Halcyon Halls

Who: Sasha, open (to anything/anybody else willing to brave it)
What: Fencing practice and malfunction
Where: Fencing gym/piste
When: Evening
Why: Practice makes perfect—but perfect isn’t real.

Sasha was always vaguely surprised as the size and quality of Halcyon’s fencing “gym”. First off it was a large, effective practice arena. Second, it was always religiously spotless and tidy. All in all, it wasn’t what one would expect from the typical school sports club.

Then again, what was typical about Halcyon?

She’d done the earliest of her warm-ups running with Dreizen. God knew Dizzy set a breakneck pace if she let him—and she sometimes did. That’d always been the “quantity” portion of her fencing regime; a good, solid run to flush life into each tendon and nerve, to get the sinews humming and loosen her pulse. Back indoors, Sasha shed her tracksuit, wiped down, and kitted out in her practice uniform: white jacket over a white tee, black pants instead of “knickers”, thin-soled shoes. No gloves, no mask. Not yet. The rest of her gear went neatly into its bag, the bag itself deposited unceremoniously at the corner of the gym. Dreizen parked next to the bag, and immediately proceeded to fall into a drowsy heap of doggy boredom.

She started with footwork.

I sing the body electric...

First, advances. Half advance. Shift weight forward, shift weight back. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat—finish. Switch to retreating. Repeat as before, only backwards. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat—finish.

She could feel her body really wake up, proprioreceptive sense kicking in to knit together muscle and memory. Words lit like beacons in her mind, orchestrating the exercise. Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?

Next, the lunge-jump back. Kostya had composed the exercise to emphasize strength and balance. Sasha lunged, then—from the lunge position—she jumped back, landing with both feet simultaneously. It was much easier this way instead of jumping from the traditional stretched out pose.

Advance-to-retreat, then advance-to-accelerated long advance. Reverse: retreat-to-advance, pause, retreat-to-jump back. She concentrated on making a balanced change of direction during the advance-retreats and retreat-advances. Lack of balance could, and usually would, ruin the execution. Worse, it robbed the fencer of control.

And control, Sasha understood, was everything.

And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

The doubles were next. Three strips of double advance-to-retreat and double advance-accelerated long advance, then a reversal. This time the bulk of her concentration went on accelerating explosively. Sasha worked on two tempo changes within the drill: a swift advance became even quicker on the next beat. The final movement was closer to a jump than an advance, though not a classic ballestra. Her back leg drove hard, almost as if in a lunge. With these sorts of doubles, acceleration was vital; to effectively sell the idea that you were going for a simultaneous or stealing time, you had to floor it—then retreat and parry with distance or blade. It’d taken a lot of patience, hers and Kostya’s, to smooth out both actions with the double advance, but the end result was a prizewinner.

She held the saber for a minute, then two, then three. It felt good in her hand, familiar and serious. Really, she could do this, she would do this, she would—

The shaking started. Only a tremor at first, a hiccup in her palm. Sasha tightened her grip instinctively, hoping to choke it. That was wrong; you never choked the blade. Not that it mattered either way, because a fistful of heartbeats later the trembling shivered from palm to thumb to fingertip.

No. No, Sasha wouldn’t allow this. Not again, no. I sing the body electric—

The saber clattered down to the floor like a silly child’s toy. Sasha slumped down against the wall beside it, her hand throbbing full of pins and needles. If she’d been anybody else—anyone except herself and one other—she would’ve cried. Or cursed. Or quit.

And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul...

But Sasha was Sasha, and control was everything.

Rising, she went back to footwork.

Who: Fisher and Sasha
What: Discovering ghostly secrets
Where: On the front lawn to begin with
WHen: Night, around 8pm


"See the phantoms filling the sky around you. They astound you, I can tell..."

Fisher stared in awestruck horror at the scene before him. It was Friday night, which meant on Palatine Hill the Mundus stone was now open for business. Having seen ghosts all his life, and really having been like a lightning rod to them, Fisher had absolutely no desire to go out into town where there were sure to be plenty. However, morbid curiousity had led him out onto the front steps of the school in the hopes that, while safe from their reach, he could see if maybe Hades had indeed spewed forth its inhabitants. He was not at all prepared for the sheer multitude of spirits he saw now.

They floated along ther streets in crowds, like one might expect at a holiday parade. Some spoke, some screamed, some simply wandered. But there were just so many. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes wide. Before he could register his actions, his feet began to carry him down the dry lawn, closer to the edge of the safety boundary. The world almost glowed from the ghosts, the way the night is lit up by fallen snow in moonlight. He could hear voices talking about everything and nothing. It seemed to be filling his head.

No, wait. One of the voices was in his head. "Come here," it told him. Fisher's head snapped around, trying to find out where it was coming from. "Do you dress in black to mourn the dead?" This was starting to get freaky. Fisher had seen plenty of strange things in his life, but no one had ever entered his head before. Walking faster toward the edge of the school's property line, he tried to determine who was talking to him. The most important things to figure out: Were they alive or dead?

