Chapter 2

Sudden Doom

ix was relieved, in a way, that a literal Puritan who had last talked to human beings in the 1600s had shown up during a party full of people way more socially-adept than him, because he had needed to flee the room when the questions got a little too upsetting, a little too Christian Hegemony, and he—barely—did so in time to get ahead of the tears, taking Gogo with him, getting only halfway up the stairs before he had to sit down and start crying.

Gogo purred, and rubbed his face against Aix, and crawled into his lap. He did a funny little thing now, a very dear little thing, where he licked at Aix’s tears with his little sandpaper tongue. He did it now, and Aix broke down as quietly as he could (which was very quiet—he had been raised with Silent Reading Time and strong emotions about books, which had meant he’d mastered doing most things silently). He felt stupid about being so upset, which didn’t help. On top of that, of course, he was being rude—a cardinal sin, in Aix’s upbringing (Ladies Weren’t Ever Rude).

‘Aix?’

Aix froze. So far, he’d managed to not cry or be stupid and emotional in front of Xander, or Xander’s husband Sean, which was saying something because ever since Pippin had come into his life, Aix had been crying a lot more often, seemingly at the drop of a hat.

Gogo chirped.

‘Heyyy,’ Aix said, and it was very obvious he had Crying Voice. He hurriedly wiped his face, blowing his nose and putting his mask back on.

‘I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay, because obviously you’re not.’ Xander came up the stairs a bit, but sat down on the landing a few steps below Aix, on the green and floral carpeting. ‘So, I’m just gonna sit here with you, okay? You said you shouldn’t be left alone.’

That was true; Aix couldn’t clearly remember everything he said to people, and it always surprised him when people displayed they’d been paying attention.

Xander was, also, Jewish. And that was important, because of the reason Aix was crying.

‘Devil-worshipper! Satanist!’

It felt all the more startling for how confusing it was; the rocks hit him and he just… stood there. There wasn’t a script for this interaction, so he froze. Why were they saying that to him? What was a Satan?

The rocks hurt, when they hit him, and he ran back inside his friend’s house.

Nobody said anything about it. He hadn’t told anyone.

A few… some time later, he realised he’d been wearing his mom’s sweatshirt.

It had a picture of Chernobog from Fantasia on it.

‘I’m having flashbacks,’ Aix said, and felt guilty immediately. Did it matter? It had been so stupid, just some kids throwing stuff at him when he was twelve or something. It wasn’t real trauma, was it? Was it?

He had such a hard time understanding what ‘counted as real trauma’.

‘Ahh, okay. I sort of—wondered, after that comment Williams made.’

Aix gave a weak little laugh. ‘I have a low tolerance for Christianity, for Trauma Reasons.’

‘Ahhh, yes, the Goyish Bullshit. Totally get you. So, watch anything good lately?’

‘I’ve been re-watching the Muppet Show.’

‘Something that isn’t animated? Shock! Scandal!’

Aix giggled. He usually didn’t like that kind of joke, but Xander actually knew how to make it a joke, and not bullying. They talked for a while, and kept one another laughing, to the point where Gogo felt it was safe to leave up the stairs to the guest room to have some time to a cat’s usual long and leisurely toilette. Not long after he had left, however, Roseblade appeared, silent as a shadow, the low light in the stairwell catching his pale irises, as they did all vampire eyes, making them gleam unnaturally.

‘Xander, darling,’ he lilted. ‘Your sweet and lovely husband is asking for you—as is little Pipkin, of course.’

Aix heard guile in that camp lilt, and that meant Xander certainly heard it too. ‘Go on, Xander,’ Aix said, trying to sound reassuring, even though the prospect of being alone with Roseblade made him fluttery and he was sure that would come off as the bad kind of fear, ‘After all, our pierrot needs her harlequin.’

‘Aw, shucks,’ Xander said, but couldn’t quite make the irony stick; Pippin’s attention was flattering and sweet, especially since Xander had grown up adoring clowns and had never been able to have one, with one thing and another about his career (though he’d worked with many, including all the mixes that acted as his character’s ‘doubles’).

Once he’d left, Roseblade surprised Aix by simply joining him on the stairs; he didn’t sit on the landing four steps down, like Xander had, but on a step up.

He wasn’t in a suit, not exactly—he was in the sort of gorgeous outfit Aix always wanted to wear, the sort of stylish and creative only women’s clothes were usually allowed to be, but Roseblade wasn’t cross-dressing. Unlike Dmitri, Aix, and René, Roseblade wore a lot of colours—dark reds and violets, pink and green, always a shade that flattered his sun-kissed hair (still so, even after years in the dark), or made his pale eyes look even more diamantine. Aix was always a little disappointed that Roseblade’s makeup covered up the freckles that were clearly all over his face, from the look of other exposed skin—Aix liked freckles, they were pretty. He liked looking at Roseblade’s hands for that reason.

‘May I see your pretty eyes, our witch?’ he said, dropping his pitch down where it naturally rested, which was, dizzyingly, bass.

And he waited. Aix fell in love with him a little more for that—he loved how respectful and observant all the immortals were; but it was a little frightening too, because that observation meant they’d surely all figured out the chinks in Aix’s armour, the things that seduced him.

