The skyway cart pulls to a stop, and we step through the door. We’re further into The Reds now, in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. Something that has always astounded me about Marble City; It’s so dense and sprawling all at once, that even within the borough I’ve spent so much of my life, there are entire swaths I’ve never set foot in.

We maneuver through the crowd with the shared deftness of life-long city dwellers. At the bottom of the platform, Alabastra walks us only a short distance before she stops, looking to the sky. From almost nowhere, the black bird swoops down onto Alabastra’s shoulders. I jump at its sudden arrival.

CAW, it squawks at me.

“Paella!”, she says, as if the bird had uttered something scandalous. “We’ve gotta work on your mouth.”

I cross my arms. “Tell the bird I don’t care for it, either.”

Alabastra nods. “Moodie says—”

CAW, the bird interrupts.

She winces and turns. “Gee, she says you’re more like a Lame-pire. You gonna take that lying down?”

I step toward the bird. “Tell her I know an excellent flight elixir that requires corvid entrails—” I stop. I’m arguing with a damn bird. My eyes narrow in fury at Alabastra. “It doesn’t even understand me, does it?” She only offers a smug grin in return.

CAW, the bird screeches once more. Then, it takes off into the sky again. Alabastra says, “Scared her away. Your people skills ain’t much better, Moodie.”

“Bye, Paella!”, yells Faylie, with an exaggerated wave.

Tegan puts a hand on my shoulder, shaking her head. “You’ll get used to it.” Somehow, that is the most objectionable statement uttered yet.

Alabastra continues down the sidewalk another block, then seems to spot something. “There we go.” She points to a short brick building, nondescript and plain. A small sign above its dirty black wooden door reads in chipped, painted letters: ‘Liquor, Spirits. 12pm – 10pm‘.

“This is your peace offering?”, I say. At least, I hope that is the case, and I’ve not just discovered Alabastra’s latent day-drunkenness.

“That it is. Nathaniel only loves two things—cheap women and cheap booze. And we are not sellin’ today.”

Tegan crosses her arms. “Or ever. If that drunk chauvinist makes one more pass at us, I’m breaking his nose.” Ah, that would explain their disdain. My gorge rises with further guilt, and I consider calling them off this whole excursion. Yet, it was Alabastra’s idea. Would it be remiss of me to ask her not to speak with this man? Might she see me as doubting her autonomy, much the same as this Nathaniel might? Am I overthinking this? I don’t want her to see me as a man telling her what to do. Our relationship may be strained, but that would be an unfortunate and uncomfortable facet for it to take.

Alabastra says, “You can break whatever bits of him you like, Stardust, after we get the info.”

“His nose is probably the biggest target, though”, says Faylie.

“Hey! We big-beak-havers take offense to that!” Alabastra points at her own nose.

The faun scoffs. “Oh, please, it’s not nearly as cute on him as it is on you!”

“Damn right.” The blonde pulls a wad of cash out of her coat pocket, and palms it into Tegan’s hands. “You and Glowbug buy a bottle. Cheap.” She stops, and considers a moment. “Maybe get us some bubbly, too. ‘Case there’s need to celebrate.”

A wordless agreement passes between the women, and Tegan nods, and heads inside, grabbing Faylie by the hood of her robes as she goes. Alabastra motions with her head to the nearby alley. Of course, she wants to drill me for more information. Might as well get this over with.

As we walk around the side of the building, she turns, putting one hand against the wall, and the other on her hip. “So. Who’d you bite before?”

Some primal part of my brain urges me to turn and run, and it takes me a second to seize my fight or flight response. I do fail to halt a half-step backwards, but stand resolute. Alabastra’s face, having previously taken a quizzical mask, quickly falters into actual concern.

“That’s none of your business”, I manage through clenched teeth. Lie detection or no, she has no right to rend me of my secrets. She already knows everything that might cause her harm. Anything else is an unnecessary dredging of pasts long-and-rightly buried.

“Stepped on a nerve, gotcha”, she says—as close to an apology as she likely gets. “I only ask because—”

“Because you were curious, Alabastra. Don’t moralize to me.” The remark is more biting than I intend, but not untrue. I think back on years of leading questions and jabbing remarks. I can see them now for the traps laid that they were. How long have I been ensnared in her web, offering up my innermost secrets; innocuous lies and deep-rooted truths alike laid bare before her? “I’ve been as forthcoming as can be expected, but not every secret is yours to pry.”

She bites a lip, considering for a moment. “I’m sorry… You’re right.” She leans back against the wall, sighing. “I get it. This is the usual reaction.”

“I can’t imagine why.” I lace my tone with sarcasm. Of course I can—few would enjoy having their lies dissected in such short order.

Completing my thought, she says, “Honesty’s the best policy… until you’re forced into it. Little lies make the world go ’round.” There’s a hurt on her face. My skills of insight may not be to her supernatural degree, but assuming I can believe anything she chooses to show me, she seems… vulnerable. “Everything about me is a threat, right?” Her voice shakes.

I let myself consider, for a moment, what it must be like. Knowing, all the time, what people truly think. Of the world, of their own words. Of you. I’ve never imagined Alabastra as lonely of all things, but with the life she has led, how could she not be? I’ve always considered her a social butterfly, but perhaps Tegan and Faylie are truly the only other people in her life. Two more than I have, but all the same.

Still, it doesn’t change what she did. “You kept this from me. For years. Why?”

“Honestly… this. I didn’t want you to see me different. I don’t wanna be dangerous to you.” She looks down, breathing once through her nose, and says, “But, that was selfish. I’m sorry.”

We sit in silence for a moment, unsure what to say next. Regardless of her intentions or wants, she held onto— no, stole my secrets from me, and didn’t think that was something I ought to know until I started becoming a threat to the public. Was she ever going to tell me?

She speaks up again. “If we’re gonna get through this, I need you to trust me, Moodie. It doesn’t work if you don’t.” She turns, face serious and stoney. “But, more than that—I want you to.”

My arms cross. For as much uncommon empathy as I feel for her in this moment, I’m not quite sure I can get there. “I’ve been unwittingly feeding you my secrets for years. Would you be willing to just forget that, if you were in my shoes?”

Alabastra mulls it over. “I’m… not sure. But, that’s all in the past! Now you know!”

“Even still. Your talents mean we’ll never really be on equal footing.”

She stares at me for a moment, breathing in sharp, and nods. “Then let’s make a deal.” She sticks out a hand, wreathed in a fingerless glove. “I swear, from here on out, I will never use my Insight on you without your permission. I can’t promise I won’t try and work things out the ol’ fashioned way, but I will Never. Know.”

Alabastra Camin is an incredible liar. I’ve seen her swindle her way through guards, cops, teachers, thugs, Lupine Partisans, and most assuredly me, many, many times. But for all her history of fibbing, she is no oathbreaker. If I can trust anything regarding her, I want to trust that.

“That’s a huge level of control you’re releasing. You’re sure you can resist the temptation?”

Her foxlike grin meets her eyes with a gleam. “I’ll miss readin’ you. Guess from now on I’ll just have to trust. It’s a two-way street, they say.” Part of me screams that this is a horrid idea. That she’ll betray me, of course she’ll betray me. She’s a criminal and a liar at heart.

But, for a moment… it is a nice thought, to think that she may just be telling the truth. I reach forward and shake her hand.

As I do, another thought occurs. If I am going to trust her, perhaps there is something else I might ask. “While we’re making promises—I need you to make me another one.”

Alabastra’s brows raise in interest. “You’re learning how to get my attention, Moods.”

“This is a serious matter, Alabastra.”

“I’m as serious as they come!” She could be standing here in clown makeup and not be greater juxtaposed to that statement.

My posture readjusts to better meet her gaze. “I need you to promise me that you will do everything in your power to ensure that I don’t hurt anyone else.” I was convinced earlier they would slay me without hesitation, but, after an afternoon with these women—I’m no longer sure their heart is in it. For whatever reason, they seem convinced there is something within me that I cannot see, and with that belief comes the risk of sentimentality at a crucial moment. If Alabastra is truly good for her word, I need her to reaffirm her duty to protect.

Her mouth opens, then closes. Perhaps for once, she’s thought better of a joke. Instead, she nods once, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says, “You won’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it when you’re with us, Moodie.”

“Swear it.”

She put up her other hand, a pinkie stuck toward the sky. “I swear.” I’m almost amused by the somewhat childish gesture. I wrap my own finger around hers, and she yanks our arms down.

“Swear what?”, says a high-pitched voice from behind us. I turn and see the other two of our group approaching. Faylie’s hand is on her hip in interest.

Tegan carries a brown paper bag with two bottles of liquor poking out the top. “Makin’ oaths without your paladin around? That’s, like, bad luck, probably.”

“No such thing as luck”, Alabastra says. She steps from the wall, gathering us in a circle. “Just reassurin’ our fanged friend here of some stuff.” She pats me on the back.

Faylie shrugs, then holds up an empty hand. “Nothin’ in change, by the way.”

“I thought I said to get the cheap stuff.”

Tegan passes Faylie the bag, which promptly disappears into her satchel, and says, “This was the cheap stuff. Liquor’s gettin’ expensive.”

“Huh.” Alabastra walks ahead, an implied command to follow. I’m still not entirely pleased to have been dragged along on this little adventure of theirs, but at least I can put some of my greater worries aside for the moment. If I fall, someone has been told to catch me. Now all I can do is trust.

* * *

Of course, we never can catch a simple break.

We round the corner to Garment Street, a residential neighborhood tucked against one the city’s historic walls. The buildings here are bound tightly together, with spiked wrought iron fences and peaked roofs giving the street a jagged appearance; palisades of urban design. Perhaps Alabastra would have had to point us toward our quarried house, if it weren’t already so plain to see as we arrive.

Half-way down the block, police wagons have gathered in a semi-circle, pulled across the street to meet painted crossing barriers—a retinue of lawmen cordoning the area from public access. They gather on the lawn of a particular house, a squat home in stark contrast with the sharp points of its surroundings, like it missed the street’s dress code.

“Ah, damn”, says Alabastra. The half-elf stops, getting on one knee as she surveys the block, hand to chin. “Think they must’ve been here a while.” She points to the age of the horse tracks, the relative few neighbors left staring agog at the investigation underway on their street, and the weariness of the law. It all paints a concise picture; we are hours late to this affair.

My interactions with the law have never been particularly pleasant. Especially in my younger years, drifting from orphanage to foster home to streets and back again; whether I would get the carrot or the stick was entirely dependent on the whims of the officer. I have been shown incredible kindness by those wearing a badge, but far too many would rather wield it cruelly towards those who have little power to object.

My own actions hardly helped my case. I spent much of my youth an angry, sometimes violent child, with little control of my hungers. I hadn’t learned yet to not draw attention to myself. At least, that was what I was told. In truth, I remember little of my childhood at all. Into my adult years, I’ve learned to keep out of the reach of the law by the simplest means available—staying in their shadow. Limiting my interactions with either the law or its quarries as often as I can. Alabastra and her cohort have always been the greatest wrench in that strategy, but their own discretion helps. They’ll pick a fight with the police, but never one they can’t win. They cover their tracks.

“What’s the play, Allie?”, asks Tegan. The paladin is the most law-minded of the three, but that’s hardly saying much. Whatever oath she’s taken, ‘Do Not Steal‘ is clearly not amongst its tenets. At best, she’ll espouse lawfulness for caution’s sake rather than any particular moral compunction.

Alabastra rubs her chin for a moment, then seems to come to a decision, standing with purpose. “We’ll chat up the fuzz. They won’t tell us straight, but maybe we can pull something out of ’em.” Alabastra walks forward, on a collision course with the ‘Police Line – Do Not Cross‘ barriers. Faylie bounds forward in faux-clueless delight. Tegan walks straight, careful and precise. I fold my arms and follow behind, groaning at the number of ways this could go wrong.

As we approach, an officer takes notice and steps forward, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets and smiling under his bushy mustache with a nasty grin. He waddles like a flightless bird, posture crooked. He’s more bald than he isn’t—a fact he seems to be the last one to have grasped. And he blocks his eyes with an overlarge pair of shades.

“Shit.” Alabastra stops. The other also seize, looking to her for direction. “Came lookin’ for one dick, and we found another. Just our luck, girls.”

I interject, “I thought you said there’s no such thing as luck.”

“Not for us there isn’t.”

The officer reaches the edge of the police line. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little deviants”, he says, voice scratchy, with a telltale western draw, baked in some desert sun. Of course—of all the officers in The Reds, we get one that seems to know my travelling companions.

Issuing a half-assed salute, Alabastra says, “Officer Nottham. Back from your family vacation to the Seven Hells, I see. How is Beelzebub, these days?”

“Cute”, he says, in a way that assures he finds her antics anything but. “Who’s the pale one?” He motions towards me with a black baton.

In synchronized motion, Alabastra and Tegan step in front of me, blocking sight lines between me and the officer. Tegan says, “Just a friend, Nottham.” Their protective stances tell me all I need to know—Nottham is on the problem end of the cop spectrum. I take the hint, and stay low.

“Any friend of yours is a future problem.” His voice carries a sharp and prying edge, as if feeling for a gap to leverage apart the women.

Faylie says, voice carrying an extra edge of disarming cuteness, “What’s with all the guys, Officer? Throwin’ a party?”

Officer Nottham laughs dryly. “Something like that. A, uh, a goin’ away party, you could say.” I forget how effectively Faylie can wield her demeanor as a weapon. Perceived naivety is a greater veil than any lie Alabastra spins; her marks have already done the difficult part for her, in believing her innocent.

Behind her back, Tegan’s fingers begin to move and shift. The tiniest sparks of divine energy gather at the tips of her gauntlets. A spell left incomplete, hanging from her hands with latent potential.

Alabastra calls out, “I was hopin’ to speak to my favorite gumshoe today. Any chance we could come through?”

“What’re you, blind? This is a crime scene—I wouldn’t let my favorite niece through here, and I certainly won’t let you.” There’s a venom in his tone. I wonder if Alabastra’s gotten the better of this one before.

“Well, then where can we find him?”

The officer chuckles. “Wouldn’t we all like to know.” Thought I can’t see his face, I hear the grin in his voice. “The private dick’s gone fishin’.”

Alabastra says, “Ahh. Guess we’ll just have to find him ourselves, then. Shouldn’t be too hard…” She employs that same prying tone back towards him, her words like a crowbar to peel back the outer layer. Faylie maneuvers around to my spot behind the taller women, nodding once, and drawing a line through the air, then several circles, like I’m supposed to understand her nonsense code.

Nottham grunts, unimpressed with Alabastra’s bravado. “If our department can’t find him, I doubt you can. But, hell, call us up if you do.”

A beat hangs in the air between us, and for a moment my worry rises that either side will escalate the unspoken stand-off. A weapon drawn, a twitchy hand, is all it would take for discretion to fly out the window. Personally I’m keen to keep discretion inside the building.

The standoff stretches on for just a hair longer than I’m comfortable… before Alabastra says, “We sure will.” She turns, motioning a retreat without another word.

Just as I believe we’re in the clear, Officer Nottham calls out, “Camin… who exactly do you think you’re foolin’?” We all freeze in place. “Struttin’ around like you own the place—but everybody knows the truth! You ain’t no hero. Just another perverted little thief—and pretendin’ you’re a skirt won’t save ya from the long arm of the law, neither.” Time slows to a still, utterly arrested. “One o’ these days, you’re gonna slip up. We’ll finally have somethin’ we can pin on ya, and we’ll put ya away for good. And I’ll be damned if I ain’t there to see it.”

Only second hand from the precise strike delivered, I can still feel it like a shot straight through the stomach. Alabastra’s fists curl into tight balls, Tegan’s shoulder square, and Faylie looks back in fury. The tension, only just released a moment before, has risen straight to the boiling point.

Then, Alabastra heaves a single, heavy breath… and relaxes. “Not worth it”, she seethes, quiet enough for just the four of us. “Let’s go.” Her voice is pure ice, lacking her happy-go-lucky tone for the first time in… perhaps the entire span I’ve known her.

Malicious offenders against Alabastra’s identity became vanishingly rare as time went on, but they never truly did disappear, whipped up by Lupine propaganda and a handful of national scandals spun into smear campaigns. But whenever one was so brazen as to say it to her face, she would exact brutal revenge. It wasn’t long before those stirred into a frenzy learned to keep their opinions to themselves, lest they end up with their dorm rooms trashed, equipment stolen, harassed by park creatures, or trapped on a roof.

But she never seemed particularly angry in those instances. If anything, she talked about those poor fools like she was doing a civic duty, or delivering a natural consequence. There was nothing to feel defensive about; they were simply incorrect, and in need of a lesson.

A far cry from the Alabastra standing before me, practically dripping with fury. To her credit, she never once returns the officer’s stare. She simply walks forward, ushering us down the road.

We duck around the intersection, and as soon as we’re out of sight, Faylie and Tegan turn to Alabastra in concern. “You alright, Allie?”, Tegan’s voice shakes.

“I can’t believe he freaking said that. I’m so sorry“, adds Faylie. The two dote over their leader like a wounded animal. They are all, in fact, rather close—hands on shoulders, arms in arms, touching and tapping and squeezing. Suddenly I’m feeling even more the odd one out.

Alabastra takes a few hard breathes, then nods her head. “I’m fine.” At our shared looks of incredulity, she adds, “Well, no, okay, I’m obviously fucking pissed, but I will be fine.”

“It’s not too late for me to fireball him.” Indeed, a burning card pokes out of the edge of Faylie’s robed sleeves, from the arm not currently still wrapped around Alabastra.

I feel as if it’s not exactly my place to speak, but I do wish to offer Alabastra my condolences. Or at least, what amounts to it. “That was a wildly idiotic display from that lawman. I’m surprised he was so brazen.”

Tegan adds, “I’m surprised he’s still breathing.”

Alabastra closes her eyes, grabbing at her neck. “Trust me, I thought about it. If this were any other day, we’d drop everything and ruin that cop fuck.” She refocuses, drawing us a schematic with her words. “He was baiting us—goading me because he knew he held all the cards. And as much as I’d love show him he isn’t so untouchable, we really don’t have the time.”

Is that why she’s so angry? Why this instance is different from all the fools at the Institute—that she can’t deliver payback? Couldn’t even get the satisfaction of correcting him, for fear of sounding pitiful?

If so, it is another aggravation to be laid at my feet. They’d have the time to avenge their leader’s honor were it not for my ticking clock. Hells, they wouldn’t even be here. I feel it seep in with every step, how my very presence drags these three down. Perhaps that’s the nature of my curse. Even when I am not actively drinking blood, I’m still draining the life essence from everyone around me. Robbing them of their animating force, so that I might shamble on a little longer.

“Don’t worry, though”, Alabastra continues, “He won’t get away with it.” She stands, and already I see a fire light in her eyes, as she undoubtably starts to conjure images of sweet revenge in her mind.

“Seems like you have some history with this Nottham”, I remark.

