Soul Biscuits

Disclaimer: I don't own these fandoms, never will. Poo...

Warnings: SLASH! Threesomes, violence, blood, gore, 1920s gangsters, secret societies, baked goods; the works, man, the works...

Dedicated to Ryder Bellamiren... darn you for the plunnie that ran with the inch that I gave it to make it into a mile. This will extend into a couple of chapters. Freaking plot, showing up when it wasn't wanted.


PART ONE: Casting Call


The scent of cinnamon triggered an old memory. It was winter but warmth radiated throughout a small kitchen in a small village within the English countryside. There, on a wire cooling rack, was a dozen of his mother's cinnamon biscuits with shining sugar crystals decorating them. Another dozen were baking in the oven. And his mother, so beautiful with her coppery red curls and glittering green eyes, was mixing up a batch of chocolate chip biscuits as the next flavor.

But then the memory faded away. Harry James Potter blinked in surprise when he found himself standing before a small bakery in the bustling city of New York. He gazed up at the sign that proclaimed the shop's name, Mark's Bake 'N Taste. The ex-soldier snorted and continued on his way down the crowded sidewalk. He kept his black newspaper boy hat down low on his brow which cast his own poison green eyes into shadow and hid his tousled black curls. Harry exhaled softly and his breath condensed into a cloud of white before his thin lips in the cold spring air.

It was the year nineteen twenty-four and Harry had just arrived at New York City from his native country's capital of London. The reminders from the Great War had become too much for the former sergeant and so he had left behind all that he had known for a world beyond the Atlantic Ocean. His cousin and godfather, Sirius Black, had invited him to stay in his home in the so-called Big Apple for a new start in life. The older man had moved to America at the turn of the century and was now opening his home to his only godson.

A dream then took shape in young Harry's mind; an American dream that would take root in this land of milk and honey. He had gathered all of his mother's baked recipes along with his grandmother's and great-grandmother's and compiled them into several hand-bound books. He would open up a shop much better than the one he had just passed.

It would be Harry's shop that would draw in customers by the scent of cinnamon biscuits...


Blood dripped down from the tip of the dagger gripped in the broad, long-fingered hand of mafia boss, Ezio Auditore. His cold, golden gaze stared down upon the body of his former rival, Cesare Borgia. With a disdainful sniff, the only surviving son of Giovanni Auditore calmly handed his dagger over to his right-hand man, Niccolò Machiavelli. Ezio then carefully walked around the growing puddle of blood. He wiped his bloodied fingertips clean with a snowy white handkerchief. He then threw it onto the floor.

"Clean this up, won't you Nicco?" Ezio called over his shoulder as he strode out of the door.

"Sì, maestro," Machiavelli answered smoothly. He flicked his fingers in the direction of Cesare's cooling corpse. "Bury him in concrete." With that simple command, several minions dragged the body away, leaving behind a wide streak of blood. Niccolò frowned at the sight. "You!" Another set of minions quickly stood at attention. "Clean up the blood. You know how much the maestro hates bloodstains on the floors of his 'visitor' rooms."


Deep in the shadows, Kadar Al-Sayf watched with grim blue eyes as Auditore's men dumped Borgia's dead body into an empty space in the construction site he had followed them to when they had left Ezio's home base. He observed the pouring of the concrete, filling the hole up and making Cesare Borgia disappear without a trace. As the top of the wet concrete was smoothed, Kadar went deeper into the shadows. He had to report to his brother that Boss Borgia's only son and successor was now dead.

Master Altaïr was not going to be pleased at the news.


Beneath the busy streets of the city, a group of hooded men gathered. Behind the head of the table hung a bright, white banner. A stylized red cross gleamed out from the middle of the banner.

The Illustrious Order of the Red Cross lived on.


Round and round, Sirius Black nervously twisted the gold ring resting upon his right ring-finger. In the middle of the ring rested a large onyx with golden symbol embedded into the stone.

The Square and Compasses and a large letter 'G' in the middle of the symbol marked the disowned Black scion as a Freemason.


With a groan of despair, Malik waved his younger brother off. He sat slumped behind his desk as Kadar slunk off. He knew, oh how he knew, that Altaïr was going to be livid. The slightly younger man had wanted to be the one to kill off Cesare Borgia. Ever since the old master's betrayal, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had been on a rampage to kill off any who had been associated Al Mualim's scheme to overthrow all of New York's underworld, especially the Borgia family. The other nine conspirators, especially Robert de Sable, had died by Altaïr's hands, or rather his guns and blades.

