Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mirage is nothing if not a seasoned traveller. Navigating a city as well charted as New York, even as a first-timer, should be trivial for a man of his station. Goodness only knows he’s seen enough of it in pictures. Films. Photos. In the not-yet-dulled-from-the-world eyes of fools who still believe in big breaks and their names in bold, multi-chromatic marquees. He’d certainly heard more than enough about its impressive size and infinite possibilities. New York, New York, they’d say. Sung each time with a wistful breath — equal parts longing and manifestation. Whether from worldly socialites with more money than God, or humble provincial weavers with hands as spindly and worn as the yarn they’d spun for a living. It was always the same.

It’s not that Mirage hadn’t been intrigued by the thought of finally seeing the city for himself; merely that Nashala had been much more enthused about it than he. Thus it seemed only natural to give her full control of their itinerary; something he wouldn’t go so far as to call a mistake, but certainly unwise, in retrospect. He unfolds a sheet of paper from his pocket, blinking rapidly at what appears to be at least forty different points of interest; quite a few of which appear to be quite deep into New Jersey. Setting the diplomatic purpose of their visit aside, her sightseeing list is ambitious, to say the least.

He’d laugh if it weren’t one hundred percent earnest.

They’ll have to pare it down once they’re settled in at the hotel. All the more reason to temper his expectations — a kindness, quite frankly, for them both. A man doesn’t function, eat, and negotiate his way around the world without picking up a thing or two: Customs and cultures unavoidably vary; some language barriers are far more imposing and insurmountable than others; notions of friendliness and personal space seldom intersect with his own; and rarely, if ever, do places like New York tend to live up to the hype. Least of all when pitted against the hearsay of lofty dreamers.

The airship’s sudden lurch is enough to draw Mirage’s attention out the window. Moreover, what he sees is enough to make him do a double take: uneven pricks of grey and white and brown jut from the ground like gnashing, jagged teeth, curled around the very edge of the many bays until they form a wicked smile. Eager, no — ecstatic — for the airship’s arrival. The horizon itself may as well be some primordial beast, unhinging its jaw and set in the intent to swallow the humble vessel whole.

It’s overwhelming at first; maybe even a little unsettling. That is until the sunset splinters into thousands of blinding little copies of itself, reflecting off the windows of skyscrapers in a dazzling array of oranges and greys. Countless vehicles travel lazily along sprawling boulevards that web their way through the city in winding, endless veins. It seems not even something as simple as a car can just be somewhere like this; they stop and go like irregular little heartbeats, their headlights studding the streets like a trove of gilded, glimmering jewels. 

Even he can’t deny the breathtaking sight for what it is, unable to pull his gaze away from the window until they land. Perhaps he’d prejudged New York a bit too harshly. 

Of all the demands Nashala made whilst planning their stay, liberal use of the subway system was non-negotiable. It was a matter of seeing the city from the perspective of real New Yorkers, she’d said. Real New Yorkers, according to those who live distinctly outside of it, go almost exclusively by subway. Mirage hardly minds. He’s no stranger to, and certainly not above, public transportation. It’s even rather charming in its own way, and certainly more efficient than driving. Glamorous as the streets may have seemed from above, he has no interest in personally dispelling the illusion in bumper-to-bumper traffic this early on.

The platform is damp, crowded, and a tad too dirty for his freshly laundered uniform’s comfort, but the ride itself is standard fare; brief but awkward, curious stares, starkly contrasted with others all too wrapped up in their own affairs to register his presence altogether. The train only just makes its way out of Queens when he can’t help but feel a strange sense of discomfort. Not that anything, apart from the young man who talks a little too loudly to anyone who will listen, seems disturbing enough to cause it. He tries his best to tune it all out, letting the screech of the tracks wash over him instead. A confident gait, a confident gaze, could diffuse even the most nefarious of intentions; there hasn’t been a corner of the world in which that maxim hasn’t served him well. Still, he keeps a hand on the grip of his gun for good measure. It’s not until he’s street level once more that he can place the cause of his unease: nothing.

Quite literally nothing.

Mirage, like anyone, has seen darkness before. Literal and figurative. One doesn’t serve as an emissary of the Djinn without brushing against the veil that separates the natural world from all that could be considered less so. But this is different, entirely unknown. He’s still on the material plane; that much he can sense by the faint glint of glowing lights that lie just beyond the thick fog that surrounds him. The brilliant white of what must be a walk sign flashes against the boundaries of the mist with frantic insistence, as if agitated by his hesitation. Cross the damn street already, it would surely snarl if it could. What are you waiting for?!

He stretches one trembling hand before him, the other hugging his overcoat — and with it Nashala’s vessel — closer to his person. His gun is poised. Ready to be fired before any potential assailant (be they of this world or any other) would ever realize. 

Mirage shivers, all too aware of the warm, clammy sweat pooling on his forehead, even in the humid vestige of what is — should be — early Autumn. He tries to swallow and still his breath in one, but all it does is send a suffocating rush of fog down his dry throat. His heart thrashes and slams against his chest, deafening an already muted world beneath the thrum of his own blood pounding in his ears.

He almost swears he sees two dreadful points of crimson waiting for him, calling for him, just out of reach; but what little he can still register dims, as if each drop of impenetrable mist is suddenly varnished with a shimmering layer of obsidian. There is nothing to fear. He repeats this to himself, over and over again, like the holiest mantra — because truly, what is darkness if not nothing? Absence? There’s clearly no one around, he tries to gather himself again, yet he can’t shake what feels like a thousand-eyed stare glaring at him from some point unseen. He makes one last attempt to step out of whatever this is, drawing one final, deep, hazy breath, as he does so. Please; don’t let it be my last.

Just like that, the whole world returns, and he feels himself slipping just as easily back into it as he’d left. Hydraulic brakes squeal where a truck makes a delivery a few streets away. Ashen, fossilized gum sticks briefly to the sole of his boot before blending back into the dirty sidewalk. The asphalt, sleek and shiny from long-departed rain, almost pulsates with diesel-infused petrichor. He’s never been so grateful for the relentless assault of all of his senses at once. Thank God he’d opted for a late night arrival. He can only imagine what he must look like, suddenly coming to on the street corner with a coughing fit and his gun drawn. 

“You are alright, Nashala,” it’s a statement, rather than a question. Her bottle is no less secure or undisturbed than it was before. As if whatever had just happened hadn’t registered her at all. And that is all that matters. He guides his gun back into its holster with a still-shaking hand, steeling his shoulders and resetting his gaze to be as neutral as possible. Of all the things he’s heard about New York throughout his travels, it being one of the premiere hotbeds of paranormal activity is the one thing he can confirm for himself thus far. Perhaps a minor tear in the fabric of the astral plane is a municipal issue to fix; only that it drowns beneath a deluge of requests soliciting the city’s attention toward potholes and power lines instead.

He exhales with one final, subtle shiver, clenching his jaw as he waits for the red-handed walk signal to turn white again. His display of calm, collected patience is as ridiculous as it is a farce; not a single car has gone by in either direction. The only signs of life are someone tossing their trash in a dumpster a block over, and someone else’s whistle — flitting just above the white noise of the city, light and easy and soft.

“Enough of this,” Mirage whispers, looking both ways before crossing the street. Namely with a lot more urgency than he would like to admit. It has been a long day, and an even longer journey. Nevermind that not even his most draining missions have ever sent him spiraling, however temporarily, out of reality’s bounds. The matter has no choice but to be settled for now. He places a deliberate amount of focus on the directions to their lodging. It’s one of the finest accommodations in the entire city, apparently. Not to mention highly recommended by both his colleagues and guidebook alike — presuming one can afford the price tag. Which, yes, one can, even if not Mirage himself; money is no object to the Djinn.

It’s not long before he spots it: a beautiful, ivy-covered chateau. Sky blue fluorescent lights boast the hotel’s namesake, nestled in between two grand, steepled spires, ivory white against an otherwise pitch black sky.

“We made it, Nashala.” A sobering amount of tension relinquishes its grip upon his every muscle. He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, savoring the first truly steady breath he’s taken since the subway. He won’t let anything, least of all his own nerves, ruin what will surely be the most important task of his service — his life. Not even the burning, prickling sensation at the base of his neck. That feeling of being watched again. That urge — no — dire, pressing need — to turn around —

“Good evening, sir,” a voice calls the very moment Mirage goes to look over his shoulder, thus he focuses it on the person in front of him instead. A young, redheaded man in an immaculate bellhop uniform stands before him, flashing what Mirage would wager is the most friendly, heart-stopping smile he has ever seen in his entire life. “I bid you welcome to The Baroness.”

A piercing, unsettling cold runs down Mirage’s spine as he looks the bellhop in the eye; eyes that are nearly as blue and luminescent as the very sign flickering above them.

“You’ve made prior reservations, I assume.” His smile widens even further, clearly having caught what Mirage thought was a subtle dart of his gaze from the sign back to his face. As if this entire evening could not get any more strange. 

“...Indeed,” Mirage nods after a moment’s pause. “I am the…emissary mentioned in the arrangements,” the fewer details he divulges in uncertain company, the better. “I’m certain you’ve already been properly informed of the nature of my business.”

“I have,” the bellhop confirms, though not even the polite, professional air he maintains can quite curb the curiosity hanging on the tail end of his response. “Although it was my understanding there would be two guests? The amount of bags that preceded you would certainly speak to two —”

“There are, and that has not changed,” Mirage interrupts. “That is all you need to know.”

“...but of course,” the man's genteel tone falters for the slightest moment, but he catches it with impressive ease. Such a persona must be first nature to him, let alone second. “Forgive me. We needn’t discuss it any further.”

“I appreciate it. I’d be much obliged if you could show me to my room.”

“Naturally,” the bellhop offers him a suave bow before holding one of a set of double doors open. “If you would follow me, please. Your bags, as I just mentioned, have already been placed in your suite.”

“Suite?” Mirage repeats. He can only imagine how luxurious it must be if the reception room alone is anything to go off. Not that he's opposed to finer accommodations, but…

“Well, yes,” the bellhop leads the way to a grand elevator with an almost eerie precision to his step. “Your colleagues insisted that we see to it that you and your plus one, if I may, shall want for nothing. After you.”

“Ah…thank you,” Mirage nods, stepping inside. An incentive, a taste of the rewards he shall reap, should he return with good news for the Djinn, he imagines. He cannot help but deflate a little at the thought; they must not know him well if they think it is material goods that so sway him, rather than his sense of loyalty and duty.

“This does include bottomless mimosas, access to our most exclusive and luxurious spa —”

“I am grateful, but perhaps further details can wait until tomorrow. I am…tired, after my journey.”

“And that is completely understandable,” the man shifts his tone sharply, as if he wills himself from performing otherwise. He doesn’t speak again until they reach the top floor. “It is an honor that you choose The Baroness to be your place of respite. Much as it is a privilege to call it such, I’m sure.”

“Your hospitality has already been nothing short of gracious,” Mirage makes the pointed choice to leave it at that.

“It is your first time in New York, is it not?” the bellhop pauses before one of three doors and unclasps a ring of keys from his belt.

“It is, yes.”

“In that case, I can only hope that your stay here leaves a good impression.”

“Of the city? Or your hotel?”

“Hmph — why not both?” The bellhop opens the door, followed by another crisp bow. “Please, sir.”

“Thank you…” Mirage crosses the threshold, taking in what the bellhop has been calling a ‘suite’. The word seems rather ill-fitting, given that the space itself commands an elegance worthy of a head of state; fine, velvet rugs, gold-plated fixtures, elegant, Edwardian-style furniture, marble-inlaid surfaces — and this is just the parlor room.

Is that not what Nashala shall be, should things go to plan?

“I take it everything is to your liking?”

“Yes,” Mirage can only blink. He’s experienced luxury throughout his time as a bodyguard, but that does not make it any less impressive on the rare occasion it truly presents itself. Relief sets in once he sees his and Nashala’s bags are neatly arranged by a sturdy, ornate armoire. “This is more than enough,” he kneels, counting them for good measure. Unpacking them properly could wait until the morning. “Thank you.” 

“Happy to be of service. Is there anything you need before you retire for the night?”

“I —” Mirage pauses. Now that he and Nashala find themselves in their secure, private, proper environs, all those previous, racing thoughts are quick to burst through their highly temporary dam and flood his mind. Perhaps it is best not to give the staff cause to think him crazy. Not now, when he stands so close to a much needed, good night’s rest. Then again, he might find himself too restless to sleep, should he not get some of whatever happened down there off his chest.

The bellhop waits patiently before the door. Part of him can’t help but wonder just how long he would stand there, were he to request it.

“On the way to The Baroness,” Mirage settles into one of the regal chairs, staring at nothing in particular as he chooses his words very, very carefully. “I could not help but feel engulfed by a foreboding presence.”

“If I may be so bold, you do seem rather, ah — uneasy, this evening.”

“That is a very mild way of putting it,” Mirage whispers more to himself than anything, although it would appear the bellhop managed to hear him. “What I wish to say next will sound very strange. Do understand I am acutely aware of this fact.”

“Go on, I promise no judgment on my end.”

“I emerged from the subway, only to be immediately enveloped in a strange, impenetrable fog. I assure you it was no usual meteorological event,” Mirage insists with an emphatic thrust of his palm before the bellhop can interject. “It was as if the entire world had been shrouded away, just beyond its boundaries. Or I, shrouded within. Regardless, I could not see, hear, or feel anything. Or anyone, for that matter. For a few fleeting moments…at least I assume that is all they were, I was completely isolated. Alone. As if I were the only person left on Earth.”

“Oh dear,” The bellhop tisks, but Mirage can see an ever-so-slight quiver of his lips. “This was on the way here, you said?” The bellhop’s tone and expression are wrought with concern; maybe he’d only imagined that little flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Yes,” Mirage continues nonetheless. “Perhaps, three, maybe four blocks over.”

“And how exactly did you escape this — shroud, you called it?”

“Exactly as I entered it; without any one conscious action, decision, or intent. It evaporated in the very manner it materialized, in fact."

“I see,” the bellhop taps his chin. “That is very strange indeed.”

“To say the least.”

“Well, I’ve never experienced such a phenomenon, nor have our guests spoken of such an occurrence. Certainly not within any meaningful proximity of the hotel, that is. Suffice it to say that New York has not earned the nickname of Cursed Apple for nothing. While there are many oddities one can both find and be found by in the city, it is extremely unlikely that anything untoward or unwelcome should befall you going forward. Baring of course any unsavory company one might keep, or deeds one may commit. Not that I mean to insinuate you are guilty of either.”

“No, I understand,” Mirage exhales. “I have been around the world; many times, at that. If there is but one universal constant, it is that trouble, no matter where you are, tends to plague only those who go looking for it.”

“I am relieved you understood my implication.”

“I assure you, whatever it is I felt earlier this evening was not anything I willingly sought out or invited.” It’s only now he realizes that he’s particularly careful not to look toward the windows. “Nor did I feel it prior to my arrival in New York.”

“I should mention that we are in the direct path of the eclipse set to happen in a few weeks. Eclipses, historically speaking, certainly have a knack for throwing everything off-kilter.”

“Ah, yes,” Despite himself — despite it all, really — Mirage can’t help but chuckle. “That minute little event, yes.”

“For what it’s worth, the simplest explanation is often the most correct. It could be you trod upon a particularly disgruntled leyline. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I pray it is so.”

“On the off-chance that it isn’t, well; while there are many abominations lurking in the more wretched alleyways of New York, I assure you they cannot reach you here at The Baroness, treasure that She is.”

“I shall certainly count my blessings in that regard. Thank you for tending to my question.”

“It is my most esteemed pleasure, my dear Mr. Emissary. If you could please let my own higher ups know that The Doorman has been particularly helpful for you this evening.”

“...Shall I include a name?” Mirage asks after a moment’s consideration, brow knitted. 

“Mm, no, that won’t be necessary,” the bellhop, or Doorman, apparently, hums. “The Doorman will suffice. Your key to the room is on the desk. Do note the replacement fee, should you lose it.” He tucks an arm to his waist, offering one last bow before departing.

Mirage sighs, taking a few quiet moments to gather himself. Shadows — standard, normal shadows, as far as he can tell — stretch and contract across the wall and ceiling, the ultimately harmless projection of the occasional pedestrian on the streets below. Every now and again such shapes are accompanied by honking horns and slamming brakes; barking voices beckoning barking dogs. All perfectly normal occurrences for a sprawling metropolis at 1 am, it would seem — he only now gets a chance to both glance at and actually register the softly ticking clock on a grand oak desk, nestled by a stack of stationary.

“Nashala, forgive me,” Mirage huffs, rising from his chair. He unbuttons and unhooks the various closings of his overcoat, gingerly producing the sleek, elegant bottle wrapped securely at his side. She needn’t speak for him to know that his sudden jostling had disturbed her sleep. “I do not mean to wake you,” he sets the bottle down upon a fine silk pillow on his bedside table. The staff at the Baroness hadn’t missed a single detail in Nashala’s request, it seems. He wonders how much of it was fulfilled by that Doorman alone.

“We shall discuss today’s…events in the morning. I am in need of a bath and my own rest,” he can feel the aura of her dissatisfaction over cutting what will assuredly be a riveting conversation short. He also knows her well enough to tell the difference between a minor annoyance and true upset. Thus it comes to no surprise when he can sense that she has fallen back asleep only a few moments later.

It’s kind of her not to pull rank on me, just this once.

He lazily unravels the tie atop his head, savoring the ebb of pressure as coiffed strands flow freely, their ends twirling in loose, unpredictable spirals. He rakes one hand through his hair in absentminded spurts as he goes about the room, pulling back velvet curtains to double check the locks of each window. For Nashala’s safety, first and foremost. 

That does not mean he looks out of them more than necessary. So long as he does not know the cause or nature of that earlier anomaly, he will not be taking any chances. It’s exactly as he and the Doorman had said; he has no intention of antagonizing whatever that was for a second round. The only thing he means to court right now is a relaxing bath before bed. Reverence for his charge is the only thing that stops him from snatching the clothes from his body and swan diving into the steaming tub. No. Some dignity has got to give. He gently places Nashala’s cushion on the large marble sink, turning her bottle for privacy. 

He slips into the water with such ease that he almost swears he melts.

Wouldn’t that be an end to crown an already absurd day.

He knows the concern is unwarranted, but he raises a bubble-clad arm to check nonetheless.

Still very much corporeal and…mostly sane, all things considered.

He sighs, watching as a tendril of steam unfurls itself in wispy, hypnotizing little pirouettes before dissipating into the air.

While there are many abominations lurking in the more wretched alleyways of New York, the Doorman’s words echo in the forefront of his mind, I assure you they cannot reach you here at The Baroness, treasure that She is.

Strangely impeccable and reliable as the Doorman seems thus far, Mirage wonders just how far he can really, truly trust his judgment. There’s service, after all; and there’s complete, unshakable, maybe even fanatical, devotion. 

Surely the pot does not mean to call the kettle black.

Mirage catches the reflection of his wry smile in the mirror. There’s no point in ruminating on the ordeal any further. If not for himself, then certainly for the success of Nashala’s — the Djinn’s — mission. Ensuring as much would require the entirety of his composure; the entirety of Mirage himself. Of every job, large or small, Nashala has ever asked of him, this one has exactly zero margin for error. Reminding himself that the potential fate of an entire fledgling nation rests on his shoulders is enough to ground him. For now. He drains the tub and prepares for bed with what is the most clarity he’s had all day. He even cracks one of the windows in the bedroom just the slightest bit as a show of good faith. He’s fine. Sharp as ever. A bit shaken, yes, understandably so, but quick to reorient himself with undaunted conviction — an even stronger resolve.

He steals a glance at the desk clock before climbing into bed, its face illuminated by the thick column of moonlight that filters its way in. 3 am, now. How utterly unfunny.

Do I finally mean to find some peace at the witching hour?

“Yes, you do,” Mirage mutters aloud, slipping between fine Egyptian cotton bedding and shutting his goddamn eyes. That last declarative statement, it seems, is finally enough to table it for now. He falls asleep much quicker and easier than expected, carried away by the gentle sounds of distant bustle, the fainteset hint of a playful, inviting whistle.

Chapter Text

“You dirty, shameless freak.” 

It’s the familiarity behind the voice that makes Drifter start, rather than the insult. Maybe even the audacity of being addressed at all. A creeping warmth settles on his skin as he comes to; sunrise. Or just barely after. He raises a blood-crusted hand to his eyes in advance. It’s not blinding rays that make him recoil into shadows cast by the buildings towering above, but the lithe, scarlet silhouette that blocks them. The figure eclipses the sky from view — Drifter can only just make out the top of the hazy, lavender grey horizon past broad, pointed shoulders. 

“...The hell you want, bell boy,” Drifter grunts; no one else would be stupid enough to trap him at the end of an alley. He shifts his hand to shield himself from the Doorman’s loathing glare.

…which leaves him vulnerable to what he has to admit is a pretty rough kick in the ribs.

“You…” The Doorman seethes, balling his gloved, shaking hands at his sides. “What in the fuck do you think you are doing.”

“Ooo, look at you, slingin' them naughty words around,” Drifter chuckles once as he rolls over, refusing to clutch his side no matter how much it hurts. “Must’ve struck a nerve.”

“Do not flatter yourself, you filthy cur,” the Doorman would probably spit at him if he were the type. “Just who the hell do you think you are, stalking my guests!?”

“Your guests?” Drifter lets out a little hum at the reminder of what led him down this alley in the first place.

It’d started last night, seemingly out of nowhere. Like a looming thunderstorm, furious and unstoppable in its approach, coming to make good on its threat to shatter the earth. It wasn’t temptation, desire, or even compulsion, but the very concept of complete and utter need.

He’d been content to brush it off at first. Months in a dust bowl like Oklahoma would make a once-in-a-lifetime delicacy of even the most mild of trails, emanating off the most milquetoast New Yorker to exist. That was until hints of that scent came to him in short, if not also highly intensive, overpowering bursts; deafening, disarming, syncopated pangs, punctuating pleasure and need in places and ways that only someone the likes of him — both monster and man — could ever sense. He would have followed that thrall to the bottom of the Hudson, more than willing to trade the drowning of his flesh and (what little of his) soul for that of the most powerful hunger he has ever felt.

He’d chased whoever it was through Queens and all of Manhattan before finally sensing them properly. He’d tasted their fear and bargaining and pride and resolve on his tongue, slowing his mind and body until he’d felt lazy and thick, letting it drench all of him in decadent, liquid amber. Any other time — every other time — it had been as simple as coating the world in darkness, tearing the veil back with bile-and-brain-soaked hands once he’d had his fill. Just that this one time — the only time — whoever it had been, was the first of his marks to have ever gotten away. 

…For now. The hunt, now that he’s awake, begins once again. “...S-so I was right, they are in there, then,” Drifter’s voice trembles, visibly swallowing a wave of ecstasy. He nods upward, resting his forearm against The Baroness’ facade. He savors the stark contrast of cold stone against searing, sweaty skin. The sudden rush makes him lightheaded. “Thought you’d be a little more protective of that kind of information.”

“Why else do you think I would deign to acknowledge you. It’s clear enough why your little spiel led you here, of all places,” the Doorman sneers. “Your degeneracy only concerns me insofar as a patron of The Baroness gets caught up within. Judging by your previous…meal, however,” he wrinkles his nose at the mangled entanglement of eviscerated rat carcasses strewn about the ground; he actually recoils where the tip of his immaculately shined shoe almost brushes against a garland of entrails. “You didn't manage to catch them. Perhaps you should return to Oklahoma for easy pickings. If not for everyone else's sake, then for your own; New York seems to be a touch beyond you.”

“Now I know talk of easy pickins’ ain't comin’ from the biggest bitch this side of the astral plane,” Drifter shakes his head, pounding with renewed bloodlust. He digs a claw into the concrete to stabilize himself. “You got so outclassed in your own try at godhood, you been out here tap dancin’ for these humans ever since.”

“Funny,” the Doorman actually steps closer, cold and, loathe as Drifter is to admit, pretty damn intimidating. “Because I can hardly think of anything more bitch made than slinking through backstreets on all fours, lapping at the air for a taste of whatever scent it is you're after, like the feral beast you are.”

Drifter shrugs with what he hopes is as much indifference as possible, but he knows his uncontrollable tremors give him away. “You should try it sometime.”

The Doorman rolls his eyes and scoffs in disgust. “Now if I haven’t accepted that offer at any other point we’ve had the misfortune of running into each other in the last four hundred years, what makes you think I would start now?!”

“If you caught even a whiff o’what I did —” Drifter chokes. The mere thought, memory, of that scent, it seems, still means to disintegrate his senses. He takes a moment to draw in a deep breath of that fresh morning air everybody’s always going on about; there, just on the edge of wet brick and exhaust and festering garbage and greasy bodega breakfasts and dead rats and even his own filth  — an intoxicating mixture of spicy smoke, sun, cloves, and scalding, fresh, pungent blood.

“It would lead me to a rat-infested alley that reeks of sewage? I doubt that. Highly.”

“...You’d at least see how I ended up here,” Drifter buckles beneath yet another hint of his mark in the air, digging a hand into his cramping stomach.

“And may that day never come, what with way you are quite literally fiending before me, like some shiftless drug addict,” the Doorman inhales to continue —

“Whatever, it don’t matter,” Drifter leans his head against the wall, his whole body locked and tense. “I ain’t interested in changin’ your mind, I’m interested in answers,” the desperation in his voice, already trapped in his throat once more, sounds outright torturous in his ears.

“Answers?!” the Doorman repeats, eyes widening. “Surely there isn’t a part of you that believes I would honor such a request, as pathetic a sight you are.”

“How ‘bout the part of me that’ll smash that damn hotel of yours floor by floor if I don’t get my hands on whoever the hell this is —”

“Oh, for God’s sake — I am not out here to parley with you, Drifter. I am here to give you one, solitary warning; you are tracking your perversions much too close to the Baroness for your own good.”

“I ain’t here to parley, neither,” he can’t help but smirk as, even between pangs of unbridled, insatiable, debilitating hunger, he still manages to fix the Doorman’s pronunciation. “I’m here to eat. I don’t see what all you’re fussin’ for; I thought you wanted your little hotel to have a cute lil’ reputation.”

“A murderous aberration stalking my customers is NOT a cute little reputation.”

“Which is why, you let me get my meal, and I’ll see to it don’t none of my dirt ever grace your precious Baroness’ doorstep again.”

The Doorman doesn’t meet the offer with refusal, disdain, or even an insult. He simply watches him, stone-faced and expressionless; clearly, if not also much to Drifter’s surprise, he actually considers it. Which Drifter isn’t really sure what to do with, quite frankly. Especially not in this state. The Doorman’s not stupid, and, despite however many years of groveling for a living, even more self-serving when it amuses him. Still, now Drifter salivates at the thought of just a single bite of his mark. He’d even put on that damn uniform and shuffle around for a year or two himself, should it be granted. 

“S just one guest, you know,” Drifter’s much too close to plain, undressed begging for comfort, but it doesn’t matter; he’ll pay the Doorman’s price for this hunt later. “I’ll even leave a glowing anonymous review to make up for it.”

“You know what? Fine,” the Doorman actually concedes, raising his arms in capitulation. It takes every bit of self-control Drifter possesses to not tear off into the sunbaked streets. “Do continue to stalk him. As a treat. I’ll be delighted to deal with the mangled body you’ll leave behind.”

“You mean he’ll leave behind,” he can feel a trickle of blood on his palms where he clenches his claws within them.

“Oh no. I very much meant yours. The man you seek is an emissary of the Djinn, and highly imbued with their power. Last I checked, the Djinn and their bodyguards are nothing to be trifled with.” 

“All the more reason to trifle with ‘em,” he licks at his own blood with a pleasant shiver. “You know how much I love it when they try to fight back.”

“Ugh. You're absolutely vile.”

“I’m honest,” Drifter corrects. “Not all of us prance around in skin suits and lock their prey away until they tire themselves out. Nah. I'm all about the chase; and somethin’ tells me I’ma play with this one ‘til I wear us both out.”

“I do love your confidence.”

“Seems you got a lot of your own in ‘im. You know you're just puttin’ one of your precious customers on a silver platter for me. Not that I ain’t very, very much obliged.”

“I’ve no reason to worry about his continued business. I imagine disposing of you will be of no matter to him. Not to mention it saves me both a call and check to animal control.”

“Damn, I ain’t even worth the Baxter Society? Whatever. You’ll be dialin’ whoever’ll answer after I’ve made a smoothie out your boy,” he licks his chapped, trembling lips. “Now what’s he look like? You got a name or somethin’?” 

“Did you not just say it's about the love of the game? I have given you more than enough information. Find him yourself. I refuse to do the work for you.”

“Better yet, how’s about you tell him to come find me,” Drifter chuckles, blinking sweat from his eyes. “A deal’s a deal though; I’ll make sure to take him to go.”

“I doubt either are necessary, you’ll shamble upon him soon enough. It’s all over your wretched face; you could smell him from Connecticut at this point.”

“He’s gon’ regret teasin’ me like this on an empty stomach...”

“Yes, I'm sure. I suppose it’s only courteous to wish you happy hunting and all that, even if in vain. I look forward to his triumphant return. And — just so we’re clear,” the Doorman turns around, piercing blue eyes clashing with deep, haunting red. “I am not joking around with you. Come anywhere near the other guests, and I will crush you and leave you to die on your back like the vermin you are,” he shakes his head before turning to continue down the alley way. “What a shame our lovely emissary shall beat me to it.”

