#someone complained to the township and they’re saying it has to be covered with a tarp

[raeathnos]

.

[douxie-casperan]

💫!!

[Makes vague hand waving motions because I’ve been working on this for several hours now and it’s Zouxie as all heck.]

I look to you - Whitney Houston 

Nothing to do, but lift my head I look to you And when all my strength is gone In you I can be strong I look to you And when melodies are gone In you I hear a song I look to you

~

Despite dutifully yelling to announce her arrival to Douxie's apartment after swinging the door wide, Zoe got no immediate response from the wizard who had said he'd be here when she texted earlier to ask if she could stop by and harass him about borrowing a few bits from the shop again. It's not that unusual admittedly, having to just nip out for something or simply getting engrossed with whatever he was doing was pretty normal but given his natural habit of being a charmer always out to put the best foot forward it seemed to embarrass him whenever he got caught out being a bad host. Probably a good thing she didn't kick the door in mind, mighta set the wards off anyway and that'd left two of them freaking out. The last time it happened she was wearing steel caps and it left a sizable dent that they were both left scramble fixing before the landlord found out with even him very nearly breaking his self-censorship habit. Not her finest moment but her hands were full of takeout at the time, needs must!

Shrugging out of the tatty patched-up jacket that had been shamelessly robbed when last here because of a chill swept in way earlier than planned, the door is clicked shut with a suspicious frown whilst listening out for any signs or even where they might be squirreled right now only to be greeted with utter silence. Odd.  

"Greeting committee is being a bit on the lacking side today. Even you too, furball? Will bribe for at least a hello here!" she shouts again from where the clothes are dumped over the back of the sofa before pressing her now bare elbows into it while leaning on the back expectantly. No response again. Huffing with annoyance the witch snaps her fingers together to create a small orb that crackles softly in pink hovering gingerly just above glossy black nails.

"My boys, your standards are starting to slip big time."

It is a simple enough tracking spell and while it'd fall under wasteful use, technically, better to have something harmless to save her hawking the few rooms in the place particularly given his familiar is sticking close rather than offering sarcastic remarks as he tends to whenever she comes over. That fact is even more important because if this is a bad episode that means sound dampeners are up too, it had been quite a while since the last but they're as unpredictable as the tides at times... Better to play it safe and with a flick of the wrist, the hunt begins.

The light flits to and fro as though needing to get it's bearings first then dashes over to the closed door of his own room and hovers there unable to go further which is a sure sign something had been put up to keep things in or out depending. Alright then straight up knocking it is.

The sounds on the other side are at best vague and muffled though her patience is swiftly rewarded by it opening enough to allow her to slip inside before shutting. There is the man himself sitting on the bed with back to the wall with his precious guitar held close to his chest, absolutely surrounded by pieces of paper that had been hastily scribbled on or scrunched up accordingly, a no doubt stone cold tea cup and the presence of one particular glasses wearing cat who had claimed one of these for himself to sit on. Giving the doorframe another tap he's flashed a grin to get a much more sheepish look right back and little more than a flicked ear by the other. Charming.

"My someone's been busy," she says while he scrambles to make some space in the disaster area that had been his current song writing project. It did explain the lousy reception that's for sure.

"Hmn, a bit. Had something I needed to get out my head and guess the time got away from me a bit. Sorry love," he answers apologetically while gesturing with one hand, the other is hunting for the pen that had made a break for it into the pillows.

"Not left you hanging at the altar too long have I?"

Giving him a small thank you, his familiar is ceremoniously scooped into the air with a surprised prrt then, after joining the pair on the duvet herself, he is given pride and place on her lap with a chin scratch before he can start complaining about being moved earning a quirked brow at the sheer display of blatantness. Personally she finds how Archie plays favourites sometimes absolutely hilarious, he's complained enough times how he always gets told off if he'd tried to touch him there though having better scritching nails compared to how short he keeps his own probably helps tilt things in her favour.

"Nah, you get inspired you bunker up with the cat it's fine! Only payment I demand is whatever you're working on," she replies nonchalant waving at the stack of sheets.

"Gotta be something real good if you put a keep out sign and I'm already here. So c'mon hit me."

"Sure I could do but I don't think it's ready, it's still rough as heck and I can't seem to get some of the words to come together how I want them to," Douxie groans putting a hand under his chin.

"Been driving me nuts honestly. S'like my brain just dumped them there and expected me to put them together again without any real input."