Tegan says, “He’s always been on our case. I think something, or, uh, maybe everything about us pisses him off.” I am admittedly somewhat lost what this everything that Tegan is alluding to entails. “That was a new level, though. Usually that’s like, the kind of thing he’d say behind our backs.”

Faylie adds, “He gets super angry when he can’t pin something on us. Sometimes he’ll even try with stuff we didn’t do!” She crosses her arms, a flurry of emotions. Then, her mood completely flips, and she gasps. “He’s like our nemesis!”

“Nah, nemesis is too good for him. He’s more like a nuisance.” Tegan has begun taking a sweep of the road around us as she talks, eyes on a swivel. A healthy dose of caution never hurts, but I do wonder how merited her paranoia is.

“A nemi-nuisance!”, Faylie chirps, far too proud of herself.

I push down the urge to snark. As unfortunate as this circumstance has been, and as much as I am disgusted at myself for it, we do still have an objective. Best we move on to it. “So, what do we do next?”

Alabastra says, sounding like she’s still thinking through her words, “Could swing by the medical department, find out if he’s got any allergies…”

“About the detective“, I remind her.

“Hm?” She looks up, a pass of recognition over her face. She snaps. “OH, right. Latchet.” Standing, she motions us to a nearby alley, away from the sidewalk and the flow of pedestrians. “In a way, I’m almost glad we got Officer Intolerance. Threats aside, someone savvier woulda been a trickier mark. We wrung him dry.”

“Was he telling the truth?”, I venture. May as well put this talent of hers to use.

She nods. “Mostly, anyways. Badges might have a bead on Natey, but no chance they’ll tell us where. We got everything we were gonna get outta him.”

The roiling dark clouds that have cast the day in shades of gray issue a warning call of thunder. Faylie pulls up the hood of her robes, horns poking the top to create two peaks. “Nathaniel’s missing…? Maybe he got lost on the way home from The Stencil Pony.” She takes a moment. “Or maybe he fell in a really big pothole.”

Tegan ruffles her hooded head. “What’s the word, Allie? Related?”

Alabastra stops, connecting dots behind her eyes. “Nathaniel usually handles missing person cases. He’s who you go to if the cops can’t help—if your case is too weird to touch. Now he goes missing, at the same time that our little vampling starts missing some persons?” I take umbrage with vampling, but let her continue with little more than an unamused glance. “Something isn’t right.”

“At the risk of cementing my role as resident pessimist”, I say, “We have no reason to believe this has anything to do with our current investigation.”

“True…” Alabastra puts a hand to her chin. “But my nose is itchin’. No, no, I’m more convinced than ever—he knew something.” Is that the extent of her incredible investigative skills? She has a feeling? I realize with a sudden start how long we may soon be following this whim of hers.

“Fine. Even if that were the case, how do you suggest we find him?”

Alabastra’s eyes alight with their usual overconfident flare. “We don’t need Nathaniel—we just need his info.” She begins to pace. “If we can get into his office, we could look around for any notes or files he might’ve left behind—clues of what he was looking into next.”

“Oh, of course, great idea. So we’ll just… stroll right past the regiment of Marble City’s finest, then?”

“Excuse me?” She stops, hand on her hip. “I’m Marble City’s finest.” She accentuates with a flip of her ponytail.

Unbelievable. Not even five minutes out from the angriest I’ve ever seen her, and she’s back to her usual flippant, dare I say flirtatious self. How? If I were in her shoes, I would stew in that rage for hours, days. Years. Let it fester and rot, drive it into my very core and crystalize it. She moves on like it’s nothing! How is she always the better for every situation she encounters? It’s maddening.

“Hells yea you are!”, shouts Faylie. She darts her eyes around nervously when I turn towards her. “Umm. Ma’am.” She pulls herself into an attentive salute.

“At ease, soldier”, says Alabastra, a goofy grin on her face. Faylie’s arm drops to her side. “And to answer your question, Moodie, yes. We are gonna stroll right past ’em.”

For the sake of the God’s… “Can you not just say something straight for once in your life, Alabastra?”

She smiles like a drunkard, so wide it could break her face. “Haven’t you caught on by now? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Yes, that was my point! The other two giggle, and once again I feel I’m the outside party of a joke. I feel a droplet of water on my skin, and look up to see the dark clouds have begun their torrential downfall.

Alabastra says, “We better get this show on the road. Think you can summon up a vanishin’ act, Lightning Bug?”

Faylie jumps up in excitement. “We’re doin’ a break-in today?! YES!”

“Did you forget the octogenarian with the crossbow?”, I intone.

“I was trying to…”

Alabastra looks to Tegan. “Keep watch, Stardust. Love ya to death, but you clank like a trash can.”

The paladin nods. “As usual, I guess. Good luck.”

“Try not to rust out here.” Catching my attention with those sharp eyes of emerald, Alabastra says, “Well, Moods, ya ready?” I know I should put my foot down. That I should refuse to let myself get caught up in their tide, once again. Before I do something I cannot take back.

But to whom would I even protest? I’m already here. I’ve already committed, and any point of return I have long since crossed. For better or worse, my immediate fate is intertwined with these women, and there’s nothing left to do but ride it out. My conclusion is as forgone as the rising sun. “… For what?”

“Your first felony.”

From behind me, I catch the briefest glimpse of Faylie holding a card with the face of the moon printed on its front, already awash in bright white magic. Her voice once again reverberates with power. “INVISIBLIS.”

And in a flash of silver light, we all disappear.

My fists ball in anger as I pass the door’s threshold. They’ve denied me my solitude, and denied me a dignified death, made a farce of my misfortunes. For what? To watch me dance like some pitiable puppet before they draw their blades? To string out my confession and force me to damn myself with my own words? How could they? How dare they?

I should tear them apart.

No! No. I seethe with my eyes pressed shut until the anger passes like a fleeting gale. I am still furious, but there will be no bloodshed today. As I open my eyes again, the three look at me, an array of suspicion and smugness. We stand in the foyer of a surprisingly well-decorated home. Knick-knacks, paintings, and photos line the walls, plastered with an ugly and peeling wallpaper, clashing hideously with the patterned carpet. Stairs to our left ascend in a tight file, and the rest of the home looks like it was rather well lived in, and fairly recently, though a few cobwebs gather at the corners.

Tegan is the first to break the silence. “Holy shit I really thought you were gonna make us break that door down.”

“MAKE you—”, I exclaim, “You dragged me here!”

The knight rears back like she touched a hot pan, face aflutter with guilt. “That’s… yea, that’s fair.” She turns to the half-elf. “I told you he’d hate this, Allie.”

“Give it a second, Stardust”, Alabastra says, hand held in a pause. “Moodie—or Oscar, if ya insist— you’re among friends here. We were never gonna judge you for this.”

Never going to judge me… there’s something about the way she phrased that. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The blonde crosses her arms, almost in offense, as if I’m the faulty party. “What, today? C’mon. If we’d accused you, directly, what woulda happened next?” She waits a beat, and elaborates in response to my silence, “You’d have panicked. If this didn’t work we’d have told you anyways, but either way, we wanted to… ease ya in—hopefully even getcha to come outta your shell yourself.”

I look to her, scowling. “You think hauling me halfway around the cliff downs to rib at my side was easing me in?!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” She smiles, sighs, and puts a hand to her hip. “To be honest, Moodie, you can be a stubborn ass, and I dunno if you’ve noticed—these are desperate times. You needed the push, and we needed you to get there.”

Tegan says, “And before today, well, we uh, thought you just didn’t wanna talk about it? That it was, er, personal. Trust me—we get it.”

Faylie interjects, “There was nothing wrong with taking your time! Just, y’know, the blood drinking was kind of a problem!”

Before today? “And just how long have you known?”

The faun winces. “… Pretty much forever?”

“Since the day we met”, adds Alabastra.

An arrow of dread shoots straight through me. When Alabastra said right from the start, she meant… she meant the start. Seven years of circling each other’s orbits, of begrudging one-sided friendship, of favors issued back and forth, ribbing jokes, barbed remarks, and she’s known the entire time? I feel… lied to. Even thought I was the one keeping the secret. Did she tell Faylie and Tegan, too, when they joined her circle? Or did she not even have to?

I ask, almost to no one in particular, “How?”

“Moodie. You are joking, right? Your eyes glow.”

“You’re like, super pale”, Faylie says.

Tegan crosses her arms. “You’ve got fangs, for fuck’s sake!”

“I keep my fangs retracted!”, I protest.

Alabastra looks down at me with pity, sucking breath between her teeth. “They come out when ya eat…”

“They do?!” My hands dart involuntarily to my canines. The three issue condolent nods. A sigh of bone-deep tired escapes me. “If you knew all along, why ‘hunt’ me?”

“Well, that’s the thing…”, begins Alabastra, “We knew you were a vampire…”

“But not the vampire”, Tegan finishes her sentence. “You know, we didn’t wanna assume or anything…”

Alabastra nods, and continues, “We had our debates, it sure woulda been the easy solution, but…”

Faylie hops up and sits upon the console table. “It just didn’t seem like something you would do!”

So now they presume to know me well enough to make some claim toward my perceived ‘goodness‘? I’ve always taken them for naive, but, can they truly not see me for what I am? Not some bloodsucking fiend, sure, but what I truly am, down to my core.

The space where a person should be. Absent of an inner light or animating drive, the yawning void into which ambition falls and never escapes. Less than simply half-human; more like a necromancer’s puppeteered corpse doll than the fanged manipulators of old. Someone stronger, smarter, wiser, more fundamentally moral would fight and win against any wickedness, even when bewitched from within. Despite my biting words, Alabastra, Faylie, and Tegan are not stupid. So, why can’t they see what I’m not? What do they expect to find?

Alabastra says, “We thought maybe there mighta been some other vamp on the loose, but we put the pieces together after we swung by your place this morning. Obviously, the only way it was ever gonna be you is if you couldn’t remember doin’ it.”

I narrow my eyes at her. I’ve never taken her for an overly trusting sort, but even with our shared history… “How did you know I wasn’t lying? That I’m not still lying, and waiting for my moment to strike?”

She puts a hand to her hip, and grins. “You can’t lie to me, Moodie.”

“That’s presumptuous…”

The others giggle. Alabastra shrugs toward them, and says, “So long as we’re lettin’ cats outta bags—no. I mean literally, you cannot lie to me. We’ve all got our tricks up our sleeves—I can, how do I put this? Read people. The way you read a book.”

I’m not phased in the slightest. “Now you’re claiming to be some kind of psychic?”

“Not exactly? I don’t read your mind or nothin’, I can just… tell. If I focus in, it’s like a sixth sense. If you’re keepin’ something close to the chest, if you’re tellin’ a bald-faced fib, or if you really believe somethin’. I. Can. Tell.”

Does she expect me to just… believe that? I roll my eyes. Just another one of her little tricks. “Prove it, then.”

“We’re really doin’ this?” She sighs, and says, “Pen and pad.”

I wait for her to crack, to reveal the joke. She waits back. Fine, then. I’ll play her game. I pull out my notepad.

“Write down, I dunno, anything. A number, let’s say. Then either lie to me, or be honest about what it is.”

She intends to “prove” to me that she’s some humanoid lie detector with a cheap parlor trick? This should end quickly then, at least. I write down the number 7, and say, “It’s six.”

She stares intently, and says with a head nod, “That’s a lie.”

I raise a brow. Lucky guess. “It’s actually seven.”

“True.” Her arms cross, and she grins.

She’s just winning coin tosses. “Let’s go again.” I’ll be more creative this time. I’m trying to disprove her claim, not play Twenty Questions. I write down… ‘yellow‘. That should trip her up. “It’s four.”

“Lie.”

“Three.”

“Lie…”

“Nineteen.”

“Super-lie. Is it even a number?”

That makes me double take. Not that it proves anything. “It is…”

She smiles wide now. “Ohh, no it ain’t.”

I scoff, and retort, “Well, what is it then, if you’re so sure?”

“Oh, yeah, lemme just look inside your brain real quick.” She closes her eyes and wiggles her fingers at me, then opens them again with a sarcastic shrug. “I told you, that’s not how it works. C’mon, what is it?”

“… It’s blue.”

“Nope.”

“Yellow.”

Alabastra leans forward. “There we go.” She dusts off her bicep. “Believe me yet?” She acts cocky, as if she’s proven her case. Then again, that is her default state.

But her little tricks don’t mean anything. If she truly had this ability, it seems unbelievable that it wouldn’t have come up in the years I’ve known her. Especially since she’s… her. She can be subtle, sure—when she isn’t being an unbelievable braggart. There is simply no chance I’m learning of this for the first time now. “Maybe you just watched the pen move, or read the reflection off my glasses.”

She groans, like she didn’t ask for this. “Ugh, fine. Tell me three things I’d have no way of knowing. Make one of ’em a lie, I’ll tell you which.”

Three things she doesn’t know? I’ll just have to make them facts about myself. Things she can’t possibly have known without having been there. And, better yet, I can trick her. Refuse to play the game the way she wants. Slow and steady, I say, “I can’t swim. My adoptive parents couldn’t have kids of their own because of the Runeplague.” I think hard, digging deep for something truly unreadable. “And… I’ve only ever told one person before that I’m a vampire.”

Alabastra thinks for a moment, then beams wide. “You little cheat. All true.” I back up, wide-eyed. That’s…

“You can’t swim? Oof”, says Tegan.

I look to the other two. “She’s… she’s not joking?”

Faylie nods, enthusiastic as a proud parent. “Super cool, huh? It’s not even that uncommon where I come from, but Allie’s the first non-fae I’ve ever met that could see lies. She’s special!” Faylie adds jazz hands for effect.

Alabastra looks back at the faun. “Hey, I’m like, one-sixteenth fae! Doesn’t that count?”

“Not when the only fae that can see lies are like, archfae. And hags! You’re not a sixteenth hag!”

“You dunno…”

My eyes lock with Tegan. If any of them will pull us out of this ridiculous spiral… “Tegan. Is. She. Serious?”

The knight nods, almost solemn. “Unfortunately, yea. It’s why she’s so good at lying…”, then realizing what she just said, panics and stumbles, “Uh… not that there’s anything, uh, wrong with that! Lying can be good… sometimes?”

Alabastra chuckles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dusty.” She turns back to me. “She’s right, though. I know what it takes to spin a good yarn. Most people flat suck at it.”

“Myself included, I assume?” I draw inward, suddenly rethinking everything I’ve ever said to her.

She tilts her head. “You’re actually better than you’d think. Without the leg up it probably woulda taken me a hot minute to figure out the whole”—she brings her index fingers to the sides of her mouth to mimic fangs, and clicks her tongue—”Thing. You’ve actually had to keep secrets—lying ain’t so life and death for most people.”

That is true. Though it seems those little coverups didn’t help at all with hiding from the ones I wanted in the know least. I shake my head. We’re wildly off-track. “So, then, the interrogation, at my apartment?”

“Right. When you said you didn’t remember the other night, that you didn’t know what happened to the girl, I could tell that was the truth. To be honest, the evidence that it was you was pre-tty damning—but you couldn’t remember. It’s clearly more complicated than it seems.”

Faylie says, “Plus, it kinda lines up with some other stuff we’re dealing with, so…” I raise a brow at that. ‘Lines up‘?

I think back to the sewers. “That dwarven mother, with the half-dragon child.” What had she said? Her daughter was experiencing urges she’d never felt before. This whole time, was my condition just one piece to a larger puzzle?

“Oh, right! That’s another one!”

“Another one? Elaborate.”

Faylie taps her fingers together, wincing. “Oh, um, well…” She looks to Tegan, grasping for words.

The human looks agog. “Uh. Y’kno, uh. Just like… general… weirdness? Ah… We don’t really have to talk about this, right?” The energy of the room has thoroughly shifted, taken a sharp edge. There’s a caution in the women that wasn’t there before. A strange turn toward elusiveness.

“Your choice, Stardust”, Alabastra says to Tegan. Her tone is uncharacteristically serious.

For all her brash demeanor, Tegan looks rather sheepish. Embarrassed, even. “Can we just, uh, ask Bromley some questions first? We’ve probably stuck around here too long, anyways.”

Faylie adds as an aside, “Yea, who’s house even is this, Allie?” Admittedly I’m a little off-put that they’ve jumped straight back into their usual eccentricities, but they move too fast to get a word in.

“Old man Herbert Welchershman’s.” Alabastra shrugs. “He died last week.”

“Aww, Mr. Welchershman died?”

I speak up, “Questions. You had questions for me.”

Alabastra turns to me, eyes like fire. “Right. When did this all start? The whole, huntin’ the good innocent people of The Reds thing, I mean.”

I’m about to make a guess, when I remember the notepad still in my hand. “Actually, I can tell you exactly when.” I flip to the first entry documenting my condition. The three crowd around me, eyeing my journal. My records begin the 14th of Octobrea, so subtract a day, and the night before, to account for the actual start… “It began the night of the 12th, twelve days ago.”

The trio look amongst themselves, and Tegan says, “Yea, that lines up. To the day.”

“What lines up?” It took so little time for me to tire of their antics once more. If they expect honesty out of me, how can they not return it?

Tegan looks lost for a moment, almost a whine on her lips. Alabastra steps in for her, “Remember what we said earlier? Personal questions? It’s not that we don’t trust you, or don’t wanna tell you, it’s just— some things we keep close to the chest for a reason. Let’s keep this cat in the— actually, fuck, I’ve always hated that saying. Point is, we’re on eggshells here.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Gods, she is unserious. “Be vague, then. You’re skilled at that.”

The blonde smiles. “Dangerously close to a compliment, Moodie.” She thinks for a moment. “Let’s just say, you’re not the only one dealing with some occasionally monstrous-adjacent urges, starting at the exact same time.”

Then whatever’s happening with me is also happening to others, like the dwarven girl? “And these other cases, are they also experiencing blackouts? Violent yearnings? Involuntary activities and subsequent amnesic gaps?”

“Uhhh”, begins Tegan, “No, not really, sorta kinda, and… no again? All that’s actually happening to you?”

Ah. I see. It turns out even amongst those similarly inflicted, I am truly worse than everyone else. Brilliant. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected different. They’re all symptoms of the same problem, after all; my insatiable hunger. That’s the thread of commonality between myself and these others, then. The violent thing is only starvation’s reverberation, a sickness of my own soul.

As far as Tegan’s question goes… “Yes. Since this started, I’ve been ravenously hungry, and inundated with… sick desires.” I look to Alabastra. “I don’t suppose you have any insights on that?”

Alabastra tilts her head back and forth in indecision. “Maybe? Look, whatever’s happening with you, it’s clearly different—but definitely related. There’s gotta be some kinda pattern, a-a signal in the noise.” She starts to pace. “We don’t exactly have many examples yet, but if we had more—”

“We?”, I fail to stop myself from saying. The three stop, look at me, nearly stunned. I’ve already started, I may as well continue. “There is no ‘we‘. Regardless of my own intentions, I’ve just admitted to you that I am a danger. Now you want to drag me along on whatever investigation you’re planning, where I might imperil countless others, for what benefit? Why? Why are you helping me?”

