Asrael hadn’t known what to expect from Bartholomew when pressured, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to rush up the stairs of Gerathar's mansion with his hand at his blade and demand; “Let us in at once. We need to see your Master this instant.” In his wake, Asrael followed with a mute frown and glared up at Gerathar’s favored maid. She glanced down at the hilt in Bartholomew’s hand and cocked her head.

“He does not take visitors at this hour. It is the middle of the night for Gods’ sake. Come back at noon and he may see you-” Neither Asrael nor Bartholomew felt particularly patient. Their lengthy walk through the city had drained them both, but both could tell by the factum Gerathar had chosen to place Amy- alone- at the door, that this night was far from over. He was expecting visitors.

“But I insist.” Bartholomew smiled and drew the blade to hold it down to his side menacingly. Amy drew her lips into a sideways smirk, but hardly seemed surprised with the impulsive gesture. She turned towards the would-be-Inquisitor with a raised eyebrow and questioned; “You understand that I am in the right to protect myself, should I see the need for it, yes?”

Bartholomew shook his head with apparent disappointment and spoke sternly; “Do you not know what he has done? Those girls-… he has been selling the magi- your kind to the Inquisition!” She remained unblinking, holding her palms up to her defense.

Still meeting his strict gaze; she answered with continued apathy “What a surprise.”

Bartholomew had thought such cruelty reserved to a few, powerful men- he had explained the state of the world with his father’s corruption... but this woman was no better than the jeering crowd screaming for blood- no less deserving of the infernal fate that awaited her. Bartholomew was dragged down in time to dodge a frozen prism shot from the woman’s palm- a projectile that would’ve easily smashed his noggin open had it only struck true. He made a note to thank the necromancer at some point and swung the blade outwards- narrowly missing the maid’s substantial chest in a lateral slash. The nimble magus leapt backwards and left the door open- it was all she could do not to be killed by his strike.

“Go. I will handle her. Find the others and him.” Bartholomew commanded over his shoulder. Asrael stared at the strict, appraising woman with profound scrutiny and questioned his associate; “Are you certain? She is a powerful frost-magus. I-” Bartholomew chuckled loudly and swung the blade around in a flashy maneuver his father might’ve beaten out of him, had he not been so resilient to wisdom. But it served its purpose... it frightened the girl.

“I was born and raised to fight monsters, good friend. Now go-” Amy swung out and hurled another one of her bright-white projectiles- this time towards the man with one foot into the doorstep that she had been sent to protect. The necromancer had already prepared himself for the pain, but a surprising glint of metal preceded the destruction of the prism and the subsequent rain of compressed, cooled gasses. Bartholomew was quick- far faster than Asrael had ever thought possible for even an accomplished swordsman. If any could beat the woman with a blade- it would be him.

“Fine. Hurry it up or he will be dead by the time you arrive.” Asrael spoke as he tore the door open and left the two to their skirmish out on the stairs.

Asrael felt like a blind fool as he searched the dark, seemingly abandoned mansion to no avail. Without a direct access to the tunnel; he was naught but a recently perished, reborn, gaunt, pale man with a pair of eyes, a sharp silver dagger and a terrible attitude. The guards he had seen on his previous journey through the mansion were all missing and not even as the loud crashes outside reached their crescendo, could he hear any sign of a single one of them... that was... until he stepped into the arboretum to a disheartening, unexpected sight.

Two-dozen men lay on the floor- some impaled and some with slit throats- bleeding a vast ocean of sanguine liquors onto the many planters around the fine garden. He knelt down to study the wounds of the closest of them- all the while maintaining his attention on his perimeter. The guardsman’s wound was odd and its edges were course. Somewhere mid-motion, the assailant had hesitated- confirming Asrael’s suspicions... the wounds where all self-inflicted. He studied the rest to strengthen his hypothesis- men had thrown themselves onto their weaponry, ran it across throats, wrists and thighs... Before he could loudly question the insanity of the visage, a familiar giggle sounded from behind- Amy.

He jerked upright and saw, for a brief moment- less than for the duration of a blink of his eyes; something white covering her nimble body. She smiled- unharmed as could be. Asrael reached behind his back and tensed his grip on the dagger, only for her to raise her hands and wave them before her face.

“If you wish to save your companions, you should hurry. They are in the cellar- go through the library, through the opened bookcase and down the stair... you will hear them.” Asrael stood to his height and looked the maid over. Something about her had changed- provoking the attraction he had felt when last he had traversed the manor... it was not her breasts, her legs, her face- no... it was something far more profound. The way with which she carried herself made it seem as if she was another person alltogether- that smile.

“And I should take your word for it? Did you not just kill my associate out on the stairs?” The maid raised her hand to her mouth, giggled and shook her head.

“No, silly... of course not. He is vital to your plan- as are they. Though I must admit to my jealousy in regards to the girl, I will accept her... for now.” His plan? What did she know of-.

The realization startled him far more than the apparent suicides behind him. Amy was not a psychomancer and neither she nor Gerathar could be charming enough to inspire mass-suicide... which meant that this girl... could not be who she appeared to be. He narrowed his eyes at her, but in between another misfortunate blink; the girl transformed. Lita stood in Amy’s place- bowing deeply, as if trying to seduce him with her pronounced cleavage.

“I will go now and make certain Bartholomew survives this encounter. But worry not, my beloved... we will meet again, soon.”

“No, wait-” Before he could raise his hand to protest, the girl was already gone... but in her place... he saw a familiar, white flower on the floor. It seemed, after all, she did know his plans.