Finally, he spotted a man who was staring intently at him. He was a European man, most likely Spanish, or maybe Italian. Dark hair, dark skin, bold eyes. He looked to be in his 30s and very severe. Most noticeable about him, though, was the angry raw hole in his throat. Most ghosts, no matter how they died, will revert back to the way they remember themselves looking. But some, especially those with a grudge, never let go of their deaths. This seemed to be a case of extreme grudge-holding.

Fisher walked up to the man, though not close enough to cross that invisible safety line. The dead couldn't hurt him, but he wanted to be able to run away if he needed to. "Hello?" Fisher asked, feeling like an idiot. The man didn't speak (didn't seem like he could), but that strange voice popped into Fisher's head again. "What on Earth do you wear?" he asked, his eyes scanning Fisher's Tim Butonesque shirt and pants. Fisher pushed his long hair off of his face. "Why are you talking in my head?" he asked.

The man made a face. "Because I have no vocal chords," he explained, as though Fisher were an idiot for asking. "I need you to find someone for me. I know she is here. Tell me where Sasha is."

"Sasha?" Fisher said dubiously. "I'm pretty sure I don't know a Sasha. Unless... wait, I think I know a girl with a dog named Sasha. She's small, really well dressed?" Okay, so Fisher's goal for the night had been not to help anyone floating around outside. But come on! This guy went through the trouble of invading his head! How could he just walk away from that?

Who: Kin and Sasha
When: After classes
Where: A studio in the art room
What: Trying to get the hang of drawing portraits

Ah, nervousness.

No. No. No. Being nervous would cause a lot of things to go wrong. And what was he nervous about? Oh, right, doing this whole portrait thing. Or maybe it could be because of whatever Sasha wanted. Yeah, blame it on that! No. That would be rude, blaming the problem on something that wasn't really bothering him right now. She said she could sit still, so, that wasn't what was making his body shake every so often. Maybe it was screwing the image up and having to face a frown once he peeked around the canvas.

Yeah, that was it. He nailed it on the head with perfect timing.

Kin let out a soft little sigh as the light was switched on. Thankfully there even was an open studio, he'd feel worse doing this in the own privacy of his room! Plus the fumes. Can't forget about the fumes. He looked up toward the nearest clock, letting out another sigh in the pause of his setting up. Good thing he came a little early before she appeared. Though, it wouldn't surprise him much if she was here earlier than him. Sasha striked him as an early bird, arrive early, and get things done that needed to be done. But then again, he always had a thing for judging people before really getting to know them. Bad habit, but it really couldn't be helped; even if he said to himself he never does it.

Everything was set up before he glanced at the clock again. She should be here soon, he thought to himself. The butterflies of nervousness floating about his stomach made him groan, patting at it through his shirt as he plopped down upon the stool in front of the big canvas. Why did he go for the biggest one again? Oh, right, he wanted to make this perfect and beautiful. Kin was slowly developing doubt about himself. Don't worry, it always happens on his part.

Who: Sasha and Mircea
Where: Isle of Bacalao Hotel
When: Late Afternoon
What: Tea, talk, and a spot of blackmail business.


To Sasha’s delight the Bacalao Hotel not only had a tearoom, they had a wonderful one. It was elegant without being excessively lavish, neat without being dull, well-lit and surprisingly spacious. There was none of the beribboned stuffiness that covered similar specimens like a bad case of mange.

Sasha’s requested table near a window and got it without trouble. The waiter pulled out a chair without hesitation; Sasha made a note to leave a good tip. She liked having doors opened for her—in more ways than one. It’s a tough world, Tori used to say. Enjoy whatever few courtesies survive it. Besides a window table offered an extra bit of privacy.

And Sasha’s upcoming conversation with “Mircea Grey” was not a public matter.

Unless he doesn’t come, hissed the cynical gremlin-voice in her mind. She ignored it. He’d come if only for curiosity’s sake. The universe had yet to invent a better bait than human curiosity. Except who said he was human…

Oh, whatever. He’d come.

Not interested in giving her doubts time to flourish, Sasha signaled the waiter. Ordering a pot before her guest’s arrival would be rude—even if she could empty it solo—but a cup of the day’s special, Orchid Oolong, would suffice till then. Ordering food posed a similar crisis of manners; Sasha’s stomach and manners warred briefly before compromising on Devonshire cream and hearty scones. It’d be like spitting in a canyon as far as Sasha’s ogre appetite was concerned, but, hey, at least it’d put something between her teeth. The waiter also didn’t blink at being asked to fetch water for Dreizen, which earned the man another juicy brownie point on Sasha’s meter.

(She remembered the time they tried baring Dizzy, then still a clumsy puppy, from the Savoy’s tea room. She’d staged hysterics until Josiah had words with the manager. In the end, both puppy and girl got in. there’d even been a placating “donation” of complimentary apricot tartlets.

Sasha was never one to waste a tantrum.)

Sipping tea, her posture uncompromised and her face calm, Sasha made a pretty picture in the afternoon light...as was the point. The 40’s style dress and 30’s pumps were modest yet posh, matching the discreet garnet twinkle in her ears, the gold watch and bare fingers. Her hair was loose, her makeup simple. She looked, Sasha knew, like someone’s pampered niece, small and young and flush. Well-heeled, as Josiah would say in his ever-so charminlgy out-of-date way.

