Illusions of Choice

Additional Disclaimer: Original elements (characters, locations, plot, etc.) are property of Methylethyldeth.

Author Notes: Methyl once again crawls out from under her mossy rock, clutching her ever-present cup of tea and offering a long overdue update. Many thanks to the beta astraia_ourania, who looked over this chapter twice because Methyl just had to tweak it after her first edit. Hopefully it was worth the wait.

A well-dressed young man crossed his legs at the ankles, turned to stare out the dirty window, and pushed his dark glasses back up his nose, somehow making the whole process look more elegant than it should have been. The vinyl cushions squeaked in a way reminiscent of very bad leather when he shifted against them to better see the blur of muddy green and brown countryside as the Muggle train sped along the tracks toward Prague.

The woman sitting across the compartment fidgeted and flipped a page of her book, glancing up at the man when she thought he wouldn't notice.

The fae under the false human skin sighed and stretched her too-long and too-masculine legs, belatedly realizing that she'd been sitting perfectly still except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Humans were disturbed by that, even if they didn't consciously recognize what their eyes were telling them.

Over the last couple hours the woman seated across from Arcana had tried to engage the fae, whom she saw as a handsome, dark-haired man, in conversation several times to no avail. Thankfully having admitted defeat, she was now reading a dog-eared romance novel with a pout on her face. If the woman had still been paying attention to the man's profile, she might have caught the flash of silver in his grey eyes.

Arcana closed her eyes and stilled her magic. It would hardly do to startle the Muggle after all. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over the tips of her clawless fingers, irritated with the sensation despite being well aware of her true body and how the magic of her newest glamour bent around it. Wearing gloves over glamoured skin was the worst. She tugged them off and ignored the Muggle woman when she looked up from her book again. The lack of tainted iron was one benefit to traveling Muggle-style. Arcana suspected it was likely the only benefit.

A small smile quirked her lips. It wasn't every day she could walk around blithely while looking just a little too much like the overconfident young wizard she had spotted in one of Prague's grimy pubs forty some odd years ago. She took a long breath. By North and South that had been a long forty years. Back then Jeriol Ironcraft had just inherited his Knocturn Alley shop from that wretched old witch who had apprenticed him right out of Hogwarts. Buying soul hunting supplies from him that first time had certainly been a . . . unique experience. He'd made a good pot of tea, even then.

Arcana wiggled her too-long toes in her too-stiff boots, cursing modern human fashions. Wearing a glamour this tall was awkward - something she normally considered unacceptable - but the irony was just too perfect, so she had set aside caution this one time. In addition to the boots, the charade had necessitated the purchase of robes, with the Dark Lord's gold of course, that would fit the large frame since a stray spell might break any transfiguration work she could have done on her own clothes. The trouble would be worth it if it shortened her stay in Prague.

The sooner she completed her mission, the sooner she could go to the Great Library in Alexandria to find that key piece of blood magic that would bring the Dark Lord to his knees and win Arcana her freedom. She scowled at her reflection in the scratched window. If the Dark Lord's own face didn't attract attention in Prague, nothing would. It was odd to think that he had been so very human all those years ago. If he had contracted her services when he'd been that young, she'd probably still refer to him by name in her thoughts.

Beyond Arcana's reflection, magic overlaid the countryside like a patchwork quilt - thin in some places, thick and Dark in others, and Wild at the edge of Arcana's perception, where neither Muggle nor wizard often wandered. She couldn't see Prague yet, but the mass of wards would be visible, buzzing in her head, long before the first buildings appeared on the horizon. Apparition directly into Prague was troublesome, Portkeys untrustworthy, and the wizarding train too closely monitored, so that had left the Muggle train system as the safest option. Arcana had not even considered flying to Prague. She hardly trusted the Muggles to keep a train running without magic, and at least that wouldn't fall out of the sky when it broke.

Arcana's nose itched, and the back of her throat burned after breathing the harsh chemical fumes in the compartment for several hours. The Muggle woman didn't seem to notice anything amiss, so Arcana had to assume the odor was normal. She looked down through the floor to the spinning wheels and suppressed a shudder. She was being carried across the land by a dead metal shell whose soul had withered to dust.

