•••

At the intersection of where boredom and disinterest collide, a small, safe have has been carved out for fond memories. Memories like these, for the boy of nightmares, are few and far between. Nep comprised most of them, his brother, a few.

Gideon taps into his fond memories while standing opposite 1809 Melbourne Way, a relic now more so than a house as it was newly sandwiched between the upscale condos of Gideon's perversion.

It reeks of her father's magic. Layer and layer wound around the house, preventing it from Gideon's initial perversion. But like all subpar magic, it has its weaknesses. Like dominoes, knock one down, and the whole goes a tumbling. It won't be long before the house is his.

As he stands there undoing strand after strand of slovenly applied magic, he senses it throughout magic's tapestry - Peneloper's magic. Strong, nourished. Calling out to him. The revelation forces him to stumble into the bustling street. Passing cars honk their horns. Drivers wave their fists and lob slurs at him. He ignores it all.

His Nep had called to him. By name. Gideon.

 He closes his eyes, finds the magic, pulls on it hoping to unravel every strand until he finds hers among the millions, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. He can't find her. There is only darkness, no stars to light his way.

Regardless, he smiles. The return of Peneloper's magic signals the restoration of her memories. It wouldn't be much longer until she returned to the Oaks and failed in whatever plan she'd constructed to defeat him. 

He'd pervert her, and they'd finally be together. His place at her side, cemented. And with the power the King offered him, he wouldn't be able to be erased by anyone, ever again. No longer would the magic elite call his birth an accident of the universe, or an oversight of magic. Gideon's life was not a mistake. His, was a heart that beat with purpose. They'd see. They'd all see.

• Thru These Walls •

"And what of your beloved brother?"

 Gideon stared at his hand, the flaps of its makeshift lips moving under the glove, readying another verbal assault. It had asked a stupid question and deserved an equally stupid response.

Gideon would end Crispen. Obviously. The details of his brother's demise had swirled around in his head constantly.

To start, Gideon would sever Crispen's connection to magic. Then he'd lock him away. To rot in solitary darkness until the worlds and everyone living in them forgot he existed. Crispen had no right to live, while Gideon had been sentenced to oblivion. A small taste of that fate was the least of what Crispen deserved. 

"He'll get what's coming to him," Gideon said, conviction in his words. He'd meant to hurt his brother as he'd been hurt, to make him bleed and cry. Scream at the edge of extinction, and suffer an eternity, or two, knowing only anguish.

Giddy, your star's so warm. Show me it again!

Gideon's jaw tensed as he banished away the  stupid, pointless recollection. Even the best memories couldn't make up for what had been done. Crispen had abandoned him, let the vultures on the council pick his bones clean and then once they'd had their fill, he'd been locked away.

Giddy, let's promise to protect each other's stars, to make sure they never go out. 

Theirs was not a story of forgiveness. 

 "And what of the imposter Fourth? We have a deal," said his hand. 

"I'll release the Fourth Chair and set you free, as per our arrangement."

"Good," the muscles in his fingers pulled tight. "What a good, good boy you are."

Gideon stepped away from the blue eyesore that was Peneloper's house. It reeked anyway, of stale cigarettes and bitter coffee. Strands of Rayburn's magic sizzled as Gideon severed them. He smiled.

Beyond the curtain windows Gideon made out the shapes of the house's two occupants. Peneloper's mother and younger sister. They weren't magical- only his Peneloper had shown an affinity to be in the know- but they certainly weren't oblivious. They'd witness the town change, their entire world transformed before their very eyes. They would have followed suit, if not for the knotted, messy magic protecting them, but, after thinking on it while Gideon toiled away, undoing all of Rayburn's work, he figured it was better this way. The pair would serve as fine hostages, and then, after Gideon perverted Peneloper, they could be used again as guinea pigs for Peneloper's first use of bad magic.

A bead of sweat rode down his chin as he snapped the last thread of Rayburn's power, the shimmering, nearly invisible protective field around the house, crumbling. "I need a drink."

He'd go back to the rooftop pool, get himself a Mai Tai, maybe float a bit in the water and bask in the sun. Then he'd wait and Peneloper would come to him, just like she always had.

"What about the pirate?"

Gideon's own hand reached up and grazed the tender, swollen flesh of his cheek. The captain had thrown quite a punch, putting all his hatred into the swing. "I'll keep him around a little while more. I want Nep to meet her creation before I destroy it."

"It'll be hard. She'll probably cry."

"Creators always cry for their creations." He stroked his chin. "Hypocritical lot, if you ask me. But all the misery creators unleash upon their creations, makes for one helluva compelling story, no?"

"You think she'll love you after?"

Gideon shook his head. "Feelings won't matter once I've perverted her."

"You're downright vile, Mr. Darquish," his hand cooed.

