The Mordant estate was a classic blend of European Gothic architecture planted in the middle of a grassy field surrounded by acres of forest on three sides. From street side, gables, chimneys, and peaked roofs prodded at the night-time canopy, the lights strung from gutters providing a twinkle that rivaled that of the sky above. Every window?of which there were more than could be counted in a single sweep?was lit with a soft amber glow. The property was bordered by an exquisitely ornate carved wooden fence, the drive similarly guarded by a tall, dangerously spiked pine gate?perhaps a subtle giveaway to the species of occupants within.

Una had gathered a few of the estate?s secrets as a teen. Such as the fact that many of the windows were false, and some of the turrets and gables had no rooms behind them, just the unfinished scaffolding and bare wooden supports within. There were staircases that led to vacant walls or opened into black nothingness, long passages that went nowhere. All of those eccentricities suited what she remembered of the family, as well.

Somewhere within lay Anton?s body. The liaison and erstwhile lover had last told Una he thought he was close to brokering a deal between the Mordants and a pack of wolves for a piece of land beyond the fringes of the city. The land in question was no more than a glade, but the competition for its untapped energy had gone on covertly for months.

Una suspected within the labyrinthine catacombs that lay beneath the estate harbored the man?s body. The property itself was a place of power, no doubt, and the Mordants had, in classic nouveau riche fashion, simply built their architectural ode atop the primary draw in order to maximize the flow of its energy.

Once she would have been granted entry immediately, but the Mordants hadn?t been allies for at least twenty years. The Weres were another matter entirely. Una was typically avoided by any who were vaguely familiar with her years-cold relations with one of their revered figureheads, and though he?d been dead at least 50 years, Una was still considered a bad omen by many of the Eastern European packs.

Una twined her arm through Owen's automatically, fingers draping his forearm and wrist so casually and comfortably, by all appearances she might have done it a thousand times before.

Once they ascended the steps, Una handed over their invitation at the door. The doorman turned the thick cardstock over and ran his fingertips along the backside until he found the debossed watermark and nodded them inside.

The ballroom was a recreation pulled directly from the height of midsummer, and as it was the fae, it was a very convincing one. The climate was temperate and slightly humid, scented with wild jasmine. Fireflies moved sluggishly overhead, suspended in their own stratosphere to lend their unique light. Climbing vines decorated walls where bioluminescent moss cast off a dim green glow. Candlelight flickered in sconces, on tabletops, and from chandeliers that dripped wide, bugle-bodied night blooms in every shade. There were fountains of champagne, tables dressed in exotic foods and cakes. The entire affair was a paean to excess and over-saturation?really Una thought it was a pity they weren't here to enjoy the atmosphere. She'd liked to have seen what kind of effect fae wine had on Owen. But she marveled silently as was considerate, and discreetly opened the clutch tucked at her side, tipping it until the marble spilled free. She caught the black rock Owen had handed over just before it tumbled to the floor, and then closed the purse again. The marbles split in five different directions and vanished under tables, chairs, and the legs of partygoers.

Una squeezed Owen's arm briefly, a tick of her chin to the far wall opposite them where the three sets of entrance doors were mirrored by three long corridors. To their left was a large dancefloor, the band and two hallways. To the right was a majority of the food and beverage service. Wait staff buzzed to and from two hallways likewise inset in that wall.

Her glare was met with a disarmingly warm smile. He didn't miss a beat when she slipped her arm through his, reacting just as naturally as she made it out to be. He leaned toward her just a bit, projecting friendly and familiar body language that suggested the two had been this close countless times. He noted the bouncers, the thick necked and strong armed men and found himself slightly disappointed. Really, he'd expected something more fascinating and interesting from the fae than typical mortal meatheads. But the party was only just getting started, so there might have been more in store yet.

The doorman received a similarly friendly smile from Owen, who -- and he'd swear this was to sell their cover -- turned to whisper something to Una after the two of them had entered the ballroom and spent the appropriate amount of time looking amazed and awestruck by the decor and arrangements. It had the look of an affectionate husband sharing a private joke with his wife, all warm smiles and quiet laughter.

