Hannibal Nerva sighed as he checked his watch to confirm what his soul told him— that he was running late for a meeting with people who would not appreciate being kept waiting. Well, expect for Xinyi. He snorted, Xinyi probably loves him for it…
He checked to make sure the woman on his other arm was someone worth kicking out before sighing again and shimmying himself out of the bed like a damn idiot. He stretched before stumbling his way to the bathroom to relieve himself and splash water onto his face.
Last time I drink this heavily before meetings, he thought, another promise that he knew he would break. At the very least he had gotten to the point of honesty with himself that he knew that this one would not last. Hannibal could, if he squinted very hard, remember when he actually tried to keep promises he made to himself. He reached out for a towel and his hand stumbled upon something even better, the Gods are good…
He snatched the box of cigarettes and shook it, and much to his joy, there was a small rattling sound uplifted his mood mightily. Hannibal opened the box to pull out a cigarette and kissed the tobacco-end to ignite the cigarette before taking a long drag and exhaled the smoke into the air, a small puff of fire cutting through the smoke and dirtying the already grimy ceiling.
"Baba won't like that," she said, as she entered the bathroom to sit on the toilet, "You remember last time she caught you smoking in her apartment?"
English? Hannibal frowned, not another English woman…
His father would be rolling in his grave right now, except that he was ninety-nine percent certain that Octavian did not bury him.
"Yeah, well Baba can stop her bitch. I pay her twice the rate, no?"
"You do," the woman agreed. "But she's going to have to use most of it renovating this place after you get run out of town again."
She got off the toilet and moved him out the way to wash her hands before drying her hands on his vest when her search for a towel came up short. That should have angered Hannibal, but he was mostly amused. He grabbed her ass and stole a kiss before letting her go back to the room, "Nervas do not run."
She laughed, "You talk about your family a lot. I get it; it's a cool name, yeah. But don't go on like you and yours are something special. You're no Howard."
He been alive long enough to have attended a wedding between the daughter of a Baron of Donnington Park and a son of Norfolk. He had been a young bachelor back then, having just come back from his Grand Tour; the most notable part was when he was in Greece. Octavian had suggested Italy, but he knew the moment Octavian suggested something, it had to be ignored. There he had first wetted his cock with some whore who swore she was noble born too, some bastard of a Turk noble. She had assumed by the darkness of his complexion and the curliness of his black hair that he too was a Turk, and he knew the language enough to play along for the week he had been there.
"My brother is a duke," he said, and he laughed with her. "Yeah? I'm the queen of bloody England mate."
"I've never fucked a queen before," Hannibal smirked, and he meant it. A Countess was as blue blooded as it got for him. The thought of his late-wife made him… not sad; it had been a century since so he could not possibly still be sad… could he?
Let us just say that I'm feeling nostalgic…
"And you never will," he could see her stick her tongue out at him from her spot on his bed. "Living in a shithole like this."
He thought about shaving the shadow that was coming in, but he decided to keep it. Julian has his moustache back, and I'm not about to compare our moustaches again. His bastard of a brother was many things, a liar, a brute, a brooding bitch, but Gods knows that the man could grow out a moustache.
"It was enough to get you." He chuckled, and whatever her reply was going to be was cut short by a beam of light burst through the roof and vaporising her top half. The beam tore a hole through the mattress and the base of the bed, and a scream from below told him that Mrs Duwitt's ceiling was a casualty in the assault. He hated the smell of charred flesh that always seemed to waft its way through his nose. But the heat, strong enough to almost singe his arm hairs, was glorious to feel.
He heard the door get kicked in and Hannibal cursed, I'm too hung-over for this shit!
"Knock kno—" His enemy barely got a word in as Hannibal crossed the distance between them in a flash, Hannibal's knuckles kissing the bottom of his jaw. Before the man had the chance to land back on the ground, the two were already outside; another strike from Hannibal shattering a rib. And not for the first time, he was thankful for the fog, as his kick had sent the man flying through Baba's wall to the playground next to his apartment. Hannibal was about to press the attack as his opponent bounced like a football on the artifical turf of a small football pitch, but the spike in magic alerted him to the beam that flew past where his heart had been. He knew where she was before he ever knew what she looked like, right behind the swing-set. And Hannibal was on her before she knew what hit her. He loved this part, watching people who were way over their head quickly realize the mistake they had just made. To her credit, she had been fast enough to roll with the kick. And so what should have broken her neck only atomized her mandible as she rolled to her feet twenty feet away.
Her eyes were wide with fear as she spotted him with his hands behind his back, and she cursed at Hannibal in gibberish as she raised her hands to fire another beam at him when she noticed that she was down an arm.
Hannibal laughed as he showed her the forearm he had hid behind his back, "Listen!" he said, slipping his hand into hers, "I'll kill you quickly if you tell me where my cousin is. Deal?" He shook her hand and laughed, "Deal!"
"G' 'n fuh' yuh'sef!" she shrieked. Hannibal wondered if she had an animus, but dismissed it as he ducked and wove the attacks of her compatriot. Hannibal had not really taken into account how large he was. He was as tall as Octavian, with the width of his bastard brother. Yes, but with half the skill and a quarter of the speed.