He felt afraid to say no, and the weeks of practising with everyone helped him understand that meant maybe he should.

‘No,’ felt more than forbidden, worse than forbidden—it felt rude. ‘Not yet,’ he added, because it was true—meeting eyes was difficult, but Aix knew he did it after knowing someone a while, because he remembered the eyes of various people he had known for years—ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, parents, sister, lost friends… none of them were in his life anymore, but he remembered their eyes, so even if he didn’t remember looking into them, or how it felt, he knew it had happened. The colours were vivid.

He wanted that memory for a person he liked, but it took time. He touched Roseblade’s hand, and Roseblade let him, jewelled nails not really sparkling, not in the dimness, but still pretty.

He wasn’t looking at Roseblade’s nails though, simply noted them, catalogued and filed every aspect of the craft automatically, same with the gold rings…. No, the reason he wanted to touch was the fact that Roseblade’s hands were so pretty, long and freckly; and Aix had always been fond of pretty hands.

Roseblade watched him; witches were in actuality quite rare, and it was a particularly modern thing for a person to willingly call themselves ‘witch’. It wasn’t at all like being queer; witchcraft had always been fictional. Yet enough fiction had built up, over enough time, among enough people, that the past few generations had actually been able to get something like a real faith together. Not an organised faith, but a faith need not be organised to be true.

During the Belle Époque and the Gilded Age, Roseblade had flirted a little with Spiritualism, his interest first starting from what he called the Long Conversation—the discussion that had started in Mollyhouses in the Regency and kept developing through the whole of the century after among that population, and eventually, in the 20^th century, had turned into the Gay Rights Movement—but the interest Spiritualism had in the Ancient Greeks was largely incompatible with the Long Conversation, so it became something of a side-hobby, especially as silly as Roseblade found it all.

Even through the years, Spiritualism—whatever its name at the time—had never stopped seeming a ridiculously-embroidered version of pedestrian hatreds and arrogances, changing with every generation to fit new language, splintering off into ever more crafty little mystery cults, but still remaining, under the trappings, the same.

But Aix’s version of witchcraft—and oh, that month in Bucharest had given Roseblade so many opportunities to listen to Aix explain his faith, as Phrixus and his household asked question after question—seemed entirely drawn from other sources. Aix’s version was from stories built upon stories, was from an archetype Roseblade had not been paying much attention to, all these years. How ironic, that in following the development of the Spiritualists, he’d completely neglected what fictional witches were doing.

And, anyway, Roseblade kept feeling like there was something altogether different about Aix’s particular shade of faith. For one thing, it was mostly free of any sort of Crowley Nonsense, which Roseblade was still wondering about. For another, there was a sort of prickliness, a reticence, that Roseblade knew from many people he’d known before—mostly Jews, but not all—that said his faith had actually been persecuted.

It made Aix unpredictable, and a little bit intimidating, and very attractive.

‘What do you want?’ Aix said, quietly, pulling one hand away from Roseblade’s to push his glasses up his nose again. The normally-accusatory words were soft-edged, raw truth in a way that demanded raw truth in response.

Roseblade would be lying if he said the obvious expectation of transaction was too jaded for someone so young; but the pain of witnessing the effects of the world’s cruel corners never dimmed. Gently, slowly, Roseblade turned his hand to actually hold one of Aix’s, his other hand reaching down to gently toy with Aix’s dark hair—shorter now, after he’d cut the bleached ends away.

‘I want to know you, darling. I want those hours of sparkling conversation that everybody wants from you. I want your attention—and not the fraction of it when we’ve been in a group, but this…’ he squeezed the hand in his, gently. ‘Despite all our little flirtations, I seem to have very little to really offer. René and so many others got there before me.’

‘You don’t have to give me stuff,’ Aix protested weakly. Guiltily. But then he went on, ‘But the timing has been sorta bad for the two of us being able to be alone, until now.’ For just the barest flicker, those dark blue eyes met Roseblade’s own; but a breath and they were back to looking at their joined hands, then up the stairs. ‘You wanna come with me while I feed my cat? We could hang out, watch the rain.’

‘In January? You’ll catch your death of cold, my dear.’

‘Not outside,’ Aix said, rolling his eyes in the new sarcastic way—Roseblade still found that switch rather novel, especially since in this particular case it could still be flirtatious. ‘My room has a skylight.’ He brightened, getting to his feet carefully. ‘We could have a sleepover.’

‘I’m game,’ Roseblade said, getting to his feet. ‘What does one do at a sleepover?’

Aix brightened, leading him up the stairs, holding the banister and going one step at a time. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘Traditionally, you watch movies and play with each other’s hair, talk about boys, try to summon ghosts and demons….’

‘Is that last one traditional?’

‘Yep, happened at every sleepover party I ever went to. I always was against it—don’t fuck with demons, seems obvious, right? But there’s always some bitch who wants to summon a demon.’