"I need to get as close to the center of the estate as possible. I can locate the specific location of the body from there," he bookended the message with a kiss to her cheek -- for the part of course -- and a poorly contained, self-satisfied smirk. The cane tapped lightly against the floor and he stepped forward, pulling gently to bring her along after him.

Una's grip instinctively tightened upon Owen's wrist as he leaned in and whispered, his words filtering through the sensation of his breath moving across the side of her neck. It took effort to relax, and she managed only by returning to her earlier thoughts surrounding the mystery that was Owen's blood rather than concentrating on how very close it ran to the surface of his skin and how very close the two of them were in the moment.

Her smile gradually gained an appropriate consistency, and her nails ceased acting as teeth upon the skin of Owen's arm. She rubbed lightly at the impressions left behind with the pad of her thumb and by the time Owen sealed his message with a brush of his lips across her cheek, she was recovered enough, removed enough to turn into its arc, meet its terminal with words she delivered just along his jaw, warm and intimate. "You're much more of a thespian than I gave you credit for initially. We'll try to get as close as we can." She started to reel back, but leaned in again, "That smug expression you're wearing is very entertaining. I'm curious to see how long it endures."

And then she was moving right along with him again. As they made their way through the ballroom, Una filled Owen in on the catacombs that lay beneath the estate and her suspicions regarding the location of Anton's body.

"I studied drama in college."

His smile was so positively wide that there was no mistaking it for anything other than the pure, simple amusement that it was. "How long do you think we need to walk around here in public view before diving off to someplace more private where I can do my work? I'm sure the package is where you say it is," he spoke quietly, wearing a broad smile for any other guests they passed. A few shaken hands, exchanged pleasantries and back pats occurred. Owen was in fact, quite good at playing the role given to him. He saved the business speech for the moments between idle pleasantries, when the pair darted from place to the other.

"Under a half hour. Less is more, I think, in this case," Una said, sending airy smiles sailing towards any who happened to look upon them as she urged Owen upon the dance floor. She didn't ask, didn't warn, simply turned into him automatically, her hand sliding from wrist up to his shoulder. There was no better, no more natural way to take in their surroundings than as another pair of slowly revolving faces in the sea of dancers. From here, she and Owen could study each entryway and exit point, which is how she came to notice a single hallway from which party-goers were gently but firmly rebuffed by a dangerously thin man who appeared more wisp than actual body. Even from a distance, Una could see he didn't move as humans did. The passageway was located adjacent to but decidedly removed from the central portion of the mansion, so Una only nudged the point of her chin against Owen's forearm to draw his attention that way before she continued their slow progress in the other direction.

The short-curved silver handle of his cane rested in the crook of his elbow as they joined the sea of dancers. He turned slowly with her, lips quirked in amusement as he surveyed the room and searched for possible avenues. Following her indication, he studied that man first with his pale green eyes and then by opening his Sight. He got the feeling of something serpentine, something entirely inhuman and preternaturally powerful.

"An adequate guard," he mused, spinning suddenly to send Una into a similar spin. It abruptly ended as he stepped away from the dance floor, cane clacking along merrily against the floor as he approached the too-thin guard.

Una's look turned expectant for Owen's categorization, but before she had time to ask outright, the tight circle of their feet opened and Owen was moving away. Instead of following on his heels, Una drifted off to the side and picked up a flute of champagne she had no desire to drink, listening from that distance while sorting through scents to try to pinpoint the thin man's. Using Owen's as a compass point was helpful.

Una set the rim of the glass to her lips, rolling the cool surface over them in an effective mimicry of a sip. Across the ballroom, four shadowy figures rose up and infiltrated the party-goers. Their faces were not memorable, nor were their suits.

As soon as Owen came within five feet of the hallway, the thin man oozed towards him, stern expression giving way to something just warm enough to register as helpfully polite when he said, "You'll find the restrooms one hallway to your right," a flourish of his hand in the indicated direction followed.

