<strong><br/>Treni par Perigi Milano, Italy <br/>Approaching the Outbound Train for Paris, then onwards to Calais.</strong><br/><br/><br/><br/>Marylebone loved the railways.<br/><br/>Sounds of steam caressed his senses, from the soft hiss as it escaped into the world to the bubbling murmur of boiling water, the birth cry of steam. The railways were a place of wonder for him. They seemed to reach deep into his soul and give him an affectionate squeeze, earnest but wanting like a naive lover. It was often all he needed to soothe himself, regardless of what was going on in his life.<br/><br/>But not today.<br/><br/>He woke this morning, believing himself to be part of a crucial mission. Glory and honor were in short supply behind his desk. His spirit hungered for the adventure that others indulged in, while he remained behind. This was a sacred task, one he had longed to be trusted with. Admittedly he was not human, but he had long strove to prove his loyalty to the Grand Designers. The eye in the pyramid could find no fault in the werewolf's behavior or loyalty, the restraints which he had placed himself under willingly, earning him a place as one of the most trusted agents in the field. But as the day wore on, Marylebone found he was less than pleased with his part to play in this adventure. It was in simplest terms, escorting Her and a package to a steam engine, then returning to his desk.<br/><br/>Her.<br/><br/>There was a certain tone that slipped into a person's voice when they were discussing "her". It made her namelessness seem less of an issue than one would expect, as everyone intuitively seemed to know when she was the point of conversation. They said she was mute, but Marylebone was almost certain she could speak just fine. She was just a bitch.<br/><br/>Marylebone glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as the buggy came to a jaunty stop a street down from the Milano Train Station. Stretched out and dozing, her long curls pillowed about behind her shoulders like a lion's mane, a misshapen hat cocked atop her head to keep out the sun as she slept. Her full lips were painted, her only feminine vanity, the stark shade of whorehouse red that promised so much without saying a word.<br/><br/>Despite her strange and unlikely upbringing, she was remarkably fastidious. It looked good on her, that obsessive attention to details. An awkward meticulousness that despite being a conscious fabrication, made her seem vulnerable yet tidy. Not to mention that she filled out her strange get up in a way that made Marylebone question the merits of non-fraternization between practitioners. Tall and gracefully crafted, she wedged herself into a tweed gentleman's suit. It wasn't the best quality, but then it was clean and she was quite set on keeping it so.<br/><br/>When she bothered to open them, her eyes were a cold hue of arctic blue, warmed by her vibrant red coral lips that were slightly turned up in a half hearted smile. Her hair was a bronze mane, while her pale flesh was left exposed by the dangerous neckline of her tweed coat. Her smile was a caricature of the real thing, but dazzling despite that, managing to shine a radiance of adoration upon those she chose to deign with her attention.<br/><br/>Yet he hated her. And even her animal magnetism didn't serve to alleviate how much he hated her. It just made him want to fuck her like he hated her. It was sour grapes talking, he knew that deep down. But it seemed unfair that she should be tasked with this, while he was stuck cataloguing.<br/><br/>About to wake her, his eyes fell on the envelope in her breast pocket. A small missive on good paper, he knew the waxen seal immediately, the eye in the pyramid staring back at him. Was that the package? Would it hurt if he peeked at it?<br/><br/>Certainly not. He was part of this after all. And if she wasn't a better warden of the document, than... well it would behoove the elders to know, wouldn't it? His breath caught for a moment, and he reached out gingerly to take the edge of the letter. Carefully he began to pull it, trying not to disturb her hankerchief. He fancied he could hear the rasp of the cardstock against her rough coat fabric, and he dared not breathe. Marylebone handled it as if it were nitroglycerin as he managed at last to remove the stiff parchment.<br/><br/>He let out a soft sigh, his thumb fumbling across the wax. His attention was diverted rudely by a shooting pain in his foot. Letting out a shrill yelp, he noted as he jerked his shoe away that her umbrella was wedged tip first against his laces.