Saturday February 14th 2015

Walking next to Elizabeth, the others were spread out around them. Taking the stairs, they were a wave of blackened malice. Sable jackets flowing around bodies, heavy material hugging shoulders, molding to sides and hips.

They'd jumped at the chance to help when he’d asked for a hand cleaning out the area he trained the Cherries in. There was a bounce in their step that was as treacherous as a sunny day. Nice days were traps for the unwary, life tricking you into dropping your guard before pissing all over you.

Not wanting to do it during the week because of the gladiators, he’d asked Elizabeth to give him a pass on the weekend. She’d outdone him, not only giving him the days but insisting on helping. It was a strange and unnatural thing with the symptoms of a bad idea. But once committed, he couldn't think of a way out.

While the Furies were dressed in weekend clothes, they’d still worn their obsidian jackets. Elizabeth had forgone her sweater and jeans. A corset of purple velvet and shining silk tightened her waist into a wasp, flaring out over generous hips and a voluptuous ass. A dress of purple flashed black as it rippled in the wind, a delicate thing of ebony lace overlaid the mercurial dress, ravens flashing through trees with only purple eyes picking them out.

Long sable hair ran down her back in a waterfall of gleaming beauty. Her face was corpse pale, the waxy look of day old dead, a light dusting of bruised purple shading to blue marked her cheeks. Long gloves of lace ran up to her elbows, black roots weaving and winding in the pattern. She was breathtaking, lush overflowing life that begged to be touched and caressed, dissected decomposing flesh that drew the eye, scourging the soul with raw realness.

“Your gorgeous,” Cesare said as they walked down the hall to Ludus Noctis.

Smiling, a burst of happiness lit Elizabeth’s eyes. “Thank you.” The quiet appreciation was worth more than gold. There was an easing of her shoulders, the smile taking on a strength born from confidence. Sometimes all we need is one person to believe in us, but few own that simple treasure.

The girls didn’t bat an eye at the compliment. It wasn’t that they didn’t have their own insecurities about how they looked, no one was proof against that serpent. It was more that everyone knew Cesare loved Elizabeth, that she'd been part of his life long before they'd cast their umbral darkness across his life. She was his first friend. Despite the victims they made of each other, the cutting sacrifices they demanded, that basic fact was too strong to ever be broken.

Turning the corner, they came into the hallway that lead into Ludus Noctis. Like a river of stygian feathers, the ravens streamed down the hall, their cawing overflowing the hallway, echo’s reverberating from walls. Beaks of matte black, grasping glittering talons, each harbinger of Elizabeth’s presence.

The guards shrunk against the wall at the stream of deaths favored. Seeing the Furies coming down the hall with the river of black above them, the guards paled. The story of how the three had stormed the Ludus Noctis when they'd come for Greg had been told and retold. Scrambling aside, the guards hit the corners, lowering their heads in submission.

Walking down the empty hall they entered the scorched archway of the courtyard. The ravens flowed into the great space with derisive calls, coarse as sandpaper, condescending as gods, they rained their contempt down on the gladiators. Cesare had thought the courtyard might have a few people working or sparring. He hadn’t thought they’d all be there, especially not Jerold who was even now making his way across the grounds.

“Fuck me,” Cesare whispered, eyes skipping over the dozens of gladiators who'd stopped to watch the intruders. The three murmillo cut through the throng, joining with Jerold.

Smirking, Anastasia gave Cesare an arch look. “You didn’t know they practiced on the weekends?”

“I think I told you that they train even on the weekends when we first watched the Sanguinem Nativitate,” Elizabeth chided gently, watching the approaching ice man.

Jerold’s skin almost glowed in the sunlight against the simple black of the leather vest and pants. His short white hair ruffled in the cold breeze. “I didn’t request your assistance, Cesare,” the man said, refusing to acknowledge the others.

Cesare met his eyes with an ease born of always being weak. “I thought the courtyard would be deserted. I wanted to come by and clean up the corner I work my students in.”

“My students,” Jerold corrected sharply. “The fighters are mine.” Cesare shrugged at the claiming, uncaring of the lies the man told himself. “That area is perfectly acceptable. I don’t think it’s necessary to trouble a teacher of Miss Raven’s ability,” Jerold said with a nod in Elizabeth’s direction.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Since I’m sponsoring the Furies, it’s only right I take an interest in what they do. Since we’re here, I might as well take a look,” Elizabeth said in a falsely bright voice.

Glaring down at Elizabeth, the man’s cold eyes burned with a fury that clawed and tore, howling at in the cold wasteland of his soul. The murmillo behind him glided apart from each other, hands drifting down to the live steel sheathed at their hips. Readying themselves to clench with Cesare and the girls should the teachers lock horns. Dressed in armor vests, the scarred, sweat stained leather sheathed the athletic bodies of born fighters.

Sneering, the blonde murmillo swept his eyes disgustedly over Anastasia’s ruined face. Cesare didn't allow those kinds of looks, there were many things he didn’t allow when it came to Anastasia, but that was a big one. Not many had dared look at her that way, and none of them had been ballsy enough to do it in Cesare’s presence. The boy was pretty with his braided blond hair and blue eyes, a flayed face would add that special something he was missing.

