[Shallah Kosa]

Not often was the time when this was a possibility. An evening on the town as it was called. In days past she might have brought a parasol, flimsy little things that had caused her much enjoyment. Now though it seemed out of fashion. Which did not preclude her from donning glove and collar. Her hope had been for a walk, the river was close but Deacon had been detained. Another errand of his own making. He had taken the dilabo and one could only presume it would accompany him to their meeting place. This was the reason for her decision of the Imp Hearth, an establishment friendly to pets of all manner.

She recalled the place as it had once been. Wrought wood, finely carved with a faint glow and a heat only possible in that which was enchanted. During her time with the syndicate she had learned all of it’s knots, all those who inhabited it, sounds and smells, so many were gone from it now. Heat still emanated from the wood which she leaned against now allowing it to seep through the layered gossamer of her gown. One hand reached to turn the glass of fire whiskey the other drew her jacket in a tighter coil over her shoulders.

Already she had rebuked the company of several, each time hoping that the men would enter in time to see another depart, defeated. Nothing so pleasing had occurred. But he would come, as he always did.

[Deacon O'Doyle]

The Augurey hunched on someone's shoulders gave a clacking cough when Deacon entered the pub. The sound echoed the rattle and smash of the door, as it rebounded on its hinges. Deacon fancied he felt a hush sweep the room as he stomped in. Stamp of boot, squeak of floorboard. And with a final rush of air, the door slammed shut behind him. The dilabo at his heels was easy to miss as it flowed soundlessly along, scouring the wood beneath, which it left with a raw, splintery, wounded look.

It paused to make fluttering motions toward a nearby crup, which yipped at it and backed away. Deacon glanced contemptuously at the creature, though years ago he'd had one as a pet. They could smell the purity of your blood; he liked that. But the dilabo could taste it, and much more easily. He liked that better. Still, to keep peace and because he'd come here for a reason--he could control his pet--he tapped his leg to call the dilabo back to him, and scanned the room of drab browns and milling, smelly feathers and fur for Shallah's golden gleam.

He found her by the bar and shouldered up beside her, knocking his way past a narrow-faced Wizard who seemed inclined to chat her up. He hoisted himself onto a stool beside her, one elbow on the bar, and tapped the counter.

"Oy. Red Susan here." He tapped again to get the bartender's attention.

The man sighed, wiped his hands, and turned skeptically to look at him. His apron had been stained with something. "That's no drink I know."

"'Sright, eh?" Deacon said. "Never heard of it, have ye?" He beckoned the bartender closer, though he wrinkled his nose when the man took another lazy step toward him--disgusted by his proximity to such physical, mental, and magical imperfection.

"No, I haven't."

He smiled, as if about to be friendly. "Oh, well, right, then, see, what you do is, you take a measure o' firewhiskey and then you take some virgin's blood, right? And you mix it in real good with a finger." He held up his own pinky in illustration. "Then you leave the finger in."

The bartender eyed him warily for a beat, then, coaxed by Deacon's brittle smile, started in on a hesitant one of his own. He relaxed, leaned forward. "Really, what can I get you."

Deacon moved faster than anyone who didn't know him might expect. He grabbed the bartender by the collar and bunched apron until he slammed into the bar, rattling nearby glasses. Deacon could smell his breath, and turned his head a little, snarling, until what he smelled was Shallah's warm rose scent instead.

"You can get me what I feckin' ordered."

[Shallah Kosa]

At the meeting of stomach with the wood of the bar a sliver of liquid loosed itself from the rim of it’s container and slid down. Before it could be waster she hastened to catch it on one finger. When she sucked the liquid against her lips she was reminded of why she disliked the taste so. It burned in a way that was artificial. Maundruin wine was much to her preference but in low abundance. Few wizards had the competency, patience or life span for it’s creation.

Deacon snarled at the barkeep, baring teeth and tongue to reinforce his displeasure. In her seat Shallah remained unblinking gazing upon the scene. Waiting overlong could result in an end to the barmen, and so an end to her evening. This she did not wish for.