They were on the second floor, and Aix led Roseblade down the hall, telling him of various observations of Girl Culture, and how much he missed it. He’d never wanted to be a Woman or a Man, really; he’d just gotten the hang of Girl Playground Culture when he suddenly was no longer in that environment, which he’d always thought was rather unfair.

‘I promised the Coterie that we’d have lots of sleepovers,’ he said, using the term he’d coined for Phrixus’ group, since bird names were out. ‘That’s the only proper way to learn magic, I think, is at a sleepover, at like two in the morning.’

‘I have had many philosophical conversations in the small hours,’ Roseblade agreed, thinking fondly of them. He had to admit, there was something about the four hours before dawn, particularly if you were out somewhere dark enough to see all the stars, the band of the milky way.

All immortals had memories of before light and sound pollution, and grief about losing something they’d not known would ever be lost. As Aix let him into the guest room, the sound of the rain pounding on the skylight, Roseblade wondered.

‘Have you ever been somewhere dark enough to see the milky way?’

‘No, but I did live somewhere that I saw the northern lights, once. And I have dim memories of us driving through the desert on the way to Las Vegas, once, and how many stars there were. Why?’

‘Do you get seasick?’ Roseblade asked, sitting on the large bed to take off his shoes.

‘Um, not last time I checked, which was when I was like, nine.’

‘I was only thinking of how many times I had similar conversations on my ship,’ Roseblade said, laying back on the bed and watching the rain fall on the skylight.

Aix was glad he was focussed on waving a feather wand for Gogo, because he was so excited at the thought of actually going on a functional tallship that he didn’t know what to do with himself.

‘Maybe,’ he said, hearing his voice almost squeak, trembling with excitement. ‘We could sail back to Baltimore.’

Roseblade thought on that. ‘That would be a rough journey, this time of year,’ he said, but thoughtfully. It had been thrilling to sail again, to have to catch the wind and turn it to his favour; the westerlies blew from west to east, this time of year, and the current followed suit—coming to America had always been difficult, no matter the time of year, but damn near impossible in winter, even with the high winter tides.

Which was what Roseblade had made his fortune on. His bloodline had been from vampires that had an affinity for coaxing the weather—from his master’s master, who had been able to blot out the sun entirely and stir up storms from doldrums, to Roseblade’s own ability to grab a strand of the mighty winds that flowed like the breath of the sky at all times, pull it around, and direct it for his own use—whether to move clouds around to darken the sky or put wind into his sails. Haunting the doldrums and horse latitudes, springing on ships that thought they were safe, doing impossible manoeuvres against every map—he’d been legend for that. And he’d kept abreast of meteorology, which had sprung forward quite a lot since then. Getting here had been almost so easy it hadn’t been fun.

But the Sea was always a treacherous bitch, and even the most learned of his new mortal crew still thought of her that way, which was comforting. So many gods and legends had been slain by knowledge, the world had been made so much smaller; but there was still the thrilling danger of the uncaring, awesome sea. She would still kill you as soon as offer you her bounty.

And it was tempting, to sail down the coast in difficult weather, to show off for Aix, who admired sail so much, who would have definitely happily joined a crew, and been valued even despite his infirmity, sheerly for his sparkling wit and wonderful singing voice. Not only that, but the thought of showing up unannounced in Baltimore Harbour in the very same ship that had first brought him to René appealed to Roseblade’s adventurous and romantic heart.

‘You’ll need warmer clothes,’ Roseblade said.

‘And a lifejacket for Pippin and Gogo,’ Aix said firmly, showing Gogo the sea and the idea of being on a boat to gauge his interest. But Gogo had the blood of his ancestors in him, those hulking and adventurous ships’ cats that had made up the line of all Northeastern cats for centuries, and he ran to the windowseat, putting paws up on the windowsill and looking out to sea, despite the torrential rain, his tail up and twitching excitedly as he chirruped and mewed, looking back at Aix.

‘Oho,’ Aix said, putting the wand toy down and turning to the window. ‘Well, it seems our Gogo is from a long line of sailors, himself. The best I can do is know how to stay out of the way,’ he said, a little apologetically.

‘Nonsense!’ Roseblade said, sitting up and leaning on one hand to look at Aix. ‘You can sing, can’t you? The only unkind thing I can say about my new crew,’ he said, frowning. ‘Mortals these days are so bloody shy about singing. And you have a good voice for radio, and follow procedure, that’s useful.’

‘Hmm,’ Aix said, lilting. ‘Sounds like you have a rant locked and loaded, Captain.’

Roseblade shivered theatrically, kicking his stockinged feet in delight. ‘Oooh, I like that how that sounds from you, boy. Come here.’

‘Oh, yes, I never got that kiss you promised me,’ Aix said, as he pushed himself off the floor and came over to the bed, climbing onto it and leaning against the footboard, feet tucked under him.

Roseblade leaned forward, ready to go slowly; but Aix surged forward, burying his hands in Roseblade’s hair and kissing with such enthusiasm that Roseblade ended up on his back again, Aix swinging a leg over him, sitting on his hips, and really settling in for a good deep kiss, languid and warm and oh, Roseblade could get used to this….

And then Aix cut his tongue, and froze, not pulling back; Roseblade went still, but gently pushed at Aix’s arm, and Aix pulled away carefully, getting off Roseblade and swallowing.

