Igor stepped out of the elder mistress's room, the door clicking shut behind him.
He paused in the hallway, spine straight, hands behind his back. The air was cool, but heat simmered under his collar.
The image of her bare shoulder, that careless poise, lips red like cut fruit, clung to him.
He hated that it did.
Something flickered inside him. A brief reaction.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, disgusted. Not because she'd shown herself, not even because of her contempt, he was used to that.
But for one second, just one, something inside had wanted.
Wanted what? He didn't know. It just felt wrong.
He had been built not to want, trained not to feel. Any deviation was a flaw.
Igor turned and walked away, his steps measured. He would file it away, lock it down, like everything else.
But a small voice in the back of his mind whispered:
"You remind me of someone."
He lingered near the door, lost in thought, when a voice cut through the silence.
"Have you seen my wife?"
Mr. Lennox stepped out from the shadows, startling him. His catlike nails flicked out briefly before he hid his hands behind his back, grateful for the black gloves that masked the awkward slip.
"I believe she's in your room, waiting," Igor said, voice steady despite a knot twisting in his gut.
"Hmm. Alright then." Harry pushed open the door and froze.
There she was, Mrs. Lennox, in all her glory, posed in front of a five-way mirror like it was a royal court, inspecting every angle with the precision of a detective on a high-profile case.
"Do I look fat, Harry?" she asked, voice dripping with the kind of dramatic insecurity that only comes with a closet full of designer clothes and a personal trainer on speed dial.
Harry rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. "You know the answer's always the same, right? No matter how much you want me to say otherwise." He grinned, barely holding back a laugh. "So I'm not even going to try."
She arched an eyebrow.
"I suppose you think you're clever," she teased.
Harry smirked. "Yes, dear, yes, I do." He took her hand with all the swagger of a man who'd memorized every romantic movie cliché. Pressing a kiss to her fingers, he traced a slow, smooth path up her neck, charm turned up to eleven.
"But," he said, waving a hand like a magician about to vanish, "I hate to break it to you, but work's calling." He gave her a mock sad look. "No chance I'll make it home for our midweek session. Ta-ta, darling."
With that, he spun on his heel and strolled out, leaving Igor awkwardly lingering on the staircase. The servant's face was a mask of polite waiting, just in case anything unexpected happened. Nothing did.
As Igor stood there, still processing the whole Mrs. Lennox in blue lingerie situation, something weird stirred inside him. His bat wings twitched, an odd, tingling feeling like they were trying to dance but forgot the steps.
There was an unfamiliar pulse, something that made him uncomfortable... and yet, kind of curious. A feeling he couldn't shove aside.
Igor's wrist implant buzzed softly. Mistress Maisie could summon him instantly, anywhere in the house. He liked the upgrade but preferred when she called him directly.
Maisie had become politically active, joining protests and causes. She fought against Alucard's enslavement, poverty, and other social issues.
The group she'd joined, The White Angels, presented themselves as champions of the poor, the Alucards, and everyday Americans struggling against the system. But their methods weren't exactly clean.
The riots they incited often left a trail of destruction. People were already on edge, worn down by hardship, and the violence following the White Angels' speeches was impossible to ignore.
Maisie flipped through a pamphlet, one of many she'd picked up at a recent rally, when Igor came up beside her, quiet but with an unusual edge of curiosity in his eyes.
"Maisie," he said, voice steady but softer than usual, "I keep hearing about the White Angels. The protests, the fights. Do you think they can change anything?"
She looked up, eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at her lips. "Look at you, suddenly interested in politics. What's going on? Trying to pick a side?"
Igor gave a faint shrug. "Curiosity. Not usually my thing, but... things are changing."
Maisie laughed softly. "You're usually all about rules and order, not chaos and street protests."
"Order is simpler," Igor replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "But sometimes you have to watch the chaos to understand it."
She softened. "Jack Smack's the only one speaking truths right now. Giving people a way to fight back."
Igor frowned. "People close to you are involved. It's complicated."
"We're all caught up in it," she said.
"I just hope it's worth it," he said.
She gave him a sideways look, amused. "So, Igor, coming to rallies now? Planning to trade that sharp gaze for a protest sign?"
He shook his head, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. "No. I prefer watching from the sidelines."
"Good call," she said with a grin. "Some battles are best left to the loud ones."
The lightness in her voice faded, and her eyes grew serious. "But do you believe the White Angels can fix anything?"
Igor's voice lowered, cautious and thoughtful. "And you trust Jack Smack? Even when his words call for violence and chaos?"
She glanced away, fingers tightening on the pamphlet. "It's not about hurting people. It's about making them listen. You don't get it, Igor. People like Jack want to fix a broken system. They're not monsters."
His eyes narrowed slightly, the weight of experience settling in his tone. "I don't see it that way. People get hurt, Maisie. Sometimes the road to 'fixing' things just leads to more destruction."
Maisie swallowed hard but met his gaze squarely. "You don't know the whole story."
"I might not," Igor said quietly, "but I've seen enough to be careful. Not everyone fighting for change is fighting for the right reasons."
A flicker of doubt passed through Maisie's eyes, but she brushed it aside. "Maybe. But they mean well. They have to."
To break the silence, Maisie finally spoke, her tone casual but firm. "I need you to drive me to a friend's place. The family car."
Igor nodded. He suspected it had to do with the White Angels but didn't ask.
Maisie got in the passenger seat, adjusting her bag. As Igor's fingers tapped the ignition pad, she glanced sideways at him.
"You're lucky my dad never caught on to me pushing your clearance request through the Bureau," she said lightly as if it were no big deal.
Igor kept his eyes on the road. "I figured it wasn't exactly official."
"Not exactly," she shrugged. "Sometimes things get done faster without permission."
"I appreciate it," Igor said quietly.
"Don't thank me. I just thought it was ridiculous that someone like Marlow had more clearance than someone who reads literature," she said.
Igor drove her to Genevieve's place. He had met her once. She didn't care about appearances except at work.
He dropped Maisie off at her friend's place, Genevieve, though everyone called her Gene. Igor had met her once before. She was different (then the Lennoxes). The kind of person who didn't care much about appearances, except at work, which suited her just fine.
Her hair was messy, loosely tied. Glasses slid down her nose. Clothes were casual, mismatched.
She had dropped out of college to throw herself into the White Angels full-time, a decision that seemed to have aged her beyond her years. The tired but determined look in her orange-brown eyes, framed by just a touch of eyeliner, spoke of battles fought both outside and within.