[venice] how good it can be. [tag; pierce]

Well, damn.

Erika blinked. This was fancy. Way more fancy than perhaps anything she'd ever been to before. With her back against the wall, she was sipping at a delightfully chilled glass of champagne, enjoying the way the bubbles burst on her tongue. She'd only been here ten minutes and unfortunately, she wouldn't be here to enjoy the rest of the party. Instead, she was about to ruin it.

She was here on an assignment. Well, maybe that was the wrong idea? Erika had made a mistake and now she was playing catch up. She was supposed to intercept an artefact but she'd missed her window. She was after a beautiful small box. She'd seen a photo. Not much bigger than her hand, it was made from pure goblin gold, heavy as a brick and inlayed with beautiful filigree patterns. She'd been instructed not to open it and she was not about to poke a bear.

Erika had misjudged her timings. She was meant to swipe it in the middle of St Mark's Square but something came up and so now, she was about to get going right in the middle of the lion's den. It was about to go into auction, sold to the highest bidder and it made her feel uncomfortable. She'd suggested that maybe the goblins could give her some money and she could be the highest bidder but no. The ire the mere suggestion had elicited was wild.

The room was filling up, full of elegantly dressed men and women. She could hear the gentle chatter and clinking of glasses, the soft brush as fabric swept across the floors. The scent of a million contrasting perfumes filled her nostrils as the ambient lighting reflected off the jewel-dipped women looking more like a disco ball. Soft and unobtrusive violin music drifted in. No one was dancing. This wasn't that type of party.

In her free hand, Erika was holding an auction catalogue. She had a while before the lot was up and she needed to start moving before anyone  realised she wasn't technically invited. Originally, she was going to wear black but then she'd fallen in love with a pale blue Grecian number that hugged her curves and fit her like a glove. Say what you wanted about the Italians but they certainly did appreciate the female form.

Turning, she checked her reflection in an ornate Venetian mirror that hung on a red painted wall in the hallway. Her golden hair was twisted into a chic chignon at the base of her neck, looking as though it was effortlessly piled when it actual fact, she'd battled her tresses into submission for forty minutes with an arsenal of potions and creams. Mirrors were a great invention. In the pretence of powdering her nose, Erika's bright blue eyes could watch the scene unfold behind her.

The doors of the heavily ornate ballroom were open and it was beautiful. The building, like most in Venice, was crumbling. They'd been here for centuries, damaged by floods and the ravages of time but the glamour had not faded. There was an otherworldly feeling. It felt like Casanova should be here. There should be dancing. There should be drinking and debauchery in alcoves. A house like this was just screaming out for some old fashioned fun and games. It was lavish and over the top and tantalisingly close. Erika imagined she'd make a damned good courtesan in a past life.

It was a little after eight on a chilly Italian evening and the auction wasn't starting for another half hour. People came in, dressed to the nines. She was sure that people had no idea of the value of the things they'd be bidding on. It was some private gala. An ancient wizarding family that she didn't know were selling off ancient artefacts. The official line was that the family wanted a "clear out" but Erika knew better. Empires fell. This was just another aristocrat, flogging the family silver in order to fix the roof and save face.

Speaking of Casanova.

A figure in a beautifully fitting tuxedo descended the white, sweeping staircase. Erika turned as she saw her sworn enemy enter and immediately, her danger radar was pinging. Pierce Lachapelle didn't play by the rules, he never had and he never would. They'd crossed paths a few times and if he was here for the box, he had another thing coming. She tilted her head. He seemed anxious. He looked as though formal wear was causing him some element of distress. Erika wasn't blind, she'd seen every single set of female eyes swivel in his direction.

If he touched her things, she'd break his fingers. Erika waited for a beat or two before stepping forward, her tulle gown fluttering prettily around her long legs as she gently cleared her throat. "Well," she began. "Don't you scrub up well?" She said cheerily, her ocean coloured eyes trailing over his impeccably cut jacket as she reached out to gently adjust his bowtie for him. Leaning in, she whispered "If you're after what I think you're after, you and I are going to fall out." Her pale fingers brushed a small piece lint from his broad shoulder before stepping past him and entering the ballroom, an expensive orange blossom perfume catching on the breeze.


@Pierce Lachapelle

Pierce wasn’t in the business of stealing, at least not from the living. When his limbs shattered decades of ancient stone and mortar nobody even noticed, let alone minded. People forgot history, at least anything further than a few years back. Many of the tombs he and the raiders had explored weren’t even on maps, so long forgotten that nobody even bothered to plot them anymore. In a way, that was bothersome to him. There were treasures to be found, history to be uncovered, stories to be told. On the other hand, it meant that all he and his comrades had to focus on was not dying, which was a far cry from the events of this day.

He wasn’t in the business of stealing, but he also wasn’t in the business of turning down an owed favor. When his old friend had written him in need of righting a wrong, he was swift to answer. Lucasta Sadowski had once given him food and shelter after a particularly harrowing experience in Belarus. She was advanced in years but young in spirit and it quickly became evident to Pierce that she’d raised several sons. Like most of his experiences, Lucasta’s too was rooted in a distant past. The dust that had collected on the old family photos was not by chance, but by avoidance, happy times turned dark in the wake of loss. Three sons taken from her, only to be followed by her husband. She had no one, and in those times neither did Pierce. Forged in flame, they were bonded.

And Pierce had been quick to dismiss her wild tales, claims of a family curse and betrayal. Her great-grandmother’s prized possession, stolen away and sold by her manipulative and greedy cousin. For the few weeks that he stayed with her, she’d told him again and again of the beautiful golden box that her grandmother had once kept on her vanity. Goblin-made. Blessed. Powerful. And when they failed to protect it, to honor it, it turned against them. None of this would matter if Pierce were like most people, able to forget about history and move on. But this box was not just any box: it was very real, and very much unearthed from the shadows of history. How the Italian family had acquired the box was unclear, probably traded down over time. Lucasta took it as a sign, a mystical force, the box once again seeking its rightful owner.

Whether or not Pierce believed her was irrelevant. When she asked him to retrieve it, he didn’t question her. Instead, he made plans to travel to Venice, acquired a tuxedo and forged a plan to right history’s wrong. All things easier said than done, of course, because unlike the tombs he was so used to this wasn’t a place for the dead. Very wealthy and very much alive, this was an event that would take some real magic to manipulate. All he knew was that he had to get to that box before it went up for auction, before anyone else had a chance to take it. He would steal it, he would flee, and he would finally be able to repay the woman for all she’d done for him those years ago.

That was, of course, if he could stop fidgeting.

He was very much a casual, denim-and-cotton sort of wizard, and formal wear was simply not his scene. Italian tailors meant business, and their tuxedos fit impeccably, meaning his garments hugged him close enough to make a point without being immodest. As important as it was to be well-dressed, he found himself swiftly missing the limber and flexible fabrics he was accustomed to. A bonus: he knew that he looked good, not due to his own vanity, but rather the six different women who had stopped him thus far to ask for “directions.” Normally he wouldn’t have minded much at all, but tonight he was on a mission.

He entered the auction house and tried to ignore his nerves, his restlessness. In and out, get the box, win. He’d fought hard to focus, to keep his eyes and ears open. No distractions. As he descended the sweeping marble staircase, he was greeted by one very beautiful and very problematic distraction. With an elegant updo and a pale Grecian gown swept around her figure, the girl was a vision, but that wasn’t new. Erika had always been beautiful. Which is exactly why Pierce never, ever let her know it.

