Prologue

Dark glasses, hidden eyes. The man in green tweed is a coward all the way down.

Even the way he sips his coffee makes the man in red silk feel sick. His little finger hangs just a bit more than a centimeter in the air above the mug’s handle, not even fully committing to whatever this ridiculous façade of high culture is. For all of the gesture’s perceivable arrogance, the waterline within his cup trembles in lamblike subservience each time he brings the rim up to his primly-set lips. Of all the things to be concerned about, is he really paying that much energy towards not spilling all over his rumpled suit?

The man in red silk has half a mind to flick his wrist and send that twelve dollar latte down the front of his friend’s neatly-pressed button-down. It’s quite unfortunate that his upcoming performance review says otherwise. All around him, stuffed into the booths of this lower Manhattan diner, sit people who have no idea how much their very lives depend on him keeping his job. He looks around at them now, taking in every last sad, sorry face that he can see.

If only they knew how much they owed him. Maybe he’d finally get the thanks he deserves.

The bells at the diner’s front door manage to cough out a tinny jingle. The man in green tweed jerks his head up quickly, almost puppetlike in his response to any new bit of stimulus. Across the table, the man in red silk fails to conceal his snort of amusement. Ignoring this transgression, the man in green tweed clears his throat.

“I think our guests are finally here,” he says. His beakish nose twitches in anticipation. It’s a pretty nose, the kind you’d see on a marble statue, but a nervous one. His gaze meets that of the newcomers before it is cast back down to the table.

On instinct, the man in red silk raises his eyebrows. “Our guests? You own this diner or something?”

The man in green tweed has no time to bicker with his partner. He gets to his feet, ignoring the comment with a practiced decorum.

The man in red silk, on the other hand, keeps his attention to his own cup of coffee. He knows that he should perhaps put even the smallest bit of effort into greeting the newcomers, but why bother? His partner may have all the charm of an incredibly earnest yet still blatantly plague-ridden rodent, but he’s still the more diplomatic of the two. No, the man in red silk is more suited to be a rune-carved pistol hidden in the man in green tweed’s back pocket: better left out of the conversation until absolutely necessary.

Thankfully, the man in green tweed seems more than ready to jump into negotiations headfirst. “Good morning,” says the man in green tweed, wearing his business smile before the other party has so much as sat down. “I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous?”

“Not at all,” responds a smooth, eventoned tenor. “Nothing like a nice, long subway ride through the city, is there?”

Tourist, thinks the man in red silk. As quietly as possible, he takes a long, careful sniff of the air. Big mistake. He nearly chokes on the overwhelming scent of watercress and some stronger, more bitter version of marsh marigolds. To an average individual, the odour would be entirely undetectable, or at least more approximate to a poor choice in cologne. To those like the man in red silk, however, the unmistakable scent of a recently shifted river dweller can be absolutely rancid.

The man in green tweed seems completely unaffected by the foul stench of his new companion. “Especially in this weather,” he says, clearly reaching for the first thing he can think of that agrees with the earlier statement without revealing any desperation he may or may not have for the other’s approval. “It was a bit of a rough winter, so the whole city’s grateful for the sun to be out again.”

It’s at this point that the newcomers finally slide into the booth, bringing them into the man in red silk’s self-limited field of vision. The first one, who still absolutely reeks of pond scum, tucks a loose lock of long, glossy hair behind his ear, and offers the man in red silk a polite nod. It’s clear within seconds that this one is no ordinary river dweller. Though it’s common for those doomed to such a fate to adorn themselves with whatever jewelry they can find- a last-ditch effort at concealing the hideous nature of their untransformed selves- this one wears the same dark jacket and tie as any other New York businessman.

No, it’s the second half of the pair that ends up catching the man in red silk’s eye. They’re a hard person to ignore. The Spring heat is nowhere near the peaks of Summer, but the heavy leather jacket that covers their broad shoulders couldn’t possibly be comfortable in this weather- at least, not for a person unafflicted by any monstrous curse.

Even more notable, however, is what happens when they shimmy the jacket off. Row after spiralling row of black ink tattoos unravel on their pallid skin, a collection of flowers and runes that would rival any witch’s garden. A single string of circular characters flows from the tip of their pointer finger up to their wrist, to the crook of their elbow, up their bicep, around their neck, and-

Dammit, how long has the man in red silk been staring? The heavily tattooed individual looks back at him, smirk dancing across their black-painted lips. Even in this poorly-lit diner, the orange-gold flecks in their otherwise dark eyes glisten and spark. Instantly, the man in red silk casts down his gaze, the tips of his ears oddly warm.