Chapter Text

Mirage is a patient, principled, disciplined man. But by the time today’s visit to the US Mission hits the eleventh hour, even he starts shifting in his stiff, over-upholstered chair. The ashtray, positioned dead-center in the table between Mirage and the Representative (a thoughtful, if not also futile gesture), had already filled up halfway through hour four. It’d started to overflow properly by hour seven. Hour eight, the Representative finally emptied it — only to strike a match from its pack and light another hand-rolled cigarette, assembling the mountain of charred butts anew.

He can certainly appreciate a fine tobacco or exquisite hash, even be it secondhand, more often than not. But this acrid, sickly-sweet-yet-nauseatingly-dull blend is a unique and unusual brand of torture. Nashala, in her corporeal form in the hours that she can manage, declines a cigarette for the sixth time today. The brief spell of eye contact Mirage makes with the diplomat says more than enough; there's no hiding the drained look on his face any longer.

Even his meticulously pressed ceremonial raiments wear the loss of morale, quite literally, on their sleeves; the fabric starts to wrinkle, the ironed creases losing their sharpness from the last thirty minutes of unintentional shifting. He’d picked his finest clothing for today, figuring that the third straight day of negotiations would involve a few handshakes, signatures, and a release of land in his and the Djinn’s favor. Maybe even a photo opportunity or two. Instead, the day comes to a close with no agreement having been reached. Or even a refusal, for that matter. It’s the most helpless stalemate he’s ever faced. 

Twelve hours.

Twelve entire hours were spent in the conference room, with nothing but an ashen complexion and a set of rings around Mirage’s eyes to show for it.

It’s late evening once they’re finally free — back on the streets of New York, Mirage mentally corrects. Bright lights from all conceivable sources illuminate the sidewalk, an ornery protest of nature against the starless, navy blue sky. Mirage closes his eyes, doing his best to appreciate it all for what it is with a deep inhale — his first breath of fresh air all day. Smoky evidence of a nearby Brazilian Steakhouse’s dinner rush fills his nostrils. The Doorman had said something or other about the in-house, hand-picked chef preparing a Seafood spread tonight. The prospect sounds a lot more interesting now that he’s not being informed of it halfway out the door at six in the morning.

“Let us discuss today’s proceedings over dinner,” Mirage’s yawn is overpowered by an embarrassingly audible stomach growl. “I, ah, am ashamed to say that I lost my focus a little in the meeting.”

“Were you bored, perhaps?”

“I was not bored, I am not a child,” he flushes, averting his gaze from the bottle in his arm. “Restless would be a better word for it. The Consul’s chain smoking habit and aversion to an open window did not help. I was able to gather more than enough in spite of it all. I wish to go over a plan for…” he frowns at his feet. “...tomorrow’s meeting.”

“A good idea. We can do that over drinks.”

“Drinks, yes,” Mirage chuckles once, but his stomach curdles into a well of dread. Should Nashala suggest what he suspects she will — God, does he literally not want to go there. “And dinner.”

“No, Mirage. I wish to go to a bar.”

And there it is.

“You saw the day I had. You were literally in my seat for over half of it. You could barely endure it yourself.”

“Nashala,” Mirage pleads. “It has been an incredibly taxing week for us both, and it is only Wednesday. We still have tomorrow and Friday to get through.”

“And how do you expect us to make it that far without a bit of fun?”

“You have spent so much time in your physical form today, are you not utterly exhausted?”

“Yes, but is that not how real New Yorkers recharge?”

Mirage pauses. “...In a bar?!”

“Yes!”

“I — I don’t know, I’ve never bothered to consider such a thing —”

“I cannot help but feel that you’ve conveniently neglected to consider my entire itinerary at this point.”

“Because we have been petitioning the US Government for an entire state the past three days!” Mirage shakes his head, letting out a little sardonic laugh where only one pedestrian turns to look at the highly overdressed man walking down the street, arguing with an ornately decorated bottle. Suppose such oddities here are commonplace. “Have you not given thought to how strangers might react to a Djinn taking form in such a place? Why not the Baroness’ Lounge, we know for certain we’ll be safe there…” Mirage shivers. While nothing else out of the ordinary has occurred since Sunday night, it still weighs on him; a sore, tender bruise on his memory.

“Mirage,” is all she says; tired, knowing, playfully, all at once. A little triumphant, too. She knows good and well, after his many years of service, that such a tone works far, far more often than not. “If there’s anywhere a Djinn taking full form wouldn’t be a big deal, it’s New York.”

“It is unsafe, Nashala —”

“If everyone is unsafe, no one is. Besides, you will be there.”

“Is this an attempt at flattery? It will not work, if so.”

“It is the truth. I have nothing to fear, so long as I am with you.”

Mirage groans softly, though his cheeks grow warm at the praise. She means it, no matter how thick she means to lay it on. 

“We can cut the tour of Jersey City in exchange.”

Mirage’s lips thin. He cannot deny the trade before him. “...Fine.”

“There is an Ixian-run bar not far from The Baroness I was reading about —”

“One drink, and we leave. And I, myself, shall abstain.”

“Which means we’ll probably be the least interesting ones there —”

“And if I notice anything amiss, we are leaving without question,” it’s rare that he takes such an authoritative tone toward her, but her moments of restless impulsivity often necessitate a voice of reason — albeit a rather nagging one.

“Alright,” while she finds such occurrences amusing, she tends to concede nonetheless. “I can agree to those terms.”

Would, that the officials at the US Mission could be so amenable.

Neither of them speak on the subway ride back toward the hotel. She swiftly rejects his suggestion that they return to their room to refresh themselves when they pass The Baroness; even Mirage can admit it was a pretty transparent attempt at diverting her attention.

“You’re sulking, Mirage.”

“Nashala, please,” he rubs a hand across his face to fix his soured expression. Part of him almost wishes another planar anomaly would envelop them on the way to the bar. Perhaps thirty seconds in fundamental darkness would force her to see reason.

I jest, naturally, he thinks for good measure. Just in case the universe is rather bored tonight, too.

“This is the place?” Mirage asks when they finally approach what Nashala’s itinerary indicates is a bar. He clutches her bottle closer, awash with a subconscious spell of uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

He’s hardly religious, and even less familiar with what it means to be as much in the United States; but he can certainly recognize a dilapidated husk of what was already a modest-at-best inner-city church when he sees one. “This is the place,” Mirage repeats, voice full of sarcastic doubt. He raises an eyebrow.

“New Yorkers have an ironic sense of humor.”

He can’t even make out any lights or movement through the weathered, murky windows. “If you say so.” 

The sooner Nashala orders and finishes her one drink — he is not budging in that regard — the sooner they can leave. He draws a breath before pulling the handle of the church-turned-bar’s heavy, original wooden door. 

His travels have taken him on a few tours of magnificent cathedrals, thus the silhouette of the place feels familiar enough at first glance. He can’t make out much through the dim lighting except a strong stench of damp, old moldy stone, as if the air trapped within hasn’t so much as shifted since the building’s conception.

Layers of melted wax coat candle-tipped, iron chandeliers hanging above a row of pool tables. A towering organ and floor length lancet windows cradle the room like a pair of ancient, pious hands, forever steepled in prayer. He’s not sure who these figures on the stained glass are — saints, probably, if he had to guess — but they surround the guests from all sides, all angles; a permanently judging pantheon, watching their own children sin with gazes more scornful and firm than that of even the meanest bouncer.

Mirage cannot tell if it bodes ill or well that no one actually reacts to their arrival. On the one hand, it's easier to go unnoticed in chaotic, crowded places. On the other, it could be that anyone who chooses to drink here does so for the very discretion with which he and Nashala are met. No one even so much as throws them a look over their shoulders. Do the regulars take kindly to newcomers? Or are they perfectly content to ignore them, if only to uphold the unspoken adage of…how does it go again? 

Snitches get stitches.

To either Nashala’s or her itinerary’s credit, there are very few actual humans here. The bartender himself is an onyx-skinned Ixian dressed in a smooth, fashionable, red-and-cream-colored get up.

Surely he is the source of the whiffs of sulphur wafting about.

He chats quietly with an even larger Ixian; a man with protruding horns and blue skin nurses a single drink, but bloodshot eyes say he's at least six or seven deeper than his current glass count implies. They meet Mirage’s over a pair of thick-framed glasses; the contact instantly breaks. Live and let live, the brooding Ixian’s posture seems to say, almost as if he’s apologetic for having acknowledged him altogether. If they really have to forgo dinner for whatever this is, Mirage can’t say he minds the lower key attitude of Nashala’s choice of establishment.

She really did do her research.

“See? Everything is fine,” he can feel her whisper from her bottle. “I will wait for your signal to come out, however.”

He’s stiff backed and shouldered, surveying the whole bar one more time before nodding with an even stiffer neck. He expects Nashala’s emergence to wake the calm, tranquil boozers and billiard hounds from their collective stupor. 

But nothing happens. Whatever pool game a tall woman in a purple zoot suit plays against a group of equally-sharply dressed men seems way more interesting than a Djinn materializing in their presence, apparently. A fedora covers her eyes from the world around her, but Mirage reckons she sees nothing but the shot she lines up with or without its obstruction. He needn’t see her face to know it is commanded by a look of pure focus. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t rather fascinated himself.

She waits a few more seconds, finally taking the shot with a sharp jab of the cue stick between her middle and index fingers. He knows next to nothing about the game, but her onlookers erupt with a cacophony of laughter, hooting, and shit talk. The woman herself hardly seems daunted. Her opponent, on the other hand, looks nothing short of dejected — like he’d just lost the whole of the world with the single flick of her robotic hands.

If my luck continues thusly, they will not ask Nashala to join them.

Otherwise, a smattering of customers hold their own lazy conversations, obscured by a haze of cigar smoke twisting in on itself, the air a treacherous sea of thick, fragrant, nicotine whirlpools.

“You’re overthinking things, Mirage,” Nashala places a corporeal hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I can tell.”

“I am simply assessing the atmosphere.”

“It's fine, look,” she sweeps a hand before her, and sure enough, no one looks over. “Grab a drink. Please. Relax,” she gives him a smile. The priceless golden chains around her neck catch a flicker of flames from the candles above. “You deserve it. I'll take whatever the barkeep suggests,” she steps patiently to his side, and Mirage takes a moment before approaching the bartender once he’s free.

“Good evening. My…friend here wishes to know what comes most recommended.”

The bartender looks up at them both from over his fire-red glasses, revealing eyes that are just as blazing and bright. So much so, Mirage has to stop himself from jumping. “Sure thing, Miss. How about a John Collins? It's got gin in it, if that's alright.” For a man who seems to’ve been born from a smoldering bed of embers, his smile might just be the most dazzling thing about him.

Nashala laughs gracefully into her hand. The bartender replies with a tip of his hat. “And for you sir?”

“Tea is fine, thank you. Black, if you have it.”

“No problem, I got teas just for a moment like this. Yup, you heard me right; teas, plural. Black and green.”

Mirage forces to muster a small smile. It would be beyond inappropriate to inform the man that it would take an exhaustive list of different blends on hand to truly impress him.

“Get something fun,” Nashala insists again. “Relax!”

“I’m having more than enough fun as is,” Mirage mumbles. “This is plenty of excitement for me.”

“You sure you don’t want something to help take…all those edges off?” The Bartender peeks at him over his glasses.

“You will have a glass of whiskey, too — he will have a glass of whiskey,” Nashala adds in heavily accented English to the bartender directly. 

“I suppose I shall have a glass of whiskey,” Mirage rubs his eyes, resigned. Nashala didn’t say anything about actually drinking it.

“Heh. Just your luck, I can make all that happen. Comin’ right up,” he turns toward a wall of bottles that almost reach halfway toward the vault of the church’s ceiling. “You got a preference sir?”

“Well is fine for us both,” Mirage sighs, watching the man prepare their drinks to ensure he does not tamper with them. Not because he finds him to be suspect, merely that it would be a gross act of negligence were he to not ensure as much. He goes to pull out a chair for Nashala once he’s finished — but she’s already in a lively conversation with what appears to be a…sharp-eyed snake woman and a massive, hulking scrap golem. Alright, then.

He thinks back to all the many rumors he’s heard about New York over the course of his travels. None of them, he realizes, ever seemed to account for just how weird the city could really be.

“So, what language were y’all two speaking just then?” The bartender sets their drinks on the countertop. Nashala takes hers with a warm thank you before turning back to her extremely intriguing company. She always was a little too talented at making conversation, sometimes making Mirage’s job proportionately more difficult in turn.

“…Farsi,” Mirage answers after a much needed, much savored sip of tea. It’s plain, some generic blend in an average, low-quality teabag. It wouldn’t surprise him if the box itself hadn’t been left behind by the original congregation. But it may as well be ceremonial for as nicely as it hits after a day like his.

“Ah, damn. You two’re a long way from home, then.”

Mirage doesn’t answer right away, catching his own rippling reflection in his whiskey. God help him, he actually eyes the little shot glass for a moment. He swallows another sip of tea, and the urge to touch the spirit along with it. “We are, yes.”  

“Well, you don’t have to worry about a thing. We get Djinn in here every now and again. Fleeting customers, though. I know they can’t stay out their bottles for long. Even then, well, look at me. I figure anyone who can come to an Ixian spot and not be afraid to rub shoulders with us must be alright in one way or another.”

“Ixia, you say. Have you been?” Mirage, bless his heart, tries to be something other than more straight and rigid than the cue that woman from before cracks once more against the billiards. But he’s careful to keep both one eye and ear on Nashala; particularly on how finished she is with that one drink they agreed to.

“Nah, nah,” the bartender waves his hand. “New York born and raised, baby. You need anything? Sugar? Cream?”

A good night’s rest, and a getaway from this so-called getaway.

“Ah — I am fine, thank you,” Mirage holds up a hand, and they leave the conversation — pleasant, light, and short-lived — at that.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of their time there, nor does anyone seem particularly keen to speak to him. It would be perfect were they not here to begin with. He sips his tea with a deceptive level of serenity. He’s mastered the subtle art of sneaking glances at Nashala’s table, even turning his head in their direction from time to time. They seem fine. The snake woman is excessively loud, her golem friend a bit crass, but well-intentioned enough for the purpose of a single drink. 

He tries to go over what few notes he was able to take during today’s meeting, making a point to ignore the sense of being watched every now and again. He doesn’t panic at the sensation, but silently greets it instead, apathetic and aloof. It’s that same creeping feeling he’s felt since Sunday, only the ominous spells have traded intensity for frequency; constant, ever-present, lurking, its haunches poised and teeth bared, but never striking. Frozen yet kinetic, as if he’s drawn the attention of a limitless surge of energy trapped within an indestructible vessel. The invisible gaze drapes itself across his already weary body like an ethereal shawl; a whispered warning of imminent danger, its cause seemingly content to lie in wait. It never crescendos beyond an undulating hum, accompanied sometimes by what Mirage swears is the softest, inviting whistle, begging that he sing along. It is no longer enough to strike fear in him outright, though it still manages to give him pause. Not so much as to have a hand on his gun, but he’s astutely aware of its holster resting against his undershirt.

Nashala nurses her drink, so as to bend the boundary of their agreement a little, but she’s content enough with the outing to join him once he closes their tab a half-hour later.

It’s only now that they go to take their leave that Mirage realizes the Ixian sitting next to him hasn’t even reacted once to his presence. He catches a glimpse of a massive, old, foreboding tome resting with comparatively ironic innocence on the counter. This proves itself right away to have been a mistake; the Ixian eyes him dangerously, making a blunt, deliberate show of hiding it. His body language lightens the moment Mirage looks away, who understands better than to take it personally. They all have secrets, it seems.

“Would you like my drink?” he offers. He’d be surprised if the Ixian man even hears him. “I did not touch it at any point.”

“...Ah, what the hell. Sure,” the Ixian takes it, dwarfing it in his fingertips alone. “Thanks.” The shot disappears from one blink of an eye to the next. He didn't even stop to assess the situation, let alone the man actually handing him the glass.

No matter. He's had enough curiosities and unexpected encounters for the night. Even if he hadn’t, it is absolutely none of his business. “I thank you for your hospitality,” Mirage sets a generous amount of bills into the bartender's tip jar. Hopefully that will be enough to distract him from the fact that he departs with Nashala without a goodbye, or even another word.

“See, that was fun!” Nashala smiles once they return to their suite. Mirage has never been more happy to close and lock a door in his life. His briefcase slips from his hands with a thud by the coffee table.

“I am glad you think so, My Lady,” He slowly strips himself of the more decorative elements of his raiments. “Though I must admit, I am even more relieved that my concerns were for nothing.”

“My guidebook said Ixian establishments tend to be more welcoming toward, let's just say, the rarer of us who walk this plane.”

“Your acquaintances this evening would certainly count under that category, yes,” he doesn’t address her directly, keeping his gaze fixed on his reflection in the mirror. He unpins and sets his various brooches and sashes on the vanity.

“Oh they were very interesting! Vyper and Bebop were their names. Unusual, don't you think?”

Vyper must have been the snake woman. Perhaps a bit on the nose, but who is he to judge? Mirage hums, rolling his shoulders once he strips himself of his chocolate brown tunic. “Unorthodox names for unorthodox people. They did not bother you, I hope? I imagine you would have told me, if so.” He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“Oh, not at all, they were very both personable. We talked about all kinds of things. Mostly about how Vyper is a fan of some boxer named Lash.”

“...Who?”

“I don't know, he’s a local figure, I assume,” Nashala settles gracefully in a chair across from him. “But Bebop did not seem to share her enthusiasm. Regardless, I'm intrigued. Perhaps we can catch one of his matches before we go.”

Oh, dear. Another thing for the itinerary.

“Perhaps. If time permits,” Mirage leans his head against the chair’s back rest, closing his eyes. He’ll certainly be evading that request for as long as he possibly can.

“Are you alright, Mirage?”

“...I have not eaten,” he replies, eyes still closed. “Not to mention I still have yet to shed some of the tension I accrued from our little detour.”

“I'm sorry, I truly did forget about dinner. It is not too late for room service.”

“I do not wish to bother the staff at this hour.”

“Then will you at least go down to the shop we passed at the end of the street? It is 24 hours. The sign in the window said so.”

“And leave you here unprotected?” Mirage slowly opens his eyes, shifting in his chair to sit up straight. “I do not think so. No. I am able to wait until tomorrow morning.”

“I will be fine,” Nashala places a hand on his knee. “I spoke with The Doorman yesterday evening. He understands the nature of our situation, and offered to pay special attention to my person for the duration of our stay. I will be safe here.”

“The Doorman?” Mirage raises an eyebrow. “What, exactly, are the credentials he possesses to make such a judgment?"

“I am not sure, but he has been nothing short of exceptional thus far.”

“It is one thing to be a well-mannered gem of a gentleman in the service industry, and another to be a professional, exclusive, highly seasoned bodyguard. I cannot think of any services that both The Doorman and myself can provide you.” 

“Mirage, it will be ten minutes at most. I insist that you go down the street and get yourself something to eat. I demand it, even.”

“You’ve been demanding a fair amount from me today, haven’t you?”

“If you inform The Doorman of your departure, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to keep an extra eye on anyone coming and going.”

“And who says we can trust his eyes to begin with?!”

“I do,” Nashala insists. “And I ask that you trust him, too, if only for the sake that you trust me. You do trust me, do you not?”

“I do.”

“And would carry out my every wish, were I to will it?”

“I would.”

“Without question?”

Mirage doesn’t respond.

“I will, then, that you go two blocks down to that corner store and get yourself a hot dog.”

“...This is foolish. Asinine, even.” 

“And insubordinate of you, should you refuse. The sooner you go and come back, the sooner the foolishness can end,” Nashala smiles.

“Must you be so difficult,” He mutters, but he swipes his overcoat off a rack by the desk. “I shall return as quickly as possible. I beg of you; please get some rest, and prepare for the days ahead.” He closes the door to the suite behind him, letting the gesture itself emphasize the point, and his unwillingness to argue any further along with it.

Sure enough, The Doorman stands behind the reception, much as he had this morning. Does he ever rest or take breaks, Mirage wonders to himself, clearing his throat when he realizes one could reasonably ask him the very same.

“Excuse me, ah..Doorman,” It feels foreign and abrupt to refer to someone by their profession, but The Doorman snaps to attention with a warm, charming smile. “Nashala tells me you have personally promised her an extra layer of security, should I be absent. If I could call upon your offer for the moment; I shall not be gone for long.”

“Is that so?!” The Doorman sounds weirdly cheerful at the news. “You’re going out now? At this hour?!”

“...Is there a reason why I shouldn't?”

“No, nononono,” he waves his gloved hands, and Mirage swears the light in his unnaturally blue eyes dims a little. “This area is quite safe. Still, it is late, and muggers could be anywhere. It’s never a bad idea to be armed for good measure.”

And just what about the idea seems to amuse you so, Mirage nearly asks. He narrows his eyes, ultimately deciding against it. It’s not as if anyone he’s met in this city thus far could count as anything even remotely normal. It may well be that Mirage himself is the odd one out. “I appreciate the warning.”

He walks through the front doors of the hotel, the warmth of what he can sense is The Doorman’s smile shooting an eerie sense of discomfort down his spine.

“I trust him, she says,” he mutters to himself in a mocking tone, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat.

The side streets around The Baroness are awfully quiet for a city that never sleeps. The path to the bodega is simple enough; a straight line flanked on either side by slumbering brownstones, so still and unassuming. Peaceful, even, the bayed windows of their living rooms pitch black and vacant. He can’t help but wonder what sorts of stories the sandstone facades would tell if they could. He shoos away the wandering thought with a renewed sense of focus. 11 pm is no time to admire the neighborhood. Nashala awaits. No matter how much she insists on the contrary. 

In, out. A salad (for as little as Mirage rates the more touristy elements of this visit, even he cannot deny that his first ever New York hot dog should be from a proper cart in Times Square). Maybe a drink. The shopkeep won’t even want to speak with him if he’s lucky. If he’s less than, he’ll recognize Mirage’s accent, and will insist upon a maudlin, meandering conversation in their mother tongue. Per Mirage’s understanding, there is a sizable Persian community here in the city. He’ll just pretend he doesn’t understand English.

He’s halfway to the shop before he realizes that something is very, very wrong. The warm, bronze light of the streetlamps pulse weakly against a sheen of thick, inky fog before giving out entirely. The world falls mute, as if it holds its breath. Not even the dead leaves and stray bits of gravel make a sound when they catch beneath the soles of his boots. Even in such sudden darkness, he feels the vile aura of a rising shadow behind him, a streak of pure black against an already hollow void. There’s nothing here but Mirage himself — and a low, feral growl in his ear, a hitching, warm breath on the nape of his neck —

A surge of piercing, relentless pressure grips tightly around his biceps, thick claws puncturing what he’d always thought was a sturdy, well-made, wool coat. He feels his back slam against a cold wall with enough force to wind him, and he cranes his neck to meet a pair of scarlet, sinister eyes, their gaze dancing across Mirage’s face with manic malevolence.

He knows within moments that this is what has been prowling about, chasing him, stalking him. For days.

The person — creature — entity — thing — reveals a fanged smile, lunging for Mirage’s neck with wanton ferocity. His body locks up and his eyes fall shut before those fangs sink into him; in an equally fleeting second, he is nothing more than a pool of sand in the creature’s palms.

Mirage can hear the clacking of the creature’s jaw as he snaps at nothing. Blood red, or perhaps blood soaked, hands rend through the air, and Mirage’s breath catches as he rematerializes behind this thing; it would have been his end had he not been quick to think. He seizes the opportunity to retrieve his gun with a trembling hand, thrusting his free one into the dark. His fingers curl into a bunching of gritty, worn fabric, and he uses the leverage to reverse their positions, backing whatever this is against the wall instead.

Much to Mirage’s surprise, whatever this is doesn’t fight back. It even seems to tremble at his approach, in fact. It’s not until he looks at what, or who, he sees head on that he realizes it’s anticipation that makes him shiver so, rather than fear.

As if Mirage has him exactly where he wants to be.

“You…” Mirage’s body and voice shake, his eyes stinging from the sweat visibly trailing down his forehead. “...have been following me. For three days —” he chokes, overwhelmed by a revolting mingling of filth, blood, and perspiration. Not that any of it stops him from digging his gun so deeply into the man’s neck that he presses the crown of his head clean against the bricks.

A single streak of light filters into the alley from the main road where this man, presumably the cause of tonight’s and Sunday’s bouts of darkness, allows it to intrude on the scene, an unwelcome, nosy, rose gold voyeur. Now Mirage can see this figure for what it is: a broad-shouldered, disheveled man in tattered, unwashed clothing, with mid-length black hair flowing out from beneath an equally dirty newsboy cap.

He smiles down at Mirage with half-lidded eyes, bold and knowing and confident. “Look at you,” His sneer simmers with pleasure, his laugh so low and deep in his chest that Mirage wonders if he does not imagine it altogether. “You’re terrified.”

Mirage watches the man’s eyes follow the curl of his finger around the trigger. “It will not stop me from severing your head from your neck.”

“Now I ain’t a gamblin’ man, but I’m more than willin’ to bet that if you knew I could get you to Wyoming, you'd reconsider,” the man’s smile unfurls, wide and satisfied, as the pressure on his throat eases.

“How —” Mirage swipes a gnarled, unsteady hand through his now loose hair, wild and undone by their violent altercation. “How do you know — about —?!”

“Let’s just say your girl’s a lil’ chatty once she’s had a drink —” the man breaks off, clearly not expecting Mirage to find the strength to steel his body and whip him clean across the face with his gun.

“Choose your words very carefully,” Mirage’s heart pounds against his throat and his chest tightens, forcing him to draw heavy, burdened breaths through parted lips. “Speak of her out of turn again, and I will not hesitate. Do not try me.”

“...Somethin’ tells me we got off on the wrong foot,” The man grunts as he holds a large, clawed hand to his swelling cheek, licking a mixture of blood and saliva from his teeth. “But that don’t mean I ain’t open to takin’ this conversation somewhere more comfortable.” 

“I think our current arrangement is suitable enough,” Mirage steps forward to place his gun beneath the man’s chin once more. “I am, however, running out of patience.”

“You’re willin’ to die for her, ain’tcha?”

Mirage blinks at the unexpected response. Nor does he even need to know just whom the man is referring to. “Without question,” his hand gripping the man’s shirt curls into a proper first, stabilizing him where adrenaline leaves his legs weak and shaky. “If you wish to test this —”

“Don’t play with me now, I can only take so much teasin’…” the man warns with a head shake, collecting himself with a feral growl. He clenches and unclenches his hands, as if he wills them to stay by his side. “What if I told you, that dream you’n your girl are chasin’…I know how to make it happen. Yeah, that’s right; I saw that flash in them pretty eyes of yours. Don’t act like you ain’t interested. I been tailin’ you for a minute, now; we both know them long days at the UN ain’t gettin’ you nowhere.” 

Mirage freezes, his body running cold with what he hates to admit is fear; just who is this man?! “What do you want,” the question cracks from Mirage with such intensity, it is almost a statement, and clearly a lot more urgent and stressed than he would like. “I imagine you are not approaching me out of the kindness of...whatever you possess within your left breast.”

“We talkin’ hearts now?” The man spits some of that blood still welling in his mouth onto the ground, a glassiness shining in his eyes as he draws breath through his nostrils. “Yours is racin’ a mile a minute.”

“I assure you it makes my aim no less true,” calm as Mirage’s tone may be, it is clear his attacker takes it as the threat it is. He buries a hand into the ripped collar of the man’s ratty, bloodstained shirt. “...Why is it of any interest to you? Whoever you are?”

“Oh, I ain’t even gon’ lie to you, now. It don’t interest me in the least bit. Now you, on the other hand,” he pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, refusing to look away from Mirage’s widening eyes. “It don’t take a genius to work out what I am. I been chasin’ after your delicious self since the moment you got into town.”

Mirage takes an instinctive step back, both his heart and mind racing as he glances first at the man’s pointed ears, intense red eyes, the occasional flash of his sharp fangs —

“I ain’t too proud to admit you been a lil’ slippery thing, but that don’t make me, what was it you said? Patient, neither. If I didn’t have a proposal for you, I prolly wouldn’t let you corner me so easy.”

“Goading words, for a man with a gun to his throat. Say what you are going to say, vampire.”

“Lemme ask you somethin’,” he goes to raise a hand close to Mirage’s side, and the gun digs ever deeper in response. The vampire lowers it once more, slowly and carefully. “You ever heard of the Patrons?” 

“...What of them,” Mirage’s voice breaks as the vampire stares into his eyes, unblinking. He breaks their eye contact. “Surely you do not mean to ask if I believe a starving vampire, with a debilitating obsession with me no less, has a direct connection with an extraplanar god, and is willing to magically make my wishes come true?!”

“I ain’t starvin’, now, I’m fastin’, I don’t wanna spoil my appetite,” the vampire insists, cutting him off. “‘Nd you’re skippin’ over a couple important steps. I ain’t tryna waste such an exquisite meal, and it just so happens I got myself nestled nice and close in one of their ears. Lucky for us both, I’m willin’ to put in a good word for you if you make me happy.”

“‘Happy’, how,” Mirage grimaces. “What is it that you want from me?”

“Heh — what all you think a vampire, who’s been chasin’ you through daylight, could possibly want from you?”

Mirage need not deliberate any further on what it is he means. 

“Now I’m many things, but I ain’t a fool. I don't take you for a charitable man, so I know you ain’t just gon’ let me feed on you as I please for free. But as long as you know I got a Patron’s wish with your name on it in my pocket, somethin’ tells me you'll be willin’ to let me get my fill.”

Mirage grimaces and backs away in disgust. “My Lady’s mission has no need for a wish.”

“You need somethin’, ‘cause your negotiations ain’t goin’ so well. I’ve caught a little bit of ‘em myself.”

“Do not mock me,” Mirage snaps. The vampire raises his hands again with a flippant chuckle. “Where is your proof.” he waves the hand holding his gun around. “Proof that what you say is true.”

