The castle of Tempesthurst Wood slumped upon its foundations, its great stones like sleeping giants resting their misshapen heads upon the shoulders of their compatriots. There was an odd majesty to its hapless walls that defied all appearances. Constructed with bewitched stones and sacred geometry, the fortress had stood for more than a thousand years, and would for thousands more. But it was not the manmade structure that demanded reverence from visitors or conjured the undeniable awe within them as they first entered the shadow of its valley. Forty millennia ago, this crook formed by the meeting of three hills and two streams had been the grave of mammoths who, it was said, worshiped their own primordial god here. Very many years later, their bones would be worked into crude temples by the druids from whom they had inherited their Order. For longer than mankind had worked fields, Tempesthurst had called to those who were seeking, to the curious, the wise, and above all, the ambitious.
As befitted her destination, her bustier dress was a timeless, strapless, black number made bespoke for her elegant figure. Her car was a borrowed Aston Martin, one of four remaining in this model, and her driver was the daughter of its owner. It was only right to arrive at Tempesthurst in gifted transportation. The Thorn Pact was an organization for the freedom of its members to behave how they saw fit, bound only by the few laws and principles they set for themselves. What could represent freedom better than a luxury car she had no responsibility for and a pretty girl in a too-tight tuxedo that did anything she asked?
"Wow," said Mary breathlessly as the castle emerged from the ancient woods surrounding it. "It's stunning, isn't it? Like a fairy tale."
"And I thought you didn't care for castles, my dear," said Genevieve in a smug and refined Parisian accent. "If you've seen one, no?"
Mary pouted and stammered an excuse, unaccustomed to even the mildest of teasing. The heiress had been betrayed by her upbringing; her parents' desire to coddle and control her had produced in the woman of twenty a girl so na?ve that she was as functionally helpless at navigating the world as a newborn calf. Genevieve viewed their relationship in that light as a cruel necessity. The girl needed a firm hand to keep her from walking blindly into the arms of a devil, and it was better that it be her than a man who sought only a slave.
Genevieve sighed as Mary drove past the entrance of the castle and parked alongside the other dozen or so luxury vehicles on the grass. "A chauffeur is meant to drop her passenger off, Mary. I'm wearing heels, ma chérie. Certainly, you have observed this before? You have had your own driver in the past, have you not?"
"Oh, yes, sorry, Genevieve," said Mary, turning as pink as her lipstick. It wasn't that the girl was stupid; on the contrary, she had excelled in academia. Mary had passed five A-levels in subjects her parents had selected for her, and another in Dance, her sole curricular request. She simply struggled with all forms of independent thought.
Genevieve put her hand on the gear level, preventing Mary from shifting out of park. She was certain that if the girl were to attempt reversing out in her low panic, she'd damage the car and multiple others on the way out.
"It's alright, Mary. I will make do," she said in a casual tone, checking her make-up in the sunshade mirror. "It is no great trouble to go barefoot for a dozen meters. We may settle for a light punishment, don't you think?"
Her chauffeur gulped, simultaneously in shambles at the thought of her mistake and salivating for a chance to atone for it. "Whatever you feel is appropriate, Genevieve. I brought your, erm, tools in my purse."
"Good," she said, maintaining a bored tone, not bothering to glance at the petite blond as she reapplied her metallic silver lipstick. The color worked wonders beneath her dark blue eyes. "The clamps will not be necessary. Handcuff yourself around the steering column, and set your vibrator to four. Ah, and gag yourself and strip; I don't want you embarrassing me with drool stains on your jacket, nor will I force your animal moans on your peers. I do hope that even you can figure out the order in which to do those, Marigold. If I come back and you are still dressed and in handcuffs, it will be several weeks until your next climax."
Mary's eyes flicked to where another chauffeur had exited his car and had lit himself a cigarette not three meters from them and in full view of the driver's side window. Her legs squeezed tightly as a shiver ripped through and her breath quickened as images of her imminent humiliation assaulted her brain. "Yes, mistress."
"What do you say?"
"Thank you, Genevieve." She shivered again at the words, though this time she had only eyes for her mistress, nothing short of absolute adoration shining through.
"Good girl."
Genevieve Lyon, born Davis House, exited the car gracefully, looking like a painting in motion, or a goddess blessing this world in her passing. She savored the feeling of grass beneath her feet, knowing that more than a hundred generations of talented mages had walked this very path before her. Her dress was short, and the late summer, early autumnal English air was cold against her exposed flesh. She reveled in the sensations, each chill breeze against her pale, flawless, feminine body a reminder of this gift she'd lucked into, and her every step through the damp earth another one closer to powers beyond belief. Everything she'd ever dreamed of and more had come to her.
Everything save one or two things, depending on how she categorized them, but those would come soon, she told herself. The Patch Notes confirmed that everyone had survived the week, and that their years of gaming together had not been wasted. Her friends would live until they could be reunited again; she had to believe that. And more—well, maybe not more importantly, but as importantly in a different, more desperate way, Alan had won the Popularity Poll, which meant that he would be strong and capable when she arrived at Black Harbor in just two weeks. Of that, she did not need to believe; she knew it with the same certainty that she knew her own name. Alan never let her down. He was a rock upon which you could build your life, her Alan.
Tempesthurst Castle had expanded since its origins in prehistory into the hills around it, its simple design and stuccoed stone meeting the dirt of the English countryside on three sides, acting as retaining walls against the great, mossy slopes. Gnarled trees, untouched by the ravages of age and kept alive by the hobbies of various members of their Order, grew tall and hung low over the structure, their branches swallowing some towers whole and becoming one with the climbing vines. It was an apt place for the Order of the Red Rose to meet. The castle was old and poorly maintained, but impressive, nonetheless. Nor did it need their care. More enterprising and long-deceased predecessors had done all the hard work of securing the fortress against time and enemy action for them. Rare scenarios might arise that required collaborative effort to solve, but outside of those, the Order was safe resting upon its laurels.
At least, that was the general prevailing attitude among the members. Genevieve had the genre knowledge to know the Producers would not have sent her here were that indeed the case.
The enormous wooden gates through the outer walls had been opened in preparation for the arrival of the Order, and sounds of very British merry-making could be heard drifting through. They chortled in England once the booze came out. Before that, they were more likely to chuff, chuckle, or snort than outright belly laugh. She couldn't rightly say which she preferred.