"It just means she gets to hear the first draft and you get an opinion other than mine," pipes up a voice of reason with a yawn.

"You've been going around in circles for the past hour anyway, a fresh test run is overdue."

Douxie seems to dither if to go ahead or not from the way his expression changes subtly between wanting to argue or just say to heck with it and yield to the pleading face and whined pleeeeeease coming from across the bed. From how the instrument is moved back into a more playable position it seems the yes vote has won out if still a little bit reluctant about it. Fingertips grace the strings to test them without committing to anything, then a deep breath is taken for luck and he begins to play.

~

On an eve of a night chilled with rain Did a door open to a world beyond Revealing a particular face On to be a future friend, another love With pursed lips and fire in her eyes Seeking shelter with the mundane

Thought nothing of it at the time like a fool Just wanted to be friendly Where could chat so innocently Enjoy that pleasant company All the while knowing Not getting attached was a hard and fast rule

We'd meet it'd seem again and again Upon desert shores and townships Admiring the ruins of ages and lives Share stories and freedoms Then part ways whilst knowing It was always a case of when

Messages would arrive upon a raven Crossing borders and seas Reminders that we're not alone Seeing the same sun, same stars Words to break the deafening silence But it'd never beat a real conversation

Because I lived for the ones with you

Somehow in the future Upon a leyline in California While making a stop with a delivery There would be a flash of colour And I would say Hey I think I know her

I'd have both good days and bad Sometimes the cracks would show through Centuries of living does nothing it seems Covered in the dust and grime So I would deny and lie through my teeth And say everything is just fab

You're stronger than you know Over and over you'd say Team up with him and pin me down Hold those words to my face Then say together So don't hide away, let it show!

It still wears but gets better From the smile I carry you know it's true Nothing in the world can get to me I have a brother to help me breathe Plus someone to fight my corner too And know I'd always let her

Because I love living in this world with you

~

A beat passes as the last of the notes echo into nothingness.

Then a second.

Just as he is about to ask what she thought and apologise again for it being a little on the cheesy side, his stupid grey shirt is grabbed to yank him close enough to kiss him and hide the blush sweeping across her face whilst miraculously not accidently terfing Archie off. Despite initial freezing in surprise he quickly melts into something far softer and loving with a look that refuses to fade when their lips part again. It never gets old no matter how many times Zoe has seen him do it.

"You might be a sappy idiot Casperan, but you're my sappy idiot."

[kristie-rp]

[2018] Leila & Axel: Timelines

This time, two people enter the little wooden building just before sunset. They don’t know it yet, but they’re going the same way, on the horses loaned from neighbouring stalls. Neither of them are in a hurry, and they are going to become travel companions through simple circumstance. 

“A horse, thank you,” says the man. He has vivid red hair, and ink marks his arms beneath the shirt he has had to don, the standard for men of the period. It’s a little bit scratchy, as these things are at the time, but that’s fine. He’s dealt with worse. 

The old man behind the counter smiles and demands payment, a coin or some other amount – it’s barely anything. “And you, milady?” he asks. The first man turns to see a young woman, no older than twenty at a glance, blonde and waiflike in her ankle-length tunic, her arms covered. She smiles, “The same, if you please,” she says, and she hands over the coin. She’s pretty enough that the old man seems torn, wavering between demanding more of an oblivious woman who doesn’t know the value of a horse, and offering a discounted rate simply for the pleasure of looking at a pretty young thing. The first man quirks a brow for a moment before adopting a neutral expression, clearing his throat as loudly as he can. The old man startles, shoots a look between the two, his brow furrowing – are they a couple, he is wondering, then wonders if they are eloping, elsewise wouldn’t the first man have simply asked for two horses? Thoughts churning, he excuses himself to the stables to prepare the horses. 

“Would he have pushed the price up if not for you, or pulled it down?” the woman asks airily, almost resigned. 

He snorts, the bluntness reminding him of his brothers’ wife-or-soulmate, someone who appears in every timeline he crosses. “That happens often?” 

“One or the other, usually in stores across from each other,” she confirms, her smile faint when he meets her gaze. “I have hope that the township of Lyndon will be slightly more subtle in the discrimination the people offer.”