From here, the Raskovic family compound lay to the northeast, hidden from view by magical means since its construction in the fifteen hundreds - not that Arcana cared since she had no intention of going anywhere near it. She had spent a day pawing through the Dark Lord's libraries to find a read A Less Than Brief History of the Great Pureblood Lines of the Ancient Prefecture of Prague and its Noble Surrounding Lands. Beyond a few random, overly wordy facts, it had been a waste of time. Arcana squinted, trying to make out what lay behind the powerful wards. Meadows and trees gave way to a wash of magic, and an impenetrable Dark blot bloomed like a putrid flower on the grasslands about fifteen miles away by Arcana's estimate.

A loud ringing noise jarred Arcana out of her trance. The Muggle woman pulled out a small plastic thing, pushed a button, and started jabbering. Arcana kept a sneer off of her face and looked out the window again, drawing on a bit more ambient magic to enhance her vision as the woman blathered louder into the device.

Sparks flew out of the Muggle contraption, and the woman shrieked, tossing away the plastic thing, which smacked the wall by Arcana's head and then clattered to the floor. Acrid smoke rose from the very dead phone. For a moment, the Muggle woman was nearly still as Arcana, her eyes wide and accusing, as if she thought the device had been out to get her all along.

Arcana bit back a chuckle, instead raising one dark eyebrow and arranging her face into one of the Dark Lord's irritated expressions. Her amusement died as soon as the woman started ranting about "exploding batteries," whatever those were, in her shrill voice. It wasn't Arcana's fault that some silly Muggle inventions tended to react badly to magic. She sighed and urged the train to go faster, but wasn't surprised when it didn't listen. Bloody Muggle contraptions.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the train arrived in Prague. Arcana buttoned up her long wool coat and opened her black umbrella as she disembarked, skirting around a family and their pile of luggage. It was pouring rain, it was cold, and the sky was dark enough that the electric streetlights were glowing. She hadn't been lying to the Dark Lord when she'd said the weather was miserable this time of year. It might be snowing by nightfall. Arcana hurried out of the train station and boarded a trolley crowded with grumpy locals that would take her to the entrance of the wizarding district. At least it wasn't tourist season. Another phone - she swore those things were smaller every time she saw them - died spectacularly during the ride, but it wasn't her fault that the man had turned the thing on while crossing the edge of a nasty ward.

Arcana maneuvered out of her seat and ducked out the trolly's door, feeling uncomfortably tall. Just what tall people did with this much arm and leg she would never know. Arcana unfurled her umbrella and trudged down the street in the heart of the Old Town of Muggle Prague, heavy warding magic humming in her mind and prickling her skin. Warm cream walls and red-tiled roofs managed to instill a bit of cheer in both the dreary day and the scurrying Muggles. From somewhere out of sight, the Muggle Orloj, an astronomical clock, chimed in new the hour. Arcana noted the time and glared at the shop signs from under her umbrella. Prague's wizards had copied the Orloj, adding a few magical features, and installing it in the heart of their invisible district. Of course, now most wizards believed their version was the original.

A bookstore melted into existence between a café and an antique shop, its old wooden sign creaking as it swung in the wind. Arcana folded her umbrella and slipped inside. Chimes clanged as the door opened, drawing the attention of the proprietor who was perched on a ladder, pulling down books from a high shelf. There was magic in this bookstore, and no small part of it was Dark. Robes hung from a hook behind the register and there was an empty owl perch by the window. Subtle Muggle repelling charms had been set to keep Muggles from seeing most of the shop if they happened to wander inside. Arcana stepped lightly over a cursed floorboard that would shrivel the hands of thieves. Yes, this was the right spot.

"Good afternoon. Maps and tour guides on your left," the wizard droned in Bulgarian, as if he said the same phrase twenty times a day, waving to a shelf full of brightly colored books on the other side of the store. His peered at Arcana from the corner of his eye while one of his hands drifted toward the wand that was sticking out of his waistcoat.

Unperturbed, she walked up to a shelf by the wizard, withdrew a Dark spellbook from a shelf that would have been hard to reach at her natural height and thumbed through the pages. It was a new edition, full of standard hexes and curses, some of which would have guaranteed the caster a lengthy stay in Azkaban if caught in wizarding Britain.

"I'm actually looking for something of more substance. I've been told the way's through the back," Arcana said, letting the Bulgarian come a bit rough and with an English accent, as if she'd learned the language by spell. The masculine voice still sounded odd in her ears, though she'd been wearing the glamour for nearly a day.