Josiah would have nothing charming to say about his runaway protégée meeting with a man of Jack Ransom’s repute—good thing we’re not on speaking terms then, eh, Hatter?—but it was Ransom’s reputation that Sasha was counting on. Supposedly, the man turned a tidy profit during his time. Whatever his motives (and oh how Sasha’s own curiosity itched to know that) Ransom was familiar with the business, the spider web of connections and hazards that Josiah once taught Sasha to navigate. The world she lost connection to without him. The world she needed now.

All good things to those with will, Sasha recited silently. Slathering cream on her scone, she settled in to wait.

He’d come.

Who: Sasha (open)
What: Snacks and karaoke and, duh, snacks.
When: Evening
Where: The Garage

Some days just didn't end like they began.

Sasha had started the day in fine form: cotton-soft top, chic tartan skirt, and sensible footwear. She ran her errands without much fuss or trouble, double-checking with the grocer on Blues’ behalf, dropping off a roll of film to develop for Dr. Quinn, and successfully finding the local hardware store to snag a Dremel MultiPro. Unfortunately, she spent too much time deciding on the model and too little paying attention to the sky. The freaking rain got her like a sniper shot.

Rain, rain, rain. Crazy, pretty, incendiary rain. Hiding the sky, ruining her shoes, knocking on coffins, giggling at the girl below. It felt like someone rubbed menthol on the wrong side of her skin: invisible, impossible, and cool. Cold. Why did it have to be rain, why here? The rain in Spain stayed mainly in the pla—stop that.

Her “form” never had a chance; Sasha’s subsequent meltdown wasn’t quite Oz-worthy, but it did grate her composure into pure irritability. She spent a commendable couple hours caged in her room before admitting defeat and bolting back into town. Trooping across the still damp streets—while dutifully avoiding the few surviving puddles—Sasha considered her options.

The Pitt? Too much. Loft? Too little. Imaginarium? No games. No, what she wanted was—what? Noise. People. Life. Food. Definitely food, preferably in reckless, copious amounts—oh!

What passed the Garage’s doorstep didn’t look soft or chic or sensible. Either the jeans or the braids would have been enough to get Sasha quarter-horsed back home. Though truth be told, she didn’t look strange; she just didn’t look like…Sasha. The only recognizable part of her on the clock persona was the dog by her side.

(“It’s my roommate,” she explained, straight-faced and earnest. “Poor thing’s still recovering from the last full moon.”

Sure, the lie was stunningly obvious and Sasha got her first weird look of the night, but both dog and girl got in. On Bacalao bravado got you far, or at least far enough.)

First, she caught a bar seat. Second, she got Dizzy water and a bowl of “fixin’s” (as her Papa used to say when talking about delicious miscellanea.) Then…oh, then Sasha got to work.

Pizza. Onion rings, basket of fries. Potato skins with extra cheese. Bacon-wrapped jalapeños. A horde of chili-and-cheese poppers. That crunchy thing sprinkled with parsley? Bring it on. Oh, and did they have anything pickled and fried, ‘cause she’d take three if yes. Sasha quickly compiled a shove-down worthy of a starving Viking. Folding the pizza pita-style over the heart attack mess, Sasha grinned like the Big Bad Wolf coming off a tofu diet. It was almost perfect.

“Kid, you’re gonna choke.” The bartender shook his head.

Ah, perfect. “Time me?”

Exactly three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, Sasha was sucking the last splotch of marinara off her fingers. The bartender shook his head again…but he was smiling. Sasha capitalized on the moment by commandeering the nearest bowl of peanuts. On stage, the latest karaoke fatality was belting out “My Way” and Sasha grinned to hear it.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you know when I bit off more than I could chew… Oh, she liked this one, yes.

The place was crowded, she noted. Good Friday fodder. People were talking and smiling, touching shoulders. Laughter spilled frequently through the whiskey-toned atmosphere. The mood had a good, generous feel to it. A large number of the tables was fully loaded, and the tavern door never seemed to stay closed for long.

When the song ended, Sasha applauded wildly, adding a two-finger whistle for good measure. She swiveled back round to the bar, exchanging her perfectly empty bowl for one with better prospects. Admittedly, this means stealing the peanuts right out from under her neighbor’s nose, but, hey, all’s fair in love and snackery.

“Feeling brave?” she asked, purloined munchies in no way shadowing her smile.

Who: Mircea and Sasha (and Dreizen)
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: Library
What: Sasha’s got blackbirds on the brain; Mircea’s got trouble in the wings.


Libraries, Sasha reflected, were harder than a bad habit.

Even the worst nicotine urge never bit as deep as the familiar bouquet: glue and cold dust, the musty, antique smell of well-worn pages, a whiff of worn leather and wood polish, and that last ghost of inimitable sweetness that marked a mature library.

It was heaven. It was torture. It was—utterly ridiculous. God help me, I’m turning weepy over the reek of mildew and magazine ink? How the mighty have fallen, indeed.