“‘S not like the Patrons just give you a business card,” the man scoffs. “The proof I ain’t comin' here empty handed? No way you’d still be alive if I were.”

Mirage, hardly satisfied with his answer, tilts the muzzle of his gun to trace the bob of the vampire’s Adam’s apple.

“But you’re gonna have to trust me for the time bein’,” the vampire watches the cold metal slide along his throat as well. 

“Trust the abomination that has me trapped in an alleyway, eager to rip my body to shreds.”

“The irony ain’t lost on me here, neither,” he visibly relaxes where Mirage slowly pulls his gun away from his jaw. “Come on, now. This ain't even on the list of dirtiest deals made in the alleys of New York."

“Nor does it make the list of my own.”

“Ooo,” the vampire hums, low and soft. “I like you,” he almost purrs as he obviously undresses — no — flays him with his eyes. “I been watchin’ you for days, now. I know you’d do anythin’ to make Miss Dion smile.”

Anything, yes. With pleasure, and without question. 

“You’d die for her. Kill for her, even. I know for a fact you ain’t above bleedin’ for her.”

Mirage averts his gaze, giving the man a stiff nod. The moment he does so, the vampire lunges toward him, clearly aiming to pin him against the building — a shot cracks through the air, stopping the man mid-stride, his eyes fixed on the smoking gun in Mirage’s hand.

“Do not. Touch me,” Mirage reaches into his overcoat, producing a dagger from a holster near his thigh. He closes his eyes, steadying his breath, bringing the serrated blade to his wrist.

What are a few drops of blood, if there is truth behind this man’s words?

He’s careful to make sure not to react to the burning pain caused by the knife slashing into his skin. Mirage would die outright before granting this abomination such satisfaction. Whether from a rush of endorphins or a strange, controlled sense of calm considering the situation, he gracefully assures that not a drop is wasted before producing the blade for the vampire to lick.

If the idea crosses the man’s mind to turn the dagger on its master, a feral, insatiable hunger drowns it out. An outright moan catches in his throat as he slips the blade between his lips. Long black claws leave visible scratch marks in brick and concrete as he savors the blood.

My blood.

“Agh — fuck…” the vampire swears outright, his lips and tongue dyed crimson, barely able to breathe in between the violent shudders that follow each swallow. Mirage blots a handkerchief at the wound, his stomach knotting and coiling as the air marinates with the metallic smell of his mortality.

“It seems you know a fair amount about me,” he flings the soaked fabric at the vampire’s feet, who watches it flutter to the ground with a drunken, uncoordinated daze. “Then you must know you have my cooperation out of loyalty to Nashala, not naivety. Dare to use it against me, and you will beg me for death.”

“Sweet Jesus,” the vampire slides slowly to the ground with his back against the wall, draping an arm across his heaving chest. Mirage can’t help but wonder if he actually, truly, pleads. And if he doesn’t. “Don’t go threatenin’ me with a good time. Not now.”

“Whether you want more of…me, or to live — I shall let you decide what motivates you — you will tell me what you know about this Patron and its wish. Meet me here tomorrow, immediately after sunset. Do note, you bear the Djinn’s Mark on you.”

“Do I now…?” The vampire is slow to look up at him, those dark red eyes lidded and heavy.

“If you do not return here tomorrow evening, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

“That ain’t how this works, pretty boy,” the vampire tries to threaten, but both his body and words are thick and heavy with what may as well be leaded ambrosia. “I find you. I've proven that twice now.”

“You may find me, but you will not best me. I have proven that twice, myself. Tomorrow. Here. sunset. We shall both…find the other.”

“I can agree to that," the vampire chuckles, his unfocused, dilated eyes looking out toward the street at nothing in particular. "I wouldn't miss you for the world.”

“Oh, my!” The Doorman gasps at the sight of Mirage as he returns to the hotel. Has it been hours, or only minutes, since he'd left for a late night snack? He can only imagine what a sight he makes; his overcoat and dress shirt are shredded and stained, his body bruised, his hair matted, wild and loose. “You look like you've seen a ghost! Or a werewolf — vampire, maybe —”

Mirage, concussed and exhausted and battered as he is, can only spare him a cold, stony look. “I am fine. Is Nashala okay?”

“Miss Dion is fine, yes,” The Doorman hisses, clenching his teeth as he comes from behind the reception desk to look at him in his entirety. “Are you sure you’re okay?! There's blood all over you! Not yours, I hope.”

“Your concern is appreciated, but I am, ah — fine. I simply ran into one of those muggers you oh-so conveniently happened to warn me about.”

“Aha, well, it is New York City, you never wish it upon anyone, but…” The Doorman offers a nervous chuckle, avoiding his eye. “And is this…assailant of yours still out there, perhaps?”

“I…” Mirage exhales, rubbing his forehead, the gash on his wrist still aching, even if it no longer bleeds. For better or worse, it is the first time since Sunday that he no longer feels watched, stalked, from afar. For the moment. “I don't know. The matter is settled for now. I need my rest.”

“So you do,” The Doorman concurs, gently assisting him toward the elevator. “Please do not hesitate to ring the front desk should you need anything whatsoever.”

“You have my gratitude,” he slumps against the elevator doors the moment they begin to close, just barely catching sight of The Doorman rushing out of The Baronness, his ring of keys clenched firmly in hand.

Mirage starts in the middle of the night, shooting up from bed with a rush of adrenaline, drenched in cold, sickly sweat. A wave of nausea blurs his vision, but even still he can make out that it is four something in the morning, going off the clock on his bedside table.

He clenches his eyes shut, digging the heels of his palms into his forehead in an attempt to alleviate the excruciating pressure building upon his brow — and the revolting, grotesque vision that comes along with it: the vampire from earlier, sitting beneath a rotting bridge, its bank overrun with sludge and refuse, dragging the flat of his tongue along a blade Mirage slowly realizes is the dagger he’d left behind.

“The Mark…” Mirage whispers into the dark, holding a hand to his mouth as he retches. He doesn’t even bother to wonder what it is that makes him feel so sick; any cause he can think of seems more than valid a culprit. His mind throbs with another surge of pain as he watches the vampire licks his dagger clean, so to speak, lazy trails of blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. It’s a miracle he doesn’t vomit then and there.

The vision is no less fleeting than any other he’s divined over the years as the Djinn’s Emissary. Only that this one, for whatever reason, forcefully sears itself into his mind’s eyes, no matter how stark his technique usually suffices in willing it away.

If he does not have it with him tomorrow, I will kill him.

He repeats the thought, over and over, if only to drown out the whispers of truth that there’s no one to blame for his carelessness but himself.

“Oh, Nashala,” Mirage sighs, quiet and weak, to his charge sleeping peacefully in her bottle. “I can only pray I have not made a terrible, grave mistake.”

Chapter Text

The sun is wet and dim once it finally starts to rise, clawing its way across the sky like a weak, wounded animal, persisting off instinct alone. With the bulk of its light obscured behind thick, pewter storm clouds billowing past overhead, Drifter breathes a little more freely in the shadowy morning. He rests the back of his head against a structural beam of the overpass he’s called home the last couple of days. Sure, it smells like festering waste and mud and piss, and he can’t take a step without puncturing his shoes on shattered glass or discarded needles or broken bits of electronics…

Drifter rubs his eyes, watching the unbroken parade of pure, cold, early Autumn misery with a grim smile. There’s no ‘but’ sturdy enough to justify this particular choice of…locale. Well, discretion, he thinks to himself, swiping a hand across his face. Not that he’s had either the time or interest in entertaining guests since arriving in New York.

He grunts, cupping his forehead and clenching his eyes shut, blinded by a surge of pain. He counts the seconds between each roll of thunder. Nature is as nature does. For some, at least.

Drifter’s been hungry before. Ravenous. So overcome by bloodlust, deprived of it, in some cases, that he’s quite literally torn entire villages and settlements from the map. But this, coming down, sobering up — whatever he wants to call it — after just a taste of someone’s blood. Left with no choice but to sit here with disarming humility, drained of both the strength and will to cleave even the easiest, most feeble kill.

The young twenty-somethings who’d spent the best parts of last night tagging the bridge had stirred nothing within him, their bloodscents as overdone and uninspiring as the frayed, D-I-Y patches shittily sewn on their jackets. They were nothing but a walking gaggle of Fuck the man slogans and tepid, half-hearted swears, screaming at the top of their lungs like children learning the words for the first time. Anarchist threats and plans to change the world, as limp-wristed and non-committal as the hands tenuously grasping the most undrinkable, bottom-shelf dogshit Drifter knew they could only just barely afford; paper-thin ideals bobbing on a sea of blood-alcohol, water logged and submerged and forgotten.

Bored kids tagging shit. A classic pastime. Graffiti progeny left behind; their only proof the night ever even happened. Drifter had watched a single drop of emerald green paint run down the concrete for the better part of the night before it finally dried halfway down the archway. The least drunk among them kept throwing looks over their shoulder, laughing nervously to his friends about strange red pricks of light that seemed to follow them in the darkness. But his friends had been right. There’d been nothing there worth worrying about.

Yeah, Drifter clenches his stomach, taut and cramped from what he can only assume is withdrawal. This is a fucking problem. And it’s getting very out of hand very quickly. He doesn’t even notice the older sixty-something sauntering by until he’s only a short distance away. The man probably wouldn’t even notice Drifter were it not for the large dog he walks, barking in his direction. Their eyes meet, and he looks upon him the way anyone usually does; with an overlapping, indiscernible mix of pity, fear, disgust. This one though, with his leather boots and toffee brown camel hair coat, caps the usual cycle of emotions with a look that admonishes Drifter for lowering surrounding property values with his presence.

Usually, Drifter would strike by now to make him regret it. Would have struck already, before the man even noticed Drifter was there to begin with. He watches the dog instead, who just bounds about none the wiser, its front paws braced on grimy concrete, jet black from the quagmire of sludge oozing from a storm drain. He presses his hands to his ears as the excited dog barks, louder and louder, staccatoed little echoes filling the space of early morning, ricocheting off the concave archways of the overpass. The older man looks between them; almost as if deliberating whether he should call the authorities to check out yet another homeless man in New York, only this one decomposes in real time below the bridge.

Drifter should lunge at him; should make him regret ever coming to know of his existence, let alone stand so disdainfully before him. But his body doesn’t move, and even the impulse itself is short-lived; the man takes a stick his dog fishes from a moat of trash and rotting leaves, and Drifter does nothing but watch them continue back toward the walking trail, slumped against the pillar with heavy limbs and blurry vision. 

His breathing slows, shallow yet labored; Another excruciating wave of agony fills all of him to overflowing; it bows him forward, forcing him to kiss the vile ground with the tip of his nose, the center of his blistering, searing forehead. Long claws crack into stone and gravel. His entire body seizes, as if every organic part of him had been replaced with molten mercury, coagulating and fatal. He’d pontificate on something or other about Paradise and Eve and the apple and snake and all that, but wispy thoughts are hard to string together with a vacant mind and trembling hands.

He forces his eyes open, suddenly renewed from the ecstasy of epiphany; there, nestled among a smattering of runes and long-healed scars along his hands, is the mark the bodyguard had spoken of, blazing on his skin like filamental light. He palms frantically at the wet ground, his heart crashing against his chest as he finds it: the emissary’s dagger.

He pants softly as he studies the knife, twisting it about. It's a fine piece out of context. His fingers curl into the ivory grip, engraved with the intricate figure of some otherworldly woman, a bird of paradise perched gracefully on her shoulder. Foreign lettering snakes up the length of the hilt in a script he cannot read. Drifter settles on watching the tip of the blade itself dance between his fingertips. Trickles of his own blood trace the grooves of his fingerprints, pooling in long nails, quenching parched, filthy nailbeds. 

He lurches, overcome by a full body shiver, wracked by the memory of what it looked like when it was the emissary’s blood coating the weapon instead. He'd turn it inward on his own breast if it meant he could see it once more. He licks at the crusted blood caked on the corners of his mouth, praying on traces of its nectar to grant him the resolve to do what he knows he must. Drifter drives the blade into his outstretched forearm, clenching his teeth as it sinks into pliant flesh. He rests himself against the ground, his arm trembling uncontrollably as he attempts to carve the symbol out, reckless and without abandon.

He hisses, a wave of panic drowning out the excitement of short-lived genius; slow to regenerate as he is given his current condition, the wound starts to close, as if his gouging and digging had been nothing more than unwelcome inconvenience. The mark materializes anew, resting innocently on his skin, visible even beneath the layers of blood, flecks of tendon and bone.

Well damn, Drifter chuckles, thinking back on The Doorman’s words about the Djinn’s chosen. Namely the particular point about how they should not be crossed. So this is what it feels like to be branded by a cruel, unyielding, terrible — inexorable power. He’s loath to admit it; he’s not that fond of being on the other end.

Never in four hundred-ish years, give or take, has he been bested by one man’s blood. To think there's just a font of it, flowing fresh and hot; that the bodyguard is so easily shredded open by his own hands, whittled by his very claws into a beautiful vessel, blood flowing freely from his chest. God, the taste of it piping on his tongue, the way the bodyguard’s face strained to stay neutral when the metal serrated itself across his wrist. The contrast of maroon against his brown skin.

The worst part of anything, all of this? He can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that man, his blood, are worth it.

His lamentations are interrupted by the fleet of police cars rushing across the bridge overhead, sirens blaring, shrill enough to almost make him sick. Any other morning, they'd be off to behold a cruel scene of Drifter’s own making. The seconds between each clap of thunder lessen, yet dilate into torturous little morsels of eternity that leave his ears ringing and his throat dry. Averting his face from the rain, he might just thank God when dusk finally comes, and he can taste the emissary on his lips once again. 

Drifter doesn’t waste a second of sunset before making his way to their agreed-upon alley. He’s a little early — three-quarters of a Westminster chime, tolling its tune from a nearby office building. He waits. Patiently. Blending into creeping shadows, until they bleed their way about the entire side street, unable to tell where twilight ends and he actually begins. It’s the most like himself he’s felt since Sunday night. The debilitating cramps from earlier have ceased, at least, giving way to waves of anticipation. He’ll be here soon. Drifter knows this. His scent draws closer, closer. Closer.

The emissary chances a careful glance down the alley, bolts of moonlight crowning his frame. Fuck whatever eclipse or Maelstrom is set to happen in a few weeks; the real thing is happening right here, right now. In some shit hole back way off the corners of Broadway and Bellevue. Maybe it’s the hunger talking. Maybe it’s memories of the radiance pumping from the emissary’s heart, right this very second. Maybe it’s the five straight days of tailing, following, stalking, hunting, thinking, dreaming, drinking from him. Nothing — neither exhaustion nor the moon or any star in the sky — manages to outshine or extinguish a fire of pure determination in the bodyguard’s amber eyes.

“Do you have my dagger?” No preamble. No hello. No pleasantries or re-introductions or even hesitation. The emissary stands before him, resolute and composed. He clearly waits for Drifter’s answer before he means to proceed any further. For the first time in his life, he chooses his words with a particular amount of care.

Drifter takes all of it in for a moment, rather unsure what it is he’s just witnessed. Only that he has to swallow the urge to tear this man in half, and wear his innards like an elaborate, gruesome stole around his neck. “...I do,” he produces it carefully from his coat pocket, holding it out for the man to take.

Almost like it’s an offering of some sort.

Almost. Drifter’s no fool, no amateur. He’s more than happy to move carefully in the name of self-preservation. Ravaged and almost sickly as the emissary looks, Drifter doesn’t doubt that, were it to come to blows tonight, there’s a fair, maybe even decent, chance that the emissary might win.

A gloved hand meets Drifter’s, cautious and deliberate, and for a moment, it’s almost aesthetic. A real fucked up, grotesque, yet hauntingly beautiful Creation of Adam all their own.

The bodyguard pinches his dagger by the corner of its hilt, glaring at it as if it’s the source of every heinous abomination known to man. His face is unreadable as he places it in his coat with one gesture, slipping a small bottle out of his pocket with another. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

Drifter chuckles once. “...You ain’t lookin’ too hot yourself,” he follows the emissary’s every move, taking note of the layers of gauze on his wrist, the imprints of bandages on his elbow peeking through his coat. He moves gingerly as he holds the little vial before him, favoring his left side. It takes all of Drifter’s remaining humanity to not pounce on him once he realizes what it is. The emissary drops it into Drifter’s hands, who cradles it like it’s the most precious thing anyone could ever hold. He's never been so gentle with anything in his entire life.

“Your continued cooperation will earn you one vial a day, vampire. No more, no less.” It’s not a pity or a courtesy, but a warning.

Drifter smooths his thumb across the width of the little bottle, watching the thick, viscous blood leave lazy streaks across the little divots in the glass. “You plated this up all nice like for me,” he pinches his tongue between his teeth.

“Do not thank me, but the bloodletter.”

“Bloodletter, huh,” Drifter pops the cork and tips the rim against his lips. Warmth trickles its way down his throat, the heat settling in his stomach as he lets out a longing, involuntary groan. It’s less intoxicating than fresh, but he supposes that’s to be expected; the fruit is always juicier straight off the vine. Regardless, he’s cautious to only swallow as much as necessary; he’ll have to portion this until tomorrow if he wants to avoid another night like yesterday. That, and he imagines this conversation will require some lucidity for the time being. “Smart one, ain’tcha,” he shudders, hissing as he arches his back against the wall. No, he has to calm down; he can lose himself in this later. “No wonder your girl likes keeping you so close.”

“It was not sustainable otherwise.”

“How much they take from you then?”

“You wish for me to paint you a picture? As if your perversions need any further encouragement.”

“A gentleman would offer to take me with him next time.”

“I doubt they’d allow an audience, even if the thought didn’t repulse me. I spent all day searching for someone discreet, trustworthy, and skilled enough to do it. Practitioners of dark magics are a dime a dozen, but few of them seem to be men and women of principles.”

“‘S the price you pay, dabblin’ in shit like this.”

“I dabble only where I must; attempt to betray or retract this deal — me, in any way, and I will kill you.”

“Hah,” Drifter flashes the emissary a full, rich, bloody smile. He shivers where those golden eyes waver at the sight of his fangs. “You come at me for real, you get one shot. I’ma tell you now,” he sucks his teeth, wondering which of their heartbeats is responsible for the surge of energy that invigorates him. He has half a mind to pin the emissary against the wall and stain the bricks a grander shade of red than they’ve ever been. Never mind the Creation of Adam; he could paint a holy fresco all his own. He swallows the thought and traces a claw between their gritty caulking instead. “Better make it count.”

A tense silence spans between them, broken only by the sound of leather crunching where the emissary clenches a fist at his side.

“Lucky for us, we don’t gotta worry ‘bout it comin’ to that,” Drifter raises a large hand, patting the air to diffuse it a little. “I ain't gon’ sit here and pretend I’m an angel. But I sure as hell ain't a liar, neither.”

The emissary exhales, narrowing his eyes. “Of all the virtues to hold onto.”

“‘S about principle, like you said,” Drifter shrugs. “People can say whatever it is they want ‘bout me, ‘cept that I’m a fraud. We both clearly got enough problems of our own to go makin’ real enemies out of each other.”

“...So long as we are clear,” the emissary sighs, and he can tell by his settling heart rate that it’s partially out of relief. Drifter resists the urge to tease him for it. 

“You tell your girl about our arrangement?”

The emissary hesitates. Either he hasn't, or he weighs how much he wants to divulge to a bloodthirsty vampire in a vacant, unlit alley.

“Look, if we gon’ be in business with each other, I suggest we don't keep secrets —”

“She knows. Yes.”

“You get the green light from the higher ups, then?”

“She told me to trust you,” the emissary almost spits the words out, as if doing so might make them untrue.

“That's a smart dame. I can see she also told you to play nice.”

“If you attempt to hurt Nashala in any way —”

“I already told you this ain't got nothin’ to do with her,” Drifter interrupts. “Only damn thing in this city — about any of this — I’m interested in, is you.”

“...Just — tell me about this Patron of yours.” 

“Mmm…” Drifter hums, crossing his arms in thought. “Tell me what all you know about ‘em first.”

“What is there to tell,” the emissary scoffs, raising his arms before slapping them at his sides. “Until last night, the last time I gave consideration to a Patron breaching our plane was as a child, when school mates would whisper about having summoned one. Even at that age, I recognized such talk for the lie it was.”

“‘S always Patrons and demons, ain’t it. You’d think kids would change it up at some point over all these years.”

“It is clear you, yourself, are not of this plane,” the emissary flicks a hand in his direction. “After corroborating your claims with my charge…”

“‘Course they’re real, if that’s what you mean. Just that, as our apple-cheeked lil’ emissary knew back in the day, ‘s the details mortals tend to get wrong. Here’s the thing, though; summonin’ ‘em, well…’s a bit of a gnarly affair, and not exactly on the legal side of things. The ritual ain’t gon’ be pretty, and you sure as hell ain’t leavin’ New York with clean hands. There’s a metaphor here about dirtyin’ them pristine white gloves of yours, but I’m sure I ain’t gotta spell it out for you.”

“Indeed you do not,” the emissary adjusts them for good measure. “I’d die without hesitation for Nashala, and I am certainly willing to kill for her.”

Drifter whistles, tucking his hands in the pockets of his tattered pants as he gives the emissary a swift look up and down. A chill runs down his spine when their eyes meet. Not once in his life has he ever met anyone of such elegant, refined violence. It’s definitely not Drifter’s style, but he’s gotta admit; the emissary makes it look pretty good. “Damn. She as cold as you are?”

“Nashala would never demand I do her dirty work, and she never revels in it when I must. It does not make me any less willing to do it all the same.”

Drifter doesn’t doubt it; notes of the claim linger in the aftertaste of his blood, smothering him with a creeping, unexpected heat; like an unbroken promise that sustains him. “All this for Wyoming?”

“All of this for her,” the emissary corrects. “I will not leave New York City until her will is done.”

Drifter wonders if the emissary realizes that, should he have his way, this matter between them won’t be settled so easily. He chooses not to elaborate on those musings for now. “Well, ‘s others lookin’ to summon ‘em too, so it’s not entirely on our shoulders. I’ll have to introduce them to you, but that can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

“You mean to tell me people have actually chosen to align with you?!” He rests a hand on his forehead in disbelief. “Just what exactly is your role in all of this?!”

Drifter doesn’t even balk at the emissary’s tone. “Them other fools’ll do whatever dance they need to get the attention of the Patrons. But when you're as good at snatchin’ souls as I am, there ain’t no lookin’ for ‘em; the Patrons approach you. They promised me an all-you-can-eat-buffet if it meant I put some of my talents toward their lil’ ritual. If the Patrons want summoned, and these idiots want their wishes — not that you’re an idiot now, cher —” Drifter raises his newsboy cap toward him in mock gentility. The emissary rolls his eyes. “They gon’ have to shake my hand whether they like it or not; I’m somethin’ like the shiny ace in a lot of empty pockets.”

“...It seems to me like this entire affair is tenuous deals all the way down for you.”

“That’s just the thing, ain’t it? Whole plan was pretty straightforward for a minute there. I kill, I eat, Patron gets summoned. Ever since you came to town, I ain't interested in feedin’ from the trough of New York no more. Now the Patron don’t give a damn what my motivations are, ‘s long as I’m out in these streets on their side to summon them. Fact of the matter is, I was more than happy doin’ it for free at first, but then you just had to go and complicate things.”

“I did nothing,” the emissary snaps. “You’re the one obsessed with me.”

“I don’t see you complainin’, now it’s to your benefit,” Drifter raises an eyebrow. “They'd probably give me the world if I asked for it. Lucky for all you fine folks I don't want it. Only thing I want is right here,” he shakes the vial. The emissary frowns as Drifter savors a small sip. “You keep feedin’ me, my unclaimed wish from the Patron is hangin’ in the air with your name on it. Speakin’ of, you got one? Figure it might be useful to know.”

“How have you not learned it, tailing me the way you have?!”

“You're an elusive man. Drives me absolutely bat shit, I won’t lie. There ain't been no one in four hundred years who could throw me off their trail. Now don’t get me wrong, I always find it, but you don’t exactly take me lyin’ down. Nah, you the best chase I’ve had in a long, long time, cher. Prolly ever.”

“How wonderful, that I should be so lucky,” the man sighs. “Mirage.”

It takes him a moment to realize the emissary answers his question. “Mirage…” Drifter repeats with a teasing drawl, the hum of it even sweeter on his tongue, now he can place it to the taste of him. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.”

Mirage shoots those amber eyes onto him, illuminated with a flare of impatience and offense. “I'd consider fixing your tone; I am not a boy.”

“Nah, nah, sure you ain't. I can see them greys in your hair, and I don't doubt you've earned every single one. Don’t change the fact that all you mortals may as well be children in my eyes.”

“Then I suggest you reconsider how you see me.” 

Drifter slowly hoists himself off the wall, sauntering toward him. The rhythm of Mirage’s heartbeat, the little gasp of surprise that makes him jump — God, if this man isn’t something else. “Or else what?”

“Or else a silver bullet between the eyes will put your immortality to the test,” Within the blink of an eye, Mirage has his gun in hand, aimed directly where he threatens.

Drifter pauses, slowly. “You did your research then.”

“I did, yes,” Mirage lowers the weapon once it’s clear Drifter has no intention of coming closer. “What of you, vampire. Do you not have a name?”

“I've been called many things by many people over many years, but ain't none of ‘em been what you're looking for.”

“Yes, of course; the cryptid addicted to my blood doesn't have a goddamn name…” Mirage mutters to himself, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“I ain't ever needed one,” Drifter can’t help but chuckle. “I don't usually make deals or get too friendly with my…” he strokes his chin. He knows better than to call this man prey. “Let's just say my contact with most humans is usually too short-lived for these kinds of formalities.”

“Am I really worth such a deviation from your usual activities?” Mirage looks at him with contempt, yes; but also fascination. No man, Drifter’s come to realize over century after century after century after century, is ever above morbid curiosity.

“You can boast about your martial skills and Djinn’s Blessin’ all you want, but whatever the hell it is you got coursin' through them veins…” Drifter inhales, deep and steadying through his nose. "That's a one in a million gift right there. You got a man chasing you cross-eyed, clean across New York, ready to risk it all. You’d understand if you smelled what I do.”

“What…do you smell, exactly?”

Drifter’s brow furrows. There’s no condescension or disgust in the question; just pure, unabated fascination. If the man is vulnerable enough to ask, surely Drifter can be vulnerable enough to share. “...Sun. Cloves. Smoke, like firewood," he watches Mirage's face for a reaction, but nothing ever comes. "I've always been more a fan of the earthier flavor profiles. They're so — rare. Usually you humans only come in savory or sweet.”

“I see,” Mirage nods. It’s only now that Drifter notices the dark circles under those otherwise bright eyes. He says nothing else, or gives any other indication as to what he feels at the explanation.

“For what it’s worth, any Patron would require a blood sacrifice from you all the same. I'm just the middle man, and you're paying in installments.”

“Perhaps,” Mirage replies, utterly drained. And not in the way Drifter would prefer. “But do not dare forget whose blood you crave, vampire.”

“Why you think I'm playing so nice myself?” He outright laughs. “Although, I'd be lyin’ if I said I wasn't interested in seein' what all you're capable of.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Maybe Drifter’s imagining it, but he swears he can see a hint of the wryest, maybe even daring, smile grace the emissary’s sharp, striking features.

Chapter Text

-Thursday Morning, immediately following the first night they met-

The waitress sets their order down with a lot more care than to be expected from such a hole in the wall. Mirage can’t help but watch those liver-spotted hands as they tuck the silverware besides. She crowns the gesture with a tap of her fingertips, most likely operating under the fair, but incorrect, assumption that neither he nor Nashala speak English. Mirage’s nose wrinkles as he catches an overpowering whiff of half-dried nail polish and stale cigarette smoke — it’s candid, visceral. Oddly pleasant. 

He imagines the creature — man — vampire from the night before would focus on her prominent veins, embossed in skin as flimsy as the napkins sticking from the dispenser. He swears under his breath in Farsi at the thought. Their waitress can’t help but look at him curiously over her shoulder before returning to the grind of bottomless brunch.

No. Let’s not dedicate what few free thoughts I have as of late to him.

The plates’ enamel, browned by decades of grease, dinged and chipped by wear, shimmers beneath a sea of runny syrup and thick honey. Rivulets of bubbling butter seep into Nashala’s fluffy, porous omelette, the turkey bacon popping where it still cooks internally, fresh off the griddle. Mirage's eyes can hardly fit the stack of pancakes into his field of vision. He counts the chocolate-covered strawberries nestled neatly on top. Twelve. Quite a generous amount for the price he paid.

It's a meal fit for kings, arranged upon the dishware of paupers. What a shame he barely manages to spear a blackberry on his fork, nearly succumbing to a wave of nausea. That damn vampire has robbed him of everything at this point; most regrettably, his appetite. 

“Mirage, please,” Nashala looks at him from across the booth, her expression wrought with concern. “Tell me what happened to you last night.”

He unravels his set of murky, soap-scum-speckled silverware from its wrapping instead. He can feel the burn of her gaze seep into the laceration on his wrist, exposed by his sleeve. The pitted cherries stain his greek yogurt a vivid shade of red. He pushes the little bowl to the side.

“I know you do not wish to discuss it, and I don’t want to have to ask, either. But whatever it was, I can tell you cannot run away from it any longer,” Nashala tries once more after a few moments. For both their sakes. 

“Nashala, did you talk to ah — let’s see…” he fishes for his cup of tea — another unimpressive, generic brown. It’s the only visible let down on the menu thus far. “...A filthy, borderline feral vampire last night at the bar? He may have been about one point eight, perhaps two meters tall.”

“No,” Nashala responds. “I did not. No one matching that description was in the bar last night.”