Lyndon is where he is going, where his brothers wife, yet to be met this lifetime by either of them, is, according to all the signs he can see. He doesn’t even know for sure why he’s bothering to try to find Intella first, except perhaps curiosity – is she more hunter or librarian, in this life? If he is particularly fortunate, he will meet her years before his brother, and he will have time to twist her arm and become close enough that he can make his brother anxious and jealous when the time comes. It will be incredibly satisfying. “I have no clue as to whether it will be better or worse, but it seems we are going the same way. If you are not in a hurry, we might travel together.” 

She looks at him, gaze guarded. Something in the twist of her mouth is familiar, and for a beat, it distracts him. It is gone a moment later, though, and her smile is warm and welcoming. “It cannot hurt,” she agrees. “You may call me Leila.” 

She doesn’t give a surname, and he is fairly sure that that’s become the standard by this point in time. Either she is so well known that she doesn’t need to give it regularly, or she does not wish to be associated with her family. Either way, he can relate. “Axel Leperance,” he says regardless, knowing the name is odd in an era of names about location and profession. “Pleased to make your acquaintaince.” 

Something in her expression shifts again, a flicker of surprise or recognition – it is too brief for him to say. The old man returns before either of them can address it. “Your horses await you,” he says, all grand gestures and gruff introduction. They thank him and venture outside to mount their horses side by side, quiet for the moment. 

They ease into each others company slowly, but by the time the sun has fully set, they are making idle chatter. They fall upon the topic of some attacks that have been plaguing the area, Axel picking up what is going on from Leila’s words, or at least on what she seems to know of public opinion. This topic is as good as anything he can discuss with his brothers future wife, at least. 

There is still something familiar about her, something that he feels he should be able to pick up on. This is the consequence of being aware of ever possible timeline: certain things in the present can become lost in the details. 

They make camp hours later, when the moon is high in the sky and he feels that they should rest the mortal horses, and her, as well, for all she has shown no signs of fatigue. “I will keep watch,” he offers as she starts a fire with a distant look in her eyes. 

She glances at him, her gaze adjusting. “Are you worried the monsters will attack us?” she asks. There is amusement in her tone, something that surprises him. She seemed to be taking the plague on the local area seriously when they were discussing it. 

“The roads are dangerous,” he says. Her lip curls into a smirk. 

“The greatest dangers are the things we cannot see coming,” she says, “and besides, there are greater monsters than the kind who hunt sheep.” 

He wants to pry, but he doesn’t know how to go about pushing the topic. By the time he has realised that a blunt what is that supposed to mean might have worked, she has laid out her bedroll and crawled into it. He does not want to disturb her rest, or chance waking her – he drops the topic, telling himself that he will push it in the morning. 

Lyndon is slightly larger than the town that is home to the little stable a few days ride away. It is an estate that grew – it cannot surprise Axel that it is a Constantine who owns the original land. He cannot remember if it is December or Julius, but that does not matter, in the scheme of things. The important thing is that this is where Intella is, and this is where he will meet her. 

He is still talking to Leila, because she is at his side and because she has proven to be surprisingly good company. He still does not understand why her reaction to talk of monsters is to laugh and change the subject; he has learned that she does not believe wolves are so bad, and seems to smile whenever she speaks of them, for reasons beyond them. He has also learned that there is a quiet to her at times, something he recognises from when his brother is alone; it is like depression but not quite as consuming. She is on the road to depression, he thinks, but she is not there yet. Not enough for it to be a problem and suicidal tendencies to become common.

Someone he asks directs him to the first house, and a pale skinned woman answers the door. It is a Constantine, or a Constantine’s servant: he can never tell, not at first, with all the white-as-snow skin and grave-black hair. It is far too common for people with a look like this to flock to the actual Constantine family, and in some lifetimes he makes a hobby of attempting to sabotage it. It never works. 

He does not stop to consider that it is odd that Leila is still with him, standing at his side after they each left their horses for the stablehand to tend to. The blonde woman seems content to linger nearby him, and he would not complain even if he paused to think it odd. There is no point to it; he has grown accustomed to her company, and he wants to make it last on a subconscious level. 

The pale servant shows them to a study of sorts, with wide windows open to the garden and books lining the walls. He almost snorts, because of course Intella has this even in a lifetime where she should be illiterate, as many are. 