The wizard grunted and shook his head. "Yeah, through the back. Put the book down unless you're going to buy it." Arcana complied and headed to the back of the store. "Enjoy the sights before you find yourself dead," he called out to Arcana's back and then muttered, "Bah, kids and curses."

The back door was squeezed between two shelves of mildewed magical books. A faint haze of Dark magic clung to them that made Arcana's nose itch, though it might have just been the dust. The suspiciously rust-colored substance staining the floorboards in front of the door lent credence to her first theory. Arcana scowled at the old blood and stepped over it. After checking the door for curses she cautiously opened it and stepped into the Dark shadow of the Muggle city visible out the front of the store.

Tall buildings rose on either side of the cobblestone street, painted in murky greys and crowned with green-tiled roofs. Runes of warding ran over lintels and under windows, and conspicuous witches and wizards loitered around certain closed doors - hired hit-wizards or worse.

Arcana felt eyes track her every movement as she drew her holly wand and removed the transfiguration spells from her clothes, turning the coat back into a nicely tailored robe and then shrinking the umbrella and stuck it into a pocket. She cast a shield above her head to keep off the sad drizzle with a flick of her wrist and then poked the wand into a sheath on her left forearm so it would be fast to draw. Her other wand was stashed in a safely hidden pocket, just in case. Arcana headed west down Ridgeback Lane and smiled when a short wizard peeled away from a wall and followed.

"Get your Muggle Repellent, Inferi Off, and Golem Be Gone!" called a mangy-looking witch. Her cart of small bottles and packages rattled as she directed it to roll down the cobblestone street with her wand. "Fresh wolfsbane, five sickles a bunch. Full moon in three night's time!"

Branching off of the main street were numerous dark alleys. Things moved in their shadows, and there was a taste of death in the air that made the more squeamish witches and wizards congregate along the middle of Ridgeback Lane where a row of gloomy benches ran, broken here and there by grim statues and merchants hawking amulets and potions that were illegal in Britain.

Powerful wards permeated the air, making Arcana itch to be elsewhere. She looked into the magic, and the energy tingled under her skin like a horde of buzzing doxies. There would be no breaking the anti-Apparition spells here. They had been in place for centuries. Passing under an arch across the street, Arcana felt a distinct shift in the ambient magic. A different family controlled this district. With the shift in the wards came the faint odor of the undead. Inferi had been stashed somewhere nearby, likely in a basement as the scent - more magic than true smell - seemed strongest by the sunken windows. Disgusting . . . things.

An owl swooped overhead, landing with a screech on the shoulder of an imposing wizard guarding one of the many ironclad doors lining the street. Something on his wrist jangled when he reached up to pull the letter from the owl's leg, and Arcana felt his gaze on her back when she passed by. Her hands tingled with raw magic, but she squashed it down. She stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of the local wizarding paper, using the time it took to dig out a couple Knuts to scan for the watchwizard. He hadn't followed, but the one from outside the bookstore was skulking nearby, failing to look interested in the bottle he was holding.

Arcana shrunk the paper and kept walking, taking the time to weave through a crowd, just to irritate the wizard following her tracks. She broke through the throng of robes and strode right past the side street that would take her to the Raskovic family's district. The Dark Lord had warned her not to contact them directly, and when Arcana had offered a rather rude reply he'd repaid it with an inventive curse. It had taken her the better part of an hour to speak a sentence without adding several unnecessary honorifics against her will. While Arcana had been forced to express her hatred through glares alone, the Dark Lord smiled and told her about a wizard that spied for the Raskovic family who would fold if she mentioned the Dark Lord. Soon she'd find out if he was right.

In the center of a crossroads stood a large wrought iron - tainted iron - pole that was hung with numerous signs. Arcana side-stepped a witch wrestling with a basket of kneezle kittens that all clambered to look at her, mewling. They had the inconvenient ability to see what most wizards could not. Arcana ignored the squinty glare of the kneezle-bearing witch, scanned the signs on the pole and then turned left, passing under another arch and into yet another wizarding family's territory. The buildings were worn, if well-fortified, and the shadows deeper than they should have been. The air rippled here and there doors, passages, or entire houses were concealed. Hexes, jinxes, and curses were woven into the stones under Arcana's feet, and with magic like that she was unsurprised to sense a distinct lack of Inferi.

Ulanov and Kashtic's Bone Emporium was just where the Dark Lord's maps had indicated, and Arcana pushed open the door, hiding a scowl at the unpleasant feeling of the tainted iron under her gloved hand. The wizard that had been following her since she left the bookstore stopped and lurked outside.

