young god I marquis du gramont

chestnut mare

tear in my heart - twenty one pilots

she's the tear in my heart
she's a carver
she's a butcher with a smile
cut me farther

/

'enemies make the best lovers' - anonymous 

- 

francesca 

Francesca stood motionless next to the black coffin, too empty to feel anything. John and Cat were on either side of her, stiff and hurt. Cat had been good friends with Akira and with her disappearance, she had begun to worry. John said nothing, eyes blank with hidden sentiment. Francesca knew the complexity of emotions he was feeling; hurt, vengeful, anxious and betrayed. The brunette squeezed her eyes closed and cast her mind back to Caine in her arms in that room. Koji didnt have to die; he was just collateral damage. Caine was doing his job; his life but most importantly, his daughter's life was on the line. And she understood that Caine and John were both similar in that way: anything for family. John knew that, he knew better than anyone what position Caine was in right now. But he was struggling to forgive him. Koji didn't have to die.

Cat knelt down and touched the wood. John did the same; running his finger over the family crest. Francesca hesitated. She felt like an accomplice in his death. John didn't know, Cat didn't know. Nobody knew Caine came to visit her that day, nobody knew what they had discussed, how they were going to get John out of this mess. The means were extreme, either all of them or none of them were going to die. But it was all worth it. Just for a touch, taste of freedom, death was worth all of it.

She took a deep breath, a gust of wind rustling her black coat. She bent down and touched the black smooth surface and made a promise to Koji that she would get John out of this.

-

John had yet another funeral to attend that week. Charon. She had met the man briefly but she had been told he was a good man. Vincent took his life in his mad scramble for power. It appears he had gotten it too; the destruction of the New York Continental and left the underground society shook. The Table questioned his behaviour and his childish need for dominance. But Francesca knew Vincent would never give in. He was blinded by narcissism; a power-hungry bastard with a superiority complex. Francesca scowled at the thought. A child who had been given the powers of a god. The Table had fallen far to entrust their resources to this... madman. This... child. Her blood boiled at the thought. Charon didn't have to die. Nobody has to die anymore. Nobody has to die because a madman, drunk is power is too stubborn and stupid to control his damn emotions.

Francesca stood up, determination in her eyes and fury burning in her heart. John reached for the gun, surprised by her sudden movements. Cat pulled a knife out from her wrinkled blazer sleeves.

'Chess?'

'It's nothing. Excuse me, I have to go do something. Cat, call me the plane. John needs to be in New York and I have somewhere I have to be'

'I'll come with you'

Cat stood, pulling out her phone.

'No, you won't. I need you to stay, look after the Continental. I need my best friend looking after my shit after all.'

Cat flashed her a small smile but her blue eyes bore concern. She knew exactly what Chess was about to do.

'Ces, whatever you're doing, are you sure you've thought this through?'

Francesca turned to John. He looked tired, bags under his eyes becoming more apparent.

'Go talk to Winston. You need him. He can help you.'

'Chess'

'Trust me John. Trust me, I can do this. I can do this for you'

He put his hand on her face, brushing her cheek. It brought her back to the time she had grazed her finger on the edge of her knife; Francesca was so young, too young to understand the sharpness of metal. He had bandaged her wounded and the put his hand on her cheek and told her that one day she was going to be the greatest assassin the world had ever known. After that, he did that to comfort her. It was their thing; their small little thing to ask if they were alright. To let the both of them know that they were there for each other.

'Thank you, Chess. For everything'

She gave him a dilute smile.

'Family, John. We do anything for family'

'Where do you want your plane to, jefe?

'Francia, mi cariña, Francia'

(France, my dear, France)

-

'The horses aren't fast enough'

'Je comprends, monsieur, but these are the best we can purchase at the moment'

'I don't care what you have to do. I don't care if you have to sell your kidney, get me some faster fucking horses'

The man scurried away, terrified for the marquis's wrath. Vincent was standing in the middle of the stables, waving a gun around. He was dressed in his usual suit; a red jacket and black waistcoat with a well fitted white shirt. But the look in his eyes was deranged. The man guess that he was having one of his infamous episodes. It was best to get him what he wanted, especially because he held so much power at his fingertips. One boy should not have that much power. The man scurried away from the stables into the sunlight, leaving the marquess back in the shadows.

An alert sounded on his phone. Vincent pulled it out of his pocket, bored and unbothered. It was a text message. Unknown caller. Vincent hesitated; he had gotten so many death threats that he no longer cared about them. They were empty promises; they knew who held the power.

You could have been nicer to him

Vincent turned, pointing his guns to the shadows that lurked behind the horses. They neighed in protest, dissatisfied snorting erupting around. They had good intuition for danger. Another buzz from the phone.

You're scaring them

The marquess knew who it was but he didn't know where she was. He had suspected that she would come. Come to bargain, come to talk, whatever she wanted to call it. It was all the same to him. In his mind, she had come to plead. He texted back, fingers skimming over the keys.

The only one scaring them is you, mademoiselle

Hm, I don't think so, Marquess. You've got the gun; all I have is my phone and an offer

He heard the sound of hay shift in one of the stalls. It was empty, he had had that horse sold to one of his father's friends. She was a beauty, a chestnut mare. He shifted slowly, making sure his boots didn't crunch on the soft sand.

Amuse me

Francesca walked out from the stall, the clicking of her boots resonating. He soaked in her attire; brown riding boots, white fitted trousers, a long sleeved cream shirt and black trousers. She looked... astounding. Red lipstick. Chanel perfume. She looked at him and smirked before saying the unexpected.

'Would you, Vincent Bisset, accompany me to the ballet?'