“This old thing?” he said casually, raising a brow. “I suppose it suits the occasion,” he said nonchalantly, downplaying it all, trying to blend and keep any upper hand he might have had. He met her gaze and saw behind the cool, watery hues: fire, passion, hunger. She was here for something too. She was adjusting his bowtie then, already reaching for him, he noted. She said what he already knew and was gone, breezing past him, the scent of orange blossoms her own well-written chapter of history. His lip curled into a smirk. Perhaps this could be fun, after all.

“Now now, already losing focus,” he said as he quickly moved beside her, linking her arm around his. They entered the room and it became clear, each of the well-dressed women in the crowd escorted by a gentleman. “A woman of high standing never enters a room alone,” he whispered quietly beside her ear, leaning a bit closer than was strictly necessary. He nodded to a few passersby, and together they blended expertly. No one saw anything besides a well dressed young couple. “I am aware of the effect I have on you but please, try to refrain from losing your wits,” he said with that smirk of his.

“And why such animosity?” he added with a gentle voice, “are you not pleased to see me? I’m quite pleased to see you,” he added. “I enjoy our little dalliances.” His hand moved to her lower back as they turned, his fingers feeling the intricate beadwork and the tulle draping around her backless dress. “This will certainly be quite an auction,” he said lightly, “dozens upon dozens of treasures up for sale,” he reminded. “Even if you and I find ourselves in the same market for a particular collectible, I’d hope you wouldn’t let it come between us,” he purred.

"I think it's best when there's nothing between us at all."

Pierce Lachapelle was bad news. Always had been, always would be. She'd entertained a brief, short lived crush on him at one point years ago but now that she was older, she wasn't really in any position to be dating. Her head wasn't on straight. She was still recovering from Hurricane Murphy and even going anywhere near the Frenchman in a less than professional capacity would spell her downfall.

She smiled at Pierce politely. She'd never been able to nail down her thoughts about him. Did she admire him? Or did she detest him? He played on her emotions and at times, he cut her a bit too close.

"I can see the cobwebs," she said sarcastically, acutely aware of a dozen sets of eyes shooting daggers into her bare back. She didn't trust him as far as she could throw him. His appearance, anywhere, was cause for concern. She didn't like to cross his path. He and it were dangerous.

Erika stiffened almost instantly as Pierce touched her arm, instinctively trying to pull away before setting her pretty face into a grimace. People could see. The idea was to blend in, not stand out. He had her cornered and he bloody well knew it. She scowled at him as she was frog-marched into the room, hating to have to keep up appearances. While she wanted to slap his face off, it would alert the powers that be. So, she settled on a heavy laden sigh.

"Oh I'm no lady," came the easy reply as she smiled at him, her eyes focusing on his face for the first time that evening. She'd never once thought she'd ever gain a sworn enemy. Erika had liked the idea. It seemed very Dickensian but Dickens himself seemed to have poked the universe and it offered her him.

"And you are no gentleman," she was quick to tell him with a gentle shake of her head, stifling a giggle. Were the French always so effortlessly arrogant? She refused to acknowledge his closeness and the scent of his aftershave and clean shirtfront; a classic, masculine smell. She supposed they could easily fall into one another if they fancied it but she was trying to be grown up. If Murphy no longer wanted her, that was fine but  she wasn't going to throw herself at every available man that crossed her path.

"You're trouble. It follows you around and the last time we crossed paths, I almost died!" Erika hissed, wondering if he'd forgotten their Congo adventure. After a rare golden idol, someone had tripped a wire and the cave they were in flooded. She'd always blamed him and his big feet but it could have easily have been her doing. As always, she passed the buck. She'd ended up three miles down the river, on her knees, coughing up pints of water, the salt of which made the cuts and insect bites feel like a thousand tiny daggers stabbing at her skin. Or had he forgotten that?

She narrowed her eyes at Pierce as his fingers wandered, ignoring the goose bumps that rose on her spine. "If your hand goes any lower, I will break your fingers one by one. Are we clear?" She asked in a soft voice. From any onlooker, they were just a young couple, caught in a clandestine moment. Pfft. Little did they know.

"Urgh," Erika grunted, pulling a face as she wrinkled her nose. His comments really did suggest the calibre of women he chose to spend his time with. Ideally, she'd prefer something between them. A six foot thick, ten foot high cement wall would be perfect.

Ah. That sealed it; they were after the same thing. How had Pierce found out about this auction? It was a closed set. Very exclusive and expensive. She didn't reply, she simply looked back down at the auction card as the people milled about her. She could feel it, the hum of excitement and anticipation. Erika was paid well but there was no way in Hell she'd be able to afford to bid on any of these lots without some serious financial backing. She cast an expert eye around the room, ignoring twinkling jewellery and the Ming dynasty vases until she saw it. After she had, she wasn't listening to what Pierce was saying.

Delicately, she disentangled herself from him and wafted over. She stopped at various cases, peeking through the glass, trying to play down her excitement. "I'm redecorating my house," she told Pierce gently, stopping by a beautiful ornate Venetian mirror, the diamonds and polished glass glittering attractively. She pointed at it. "I like that," she said. "I don't think the ceilings are high enough to support a chandelier."

She stepped back over to him. They could easily pass as a couple who had been let loose with the keys to their rich parents' bursting Gringotts' vault. That was the road she was going to take. "Hey muffin," she said as she sidled closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Do you think we should get it?" The statement elicited a squeak of horror from a woman close to them. Erika leaned in, glad of the momentary distraction to whisper in his ear, "If you touch that box, Pierce, I will come down on you like a tonne of bricks."

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he countered with a charming grin. “I’m sure the same goes for Belladonna,” he tempered. That felt more akin to the girl beside him: beautiful, but toxic. She made a quip about his wandering fingers and he shook his head fondly. “Exactly how stupid do you think I am?” he wondered aloud, glancing at her. “If I wanted to grope you I’d have had plenty of chances before here and now.”

At her accusation he stopped, more sternly, gently turning her so that they could face one another. “I’ve told you time and time again I tried to help you,” he said sharply, blue eyes intense against hers. Would she punish him forever? He’d tripped the wire, it had tangled around his foot, and as the temple flooded around him he nearly drowned. The girl had been swept away in the flood waters before he could free himself, and were it not for his abilities to manipulate air he easily could’ve drowned.

“By the time I got out you were too far down river, I refuse to recount it again,” he offered, his brows furrowed and concerned. He could tolerate many things, but allowing her to believe that their rivalry would make him a murderer was not one of them. As swiftly as he’d defected, he was back to his old ways, a debonair expression on his face as he gently guided her through the room. He’d like to think so, anyway, but they both knew she was walking as she chose and his hand was along for the ride.

“You know I’m only trying to get a rise out of you,” he said softly, looking to her with true admiration. “You really shouldn’t encourage me,” he suggested with a smirk. It was true, but was it a mind game? That was up to her to decide. The man was scanning the room for others, the onlooking couples, the elite and wealthy. He should’ve been paying more attention to the woman beside him, for she posed a far greater threat. She was moving then, away from him, and suddenly he was on her like a hawk.

“Redecorating?” he said politely, wondering if there was subtext to her words. Cleaning house? Starting over? No, it appeared she was playing along. He looked to the mirror as she pointed, raising a brow. It was ornate, ridiculously expensive, but no doubt people would be fighting over it later in the evening. “A chandelier?” he said, shooting her a disappointed glance. “You’ve always had such gaudy taste,” he said with a faint smirk, knowing full well there was a chance that could earn him a heel in the toe.

She was making him pay in another way then, sidling closer to him, her hands teasing his shoulder as she spoke like they were lovers. The game was never quite as fun when she was such a good actress. It was hard to hate her when she was so sinfully sweet. “I don’t know ma cherie,” he cooed, letting his accent carry his words smoothly and sensually. “We’d have to move Aunt Gertrude’s painting, what would she think?” he offered, playing along.