He grunted in pain as his partner's attack scorched his skin, and Hannibal shook his head in disappointment. She was about to release another one when he appeared to pull her ear, "No!" he scolded her, "We do not attack our partners because we have lost—"
Hannibal barely got out of the way of the sun-beam that dropped where he had been standing, leaving the woman shrieking before her scorched and charred corpse fell to the ground.
"Ah," he exclaimed. "There he is. Bonjour Louis!"
"What the fuck?!" the brute screamed, "You pay us to kill this man and—"
"Shhh," Hannibal whispered into his ear from behind. "No more from you, silly man. This is a family matter."
He whimpered and looked down to see his heart in Hannibal's hand, and died as if the visual confirmation was what his body needed to truly believe that it was over. The fight had been a welcome change of pace, but over far too quickly. What Hannibal wanted, no needed, was more. More enemies, more fights, more violence!
Hannibal burned his arm hot enough to evaporate the blood before clapping his hands clean of the ashes, "You did not have to go to all this trouble to make sure—"
"Shut up," Louis said. Louis Nerva, the Count of Anjou, was a painfully bitter man. Tall, lean enough to even be considered skinny, and so pale that his use of the sun as a source of magic could only be described as a cruel irony. His hair was silvery-blonde, and his eyes were the kind of dark brown that looked black from afar. He had the perfect noble's nose, aquiline and straight, and thin pink lips that were never used for shouting, only whispering demands. His chin was sharp and regal too. He had the makings of a duke, Hannibal noted, and not for the first time, too bad things did not work out that way…
The thought made Hannibal grin, "Cousin, why so—"
"I told you, to shut. Up." Louis whispered before turning, "I have been sent to fetch you, and to make sure that you were not late."
He frowned, "I am never late."
"And you never shut up."
He has got me there.
Hannibal pointed towards his room, four storeys up and three hundred metres away, "Can I at least get dressed."
Louis waited for his servant to open the door for him, "I have clothes for you. Now get in the car."
Hannibal was not about to complain about free clothing, and so he jumped into the backseat of the limousine with his beloved cousin from the main Nerva line.
The 'Usurped', as Boudicca liked to call them, or 'the Losers', as Drusilla loved to tease them with.
"I understand making sure that I am not late," Hannibal said, as he picked up the suit his cousin had picked out for him. It was dark where Louis' was white, and tailor-made, because of course it was, and Hannibal had no doubt that it would fit perfectly. "But why send the thugs, eh?"
"To make sure that you were not drunk." Louis said, with a look of disgust fit for a peasant. The look almost made him mad, but Hannibal decided to focus on the kind act of gifting him an expensive suit.
"Drunk? Me?" he teased, and that made the look of disgust deepen. Hannibal was certain that they were doomed to fighting one another again, as they had a hundred times before. But Louis seemed to sense it as well, and in a rare show of restraint, he decided to tone the arrogance down a bit and sigh.
"We cannot miss out on this opportunity, Hannibal," he said, and the use of his name perked up his ears. "Twice we've tried to bring about the world we desire. And twice we've failed."
"Failed," Hannibal snorted. "Cousin, 'failed' presumes that we ourselves came up short."
Louis raised a dark brown eyebrow, "And did we not?"
"No," he said, grating his teeth at the memories of having his back broken at Kursk flooding his mind, "No. We did not fail. We were stopped, beaten, foiled. And those obstacles that foiled us are still there."
Hannibal heard metal scream as Louis' hand nearly tore a hole into the car, "Obstacles? Obstacles presume that Octavian is our better, my better. "
The memory of Louis' throat being crushed as he was tossed into the English Channel to drown flashed through his mind, but this memory brought a smile to his face.
"No," Hannibal lied, he knew and a part of Louis knew the truth. That their blood connection was the only thing that saved him from Octavian's onslaught, or me from Julian's brutality…
"But they are there. We have heralds, yes, but so long as they have God-Killers like them, like Drusilla, like Otto, like Bantu, we are outgunned at the top."
Louis sat back and pondered on what Hannibal had just said. His cousin was a fool, as they of the main line were known to be. But Louis was rare in that he was only ever a fool when non-main line Nervas were involved.
"You forgot, Hannibal. We have heralds yes, but now we are working for God-Vessels of our own. And other God-Killers who stood against us are either dead, old, or not so firm in their belief that we are wrong."
Hannibal had to give him that. It had been eighty years since last they tried to bring about their plans. And since then, a whole new generation of sorcerers has come to the fore.
"Our fortune then, ay," Hannibal chuckled, "That we got a selfish generation to source warriors from."
Louis seemed confused for a moment before it dawned on him what Hannibal meant, "Yes… But that is a double-edged sword, Cousin. They must be molded, reforged and focused. They are not their predecessors…"
Hannibal could not argue with that. He remembered Hamzah Evil-Eye and his ability to swallow entire towns with his sand. He remembered Eureka the Wave-Mother, who could flood an entire battlefield in less than two seconds. Hannibal remembered fighting alongside Jacques Duboir, the fastest man he had ever seen. He also remembered fighting against Lyle and Lloyd Johnson, two of the most annoying enemies he had ever come across. And dozens more who Hannibal hated, admired and even loved.