“Is that not your purpose?” The filthy face of the man turned to her, softness gathering at his cheeks. Emotions he had best hide while Deacon still held him as he did. “To serve? The blood could be taken from the dilabo could it not? Surly it has tasted of virgin blood. As for a finger,” Leaning forward her eyes roved the man’s hand, lying flat on the bar top to support his considerable weight. It was not beautiful, even by her gracing standards. Short, calloused, not hands she would seek to have near her person, or in her drink. “You seem to have several to spare.”

It could be made to happen, she could feel the way he teetered on the edge of himself, with little suggestion from her he could be made to do all manner of things. Severance of a finger only one. There was a chance that such an action would not please her companion. Deacon enjoyed to spill blood for himself, on terms of his own choosing. Here in this place, surrounded by others she knew what her role was. Was she was expected to appear as. Not a predator, not someone to fight a battle easily his. If any battle this was. Both men waited for her. Like a woman she smiled and slipped her hand to the space between Deacon’s shoulder blades.

“I have already a fire whiskey for you. With the blood you have two of three, is that not sufficient?”

[Deacon O'Doyle]

Deacon followed Shallah's gaze, pleased as he always was when she showed her disgust for an inferior male animal. At last he grunted, nodded, and used his free hand to guide the wriggling dilabo from the floor to the bartop, onto which it extended a tentative tendril. Once it had flowed partway up the bartender's blue-veined arm, Deacon took hold of his hand, the dilabo's gelid body pressed to the man's palm and his own. It didn't hurt him; it was his creation. But he watched the bartender's mouth open and wobble in the constricting 'o' of pain, and his face turn purplish red, as the dilabo slowly stripped away layers of skin. He could fell it surging eagerly against his own, and in the part of his mind that could direct it.

At length, he let go the front of the man's apron and shoved him back. The dilabo recoiled disappointedly, and vanished once more down the barstool to the floor, where it waited for scraps.

"That should do 'er," he said, with a smile, once more. "Fresh. Innit." He dusted off his hands, planted an elbow on the table, and turned to Shallah.

"So," he said, ignoring the bartender, though he kept a peripheral eye on him to make sure he did his drink proper. He lowered his voice to speak to the veela, and leaned in closer. "What's your order o' business today, Missus?"

The bartender interrupted before she could reply, shoving a glass hastily across the counter. His face was pale beneath the purple. Deacon shot him a broad grin and examined the glass, through which a furled flower of red rose languorously. Tiny flames flickered across its top; decent firewhiskey, then. He pushed it this way and that on the counter as he returned his gaze to Shallah, and waited to hear the plan of action.

[Shallah Kosa]

Fresh. Innit.

True enough. Though virgin it was not. She would not tell Deacon. Thick as his mind was at times he would certainly have already figured out as much. To act as if he had not had the potential for trouble. At all times she thought not to spoil an evening spent away from the manner. Deacon thought of these things, sitting by one another on stools, in a place such as this, with drinks in hand to be a meaning to something. A meaning different from that which surrounded the time of their tea taking. The times of their plotting, all different. Signifiers and signified to be determined. Or not.

He had called her Mrs. A title used for wives and possessions, which were at times the same and others not. Allowing herself to think it an endearment she smiled upon him. Recruiting Darrow had been no secret, as her meeting with Christie was. His name had appeared on several of their reports for perspective members. With their power in London increasing, she sought to grow her influence. The process was much the same as the consumption used to grow the dilabo. For these reasons and others Deacon had understood.

Now came the second part of Darrow’s initiation: inspection by another. A human, freed of her judgements and carrying a number of their own.

“Today we have a discussion of Mr. Darrow. I have given him the assignment to investigate Level 2s knowledge of our dealings. His reputation indicates that he is capable. He will also be dispatched to deal with the Caedman.” The name slipped from her tongue like something of sap. Her enunciation of man was hard as she tried to contain the name, posses it. She disliked it near as much as the man whose moniker it was. Deacon too looked displeased, his was another reason. “He will not take him for a kill. Only information will be gathered. Be at peace.”