And behind him someone gasped, evidently wanting this God-awful mirror for real. He hadn’t the time to worry about a stranger’s taste, not when Erika was in his ear, threatening him. The box? She’d seen the box? Merlin almighty, he was rusty. His heart sank. Of course they were both after the box. Goblin-made. She was just doing their greedy little bidding. Before she could slither away, he made a move of his own, turning his head quick enough that he caught her in place.

His lips brushed her ear, the stubble on his chin grazing her cheek. Her hair smelled of pressed flowers, no doubt laced with every imaginable potion to keep it in place. It was soothing, despite everything, and he caught himself taking a breath. “I’m not sure who you’ve been seeing lately,” he offered in a sensual whisper, “but if you need to come, Erika, I won't require any pretense.” He kissed her cheek chastely before slithering out of her grip, sauntering forward and praying that his reply would leave her stunned for a moment or two. It was, perhaps, the most provocative thing he’d ever said to her, at least.

He saw it then, too, the gleaming gold box beneath the glass display case. He moved closer, eying the tag, glancing it up and down. Lot 619. He was going to need to remember that. How in the world was he supposed to swipe this thing, out here on display? All these people? He had to get to it before the auction, before it was sold. Then it was lost forever. But that meant Erika had to get to it first, too. Perhaps he didn’t need to steal the box from this auction house, but from Erika’s person instead. He looked more closely at the tag. Replica. “Gemino,” he said to himself, smirking. Clever. At least the auction house wasn’t smart enough to put the real objects on the floor.

On the other hand, that might mean they were expecting people like Pierce and Erika this evening. With quickened motions he swiped the tag, practiced and elegant and practically imperceptible. There was no need for the girl to know that this box wasn’t the box she sought. The empty brass card holder was still in place as he noticed the girl, smiling. “What a lovely piece, don’t you agree?” he said nonchalantly, knowing that his very presence near the thing was likely to give her an ulcer. “I wonder where it came from, who it belongs to,” he said quietly, “I’m sure they miss such a precious trinket.” He looked to her a bit knowingly before taking a step back.

“But I can respect the rules of engagement,” he promised, holding his hands up slightly in surrender. “In fact, I’m going to prove you wrong. I am quite a gentleman,” he stated. “I’m going to fetch us some champagne,” he said before brushing past her and letting his fingers graze the beadwork near her lower back once more. “No funny business before I get back,” he said with a grin, taking a few steps backwards before turning and slipping into the side corridor. The second he was out of sight, he was out of character, urgent eyes scanning for answers.

He wasn’t looking for champagne, he was looking for the auction storage room. Somewhere in this place, the real golden box was waiting, and he only had a short window in which to swipe it.

"Pfft," Erika added darkly. Belladonna? She rolled her eyes. Her pride bristled a little at his offhand remark. She didn't think she was particularly deadly but she was thankful not to be compared to a rose. She didn't like them. They were boring and traditional. She'd never actually been given a bunch of flowers before, either as a gift or a romantic gesture but she was sure she wouldn't like them much.

With her arms folded, she rolled her eyes once more. "Yeah yeah," she grumbled, head tilted back to admire the beautiful, glittering ceiling. It was some sort of fresco, depicting the traditional chubby winged cherubs and angels, stretched across a clear blue sky. She shrugged her slender shoulders. "I don't think about it often. I've almost died plenty of times. It doesn't make it any more special that you were involved in it." As far as she was concerned, it was all his fault. Him and his bloody big clown feet.

"I don't like you," she told Pierce plainly. "I don't want to play your game. I don't know what you want from me," she told him, eyeing him up swiftly. Gaudy? "Expensive," she corrected him swiftly as she admired the sparkling shards of glass, twisting and turning with ease. "I like my creature comforts. If I want diamonds, I get diamonds," she said, matter-of-factly. Erika did like sparkly things. They didn't have to be expensive or handmade. Her nickname from  her father was Magpie.

"Couldn't we just lock her in the attic, baby?" Erika purred as she turned towards him, her full lips pouting and her long lashes fluttering. "You know she doesn't like me after she caught us on the sofa that time," she said with a smile. It was far too easy to play along. Erika had a good imagination and she liked playing games. Only now, the game wasn't funny.

Erika stilled and held her breath, her body stiffening at his touch. He was close. Too close. She balled her hands into fists, leaning away a little. She didn't like this. This didn't feel like teasing any more. They were both skilled liars but there was an edge to his voice that the treasure hunter didn't like and it made her feel really rather uneasy. Like he'd said, he was trying to get a rise out of her so why would this be any different? She supposed she could lie and say she was seeing someone, just to wipe that smirk off his face but since Murphy, there hadn't been anyone special. She didn't miss the sexual undertones of his words, either.

Erika was dumbfounded, left in Pierce's wake as she blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. How dare he speak to her like that? She felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. Embarrassed that she'd enjoyed his indecent remark for a second or two before she'd remembered where she was. She'd been so lonely for so long but that didn't mean this was anything more than a rather strained friendship.

Swallowing, she waited a moment for the blush to recede before she followed him over to the box. "Oh please," she scoffed. "Like you care. You're a glory hunter," she told Pierce crudely as she admired the box. "You don't care how much work went into this. You're all about commission and you think I'm the bad guy?" She pursed her lips with a shake of her head. She watched him retreat with a thoughtful frown, her perfectly groomed eyebrows coming down to furrow in confusion. She felt rather unnerved.

Erika sucked her teeth, eyes still on the cabinet as her back was stroked. She had no desire to reciprocate. Around her, people milled in quiet chatter. "Scusami," the tall blonde said to a  man in a smart dark jacket, obviously working here tonight. "What time is this going under the hammer?" She asked politely. "Ah. Goblin gold. Pretty, si?" Growing annoyed, she offered a tight smile and nodded, uncaring. "The real one's coming down at nine," the man said, his badge reading the name Paolo. "Pardon?" Erika asked, eyes wide as she turned to fix him with a confused glance. "Oh si," chatty Paolo continued, waving his hand. "Very caro. Very…how do you say? Expensive? Si. Cannot be too careful," he concluded, tapping his nose. Erika's eyes dropped to the empty card holder and then her blood ran cold. Pierce knew it was a fake. And he'd gone.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Erika hissed, smacking her forehead and drawing shocked glances from the finely dressed contingent. Ignoring Paolo and everyone else, she turned on her heel and ran. Her high heels click-clacked on the marble floor as she skidded out into the beautiful hallway, eyes wide and her pulse staggering. Oh that slimy little snake. Erika continued to jog, eyes everywhere, looking for doors. Paolo had said they'd be bringing it down. Down meant it wasn't here.

Running down the hall in a ball gown was not an easy task. Then she saw him. She didn't stop. Her long legs kept running, her hands coming out to give him a rude and childish shove out of the way as she reached the grand staircase, taking the stairs two at a time as she raced to the upper level. It wasn't her job fuelling her now, it was pure rage. Catch me if you can, Casanova.

She was beside him then, telling him what she thought of him, calling him a glory hunter. His brows went up in indignation as he eyed her, waiting for her to finish. “You think you know everything,” he said calmly, meeting her gaze in earnest. “Not all things are about glory, Erika,” he said plainly. He thought for a moment. “If you stopped thinking you knew me and actually tried to know me instead, who knows, maybe you’d like what you find,” he said with that handsome crooked smile of his. Perhaps that’s what made their meetings so exhilarating; sometimes he was play-pretending, other times he was not. The difference between the two was thinner than the ice he stood on as he slinked away from her.