“Oh, yes, I imagine,” the river dweller remarks. “The thought of this city in Winter terrifies me, honestly.” The river dweller dips his fingers into the complimentary glass of water in front of him and dabs the moisture on the skin of his neck. As funny as it would be to watch the man in green tweed give himself an embolism by pointing out the oddity in this behaviour, now seems like a particularly bad time. “What was it like, back in January? The snowstorm was bad enough for Hartford, I can’t imagine how it was for you..”

The man in green tweed gives a short groan in acknowledgement before nodding. “Certainly, certainly. It was terrible, I swore that my building would topple over at any-”

“I don’t think it's very polite to force our hosts to speak about bad weather,” pipes up the tattooed one in a deep, caramel voice. They look to their associate coolly, their tone absent of any snark or ire.

The two stare at each other.

The man in green tweed clears his throat. “I, erm, I don’t mind speaking about the weather, if that’s your concern.”

“No,” says the water dweller, just barely not interrupting the man in green tweed for the second time, “my friend here is correct.” He breaks eye contact with the tattooed one, bringing his attention back to the men across from him. “How impolite of me.”

Odd. The man in red silk does not hide the furrowing of his brows. What game are these two playing?

With a snap of his fingers, the water dweller summons forth an invisible wave of magic, cool to the touch. It washes over the man in red silk, leaving nothing but the most temporary of chilled residue on his skin as it stretches to encompass everything within the booth. The subtlest ripple of light washes over the party, leaving behind a large, transparent bubble that nestles them safely within its walls.

The man in green tweed stares, mouth slightly agape. “I… I didn’t know your creed was capable of- erm.” He cuts himself off, closing those stupid little lips of his before he has the chance to insult the water dweller.

Fortunately, neither individual on the other side of the booth flinches when the topic of creed arises. If anything, a spark of pride lights behind the water dweller’s eyes. “It’s not common,” he says, truly savouring the syllables as they roll off his tongue, “but it’s clearly not impossible.”

“Clearly,” agrees the man in green tweed.

All around the rest of the diner, the other patrons seem completely unaware of the spell that was just cast in front of their very faces. The man in red silk watches as a quiet-looking elderly couple seat themselves in the next booth over, not even the slightest bit of concern on their faces. Perhaps they’ve lived in the city too long, he thinks, waving a hand towards the woman. Her eyes happen to brush over his general direction, but based on what he can tell, she doesn’t actually seem to see him

From the corner of his vision, he can see the tattooed individual raising an eyebrow in quaint amusement. “Don’t worry, friend, my partner here is more than competent in his glamours.”

The man in red silk can feel the tips of his ears growing red. What is it about this person that takes him so off guard? Though he never really meant to bring the water dweller’s magical proficiency into question, he gives a disbelieving shrug anyway. “Can never be too careful,” he says.

Seeking refuge from the tattooed one’s attention, he turns his gaze momentarily to his own partner. The man in green tweed is as shrewish as ever, tapping his fingers against the side of his mug as though it could make this exchange go faster. Unfortunately, this observation does little to put the man in red silk at ease; even when not looking directly at the tattooed one, the electrifying glint in their eyes still lingers in the back of his mind.

“Well, if you two gentlemen are about ready,” says the water dweller, shooting a placid grin towards both the man in red and the man in green, “I believe we should get started as soon as possible.” The two men look to each other in response before both uttering some general agreement. The water dweller smiles. “Good.”

Beneath the table, the leather-clad hypnotist opens some sort of bag. He rustles around in it for only a moment before finally coming across the object of his search. When he places the thing on the table, the man in red silk is surprised to see how plain it is. This item, the target of a months-long campaign that has taken up his every waking moment, is nothing more than a smooth, dark box. No inscription, no protective chains- just a box.

He half-wishes this were a funnier moment.

The water dweller exchanges a knowing glance with his partner before continuing. “Before we can begin the negotiation,” he says, steepling his fingers together in front of him, “we should first introduce ourselves.”

“Um.” Quickly, the man in green tweed clears his throat. “Didn’t we agree on no names?”

Despite being at least three inches shorter than the man in green tweed, the water dweller manages to look down on him with a smug, but ultimately unimpressed, air. “We agreed that you wouldn’t have to give your names.” He pauses, offering the man in green tweed a moment to recall the terms set ahead of their meeting. “Consider it a thank-you for agreeing to discuss business with us today.”

Apparently seeing no issue with this, the man in green tweed nods. His shoulders tense just a bit- likely in confused apprehension, the man in red silk decides- but he does not make any more objections.