From a mercilessly objective point of view, Sasha could appreciate the irony of her condition—and the slice of humble pie it served. Certainly, her abilities had allowed Josiah’s precocious protégée to be a world class know-it-all more than once. Making her godfather’s jumpy apprentices cry in the book stacks had been a beloved childhood pastime. But humility was one thing; being outright handicapped was quite another.

We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth, Josiah once quoted. He was right then as always: books had opened up a new universe for Sasha. What’s more, they showed that universe to be workable, coherent, a sum of things possible to record and understand. For a lost cause kid like Sasha, perpetually mired in a swamp of disordered memories and incomprehension, it had been more than a revelation: it was salvation. Sasha looked down at the open book beside her, seeing nothing intelligible in the rows of text, and wanted to cry—shout—anything—because it wasn’t fair.

It just wasn’t bloody-God-damn-fair.

A brusque rip brought her attention down to the notebook under her hand—and the small tear newly dug under her pen. Annoyed, Sasha smoothed the ruined spot, tender with ink, only to stain her thumb in the process. Really, why was she even bothering with pen and paper, when neither was of any true use in her condition? She carried a notebook in class for appearance’s sake only. All relevant “notes” went through her digital recorder or simply stayed in her memory banks. Though Sasha’s alexia didn’t erase her ability to write, she distrusted setting down her thoughts when unable to review them.

Which isn’t to say they didn’t find a way to leak onto paper regardless…

I was of three minds, wrote the poet. Like a tree in which there are three...blackbirds.

They littered across the page, a noiseless gale of rough wings and beaks and claws. Crow, rooks, jackdaws, and ravens with jagged crowns sketched atop their heads. The designs varied from elegantly simple to lovingly grotesque, wings spread and wings folded, some flying, some hopping, some without legs at all. Only the coloring was consistent: black.

Nigredo.

Caput mortuum. Though caput corvi, she admitted, would be the more appropriate term.

“One for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl, and four for a boy.” Sasha’s lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Five for silver, six for gold, and seven for a secret that's never been told.”

At the sound of his keeper’s voice, Dreizen raised his sleek head. That was one of the (very few) advantages of her current disability: if there was a library sign prohibiting animals, Sasha could claim blissful ignorance.

Who: The Madcap Brigade. (Capt. Scumble, Lt. Bunnyknickers, Sgt. Muffy, Cpl. Cupcake, and possibly Pvt. Batgirl)
What: Livestock larceny.
Where: Woods-->pasture/barn-->Fire House CR(?)
Why: ...

“Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to—whoa. Watch it, guys, there’s some malevolent mud on premises.”

Tottering slightly, Sasha looked down, trying to navigate around the slippery spot in the darkening twilight.

It would be safe to say that Susannah Hallmeyer was acting...and looking...odd. Instead of the usual elegant uniform of hem and heels, or even the more pragmatic denim assembly, Sasha was decked out in drawstring camouflage pants, starlet tee, and a striped hoodie sporting cat ears. A Venetian half mask straddled the back of her head. she was also humming, whistling, and grinning like a barmy monkey.

Maybe it was because of the weather, the threat of rain turning the evening sky into a foreboding shadow, the smell of damp beginning to spice the air. Rain always corkscrewed her temper. Maybe it was because of the task at hand: creeping through a patch of woods towards an unwary pasture, and its equally unwary wooly residents. Maybe it was because of the company, because what could you say about a group of girls who spent Sunday night kidnapping livestock for absolutely inane purposes.

Maybe it was because of the flask in her pocket, its contents steadily diminishing.

“Be wevy, wevy quiet,” she hissed behind her. “We’re hunting for a wab—whoa-whoa-whoa-ouch.”

...why hello, Mr. Ditch. How are you faring this fine, sweet evening? Now on her back and temporarily out of sight in what had better damn well be dirt, Sasha exhaled hard through her bangs. Yep, this was exactly how she wanted to approach her twenties: dad dead, mom gone, sadistic vampire twin sister actively out to ruin her sanity, hiding in a mythical school on a fantasy island—stealing sheep. Well, trying to anyway.

“...yo?” She called out. “Y’know, I think I dropped the happy sauce; can somebody toss it down here? But, um, not on my head—well, not on the pretty bits. Also, I ain’t dead.”

Who:  Sasha and Ita
Where:  In the marketplace
What:  Lammas celebration awesomeness
When:  Afternoon

Ita was feeling much better today.  Catalina seemed like she really was going to make sure that asshole Caibre got what he deserved, which was a relief.  She really didn't know how things would have turned out if she had tried to drown him.  She was used to fighting with her fists, and even then, she hadn't done that since middle school when everyone started getting bigger than she was.  And if Caibre ever got ahold of her, she was doomed.  She definitely couldn't best him physically.

Aside from all of that, there was a festival for food!  Ok, so harvest, but that was food.  All the wonderful fresh produce, and herbs...  And even some nifty cooking supplies.  Ita had really gotten into it earlier and she already had several bags - one was filled with hand-dipped tapers and they smelled wonderful.  It was a cute little stand, with big wax bins so she'd even tried her hand at it.  Her attempt was not nearly as pretty, but it was still fun.  Oh, and she'd gotten a pretty hand-carved mortar and pestel to grind her own herbs since she'd bought several bunches of fresh and dried herbs.  Then there were the pretty crafts, including several jeweler's stands.  She couldn't resist a pretty pair of drop earrings with freshwater pearls.