Pierce was barreling down the hallway, slower than he’d like thanks to the restricting tuxedo that hugged his form. He knew he had a minute, at best, before the girl understood that he was most certainly not fetching her a drink. For a brief moment, he felt guilty. No wonder she didn’t like him. He was kind of an ass. He shook the thoughts off as he grabbed a railing, careening around a corner, bolting down a particularly long hallway that felt important. He had to be getting somewhere. His instincts rarely led him astray. His thoughts were jumbled as he felt hands shoving him, hard and solid, and blue eyes followed her as she passed.

She was a vision, truly, her gown fluttering behind her as she bolted up the staircase. She was tall and graceful, despite her rapid movements, and as he stumbled to a halt it was evident that she’d stopped him in more ways than one. A grin curled on his lips. He loved it: the chase, the competition. Even if, at the moment, he was losing. He wasn’t concerned. He knew, more than most, how quickly the winds could change. She was out of sight as a young and frantic witch came closer, muttering rapidly in Italian at him with a cross expression. “I’m sorry -- too fast, I don’t -- ” he explained, and the girl sighed in exasperation.

”No one allowed, upper floor!” the girl said, switching to English, and Pierce covered. “I know, I’m so sorry she’s just -- she’s feeling faint, really needed to find the lavatory,” he said with an apologetic smile. The girl eyed him and pointed over his shoulder, and he glanced back to discover that the ladies lavatory was actually in sight. A hallway, neatly marked, just beside the staircase. “Oh, well,” he said, clearly a bit thrown off. He cleared his throat and laughed nervously. Erika was the one who’d bolted up there, not him, and yet here he was on the hook for it. “Tell you what, I’ll get her? I’ll stop her,” he said, moving past the girl.

She grabbed his wrist and spoke harshly, muttering what he was almost certain to be a swear word. ”Not safe, not allowed,” she explained with a pointed nod, ”insurance!” she said sternly. What the hell was she on about? “Is that -- are you keeping the items upstairs?” he asked her blankly, to which she turned red and looked very upset. Clearly, he wasn’t supposed to ask something like that. Oops. She slapped a palm against her face and went into a quiet and oddly demure tirade, her fluent Italian sounding quite beautiful as she no doubt muttered very ugly things. ”Folly,” she said finally, looking to him plainly. ”Thief’s folly.” His eyes went wider. Oh, shit.

This staircase was obvious, too obvious. The perfect choice for deception. And Erika was many paces ahead of him. He looked to the girl, considering. He could leave her, let her get caught, but what if it was a worse trap? What if it would hurt her? What if this was the trip wire, all over again, except for once he had the power to stop it from happening. He wanted to win, of course, but never at her expense. Not truly. Not like this. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said to the girl with a half frown. His gaze narrowed as the air around them went stale, evaporating, and the girl's eyes went wide with fear as the oxygen grew thin. She fainted, into his arms, and he quickly helped her body to the ground. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered as he turned, darting up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.

The upper level was spectacular, a seemingly endless corridor with door after door after door. Surely this was bigger than the space below? It had to be a trick, an illusion, but none of that mattered as much as the girl at the far end. “Erika!” he hollered, his voice echoing in the space. They were already running at high risk of getting caught, why play it safe now? “Stop! Please!” he said, his jog becoming a sprint as he desperately tried to close the distance. “This is a trap, a decoy!” he shouted, “thief’s folly!” Surely, she would know. Surely. Unless her anger had clouded her judgment? Unless his games had left her fuzzy?

Suddenly, he skittered to a stop and nearly toppled over as another, more insidious thought struck him. Perhaps she wasn’t fuzzy at all. Perhaps she’d already solved the puzzle, and he’d just tripped a wire all over again.

Erika ran full pelt. She had no idea where she was going but she knew she had to be close. As she ran, she uttered a quick and silent prayer of thanks. She was thanking her grandmother. Nanna Trickett had taught all of her granddaughters (and great-granddaughters) to run in heels from a young age. Her reasoning had been you need to look classy but also be able to haul ass when things go south.

Her elegant chignon had become displaced, blonde tendrils escaping their hold as she paused, panting. She couldn't hear footsteps which meant that Pierce hadn't found herself. Eyes as wide as dinner plates, she extracted her wand. She surged forward, swirling the wand around her head in complex, swooping motions, like a rhythmic gymnast during a floor routine. The corridor glowed in front of her.

The corridor was transformed into some sort of 3D blueprint as she ran. There was a faint shimmer, electric green like the Aurora Borealis around the door frames. Green meant good, red meant bad. It was an easy system.

"No, no, no, no, no," Erika panted as she streaked past the green doors. It was an old curse breaking spell, based on a system of good versus evil. The goodies wouldn't be in a green room, surely.

Erika skidded to a halt. Near the end of the corridor, there was a peculiar colour. Not red, not green…but gold. Squinting, she lifted her wand up to use as a torch. The gentle laughter and clink of champagne glasses had faded away and all she could hear now was the sound of her own breathing. Gold had always been like a siren's call to her. There was a faint, steady hum coming from the dark wood.

Erika took a breath and set her jaw. With her wand extracted, she traced a figure eight. "Okay," she frowned as the golden shimmering light dimmed a little. "Salvio hexia," she whispered, thrusting her wand skywards and clenching her eyes shut as a gush of heat hit her. "Urgh," she replied, shuddering. With any luck, any curses would hopefully be redirected.

The door creaked open and Erika stepped in. It was dark and smelled musty, like old theatre curtains. Lighting her wand tip, she held it over her head, chewing on her lower lip as she stepped in. Things were lined up, seemingly haphazardly. The tall blonde passed old lamps, things that glittered mysteriously, oil paintings whose eyes followed her. "No," she whispered as she quickly walked. These were all fascinating. Charmed necklaces on velvety pillows, a barrack of rusty weaponry and then she saw it.

Partially hidden, the box she'd been sent to collect. Gingerly, she moved the other objects around with her right hand whilst her left cast spell after spell. Erika didn't attack, not if she had to. It seemed contrary to her character indeed.

"Cave inimicum," Erika said softly, a faint blue light settled softly around her hands. The spell was powerful enough to withstand most explosives. Gently, she picked up the box. Lifting it up, she carefully examined it. It looked perfect, heavy and shiny. With a wave of her hand, she shrank the box right down to about the size of a penny. With a flick of her wand, a shot of white light exploded from her wand and hit the box, shrinking it further and changing its appearance into a single small filigree feather. Disguise was one of her talents but it wasn't foolproof. Hastily, she attached the disguised treasure to her necklace and shifted it. It looked just like a beautiful golden pendant.

Backing up, she closed the door and turned, browns furrowed in confusion as she heard her name being called. Waving her wand again, the spell deactivated, just as Pierce came barrelling around the corner.

Standing in the middle of the corridor with her hands on her hips, she laughed. "Oh come on Pierce," she purred with a roll of her eyes. Thief's folly. She stopped as her blood ran cold. That phrase was only used for one particular branch of magic and one she'd only encountered once before and it was once too many.

"Move!" She yelled at the Frenchman, clumsily grabbing his collar and hauling him behind her. Right on cue, the corridor began to shake. Why hadn't this shown up when she'd completed her spells? Erika broke into a run, blindly down the hall as the door of the room she'd just exited blew right off the hinges, splinters of wood pinging off her skin and landing in her hair. With her free hand over her face, she continued to run.

