know the basics,” Minerva said. “That it used to be fought in the astral plane, but that’s no longer possible...”

“Quite,” Bellatrix said. “But do you know of the three modes of dueling?”

“I’m guessing at least one of them involves short swords,” Minerva said, her voice growing dry.

“Correct. Staves, wand, and sword and wand are the three modes,” Bellatrix said, primly.

“You read a lot about dueling?” Kat asked, slowing in her pacing.

“Oh, no, we’re just an old family,” Bellatrix said, shrugging one shoulder. “My grandfather was killed in a sword and wand duel - that’s also called the duel sinister.”

“Why?” Minerva asked, trying to avoid the dying part.

“You hold the wand in the left hand, sword in the right,” Bellatrix said, smiling thinly. Her voice grew grave. “But do you have a sword?” At the pregnant silence that hung in the air, the mousy girl shook her head and let out the deepest sigh that Minerva had ever heard. “Well, you’ll need to get one.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Another thing - you’ll need the obscura.”

“ ... the what?” Minerva and Kat asked at the same time.

Bellatrix’s lips went very thing as she shot Kat a look that practically said oh whatever to do with foreigners like this? Before she explained.

“The obscura is a part of the duel sinister. They’re magical cloths, say, yae big. They are enchanted to obscure what they are draped over. The common mode is to fight with wand in the left hand, sword in the right, but there’s a great deal of theories as to which is the proper tool to use - which weapon, even. Short sword has been interpreted to mean rapier, dagger, a foil, even an arming sword in one case - cruciform hilt and everything.” She mimed a blow that made Minerva blink. “Dashed his brains right out, that’s illustrated in Contemporary Duels: Their Parts and Particulars.” Bellatrix blushed slightly. “ ... I may have read a little about duels.”

Kat arched an eyebrow.

“None of this matters. I don’t have a sword!” Minerva said, firmly. “And even if I did, I can’t fight with a sword left handed. So, it must be the classic mode either way.” She crossed her arms over her chest and laid back in the bed with a thump. She glared at the ceiling. “Are there rules pertaining to magic?”

“If it were in the astral, no,” Bellatrix said.

“But since we’re not going to be fighting in the astral, yes,” Kat said. “Same rules as in football.”

“I can’t believe I am going to die in what amounts to a football game,” Minerva said, closing her eyes.

“T-To be fair, duels don’t tend to end in death. If you survive the ten, twenty seconds it takes for the healers to reach you, then you’ll survive, they’re much better at fixing up cuts and such thesedays,” Bellatrix said. “Used to be that it was a race to see if the exsanguination got you, and the healing magic never used to fix the infections until they flared up, so, that might get you too and-” She stopped. “Sorry.”

Kat frowned as she watched Minerva’s face.

“Bella, might we be having some time alone? We are friends and...”

“No, no, I understand,” Bellatrix said. She stood and her face settled into a determined mode as she lifted her chin. She started out, walking quickly as she did so. Once the door was shut, Kat locked it, then stepped to the bed. She placed her hand beside Minerva’s head - but Minerva pushed her hand away, sliding her palms away from her face.

“Not ... not now,” Minerva said, and tried to not feel like she was twisting a knife in the big woman’s chest, seeing the expression on her face. She tried to explain. “I ... I have too much in my mind. I need ... I need...”

Kat drew her hand back. “I understand.”

She turned to go. Minerva realized that while she didn’t need the confusion of Kat’s kisses, her caresses, the distraction of her breath on her ear, her purring orders ... she desperately needed something as deep and profound. She needed her warmth. She needed her ... her. She reached out, grabbing onto Kat’s hand, tugging her back.

“No, wait,” she said, then blushed. “Just ... hold me. Please?”

Kat turned back. She smiled, slightly. “I am a werewolf. Not an animal. I can control myself.”

“I knew that,” Minerva said, grinning at her ... lover? She supposed that might be the word for it. It still felt too ... immediate and heavy and weighted. Was lover the right word? Or maybe friend? Comrade? Buddy? Minerva closed her eyes as Kat crawled into the bed, pressing her down with those lovely strong hands of hers. Her arms followed, and Minerva found that being held by a large dyke of a werewolf was a banquet she should have gorged herself on years before. She almost went limp as she leaned back against Kat’s chest, feeling her raw strength, her blazing warmth. Minerva closed her eyes and tried to sort her thoughts.