So, not even halfway through the festival, she really had quite a bit of shopping completed.  And that wasn't even counting all the cool stands, just like at a carnival or a county fair.  She had loved fair time in Maine - tractor pulls, petting zoos, all the crafts, and, of course, the food.  This was very similar, but more...  Well, just more.  The fairs were more modernized, maybe.  The crazy carnival rides and all.  This seemed much less glitz, and so much more wholesome.  She had to chuckle at that - more wholesome with demons, weres and other odd creatures running about.  Apparently.  Amused with her mental meanderings, she nearly missed spotting a familiar face.  "Sasha!" she called out as she rushed over to her friend, bags bumping into passersby.

Who: Sasha & Verushka
When: Thursday (morning)
Where: Verushka's office
What: Cold War II Guidance


The girl in the mirror looked worried. Her eyes were uncertain, unfocused, her mouth was taut; her skin looked too pale to even blame on the bathroom’s callous lighting. A wayward strand of hair, stuck damply to the edge of her check. The look of it—a dark spot—reminded Sasha of something, what was it…

A coal miner’s tattoo. No, not that. Gunpowder. Yes, that was it. Firing a heavy handgun incorrectly had once left a measure of gunpowder temporarily imbedded in her cheek. Kostya had been furious; Josiah, amused. The French called such beauty marks “courage marks”, he told her. Her father had a similar small shadow on his face, so dim you could almost it or think it a trick of light. He told them it was a birthmark, and Sasha believed him then.

Sherry never did. But then her twin was always the skeptic, the sleuth. She never gave up, not till she ferreted out the meaning of every story. A real bloodhound, Papa called her.

Oh, Daddy dearest, if you only knew…

The sink porcelain was cool beneath Sasha’s palms. Too cool, actually: she was feverish. That happened sometimes if her metabolism kicked into overtime. And that happened when—stop. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the dreams. Don’t think about the craving.

And don’t think about poor, foolish Kaspar Moreno. Kaspar, the ace, the joker, the unlikely, and mostly unconvincing, criminal. Kaspar, who bought Sasha her first real Mexican beer. Kaspar, who laughed when she explained Tex-Mex. Kaspar, who saw the sky as a doorway, never a limit. Kaspar, who wouldn’t kiss and couldn’t dance. Kaspar, who was uncouth, and brash, and funny, and her friend.

Kaspar, who had her little sister slaughtered to prove she could.

A tremor started in Sasha’s throat; she shut it down with pure willpower. The same fortitude hardened her hands, made them steady and quick as she repainted the girl in the mirror into a more recognizable icon. Foundation, eye shadow, mascara, blush, lipstick: Sasha was a veteran virtuoso with each lying, little tool. Screw the whole “warm” and “cool” colors myth, or that pale skin called for dark foundation, or the conceited “not everyone can wear read” nonsense. If you know how, Sasha recited, you can. But for a moment, the mantra failed and Sasha’s hand slowed.

Did Sherry operate under a similar motto? Did she excuse Kaspar’s murder with such logic? Did she plan to continue, like before—a familiar, sour nausea rose in Sasha’s stomach. She reigned her mind back to the task at hand, turning a critical eye over the now made-up face (good), the fixed hair (neat), the careful clothing (chic, confident).

Her silver cross gleamed against the yellow dress. Pretty, but suspicious. In a school with heavy vampire population, showing up at her guide’s office with holy jewelry on display might spark uncomfortable questions. At the very least it would plant certain doubts in the woman’s mind. Sasha didn’t want any of that tainting the first impression. Slipping off the fine chain, her fingers helplessly closed over the pendant. The bit of silver felt small and serious as a bullet in her fist. Sasha tucked the necklace away in her purse, and pushed open the bathroom door. She was running late.

Outside, Dreizen immediately rose at her reemergence. The look in his dark eyes made Sasha kneel down and spend a precious minute petting the worried beastie. “S’ok, puppy. No point running this far to fall apart now, eh? We’re made of sterner stuff—and are just too pretty to quit. Oh, yes, we are, yes we are, who’s my pretty, pretty brute?”

The Doberman nipped her hands affectionately in response. Giving his sleek head one last pat, Sasha headed off towards her guide’s office.

Sherry wasn’t supposed to know about Kaspar. That she did meant one of two things: either Sasha’s seal against their bond had weakened or her sister’s psychic ability was progressing faster than originally predicted. Luckily, there were ways to deal with both possibilities.

And it’s time I tried them out. With a little professional help, of course.

“Madame Solovyov?” Knock, knock went one determined knuckle. “It’s Susannah Hallmeyer. May I come in?”

Who: Sasha (Open)
When: Monday afternoon
Where: Boxing gym
What: Working it out.
How: The trick is to keep breathing…

A good, really good, heavy bag session was nearly a carnal experience. Certainly there was something satisfyingly primal about the feel of impact, the very sound of it. The snapping crack of a jab. The bang of a solid hook. The smash of a straight right. The heavy bag took it all with nary a whimper. It was primal and liberating, an animal gut-deep gratification.