Before she knew it, a gush of strong wind hit her. Clinging to Pierce, she threw herself at him, knocking him to the ground as she landed on top, winding herself. "Hold your breath!" She commanded as she did just that, just in time for a cotton candy coloured smoke to diffuse through the air, causing the hairs on the backs of her arms to stand to attention as the goosebumps spread over her exposed skin. The foul smelling gas, once inhaled, would render the victim paralysed. How long for depended on how deep a breath they took. Clenching her eyes shut, she looked up to see the fumes now drifting off. Coughing, she lifted her head from his chest with wide eyes. "Are you okay?"

The Frenchman let out a groan of exasperation as the girl rolled her eyes. “Erika, I’m serious!” he beckoned, waving his arms impatiently. He was worried, and he hated to let her see it, but it was necessary. No games. No tricks. This was serious. The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt and blame him for it — or worse. Those two little words seemed to catch her attention, finally, and his limbs relaxed in a visible display of relief. “It’s about ti — ” he started. Too late.

He let out an oof as the woman took off, barreling down the hallway and dragging him along by the collar. An out of place and absurdly goofy smile spread across his face as she drug him behind her like a rag doll. It was a serious situation, of course, but there was something that he liked about seeing her so decisive, so controlling. Perhaps, even, that she was helping him rather than getting her revenge. In this twisted tango, that was about as close to tender as they ever got.

He was snapped from it by a powerful explosion, the corridor rattling, sharp splinters of wood rocketing through the air and bouncing off of them. He craned his neck around to see the damage, the room smoking and hissing and looking quite lethal indeed. Something told him that wasn’t going to be the end of it, and as he looked back he saw it on her face. She knew it wasn’t over, too. As much as he hated to admit it, he was glad she was here; not because he wanted either of them to be in danger, but because if he had to face something like this she was among the few that he knew could keep him in one piece.

And then he felt it, hyperaware, a powerful rush of wind that swept over them both. Red alerts were sounding in his mind, the hairs on his arms standing upright. Something was coming. He started to look for it, but the woman was already making a decision. She pounced, knocking him to the ground, barking swift orders as Pierce struggled to understand what was happening. He blinked and it burned, brightly colored pastel smoke wafting in the air around them. It was quick — a sharp, minimal gasp — and his body took over from there.

He gripped her, his hands on her back as she lay atop him, his elemental abilities kicking in without needing any consent at all. The air became so thin that it was alarming, but he knew that she was holding her breath. His eyes were bleary and weepy and he closed them, letting them heal, feeling the air getting cleaner with each passing second. They didn’t have long, but he wouldn’t need long. When his life was on the line, he was quite good at manipulating things. Perhaps he was a reckless man, but he always wanted to live. He wanted the chance to be reckless again tomorrow.

Finally it was over, and he was the first to suck in a gasp. He wanted her to hear it, to know it was safe now. And it was. The air was clean, purer than before perhaps, and he blinked up at her with watery blue eyes. His lips curled into a smirk and he held her gaze for a minute, her question lingering. One of his hands moved, gently pulling a sliver of wood from the blonde hair falling about her face. “You know, if you wanted to be on top, you could’ve just asked.” He let out a brief chuckle before he coughed, his face becoming more serious. There was a pause. “My legs, Erika,” he said quietly. She’d know what he meant.

The gasp he’d taken was so small — and so jarring to his system — that he’d barely even inhaled the stuff. It was, however, enough to render the lower half of his body numb. He knew it was temporary, that wasn’t what scared him, it was the fact that he was baggage now. He wasn’t functioning, she was. He wasn’t a mathematician, but even he could calculate the probability of the what came next. A false, but convincing smile became him as he looked up at her. They were running out of time, surely the auction house was aware of the calamity that had unfolded up here. They’d come, they’d search, they’d want answers.

He sat up on his elbows and nodded his head to the side. “Go,” he said simply, meeting her gaze in earnest. This whole place was loaded with anti-apparition wards — if she wanted to make a real getaway, she needed to run. Of course he didn’t want to be left here, but he had a few tricks of his own left to play. He wasn’t that selfish. He smiled at her, his classic knowing grin, and didn’t let any of his nerves bubble to the surface. “Go, Erika,” he said, nodding. She’d bested him. She’d earned it.

It was horrible.

Erika could hold her breath. Born in a quaint Cornish village, she'd always been surrounded by the sea and she developed a deep love of it from childhood. Days were spent fishing with her father, jumping off the tall harbour walls into the crashing sea below. She'd learned how to hold her breath, purely because she was annoyed at how she had to eventually come up for air. It was always such a pain.

With her face pressed into Pierce's shirtfront and her eyes clenched shut, she counted, slow, like she did when she was nine years old. Only this time, it wasn't fun; it was a matter of life and death.

She knew she wouldn't die but it didn't make her any less apprehensive. She needed a plan but she was trying so hard not to move. She didn't want to play dead. She'd come so far, she didn't want to throw it all away now. The air felt funny. At the moment, she was sure she was the envy of a plethora of girls but being so close to a handsome man in a tuxedo didn't even cross her mind.

Hearing him gasp jarred her. With eyes wide, she jerked backwards. Her warm hands were on his face, checking for cuts and bruises, any obvious injuries she might be able to tend to so they could get the fuck out of here and fast. She had her hands either side of his head, pressed into the thick carpet to take her weight, rolling her eyes at the way he fixed her hair and then his comment. "You know," she began. "Every time we have a "moment", you always go and ruin it."

Then she wasn't laughing at all.

"What?" She snapped, all of her thoughts screeching to a halt as she felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of her neck. His legs? Eyeing them briefly, she neatly climbed off him to sit cross-legged next to him. "Shitballs," she cursed, chewing on her lower lip. How long the paralysis was for, Erika had no idea. The smoke could be extra potent, volatile, there could be delayed problems and effects; she was so out of her depth.

Erika knew she wouldn't be able to carry Pierce. His smile was promptly ignored and she shook her head briskly. She looked like a warrior queen now. Her hair was now half up, half down, speckled with dust and bits of wood. Her evening gown was ripped and her carefully applied eye make up smudged, making her look a bit like a drunken Cleopatra on a boozy holiday.

"Don't go all Mr. Darcy on me now," she half-joked. Pierce's chivalry was touching but she didn't have time. "I can't just leave you," she said with wide eyes as her brain kicked into gear. If he died, it'd be on her conscience forever. If he was hurt or arrested, it'd plague her. "I don't need a partner but unlucky for you, we're in this together," she said as she grappled for her wand.

With her left hand, she completed a series of unusual and complicated flicks. Almost instantly, a faintly red glowing force field appeared. It was a barrier between them and the corridor. She knew the building layout. She'd studied it previously. All these Venetian manors were the same. She assumed there were many wards but this one was crafted by herself. Like bullet proof glass, Kevlar armour and reinforced titanium, it was a blockade. The red faded, leaving it clear, like an open door but no one would be able to cross it. If touched, the ward would shock the trespasser, the voltage increasing every time the person tried to break it down. She had a few of these on her home in London.

The barrier gave them a bit of breathing space. The space behind them was open. The blueprints said there was one way in and one way out but Erika knew it was a lie. This house was built in eighteenth century Venice. It was a party house, full of mistresses and illegal gambling. One way in and one way out? "Bollocks," she said as she thought aloud. There must be doors and staircases. There had to be.

Looking up, she saw people running towards them, wands aimed in a stampede. Chatty Paolo, the friendly man who worked here, was in front. He was flanked by three strong looking men. "Brace yourself," she warned Pierce as the force field took a battering of spells. Like a boomerang, the spells ricocheted right back at the casters. Erika snorted. "Bull's-eye,"  she commented as a hex bounced back off the barrier and knocked the tallest man flat on his back.