“Well, someone matching that description has been following me since we arrived in New York on Sunday, and made themselves apparent last night, on the way to the corner store. I stress me, rather than we; he was quite clear in that regard.”

“To what end?”

“I —” Mirage breaks off, massaging his temples. A line cook shouts to his colleagues about his lost tickets before pouring batter onto a searing, hissing work top. The front door of the diner slams thrice in rapid succession as a family tries to maneuver a baby stroller into a crowded waiting room. Dishes rattle against the tables. Forks and knives scrape across teeth. Spoons clang against coffee mugs. But above it all, Nashala rests a grounding hand atop his, brushing a gentle thumb across clenched, pale knuckles. “My blood, Nashala. Not that I expected a more intricate answer from such a beast.”

“Is that the reason for —”

“It is,” Mirage cuts her off, watching her eyes settle on his bruised wrist again. “Would, if it had been as simple as slaying him then and there. I may not have expected more, but he spoke of an offer, insisting my blood be an offering of my own.”

Nashala says nothing, her face stern and full of focus.

“He was aware of our negotiations with the Mission, and their obvious futility. He claimed he could grant us Wyoming, should I regularly let him feed in exchange,” he searches the diner for somewhere, anywhere, to look, other than Nashala’s face. He cannot stand the sight of such worry and shock upon it.

Nashala breathes in deep. “Did the vampire say how he could grant us Wyoming?” She lowers her voice, looking about the diner. It’s highly unlikely they’ll be understood, but the chances are there all the same.

“He mentioned something about a Patron. There was not much opportunity for elaboration, however.”

“A capital ‘P’ Patron?”

“Yes. A capital ‘P’ Patron. Not that I am so foolish to outright trust that such fickle entities exist to grant wishes. Or that they sit at the beck and call of cruel, bloodthirsty vampires. But he seemed to believe as much; insisted upon it, even. He made it clear he would have murdered me where I stood, were there not at least some veracity to his claims.”

“Well,” Nashala twists at the bangles on her arms. “About the wishes, this is true. There are accounts detailing the hubris of humans who have gone to unspeakable lengths to bring them to this plane to do their bidding. Now I have not read much on the subject; but from my understanding, it is not in granting those wishes, where things tend to go wrong, but more the nature of the types of people who would go to such extremes to begin with. It’s not unlike a self-fulfilling prophecy. I can’t say anything about the vampire’s connections or motivations, but I can say he’s not the only person who spoke of Patrons last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“My acquaintances at the bar were also on the topic of Patrons, funnily enough. Though they argued about them, more than talked. Vyper and Bebop, if you remember those names —”

“I do.”

“Vyper mentioned something about a ritual set to summon one during the Eclipse in a few weeks. The two of them kept arguing about which of theirs was more worthy of being fulfilled.”

Mirage shakes his head. “How drunk were these people again?”

“Not very…”

“Ah — merely egomaniacs, then.”

“Maybe so, but they sounded convinced of their prospects. Highly convinced. Not to mention serious. It was definitely more than a hypothetical conversation for Vyper, at least. It’s so strange. She was cagey with her intentions, but also strangely free and self-incriminating. She was quite fun.”

“A little too much fun, in my opinion,” Mirage finishes the rest of his lukewarm tea in one swallow. “And definitely not an endorsement of either this ritual or Patrons themselves…”

They both fall silent. The butter on Nashala’s omelette begins to separate from the cheese. Mirage, still struggling not to be sick, focuses on now flaccid, deflated whipped cream as it submerges into soggy pancakes.

“You must understand, I am not naive. I doubt I will truly believe in anything these madmen say until I see it for myself. Still, I cannot pretend I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes in the alley last night. Worse, I saw yet clearer, the choices before me: certain death on one hand. Survival, and a chance — no matter how small — for the Djinn on the other. Forgive me.”

Nashala smiles sadly, taking in his words. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Certainly nothing to forgive. You’re sitting before me, living another day to figure this out. This matters to me much more than any loyalty to, or possibility in, my plan,” she places a hand on his cheek. “You tend to forget that you matter to me much more than any service you provide.”

“I — I don’t know what to say —”

“You needn’t say anything there. I only need you to believe me.”

Mirage nods, forcing himself to sit up straight. “Please eat,” he gestures to her untouched plate.

“Yes, yes, in a minute,” Nashala pushes it aside. “Where do we go from here, Mirage?”

He frowns, uncertain, maybe even fearful, for the first time in his service to Nashala. He’d hoped she would be the one to answer this question, rather than pose it. “I meant every word when I said I would stop at nothing to see your plans come to fruition. That said, I cannot say I’m pleased by how complicated and dangerous things have become, particularly where your safety is concerned.”

“Judging by what we’ve discussed, my safety is not in question, but yours,” Nashala corrects. “I have half a mind to lecture you for your inability to set my mission aside for your well-being, but I know it would change nothing,” she inhales, steeling herself anew. “I think this sounds much more promising than another week with the General Consul.”

“...This is nothing to joke about.”

“I am not joking,” Nashala glares at him. “In fact I am very serious. You know it, too.”

Mirage raises his eyebrows. He'd rather not audibly concur with her in that regard. “We have power and money to offer. The General Consul will see this soon enough.” 

“He might, but I think this vampire is serious, Mirage. No one, no matter how ill their intent, would be willing to gamble their veritable access to a Patron otherwise. I also suspect he will not leave you alone, no matter what we do. We should keep him close, and take him out if need be. If we don’t need to, well,” Nashala shrugs. “I imagine he’ll prove more honest than the US government.”

Mirage half scoffs, half laughs. “You speak as if entangling ourselves with some ancient, eldritch horror who will stop at nothing to drink me alive is a trivial matter.”

“You underestimate your own power, let alone how formidable it becomes with mine on top of it.”

“Regardless,” Mirage begins to argue. “Faustian deals with devils rarely ever turn out as intended for the mortals that make them. It would be foolish not to proceed with utmost caution.”

“Faust had the devil on his shoulder, yes, but no Djinn by his side,” she takes both of Mirage’s hands in hers. “I would never ask you to take on a danger you couldn't face. But I know you. I trust you even more so. Whatever path you decide to take, I stand behind you.”

“I promised to meet him once more tonight,” Mirage cannot confirm the choice he knows he is making. Not directly. Not yet. “It is best I do. It would be unwise to trick him, or turn on him without cause. Still, it does not feel right, playing it fair.”

“Then we can call it playing it by ear instead,” Nashala smiles, determination dancing in her eyes.

-Friday Afternoon, Present-

The final scream as the light leaves their eyes is always the most delectable of them all. It starts low in the breast, snaking its way up the diaphragm, like some intrepid creature that sees the writing on the wall — pleading for a life all its own. Spare me, it begs, high-pitched and uncontrolled and hoarse, cutting itself short once choked out by bloody claws — trapped in a prison of fangs and a torn out throat. The body itself is unrecognizable; a vile wreath of intestines; limbs hang on by tendons, others strewn about without care or intention. The ground is pitch black and slick with blood. So much blood. Just how much of it the human body can contain — a pleasant little surprise every time, even after all these years. 

A hunger is sated in the most carnal, biological sense, sure, but there's an absence of pleasure here, where it was once dug from the earth of such a scene in spades. It's all so…uninspired. Lazy. Like a butcher on the killing floor, mind elsewhere. Slaughtering, slaughtering, slaughtering; going through the motions.

A large, clawed hand flicks bits of brain and bone into the darkness of a foul-smelling basement, lingering droplets of blood splattering everything and nothing at the same time. There’s still so, so much of it, yet none of it is anywhere near enough. But then he smells it: Sun. Cloves. The slightest hint of firewood. Spiced with something ethereal, foreign, otherworldly. A sticky hand dampened by senseless, sloppy murder digs in the breast pocket of an old jacket, giving a small bottle a little swill before bringing it to a set of quivering lips. His legs nearly give out, and the world spins around him. Now this; there could be a cornucopia of bodies before him, carved into an elaborate center piece by his very hands, and yet none of them could ever beat the ecstasy of that first sip of the emissary — Mirage. Yes. That was his name.

Mirage shoots up from the couch with a start, the smell of death and blood still rank in his nostrils. He rushes to the bathroom with a hand over his mouth, just barely making it in time before he retches. It’s a good thing he still has yet to touch his breakfast from yesterday’s outing at the diner.

“Mirage?” Nashala’s voice calls from the parlor, and he tries to answer. He replies with a weak shudder, an exhausted groan instead. Mirage has killed before. More than once. More than even a few times. He’s looked a dying person in the eyes; without regret toward either deed or victim. He realizes, studying his pale, sweat-drenched reflection in the mirror; exhilaration is a much worse feeling than nothing at all.

Nashala is there to catch him once he finally stumbles out of the bathroom, leading him carefully back toward the couch.

“I did not mean to disturb you —” he coughs, but the sentiment is cut short by Nashala’s patient shush anyway.

“What happened?” She asks quietly, calmly, watching Mirage as he leans his head on the back rest of the couch and steadies his breathing. “I thought you had fallen asleep?”

“I had,” Mirage pats at his brow with a handkerchief. “A terrible idea. It seems I am full of them anymore.”

“What happened,” Nashala repeats.

“I…saw…” he pauses; not just to find the words, but also the will for tonight’s plan to continue as agreed upon. “The vampire —”

“A nightmare,” Nashala is quick to assure him.

“Perhaps in part,” Mirage shakes his head — no; what he saw the vampire doing was certainly no mere dream. “The Mark, Nashala. This is the second time I have gleaned the vampire’s whereabouts, where he bears the Mark of the Djinn.”

“...oh no,” she brings a hand to cover her mouth where realization must settle in. “Oh, dear.”

“I presume I needn’t elaborate.”

“No,” she smooths her other hand gently between his shoulder blades.

“I am meeting him tonight — you are meeting him tonight —”

“And that does not change, Mirage,” Nashala’s hand clenches a little, resolute. “I am vulnerable in many ways, but I am not weak.”

“You did not see what I did,” he turns to face her; her expression alone says the fear in his eyes is plain to read. He closes them, swiftly.

And that is all that matters.

“I will be in my vessel. He will not address me directly.”

“I know.”

“I will be safe. I will be with you.”

“I know,” Mirage stresses once more. “Just — I only wish he had chosen someone else for all of this.”

“We can remove the Mark if need be —”

“No, no,” Mirage rubs his forehead, sighing loudly through his nose. “We cannot afford to lose that connection. Not now; especially because I do not think he is aware of the full extent of its power, per se.” 

“Mirage —”

“It is not up for debate, Nashala, Please get some rest. We have a stressful night ahead of us. I will be fine.”

She clearly wrestles with the rest of the argument she’s burning to have, but she concedes with a nod of understanding — even if not necessarily agreement. She settles into her bottle, but it’s hardly the last of it; he can feel the way she focuses on him until she finally falls asleep once more.

Would, if he could follow his own advice. He doesn’t dare close his eyes. Bloody fangs tear into any possibility of rest before turning back to a feast of coiled entrails. He may as well be a victim of those ruthless claws himself; split open and raw, numb and cold and exhausted; haunted by the ghost of an adrenaline that has long since run its course. The grandfather clock in the study counts each passing second with a bassy click; cruel little admonishing tisks, each one only further exacerbating his headache. Mirage shifts his focus to the sounds of the city, watching shadows stretch across the ceiling as sunset approaches.

The grandfather clock chimes six tinny times from the other room; hollow, warped, foreboding. How much of this is the fault of a clock Mirage knows is worth more than his entire salary, rather than the fact they’re due to meet the vampire in an hour?

He rises from the couch, going to rummage in the top drawer of the writing desk. Nashala is still asleep. He doesn’t need to pretend to be captivated by Baroness-branded letterhead,  the brass divots of high quality fountain pens, or bottles of ink made of liquid gemstone. He knows exactly what he searches for: an ornate damask tin, a godsend of a trove in indigo and gold. He takes it in hand, stepping out onto the balcony. 

The evening is quiet and cool, and his hands are surprisingly still as he sprinkles tobacco onto the paper. Nashala has always hated this little habit of his, the precise and almost reverent way with which he rolls. Tonight, however, he allows — welcomes, even — the intensity with which he tries to angle the looseleaf along the crease, rolling the cigarette into a perfect, even form.  He tucks it behind his ear, digging through the tin for a pocketbook of matches — but a shadow moves in his peripheral vision. Mirage pins it between the railing and the corner of a balcony with such speed, he doesn’t even have time to register his movements for himself.

Nor does he have time to marvel at the fact that shadows can be caught, for that matter. That they can be subdued, brought to highly pointed attention by a gun digging into their jaw.

“Relax, relax,” a voice coos with a growling laugh. The vampire — naturally, who else would it be — raises a pair of large, clean hands, seeming to have mostly rid himself of evidence of his earlier deed. “I told you we was meetin’ up with some folks tonight.” 

“I did not forget,” Mirage hisses, terse and breathless, when their eyes meet. The vampire must sense the way his heart momentarily ceases to beat in his chest; bright red irises dart to Mirage’s left breast for a moment before settling on his face once more. Mirage staggers backward, his body running cold as he envisions those hands as they’d been in his “nightmare” from the afternoon: gnarled and trembling from passion, carnage, bloodlust. Glistening and slick with death.

It was one thing to be stalked by the creature. It was another to be cornered by him, his sharp fangs and eviscerating claws poised to strike. But to stand before him now, after what he’s seen…

“...You alright, now? You really ain’t lookin’ too good,” The vampire, the wretched, damnable thing that he is, has the nerve to narrow his red eyes, watching Mirage with calculating wariness. Cautiousness. Concern.

“Would you be alright if you were being ceaselessly hunted, preyed upon in mind, body, spirit — for days on end —” Mirage’s jaw clenches, and his hands squeeze the railing, so he may stay upright. “I will not bother to ask if you have ever once — once — put yourself in the shoes of those you torment. But have you at least stopped to consider what it must be like to see the world through your eyes?!”

He doesn’t know what all he expects from the likes of such a creature. Perhaps that he finally snaps and drains him, here and now. Or maybe for him to jump at Mirage’s aggressive tone, ready to show him why he is someone to be feared — not just through his eyes in his sleep, but in person. In, quite literally, the flesh. Through Mirage’s very own.

“Do not dare to look at me with pity, after what I witnessed—”

“...It's your Mark, cher,” the vampire interrupts, replying with what Mirage never would have expected; a resigned, tired sigh, heaviness in his voice — the slightest hint of what may even be empathy in his eyes. “You don't get to just brand me and then get mad when I do what I’ve always done. I sure as hell didn't ask for no audience.”

“Nor did I ask for you,” Mirage pauses, shaking his head to dispel the memories of the vampire’s hands sundering tender, fragile flesh from bone. How he wishes words alone could kill. “For this. Anything about this.”

“You think I’m out here singin’ from the rooftops myself? All it took to throw a wrench in a four hundred year old, well-oiled machine, was for your pretty-eyed, good-tastin’ self to come to town. I didn’t ask for you to happen to me, neither. I’m startin’ to suspect ain’t either one of us gon’ apologize for it.”

Mirage doesn’t answer. He strikes the match against the strip of its book, savoring the warmth of the heat as it flutters against his face; the drag of burning smoke down his throat. His mind supplants the silence with the screams of the vampire’s victim as their own throat was torn from their body.

“You said yourself last night you were willin’ to kill for your girl —”

“Willing. Not longing to,” Mirage spits. “I do not take pleasure in it like you.”

“It don’t matter what reason you do it for, a life’s a life, accordin’ to you mortals,” the vampire snaps back. “You may be more elegant about it than I am, but that don't change the fact that nobody waggin’ their finger's gon’ make that distinction when it comes down to it.” 

“You massacred someone today —”

“Ain’t the first time, ain’t the last, neither,” there’s a purr in his reply, wholly unbothered. “I know good and well the last kill of your own ain't too far behind mine, now. I can see it in them pretty eyes.”

Mirage remembers part of it still. Mostly that he shouldn’t have survived, outnumbered as he had been. How many of them were there, exactly? Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe a few more, maybe a couple less. He doesn’t lament that he cannot remember the specifics. Such things are nothing more than minnows of detail, swallowed by the whale of time. He does recall, however, that many of them tried to run, once it became clear just whose ire they’d chosen to draw with their failed attempt to kidnap Nashala. 

How powerful could a single bodyguard be, they’d surely asked themselves, the question’s answer self-evident, unworthy of further deliberation. The decision had been made at that point; for her would-be captors. For Mirage himself. The remaining assailant twisted about with rising terror as he counted how many of his co-conspirators had already fallen. He hadn't even been halfway through when Mirage had taken the shot...

“We kill for different reasons, in different ways, but you sure as hell ain’t no more afraid to make a man beg for mercy than I am.”

Mirage says nothing once more. He exhales the smoke, watching it dissipate into the air.

If you can kill for Nashala, you can certainly abide by a killer, for her sake.

“So what you saw, earlier…” The vampire watches the smoke diffuse as well, as if he searches for what to say next. “I’ve always been a bit of what you could call a picky eater. So that was the first time I’ve gone huntin’ since I caught your trail. Can’t say it was all too satisfyin’, for what it’s worth. A week ago and a kill that messy woulda had me ridin’ that high for days. So don’t go callin’ it no change of heart. ‘S a change of taste, more like.”

“What joy, that I should be the one those tastes have since shifted toward.”

The vampire shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, cher.”

No, Mirage thinks to himself. But you sure have a healthy disregard for them all the same.

“Mind if I bum one o’them off you?” 

Mirage looks up at him to meet an earnest, radiant smile with a look of pure loathing. “Do you think you’re funny, vampire?”

“I’m afraid I’m about as serious as a heart attack right ‘bout now,” be that as it may, the vampire’s voice is casual, light; charming. Something teasing, playful, prowls in his eyes, not entirely unlike the vampire himself; lurking there, hidden, but present and smothering all the same. He punctuates the request with the thrum of his claws tapping patiently upon the railing.

Mirage sighs. Audibly. He flicks the train of ash from his cigarette over the balcony.

You do not have to like this man, but you do have to tolerate him. For now.

“My bad, my bad. I shouldn’ta —” the sound of metal upon metal makes the vampire jump, ears twitching as he looks in his direction; Mirage sets the tin between them.

“I assume you know how to roll?” Whether it’s a strange sort of olive branch or acceptance of the situation — both — neither —  Mirage is careful to keep his gaze fixed on the lit up skyscrapers, swarming the sunset like gigantic fireflies.

“Been a minute, but yeah,” the vampire chuckles beside him. “Much obliged.” He’s surprisingly adroit with his own process. Mirage watches him from the corner of his eye as he rolls one-handed, the other in the pocket of his worn, tattered pants. “You...happen to have a light?”

“Shall I smoke it for you too?” Mirage snarls, but he sets the matchbook onto the railing as well.

The vampire actually laughs properly this time, savoring his own first drag of tobacco. “I’m actually a lil’ surprised you smoke at all. Thought I tasted a bit o’somethin’ on you, but...”

Mirage chooses to ignore the latter half of his sentence. “It is a very rare occurrence for me. I save it for when things become, shall we say, overwhelming.”

“Well, cher,” the vampire closes his eyes as he exhales, nostrils flaring. “You might wanna think about rollin’ a few more in advance; you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“I will endure what I must. Much as you will, I assume. So long as we each have something the other wants,” Mirage swallows, dropping a small crystal bottle into his hand. “My half of our agreement for today.”

The vampire tips his cap at him, revealing a full head of shaggy, jet-black hair. “Thank you kindly.”

“That should encourage you not to cause another such — scene.”

“Kinda. For now. ‘Til I get bored of you. Yeah.”

“You seem a lot less feral for it, than you have the last…” Mirage gestures broadly. “Since I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you.”

“You saw why. I already, ah, ate. Capped what I had left of you for dessert.”

Mirage flinches, overcome by a wave of repulsion. “Do not call me dessert.”

“‘Fraid I can’t help it,” the vampire looks down at him with another one of those infuriatingly easy smiles. “That’s what you are to me.”

“Then I suggest you keep such thoughts to yourself where they belong,” Mirage sneers before breaking their gaze. “I should have you know, I do not appreciate the fact that you showed up here unannounced, as opposed to our agreed upon meeting spot. I’m also less than enthused about you knowing where I reside.”

“Sorry to have to break it to you, but I been knew where you were stayin’. Just that uh — I mean, ‘s lots of reasons why I ain’t paid you a personal visit yet. Let's just leave it at that.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mirage mutters. “How did you get past The Doorman? That man is highly protective of this hotel. I would like to think that includes warding off creatures of your caliber.”

The vampire visibly bristles at the name, unfazed by the backhanded insult. “I mean — ah — It ain’t like I walked through the front door now,” he flicks his cigarette butt, both of them watching it make a clean arc into the air before it falls into the dusky maw of rooftops down below. “Do me a favor, though. Don't bring The Doorman into none of this; he don’t need to know I'm here. Or been here, neither.”

“I’m sensing a bit of urgency in your voice,” Mirage narrows his eyes, studying him. The vampire turns away immediately, like a child all-too-aware that they wear a lie, plain on their face. “Good to know. I will keep this in mind, and ask him to escort you out if need be.”

“No,” the vampire says with an emphatic amount of force, stopping himself from leaning closer where Mirage instinctively tenses, reaching for his gun. “I’d rather you do it yourself, if it’s gotta be done. Do not go gettin’ his ass involved.” The rush of barely tempered panic in the vampire’s voice is quite soothing, vindicating even, after these last few days. For the briefest moment, Mirage can almost understand how the vampire’s come to enjoy the sound of it.

“Do you fear him?”

“Nah, just. I said it already last night, our plates are full enough as it is without his twiggy ass stickin’ his nose in our business. ‘Sides, if it’s you kickin’ me out, things might get a lil’ bloody between us.”

Mirage rolls his eyes, avoiding the glint in the vampire’s own. “If it gets to that point, I assure you you'll have no time to enjoy it, in whatever abominable way you do. That being said, I shall refrain from involving The Doorman, so long as you refrain from…” Mirage shudders. “Hunting.”

“...That's one hell of a trade to hold over my head, now,” the vampire almost whispers, his voice low and grave.

“If this deal is to continue, I will not have you hounding my dreams, as well as my waking hours. I have not eaten properly in two days.”

“Come on. You gotta eat now, cher —”

“Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

The vampire cricks his neck from side to side, his jaw popping where he swallows something; scathing words, the discipline that stops him from finally just devouring him, ending it all right here, right now. Either seem likely enough. Mirage waits for what comes next with bated breath, smoothing a hand across the grip of his gun, the other on the hilt of his dagger. “...Apart from the ritual.”

“I — fine,” Mirage closes his eyes in frustration. “Apart from the ritual. Yes. You are free to do as you wish once we go our separate ways once more.”

“Fine,” the vampire sneers with mocking agreement. “‘S long as you keep feedin’ me, I ain't got a taste for the low-grade filler in this city anyway. Never thought I'd ever say folks taste better out West, but here we are,” he shakes his head. “You bringin’ your girl with us tonight?”

“Why does that interest you?”

“I dunno how many times I need to tell you, I ain't askin’ for shady reasons,” the vampire actually sighs, as if he has the nerve to be exhausted at what Mirage finds is a perfectly reasonable and healthy sense of suspicion and exasperation. “Well, shady relative to her.”

“You must understand. I am not used to people approaching me so…” Mirage scoffs. There is no word in either Farsi, English — what little French and Spanish he speaks — to describe the vampire’s exceedingly unique and testing approach. He does his best to find one nonetheless. “...directly. Namely, without ulterior motives toward My Lady.”

“Shocked they're toward you instead?”

“Truthfully speaking? Yes. It is highly unexpected. And uncomfortable. But she is coming with us, that is correct.” 

“You sure about that?” The vampire actually sounds —  not worried, Mirage would not be so foolish as to say that — but surprised, and certainly hesitant.

“She will wish to know who else we are allying ourselves with. She deserves to know as well. Irrespective of either point, she is safest with me.”

“Before you say anythin’, she ain’t none of my business. I won't even look in her direction if it makes you feel better.”

“It would, actually.”

“But I ask, ‘cause, well, we got plans tonight, ‘nd you’re lookin’ real rough, pretty boy. Might be worth callin’ it off until tomorrow.”

“Do I detect a hint of concern for my and My Lady’s well-being in your voice?”

“Please. Just makin’ sure you’re good to go, if we’re fixin’ to have your blood on tap,” he swipes a large, dismissive hand through the air. “Don’t want you spoilin’ on me.”

“On tap,” Mirage repeats. “You exaggerate the extent of my generosity and tolerance of your presence in that regard.”

“Look, you’re either cuttin’ me or that General Consul one hell of a deal to get what you want. I ain't tryna rile you up now — but them days at the UN…”

“They were horrendous. Yes. Believe me. I know.”

“I was rootin’ for you in a weird way. And not just on account of me wishin’ I could follow you anywhere else.”

Damn it all, Mirage has to turn away to conceal an involuntary smile at the comment.

“You said your girl told you to trust me?”

“My conversation with Nashala on that matter shall remain confidential for the time being.”

“I only ask, ‘cause — and I ain’t sayin’ either of us can’t handle it —” the vampire clenches his eyes shut, as if it pains him to say what comes next. “We’re about to get neck deep in some serious shit, Mirage. Last thing I need is you gettin’ cold feet on me, or yourself in trouble.”

“You’d think you'd revel in the potential of someone tearing me open for your unfettered enjoyment.”

“You’re talkin’ bout lettin’ someone else desecrate the finest meal I ever had. You tellin’ me you’d just watch the world trample all over your girl’s wish like that?!”

Mirage hums, lips thinning. “Touche.”

Chapter Text

Pompous as it sounds, there’s nothing left about the human body that eludes Drifter. He’s seen the way a last breath passes between cracked, parted lips, blackened and necrotic, lousy with mortal illness. He’s crushed still-beating hearts in his hands, watching its blood encase his arms like thick, clotted wax. He’s torn many a heart from the cradles of many breasts, in fact; parted ribcages like flimsy, hollow wishbones. He’s shorn scalps from skulls with a single snatch of his hand, rabid yet clean and precise. He’s scraped flesh straight down to tendon and nerve, each involuntary twitch of punctured muscle a little embrace against his hands — impossible to dig from beneath his nails, days, weeks later. He’s licked marrow from bone like pearly oysters from their shells; sipped the heartiest bisques of bile from the fullest gallbladder bowls. 

There’s simply nothing new about the human body for him to dissect. Which is to be expected, after almost five centuries of living among them. Of living, however partially or technically, as one himself. He’s considered his no-longer morbid curiosity satisfied for a while now. His every what if? matched with an answer that ultimately pales in the brilliance of its hypothetical question. He’s seen it all. Been there, done — and torn and shredded and rendered unrecognizable — that. Like a man who’s been here since the dawn of time. Who peeked, however briefly, behind the curtain of it all; bored to death after looking right down to the foundation of existence.

No, Drifter has no thoughts left to spare when it comes to the human body. And until now, he could never say he’s ever felt the burning need to know what’s on someone’s mind.

Mirage rests against the railing, gazing out toward the skyline, poised and expectant. Whatever he contemplates is as distant and untouchable as the city itself, his expression illegible; deceptively focused and blank. He can tell by the way his pulse thumps against the bough of his throat that he mercilessly submerges racing thoughts beneath still waves of long-practiced tranquility. Every now and again, they almost break free, and he soothes himself with the idle brush of his fingertips against his knuckles. Drifter closes his eyes, allowing himself to be led into place by the pace of his heartbeat. Mirage holds his breath like an abysmal hand of cards: guarded and wary, close to his chest. As if his soul hangs onto dear life along with it. 

It’s the most at peace Drifter’s seen him, the entirety of their circumstances considered. Sure, his days at the Consulate had been comparatively less stressful than those requiring he deal directly with one of America’s oldest vampires trailing his heels. And it’s true, Mirage had met those mornings immaculately clad in stunning ceremonial garb. With his hair coiffed into a knot that both tamed and accentuated his effortless waves, each streak of silver and white and grey a testament to a tale Drifter would all but beg to hear, were he a different man meeting him under different circumstances. 

He’s never been a fan of debutante or socialite cultures, whether vampire or otherwise. But he has to admit there’s something oddly captivating about that uniform. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s foreign; the high collar and subtle silken scarab motif more regal and eye-catching than anything Americans walk around in nowadays. The scarlet sash spoke of something royal, princely, stoking at a natural warmth in Mirage’s dark complexion; a ferocity in those golden eyes.

…Yes. Drifter is quite fond of his ambassadorial raiments. It might be fair to say he finds they suit Mirage quite well. A shame he’s opted for a plain black turtle neck and coffee brown dress pants, the last couple of days. Which is surely not a byproduct of his persistent pestering of the man, Drifter hums to himself. Still, bandaged and bruised and exhausted as he is, he wears it all with a dignity and grace not even he is above envying for a moment.

A moment, that is. Nothing more.

“Seriously, now,” Drifter starts, unable to bear the silence any longer. It’s unnerving how present, yet withdrawn, someone could be all at once. “You sure you don’t wanna put this off ‘til tomorrow? Promise you ain’t hurtin’ my feelings if you say yes.”

“No, I do not,” Mirage turns away from what Drifter admits is a gorgeous view of Manhattan for the first time in minutes. He rises to full height once more. “I have already spent enough of this week floundering where My Lady’s plans are concerned. I cannot delay this any longer.”

“Alright, alright,” Drifter raises his eyebrows. “Is everything with you so dramatic?”

Mirage ignores his comment. It drives Drifter nothing short of absolutely fucking crazy. He mimics some of that poise, and swallows it as best he can.

“If you are concerned about my ability to do what we must tonight, I assure you, you needn’t be. I only require a minute with Nashala, then I shall be ready.”