Now? Now there were seven, maybe eight if he were being kind to Drusilla, people of that ilk.
By the time the limousine came to a halt, Hannibal looked half as noble as his blood demanded. He and his cousin exited the limousine to stand outside the mouth of a cave. Hannibal sighed, "Why? Why the fuck is it always a cave?"
Louis ignored him as they entered the cave, following the markers left for those whose eyes could see them.
The walk was long and boring, and Hannibal did not do boring. He pulled out a flask, hearing Louis suck his teeth, "How the hell did you get that?"
Hannibal took a swig before offering it to Louis, "I am a man of many means and resources, Louis."
Louis covered his nostrils and turned his face to him, "You make me sick."
He shrugged and took another sip, "We all have our vices."
"Only a slave—"
That was a step too far, but Hannibal had to give his cousin credit, he was fast. Hannibal used the spirit to spit fire towards him, but Louis was to his right, his fist glowing with the energy from the sun. Before it had the chance to connect, it was extinguished a few centimetres away from Onwa's sculptured face. Her full lips kissed Louis' fist, an act that won her a snarl, "Do that again, and I'll pull your intestines out your mouth."
His cousin turned and continued down the cave, "I think he likes me," Onwa said, smiling at Hannibal. Were his defenses down, that smile would have knocked him off his feet and made him putty in her slim and beautiful hands.
Debra was the most beautiful woman Hannibal had ever seen, or at least, that's something he believed whenever she was around. Her skin was flawless obsidian, woven by the hands of the Goddess herself. Her head was shaven and her jawline sharp and symmetrical, with cheekbones high and regal. Her eyes were angular and siren-shaped, with devilish eyebrows that made her sultry looks all the more provocative. Her perfect body, shaped like an Olympic track star used her sponsorship money to get some work on her breasts, was barely contained in a simple black dress with a gold belt wrapped around her skinny waist.
"Oh, no he detests your existence," Hannibal said. "Worse yet, you kissed his fist. A good married and catholic man like him will have to deliver three, no four, Hail Marys to get over what you have done."
Onwa's laughter almost gave him an erection, "You're a funny man Hanni, have I ever told you that."
"We're going to be late," he said, following after his cousin like this was the wisest thing he had done in a long time. Hannibal wished to devour Onwa whole, to fuck her all night and the morning after as well, but he knew how that story ended. With his free will kept in a jar whilst he was left gagged, wearing a collar and at her eternal service.
Hannibal heard her heels behind him, but Onwa was good enough to keep her poisoned words to herself, as they finally arrived at a door. Louis, the good boy that he was, stood waiting for them.
"Is there no one inside?" he asked, and Louis sighed, "No, the exact opposite problem. Everyone is here… you've gone and made us late again."
There goes another promise…
"Well," Hannibal clapped his hands and approached the door, "Such things cannot be helped now," he said, lowering unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the tattooed Eye on his right pectoral. The door slid open and allowed the three of them through. Inside was the eternal library they met in, it filled with a thousand-thousand shelves that contained a million-million books. Sat by the couches and chairs, waiting for them, were the heads of their order.
Amy Renfrow, a red-haired American who had never been wrong a day in her life. Mostly because she refused to believe that she could be. Hartono of Java, a tall and powerfully built man from Indonesia, where he was wanted for the crimes of murder… eighteen counts of it. If there was one person on the planet that Hannibal hated the company of more than Louis, it was Julian. But after him, it was Gael the Inca. He patted every pocket of his suit too late, as Hannibal was disgusted to see his flask in the man's mouth, his good spirit being used to intoxicate a five-and-a-half foot tall troll of the man before him. Hannibal looked around to scan the room before frowning, "Where the fuck is Xinyi?" he asked, and it was Amy who answered him, "She overslept again."
Onwa's smile was dripping with mischief, "Oh? Did she tell you as much?"
Amy snorted, "Doesn't take a genius to come to that conclusion. I am telling you, Xinyi is sleeping. I stake my life on it."
"No one better take her up on that offer," came a low and soft voice, the owner appearing from out the shower dressed in a pinstriped suit that was wrinkled and unwashed. The smell hit him first, and then the power, which made his spine tingle.
The man was below-average height, and rotund in shape. His nose was sharp, and his hair a dark brown that was worn long and greasy, forming a curtain around his head due to his crow's nest. His face contained a fiery beard and his eyes were a droopy but warm inclusion to his otherwise unwelcoming demeanor. His teeth were tinged yellow and his breath smelt old like morning breath.
"Allow my Xinyi to sleep. She had a long day of chores, the poor thing."
They all bowed their head as he came to a stop at the head of the table. He slowly began to pull out a chair before sitting down and clearing his throat, "Welcome, welcome one and all, to another meeting of the Seven. Me and the other patrons thank you for coming. So, shall we begin?" asked Mr. Baines.