<br/><br/>With the innocent deadpan that was typical of the woman, she sat up, adjusting her malformed hat atop her head. Deftly she snatched the envelope from him, tucking it back in her pocket as she stared at him. Her expression was as glacial and impenetrable as her eyes, betraying little of her thoughts.<br/><br/>She had always been hard to read. She understood she had what was called a "poker face". She also understood it hardly mattered how expressive she was, because those with guilty consciences tended to see what they expected to see.<br/><br/>Marylebone growled, standing up delicately on his injured foot as he stepped off the buggy, "You will keep such accusatory glances under that cheap hat of yours. I am not jealous of the likes of you. I have had frequent opportunities of learning of your worth, and must candidly admit that I consider you to be entirely mismatched for this duty. You are scarcely my better, regardless of what they say. You got this far on... whatever the hell it is you do. But of what value do you think that will be in the thick of battle? Are you intent upon making the unseemly creatures of the dark giggle themselves to death?"<br/><br/>Her response was to simply follow him off the buggy, her shoes sending the dust flying as she leap down in a most unladylike fashion. Demurely she opened her umbrella against the sunlight, her free hand stretching out to retrieve her case from the back of the buggy. Wordlessly, she turned away from him and began the trek towards the depot.<br/><br/>Marylebone's job was done. He'd played his part in this already. But somehow that just wasn't good enough. When he'd been her superior, she hadn't seemed to take any of his wisdom to heart. This in some way felt like his last chance to put her in her place. He hobbled to catch up with her, the pain fading away slowly as his foot began to mend.<br/><br/>"You may be pleasant company, but by neither word nor deed have you ever encouraged trust amongst the Eye. It is a fine thing to be everyones bosom companion, but this is a war you have been born into. Warriors must trust each other with their very lives." She made no motion as if she were listening, simply walking along next to him, the ticket counter growing ever closer. As she reached into the breast pocket of her coat for her billfold, his hand came down on her shoulder. Spinning her about, heedless of onlookers, he hissed inches from her face, "Do give me the courtesy of some small sign you understand what I am saying to you."<br/><br/>This close with his inhuman senses he could smell her breakfast on her lips, coffee and quail eggs, yet couldn't divine a trace of fear in her sweat. Even her body language was mute today. His rage was gnawing at his innards, Marylebone's violent tendencies causing his teeth to grind audibly. At last she turned slightly and he caught something in her eye. It was a moment before he realized what she was doing, her case shifting in her grip slightly as she turned.<br/><br/>The hard lacquer case collided with his crotch, fireworks and red fury clouding his vision as he sank to his knees. He could feel his muscles twist and turn beneath the skin, his lips catching on his elongating teeth. It was the stare of the Ticket counter attendant as their eyes met and the humans paniced recoiled, that brought him to his senses. Regaining his composure by slow degrees, he shouted past the gate at her, "You filthy bitch whore. I hope they suck the god damned marrow out of your bones."<br/><br/>By way of a response, she hooked the handle of her umbrella around her arm, so she could lift her hat at him. Turning to leave, Marylebone noticed at his feet was the letter marked with the seal of the Illuminati. It had fallen out of her pocket when he had grabbed her. He stooped to recover it, about to call out after her, when he thought better of it. Hell with her. Maybe after his superiors learned of her carelessness, they would send him along behind her.<br/><br/>With a smirk, he cracked the waxen seal, unfolding the stiff parchment. His teeth clenched as he stared at the contents of the letter. In loving detail his face had been captured in stark brush strokes. He knew her odd penmanship well enough. She had made up a mock grievances poster proclaiming in bold letters, "Carente per la scopata del cavallo".<br/><br/>Tearing at the parchment, he swept his fingers beneath his chin, flipping her off, "Oi, I have had my fill of your slander, putana! I am NOT a horse fucker!" He had bit his lip, the blood filling his mouth lighting more ferocity within him as he watched her vanish.