‘No, no, don’t swallow the blood, you’ll be ill,’ Roseblade said, sitting up. ‘Let me heal you, pet, come.’ He beckoned, and Aix offered his mouth again, bloodied as it was, and Roseblade didn’t bother wasting time—and blood—asking if he knew, before kissing him more carefully, closing the scratch the way vampires always could.

‘Sorry,’ Aix started to say, but Roseblade hushed him.

‘Go rinse your mouth out, my sugar,’ he said, pointing to the open bathroom door. ‘Mortals can’t stomach blood, go on.’

Aix went, knowing it was true but having always liked the taste of blood anyway. It wasn’t settling well, though, that much was true enough. He didn’t like spitting things out, but if he could avoid being sick to his stomach, he would do anything. He turned on the warm water, and just brushed his teeth, wondering what Roseblade thought of his taste.

He’d already asked René about it, and apparently he didn’t taste healthy, which made sense. René had never thought about how genetic disorders or fucky collagen might affect the taste of a person, but it was something he conceded was likely. Apparently vampires could tell, but blood type wasn’t really it so much as things that changed a person’s makeup a lot more—hormones, parasite load, malnutrition, cancer, and contagious diseases—Aix understood immediately what René had meant when he said a sick person changed smells, because noticing he smelled ‘wrong’ was largely how Aix determined he was ill.

But Aix had a chronic, a genetic, illness, and so his ‘normal’ wasn’t quite healthy, from a food standpoint. René liked that Aix didn’t taste good—‘it is so much better for one’s lover to not be delicious, chéri, believe me’. Aix had wanted to ask other vampires, during the convening of the council, but he’d only been able to ask Mistress and Phrixus, both of whom had said that to them, he didn’t smell at all tempting—again, both specifying in a food sense.¹ Claudiu had thought Aix’s reluctance to ask the king was wise, but said that the King’s preferences for fearful prey and its bitterness overrode any subtlety (and that he usually went after Turks, because old grudges didn’t die, and later had diversified into simply people from Empires—American tourists had been on the menu more and more often).

‘But not you, of course,’ Claudiu had said, nervously.

‘No, I get it,’ Aix said. ‘Anyone who can afford to come to Europe is a completely different kind of American than me. I’m just a homeless like, vagrant or whatever. Have you guys considered film crews and influencers? They’re kind of the new imperialists, with how they destroy everywhere they go.’

‘Ah yes, the influencers,’ Claudiu had said, in a grim, tired voice. ‘The ones that treat me like a zoo animal. They are very rude.’

‘So kill ‘em,’ Aix said brightly.

Claudiu had tried, in vain, not to laugh.

When the water warmed up, Aix used it to fill the water flosser and flossed too, because he was here and he may as well. Also he was distracted, and that helped him do things his brain normally balked at. When he was done, he went back out, to see that Gogo had jumped up on the bed and was kneading the coverlet happily as Roseblade, now stretched out and laying on his stomach, feet in the air, gave Gogo jaw-skritchies.

‘Sorry,’ Aix said.

‘Think nothing of it, darling, it happens.’

‘I, yeah, but the taste.’

Roseblade… paused, his fingers stopping their caresses of silky black fur for a moment, before Gogo put his paw up on Roseblade’s hand and pulled at him a bit, shoving his head beneath Roseblade’s hand as if to say, excuse me, more please. ‘Oh yes, so sorry, my leige,’ he teased the cat in a cooing tone, restarting his caresses. ‘The taste?’

‘I taste bad, don’t I?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Uh… everybody I asked?’

‘You don’t,’ Roseblade said, ‘You taste lovely, Aix,’ he went on.

‘You must have a very different palette to everyone else, then.’ Aix said, sitting in the armchair by the bed and crossing his legs, rolling his ankle in a circle, the way he usually did. ‘Everyone else says I taste sorta sickly, probably on account of the collagen being fucky.’

‘Most people taste bitter,’ Roseblade said, ‘it’s rare to find someone sweet like you, these days.’

Aix tilted his head, wondering… ‘I’m deeply allergic to allium, you know,’ he said.

‘Allium?’

‘Garlic. Onions, et cetera. Makes the blood bitter.’

Roseblade chuckled in that way that said a person was surprised. ‘I’d always dismissed the idea of garlic being a repellent, but…’ he thought for a while. ‘Is there precedent?’

Aix grinned; he loved that everyone in the monster community was starting to automatically ask about scientific precedent and evidence when he made a hypothesis; because he always had some in mind. ‘Allium does make blood bitter, and noticeably repels other animals that drink blood, like mosquitoes. I’ve already figured out that different bloodlines must have different weaknesses, just like they have different powers. I’m also allergic to several other foods that would alter my taste to bitter, like brassica, and my body just does not process sugars and alcohols very well, which basically means I’m ancient. I’m an ancient type of human.’

‘It can’t be rare,’ Roseblade said, ‘though it’s certainly been harder, lately, to really enjoy meals.’

