Viktor paces his office, muttering obscenities under his breath. Obscenities mostly directed at his mother for birthing his wastrel of a brother, a couple thrown in for Alex and her bull-headedness as well.

  He stops mid stride to sweep everything from his desk, a very expensive decanter of equally expensive scotch landing unceremoniously on the ground, contents emptying onto a laptop with probably very important things saved on it.

  He pinches his nose as his secretary rushes in, in response to the clattering. Watches her scramble to salvage some of the things on the ground.

  “Leave it.” He grinds out, flexing his bandaged fist.

  She stands abruptly, hands fidgeting, itching to tidy the mess he has made.

  “Call a meeting.” He says.

  “A board meeting?” She clarifies.

  “No. A meeting.”

  Chris ducks to narrowly avoid getting tangled up in the rainbow of strings crisscrossing Alex's office. He feels something squelch under his good shoes, and realizes he's stepped in a pool of spilled glue.

  “Are you kidding me?” He growls, prompting Alex's head to pop up from behind a mountain of - he squints - newspaper clippings. People still read newspapers?

  “Chris!” She exclaims breathless, “I didn't see you there.”

  “Naturally. One can hardly see anything from behind a stack of papers that high.”

  He follows the string of a spinning, dangling doll to the roof, to find it tied to the ceiling fan, considers scolding Alex for hoarding Jo's missing Barbie, but eventually decides against it. "What is all this?"

  “Research.” Alex stalks past him to circle the head of some scraggly man in a photo. “This is the guy who shot Akio.”

  Chris squints at the photo, cursing his current lack of reading glasses, he'd hidden it from Ginger's grubby fingers, and had now forgotten the location. “I thought the shooter had a ski mask on?” The CCTV footage had confirmed the fact even.

  Alex arches an eyebrow of superiority at him, “Well I unmasked him.”

  Chris' eyes wander the room carefully, photos and newspaper clippings pinned to the wall, even the roof. Colored strings crisscrossing the room connecting different pictures to each other. He lifts a hand to his mouth as he takes in the detritus of Alex's 'investigation'. He was willing to try another method, but eventually this was going to have to be one of those bull in China shop approaches.

  “The kids have been asking for you.” He propositions her inner caregiver, “It's been two weeks and you haven't said a word to them. They're starting to think they've done something wrong.”

  “I just need a minute.” Alex brushes by him again, not even sparing a glance.

  Bull in China shop it is. “It's been two weeks, Alex. Akio's body is still in the freezer, no arrangements have been made.”

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  Alex doesn't wince, but it is a very near thing. “I am making arrangements.”

  “To kill a man?”

  She turns to face him, the fakest of all smiles, baring too many sharp teeth, in place. “Exactly.”

  Chris softens. “It's not going to bring him back.”

  Her face falls as she considers for a moment, very quickly it is replaced by a determined scowl. “Why don't you let me handle that, and you assure the kids that they did nothing wrong, hm?”

  She ushers Chris to the exit with a hand on his shoulder, the other reaching to open the door. "I just gotta work a little, and when I'm done we can all go out for an obscene amount of sugar."

  Chris stops his forced ejection with a hand on the door jamb. “Viktor Novik?” He squints at a photo on the wall beside the door.

  Alex peers at the man who was in her office a couple of nights ago. “You know him?”

  “Norwegian old money.” Chris says, "Largest European automobile export." He frowns. “Why is he on your 'to murder' board?”

  “Well,” Alex begins carefully, “Turns out Akio's shooter is his brother.” She takes in Chris' wide eyes. “I know, what are the odds huh?”

  Viktor settles into the seat at the head of the obnoxiously long stone table with a groan.

  “You're late!” An unnecessarily shrill voice rasps at him. He eyes the owner of the voice with poorly concealed disgust. A withered old woman 700 years past her expiry date.

  “Unlike some of you,” He starts, allowing the necessary amount of venom to seep into his voice, “I have a living to make.”

  ”Do remember you called for our assistance, child.” A man who looked like a poor imitation of Father Christmas bellows.

  “Alex Jordan.” Viktor says finally.

  As expected, the table is thrown into mumblings.

  “We have a peace treaty with the Jordans.” Father Christmas says.

  “Oho.” Viktor laughs self depreciatingly, and wishes he had a glass of something strong in reach at the moment. “Not anymore. Akio Jordan is dead.”

  The entire coven is thrown into a rightful state of uproar, members flinging accusations at one another. Viktor strongly considers conjuring a glass of scotch from his office while he watches, but everyone knew spirits lost some of their potency after prestidigitation.

  “Relax.” He puts them out of their misery. “Erik shot him.”

  “The ungifted?!”

  “You called a meeting for someone who isn't a part of the coven?”

  “This has nothing to do with us!”

  Viktor gives in and finally conjures a glass of Macallan. It doesn't taste as good as it should, but it will do.

  “He is not a warlock, and therefore not our concern!”

  “You disrespect the elders!”

  “Hand him over to her!”

  “Mm.” Viktor swallows a mouthful of watered down scotch, ”An excellent idea.” He directs to the only other person in the gathering besides him who looked like they bathed. Albeit once in a while. “I should hand him over, wash my hands off this nonsense. Which I would, if I wasn't bloody bound to him by oath!”

  He rips the collar of his shirt open, revealing the carving of an ugly sigil on his shoulder. The other warlocks gasp in overdramatic horror, and Viktor rolls his eyes.

  “Erik dies, I die.” He sets his cup down as he rises, palms face down on the ugly table. “Now unless any of you have a hidden benefactor under your unwashed,” He grimaces, “... tunics. You'll think up a solution. And fast.”

  The room goes silent in thought.

  “We cannot antagonize Alex Jordan, your mother did well to avoid her.” supposed to be dead woman number 4 offers unhelpfully. And they wonder why he couldn't be bothered to learn their names.

  “Perhaps an exchange of sorts? A resurrection spell for staying her hand?” Someone piped up.

  These people needed to get out more, nobody spoke like that anymore. “First of all, nobody speaks like that anymore.” He points an offending finger at the man. “Secondly, I did offer to barter a resurrection spell for her clemency. She refused.”

  “Then our only other option would be to rid you of the oath.” Father Christmas says.

  “Please, you would be doing me a favor.” Viktor says.

  “If your mother cast that spell, it will not easily be broken.” The least smelling woman interjects.

  “Well, she's dead isn't she? If she was all bad and powerful, why isn't she here?” He snaps peevishly.

  Father Christmas' white hair strands stand up on end, eyebrows furrowing as an idea seemingly comes to him. Viktor rears back in alarm at how painful it looks.

  “The huntsman who killed your mother.” Father Christmas finally grinds out, “We could proposition him.”

  “Fool!” Another speaks up, ”I want no part of starting a war with Alexandria Jordan.”

  With a flick of his good wrist, the heavy tome lands on the table in front of Viktor with a thud. The coven members gasp and angle their heads towards the book.

  “Perhaps this could be of some assistance?”