The half-elf taps her foot as she says, “Three reasons.” She counts on her fingers. “One—we’d help you no matter who ya are, Moodie.”

Tegan says, “I dunno if you forgot, but I’m, uh, bound by oath to do exactly that. Alabastra’s a stubborn idealist, and y’can get Faylie to do just about anything with a sob story.”

“In other words”, Alabastra says with a small bow, “We are inveterate do-gooders. A terminal condition, I’m sure you’ll find.” She continues to count, “Two—our aforementioned shared interest in solvin’ this problem. Four heads are better than three, after all, and even if you’re not about the mushy moral stuff, everyone loves a lil’ quid pro quo!”

Faylie slides off the table. “You scratch our backs, we scratch yours! Though, that’s kinda more back scratching that you have to do, so, maybe it’s more like, we all scratch each other’s backs?”

“You can just ask for back scratches, Glowbug”, says Alabastra, ruffling the faun’s hair for good measure. Then, she looks to me, hand on hip, and says nothing more. Only smiling, knowingly. Reeling me in like a fish caught on her line, and… dammit, damn my curiosity.

“And the third reason?”

“You’ll find out”, she says with that insufferable grin. Unbearable. Intolerable. I don’t know why I expected different.

I look between the three women, the constant thorns in my side that they are, pushing at my boundaries for years. Perhaps call it a moment of weakness following a day of exasperating circumstances, but, I decide to do something I know I will come to regret. I relent.

“Fine. Where are we going?” The three look to me with delight, pumping fists and smiles abound. Though why they would feel anything but dread at the prospect of spending yet more time in my presence is its own mystery. “Unless there are any other confessions to be made, here?”

Faylie shrugs. “I stole some stuff from your house and forgot to give it back?” I remove my glasses, fully facepalming. Already I am exhausted.

“Bug…”, says Alabastra.

“I’m also stealing this cute vintage snow globe from Mr. Welchershman.” She produces a glass dome with specs of falling white particles from within her coat pocket.

Alabastra says with a pained sigh, “That’s… fine. Not like he needs it anymore…”

From above us, the loud clicking sound of a crossbow bolt being loaded bounces off the walls. A voice, old and angry, shouts, “Who in the hells is down there?!”

The four of us look to one another in a panic.

* * *

I duck under a wide crossbow bolt fired from the door’s threshold. “You said he was deceased!”, I shout at the half-elf.

“Clearly I was wrong!” Alabastra banks hard toward a nearby alley, cover from the angry man’s volley. Her bird swoops past, angry squawking meeting and matching the old man’s tone, as the raven squabbles and pecks at the poor grandfather.

Behind us, I catch a glimpse of Faylie dropping the snow globe on the grass as she scampers away. “Sorry, Mr. Welchershman!”

* * *

At a street corner next to tenements and brick shops, a tall metal staircase leads up to a wide platform hanging above the avenue. The platform of steel has an open gap cut through its center, and running through the gap, floating in mid-air, sit tracks made of iridescent light, created and suspended with magic. The skyway: Marble City’s world-class public transit. A wonder of physical, civil, and magical engineering.

Alabastra finds it objectionable. “I mean, fuck, they’d probably make money if they made it free! Not that that should matter, but you’d think the stuffed suits would at least run the numbers.” She’s been ranting like this for five minutes, much the same as long as I’ve known her. “It’s just… disappointing.”

“One of the greatest mortal-made wonders of our age, and you’re disappointed”, I say. “I’m sure the artificers would be horrified to hear they’ve fallen short of your demanding standards.”

“Even a good thing can always get better, Moodie.”

I roll my eyes, and mutter, “That’s some kaleidoscopic dream world you live in.” We venture up the stairs to a short procession of visitors and passengers, tourists and commuters alike, waiting for the next train.

Alabastra diverts to buy us tickets, amidst her own grumbling protests. I look up and down the gathered crowd. A tall draconide with white scales and a large lizard face dressed in a fedora and trenchcoat checks his watch. An elf stuffs half a sandwich into her mouth after eyeing the No Food sign. A mother tries to calm her screaming child. The sights and sounds of the city, that join in such a chaotic image and chorus from afar, but close enough now to make out the constituent parts. Occasionally I’ve wondered what it must be like to live in the country, away from the flood of people and all the mess they bring. A strange thought, to wake to silence—to have the width and breadth of your world and all who pass through it known to you.

“He’s doing the thing again”, I hear the chirpy voice of Faylie say next to me.

“The zoning out thing?”, says Tegan. I realize a second too late that they’re talking about me, just too slow to prevent Tegan from snapping in my face. I swat away her hand, shooting her a death glare. The knight winces. “Sorry.”

I sigh. The crowd hardly holds my attention any longer anyways. “Do you need something?”

The faun smiles, eyes closed in a sunny display. “Mhmm! Or, maybe more like, you need something!” Then, she fishes into a large satchel she carries at her side. I cannot help but catch a peak of the interior, yet to my surprise, I see only a black void expanse. She shoots her arm down deeper into the bag, further than it looks like she should be able to go without hitting the bottom. Eventually, her entire arm up to her shoulder is swallowed by the opening, as she sticks out a tongue in concentration. Finally, she smiles, and pulls her arm free. In her hands, she holds a collection of herbs, a familiar cutlery set, and the wind-up key to a music box. “Here’s your stuff back!”

I stare down at her through my spectacles. I’ve never had issues finding Alabastra aggravating, but with Faylie, there’s almost no point. She’s simply a force of nature, like it’s never even occurred to her to be anything but what she is.

“I guess I appreciate the thought. But, I don’t have anywhere to put them.” I motion to my relatively storage-free person. I start to regret not preparing more for the length of this incursion. I’d only adorned a new set of clothes to replace my sweat-soaked garments. Had I known the extent to which I’d find myself wrapped up in these three’s plans, I’d have brought my own satchel—perhaps even a portable alchemy set so that I might be of use.

“Oh, I’ll just hold onto it all, then!” Faylie unceremoniously drops my belongings back into her bag.

The stomping of her boots heralds Alabastra’s return, as she holds four tickets in her hands, splayed out for each of us to take. The silver strips of paper demarcate a one-way trip to wherever we’re going, which Alabastra has, as usual, yet to elaborate on.

Above us, the CAW-ing of a raven draws the attention of the gathered crowd. Alabastra looks up. “Aw, Paella!” Above the domed roof of the skyway station, the fat black bird beats its wings against the glass. “Follow the train, Pae! Meet us at the next stop!” The crowd looks in confusion at the woman yelling at a bird, which seems to bother the rogue not at all.

To the west, the sound of the approaching train begins to shake the platform, its slowing wheel beats turning against the arcane rails. Soon the tram of several bronze carts pulls into the station, with a single conductor dressed in grays at its helm, and beams shining out of the front from twinned headlights. The doors open with a simultaneous huff and scrape of metal, and parallel streams of people move in and out of the carts. The four of us manage to find a section near the middle with few fellow passengers, granting us relative privacy. We cram into a booth seat, two to each side. Alabastra slides in after me, leaving me the windowed half.

Through the glass, I notice that the black bird seems to have processed its owner’s command, and now flies in circles above the train cart. “Your bird is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Alabastra crosses her arms over the table. “Pfft. She’s not my bird.” She says that as if it was obvious. At least it explains why it’s relatively well-trained.

“Then who does she belong to?” What poor creature entrusted their corvid to Alabastra for pet-sitting?

“She’s her own woman. Don’t own her any more than I own these two.” She points to Tegan and Faylie. The two look between each other for a moment, a shared knowing glance. “Maybe less than I own these two.” Tegan flips Alabastra the finger.

Another of her riddles. I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms in protest. “Fine then, don’t tell me.”

She grins, and begins readjusting her gloves in performative disinterest. “If you insist…” Her word games are a constant source of exhaustion, and I have no further interest in entertaining them.

With a lurch, the train pulls forward, and departs the station. The city below starts to whip by in an accelerating blur, and for a moment I allow myself to be transfixed by the sights of the skyscrapers. Those obelisks of stone and metal, like fingers reaching to the gods. Dull and gray in this current light of day, but at night, under the new world of power, they scintillate with light; screaming manmade constellations back towards the stars.

From the corner of my eye, I see Faylie wave a hand, trying to grab at my attention. As tempted as I am to ignore her until she gives up… she never gives up. I turn and meet her gaze.

“Can I ask you a question?”, she says, leaning forward.

“If I say ‘no’ are you going to ask it anyways?”

Barreling right through my remark, she asks, “How can you, you know, walk around in the sun?”

“Careful, Firefly”, Alabastra says, “Moodie barely gets enough sun as it is.”

I ignore the blonde. “You know I’m not actually a vampire, right?” At the look of confusion, I clarify, “A full vampire, I mean. Half-vampiric, by lineage. I guess one of my birth parents must have been, or maybe something happened to me what I was younger. I wouldn’t know, seeing as I never met them.” I look to Alabastra. My orphaned status is old news for her.

She nods once. Then, far too pleased with herself, she says, “Which means you don’t fully suck.”

“Hilarious“, I deadpan.

Tegan puts a finger to her temple. “Then you’re, what, a spawn?” Ah, right. Religious teachings would cover a vampire’s abilities.

“No, a spawn is barely more than an extension of a vampire’s will. And they’re made, not born. I’m… something else. Few of their strengths, or their weaknesses. I require blood, but I have nothing to fear of the sun. I’ve heard the term ‘dhampir’ tossed around before, but I’ve never much cared for it.”

“Vampires are more complicated than I thought…”, Faylie says, mostly to herself.

“How’d ya get your blood before?”, asks Alabastra.

I consider whether she’s just fishing for more information to hang a joke from, but it is potentially useful for the three to know. “The local hospitals donate their nearly-expired or diseased blood—ostensibly for my alchemy. I clean it with a purifying agent and freeze it for later. In emergencies, a freshly butchered animal carcass also suffices.”

Ever so slightly, Alabastra leans forward. “And you’ve never fed from the source before this month?” I avert my gaze from her, but still I feel her stare burrowing into my soul. Perhaps now that I’m aware of her insightful abilities, this is what it’s supposed to feel like when she’s using them. Or perhaps, it is only the weight of my own guilt putting depth to her stare, redolent now of a beacon.

“No.”

By some miracle, Alabastra says nothing more. I am left only with the tightening feeling in my chest, the cold emptiness of my own cowardice.

She lets a beat pass, then turns to the two opposite us, and says, “Let’s talk plans.” Tegan and Faylie lean closer, and I do as well—a pantomime despite my greater distractions. “We need more information. Now, we could put an ear to the ground—ask around all the usual haunts—and play the slow and safe game!” Her tone betrays a persuasive hint. I wonder if it’s her usual showmanship poking through, or this is the path she’d prefer to take.

It seems I’m not the only one who’s picked up on that, as Tegan says, “You’re not usually the one pushing for slow n’ safe, Allie.”

“And I’m still not.” Alabastra sighs. “Because, much as I hate to admit it, the smart play would be to go to someone who might’ve already done that legwork for us.”

The two look confused for a moment, and it seems Faylie reaches whatever conclusion Alabastra has laid before them first. “Wait… not Nathaniel…?”

Alabastra nods her head solemnly. “Nathaniel, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, gross!”

I raise an eyebrow. “And Nathaniel is…?”

Tegan groans. “Nathaniel Latchet. He’s this sleezy private detective we know. Allie, are you sure?”

“Not my favorite of my plans either, girls, but if anyone in the city’s kept their eye on this and seen somethin’ we haven’t yet, it’d be that jerk. ” For a moment when she speaks, I lean in closer, then turn away again when she says girls. It should have been obvious before that point that she wasn’t talking to me. I push down the burning feeling in my chest, and consider her words all the same.

For this Nathaniel to have annoyed these three so greatly—he’s either a perfectly reasonable man, or truly the scum of Vaunder. Either way, a growing, gnawing part of me is uncomfortable with asking these three to endure hours spent on my behalf with someone they clearly despise. But the logic is sound—assuming this detective is as reliable a source of information as Alabastra claims.

Suddenly the prospect seems dubious.

Alabastra continues, “We’ll get off on the next stop—gotta pick something up before we meet with him.”

“And that would be?”, I ask.

“Peace offering.”

In a familiar alley across from my apothecary, I am standing completely stock still. Alabastra, Tegan, and Faylie walk past me into the backstreet, eyes peeled over the brick and grime.

“This the place?”, Alabastra asks, a rhetorical question. I nod. “Good! Well, ladies, look around for anything… vampy.”

“There’s no way that’s a real word”, Tegan mumbles, walking toward the center of the alley.

Alabastra scoffs. “Of course it is. Vampy—adjective, as relating to a vampire.”

Faylie puts a finger to her chin, taking a scholarly pose. “Does that make anything related to me… faun-y?”

“Fauny lookin'”, Alabastra says, ruffling Faylie’s hair as she walks past. Faylie gives an overdramatic hmmph. Then, the blonde turns back toward me. “Well don’t just stand there slack-jawed, show us where you found her!”

I have no idea why they’re doing this or why I am here. I am a body unmoored, drifting, dragged along in the current these women leave behind. I can do nothing but follow this through, to whatever strange conclusion they insist on bringing us all to. If I were more assertive, more concerned with my own survival, had even a drop of healthy preservation, I might have recognized long ago how far into the jaws of the beast I’ve willingly climbed, and would act accordingly. At this point, the most maddening aspect is simply that those jaws have yet to snap.

Shambling forward, like one of the less vigor-filled undead, I lead them around the corner to the site of the attack. In the light of day, it just looks like any old alley—a dead end in too many ways.

“Must’ve been a lucky break, to see her from your window”, Alabastra says. I look back behind me. With the angle of the crime scene, behind a stack of crates and around a corner, and at night—not just lucky; blatantly impossible.

“I wasn’t in my office.”

Faylie bounds forward. “What were you doing out here at night?” Before I can respond she interrupts, “Ooh, wait, were you hoping someone tried to mug you? Because I do that sometimes. Just, like, wander out into the dark.”

“…” I’m not even sure how to process that.

“Like, imagine it, you’re looking all lost and helpless, you lead them into a corner and they go, ‘Hand over your stuff, girlie‘, then you go, ‘Just try it, assholes‘, and then you fireball them in the face!”

Everyone stares at the faun, wide-eyed. Tegan exclaims, genuinely shocked, “That’s why you go out at night?! I thought you were stargazing!”

I add, “How often does that happen to you?”

“Oh, never. But it’s fun to imagine.”

Alabastra’s fingers are locked and pushed against her chin, both indexes over her mouth. “Okay, we’re gonna have to revisit our safety tips when we get home, Glowbug. Also… non-lethals for muggers, ‘kay?” Faylie’s long ears point down as she sulks. Alabastra turns to me. “Questionable nighttime hobbies aside, or, maybe related—what were you doing out here?”

At this point, there’s hardly any point in anything but honesty. I can only hope that eventually they’ll put the pieces together themselves, stab me, and then move on with their afternoons. Is it even possible they don’t know? Surely they mustn’t if they’re dragging me around, but, how? “I don’t remember.”

Alabastra huhs. “Must’ve been a wild night.” I feel like I might scream.

“Some blood here”, Tegan says. The rest of us crowd around where she’s crouched. Sure enough, a dried stain of ruddy red is splattered across the floor. Beside the splotch, a jagged shard of glass is alike stained in red at the tip. Subconsciously, my hand rubs over the new scar on my abdomen, an action I only catch myself in partway through.

Tegan rises to her feet, armor clanking in the usual cacophony of a paladin.

Wait… a paladin. Suddenly an idea occurs to me that will end this whole ridiculous affair. “You have divine abilities, don’t you, Tegan?”

“Uhh, yea?”

“Then maybe you should perform a ritual to sense for undead presences. This is where the vampire attacked, after all.” Finally, they’ll have all the undeniable proof they need.

Tegan fumbles slightly, umms and ahhs. “Well, I uh, I guess I should, yea…” She looks between the other two frantically, like she is adrift at sea and expecting a line. When she is thrown none, she sighs, gets down on one knee, and begins an incantation under her breath. Faylie looks as if she’ll cringe out of her robes. Alabastra stares, completely stone-faced.

A rush of energy like an upward draft buffets Tegan’s hair, and her eyes open as twin signal beams, golden and glowing. Immediately, her face twists as if she’s smelled something foul, and she grabs the bridge of her nose, cheeks puffing out.

“Well”, Alabastra says, slow and deliberate, “Sense anything?“

“N-nope”, Tegan says, like she’s on the verge of vomiting. She hacks and coughs. “No undead here…” Tegan does not once look in my direction as she struggles to maintain her composure.

I raise my brow. “You’re coughing up a storm.”

Alabastra cuts in, “She must be smelling the trash. Hyper paladin senses, they’ll getcha every time.” Behind her, the glow of Tegan’s eyes cut out, and she heaves in recovery, hands on her knees, cursing and muttering under her breath.

That isn’t an impossible proposition. After all, with my own enhanced senses, the garbage in the alley does give an acrid scent. My knowledge of a paladin’s abilities is insufficient to confirm or debunk. But then, does she truly not sense me? Do I not count as undead? Or is my own essence masked, somehow?

Or, are they simply lying to me? My eyes narrow at Alabastra. There is absolute confidence on her face, not a hint or shred of deceit that I can read. Dammit.

“Now”, she says, “We’ve got some very important business to get to.” Alabastra turns and walks away, the others following behind.

* * *

“Order for… ‘The Alabastra Camin Fan Club’?”, the hostess calls over the crowded eatery.

As it turns out, Alabastra’s ‘incredibly important business’ was lunch.

I put my hands to my temples and keep my head firmly down, avoiding eye contact with the approaching waitress, the women that have dragged me here, or any other living soul for that matter, like the plague.

Stacked plates full of food begin to slide onto our table. The waitress in a black bow tie and vest ensemble says, “And who ordered the rare steak and red wine?” I raise one hand, still refusing to look up.

Across from me, I see Alabastra’s own plate, piled high with small round sandwiches, singular tiny patties of ground beef, dripping with ketchup. I cannot help but ask. “What… in the Gods’ names… are those?”

“Only the greatest thing to come out of Marble City since the skyway and goblin musicals. They’re callin’ em sliders.” Then, in a display that is equal parts disturbing, disgusting, and impressive, Alabastra stuffs one of the miniature sandwiches into her mouth whole, chewing with her cheeks stuffed like some starved rodent.

Tegan, sharing my side of the table, leans over to me and says, “She can put down like twelve of those things. It’s kinda scary.”

I look away from the horrifying display, and instead spy the locale, a collection of middle class workers eating a narrow array of basic and easy meals, soups and finger foods and the like. My own order seems somewhat gaudy by comparison, but, I can hardly be blamed for having standards.

Once more I ponder, why am I even here? I had asked Alabastra as we sat down, to her expectedly flippant response, ‘I was hungry?‘. Sitting here, I feel as if I’m in some haze, a horizon of reality bent around their immense pull, shifting even light and sound. Blended further is the unexpected emotion of nostalgia.