As she entered the courtyard, hors d'oeuvres were being served by castle staff, a perpetually confused and magically befuddled lot drawn from nearby villages. Good food and drink were fundamental to combating the all-consuming indolence that infected the modern Thorn Pact. Already as it was, they could not entice more than a fraction of their total membership to come to these meetings; were it not for the deviled eggs and artisan ciders, she doubted she'd see even a quarter of those that did.
Vera Galton, the Marchioness of Dorset, pulled up her skirt and swept across the courtyard towards her and out of the conversation she'd been trapped in. "Genevieve, darling, you've arrived at last!" exclaimed the plump grand dame. Leaning up to exchange cheek kisses, she added in a lower voice, "My eternal gratitude, love. You've rescued me from that bore, Viscount Rochford. If I had to hear him prattle on about the theoretical applications of Pluto for a second more, I would have slit my own throat. Who uses Pluto for their workings? It's absurd. The man does one clever bit of blood magic with mosquitoes and thinks he's a genius in every field for the rest of his life. Oh, I love your hair. You should curl it more often."
Genevieve laughed and tossed her black mane proudly; she'd had it made into a witchy tangle for the meeting, knowing how much the older woman would appreciate the gesture. Vera was her sponsor for the Pact, a bold proclamation of friendship by any measure; had the Rose declared Genevieve treacherous in her intentions to join, it would have been the death of them both.
"Thank you, Vera, but it will be straightened again for work soon enough." She had skipped New York Fashion Week to continue her plots in London, but there was always a job when you had the face of Genevieve Lyon.
"Ah, say no more. The burden of being absurdly beautiful, I know it too well from my youth."
"But you know it still, surely!"
The old woman preened, gasping with delight. She rested her chin on the back of her hand and batted her eyebrows. "Oh, it's true, darling! You know me too well; I was simply being humble."
Vera hid a girlish giggle behind her hand. Magic had preserved her well, but it had not halted the signs of age. At ninety-nine, the elder mage was full of vigor, and her mind was as sharp as it had been at Genevieve's relatively tender age of thirty-four, but still, her cheeks sagged with wrinkles, her skin was spotted and thin, and her spine had stooped her many centimeters short of her theoretical max of 150. They were not martial artists, and magic was not Qi. Vera had chosen not to risk madness seeking eternal youth and had instead spent her many years pursuing her hobbies and niche interests, something Genevieve thought the world of her for.
Both Genevieve and Vera were contractors for French Intelligence, the origin of their partnership. DGSE put them in touch after Genevieve expressed to her handlers a desire to broaden her mystical pursuits; she had been feeling limited at the time by the demands of her Goddesses. Theirs was a natural partnership – Genevieve, a Petitioner of the Hesperides, nymphs of the evening, and Vera, a wizard whose powers relied on the movements of astrological bodies, had much to offer each other. But in the ensuing years since their first meeting, the relationship had grown into something so much more than professional. It felt to her that anytime she saw the grand dame beam that easy smile up at her, they were destined friends, tied together through the cycles of reincarnation. She knew that Vera viewed her as a proxy granddaughter, and Genevieve had no trouble admitting that she much preferred the English woman to her sole living grandmother, who could not go a full meal without spitting vitriol over perceived slights.
It was hard to believe that such a profound friendship had come from a last-minute decision to spend her remaining Starting Experience on a mentor. Had it not been for Nasim's advice, she may have found herself in England with only her wits for true company. "Mentors are always the most busted option," he'd said. "If I wasn't going for the solo operator build, I'd have bought five."
"Should we go over my information prior to the meeting proper, Vera?" she asked professionally. She could guess at the woman's response, but for her own sake, Genevieve liked to be thorough. They had Lord Watt's assistance guaranteed for their mission, but the cover-up would involve a few others, and she wanted everything in place before tomorrow.
As expected, her friend immediately waved her off. "I have all faith in your abilities, dear, no need. Now, come, I've been dying to show you this." She pulled a gilded monocle from her purse and held it up proudly. "Behold, the Globe Monocle! I made it in order to view an original Shakespeare at its eponymous stage, but the changes to the Gregorian calendar threw everything off. Regardless, the enchantment works all the same, even if the numbers are off by a few decades, and we're lucky enough tonight that our meeting overlaps with the past. Look!"
Genevieve took the proffered monocle gingerly, noting the delicate, golden sigils that encircled the glass. As she lifted it to her eye, however, Vera stopped her.
"Wait, first point it at the Roses!"
She did so and furrowed her brow in confusion. At the center of the courtyard grew the holy hedge upon which their covenant to one another was made, a single bush of ever-flowering white roses that grew over three meters high and spanned twice that in width. This plant and its Pact-making thorns were what they had truly inherited from the ancient druids, not the castle or its location. A cutting of the sacred white roses had been passed from one mage to another over countless thousands of years, going back into time immemorial, until one had finally found root in this glen.
"It looks…the same, no? Slightly different position of branches and flowers, but otherwise identical."
"Yes," whispered Vera reverently, "it is virtually unchanged. Marvelous, isn't it, almost beggars belief to see it in person. We are bound through the hedge to a legacy grander than the mortal mind can even conjure."
"I don't understand. What am I looking at, Vera?"
"My girl, remember why I created the Globe Monocle! You are viewing precisely five hundred and sixteen years into the past!" Genevieve paused to consider that. "No! Don't do the calculation on when Shakespeare was alive, focus on the Monocle!"
She smiled, unsurprised that her mentor had guessed what she'd been thinking. "I do not think the calendar's changes account for the discrepancy, ma chérie."
Vera giggled. "There may have been additional errors in my maths. Pan the monocle to the right, though. Look how many more people used to attend the meetings."
Indeed, where there were but a handful of small groups conversing over cider and brandy in the present day, there were long tables full of their Order in the monocle. Turks with turbans thrice the size of their skulls, tall Scotts with glowing blue tattoos, and pale women with skin shining of their own light were all seated side by side with knights and nobles, and all, of course, carousing over cider and brandy. Some things were immortal.
"Look how many more Occam's there were then," said Vera. "I do wish they would get out more these days; I haven't seen Edna in twelve years. You'd recognize them in the monocle if you'd met more of their living relatives, they look remarkably similar." She leaned up and whispered, "A devout dedication to inbreeding."