“Darrow appears skilled...and yet I trust him not. His agenda is not our own, his heart and mind not united to the cause that his blood would indicate. And so I find myself perplexed and in need of your advise.” That would please him surly, to be asked. “It is always of great value to me.”

[Deacon O'Doyle]

"Aye," Deacon said, leaning over the arm braced on the bar toward Shallah. He let loose a satisfied smile, twisting his cheeks, and nodded to himself. Pausing to consider the matter Shallah'd asked him to, he reached for the other firewhiskey--that she had ordered for him before he'd arrived--and took a sip. The one the bartender had suffered for would wait. He had plans. He didn't make a lot of plans, but he knew what to do when you put something in front of him, and that was why Shallah valued him.

"Darrow's nothin' much," he said, curling his lip. "A sap. Zora can have a squizz in his head and see what he's about." He wouldn't suggest Shallah stoop to doing so herself, though she could sort through anyone's secrets well enough. Darrow was just a petty criminal, too useless and cowardly to be a threat, though Deacon had to admit his disappearing had been a trick. Still: coward. Shallah shouldn't waste too much time on him. They could use him and leave what was left, or--he glanced down at the dilabo twining restively around his stool leg--not.

"Anyhow, what we have to do is make sure he don't turn snitch," he went on reflectively, while the dilabo fondly enveloped his boot and sucked at the leather. He sloshed firewhiskey around in his lowered mug. "Put the scare in, should be easy. I can do that, too. 'Sall about getting to 'em before they get ideas, y'know, and not letting them wander off when we've had done with 'em." His eyebrows lowered.

[Shallah Kosa]

The movement of his hand across the bar was one that she watched with renewed interest as she wondered which he might choose and what forces governed the decision. Settlement came upon that which she had ordered for him, the bar tender still avoided them, relegating himself to the far end of his territory. Darrow’s nothin’ much. A sap. Zora can have a squizz in his head and see what he’s about.

The girls talents were substantial and in Deacon’s mind, underutilized. It was not Shallah’s practice to turn the girl’s skills inward upon members of their own group. Less often than before her investigations resulted in permanent damage to the subject. Gentility was a trait Zora possessed only in body, completely lacking in her legilimency. Words were not needed for her to know Deacon’s assessment, indeed she could tell it from the shift in his body, curl of lip, the way that he moved closer to her. As a dog would a bone.

Anyhow, what we have to do is make sure he don’t turn snitch.

What they were was within agreement. Calixtus served as a sting, a remembrance of what was to happen should there be uncertainty in the minds of those who served under her. Sall about getting to ‘em before they get ideas, y’know, and not letting them wander off when we’ve had done with ‘em.

Cooly she turned her gaze to him in order to better map the accusations she found in his voice and correlate them to his face. “If your inference was to Calixtus then it is un-needed. He is an isolated case, one I believe shall resolve itself. However,” Flustered she reached for her own glass, taking a drink and reminding herself of the humanity of the action, of her surroundings. All so as not to forget herself. “You’re opinion, as always is valuable. In this case vital. Darrow is expendable until what time he proves himself otherwise.” Reaching out she moved to caress his face, trailing her nails against the rough contours of his face. “You will feel him out for me? Making a determination as you go. With luck he will have already investigated those areas I specified. Proving his potential as it were.”

[Wendell Darrow]

“You’re opinion, as always is valuable. In this case vital. Darrow is expendable until what time he proves himself otherwise.”

At these words Wendell leaned forward out of the shadow he'd been concealed in at a nearby table. He had received a message earlier summoning him to another meeting. He had once again arrived early and taken a shadowy seat near the bar, with a clear view of the establishment. Between the dim lighting in the room and a fedora pulled down low over his eyes, neither Shallah nor her associate had noticed his presence. Taking advantage of this stroke of good fortune, he had pulled out a pair of disillusioned extendable ears. A few minutes of listening in had proven to be extremely fruitful, not only did he get the drop on the surly ginger he was privy to Shallah's opinions about him.