Deeply tanned, the other man slipped away from the Gladiatrix, eyes cold and distant, probing Alexandra's form. They were the dead eyes of a killer, delicate strangler fingers caressing over the hilt of his blade. If he thought he had a chance in hell, then he was hoping for pussy at a Gay Pride Parade. Alexandra would snuff him without even noticing.

Across a bare few feet, the gladiatrix met Cesare's eyes with heated disappointment. She wanted the girls. To match herself against the titans of the school, not its pitiful mascot.

Each of the Furies focused on the murmillo that had picked them out. The gladiators were in their territory and carrying steel, they thought they had the advantage. But they didn’t know who they were fucking with. Anastasia melted steel with the briefest of touches, Alexandra broke steel with her bare hands and was faster than the eye could track. They were pups assaulting a hyena matriarch in her prime.

Cesare moved slightly, body resounding with a command that needed no words. They spent every week together, almost every day, they trained and bleed as one, they knew each other better than they did their own hands. The girls were preternaturally sensitive to him, bound by barbed hooks of sorrow, pain, betrayal, and the hopeless, sadistic desires that twisted their souls.

On his command, black flames wreathed Anastasia’s hands in tendrils of shining spite and glorious defilement. Fingers flexing with disquieting eagerness, Alexandra's eyes dilated into pinpricks of focused lethality. Cesare glared at the gladiatrix, the moment embracing him with predatory grace.

Jerold looked sharply at the tableau, alarm tightening his face. Turning on his fighters, his voice was a whip crack of command. “Stand down.”

Looking uncertainly between each other, the gladiatrix was the only one with the courage to speak. “We thought you might need help if …” Stopping in mid-word, she registered what she was about to say.

“That is none of your concern,” Jerold said, cutting the girl off. The three stepped back, shame flushing faces. They'd been willing to fight for Jerold and their reward was a public shaming. Loyalty didn't earn the same coin as it had in the old days.

Elizabeth's hands came down on Cesare's shoulders, facing Jerold together. The cold man waited for Elizabeth to put her students in their place as he'd done his murmillo. The realization came over the man with a snap as he looked at Elizabeth’s hands on Cesare’s shoulders, her unwavering support blazing through every line of her body.

“Cesare, what would you have done if someone attacked me?” Elizabeth asked, holding Jerold’s eyes.

“I’d kill them.” The words rang with unadorned truth, shocking the beast of winter in front of them. Jerold’s fighters would fight for him, but they wouldn’t kill for him with such single mindedness.

Jerold’s eyes swept the four of them, seeing them for the unit they were. A dangerous understanding came over the man’s face. These weren't kids banding together, they were bound by something stronger than duty or friendship. The kind of bonds that went bone deep, that ached and bleed, an exquisite torture you couldn’t let go.

“Since you’re here.” Jerold gave in with ill grace, pivoting, he led them across the courtyard.

Following closely behind Jerold, the murmillo seemed even more determined to protect the black clad Lanista. The other gladiators slowly got back to practice, but it was a sham, their eyes never truly left the violators that had come to their land of savage dreams.

The corner hadn't changed. Broken dummies, wooden contraptions shattered beyond repair, leather scraps, bits of equipment forming piles of unknown things. The mass formed a low ridge against the wall, a creeping mold spreading from the rotting garbage. This little pile of molding shit, broken toys, and slowly decomposing wood was the sacrifice for the pretty places the fighters used. It was fitting, a statement to what Jerold thought of the kids he exiled here. Who better to teach garbage than a damnati with nothing.

Jerold hadn't counted on the Cherries scrabbling to form up, dejected faces brightening on seeing Cesare. Jerold forced the gladiators to give them bits of time during the week, never anything that amounted to a give fuck, just enough to prove they were worthless. But weekend training was voluntary, the Cherries showed up on the hope someone would take the time to teach them, but they never did.

“As you can see, this area is fine for what I have him doing,” Jerold said dismissively, without looking at the kids lined up for his inspection.

Looking the area over thoughtfully, Elizabeth's words were for Cesare. “What were you thinking?”

Cesare had decided days ago what he wanted. “The garbage needs to go. The ground needs to be smoothed out, and I want new wooden men put in place. Let’s make them resistant to kinetic damage, I’d like them to last.” Smiling, Cesare turned to her. “I'd rather leave the rest to you.”

A pleased smile lite Elizabeth’s face, eyes dancing with plans. A liveliness filled her body, something he’d only seen happen when her spirit was given free rein to create. “Why don’t you three work on clearing the garbage while I think on it.”

The students brightened at Cesare’s words, exchanging excited looks. Cesare and the girls headed for the garbage when Jerold's words stopped them. “I don’t think we need that kind of work on this … area of the courtyard. If you want to help, there are certainly other areas better served.”

Elizabeth's expression flattened. “I’m not here to help you, Jerold. Given that Cesare spends quite a bit of time here, I’m willing to do what I can to make that time productive. You can send me away, but you might want to think on how that’s going to look to the rest of the faculty.”

Jerold’s eyes flickered with percentages. He could send them packing, it was his area after all. But you didn’t turn aside another teacher's help. Territorial creatures, teachers would cut a bitch if it looked like they were stepping where they didn't belong. Twisted around that possessive need was the facts of the job. Massive workloads led to a chronically overworked group, and no teacher wanted the reputation for turning down help.

The cost was too high to indulge in a petty vendetta that would get him nothing. The saddest part was that his students never factored into the equation.