"Ah," Owen smiled sheepishly at the man, even as his true form revealed itself to him. What he saw was decidedly not human, and some part of him desperately wanted to befriend the man so he might learn more about the creature that he was. Instead, he took a step back and turned toward the hallway to the right, pointing a finger in that direction. "Yes, of course. Thank you very much, sir," and with a tap of his cane, he stepped off.

It was time, Owen thought, for a little experiment. He could feel the shadows moving through the crowd and sought one out with an effort of will. He tried to empathetically impart what he'd seen onto the essence of the shadow-man, wondering if perhaps the connection with Una would allow her to see what he had learned.

"Divide and--" the question trailed off as Owen insisted he could take care of what lay behind them. No doubt rethinking the entire evening, Una eyed the cloud gathered in front of the knife, which had ceased moving. She gestured at both knife and cloud blocking their progress pointedly, and then turned a look behind her as shouts erupted. A single marble rolled to a stop at Una's feet, the other two remained behind and engaged themselves with some of the doormen. Agonized screams followed.

The naga slowed his progress to take stock of what was happening at his back, and then started forward again, an unearthly hiss escaping him.

"You're trouble, Owen,? Una said.

"Now that's entirely unfair," Owen rapped his cane against the ground again and then took it with both hands. He twisted the handle and pulled, revealing a short blade that he did not intend to use for fighting. Instead, he upended the cane sword?s scabbard and spilled dirt and dust out onto the ground. This, he smeared with his foot in an arc in front of him before swiping the blade through the air with a cry of, "Ventus!"

Wind surged at his back and then swept around him, catching the dirt and dust and kicking it into the air. "Munte de murdărie," he shouted a second time, once more slamming the end of his cane into the ground. The air was practically ablaze with power that came from some unfathomable source. It surged through his body, down the rune marked cane, and into the floor. It was swept up with the motes of dirt and dust and they all suddenly began to rapidly grow and expand. Stalagmites and stalactites formed on the floor and ceiling. Other extensions of stone shot from the walls and ground and soon the space between them and the naga was filled with a maze of stone and earth that hadn't been there before. He smiled and back stepped, then blinked as one does when suddenly dazed.

"I need a cigarette."

While Owen upended the cane and littered dust over the stone floor below them, Una stepped closer to the billowing black cloud blocking their progress, examining it from the distance of a foot. It bubbled and brewed like a cauldron but didn't spread any farther. Too cautious to touch it directly, Una weighed the marble in her palm and then gave a narrow-eyed look over at the scarf Owen wore.

As soon as the cave structures began to rise from the floor and drop from the ceiling, however, the cloud in front of Una collapsed to the floor and became a fog that moved across the pointed toes of her shoes and started to climb. "Owen," she started cautiously, a note of wonder in her voice. The black fog was slippery over the tops of her feet and around her ankles, weaving between them like a cat seeking attention. There was nothing of an aura or scent emanating from the fog, and it seemed bent on merely spreading across the floor until quite suddenly it rose rapidly upright in a column that obscured Una completely.

The glass orb in her palm dropped to the ground, shattering to release a gray shadow that chased the fog upwards. For a half-minute, there was nothing but the grotesque writhing of two shades of darkness and Una presumably captive in the center. Then all went still: fog and shadow alike solidified to the consistency of a wasp's nest, and when the point of a knife came piercing through from the inside, it tore with a rasping paper sound. Una pulled the iron blade sharply down until she could wedge her fingers in the divide and split it wide open.

Owen turned at the sound of his name on Una's lips. Turned just in time to see the column of black fog shoot up and the gray shadow that soon came to chase it. He came to the writhing mass just as it began to solidify, holding the short blade of the cane sword up to hack at the substance. Just before he struck he saw the tip of her knife slice through and he stepped aside, carefully hacking away at the side of the opening she made to help widen it so he could shove his arm in and pull it apart in a joint effort.