<br/><br/>+++<br/><br/>Marylebone was at best a bit part, and she knew this. He knew it as well in his heart of hearts. She knew the components of a good story, and at best Marylebone would only be used as a lead in to a more important character's tale of glory and adventure. He was two dimensional and badly conceived as far as people went. Maybe it was poor parenting or maybe just the sad fact there was no cure for the chronically stupid. Either way, she was relieved he had left her story. She didn't like his kind. Werewolves were filthy creatures, regardless of their usefulness. Then again, he probably thought much the same of her.<br/><br/>She showed her ticket to the conductor, who pointed her towards the first class cabin, as she wondered why Marylebone had been necessary in the first place? Were things truly so dire they expected a legion of monsters to stand between her and the train?<br/><br/>The Grand Architects were ever cautious and ever patient, this much she knew. Patience had never been her strong suit. There were those who could with out compunction spend their lives in a steady crawl across the chess board, but she was not one to wait generations for her efforts to bear fruit.<br/><br/>She checked her timepiece, eyeing the steady progress of it's second hand. She had to get to England and soon. There was a tremble in her fingertips, her veins darkening briefly as something in her stomach shuddered and stretch. It had been moving much more frequently in recent months.<br/><br/>She wasn't long for this world... but then if she wasn't successful in her charge, the world wouldn't be far behind her on the way to underworld. She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not.<br/><br/>+++<br/><br/>Six cars behind "her" it seemed perhaps the concern of the Illuminati were justified. In the seedier private cabins, Roberto Boccaccio had been traveling for some time... the screech of the train was becoming his constant companion, so much so that he hardly noticed the guttural screech of steel at each town. Italy was unifying and the railway was it's life line.<br/><br/>And he was one of it's parasites.<br/><br/>To any casual observer he was well dressed, possessed of a certain meekness of character. It took a keen pair of eyes to notice his suit was threadbare in places, and was mismatched, as if he'd assembled it one piece at a time. Keener still was the one to note the dappling of blood on his left trouser leg.<br/><br/>A wolf in sheep's clothing, he made his living on the rails, preying on whomever crossed his path. Pilfering from the drunken, taking his due from the starry eyed women on their way to France. It had supported him for a handful of years without incident, so he could hardly complain that today was his last day on earth. He hadn't necessarily lived a good life, but then, he had enjoyed himself.<br/><br/>Death walked in at 10:30 in the morning.<br/><br/>She'd joined the cabin as they were just crossing the French border. Dark as a negro just brought fresh from Africa's shores, there was a certain something in her face that denied direct relation, her long hair a sun bleached blond. Roberto Boccaccio hadn't seen quite her ilk before, nor had he heard such an accent as she chimed pleasantly, "Good day." in such a way as to blend it into a single word. Dressed in creme hued leather, it was a older Florentine stlye suit, cut in that inexplicably sharp fashion that in no uncertain terms assured everyone silently that it had cost a tidy sum.<br/><br/>She traveled light, only carrying one item on her person. Wrapped in a dark snap cloth was the longest rifle he'd laid eyes on. Hidden as it was from prying eyes, it was hard to ascertain just what brand the weapon was, and Roberto was hardly an expert in firearms. He realized he had been staring, and quickly removed his hat, standing up swiftly in the presence of a lady, "Pardon me... have a seat."<br/><br/>"Merci." She replied with the same accent tainting her French, as she apparently didn't speak Italian. She wasn't British clearly, but there seemed to be an undertone of the "redcoat chirp" in her speech. Her amber eyes followed his down to her gun, and she smiled almost sheepishly, before stowing it away in the top compartment, "... pay it no mind, oui?" Her vest hugged her thin frame as she sat down, the long coat still dripping from the light drizzle outside.