For some.

For Sasha it was just sweat. Sweat and order, the mathematics of worthwhile physical exertion. Rapt and unsmiling, the petite brunette delivered a concrete uppercut to the bag. The hit landed as it should’ve, quick and firm, wrapped knuckles away from the leather even before the echo evaporated.

She could feel the drill working her arms, shoulders, back, hips and legs. Everything working together as she punched. That unanimity was one of the main reasons Sasha thought to find the boxing gym instead of the fencing strip when the thunder rolled.

“Impact psychology” is what one trainer called it. Modern people had an installed reluctance to defend simply because of the implied risk of being hit. Impact training desensitized against the aversion. Kostya hadn’t wanted to run Sasha through the sore ordeal of grinding out the disinclination, but he hadn’t a choice; no way to learn systema methods otherwise. The practice was above all a method meant to function under fire. The strikes and kicks most applicable to heavy bag drills were gross motor skills: simple, large muscle actions that didn’t deteriorate under stress. It was a lesson in not breaking.

And Sasha was nothing if not a dedicated student.

The gym had a sound system. Sasha had twisted the volume dial demonically high. Neo-tango music tore the room, competing brilliantly with the thunder crackling outside. Sometimes Sasha let her movements take up the rhythm; other times she ignored it with deliberate resolve. Dreizen lay stretched out in a nearby corner. He knew better than to approach his keeper during these moods. The Doberman’s eyes were peaceably closed. He didn’t mind thunder.

Purity of focus isn’t only about what you see and do, Kostya said. It also about what you don’t allow. Concentration without contemplation. Purpose without intricacy. Stay “clean”, don’t get fancy. Chin tucked. Don’t weave about. She sighted down her punching arm as if down the barrel of a gun, and hit. Once, twice, three—back. Repeat. Pour your mind into the moment as you would wine into a glass. Feel the punch’s power come from the ground, through the legs, and off the hips. Jab, cross, jab again. Follow through to the last inch—back. Breathe.

Another bout of thunder burst through just as the tango music ebbed between tracks. Sasha didn’t flinch, didn’t falter her extension, but she felt it lance her stomach. A steady, cold ache had been nestled there since morning. The dreams preceding it weren’t exactly sweetness and light either. Thick, red dreams that sucked the air out of the room and the moisture out of her mouth—it was a familiar ailment.

Sherry. It had to be. Nobody else could poison her blood like this. What are you up to now, baby sister? Sasha leaned her forehead against the bag, feeling the telltale ache inside bloom.

Stuck in her thoughts and running on bad adrenaline, Sasha neglected one of her own key rules; she didn’t pay total attention. So when a polite hand tapped her shoulder, she didn’t think and she didn’t respond—she lashed out.

“Chyort voz'mi!*” The Russian tumbled out before the realization. “I mean, damn. Sorry, sorry, seriously, I’m sor—um, hello? Hey, yo, anybody home? Aw, hell, not again…”


[*Russian, Devil take it! a.k.a. “God damn it.”]

Who: Sasha
What: Sky-scraping/navel-gazing. (Possibly arguing with local crows.)
Where: Zephyr roof.
When: Thursday morning

There are times when a change of scenery is about the only thing you can do. A new view, a different perspective. Teachers keep on teachin’ and preachers keep on preachin’, but, darn it all, Wonder man, was right; sometimes a person must seek higher ground.

And sometimes, Sasha thought, settling back comfortably against the roof’s angle, a girl has to get a little literal about it.

The dormitory roof was a surprisingly comfy perch, she decided. Then again, Zephir House did (theoretically) host the resident flyers and “aces”, so why wouldn’t they have an accessible roof? Well, fairly accessible. Reasonably public, anyway.

(Provided the public, y’know, tried to crack the attic lock, failed, jimmied the garret lock instead and then shimmied up some handily craggy brickwork to find a seat among the antique shingles. And for the record she was totally going to apologize about the gouges and boot marks on the attic door. Later. Really. Girl Scout’s honor.)

This morning Sasha was (as of yet) in unrepentant “off” mode: paint-speckled jeans, yellow polo shirt, reliably soled and distinctly unlovely hightops. The roof was warm from the sun; Sasha pressed her toes against the gutter, wary of the steep incline, and looked. It was a nice view, really: trees and paths, and garden shrubbery, and storybook towers, the ocean’s vivid mantle lying beyond. Very scenic, very good. Halcyon students hurried to and fro below, small as raisins. None looked up. Sasha wondered what that said about human nature—except how many of them were human?

“I am so in the wrong fairy tale,” she said conversationally to the empty, bright air. The crow nearby refused to comment. Smug bugger.

Settling back, Sasha closed her eyes against the cool, early light, and wished for nothing.

Who: Simon and Sasha
Where: Downtown, starting outside Heaven and Hell
What: Getting lost and meeting that dog... and Sasha too
When: Monday around 11:15am

No. Fucking. Way.