The store was full of bones - bones on shelves, bones in baskets, bones stacked up in piles on the floor. Arcana strode past a rack of human skulls, each labeled witch, wizard, or Muggle, along with additional details. A shelf lined with jars of snake vertebrae and fangs was looking particularly dusty, sparking a mad desire to write a message in the grime. By the shelf there was a basket full of various house-elf bones with one skull propped on top, its empty sockets staring at nothing. Black hate for the murderous wizards responsible churned within Arcana, making magic crackle dangerously under her skin. She forced her gaze elsewhere to banish the idea of Shelly meeting the same fate.

There was a unicorn skull, complete with horn, mounted high on the wall. The sign below read FOR HEALING SPELLS ONLY: INQUIRE FOR RENTAL, NOT FOR SALE. It had died naturally. Arcana's gaze drifted upward and she stared, entranced by the soft white magic flowing around the skull. There was nothing natural about a mortal unicorn.

An old wizard oozed out from behind a shelf, startling Arcana. She snapped out of her trance and formed a curse in her mind, sensing the wizard's hand was already on his wand.

"Looking for something . . . special, young man?" Arcana turned around and looked down on the wizard. That in itself was a novel experience. The slight widening of his eyes was even more enjoyable. He must be Ulanov. She had heard that Kashtic was considerably younger, and a witch.

"I suppose you could say that. More of a someone, actually," she said, letting her Bulgarian sound spell-learned again. "Boris Raskovic."

"This district is under the protection of the Vladich family. We have nothing to do with that Mudblood scum."

"Of course," Arcana said with that edge of cold sarcasm she often heard in the Dark Lord's voice. "I'm sure my message will reach the right ears all the same."

"You are a very stupid wizard, mister . . . "

Arcana just smiled one of the Dark Lord's dangerous smiles.

"Names are fickle things, and mine is unimportant, Mr. Ulanov. I'll be back tomorrow morning." Arcana turned her back on the wizard and left the store. That had been fun. By his reaction she was sure that Ulanov had seen the Dark Lord when he had visited Prague some decades ago, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. If the Dark Lord was right about Ulanov being a spy, the Raskovic family would be notified by nightfall. Arcana allowed herself a soft chuckle as the shop's door swung shut behind her.

The wizard that had followed Arcana was still waiting, reading a copy of the same newspaper she had bought. He followed her, nonchalant as could be, as if that would make his spying inconspicuous. Arcana stepped around a corner and into a throng of cloaks and pointy hats, weaving around them until she could slip behind a statue. By the time her pursuer had caught up there was no Riddle look-a-like to follow. It was a tricky bit of magic to fool enough minds while switching glamours, but crowds made a surprisingly good cover for that. Dizzy from pulling on too much magic, Arcana leaned against a bench and fingered several poorly-made talismans hanging from a cart. Before the seller could accost her about purchasing one of the worthless things, Arcana regained her bearings and strode off, wearing the appearance of a middle-aged witch, her stomach starting to rumble. She'd lost track of the day while crossing the Continent and it was time for dinner. The wizarding Orloj bonged out the hour in agreement.

The Reveling Runespoor Inn was crowded despite the small mountain of Galleons it cost to book a cramped room with a rickety bed, but it was the safest place to stay in Prague for travelers lacking the patronage of one of the old families. Arcana had booked a room with the innkeeper, speaking in fluent Bulgarian, and looking like she could have grown up in the nearby mountains. The pub on the ground floor was friendlier than expected, though Arcana guessed it was due to subtle charms and illusions rather than true camaraderie. All the same, it was the best she could do, and at least the cider was better than it had been the last time she'd visited Prague . . .

The Boggart and Bowtruckle tavern was gloomy even though the sun hadn't quite set. Witches, wizards, and a few magical creatures were scattered about, hunkered over drinks or smoking long-stemmed pipes. Arcana sat at the bar, listening to the wooden beams across the ceiling creak as someone upstairs paced back and forth, the magical weight of thee human souls hanging heavily in an inner pocket of her robes. A witch stomped out from behind the bar, glared at the ceiling while muttering about giant blood, and then started lighting floating candles to ward off the night.

Arcana gripped the pewter mug with gnarled hands as soon as it was shoved in front of her, and the bartender snatched up the five Knuts she had set down. She was starving after hunting and avoiding unwanted attention all day, and she was most certainly not going to meet with her client on an empty stomach. That witch could throw enough Dark magic to crack one of the Muggle bridges that crossed the river Vltava. "Two Galleons, seven Sickles for room and board," the bartender grunted.