Wand of Silver?

Ignore it. Not important. She shoved it aside.

Duel? Too terrifying. Not yet. Not yet. She shoved it aside.

The thing in the basement. The vampire scare. Those dark eyes, glittering beyond the cell, the soft voice that had crooned to her.

You are in such deadly danger, my dear little witchling...

Minerva shivered from her head to her toes. But it wasn’t fear. Not quite. She bit her lower lip and let her head rest against the pillow. Kat shifted slightly and then burrowed her nose against her neck. Minerva let out the quietest whine she could. She wanted to stay here forever. But she didn’t know how long it would be until Bellatrix came back. She turned in Kat’s arms, pressing her forehead to the other woman’s. In the tight, heart shaped hollow of their bodies, their breath mixed and coiled together and tasted warm, when she breathed in once more.

“I need to go back into my memories and talk to the Enragé again.”

Kat frowned. Her eyes, warm and golden, opened and peered into Minerva’s. She weighed her.

“You should be the one called Cat, you know. Curious and curious and curious.” She leaned in, kissing her on the lips. The electric contact thrilled Minerva along her spine. She tried to resist, but couldn’t. When Kat drew back, Minerva’s teeth dragged along her lower lip, stretching the touch out, anguishing in it. Kat grabbed the back of her neck. THe next kiss was long, painfully long, too long. The rattling sound of the door jerked Kat back and away and the latch clicking made it clear that Bellatrix was trying her key. Kat sprang to her feet, leaving Minerva panting and red faced as the door opened.

Kat was quite busy looking out the window at the underwater scene beyond, while Minerva laid on her back, looking up at the ceiling.

“By any chance,” Bellatrix said, her voice almost too casual. “Do you know if you prefer a two edged or one edged blade?”

Minerva looked at her.

“ ... just asking,” Bellatrix said, her cheeks heating.

Minerva didn’t get a chance to be alone with her Alotexis for a solid day - and during that entire day, she had to endure whispers and glances and murmurs from everyone. Gina kept a distance that made her feel stung, but Harry made a point of stopping by her as they passed in a corridor and whisper.

“I’m hoping you beat that horrid ... bint black and blue.” His lips quirked in a smile as Minerva shot him a grateful look.

“I’m afraid I’m using a sword - but, knowing me, I’ll probably hit her with the wrong side.”

Harry grinned, weakly, then hurried on before anyone might complain that they were being too close after this fracas had flared up.

The other interaction of note was when Minerva was packing up after her potions class and Professor Ravenwood stepped to her desk and drew back her veil, so that she could peer directly at Minerva - an arresting sight, as her features were twisted into the most unhandsome halfway point between human features and the skull of a crow. Lips distended and colored a flakey yellow, tufted feathers peeking around the nostrils, a chin receding. As Minerva took in the horror of her features, Ravenwood spoke, clearly and without pause.

“You are not to lose. Understand it?”

Minerva gulped and nodded.

Finally, the evening came and Minerva finished off her homework in a flurry of scribbling and double checking her maths. Once she had finished that all, she took the small bottle she had packed her Alotexis into and pocketed it. She stepped through the House Sildanius rooms and came into the main sitting room, where Clyve and Gregory were both occupying a chess table. The pieces all seemed to be aminate, and as Cylve regarded the table and said: “Rook to Knight Four...” the rook in question sprang forward, extruding an arm from its circular frame. Said arm bore what appeared to be a mace, a mace that shattered the whinnying horse’s skull into a spray of fine white chips that scattered across Gregory’s robes.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Gregory exclaimed.

“Oi!” Clyve, who was sitting opposite from him, said. He lifted his chin to Minerva. “Where are you off too?”

“Practice rooms,” Minerva said, the lie having been rehearsed and decided upon earlier. “I want to ... to at least not embarrass myself in the duel.”

Clyve gave her a thin smile, his eyes glinting with worry. “You know, you can always apologize, right? Might not look the most brave thing in the world, but-”

Minerva shook her head.