Genevieve panned the monocle to the left and nearly jumped as an elephant appeared in her view only an arm's length from where they were standing. Vera began chortling at once, knowing precisely what had happened. The elephant was bedecked in shining, many-colored armor and wreaths of flowers, and for a moment, she would have sworn that one of its wise eyes turned to look at her through time and space.
"Brilliant, isn't he? I have no idea why there was an elephant at the meeting, but I must say, it's a tradition we should consider bringing back. I adore the beasts. Did you know that they mourn their dead for days? And did you see? It can feel our gaze through time!"
Indeed, the elephant's huge eye flicked back to her own, and Genevieve realized with a start that she hadn't been imagining it; the creature truly was looking directly at her from across a distance of over five hundred years!
"Incredible," she said, awed once more by the magic of this universe. Genevieve could live to ten thousand and never grow tired of pursuing the mystic arts.
"A Ganeshi visitor, I assume," rumbled a deep voice from behind them. "From back when our Order could entertain guests without appearing decrepit and dull."
Genevieve turned to see the imperious form of Lord Kian Watt towering over her in one of his usual, understated three-piece suits. "My goodness, Lord Watt! You are quiet for a man of your size."
He bowed, a gentleman through and through. "Ms. Lyon. Lady Galton. Forgive me; I did not mean to sneak up. May I?" he asked, extending his hand for the monocle.
She acquiesced, and he lifted it to his face. The device seemed comical in comparison to the massive man; Lord Watt's hands were meant to wield weapons, and his eyes were meant to peer through the scopes of rifles, not delicate golden monocles.
"Ah, yes, Prince Varakunarama, a Champion of Holy Ganesh. Later felled by the venom of a Naga alongside one of my relatives, if I recall our family records correctly. A property dispute gone wrong – some things never change, I suppose. One of my ancestors was rescued by a Ganeshi Petitioner some thousand six hundred years ago, and we have since honored our debt in whatever way we can." He passed the monocle back to her and bowed his head to her mentor. "A wonderful creation, Vera, though it does pain me to see how far we have fallen since those days. I would know only shame were I to bring a Champion of Ganesh to Tempesthurst as it stands now."
Vera shrugged off his critiques. "These things are cyclical, Kian. Glory comes and goes with the tide. Take pride in the peace our families have built together."
"Peace, is it? I wonder." He turned his hard grey eyes to her, and she felt her heart quicken. If Lord Watt were not so famously possessive of his women then Genevieve may have been tempted to give him a spin. He was undeniably attractive despite his age and weathered appearance. But both the system and her profession necessitated her taking multiple lovers, something she knew the Petitioner of Cernunnos would not tolerate. "Is that the case, Ms. Lyon? Are we in peacetime? What was the result of your investigation into the Kerr scion?"
"It was as you suspected, Lord Watt, and worse. I uncovered direct evidence of the binding of Night Gaunts and found references to Vile Dominion and the creation of Flying Ointment. Daggett Kerr can only mean to secede from his family tradition of taking the Thorn Pact. He has enthusiastically engaged in dark magic since his days in boarding school and has been entertaining cultists at his family manor since the death of his father. Tomorrow, in fact, he intends to meet with worshipers of a Marid, I believe to purchase or trade for their method of enslaving servants."
Watt's eyebrow rose, not at the news but at the quality and quantity of it. It had been only five days since he'd asked her to investigate Daggett Kerr's reticence to take the Covenant of the Rose as his ancestors had for more than nine centuries. "Then it is as I suspected, a grave finale to a once noble family. Many of the works and relics in the Kerr's Manor were the result of collaborative effort; were they to be unraveled by outsiders…"
Vera patted the giant on his elbow reassuringly. "Never you worry, Kian. Genevieve and I have already arranged a solution to the problem. She's secured an invitation for tomorrow's celebrations, and I am finally getting a chance to do something I've dreamed of for years. We'll need you to circumvent the Kerr's hedge maze, and the Holt's connections to prevent mortal coverage of the clean-up effort, but the core of the plan is in place. Not that I'd turn down further assistance, of course."
A dark cloud passed over Watt's face. "I would be delighted to make an appearance to pass final judgment. Daggett's father was a friend."
Vera purred, a wicked gleam in her eye. "That may be, dear, but I assure you, you will want to be very, very far away from Kerr Manor. Unlike you, I have despised the Kerrs since I first had the displeasure of meeting Lydia Kerr at a Christmas Party during the war, the busy-body bitch. As I said, I've dreamed of this. But this is business best discussed inside. Shall we?"
Vera led the trio to the white rose bush at the center of the courtyard and took a small pruning knife from her purse, cutting each of them a flower in early bloom, just as it had begun to open. As tradition demanded, she was first to demonstrate her loyalty to the Order, grabbing the thorny stem of her rose hard enough to break skin. Akin to Gugnir and the Rings of the Fairy Queens, the rose hedge could work on promises made in blood, such as the covenant every member entered into upon their joining. They would work no spells upon each other without permission; they would not take the life of a fellow member; they would not steal from a fellow member; and they would forbid themselves from any magic that risked the destruction of their souls. It was this very basic ritual and agreement that Daggett Kerr had been avoiding since coming to his maturity. That last promise and the minuscule amount of restrictions it put on his potential sorcery had been deemed unacceptable by his spoiled, boyish mind.
Droplets of blood traveled up through Vera's tight grasp as the magic of the bush began to pass its judgment. There was no fooling the plant; you could no more lie or disguise your intentions to break your oath as you could stop the sun from rising and setting. As the blood touched the white petals, the flower bloomed fully and changed to crimson. Had it turned black, it would have meant that Vera had broken one of the four promises, ashen grey would have meant that she intended to, and had it turned red but retracted to a bud, it would have meant that she was possessed or otherwise ensorcelled by mind-affecting enchantments. The magic was simple, but when employed correctly, it could serve as the unshakeable foundation for empire.
Watt and Genevieve followed along, all three carrying their now bright red rose into the castle proper, adjourning from the party to plot and scheme as only mages could. Seeing them enter the dim, vaulted halls of Castle Tempesthurst sparked curiosity in their peers, and soon enough, their motley Order was assembled within.