“You will feel him out for me? Making a determination as you go. With luck he will have already investigated those areas I specified. Proving his potential as it were.”

At this point he decided that the time was right for him to make his entrance. He pocketed the invisible eavesdropping devices and rose from his table. A few steps brought him right up behind the two, and he slipped seamlessly into character. Wendell: The Obnoxiously Cheerful Terrorist.

“Glad to see you have such faith in me!” Wendell pipped in. He slid onto the stool on the other side of Shallah grinning brightly. “Although, if you really wanted to gauge my skill you might have tried giving me something more difficult. Any greenhorn could get information out of the M.O.M!” He turned away and waved at the bartender who was cowering at the other end of the bar, shooting furtive, terrified looks at Shallah and her companion every few seconds. However when Wendell beckoned him over, the pudgy man resolutely pretended not to notice. Wendell rolled his eyes exasperatedly, grabbed a handful of peanuts out of a nearby bowl and started flicking them at the man. He valiantly pretended not to notice, but Wendell managed to make one land in his ear.

“Oiy, I could use a drink down here. Guinness!” The bartender finally pulled out a pint glass and filled it with the dark beer. Still unwilling to come close to strange trio, he slid it down the bar top into Wendell's waiting hand. “Cheers!” He lifted his glass in a mock salute before turning back to Shallah and her unpleasant looking companion.

"So, Shallah I don't believe I've been introduced to your friend."

Cue innocent grin.

[Deacon O'Doyle]

Deacon turned his barstool neatly, on the power of one braced forearm, toward Wendell. The legs of the stool squeaked, all but one lifted from the ground, and then it settled. He rested his elbow on the bar and leaned forward, and nodded briskly. He showed teeth in a smile.

"Deacon," he said, and shoved the stool back into place. He didn't bother to take the man's introduction in turn. It had been little effort, and a satisfying effort, to shove round to look at him. And it showed off his strength, to be able to do that with little effort. It took just as little effort to dismiss Wendell Darrow as unworthy of more time. He picked up his plain firewhiskey and took another long pull, with a glance at the terrorized bartender. What did he ask for the bloody one for, he was probably wondering, the bloody idjit.

He looked back to Shallah while he put down the drink. It was her job to weigh this bloke on one meeting. She knew what Deacon thought, and none of the new man's grinny happy caught-ya games did a thing for him. If anything they showed he had no business being here. There was something desperate about him, Deacon thought. But you never could tell 'til you tested a person. Shallah said she did it in different ways. And her ways had a kind of beauty, to be sure, but they'd never seen eye to eye on what was needed. He had to do it her way, watch and wait and see. And she was beautiful.

[Shallah Kosa]

The impressive thing had not been Darrow’s physical concealment. This could be accomplished in any number of ways, many of them not even magical. A cloak, a hood, slight of hand, falsity of nose. What was of a more impressive nature was that he had masked the scent of himself, of his magics. These were two things not so easily accomplished. This was one of his skills, translated to a use. One flicked gaze to Deacon confirmed that he did not see that. In his eyes Shallah watched Darrow become an upstart, fussy, something to be cornered off and starved until it let spill all of its secrets. Neither trust nor approval emanated from her associate, her captain.

So, Shallah I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your friend.

Smile that revealed teeth and a waggle of the eyebrows, he was telling some joke. Making a frivolity of the events taking place. Having been present for the bartenders sacrifice for his craft, Shallah would have imagined him as treading more lightly. With more respect. This was what Deacon had expected certainly. He introduced himself as an executioner did to their prey. From his lips his name was a challenge, and the scent he gave off spoke the same.

“Most impressive Mr. Darrow. Those concealments would serve you well, or have they already?” Arragnging herself in the manner of a lady and steadying herself on the stool (she completed the gesture with a touch to Deacon’s leg, for her balance and his un) she scrutinized him.

“Deacon is one of my most trusted men. He is here to assist me in conducting a secondary interview, his opinion is highly valued. It has been several days since last we spoke, you will show us your labors. And we shall review.”