“No,” she said, firmly.

“You really hate those Ars Magicka types, don’t you,” Gregory said, still brushing debris off his shirt.

Minerva blinked. “I...” She wasn’t sure what to say. Gregory chuckled.

“Some people think it’s a Glintfaire versus SIldanius thing, but ... come now,” he said, quietly. “You’re from mundane London, no one gives a toss about Glintfair and the Sildanius feud there. It’s gotta be something else. Only thing else is Leslie is wearing the wrong pants to grow a little mustache and start eins zwei drei vier!” he mimed a Nazi salute.

“Oh come on, she’s not House Wagner,” Clyve said - a play on House Wainscove’s original name and ethnic allegiance so clear that even Minerva got it.

“Ars Magicka’s the next best thing we have to the Bund,” Gregory said, shaking his head. “My cousin Nert says the Bund’s a menace in New York City.”

“Your ... cousin’s American?” Minerva asked, honestly distracted from the task she had set herself.

“No, he’s a wizard living in America,” Clyve said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Saw no reason to move his entire tower just because some colonials were causing a ruckus, and he never moved.”

Minerva nodded, then started towards the door.

Then she stopped dead.

“Wait, your cousin ... you mean your cousin’s grandfather, yes?” she asked. “Or, er, great grandfather?” She did more math. “Er, great great-”

“Oh, no, Old Albey moved to Virginia in 1762,” Clyve said. “More room in the colonies for that kind of extension of one’s life - less relatives badgering you when you’re going to drop dead and give them the inheritance.” He rubbed his jaw, examining the board. “That’s why my pa didn’t have me till after the War, we had almost too many damn ... ah! Queen to ... to over there.” He pointed. “No, there, there, you daft biddy. And that’s check!”

Minerva shook her head. Every day, it seemed, she learned something new and faintly disquieting. She walked through the narrow dark corridors of Hexgramatica, the torches flickering and the evening chill beginning to settle throughout the stone. Distant laughter from other rooms echoed queerly, giving the place a faintly haunted air. She frowned and hunched forward and walked even faster - for some reason, she almost expected to run into the very same Blackshirts who had hounded Petunia. Her heart squeezed and she put her hand over her chest, her other in her pocket - feeling the bottle.

I will learn more healing magic, she thought. I will, I will, I will.

The dueling practice rooms were situated in the heart of the keep, and each reminded her of the dueling arena beside the Invocations class - which only made sense, they both served the same function. She stepped into the room and the torches on the walls flared to life, flickering and adding their warmth to the hexagon of packed stone and earth. She closed the door behind herself, then squared her shoulders and pointed at the ground.

“Kemb Drit Selda.”

She twitched her wand up and felt a warm glow of satisfaction as the earthen floor rippled, then started to slide up into the form of a rather comfortable looking sitting chair. She set herself down into it and sighed at how comfortable it felt. She rolled her head back, eyes closed. Magic had its advantages, didn’t it? She reached into her pockets, pulled out the Alotexis, then opened it. Her shoulders squared.

“Go fast,” she whispered. “And get this done.”

She opened the cork.

When she opened her eyes once more, she was standing beside herself and Kat in the memory. She wanted to linger, to watch the drama. But she had no time for it. She pushed through the doorway that her own self would run into so unfortunately, then started down the stairs, her spectral breath coming faster and faster and faster as she tried to rush herself as quickly as she could. She came into the lower rooms, rushed past the Watcher, and finally, she came to the cell. She put her hands onto the walls to either side of the imprisoned creature and she peered inside.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Ah...” the sultry croon from between the bars excited her more than she cared to admit. “You’re back.”

Minerva gulped slightly. “I-”

“Did the excitement calm? It wasn’t my activities, I’ll have you know.”

Minerva blinked. “Wait, you know about that?” She asked.

“Of course. You’re not speaking to me in the past. I’m merely aware of the astral realm’s movements - I am in the cell in the present, and you are here, in the present. Your spell merely arranged the astral into this shape. Remember?”

“Right. Right.” Minerva blushed. “I know what you are. Who. You are.”

“Do you?” The voice was a quiet drawl.