Simon stared at the sign hanging in the window of Heaven and Hell with disbelief. Closed for the week. Beat it. Short, crude, to the point. How could it be closed? What the hell?? In fairness, if Simon had bothered checking journals or reading posts the school made at all recently, he would have known this information. He was just so excited about the prospect of rule-breaking that his mind had been all a twitter. He'd pretty much checked out during both his morning classes and raced downtown to scope out the club. He wanted to be sure he knew where he was going for when he and Sydni checked it out. That did not seem to be happening now.

Maybe it was karma. Maybe, since Simon had been neglecting to pray every day like his mother had taught him, he was being punished. Maybe because he planned on breaking the law, God was finding a way to stop him. Maybe this was a sign for him to turn back from evil doings and find the right path again. Or maybe, just maybe, it was just a small spell of bad luck.

"Well that's fucking great," he muttered to himself. "I came down here as fast as I could to stare at an empty building. Great." Well, he supposed he better turn back and get some lunch or something. On the plus side, it gave him more time to find a fake id. He started walking, and all too soon realized he wasn't sure where he had come from or where he should be going now. Fantastic! he thought bitterly. First the club was closed, now he was lost. What other rotten cherries could be placed on this delightful crap sundae?

Who: Sasha and Ezra (and Dreizen, but that’s a given)
What: Guidance
When: Thursday, late afternoon
Where: Ezra’s office

There was something tartly sardonic about meeting her “guide” on the alleged Day of Bad Omens. If Sasha had been superstitious, she’d worry about luck and timing. If she had been high-strung, she’d worry about impressions and partiality. If she’d been of a hesitant nature, she’d worry just because.

Instead, Sasha was as her life had made her; pretty heels clicked down the hallway, the girl inside them curious and impatient only. Maybe more than a little wary, too, but she blamed that on the rain. The mendacious, tempting, ill rain and its whispers, its sway—Sasha was always cautious when it rained. The potential for trouble was too great to feel otherwise. There was one other reason to feel nervous, less malicious than the rain’s pressure.

When did I last see—Good Lord, talk—with another djinn? The species was suspiciously scarce during her childhood. Oh, there had been Mama and Sherry, of course, but they were hardly fair examples. Alleluia was inscrutable and wild, impossible to typecast or learn from; everything Sasha learned from her proved to be a mirage. Sherry was similarly unattainable. Their link aside, her sister’s power diverged from Sasha’s own early on. Sherry had taken better to their father’s legacy. She loved the rain.

Josiah didn’t encourage Sasha meeting those of her kind, his reasoning being that they were not her kind. Her godfather never forbade contact outright (he never forbade anything outright), but he was intractably harsh of any candidates in range. She remembered one such rare specimen, an ironically kindly ifrit with an inexplicably Parisian accent. He was an engraver often employed by Josiah. Sasha had met him entirely by accident. She was supposed to be in Naples that week, but had gotten bored and wheedled Kostya into returning home early. While her chaperone was dutifully reporting to the master of the house, she’d wandered into the library and found a strange, amber-eyed man playing chess solo. Sasha sat on the opposite side of the board without hesitation. They played, they talked. He told her there were 72 consecutive Queen moves in 1882’s Mason-Mackenzie match; she told him the folding chessboard was invented by a priest afraid of having his guilty pastime discovered by the Church. He’d offered to have her read his memories. Curious, Sasha went to fetch tea. When she returned, Josiah was in the room. Alone.

The expression on her godfather’s face was nothing she knew.

She saw the ifrit one other time, at a party in a LA celebrating some Hollywood sorcerer’s dull success. But he paled when she raised her hand in greeting and all but ran out of the room. Sasha didn’t bother guessing what Josiah had threatened with; that the threat was made was enough reason to accept the matter. Josiah knew best, after all.

…yeah, so said the unicorn on the dark side of the moon. Her painted mouth momentarily tightened, then smoothed back into affability. She passed a window and paused to inspect the reflection, ignoring the rain beyond. Calm and critical, Sasha studied the girl on the glass. Her colors were muted by the storm, showing only that the hair was dark, the skin was light, but the general outline was lucid. Short dress, high collar, a pleasant expression opaque as the opal wreath around her wrist. A tote on her arm, a dog at her heels. A nice girl, almost certainly. Trustworthy. Satisfied with her craftsmanship, Sasha turned away and found the door she needed.

She knocked in a way that didn’t match her expression while she did it.

“Professor Rishi?”

Who: Jesse and Sasha
When: Week Sixteen, Monday, around 7:30pm
Where: Somewhere between the mall and Halcyon Halls
What: Jesse gets attacked by a wild beast for the second time in his life.
Rating: Should be G?

Another day and another dollar that will probably go to his father. Jesse had acquired a debt because of his week posing as a flamboyantly gay guy. He had to get an entire new wardrobe during that week, most of it he doesn't wear now. He mentioned that fact briefly in his journal and now Kissy grew very pissed off at him. He couldn't figure out why she was pissed off. Typical male/female miscommunication. What he said wasn't an attack towards Kissy, just a statement of the facts. If Jesse were a girl, what he said would have indeed been an attack since most girls were sneaky with words like that.

