“It took you a while to make it up here. Did you have fun?” One of the figures removed its hood. The hairstyle was different, but the face matched the engravings from the file. It was the comte de st. germaine. And now it’s time for the stereotypical villain monologue. 

 DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR CLICHÉS RIGHT NOW?

We need to do everything we can to stall for an opportunity. This guy’s a showman. A fucked up showman, but he loved putting on a performance historically. 

“Lots. I might have broken a few things, I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s all replaceable.”

My years of being basically an antisocial loner were coming in handy in a surprising way. Normally any normal person would be panicking in a situation like this. I was panicking, at least a bit. Liah was downright terrified, from what I could feel through the bond. 

But years of trying to avoid making a scene were at least somewhat tempering the almost overwhelming desire to start screaming at the thought of the woman I loved being threatened, on top of the gruesome murders spread out in front of me. Compartmentalize. That seems like the best way forward. Do what has to be done, and deal with the consequences and probable mental trauma later. 

“Including them?” I gestured at the fallen figures, arranged at various points around a magical circle that was beginning to take on a phosphorescent glow. It was a pale color, in a shade similar to the purple-violet of the belladona that grows in my back garden. Poisonous, and likely bad news. 

“Of course, Mrs. Thorne.  Lives are surprisingly cheap, both in our world and the one this estate resides in. You’re as well aware as any that even our government pays practically pennies on the dollar to the families of those who die ,ostensibly, to protect their country.” The corner of his mouth raised in a disgusting smirk, while the other robed figures looked on. Unlike the figures below these were, to borrow his choice of words, “ostensibly” human, based on the visible flesh of their blood-stained hands. 

“I’m sorry, our country?” The nerve.

“I helped put the founding of this country into motion. A great experiment, led by some of the greatest minds of the age. They were all members of the same club, talked about the same things, And like most good clubs, they listened to the advice of their seniors. I’ll give them credit, most of the ideas were their own, but a few pointers here and there helped give me the space needed to make myself comfortable. I have just as much of a right, no, more of a right than you do to call the country mine.” Who would have thought I’d be relying on an actual villainous monologue to buy time. You’d think he’d know better.

 My head began to ache, partially because of the bastard’s smarmy tone, and partially due to the multitasking. I had pretty much blown through most of my frag grenades, but I also had initially planned for a raid taking place in a crowded modern city. Really it was my own preference for “just in case” that I had so many fragmentation grenades.  My hands were up, and I was trying not to do anything that’d provoke a violent response but…

I still had the energy circulating through my body, the energy embodying my will and magic. I generally used it for petty things. Minor curses, simple glamors. I know how impressive of a familiar I have, but large-scale ceremonial magic never suited me. And I should stick with what I’m familiar with to help me escape. 

“So you’re the asshole who didn’t future-proof ‘well-regulated!’ Idiots today still don’t realize it just means ’in good working order,’ i.e. well-armed populace.” The Count's jaw dropped. Only a bit, but for an immortal alchemist I think that’s a pretty impressive breaking of his unbearably smug bearing. 

“Why are you talking about that? I was against the bill of rights anyways, I had almost convinced the federalists they could push past the anti-federalist’s demands without it and that it’d just be redundant to enshrine rights everyone there assumed as unalienable. It took forever to gut the thing, but-”

“Gut it? Thanks for clarifying that you’re an evil bastard.” I could feel the object I was looking for snake out near the top of my pack, but the hard part would be getting the two thugs holding Liah and Sandra not to notice the magically floating flashbang.

“Why do you even care about that garbage? Of all the things to complain about, why that?”

“What else is there to talk about? Luring politicians with favors and blackmail to support your scheme? Using a blood sacrifice to try and bring about some grimdark version of the Age of Aquarius? That stuff’s practically common knowledge at this point if you read enough sketchy conspiracy theory websites. You even managed to psyop a bunch of idiot boomers into complacency with some of the most stupid do-nothing counter conspiracy theories out there. It should be impressive, and honestly kind of is, although it’s nauseating. But knowing that even from the start things didn’t always go your way is enough. It shows you aren’t all powerful, and I have a chance.”

“What chance do you have? You’re cornered, your guns don’t work on me or my compatriots, and soon your whole world will be under the power of those I put in place.”

“Oh please, you aren’t the only one who can manipulate things behind the scenes. We got the esteemed Senator over there in our pocket over a year ago after we got a copy of a certain guy’s black book.”I gestured to one of the robed figures in the back with my head, and the count whirled to face them. Holy shit, that shouldn’t have worked. 

NOW!

A loud explosion went off a few feet behind me, followed by a flash of light. I drew the knife at my waist as I spun around. Two targets. One covering his eyes as Sandra elbowed him in the crotch, the other grasping at air, confused, after his hostage turned into a cat. It’s clear which one deserves it more. 

My left hand grabbed his right, still clutching a bloody dagger, and slammed it into the door behind him. Before he could regain his senses and overpower me I slashed down across the soft inside of his upper arm, following with a stab inwards through the armpit. Ignoring the uncomfortably warm spray, I finished with a slash across his throat. 

I had to fight the urge to pick Liah up, to make sure she was okay. There were still enemies around, although Sandra’s captor was stumbling around with a knife in his leg, still half-blinded. Not good. 