"Just the meal," Arcana replied in gruff Bulgarian. The wizard snorted and shook his head.

"Fifteen Sickles then." He leaned over Arcana and pointed across the room to a wizard in dark red robes with short salt and pepper hair. "You'll be wanting to order a coffin too before you go." The bartender scribbled something down on a scrap of parchment and sent it flying off to the kitchen with a flick of his wand. "You'll get a good deal. Hasn't got much business since Grindelwald fell." Arcana made a noncommittal noise, knowing that if her cursed life ended that night, whatever was left of her body would never be put to the ground.

A drunken hag waved at the bartender for another cup of brew, and he trudged off, leaving Arcana in peace.

Arcana raised the mug and cautiously sniffed the cider, casting a silent revealing spell to detect poison. The cider was clean, though bland, she discovered after taking a sip. From her spot at the end of the bar, Arcana had a clear view of the front door and most of the room. The one table behind her was empty and would likely remain that way given the glares she shot anyone who meandered in that direction. An ugly glamour did come with certain benefits. The meal came floating from the kitchen on a wooden tray, and landed on the bar in front of Arcana with a thud. She cast the revealing spell again, and was confident that the stew, bread, and cheese were clean as well. Fortunately the kitchen hadn't used tainted iron cookware either. Arcana dunked the bread in the stew and ate, her eyes drifting over the room for any suspicious activity.

The door of the tavern creaked open and a wizard walked in, pulling his hood back from his face. Customers sneered or stealthily tracked his steps, and Arcana evaluated him with a glance - English, brash, young, powerful, and soon likely to be very dead. He strode across the floor and through the door to the back room at Arcana's left without looking her way once. Yes, he'd soon be very dead, or perhaps undead. She chuckled softly and went back to her meal.

. . . It was a pity Arcana could no longer chuckle about the wizard who became the Dark Lord. At least better lodging had appeared in Prague since her last visit. A plate landed in front of her, and her stomach rumbled insistently. It certainly took more effort to hold a glamour now than it did back in those days, but that would soon change. The vaults of Alexandria would enlighten her about the mysteries of blood magic sufficiently that she could defeat the Dark Lord and get that power back. She did not dare think otherwise.

Arcana stabbed at her dinner with her fork and scowled, wishing that the cloaked wizard limping through the front door was the man born Tom Riddle so she could stab him instead. Not that the half-blood bastard back in Britain could really be called a man any longer. Whatever was inside that nightmarish shell of a body, little of it was human.

Before she had been branded with his crass Mark, she had taunted the Dark Lord about having seen him in his more human days - she had recognized his magical signature from that brief tavern encounter. It had irked him to no end, and it had taken him months and a string of cruel hints before he had picked out the time and place to which Arcana had referred. That had been a fun game, almost as entertaining as thwarting the Dark Lord's attempts at Legilimency. The Dark Mark hummed softly under her skin as it had been doing from time to time since she left Britain. Arcana impaled an innocent carrot on her fork. He was watching, and the games were no longer amusing.

Arcana locked the door to her small room and checked the wards that the innkeeper had set before adding several of her own. Night had descended, and with low clouds blotting out both moon and stars, the only light seeping through the heavy curtains came from the street lamps. Arcana pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window. The rain had turned to snow, much to the irritation of an invisible someone who was leaving stark footprints in the white dusting on the street. Some things never changed.

Come morning, the snow on the street had turned to slush, and an ugly mix of rain and snow fell from the sky. A damp cold seeped through the curtains like a curse, and Arcana had no desire to leave her bed, uncomfortable as it was. The floorboards outside her room creaked as some equally grumpy wizard stomped down the hallway. Arcana scratched at her head, annoyed with the texture of her glamoured hair, and checked her wards one more time. Last night she had thrown a robe over the one mirror in the room and cast a host of muffling and privacy spells. The thing'd had the nerve to give her fashion advice as soon as she'd opened the door. Assured of her solitude, Arcana dropped the glamour and properly dealt with the mess that was her hair.