"Can you feel this?" She asked Pierce, rudely pinching his thigh, hoping he could wiggle his toes. If he could wiggle his toes, he could stand and if he could stand, he could limp. If he could limp, he could run. Panting, she watched her ward send the hexes back, knocking people over and returning the fire. It was fascinating. It looked like jelly; gelatinous and wobbly and very, very angry.

"Here's the plan," she briefed him as she slipped off her heels, standing to her full height. "You've got thirty seconds to stand otherwise I'm going to drag you by your hair," she warned Pierce, like any of this was actually his fault. Her plan was, if need be, climb out of  an open window. There had to be a drainpipe she could shimmy down. Once on her feet, she offered the auction guards a sunny smile as she wiggled her fingers at them in a wave. "Up, Pierce, come on!"

The man eyed her apologetically. “Shitballs indeed,” he commented, flashing that grin of his, burying all his worries and woes deep in his chest. She looked so wild like this -- hair splayed about, eye makeup smudged. With her gown, he couldn’t help but think of the traditional depiction of a Greek Goddess. It was a thought he opted to keep to himself -- he imagined she’d laugh in his face (or worse) if he tried to make it into one of his little quips. Plus, in truth, he was the damsel in distress and she was his white knight. Talk about turning the tables.

The man stubbornly sat up onto his elbows, groaning at the deadness in his lower half. It was unsettling, obviously, but more so than anything it was frustrating. Just enough magic to stop him in his tracks, just enough magic to get them into trouble. He should’ve been able to avoid this. He should’ve been able to keep himself together. “Partner,” he repeated, grinning, “it makes me all tingly when you say that,” he jested. But then he blinked, looking at her more seriously. “Tingling, seriously -- I’m tingling,” he said, poking his leg. Perhaps this wasn’t the end of the story after all.

He continued to prod at himself as the girl threw up a powerful ward, Pierce’s eyes envying her wand. He had a skillset that served him well, but she had true magical power. Traditional power. The kind that was so different to his own. “Looks like you’ve cast that one a time or two,” he teased as he pounded fists into his shins. Normally he'd try to avoid pain, but in this case he was praying for it. Better to feel the dull ache of his fists than nothing at all.

He began to work some magic of his own, heating the air around them, ever subtly to avoid being too obvious. The heat made his blood pump faster, circulate quicker, hopefully burning away whatever mystical suppressant had worked its way into his system. He felt it working -- slowly, but surely. His heart was thundering as the men appeared, firing their spells, his legs still worthless to him. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, watching Erika’s momentary celebration as the spell ricoheted away from them. The air was hot now, sweat on his brow, but it was working and it was working fast.

“That ward of yours, the energy sure is steamy,” he commented, trying to play it off. “That or they’re trying to cook us,” he added, hoping to cover his bases. He prayed she’d believe anything or perhaps neither notice nor care at all. “I think it’s helping though, with my circulation,” he said quietly. They were burning now, a thousand white-hot pin pricks as his legs started to awaken. It stung and burned like all get out, but it was progress. He yelped and smacked her hand away as she pinched his thigh, a faint blush on his cheeks as he eyed her with wide eyes. “Erika!” he teased, “that’s my no-no square.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” he grunted as she spoke to him, threatening to pull him by his hair, “just a few more seconds -- almost there, just -- Merlin above, come on!” he grunted as he winced from the pain. He rolled onto his stomach, pressing up onto his knees, crawling a bit and nodding. “Progress,” he grunted to the girl as he struggled against the wall. He wanted to be upright, that would be the fastest way to work this out. Gravity could help him, for once.

The men were casting different charms now, attempting to disable her ward. “Erika,” he said urgently, eying her. He’d managed to get up onto his feet, but he was a jelly-legged mess. It reminded him of his youth, when he used to get pranked and had his laces jinxed together. “I can’t stand on my own,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You need to lead, just pull me along,” he said, nodding as sweat beaded on his brow. He hadn’t really intended for it to get quite this hot, but it seemed his control was escaping him. All the more reason to flee.

He searched the air until he found her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, meeting her gaze. “This is your big chance,” he teased, “you get to drag me around like I’m your ragdoll,” he quipped with a smile. Truly, he was nervous that he’d slow her down or stumble, but as he saw that glint in her eye -- something told him that whatever she set her mind to, she’d succeed.

Erika scoffed. Even in such a dangerous position, he was still making faintly lewd comments. Tingling? She glanced down at his legs. "Good," she said decisively, not bothering to wince as the spells boinged off her ward. She was ditzy and had trouble keeping herself in check but she had faith in her magic.

She heaved a sigh. "Sometimes, ex-boyfriends don't take no for an answer," she said vaguely. Her home was heavily protected and her housemate, Lulu, had no idea. It was best the fashionista didn't really understand the enchantments keeping her safe. This particular ward was borne from ancient magic, updated considerably by her own hand. Before she dated Murphy, she'd been in a string of unusual relationships that ended with a fizzle rather than a bang. Artists, poets, musicians, even a man who dried fruit for fun. Pierce didn't need to know her string of bad luck.

"Pierce, stop," she told him, wincing as he punched his own legs. Her ward wasn't invincible but it was extra strong; they had some time. She frowned at him as her cheeks reddened, sweat beading on her hairline. "Not usually," she said as she touched her ward curiously. "It's never done that before," she mumbled. She easily ignored the imminent danger as she examined her ward, poking the gelatinous barrier. It sprung back like freshly baked cupcakes. Of course, there had been teething problems when she'd created it. Things caught fire, she'd scared the neighbour's cat, little things. This was most irregular.

Erika slicked back her now damp hair with another frown as she fanned herself with a hand. "Ow!" She hissed as Pierce smacked her hand. Letting out a squawk, she reared backwards. "Ew!" She exclaimed, flailing, blanching at the thought of accidentally touching an erogenous zone. Pierce was handsome but he wasn't her type. He was far too pretty. And witty. She heaved a shudder. "Gross."

She took a step back, feeling uncomfortable seeing him struggle. She didn't know what he was to her. A friend? Not quite. An acquaintance? He knew too much about her. Enemy? No. Once he was up, she rushed forward to take his hand. "It's okay," she told him softly. "You're doing better than I thought you would. No offence," she grinned. She swiftly slipped an arm around his waist, pulling the hand he was holding over her shoulder so she could better support him.

She panted. It was hot. Too hot for Venice in late winter. Something wasn't right. Behind her, her ward was starting to disintegrate. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a glittering rip down part of her ward, like an ugly healing scar. It was holding up but not for long. "Right," she grunted. "Come on, princess." With that, she began to walk as she dragged him as fast as she could. Rudely, she elbowed him in the ribs. "You were always my ragdoll," she told him as she walked a little quicker down one of the long and winding corridors.

Pierce wasn't up for stairs and she wasn't strong enough to carry him. Erika paused as she chewed her lower lip, coming to a stop as she looked around, he brain whirring into gear. Then she had a plan.

"Give me your jacket," she instructed Pierce. Growing impatient, she sighed. Shifting, she yanked his tuxedo jacket off in one precise movement as she wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Oh how many years I've wanted to do that," she cooed. She moved him so he was against the wall before wrapping the jacket around her hand and setting her jaw. Pulling back her arm, she swung it with all her might into the beautiful fifteenth century Venetian glass window. Erika turned her head as the glass shattered, falling around her like snowflakes. Hastily, she punched out the remainder off the glass as she rushed to the window and looked below into the Grand Canal and watching the gondolas and vaporetto chugging up and down the bright green water.