After all, this is hardly the first time these three have dragged me along on one of their escapades. Usually such ventures stopped including me the second they began to plot some new scheme, or otherwise stepped outside my rather narrow wheelhouse of comfortability, but I was often an unwilling tagalong for outings to cafes or art galleries or walks to city locales they insisted were fascinating, but I simply found odd.

Of course, that all came to a stop years ago. We’ve moved at different speeds for some time now, but I never could tell who was moving forward, and who was stuck in the past.

I begin digging into my meal. The steak is tender, but clearly ill-seasoned and of mediocre quality, as expected of a restaurant picked by Alabastra. And these kinds of places never do make my steak as rare as I want them to.

Typical foods do little for my true hungers, but I enjoy them all the same. For the taste, if nothing else. To my current growling stomach however, this feast only reminds me of the gnawing in my gut that I absolutely must deny. I think better of any further bites. Best not to remind the beast of its cage.

As I put my fork down, I notice the three looking at me askance. “What?”, I ask.

Tegan coughs. “That’s just, uh, a very… red meal.” I narrow my eyes at her.

Before she can elaborate, Faylie butts in, “Y’know, Moodie, I could fix your glasses for you!”

I roll my eyes. “Now you’re insisting on the nickname?”

“Yeah!”, Alabastra says, mouth full of ground meat and bread, “What happened to ‘call people what they want—'” She interrupts herself by taking a moment to swallow, thank the Gods.

Faylie puts on her overdramatized tough guy voice from earlier, “I’m askin’ the questions here, bucko.”

Even Faylie couldn’t futz a mending spell, I suppose. I surrender my glasses to her. She takes them in her hands, eyeing the crack up the right lens with uncommon focus. It is at this point that I would expect her to perform the arcane sigils taught at the Institute, but instead, she produces a card, presumably tucked under her sleeve. The card is emblazoned with the image of a man with a staff, raising it forward, a light shining at its tip. Purple magical energy begins to glow along the drawn lines, emanating a ghostly mirror image just past the face of the card, hanging in the air. Faylie takes a small breath, and with a voice laced with power, she utters, “CONFIGO!” The spectral figure emanating from the card animates, leaning forward, and the construct of magical light taps his scepter to the edge of my glasses. In an instant, the crack seals itself, and my ruby spectacles look good as new.

She hands them back to me, smile a mile wide, as the magic dissipates. I stare at her, admittedly dumbstruck. “That was… different than the Institute’s methods.”

“Well, the Institute’s methods are stupid and boring.” She flicks her wrist, and the card disappears. Suddenly, I’m less certain she had it under her sleeve at all.

As I bring my glasses back toward my eyes, I notice another problem. I stare at the faun, indicating to the greasy fingerprints now smudged all over the lenses. Her smile grows guiltier, cheeky, but doesn’t leave as she offers a simple shrug. I sigh, and wipe the spectacles down with the hem of my shirt.

As the rest near the end of their meals, I pat along the sides of my slacks. Ah. I didn’t think to bring money. I look sheepish at Alabastra.

Midway through picking something out of her teeth, she brushes a hand through the air. “No worries, I’m buyin’.”

“With your… not-stolen funds?”

“Well, we gotta rid of it somehow.” What does that mean?!

Faylie says, “Yeah, speaking of, you should probably spend that money from the other day, like, quick. Super quick.”

Before I can ask any of the logical follow-up questions to such an insane volley of information, Alabastra stands, leaves our payment along with a very generous tip on the table, and says, “Welp, no more dawdling ladies, plus Moodie, we still have some stops on this train.”

“If you intend on taking us somewhere unrelated to your vampire hunt“, I say, pointedly, “May I suggest we instead skip to the end?”

“Oh, ye of little faith!”, She says, hand on her chest in mock offense. “We just so happen to have ourselves a lead!”

Tegan asks, “We do?” Alabastra shoots her a look, and the paladin corrects, “We do!”

Alabastra continues, “No more dawdlin’. This vamp is close, I can feel it!”

* * *

We’ve now thoroughly exited The Reds, into the other half of the cliff downs, the yet more squalid and impoverished Grennard. The streets gradually lose their paved exteriors, the roads constricting into tight and branching lines, like the edges of a tree canopy. They’re run through with rivers of grime and mud. The sludge matches with the ever-present fog in the sky, churned from the northern factories and power plants, to squeeze the life between with filth; as above, so below.

Grass grows, but it is a mockery of life. It appears simultaneously unkempt and completely dead, and I remind myself that’s how all the flora here looks. The fauna, too, come to think of it. I remember now why it is my habit to stay to The Reds. I prefer my brickwork to the corruption of life on display here. There’s an honesty to The Reds, a certain sense of pride in its embrace of the cityscape. It isn’t pretending to be anything it’s not. Grennard, on the other hand, isn’t just poor; it’s pitiful. Desperate, even. There is no dignity in these mud-soaked streets, dwelling in the hovels or ruined tenements or factories beyond. This is where honor comes to die.

And that’s to say nothing of the smell. My stomach churns; how does anyone live like this?

Alabastra has lead us here for reasons undivulged. She walks ahead of us, humming to herself.

Tegan steps beside me, a curious raise to her brow. “Been a while, huh?”

“I suppose so…” Of course, the only time I ever saw Tegan before graduating was on these outings. She may be the only one of the three that, by technicality, I see more of these days. That isn’t uncomforting. Tegan is the closest to broaching normalcy in their little posse. Still an odd duck by the standards of the rest of polite society, but I’m certain she doesn’t mind that. We don’t have much in common, but, she’s less frustrating to talk to, by virtue of her tendency to talk very little at all.

“Shame it took a monster hunt to see you out again.” She ribs me in the shoulder, like we’re friends.

My eyes roll. I hardly see the point in meaningless walkabouts.

Ahead of us, Alabastra stops, turning on one heel, and snap-points to her side. “Alright, this one’s a bit of a detour, but it’s all the same path.”

A detour… I fear that’s just another word for ‘errand‘. “Another distraction?”, I intone. “Are you taking this seriously?” Not that I need to ask. Of course they aren’t.

“Why, Moodie, got somewhere to be?” Alabastra says, flashing another smile my direction. “We’ll be in and out, trust me.”

Last time she said would be ‘in and out’ of somewhere, she ended up under campus security lockup for two weeks. “We should stay focused, Alabastra.” Whatever their intentions, it’s better we’re not wasting all day meandering from place to place.

She shrugs. “I’m plenty focused! Got one of those, watcha call it… Where you remember everything?”

“An eidetic memory?”

“Right! Thanks for reminding me!” Her grins never falters. I can’t tell if she’s joking or insane. “C’mon, it’s all part of the process. Our stop is right around the corner.” I should have figured it was pointless to try to talk her out of anything.

Beside me, Faylie issues a surprise chirp that reminds me she’s still here. “Ohh, that’s what we’re doing!” I jump at how close she’s gotten. For how boisterous her default state is, she can be surprisingly sneaky when she wants to be.

Alabastra leads us toward an alley between two slope-roofed buildings, at the edge of a droop into the deeper areas of the slums. Just down the hill, the sludge gathers like a fetid swamp. Between the shopfronts, the small nook seems unremarkable, a place of brick and stone, graffiti on the walls reading charming slogans such as, ‘CLAM UP OR GET OUT‘, or ‘SKEETS WUS HERE‘, or ‘TRY SHEILA AT THE STENCIL PONY‘. There are faded symbols scratched into the brickwork—older, forgotten words, or perhaps insignia—but they’re too faded to make out.

The half-elf gives a conspicuous once-over to our surroundings, and pulls away a wooden box that had been resting in the corner. A manhole cover lies underneath. She leverages it open with the metal tip of her bow, and turns to us. “After you”, she says with a flourish.

I stare blankly at her. She wants me to crawl around in the waterworks. Perhaps this is some form of protracted punishment. Or do they intend to slay me in a more discreet location? I breathe a long sigh, making my peace with the fact that I am, in fact, going to do this. In for a damned copper, I suppose.

A metal ladder runs down the side of the hole, rusted iron descending into darkness. With my superior aptitude for seeing through shadow, I can make out that it doesn’t descend far before reaching slick brickwork at the bottom, the manmade embankment to a river of filth. Putrid and rancid odors enact their bloody revenge upon the world above, assaulting my senses. I spare a look back to Alabastra, hopeful that this is the moment she reveals she was joking. She does not. I grumble, grab the sides of the ladder, and descend.

The hollow drip-dropping of water deeper within the sewer tunnels echoes off the walls. There’s little in the way of hand-holds, so I move slowly over the slimy brick to not lose my footing. The others descend behind me, Alabastra taking up the rear, pulling the metal cover back overtop the ladderway with a dull scrape across concrete. She steps into the space, walking as briskly as she had been up top, balance unfettered. “Alright. This-a-way, Moodie.”

“Where are we going?”

Faylie practically slides through the muck. “A land of mysteries.“

I look down at the sewage canal beside us, and the thick coating of awful sludge now sticking to the bottoms of her hooves. “You’re the only mystery down here.”

She tilts her head, thinking for a second, then laughs. “Oh! That’s funny!” Her voice bounces down the tunnel ahead of her.

Before I can ask what any of the bizarre things she says mean, Alabastra answers my first question, “Headin’ to a little place we call Stilton. Kinda of a… shanty town square.”

“And we’re doing this because…?”

“Just got some folk we gotta check in on. Like I said, it’ll be nothin’.” She takes the lead, routing a winding path through the waterworks and warrens that stretch wide and deep into the earth below Marble City. The subterranean stretch, the Underburrows, is practically a secret sixth borough. The city under the city, a cramped and putrid mirror world of the one above. Little can thrive down here at all, save for the monsters that crawl up from the dark, thieves hoping cops don’t brave the tunnels, and the true outcasts, too destitute even for Grennard. The bottom of the barrel.

Ten minutes of winding pathways and concerning descents later, and finally Alabastra says, “Here we are!” She pushes through a smaller side passage, a rounded puncture through the brickwork. I swear we passed this once before. Not that she would ever admit to being lost.

The pass opens up into a massive vestibule, about the size of a baseball field, cast in cold blue light from tinted crystals jutting from a perimeter pool of running water. The masonry of the dome’s stonework chips with age, and a strong scent of mildew wafts through the air. Set up around the edges sit ramshackle buildings of tin metal and rotting wood, stalls with ripped and molding blankets hung over, and the rundown machine work of a water wheel, spinning along from the dripping flow over the outer river, exiting at the east and west.

Sounds spill through the air. The chatter of dozens of voices, grinding metal, crackling fire, shouting, crying, splashing. The people living here do so without a care to their acoustic footprint. They mill over the space like aimless ants, darting from merchant’s stalls peddling a pauper’s wares, to a sorry excuse for a saloon. Their clothes are tattered and run through with muck, and many look to be in poor health, a gaunt and green pallor to their sallow skin. Despite the miserable dwellings, many hold a high smile, children play, old women laugh to each other. I think I even hear a guitar’s low melody somewhere in the sonal mix.

A community of beggars, below the feet of the already-destitute. Fascinating. Alabastra says, “Alright. Just gotta touch base with…”

“Alabastra!” Interrupting her words, an older man rushes forward. Wrinkles carve deep tunnels through his face, his eyes sag low like an aging dog’s. His shorter gray hair carries a shock of grease through the side, and his scarf is matted and unkempt. He smells like cigarette smoke and must. But he carries the spry gait of a man thirty years his younger. “Alabastra Camin!”, he yells, both worried and relieved, the tone of an arson victim when the fire truck arrives. He wants for salvation.

“Graolo!” She reaches out to pat the old man on the arm, then turns to me. “Graolo’s the elder statesman here. Stilton’s his place.”

He grunts. “It’s everyone’s place, Alabastra.” His voice reminds me of a rumbling oven, thickened with the accent of the old empire. “Alabastra, Mrs. Matricia is in fits again. She wants to know how is the search going.”

Alabastra so-so’s with her hand. “It’s… goin’.” The search… she doesn’t mean… As if she read my mind, Alabastra say again as an aside for me, “Unrelated. Well. Maybe related.”

I raise a brow. Maybe related? What does that mean? I can’t exactly ask in front of all these people, and… well, even if I did, I can’t be sure she’d give me a straight answer anyways.

She says to Graolo, “Thanks for lettin’ me know. Faylie n’ Tegan’ll talk her down.”

“Uh. Yeah”, Tegan says. They could put that on her gravestone.

Faylie begins to skip off ahead of us, shouting into the distance, “Mrs. Matricia it’s-me-Faylie-I’m-here-to-say-hiiii!” Tegan swings her arms down in defeat, and follows after the faun.

Graolo turns to me, his eyes keen, peeling over my form. I shirk under the weight; I’ve never liked being seen. Especially by unfamiliar people. “Who is the new one?”

I stare at him, blank.

“Just a friend, Graolo. Not a threat.” Alabastra puts a hand on my shoulder. If only she knew. The old man simply shrugs. She continues, “We’re just gonna see how Sydney’s brother is doin’.”

He nods in understanding. “Ahh, I see. You are taking care of the business. As you were.” His wry smile scrunches his face along the folds.

“Will do.” Pushing me through this cavern of brick, Alabastra directs me toward one of the taller and more structurally sound buildings, an accolade it only wins by default for having a foundation at all. A sign swings on rusted chains, reading ‘Stilton Infirmary‘. It doesn’t exactly look like a hospital, from the outside anyways, but I suppose I don’t have much experience with shanty architecture.

Arms folded, I say, “This is our place?”

“Yea. Just…”, she rests a hand on the door, head craned over shoulder to meet my gaze. “Sit tight. I’ll be right out.” She passes into the office. I catch a brief glance of the inside, partition walls and curtains creating pseudo-rooms, a glass-cased cabinet stocked full of jars and vials of medicine, and a single tall, lanky figure in a black leather long coat and matching hat, bird-beaked white mask of a doctor obscuring their eyes behind empty round lenses.

As Alabastra disappears into the building, my ears once more catch the acoustic stylings of an amateur guitarist. Their sweet, nostalgic plucking casts the community in an almost cozy light. This is home to somebody. More than a few somebodies, in fact. Though somebody implies they aren’t the forgotten refuse at the bottom of society’s shoe, desperately clinging on despite all attempts to scrape them away. I can’t deny their resilience. At the underside of Grennard and its squalor, here lies a swell of defiance.

It’s a blessing their merrymaking can’t be heard through all the stone and mud. This is the kind of place Marble City stamps out. I wonder how long they’ve been here. How long they have left.

The door opens, and Alabastra returns with a plus one. A teenage girl with a tail of brown hair and freckles stares up at me. Alabastra says, “Sydney, Moodie. Moodie, Sydney.” She motions between us.

“Hi”, says Sydney, sticking out a hand. I look down at the outstretched palm, then to Alabastra. The half-elf groans, and makes an x with her arms, grabbing and jerking my left hand with hers, and meeting Sydney’s waiting shake with her own right. She completes the awkward triangle shake in a tangle of arms and an eye roll.

“Glad we sorted that. Sydney, go ahead and tell me what you were sayin’.”

The girl nods apprehensively. “Sure. Well, Conor’s doing okay… He’s still not conscious, but Dr. DuBois says he’ll probably make a full recovery, as long as he gets lots of rest.”

“That’s great news!” Alabastra smacks my shoulder in assumed agreement.

I raise a brow. What exactly does this have to do with anything…? Alabastra had said it was this girl’s sibling that needed checking on… “What’s ailing your brother, exactly?”, I ask. If the rogue won’t give me an answer, this girl must.

She shrugs nervously. “Oh… He was, um. He lost a lot of blood?” My eyes go wide. “They think he was attacked by a…”

“I have to go.”

Without sparing a second look, I turn on a dime and leave immediately. My shoulders perfectly square, my feet in an automated march carrying me away from this situation as fast as possible. I hear Alabastra shout behind me, “Don’t go too far!” I catch her say to the girl, “Don’t mind him. Tell me more—”

Their voices disappear into the din of noise. Aimlessly I wander, desperate to be away from yet another source of guilt, eyes darting for some kind of distraction. I spot it in the form of Faylie’s excited hopping, and Tegan’s armor reflecting the blue light of the cavern. They’re speaking with a shorter portly dwarven woman, curly red locks in a perm over her revealing corseted outfit.

I’ll take anything at this point. I approach, distant enough that I don’t accidentally join the conversation, but close enough to eavesdrop.

The woman, Mrs. Matricia I assume, is saying between sobs, “I just don’t understand where she’d go.” Her voice carries a theatric falsetto, and her makeup runs over her cheeks from the tears. It’s a sorry sight.

Tegan pats her on the shoulder. “There, there…”, she says, not convincing in her role as the emotional support. I suppose she’s not the inspiring sort of knight.

Faylie says, brows pulled together in concern, “You said your daughter was collecting stuff?”

The dwarf nods. “Yes. She’d never done that kind of thing before. I assumed it had something to do with…” She stops, and shakes her head. “No, no, that can’t be it.”

“Anything might help, miss!” The faun’s chipper tone does not match the woman’s grieving energy.

“Well… Savina’s father was a dragon, you see…”

I shake my head, flabbergasted. I’m not usually one for gossipmongering, but that is… fascinating?

The knight seems to agree, as she sputters at the dwarf’s words. “Uh, wow. That, uh, that’s… Damn.”

“Yes, I know…”, the dwarf says, a reminiscent twinkle in her eye. “He was one of my more charming clients, believe it or not. A tad possessive, mind you. But he beat wings outta here once Savina was born.” Although I didn’t want to make any assumptions about the woman from her garb alone… Her profession does seem obvious in hindsight.

Faylie says, “Typical dragon! Hope his hoard got stolen.” Just as quickly as an indignant snarl crossed her lips, Faylie’s face switches to surprise. “Oh, speaking of hoarding. Is that was Savina was doing? Her, um, treasure instinct?”

“Well… she’d never done that before, is the thing. It started a few weeks ago, right before she… she…” Mrs. Matricia starts to bawl again. “Oh, my sweet daughter!”

“We’ll find her, Mrs. Matricia! We’re hot on the case!” Faylie gives her a thumbs up, that wholly fails to encourage.

I wonder why Alabastra sent these two to comfort the woman, if they’re so truly terrible at it. And, as far as the missing girl goes… I shake the thought away. Tragedy or no, it has nothing to do with my predicament. I assume these three will get on that once they’re done with… whatever this is.

“Come here often?”, a voice says right next to me. I jump, scrambling my arms away. Alabastra snuck right up on me. For however sneaky Faylie can be, the most practiced thief is all but a ghost when she feels like it.

She laughs, and shouts, “Girls! We’re outta here.”

Faylie and Tegan give their final words of encouragement to the dwarf, and return to us. “We have the best gossip, Allie!”, says Faylie, pumping her fists slightly.

“Can’t wait to hear it. But business first. C’mon.” She pulls us back toward the exit.

As we go, Graolo again stops us. “Thank you for stopping by, Alabastra.”

