He stepped out of the elder mistress' room, the door clicking shut behind him like a final judgment. For a moment, he stood frozen in the hallway, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back. The air was cool, but beneath his collar, heat simmered.
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 pulse. A reaction. Brief, instinctive. Unmistakable.
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 because for one second, just one, something inside had wanted.
Wanted what? Her? Power? Recognition? He didn't know. He only knew it was wrong.
He had been built not to want. Trained not to feel. Any deviation was… a flaw.
Igor turned sharply and walked away, his steps mechanical and measured. He would file it away. Lock it down. Like everything else.
But a small voice, barely audible in the back of his mind, whispered:
"You remind me of someone."
He lingered near her door, lost in thought when a sudden voice cut through the silence.
"Have you seen my wife?"
Mr. Lennox stepped out from the shadows behind him, making Igor startle. Igor's sharp, catlike nails flicked out briefly before he quickly hid his hands behind his back, grateful for the black gloves that masked the awkward slip.
"I believe she's in your room, waiting for you," Igor said, voice steady despite the small 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."
He glanced around, thinking, Yep, this is why I married her. Moments like this made him feel like the smartest man in the room, even if the room was full of mirrors.
Mrs. Lennox arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow that glinted in her eye, saying, Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" I suppose you think you're clever," she teased.
Harry smirked like he'd just won the lottery. "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, because, well, it was just too easy.
"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. Spoiler: nothing did. Yet.
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 this strange, unfamiliar pulse bubbling up, something that made him uncomfortable… and yet, weirdly, kind of curious. A feeling he couldn't quite shove aside, no matter how much he tried.
──✦──
Igor's wrist implant buzzed softly, a discreet pulse synced directly to Mistress Maisie's commands. No more clunky bells or beepers; this was next-level tech, seamless and silent. She could summon him with just a thought from wherever she was in the house, and he'd get the signal instantly.
He liked the upgrade. Made things easier. But truth be told, he still preferred when she called for him the old-fashioned way, direct, personal, with no screens or tech between them.
Maisie had become quite the political figure recently, throwing herself into protest movements. It seemed like every friend she had was involved in one cause or another. Lately, she'd become a vocal activist against the enslavement of Alucards, the growing poverty among the American people, and a host of other pressing social issues. For her, the fight was personal, and her involvement only deepened with each passing day.
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, stoked by their charismatic leader Jack Smack, 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. Murder, arson, chaos, Jack's fiery rhetoric had consequences.
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."
Her playful expression softened. "Jack Smack's the only one speaking real truths right now. He's giving people a way to fight back."
Igor's gaze flickered, a shadow crossing his face. "I heard some people close to you are involved. It's complicated."
Maisie's smile tightened just a little. "We're all caught up in it, messy as it is."
He studied her quietly. "I just hope it's worth it."
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."
The silence between them stretched out, heavy with questions neither wanted to voice. In that quiet, both knew that hope and fear were tangled in ways no protest chant could untangle.
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 without hesitation. He suspected this had something to do with the White Angels, but he didn't press. Sometimes, it was better to follow than to pry.
Maisie slipped into 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."
She shrugged, tugging at her sleeve. "Not exactly. But sometimes things get done faster when you don't ask permission."
A pause hung between them. Then Igor's voice came quietly, steady. "Thank you."
Maisie didn't meet his gaze, staring out the window instead. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you. I just thought it was ridiculous that some guy like Marlow had more clearance than someone who reads literature."
But Igor knew the truth beneath the words. She'd done it for him, or maybe for reasons even she hadn't fully admitted.
He dropped Maisie off at her friend's place, Genevieve, though everyone called her Gene. Igor had met her once before. She struck him as... different. The kind of person who didn't care much about appearances, except at work, which suited her just fine.
Gene's hair was usually a wild mess, loosely tied into a bun that never quite held back the strands escaping in every direction. Her black-rimmed glasses slid down her nose more often than not, and her clothes were a casual jumble, sweatpants, worn T-shirts, and mismatched colors. She gave off an effortless vibe as if life was too busy for pretense.
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.