However at the same time the older Syrian had a bad feeling about the whole business. No one really knew the reason why Al Mualim wanted to turn everything upside down other than the urge for power. But Malik knew it had to be more than that.

The question was this: what was the old man after before he died and what did the Borgia ultimately had to do with it as well as the Auditore massacre that had given rise to Ezio Auditore's own killing spree?

How was everything connected?


Harry smiled tightly as a butler opened the door and greeted him. "Hello," he said softly. "Is Sirius Black home?"

"If I may ask, who are you, sir?" the old man asked, raising his bushy eyebrows in question.

"I'm Harry Potter, his godson and cousin."

"Oh! My apologies, sir! Please come in. This way, sir. Shall I take your bag for you, sir?"

Nervously, Harry clutched the strap that was flung over his shoulder. "No, it's fine," he mumbled.

The butler smiled and stopped in front of a pair of dark oak doors. "One moment, please, while I announce you." He bowed and entered what appeared to be a library. "Master Black, Mr. Harry Potter has arrived. Shall I send him in?"

"Of course!" Shouted a familiar voice. Harry was startled when the doors were flung wide open to reveal Sirius's barely aged face. "Harry!" he cried. He tugged the former soldier inside of the library. "You may go, Thornton, thank you."

"Very good, sir. Shall I bring tea?"

"Yes, yes." Sirius shooed the butler out and closed the door. He turned around, his gray eyes bright and happy. "Oh Harry, it is good to see you! Drop your bag and give old Cousin Padfoot a hug?" He held his arms open wide.

Harry let out a breathless laugh, dropped his bag, and flung his shorter frame against his godfather's broad chest. As he clung to him, the younger brunet began to cry and tremble. Sirius cooed softly and held his godson tight.

Without his mother and father, Sirius Black was his only refuge in the storm of old memories and the screams of dying soldiers echoing in his head.


Night fell across the city and the lights flared on to brighten the streets. The newest musical began on Broadway. Rumrunners delivered their goods in the darkened back alleys. In the hidden bars known as 'speakeasies, people gathered to indulge in socializing and alcohol.

In one such speakeasy, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad scowled down at a plate of overcooked beignets from his black leather chair. Behind him, on either side, stood two men in white suites with black pinstripes to offset his own black suit with white pinstripes. The mafia boss' golden eyes narrowed dangerously at the trembling cook who stood before him with his hat crumbled up in his shaky hands. "You baked these?" he demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

"Y-y-yes, Boss Ibn-La-Ahad..." the cook stuttered.

Carefully Altaïr picked one up with his thumb and pointer finger. He twisted his hand to examine it with a deepening scowl. "These are horrendous," he hissed, observing the way the cowering cook flinched. He dropped it back onto the plate with a snarl. "Get out!"

The cook squealed and was escorted out by the two thugs standing on either side of the door that led out of the room into the kitchen. From there he would be dumped out the door that led into the alley, lucky to still be breathing.

"Emir," Altaïr called softly. "Get rid of these... things." The white-suited man on the boss' right bowed his head and took away the plate of offending beignets, handing them off to a discrete toady to be thrown away. Then a door to his left opened and in stepped Malik, his second-in-command. "Malik, what brings you here?"

"Other than the spectacle of you throwing out yet another cook who can't bake worth shit?" Malik asked sardonically. "I have news that is best heard privately." His black eyes pointedly looked at Emir and his partner, Assad. The two men in white were dismissed with a wave of Altaïr's hand, the other two by the door following. "Good thing you're sitting," the older man muttered darkly.

"What is the news, Malik?"

Malik sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. "You're not going to be happy," he said.

Raising his eyebrows, Altaïr snorted. "Whenever you come here during the evening, it is never good news, my friend," he replied. "So out with it."

"Cesare Borgia is dead by Auditore hands."


Emir and Assad glanced at each other when they heard a bellow of rage echo out from behind the door they were guarding.

"Not our business," Assad said quietly.

"Not yet anyway," Emir replied just as softly.



Oh lord, Ryder, this thing has gone and run away into beginning epic status... erk. It's got gangsters, Templars, Freemasons, and craziness going on. Hope you like what I have so far. Next chapter should show up some time soon once my beta lets go of it. Much love and fun! XD