<br/><br/>Boccaccio made no comment as her wet clothes began to stain the cheap cotton seat, instead taking the time to ask with an innocent air, "Travelling alone?"<br/><br/>"No... you are with me, sir." she replied in an almost quizzical manner, her fingerless white gloves settling onto her knee as she crossed her legs demurely. Her ants made an ominous creaking noise as the leather was taxed from the motion, which she paid no mind as her ebony fingertips played out a silent tune against her thigh.<br/><br/>He could hear the "all aboard" from the conductor, his eyes trailing back to the woman. With practiced ease Boccaccio's foot slid slowly across the door catch, locking the cabin from outside intruders, "Shouldn't you take off that wet coat? You are going to catch your death, mademoiselle."<br/><br/>"Last time I caught death, I threw him right back... but thank you, sir."<br/><br/>Boccaccio didn't much like to hear the flip tone of the Negress, and as the train began to move, he knew the shriek of the machinery would cover any protests, "I do not take flippancy from a woman, especially a negro... I said take off your coat." He drew a hunting knife from the seat cushion, the blade dull and rusty, and all the more intimidating looking for it. Notched from misuse, some of the rust patina... wasn't rust.<br/><br/>Death sighed softly, before unbuttoning her top button.<br/><br/>+++<br/><br/>Roma tossed the bones against the table in the club car a sixth time, her face twisting into a scowl. Her soup had long since grown stone cold, but she paid it no mind, glaring at the collection of etched bones. Her eyes bulged slightly, a shudder taking over her body as her teeth clenched.<br/><br/>Nothing...<br/><br/>They knew well enough that the carrier was on this train, but all she could find was a vague feeling of their target's presence. It was like a jungle cat in the grasslands, hiding silently, almost in sight.<br/><br/>That would make things difficult. Roma dabbed at a thin stream of blood as it dribbled down her lip. Her nose had started bleeding again. It seemed they would have to track this courier down by the mundane means. She looked across the table to her companion, the little boy's indigo lensed glasses staring back silently.<br/><br/>As a Romani, they used to tell her tales of horror about the boy's kind... back when she was the little boy's same age. A bandanna was tied about his neck, resting atop his nose, covering most of his face. The pair of dark lensed glasses had claimed to promote good eye sight, and he seemed to like them. Ten years of age if one were to go by looks, his garishly colored clothing made him look as if he were the son of a wealthy merchant.<br/><br/>What he was REALLY playing at more accurately was being human. Roma nodded her head back towards the cabin car, "Sunday... get up, please." The boy hopped down from his chair, never turning away from her. She pointed back towards the cabins, "We need to speak to McFlynn..."<br/><br/>He turned quietly, sauntering down the hardwood aisle as Roma took a slow drink of her brandy, before slamming it back on the table. The boy was a thing of gypsy mythology and when she had first been hired, she had loathed the creature. But over time she'd grown accustom to him, in much the same way one felt comfort with an attack dog. It didn't hurt that her second companion, McFlynn was far far darker in Roma's estimation...<br/><br/>They passed through the other service car, the air thick with pipe smoke and sweet ports, more then a few eyes wandering her way. Noting her plain sense of dress and the little boy that ran ahead of her, the first class boarders seemed to assume she was some nanny. How else the gypsy whore had afforded the ticket was beyond them.<br/><br/>The cabin car was largely empty, as the price had been rather ridiculous for such ratty accommodations. It was the height of style ten years ago, the chipping of the paint and the fine network of cracks in the wood marking it as largely untended in the passing decade.She reached out for the door because Sunday could not. For some reason, the little creature couldn't open doors for himself. She knew much of the legend, but little about the reality. And Sunday didn't talk.<br/><br/>Roma could smell the coppery tang of blood already, and as she opened the door, the smoke of the soul poured past her. Sunday's head turned to watch the departed spirit of Roberto Boccaccio as it escaped the room, settling on the downwards trajectory that would root it in the guts of the earth. In the strictest sense, the physical and spiritual couldn't truly effect one another, but then Sunday rarely made sense, strict or otherwise. He stomped on the wisp with a crackling noise audible only to himself and Roma.