“You think that will help? Your bullets wont work here, and you don’t even have the means to escape my spell! You’ll be trapped, while my ritual only needs minutes more before taking effect.” I did my best not to let my frustration show, but Goddess is it hard not to with a smarmy asshole like this guy. 

Why don’t our guns work? 

It’s the ritual, and the world. The ritual is meant to alter things on the scale of worlds, relying purely on kinetic force can’t overpower those under its influence. If I had to guess it also serves to keep us trapped in here.

Like a roach motel? They check in but they don’t check out?

Can’t you think of a better comparison?

But if it can’t be overcome by force, then why did our knives work? I looked down. It was a bowie style blade still covered in blood, with a simple handle made of stacked leather washers. A standby. The classic Ka-Bar, used by Marines from World War 2 into the modern day. Thousands upon thousands have trusted their lives to this tool.

Wait. 

I thought back to all those months ago, to that unpleasant day in the back of a van in the Watergate. The scenario still makes me cringe, but the reasoning behind it was important, the low-key trust and reverence put into an object, giving it power. 

I looked at the knife, then up at the count, then back down at the knife.

“There’s no way-”

“Catch!” I threw the knife at him, then reached towards my waistband.

The knife barely even spun properly, and was promptly blocked by one of the counts goons, but that didn’t matter. My handgun raised, and two shots rang out .

The Ka-bar is a classic, but it’s hardly the ubiquitous American weapon. That honor goes to the 1911. Designed by famed gunsmith John Moses Browning. Carried into Mexico after Pancho Villa, and onto battlefields in Belgium and France in WWI. Through the jungles of Central America in the inter-war period in numerous small conflicts.

 And again in a second World War, both in Europe, the island-hopping campaign of the Pacific Theater and even the still classified theater of the Antarctic. The Korean War, Vietnam, even the Global War on Terror in a limited capacity. My own burst of willpower surged through the gun as well. 

Even then, it shouldn’t have been enough to overpower the man leading the ritual. He was the comte de st. germaine, the Great Master of many theosophic sects. He lectured Helena Blatvasky herself. A mere handgun shot by a middling witch shouldn’t stop such a powerful figure.

A third surge of willpower seemed to enter the gun. The 1911 is a symbol in itself, but this one was a cherished heirloom. This specific one was cherished, and had seen battle on several continents from Belleau Wood to Chosin. For over a century it was appreciated. Plus I do remember reading a belief somewhere about items cherished for over a hundred years getting a life of their own. Over a century of myth combined with my will, the will of the gun’s previous owners, and the will of the gun itself to empower the round with a magic beyond the usual of a 255 grain jacketed hollowpoint.

The stress of the situation still must have gotten to me however, because the count grasped at his gut rather than his chest where I had been aiming. Oh well. 

“Grab the guns and let's go!” Two rounds into the opening we blew in the door seemed to be enough to shatter the barrier supposedly keeping us in. Taking steps two at a time, we raced down the stairs, and out the door into the night of the fantasy world. 

We scrambled through the alleys, sprinting towards the rope hanging out of mid-air. As I doffed my pack, Sandra yelled.

“We need to stop the ritual!”

“On it.”

“A radio?”

“A Bao Feng. A cheap chineseium one. You can buy a bulk pack of these on Amazon for a bit over a hundred bucks for a five-pack. I was a bit worried about going with this over a Nokia, but seeing the lack of cell towers here, that was for the best. Now let's see. Turn it on, set it to the right channel, and…” I keyed the radio.

WUMPI

Much louder than the grenades. A pillar of fire and wood splinter rose up from the direction of the mansion, destroying it and the blasphemous magical circle residing within. It’s like the saying goes. There isn’t a problem in the world that can’t be solved with an appropriate use of high explosives. 

“So those packages you were dropping…”

“Yup. Now back to Philly.” I began my climb back up the rope. I sure wouldn’t want to be around when whatever passes as the cops showed up.

We reached the top, worn out from stress, running around, and the climb. Naturally we had to don our overcoats again, but at least the documents we were toting were lighter than the grenades and bricks of C4. Destressing seemed to be the order of the evening. 

“So should we head out?” We had done everything we needed to.

“Hold on, you’re covered in blood!” Liah finally got a look at me, in the light of a street lamp.

“Oh. Don’t worry, none of it’s mine. But yeah, we probably don’t want to be stopped by cops. Mind helping me cast a glamor? I’m pretty burnt out.” Liah obliged, and we began our walk towards the subway station. It was 1900, so the trains were still running for a good few hours. 

“Hey, Thorne?” Sandra’s eyes were wide with the shock of a revelation. “Wasn’t this mission supposed to take place entirely in Philly?”

“Yes? I really didn’t expect we’d end up in another dimension again. That was”

“That’s not the issue. Why did you have all those grenades? Why did you have eight bricks of C4?”

I paused. It had been a long day. A drink would absolutely hit the spot.

“This bar’s called The Kyber Pass. Neat. I wonder if the owner’s a veteran? Should we get a drink?” 

“Don’t dodge the question!”

“I’m going to get a drink. Let's put it on the travel card.”

Ignoring Sandra’s reasonable line of questioning all the while, we spent the rest of the night over well-earned beers. Only a miracle kept our fellow patrons from calling the cops on the group of cosplaying women smelling like gunpowder, sweat and blood.