Aix thought. ‘If you can taste allium, then… well, it’s not rare, but most people don’t avoid garlic as assiduously as I do, even if it makes them sick. What I have wasn’t mapped out until recently, and people also do not change their habits, even if it does harm them. There’s a cult of Garlic and Onions,’ he said, grimly. ‘I hate them. They act like not having those two things means you should just kill yourself, it’s incredibly stupid. As though there isn’t a whole spice rack. As though someone who genuinely does not like the taste is defective and unworthy.’

Saying it aloud made him connect a few things. He sighed, but didn’t apologise, ‘…I’m vehement because I’ve been… I’ve been in situations where something upsetting my stomach like that could kill me, like it used to kill people, because homeless people don’t have the luxury of modern sanitation or always having access to a bathroom, or even being able to avoid foods that make them sick in the first place. It’s frustrating that people don’t get what a medical miracle it is that they don’t drop dead of having the runs anymore, so they’re so ready to just do that to themselves all the time, and dismiss what a huge fucking—sorry—luxury it is, to do that to yourself.’

‘I’ve seen my share of people dying of cholera and dysentery, my dear.’ Roseblade thought on how to phrase his next words, knowing a misstep would do the opposite of what he wanted. ‘It feels as though your anxiety is muddying your ability to make your point, my love,’ he said gently.

‘Argh, yeah, no, you’re right.’ Aix closed his eyes, tried to order his thoughts. ‘What I’m saying is, IBS isn’t rare, and that’s the most common thing that makes people intolerant of alliums. However, most people don’t avoid trigger foods anymore, even when they know what they are, because weh wehh it tastes good, and because there’s such a high level of background quality of life that people don’t see getting the runs as something so scary anymore. Or sometimes they can’t afford to avoid trigger foods, because the state of accommodating for food intolerance in this society is abysmal. So, while it’s not rare, it makes sense that it’s hard to find someone that isn’t full of garlic.’

‘Hmmmm,’ Roseblade said, ‘that does explain things. My master was a picky eater,’ he said. ‘He was well-known for cultivating mortals. Still is, as far as I know.’

‘Oh he’s—he’s still around?’

‘Oh yes, of course! He’s been a travelling showman for ages now, retired from the sea after he made me and bequeathed me his ship and all. Tradition, you know.’

Suddenly, Aix was very interested in Roseblade’s master. ‘Travelling showman?’ he breathed, and could only imagine the way his eyes gleamed with curiosity. He wondered why the clowns were with Roseblade then, and not travelling in a show. A moment later, though, he realised something….

‘Young Master Ban is very… he doesn’t know how to clown, does he?’

‘He can’t, poor sweet darling,’ Roseblade said, softly. ‘He’s half-blind. That’s why he’s so cuddly, and why his Flash is so dim. He can’t see it.’

Aix didn’t want to feel pity—pity, he reminded himself, required he feel superior, and he didn’t—he felt empathy, because he too was half-blind. His glasses could correct it for now, but his grandmother had died blind. It was something that worried him, at a low level; but thinking of his glasses made him realise…

‘Oh… oh my god. I can—I can talk to him. That means I can help him get glasses,’ he said, mostly to himself. He thought of the first story of Dr Dolittle he’d ever read, of a horse on the brink of being put down, and Dr Dolittle being called in, figuring out the horse wasn’t ‘neurotic’, he was near-sighted.

After that, Aix had always wondered if other animals needed glasses.

Roseblade was struck again how Aix immediately sprung to wanting to help—and applied human solutions to the problems of animals like clowns. But perhaps that was what came of always being told, as a child, that you were just a sort of animal like a clown or a cat or even a spider, and worked on the same rules as anybody else that was alive.

It wasn’t really that ‘people are just a kind of animal’, like Aix said; it was that, to Aix, animals were a kind of people. Not empty vessels to project on, not weapons, not shields to hide behind while you devalued humanity, as Roseblade had witnessed before in so-called animal lovers; no, animals were a people. They had their own logic and never did anything without reason, and probably had feelings that were a bit similar to a human being. They could feel pain, and trust, and fear. They deserved kindness, just like anybody else.

It was so simple; Roseblade, like many of the Christians that had met Aix, rather marvelled at how workaday and automatic the witch’s kindness was, when they’d all been brought up with kindness being presented as such a struggle. Aix had never had to try at his, he’d never known any other paradigm. That’s what made it seem so surprising. But Aix wasn’t the first person Roseblade had met like that—it was just rare to hear it couched in scientific terms.

‘Then we will just have to do that,’ Roseblade said, ‘when I find somewhere to settle down.’

Aix gave a small sigh, before realising there was no real guarantee that Roseblade meant Aix had to solve that problem. It didn’t stop him feeling responsible, merely by being aware of a problem he felt responsible for solving it. ‘I don’t know how I can help with politics stuff; but I really like looking at houses.’

‘So I’ve heard! I was hoping you’d let me take you along. I rather think I’d be best here, on this island.’

‘Oh this is… this is Rich People Land,’ Aix said.

‘Money never gave anybody taste or brains,’ Roseblade said airily, and Aix giggled.

‘Sorry, I just… think of you as being a lord or something.’