The sight of Mary handcuffed, gagged, and in only panties and bra caught her by surprise when she returned to the car an hour and a half later. She had, in her scheming, forgotten that she commanded the girl to punish herself.
Mary looked a mix of embarrassed and thrilled to see her mistress, as well as proud of herself. Genevieve undid the ball gag and cuffs, and turned her wireless vibrator to its lowest setting, freely unlocking the girl's phone to do so. It was in moments like these that, despite the fact that Marigold Travers was twenty and consented to everything they did, Genevieve became acutely aware that some might call their relationship inappropriate.
Out of universe, Mary was the result of their group not realizing you could, and were expected to, invest more than the minimum Starting Experience in your Sidekick. The process of character creation was so arcane that by the time Genevieve had realized she'd bought a completely untrained assistant, it had been too late to fix. She had taken the Sidekick option early on in making Genevieve, imagining her as a sort of Gal Friday for the super spy, and couldn't be bothered to go back and retally her spent Experience to improve her. It turned out that while a base Sidekick had a lot of potential, that was all they had.
In universe, Mary, by virtue of an overly sheltered childhood, was the emotional and intellectual equivalent of a clay carving block. However, ignoring meta-history and uncomfortable questions about free will, she would argue that what she was doing to Mary was the best-case scenario for the heiress. Genevieve had the Master Feat Groomed to Excellence, and thus the girl was quite literally being sexually tormented into superhuman abilities. She gained Experience for edging, engaging in kinks for the first time, gaining new kinks, and crossing taboos, much like Genevieve herself did. They were in it together. She might have felt guilty all the same, but the Feat had been earned and upgraded via Quest Rewards – what was she going to do, not use it? What good would that do for anyone?
"I didn't come once!" said Mary excitedly.
She stroked the girl's blond locks and returned her smile. "Good girl. I am very proud of you." She grinned approvingly at the sound of the girl's happy moan. "Now, you may get dressed. Or, if you'd like, you may drive us back as you are, in which case I will allow you as many orgasms as you'd like tonight."
"Like this?" squeaked the girl, looking down at her nearly naked form, drool-slick breasts glistening by the light of the moon peeking through the clouds. She could not bring herself to verbally answer, but nodded and shifted to reverse.
Mary drove them back to her home, or rather her parents', dry-mouthed and red-faced all the way. Her father, Roderick Travers, had hired his baby girl's favorite ballerina out of semi-retirement to act as a mentor and coach for her. He knew better than most that success was not accomplished via talent and effort, but by who you knew and how you knew them. Mary had done well enough in dance and design but was by no means a prodigy or serious talent. She would have languished in poverty had she tried to make it in either of her dream professions by herself, but by the connections that Genevieve could offer his daughter, Mary might find a position in the Royal Ballet or a Paris Fashion House regardless. He'd even gone so far as to put up Genevieve in a guest house on their family estate, and regularly paid for shopping trips and other luxury expenses, showering her in everything and anything he could to keep his bumbling child in the model's good graces.
The Travers estate had been a place of quiet, reserved sin prior to her arrival. Roderick was cheating on his wife, who was in turn cheating on her husband, and their daughter, while a blushing virgin, was addicted to hardcore pornography. Genevieve was by now sleeping with all three members of the family, though only Mary was aware of her dalliances with the others. It had been for the Experience at first, and then simply because she enjoyed sex, but once she gained an appreciation for the full scope of her abilities as a Player Character, it developed a grander purpose.
Genevieve would rescue this family from the hentai Bad Ends that Fate had set out for them. She wasn't entirely sure how yet, but she was certain that she could manage it. All she had to do was play the game as it was meant to be played. By using sex and perversion, she would shape this world to her desires without trouble from Fate, the Producers, and whatever other ephemeral powers that be. She wasn't a fool; she knew she couldn't find them an innocent fairy tale ending, but she had no doubt that a hentai Bad End could be replaced with a hentai Good End. At the very least, she could get Mr. and Mrs. Travers to agree that a consensually non-monogamous relationship was better than one in which they betrayed each other and their vows daily.
Dice willing, Cici and Ted would come to a similar agreement. Though, she was rather on Cici's side in that relationship than Ted's, no matter how it played out. Genevieve could remember well the look of heartbreak on the woman's face when she confided that she'd lost all hope of Ted moving them to Thailand as he'd promised. Their marriage had been over that day, even if neither admitted it to themselves. Only social momentum and the fear of being alone held it together for years after – something she'd thought was tragic once.
No longer, though, now she had hope. Cici and Ted's decision to forgo a divorce and settle into lives of quiet misery had delivered them into this game, and this strange world of contradictions, both grim and beautiful at the same time. They had been living a Bad End, but now they had a second chance at life. Cici, as Erina, had the confidence she so desperately needed in her past life, and Ted, as…Antonio D'Antonio? She wasn't quite sure; he'd been dark since day one – regardless, Ted had been forced to rip the band-aid off his crippling fear of change. Genevieve could now see a path forward for the couple where there had been none before.
Maybe she was being as na?ve as Mary in her hopes for her friends, but Alan had once said something that had stuck with her: "I'd rather live life hopeful only to be momentarily disappointed, than to be constantly assuming the worst. Cynicism is exhausting." He had said that during D&D while arguing with Nasim, and it wasn't meant to be profound, but it had stayed with her all the same.
She made Mary tend to her like a handmaiden and masseuse in the bath before finally rewarding her with a climax at the ends of her talented fingers. The girl passed out, as she often did after hours of edging, but with Genevieve's 7 Dice in Strength, she was easy enough to carry to bed.
Once alone, Genevieve allowed herself her favorite narcissistic treat; she sat cross-legged and naked in front of a mirror and daydreamed while admiring the view. This week had been a hellish whirlwind of stress and intrigue. London was a city-sized tangle of conspiracies, and it had been her job to pull on a single thread and follow it to its conclusion without getting wrapped up in something beyond her control. Her goal was to be out of England and into Black Harbor as soon as possible, something she had to remind herself of often when stalking in and out of the city's dismal, cult-infested Underworld. The best way to arrive in New Jersey was to come with the full force of the Thorn Pact behind her, and the best way to do that was to elevate Lord Watt's position within the Order so that the glory-hound could finally get his long-desired expansion into America.
