Tuesday, April 10th, 2009 — 2:15 p.m.
Location: Gringotts Portal Axis, London
Tagline: Kidnapping Attempt? Cute. Hope You Brought Your Own Coffin.
The portal shimmered like a high-end threat, humming with gentle menace and extremely polite murder potential as Seraphina stood squarely on the Gringotts Portal Axis terminal, marble beneath her boots, inter-realm wind perfectly tousling her hair like the gods were invested in her aesthetic.
She looked like someone ready to be worshipped and sued.
In one hand, she held a sign. A glorious, unholy, bedazzled sign:
WELCOME TO EARTH, MY BELOVED BLOOD COMPANION RAPHAEL
—rendered in phoenix-ink calligraphy, glitter stickers, cursed velvet font, and a discreet Unseelie blood rune that whispered, "Try me, worm."
It didn't just sparkle.
It radiated menace in cursive.
Meanwhile, in her other hand, she was eating honey-roasted peanuts and chin chin from a folded wax cone bought off a magical Nigerian street vendor parked behind the Ley Line Convergence Bus Stop. She wanted to try more food, but decorum demanded restraint. She was meeting someone. You can't be chewing curry puffs when fate arrives.
Beside her, Caius stood like a grim portrait of war crimes, chewing on a strip of blood beef jerky like it owed him money. A second jerky pack labeled Mixed: Pork & Blood-Spice Blend, For Companion Use Only was tucked neatly into his coat pocket.
He gave her sign a glance.
"Your font is passive-aggressively flirty," he said, deadpan.
"Thank you," Seraphina replied, with entirely too much pride. "I read seven fanfics and two war strategy manuals to get the tone right."
Because she was a nice cousin, she handed him a second cone of street snack mix. Caius said nothing. But his hand twitched in gratitude, which, from him, was practically a proposal.
She also held a welcome box for Raphael carefully curated:
Honeysuckle tea (Unseelie-crafted, known for reducing homicidal urges)
Blood-smoked sausages
A travel bag charmed to repel useless emotions and soggy weather
Caius, not to be outdone, had a gift bag of his own for Blood Fang:
A ritual sharpening stone
An obsidian combat knife forged from volcanic stone beneath a cursed antique store
Carnivore snacks sealed in bite-proof packaging
Everything was ready. Beautiful. Sparkling. Warm.
And then?
Chaos.
One moment, Seraphina was radiating main character energy flawless hair, hostile glitter, hands sticky with chin chin sugar.
The next?
She was rugged.
As in: rolled up in a literal rug and yeeted off the platform by hooded figures who moved like they'd learned their choreography from a villain convention discounted on Groupon.
People blinked.
Goblins swore.
Caius paused mid-chew.
Raphael dropped his bags, very gently.
Blood Fang flexed. His tattoos lit up.
And the Wild a faction of Unseelie radicals hopped up on bad ideology and even worse group chats had just tried to kidnap the Nightmare Court Heiress.
In. Broad. Bloody. Daylight.
At Gringotts.
In front of goblins.
In front of blood companions.
In front of fate.
It was the magical equivalent of trying to rob a dragon's hoard with a plastic fork.
And they'd done it with flair stunning spells, anti-Omega seals, and a rug that probably wasn't even ethically sourced.
They had, in effect, signed their own death warrants.
In glitter pen.
On enchanted vellum.
With poor spelling.
Caius's power hadn't returned fully still vault-sealed from years of suppression. Seraphina, for all her genetic firepower, was legally leashed by underage-magic laws, Unseelie or not.
The Ministry was desperate to fine her for anything. If she cast a spell now, it wouldn't be called "accidental." It would be "intentional," which, in bureaucratic terms, meant ten tickets and a court date with Dolores Umbridge's clone squad.
The 130 those posh, crusty, mostly-human purebloods pretending not to have creature inheritance?
They watched.
Smugly.
Some even smiled.
As if karma had finally RSVPed to their prejudice party.
But the 84?
Oh. No.
The air dropped.
Wards flared.
Centuries of contained power rolled across the platform like storm-silk.
Lord Arthur Weasley yanked Ronnie Iris and Ginny Molly behind a fireward, eyes glowing with ancestral red rage.
Lord Remus Lupin stepped in front of Hermione Stella Black-Lupin, wand drawn like a scalpel, murmuring shield incantations like bedtime rhymes from a war journal.
Lord Jasper Parkinson moved without words, shielding Pansy Ariel with one hand, channeling magic through his spine with the other.
Lord Aaron Greengrass activated a bloodline ward so old it predated the Ministry's formation, covering Daphne Willow in light sharp enough to blind angels.
Xenophilius Lovegood, dressed like he'd wandered out of an astral rave, grabbed Luna Pandora by the ankle mid-float. "Not yet, dearest. I sense tension."
Faolan Lightborn shoved a vibrating shield around Rhiannon Anya Longbottom-Lightborn, muttering, "Your mum was right. Never trust a cult in daylight."
The 84 stepped forward, a rolling wave of predator bloodlines with old debts and zero patience.
Because the Wild weren't just any threat.
They were the precursor to a sickness.
The first claw of what would later become Womb Club.a multi-race omega-control cult built from sycophants, rogue alphas, religious fanatics, and sexual control freaks who believed that Omega autonomy was the fall of civilization.
The Wild came from all races.
Unseelie. Seelie. Vampires. Direwolves. Sirens. Angels. Incubi. Avion templars.
They all denied their creature inheritance publicly while quietly trying to weaponize it behind closed doors.
They hated the 84 those who embraced their inheritance, who remembered that creature blood wasn't corruption. It was evolution. It was the proof that your bloodline had gotten so magical, it had to adapt to survive.
And now?
The Wild had attempted a Kaja-class Omega abduction. In public. At a central portal node.
One of only eight ever born each millennium.
They just didn't know it yet.
But Raphael did.
So did Caius.
Back in the rolled-carpet-spa-of-kidnapping, Seraphina bounced. Elbowed. Kicked.
She was hexed twice.
The stunning spells didn't work.
Because Unseelie don't fall that easy.
Her bloodline was spell-resistant. Her aura was braided in court contracts and old prophecy. The fifth spell hit her with backup ritualism and illegal Omega-binding enchantments.
It landed.
She gasped. Eyes fluttered.
And the last thing she saw before unconsciousness?
Raphael.
Running.
Not like a man.
But like a curse.
A red-robed shadow with kill orders braided into his stride. Knives glowing. Blood-ink humming.
Behind him?
Blood Fang, mid-shift, form stretching between human and Hunt, tattoos glowing, claws ready.
His roar cracked the tiles.
Somewhere, a goblin hung a sign:
Caution: Wet Floor (Blood)
Another one opened betting odds.
The Wild had tried it.
And they were about to learn.
Regret came fast.
And Redcaps came faster.