Roseblade laughed, that bright laugh that was genuine and surprised. ‘Darling, I was a streetrat in London. I just met the right person at the right time. My money is all stolen. It’s just that, when you’re old enough, you’ve had time to trick people into thinking you’ve always been part of their society—because you have, as long as they can remember.’

‘René says you were and were not a sex worker.’

Roseblade laughed, at that. ‘He would!’ He touched Aix’s arm gently in emphasis, ‘but do let’s not be afraid to say “whore”. Anyway, he’s right. I did a bit of whoring, but I wasn’t at all like him, I was mostly—well, are you familiar with a character named Sophie Deveraux?’

‘Am I?’ Aix said, grinning. ‘Leverage is only my favourite show ever. You were a grifter?’

‘Yes, but of a specific sort. Her sort. Pretending to be nobility was my speciality. It’s why Gaz and I get on so well, you know. We recognised one another immediately—of course, by then I actually couldn’t be exposed, I had documents and they actually were genuine.’

‘Like Sophie,’ Aix put in, still practically vibrating with glee.

‘Yes, very much so! I have a title and everything; though I do prefer “Captain” to “Sir”, really. I loathe my Christian name.’

‘You can change it if you want. I changed my whole name.’ Aix was always quick to point out people were allowed to change their names.

‘Oh no, no, precious, I couldn’t; the whole house of cards would come down.’

They sat in silence for a bit, watching the rain on the skylight.

‘Is it “sir” as in knight, or baronet?’ Aix asked, presently.

‘Baronet, and how do you know that—no, let me guess. Romance novels?’

‘A romance novel,’ Aix said, a mite huffily. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel. Can I ask—do you have lands, as a Baronet, or not? I’ve always been unclear on that.’

‘I don’t, but I’m not at all regular.’

‘You sure aren’t,’ Aix said, managing not to laugh, even though Roseblade giggled. There was the sound of a phone ringing, and getting louder, and somebody very small knocked on the door below the knob. Aix was already getting up, and opened the door to see Pippin with his phone, which he’d apparently left downstairs, and which was ringing with Rene’s number. ‘Thank you, baby,’ he said, and took the phone from her, answering it. ‘Salut René! Ça va?’

‘Ça va mal, cher sorcier. I have good and bad news. First, you are safe, we will all keep you safe, this happens from time to time. Second—’

There was a sudden cacophony of honking downstairs, and Aix, his stomach already dropping from the moment René had said ‘you are safe’, had to fight to stay calm. René couldn’t be direct on a cell phone, even one as modified as Aix’s phone now was, and Aix hated that. ‘Um, hang on, the clowns are going berserk downstairs…’

‘Ah, then I will let them tell you. Give Roseblade the phone, I can also tell him.’

‘Aix?’ Roseblade touched Aix’s shoulder. ‘Darling, you’re shaking.’

Duckie! Pippin said, hugging Aix’s leg, her Mask distressed and her Flash dark blue. Aix handed the phone to Roseblade.

‘Here,’ was all he could manage. ‘I’m gonna. I’m gonna go downstairs and give you some privacy.’

He picked up Pippin and fled, stopping in the hallway and holding her close. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’

Pippin showed him—Several clowns had been present, but the eldest, an old Circus clown named Wootle, understood the most of it. The police had come to the shelter, and were looking for Pippin, insisting she had killed someone, saying she was ‘rabid’ and ‘dangerous’.

Luckily, Simon and the other clownkeepers of Baltimore had done this dance before. They didn’t know who Pippin was, they’d never seen her, and used all their authority as Dottori to insist a baby clown had no ability to kill anybody.

And then Pippin showed Aix Boston. We go Boss Town. We go now. Boyos protecc us. Boyos fight a rozz rozz all time many year.

Aix hesitated, reaching out to the few strange² joeys downstairs—would your humans hide us? The answer was so immediate it was almost offended: As though they wouldn’t hide Pupik? They were Jewish, they had not been born in the Catskills, but in a shtetl in the old country. Aix shared that he had never doubted, exactly; he simply took nothing as granted. He started going downstairs, Pippin balanced on his hip, one hand on the railing.

Stay. Came the order from the old Tummler who felt the most similar to a broody drag queen, though not at all the same beyond the sense of an old experienced mother clown.

Aix froze on the stairs, hearing a lot of voices coming closer, finally able to make them out. The Avzaradels were cordially shooing some of the guests out. Aix sat down on the steps, still shaky, and Pippin held him, Gogo came from the guest room to the top of the stairs, sitting down and giving the strong impression he was going to keep watch.

Aix didn’t know how long he sat there, he was vaguely aware after a moment that he was having an anxiety attack, and kissed Pippin’s head, and tried to re-tether himself to the present. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘So, Auntie has a big cat with extra toes, you know, and some weird fishies, and a raven.’

‘Waow!’ Pippin said. She knew what ravens were, they were like clowns they had a Silly to them, and had always been Friends—albeit Harlequin ones. She imitated the strangely water-like thokking noise they made, fluffing out her ruff and turning it black. Aix had just enough time to huff out the ghost of a laugh—

‘That’s right!’