"I daresay they're on to us, Una," he said. "And I can't imagine a little rock will hold them for too long. We should hurry."

"I daresay," she echoed, stepping free of the cocoon and brushing ashy bits of it from her shoulders. The two halves of the cocoon dropped away, her figure silhouetted inside. "I wonder how they managed to figure it out so quickly. Surely not the fires and smoke bombs going off everywhere." Dropping to a crouch, Una dragged her index finger through the glass dust left behind by the shattered marble, but it was damaged beyond repair. A solemn pinch of brows as she rose and nodded shortly to Owen, then she started down the hallway again.

Around a bend, situated across from an ornate stained-glass window, was an alcove decorated with a marble statue of satyr. The switchblade hovered just in front of the satyr's smirking mouth. Una stopped before it and then inclined her chin to Owen. "This is it." She didn't expect the catacombs to be easily accessible, but she looked around for a switch, handhold, or anything that looked as if it would grant them entry anyway.

Owen slipped the blade back into the sheath and leaned the sword cane against the wall while Una felt around the alcove for a switch of some sort. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette, which he lit with a muttered "ignis", and inhaled deeply. Almost immediately the tiny tremors in his hands slowed. A second drag had him more or less calm, and he stepped toward the statue with the cigarette clutched between a pair of fingers.

Reaching up, he took the switchblade and pocketed it again before dropping to a knee to feel around the base of the statue.

"It's definitely below here," he said. "I can feel cooler air on the other side."

"I know what to do," he stuck the cigarette between his lips and climbed onto the statue. Then, he removed the switchblade from his pocket, flicked the blade out, and sliced open his thumb. A smear of blood was spread across the satyr's forehead and then two more streaks down his cheeks. He climbed down, wiping another smudge over where the statue's heart would have been.

"Animatum," he spoke with calm, quiet power. Unlike the rush that had filled the air at the summoning of stone, the spell he cast here seemed more controlled and familiar to him. He saw the tethers of his own quintessence flowing through the air between him and the statue, saw them bind to the blood on the cold stony surface, and saw as they flew into the inanimate satyr. Dust stirred in small clouds around the statue as it began to stir and shudder. Then, promptly, it sprang to life. It leapt through the air right past Owen and Una, the large pedestal on which it had been placed was shattered when it freed itself. Past the crumbling stone and marble, an opening was made visible.

"Watch our backs, yeah?" Owen looked at the satyr. The redhead was paler than usual, his hands shook again and he took another drag to steady himself.

Una looked askance at Owen as he lit the cigarette, having thought his comment more idle than something he meant to indulge in right then like a proper nicotine fiend, but she said nothing as the gray threads of smoke began to curl through the air and turned towards the stained-glass window instead, examining the inscription wrought across the bottom while the mage went about the business of opening the passage.

There were a few things in the world that hit a vampire?s scent receptors like a fist. Sulfur was one, ash was another; garlic?which had no secretive power that Una was aware of other than the potency of its stench making it somewhat dizzying to remain within its presence for overly long.

And above all else, was blood.

Una?s fingers went still where they?d begun to crawl across the window pane, tracing the Latin as she made the translation. Her breath hitched minutely, almost imperceptibly: the low, faintly shocked sound of one discovering a papercut. Una didn?t need blood to survive, but she wanted it the way an addict wanted the next high; the prospect of it lived in the back of her mind as a permanent temptation. She?d held Owen?s blood in her hand before, lifted the vial just beneath her nose and inhaled its exotic mystery?not quite human, but defying easy categorization. The difference in something passive coagulating in a vial and the true red of the freshly spilled was exponential. It was the difference between fruit pulled straight from the vine with its ripe, sun-warmed skin and the manufactured chill of the produce aisle.

Una took a step backward, and then forward again, forgetting to moderate her speed as she leaned to pluck the cigarette from between Owen?s fingers and draw deeply on the filter until she could open her mouth and let two white rivers of smoke run upward waterfall into each nostril and mask the scent. She repeated the action once more, watching the blood-smeared satyr from the corner of glazed eyes as he leapt from the pedestal.