It had been exhausting to walk the narrow path of investigating Daggett Kerr's dealings with inhuman monsters and dark wizards without making any new and exciting enemies. But the Dice had been benevolent, and with equal parts sluttery and cunning, Genevieve had done it. Last week, the Order of the Red Rose had been barely more than a Lion's Club, and the idea of it actively expanding anywhere was absurd, let alone to the notoriously fast-paced American Northeast. They had not, as a group, done anything of note for over two hundred years. But the threat of Kerr selling off knowledge and great works that had been created in part by the same predecessors responsible for many of their ancient defenses was too serious to ignore. Upon seeing evidence of Daggett's betrayal, everyone present insisted on participating in his total destruction. He had, by being a short-sighted, impulsive boy, united the once mighty secret society after centuries of apathy and disinterest.
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After tomorrow, except for a brief photoshoot on Sunday, she'd be taking some serious time to herself to recuperate. Genevieve had lost track of how many times it had come down to the wire, one bad roll away from total catastrophe; she'd fucked, sucked, and fought for her life until she'd earned enough Experience that she could barely be described as human anymore.
So, just what the hell had Alan been up to that he had taken first in the Popularity Poll? She had to admit, no disrespect to the man, but when she saw that he had both failed to find her after following hundreds of ballerinas and that he'd left his DMs closed, Genevieve had not expected that he'd be beating her for both Experience and Popularity a week later.
Forgetting to open his DMs was a very Alan mistake to make, as was forgetting the names of characters and their backstories. He had never been one for social media, and he argued vociferously that it was more 'efficient' for him to wait a few sessions to get their character details down. Her socials were mostly in French, and she hadn't been a full-time ballerina for almost a decade; he'd completely missed her in his net. Not that his plan failed entirely - she ended up hearing about the beautiful and talented James Li through some of her younger colleagues while they were gushing over his thirst traps. She giggled at the thought of her dearest and silliest friend doing his best Inspector Clouseau meets Jackie Chan in a strange, hentai horror world. It was extremely Alan to accidentally end up with a cult following of some of the most psychologically fragile and obsessive women on the planet. She couldn't wait to see his face when he realized what he'd done.
Oh Goddesses, there she went again, smiling, giggling, at the thought of Alan. It was unbecoming of a thirty-four-year-old woman to have a crush on her friend of fifteen years. She was, yes, going to finally ask him out, as she'd wanted to do for as long as she'd known she was bisexual. Genevieve had both the courage and emotional maturity to risk failure now and the social skills required to ensure that it wouldn't endanger their friendship. But this teenage giddiness he inspired in her since she'd seen his new body had to stop. A dangerous and deadly femme fatale could not be seen twirling her hair in bed while thinking about a boy.
She laughed. While thinking about her man, she amended. Alan had never been a boy; he'd been far too serious, even about the pettiest and silliest things since he was young. Before his superpowers and new, bombastic second half in James Li, the man had long been quietly ridiculous in his own, charming way.
She remembered the day they met as fondly as she did her first moments in this life. It had been the first week of sophomore year on the quad. Genevieve was deep into rethinking her life and whether or not she wanted to do another year of college; she'd managed, against all odds, to not make a single friend, go to a single party, or even get invited to a club in her first two semesters. Freshman year had vanished in a grey haze of social anxiety and depression, and she'd been seriously wondering if the life of a cashier at a grocery store in her small New England hometown could possibly be sadder than sticking it out in her current pathetic condition.
"Hey, is there any chance you play Magic?" he'd said in an even but enthusiastic voice, his face a mask of utter Zen as he snapped her from her reverie.
The idea that someone might freely approach to socialize stunned her, and two feelings struck at once, paralyzing her where she sat. First, she thought, 'Is he asking me to hang out? I wish I could approach random strangers and do that.' And second, she thought, 'Do I tell him the very traumatic story about my mom's psycho boyfriend tearing up all my cards because he thought they were demonic? Would that scare him away?' The result was that she stared silently at him, mouth open, a vague look of fear on her face.
Alan had been unphased; he nodded and smiled as if she'd responded with something sensible. "Or would you be interested in learning to play?" he continued. "There's a pre-release at Mystra's Web, and I have enough store credit to pay for five people other than me. It's a good time for a few hours, and it's my favorite Magic format. Mystra's also kicks people out if they smell bad or harass others, so no downsides, really."
She managed to force herself to speak. "Okay."
Alan paused and then shook his head as if she'd slapped him. The veneer of monk-like acceptance faded. "What, really?"
"Yes?"
He let out a long breath, semi-collapsing in on himself, resting his hands on his knees. "Oh, god, finally. You're the twenty-second person I've approached, no lie. Twenty-two people, can you believe that? I mean, it's a popular game, you'd have thought—anyway. Don't get me wrong, it stopped being embarrassing and started being just funny after the tenth person, but still, holy shit. Okay," he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, "this plan is very much still a go. Don't worry; we'll have a lot more success in a group than I had solo; we're way more approachable. I'm Alan, by the way."
Somehow, her confusion took priority over her typical social anxiety, and she had no difficulty responding. "Davis. Sorry, what's the plan?"
"Oh, yes, sorry. You see," he leaned forward and gained this sly, ridiculous smile as though he'd just thought of a great joke, "I've had this fucking genius idea. Like I said, sealed Magic, what we'll be playing at the pre-release, is my favorite format, but since I've been here, I've lost to this one guy in town at every sealed event. Then, on the flight over for the new year, I thought," he tapped his temple, "Alan, you fool, there are more ways to win a match of Magic than there are stars in the sky. If I use all of my store credit and bring enough people to the pre-release that there are multiple pools, and then I get seated on a different table, I will have beaten Nasim without him ever having the chance to draw."
She wrinkled her brow and pointed out the obvious flaw. "What if you get put into the same pool anyway?"
"Aha! I'm so glad you asked! In that case, I will guilt Nasim into building a sloppier deck by pointing out that there are new players present." He smiled proudly and crossed his arms, absolutely thrilled with himself.