[Wendell Darrow]

“Most impressive Mr. Darrow. Those concealments would serve you well, or have they already?”

"The aurors would have found me a long time ago, if I wasn't skilled in concealment." Of course, there was more to it than simply hiding your face, you also had to be able convince people you were someone else entirely. Rather like what he was doing right now with Shallah and her terrorist organization.

The ginger was no more friendly to Wendell than he had been to the bartender. Admittedly, he hadn't yet tried to cut off any of his digits yet, but Wendell would hardly give them up without taking a few replacements. It seemed that the grumpy one didn't appreciate Wendell's friendliness and he turned away after shortly barking his name. It was an obvious intimidation action, Wendell felt mildly amused. What did the man expect of him, to cower in the corner like the bartender?

“Deacon is one of my most trusted men. He is here to assist me in conducting a secondary interview, his opinion is highly valued. It has been several days since last we spoke, you will show us your labors. And we shall review.”

Shallah clearly relied on short and surly to help her gauge the usefullness and trustworthiness of her recruits. So it was he, that Wendell would have to watch out for. However, he didn't strike Wendell as someone who liked anybody. He certainly wasn't going to appreciate the light-hearted ribbing that Wendell typically engaged in with his associates. Probably had some sort of brain damage that prevented him from having a sense of humor. Wendell did notice the lascivious look in his eyes, whenever he looked at Shallah though. Clearly she used her considerable charms to exert control over her 'trusted man.' But Wendell resisted his natural urge to bait them, and chose to shift into business mode. If he proved his usefulness then it didn't really matter what they thought of him personally.

"Well then, let's get down to business." He took a sip of the Guiness. "Would you prefer the good news or the bad news first?"

"The good news is that the aurors, haven't made much real progress at uncovering who is actually behind the attacks." He started off, not waiting for their answer. "However, they're not really buying that it is motivated by pureblood dogma like Snidgeton down at the Prophet is trying to make everyone believe. And really, why should they? Harry Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt? Sure they both supported blood equality, but both came from pretty old wizarding families."

Although this was the information they were looking for, he was afraid that the disappointing vagueness of it would not prove his usefulness very well. Frankly his meeting with Ivy hadn't done anything to reassure him that the aurors were making much headway, anymore than it had given him details to use when dealing with Shallah. He suspected that while Ivy was the best choice of auror to align himself with, Sofia was probably not feeding everything she knew to Ballantine. They were classic frenemies. So in order to prove that he was able to get information out of the office, he slipped into a topic that while she hadn't specifically asked for, he had a lot more information on: the interpersonal relationships of Level Two.

"The aurors are stretched pretty thin right now. What with Fallon taking off to become a healer, Channing being promoted to Minister of Magic, and that Wentworth bloke mysteriously heading back to America. Although," he leaned in closer as if imparting a large state secret. "Rumor has it, he was two-timing Robards and she sent him back to the other woman in little pieces!" His eager grin faltered as he noticed the two of them staring at him blankly. "...apparently you have less interest in the BHL's personal lives than the rest of us. Ah-hem. Anyway, the way they've been dropping like flies, they've become too paranoid to promote any of the new recruits into Level Two. So...that's probably why you've had so much trouble trying to get an inside man."

He sat back and took another sip of his Guiness, waiting to see their reactions and his own future with the terrorists.

[Deacon O'Doyle]

Deacon shifted on his stool once again in the wake of Shallah's touch, and sipped more at his firewhiskey while Darrow talked... and talked... and talked. The more he heard the less he felt really threatened by him, and started to find his chatter funny. He noticed a touch of bragging when he mentioned 'the Wentworth bloke.' He was proud that he'd been able to fool the Aurors. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe it meant he was overconfident in his ability to fool them, too.

People didn't usually join up with Shallah for a lark. Something was off there. But then, maybe Darrow was just that happily small-time. Deacon had worked with people like that before. Overconfident, too sure that the world was some sort of friendly nursery-like place. The ticket was to keep them talking and see what fell out, since so much did. Later, if you got tired of all the natter, it was easy enough to shut those sorts up too. So no downside really.