The cold air felt amazing against her sweat covered skin and she inhaled deeply.

"Righty-ho," she said briskly as she pulled him towards the window. It was large and low-set into the wall. The drop was fairy high but nothing terrifying. Passing him his jacket back, she hoisted herself up into the ledge. "Just don't swallow the water," she told him with a nod. With a little salute, she squeezed through the remainder of the window, held her breath and jumped. With a squeak of surprise, the wind caught the chiffon of her dress as she plunged into the canal. She assumed Pierce would be following her. He didn't have a choice.

The Frenchman winced as Erika’s arm slithered around his waist, pulling him close and supporting him. With her help, her support, he could manage. His legs were burning with the fire of a thousand suns as they slowly became solid beneath him, bearing more and more weight with each step. He was trying to be brave -- manly, perhaps -- but the pain was etched across his face with little pretense. She was still teasing him though, in their way, and that made him feel better. If she started being nice to him, he knew it meant he was about to die.

He gave her a woozy smile as she pulled his jacket from his shoulders. The heat was unbearable now, it almost felt like it was cooking his brain. Scrambled eggs. A mishmash of thoughts. “You really are the master of mixed signals, Princess,” he mimicked her word. “First you shy away from me like I’ve got cooties, and then you pull your arms around me and take off my clothes,” he purred with a grin. “I could collapse, if you want -- in need mouth to mouth,” he suggested with a coy, knowing smile. “It’s not a kiss if you’re just rescuing me, you know.”

She was settling him against the wall, propping him up as though he were an umbrella or something as equally inanimate and mundane. He furrowed his brows as she twirled the expensive jacket around her hand and shattered the window. Fresh, cool air poured into the room and he sucked it deep into his lungs. It was healing -- that air -- and suddenly he was standing on his own two feet. He swiped the back of his arm against his sweaty brow, smirking at her as he closed the distance.

“Now you’ve just given yourself away,” he said lightly, taking the jacket from her and holding her gaze. “You very easily could’ve blasted that open with your wand,” he said simply, lingering. So why had she taken his jacket? The breeze was making her blonde hair flutter and he was struck by it all -- the sense of adventure, the danger. Her companionship. Her heroism. “Admit it,” he said, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You liked the no-no square.” Before he could make her answer, before resolution was found, she was saluting him and leaping from the window like the wild, unbridled Goddess that she was.

He was up in the ledge then, looking down and grinning. The height didn’t bother him, not one bit. The adrenaline was pumping and he was ready to leap. Behind him a few men were clambering in the hallway, and he shook his head simply. “Sorry boys, I’ve got a hot date.” With a boisterous laugh, he jumped hard, opening the jacket over his head like a makeshift parachute and grinning as the wind caught it, whipping it from his hand and fluttering away. With the wind came a flurry of fog, obscuring the view of the seething auctioneers. He could be helpful too, once in a while.

With his arms over his head -- as though this were an amusement park ride -- he splashed into the water feet first, blowing out furiously to keep the water from snaking up his nostrils. He surfaced, sputtering, shaking out his hair and blinking as his piercing blue eyes searched for her. He kicked, swimming her way, watching as she fumbled with her hair and the long, heavy pieces of her dress that were weighed down by the water. “The water’s nice and cool,” he purred, swimming a leisurely circle around her. “It was getting awfully hot back there,” he added, an obvious double entendre behind his words.

The water was icy. It was a shock to the system. As a child, Erika loved water. Growing up in a seaside town, she was proficient swimmer with a bad case of seasickness. The water was freezing cold, that unusual creamy seafoam green colour that only the canals in Venice produced.

Erika dropped like a stone as she kicked her legs, the beautiful material of her dress that was once as light as a feather felt now like a ten tonne weight. The floaty material wrapped around her legs as she fought, her head popping out to break the surface as she took a deep gulp of air; the next time she was meant to steal something, she told herself, she'd be wearing some sort of catsuit.

The tall blonde treaded water, scowling at Pierce. She was pleased he was in one piece but she rudely slapped her hand against the water, sending a mini wave in his direction. The water did feel delicious against her skin but the relief was short lived as he teeth began to chatter.

"I've always wanted to smash a sixteenth century Venetian glass window," she told Pierce as she coughed, her blonde hair plastered wetly to her forehead as she craned her neck to find an escape route. She wasn't, for one second, going to let him think her choice of exit plan had anything to do with undressing him. "I thought it'd be cooler," she mumbled as she just about bobbed up in the water. The smell of the water was foul and she knew why. A toxic mixture of brick dust, waste, animal pee and the occasional decomposing body often wafted down these romantic canal. "Don't for one second think that was anything short of a genius idea," she added. They both knew that if they were attracted to one another, something would have happened. "You know, you could thank me for saving your life, you dick."

"No-no square," she grunted as she splashed him again. Now that they were out of immediate danger, she could go back to hating him. Well, no. Hate was a strong word. They butted heads so much maybe because they had different driving forces. Pierce was sentimental, Erika was not. He might loot and raid but she only took what she was advised to. Goblin gold was vast and it often fell into the wrong hands. If they wanted it back, then that was fine. It paid her bills.

Maybe they were evenly matched. Maybe they just got in each other's way. They didn't know each other well but Erika had already formed an idea of him, right or wrong. "This is all your fault," she told him, shooting him a filthy glare. "If you'd just stayed at home, none of this would have happened," she croaked, slicking back her soaking wet hair. Pierce Lachapelle was the root of all her problems.

A gentle chug-chugging noise caught her attention. "Mi scusi!" Erika called to the driver of a nearby vaporetto. To say he was stunned was an understatement. He turned off the engine and squinted at her. She assumed he wasn't used to sopping wet women in evening gowns. Her gown had changed form. Once like a goddess, now looked downright indecent. The billowing, carefully draped folds were plastered to her curves as she swum over to the boat, making sure to shove Pierce out of her way as he swum circles around her like lazy shark.

"Posso entrare?" Erika asked, gesturing to the boat, asking to get on it. The driver nodded dumbly, either struck by her appearance or confusion. "Marvellous," she said brightly. With her hands on the low wooden hull, she hauled herself over the side and into the small boat with surprising grace.

Her dress felt like lead. Drops of water fell from her ruined hair and down her neck, slowly, causing her to shiver as she pulled a face. Taking a dip in the water here was never advisable but in mid-winter? Not at all.

"Sei insieme?" The driver asked, nodding in Pierce's direction. Are you together? He'd asked. Erika snorted. "He wishes," she answered, forgetting the man probably didn't speak much English. "No," she replied. The answer was the same in both languages. "He's more of an inconvenient reappearance," she told the Italian man who still seemed dumfounded. "Idiota," she translated. The man nodded and grunted in agreement and Erika found herself smiling.

She wanted to leave him there, in the middle of the Grand Canal, half hoping he'd get thwacked with a gondolier's punt. "Come on, Pierce!" She called cheerily, suddenly hungry. She did well in the cold but even her underwear was wet and now she was getting grumpy. "I'll buy you some gnocchi."

“That’s an odd thing to have wanted,” he quipped with that smirk of his, wincing a bit as she sent a wave in his direction. He, of course, had sunken into that euphoric place that came after such adrenaline-pumping danger. He felt very lazy, dreamy almost, and although she looked more annoyed the him, he couldn't stop grinning. Adventure was fun, why did she have to be a sourpuss? “Cooler? Breaking the window or undressing me?” he teased, knowing full well what she’d meant. He shook his head playfully as she scolded him. “Who says I won’t thank you? Patience is a virtue,” he hinted, leaving it vague.