In a turn of events that had been unthinkable just minutes prior, she found herself smiling and excited. She couldn't help but root for this strange man and his terrible idea. "Meanwhile, you'll build a—"
"An absolute motherfucker of a deck, yes, of course. You might call it an ugly strategy, but it is a strategy, nonetheless. Anyway, we should get a move on if we're going to find another four people before the pre-release." Reading her look of terror at approaching strangers, he added, "Don't worry, I'll do all the talking, just look normal. But, honestly, man, once you flop three times, it really does start getting funny, so long as you're okay with laughing at yourself. Think about it this way, this is how I approach social fuck ups: you aren't humiliating yourself eating shit, you're just the Mr. Bean of the day. You're the face that Jackie Chan makes when he gets hurt in a movie – everyone loves that face. Every culture on Earth thinks that face he makes is funny."
Incredibly, Alan's absurd advice, coupled with the experience of, as he said, eating shit repeatedly while asking nearly everyone on the quad if they wanted to play Magic, had cracked through a mental block in her mind. It had been the realization of learning that she was okay with ten failed, somewhat awkward, conversations just for that one time where the person was genuinely receptive and happy to talk to them. Even if Alan hadn't continued texting and inviting her to hang out, and they hadn't become dear friends, she still would have pointed back to that day as, in a small way, life-changing.
Ten years later, at an EDH night at Nasim's apartment, Alan had the audacity to claim that he was an introvert. She'd looked at him as if he was mad. "The first day we met, you made us talk to thirty random people."
"Sure," he'd responded, waving her off. Alan, in his mind, as always, was the most reasonable man in existence, and everything he did could eventually be attributed to logic. "But I hated it the whole time. I just had a really, really great plan that required me to suck it up for a few hours."
Nasim's jaw dropped, and he launched back into the argument as though it had been a day and not a decade. "I still cannot believe you did that shit. You convinced me to make a simple, classic deck so that we didn't stomp the newbies, and then you built a white-blue control deck. You psychopath. What's wrong with you?"
"Hey, man, it worked, didn't it?"
"No! It did not work! You didn't beat me in Magic, you beat me by being a penny-ante villain from a kid's anime!"
"I mean, I literally beat you in Magic that pre-release."
"Heinous," said Nasim, shaking his head. "White-blue control with three new players at the table. You're a monster."
She would never mention it to Alan, knowing how it might worsen any guilt he had for getting them involved in this supposed play test, but in retrospect it made perfect sense that he'd caught the attention of SkinDimensional. Alan may have maintained his self-identity as a rational actor, but no one else in her life had so consistently gotten himself into minor antics. Genevieve knew precisely how the Producers and Audience felt; she had adored checking in on Alan's thoughts and happenings for years; it was practically one of her hobbies. Nothing was more exciting than when Alan began a conversation with, "This is going to sound crazy, but—"
That had been exactly how he'd brought up the email for a paid playtesting job. It was so strange to imagine the dominos that had led to that fateful day and her idealized body and superpowers. To think, if Alan's mother hadn't shown her five-year-old child the Pink Panther and Mr. Bean movies, and if he hadn't grown into the kind of man who continued approaching dozens of people in the face of mounting social humiliation, she never would have met him, and none of this would have happened.
Genevieve sent herself a wicked, self-assured smile in the mirror – now that was a look a femme fatale could be proud to wear while thinking about her man. Alan, as James Li, had made himself a great number of enemies, and she couldn't wait to set the record straight with them. He was hers – how dare they? Who did they think they were? She and Alan were Player Characters; there was an order to the universe that had to be respected. The same went for his harem; she was glad they were there taking care of him in her absence, and he was welcome to have them after she returned to him. She couldn't ask for monogamy while not being prepared to give it in return, but those girls would understand that he was hers first and foremost, just as her own flings would have to understand that she was his and would be forever.
Some small part of her still protested that it was wrong to make plans like this for Alan's heart, wrong for her to be planning on using her formidable Seduction and Charisma Feats on her oldest friend. But was it so wrong to love? She had become a demi-god, and as a demi-god she was supernaturally seductive and beautiful - those were as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Was she forbidden, then, to love with all of herself? It would only be wrong, she reasoned, if she meant to betray or hurt Alan, but on the contrary, she would be a wonderful girlfriend and a better wife to the man than any mortal or immortal on this Earth could hope to be. None of them could ever know him as she could, could love him as she could.
No, said a quiet voice in the back of her mind, you know this is wrong. You're as afraid as ever. You fear that he will reject you and are justifying the indefensible.
She pursed her lips and glared at her reflection. Genevieve was beginning to grow annoyed with that voice. The shy, terrified little American would have her cling to the morality of another reality in the face of all reason and context. How could she claim to love this man who had made her smile and laugh for fifteen years and not pursue him with all her power and cunning? Could the clever voice answer her that? Genevieve was a proud French patriot, and she would love her man as her French heritage demanded, with every ounce of her body and soul, and that was that. She would brook no arguments, not even from herself.
She shook her head and moved to her drafting desk. Tomorrow was an important mission; she should go over the plan and Vera's circle again to be safe.
The Kerr family manor house had never known any creature as ravishing as Genevieve Lyon. Even as it had fallen into sin in the hands of Daggett Kerr, and begun to host supernaturally appealing monsters and wicked warlocks with flesh-warped sex slaves, she stood above the rest in a category of her own.
Her hair had taken the radiant golden hue of the evening sun, the result of the Hesperides granting her a powerful blessing of protection against a single attack until the sun next sat. The only thing that covered her breasts was a long cashmere stole she wore around her shoulders, and all that she had for a skirt was two small rectangular pieces of silk strung together with silver chains. The young Daggett had been putty in her hands since she'd first arrived.
There were cultists here; the Marid worshipers had arrived in force, bringing with them a small circus of trained, scantily clad slaves. They were planning an elaborate demonstration of their zeal and talent for Kerr, but she had begged a moment alone with the man prior to the start of the celebrations, and they had seemingly believed her intentions to return him shortly.
The manor house was in ruin. Daggett, eighteen-years-old, and not naturally a charismatic or attractive boy, had been throwing raucous, drug-fueled hedonistic orgies in it for weeks. The smell of stale beer and sex was rank in the air, though at least for tonight, the visiting djinn worshipers' love of hashish and hookah somewhat obfuscated the scents. Family portraits had been desecrated, furniture lay broken in every room, and most of the staff that remained had harrowed looks. Daggett's lackeys, all aspiring hedge mages and warlocks, had been reassigned many of the managerial tasks in the running of his estate, and their chaotic incompetence showed. The food, for instance, had clearly been ordered from Nando's before being replated into the mansion's silverware.
