059 Enoch Estate - Part 3 - Mark’s POV

  After we got fitted by that old crone, we were told to wait in the lobby like good little children. And yes, I was still pissed. Janine Granin—what was her deal? She confiscated my butterfly knife. Just took it. Didn’t even say anything, just snapped her fingers and suddenly it was gone. I didn’t even see where she put it. Maybe it evaporated. I was tempted to file a missing weapons report with the universe.

  The lobby was too pristine. White marble floors, gleaming pillars, abstract sculpture in the corner that looked like a dog mid-sneeze. It didn’t help that I had to sit in this... penguin suit. Literally. My tailcoat was split in the back like I was auditioning to be an exotic animal. I didn’t even know what the hell this kind of suit was called. I looked like I was halfway to a magic show and halfway to marrying into Victorian nobility.

  Karl was sitting across from me in a red tuxedo that made him look like a magician’s assistant who didn’t survive the sword box. He had earbuds in and was nodding along to Greg rambling about some Resident Evil game.

  "Okay, but in Resident Evil 4, you’ve got this escort mission," Greg was saying, bouncing slightly in his seat like a caffeinated raccoon. “But the twist is, the person you're escorting keeps yelling at you and hiding in dumpsters. It's amazing.”

  Karl popped one earbud out. "Sounds like a pain in the ass."

  “Damn,” Greg muttered, “you said that with your whole chest.”

  Greg, for what it's worth, was wearing this... jumper suit with a vest. Kind of like someone turned a flight suit into a fashion statement. Somehow, it worked on him. Maybe because his whole vibe screamed “mysterious goblin with secret government clearance.”

  And then there was Professor Merrick.

  He had changed into formal wear too, though he’d brought his own. Typical. The man wouldn’t let someone else style him unless they were from another dimension. But I had to admit, for once, he actually looked presentable. Slim navy suit, black shirt, no tie—like he was going to a funeral but still had a date right after.

  He clapped his hands once, drawing our attention. “Good. You’ve all survived the tailoring experience. You may now keep your suits.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I muttered, tugging at my stupid tailcoat. “Can I also keep my dignity, or is that extra?”

  Merrick ignored me, naturally. “These are not ordinary suits. They’re constructed from fabric structurally synchronized with your ESP signatures. Meaning they adapt. For Karl, this should drastically reduce overheating and prevent spontaneous combustion of his wardrobe.”

  Karl raised his eyebrows. “So I won’t have to shop at Fireproof Fred’s anymore?”

  “Hopefully not.”

  Merrick turned to Greg. “Yours… well, you know what yours does.”

  Greg just gave a tight, unreadable smile. He didn’t say a word. Of course he wouldn’t. Probably his suit could launch satellites or store an entire arsenal in a subdimensional pocket, and he’d just pretend it had really nice pockets.

  Then Merrick looked at me. “Yours will allow ease of movement, even while using your cognitive invisibility. No more stiff joints, no more tearing seams mid-fade.”

  I blinked. That... actually sounded helpful. Not that I’d admit it out loud. “So it’s stretchy and magical. Got it.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, in that smug professor tone that made me want to throw something at him.

  Honestly, the suits weren’t bad. Still didn’t get my butterfly knife back, though.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning over toward Greg. “You ever see someone just yoink a blade out of someone’s pocket mid-conversation without even blinking?”

  Greg tilted his head. “Janine Granin is on twelve international watchlists for ‘unauthorized body modifications and couture espionage.’ So, yeah. Be glad she didn’t sew a microphone into your spleen.”

  I sat back and sighed. “God, I miss the days when we just wore t-shirts and didn’t have to worry about assassin tailors.”

  Karl raised his hand like he was in a classroom. “Quick question: Do we have to wear these as in a requirement?”

  Merrick nodded. “Yes. The suits are part of your new operational kit.”

  Greg groaned. “We’re going to look like a boy band.”

  I grinned. “Well, I call bass. Karl’s obviously the hot one with the tragic backstory.”

  Karl flipped me off.

  I was still tugging at the stiff lapel of my penguin-suit-thing when the elevator dinged.

  All four of us turned toward it, and out stepped the girls—Elena first, then Mirai—like we were in some spy movie's red carpet sequence. The effect was... disorienting.