“...just what all’re you expectin’ to happen?”

“Honestly? If my time in New York has shown me anything so far, it is to expect the unexpected. Not even my wildest dreams compare to how this week has played out for me.”

“‘S long as shit with you don’t go off the deep end, everything should be fine,” Drifter takes care to look him directly in the eye.

Mirage does not avoid his gaze this time, but holds it, firm and unyielding. “The only shit I have is with you, vampire.”

“Heh. Fair enough.”

“All the more reason to swallow whatever doubt you have that our plan should proceed as discussed. And reason still, that I should prepare for the worst, just in case. I highly suggest you do the same,” Mirage tucks his tin under his arm, placing a hand on the balcony door. “I am ready if you are. I shall only be a moment.”

“I'll meet you downstairs, I guess,” Drifter says, doing his best to dispel any lingering reservations. He'll simply have to trust Mirage to know his limits should it come down to it. “But don't take forever. I don't want that damn Doorman catchin’ me lingerin’ around here. You really don't want a delay, you'll keep that in mind.”

Mirage neither calls out, nor mocks Drifter’s raw, ungarnished vulnerability. He simply nods, making no further comment before heading back into his suite.

“Well, he’s a better man than I am,” Drifter mumbles.

Not that that was ever up for debate at any point.

Scaling down The Baroness’ facade is much easier, now that the sun has properly set. He settles his back against the wall of their usual alley, staring at the front doors of the hotel, waiting for a sign of Mirage.

Hopefully no one finds the specter of his eyes peering out from the darkness interesting enough to follow. Detours, distractions, hitches — whatever the universe wishes to call them — in what has been a relatively perfect plan so far, are the last thing he needs.

Would a cur be able to wrangle all these pieces together like this, Doorman?

Drifter recoils at the sight of him rushing out toward the street on those gangly legs. Talk about shit outta luck if he can just sense an unwanted presence from beyond The Baroness now. He clenches his hands in preparation, flicking sharp claws together. Sturdy as their mutual agreement to live and let live has been over the centuries, he’s more than willing to deal the first blow if his meddling so much as threatens to fuck up his whole thing with the emissary.

The true cause of The Doorman’s servile little jaunt reveals itself seconds later. He’s right on time to greet a sleek black car pulling into the valet, its chrome shimmering beneath the freckles of light composing Manhattan’s night life. Drifter eases up a little — in wariness and in posture. It's not like he can blame The Doorman for starting his whole song and dance when a goddamn Rolls Royce pulls up into the lot. Even Drifter finds himself rather captivated.

The Doorman extends a polite hand to someone more stunning than the vehicle that brought them here. A shapely woman in a glittering, emerald green dress steps out of the back seat, the snowy white stole draped over her shoulders nowhere near enough to protect her from October’s chill. Usually such gaudy displays of excess and hubris are enough to mark a person as one of Drifter’s next targets, but there’s something to this woman that gives him pause…

…independent of the promise he made to Mirage no more than an hour ago.

Who still hasn’t come out of the hotel, now he thinks about it. For a man with such a rigid, inflexible concept of time, he sure is taking a pretty damn sweet amount of his own. The Doorman and the driver double team the woman’s heaving collection of luggage onto the curb. It’s funny watching them struggle with the first cart, but Drifter’s all but lost interest by the second.

He shifts against the wall, his foot tapping rapidly, ears twitching at the slightest sound, nostrils flaring against every breeze. It’s not worry making him impatient, no. But it is curiosity. Anticipation. Restlessness. An anxiousness to get this damn show on the road, already. And, most prominently of all, a creeping longing for Mirage’s blood; a craving Drifter fears prolonged boredom will only strengthen at this point.

He closes his eyes, doing everything he can to settle that particular feeling where it threatens to boil over, sudden and overpowering all at once. Depending on how their night goes, this might be the only viable time he can indulge himself without him making good on his threat to kill Drifter on the spot.

What was that he said earlier on the balcony? That he’s not as feral for it as he has been the last couple of days? Drifter washes the memory away with the smallest sip, but even that is enough to make his head spin; to make him groan a little where the very essence of Mirage coats his tongue, trickling like scalding oil down his throat.

He savors this with the euphoria of a man enlightened; that blinding sunburst of cloves, firewood, and what Drifter is slowly coming to detect are hints of satsuma between it all. Funny, where all these decades of defying the conventions of vampiric society have landed him: half-drunk off a pin prick’s worth of blood, waxing nauseating poetic about a mortal man’s blood to no one but himself. So much for mocking how insufferable humans can be about wine; he’s turned into one hell of a snob himself. A real sanguine sommelier.

The sight of Mirage finally stepping out of The Baroness makes Drifter’s heart race, his breath catch; his palms sweat. He looks about — left, then right — before amber finds crimson. Their eyes meet with instant, almost guided precision, where no other pedestrian or passerby has so much as coughed in Drifter’s direction this entire time. He swallows another sip of blood past the stitch forming in his chest, overpowered by its fragrant, spicy aftertaste. Tendrils of heat course their way throughout his body, making the hair on his arms stand on end. 

Mirage is almost radiant and refreshed compared to how he’d looked earlier that evening, and Drifter has to dig his claws into his thighs to stop himself from lunging at his approach. His jaw clenches, yet no amount of pressure manages to rid him of the image of pinning Mirage to the ground, sinking his fangs into his throat before draining him dry.

That’s not even to mention the sweet noises he would make in Drifter’s ear as he struggled against him. The way his desperate pleas and weak groans would vibrate in his chest — a beautiful tremolo of terror and panic. Or how his nails would emboss little crescent moons into Drifter's shoulders and neck, digging deeper each time he’d tense. The way he’d gnarl his claws in his hair and force Mirage to look him in the eye, if only to see the little flash of realization, right before the light leaves them. The way his blood would stream along uneven grooves of cobblestone, displacing years of cold, hardened grime and earth with the vibrant, fresh flow of life. Mirage’s blood can be as red as it wants; it doesn’t change the fact that it may as well coat the ground in liquid gold when spilled.

Well, shit. He might still be a little less in control over this than he thought. 

Drifter exhales, dispelling all such thoughts with a final, violent shudder. Were it a matter of feasting on anyone else, that want would be enough. Would have been enough. Everything about his nature and desires and the thrill of it all aside, he’s starting to like Mirage a little bit, strange and neurotic as he is. He’s rather fascinating, as far as humans go, and much too prismatic and driven to snuff out so soon. Least of all so easily, thoughtlessly.

No; he has every intention of honoring his end of their deal, of getting that uptight mess and his girl to Wyoming. A meal — a man like that deserves better than to be cleaved in half in the street. Helpless as Drifter has come to prefer his victims over the years, he’s more than willing to give Mirage the chance to fight back when the time comes. The Djinn’s Mark begins to prickle as he comes closer; another little reminder that he needs to figure this shit the hell out, whether he likes it or not.

“Well?” Mirage asks once he can make out Drifter’s silhouette from the shadows. “Are you ready, vampire?”

“...Yeah,” Drifter idly rubs his forearm, exhaling in gratitude where it seems the urges really have stopped for now. “‘S get this over with. You got your own shit in order?”

“It is as I said before,” Mirage deadpans. “You are my shit, for the time being.”

Drifter chuckles a little through his nose. “You know, ‘s almost impressive how fearless you are before me,” he can feel his smile unfurl at the way Mirage’s eyes widen just that slightest, near intangible little bit. “I ain’t ever met a human who’s had half the audacity you got.”

“You misunderstand. You strike more than enough terror in me, but terror has never been enough to daunt me. It is perhaps the one thing my adversaries have always failed to consider over the years of my service to Nashala. That, and, considering the nature of our arrangement, it is clear I needn’t fear you in the same manner that others do.”

“Nah, you needn’t,” Drifter adds with a mocking little flourish in his voice. As if he hadn’t spent the last five minutes actively suppressing the compulsion to eat him alive. But — and Drifter almost wants to laugh as he realizes he means it in the most literal sense: what he doesn’t know can’t kill him. Besides; he would have done it on Sunday already, were Mirage in any real danger. He’s safe enough with Drifter, it seems. For the time being. Relatively speaking.

“Yeah — if you’n your girl are ready, we can head…” Drifter pauses, catching another glimpse of the green-clad woman over Mirage’s shoulder. Just when he finally manages to steady his heart beat, another rush of excitement courses through him, abrupt and almost disorienting. A closer, more focused look is all it takes to realize it’s not the woman herself that interests him, as admittedly well-dressed and fabulous as she is. Rather, it is the exceedingly familiar essence quite literally attached to her. Only one entity that Drifter has come to know throughout his life could ever emanate that kind of invigorating malevolence. He’s not too proud to admit he's always found it so inspirational, especially as a fledgling.

Hah — if that ain’t who I think it is, locked and bound on a human’s arm like a good lil’ boy.

“What is it?” Mirage steels himself, drawing a hand across what Drifter assumes is a gun beneath his coat. It’s distinctly perceptive on his part.

“Well I’ll be damned…” Drifter’s smile is short-lived, however. Between The Doorman, himself, and now Oathkeeper, it seems most otherworldly horrors are finding themselves all sorts of domesticated nowadays. It’s almost heartbreaking, in some strange way. Certainly all too relatable. At least he’s only temporarily domesticated. By choice.

“What’s wrong, vampire?”

“Nothin’. Just caught a glimpse of someone I ain’t seen in a long, long time.”

“You know, omitting the truth does count as lying,” Mirage warns.

“I ain't omittin’ nothin’,” Drifter insists rather sorely. “Unless you wanna take the time to wait patiently while I catch up with an old friend.”

“Absolutely not. If this person is of no interest to the both of us, then please, let us just go, already.”

“‘S what I thought…” Drifter mutters, stalking forward. The aside would have been inaudible to anyone else, but Mirage shoots him a venomous glare as he walks past. Damn. Guess he really is that perceptive then.

“...I suppose that means you were too busy reminiscing to hear my earlier question,” Mirage scoffs, expression sour.

“Suppose so — ‘s that, now?”

“I asked how, exactly, do you mean to travel to wherever it is we’re going.”

Drifter actually stops mid-stride, turning around to glare right back at him. “...we walk there, cher, what in the hell kinda question is that —”

“Do not act as if you don’t know precisely why I ask,” Mirage snaps. “You’re very obviously a vampire, and your clothing has seen, shall we say, better days. In other words, I can foresee our stroll through the city being anything but casual. You are not exactly the most inconspicuous man who could have forced himself upon me.”

“So what, you think a vampire and a man that damn near glows in the dark with a Djinn’s Blessing can just hail a taxi to an abandoned warehouse?”

“That is exactly my point,” Mirage nods. “And I do not glow in the dark —”

“You got a better suggestion than either of those?!”

“Yes. I do. I am glad you asked.”

Of all the impulses Drifter’s had to resist today, the one to tear his hair out might just be the strongest of them all.

“How lucky for us both that I am able to teleport short distances.”

“...You’re shittin’ me.”

“I am not.”

“Well,” Drifter starts, rubbing his forehead. When he’d first concocted this entire plan, with the Patrons and blood exchange and all that — he definitely didn’t account for…anything about Mirage, to be honest. “That sure changes things, don’t it?”

“It does,” Mirage agrees with a pretty self-satisfied nod. “If you can envision where we need to go, I can take us there.”

“Alright, fine. But how do we —”

“Hence, I am going to say this once, vampire,” Mirage steps closer, without either regard or concern for just how easy it would be to rip him apart from this distance. It’s one thing to have that aforementioned audacity in Drifter’s presence. It’s another to stand unflinching before him, brave and fearless. As if he wouldn’t be undone with just one swipe of his claws against his stomach…

“You will touch Nashala’s bottle with a single hand, with our destination in mind. Make any suspicious movements, try to trick either her or myself in any way whatsoever —”

“Yeah, yeah, Jesus, I know,” Drifter interrupts, but Mirage doesn’t waver.

“ — and I will kill you.”

Maybe he was a bit premature in making light of Oathkeeper’s captivity. Mirage’s stare, imposing posture — his threat — are a set of fortified, terrible chains, shackling him all their own.

“Alright — alright,” he stresses, but Mirage shows no intention of backing down. He slowly extends that single hand as instructed, watching carefully as Mirage raises one of his own. Drifter jumps slightly at the feeling of metal pressing into his side, eyebrows raising as a gun digs deep against his ribs. His grip does not slacken. One good jab would be all it takes to make them crack. 

He shudders involuntarily, though he’s quick to control himself. Mirage doesn’t need to say another word; amber eyes dare him to test those very simple instructions all their own. Fuck. That’s his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like this. Worse yet; he knows the certain death hanging over his head, should he make one wrong move, has little to do with it.

Mirage produces an elegant, golden bottle from his peacoat. He must respect Drifter in return; he’s careful, slow, and deliberate. His eyes stay fixed on Drifter’s, obviously trying to tease out any hint of ulterior motives or ill intent.

“I’m touchin’ that fancy bottle of yours now, you hear me?” Drifter wonders if he doesn’t announce his next move too quietly until Mirage acknowledges it with a terse nod. Warmth dances along his fingertips the second they wrap around the vessel, and he knows right away the Djinn ambassador becomes acutely — perhaps even implicitly — aware of him. Surely Mirage would have warned her of this possibility beforehand. No way a man that thorough and duty bound wouldn’t. But it still feels wrong somehow, like he’s crossing a boundary of one or both of theirs that’s utterly impossible to repair.

He’ll just have to offer his apologies when Mirage doesn’t have a weapon loaded with silver bullets boring into his abdomen.

Drifter closes his eyes, envisioning the abandoned warehouse off the very edge of industrial Brooklyn. Granted, Mirage didn’t elaborate upon just how short “short” is, but he’ll be damned if he cuts through the tension with the words necessary to ask. He’s anything but a praying man, but he’s not too stubborn to mutter a quick one in his head, asking that this works.

He opens one eye just enough to see that something is happening, at least. That something becomes everything instantaneously. Within seconds he feels weightless, his hand wrapped around the vessel translucent and ghost-like. Body and soul blur against countless planes, and he can’t help but feel insignificant and fragile, like they’re nothing more than a beetle’s wings, flitting in endless air. He goes to draw a breath, but there’s a hollowness in his breast, as if he no longer possesses the lungs to actually hold it. From one supernatural, unfathomable nightmare to another, Drifter has to give whatever dimension this is its due. It’s one thing to shatter a man to pieces. It’s another one entirely to pluck a single, loose thread until it unravels a concept down to nothing. Maybe Drifter isn’t as familiar with what lies beyond the veil as he purports himself to be.

Just like that, they arrive in a graveyard of abandoned industrial equipment, landing gracefully on the ground. A misty blaze of fuchsia briefly illuminates rusted cranes and dilapidated buildings before dying out with a flash. They’re left with nothing but the moon to orient themselves, except not even its light can penetrate ominous shadows cast by long-dormant smoke stacks looming above.

“...Goddamn,” Drifter staggers backward a few paces, resting a steadying hand on his chest. The gesture will have to serve as confirmation that he is corporeal, physically intact once more. Stinging sweat blurs his vision, peering out at the world from behind what feels like a pane of foggy glass. Sighing with relief, he massages an otherworldly weariness from his face as his eyes slowly adjust to half-light and shadow per usual. Hunt-induced adrenaline has led him to make some risky choices through risky places. A thicket of pure ego death, though; that sure as fuck is a new one.

Mirage seems utterly unfazed, tucking the bottle back into his coat before he goes to adjust its collar. “The vertigo will wear off soon enough, as will the travel sickness,” he brushes lilac tinted dust off his arms and shoulders. “It is never easy for first timers.”

Drifter figures that’s about as close to an “are you alright?” as he’s gonna get. 

“Well?” Mirage gestures in front of himself. “Lead the way.”

“We’re…we’re here,” Drifter grinds the heel of his boot in the ground, relaxing completely once the sole of it meets the bedrock of firm, solid brickwork. “We’re here. We made it.”

“Where are we, exactly —”

“We can talk about all that later,” Drifter raises a hand, his voice a little airy and breathless where he still regathers the rest of his bearings. Much to his surprise (and unspoken gratitude), Mirage doesn’t argue. 

He turns toward a set of massive iron doors, the faintest glint of light peeking out from underneath. “Wait out here a sec,” he doesn’t even finish his sentence before Mirage is already bristling.

“For what purpose? What are you planning, vampire —”

“I ain’t plannin’ nothing. Definitely not somethin’ that would’ve required all the trouble it took for us to get here. Unless you’d rather inspect the unfamiliar, structurally unsound warehouse — that I happen to know like the back of my hand — yourself?”

Mirage folds his arms. “If you don't want your motives second guessed every ten seconds, I suggest conducting yourself in a more trustworthy manner.”

“Every ten seconds, more like questionin’ every damn step I take,” Drifter growls, but he backs off almost immediately. What else is there to do but accept that any human is well within their rights not to trust him so easily? “I'm serious, Mirage,” Drifter concedes; namely a lot more gently than intended. He sure as hell doesn’t expect those striking features to soften in turn. He lifts his cap, swiping a hand through his hair. “Just. Hold on a minute.”

Within the blink of an eye, Mirage’s tender expression is replaced with something bold. Smoldering. Dangerous. “Do not keep me waiting.” 

Drifter says nothing, giving him a look up and down. The lone part of him that isn’t fighting the last four hundred years of being a merciless harbinger of carnage and darkness wants so badly to see what Mirage would do if he does. But now is absolutely not the time.

Old, rusted metal parts with a squeal, a flood of light rushing to fill the threshold it reveals. A quick glance around the building reveals nothing out of place. Everyone, it seems, is present — to varying degrees of boredom, sure — but present all the same. Sparks fly about in a particularly dank corner, accompanied by an aggressive mingling of smoke, stagnant water, singed metal; McGinnis alone must be hard at work. As for the others, they look toward the sudden visitor over a smattering of beer bottles and playing cards, their edges warped from years of soaking up blood and liquor.

Except Mina, that is. He watches her eyes narrow on him from the mirror of her compact. 

“Hooooooly shit!” A loud voice calls, its timbre fanning all the way out into the factory’s courtyard. “If it ain’t The Drifter himself, upright and alive…” Vyper chuckles nervously. “Looks like I owe someone five dollars — anyway, heeeey, man!” she waves wildly at him, as if there is any possible way he could overlook the one, singular person on this planet who would ever greet him like this. “It's, uh…been a minute. You just kinda ran off on us for a couple days, there.”

Huh. That is precisely what he did, looking at the past week in retrospect.

“...Guess I did, huh?” is all Drifter manages to say at first. “Got a tad caught up with somethin’ for a minute there.”

“Is that what you call leaving us here to fester, while you go chasing after your dinner like some wild animal?” Mina hisses as she snaps her compact shut. “You could have told us you were going to be a while. It would have saved us having to wait around every night for you in…here,” she cringes, grimacing around at towering walls of industrial decay and rot.

“I had a little somethin’ that needed taken care of, but I think you all will find my disappearin’ act worth your while soon enough. As for you, Miss Ha, I ain’t even gon’ bother. I don’t argue with children. And I sure as hell don’t justify myself to ‘em, neither.”

Mina spins to face him, pure loathing in her eyes. “I am not a child — !”

“Well, what is it?!” Bebop interrupts, metal clanking against metal where he slaps one of those wrinkly, dirty cards on top of Vyper’s. Mina simply glowers at him from the cleanest spot in the room, comparatively speaking. “Don’t keep us waitin’ any longer if you don’t have to.”

“It’s the last piece you all need to make them wishes of yours come true,” Drifter smiles. That’s enough to fix the looks on all their faces. Even McGinnis shuts off her torch and lifts up her visor.

“Oh, fuck yeah, what is it?! A gun?! Some other kind of weapon, maybe?” Vyper shouts, either not noticing or caring that she sends a heap of empty bottles clinking to the ground. Probably both.

“I — what — nah —” Drifter shoots her a confused look. “‘S a…friend of mine, let’s call him. But before I get everyone acquainted, lemme just say: it’s in y’alls’ best interest to make sure he leaves here tonight with a fine impression of you lovely folks.”

“So he’s here? Now?”

“‘Course he is,” Drifter looks at Mirage over his shoulder, nicking his head a little to indicate that he’s ready for him. That it’s safe. Mirage wastes no further time in stepping inside, focused and collected, yet intimidating in that ever-present, elegant way he carries himself. It does not go amiss that he takes particular care to stay quite close by Drifter’s side. Close enough to catch a whiff of sandalwood soap and rose bud shampoo. Close enough that he can hear the faintest patter of his racing heartbeat where the situation, understandably, unsettles him. The hairs on Drifter’s arms stand on end again. He ignores the prickling that comes along with it; but unlike those urges in the alley, he gets the feeling he does so for his own sake, rather than Mirage’s.

Silence reigns between both parties for an excruciating handful of moments. He’s not entirely sure what he expects, serving as the middle man between the most serious man who has ever lived, and this assortment of…well, characters is about as politely as he can put it. 

“...Really, Drifter?” 

Great. That is until the mouthy brat has to be the first of them to break it. 

“This is your plan?! Just show back up out of nowhere for the first time in five days with some stray at your heels?!”

Mirage’s shoulders tense as he goes to speak, but Drifter raises an arm, eyes fixed on Mina as he cuts in. “You might wanna watch your tone there, Miss —”

“I don’t give a damn about him or my tone!” Mina shrieks with a fury that, if he’s honest, Drifter can’t exactly blame her for. The general pathetic nature of her existence aside, he can only imagine how pissed off he’d be if his literal god-given ticket to all his wishes and dreams went and disappeared for nearly a week. Not to mention the salt he digs into the wound where he clearly refuses to elaborate, beyond bringing a complete and utter stranger, unannounced, into the mix. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Mirage’s sensibilities are the ones he means to protect right now. He’ll kill everybody in this room, and then the Patrons themselves, before he lets anyone cost him that blood.

“What gives you the right to just trample on all of our plans like this?!”

“What plans, Miss Ha, you ain't done shit since I got here,” he snaps, her affronted gasp music to his ears. “As to my right, how ‘bout the fact that none of you got a shot at this without him, and definitely not without me. He's on board, he's powerful, and he sure as hell ain’t someone you wanna upset. There ain’t nothin’ more to it than that.”

Mina actually braves the muck of the warehouse, stomping closer to argue further, the clack of her heels echoing off the rafters —

“Hey, hold on a minute!” Vyper interrupts; at the top of her lungs, naturally. “I remember you! Wait! Oh shit! You were at the bar on Wednesday night, hooooooooooooly —”

“...What all kinda mess did you get up to in that Ixian joint, then?” Drifter raises his eyebrows.

Mirage, however, seems less enthused about the memory. He pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation.

Mina scoffs, flicking her nails. “So you’re dragging worse than strays into our business, then; Bar flies.” 

“I beg your pardon —” Mirage snaps his attention onto her — swift, discerning, unrelenting. Just like that, two flippant, innocuous words breach their way through the steely, impenetrable ocean of his composure. Drifter can feel a mixture of his two most despised emotions coiling in on themselves in his stomach: first jealousy, writhing within him like some deep-set, unbearable itch, knotted and impossible to reach. Then panic, threading itself in the little gaps in between, each stitch more sharp and puncturing than the last. 

It is clear that Mina has no idea she’d insulted his girl with that comment, no matter how indirectly. Clearer still; Mirage does not like what he sees. Drifter knows for a fact that, his general disregard for the fledgling, and his personal, selfish desire to taunt Mirage to the point of breaking aside, she is anything but ready for it.

The air shifts around him as Mirage moves to engage her — with words or weapons, he does not know.

“Nah, cher — hold on, now,” Drifter whispers in his ear, instinctively reaching to place a grounding hand on his shoulder. Only Mirage meets that instinct in kind; he whips around, searing that glare onto him, his entire body freezing at the unexpected contact.

Touching that bottle, it seems, didn’t have shit on that choice maneuver just now; he lifts his hand as quickly as he’d placed it. A thousand questions race across those golden eyes. Drifter holds his breath; if that damn Patron up there is watching, may it grant his wish that the look in his own is enough to answer them.

There’s no divine intervention, though. Just another idle thought or two about how quick he was to laugh at Oathkeeper’s plight, taking a sardonic, mocking stroll along the edge of his mind. 

Thankfully, Mirage is no idiot, and definitely less quick to jump to bloodshed than Drifter himself. The look in his eyes says he knows better than to escalate this any further for the time being— whether this is the burgeoning argument with a loud-mouthed, early twenty-something, or, well, anything he’s had going on with Drifter since Sunday.

“Bar flies, huh? Now we’re talkin’,” McGinnis chuckles, cutting through the tripwire of the situation itself like it’s nothing more than a nagging phantom, buzzing in her ear. “Guess that makes you exactly my type. So, what’s your story, then? How’d you meet The Drifter?”

Mirage looks at Drifter for a few final seconds before addressing McGinnis properly. “Seeing as that information is impertinent to the ritual’s success, it shall remain strictly between the vampire and myself,” is all he offers, his tone lukewarm and neutral. Which is honestly not that bad, considering Mina’s chink in his emotional armor, and that he’s somewhere he visibly doesn’t want to be, surrounded on all sides by strangers he doesn’t trust.

“Eh, can’t argue with that,” McGinnis shrugs. “I’d honestly be more put off if you weren’t weirdly cagey and shady. Alright, then; he can stay or go, or whatever,” she places her visor back down. “That pretty much settles it on my end.”

“What about your pretty lady friend that was with you the other night?” Bebop asks; earnestly, at that. “Will she be joining us too?”

“Ah —”

“Oh shit, yeah!” Vyper cuts Mirage off, though he seems anything but perturbed by the excuse to not answer the question. “Yeah! Yeah! That’s right! The Djinn lady! That’s what I’m fucking talking about, dude! We got a bona fide Djinn on our side! Which totally counts as a weapon if you ask me.”

“Don’t think they did, mate,” Bebop whispers to her. “So that makes six of us for the ritual, then. Can’t say I mind. Somethin’ about those odds tickles me better than five.”

“It does, s’long as you folks don’t scare away my friend here,” Drifter says through gritted teeth, heart racing.

“...You all have both my full cooperation and extent of my power, so long as this arrangement remains in my best interest. You do not pry into my affairs, I shall not pry into yours. But should you trifle with me in any way, I guarantee you will be quick to regret it.”

“Jeeze, alright man. Nice to meet you too. Again. I guess,” Vyper takes a lengthy sip of beer. “You got a name or somethin’?”

Drifter would laugh outright at the aura of pure distaste Mirage projects toward her, were the closing out on bloodpacts with gods and the Djinn and their bodyguards not in the mix.

“...Mirage.”

“Ooo, look at you, all exotic and fancy,” Vyper coos. “Makin’ a girl weak-kneed over here.”

Mirage stares at her in utter disbelief. “...it is a word from your language.”

“Fine! Whatever. I guess this friend of yours stays,” Mina rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up in the air. “It’s not like we actually get a say in the matter, so can we finish the rest of this tomorrow or something?! I just want to get out of here. It smells so, so bad…”

Drifter takes a subtle sniff at the air. She isn’t wrong, that’s for sure.

“And we can maybe meet somewhere else for that matter?! I don’t know why you guys are so married to this shit heap.”

“Well, let’s see,” McGinnis starts, holding up a gloved hand. “None of you are stepping foot in my lab,” she puts a finger down. “I doubt we’ll get much of anything done in a jail cell,” she points to Vyper. “Much as I'd like to talk Miss Shelly's ear off, it’d be rude to impose all this on her,” she nods at Bebop. “I'll be damned if we're meeting up in whatever murder pit he sleeps in every night,” she nods at Drifter. “And I’m just going off the assumption your situation’s off the table, no matter what it is,” she looks at Mirage. “So, uh…yeah, sorry, Mina. Unless you wanna let us in your penthouse —”

“Ew. God, no!” Mina places a hand dramatically to her chest.

“That settles it, derelict factory it is,” McGinnis shrugs. “Same time, same place, tomorrow? Your friend cool with that?”

Everyone hones in on Mirage, who confirms the question with a nod, brushing his thumbs ever-so-softly against his knuckles.

Whether it’s from exhaustion or something else entirely, Mirage is much less feisty about teleporting them back to Manhattan. What’s more, he takes both of them back to The Baroness; his balcony, on top of it. It’s a bold choice from a man who was all too ready and willing to kill him at least three distinct times tonight. That he can think of, anyway. Probably more.

Either Mirage really is slipping, or he’s finally starting to accept their agreement, arrangement; like hell if he knows what to even call it anymore. He’d expected Mirage to bid him a cold, standoffish, aggravated good night before leaving him behind to slink back to whatever — what was it McGinnis said, again? — murder pit he calls home in the city. 

But he just…stands there instead. With his upper body resting upon the railing, silently observing the horizon, just like he had before they’d left earlier that evening. Mirage must expect something from him, even if Drifter has no idea what it could be. He would have been exceedingly blunt about wanting him to leave, otherwise.

“What’s on your mind, cher,” Drifter tests those calm waters of his with a careful sigh. “I can hear them thoughts of your rattlin’ around from here.”

“...My thoughts?” There’s a delay between Mirage’s question and the look he gives him over his shoulder. “Or is it my heart you hear instead?”

Drifter laughs once, but he does pause to listen. It’s steady, even. Nothing stand-out or noteworthy. Which makes it the rarest of all, from Drifter’s perspective, especially at this proximity. “Figured you didn’t need any more ribbin’ from me after the day we had.”

“Kind of you,” Mirage nods slowly as it dawns on him how much he agrees. “I do think I run the risk of losing my sanity, should one more thing mean to test it.”