Then she handed the cigarette back to Owen, noting his pallor, and said, ?I?ll go first,? as if she were being generous, as if the distance she meant to put between them was an afterthought. As if the imperative taketaketake wasn?t supplanting rational thought.

"Give us a boost, Anton," Owen said as he leapt up onto the altar. The animated corpse was slow to move, but did as told. Its hands linked together as it stooped down and Owen put a shoe into the abomination's grip. Then, Anton lifted and Owen rose up high overhead, thrusting up with the cane and crying, "Vis." An invisible force hurtled from the end of the cane and crashed into the small opening overhead. The room rumbled and shook as great chunks of stone came falling down, and he had to angle his cane and shout the spell a second time to catch debris before it landed on Una. This, he controlled by swinging the staff around -- all while precariously balancing on the foothold created by Anton -- and loosing the large chunks of stone on the naga before it got any bright ideas about leaping through the flames.

The result was messy. Clouds of dust hung in the air and obscured his vision, but he'd been successful in creating a much larger hole through which they could climb.

"Let's go, Una," he said conversationally as Anton lifted him fully overhead and he climbed up through the newly created hole. Turning onto his stomach, Owen thrust the cane back down to aid the others in climbing up after him.

"I need another cigarette."

It was a strange thing, even for Una, to stand before a reanimated former lover, to set her hands on his shoulders as she certainly had before and feel the utter absence of his original life-force while she essentially used him as a foothold. Una did not fear death and had no aversion to gore, but there was something unsettling to her about Anton in this state. The stitches crossing his eyelids were something else entirely, and she passed a thumb gently along his sealed lash line before she set her instep in the foothold Anton made for her and leapt nimbly to catch a chunk of roof and pull herself through.

"It can wait," she said to Owen regarding his cigarette, and then she huffed a curse, "My shoes." They were still among the ruins below, no doubt ruined anyhow.

"Really? Your shoes?" there it was, that expected eyeroll. He looked down at Anton and extended the cane as far as he could, half his torso leaning out over the crumbling hole. "Anton, grab on."

The corpse lifted its dry and cold hands to the cane and gripped with an iron fist. Owen slowly crawled backward, turning over to plant his feet on the ground so he could finish hoisting Anton from the catacombs. He was able to complete the task without any aid, but he immediately collapsed back onto cool, dewy grass to let out a chest heaving sight once Anton was on solid ground.

It was then that Owen turned to look at Una and saw the gore with which she'd painted herself. It struck him in a way he couldn't put to words. He forced his mind to separate it all, however. Forced himself to stay calm, cold, detached. It was the kind of mentality necessary to get out of there alive, he knew.

Una could have taken over the task of lifting Anton out with far less cost to her stamina, but that third eyeroll had her remaining resolutely still; even when Owen collapsed backwards onto the ground, she only looked down upon him dispassionately, her arms folded across the slow rise and fall of her chest while she watched him catch his breath. "Besnik's nearby with the car," she said, and tried to forget the fleeting expression that passed over Owen's face when he'd turned in her direction. She bent to tear at one of the holes that riddled the foot of her stockings, rending the nylon until both bare feet were planted in the grass.

"You got something on your face," Owen stood and slapped some dust off his pants. "Mus'ad just fucking got me this tux, too."

"Do I?" Una feigned innocence as she held back her first reply, but what came instead still harbored some of its sting in tone. "Be a gentleman and loan me the sleeve of your coat, then. Or better yet, your scarf." Without waiting for a response, and because she certainly didn't expect a sleeve or a scarf, she started walking in the away from the gouge Owen had left in the ground and towards the place where Besnik waited with the car.

Laughing, Owen picked his cane up and jogged after her. He grabbed the scarf -- which had miraculously stayed in place -- and held it out to Una while looking over his shoulder at Anton.