  Elena was wearing this frilly, black one-piece gown, all lace and attitude. It had sleeves that draped off her shoulders and a slit up one leg like she was daring someone to underestimate her. The heels didn’t make her look taller, they made her look like she’d kick someone through a wall with style.

  Then came Mirai. Two-piece. Pale blue blouse tucked neatly into a dark skirt that flared out slightly, somewhere between “diplomat’s daughter” and “anime school idol.” It fit her, and I don’t mean just physically. She walked like she wasn’t self-conscious at all—just cool and deliberate, like she’d already factored us all into her plan three moves ago.

  I was trying not to stare. Trying being the operative word.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  She walked straight up to me, no hesitation, and handed me something small and metallic. I took it automatically, glancing down.

  My butterfly knife.

  “Oh,” I said, flipping it open, just to make sure it still had the right weight. “She didn’t melt it down and turn it into earrings.”

  Mirai smirked. “Granin said sorry for swiping it from you. She thought it was a stolen artifact from a few years back. Apparently, artisan knives like yours are rare.”

  I froze slightly at the word stolen. My thumb hovered over the hinge of the knife. Artisan? That was a surprised. Rare, sure. But the stolen part? Knowing my mom... yeah, odds weren’t great it was acquired through entirely legal means.

  I tried to play it cool. “Uh-huh. And what’d Granin end up thinking?”

  Mirai shrugged. “She didn’t say anything.”

  That felt ominous. I tucked the knife back into my coat. If Granin really thought it was some stolen magical artifact, I wasn’t about to start giving her ideas.

  Karl leaned over and stage-whispered, “If that thing starts glowing and summoning demons, I’m pushing you into the nearest lake.”

  “Noted,” I muttered.

  Elena walked past us, doing the thing where she acted like no one else existed unless they directly said her name. She gave Greg a nod and Karl a once-over before saying, “You all look less terrible than usual.”

  “Thanks,” Greg said. “You look like you stepped out of a gothic novella.”

  “Flattery won’t save you,” she replied. “Go and die on a ditch.”

  Mirai stayed by me, arms crossed lightly. She didn’t say anything else, just stood there, watching everyone settle back into their usual weird rhythm. But I caught the way she glanced at the knife one last time before looking away.

  “You didn’t, uh… ask her anything else?” I tried.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Honestly, I don’t think she liked me much.”

  “Yeah, well, she stabbed me in the dignity and then stole my knife, so we’re even.”

  Mirai smiled a little. Not wide, but real.

  The others were talking again, Karl was asking if the gowns were ESP-synced too, and Merrick started monologuing about “defensive enchantments woven into the fibers” like we were about to walk into a firestorm in haute couture.

  But I was still thinking about what Granin didn’t say. And what my mom might’ve “acquired” that butterfly knife from.

  Merrick clapped his hands—one sharp, echoing sound that snapped through the lobby like a gunshot in a chapel. Conversation stopped instantly. Even Greg, who had just launched into a tangent about zombie parasites and bullet economy, went silent.

  “Excellent,” Merrick said, straightening his cuffs with exaggerated precision. “Now that everyone is present and mostly outfitted in a way that won’t offend interdimensional standards, we can proceed with the mission update.”

  I tensed a little. Merrick never said mission update unless he was about to drop a grenade into our weekly planner.

  “There’s been a change,” he continued. “Lady Enoch’s schedule has been rearranged. In one week’s time, the Enoch family will be holding a gathering. Not a single event, mind you, but a week-long party. Formal, informal, semi-formal, magically-inclined, and everything in between.”

  Karl groaned audibly. “Wait. A week?”

  “A full week,” Merrick confirmed, with too much relish for my liking. “You’ll be expected to blend in as part of Lady Enoch’s security detail, but discreetly.”

  “Barely enough time to sleep,” I muttered.

  “Barely enough time to breathe,” Greg added. “We just arrived last night? Or was it this morning?”

  Karl raised a hand. “Okay, but like… what about dry cleaning? Because I sweat like a furnace.”

  Merrick didn’t miss a beat. “The staff will handle all garment care. You’ll have your outfits laundered, steamed, and possibly blessed depending on the event. Additionally, you will be provided with a new set of clothing each day—specially designed to match the tone of each occasion. In other words, you will look the part without needing to think.”

  I squinted. “So we’re going full paper dolls.”

  “Correct.”