“Considerin’ I’d want you at your best if that happens, I guess I really will hold off for now,” he can’t help but smile down at him. Well, Mirage is definitely still sharp enough to muster up one hell of a side eye in return. “For what it’s worth, that didn’t go too…” Drifter starts, but he gives up instantly. “You know what, I actually ain’t even gon’ lie to you. That went about exactly as I expected it would. I’m surprised — relieved, yeah — but still surprised you actually agreed to join that shit show so readily.”

“It’s less about joining them, and more, holding true to Nashala’s mission, whilst upholding my end of our bargain. Which, while we are on the subject,” Mirage addresses him direclty, Drifter jumping from surprise at his sudden flourish of energy. “I thought you said you did not have a name?”

“What?” Drifter frowns, trying to swallow a stray stitch of that earlier panic before it weaves its way down his throat. “I mean, it’s what they call me, but it ain’t really a name like what you wanted. ‘S honestly a title, really.”

“Yet it is still more than what I had before. I shall bear it in mind, if you do not object.”

“Call me whatever you want,” Drifter shrugs. “Don’t make no difference to me.”

“Hmm; I’m pretty certain if I were to pick one of the many things I have called you in my head within the last week, you would mind a fair bit more than you think.”

He can’t tell how serious Mirage is or isn’t. It’s probably safest to assume that the answer is quite.

“I also could not help but notice the other vampire amongst your ranks.”

Drifter flinches, looking down at Mirage like he’d said the most crass, offensive thing imaginable. “Who, Miss Ha?!” He scoffs. “She ain’t amongst shit of mine, I’ll tell you that right now. She’s a sorry, pathetic excuse for a vampire, and a mouthy lil’ brat on a good day. You saw that first hand.”

Mirage hums in an attempt to be diplomatic, but Drifter catches the agreement in the bass of it.

“Her parents bought out her sire, so now she’s runnin’ around New York, playin’ pretty pretty princess with shit she don’t understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a naive rich kid and entitled to fuck and back, Mirage. All that’s bad enough on its own, but then she’s gotta go around stickin’ her nose in business that’s been runnin’ at least fifty times as long as she’s been alive. Ain’t exactly the most endearing combination of traits for someone to have.”

“Are you not a staunchly vocal hater of vampiric conventions yourself? You’d think you would applaud her for her efforts to disrupt them.”

“Only thing worse than vampiric courts and all them bullshit rules is payin’ to become a part of it all.”

“That…does sound like a choice, I’m inclined to agree,” Mirage replies. “Granted I know very little about the vampiric — culture, but I imagine it’s not entirely unlike how things are when it comes to the Djinn.”

“How so? I ain’t all too familiar with the Djinn.”

“Well. Some are lovely, fascinating people, whilst others are — I believe the word I learned from the Professor was assholes.”

Drifter laughs. “Guess that makes sense.”

“Miss Ha seems young and naive, but her ambition cannot be denied. She still has time to prove herself worthy of the attention she longs to command.”

 Drifter raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. “You president of her fan club now or somethin’?”

“Absolutely not, but I do think there might be more to her than meets the eye. You were right to stop me from…confronting her insult toward Nashala.”

“Which — yeah — y’know — my bad for —” Drifter rolls his eyes before he awkwardly imitates the gesture.

“I’ll have you know I had half a mind to end you, then and there,” Mirage glowers. Almost like he’s scolding him.

“I’m fully aware.”

“Still, I do not begrudge you for it. You did what you needed to do at that point in time. To your credit, it worked.”

“I know firsthand how protective you can be of Miss Dion, but I don’t think that child woulda been ready for anything you woulda thrown at her.”

“Correct. It is why I decided against stabbing you to death.”

“Ha — thanks. She didn’t have a damn clue she was even with you, if I’m honest. None of ‘em did. Except Bebop and Vyper. Sounds like they’ve met her before.”

“Yes. The two of them talked to her as loudly as they possibly could whilst sharing a drink with Nashala. I’m sure she's delighted she’ll get to meet them once again.”

“Really? Those two?”

“Trust me, I know,” Mirage mutters, as if he wishes more than anything he didn’t. “I don’t mean to sound — how do I put this — dismissive of the opportunity you’ve placed before me, but I am very serious when it comes to Nashala’s wish. The others who mean to take part in this ritual are…” he draws a breath, searching for the right word.

“Either unfathomably short-sighted, an idiot, or both?” Drifter, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother to hesitate. “Yeah. I know. Well, ‘cept McGinnis maybe. She definitely knows her shit, I gotta give it to her. That, and she ain’t interested in mopin’ around about morality or nothin’. She knows what she’s about, and she’s here to get it done. Can’t say I don’t respect her for it. Anyway, I guess my point is, anyone willin’ to summon an elder god ain’t exactly gon’ be the most stable person around.”

“And how did you come into contact with these people, exactly?”

“I know what you’re tryna say, but the Patron reached out to me, remember? Asked if I wasn’t willin’ to help tip the scales in their favor in exchange for…you know. The rest of them were already a group by the time I came along. Don’t go lumpin’ me in with them like that, now.”

“I see,” Mirage bites down on his lip, but the way he rolls his shoulders says he still struggles to hide a laugh. “What are the others wishing for, then?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. I was only ever here to eat,” Drifter doesn’t need to see him to know he flashes him a look of disapproval. “Now, though,” he just gestures in Mirage’s general direction. “Pretty sure I ain’t gotta elaborate. I guess my point is, I know what you saw tonight might be a bit below the level of capable you’re lookin’ for, but I don’t doubt for a second that we can pull it off. You and I, at the very least.”

“So now your investment in the ritual goes beyond bloodlust?” Mirage can’t help but rest a hip against the railing, as if he inches closer to some tantalizing, irresistible gossip. “I thought you didn't have a wish.”

“I don't, but I take a lot of pride in my work; you can roll them pretty eyes all you want, but I bet you won’t have shit to say when you're rollin ‘em at me from Wyoming.”

Mirage opens his mouth to argue, closing it again once he realizes he can’t. “So, what's next,” he makes a pointed show of his desire to move on. “What all must we do in order to make this happen?”

“I mean — ‘s midnight, cher —”

“I am aware of the time, it is why I made the convenient decision to take us back to my hotel room,” Mirage snaps, unamused. He really is a sassy little thing. “I mean in general, naturally.”

“Well, we can't do nothin’ within the ritual itself until the Maelstrom. But there’s plenty of prep work that needs doin’ beforehand.”

“Excellent. We can begin to chip away at what I’m sure will be a reasonable and non-threatening list tomorrow,” Mirage sighs, giving their view one last forlorn look before turning back to Drifter once more. “Apropos of nothing, what exactly does cher mean?”

“Oh, it’s — ” he clears his throat. How convenient that he chooses this opportunity to become an enthusiast of the New York City skyline instead. “Just a nickname, I guess.”

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Mirage huffs. “But what does it mean?”

“It means I’m shapin’ up to be a bigger bitch than Oathkeeper and The Doorman combined…” Drifter mutters to himself, rubbing his hands across his face.

“Say that again? I couldn’t hear you.”

He sighs. “It’s somethin’ we can elaborate on at another time.”

“...Fair enough,” Mirage concedes, placing his hand on the balcony door. “It is late. Besides, I do not think I can stand another euphemism for being your dinner tonight.”

“See, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with that, neither, just —” Drifter groans. “You’re interestin’ to me, Mirage. Settin’ the whole — you know — dinner thing aside, you’re interestin’. I ain’t met a human in a long, long, long time I could say that about.”

“...Oh,” Mirage’s brow creases. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Drifter looks up at the sky, scratching behind his neck. “‘S’all that is.”

“Well, I suppose you are rather interesting yourself, for a centuries-old vampire who stalks me incessantly and hounds me for my blood…” 

“You’re too kind, cher,” Drifter lifts his cap at him.

“I — sure. Yes,” whatever Mirage was going to say, it gets lost in another one of those contemplative looks of his. “However, there is such a thing as too interesting; especially for one day.”

“Guess that’s my cue to leave then, ain’t it."

“Yes. It is.” 

“Alright, I hear you,” he couples a yawn with an exaggerated stretch. “You go on in there and get some actual sleep. I’ll be here to do it all again with you tomorrow evening.”

“Wonderful,” Mirage concurs, arms crossed, but there’s no missing the way those eyes widen at the sight of his fangs.

“Sure is,” Drifter goes leave, but a soft laugh catches his attention from over his shoulder.

“You really are surprisingly honest, aren’t you…Drifter.”

Drifter’s ears twitch involuntarily at the sound of that name from Mirage’s lips. It’s barely louder than a whisper, yet still makes him jump, both breath and heart mangled in the snare of an unmistakable little taunt on the tail end of his voice.

“Careful, now…” Drifter inhales, his voice low with a teasing drawl of his own as he slowly approaches him. Maybe he does care what Mirage chooses to call him, actually. Maybe he cares a lot. “A man could get used to hearin’ that name in that charmin’ lil’ accent of yours.”

Mirage, interesting man that he is, does not flinch where he finds himself more or less trapped between the wall and The Drifter himself. He slides the door open before stepping into his dark hotel room, eyes narrowed and threatening, even where he knows Drifter cannot follow.

“Do not push your luck with me,” he warns before slamming it. Velvet hangings immediately fall into place with an aggravated flourish.

Drifter watches them sway about for a couple of seconds, chuckling to himself; all he can hear is the small voice in the back of his head, telling him to do exactly that.

Chapter Text

Mirage finally comes to, lying face down and half-frozen in the center of an icy river. Once-clear water now grave still and steely blue, his heavy, trembling arms stretch out across its width in a desperate embrace. Fat, frigid snowflakes tip his eyelashes and beard; winter’s obol, a reverent little parting gift for a man who surely — surely — has no choice but to die out here, exposed and aimless and alone. 

What the world doesn’t know, however, is that Mirage is anything but.

He stands up carefully, his boots more gritted against the ice than expected. Where else is there to go, but toward the mountain range, its bases wider than the horizon itself? With snow capped peaks yearning to pierce, albeit never reaching, the vault of the Milky Way streaking across a star-studded sky? Mirage asks again; besides the ur-labors of an even more ancient, earthly defiance, where else is there to possibly go? No one ever said good things come easily. Again, one last, final time: where else. Is there. To go? 

Only the most arrogant man in the world would deign to look upon such structures and think them precisely placed for personal, parabolic teachings. 

There’s a lesson to be learned from this nonetheless, waiting to be plucked by toil-and-journey-worn hands from the summit. The universe will simply have to wait to smite him for his hubris. And it will, because he’ll make it. He has to. He has no other choice. 

He makes the trek up the sloped, treacherous mountain face. Sharp winds freeze the edges of his cold-blurred vision like a frosty little vignette. Ebbing and flowing with every inhale, exhale. Every forward step obscured, every backward one concealed, by gales of wet, fresh snow, again and again. He doesn’t complain. There’s no time, no energy, and even less of a point. Nashala is fine, dry and warm in her vessel, which is in turn safe and guarded in his overcoat.

And that is all that matters.

Mirage’s fortitude and perseverance are rewarded; nestled here on the very tip of crude, unfettered pride is a modest little chapel, built by the very hands, and in honor of, humility. It is also shelter for tonight. There’s no shame in taking the time to rest. The way back down will be no less clear to him tomorrow.

He parts aged, weather-bleached doors that creak and splinter, the wood fragile and brittle after years of freezing and unfreezing in perpetuity. The inside is small, cramped, the air stifling and still — a long-untouched memorial of different times. Holy books and withered icons gather mold on their sun-spotted surfaces. Piety and worship are left to soak beneath an ocean of dust, submerged in the brine of neglected, now-abandoned tradition. It’s not his to claim, reject, revive, or mourn. But it grants him refuge for the night, and asks nothing of him in return. For that, he is more than happy to offer a little prayer of gratitude. It’s without a doubt the first one spoken aloud within these walls in a very long time.

Walls that no longer feel like protective, watchful hands, but malformed, unholy claws, crowned with iron-wrought, coal-black talons. Cobweb-covered votive candles, half melted and unkempt, flicker and dance with sooty flames, white and blinding, like the unpredictable prominences of a total eclipse. They radiate neither fire nor light, but ashen, suffocating smoke into musty air.

Mirage tries to draw breath, losing his footing as he trips into — against?! — sinister, pitch-black shadow. He expects to crash to the floor, disarmed by shock and pain. He’s caught instead by a pair of thick, sturdy arms; one snakes its way up his chest, the other down along his abdomen. They hold him stable, still, in place, yes, technically — but also captive, restrained, rooted. With no way to turn or free himself. No way, nowhere, to run.

The constricting silhouette pulls him yet further backward, pressing him flush against something firm yet cold. The chapel walls, Mirage thinks, but surely that cannot be. No wall, along any of Mirage’s travels — be they of this plane or otherwise — has ever smiled, laughed —  growled in his ear.

“No. No. Nonononono —” Mirage shakes his head rapidly, the large hand curled around his throat tilting it back by the chin, forcing his eyes to meet a glinting pair of bright, crimson ones in return.

“Time to get up now, cher,” the voice both teases and commands, those claws caressing his stomach one last time before angling them inward to strike.

Mirage tears through an entanglement of heavy, weighted blankets, scrambling for the phantom grips of weapons he realizes are stowed and secured in a drawer in the parlor room. Some good they would be, under the circumstance someone should intrude upon him and Nashala uninvited; a rather likely hypothetical anymore. Mirage frowns, rubbing his eyes. It might be worth rethinking that arrangement after breakfast.

He allows himself a few extra moments to wake up properly, idly brushing his fingertips across the layers of cotton and satin pooling in his lap.

At least fate was kind enough to grant me eight full hours of sleep.

He can’t even begin to remember the last time he was so lucky. Paris, perhaps? Lisbon? Jakarta? Taipei? Bogota? Toronto? Dakar, he recalls with a tired, despondent grunt. The trade off being that it’d taken him weeks to stop dreaming exclusively in French.

And when, again, was the last time he’d been so privileged, so unburdened, that such frivolous thoughts may take up precious space in a mind as troubled and thinly stretched as his? He closes — no — clenches his eyes shut, drawing a slow, deep, grounding breath through his nose. Insignificant flashes of a dream he cannot recall flit before his mind, as nondescript and fleeting as individual grains of sand, swirling meaninglessly in salty wind. No origin, no destination. No point or place or grand purpose to where they should land, if they should do so at all. It’s almost satisfying, in some puzzling, unnameable way. Like he enjoys the fruits of an act of labor he’d done absolutely nothing to earn.

He exhales before carefully guiding himself backward past the boundary of sunrise and dreaming. Nothing comes, other than an intense, acute awareness of the present. Crisp Autumn air billows about the bedroom, carrying the sounds of an early morning work rush along with it. Quaint little hints of a rich, blue, cloudless sky peek out from beneath the hems of tasteful, velvet curtains. Nashala still sleeps deeply herself, her bottle shifting almost imperceptibly on the satin pillow, in time with her every easy little breath. Whatever glaring, pressing, urgent thing woke him up, it eludes him completely.

…Until it hits him all at once, a few seconds later: that dreadful, unshakable, nauseating feeling of being stalked, watched, hounded, desired; the weight that came with being the shiny, ripe, tantalizing apple of a thousand inescapable, unblinking eyes — it’s gone. 

Nothing remains in its stead but silence. Contentment. Serenity. Whole, unfractured, unblemished calm. Peace. For the first time since he arrived in New York.

To be liberated so abruptly, so suddenly — as if the gates of Mirage’s personal hell had been conveniently left open in the middle of the night —

He allows himself to enjoy these free, unencumbered moments. Questions of why, how, to what end; those could be answered simply enough by way of the Djinn’s Mark.

If such a connection even persists. 

His heart rate increases at the thought. How sublime that such a detail is his to note or disregard as he pleases once more. He wills burgeoning excitement away, re-centering himself with discipline and focus. His eyelids flutter shut as he attempts to divine a sliver of a vision. Just a sliver, that is. Enough to inch toward, but never up to, the answer. Not that the slow, cautious return of his lightened mood and rested body are the only reasons he treads so carefully. Two unfettered, unintentional glimpses into The Drifter’s mind had been lessons enough in that regard.

He controls his breathing, careful not to lean too heavily into the Djinn’s Mark and greet gloom and shadows once again. Such hesitation, it seems, does nothing other than weaken the connection itself. What little Mirage manages to glean — faint pops of color against a grey, meaningless void — is watered down to a feeble, half-minded awareness of the power itself. The Drifter cannot be detected or sensed from so many thick, interwoven layers of proverbial distance.

Perhaps he is no longer my problem.

Invigorated by the revelation, Mirage focuses on the natural beauty of the morning anew. A pair of bluebirds chirp and sing to one another on the window sill. The scent of breakfast, both sweet and savory, lingers in the air, just above those of wet concrete and burning rubber; a strange, but not unpleasant, blend.

Sunlight dips in and out to occasionally illuminate thousands of little dust motes floating weightlessly about. Almost as if they too, dance in celebration of a day that Mirage finally begins to accept, belongs to him in full.

Only a fool would sit in bed any longer, rather than seize it.

He draws back all the curtains in the bed and parlor rooms, flooding the suite with more of that chilly, October sun. It’s not until he’s tying back the second to last set that he notices his left arm no longer causes him pain. There’s a bit of a dull pain there; a slight, uncomfortable twinge. But it’s nothing compared to days previous. The bandages, however, require at least one more round of redressing.

Best he do it now, before Nashala wakes up, lest he be forced to suffer a new wave of doting and insistent concern. It is his job to protect and reassure her — not the other way around. She still doesn’t see it this way, even after all these years, and Mirage imagines she never will.

He takes care to be quiet as he gathers the necessary supplies, slowly unraveling the gauze around his wrist and the crook of his elbow. The healing process seems to be going well enough, even if the various sites of trauma are a little darker than the unmarred skin around it. An apt metaphor for it all; bruised and pocked as the skin may be, with enough time and diligent care, wounds will close all the same.

It’s barely even nine am by the time he’s finished. She is clearly more than happy to sleep in after their stressful day yesterday. Travelling through and across planes may be his endeavor, and require his energy, but it still demands Nashala herself act as a conduit of sorts. 

Mirage sighs, glancing at her bottle with a forlorn smile. Never mind Wyoming; he would give her the world, were it his grant.

He picks up a little folder from the coffee table, smoothing his thumbs across the well-worn bumps and creases of its leather binding. No expense, no finery shall be spared on this wonderful morning: today, he shall order The Baroness’ tea service.

He expects a relatively decent selection from such a luxurious establishment, but his eyes still widen the further he scans down a seemingly endless list. Darjeeling. Earl Grey. Apricot Sun. Hojicha and Sencha, multiple Chai blends. Ginger, Jasmine, Raspberry, Fig Leaf. Chamomile, Peppermint. Rosemary. Lemongrass and Echinacea. Dandelion Root. Rooibos and Rose and Lavender and Yellow Medallion. Even Lapsang Souchong.

It’s the finest one he’s seen in the city thus far. If Mirage almost weeps at the variety, then The Doorman may well fall to his knees with elation at the compliment. 

He walks over to the telephone, dialing the front desk. “Yes, good morning to you as well, Doorman,” Mirage half-whispers into the receiver. Naturally he answered with unnatural swiftness after the first ring. “If a pot of the Ceylon could be brought to my suite at your earliest avail? I would be very grateful.”

For the first time in almost three days, Mirage has something vaguely resembling an appetite. He eats a couple of the thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches that come with the tea service, pleasantly surprised by the tangy contrast of butter and dill. Halfway through his second cup of black tea, he realizes the grumbling in his stomach is one of satisfaction and gratitude, rather than sickness and disgust. He lets himself get lost momentarily in the aroma; it’s a fairly decent blend. Nothing amazing or to write home about, beyond the context in which he enjoys it.

Rustling from the parlor room catches his attention. He turns his head toward the sound with a normal, reasonable level of intrigue, rather than snapping toward it with his weapons half-drawn. He scoffs to himself with something between elation and bemusement. 

Just how messy has my life become nowadays?

“There you are,” Nashala yawns from the slightly cracked door, parting it further to join him on the balcony. “What’s all this about?” She smiles at the spread of tea and finger foods arranged on the glass table. “Did you actually do something — hmm, how shall we call it — nice for yourself, for once?!”

Mirage laughs, waving a bashful hand in the air. “Good morning to you too, Nashala. Please join me, if you wish. I ordered enough for us both.”

“Don’t mind if I do, but don’t try to pin all this on me, either — and I mean it in a good way,” She adds. “You need to do more things like this. I’m glad you’re taking my advice.”

Mirage avoids her eye, his face growing warm. It would seem he’s traded one scolding of loving intent for another.

“What kind of tea did you get?” She doesn’t wait for the answer before she’s pouring herself a cup.

“Ceylon.”

“Mmm. Let me guess; still not as good as back home?”

Mirage doesn’t answer, taking another sip of his own instead.

Nashala laughs, shaking her head. “It’s almost crazy how impossible you are to please.”

“I have what one might call a sophisticated and refined palate when it comes to tea, yes,” Mirage agrees. “But I am still drinking it, as you can see. It is decent enough for what it is.”

Nashala pauses, double taking at him in surprise. “It might as well be the best tea you’ve had in the West, with that kind of praise.”

“Honestly…?” Mirage trails off, frowning as he twists the ornate cup about. She might have a decent point there.

“It smells great,” she sighs, taking her cup in hand. “And the cakes and sandwiches are a nice touch. Very European. Very aristocratic.”

“I’d expect nothing less from The Baroness. Its exuberant fees must go toward something, no?” Mirage replies, looking up after a few moments to address the sudden silence between them. He visibly jumps; Nashala stares at him like he is some rare, never-before-seen-exhibit at a museum.

“Mirage…” she gasps — admires? Wonders? “You look…” Mirage jumps again as she gets closer, studying his face from different angles. “There’s some color in your skin, and the rings around your eyes are completely gone. I don’t think I’ve seen you look so healthy in — well — days.”

“So you see it as well,” Mirage crosses his legs, leaning across the table to reach for a digestive biscuit. “I am glad to know it’s not just me.”

“No, you look great,” She pats his cheek, beaming at the rising flush she rouses with the gesture. “You are positively glowing!”

“I also woke up this morning without the feeling that some unfathomably terrible creature was watching my every move with cripplingly obsessive intimacy. Both things make me quite chipper, I must admit.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Nashala’s brow knits. “Are you talking about The Drifter?”

Mirage lowers his teacup, glaring at her in blank disbelief. “Who else, in all the heavens and hells of this plane and any others, could I possibly mean, Nashala.”

“Don’t get sassy with me, I’m serious,” she snaps a little herself. “You’re saying this is connected to him somehow?”

“What all hasn’t he been connected to, since we’ve gotten to New York?” Mirage raises an eyebrow. “All I’m saying is this: it is incredible what a decent night’s rest and breaking free of an Elder Vampire’s omnipresent, degenerative aura can do for one’s complexion.”

“Breaking free?” Nashala repeats. “You say that like he’s — is he — you know —” she drags an index finger across her neck. “Or otherwise indisposed? Did you find a way to vanquish him?!”

“I…no,” Mirage sighs. “I don’t know. I could not tell you any of those specifics. I am not questioning it, but savoring it instead, as you can see.”

“Yes, you are,” Nashala looks from him back to the spread of tea. “And I cannot blame you in the slightest. But I don’t know about this, my dear…”

“Do you mean to say you somehow object to the fact I am slowly retrieving my sanity?!”

“Of course not, Mirage. Seeing you so rested and happy does my heart more good than you could ever possibly know. But,” she goes to take a sip of tea, but pauses halfway, visibly thinking. “No matter what the cause, it is very, very odd that his attention seems to have diverted off you so suddenly. I worry that it could be for reasons that pose a bigger threat than The Drifter himself ever was.”

Mirage sets his own teacup upon the saucer with an aggravated hiss. “Thank you kindly for putting that possibility into my mind.”

“I’m as relieved as you are, do not get me wrong, it is wonderful to see you so…” she waves her hands generally in his direction. “But it’s highly unlike someone as old and persistent as The Drifter to just vanish like this overnight. I just don’t see him growing so…bored of you so quickly.”

“Why not?” Mirage tenses, but he knows he asks the universe why it cannot be possible, rather than for Nashala herself to dispute his logic.

“If for no other reason than — and please don’t take this the wrong way, Mirage — the man’s absolutely infatuated with you.”

Her word choice shoots a shocking, sobering sensation through his frame. One he realizes he has spent the last few days concealing deep within the back of his mind with all the compassion and tenderness of the cruelest taskmaster. Pointedly condemning what he knows is the truth she speaks to rot and decay; neglected beyond the point of starvation, left with no choice but to wither and die.

Mirage is not blind, and even less an idiot or clueless imbecile. He hadn’t missed a single one of The Drifter’s lingering looks, or the way his deep red eyes would widen and illuminate each time they met Mirage’s own. Eyes he could barely go ten minutes without calling pretty, even be it from some desire to goad and antagonize him. Those long, pointed ears seemed to twitch and react to his every movement. His every breath, no matter how jagged or even. Every change to his heartbeat, no matter how drastic or subtle. Yet none of it ever felt sinister or threatening, beyond the indisputable foundation of what — or who, rather — The Drifter may be, conceptually speaking.

He absolutely did not fail to notice the way those large hands seemed to clench and fidget at his sides all day yesterday, as if he’d just barely succeeded in keeping some sort of indulgent urge or impulse at bay. When he’d placed one of them upon his shoulder, however brief and reactive the contact, well; Mirage had been affronted and put off — most definitely beside himself at The Drifter’s unadulterated audacity. But he’d also recognized the stabilizing, perhaps even affectionate, intent behind that choice to grab him. Not just within the tender squeeze of his shoulder, or the thoughtful, steadying pressure of the touch itself; but that exposed, raw, dare he say honest, look in his eyes…

His scent may have been what caught his initial attention, and blood may be what motivates him. He cannot help but wonder, however, if either are what compels The Drifter to return to him every night the way he does. 

“ I don’t mean in the sense that he’s having bouquets of roses and handwritten confessions sent to The Baroness,” Nashala stresses. “But he is infatuated with you all the same.”

“...As much as one can be infatuated with their food, yes,” Mirage corrects, ignoring both the look on her face and the rush of such creeping thoughts.

Nashala clearly swallows a few choice thoughts of her own on the subject, but she chooses not to elaborate.

Thank God.

“I mean, that infatuation is all the encouragement he needs to grant us his Patron’s wish. For that reason alone, I must admit, I am rather invested in his whereabouts,” Nashala hums.

“I still contend that we have no need for that wish, and that money and power will be more than enough to sway the General Consul. Eventually,” he adds under his breath. “On that note, it shall be much easier for me to focus accordingly without a feral bloodhound nipping constantly at my ankles. It is a good thing I did not cancel our appointments at the Embassy next week. I was planning to do as much this afternoon, actually,” he frowns at his reflection, rippling across the surface of now lukewarm tea.

How…serendipitous. 

His voice sounds so bitter and curdled in his own head any more.

“Well, what about the others?”

“What about them,” Mirage raises an eyebrow, dipping a digestive biscuit into his tea. “Callous as it may sound, I cannot say they matter beyond our connection to the Ritual, vis-a-vis The Drifter. With both potentially out of the picture, they no longer concern me whatsoever. Besides, they did not seem all too keen on us joining them.”

“Mirage…” her shoulders heave as she sighs, her hands resting limp and idle in her lap.

“Do not tell me you’ve grown attached to the Scrap Golem and that crass Vyper woman.”

“I — well, I mean —”

“I wish I could say I was surprised; you are much too kind-hearted for your own good.”

“I don’t just want to abandon them, Mirage.”

“They are not a litter of helpless kittens, Nashala. If we are in danger of abandoning anyone, it is the US Mission, and the sovereignty of the Djinn themselves,” he stresses. “The reasons for which we are in New York City in the first place. For your own sake, I suggest you refrain from growing attached to anyone else for the rest of our time here.”

“So sharing cigarettes and having heart to hearts with The Drifter don’t count as growing attached?”

Her response — no, accusation — lands with an impact against Mirage’s chest like a boulder crashing onto tranquil, undisturbed, delicate waves. “Nashala,” Mirage sets the saucer itself onto the glass table with a clatter. “Do not — I —” he forces himself to swallow a suddenly very dry bite of his biscuit. “I seem to recall that playing it by ear with the vampire was your idea.”

“Yes, that was,” she folds her arms. “I never mentioned anything about indulging him for an hour while you bat your eyelashes at each other under the moonlight.”

“...I do not appreciate where this conversation is headed,” Mirage goes to rise from his chair, as if his thoughts will depart from the entire equation along with him. “You are well within your rights to care for the Golem and the criminal, but do keep in mind they neither plague nor haunt every second of your life, as The Drifter does my own.”

Nashala says nothing for a moment, twisting her teacup along the rounded divot of its saucer. “No, Mirage, that — yes; forgive me,” she nods. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

He inhales, trying to steady his heartbeat and diffuse some of the heat gathering in his cheeks. “I understand your position, and that we have not even had the chance to discuss yesterday’s events in full. It’s just…” Mirage looks out toward the city. “Nothing has gone according to plan since we’ve gotten here. I haven’t the slightest idea what’s going on, or what shall come next. It is incredibly vexing, if I’m honest.”

“Well, what, exactly, do we know about him, Mirage? What do we know that could explain why he’d back off of you so suddenly?”

“Other than the fact that he wants to drink my blood indefinitely? Nothing,” Mirage brushes loose strands of hair from his eyes. “He hasn’t been particularly forward with his broader intentions beyond that.”

“You know, I’m starting to wonder if it might not be a bad idea to do some research on just who or what he actually is.”

“Despite your previous insinuation, he only matters insofar as he is actively stalking me. If he is gone, and our participation in the Ritual along with him, then it’s best we redirect our attention onto matters within our control and interest. We have almost a week’s worth of preparation with the General Consul to catch up on.”