"What's the BHL?" Deacon said, looking cockeyed at Darrow, who'd trailed off mumbling something about Aurors' personal lives (Deacon grinned at this) and how they couldn't get an inside man. Couldn't get an inside man, bugger that, they had a crack at the jeweler's father, Shallah said. Heads of department. Even if they hadn't been the ones to do Harry Potter, Darrow couldn't know that... Harry Potter, now, that was one time he had ever seen her flummoxed. Not only flummoxed but coming out of her white human skin and in feathers blasting bits of things around. He wasn't like to forget it. Darrow, now, wouldn't know. It wasn't good that he could underestimate them. It might mean he wasn't really on their side. Might not.

All this weighing and measuring him was giving Deacon a headache. He took another drink, thoughtfully-like.

[Shallah Kosa]

Would you prefer the good news or the bad news first? Shallah did her best to communicate which of the two she would most certainly prefer first. It was through a look that she did this but she remained silent for it mattered little in actuality. It would have behooved the man to begin with his failures and to finish with his triumphs. Even so the risk was run of causing Deacon displeasure. The tail which she had assigned for Darrow had been shrugged with more ease then perhaps any other within the testing phase of his employment. It had not gone unnoticed by either Deacon or herself, potential existed but even now they were on the proving grounds. To the disfavor of his intelligent he began with that which was good.

the aurors, haven't made much real progress at uncovering who is actually behind the attacks.However, they're not really buying that it is motivated by pureblood dogma like Snidgeton down at the Prophet is trying to make everyone believe. And really, why should they? Harry Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt? Sure they both supported blood equality, but both came from pretty old wizarding families.

Potter. A torn to her, a pestilence. Her throat worked over a bone not found in that of a human and clicked. Four times did it do this before she remembered herself and regained composure. Darrow would not be informed that it was not by her hand that Potter fell. Shakelbot yes, quickly had she dispatched him, hopeful he might have had information for her on the kill that had been meant as hers. Her loss of decorum during that time had not been forgiven, by herself nor by those who had been present. She could see the memory of it in their glances, in the times when she allowed her charm to slip completely. It was blinked from her eyes, away into the air as she concentrated on the more important matter. Snidgeton would have to be informed and instructed in ways to remedy it.

“If they no longer believe then we shall have to give them cause to know the truth.” This to Deacon rather than to Wendell. Darrow had not eared yet the right to accompany them upon their attack, he would not even be informed of its logistics until the moment when he was determined to have right to it. This was not the time.

He leaned forward, the manner of conveying a secret and she mirrored it, always eager to hear such things not meant for the many but the very few, sometimes only for the singular.

Rumor has it, he was two-timing Robards and she sent him back to the other woman in little pieces! Two timing....the meaning of the phrase was one she did not know. A glance at Deacon, studying his drink as if it might reveal something, rather than a look at her gave her cause to believe it might not be of the utmost importance.

Anyway, the way they've been dropping like flies, they've become too paranoid to promote any of the new recruits into Level Two. So...that's probably why you've had so much trouble trying to get an inside man.

Before she spoke she watched Deacon, his smiles meant so much, held within them so many variations. It was not their first meeting, but one soon after when she had watched him smile at the joke of a man, this before he rose and drove a knife to the mans gut. The smile had not changed, it had conveyed death rather than happiness. Here though Darrow had skirted danger, for the time that be.

“In the Department of Law Enforcement this is not a truth, merely an indication that we must take another approach. We will make moves to recruit from the hit wizard, I have it upon authority that they are more like to listen to our cause.”

“We will also be pursuing the recruitment of Harry Christie.” Darrow started in his seat, for the first time revealing an expression newly minted. “Have you intelligence here as well? And what do you learn from the half-breed?”

[Wendell Darrow]

“If they no longer believe then we shall have to give them cause to know the truth.” Shallah said turning towards Deacon. They seemed to share a nod of private understanding.