Intella has dark skin, red-tinged brown hair, and no glasses in this time, because they are not to be invented for several centuries – the 1200s, he thinks, and it is probably because of Italy – yet judging by the array of glass spheres in the little box on the heavy oak desk, Intella is just as nearsighted as she usually is. He smiles at her and offers a small bow, and that’s when he realizes she isn’t wearing a longer tunic as everyone, even Leila, has been: Intella is wearing leggings and a short tunic cinched around the waist, her arms bare and her feet caught in soft-looking leather boots, a style out of sorts with what every other woman he has seen is wearing. She looks older than Leila, but his limited tact ensures he does not comment on this, or on her peculiar fashion choice – but then, in every era, his brothers bride shows unusual fashion sense. In the twenty-first century, she wears a skirt better suited to the 1950s with a modest sweater, while everyone around her wears jeans and tight-fitting shirts; why would she not dress as a particularly slovenly man in such an early century? 

“Miss Migratori,” he greets, warmly in spite of himself. “Might I –” 

“Hello, Mister Leperance,” she returns, interrupting him in her impatience. He blinks, used to Leila’s polite quiet, and quirks a smile: some things will never change. “Miss Inferno. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Axel looks around quickly, because he knows the only other person in the room now is Leila. Leila, a small blonde woman, young and who laughs at monsters and who fears, apparently, no attacks even in the dark of a forest at night – Leila, who, in retrospect, he should have realised the identity of sooner. He knows Paimon, vaguely, not as well as Intella generally does, or that menacing swordswoman, or December Constantine – but Paimon is, was, a demon king – is, at this point in history, he thinks – and any self-respecting demon is aware of those who might be their rulers at any given time. “Oh.” 

Leila’s smile is uncertain when she looks at Axel after greeting Intella, her confidence on the road all but vanished. She is more comfortable with strange men than with strange women, it seems, and for a moment Axel wonders if Christabella has been dead for long in this life. The Inferno’s are generally better balanced if their mother is a presence in their early lives, before their immortality sticks them at whatever age it chooses; Leila is nervous and twists her hands into her skirt with Intella looking on. Axel wants to reassure her, only he’s never been the reassuring type. 

“Miss Migratori is renowned throughout time for her decorum,” he says, wondering if it even makes sense. “She is respectful and knows everything – it’s unnerving, at times.” 

Her nervousness ebbs and her hands steady, and she shoots Axel a look that is grateful, or maybe more amused. “My father deals in information,” she points out, “I know what Intella offers.” 

And – oh, that’s a point, actually. Paimon deals in information – Paimon knows as much as Intella. In theory. Axel looks at Leila with new curiosity, wondering what brought her to this place at this time. 

Intella is not interested in him, her gaze fixed on Leila. “Ladies first, Mister Leperance,” she insists, firm and brokering no argument. “Some privacy, if you please.” 

He nods, because it’s that or disagree, and he doesn’t want to do that. Leila left wherever she calls home for a reason, after all, and his curiosity – that for some reason he does not know what she seeks, that it isn’t apparent in every timeline he can see – can wait. So he leaves the room, leaving Intella and Leila to discuss whatever it is that is so pressing.

They’re still there when the entire household sits down to dinner, but Intella shoots the Constantine that comes for her a look. “I have guests. We’ll be dining separately,” she says, all bluntness. She doesn’t even get a look for being a woman of colour giving some white woman grief, and Axel wonders where he actually is, and when, exactly. He isn’t certain how prolific racism is at every point in history, but he knows at least once Intella has been forced into servitude or slavery: this is an unusual instance of her being a servant without resentment, and it adds points to his theory that December is the owner. Julius isn’t always awful, but he does cow to Veronica more often than not, and she would never approve of a foreign-looking servant or employee. 

“Did Intella help?” he asks Leila quietly, while the other woman is distracted giving instructions. 

Leila’s smile is sad at best, and her tone is resigned. “No, but it was a long shot. I knew that coming here, surprisingly. It seemed worth it, though.” 

He wants to press for details and opens his mouth to do so – what could an Inferno want that Intella might provide better than Paimon, unless this is too close to Gina’s youth for anyone to want to go to Paimon – but Intella interrupts. “Dinner is served,” she says, shooting Axel a warning look that Leila doesn’t seem to notice. Axel snorts, because he is a creature of habit and, it seems, so too is Intella. 

They are eating turkey with an array of vegetables, carved by Intella while they watch, sitting around her desk. “I try to minimise the servants workload,” she has explained, and that is so Intella that he doesn’t bother to turn it into a conversation. Leila is quiet, poking at her food. By the time he has eaten all his plate, he does not think she has eaten half as much as she had of their rations the night before at camp. “Mister Leperance,” Intella says, opening a drawer to retrieve something. He is not surprised when a leatherbound notebook is placed beside her plate; she taps it with long, thin fingers. “You are the more troublesome one. I’ve been expecting the both of you.”

