Alder's Grove

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The tension in the van was slowly receding.  Ezer looked pleased with himself.
“Chitter, good job as always on getting into their systems, and your little bugs are the shit,” he kept on.   “Love ‘em. Allayne - you patched Erramun up so fast, I didn’t even get a chance to see the hole. Thanks. And Senga and Erramun, you guys definitely held their attention and kept to your roles the whole time.” He looked back in the mirror at them.  “Try not to get so bloody next time, all right? It makes me techy.”
Without a word, Chitter passed him a candy bar.  Ezer snorted. “Fine, fine, it makes me bitchy.  I don’t know, Chitter, anything out of that security guard?”
“Allayne triggered something, not an alarm, some sort of tertiary back-up.  Yes, I know I should have caught it, yes, I feel like an idiot for not catching it, but it was really well hidden.  It was - look, here, see?”
“You know it doesn’t mean anything to me,” Ezer complained.

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“Sir.  Put the girl down.”



“I don’t like people getting in my business.  I don’t people assuming things that aren’t true,” Erramun-as-Eddy snarled.  Senga sort of wanted to be down, because the tension in the guards’ voices sounded like it was ratcheting up and she couldn’t see their faces.  



“We’re not getting in your business.  We’re just gonna call a taxi for the girl, okay?”





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“Will it help?”  That was sigh-worthy, so she did sigh.  “I don’t know, not about the long run,” Senga admitted.  “In the short run, what it’s done is, uh. You saw.”

“Mistress everything,” Chitter agreed. “He’s like — he’s like some sort of puppet or something.  Like he’s pulling his ow

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“I have to ask again, are you an idiot?”

“You don’t have  to be an asshole.  I know how Keeping works, you giant shit, so you can back off and just assume I’m not asking or talking about the bond.  Obviously you’re protective of her.  Obviously you have to obey her.  That has nothing to do with the way you’re looking at her right now.”  Ezer rolled his eyes and flapped that away with a wave of his hand. “Anyway.  There’s a job.  It’s a recon, and if you, mister, can listen and follow a plan, then we could use you.  If you can’t, then you’re staying back here.”

“You can’t give me orders,” Erramun snarled.

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Ezer cleared his throat. “How likely is this to interfere with our business?”

“I think,” Senga admitted quietly, “that it’s already doing so.  I think that whatever happened with that job the other day, it was probably family-related - my family.  I mean, unless you or Allayne have come up with enemies lately that you haven’t told me about.”

“What about Chitter?”  Erramun looked between the two of them, ignoring the staff for the moment.

Ezer snorted. “She just makes online enemies.  They’d hack the house - one of them made the icemaker spew ice all over the kitchen once - but they don’t generally sink to attempted murder.  They think it’s messy and sort of below them, I think.”

“Murder?”  Candavish leaned forward.  “You’re not speaking of Mirabella.”

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It took half an hour to get everyone settled down.  When Senga managed to get Candavish and Erramun to stop sizing each other up, got Allayne to stop fussing over the staff's uniforms, which, it appeared, had a fashion of their own, got Ezer to stop whining and acting like his head was going to explode, and got Chitter to stop looking for trap doors from which the staff could have arrived - all of this while trying to ignore her own pounding heart and the confused twist in her chest - she sat down with a thump in the Casual Lounge.

"I...  Okay. Candavish, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Collier, please come sit with us.  Could, ah, someone get me some coffee? Coffee, everyone?"

Her crew were looking at her like she'd grown a second head.  "Okay, Allayne will have black tea with a hint of mint, if we have it.  Ezer drinks his coffee with enough cream and sugar to bring it to beige caramel.  I drink mine black with one ice cube. Chitter likes soda; if you don't have that, she'll have water.  Erramun?"

He looked surprised she was asking his opinion. "Black tea," he managed.

"Black tea.  Thank you."

One of the younger maids - younger than her! - scurried off.

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Erramun shifted on his knees but didn’t stand.  He didn’t look at her, didn’t move to touch the ink.  He seemed to be staring off into space.

Senga walked around behind him and brushed a feather-light touch over his shoulders.  

He twitched and leaned forward, away from her touch.  She moved her hands and moved back around in front of him.

His hands had come to clasp behind his back.  His eyes looked blank. Senga frowned. “Errmun?”

“Yes, mistress?”  His voice was rough and very quiet.  He looked like he was holding himself forcibly still.

“Senga,” she corrected.  “Erramun, what’s wrong?”

“Everything is fine... mistress.”  His shoulders were tight. She wanted to touch him again, but it seemed like it was hurting him.

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When they left the master suite - Erramun had redecorated the bedroom into shades black and blue that made it feel much more like a space Senga lived in and had somehow made it smell fresh and aired-out and not at all musty - they found Chitter and Ezer arguing over the other wing of the upstairs.

“Senga!” Ezer called.  “Tell Chitter that I need this space to coordinate the three of you on your ridiculous death-defying missions!”

“Senga,” Chitter whined, “tell Ezer that I need all this space for my computers!”