—before Gogo streaked down the stairs and stopped on the landing, fluffed out impressively and hissing, growling at the person coming up the stairs. As he had grown into quite a large cat, with the long waterproof coat of a proper northeasterly cat, this made him look enormous.

‘Good show, old man! That’s very impressive!’ came Gaspar Blackstone’s jovial voice.

Gogo just swiped at him, though Gaspar had stopped and was making no advance. Goleave!!

‘Mr Averay?’ Aix finally was able to make himself say, his voice small and shaky.

‘In the flesh,’ Victoria’s grandfather said, as he always did. ‘It’s just us now, and the Teagues.’

‘What about Mr Williams?’

‘Oh, Sean and Victoria are telling him all about the history of policing. I think Morgan and October have some old stories about patrolling the Village, too.’

Morgan and October were Victoria’s mothers, and Morgan was a butch little Jewish woman who had altogether a different kind of deadly protectiveness than October’s tall femme fatale sort of carriage. Morgan was missing an eye, wore an eyepatch rather than a glass one, and apparently had lost it back in the seventies defending a group of queens while escorting them home. This group had included Bysshe, who would eventually become her partner along with October (Victoria had three parents). Bysshe was Atticus’ child, Gaspar’s niphling, and not present at the party, as hae was a marine biologist and out on a voyage with NOAA in the Pacific.

Recalling this, mostly for the practise and because Aix had to repeat things a lot in order to remember people properly, Aix also realised he was among probably the best people to ask for help. These were fellow people treated as criminal; despite their riches they were still Family.

‘Gogo, settle,’ Aix said, and cat ran up the stairs to him, insinuating into Aix’s lap even though Pippin was already there. Pippin giggled, putting her hand on Gogo’s face in the manner of cats pestering each other. Aix chuckled, but gently shoved both of them apart so he could get to his feet. He picked Pippin up again, not wanting to let her out of his arms, and went down the rest of the stairs, Gaspar walking with him back over to the living room and the shallow, circular conversation pit in front of the huge fireplace, which had been turned on and was offering a cheery glow.

Victoria was wrapped in one of the throw blankets, which was a in indecisive pastel colour and looked weird on her, since Aix was so used to seeing her in black or dark purple (or stripes—she had a black and white striped dress she’d worn when she’d taken Aix to see Beetlejuice); but then again, all the Averays and Blackstones in here looked weird against the pastel pinks and beiges and greens of the 1980s house.

‘So, uh, Pippin’s a wanted woman, and she is saying we should possibly… head to Boston early, because she’s got friends there.’

‘Ye,’ Hoops, one of the Avzaradel’s Tummlers, said with enthusiastic nodding. The hitsigers.

‘Hitsiger… huh, Pippin said they’re called boyos.’ Aix sat down slowly. ‘Same meaning?’

‘Hitsiger? That’s a bad-tempered person,’ Morgan said. ‘Always ready to fight.’ She gave a gold-toothed grin. ‘Like me, for example.’

‘Flies off the handle,’ said Mr Avzaradel with a nod. ‘Do you really talk to them?’

‘I—yeah. Witch thing. Hoops said the Boston clowns are called hitsigers. Pippin calls them boyos, and I know what that word means. Ragazzaccio, we say in Italian.’

Ye! Ragazzaccio bees what Duckie-he-peepoh bees call. Pippin said, showing Aix—carefully—how safe Pippin had felt around the Boston clowns, once she realised they really would fight for her, they’d fight humans to protect her, to protect anybody. They weren’t scared of Firebangs or Badjacks or anything.

She’d actually seen one kill in defence of foolies—clown and human both—once.

‘All that dumb stuff people believe about horrors is true about Boston clowns,’ Sean said, nodding.

‘Nightwatch,’ Aix corrected automatically.

‘Right, sorry. Nightwatch.’ Sean leaned over to nudge Xander. ‘Xander’s my horror clown.’ He kissed Xander’s pinkening cheek. ‘Ain’tcha, babe?’

Aix stifled giggles, but Pippin didn’t.

‘Oooooo!’ she lilted, her Flash turning pink and also making little pink hearts made of her Flash appear in the air above Xander; it didn’t surprise Aix, but it did surprise everyone else.

‘Oh yeah,’ Aix said, as casually as he could, ‘Pip does that now.’

‘It was often that the clowns of the Native folk did that, much better than ours,’ Williams said, quietly; the one thing he’d immediately been good at was changing vocabulary to be respectful, and Aix was glad they’d at least been able to explain that clearly, even if explaining the concept of religious hegemony was something Aix himself could not maintain calm enough to do. ‘I wonder if it is so with you.’

‘It’s not my presence, it’s likely the presence of Hoops and Golde,’ Aix said. Pippin nodded.

‘Enna bees rshanin joeys,’ she said in a sagely little voice. Aix giggled.

‘Yes, traditional joeys. There aren’t very many traditional groups of joeys in America, or even joeys that are old enough to remember them.’ He paused, ‘Anyway,’ he said, quieter and looking down. ‘I’m worried about our safety, do… any of y’all have thoughts? The cops are actively looking for Pippin.’