'F-ck! F-ck! F-ck! Smooth you witless imbecile... Now they're going to want to prove it! Wendell couldn't completely read their silent conversation, but if he had to make an educated guess they had some other plan in the works. Would more people disappear mysteriously via this Apparation Bug? Would there be another brutal attack like with SHOP? He needed to find out.

"What's the BHL?" The gruff voice of the otherwise mute, grumpy one rasped. He was so taken aback by the question that it momentarily pulled him out of his internal self-chastisement. He blinked stupidly at him for a few moments. This was the first time he had come across someone in months, if not years, that didn't know what the BHL was. Even the papers had started picking up on the term that had been brandied about by criminals and aurors alike for years.

“We will also be pursuing the recruitment of Harry Christie. Have you intelligence here as well?

"Jasper's father? What in Merlin's name do you expect to find from him? He's in charge of dazzling the muggles if I'm not mistaken. Are you after them now as well?" He asked incredulously. Perhaps Atlas' concerns of Jasper being a target or recruit (they were really they same thing), wasn't quite as far-fetched as he had originally assumed. If they were trying to get leverage on Harry Christie, going after his only son seemed like a pretty effective plan.

And what do you learn from the half-breed?”

'Half-breed' Wendell thought disgustedly. 'Such hypocritical words, from a creature who can't even understand basic human mannerisms.' However a response such as this would never do, unless he was hankering for a fight. The paradox of a veela working with blood-supremacist wizards still befuddled Wendell. Perhaps she wasn't primarily concerned with the 'cause,' but surely most her followers, like this Deacon, were. Wendell suspected that real purebloods would be affronted at a having a proper 'half-breed' leading them. Veela's were difficult in that they so closely resembled humans on the surface - they could even interbreed. But really, veelas from the deepest swamps of Eastern Europe resembled humans only superficially.

"He's cowering in his SHOP. Doing his best to rebuild, and stay out of sight." Wendell shrugged. "You needn't worry about him going to the Ministry - if he's less paranoid of them, it's only because they haven't attacked him yet."

[Deacon O'Doyle]

Deacon watched Wendell carefully, more carefully than anyone watching him in turn might think. In between noticing things and getting a general sort of idea of the man he kept sipping at his firewhiskey, leaving the one the barman had given him untouched.

"Jasper's father? What in Merlin's name do you expect to find from him?"

He noticed that. Jasper's father. They knew Wendell had been a school friend to the jeweler Shallah had taken such a shine to, and at least a business partner after. But the way he said the name made Deacon think there was something more going on, some allegiance. No one was so quick with a name without some real tie. Deacon for his part tried never to have any names that meant sh-te to him. And this chancer was getting riled over his friend's father, and he thought they didn't see it.

"He's in charge of dazzling the muggles if I'm not mistaken. Are you after them now as well?"

Deacon exchanged a look with Shallah that said everything he needed it to say, he thought, and couldn't stop himself laughing. It was a brief bark before he buried his face in draining his mug again, came up, and wiped his mouth. Now after Muggles as well! He remembered the last one he'd done in an alley and shook his head and grinned again.

Shallah went on as he thought was right, too, asking about the half-breed, another link, another thing they could test if need be, and would, she'd said Deacon could finish what the poofter Squib hadn't. Of course finding out the truth of Wendell Darrow's spoofing wasn't the half of why he wanted to kill the mudblood, but there it was. Another reason was always good.

He watched Darrow try to reply to that question and saw a second of pause before he spoke.

"He's cowering in his SHOP. Doing his best to rebuild, and stay out of sight." Wendell shrugged. "You needn't worry about him going to the Ministry - if he's less paranoid of them, it's only because they haven't attacked him yet.

"We don't worry over nothin,'" Deacon said, pointing it out nicely, so Wendell wouldn't make the mistake again. "But if we wanted to, you couldn't tell us not, yeah? And if you came here to tell us what to you think we should do you're no use at all. What use are you, is the question, innit." He looked briefly to Shallah for support, though his face didn't show any deference (he thought), and shrugged.