“Yes,” Minerva said.

“Then tell me. What monster lurks here?” The faint hint of eyes glinting in the darkness met Minerva’s, fierce and independent. “What creature are your teachers keeping secure here in the heart of Hexgramatica?”

Minerva licked her lips.

“That’s just it. The Enragé isn’t a monster. It is French, though. And that got me thinking: What Frenchwoman would be down here? A-And, well, it’s French for fury. Anger. That narrows it down.” She squared her shoulders. “It had to have been... 1801. 1811. Was it the Third or Fifth Coalition? Which was it that caught you and tried you for treason, hmm?”

The voice was silent for a long time. Then there was the faint clink of chains and...

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

“Oh but you are a clever one,” the feminine voice crooned. “Very good. My name is Cecillia Morganna-Wellesley II. I stood with the Revolution against a mad king and his madder ministers and sought to bring about a glorious, better world than the one we got. For that, I have been consigned to this rotting cell for one hundred and thirty two years.” Her eyes flared as she looked out at Minerva. The chains suddenly clacked, as if they had gone taut. The eyes lurched closer and the faint shape of the figure within was visible from the light shining through the bars. Minerva saw the shine of leather, the glint of metal, the flash of very white teeth. “Now. What brought the little witchling to my door, against all sense and sanity?”

Minerva gulped. She leaned in, just a bit closer. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see that Cecillia was a tall woman. Slender. Her arms were slightly too long, and they were held back behind her by the lengths of chain attached to leather straps around her wrists. Her body was covered with interlocking wrappings of leather, and the clinking sound came from more than just the metal of the chains. Every loop of the belt seemed to have another golden crucifix hanging from it. The outward signs of Christianity unnerved Minerva more than she expected. It didn’t look pious. It looked...

Scientific. And frantic, too. If one worked, then hundreds will work better...

What she had taken for eyes were a pair of wooden-caps sewn onto leather belts that crossed over her face like a blindfold. The caps had the grotesque look of a doll’s eyes. The buttons had upside down crucifixes on them, burned into the wood. The only part of Cecillia’s face that was able to move or be seen at all was a pale jaw, and the lips, which were skinned back.

Her canines came to sharp, sharp points.

But then Minerva kept looking.

And she saw the true horror in the cell.

Thin glass tubes, the kind one might have seen in a doctor’s shop, as they prepared for a transfusion of plasma. They wound from the wall and they met, they met at the jugular. At the thighs. At the wrists. Each of them attached to a needle which hooked into the woman’s flesh, through tiny circles cut into the leather restraints she wore. The tubes were rich and heavy with dark, dark red fluid. Fluid that couldn’t be ... not if ... not if she was...

“Oh my god,” Minerva whispered, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

Cecilia’s laughter was half mad. “I was sentenced, as they say ... to Extraction, witchling.”

Minerva jolted awake in the tiny room, her body trembling from her head to her toes. She had had more questions. She had. But she was too ... appalled, too horrified, to do anything but sit and shiver. Her mind, unbidden, spat up a fact she had learned ... and had forgotten: Vampire blood, one of the rarest reagents in the world, serves as the base for-

“No!” Minerva put her hands over her face. She wanted to curl herself into a small ball. But her mind couldn’t let her forget it. A century and a half. A century and a half, spent in darkness, with those cables going into her. Or, before rubber hoses, had they gone in and slashed her open with knives? With magic? How long had they been draining that woman - and allowing her to refresh herself? Again and again and again. Minerva wanted to be sick. She put her hand over her mouth and breathed through her nose, ducking her head forward.

She closed her eyes.

There was a single rule, at the core of her faith. Deep. Deep down. Protect life. That’s how so many edicts and rules came back to. Protect life. Every religious rule she had could be cast by the wayside to save a single life - be it her own or someone else’s. Martyrdom was a distinctly Christian affectation ... and she had never before realized how much she would empathize with those Christians who got fed to lions. Preaching against the Roman Empire must have been roughly as survivable as a first year student trying to fight her way past a Watcher, and breaking free an ancient vampire from the prison cells.

She rubbed her shoulders. Her brow furrowed and she barely noticed the cold.