Saturday, April 7th, 2009 4:43 p.m.
Location: Woolwich Orphanage Exit / Scene of the Reunion Slash Judging Panel
Tagline: One Feral Heir, 23 Critically Judgy Creatures, and a Cousin with Thoughts on Tea
The gates of Woolwich slammed shut behind them with all the finality of a divorce decree and the flair of a budget horror film.
Seraphina had braced herself for many things bureaucratic ambush, magical arrest, dramatic sibling trauma. She had not prepared for a full-blown beastly barat camping outside the orphanage like it was wedding day and she was the underdressed in-law.
Because this?
This was not a rescue.
This was a procession.
A bridal entry, but the bride was trauma-coded, the guests were feral, and the dress code screamed, "Sacrifice your ego at the door."
Twenty-three creatures stood arrayed across the Woolwich lawn like a natural history exhibit curated by unhinged aesthetic gods.
They did not purr. They did not bark. They did not moo, neigh, chirp, or hiss.
They judged.
The Nightmares (5): Equine gods of death and aesthetic terrorism. Hooves like storm-chimes for the damned. One locked eyes with Seraphina and exhaled hot smoke directly into her soul. Her curls frizzed in offense.
The Strikers (5): Dire wolf-hounds the size of heartbreaks, with shoulders broader than a Quidditch pitch. One sniffed her boots and sneezed. It was the aristocratic sneeze of a hound who'd once guarded a fae prince and now had opinions about her combat laces.
The Glooms (3): Cat-shaped shadows with the mass of hatchbacks and the temperament of offended librarians. One blinked. Slowly. And audibly sighed.
The Chatters (3): Ravenlike avians, perched like spiritual mean girls. One was tapping a beat on the fence—possibly Morse code for "She wore combat boots to a resurrection?"
The Phantom Wings (4): Ministry owls in their next life. Towering. Silent. Possibly holding clipboards under their wings.
The Silasfangs (3): Iridescent serpents coiled in synchronized disdain, hissing like a harmonized insult. "We expected velvet and incense. You brought vinyl and trauma."
Seraphina took a long, judgment-resistant sip of her tea.
She leveled her eyes at the sea of beastly skepticism.
With the gravitas of a worn-out Indian Auntie on day three of wedding chaos, she exhaled:
"I see you've all chosen judgment as your love language."
A crow tutted.
She pressed a glowing red button inside the trailer marked "FOR TRANSPORTATION: PEANUT GALLERY".
Glamour peeled away.
The trailer unfurled like a dramatic transformation scene in a high-budget soap opera.
Inside? A mobile Unseelie luxury sanctum, fit for demon horses, murder cats, and gossipy raptors:
Velvet sanctum lounges.
Willowwood rafters etched with runes of peace (and passive-aggression).
Chandeliers dripping moonlight instead of lightbulbs.
Water fountains with adjustable flavor (blood, spring, Earl Grey).
Obsidian-lined hay that self-cleanses with every judgmental tail flick.
Designated rest zones per creature species.
Judgment-neutral, magically regulated temperature.
Reactions:
Glooms: Glided in with the sort of pride reserved for cats reclaiming their ancestral thrones.
Nightmares: Walked in like they owned the place. Which, technically, they might.
Chatters: Swooped in, settled on chandelier branches like balcony aunties watching drama unfold.
Phantom Wings: Hooted once in bureaucratic satisfaction. A signature of paperwork completed.
Silasfangs: Coiled luxuriously, rattling approval like designer bracelets.
Strikers: One gave her a single, solemn nod.
The sacred seal of reluctant respect.
"I was beginning to doubt my design aesthetic," Seraphina muttered, arms folded, hair re-fluffing in victory.
Inside the cab, Caius changed out of his trauma-scented orphan rags and into the clothes she'd bought:
Black shirt (label: "Unimpressed but Immaculate"), high-collared coat that billowed on cue, and boots with opinions.
She handed him tea. "Didn't know if you liked chai, so I defaulted to British."
He inhaled. Nodded. Sighed. "Earl Grey. Thank gods. Haven't had real leaves in six years. The ones in bags are heresy. Pure filter-paper blasphemy."
He sipped like a man resurrected. Then laughed.
Not at the tea.
At the drama.
The beasts glaring. Seraphina visibly vibrating under Gloom-glare pressure. The fact that she hadn't been devoured on sight.
"You've upgraded," he noted. "Most humans would've been digested before introductions."
"Guess I'm not most," she muttered.
Then Caius tilted his head toward the Silasfangs. Two of them were now staring down Vespera, who had coiled defensively near Seraphina's thermos.
"She didn't greet her cousins," he noted, delight in every syllable. "They're very offended."
Seraphina blinked. "They're her… wait how do you know?"
"I remember her. From before. She was smaller. Never left your side. The others teased her for being clingy."
Vespera hissed. Coiled tighter.
"She has amnesia," Seraphina offered, semi-defensively.
"And now familial shame," Caius said with a smirk.
It was official. The Wild Hunt had been unleashed. The heirs were together. The trailer was now a diplomatic vehicle of the absurd.
Somewhere in the magical ether, a prophecy got drunk and started screaming,
"THE COUSINS HAVE REUNITED. PREPARE FOR UNHINGED CHAOS."
And Seraphina?
She sat back, sipped her tea, and whispered:
"I'm never going to survive this wedding tour."
But she would look amazing doing it.