*** *** *** ***

Arcana walked out of an alley in midmorning, once again wearing her young Riddle guise, and quickly attracted attention as she strode purposefully to the Bone Emporium on long legs, her boots squishing along the slushy street. When she pushed open the shop door, Ulanov abruptly stopped speaking to the younger of the two witches at his side and scowled deeply. The younger witch glared at Ulanov and snapped shut a thick ledger with the shop crest on the cover, clearly displeased with the disruption. She had to be Kashtic. Matching her caustic reaction was an older witch, whose grey hair frizzed out from under her pointy hat. The taint on her magic stank of the undead, and she looked like she'd rather be dining with her Inferi than standing by associates of the Vladich family.

Arcana stepped inside, smiling one of the Dark Lord's cold smiles. Humans were so predictable.

The elder witch bid Arcana follow her into another room, and Arcana complied, having to stoop slightly through the low doorway. The only thing in the room was a warded metal case restraining what felt like lethal curses.

The witch looked Arcana over with a critical eye, as if waiting for some mysterious signal, and Arcana nodded her head politely in response. The witch pressed her lips together, disgruntled, her left hand pressing briefly against the outside of a pocket.

"The Raskovic family has no love for your cause, mister . . ?" said the witch, jumping straight to the point. Her left hand twitched, as if she had just stopped herself from reaching for whatever she had checked before. Arcana suppressed her magic before it pooled in her hands. If she wasn't careful it might shatter the glamour.

"I suppose that is no surprise given the destruction the Dark Lord left in his wake the last time he visited your city," Arcana replied in the glamour's masculine voice, ignoring the implied question about her name. "He is prepared to negotiate on a subject of mutual interest, but only with Boris Raskovic."

"The family scion is very busy, as I imagine you understand, being in a similar position."

The Raskovics were well aware that they really had no choice in the matter since the Dark Lord would eventually get what he wanted. Though it would be satisfying to point this out, it wouldn't be the most diplomatic response, and spewing politic words was what the Dark Lord was paying her to do with gold and time.

"The Raskovic family will look back with regret if they let this opportunity slip by because of a scheduling conflict," Arcana said, again brushing off the witch's insinuations.

The witch's face twisted into an ugly expression, her fingers clenching around whatever was in her pocket.

"It's already decided. Tomorrow at midnight." She spoke as if the words were poison. "Go to the Raskovic District, take Fer Alley, and if you are worthy you will have the honor of meeting Boris Raskovic."

Before Arcana could respond, the witch spun on her heel and swished out of the shop in a swirl of heavy robes, letting the door slam shut. From the storefront came the creak of leather when Kashtic cracked open the ledger again, and the store owners resumed their heated discussion, perhaps hoping that if they ignored the foreign wizard in the back room, he would just go away.

Arcana rubbed her clawless index finger against her thumb to distract herself from the dissonant buzz of magic in her mind. Yes, she had expected the Raskovics to respond, and yes, it had gone according to plan, but given her luck that meant it had been far too easy.

*** *** *** ***

The Reveling Runespoor's pub was crowded that night, and the rooms above were full. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, and sleet beat upon the shuttered windows. It was a miserable night, and not even the north wind could tempt Arcana to leave the inn. She was already on her third mug of steaming cider.

A raucous drinking game at a large table in the middle of the room drowned out all other conversations. The Wizarding Wireless was blaring out the news, and the table full of witches and wizards was avidly listening. The broadcaster mentioned dementors, and everyone took a shot, laughing heartily. A good third of the patrons around the table were imbibing the house special, a foul smelling, smoking brew that Arcana thought looked positively poisonous. The words "Ferril's Bane" spewed forth from the Wizarding Wireless and everyone around the table took two gulps of their drinks.

Arcana had claimed a spot at the bar where she had a clear view of the front door and the stairs up to the second floor. There was a loud cheer from the center table and everyone took another shot. One grizzled witch that had been drinking the house special tipped back a bit too far, and only a lucky wave of the barkeep's wand kept her chair balancing precariously on one leg. The witch's head lolled forward, and her chair fell back onto four feet. The wizard at her side took away her mug just before the witch's head hit the table with a sound thunk.

One wall of the pub was dedicated to the Bulgarian Quidditch star Victor Krum, complete with a snitch hovering in a glass box and a grumpy photograph of Krum glaring down at it. The collection of memorabilia had become so vast that the self-updating board listing Krum's achievements was relegated to a sorry place above a tall window. Two werewolves sat at a battered table under that window, leaning toward each other, whispering conspiratorially. Arcana tuned out the drinking game, and their words became clear.