"And what happened to me being a 'good boy'?"

"Oh, you're many things."

The boy chuckled. "The best antagonists always are."

●

The penthouse and twenty floors below it he'd reserved with crumpled receipts he'd disguised as cash, provided him a quiet where he could relax and wash off last night's sweat, stink and alcohol. He could also erase that insipid memory of Stormholden looming over him, lauding his victory in that gleam only a true hero could perfect. The whirlpool made quick work of the tension in Gideon's muscles while the server from last night, who'd spurned him with a look of disgust before her recognition kicked in and she cowered from her mistake, hurried past him, the orangish concoction of rum, and the things that mattered less than the rum, sloshing against the sides of a frosted pitcher. Condensation ran down its sides, hugging its curves and dripping over the woman's gnarled knuckles. Gideon held out his emptied mug, and she refilled it gleefully. Not a hint of disgust on her face this time.

Bubbles, smelling of Peneloper– of lavender, and that impossible to extinguish fragrance of honesty – rose around him in huge mounds. He leaned against the tub's back, placed his head on the rest, and wriggled his toes, popping several of the newly made bubbles. The woman stopped pouring as the liquid threatened to overflow.

Gideon frowned. "Where's my umbrella?"

Sweat ran down the woman's brow, catching in the folds of her skin, as well as those of her uniform. She bit on her lower lip as she fumbled with her apron pockets. Gideon waited and waited. Tapped his fingers across the tub's enamel and waited some more, his drink melting and separating all the while, the fruity flavor returning to its sugary syrup, the rum settling to the bottom. Hating to see more than one moment ruined in a day, Gideon smacked the surface of the water, an explosion of foamy bubbles rising into the air and soaking the woman's skirts. "Umbrella," he hissed, slamming his glass against the tub's side.

With a long exhale of breath, the woman found what she'd been looking for and pulled out two paper umbrellas, both purple, and tossed them into Gideon's drink. Satisfied, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She did not hesitate, and in a rather impressive display of quickness for her age and girth, scurried out of the bathroom, as though he'd lit a fire under her butt. The thought of birthing such a metaphor into real-life caused him to chuckle as he sipped his Mai Tai with general ease and watched the city below him.

Like a hive, filled to the brim with lively bees, cars and buses and planes went about their business, ferrying men and women to all parts of the city. 1809 Melbourne Way stuck out like a cavity he couldn't fill, though, he had managed to undo all Rayburn's magic. In doing so, he'd spun his own spells and shields. When Nep returned, and he felt it in his bones that it would be shortly, she'd be the only one of her posse able to enter. A trap, he knew, was very cliche and overdone, but the house would be the place Peneloper would return to first. To check on her mother and her sister. Make sure they were alright, and they were, for now, comfortably shackled to their couch and chair, like the good little hostages they were.

Thoughts of reuniting in other places had come to Gideon's mind, as he hated being so obvious and contrived. In situations like his, when the lead was confronting their love interest a reunion years later usually occurred where the two had initially met. For Gideon, that had been a place of constant nightmares and endless darkness that hardly brokered any romantic notions (unless you were of the truly demented). He'd thought of the high school as he appeared seventeen-ish, big emphasis on the ish as Gideon's age cannot be explained by the watered-down version of human math (One plus one equals two? What an affront. This straightforward outlook factors in none of the other eight dimensions, let alone how big a part smell plays in the creation of odd integers). He could wait by her locker, a dozen roses in his arms, or set up enough candles that would make any sprinkler system wail, unlike in the movies where all the candles in the worlds couldn't rouse a single drip to occur.

Gideon hated school, though he'd never attended one. But learning – ho, hum. To resign his ears to such inaccurate drudgery? No, thank you. He'd rather go back to jail.

But her house was perfect. He could visualize it: him waiting for her. Maybe he'd have roses or chocolates – she liked M & M peanuts, though he couldn't recall which color the best. Maybe he'd give her a book, or nothing. He'd already given her the most important thing he could give: his star, the sole remaining part of brightness that hadn't been trampled by his time locked away. An infinitely burning symbol of what he still was, of all his good that she made him want to preserve.

He took a sip of his drink and peered over the rim. "Captain Stormholden." In the corner of the room, a gaunt form cut a miserable shape in the darkness. The form lurched forward. Bruised flesh caught in the light filtering through the windows. The captain's face puffy and raw, no longer square and handsome. His eyes emptied of their smolder, the flesh around them purple, bruised. Gideon preferred this version of the captain. "Ire," Gideon sang, calling on his magic to pull the captain forward. Stormholden tried to resist, his aura struggling with ripples of troubled grey, but sapped of his strength, he fell to his knees as the invisible tug of Gideon's magic propelled him forward. His boots scraped the marble floor and Gideon cringed. He shook his head. "How thoughtless you've become. I'll have to have the floor replaced and I've heard Italian marble is expensive."