She splashed him again and repeated his words and he stopped floating and righted himself in the water. “It’s still on your mind, is it?” he offered with a wink before dunking himself under and popping right back up. He shook, sending bits of water around, trying to avoid hitting her for fear she’d go off on him again. She was beautiful, but she was unpredictable, and seeing as she was sopping wet chances were high she’d be quick to strike him with her claws.

“Ahh, yes -- my fault,” he agreed. If she wanted someone to blame, he’d take it. He had no scores to settle, nothing to worry about. He wasn’t in this business, not really, not anymore. This was supposed to be a one-off that just happened to be complicated. “Sometimes I wonder if the universe molded me just to make you miserable,” he teased with thick, thick sarcasm. “Maybe one of these days you’ll get your hands on a time turner, you can sneak back and make sure I was never even born,” he quipped. She could attest that she hated him all she wanted, he would never believe her.

He followed, with respectable distance, as the girl swum towards the vaporetto and conversed with the confused man. He most definitely was not looking at the way her wet dress hugged her curves. He nodded as she spoke, playing along. “Inconvenient reappearance,” he agreed, “like a pimple or a rash.” He hoped that might make her chuckle. He smile faltered, just a bit, as they both called him an idiot. From Erika, sure, but the man? They’d never even met. Pierce decided that, seeing as he was rescuing them from this swampy canal, he’d let it go.

The man grinned and pulled himself up behind her, sloshing and swaying the vaporetto as they settled in. She mumbled something to the man, directions perhaps, and they were soon slowly meandering through the water. He scooted just beside her, admittedly a bit cold but obviously too stubborn to admit it. He ruffled his hands through his hair -- formerly quaffed and sleek -- which was now a messy set of spikes that was far more reminiscent of his true nature. In one fell swoop he’d gone from dashing, debonair tuxedo-Pierce into wrinkled shirt, wry smiling adventure-Pierce. “Gnocchi, huh?” he said with a smirk. “You must be hungry after rescuing this damsel in distress.”

He smoothed his hands over his white dress shirt, completely soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. In its dampness it was virtually translucent, and in some ways it made him feel like he was topless beside her. “You know, if you wanted to do a quick drying charm,” he said lightly, “I wouldn’t be opposed. Unless you’re just enjoying the view?” he added for effect, smirking at her. One of these days she was going to punch him square in the jaw, and he’d deserve it. He just hoped it wasn’t today. He loosened the top few buttons, letting his collarbones breathe, a bit of his chest peeking out as he began rolling up the sleeves to his elbow.

“Thank you,” he said, finally, his tone earnest and true. “For all of it.”

Erika wrinkled her nose in distaste. She didn't like threats of any kind and that sounded like one to her. Did Pierce really want to ruin her life? He could, if he wanted to. He had all the necessary information. They apparently moved in the same circles and him being in Venice tonight was not coincidence. He seemed agreeable but he was dangerous, having both intelligence and experience. As his words sunk in, the tall blonde felt an ominous shiver tingle down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold water.

"I've clearly raided too many tombs and upset too many deities," she cooed honestly. Sometimes, she did wonder if the universe had created him, just to torment her. The cosmos created soul mates but did it also create annoyances? Destined trauma? Predetermined trouble? Erika was rather a spiritual person. She did no harm but took no shit. She wore bangles, burned joss sticks, mediated, practiced yoga and had Mandela tattoos. Relaxed for the most part, she sometimes wondered if she was playing a part, a role, an actress in life. The high octane, window smashing, door kicking, torch burning, wand wielding version of her may have been the real Erika Trickett. There was only so much meditation she could do. She'd been lying to herself for years.

Once in the boat, the cold hit her like a wave. Sat on the small shiny wooden seats, she swayed as the cloudy water lazily rocked the hull. She began to shiver, the chiffon cold and uncomfortable as she wrapped her arms around her chest.

"Something like that," she retorted gently through chattering teeth. Any anger towards Pierce she'd been feeling had seemingly dissipated. Erika felt cold and tired as the reality of the evening sunk in; she'd made a mess. Adrenaline was still bubbling in her veins but at a much less aggressive rate. Her body was shuddering involuntarily as though trying to keep her eyes from closing. The lull of sleep was as sweet as a Siren's song.

Erika offered Pierce a tired smile. "You were lucky I was here. I almost wasn't." The treasure hunter had been inches away from chucking everything in and giving up. After breaking up with Murphy, it was bleak. Her life didn't have any purpose and it felt like her spirit was broken. She was no longer Erika Trickett, strong and proud. She'd become Eri, the unsure teenager, lost, floating in a sea of uncertainly without any direction. She had her resignation in her bag that morning, ready to slap it on her boss' desk when this assignment arose.

A sign? Maybe. She couldn't run from herself. She couldn't lie. She thought that if she had a respectable job, maybe a secretary or something, Murphy might come back. Many a night had been sleepless, picking apart their relationship, trying to find a reason why he didn't want to be with her. Her personality, her laugh, her job, her restless spirit, the way she dressed, the way she walked, what she chose to order in restaurants, everything. It was a forensic examination of a relationship. The reason must have been, simply, that Murphy decided he no longer wanted her close. And that was okay.

Erika scoffed. "Do it yourself," she countered as the boat began to meander down the canal, past decaying buildings and flower baskets on the jetty. Erika pulled a face. While the boatman's back was turned, she waved her hand, a warm blast of air warming herself and then Pierce.

"Behave," she snapped. "You look practically indecent," she retorted. The warmth spread, drying her clothes. Her dress, though not perfect, looked acceptable. The dunk in the canal had tarnished the sparkle and grandeur a little and she had to make do with what she had left. Erika reached up, twisting her hair into a low ballerina bun at the base of her neck as she examined her reflection in the shiny wood. She let out a sigh of disappointment.
Pierce's thank you made her turn her head so fast, she could have sworn her neck had snapped. "Oh," she said, surprised clearly etched on her face. She didn't detect any sarcasm and she frowned thoughtfully. "You're welcome," she said eventually, sounding unsure.

Regardless of what Pierce thought of her, she would never have left him there to die. She'd like to say she would have done the same for anyone but she didn't think she would. Deep down, she liked Pierce. It was so rare to find someone from the same background as her. No one understood her. No one understood her deeply rooted wanderlust and urge to move. Her mother lamented  that she wouldn't have grandchildren if Erika didn't settle down.

Her job was distracting. It numbed the pain of a messy break up. The extensive travel soothed the sting of suddenly finding herself at a loose end. Her job was a balm, it helped. Nobody could see that but Pierce could.

She looked at him for a long moment and then heaved a sigh. "This doesn't mean I like you," Erika told him, just in case he thought she was getting sappy. The boat slowed and then docked at a nearby jetty. Only then did she realise she didn't have any money. No bother. Swiftly, Erika removed her glittering diamond earrings and placed them into the boatman's hand, seeing his shocked expression. "Grazie mille," she said gently as she stepped back onto dry land, giving him a cheery wave as he sped off, clearly not wanting to stick around in case Erika wanted her earrings back.

Turning to Pierce, she offered him a sunny smile. "Cubic zirconia," she explained, meaning her earrings. "Not real diamonds. Hence a free ride," she said breezily. "Shall we?" Erika said, gesturing to a doorway. Stepping through the low arch, a smart and brightly lit restaurant on the boardwalk opened up. It was a lovely night and now dry, the chill had been warded off considerably. Candles flickered as the smell of seawater and garlic caught on the wind. It looked romantic. There were a few couples dotted around the terrace, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes and holding hands.

Erika pulled a face and rolled her eyes, pulling out a chair for Pierce to sit. "Ladies first~"