"No one just steps out of thin air. Not here!" the first werewolf whispered. He raked his hand through his dark hair and then took a swig from his smoking mug. "No Apparition, no Portkeys. Nothing!"

"Disillusionment," a second werewolf grunted. One of his feet was tapping a relentless rhythm, as if all of his nervous energy was being channeled into that movement.

"Can't be." The dark-haired werewolf patted something under his shirt. "Raskovic's talisman was dead quiet."

"You've heard the rumors. If anyone could do it, You-Know-Who could, and well, perhaps he passed it on."

"Oh quit with this 'You-Know-Who' business. He couldn't stand against the Enclave. No one could stand against that kind of firepower, not even that Dumbledore, and he took down Grindelwald! And besides, Vold . . . er, he'd use a family name if he had one."

The second werewolf snorted. "See, you can't say it either. He's a Slytherin! He's the heir."

"That's what they say. Rather convenient, especially when no one's seen hide nor hair of that family in ages. They're all dead, if you ask me." He snarled and gouged a new hole in the table with an untrimmed nail. They were nearly claws due to the waxing moon. "None of this fixes our problem. We lost the wizard again. She'll have our hides for it!"

Arcana's dinner landed in front of her on the bar, and she scowled at the mound of pickled cabbage, scooting it off the more edible potatoes underneath with a fork. She sniffed at the soup and recoiled. The kitchen had at least one tainted iron cauldron. Arcana's stomach rumbled, and she started in on the potatoes.

The front door swung open and a tall woman stalked in, her brown mane wild from the storm. Another werewolf. She pulled off her cloak and threw it at the two werewolves at the table. The dark-haired one caught it, keeping his eyes averted. The woman came up to the bar beside Arcana.

"Marko, dinner!"

There was a shaky affirmative from the kitchen, and the woman claimed the stool next to Arcana and started drumming her fingers on the bar, her long nails clacking. Arcana took a swig of her cider as an excuse to set the mug down further away from the newcomer. The werewolf sniffed the air and then turned her head. Arcana met her amber eyes and then slid the dark glasses back up her nose.

"You smell like the storm." There was a growl beneath the werewolf's words.

"It is storming." Arcana nodded toward the window.

"No, it's inside you." The werewolf's pupils dilated, and she leaned closer, nostrils flaring. Magic flooded to Arcana's hands, and she reined in the instinct.

"Dinner, Lady Svetozar, just the way you like it," the barkeep said, holding out a tray with a plate of bloody meat and a tankard of lager. "Please try to leave my other customers alone."

Svetozar's lip curled, revealing teeth that belonged in a wolf's mouth, then took the tray and went to join the other werewolves.

Arcana took a deep breath and drew her hands into her lap to rub away the tingling of raw magic that had pooled in them. She went back to her dinner and finished the edible parts quickly, throwing a few Knuts on the tray before retiring to her room. Glamours were least effective at fooling scent, and werewolves had a keen sense of smell near the full moon. It was fortunate that Riddle had made his last appearance because he'd smell like the storm as well. Back downstairs a chair crashed to the floor, followed by a round of swearing and canine whining. Arcana silently slipped down the hall and unlocked her door, grateful that the werewolves were oblivious that the one they sought was so very near.

*** *** *** ***

Morning found Arcana back downstairs in the pub, slouched in the chair closest to the blazing hearth. It was cold. Through the window she watched a team of wizards de-icing the street, their wands practically engulfed in heavy mittens. She imagined the Dark Lord frozen stiff in the empty chair next to her. He'd set the whole inn on fire to get warm if necessary. The barkeep Marko brought over breakfast for Arcana, and waved his wand, making a floating teapot refill her empty cup. She tore straight into the toast and cheese. Holding glamours for days on end always made her hungry unless she could pull on the ambient magic of the land, and Prague wasn't feeling cooperative in that regard.

Unwilling to leave the fire after finishing breakfast, Arcana fished the newspaper she had bought out of a pocket and enlarged it back to normal size, remembering to use her wand just in time. The last thing she needed was to be stared at for feats of wandless magic. The Wizarding Wireless whirred to life in the middle of the Quidditch report. Krum had apparently saved the day again, catching the Snitch only moments before the Quaffle sailed through the goal, which would have spelled victory for the Irking Erklings, a Danish team. The front page of the paper was dedicated to a plague of vampire attacks in Albania, and there was a large article on the dangers that Ferril's Bane posed to the stability of the wizarding community. Durmstrang was seeing its fair share of violence as well, with the student population fractured into pureblood and mixed blood factions.