Besides work and school, Jesse had been in a surprisingly good mood. He had an irritating roommate whose pot brownies he ate and he got incredibly high off his ass. While the werewolf was not happy with River for the brownie incident or a list of other incidents five miles long, it didn't matter so much because Jesse had a surprisingly weird make out session with some naked guy who walked into his room. Well, Jesse knew who it was but he was not used to Kenzie's unsocialized behavior. The incident left a souvenir on his neck and like most 15 and 1/2 year old boys (yes, add the 1/2) who weren't around their parents, he didn't bother hiding it. It was a mark that implied, yes, he was cool. He got some!

It was now 7:30pmish and Jesse got off work at the ice cream shop. He reeked of sweets and ice cream. He also felt incredibly sticky and could not wait to get back to take a shower. It drove him nuts. He began to walk home, his pink apron slung over his shoulder. He was eating a chipwich because since he was a growing boy, he was hungry constantly. He was a lucky bastard who had a high metabolism so he could eat whatever he wanted and not gain a pound. The bad part was, he was a bean pole. Nothing stuck to him for long before being converted to energy.

There were a lot of people out and about on this day. It was pretty warm and the sun was just about to touch the horizon. Most people were heading to the beach. Jesse wish he could. Sadly, he did have homework and a shower to get to. He wanted to procrastinate and he probably would when he got back and began to read some Penny Arcade or Megatokyo. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, mainly about the boobs of some chick he gave strawberry swirl to. She had a nice ass to go with the rack too.

Ah yes, teenage boys have one track minds.

When: Late
Where: Outside in the garden
Who: Emo!Sam and Open

Something had been bothering Sam and while she knew what it was, she didn’t want to admit it. An attempt to focus on anything but her own person problems was made but it all seemed to be in vain. Try as she might, that little voice in the back of her head kept whispering to her whenever things got too quiet. That voice belonged to her mother. If only she could try a little harder, stand up a little straighter or swim a little faster, then she would be good enough. Except of course that she never had succeeded.

Sam had tried to tell herself that she was getting all worked up over nothing but she couldn’t help it. Yes she understood that it would take time and that she really didn’t even deserve what time she was being allowed but…it was hard not to think of it as one-sided. Small fingers toyed with the bracelet on her wrist as she wandered around the grounds. The small token meant the world to her but it still felt as if Easton was slipping away. It was ridiculous really, because he had responded to her notes but at the same time, he didn’t seem to really initiate much contact between the two of them.

The moisture in the air clung to her exposed skin and a nice mental pat on the back was given for having decided to go with a pair of shorts and a light top. The last thing her hair needed was to be out in the humidity but she could tame the giant ball of poof that would inevitably follow after she had her fill of some fresh and slightly heavy air. Clearly she was losing her mind if she was questioning the status of the relationship she didn’t even deserve to have in the first place.

After an hour or so of wandering around, she finally found herself in the middle of the school’s elaborate garden. Slumping down in defeat, she took a seat on one of the stone benches and just stared off at nothing. Everything was going to be fine, or that was what she was going to keep telling herself anyway. Come hell or high water she was going to prove herself to him. An audible sigh parted her lips as she toed the ground with the tip of her sandal and if she didn’t have her supernatural hearing, she would have never picked up on the footsteps headed her way.

Who: Sasha and Dreizen (and any other stomach interested)
Where: Stretch of beach close to school.
When: Early morning. Very, very early.
What: Pre-pre-breakfast. Also, Sasha VS Ocean, Round I.

It said something about Sasha’s personality that she began her First Day at Halcyon searching for what she feared: water. A lot of, lot of, lot of, lot of water. A whole damn sopping ocean of it, actually.

Our sense of anxiety is an interpretation of the primal fight-or-flight survival mechanism as filtered and distorted by thousands of years of civilized living is what Dr. Quinn would say. Your phobia is an enlarged combination of that anxiety and previous distress; it is logical, but invalid.

…ri-ight. Grouchy and resigned, she looked at the great wet sweep of marine beauty: the waves, the sand, the early light sheeting across the water, more sand, Dreizen crunching on a starfi—oh, bloody hell, not again.

“Dizzy, spit that out! You don’t know what it mated with! Fuß!” Chagrined, the big Doberman loped back to his mistress. She patted his ears and then quickly wiped the damp off on her pullover. This early Sasha was still “off the clock”, dressed in an uninspired set of casuals. Without makeup or hair "maintenance" she looked about fourteen and a scruffy fourteen at that. But Dreizen didn’t care.

Later, yes, later she’d button up her vintage linen, slip on peep toe pumps, and apply the full course of makeup. She’d go to class to sit with her hands clasped and her ankles crossed and expressions respectful. She’d be alternatively sunny and shy, and generally charming. She’d be a Good Girl.

And somewhere belly deep inside the pretty package she’d keep wondering why entering school of "monsters" was a safer option than going home.

"...hell with it.” Sasha shouldered off her backpack and plopped down. Dreizen immediately lay down besides her. “Let’s eat before melodrama spoils the rest of me.”

( That’s one small slice for man, one giant wedge for schoolgirl, kind of... )