She grins. “Anytime, Graolo. I’d offer a hand with the usual stuff, but, we’re kinda puttin’ out fires right now. As you can tell.” Alabastra points with her thumb back in the direction of Stilton.

“That’s alright. Though, a shame you are busy. We’re running low a little on food, could use some of those sticky fingers of yours…” He wiggles his hands in front of her face.

Alabastra pulls her mouth aside, consternation demanded by the man’s attempt at pity. I pull back the urge to roll my eyes. Heroic types are so… easy. Faylie looks up at Alabastra with gleaming puppy dog eyes, pleading.

“Yeah, alright.” She seems to come to a decision, and pulls a wad of cash out of her trench coat. She palms it into Graolo’s hands. “S’yours. Get ’em what they need.”

The old man handles the cash like a newborn pup, gentle and elated. “Yes. Yes! Of course, Alabastra! Thank you, we will do our best.” Graolo slips the money into his own coat. I try not to think cynically about the ultimate destination of that cash. If Alabastra trusts him… well, then he’s likely a few cards short of a deck, but unlikely to run off with it. Not that it matters to me; it’s not my money to give away, after all. Hells, it’s almost certainly not even hers.

“Take care, Graolo. And, uh, maybe spend that lickety-split.” She pats him on the shoulder, and ushers us out. The sights and sounds of Stilton stretch away as I give it one last curious glance. The exact kind of odd place I’d expect Alabastra to end up a stewardess for.

As soon as we’re around the bend, Alabastra says, “Alright, got us a lead.”

“From talking to the girl?”, I ask.

“Yyyep.” She smiles wide at the three of us. “We’re goin’ right to the vamp’s lair.”

* * *

The “vampire’s lair” we find ourselves outside of is anything but, considering the fact that it is not my own home. A decrepit dwelling atop a small hill, two stories tall of rotten wood and ramshackle make, it may even be abandoned.  Alabastra led us through at least two neighborhoods, circling back on herself multiple times, before we’ve finally arrived. She issues an, “A-ha!”, and marches up the hill.

Above us, I hear the telltale squawking of Alabastra’s bird. She sent it away when we left my abode, and it has only now caught with us again. Just as I was beginning to believe its absence would slip into welcome permanence. At least it has the good grace to stay in the sky. Where it belongs.

Though falling apart, it is a decent home when compared to its surroundings. Perhaps due to its hilltop location, risen above the low level of muck that seeds Grennard’s streets.

As we approach I notice, despite all initial evidence to the contrary, signs of recent dwelling here. The walkway leading up the hill is stained with muddy footprints, the mailbox marked up in indication of recent delivery. Even a light on, in the upstairs window. Surely they wouldn’t extend this charade so far as to break into some poor unfortunate’s home…

Alabastra steps onto the porch, turning to us. “Alright, girls-and-guy, no telling what this thing is capable of, so be ready for any…”

“Vampyness?”, Faylie offers.

“Definitely not a real word”, Tegan interjects.

Their leader continues, “We’re just gonna have to go in, bows blazing. Ready?”

They wouldn’t. Someone clearly lives here…!

“One…”, Alabastra counts. Tegan steps forward, looking nervous, but rearing back to kick the door in. “Two…” Faylie joins beside her, producing another card, arcana pouring from its face in reddish energy. They’ve brought this charade right to the edge. And they seem intent to carry it out. To make fools of themselves and break several laws just to prove a point. These ridiculous, petty thieves. They’re going to force it out of me.

Dammit. Gods damn you, Alabastra Camin. I can’t take this train crash anymore. As the ‘three’ kisses the edge of her tongue, I yell, “Stop!”

The women look to me, surprised, but with a wave of relief behind it. I sigh. Their excruciating escapades have stripped away every last scrap of resistance I had. Perhaps it was a sign of my cowardice, that I did not, could not, admit it right from the start, but I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m exhausted.

“Stop…” I close my eyes, let the pains wash through me, over me, and breathe it all out. I have fought it long enough… no one can say I didn’t try. It’s time to let go. “You won’t find your vampire in there. Because…”—the three are looking, hanging on my words, eyes full of pure focus—”Because the vampire… is me.”

They stare for a moment. A drawn out pause, seconds and yet eternities long, in which they only glance at each other, then back to me.

And then, in perfect synchronicity:

“Whaaat?”, says Tegan.

“Nooooo…”, says Faylie.

“Say it ain’t so!”, says Alabastra.

I stare back. My eyes harden, and I draw a single, long, and tired breath. Bastards have played me for a fool.

“… You knew the whole time, didn’t you?”

Alabastra grins. “Right from the start. Let’s talk inside.” She pulls a set of lockpicks from an inside pocket of her coat, and in one swift motion, unlocks the door and pushes into the building.

BANG BANG BANG

A loud knocking from somewhere below pulls me from my stupor. Once again, I am inundated in sweat and panic. I hold myself just off the floor with crossed arms, sputtering and struggling to breathe.

BANG BANG BANG

A fist, or maybe several, against wood, with glass shaking in the mix. Light streams into my living space from the still-shattered window. Every muscle in my body aches, and I am cold and clammy and burning all at once. My heart, rarely rising above a deathly 30 beats-per-minute, now feels as if it’s attempting to knock down the walls of my chest.

BANG BANG BANG

“HEY!”, someone shouts from the street below. I clutch at my center, close my eyes, and focus, trying to bring myself some sort of calm. No time for reflection, it seems; my deeds have caught up to me at last. Best not keep the police, or clergy, or monster hunters, or angry mob waiting. I stand, and trudge downstairs. Each step brings with it a pounding in my own skull, memories of the thousands of journeys up and down this flight before. The landing comes all too soon.

Through the door window, I discern the arbiters of my fate.

Of course.

Alabastra Camin and her cadre mill about just outside my shop. They’ve stopped slamming on the wood, backs turned. I almost consider returning to my spot on the floor while they’re distracted, to wait for the next pitchfork-wielders to come and exact bloody justice. But, no. They’re persistent; they’d just break in.

I march to the door and throw it open. The three women are mid-conversation with an officious human dressed in a double-breasted navy coat. A policeman, hands on his hips, eyeing the three with a suspicious anger.

“Why don’t I tell you exactly where you can put that badge”, says Alabastra. Correction; they are mid-argument with a police officer. I’m not sure why I expected any different. The three notice the opening door at their back, turning to me in shock, then a confused sort of warmth.

Behind them, the officer raises a brow. “Are these ruffians bothering you, sir?” I consider leveraging the officer to force the three to leave, but not only would that go exceedingly poorly, it’s also something I’m not partial to doing. Our business is the sort to be handled quick and bloodily, I imagine, and I don’t want to bring the ire of the law down on them for it. Further down on them, anyways.

“No, officer. That’ll be all”, I say.

The policeman looks me up and down, then rolls his eyes and walks away. “Crazies all over these days”, he mutters under his breath as he goes. Without another word, I turn back inside the building. Behind me, I hear Faylie blow a raspberry at the cop’s back.

The women stomp after me, and the door slams shut. I catch the wingbeats of Alabastra’s raven on her shoulder, but drop my rising objections. It won’t matter soon, anyways.

For a moment, I simply stand there in the center of my shop, back to the three. Waiting for their first move. But they make no indications or motions. They’re not even accusing me yet. We’re stalled and frozen.

“… Oscar?”, Faylie finally says. I can’t help but bristle, my walls fallen so far I can’t even put up a front of resistance.

“Well?” My voice is hoarser than I expected. “What are you waiting for?”

A silent beat stretches out, long and empty. No weapons, no spells, just… silence. Then, Alabastra responds, voice sincere and nonchalant, “… My order?”

I turn. They’re staring at me in shared confusion. Her order… They’re just here for Alabastra’s order. I can’t help but smack my own forehead, cringing inside of myself. “Right.” I let out a long, drawn-out sigh, and look Alabastra in the eye. “I don’t have your potion.”

Alabastra takes me in, considering me with new eyes. And then, all at once does the most expected and unexpected thing she could do. She smiles. That infuriating, cocky, unflappable grin, complete with a hand to her hip. “Gee, Moodie, don’t you know not to string a girl along?”

I want to scream, to cry, to throw acid in her face, to bend my head for the sword. Instead, I sigh, close my eyes, and issue a deadpan, “Apologies.” In hindsight, it was ridiculous to not have cancelled our arrangement the other day entirely. After all, there was only one way this was ever going to end. I should have recommended her another apothecary, or, better yet… Better yet… “Let me make it up to you.”

“Ooh. I like where this is goin’, girls.” She turns to her partners in crime. Faylie claps her hands together excitedly, and Tegan burns a hole through me with her eyes, arms crossed. The blonde pivots back to me. “What’s the lucky prize, Moodie? Lifetime supply?”

“In a sense. I’m going to show you how to make it yourself.” As I say that, Alabastra’s face falls, ever so slightly. “Follow me.” I turn and march upstairs. Already I hear the three murmuring to themselves, but I tune out the specifics.

It’s only fair; Alabastra shouldn’t have to suffer the indignities of loss of self after I’m gone. I should know; it’s a fate to avoid. To slip into something you tried so hard not to be, to feel your body take control against your will. And, maybe some good will come of trying to play alchemy teacher. She might even pick up a knack for it. At least then I can pretend to have made some tiny difference, before the last knife comes.

As we make it to the second floor, I think about how long it’s been since anyone but myself was up here. Save for the unconscious woman, of course, it must have been a year or more at least—no one of consequence, maybe a mover or plumber. No one who’s name I’d remember, anyway—in that regard, it’s been at least half a decade.

“Wow, Bromley. It’s, uh… cozy…”, says Tegan. Then they stop. I turn to see they’re all staring at something, and follow their eyeline to the futon. The cushions are soaked through with rust-colored blood stains. And beside it, the shattered glass of the window remains un-swept. I never bothered to clean up after the incident yesterday.

This will require an explanation. I would like to complete this business with Alabastra before they change their mind about smiting me, at the very least. “I had a patient, yesterday. A young woman.”

Alabastra lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Wait, wait. You were the one that dropped that girl off at the Dawnlord’s temple?” Ah, right. Of course they would have already followed up on the latest victim of their quarry.

“I was, yes. Is she…”

“She’s fine!”, chirps Faylie. “Well… not fine fine, but, you know! Fine!”

Alabastra steps forward. “What Glowbug means is, she’ll live. Ain’t woke up yet, but, she’ll make a full turn around. At least, accordin’ to Kansis.” Her eyes drift away, surveying the scene. “But that vamp did a real number on her…”

My throat seizes. If I say anything, will they suspect me? Do they already? But, if they do, why haven’t they struck me down yet? I decide to prod around the edges. “So, then, are you close? With your hunt, I mean.”

Tegan lets out a long ‘uhhhhh‘, before Alabastra cuts in, “We think so. Got a couple leads, but we need some more evidence.”

“Right”, says Tegan.

“Right!”, concurs Faylie.

“Right…”, I mirror. That was as vague as I’ve come to expect from Alabastra. She could mean anything from ‘We have absolutely no idea‘, to ‘We’re thirty seconds from stabbing you.’

The blonde walks closer to the scene, observing the blood stains with an inquisitor’s eye. “Was a good thing, you did. Saving that girl.”

I scoff. I wish people would stop trying to heap praise upon me for this. “It wasn’t even a choice.” I look to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but their eyes.

“Not everyone woulda done it.” She crouches down, knees bent in a perch as she looks over the glass. “Where’d ya find her, anyhow?”

Tegan and Faylie fan out over my apartment, looking over the kitchen, meandering down the hallway. I almost want to corral them back, but there isn’t much point. “An alley, across the street. I saw her in distress”, I say to the half-elf.

“And you don’t know what happened to her?” She looks directly at me, brows knit in confusion.

“No.” I can make a guess, of course. But that’s all it would be, really. A guess.

Her jaw grinds, chewing on the cud of the mystery she’s stumbled upon. “And the glass?”

“I honestly don’t know. I woke to the window broken.”

“And… your glasses?”

I touch the side of my frames, noticing the fracture up my vision that I’d been mentally tuning out. “Same answer.” Is this her evidence gathering, then? Am I feeding her my own demise? I don’t see the point of her little games, if so. If she wants a confession, all she has to do is ask.

From down the hallway, Faylie yells, “This place is so nice!” Tegan and her begin a small squabble, that ends abruptly with Faylie darting out of my bedroom. “Way better than our hovel, anyways. But your walls are so empty, Oscar!” I look down the hallways she’s bounding through, perfectly unadorned with decoration, save for the single photograph. Why would I need to plaster my walls with anything more?

Tegan strolls out behind her, giving the faun a harmless flick on the side of the head. “Ignore her.” She readjusts a pauldron on her armor. “You said you healed her up?”

“It was a simple matter. A few concentrated healing potions did the trick. Though, I did have to brew an emergency batch.” I pivot to Alabastra. “Someone bought out my entire stock.”

“And said someone will put them to very good use!” Alabastra stands, dusting her hands off.

The three have reconvened around me. I swivel around to face them all at once. “If you’re done with your interrogation, the workstation is in my office.” I march down the hallway, past the paladin and the faun, and crack open the office door. Again I hear them whispering behind me, too low to catch.

Raising her voice above the din, Faylie asks, “Oscar… why can’t we just keep using your supply?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the lesson”, Alabastra adds, “But you know you don’t owe me anything, right? You don’t even charge for the stuff. And, like I said, I can wait!”

I stop in the doorway. Do they not understand? “If I’m not… here, Alabastra, you still deserve your autonomy.” I can feel their eyes like search beams into my back, but I do not dare turn around. “I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with you, but you deserve that much, at least.”

When they have nothing to say to that, I step into my office. The recipe calls for an abundance of water. As I approach the station, I notice the cauldron still holds the sedative, bubbling slightly, quite significantly boiled off. Only now do I realize that it worked. No further complications. I flip open my notebook, and encircle the concocted recipe. On the off chance that it will even matter, by tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow.

I dump the remnant potion down the side drain, and start the cauldron boiling anew. The trio enter my office with uncharacteristic trepidation. “We’ll need red trillium, ochre acid, lifeleaf, and rashvine. Collect them all downstairs. You’ll find the flowers on the first floor, look in the remedies section. The ochre acid will be in the basement, in the cabinets. They’re labelled alphabetically, so it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

The three simply stand there, nearly slack-jawed. Then, Alabastra says through the sideways slant of her mouth, “Well, you heard him ladies. Get to it.”

“What? It’s your potion”, grumbles Tegan.

“Delegation, girls. First rule of bein’ a leader. Shake a leg!” She claps her hands to accentuate. The other two roll their eyes, and march like grounded children out of the office. Alabastra crosses her arms, and leans back against the wall. Her slung quiver bumps into shelf, and she stands straight up again, startled.

I certainly do not need to stifle a chuckle. Then, she simply stares at me a moment too long. I crack. “What?”

She grins, letting out a soft snicker. “Remember, at the Institute, when you needed that one plant for your midterms? And you couldn’t find it in any shops?”

I roll my eyes. This again. The incident she hangs over my head like the implicit threat of an unfallen blade. “The other students bought out all the dawn lotus in the city in bulk. It was being sold at a premium, and I’d… wasted the few I could afford.”

“I knew that look in your eye, the moment I saw it. Down on your luck, without the money or influence to buy your way out.”

Hands occupied with turning the burners, filling receptacles, and readjusting the alembic, I can only accentuate with an overdramatic shrug. “Yes, yes, you’re a paragon, Alabastra—you know that already. Is there a point to this anecdote?”

She saunters forward, closer, towering a head above me. She leans with one hand on my workstation, trying to catch my eye as I labor. Distracting me. “The point, Moodie, is that I stole you that flower because I know what it’s like to be dealt a raw hand. Because I wanted to help you. And I still do. Because you’re just like me.”

I look at her, incredulous. “We are nothing alike.”

The very notion is insulting, to the both of us. Alabastra is everything I am not. Confident, obstructive, obstreperous, unabashedly herself in every way, impossible to ignore. Alive.

Even before she was herself, she was a rambunctious clown who nevertheless spent her time excelling at nearly anything she tried. A star pupil, athlete, and popular to boot… but also, hollow in some way. A certain sadness that only became obvious with hindsight. But since the moment she announced who she was to the world, her most admirable and infuriating qualities all at once skyrocketed, that hollowness burned out with a newfound inner light. She arrived to our political science lecture wearing the gaudiest dress I’ve seen in my life, complete with a sash bearing her new name in print. She assured everyone who asked that it was not a joke, or a lost bet, or an elaborate performance—it was a statement. From that day forth, she was Alabastra Camin. And she refused to let you forget it.

She lost social standing, but what she gained, I imagine couldn’t be put into words. I was one of the few who still treated her as I had before—with begrudging acquaintance at her insistence. In some ways, I suppose I envied her confidence. How opposite she was from me. Perhaps that, in itself, was why I stuck near her. Like I might capture some of that self-assurance by staying in her wake. As to why she bothered with me—I imagine she simply enjoyed that our contrast made her shine all the brighter. The darkness of space to her brilliant moonlight.

Alabastra’s brows are raised at my objection. “Really?” She begins to count on her fingers as she says, “We’re both gutter trash from the outer city, even if you don’t act like it. Parents ain’t part of our lives. Sharp as a tack… and not exactly everyone’s cup of tea. And, we care. Despite it all we can’t stop ourselves from caring. And!”—she lightly slams her fist down on the counter, muffled by the impact of her fingerless glove—”Don’t pretend to not know what else I’m talking about!”

I blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She sputters, sticking her hands up in disbelief. “So you just… happened to have the exact solution to my very specific problem, before I even asked to call in any kind of favor?”

“I don’t enjoy owing people.”

“Another way we’re similar! And entirely not my point.” She crosses her arms, looking down like she’s waiting for some kind of confession.

Before I can respond to whatever it is she thinks she’s getting at, the door to the office swings open once more. Tegan and Faylie step forward, arms full of the herbs I asked for, plus several more I did not. Faylie says, “We weren’t sure what was what down there, so, we kinda just grabbed a bunch of stuff.”

Tegan adds, “Also, bird’s eatin’ the wormwood, Allie.”

“Paella!”, Alabastra hollers like a disappointed mother toward the stairs. A loud CAW resounds in response.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. How do these three even survive on their own? I inch Faylie closer with my finger. “This”—I pick off a maroon flower with a thick bud in its center from the top of the pile—”Is red trillium. That is rashvine, which you should not be handling without gloves.” Faylie immediately drops the gathered herbs onto the floor with an eep. I slip on a large gardening mitt and pick up the rashvine, along with a large green leaf with a pulsing white vein of arcana running down the stem. “And this is lifeleaf.”

Alabastra looks down at the accidental garden. “So, then which of these do I have to thank for giving me my chest?”

“That’s not— that isn’t how that works.”

The half-elf arches her back. “I beg to differ.”

I dart my eyes away. Vulgar twit. Suddenly my face feels hot—probably from the steam. “Your body does the… growing. The elixir is just a compound meant to stimulate a change in your biochemistry. None of the individual parts give you anything.”