“Which we already prepared six months ago,” Nashala stresses. “And revisited and amended again last week. I think we can dedicate an afternoon to learning a bit more about the supernatural serial killer that’s suspiciously stopped chasing you across all of New York City.”

“Can you please not phrase it in such a way,” Mirage mutters darkly. “I — I just wanted to enjoy the break, regardless of how long, short, or to what end it proved itself to be…”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but something about this just isn’t sitting right with me, Mirage,” Nashala sets her empty cup down. “I’m not sure how much more plainly I can put it.”

Mirage says nothing, exhaling through his nose.

You could simply try not to put it down at all.

“It just so happens that the Schwarzman Library is on my itinerary, anyway.”

“Nashala,” Mirage can’t help but chuckle, but his smile is quick to falter. “You’re serious, aren’t you...”

“They have tours once every hour on Saturdays; not to mention the reading rooms and archives are currently open to the public.”

“There’s no dissuading you from this, is there?” Mirage massages his forehead with one hand, reaching for the teapot with another — empty, of course.

“I think if we evenly split our time between researching The Drifter and going over our plans for the General Consul one last time, you’ll find my idea to be a very sound use of our afternoon.”

“Okay, Nashala, fine; goodness,” Mirage agrees, although his spell of irritation eases up as she smiles. “...How in the hell do you always manage to win me over so easily?”

“Oh you sweet, precious thing,” she gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You can be very quick to forget the arsenal of negotiation skills I possess as an ambassador.”

Nashala truly is unsettled by The Drifter’s disappearance. She doesn't even pretend to pay attention to what Mirage admits is an informative tour of a stunning ode to long-lost antiquity. Every room of the library has something marvelous to admire. Ornate, lacquered cornices trace the outlines of high, marbled ceilings like thick, oaken garlands. Each cherub-motif mascaron is more breathtaking than the last, brass and gold and mossy jade restoring a well-deserved reverence to the classical arts. He even falls a few paces behind the rest of the group to observe the delicately carved balustrades making up the bulk of the stairways.

Still, no tidbit or fun-fact or point of interest is enough to actually grab her attention. She always manages to cast a contemplative, preoccupied glance in the direction of the reading room. There are even a couple times where Mirage almost swears he can hear her thoughts joining the chorus of voices as they get carried away in the boughs of vaulted ceilings; not a single one of them are located here, in the moment.

Sure; maybe he owes part of his passionately attentive and thoroughly intrigued demeanor to a defiant, deliberate unwillingness to let The Drifter occupy more space in his life than he already has. He’ll even admit he owes another to the rather exaggerated extent to which he means to cherish every easy, carefree breath he takes. Anything, he imagines, would shine so brightly through such rosy, joy-tinted glasses.

By the end of it all, he’s impressed enough to ask their guide to take a picture of Nashala and himself, standing together at the top of the library’s grand staircase. He’ll happily give credit where it is due. The library gets his rare-but-hard-earned seal of approval; a brilliant gem on the otherwise questionable, misshapen crown of Nashala’s itinerary thus far. Naturally she’s sweet, and even a little excited enough, to pose with him, but her smile fades the moment the guide and the rest of the group disperse.

She gives him a discerning, heavy look; the one time he wishes she could be as married to her sight-seeing goals as she usually is…

The sheer volume of the microfiche collection would send anyone else running out into Bryant Park, drenched in sweat and forever scarred by the thought of ever entering another archive again. Mirage and Nashala set themselves to task, focused and undaunted. The only time they speak is to draw the other over to every one article out of a thousand that could possibly be of interest. 

The details therein are always the same: One, five, ten, dozens dead. The victims themselves followed only one pattern: the lack of a pattern whatsoever. Young. Old. The untouchably wealthy and untouchable poor. Men, women, children. Bodies dismembered and desecrated beyond recognizability. Puncture wounds, fang-like, deep, claw-length lacerations on the victim’s remains — if anything even remotely resembling “remains” were on the scene at all.

Only the names given to the killer itself tend to change. Unknown Traveller. Mysterious Vagabond. Elusive Transient. Shiftless Vagrant. Murderous Tramp. The Drifter only seems to have consistently emerged some eighty, ninety years ago. Most likely to meet the country’s agreed-upon need to track the whereabouts of this unnaturally cruel, inscrutable force more easily. By then the headlines shift considerably; they no longer speak of the killings after they happen, but warn of their potential with terror and upset: The Drifter has meandered into town. Drifting back out of it once he’s had his fill, it would seem, is simply what he does. He can tell by Nashala’s permanent frown that she is still unsatisfied by their findings.

Yellow-white sunlight fades to burnt orange and misty copper, shadows staved off only by the intrepid light cast off by the banker’s lamps upon the desks, and the warm, blazing filament of the overheating projector. A security guard cracks open the door, jumping when he realizes the reading room is occupied by a corporeal Djinn and her bodyguard. They don’t need to be told twice that it is time to go. Nine hours of sifting through graphic article (accompanied at first by macabre sketches) after gruesome expose (now coupled with uncensored photographs), as far as Mirage is concerned, has been more than enough.

It’s not until the subway makes a stop at 47th Street that Mirage realizes; they never did get to revise their documentation for the Consulate. Sparing a knowing look down at Nashala’s bottle, he wonders if that hadn’t been the plan all along.

The lobby of the Baroness is the fullest Mirage has seen it when they return from the library. 

Suppose it makes sense; it is Saturday afternoon in Midtown.

It makes the reality of having to avoid a crowd of impatient, exhausted, travel-weary guests and their towers of luggage no less taxing. What does shock him though, are the dozens of other hotel staff hurrying about. Someone — many someones, in fact — rush to and fro in service and humility to the guests. The Doorman himself mans the front desk, as dutiful and attentive as ever. 

Ridiculous as it sounds, Mirage had never actually stopped to consider that The Baroness even had others in its employ. The Doorman always seemed more than able to man it all himself. As in, impossibly able to see to it all. Literally. He was always there, just right, on time. Always.

His heart races as a sudden thought — maybe even a stroke of genius — comes to mind. What a shame this idea only comes to him now, the one time The Doorman would be well within his rights to find idle conversation inconvenient.

“Mirage, Miss Dion,” But he just smiles as they walk toward the desk, bowing reverently to Nashala’s bottle. “How may I be of assistance to you both this afternoon? Was the tea service this morning to your liking?” He speaks to them with patience and care; not at all like he stands in the midst of a service industry nightmare.

Mirage goes to answer, but he is shoulder checked by an elegant, white-haired woman, who curls her lip at passersby who step on the train of her emerald green dress. He’ll excuse such blatant disrespect for now, but she best hope she does not happen upon him when he is otherwise unoccupied. “I — it was excellent, yes —”

“That’s, well, excellent!” The Doorman doesn’t even register Mirage’s interaction with the other guest. He inhales to continue, his grin impossibly wide. “The Baroness prides itself on its exclusive and exquisite offering of teas, coffees, and —”

“Yes, but,” Mirage stresses, rude as he may seem. He looks over each shoulder — not necessarily for privacy, that’s not possible with the reception in its current state — but to check that everyone else is too wrapped up in their affairs to eavesdrop on his own. “I am afraid I come to you regarding a matter pertaining in no way to The Baroness,” he lowers his voice, and The Doorman gets closer in turn. “Have you ever heard of a man — or, well, vampire, who goes by the name of The Drifter, by chance?”

Ethereal, sky blue eyes widen. The eternally jovial, welcoming light within them dies instantly, as if extinguished by a deluge of displeasure. Hatred. Loathing. “...What?” The Doorman shakes his head in what Mirage assumes is disbelief. Blinking rapidly, his voice falters to a bassless choke. “W-who? Aha. No,” he clears his throat, returning his voice to normal, as if he realigns himself upon some kind of scripted, performative track. “No, Mirage. I have not.”

Mirage can feel Nashala’s intrigued gaze from her bottle flutter between them. His jaw sets where he steels his expression. The Doorman lies. Blatantly, at that.

 “...I see.”

“Why,” The Doorman does not even utter the word as a question, but as an exhausted, resigned, breathless statement. “Is there perhaps someone called The Drifter that I should be made aware of —?” the very end of The Doorman’s sentence gets caught between pearly white teeth that clench so tightly, Mirage almost worries they might shatter. He can’t help but feel there is an undercurrent of a threat there, should he not respond to his satisfaction. 

You know The Drifter fears him. He is nothing short of terrified of this man. 

Given the surreal and unnerving nature of his own interactions with this strange, unreadable, and at times seemingly inhuman person — entity, even Mirage has to concede: he cannot blame The Drifter for his fear in the least.

Still; you could end all of this business with him yourself. Right here. Right now.

It really is as simple as passing along the vampire’s name and last known whereabouts. If The Drifter has any true reason to fear him as much as he seems to, it may be even simpler for The Doorman to find him than that. All it takes is revealing a name, and this feeling, this freedom, could be Mirage’s forever once more. This run in with the vampire could be nothing more than an awful, but rapidly fading memory.

The people of America might even thank him for putting an end to centuries’ worth of terror and suffering. It could be, perhaps, that they express their gratitude in the form of a gift. Name your price, the government could say. Tell us what you desire, and it is yours. He sees it, just out of vision, just out of reach; a homeland for the Djinn, the fulfillment of Nashala’s dream. An end to a seemingly endless nightmare.

The words he need only speak rest right there, poised to fly clean off the tip of his tongue. Why, then, does he hesitate like this? Is it some strange sense of honor that prevents him from speaking? An aversion to stabbing an ally, no matter how cruel or vile, in the back? Is it his refusal to be so cowardly, that he wouldn’t look the vampire in the eye before striking that final blow himself? 

The Drifter, unspeakable horror that he is, has also been the only one I’ve met in the entire godforsaken city willing to tell me, and even be forthcoming with, the truth.

Attachment, his conscience supplies; terse and cold, objective — unwilling to be disputed. It would seem the stone Nashala had cast this morning has sunk low and deep into the depths of Mirage’s chest; weighted and brooding and heavy, down to the dark, utmost bottom of his heart.

He is my responsibility, Mirage mentally argues back. It is me alone he chases after, thus he is mine alone to deal with in turn. It is nothing more, and nothing less, than that.

“...No, there is not,” Mirage finally replies, unreadable and guarded. “I simply visited the Schwarzman library and stumbled upon the legend.”

“Is that so?” The Doorman’s shoulders immediately stiffen. He tries his hardest to read Mirage nonetheless.

“It is,” Mirage nods, meeting that scrutinizing stare with one of his own. Just as he knows The Doorman lies, it is clear he sees Mirage does the same. “I understand your hands are full at the moment; I bid you a fine rest of your day,” he shifts Nashala’s bottle in his arm, uncomfortably aware of The Doorman’s gaze boring into the back of his head as he makes his way toward the crowded elevator.

There’s been very little about their time in New York that Mirage can say he’s enjoyed without some glaring caveat or a massive elephant trumpeting in the corner, begging to be addressed. This view of Manhattan from the balcony, though; the burst of sun rays flaring out from between the skyscrapers, the gradual flicker of lights turning on across the sky once night finally settles in. Better yet, he gets to be a part of such a moment himself, yet apart from it too, owing to the solitude of the suite…

Forget The Drifter’s ritual. The one it appears he’s forged of his own, watching the sunset dip quietly beneath the city — it might be his most personally treasured experience across any of his travels. Ever.

Yes, the balcony and the view it offers is beautiful. It’s a well-kept promise of reliable refuge; always there to give him consolation and comfort at the end of long, draining, dreadful days. It does more than offer him a scintillating glance out into a concrete forest, albeit at the expense of the breathtakingly intricate brickwork of its trees. It allows him to rearrange his every thought and question, posing them neatly and anew upon the surfaces of his mental furniture, in hope they will be answered. 

But the balcony also traps him here, from this high up, leaving him with no choice but to either jump into the world or face it.

Mirage closes his eyes, his hands curling around the railing.

Face it, he decides every time. So face it, he does. He doesn’t even realize the cigarette he prepares is nothing more than a crinkled mess of rolling paper and loose tobacco, pulverized by absentminded hands. 

Or maybe the need to smoke is simply less dire without The Drifter around to test my patience.

Mirage exhales, rolling the refuse in his hands into a small, pearl-sized wad. He should be significantly more elated at the thought than he is.

Sure, Mirage’s entire body relaxes, ultimately relieved of what had been a constant, torturous burden. The vampire’s presence had punctured his life like the solitary stab of a butcher knife. It’d pierced clean through him, smooth and effortless; slipping into sensitive flesh with the ease of a warm blade gliding through softened butter. It’d been unyielding and merciless, yes. Not to mention blazing and violating, varnished with a heavy coat of insistent yet glacial longing. It’d plunged further and further with each passing moment, meticulously guided by The Drifter’s steady, patient hand. Each day, a little deeper. Each night, another practiced, deliberate twist. Each time, more precise. If the metal itself could feel, it would have shimmered and danced with delight; ever-so pleased to be met with less and less of Mirage’s resistance, even writhing so that it might find even easier purchase into his body; breathless and paralyzed as he takes the vampire’s fixation, all the way down to the hilt. As if The Drifter had been born for the sole purpose of consuming him; had always known and craved him all along. 

Of course waking up to the sudden removal of that proverbial blade was as disarming and agonizing as its penetration. While strained and cramped muscles absolutely welcome the reprieve, they are also left sore and aching in its absence. He can only describe it as an almost physical, nearly tangible ache; a vulnerable, gaping wound, carelessly left behind by The Drifter to fester. 

Mirage scrambles for solace in the sounds of the city, the depth of the wind, but he hears it now, louder than ever: The silence in which he finds himself is completely and utterly unbearable.

Is that the real reason why you are standing here, then? Not to smoke, but to see if he will come tonight, like he said he would?

Mirage slowly opens his eyes. It seems his usual method of quasi-guided meditation is of no more use here. 

More like a touch too useful, rather.

…maybe he will have that cigarette after all.

He’s much more aware of how he rolls this time around. So much so, that he actually manages to shape it into as technically perfect a cylinder as humanly possible. He’d admire it if he had the mental capacity. He spends what little he does have on pushing away the hyper-awareness with which he monitors his surroundings. Every sound, every flicker of shadow and light, every dip in the air, every shift in the wind; he attunes his senses toward them as much as possible. Almost as if he keeps an ear out for something. 

Or someone.

He places the cigarette to his lips, going to strike a match along the little strip on the back of its booklet —

“Evenin’, cher,” a voice calls from right over Mirage’s shoulder before simmering into a melodic whisper in his ear. “Whoa, whoa, hey now — !” That voice rises with a sudden swell of panic, clearly not expecting for Mirage to whip around with his gun drawn as fast as he does. A large red claw grabs Mirage’s wrist just as quickly. It would seem he and The Drifter find themselves in a bit of a stalemate. “Guess you ain’t the one to sneak up on tonight, huh?”

“You…” Mirage hisses with such vitriol that Drifter actually lets go and takes a few steps backward, arms raised. “What — you —” Mirage breaks off, trying to both stave off an adrenaline rush and gather his bearings in the same shaky breath. “What is the meaning of this?!” He lowers his gun. “What are you doing here?!”

“...The hell’re you talkin’ about, I told you yesterday I was comin’. ‘S been the same deal for five days straight,” Drifter snaps at first, but his brow unknits once he finally begins to recognize that Mirage’s stress is not for emphasis or dramatic effect. “Seriously now, you good, cher?” He narrows his eyes, looking at Mirage with a mixture of confusion and worry. As if he is a bomb waiting to explode. 

Maybe I am at this point; what do I know anymore?!

“You hit your head in the middle of the night or somethin’?!”

“I —” Mirage closes his eyes before breaking off again. It takes a second, but he finally manages to draw more than two full breaths in a row. Not that this is the only reason why he pauses; where, how does he begin to explain even a fraction of what he’s felt today?! To the very source, the origin of his anguish, no less?! 

“Right,” he watches Drifter wrestle with the decision to either place his hands on Mirage’s shoulders to keep him steady, or lower them altogether. “Today is the first day in a week where I have not…felt you,” Mirage puts a conscious, if not also unsustainable, amount of effort into keeping his voice calm and even. “No — that is putting it much too lightly. Drowned beneath the depths of your impenetrable, abhorrent ichor, more like.”

Between the sharp inhale he draws through his nose, and the unfiltered venom he inserts in his voice, Drifter unsurprisingly decides to lower his hands to his sides.

“I ain’t ever heard someone describe my demeanor so poetically before. You really are on a mission after my own heart, ain’tcha,” he rests those bright red eyes onto him, his voice almost overflowing with his usual drawl. It’s hard to say whether or not he’s simply baiting him as usual; Mirage can feel his face start to flush. He rakes a hand through his loose hair, drawing it out of his face.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you almost seem a lil’ pissed off I left your pretty ass alone all day.”

“The things I am pissed about could flood the streets of Manhattan, Drifter,” Mirage avoids the blatant smolder in The Drifter’s eyes, but he’s no less aware of the way they follow his hands as he hastily ties his hair into a knot atop his head. “For what purpose did you decide to disappear without either a word or a trace?!”

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Drifter laughs, snatching his cap off his head and swiping a hand through his own thick, shoulder-length black hair. “You really are mad at me for it.”

“For it specifically?! No, no,” Mirage waves his hand in disagreement. “Do not misunderstand; nothing could bring me more joy than not having to deal with your bullshit from afar. However, up until today, there was at least some consistency in the nature of our agreement. You robbed me of what little I had in that regard.”

“I literally told your ass last night to get some actual sleep, didn't I? Figured I do my part and back off you a bit so you could do just that.”

Mirage blinks.

…No. No way it could be that simple. Mirage wants to be confused, to find fault in The Drifter’s surprisingly courteous and merciful logic. Surely there’s a hole he can poke in this somewhere — maybe something to do with his blood, or his martial prowess. Or maybe even the push and pull he knows The Drifter’s come to love about dismantling not just the body, but the will and spirit of his victims.

He continues to watch him, hoping to get a read that will satisfy him; a foolproof explanation for his sudden behavior more befitting his bloodthirsty, violent nature. All he gets, however, is The Drifter continuing to look at him as if he contemplates suggesting that Mirage lie down; maybe get even more of that rest he so oh-so-obviously needs.

Did you not point out yourself how surprisingly honest you find him to be, some twenty-odd hours ago? 

“...Ah,” Mirage clears his throat. After all that agonizing; all that stress and anguish about how and why and what could have happened for The Drifter to leave him alone for those precious few hours…

Nashala will be relieved to hear his explanation at least.

“I see. I wasn’t aware that the constant state of oppressive despair was something you could simply turn off per your whims.”

“I mean, ‘s not like it’s a light bulb or somethin’...” The Drifter mutters. “‘S more like my own way of markin’ someone, I guess. It’s supposed to drain you; wear you out.”

“Well,” Mirage growls, closing his eyes; begging God or a Patron or someone, anyone, for patience. “It works.”

“Yeah, I know; ‘s why I figured you could — give you a break and all that. I ain’t ever marked someone I didn’t have every intention to hunt, so...” he scratches behind his neck, whistling softly.

“So then we are clear,” Mirage closes the distance between them. He trembles a little, but his voice is dreadfully low and threatening. “You are not hunting me anymore.”

Drifter backs up so far from Mirage’s approach he hits the Baroness’ facade outright. “I — well — nah, I guess not. Not in my traditional sense,” he offers Mirage a guilty, fang-heavy smile, rubbing his lower back where it’d collided with cold stone. “I think we’re a ways past that now, cher.”

Mirage can only look into those eyes for a few moments before that heaviness in his chest from earlier begins to tug on his breath. His heart beats a little faster, a little louder as he looks away. Sure enough, Drifter’s ears react immediately to the sudden change in its rhythm.

He really is starting to hate how much he notices about this vampire, anymore.

Such perceptiveness is a precaution. A necessity.

For safety’s sake naturally.

“In that case,” Mirage visibly swallows. “I would be very grateful if you were to refrain from using your mark on me again.”

“What,” Drifter chuckles once. “Am I encroachin’ on your territory, or somethin’?” He raises a broad, hairy forearm. The Djinn’s mark no longer glows, but it’s still very prominent, maybe even the most, among the smattering of other runes on his skin.

“Yes. Massively.”

“Surprised you didn’t use it to chew me out. Guess you wanted to let it all marinate a little.”

Mirage ignores the persistent taunt in The Drifter’s voice. He also ignores the chill it sends straight down Mirage’s spine. He balls his fists up at his sides. “Do you have any idea how infuriating you are?”

“That’s a new one, actually. I’ve been called lots of terrible, nasty things. Ain’t no doubt I deserved each and every one of ‘em. But never infuriatin’.”

“How you’ve managed to avoid acquiring that label is beyond me.”

“Don’t usually let humans hang around me this long,” Drifter joins Mirage at the railing. “But nah, I can — you know —” he adds quietly, barely more than a mumble. “You didn’t even hesitate when I asked you not to say nothin’ to that Doorman —”

Mirage averts his gaze momentarily. At least it’s confirmation he made the right choice in concealing what he knows about The Drifter from him down in the lobby.

“So, uh, yeah. As a lil’ favor. To you. For now.”

“I would appreciate it,” Mirage doesn’t need to hear him confirm it outright if it makes it any easier to oblige.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Drifter grunts, frowning a little as he leans closer. Closer. Extremely close, now. “You’re lookin’ a lot better, for what it’s worth,” he extends a hand out toward him, just barely grazing his cheek with the back of it.

“Yes,” Mirage ducks from his reach, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. “Releasing me from your shroud of death and misery will do that.”

“A lot healthier,” Drifter ignores him, that frown slowly transforming into a hungry smile. “Vivacious, even.”

“Oh good lord,” Mirage rolls his eyes, his heart pounding in his throat. A vein juts out in The Drifter’s neck where he clenches his jaw, clearly following the rhythm of Mirage’s pulse with his eyes; ears. Something. Whatever it is, it only makes him retrieve the vial faster. “I know what it is you are after,” he digs into his pocket, producing the usual bottle. A part of him really must’ve known The Drifter would find him tonight. Mirage flinches at the thought, but he knows he cannot dispute it.

“...Take it,” he flings the bottle in Drifter’s direction with a little more force than intended.

“Good lord nothin’,” he catches it with impeccable reflexes, caressing it absentmindedly. “‘Fraid the Blood Of Christ itself couldn't hold a candle to you.”

Mirage’s brow creases in thought. What is it about his (highly unsolicited and wholly unnecessary) comment that feels so familiar? “That, ah, is some uncomfortably high praise…” 

“I ain’t bullshittin’ you when I say I could start a religion of my own among vampire kind with just a drop of you.”

Mirage raises his eyebrows, looking away quickly; Even accounting for The Drifter’s commendable penchant for honesty aside, he knows he has not meant anything more seriously in the short time they’ve known one another.

“Seein’ as I already went and stirred enough shit up for you today apparently, I'll be a gentleman and indulge in you on my own time.”

“You have my gratitude,” Mirage glowers at him. “Does this mean you have finally managed to get something of a grip on yourself?”

Drifter sighs with a lot more gravity and contemplation than Mirage would have ever expected. His gaze even unfocuses a little. “...That don’t matter,” he finally replies after a few seconds, restlessly bouncing his leg. “Anyway, we still got shit to do tonight.”

“So our deal is still on then?”

“‘Course it is,” it takes a moment for some of that melancholy to disperse, but Drifter slowly manages to find his usual grin. “‘S long as I’m breathin’ and Wyoming ain’t got Miss Dion’s name on it, you couldn't get rid of me if you asked the Patrons themselves to do the job. Not while I got the sweetest reason waitin’ for me at the end of every day,” he tilts his head down to look at Mirage head on, as if he dares him to ask just what that reason of his may be.

Mirage is not too proud to admit that the potential of one such answer is enough to stop him from meeting Drifter’s challenge. “...I am going to make the active choice to assume that you mean a cigarette,” he sets the tin down between them.

Drifter’s eyes do light up as he takes the tin into his massive hands. “You really are too good to me, cher.”

“Much, much, much too good,” Mirage can’t help but watch him roll again, one-handed. All of which seems to be mostly in the wrist. It really is a fascinating method. “I read about you today at the library.”

He draws his tongue across the adhesive end of the paper before sealing it up with a single flick of his hand. “Aww. Sounds like leavin’ you alone had you missin’ me a little,” Shadows dance across his face as he strikes a match against the booklet.

“Do not flatter yourself,” Mirage threatens. “Even if I had, what I read today would have made me find a new appreciation for the distance; the articles were anything but kind,” the smell of burning sulfur makes his eyes water a little.

“I imagine they weren’t,” The Drifter’s tone is surprisingly even and neutral. He leans his upper body against the railing, smoke blowing out of his nostrils. “But we talked about this last night already. I ain’t huntin’, so long as whatever it is we got goin’ on is on the table,” there however, the smallest morsel of bitterness returns to his voice.

“You do not treat me the same way you have…treated others,” Mirage says carefully, as if he actively tiptoes around the echoes of Nashala’s points at breakfast this morning with his words.

“Nope, sure don't.”

“Why me, Drifter?”

“...You really ain’t hear a word I said to you last night, did you?” Drifter raises an eyebrow, taking another sharp drag. “I already told you. You're interestin’ to me.”

“You mean to tell me you haven't met a single other interesting person in the last four hundred years you’ve been alive?”

“I mean, sure,” Drifter grunts and throws an aggravated hand in the air, as if Mirage forces the topic out of him. A train of smoke follows lazily after the gesture. “‘Course I have. Even got varyin’ degrees of what you could call close with a few of 'em here and there. You, though…” his eyes trail up and down the entire length of Mirage’s frame a couple of times. “Let's just say you’re the only one in them four hundred years to tick all my boxes.”

Mirage shivers a little at the boldness Drifter tries and fails to hide in his tone. “Care to elaborate?”

“Nah.” 

It takes Mirage a good fifteen seconds of heavy, awkward silence to realize he means it. 

“...Right; great,” he sighs. “Well, let us set off to business, now that we’ve clarified a thing or two,” he heads toward the balcony door. “If you’d wait here a moment, I shall prepare with Nashala —”

“Oh, fuck that!” The Drifter stands up straight with a start, eyes wide. “I’m flattered you're trustin’ me to tag along without a gun pointed in my direction this time — yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice —” he adds where it dawns on Mirage as well. “But nah, cher. No offense to you and your girl, and I mean that. I really do; but I ain't travellin’ like that again unless I ain’t got no other choice. I'll meet you there, same spot as yesterday,” he flicks his finished cigarette over the railing. 

“Are you seriously going to walk?! It will take you hours to —” Mirage ducks, bringing an arm to shield his face. The brief appearance of a misty, black void makes him jump and gasp outright. Wispy bolts of pitch black smoke hover about the evening air like strips of haunted gossamer, parting to reveal a… small, darkish brown bat fluttering in place. “What on Earth…?” he whispers to himself, stepping cautiously forward for a better look. It doesn’t take off or chatter or squeak, and the two little crimson eyes seem awfully focused…on…

“...Drifter,” Mirage sighs. “Are you serious?!” 

He reappears in his usual (human? Vampire?) form with another cloud of thick smoke, rising to full height. He smiles down at him, quite pleased with himself. “You ain't the only one allowed to have some secrets, Mirage.”

He scoffs, massaging his forehead. “...You're going to be the death of me.”

“Were you anyone other than — well — you, I’d agree,” he laughs. “By the way, you should wear your hair down more often, it really brings out the gold in them pretty eyes,” he gently traces a single claw along Mirage’s jaw line, transforming a final time and taking off into the night before giving Mirage a chance to react. 

A smart move on his part; nine times out of ten, Mirage’s retaliation would have certainly been swift, and that much more lethal. This tenth time, however, he still stands there, stunned beyond either action or words. All he manages to do is look out toward the city with his hand over his cheek, skin tingling slightly where he swears The Drifter’s touch still blazes along his jaw.

“But no getting attached, right?” He knows Nashala will say; perhaps a bit irritable; certainly vindicated. He will try to argue, he will try to deflect. He may even try to deny it. But he knows, sooner or later, he’ll have to admit it. Much the same way a weaker man might succumb to a vice for the first time: Whatever it is the lack of Drifter’s Mark leaves behind; only the presence of The Drifter himself can fill it.

“No. No,” Mirage shakes his head, refusing to so much as entertain such nonsense. “Nonononono  —” The plea itself is hauntingly familiar on his tongue, like an old, disgraced friend returning to him, unwelcome and unwanted. His blood runs cold, deja vu forming a stifling lump in his throat.

His hand holding the tin almost warps the thin metal a little. Well, then; he definitely remembers what it was about his dream that’d woken him up with such a start now.

Chapter Text

Four hundred years of bottomless, frenzied hunger will attune the flesh and soul of a man to the cramps of starvation and longing whether he wants it or not. It picks and pries at instinct and restraint, need and desire; scraping them raw, like constant irritation to a set of healing scabs; wearing them down into blemishes and scar tissue. It scratches at the little pins connecting the body to the self, until wires cross, spark and die. It grates upon the conscience; filing and filing, reduced to insignificant shavings by relentless friction. No one emotion or compulsion is any more or less clear or meaningful than another. Sentience, reason, intellect, empathy, compassion — meaningless concepts. Rugged survival and pure thrill are the only remaining benchmarks of being alive, supplanting any ornery, revenant traces of humanity; now as natural a set of functions as breathing or blinking. 

He’s used to going without. Nourishment and satisfaction are long distant, irrelevant hypotheticals, whose faces Drifter can only remember in short, blinding flashes. Persistent, residual hauntings from his life as a mortal man, lingering just over his shoulder like insidious specters; a pair of errant, defiant wights, impervious to exorcism or banishment. All that remains is that constant, unabated hunger, that no one — nothing — can satisfy.