"What are you just standing there for? Come on, Anton."

At once, the corpse started off at a stiff-legged jog to follow the pair.

Her pace decreased slightly to allow Owen's jog to catch him up, and when he offered out his scarf, she tempered her reaction so that there was no hint of surprise attached.

Una used the end of the scarf to dab demurely at her face, more aggressively across the sharp ridge of her cheekbones, and studiously avoided looking back at the specter of a jogging corpse. "Where will we take him?" The scarf got wound around her own neck as she continued to add color to it from the sides of her neck and bare shoulders.

"Anton?" Owen frowned thoughtfully. "Well...I'm not sure if Adam has a morgue in his office -- so, I'll have to rig something up. But I can take him. I'm just waiting on the last bit of supplies from Mus'ad and then I can perform the ritual and truly bring him back, so it shouldn't be long."

"Good." Una had no desire to provide refuge for the corpse, despite any attachments she might have had to the man while he was living. "Otherwise there are other options, I'm sure. It would just be a matter of looking." And bribing.

The oculus that Owen widened had spit them out at quite a distance from the mansion, beyond a maze of hedges and gardens, but as they returned closer, it was clear chaos was still deeply entrenched. The ballroom fires had been doused, but smoke still hung acrid in the air, and partygoers had either departed or were still milling about rubbernecking. Una rubbed her hand across the nape of her neck, considering the melee from a distance, and then looked over to Owen. "Besnik's a mile down on a dirt road." The reason for the difference in location should have been obvious. Una gestured towards the tree line bordering the estate. "Will he make it that far?" That was obviously meant of Anton.

"He should, so long as the knife doesn't fall out," Owen turned, examining the switchblade which he'd stabbed to the hilt into the dead man's chest. He grabbed the handle and pushed a little more, just to reaffirm its position.

"He's basically an automaton at this point. Provided his body isn't too thoroughly rotted, then he'll be fine for a bit. We just can't do anything too wild with him, I don't imagine he'd great at climbing."

A glance over her shoulder happened to coincide with the moment Owen seized the handle sticking out of Anton's chest, Una watched with a mixture of morbid fascination and regret as the mage checked the positioning of the knife?s handle.

"Well, his heart is missing for one. Who knows what else. He has no blood left in him?not that I can detect." She'd come to know the taste and smell of it very well, after all. "But I didn't imagine we'd be trying to make a companion out of him."

Once they'd passed into the woods without detection, Una felt the tension corkscrewing around her spine release gradually.

"I won't pretend it had been my plan from the start," he said. "I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of wizard, I suppose. It's unorthodox, making your stolen goods walk for you, but you can't argue with the results."

Smiling, Owen turned and peered side-ways at Una as they stepped over the threshold of the tree line.

"How well did you know this man?"

Fingers wound round and round the ends of Owen's scarf as they walked, and Una looked at him sidelong for his mention of being unorthodox. It was a silent agreement of a look that soon flattened out into something more careful.

"Well enough," she started, releasing the scarf to comb through her hair instead, where a few blood-wet strands had begun to dry and clump together. "We were sleeping together. He was acting as a diplomat of sorts between the family who owns the estate we were at tonight and another family. They've been stuck in a disagreement for some time. I was interested in the information coming from both sides. So..." she trailed off with a loose twirl of her fingers through the air. Owen was astute enough to fill in the rest.

"Hmm...I see," Owen glanced over his shoulder at Anton again to examine the dead man as though viewing him under a different light.

"What, may I ask, is the cause of their disagreement? And why do you have such an interest in this information? And, how did he wind up dead if he was meant to be the intermediary?"

Anton, such as he was, was not much to look at. He lacked his former grace, not to mention a sense of vitality in general. He was ashen and drawn, the sharp planes of his face sunken, and his entire body seemed as if was ready to collapse inward on itself without blood or organs to fill it out. It required some effort on Una's part to look upon him just as a body and not to contrast what ambled along with them now with the artful, confident man Anton had been before.