Beth Holiday had volunteered at Tempesthurst a way to separate the still human staff from those that had been permanently ruined through Vile Dominion, the broad description for any spells that irrevocably destroyed a mortal psyche. She had, evidently, devised the method as a way for maintaining security within her own hundreds-strong retinue of servants. Genevieve was happy to note that it was working. As she led Daggett through the ballroom, she watched from the corner of her eyes as a number of mortal servants silently excused themselves for the exit. Several miles away, Holiday was blowing a psychically enhanced horn, sending a message that could only be heard by, as she described it, 'the healthy peasant class'. The order was simple but firm, 'Quietly leave this place without making a scene and travel in an orderly fashion as far as you can from it.' Once this was all done, the surviving servants would be crucial to the cover-up as witnesses who could attest that the Kerr residence had been completely empty this night.
In the cool and misty air of the grand patio outside the ballroom, Genevieve leaned close to the boy, pressing her naked breasts into his arms, and mewled in an exaggerated accent, "Ah, mon amour, I 'ave longed to see ze ritual center of your famous Kerr 'edge maze."
"Ho ho! Naturally, my dear. I regrettably have grown so used to the thing that I forget at times that we have it back there," he blustered. "Shall I take you there now, sweet thing?"
"Oui. Take," she said, lingering on the word, "me there now."
Daggett gulped and, casting an eye back at the festivities ongoing in the ballroom behind him, decided that he could afford to make the Marid cultists wait a little longer. They had already traveled from Cairo, surely thirty minutes more would not kill them.
The boy walked them through the maze as fast as he could while maintaining the appearance of class and dignity. Before the Kerr family ring on his finger, the dense, English Yew plants moved themselves out of their way as they cut a path to the center of the great ritual circle. The use of moving hedgerows for the rapid formation of large ritual circles was not uncommon, but most were a fraction of the size of this one. Directly underneath the center of the Kerr family hedge crossed two powerful ley lines; one, originating from the Peak District, was colored with the magic of the ancient stone formations there, and the other, coming from the Scottish moorlands, had a somber undertone of loamy death. Together, they had allowed the Kerr family and its ancient allies to grow and enchant an enormous, living ritual circle over a hundred meters in diameter that could be moved in minutes into designs of incredible complexity.
Daggett swung around and walked backward into the open-air theater at the center of the maze, arms spread wide and unearned pride shining through on his face. "Welcome to the great, green depression, my dear, as I termed it as a child. Over sixty Prime Ministers have had their memories read and modified at a distance from this place, wizards have scryed upon the Dreamlands safely here, and ancient nature spirits have been summoned and bound. I, however, have known it primarily as a prime picnic location," he said, with a self-effacing, chagrinned smile. "The ground in the middle is exceptionally soft, if you were wondering."
At the center of the clearing in the maze was a grassy circle, perfectly flat and level, that had been sunk low. Around it were equally mathematically perfect slopes on all sides, forming the seating for the outdoor theater, and on the cardinal directions in those hills had been placed natural stones where mages could stand and contribute to the workings done here.
Her gaze flicked to the grass stage at the center, where she was grateful to see a small bony object reflecting the starlight above. It was precisely where Lord Watt had promised it would be. Genevieve beamed and took Daggett's hand in hers as she began to chatter mindlessly in effusive French, just as ditzy and distractable as the young aristocrat believed women ought to be. She led him down the slopes onto the grassy circle, careful to keep herself between his line-of-sight and the charm left by her ally. With an ankle hooked behind his calf, she pushed him laughing onto his back where she wanted him. Falling to her knees beside him, she began to tug and tear at his clothing. Daggett tried to reach for her, to feel her divine skin underneath his soft, genteel hands, but she grabbed the offending limbs and redirected them to his belt and buttons. The boy took the hint and started to strip as fast as he could, lacking grace and finesse, and forgetting the basics, like the fact that he needed to undo his laces and shoes before he could rip his pants free.
She stood and backed up, begging him nonverbally with her expression to continue baring himself for her. Her delight was not faked, but it had nothing to do with Daggett's skinny-fat body or the sight of him driven mad with lust before her. The longest week of her life would be over soon, and her plans and desperate gambits would bear fruit. She'd be slipping into her bed tonight assured that she had done all that she could for her friends and the man she loved.
Genevieve allowed her stole to fall to the ground, dressed now only in her flat sandals, her fancy loincloth, and the twin earrings hidden within her golden mane. She took a deliberate half-step back and stretched her arms above her head, muttering an invocation in the exact cadence she had practiced with Lord Watt this morning. Beneath her heel was the bone charm he had left for her, a crude and wicked tool made in the approximate shape of a man bound by ropes. She ground the thing into the damp grass and directed her considerable willpower into the shape of her spell.
Daggett assumed her quiet words were French, a language he had coasted through six years of schooling in without learning more than a few words of, and his eyes saw only her breasts. Even as the grass began to roil and churn under him, he assumed no ill intent; in the boy's mind, he had won this beauty by virtue of his wealth and inherited power. It was the right of men like him to have women like her at their beck and call. When the grass grew into ropes that quickly tied his wrists and ankles together and pulled him painfully into the earth, Daggett thought only of kinky sex. Turnabout was fair play; he had done something similar to a girl from his class, tricking her into magical bondage on his bed before taking her virginity roughly. If anything, having the trick done to him only eased his fears that there was something broken and wrong with him, that he was the monster his late father accused him of being.
"A woman after my own heart," he said merrily, grinning with anticipation. "But you forget your place, darling. This is Daggett's Domain."
Daggett clenched his fist and commanded the plants to release him. Then, feeling nothing happen, looked up at his bound wrist in shock. His family ring was missing.
At his accusatory look, Genevieve held up the ring from where she had hidden it in her palm and slipped it onto her finger.
The boy cleared his throat and muttered a curse against fiery, French women; he was annoyed, but still, he thought that he was in for nothing more than erotic roleplay. "Very nice, girl, but you'll have to work to stay in my good graces now. I won't forgive the theft of my ring so easily."