Yet an hour and a half later, Drifter still feels the rush of that single touch upon Mirage’s cheek. Truly, really feels it. What little he’s felt since his turning half a millennium ago pales in comparison. Blanches. Disintegrates. The memory of Mirage’s warmth bleeds into him, inseparable and impossible to distinguish; like trying to extract one’s breath from air. It courses through his circulatory system, pulsating against his veins, refreshing itself anew with each pump of his racing heart. What, exactly, is one so intimately acquainted with emptiness, supposed to do with an unbridled, unpredictable energy that can be neither sated nor spent?

He’s lucky — truly lucky — that Mirage didn’t kill him for his impulse on the balcony, though he wonders if it may have been better for them both if he had. For nearly two hours, he’s ceased to be, in whatever fucked up way he is; just a walking vessel of memory, repeating the smallest details of Mirage’s reaction in cyclic patterns. The way those marigold eyes widened as he’d reached for him. The soft part of those lips when skin finally managed to brush across skin, however briefly. 

The way Drifter could have — would have — wanted to melt as he properly beheld the contrast of his paleness streaking along deep, beautiful brown; an unfathomable burst of chroma Drifter would covetously hoard for himself, had he been able to pare that moment into the bare essence of its colors. How he wishes he could memorialize it all in an undying masterpiece, Composed by terrible, crimson hands, whose blood could never be washed away; from either portrait or painter.

Drifter counts the seconds between each uneven flair of Mirage’s nostrils. He watches little creases form in his brow where the stagnant, rotten air of the warehouse makes his jaw clench. He follows the way he favors the arm concealing Miss Dion’s bottle beneath his coat. He notes the way his eyes flicker whenever he has to recenter his focus, the way they narrow in turn once he’s really listening again. He blatantly envies the side of his index finger as he brushes it thoughtfully across his lips, Mirage so obviously lost in yet more of those thoughts Drifter would doubtlessly use a Patron's Wish to be privy to.

All those beautiful details fill in the gaps between the pangs of his own need and wanton hunger, blazing molten and unwieldy in his stomach. His fingers flick and curl involuntarily at his side. A constant, muted pain emanates from his jaw with enough ferocity to make him nauseated. Whatever impulsive spell he felt in the alley way last night; whatever reckless compulsion drove him to touch a man who’s dared him many a time to try his short and withered luck; neither even begin to compare to the agony of the present. It passes by in unbearable, devastating lockstep with every jagged, uneven breath he takes. 

Still — still, today’s meeting with the others goes better than yesterday’s, somehow. Or maybe it doesn't. It’s entirely likely that Drifter’s read on the situation is full of shit and everything’s actually going all kinds of sideways. Maybe all of it’s fallen apart, almost laughably unsalvageable, and the Patrons themselves are on their way to collect on a soul he didn’t even know he still had. 

He doesn’t know. He wouldn't know. He’d be blatantly lying if he said that he cares. The only thing he cares to know right now — no, since Sunday — is Mirage.

He can’t help but take another step toward him, breathing him in — not just his bloodscent or natural smell or the subtle traces of his fragrant shampoo or flowery soap that no one other than Drifter himself would think or bother to notice— but him, himself. All of him. With deliberate, almost self-soothing care. Savoring, cherishing him. Selfishly and without restraint. Breathe in, breathe out. Until the rise and fall of Drifter’s chest matches his pace, as easy and natural as Mirage’s own.

The second of reprieve is shattered. He flinches violently; a shrill, sharp whistle cracks through the air. Drifter tunes into the conversation properly for the first time since he’s gotten here, slowly parting his eyes to see that all other pairs in the room are on him. 

“The Hell’s going on with you tonight?!” McGinnis stands there with her hand on her hip, seemingly unable to pick between irritation and confusion; she manages to weave equal amounts of both into her tone. “You and him both seem like you’re about a thousand miles away right now,” she points between him and Mirage with a ‘V’ of her index and middle fingers.

Mina mutters something about Mirage neglecting to feed his mangy, disgusting dog (so they’ve switched the role of stray in her eyes, it seems). The waves of need begging, demanding that he embed his claws into Mirage as deeply as possible, leave him no choice but to ignore the satisfied smirk she flashes him for now. 

God forbid that pay-to-play, idiot fledgling thinks the growl he lets out is on her account. He can’t worry about that now. Not while his head threatens to split in half, sundered by unmanageable pain. 

Drifter’s knees actually buckle beneath the weight of it. “I — I gotta go —outside — for a moment —”

“...The fuck does that mean, have you heard anything we’ve been saying?!” Vyper shouts. An oily layer of discomfort bobs atop her usual flow of tactless abrasion, unfiltered and strangely touching all at once. Even in his current condition he can hear the way her heart threatens to stampede its way through her chest. It’s clear she’s unsettled by his current condition. “Are you just leaving, or what?!”

“You alright, mate?!” Even Bebop chances, addressing him with more care in his voice than anyone ever has, now he thinks about it.

But all of it ceases to mean anything whatsoever as Mirage faces him. Just the smallest movement is enough to set the air awash with the smell of him, more powerful and overwhelming than at any other point thus far. The next breath he draws is thick and laden with the scent of cloves, prickling down the back of his throat like he’d swallowed a mouthful of freshly cracked pepper. His eyes start to sting from heavy notes of firewood, clinging to his mouth and nose like he’d shotgunned an entire bottle of spicy, fragrant perfume.

The room starts to spin, dark spots pocking the edges of blurring vision. He can just barely make out Mirage beside him, reaching out a hand as he starts to sway on his feet —

“Don’t —” Drifter holds one up in return, disappointed that he has to rebuff Mirage’s touch. A single brush against that man’s bare skin, and now his entire body stirs with an agitation he cannot abate. He may well be unable to fight off whatever impulse a second one dredges up.

Mirage pauses, a black-clad smudge through the waves of pain clouding Drifter’s vision. Through it all, he can sense that he watches him closely, warily. The air swells with a faint whiff of his bloodscent; with just enough motion that he would guess Mirage acknowledges him with a nod.

“It’s all good, guys, just give him a minute,” McGinnis’ assurance hardly inspires confidence, her tone cautious and uncertain. Their eye contact is brief, but even in his current state it communicates more than enough: do whatever it is you gotta do, but don’t go doing anymore than that.

He’d give some sort of overly maudlin thanks, or make some dismissive comment about doing whatever the hell it is he wants, but neither of the two possibilities are exactly the easiest to come to at the moment. He lurches toward, clutching his stomach with both arms, moving so erratically that Mirage almost moves to follow after him.

Almost. He respects Drifter’s silent plea that he stay, albeit with a conscious stiffness he maintains to keep himself rooted in place. Goddamn, he must look an absolute fucking mess; even that fledgling brat gives him a neutral side eye as he tears back out into the night. 

Heavy metal doors roar against sandstone brick as Drifter parts them with his remaining strength. The momentum’s enough to help him stumble forward until he reaches the abandoned factory across the courtyard. 

Hands already gnarled and cramped with pins and needles stiffen from October’s chill. Frantic and dazed, he scrambles for the same spot twice, thrice, where everything renders his hands more or less unusable.

Finally, he finds it, in the breast pocket of his coat; the bottle of Mirage’s blood. His half of their agreement for today, as he is wont to call it. As if that little bit of distance could sanitize a damn thing about the nature of it. 

His blood is so red, so rich, it shines a velvety black beneath the moonlight. He perches the rim against his lips, downing the bottle’s entire supply with a single, sloppy swallow. He’ll pay the price for it tomorrow, yes. But tomorrow requires the strength, the presence of mind, to make it until then. It quenches a trail down his parched throat into his empty stomach. His heart settles to a more even pace, his breathing a little less labored. Warmth cradles him from the nippy Autumn night, protective, defensive; much the same way a cruel parent might blatantly favor their golden child. Is it fog that obscures everything like this? Or is he still fighting for clarity of vision?

He chuckles idly; The sound of it is delayed, almost deranged, in his ears; if this is how it is, when he turns this darkness unto others…

He groans, rolling the back of his head against damp, cold brick, eyes closed. His entire body starts to relax, left immobile from a combination of exhaustion and something numbing; muting; pacifying. Something unfamiliar. Something that gently shuts a wide-open door, despite its rusted hinges, seemingly petrified by time. Something that closes Drifter off from the moment —  the rest of the world. Something that closes him off from himself in the best way possible. Bliss, he realizes. Not ecstasy or euphoria or joy or pleasure, nor anything else he can couple with the thrill of the hunt. Not elation. Not exhilaration; but bliss. 

God, he’s so fucked. Unbelievably, undeniably fucked.

Suddenly the neutering of Oathkeeper and The Doorman makes a gut-wrenching amount of sense. Anyone could come up and finish him off right now, he imagines; let alone clip his claws and fasten a charming little collar around his neck. Assuming anyone would even want to take such a ragged, detestable thing home. He just sits here, basking blankly in bliss. Calm; like he’s never had a single complex thought in his entire life. He’s slumped over and strung out and sedated. A pitiable animal waiting to be put out of its misery.

What else do sickly animals do, if not find some shady, overgrown bit of seclusion — a place where they can die in peace?

‘S not what this is, he tries to tell himself, although the act of forming words — short, disjointed, and lagged as they are — begs, pleads to differ. Maybe it's not the physical death his body thinks, wishes it is. But it is a loss of something he cannot quite place his finger on all the same.

The most fatal flaw of giving a man immortality will always be the simple, inexorable fact that eternity is never enough. A day becomes a thousand years, a thousand years a day. Drifter’s been trapped smack dab in the oddly-congruent middle of one such day for a mere four hundred of those thousand, now. One more step, and he’s technically more than halfway there. So of course his foot bears no weight and the ground disappears, and he careens yet again through empty air, unsure which way is up or down. 

And before he knows it, his every nerve and sense are alight, and he’s skipped a thousand steps along an endless set of stairs. Except it’s no longer a small slip of panic, but an inescapable, ever-looping state of being.

Blunt, cosmic hands stretch him limp, leaving him torn and brittle like over kneaded dough. Each loss of breath fractures his person like one cracks an egg; humbled and broken in a million tiny places, and left with no choice but to accept a sense of self as fragile as its splintered shell. Just like that, he’s discarded and tossed away like an utter inconvenience. What else is there to do, but to watch yolk and white of his essence split and separate, curving around a bowl of emptiness, whose edges he can neither feel nor see?

He'll never reach the bottom, but the freefall has his name etched into it nonetheless. It snatches him down, insistent and magnetic, until he disintegrates completely against some sort of bedrock he cannot say he’s all too eager to meet. It’s the same old, terrible dance. Every minute of every infinite, damning day. One step forward, nine hundred and ninety nine back. Nothing holds him in place but the fickle grooves of temporary satisfaction, eroded into a cliff of insatiability. It quakes at the prospect that it could fling him over the edge yet again.

It’s a long way down. Do you want to jump?

He poses the futile question to himself, refusing to let its answer be anything other than his choice to make.

As a fledgling he was quick to catch on to the stabilizing, if not fleeting, ledge of bloodshed. If only to replace the nebulous, ever-shifting quicksand that was trying — and failing — to cling to his own humanity. Hold on or drown were his only two options in a world that doesn’t care either way. No one — not a single person who’d joined the generational throng of pointed fingers and relentless judgment — would have made a different choice. Force a man to live for just a quarter of Drifter’s lifetime, and he, too, will grow tired of resisting who he is.

Contentment becomes less than a translucent, ghostly visage; its features shorn down to a forgettable, dispiriting footnote on a memory he no longer bothers to scan, but disregard; disdainfully. Outright. Give a man nothing for so long, and nothing ceases to suffice.

Midnight blue shifts from a blush of orange, to periwinkle, to steely grey. It’s late morning by the time tulle curtains of frozen rain finally thicken into a blanket of full-fledged snow. Drifter silently laments the change; a part of him had foolishly hoped the sleet’s silvery sheen would kill him. Wet snowflakes fall against his prone body, melting away with an audible fizzle, harmless and benign. 

The so-called gift of eternity really has robbed him of everything; he can’t even fucking die with dignity. He can’t even die at all. His fingertips curl into icy mud, its surface strangely dry and cracked and stiff, like the splitting top of an overbaked cake. It’s the first time he’s moved in hours — at the absolute least. Days is probably more appropriate. Just how many of either, he definitely can’t say. He doesn’t even remember how or when, or how long it’s been since he got here. 

Bloodshot eyes flicker open to assess where here actually is. If the goal was to commit a fatal mistake, it may be he’s finally succeeded. Vibrant white light blinds him, filtering in from a massive hole in the caved-in roof. He clenches his eyes shut out of instinct. That's right; He'd figured in his delirium the sunlight would have melted him away by now, reducing him down to a charred muck of ash and bone. It prickles against his skin instead, scalding his weakened body like some kind of cruel, mean-spirited spotlight. Shadow, light, and snow flit across the rotten, dilapidated building, lively and scathing; mocking him for his cowardice. 

Well, shit; his plan never factored in the possibility that he’d actually still be around to care. He forces his eyes fully open this time, gritting his teeth as they gradually adjust to a world he has no choice but to behold. Immortality, it seems, maintains its undefeated streak in their battle of wills. He frowns. The mangled nest of shriveled, rusted iron and mossy roof tiles seems a lot less threatening in daylight.

Drifter lets out something between a groan and a sob as he places trembling palms flat against the floor. Weak, shaking arms barely manage to hoist his upper body from the ground. Already completely spent, he collapses beneath the impossible burden of his own weight. Below-freezing temperatures and fatigue slam him back down against icy stone with precise, ruthless coordination. He pants heavily through his mouth, watching his breath disperse into the fog of a hunger-induced daze.

Swearing out loud, he drags himself out of the sunspot with his claws — one hand at a painstaking, agonizing time. Scratch marks on the ground quantify the meager distance he crawls to reach a cluster of crates in a cobwebbed corner. He uses them to get himself upright, albeit immediately leaning against them for support.

If it’s taking him this long to get halfway across a single room, then he really might just die in here at this point. Fine, then. So be it. Whatever. Trapped and dazed and hobbled as he may be, it’s still the most free, most like himself he’s felt since Mirage first came to New York. He smiles at the realization, resting his sweaty forehead flush against the splintering box; that’s what this is about, right?! Doing exactly what Oathkeeper and Doorman couldn’t. Ridding himself of that addiction. That dependency. That strange, implacable need to smell and touch that man, to be around him at all times?! Is that not what this is?! Going back to the way things used to be?! Is this not how someone kicks a physical addiction? By riding this shit out?!

Recalling his last taste of Mirage is a struggle. The fury of his insatiable hunger, however, begins to boil and seethe; it cannot remember the last time he’s fed at all. That emerging feeling, and the energy it brings along with it, kindles something within him. His resolve and will are pieces of flint a thousand-times struck, finally igniting that one thousand first time. The unbearable pain of starvation, familiar and reliable, hardly welcomes him with open arms. His legs buckle where he stands, and his stomach cramps so badly that he groans aloud. 

Cruel and unforgiving as it is, Drifter greets it with a slowly unfurling smile in return. The quiet laugh that follows tears every muscle in his filthy face. He meets each raw, unfiltered pang with a repentant yet manic sense of relief; the pain itself a form of penitence. What other choice does eternity leave him, but to become so intimately, inseparably acquainted with unyielding, terrible emptiness? One step forward, nine hundred and ninety nine back. He’s knelt, powerless, disarmed, battered, in this very same spot before. Dozens — no — hundreds of times. He always finds a way out again. Eventually.

It takes Drifter the rest of the afternoon to find the wherewithal — both physical and mental — to finally leave the building. With the tailwind of resilience at his back, he steps out into the world. His shivering frame and inability to focus betray the confidence of his place within it. Life continues on as usual, bearing little regard for the fact that he ultimately decides to carry on with it. Catch up or don’t, it may as well spit at him. It leaves him here to figure it out. Like an impatient reader skipping pages, now lost and confused by what was once a relatively straightforward narrative. 

He looks out onto the main street. Bright-eyed tourists marvel at their first snowfall. Who gives a shit if it’s charcoal grey and melted slush at this point; it’s still enough to bring a rise of color to their cheeks. The blood, he senses in their joyously beating hearts, is as fresh and warm as the drinks they nurse. Yet it does nothing in the way of inspiration. Impatient locals bulldoze past them where they cluelessly block the sidewalks. Both blood and heartbeats spike with irritability, the scent on his tongue as sharp and bitter as their moods. It, too, does nothing for him in the way of invigoration.

He watches hundreds of others pass by, taking a moment to evaluate them all with a due he knows damn well he can’t afford. Slovenly drunks stagger and slip across the icy sidewalk, their breaths at risk of catching fire should anyone light a match close by. Self-important businessmen and women stride past, masking the depths of their humanity beneath soulless statement pieces and gauche designer suits. Over-spritzed Socialites with more money than sense gallivant about, their own scents buried beneath layers of fur.

This isn’t even accounting for the non-human smells wafting about; hot, blazing slabs of meat sizzle on the grills of food carts stationed on every corner. Pop-up stalls for mulled wine and hot chocolate boast lines that wrap around the corner. Little garlands of fir and balsam crown their wooden peaks, tying it all together with a neat, festive bow.

He’s an objective man with a robust appreciation for things that don’t always align with his taste — whether literal or figurative. The air smells good. Appetizing. Maybe even enticing.

Regardless; nothing stands out to him. Even though God only knows how long it’s been since he’s had a balanced meal. He can definitely eat. Excruciating swells of pure rapacity have made that decision for him. But it all just feels so meaningless. If he really has been thrown back to the very beginning of what, who he’s always been, it’s with none of the meager knowledge or control he’d managed to cling on to the last go around.

He swipes a filth-crusted hand through matted hair. No. He’s overthinking it, is all, rather than just feeling it in the moment. Beggars — literally in his case — cannot be choosers. It’s as simple as marking and feeding off the first isolated person he sees. Figuring out the rest of this shit — like regaining his strength or love of the hunt or escaping this fog — or even just getting a handle on what day of the week or month it is — can go from there.

He waits for the foot traffic to dwindle from his hidden perch, scanning about in search of an occasional straggler turning off a side street. Nothing. Nothing but hunger and fatigue. Nothing but hunger and fatigue for hours.

…Until he smells it. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Rosemary. Sage. A fragrant explosion of heat and spice bores its way to the very bottom of his lungs. His heart. His stomach. His hunger. Drifter knows this feeling. This thrill, this longing. This urge to mark. This need to hunt. His knuckles crack and fingers curl. His hands burn and prickle where blood begins to flow to them. Properly. Black claws almost ripple in stray bits of light. His ears twitch and perk up. His body teems with the subconscious priming of a dormant, but also latent, energy within. He swipes his tongue across his teeth, savoring the way it catches on the pointed hooks of his fangs. How nice that they will be whetted once again.

He’s overcome with a full-body shiver once he spots him: an old man with thinning, ivory-white hair, shambling as if over encumbered by his single bag of grocery shopping. Fine enough by him. If he’s never been precious about life or death, then he’s definitely never been one to lose much sleep about fighting fair or playing dirty. The occasional feisty mark is all well and good for breaking up the monotony. He’s even been known to enjoy a little skirmish or two before a meal. Far be it from him to balk at low-hanging fruit; especially taking his current condition, and recent deviation from his well-established, reliable norm, into consideration.

The man stops and grips a hand against his chest, wincing and hissing in pain. It seems his mark has landed. On a normal night it wouldn’t be necessary. He would tear after him on all fours if he had the energy.

Drifter sticks to shadows instead, lethargic and slow, struggling to keep pace with an elderly man. It would wound his ego were he in the condition to heed it. But this isn’t about pride or prowess. Neither are what’s at stake here tonight.

The old man struggles with his keys before a run down apartment complex, dropping them four — five times at his feet. Drifter has half a mind to just feast on him here. Now. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. No. No. He’ll do this right. His ears flick irritably against his hair where the old man drops his keys. Again. But he’s patient. Polite. Proper. But he doesn’t blame himself for wanting to chomp at the bit. It takes a while to slip back into old habits, no matter how well-greased or oiled. Killing may not be an art or a science for Drifter, but he’ll be damned before he says that it doesn’t have a rhythm. 

Finally. The old man manages to hold, find, then insert the right key, and shuffle his way inside. He senses the bloodscent making its way to the top floor. Thankfully the building’s no more than four, maybe five stories tall. Brick. Sturdy. Ungrated windows. Relatively, recently renovated fire escapes. Perfect for breaking out.

He watches the lights in the shared hallways of each floor flicker and swing as he plunges the street into absolute darkness with a flourish of his hands. It’s not as swift and effortless as it usually is. Adrenaline sustains him, Drifter figures. The tremors that follow all but confirm it. But it’s fine. He can recuperate as necessary during the assured victory against what will be an easy — most likely passive — target. He can hear both his and the old man's heartbeats accelerating in his ears as he gets closer, steeling himself before teleporting onto his mark directly.

Drifter finds himself in a cramped, narrow little kitchen. The old man leans against the wall, catching a breath he must have lost between the mark and the sudden appearance of an intruder. Drifter knows the darkness — his darkness —- better than he knows anyone, anything. He’s nothing more than a towering silhouette from the old man’s perspective; with malevolent, crimson eyes.

The old man gasps repeatedly, wordlessly, his eyes so wide Drifter can see the yellowing white of them. He scrambles for a butcher knife resting on the counter with a surprising amount of precision; his body, frail and aged as it is, must know this is a matter of life or death. The man shouts at Drifter in frenzied syllables of a language he can’t understand before his voice chokes and breaks off completely. His breathing is rushed and panicked. He can’t even scream the way Drifter knows he wants to, he’s so scared. Helpless. Pathetic. It wouldn’t make a difference either way. It changes nothing. He’d never be able to hear a sound over the thunder of his own heartbeat.

He cowers, at least, offering a physical bid for his life in lieu of a verbal one. Trembling hands shoot up to protect himself, casting one last plea for mercy at Drifter’s feet like a desperate sacrifice. The gesture sweeps powerful swirls of that cinnamon-sage aroma into air already crowded with fear and incense and rattled breaths. Drool begins to pool in Drifter’s mouth, spilling from its corners. It’s that final whiff that cues him in, like an actor who suddenly recalls his lines — a performer who remembers how to dance.

Drifter lunges forward, his claws puncturing through a lithe, ropey stomach. He tears him open with a single slash, all the way from navel to throat. A deluge of steaming, spiced blood coats him in unimaginable warmth. A compact entanglement of organs unfurl from the jagged rift in the old man’s abdomen, bubbling up like the filling of a pie fresh from the oven. 

He carves flesh from the trunk of the corpse with his claws, crystals of sweat coating each sinewy chunk like a salty marinade. He scoops intestines from the stomach into a plentiful spread, bile and acid trailing the zigzags of the ceramic floor. His teeth gnash and tear at sunken cheeks, its fatty inside catching alongside bits of gristle in between his teeth.

He hunches over, pressing his nose along the curve of his neck. Hints of rosemary and turmeric get the best of him; He gnarls a free hand against the man’s scalp, nearly severing the head clean from its body — almost. It lulls limp and loose across his shoulders, barely attached at the stem of its spine. The crunch of bone and windpipe against his teeth vibrates with a satisfying roll in his chest.

Who would have thought such a dried, withered prune of a man could be so plush, juicy, fresh. He’s nothing short of exquisite. Tender and tough in all the right places. A sensory work of utter perfection. He tosses one half-eaten arm aside, tearing into the meat of the other. The groan he lets out is muffled by a burst of blood rushing into his mouth, his fang catching a still pulsating vein.

Drifter slumps forward, bracing himself by burying a claw into the man’s sternum. The taste and smell of carnage and death and warm, dreamy spices force him pause, overwhelmed for a moment. He laps at sticky blood clotting in his beard and around his mouth, shuddering.

The old man tastes amazing. Better than anyone he’s tasted in months. Years, maybe. Probably. Yes. Earthy flavors have always been his favorite. Everything about this moment is right. He’s remembered every move, every step, even being as out of it as he is. So why isn't this enough? 

He cracks into the sternum now, breaching through it like it's nothing more than a hollow shell. He shreds, then savors, at bits of lung, pressing them flat against the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Why isn't this enough? He severs nerves and cleaves muscle until blood stains his cuticles and fat gets trapped beneath his claws. Why isn't this enough? The man smelled almost exactly like Mirage — at least eerily similar — the profile alone should be enough to make him feral. Why isn't this enough? Why isn't the undeniable proof that he's not like The Doorman or Oathkeeper — still able to be the monstrosity he is, without restraint — settling his heart — staving off this panic?! Why isn't this enough?!

He snaps tendons and breaks at what little remains of the body. He gorges. Feasts. Delights. Indulges. He feeds until the man’s a pitted carcass, bits of hair and skin and ligaments sloppily strewn about; until the man’s face is a featureless, concave husk. Why isn't this enough?

He's recreated everything about who he was, down to the composition of shadow; to the choreography of killing, in and of itself. Why isn't this enough?

Enough to what? He silently replies. To swallow the pride he places on not being a liar, so that he may swallow someone whole instead? To accept that he breaks a promise to Mirage? To come to terms with the fact that it bothers him that he does? To accept that this physical act, this physical need, of placating his indomitable hunger, may not actually be physical at all? 

It isn't enough because it’s just…nothing. Not even boredom or starvation. Drifter feels nothing at all. He's not tired or weak anymore, at least. It's sustenance for the time being. But he's also…despairingly sober. He slowly rises, knees shaking, reaching out into the dark to maintain his balance. 

…So what in the fuck does he do now?! Where is he supposed to go?! His blood stained lips thin as he looks around, actually taking in the old man’s space itself. Old radiators crack and hiss. Pipes thump and creak in the walls. Moonlight shines against a once-humble, now-blood-splattered apartment. It runs up the walls and ceilings, stains furniture and hardwood floor and ornate oriental rugs in uneven amounts; some bits of it all sopping darker than others. A cluster of pictures and portraits hang with a noticeable tilt along the walls. Is it the foundation, or the man’s hands themselves, that are warped with age?

He’s not sure what it is that compels him to walk closer toward the pictures, but he does. Almost like the key to his questions hangs up, askew, yes, but visibly along with them.  Blood and bone squelch beneath the eroded soles of his worn boots, dying black an oxblood red. It’s standard sentimental fare; kids, grand kids, nieces, nephews. Childhood photos from grainy, greyscale eras. Wedding portraits from better times. Family reunions in front of curling spires and beneath fractal ceilings somewhere Far East. Interspersed with some religious hangings and ornaments here and there. Real old people shit; clinging onto old times and even more outdated values. He decides to ignore the irony in that particular observation. It’s the last thing he needs right now.

Drifter has one leg on the fire escape when he spots it on the counter: a brass but modest, traditional teapot — he thinks, at least. It’s more like two kettles, one stacked on top of the other. An open sachet of loose leaf tea rests beside it, the brewing process indefinitely suspended. He must’ve been just about to prepare it; probably where he’d felt ill from Drifter’s mark. He’s seen plenty of moments like this post-hunt — always half-finished and abandoned, forgotten in perpetuity. It’s an interesting little contraption, even if he couldn’t give less of a shit about tea. 

He sighs through his pained, bloody smile, shaking his head. “God damn…”

He throws the tea and kettle a dismissive look over his shoulder, but one last, negligible detail catches his eye; the foil pouch is embossed with thin, golden symbols — lettering, he cannot read, but the glint of it makes him double take. He leans closer, squinting, wondering for ten to twenty seconds where, exactly, he’s seen it before. His expression relaxes with dejected realization; the exact same script had been finely etched along the hilt of Mirage’s dagger.

Drifter pinches his bottom lip between his teeth with enough pressure to bite it, but he doesn’t wince. 

“Ahh — fuck me, man,” he swears, brushing bloody fingers across the Djinn’s Mark on his arm; to conceal, or perhaps tap into it somehow? He frowns. The fact that he cannot say for certain tells him, more than everything else tonight, all he needs to know.

It’s one thing that Drifter traverses the whole of New York City without a clue where he is. That he also does so without a map, money, or clarity of mind — in a laughably unstable physical condition, covered from head to toe in lingering, but no less glaring, evidence of a murder… 

…Mirage is going to kill him. The thought doesn’t cross his mind as a snide taunt, an idle (if not also loaded) threat, or some offhand wish born of blood lust. No. He means that Mirage will actually, truly kill him. The possibility doesn’t discourage him from clamoring across who knows how many Boroughs back to Manhattan. If anything, it’s only thanks to the faintest traces of his scent that he finds his way to The Baroness at all. For what, exactly, he asks himself, but he leaves that question unanswered for now. Mirage will force him to face it soon enough.

Transforming and flying onto the balcony isn’t an option in his current state. He has no choice but to climb the facade. It takes longer than he’d prefer, and more energy than he’d like to admit, but he makes it onto the balcony eventually, rapping a dry knuckle on the glass door. It leaves a smudging streak of grime behind.

Damn. He ain’t gon’ like that.

One minute goes by. Then two. But Mirage doesn’t come to the door. He’s part way through raising a heavy arm to knock on it once again when a light flickers on and curtains sway, rippling from someone’s presence. Drifter’s heartbeat nearly explodes before shooting straight up his throat. He doesn’t need to wonder, or guess who it is; the smell of firewood and cloves gives him away.

The glass door slides open, but Mirage doesn’t step out. He stands in the threshold instead, bright, golden eyes sweeping about the balcony, discerning and wary. “...Drifter?” They widen — soften — once he finally sees him, although he’s frozen and stiff with shock. “Is — is that you?!” Only now does he take a careful step outside. “...Where have you been?!”

“Hey there, cher,” Drifter smiles, resting the back of his head against the wall, draping a hand on his stomach. He pauses, breathing softly through parted lips, closing his eyes. “You got a moment?”