“Guys…”  Senga looked between them.  “There’s literally two wings of residential space, not counting the servants’ quarters in the back.  There is literally room for each of you to have a floor of a wing to yourself. Why do you need this space?”

“The view” they answered as one.  Then Ezer added, a little sulkily, “Allayne got the wing below yours.  And that’s the next nicest.”

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First: Funeral
Previous: Home

🔑

furniture had been moved.  The grand ballroom stood open and bare of furniture, one of the two wide staircases blocked off.  There were no bloodstains, no place on the wall where - where - her grandmother’s portrait was gone, which was not surprising, but one of her mother had replaced it, which was far more startling.  She had never seen her mother looking so formal, so comfortably formal, even when the ballroom had been open with the giant parties her parents had thrown.

She turned in a slow circle.  She remembered the way that corner had seemed so small, so cozy and hidden, even if you could see right into it from the front door.  She’d sat there when there were parties, long past her bedtime.  And over there, they’d laid out vast spreads of food, back when this house had bragged a staff second to none.  

Behind her, the rest of her crew had opened the grand front double doors but were waiting.  She understood. “Enter Monmartin Manor, and make it yours.  As Crew, this house is every bit as much your home as it is mine.  As family, you can hold this home with me.”

Chitter gasped softly.  Allayne  squeezed Senga’s hand.  “You know you didn’t have to go that far.”

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First: Funeral
Previous: Naked, Dead People, Etc.

He looked her over for a minute, almost as if he hadn’t seen her before.  Then he closed his eyes and went still.  “Daughter of Claudia, the lawyer said.  In the fae style.  But that’s not what you said, is it?  Daughter of Aonghus, himself the son of Sláine.  I was distracted at the time.  That’s the only excuse.  That’s an interesting lineage you have there.”  He opened his eyes again.  “Claudia, Named simply The Free, who was that and more, wild and calm, and absolutely deadly when crossed.  Aonghus. The White Wolf.  Oh, did he cause trouble in the winter.”  His lips curled.  “Yes.  I know about your family.  I knew Sláine, too, Life-or-Death.  You come by your violent tendencies honestly, Senga Monmartin.  And what do they call you?”

Senga had not heard her family’s Names spoken in decades, and she hadn’t heard them spoken like that - with cautious reverence - since they’d died.  “They call me Monmartin,” she answered dryly, and waved her hand before he could complain that that hadn’t been what he meant.  “It’s not actually my last name.  They call me War,  but the full name is Swallow on the Mountain of War.”

“Mon-martin,” he murmured.  “That’s quite a mouthful of a Name.”

“My Mentor had - has - a leaning towards the poetic and a flair for the dramatic.  It was supposed to be Swallow of  War, but she couldn’t resist the chance to get the Mon part in there.”

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First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Shower Negotiations

There was an ancient fae assassin in Senga’s bathroom, and she had her hands in his pants.

“I’m capable of taking care of myself,” he pointed out.

“Yes. But you’re my responsibility now.” She peeled his pants slowly off. He went commando; she was going to get the full show all in one go.

“You have other responsibilities. Besides, you gave me something to do.” He stretched back a little bit, consciously or unconsciously showing off. Flat stomach, muscular chest and arms: he didn’t work out so much as he kept his body in perfect fighting condition. Senga didn’t try to stop herself from licking her lips. He was kind of scrumptious, in a way that wasn’t normally her style.

“You liked it?” She looked up to his face, to find his eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her reaction. “Being given something to do?”

“Yeah. I.” He shifted into something she thought was close to a parade rest and studied her. “Yeah.” He swallowed and considered that. “I didn’t think I would,” he admitted. “I don’t like orders.”
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First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Debrief

“Senga, I am going to hit your man, just so you know.” Chitter glanced over at Senga before going back to the far-more-interesting problem of how to get around Erramun to the fridge.

“Chitter, just so you know, if you hit him, I’m not going to stop him short of the point where he might put you in traction. Especially if you hit him for teasing you.” Senga set her hand on Erramun’s arm, and so she could feel the way his muscles had tensed, even though he showed nothing on his face. “He’s older than us, he’s probably smarter than us-”

“-Smarter than you, maybe. Come on, no old guy is smarter than me. You, on the other hand, you walked into a- errrk.”

Erramun had casually and easily picked Chitter up by her throat with one hand. She had both hands around his wrist, and she was kicking in the air, but she couldn’t get enough breath to complain - or to spit out a spell.
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First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Introductions

Senga smiled crookedly at Erramun. “We fix problems. Sometimes we end things, sometimes we start them, but mostly people just pay us to solve situations they need solved.”

“That sounds really, really vague.”

“It’s meant to be really, really vague.”

“So which side of the law are you on?”

“We’re a legal organization. Most of the time, we stay on the proper side of the police and of the law. Sometimes we fudge things a bit,” she admitted. “Those moments where the Ellehemaei in us has to be more important than the law-abiding citizen.”