She said nothing and pulled her brilliant blond hair back so that both simple, round earrings were visible to him. These had been gifts from Nitesh Singh, spares from a similar set that he had given his twin daughters when they'd gone away to college. Genevieve whispered a word in Sanskrit and then pinched down on both earrings, crushing the thin metal with ease and emitting the stored enchantments there. The man had told her one would be enough to calm an angered mother bear but insisted that she take and use both. Singh's grandfather had helped the Kerrs layer protective charms into the manor house's stained-glass transoms, and he was naturally anxious for the success of her mission.
The effect of the doubled calming spell was immediate on the Kerr scion. All signs of growing suspicion and hostility vanished as the earrings' enchantments struck his nervous system. He relaxed into his grass bindings, and his mouth fell open, a word of protest dying there to be replaced with a feeble moan. All the stiffness in the rest of his body traveled to his cock, which grew painfully erect. Nitesh Singh had devised the spell to counter any attempts to rape his daughters while also making sure that he didn't interfere in the young sorceresses' harvesting of seed from victims. He was a thoughtful father in that way; semen had too many uses in magic of all kinds for him to be prudish and overbearing.
Now that she knew Kerr couldn't interfere with the delicate craft, Genevieve turned her attention to the family ring on her hand and the vast hedge maze around her. She'd been dreading this part of their plan, but thankfully, the Hearse family had allowed her to practice on their much smaller hedge circle before she'd come to the party. Truly, the night's events would be the product of the Order of the Red Rose moving as one to smite their enemy. With any luck, it would spark a renewal in interest among the members in further, grand endeavors.
Holding the image of Vera's ritual circle in her mind, she commanded the hedges to reposition themselves. The elder astrologist never had the intention of employing this spell against her rival Lydia Kerr when she devised it and, therefore, had never triggered the Rose's judgment against her. However, she had hated the woman fiercely and had lived long enough to realize many of her whims on paper, if not in reality. Vera invented and then stored away the spell that would destroy Daggett Kerr decades prior, keeping it on the off chance that she could finally employ it without breaking her Covenant.
The hedges moved to their new places almost silently, sounding like nothing more than a breeze through the branches. Genevieve double, triple, and quadruple-checked that everything was how Vera had drawn it. For most spells, the size of the Kerr's ritual circle allowed for margins of error that would be deadly in a smaller setup, but this was no ordinary magic. Tonight, the Thorn Pact would work a spell that would ring out across the world and remind their peers that the Order was very much alive and worth taking seriously.
Good, everything was as it was meant to be. She opened her eyes and strutted back to the helpless Daggett, drooling and twitching on the ground. Grabbing his chin with her hand, she forced him to look at her and spoke, dropping her exaggerated accent, "Repeat: Per aspera—"
She waited, commanding him with her eyes. Eventually, the order made it through his fogged mind, and Daggett repeated, "Per aspera."
Genevieve continued through the rest of the chant, pausing with every few words so that her victim could follow along. Once Daggett could say the full line without mistakes, she dragged her hand down his naked body and grasped his erect cock, chanting in unison with him as she did.
Daggett sucked in a sharp breath, making her remove her hand. He looked at her with animal need, begging for her touch. Genevieve continued her chanting, and eventually, the boy understood her orders, joining her once more. As he did, she began to stroke his member, using all of her superhuman skill to take him quickly to the edge. Anytime the boy made a mistake, Genevieve lifted her palm, training him without a word to do as she wanted. Soon, even his befuddled mind could decipher what it needed to do, and the boy was chanting without error as she methodically worked his cock to climax.
Once the boy had successfully chanted the spell twelve times without error, and as he was about to finish his thirteenth, Genevieve pointed the penis to the side away from her and started pumping. She timed it perfectly, just as the last words were leaving Daggett's lips, he came, shooting his cum onto the grass of the ritual circle's stage. Every time his seed landed, the hedges around them shook their branches, as if they too were orgasming alongside him.
The grass bindings on Daggett's limbs started to writhe and pulse. He moaned, at first in ecstasy and then in pain and fear, as he continued to cum past the point of pleasure, shooting more and fatter ropes of seed with every second that went on. The roots of the hedge maze had tasted his lifeforce and were starving for more. They would not allow him to stop, not until they had drank their fill and fulfilled their contract with their new master.
Genevieve wiped the cum on her hand onto the grass beside her and sat back on her heels with a sigh of relief. She turned her face upwards to watch the stars, ignoring Daggett's hoarse, terrified shouts and cries with ease. There would be no running away now; not only had the maze closed its outer circle in preparation for the spell, but she could not possibly get far enough in the limited time she had. All she could do now was to place her faith in the Hesperides and the protection they had weaved upon her hair.
In the clear night above the rural English manor, a new star appeared. It was dim and otherwise unremarkable at first, notable only in the way that it did not twinkle as its peers did. After a minute of Daggett spilling his seed into the grass, though, it had grown brighter than any other star or planet naturally found in the sky. After two minutes, it could no longer be confused for a distant cosmic body, now a bright and rapidly growing fireball on a collision course with the ground.
Briefly, very briefly, the meteor eclipsed all other lights, bringing an unexpected dawn to the countryside, casting all the world in apocalyptic reds and yellows as it entered the Earth's atmosphere with the force and fury of a god.
The explosion flung her hundreds of meters away, and while the Hesperides had protected her from the blast, she was forced to take the Damage of the impact on her back as she fell back to Earth, pushing her past two Injury Thresholds and winding her badly as a section of ribs caved in.
Genevieve blew strands of her black hair off her face and frowned at the many pop-up Quest notifications that had appeared. They had killed Kerr and destroyed the manor, but it seemed she'd earned the attention of a great djinn, a lord of smoke and shadow, for the trouble. The Marid was displeased by the slaughter of its cult. Ah, well. C'est la vie. At least she'd won an interesting Feat from the mess.
She contemplated moving, but even the thought hurt. Instead, she settled in for a little stargazing; Watt would arrive shortly, she was sure, to carry her away. Alan once told her the Chinese believed that when you looked up at the moon and thought of a loved one, they, too, were gazing up and thinking of you. Exhaustion and pain clouded her vision, but even through the tear-fogged haze, the white of the celestial body was clear.
Genevieve smiled. "Soon," she promised. "Soon."