“Of course you have,” he mutters, because – well, obviously. “My brother is the one you will prefer, but he is years off,” he says. Normally, he would try to flirt with her instead, but something about Leila’s presence stops him. “You can guess what we will mean to you, in time. I wanted to get a head start.” It is refreshing, sometimes, meeting Intella when she is older than a teenager: by now she has had time to come to terms with every record she has of past lives, though he must admit he is surprised she has come by the notebooks unaided. He forgets, sometimes, that in her more active lifetimes, Intella collects artefacts and not only books. She is gifted at finding things others would have lost, and these notebooks, usually left in his care one way or another, would be no different.

Intella quirks a brow at him. “You want to taunt your brother,” she concludes, it barely taking a moment to figure out. He laughs, genuinely pleased she figured it out so quickly; she rolls her eyes. 

“Yes. If you had siblings, you would understand.” Leila snorts. “None of my siblings are the sort you tease. Gina would – apparently – sooner catch a blade to the eye than deal with us; Nicolas is a puppy.”

He glances at her, thoughtful. This means he is right; it is not long after the year zero, the start of the common era, or whatever it is called. “You’re missing out,” he says at last. 

She shrugs a shoulder, not particularly distressed. “It is all I know, for now. There is time.” 

He knows there is. They are both immortals, after all, though their abilities differ greatly. They will experience similar things as time goes on; indeed, he has experienced many of them already, existing with one foot out of time as he does. He wonders if there is a tactful way to offer her the opportunity to help him taunt Jonathan in a few years time, to linger around the Constantine estate and Intella and her books. 

“You two should remain together,” Intella says, cutting across with no care whatsoever. Something in her eyes catches Axel’s attention; he wonders if she is seeing something he has missed in his constant haze. “Times are tough for a person alone, after all.” Axel isn’t going to protest, and neither is Leila, he is pleased to note. Intella claps her hands together. “Excellent,” she says, “now, how do you feel about hunting?”

The hunting turns out to be for relics that Intella is interested in, or has a use for, or thinks someone else will soon have a use for – she doesn’t explain much, which is unusual, for her. Usually the trick is getting her to shut up. 

“I’ll keep watch,” Axel says, yet again, some weeks later. 

Leila throws down her bedroll and turns to glare at him. “You wouldn’t keep watch if you were alone,” she accuses. He doesn’t argue; she huffs, places her hands on her hips. Despite Intella’s offering, she has refused to change her wardrobe; in fact she has procured some more tunics that he is sure are too long to be comfortable for riding, yet she insists on maintaining them. “My name is Leila Angeia Inferno,” she says, “first of her name, second daughter born to Paimon, demon king, and only child of this lifetime’s Christabella; my godmother is Rikku Miuro, a warrior woman, and her husband is a strategic genius. Even if none of those connections existed, I am an Inferno. I can look after myself when necessary, and I am not above smothering you until you pass out and take some of the rest you need.” 

Axel blinks at her, not realizing until several long moments pass that he is gaping at her. She sounds almost like Intella, insisting she can care for herself, but the speech is made more impressive by his familiarity with what Inferno’s are capable of. And he wouldn’t be playing guardian for Intella unless it was asked of him. He swallows. “Sorry. When I thought you were mortal, it made sense. Now...” “

Now, you are going to stop playing at chivalry and go to sleep the same time as me,” she says. There is no chance for him to argue, not now, so he obediently retrieves his bedroll to lay down for the night. 

She’s an Inferno, after all, and he’s a Leperance. There is very little that will actually harm them, even if it catches them off guard.

Several months pass, and they are in Asia somewhere. Leila has let him bring them to a city in what either is or will be China, to a thief he knows who will have some advice to provide. Leila mentions something about the horror of foot binding, and he isn’t entirely sure why he is surprised when she manages decent enough Chinese to communicate. 

His contact has a daughter, who he keeps close. Her feet aren’t bound. Leila, apparently pleased by this, launches into a discussion with the girl who can’t be older than ten at most. 

Axel looks on, amused and fond, while he converses with the girls father. He is the best thief in multiple lifetimes; it is luck and a namedrop that is technically currently a lie that gets him to share some pointers, things that will help Axel and Leila in their attempts to do whatever it is Intella has a mind to ask of them. 