The captain's head rolled, and Gideon caught a glimpse of the captain – unbroken – behind those bruised eyes. A hint of rage that could not be snuffed, the captain's—and he couldn't believe he was about to say this—storm. "Kill me." The captain's voice sounded as awful as he looked – raw and hoarse but filled with that damnable hero's pluck that a stint in a dungeon couldn't destroy. The captain had been built to last, to weather, to suffer and suffer again and again and then someday die.

Good thing that happened to align with Gideon's plans for the good captain.

"Allow me to destroy him, Gideon," his hand purred.

Gideon tightened his hold around his Mai Tai and smothered his hand's pleading. He took a long sip. The tastes of the tropics flew down his mouth. Though he wasn't one to concede to the non-magical being better to the magical, there was something pleasurable about drinking something that you didn't have to chew, or that didn't leave a gritty residue in your mouth you found yourself dealing with months later. "Cap, you were written to love. In a critical juncture where you're being reunited with the one you love, how would you do it?"

The captain coughed, spittle running down the front of his tunic. Gideon rolled his eyes and sighed. Stormholden's aura lashed out at him, violent reds and blacks and dark purples. Hatred upon hatred, and what was that? Oh, spiced with more hatred. Boring and predictable.

"You," Gideon ran a finger along his glass's rim, "You met Matilda—" The captain flinched "—in a forest." He stroked his chin. "I loathe the outdoors. Too much space, too easy to get lost in." He got up from the bath, water sloshing over the sides, and though he'd gone in naked, when he rose, he was fully clothed: draped in the all-black accouterments appropriate for the approaching climax. He raised the cup to his lips and emptied the contents. "I think meeting at her house will be best."

He stepped toward the bathroom door and reached for the knob, but as he did, another one fluttered before his eyes. Gideon took a step back and sighed. The door opened and white light poured out. Then a form emerged, clothed in a tailored suit, fingers fidgeting with the lapel of his jacket. Red hair and freckles.

He smiled as one of his loafers sounded off the floor. "Mr. Darquish," Anderson said, stepping to the side, and sweeping out his arm. He nodded at the captain. "Captain Stormholden," he nodded, "Mr. Pale requests your attendance at once."

The captain rose to his feet, Gideon allowing his magical leash on the captain to slacken, and stomped toward Anderson. On his way to the door, Stormholden made sure to ram his shoulder into Gideon. In a voice low and reproachful, the captain hissed, "It is as I've been told, devil. No one refuses Mr. Pale." He smirked. The blasted captain dared to smirk! Taking one from the villain's handbook, that bastard! Gideon glowered. With one foot through the door, Stormholden, still bloody-damned smirking, added, "And I guess that includes you."

Gideon growled as the captain disappeared through the door, ignoring the call of his magic to drag the captain back to him and punish him again for his blatant disregard of their positions - Gideon was all-powerful, the captain? Ink, parchment, and silly notions written with wide-eyed disillusionment and trousers too tight to be a viable clothing option.

Anderson plucked at his doghead-shaped cufflinks. "Mr. Darquish?"

The boy of nightmares balled his hands into fists, cursed the hotel staff for lacking future sight, and bringing him another Mai Tai in his time of need. Instead, like a cockroach when cornered, he did what he had to, to avoid being trampled. He stepped toward Anderson and the Proprietor's door.

Anderson smiled as he swept past. "Mr. Pale appreciates your cooperation."

"Mr. Pale," Gideon snarled, "can rot in hell."

"Rest assured, Mr. Darquish, Mr. Pale does not rot nor reside in hell. I have forgotten your remark, as it proved incorrect, irrelevant, and ignorant. From this moment on, Mr. Darquish, please do watch your tongue." Anderson's eyes glowed red. Fangs slowly lowered from his gums.

Gideon chuckled. "Or what?"

"Or I'll devour you." Anderson's fangs tore into his lower lip and drew blood. The usually composed man let it trickle down his chin and stain his shirt collar. "With Mr. Pale's permission, of course."

"Of course." Gideon strode past Anderson. Then, he quipped, "Thought your kind disappeared after your movies continued to have diminishing returns."

Anderson straightened, eyes a deep, hungry crimson. "Vampires never go out of style, Mr. Darquish. We are a timeless commodity to those residing in Reason." He hopped from one foot to the other, the argyle pattern of his socks peeking out from his trouser cuffs. "Your kind, however, are more likely to disappear." His eyes glowed. "No one likes the pathetic, pining, love-spurned villain anymore." Anderson lowered his head and bowed, his one arm sweeping in front of the door. "Now, if you please—"

With a snarl, Gideon stepped inside, Stormholden close at his heels.