“My name is Fawkes,” says the water dweller. He uncrosses his fingers to gesture to the striking-eyed individual next to him. “This is my associate, Wrathkin. We’re both very grateful to be here today- aren’t we, Wrathkin?”

Looking directly at the man in red silk, the corners of Wrathkin’s lips quirk upwards. “Mm,” they confirm.

The skin on the man in red silk’s neck prickles.

Not missing a beat, Fawkes returns to the man in green tweed. “Is there something we can call you and your partner?” he asks.

A polite question, but still not an ideal one. The man in green tweed can’t help but chew on his cheek as he thinks it over. “I haven’t the time to be clever.” He extends a hand forward. “Mr. Green,” he declares.

After shaking hands with both Fawkes and Wrathkin, he turns to the man next to him, expectant. The man in red silk stares back, stubborn. Names are an important thing in business, and he’s not exactly excited to be giving himself one on such short notice. Once given, a name can never be taken back. After an extended moment of awkward silence, he finally relents. “Mr. Red,” he says. He can practically feel Mr. Green’s sigh of relief when he also offers his hand for Fawkes and Wrathkin to shake.

“Now,” says Fawkes, bringing his slender fingers back in front of him, “we’ve brought our end to the table. What have you brought?”

“Right.” Mr. Green reaches into his tweed jacket, pulling out a small, jewel-encrusted brooch. “An original creation of the Madame Wizard Antoine herself,” he explains. The moment the pin is in his hands, his chest puffs out by a marginal yet undeniable amount. “The gems are actually condensed from heartshards, making it an invaluable weapon against-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish before the sound of Wrathkin’s crooning chuckle interrupts him. He pauses, blinking. Wrathkin shakes their head, still smiling. “Sorry, Mr. Green, I didn’t mean to stop you there.”

“I take it that the personal creation of one of the most prominent magicians in European history isn’t a good enough offer for you?” says Mr. Red, allowing a hint of bitterness to seep into his tone.

Wrathkin, still not showing an ounce of shame, simply crosses their arms and leans back into their seat. “It’s just exactly what someone from your institution would offer,” they say, “that’s all.” They look to Fawkes, who is still wearing the same serene smile as when he first walked in. “Something old and covered in dust, you know?”

Mr. Red can’t tell exactly why this comment makes him feel so defensive, but it certainly puts a stone in his stomach. He considers letting this pretty-faced batcaver know just to what extent he and his partner went to in order to get them this particular artifact, let alone the hours of sleep lost in preparation for this meeting. Fortunately, Mr. Green steps in right on time. “This isn’t the only thing we’ve brought with us,” he interjects. “Finding something of equal value to your item was… difficult, to say the least, so we’re prepared to put more on the table- within reason.”

Elsewhere in the restaurant, a child begs his father for one of the pastries in the glass cabinet up front. He holds his clasped hands up to his heart in a prayer-like gesture, promising to do all his chores in exchange. The father, a gruff-looking man in a hat and scarf, continues to pay for their meal at the register without once acknowledging his son’s requests.

“We appreciate that you’re willing to be flexible in your offer,” Fawkes chimes in. “Unfortunately, my associate and I were hoping for something a little less… physical.” He flourishes his wrists outwards for emphasis.

Less physical? What the hell is this guy on about? Mr. Red takes a calming sip from his drink while he lets Mr. Green contemplate his response. The silver-stained air around them pulses quietly, its shielding properties unweakened after several minutes of use. Basic glamours aren’t exactly difficult to learn, but for someone such as Fawkes to pull off something of this scale for so long is as impressive as it is unsettling. Considering Ars Academia did not allow those afflicted with a monstrous curse to study within the University walls, how was it possible for a water dweller to perform magic with this sort of skill?

One small, nervous sniff from Mr. Green brings Mr. Red back from his internal sojourn. “You’re right about us willing to be flexible,” he says before quickly itching at his nose with the knuckle of his pointer finger. “If there’s something you have in mind, I’d be grateful to know what it is.”

A sly grin spreads across Wrathkin’s face, not at all unlike that of a fox who’s spotted a wounded rabbit. Fawkes, on the other hand, remains pleasantly unreadable. “Very glad you asked,” he tells Mr. Green. “We were hoping we might be able to talk you into trading us some information that is rather pertinent to our agency’s current business.” His eyes flick over to Mr. Red before he continues. “That, and a small favour.”

Red and Green trade looks. “A favour?” asks Mr. Green. His eyes shift to the box on the table.

Wrathkin nods. “Are you familiar with Dr. Gabriel Weston?”