<br/><br/>"Oi, nipper... stop playing! Got some work for you." The Aussie chided from inside the cabin. Sunday lifted his head slowly to peer at the aborigine. The "work" needed hardly be spoken aloud, as the broken corpse of Mr. Boccaccio was laying on the opposing chair, limbs twisted at impossible angles.<br/><br/>The cabin was fitted with the thick double pane viewing windows, able to withstand some of the rough treatment of travelling merchants and drunks. They had fared poorly against Roberto's skull, a series of spidery cracks decorating the glass. Crimson traveled via the crackled edges, the effect of the morning sun playing through it casting ghastly red shadows.<br/><br/>Sunday Finest stepped past the Aussie as she met with Roma in the hall. The little boy reached up to his bandanna, tugging it from his face as she slid the door shut. McFlynn smiled a thin little grin at Roma, "Bring me something from the kitchen?"<br/><br/>"No. I can not find him. I see a lacquered case and a suit, but that is all I see of the Courier. The ones who have put us against this messenger... they are black. It is not a good cause." Roma explained, lowering her eyes as she made out the silhouette of Sunday through the frosted glass of the door. The little head shook and worried at something like a dog, a rustling feral sound unruffled by the thick door.<br/><br/>"Spirits ain't helping then? That's bloody bad news, isn't it? You should have brought me a sandwich to cushion the blow. That would have been the polite thing to do." Catherine played idly with her lucky coin as she stared off into space.<br/><br/>Roma eyed the coin warily. She wasn't well verse in history of the Europeans, beyond her own people, so she didn't know what a brass sestertius was. All she knew was what she felt from the tarnished roman coin. It was old, black with tarnish, and had passed hands numerous times as compensation for murder. Whether it was truly accursed or assassins simply banded together through the centuries and so did their money, it seemed somehow appropriate that McFlynn had chosen it as her favorite bauble. The Aussie shook her head at last, apparently less focused on their quarry and more on her stomach, "I'm too peckish, too right. Let's grab something, yeah?"<br/><br/>Roma didn't reply, food the last thing she wanted to think of as she heard the sound of teeth scraping on bones. The steady grinding noise was maddening and incessant, but it foretold something much worse. Roma winced as the bone gave way with a crackling sound, like a tree limb snapped underfoot. Sunday was hungry.<br/><br/>"We should not do this thing. The spirits do no approve."<br/><br/>"We were all paid separately. If you want to return, that's your business. If you give them back the gold, maybe they'll let you live. Probably they'll just lop off an ear. What does a gypsy need with two ears?"<br/><br/>"Romani." Roma insisted with an grim stiffening of her jaw. There were fewer and fewer things each day she would even consider attacking the Aussie over, having seen what she could do when aroused. But Roma's pride was one of the few things she still clutched to. Outsiders liked to give things their own names to limit things in their own mind. It was a practice she didn't like, particularly when they were naming her own people "... we need to split our attention then. We will cover more ground."<br/><br/>"Spirits be damned? Good for you. We'll make a cultured woman out of you yet." The aborigine smiled thinly, eyeing the shadow cast by Sunday on the glass. As far as they could tell, his face was pressed against the sunlit window, something long and slithering sweeping across the cracks, like a serpent's tongue, "I'll give the kid some money and he can keep an eye on the rails. Let's get a bite to eat while Sunday finishes."<br/><br/>Not particularly hungry, Roma bowed her head softly, preferring to be away from the creature as it fed. Her people had hunted such things when they were found in the wild... she felt as if the longer she was near it, the darker her soul became.<br/><br/>"How's the service? I fancy a bit of steak." The Aussie reminded Roma frequently though, that humans had potential to be far worse then any monster. She just hoped this nameless courier was worth all the trouble...<br/>