Of course, she knows this; not that knowing stops her from being purposefully obtuse to get a rise out of me. I explained as such when I first created it, after all. I happened to read ahead in my medical books, and was up to date on the breakthroughs made on hormonal synthetization. The subject was naturally fascinating on its own merits. I lost a few nights down the rabbit hole of the theorized effects—all hypothetical of course. It was hardly a stretch to extrapolate from medicine to alchemy. I’d later discovered that I wasn’t even the first to have the idea, really; only perhaps the first to execute it, in ways beyond the practices of haruspices and shamans.

Actually devising the elixir turned out to be a trifling matter, armed with knowledge as I was. And doing so ensured I would never owe Alabastra again, so doubly worthwhile. And she herself espoused the virtues when I explained what it did (after she stopped hugging me and crying, that is); one could seek out a mage to change their body with the snap of their fingers, but she always scoffed at that. I never did understand exactly why—perhaps the cost? Or, maybe something to do with the impermanent nature of magic? After all, any spell, no matter how complicated, could be dispelled or countered. In this case, alchemy is only doing what medicine would be doing, but better and faster; this is simple biology.

And besides, it was practically a necessity that I assist. Seeing Alabastra caged within her own form as she was; it was simply wrong. Incorrect. She is a creature of unadulterated freedom. Regardless of her tiring personality, something within me screamed to help her. That she remains a shining beacon of self-freedom is a notion that cannot be tampered with. Perhaps that’s why I never charged her for it.

That, and I wouldn’t exactly expect her to make regular payments, anyways.

I set the lifeleaf and rashvine down on the counter. “Use the mortar and pestle to grind these into a salt mixture, then add them to the cauldron. We’re going to dissolve the trillium in the acid, heat it, and drip feed the resulting syrup into the batch.”

For all their bumbling, the three are surprisingly attentive students. In some ways, I expected as much from Alabastra, but Faylie was always a scatterbrained sort. I’ve always considered her a mage in title alone—her grasp of the art was previously dilettantish at best. And Tegan, the only one of the four of us to not attend the Institute, I’ve never even seen in a learning environment. She always struck me as uninterested, uncurious, but here she sits, hanging on my words, following along, even asking questions as we go. I wonder why she never enrolled.

Soon the mixture takes on its telltale pink and bubbly consistency. A coincidence, I always assured Alabastra, despite her jests. “There”, I say, “I hope you paid attention, but I’ll write down the recipe in case you forget. Fill as many flasks as you can carry.” I turn the next page in my notebook, writing the steps line by line.

Alabastra looks to the bubbling cauldron, then to me, then to her cadre. “Team meeting, ladies.” She ushers the other two out the door, leaving me alone in my office. I finish the potion recipe, underlining the parts I suspect they are most likely to forget, and rip out the page, laying it on the workstation next to the empty flasks.

Behind the door, I hear the muffled voices of the three in heated conversation. It would be impertinent to eavesdrop, but my hearing has always been, at times to my own detriment, excellent. I catch my name thrown around a fair few times. If they’re discussing plans of attack, it was foolish to leave me alone. If I were any less accepting of my imminent fate, there are dozens of methods by which I could escape.

So what are they waiting for? Surely they know. They’ve humored me, gotten some small benefit, pretended I am the person they used to think I was—that I was ever a person at all—for long enough. Now they have a job to do, adventurous types that they are.

I look over my office. Ghosts of my past repeat in my head, countless hours spent over this station, or deep in research at my desk. Nearly my entire adult life, confined to this room and the one below it. There’s little point in dwelling on the inevitable regrets. That I didn’t see more, do more. That I never loved or was loved in return. Of course it’s pointless to mourn; the comforts and enjoyments of the living were never more than a tantalus temptation for me.

The door cracks open. Alabastra, flanked as she ever has been by her posse, says, “Change of plans, Moodie. Get yourself dressed—you’re comin’ with us.”

Oh. They intend to take me alive, then. See that I face justice in a more proper way? Not what I expected of these three. That does prolong things, but it’s ultimately acceptable. The same end point. “I see.” I stand.

“And together, we’re gonna hunt us a vampire.”

…What.

I am not at home.

My skin shivers in the freezing night air. I dart my eyes in a panic. I’m in an alley, garbage litters the stonework around me. My hands are stained red. As is the floor. And—

No, no no Gods no please.

A young woman, no older than 20, with a bob of honey-blonde hair, wearing a fuzzy yellow jacket and a long skirt, lays coated in her own blood beside me. Instantly I feel faint. Nausea triples over, and what little contents were within my stomach are now without, as I retch liquid vomit onto the floor. The bile is damningly colored in crimson.

I begin to hyperventilate. My fingertips start to sting as oxygen struggles to reach them, and a general numbness takes me. My hands shake so hard I can’t grasp a thing. It’s hard to tell if the blur in my eyes is born of tears or my lack of spectacles. And my fangs, that I work so hard to keep retracted, jut sharply into my lower lip. I feel I may vomit again.

Where am I? How could this happen—what is wrong with me?! The panic, the loathing, and the sickness all start to mix, and soon I feel I may pass out again. Perhaps that would be best. Someone will eventually find me like this, and put me down like the monster I am. My just deserts.

I hear a ratty breath that I did not feel through my own throat. It’s… light, airy. I almost dare not look, but… I have to know. I tender a second glance at the girl. Her midsection is coated in blood. Two rounded pinpoints of perfect parallel wounds glisten on her neck. And her chest heaves with air. I scramble forward, placing my fingers along the unwounded side of her neck. For a moment, nothing—and then the telltale thump-thump of a weak but defiant pulse.

A gasp of mixed relief and terror escapes me. I have to act.

I maneuver my hands beneath her prone form, attempting to hoist the dying woman. My underused muscles scream in protest, but I manage to lift her. On wobbly legs, I step around the alley’s corner and observe my surroundings. To my surprise, I am close to home. Just across the street, and down a block, I spy my abode, window ajar and spilling light into the night sky. There is deathly silence on the streets, not one soul milling about. I stagger hurriedly across the road, the woman in my arms unbalancing my steps. Would that I could skip straight to the open window.

Bursting through my front door, my arms feeling like they may give out quite soon, I bolster myself with the last drop of strength I can manage, and march upstairs. At the ascent, I stumble toward the ratty pea green futon in the living space. I set the woman down as gingerly as I can manage, and collapse. I have only a moment to catch my breath, but a necessary moment it is.

My legs kick out, and I hear a clinking sound as the soles of my boots collide with something. I sit up, pulling forward to see the broken shards of glass pane at the foot of the ajar window, broken by some force. Amidst the glass, my spectacles lay face down. I pick them up, cringing at the spiderweb fracture up the right lens, and put them back on. My vision once more sharpens, defines, and becomes cast in shaded red.

Brushing myself off, I stand and move to assess the woman. She’s still breathing, ragged and weak. The wounds on her abdomen, four parallel lines of stark ruby, aren’t bleeding her out, but if she’s lost enough blood already, that won’t matter. It’s impossible to tell from a glance how deep the wounds go. She needs both immediate healing, and long-term aid. I am no nurse or carer, but I think I can ensure she lives to dawn. To start, if I administer her a quick healing potion—

I stop, remembering. I sold all of my healing potions. To Alabastra. Dammit. Gods damn it. Her stolen cash may as well be coated in blood.

Fine. I merely need to make more. I rush to my office, taking stock of what is left from my experiments. The healing ingredients—are they why she was injured at all? My damned attempt to cut a corner—No, focus. Hypothesize later, right now her life is at stake. There are still enough ingredients to brew a potion or two. Not nearly enough—and she’ll need something far more concentrated than what’s on offer up here. I take out my notepad and furiously jot down the rough equations of what I’ll need.

I take a moment to catch the time. Just past midnight. In the absolute worst case scenario, my potion had no effect at all, and she’s been injured for… five hours. How close to reality that scenario is, is anyone’s guess.

I dash downstairs, scooping the ingredients I need by the armful. An entire white lotus, half my stock of wormwood and lifeleaf. A pinch of arsenic dust for concentration. Up to the office again, fast as I ever have, I set my furnaces to burn, and begin mixing, grinding, and stirring. Whenever I have a moment or a lull in work I crane my head around to the woman, ensure she’s still breathing, and then return to my efforts.

With the ingredients poured into the pot, all that is left is the slow grind of heat.

I dust off my hands, and turn with purpose into my washroom. Kneeling to one knee, I begin fishing under the cabinet between various bits of detritus, combs and brushes and dried sponges, collected since before my own residence here, until I’ve procured my quarry: a small metal box, it’s lid emblazoned with a white cross over chipped green paint. I slide open the first aid kit and pull out a roll of gauze. Tucking it under one arm, I march downstairs, turn behind the counter, and dart into the basement. The less eye-catching ingredients and necessary components sit tucked in well-labeled drawers that line the south and east walls. A smaller set of alchemical equipment sits atop the wooden countertops, a basic furnace in the corner, a lonely cauldron.

The main craft station used to sit here, in the basement, out of the way of any living spaces to prevent any musk or noise disturbance. After I assumed the apothecary’s running, I had the station moved into the office. It’s less of a walk, and it hardly matters, living alone, after all.

From the drawers, I grab a solution of isopropyl alcohol, and a small brown jar containing pellets of iodine. Mixing quickly in a beaker, eyeballing to 95% alcohol, I pour the solution into a flask and shake. I dash upstairs, not bothering to clean after myself.

The woman’s skin is beginning to turn pale and clammy. I set the medical supplies beside me, and bend down. Revealing her midsection to better inspect the wound, I take the bottle and pour the solution over the open cuts. The potion should take care of the majority of the healing, but these practical solutions ensure the lowest risk of infection.

I return to my work station, turning the burner off with a click. The potion should be ready. Typically there’s a cooling period, but, its healing properties aren’t diminished by heat, and the woman hardly has the time. I ladle the elixir into a flask, flitting back to the woman. Mirroring my previous motions, I start by pouring the potion out directly over her wound. Immediately, the cherry red liquid makes contact with the skin, starts to bubble, and kicks up a cloud of steam. Were she conscious, this would sting tremendously. A sizzling sound fills the air as I repeat the motion again and again, carefully dripping the elixir over each line of the wound, my thumb a stopper controlling its flow.

The magic of the potion works its way through the splits of her skin. Muscle and veins, sinew and organs all begin to knit themselves together, closing the wound behind a curtain of rejuvenating tissue. On my knees, I tilt the woman’s head forward with one hand, and feed the remainder of the potion down her throat. Her body coughs and revolts slightly, spitting the drink back up into my face, but some distant specter of consciousness kick in, and she drinks. I take the gauze, and begin to wrap around and around her midsection, until the various liquids no longer stain through.

Looking over my labor, it’s only now the exhaustion begins to take. Perhaps I could close my eyes, for just a moment…

I slap myself across my own cheek. Rest is hardly something either of us can afford. Instead, I stand, and make myself some coffee.

* * *

These scenes repeat as dawn breaks, and well after. I continue to feed her healing mixture, checking her health, her pulse, the wounds across her midriff. Her breathing and heartbeat begin to reach more typical levels, but the girl does not awake.

I can’t pretend that doesn’t relieve me. Seeing the very same monster that hurt her now doting over her would likely prove… difficult. I would not lose a patient to shock after all of this.

Patient. I scoff at myself. As if I’ve any right to play doctor, when I nearly killed her. Gods. I nearly killed this woman. The thought finally breaks through the layers of necessary compartmentalization. My heart begins to seize with guilt. Disgust wells within me, I can hardly stand. For a moment, I wish to throw myself through the shattered window.

A morbid thought occurs, wondering if I would burn up in the sun’s light before I hit the ground.

Whatever dwells within my heart, the insatiable hunger within, it struck again, despite my best efforts. The hunger, the urge for violence, is quiet now. Slumbering. Did last night’s attempt to curtail it have any effect at all? Is this cycle doomed to continue?

I look down at my hands, coated in viscera, as if I am seeing them for the first time. My shirt is likewise stained in red. As I search my torso, I notice a torn spot over my gut. I pull open my shirt along the buttons to inspect the skin beneath. A long scar, new to me, lies just above my hipbone. I trace along the line, flinching slightly at the cold-sensitive skin. The tear in my shirt matches its trajectory.

Evidently, I was wounded. Not that it seemed to stop me, if I’ve healed it off so quickly. Yet, something pulled me from the brink of killing her. I shake my head, a frustrated malaise cast over me like a cowl. I look back at her. Who is she? Did I pick her deliberately? Or was she just a random target?

I have no right to her private matters, especially after what I did, but perhaps I might still return her home. Or, at least chart a course for her to do so. Though it feels ignoble, I begin to turn out her coat pockets, searching for some sign of identification. A small booklet catches at my fingertips. I pull it out and turn it over in my hands, reading the front page: Black Gates Passage Papers. Inside is all the information I need: Grace Forsyth, twenty years old. A long string of numbers and letters is printed along the bottom, on pages full of stamps. She’s from Firvus Heights? A runaway socialite, slumming it here in The Reds? What reason could she possibly have for coming to the outer city?

This makes getting her home an all but impossible proposition. The Sable Guard are picky about who they let onto the hilltop. It’s possible this girl is lost, and returning her might even win me undeserved favor. More likely, however, is that she isn’t welcome back home, or they’d assume (correctly) that I’d harmed her, and would put me to the sword immediately. That is one option, but if she’s an outcast, that helps no one.

Better to leave her at a local temple. They can look after her, and once she’s conscious, assist her in either returning home, or settling into a life without it. I return the document to her pocket, and consider the complications with this plan.

Most notably, it would mean testing the sunlight on my skin.

I put a hand to the girl— to Grace’s forehead, and check her pulse once more. I’ve done all I can for her, and I cannot guarantee she’ll survive. Even if I could, if she wakes, she’d be well within her rights to refuse my help. She can’t stay here, for both our sakes. The next step is a forgone conclusion.

The blackout curtains of the broken window rustle in the wind before me. If I’ve been made an enemy of the sun, at least I can say I did not hide forever. Gingerly, I begin to pull the curtain aside, peeling it slowly back like a fruit skin. Sunlight creeps into my flat, dust particles lit up and dancing in the fluorescence. Slowly, shakily, I reach a hand toward the light, closing my eyes as I outstretch, expecting at any moment to burn.

Nothing. I open my eyes. The sun caresses my fingertips; its light scattered across my palm, not a burn, but a gentle warmth. In for a copper… I throw open the curtain entirely, letting the light shine on me. Ah, too bright! Even with my shades, I have to shield my eyes. Right. I may not be melting, but a creature of the night I remain. Still, despite the flash blinding, it seems that most damning of curses has yet to affect me. I can’t help but feel foolish for my abundance of caution, but at least now I know.

I look down at Grace, still unconsciously fighting for her life. I’ll need to carry the girl around if I wish to take her anywhere from here.

Well, perhaps a stamina elixir might assist. I turn back towards my office.

* * *

In addition to a stamina booster, I change out of my bloodied clothes. Not for my own comfort, but to limit any uncomfortable questions. Empowered, and caffeinated, I lift the girl with ease, feeling the strength of the potion bolster my might. Walking backwards out the front door to lock it behind, I hear the expected bedlam of shocked and surprised gasps. Pedestrians look on with curious trepidation.

I’m used to it. I move to the edge of the sidewalk and hail a taxi coach.

An open-topped horse-drawn carriage pulls to a stop beside me—the driver a human man with a bushy mustache, dumbstruck at the sight before him. I place Grace carefully into the backseat, and slip the driver a hefty tip as I climb into the passenger seat beside him. “The Dawnlord’s temple, this woman needs healing.”

For a moment, he assesses me, then Grace,  like he’s trying to decide if I’m in jest, or perhaps setting up an elaborate robbery. Then, he sighs and shrugs, pockets the payment, and hyahs his horses forward.

As we move through the streets of The Reds, my thoughts turn back to my work. The sedative—did it truly have no effect? Or, perhaps, did it simply kick in late? Something stopped the monster within from drinking this girl down to the last drop. Not conscience, surely. And not satiation; I know from experience how easy it is to forget myself, lost in bloodthirst, and lose all self-control; and that’s when I’ve not been afflicted by hungers of an otherworldly nature. Obviously, she had no third party savior, either. If anyone else had been there, they almost certainly would have helped the girl, or at least finished me off.

My sedative is the only solution that makes sense. It would have worked—it did work. But the healing ingredients—I purposefully neutered its effectiveness, for my own comfort. I ignored the potential consequences of my little trial run, and her life was nearly the cost. I cannot be so careless again. I will not. I pull out my notepad, and begin readjusting the formula. The bumpy brick road makes writing difficult, and buttressed by the strength of the potion, one particular bump causes me to snap my pencil clean in two. “Dammit“, I mutter under my breath. The driver chuckles, and for a moment I imagine clawing his face off.

I shake my head until the thought is gone. My hand fishes around the bottom of the carriage for the usable half of my pencil, and I finish my adjustments.

The carriage slows, and ahead I see the Dawnlord’s temple approaching. A tall, white cathedral with yellow and orange stained glass up the sides of its steeples. Were Alabastra here, and aware of my nature, I’m sure she’d have some all too clever quip about a vampire walking into the Place of the Sun.

Picking Grace up once more, I thank the driver and hurry inside. The interior is built of marbles and linoleums, lined with pews and lit by kaleidoscopic color, sunlight tinged in brilliant hues. A half dozen or so robed or lightly armored figures mill about, tending to a small congregation of everymen absorbed in prayer. Immediately I am uncomfortable. A temple is not my favored locale, and for the expected reasons. Any one of these clerics need only grow curious enough to recognize the blood-starved thing trespassing in their midst to turn me to ash.

Ahead, standing in silence and reading lightly from a book of scripture at the altar, I try desperately to catch the eye of the only man here I trust. Father Kansis is a dwarf of ashy blond hair, stout and stocky, a beard pulled into neat knots, with warm brown eyes framed by the heavy wrinkles on his face. His white and gold robes carry the stains of an age of humble work.

Finally he notices me, and the shock on his face must be for both my visit at all, and the collapsed woman in my arms. “Oscar? Oscar Bromley! What’s th’ meaning of this?”

I shift uncomfortably. “Her name is Grace. I… found her injured. I’ve done all I can to ensure she lives, but…” I can only hope he doesn’t further interrogate any of my half-truths.

He only nods sagely, and motions me toward a backroom. It is a small dormitory, unadorned of decoration and sparse in furniture, and bathed in purple and orange from the small, lonely window atop its eastern wall.

I set Grace down on the bed, and turn to Father Kansis with a sigh. “I’m sorry to disrupt you with this, Father.”

He doesn’t look back. Instead, he inspects the girl. “What happened ta her?”

That is an excellent question. “I’m not entirely sure, but… I think she was attacked.”

His eyes grow wide, curious and fearful, and he turns the girl’s head to see the other side of her neck, exposing the now scabbed-over tooth marks. His shoulders startle. “Dawnlord preserve us… the vampire…”

“That… looks to be the case…” I try not to cringe too visibly.