As the Wizarding Wireless began blaring "Ode to Organon," Arcana forgot to how to swallow mid-sip and coughed, splattering the paper with droplets of tea.

Cumanus: Archivist Abandons Archive

Noted demonologist Isabella Cumanus vanished from the Great Wizarding Library of Alexandria on Tuesday, prompting a full-scale search of the library, the city, and beyond. Head Curator Lisimba Anatole Husaline believes it unlikely that Cumanus, reportedly a most formidable witch, was abducted. Whether true or not, Cumanus's whereabouts remain unknown.

Arcana swore and scanned through the paper, but there was nothing else. Cumanus had taken sanctuary in the Library years ago after being banished from the Summoners' Guild, and the crone had hardly left her Archive since, burying her hatred in the collection of demonic tomes. Arcana read the article again, wishing the words to change, willing them to say Cumanus had stolen any of those precious books at the very least. The article slid down the page and around the Quidditch stats, trying to escape her scrutiny.

Raw magic tingled in her hands, threatening to crackle between her fingers. She shrunk the paper, stuck it in a pocket, and stomped back up the stairs to her room. Arcana's instincts screamed for her to abandon Prague and chase down Cumanus before the witch said anything that could bring a horde of demons down on Arcana's head. Last autumn in Alexandria, Cumanus had boldly declared that Arcana, or rather the glamour of Muirgheal, had fae blood. That had led to a round of double blackmailing in which Cumanus told Arcana enough about the demon the Dark Lord wanted to summon that they'd managed to do just that, though not painlessly.

Arcana rubbed at the scars Xhal Thos had left on her neck, hoping she was imagining the faint laughter that seemed to emanate from a dark corner of her mind. The summoning had gone as wrong as it could have without killing them both, so it was no surprise that the matter with Cumanus was imploding as well. Arcana snarled and threw open the door to her room. The bloody witch could have at least had better timing. Instead of going to Alexandria after this foolish business playing emissary for a half-blood, hardly human bastard of a wizard, Arcana needed to run off and cut that loose thread before it unraveled her life.

Cumanus had fled Alexandria on Tuesday, and it was Thursday now, which Arcana figured only gave her a day or two to intercept the witch. Cumanus could not reach the Guild. If she did, the Guildmaster's bound demon would be at Arcana's throat as soon as the sun set. She shivered despite the fire. Arcana's worry that her choice to strut around Prague looking like the Dark Lord's heir had attracted too much attention evaporated in the bleak light of this new fear. If all went well she would be on the road before dawn tomorrow.

After thoroughly checking the wards around her room, Arcana sat down on the rickety bed and took a deep breath. The second skin of the glamour vanished. Perhaps she should have done this yesterday, but her hatred of the act had made her procrastinate until the last minute. Arcana pulled off her gloves and rolled up her left sleeve, giving her Dark Mark a good glare before pressing her index finger to the middle of the brand. It burned as she reached into her link with the Dark Lord. Arcana felt his attention turn to her, and the red-black serpent hissed in her mind.

My fae.

Arcana shuddered as the words ghosted through her head.

I have made contact. Boris Raskovic is set to meet with your emissary tonight, midnight, in the Raskovic District of Prague, down Fer Alley.

There was a hissing, murmuring sensation in Arcana's mind.

Ah, yes, I see. You have been fortunate. Your lord will arrive shortly after midnight, my emissary. Do not be late. I want Boris and his lackeys distracted. Can you manage this?

Of course, my lord.

Continue as you were. Do not draw attention to yourself until necessary.

As you wish, my lord.

Hissing echoed through Arcana's head, and the Dark Lord's presence slipped away, jarring Arcana back to physical reality. She swore, one of those nasty fae oaths, and shook her left arm. The brand was red and irritated. Bloody crass wizard magic.

Pity it was so effective.

*** *** *** ***

Next: "Golem Be Gone." Wherein nothing goes according to plan, and our favorite Dark wizard springs an ugly surprise . . .

Thank you for reading this latest installment. Methyl is nearly ready to send chapter four off to the beta and is currently writing chapter eight. Maybe we'll manage to update sooner this time! :p

If you haven't gotten enough Methylethyldeth yet, she also resides on livejournal, where she posts regularly on a variety of topics. She doesn't bite visitors . . . often. :D