‘There aren’t cops in Boston, not really,’ Sean said. ‘The immigrant clowns wouldn’t let the police department get off the ground.’

‘That’s one of the main reasons there was so much support to ban joeys in the five counties of New York City,’ Lady Sitrinne said with a little nod, sipping her champagne.

‘How callous would a man need to be, to know a disabled man was being attacked, that a small pierrot such as this appeared to aid him—as they always aid those most in need—and still lay blame at the feet of Jocosa himself?’ Williams was incensed by this. ‘It is not injustice only, it is fatuous. Clowns are incapable of malice, everyone knows this to be true.’

‘Rozzer no habeen a soul,’ Pippin said grimly. ‘Rozzer bad man. Bad mean jackboot man.’

‘Hmph,’ said Golde nodding in agreement, her Mask in a huge frown.

‘Lucky for you,’ said Roseblade, as he came in the doorway, ‘you have the infamous Captain Roseblade, Scourge of the West African Coast, on your side.’ He gave a flourishing bow. ‘And his ship, and his crew—untested in battle, but willing to shoot any officer of the law between the eyes, every man.’

‘…Good God,’ Williams said, with something like relief. ‘I know you—well, by name and reputation only. But you—you were also in Faerie then?’

Roseblade just smiled, extending his fangs. ‘No indeed, my good man. I am one of the damned, dead by daylight and drinking the blood of the living to prolong my unnatural animation.’

The thing about the modern world was that you could say absolutely true things as graphically and dramatically as you wanted—and, if you were dramatic about it, and conformed too closely to a story, people just assumed you were having them on.

‘…Well, that explains a lot,’ Xander said.

…Most of the time. After all, everyone here knew the Averays and the Blackstones, both very old New England families that had always had supernatural happenings surrounding them, and strange companionship with strange persons.

Xander hadn’t been drawn to the roles he’d played for no reason.

‘The only creatures I know that do that are not named, and not well-seen by the people of this land,’ Williams said sternly. ‘I wonder, indeed, what the Sachem of Madam Sokeenun’s tribe would think.’

Even Aix was surprised at that; but he covered his mouth and pressed his laugh down. He shouldn’t laugh. It was very sweet that Williams was so ready to fight off a coloniser monster like that, even half-drowned and in a totally alien land, and having to deal with so much in the way of new ideas. He shouldn’t laugh.

‘That’s why we only let them hunt fascists,’ October said, her even tone more deadpan snark than her mother’s unflappable serenity.

‘Very true,’ Aix managed. ‘But um, I don’t have a place to live in Boston, and… jeez that’d be three different locations my stuff is scattered across. That’s a small thing, that’s dumb to be stressed about, I just…’

‘That is a huge problem for disabled folk, darling,’ Victoria reminded him.

‘You can stay in Boston with my folks, if you want,’ Sean said, ‘Their house is chair-friendly and they’d love to meet Pippin.’

‘Or with us, dear,’ Sitrinne said. ‘The police know better than to come to our door.’

‘No,’ Pippin said, ‘Boss town, peas peas.’ She frowned. ‘Beaga is bees,’ she said to Sean, thumb to her chest, Mask turning green and orange, the Mask Beaga had.

‘Oh fuck,’ Sean said, obviously knowing who that was. Pippin went over to him and hopped up on the arm of the sofa he was nearest in his chair, purring as he pet her. ‘Well, she should come to Boston then. Beaga’s a legend. Why did you leave?’

Pippin’s brow wrinkled, and she conveyed a concept she didn’t have words for to Aix.

‘Wanderlust.’

Pippin beeped in shock at there being only one word for that. ‘Anrst,’ she muttered to herself, ‘Ananenrsust.’ She looked at Aix. ‘Duckie romaji?’

Aix thought about it. ‘There’s a lot of consonant blends in there, bean.’

Pippin gave a big sigh, grumbling to herself and climbing on Xander’s lap. Aix was privy to her general feeling being that English had too many sounds she just did not like making with her mouth.

‘I get you, bean. I am extremely picky about mouth-sounds too.’ Aix thought. ‘Ok, Boston it is. Sean, does your family have sewing stuff?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Pippin wanted to cosplay as Fizzarolli, and we’ve only got to finish the collar and putting the bells on.’ Aix knew mentioning it would cheer Pippin up, and she beeped, wiggling all over, especially when Xander laughed like Fizzarolli and tickled her.

As Pippin babbled very confidently (with the occasional legible syllable) about her plans, and entertained, Aix was given a reprieve from the spotlight that he felt was increasingly unavoidable, and looked up to Roseblade as the vampire sat on the arm of the sofa next to Aix, returning Aix’s phone.

And then Roseblade tilted Aix’s chin up, kissing his forehead. ‘From René,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to take you to Boston harbour, our witch?’

Aix felt his heart flutter, ‘I must go down to the sea again,’ he said, the words etched on his heart, ‘to the lonely sea and the sky.’

Roseblade kissed him, heart-meltingly gentle and worthy of the silver screen.

‘And all I ask is a tallship,’ Roseblade finished softly, ‘and a star to steer her by.’

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