Father Kansis reaches underneath his robes, and produces the holy symbol slung around his neck with a beaded chain. He clutches the emblem shaped in the suggestion of a sunrise, and his voice booms with magic, “CURO“. Golden light spills between his fingers. He guides that light with his other hand like a potter with clay, waving it over the girl. The light dims from his hands, and he turns back to me. “It seems there’s not much more ta be done as far as th’ magical side of things go, save fer a much more powerful spell.”

I nod. “I did what I could at my shop.”

“Ah, that makes sense!” The Father smiles up at me, and it twists my chest in guilty tangles. He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew. This wasn’t noble. Just undoing a mistake. “Ya did good, Oscar.”

Compliments are difficult when they’re not wholly undeserved. Now, I have to control myself just to not laugh in his face. “Yeah…”

He asks, still looking her over, “Is there anything else ya can tell me?”

“She’s from the heights. I think, anyways. I don’t know why she was down here.”

He raises a brow. “The heights? That is a strange one…” Kansis nods, catching on to the same conclusions I drew. “We’ll look after her, then. Should she need it.”

“And her wounds?” I cross my arms, still uncomfortable.

“Right. She’s lost a lotta blood. She’ll need a transfusion. A transfusion, and rest. Th’ hospital can provide th’ former, we can provide th’ later.” He pats me on the bicep. “We’ll do what we can.”

A sigh of relief escapes me. I knew my trust in the good Father wouldn’t be misplaced. “Thank you, Father. I…”

…I what? Apologize? Am grateful that he is in a position to clean up my mistake? Saying that would bring me dangerously close to divulging my sins. Damning myself with my own words. To reveal that the boy he’s known for a decade was a filthy sinner, a bloodsucking fiend the entire time—it would break his heart. Earn his ire, and for good reason. Honesty would destroy him. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Perhaps that makes me a coward.

But I have no intention of forcing the good Father to bury another Bromley today.

“Inform me, if and when she’s home safe, Father.”

Kansis looks up at me, a stern but agreeable smirk across his face. “I can do that. And…”, he begins, leading me out of the bedchamber, “I know ya run that shop on a tight margin. If ya need any compensation fer whatever materials ya expended—”

“No.” I wince at my own rudeness. “No, it’s-it’s fine. I don’t want anything. I can make do.”

He chuckles once. “I understand.” Does he? I look down at him, searching for any indication that he means more than he lets on. He’s a better liar than I thought if he does. “Just, don’t forget. Ye’r always welcome in the Palace of the Sun, Oscar, even if ya don’t share our faith. Whatever ya need.”

I appreciate the sentiment, but I have trouble believing that’s true. Even the kindest soul can only be expected to extend their generosity so far. If he could see the totality of what I am, what I’ve done—he’d be right to draw the line. “Good luck, Kansis.”

“Take care of yourself, Oscar. Walk in the Dawnlord’s light.”

Ha. My stomach curdles.

I leave the temple, ignoring the gossip growing at my back from the other believers and clergymen. Best to walk home, not least as my carriage driver has already moved along. The stamina elixir will last another hour or so—might as well not let it go to waste.

Defiantly un-banished by the sun, I let my feet and memory carry me through the streets of my home borough.

* * *

Motions mechanical, like the automatons of the hilltop, I collect the ingredients I need from downstairs. I’ve cut deep into my supply, trying to fix the mess I’ve found myself in, or clean up after the mistakes of those attempts. Were I more capable of worrying about the future, I might fret over the long-term financial cost of the past weeks. But even the banality of the thought makes me laugh. I can hardly conceive of tomorrow. Much less agonize over the coming months. My life has become so consumed by the present, I imagine it eating away the past and future like a monster devouring time.

What new horrors await me at the other end of the night? That would be madness to speculate.

I begin to mix the sedative.

I’ve often imagined myself as unfortunate. Unfortunate to be born afflicted as I am, unfortunate in body, and spirit. Now, I know. I am nothing less than cursed. Cursed by some higher power, to suffer outrageous fortune. Cursed to degrade, ragged voice unheard as my life spirals out of my control. Cursed to know that I can only bring ruin if I try to reverse course, cursed to try anyways. Cursed to destroy, and cursed to care. Cursed to be stuck in this body, this name, craving blood, filled with unattainable want.

‘Take care of yourself‘, the Father had said. But would taking care of myself mean letting the darkness out? Is the only kindness I can muster for myself cruelty upon others?

I look down at the brew, stirred to near completion. Again my own reflection breaks upon the bubbling liquid. Perhaps this was all I ever deserved.

I take a flask from my work station, dip it into the cauldron, and fill it to brim with the gray-blue liquid. And I drink. And then I dip the flask back inside, and I drink. And I dip it once more.

And I drink.

I collapse on the floor of my office, drowning away the monster within.

The rest of the day passes with comparatively less fanfare. At least, none of my other customers reveal they’re unwittingly conspiring to kill me.

Unwittingly. Is that even true? I wouldn’t put it past Alabastra’s trio to tease their marks before the hunt. I shake my head. Best to not think that way. I have a potential path to solving the greatest concerns of my crisis. If I can just perfect this sedative…

I close up shop early, to give myself time to experiment. Nothing for it now, but to begin. My notebook flipped open as a guide, I read back my sorry tale to myself, to catch the missing details, and ensure I am precise.

Octobrea the 14th, 919
I have been experiencing strange blackouts. Yesterday morning I awoke to no memory of the night before, of my activities after closing shop. The same today. More concerningly, my attire is ripped through and stained with, what I very much hope is not, blood. And most catastrophic of all, I am starving. Yet my usual attempts to sate my cravings are proving less than adequate.

For all intents and purposes, I have lived my life as any other human. A less than rosy pallor to my cheeks, an uncanny knack for dark-seeing, perhaps a bit more vitality than is typical, but otherwise, I am near-indistinguishable. The sun has never harmed me, other than the typical skin burning expected of my pale complexion. I don’t prefer the light, but no rays of gold have threatened to cast me in ash. I can wade through rivers as well as any other lanky shut-in; enter homes uninvited, not that I would; holy water has no effect but to drench me. Garlic remains a staple food of my diet, and I presume a stake through my heart would hurt about as much as it would anyone else.

The only major difference, of course, is my craving for blood. Not a diet I am proud to indulge in, but survival necessitates debasement. So long as that craving is sated, my otherwise-human state remains. My faculties continue to be my own. Scant few occasions I have let that hunger lapse, and each time, the results have ensured that I keep a tight lid. The dark thing within demands its tithe of sanguine, but there is peace as long as I oblige.

Until recently.

Octobrea the 15th, 919
The blackouts continue. Each morning the cravings grow worse. They are visited by an uptick in violent thoughts. Inexplicable yearnings for cruelty. I would not repeat the twisted things I have imagined, had to force myself not to indulge in. My hungers are insatiable. No stale, refrigerated blood can sate me, no matter how much I drink. I feel it deep within. I need it fresh from the source. This is not ideal. I keep my curtains closed, now. I have not gone outside since this started. I do not know if my increased cravings have triggered a newfound sunlight allergy, but there is no sense in testing. Not without benefit, anyways.

I’ve still yet to leave my apartment—of my own accord, anyways. My windows stay closed, and I avoid the front half of my shop until the sun no longer shines through it. Not a large adjustment to my lifestyle, in all honesty.

Of course, I may not have the luxury of keeping that hypothesis untested. Once the most vexing quirk is solved, I’ll need to look for a cure, and there is no guarantee I can do so without risking daylight. I can’t live with these hungers forever. Even now, I feel the low rumble at the back of my throat, down into my stomach. I am sluggish and lightheaded, nauseous, losing weight; all the beginning symptoms of starvation. It is possible that these cravings are psychosomatic, but even the thought of swallowing un-fresh blood makes my skin crawl. My body will only accept a meal straight from the veins.

I refuse to give it what it wants. Not of my own volition.

The garden pots in my shop play host to a trove of herbs and flowers, trellises of vines looping over metal racks from which the plants swing, their leafy branches intermingling in tamed chaos. A few wilt for lack of sunlight; my weeks of necessary isolation have dulled my green thumb. But they’re still more than sufficient for my alchemical needs, for the time being. Though, this experimentation is causing me to run low. I’ll have to replenish many of my supplies once this is over. But I can worry about how to suture the rest of my life back together another day.

Well, what little life there is to repair, in any case. It’s not as if I have ‘loved ones’ or acquaintances to return to, nor recreational activities I could be doing. My days have largely been consumed by work, and worry, up to this point. Now it seems I just worry.

Beside the entry in my journal, I jot down in the margins:

Note to self: after curing blood curse of mind and body, try hobbies.

I flip to the next page.

Octobrea the 17th, 919
The worst of my fears are realized. Father Kansis visited the shop today. Nominally to collect some healing herbs for his own medicinal purposes. Under regular circumstances seeing the good father would not be an unwelcome occurrence, but for the information he shared today… He informed me of a growing menace in The Reds. Victims, some left alive, others murdered, found in the streets, alleys, rooftops, and dark corners of the city. Left with puncture wounds in the

Blood pounds in my ears, my stomach twists in knots, and I turn away from the journal, flipping to the next page without reading the rest. I would rather not think on that particular facet, today. No sense in distracting myself with a moral drowning. The passage I am most in need of is next, regardless.

Octobrea the 18th, 919
I attempted to subdue myself last night with a standard sleep elixir. Judging by the blood staining my shirt, I can only assume it did not work. Perhaps waterbloom is simply not strong enough, or perhaps whatever dark specter takes hold in the night cannot be stopped at all. I also awoke to a broken armchair, which I’ve had to throw out. It seems the attempt only made the situation more volatile. I may try some differing avenues before poking this particular bear again.

I curse myself for my cowardice. If I’d kept pushing perhaps I could have discovered this sooner. Then again, who knows what might’ve occurred had I tried brute force. Perhaps the roundabout revelation saved more trouble than it cost. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

My hands pass between the bushels, vines and shrubs flowering the lifeblood of my profession to collect what I need. The morose nature of my work leads me to consider… how easy it would be to end this the quick way. Each and all of these plants have their thorns. So much of medicine and alchemy lies in the dosage. An entire Glowfril mushroom may be lethal, but its salts make a wonderful bolstering ingredient. Too much arsenic, just a pinch of nightshade, bolster oleander with fragstone. A dash of dart frog saliva, the wrong cut of alterscale meat.

And it’s over. All my troubles disappeared, only a swig away.

Of course, I don’t sell poison in any official capacity. But I can’t be blamed for what someone does with my ingredients, now can I? A killer’s dollar is as good as a saint’s. And heroes and scoundrels alike need the edge, a discreet kill, a massacre in a bottle. Alabastra has dabbled with the stuff, too, and even if she were completely honest in her insistence that she only kills monsters? Her definition of monster, I imagine, is looser than my own.

Collecting the prerequisite mushrooms, flowers, leaves, dusts, and preserved monstrous organs in a basketed bushel, I march upstairs. My alchemy station waits patiently for me to begin. The one facet of my life that has remained constant. My lifeline, the only route to salvation I’m capable of walking. The chain keeping me here, and the means by which I might break myself free. The furnace seems to me a mouth, grinning, waiting to be fed. Eyes of glass, cauldrons and mixers the organs its healing blood is cleansed through. My only friend, my surviving kin, my nemesis, my mountain to conquer.  The hungry ghost of the people who lived here, once, foolish enough to believe they could save a doomed child.

I often wonder, what is the nature of a soul, moved to the embrace of the Gods? Are they aware, still? Conscious, sapient? Do they hold all, or fragments, or nothing of the persons they once were? Do they watch us? Can they feel pride, horror, disappointment for the lives they touched and made believe they would stay with forever? The goddess of death, Corva, has deigned not to share such natures. Perhaps she believes mortal-kind doesn’t deserve to know. Perhaps she knows that if they did, they would revolt against the dying order imposed on them; or, would rush to self-destruction to alleviate the ills of the flesh.

Death is always on my mind. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t. That I could live in blessed ignorance, force myself to believe the happiest stories of afterlife’s eternal paradise. It seems more likely to me that a soul is nothing more than the animating force of a person. Indistinguishable from anyone else’s, once pulled from the form. Our minds and bodies make us who we are—there is nothing ineffable in a man.

Ingredients laid out before me, I begin my work by grinding waterbloom into a mortar. Typically this is something of a meditative part of the process, as methodical and practiced motions often are windows to introspection. Now, the very last place I wish to be is my own mind. Perhaps I should invest in a record player. Maybe even a radio, if I can afford one.

I let a few ingredients distill down, and mix the ones that can be thrown whole-sale into the cauldron, gallons of water to follow. With a click, I fire up the largest furnace. With every motion, I turn back to my notebook, jotting down each dose, every step, comparing and re-comparing with the recipe of last night’s experiment. Sleep potions by nature lend themselves to forgetfulness; I remember little of yesterday’s creative flurry, and if a repeat occurs tonight, it is imperative my recipe is precise and detailed.

It is unfortunate that such a slow pace is necessary; I’ll only know if any brew worked the following morning. I curse myself for not buying or catching vermin to test upon. The casual cruelty of the thought pleases all the wrong parts of my mind.

I grit my teeth, wincing through the hunger. Best to not give it an inch.

The final entry in my journal sits on the inside page of the notebook as I commit my calculations to paper.

Octobrea the 21st, 919
I feel lost, as if in a darkened forest, wandering with no light to guide me. I have no outstretched hands, no stars, nothing but endless woodlands, and the growling of something evil in the shadows. I need direction. Some kind of indication of what has ensorcelled me. Perhaps… perhaps my dreams might hold the key. The churning visions of blood in my head. If I can make them more vivid, somehow. Understand them. I’ve never heard of any sort of dream-delving potion before. I’m in uncharted waters. As it ever was, necessity is the mother of invention. Maybe I’ll start with something that will induce a sickened condition. Fever dreams are always more vivid, I find.

Standing over my workstation, I debate back and forth on adding the healing components I’d gathered. If they counteract the sickness potion, I’ve essentially just created a basic sleep potion with extra steps. Conversely, the side effects of the especially-horrific dreams and fever symptoms may catch up to me in the long run. A pitfall to be avoided, if I can.

I decide to add a standard array of healing potion ingredients. Off-the-cuff calculations lead me to believe it should only curtail the worst effects. I may be skipping a step on the experimental ladder, but I already know the sleeping effects work well enough. No harm in a test. And more besides, an overabundance of caution is what lead me here at all.

The potion begins to distill and dissolve, at this stage only requiring heat and occasional mixing. Normally I’d open a window to alleviate some of the heat coming off of my station, but… the sun is still out. I do miss my night-time experiments. Of all the things this condition has robbed me of, amongst the most egregious is my time under the stars. I feel like a stereotype for it, but, I do feel a certain kinship with the night. An emptiness within, only filled under the sunless blanket of twinkling lights. I’m not sure I’ve even seen the moon in weeks.

The blackouts come at irregular times, but typically begin around or just past sunset. Evening draws near, according to the clock. I stare down at the mixture below me, my reflection looking up. The potion is a brackish gray-blue, flecks of stone floating within like pulp. I take a flask, and dip it deep into the cauldron, no care for ladling or drop-filling. This is science, not art.

Now or never.

With one fluid motion, I quaff the whole elixir. It tastes absolutely foul, curdling my throat like vomit. The glass bottle shatters as it hits the floor. I look to the clock, jot down a final note in my pad, 7:04, exact time imbibed, and then leave my office, pacing slowly around my flat. The world starts to dull, my head feels too heavy. My hands grip the back of a chair, and my glasses fall off my face as I shake my head. My breathing slows, slows, slows to a crawl, my vision tunnels, and my legs give out. With waning strength, I sit in the chair, and pray to whatever Gods can hear me that this works.

* * *

IT WAKES.

The room is too bright. The twitching thing stands, heaves, crouches low as it draws ragged breaths. It lets loose one frustrated growl. It is terribly hungry. S t a r v i n g.

Scratching at its side, it takes in its surroundings. A home, dwelled in, recent. The place it awakes every night, and feels a call within its bones to return to. It is not sure why; this shadowless scene cannot spawn a sanctum.

Its rotted memory can conjure no awakening the previous night. It is furious at that. One step forward, and it hears a satisfying crunch beneath its foot. A red pair of spectacles, one lens shattered under the weight. Its head crooks to the side in a cracking twitch. It cannot find a reason to care.

It marches to the window and slams it wide. Glass shatters at the forceful opening. Shards rain atop it, cutting into its skin. Its first bloodshed of the night. Good. More. It licks piteously at its own wounds, then spits the ichor out in frustrated disgust. Too easy. Its hunt must begin. The monster crawls into the window sill, crouched like a gargoyle, eyeing the streets below.

Spying the unsuspecting blood-filled things, moving carefree through their lives, it waits. Isolate, pounce, wound, devour. Isolate, pounce, wound, devour. The mantra in its head the gospel of the predator. Its hands are insufficient for the coming hunt. Focusing, it grows its claws out with shadowstuff, dripping black magic into elongated killing implements, easing the coming need to shred.

Patience. Patience. Soon.

A human, brightly adorned in yellow, takes a right turn into the alley across the street. There. A meager little morsel, but alone. It grasps the sides of the window, and wills itself forward, transforming briefly to pure shadow as it darts to a distant balcony. Keeping pace, it slides through shadow again, perched above the alley on a jutting pipe. It prepares to spin its web.

The prey darts her head back and forth. She expects trouble. Perhaps she feels the eyes on her back. But fortune favors the beast; they never look up.

Spinning its hand and muttering a wicked incantation, the darkness creeps around her in a swirl, corralling her into a corner. Silencing her pleas. The monster licks its fangs, growing by the second. Lost little thing. If only anything else had found her.

The predator bounds to the ground, landing with a hunch. It takes a moment to drink in the terror in her saucer plate eyes, as she trembles like an animal. The delicious moment, where the known crosses into the unknown. She backs up, scrambling, and tries to scream. Her voice is muffled under the magic, her pleas as empty as her future. Its feast can wait no longer. It pounces.

One set of claws wrap around her throat, holding her in place. She squirms beneath its grasp. Uselessly. With a decisive motion with its other claw, her midsection is torn open. Sweet sanguine drips from the four-lined wound. Already the fight begins to give out in her eyes, the light of life draining from her skin. The savory moment where the last of her thoughts flit through her skull. The perfect time to drink deep.

It pulls her forth, and sinks its fangs into her neck. Finally. It begins to drink. A hunger sated after decades of starving. It wishes to pull every last drop—

Pain shoots through its own torso. It backs away on instinct, looking down. A glinting shard of glass sticks from its abdomen. The prey falls to the ground, breathing deep, on the verge of consciousness. She managed to wound it. It is almost impressed. The beast pulls the glass from its side, its pained howls muffled self-same from its own spell. It concentrates, speeding its body’s healing to stitch closed the wound in rapid repair.

Now it can return to the-the feast. It stumbles. Suddenly, its arms are heavy. A yawn heaves its way through its twisted lungs. It is… exhausted.