Owen's questions, while pertinent, also felt intrusive, eliciting a long silence from Una during which she debated what qualified as the bare minimum that she could share. Owen might have thought she'd not answer at all; the crunch of leaves and branches under their feet filled the air instead. Off in the distance, Una picked up the sound of the idling car.

"A piece of land," she said at last, "Similar to what we just left. An energy source, a place of power. Why else would I have an interest in it aside from intervening and taking it for my own purposes?" There were other complexities she didn?t think Owen needed to know. Una stepped under a low-hanging branch and then turned back to hold it for Anton, which meant she was looking directly at Owen when she addressed his final question with her own, "Isn't that the question? I see a few immediate possibilities that I'm sure you see, as well."

"Hmm..."

Owen scratched at his jaw and the thin hairline that coated it. He turned to watch Anton trudge dutifully along beneath the branch that Una held, and smiled, patting the cold, dead man on the shoulder.

"Our friend here could have been playing both sides. A place like that, the people who control it must be up to some nasty work. Could be that they found out and punished him. Hence the removal of heart and eyes..." his look suddenly turned grave, his face fell.

"It is plausible, however unlikely, that the removal of said organs was part of a ritualistic murder in which his soul was confined to some physical artifact on this plane of existence. If that is the case, then the job you've hired me for would be impossible until the phylactery is recovered."

"And if that's the case, do you have the means to locate this phylactery?"

Another thirty yards ahead and through a swathe of dead leaves that still clung tightly to their branches was the limousine. Having sensed them long before, Besnik waited against the driver's side door, a glower fixed steadily upon Owen that Una could feel the ire radiating from.

"Possibly. Probably. Yes," Owen nodded as they stepped into view of Besnik and the car. The man's glower was met with a brilliant -- if somewhat exhausted -- smile.

"Evening, Besnik," Owen said, walking around toward the trunk of the limousine. "Be a pal and pop the trunk for us, will you?"

Una blinked slowly through Owen's progressive movement in the direction of an assent and watched the tint of exhaustion water down the brilliance of the smile he offered to Besnik, who remained both unmoved and unamused and muttered a few words under his breath.

"You know Besnik isn't one of my golems, yes? He's capable of acting on his own instincts." Una gave Owen an ominous, storm-cloud smile, brows darting up high for effect as she reached around Besnik and through the window to pop the trunk. "What are you putting in the trunk?" The tone of her voice held a note of wariness. And warning.

"That's why I asked him to open the trunk," Owen replied with a similarly exhausted but no less genuine smile for Una. "Anton, of course."

Turning, Owen beckoned the dead man toward the trunk. "Climb in then, Anton. I know it's cramped and undignified. But you shan?t be cooped up in there too long, I promise."

Without complaint or hesitation, the reanimated corpse shambled over to the open trunk. Owen had to help him climb in, which was a feat in and of itself. And once the man was lying in the fetal position, Owen reached down and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.

"Once this is all over I'll see what I can do about getting you a proper burial. Grand as that chamber was, it hardly shows any respect to the dead."

"I see," Una said, and that appeared to be her reply for all of it, because the next sound that came was of the car door shutting behind her.

Besnik followed suit, sliding back into the driver's seat.

Owen sighed and picked his cane up from where it leaned against the side of the limousine. Then he walked around, opened the door, and climbed into the back.

"I've offended you," he said, settling in and closing the door.

"Which part is it that you think has offended me?" There was a curious tilt of her head, a rise of black eyes to find his. She didn't agree or disagree with his assessment.

"Your connection to Anton goes deeper than you'd care to admit, and you feel that my flippancy in regards to the treatment of his body is me being disrespectful. It makes you uncomfortable to see someone you knew so well in such a state, even if that thing you see back there is no longer the person you associate it with. In this regard, I have behaved with a complete and utter lack of tact, and have upset you."

"So, I am sorry. I joke when I am uncomfortable, but I do intend to pay Anton what respect I can, given what we will be using him for."