“And in those times?”
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First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Theft and Ownership

Erramun was pretending he wasn’t shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Senga swallowed a sigh and looked at him. “I might be young.” She let a little acid drip into her voice. She had been around her family, after all, and it had been a long day already. “But I know a thing or two about the collar, and I’ve been on both sides of it. A collar isn’t a collar isn’t a collar, any more than a nice chain necklace isn’t a leather dog collar isn’t a bar of steel wrapped around your neck.”

She saw the flinch he tried to hide at the last one, and took a mental note. “Did my great-aunt know?” she asked, a stab in the dark but worth it with the way he was reacting, “someone had kept you as a slave before?”

He eyed her. She could see the way his shoulders turned slightly toward her, even as she kept most of her attention on the road. Traffic in this part of town could be deadly, even without the added threat of nearby family. “I don’t have to tell you that,” he said, slowly but with an implied threat. “You haven’t given me any orders to honesty.”

“Should I?”
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Working on in-text character descriptions. Senga, from Erramun's POV

Erramun took a moment while Senga was bantering with her cousin to really look at her.

She wasn’t so much short as she was shorter than him, which, to be fair, wasn’t saying much. She was wearing a very nice dress in sedate black which very nearly concealed most of the weapons she was carrying and, to a less trained eye, might hide the muscles in her arms. It couldn’t hide the way she moved, though, like she was tracking something. He wondered if, under her Mask, her Change was feline.

Her hair had been done up; it looked fancy, but it stayed out of her way. Black-brown and straight or straightened, for all she called herself the white sheep, he was amused to see her hair was darker than her honey-brunette cousins. She looked comfortable in the fancy-dress, and looked like she could kill someone without breaking a sweat. It was an interesting combination - but one that was less surprising than it might have been, given her family.

First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Legacies and Unimportant People

The lawyer was waiting for them, all prickly and officious. “Miss Senga Monmartin, Mr. Erramun Silence. Here are the full details of Mirabella’s behest to the two of you. It encompasses all that was read in the will - both the rewards for compliance and the punishments for a lack thereof, as it were - but includes also this statement:

“‘Now, Silence, I know you, and you’re going to try to give up as little as possible, and Senga, I know you, and you’re going to try to be nice, because that’s what you do. Neither of those things are bad traits - but they don’t suit this plan of mine. If I’m gone - and if I weren’t gone, you wouldn’t be hearing this, now would you - you’re going to have to trust the plan, both of you, because nothing else will keep you both above water.

“‘In that vein, I will only consider you to have followed the letter of my will and the spirit if you swear to the Belonging in front of Mr. Maladono, my favorite lawyer, and if you do so with no qualifiers. Nothing but you, Silence, saying you Belong to you, Senga, that and nothing more.’”
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First: Funeral
Previous: Funeral: Silence’s Inheritance.

Muirgen was still being handled by the security men; they had her in a corner and one of them was speaking very quietly to her. Senga ignored that situation as firmly as she could. Muirgen would not forgive her for having seen her in a foolish state, any more than she’d forgive Senga for having gotten something she wanted.

If today went as typical, Muirgen and Eavan would probably blame her for Muirgen’s loss of her inheritance. That was on par with their normal behavior around Senga or any of the other cousins who weren’t them.

She’d worry about that later. Right now, she had more important things on her mind.

She looked around; he’d only been gone a few moments before she stepped out of the office. Where had he gotten to? Had he left? She resisted the urge to swear. If he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain, he was going to leave her in a pretty precarious position. He’d need to be here after the reading. Otherwise… well. It was going to be a mess.
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This follows The Funeral and Further Funeral and Funeral: Will-Reading. It’s set in Fae apoc, pre-apoc era, possibly 2010.

The room did not seem very crowded, but the list seemed to go on forever. Great-Aunt Mirabella’d had extensive holdings, after all, and with those holdings came promises, deals, arrangements, and piles and piles of sealed envelopes.

Senga had her eyes on the envelope that held her deal, but that one hadn’t gone up yet; the cousin had gotten only what the lawyer called the “common” envelopes, which Senga thought probably involved human dealings or dealings that appeared human.

She had ended up sitting a few rows away from her tall, dark, and handsome friend, and as the readings went on, she could see that he was growing more and more tense. His attention seemed to be aimed at the same pile of envelopes she was worried about, but he was very nearly vibrating.
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This follows The Funeral. It’s set in Fae apoc, pre-apoc era, possibly 2010.

“Do you think they did it?”

Senga found it interesting that he used they and not the more traditional it.

She shook her head slowly. “No. No, if Alencaustel was going to do it, they’d either have left absolutely no trace at all, or put up giant signs. Besides, no matter what shit Eavean is throwing around, they’re not a Nedetakaei.”

She dropped her voice to a murmur for the last part of the sentence. For one, it wasn’t a word the Mayor or the Chief of police would (presumably) know. For another, considering her Great-Aunt’s friends, she couldn’t be entirely certain there weren’t Shenera Oseraei - children of the Gods, Law-breakers - in the room. And it was considered ill manners to start a fight at a funeral, no matter what Eavean over there was going.

For a third, she didn’t absolutely know the person she was talking to wasn’t one of those Law-breakers himself.
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