No, no! It needs sustenance! It needs to drink…! It… it needs…

It must sleep.

The beast collapses unceremoniously beside its prey, and the dark of the night takes them both.

My eyes shoot open.

I awake without air, pulled from my feverish nightmares with a start. My throat is too tight—muscles clenched and unresponsive. Pleading like a desperate animal, I claw at my neck like it would remind me how to breathe.

The moment lasts just long enough to skim the edge of death, before the panic subsides as quick as it came. I suck in a ghastly, shaken gasp. The beating in my chest threatens to burn straight through to the skin, and I stare into the cold, hard wood of the floor I find myself on.

There is no time to lose. I force my eyes closed and think; delving deep into my mind, trying to remember my vile dreams, searching for answers. Flashes of blood and scraps of burnt memory flit and escape, charred pages thrown to the fire. My thoughts turn to mercury, slipping between my fingers.

Only red and vile visions and the vague impressions of horror leave an imprint. Once again, I have failed to make sense of these nightmares, to plumb them for fragments of truth.

Instead, I shiver and sweat on the floor like a scared pig. My soaked-through button down sticks to me as if a loose set of second skin. I blink once, twice, thrice to banish the scratchy burning beneath my eyelids. I must smell completely foul, judging by my state, and I’ve been left light headed from hyperventilating.

All expected side effects, of course—I induced this state myself.

I take stock. I am on the floor of my office, the dark oak littered with papers swept off my desk. The underside of the writing table obscures half my vision. Did I fall asleep at my chair, or crawl underneath? Either way, it looks as though I didn’t get very far.

Along the opposite wall, my alchemy station churns ever along. A series of tubes, beakers, alembics, and flasks sit suspended aloft with metal wiring, connected to one-another with swirling funnels. Controlled flame under the near-empty cauldron pot boils off the remnant elixir. Furnaces still smolder with the embers of their fuel, long since having scorched the herbs within to useless charcoal.

I forgot to turn the burners off: an unusually clumsy mistake, doubtlessly born of my sudden sleep. An involuntary grunt of frustration escapes me.

I turn onto my side, preparing myself to stand. The room tilts along its axis. Nausea grips my core, occluding every feeling and thought. My stomach churns, rumbling with hunger and sick with pain. The familiar yearnings rise atop the wave of revulsion. My hands ache to tear, my mouth turns dry for lack of drink. I crave blood, to be sated, to fill my empty innards. I dig my fingernails into the floor, grimacing through the cramps, and force the blackened thoughts down to the depths from which they arose.

It’s always worst in the morning.

My faculties returned from the onslaught of hungers and my tumultuous awakening, I finally find the strength to stand, still feeling a low spin. I shamble like a corpse reanimated towards my workstation. Clumsily, I let the barest traces of muscle memory guide me through shutting the burners and mixers off. Drops of foulest potion drip-drip-drip into a flask, the aftermath of my night of mad experimentation.

I clutch at my forehead. The thoughts are gone, but the headache returns doubly, pulsing and throbbing behind my eye as an angry, squeezing buzz. Dehydrated and decaffeinated, I’m useless like this. I’ll return to fix the rest of the symptoms I’ve wrought on myself once I sort the necessities. A common theme, these days.

Outside my office, the kitchenette nestles in the corner of the open area of my home’s second floor. It’s practically an ancillary workstation all on its own; cooking is its own form of alchemy, in a way. I move mechanically, grabbing what I need from the chipped-paint cabinets to brew myself a cup of coffee. The grounds come straight from the Enderin Isles: my one regular indulgence. Though, quality ingredients are practically their own necessity.

As I wait for the water to heat, I inspect my surroundings. I didn’t make it outside last night, did I? I look over the windows, the stairs leading to the first floor. No signs of exit or re-entry, no muddied or bloodied footsteps. It seems I spent the night confined.

An immense relief washes over me, followed by a flash of realization. I pull out a notepad and pencil from my back pocket. Under the scrawling of last night’s experimental recipe, I write:

Octobrea the 22nd, 919
Induced fever dreams ineffective for recollection of dreams or involuntary activity, but brew did perform adequately as a sedative. Potential to modify for more effective sleep potion?

I flip through the notebook’s pages, skimming the last weeks of desperate musings, the documentation of my rapidly worsening condition. I’m no closer to a solution, but I may be closing around a means of mitigation. I exhale deeply, and pull my coffee off the burner, sipping at the hot liquid and letting it burn my throat as it goes. My ice-cold fingertips warm against the mug. The headache still pulls at my attention, but at least now I have attention to spare.

My eyes scan the interior of my office through the ajar door, to the spot I woke on. If there were no answers to begot of my dreaming mind, then I suppose my conscious self will have to do.

As I set the mug down and move to begin my work anew, I catch the colorless eyes of the photo hanging on the wall next to the door. A happily married couple, with their unhappy son. My parents stand a full head shorter than me in this photo, as expected of halflings raising a human child. Their tanned skin and bright smiles a far cry from my pallor complexion and blank stare. In the ten years since this was taken, I’ve grown that black bowl cut all the way down to my lower back, often pulled into a tail. Cutting it would be more convenient, and would draw less attention my way, but… I could never bring myself to. I brush away the strands I keep in front to frame my face, still sticking to my forehead from the remnants of last night’s sweat.

The photographed boy’s eyes stare back at mine through my current spectacles, rounded frameless things of darkened red lenses sitting squarely on the bridge of my nose. He didn’t know he needed glasses yet; he thought all children couldn’t stand the light.

This was our first proper family portrait, since becoming a family at all. We didn’t know it at the time, but it would also be our last. My gut turns at the scowl my photo-self and I share. The boy in this photo is fifteen, not nearly so affected by his afflictions, with loving new adopted parents and an open future ahead of him.

What has he to frown about?

I shake my head, pulling myself from the spiral of nostalgia. My office greets me once again. It’s going to be a long day, and I’ll need to alleviate this headache.

* * *

It’s almost noon before I’m ready to open the shop. A late start. Looking through the window, I see the streets of Marble City bustle with commerce and commotion. Horse-drawn wagons full of travelers and cargo stream up and down the paved and muddy roads. Tightly-packed brick and half-timber buildings line the street, creating a funnel of life stretching miles. Dozens of people pass by in an instant, of all shapes, creeds, and backgrounds. Humans, elves, fiendlings, orcs, dwarves. As diverse in ancestry as they are uniform in dress, they wear flat caps or tall top hats, suspenders and suits, and carry crates of supplies over their shoulders or hock newspapers on the corners or converse amongst themselves at the cafes or walk briskly from one transaction to the next.

The skyscrapers of the city’s center tower over the local buildings, glass and steel monuments of progress. Blocked from my current view, the mountainous, cliff-edged hill that seats the true elite lays behind even the soaring high-rise center.

I saunter toward the shop’s window. Printed in golden letters on the glass, backwards from my inside perspective, reads, ‘Bromley’s Apothecary – Potions and Herbal Remedies‘. Swinging from a piece of dried putty on the window below the lettering, I flip the sign currently displaying Closed to its other Open side. Without one look toward the clouded sky, blessedly blocked with shade by a prominent green awning, I slip back behind the counter.

Hunched over my notebook, I begin to brainstorm.

Typical sleep potions ineffective at curtailing involuntary escapades. Experimental potion to induce vivid dreams had innumerable side effects, a more powerful sedative state among them.
Proposed synthesis: Mix sickness potion (tentative name) with typical soporific ingredients (waterbloom, poppy sap) to maximize sedation. Attempt to incorporate basic healing compounds to curtail fever-like side effects of sickness concoction, with understood concerns about mitigating effectiveness of induced lethargy.

DING, DING

The bell above my shop door pulls my attention from my notes, and— Oh, Gods, no.

Sauntering into my shop with their usual cacophony: my least favorite regulars. At the fore, Alabastra Camin, a towering half-elf of emerald eyes and pulled-up platinum blonde hair, local rabble-rouser and habitual thorn in my side. Her long coat accentuates her athletic form in an annoyingly self-assured manner. Already she plasters her face with that infuriating, cocky grin as she strolls forward, and I am unsure if she prepares to issue another recalcitrant rant or simply wishes to wisecrack.

Behind her enters her cadre of… friends? Team mates? Fellow adventurers? I’ve never been quite sure on their relation, but the two hangers-on stride behind their leader, absorbed in too-loud conversation. To her left, a young woman of barely five foot stature, ruddy brown hair covering one eye, and the small deer antlers, floppy ears, and fuzzy hooves of a faun. The erratic, mischievous, and altogether exasperating Faylie Nevis. Robes of our shared alma matter, the Lazuli Institute, lie under adornments of beads and silks, the bottom halves tucked into a pair of palazzos. Barely having entered my apothecary and already she puts her grubby hands on everything.

The other side of Alabastra stands a woman of my own height, clanking and clattering in her steel plate and chain armor. Brash and unlettered, the human of light brown skin and pixie-short brunette hair fiddles with the straps of her sword hilt. Tegan of Drywater’s dark grey eyes always seem to stare through me, and between her code of honor and general act-first demeanor, it is a wonder she is yet to smite a sinner such as I straight into the hells.

Behind them all, flitting into the building on blackened wings, Alabastra’s pet raven swoops onto her shoulder.

“No, no. NO!”, I say immediately, “What did I tell you last time? The raven. Waits. Outside.”

Alabastra’s grin never leaves her. “Oh, c’mon Moodie—”

“That is still not my name.” The half-elf’s attempts to stick me with a nickname over the years we have known one another have only grown more insistent with time. They started as innocuous jabs at my field of study-turned profession, ‘Flowers‘, and ‘Brewster‘, but overtime shifted to slights at my personality. She seemed particularly confident in the more sarcastic ‘Smiles‘, before shifting to this current attempt.

Unimpeded by my interruption, Alabastra continues, “Paella’s a part of the team. She goes where we go.” Sometimes I swear they speak about that damnable corvid like it’s a person. It is a recent addition to their posse, and has been a hellion for my herbs. Despite the group paying out of pocket to compensate my consumed plants, they continue to insist on bringing it inside.

I point for emphasis. “Out!”

Faylie speaks up, her voice as high and cutesy as ever, “Ooh, we’re getting feisty Oscar today!” I shoot her a dagger glare, and push down the brief wince of pain that rocks my form. Despite my insistence, it’s often jarring hearing my given name. A bizarre period of adjustment, but disastrous consequence might follow if I ever explain that to the cohort. The faun only grins and waves in response.

Alabastra sighs, hands on her hips. “Sorry, Paella, owner’s rules. Go on, ya rascal.” The raven turns its eye toward me, issues a matter of fact ‘CAW‘, and flies back out the open door before it can swing shut.

Arms crossed and leaning backwards on nothing, Tegan looks me up and down and says in her trademark blunt and boorish tone, “Oof. You feeling alright, Bromley? You look like death.” I glance down at myself. I’d changed out of my sweat-drenched shirt into a far less filthy ensemble, and thought I had done all I could to cure myself. The restorative I brewed up before opening should have alleviated any outward-showing symptoms, at least. Tegan is either more perceptive than I give her credit for, or more likely, weariness this deep simply shows no matter how thoroughly it’s buried.

It only now occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve seen this little posse since my condition began to deteriorate. Only a month ago everything had been perfectly boring. Now, their appearance is almost a welcome slice of regularity amidst the rising chaos. A reminder of what my days should be.

This does not make their visit any less tiring, mind. I deign to ignore the knight’s comment. “What’s your business, Alabastra?”

The blonde cocks an eyebrow, her smile turning incredulous. “Aw, don’t tell me you forgot my usual, Moodie!”

Oh. Dammit. Shame creeps over me like a haunting shadow, and I feel my face blanche in embarrassment. In all the tumult I had, indeed, forgotten to brew Alabastra’s regular order. “Ah. Well…” My stomach twists. What a disgraceful display. Alabastra is practically my patient, and this damned illness has turned me forgetful. I may not like her; her very presence perturbs me to the bone in fact, but she still deserves better than that. “It-it slipped my mind. I apologize.”

The contemptible and hungry pit within lavishes at the thought of her suffering. I grit my teeth, twisting as if to wrench the thought from my mind. It flits as quickly as it came, but my display of effort catches their attention. More than just humiliation, but fear starts to creep upon me.

Alabastra looks concerned, darts her eyes, before settling slowly back into her usual grin. She head-jerks toward Tegan. “Stardust is right, you’re not lookin’ so hot. You got the sick?”

My muscles relax, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Thank the Gods, they just believe I’m ill. I suppose that isn’t even inaccurate; I am awfully sick. “It’s a… passing illness. I’m doing what I can to mitigate, but, that’s occupied my time.”

The half-elf shares sideways glances with the other two, then shrugs. “Don’t sweat it. Pun… intended.” I roll my eyes, but find myself grateful that she has the tact to not press further. Instead she says, “Besides, I’m not even out of my last order yet! I’ll hold over!”

Faylie says to her, almost doting, “That’s because you forget to drink your potion.”

“I do not forget! I am a busy woman, with a full-to-brim schedule of insurgency and a strict regimen for rationing”, she protests. I choose to drop my comment that she shouldn’t be rationing. And the one about ‘insurgency‘.

Tegan turns to me. “She forgets.”

Alabastra crosses her arms, her tone a jokey and too-familiar kind of cross, “Unbelievable. Insubordinates, the both of you. If we were on a boat, I’d throw you overboard.” The breezy, unimpeachable way with which she speaks, as if I’m to be included in some unspoken camaraderie, has always been jarring, but there’s a new degree of unreality in the shadow of my undivulged deeds. It is a farce that my nightmare week and this woman’s joking manner exist in the same universe.

These three started early in their instance on conversation during our shared days at the Institute, and they’ve continued in that tradition even as our relationship turned from classmates to clientele. Most of my customers understand the purely transactional nature of our relationship; Alabastra, Tegan, and Faylie never got that hint. Their stubbornness would be admirable were it not so irritating.

I elect to steer them back towards business. “Apologies again, Alabastra. Give me two days and I’ll have your brew ready.”

Her tongue clicks. “You’re a star, Moodie.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s not simply that these nicknames are a nuisance, though they are. They breed familiarity. A dangerous territory to find myself in on the best of days. Now? Outright lethal. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“With that sunny attitude of yours? How can I not?”

Faylie chirps over her shoulder as she turns to the shelves, “Call people what they want to be called!”

The armored woman adds, “You of all people should know that, Allie.”

Their leader turns back to me, insistent and nonchalant all at once as she approaches the till. “Well, whaddaya wanna be called, then? Obviously not ‘Oscar‘.” She adds air quotes. I narrow my eyes. What’s her game? Is she trying to get a rise out of me? Is she projecting onto me? My skills of insight crash and break against the wall that is Alabastra Camin.

Under no circumstance can I show discomfort. “That is my name.”

Alabastra leans forward across the counter, chin resting on one hand. Close. I can see the kohl painting her eyelids, the peculiar, almost catlike curve of her smile, the mole on her cheek. The brass pins on her coat, the monochrome scarf. The lilac and sandalwood of her perfume… Her verdant eyes lock with mine, and for an instant I am paralyzed. “And that wasn’t my question.”

“Alabastra.” Tegan’s arms are crossed, her voice carrying an edge.

Without missing so much as a beat, Alabastra turns and says, “Don’t think he wants to be called that. Though, I’d be flattered…”

Suddenly, I remember where I am, and snap out of whatever had me so transfixed. They always get rather carried away in our interactions. Impossible to say if they do this with everyone, or have especial hatred for me. “I’m right here”, I remind them.

“Sure are!” She turns back to me, clapping her hands together once. “And we’re gonna make Moodie stick. You watch.”

Business. Keep them on business. “Do you need anything else today, Alabastra?”

She brings a hand to her chin in a quizzical motion. “Hmm. That depends. How many healing pots you got?”

Finally, a sensible question. I think for a moment. “Two dozen, I believe?” I try to keep a consistent stock of healing potions. Sellswords and adventurers make for good, if inconsistent business. Hardly regular customers, due to their impending certain deaths, but flush with bountied gains.

“Sounds good”, she says, “We’ll take ’em.”

I must have misheard. “You surely don’t mean… all of them?“

“Now you’re gettin’ it.”

This woman is impossible. Through flabbergasted blinks, I say, “What could you possibly need nearly thirty healing potions for?”

“Overthrowing the government”, says Faylie, nonchalant and matter-of-fact. She doesn’t even look up from the herbs she’s dutifully fussing with.

Tegan quickly interjects, “Sh-she’s joking!”

The trio, and especially Alabastra, are always harping on about some matter of local, or even national politics: industrialization, community organizing, which members of the Common Assembly they’d like to, quote, ‘throw in a river of bees’. That sort of thing. Not to say I harshly disagree with any of their points, per say, but they’re just so loud about it.

“I didn’t think she was serious until you said that.”

The paladin says, “Uh. Pretend I didn’t then.”

I pivot back to the leader. “And how are you paying for this? Because if you try to issue me another bounced check I am going to have to decline the offer.”

Alabastra flashes a quick grin. “Cash.”

“… Is it stolen?”

Her pause is all but confirmation. “Technically… no?”

“Not technically stolen is the best kind of stolen!”, the faun shouts. The other side of the coin. Their blatant criminal activities border on comically obvious. They always manage to weasel out of becoming wanted outlaws in any official capacity, but whether that speaks to any ability on their behalf or the incompetence of the burgeoning MCPD is debatable.

I sigh, steepling my hands along my forehead. “Fine, then. Give me a moment.” I descend downstairs to collect all I can of my healing potion supply. The basement greets me with an omnipresent chill, and I wish I’d donned a jacket. It is an odious march up and down the stairs to collect the crates of clinking potion bottles, but soon a treasure trove of small flasks sloshing with red rejuvenating brew is spread over the table.

To my surprise, Alabastra is good on her word, and pays in full. The other two continue to bother themselves with my shop’s interior garden, until our transaction is complete and they all gather at the counter. Each grabbing one of the three crates, I ring up the register and give them a nod. All things considered, one of the least troublesome business interactions I’ve had with the three. Not-stolen cash aside…

As they move to leave, I tender one last question. “Seriously, what do you need all of these for?”

Alabastra’s grin is so wide it could split her face. “We’re huntin’ a vampire.”

My heart drenches in ice-cold water. No… there is no Gods damned way…

“Yea, got any stakes or garlic you can sell us?”, asks Faylie. She sounds distant, and I barely hear her over the ringing in my ears.

“We’ve got stakes and garlic at home, Glowbug”, says Alabastra. The three funnel back out into the autumn air of the city. “Thanks, Moodie! See-ya in a couple!”

I wait a solid five minutes until I am sure they’re well and truly out of sight of my shop. And then I lie down on the cold linoleum of my shop floor, and stare at the ceiling, eyes locked in wide disbelief. I have been visited with innumerable cruelties over the course of my life. As if everything I’ve experienced has been the setup to a cruel prank, an idiot’s tale waiting for its ironic twist. Like I’m the boxing bag of fate. The plaything of some cosmic joke.

Well. There goes the punchline.