  Mirai stepped forward slightly, arms still crossed but her voice steady. “And who exactly are we protecting Lady Enoch from?”

  Good question. I’d been wondering the same. Especially because this whole thing didn’t ping on Mom’s prophetic radar at all. Nothing about parties, outfits, or sudden relocation to Enoch-palooza. That was unusual. Normally she'd at least say, Don’t trust the shrimp cocktail. Something.

  Merrick hesitated. Only for a second—but that was already more than I liked.

  “At this time,” he said, “our concern is with unknown variables. Potential threats. Lady Enoch’s presence draws attention, and the family gathering will include many guests, not all of whom are trustworthy.”

  “Super vague,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual.

  “It’s meant to be,” Merrick replied. “There are elements in play even the Academy’s intelligence networks can’t fully track. This mission is as much observation as it is protection. Your job is to keep Lady Enoch safe, of course, but also to watch. Listen. Learn.”

  Mirai frowned slightly. “Feels... spontaneous.”

  “Because it is,” Merrick said. “And that’s precisely why we’re needed.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, my skin started crawling with that prickly, low-level dread I usually got when a test had questions we hadn’t studied for.

  A full week of pretending to be part of a family we barely understood, surrounded by nobles, bloodlines, probably at least two assassination attempts, and—let’s not forget—mysterious ESP-laced outfits.

  Yay.

  Greg leaned toward me and whispered, “Bet you five esps someone gets possessed by a haunted chandelier.”

  I didn’t even blink. “Ten says Karl tries to fight it.”

  Karl, without looking up, muttered, “Idiots.”

  Merrick clapped his hands again—because apparently that was his favorite way to summon attention—and gave us all a once-over like a school principal before a field trip.

  “Before we kick off this mission in full gear,” he said, “I’ll be removing your accumulated fatigue. You’ll need to be sharp.”

  He waved his hand in a loose, swirling motion, fingers glowing faint gold like someone had dipped them in starlight.

  Then the wave hit me.

  It wasn’t dramatic—no lightning bolt, no explosion, no chorus of angels—but I felt it instantly. My body, which had been dragging ever since the training session and tailor torture, suddenly felt ten pounds lighter. My back stopped aching. My legs didn’t feel like jelly. Even my mind felt clearer, like someone had cracked open a window in a musty room.

  Karl stretched and groaned. “Oh damn. That’s better than coffee.”

  Greg was blinking rapidly. “Did anyone else just feel all their bones sigh in relief?”

  Even Elena looked vaguely impressed, which was saying something. Mirai rolled her shoulders and exhaled slowly, posture relaxing like she'd just come out of a yoga trance.

  I eyed Merrick. “Still don’t get how your ESP works.”

  He gave me that mysterious, academic smile. “It’s a telekinetic variant,” he said, as if that explained anything. “Low-impact manipulations. Mind, body, matter. A little bit of everything, depending on the parameters.”

  “Sounds fake,” I said.

  “Sounds useful,” Mirai said at the same time.

  He chuckled. “It’s both.”

  Honestly, I’d always found Merrick’s ESP... weird. It didn’t fit into the clean boxes most of us had—telepathy, fire, invisibility, energy constructs. His was like soft magic with a science degree. One second he was lifting debris off stuff, the next he could probably put a person to sleep with a flick of his wrist, or tuning the tension in your nervous system like a violin.

  Still didn’t trust it.

  I crossed my arms. “Okay, quick question before we dive into party bodyguard mode—how long exactly are we staying at this thing?”

  Merrick tilted his head, considering. “We’ll be departing Friday night—counting from today, of course—and the minimum return window is the following Saturday. One full week.”

  “So no coming home before then?”

  “Only if the situation becomes untenable. But under standard operating assumptions, no. You’ll be embedded for the duration.”

  Great. Just great.

  A whole week of blending in with Enoch aristocracy, keeping Lady Ash safe from unknown threats, wearing ESP-synced fashion, and not blowing our cover—or anyone up.

  I sighed. “We better get hazard pay.”

  Greg raised a hand. “Do we even get any pay?”

  Karl nodded solemnly. “I’d settle for a decent breakfast.”

  “Breakfast will be provided,” Merrick said flatly. “Now, unless there are more existential complaints, I suggest you all rest and prepare. The next seven days will not be gentle.”

  No kidding.