It takes him a moment to realize the thief is waiting for an answer. “Excuse me, can you repeat that?” he asks, in a half-hearted attempt to write off his obliviousness as a consequence of language differences.

The thief snorts and shakes his head, but obliges. It isn’t until they are leaving that he nods to Axel. “You ought to pay attention,” is what he says. Axel scoffs and brushes him off; he knows, thanks ever so much. He tries. It’s a lot to pay attention to. 

“You are wilfully misunderstanding me,” the thief goes on, amused as he waves them off. “Suit yourself.” 

Technically, their first kiss is a lie. 

Oh, it really happens: it’s intense and brisk, startling Axel into shutting up for a moment – Leila initiates it. They are lurking in the shadows of some estate, because Intella has said that this is where the information regarding the location of something she really wants is likely to be. She wants them to get it, one way or another, and so they are trespassing on the property of some oligarch in what either is or will be Russia. 

What Leila knows is that there is a party elsewhere on the grounds, and they are counting on that for a general distraction. They do not make allowances for the guards, exactly, and are dressed in a manner that will give them away. In Leila’s mind, it is simple: if they are doing something, then their clothing will be ignored and their actions focused on. 

So she kisses Axel like she means it, tongue and passion and fire. It is exactly what he expects from an Inferno, but not, precisely, from her. After all, she runs cool compared to the others he has met, and her fingertips are cold where she presses them against the back of his neck. 

The guard clears his throat awkwardly, mumbling something Axel barely catches about servants and decency. He leaves them to it. Leila pulls away; Axel resists the minor temptation of not letting her go. 

“That way is no longer an option,” Leila states, wiping her mouth and leaning around Axel to follow the guard until he is out of sight. “Try this way.” 

Obviously, Axel wants to say, only he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, so he stays silent instead.

Jonathan and Intella meet, in this lifetime, in a particularly subtle fiasco. It is everything Axel has been hoping for, since forming his resolution to mess with it all as much as he possibly can.

 Apparently upon meeting Jonathan, Intella had managed to keep a completely deadpan expression. “Excuse me, I must check with my dear Axel,” she says, all mild patience. 

When Axel is led into the room several long moments later, Intella introduces him as ‘her dear’. It’s weird. Jonathan’s face is fantastic. 

He just about chokes from laughing.

He doesn’t know what type of demon attacks them. He thinks it might be something from the sixth tier, but he cannot exactly ask it, and those who make it their purpose to learn the different names for different species are nowhere nearby. It is, it seems, incapable of speech. It’s gaping maw leaks pitch black ichor from between jagged teeth that bring to mind particularly terrifying fish, and it is, in a word, disgusting. It is also eerily silent as it creeps. This is how it is able to sneak up on both himself and Leila, catching them unawares while they are sleeping. 

It is Axel who leaps to their defense, because he has been under the impression for almost two years now that, while Leila is an Inferno, she does not like to use her power. He has never seen her burn anything at all, at the very least. He pulls an adamantium knife, because it is what he has on him, and curses himself for not deciding to bring a gun, never mind the fact that they will not be invented for centuries. 

He is outmatched, and he knows it. There is something about a truly inhuman demon that is too difficult to fight hand to hand, at least on human terms. “Leila,” he tries to yell – only when he looks over at her bedroll, there is nothing but shredded blankets there. 

He is abruptly paler than usual, his stomach bottoming out somewhere near the circle of Hell this demon is from. Leila is gone, and though he doesn’t see any blood, it doesn’t mean anything. It is a moonless night, and he does not have a magical ability to see perfectly in the dark: Intella has explained in the past that their eyes are too human to allow for seeing colour at night, anyway. 

Still. In his panic, he lashes out, and he thinks he feels the knife make contact. He still wishes he had a sword or gun in his possession, something with reach, something that will let him get this thing off – 

The demon is abruptly on the other side of the fire, though he does not know how this happened. The flames catch in his eyes and the glare distracts him; he can just barely see a second shadow, a lurking, lanky form with fingers long and sharp enough that they seem to meet no resistance whatsoever when it reaches into the chest of the first demon. Axel stares as it rips out a heart that seems to still be beating, holding it up to catch the firelight – and then crushing it.

The first demon crumbles away, the way these things are wont to do. Axel is mostly glad it didn’t leave a pool of ichor, because he hates when they do that, and if he has to fight this other thing then he does not want the risk of slipping in a pool of the remains of something his own people have developed. 

Only when he tears his gaze away from the ash and back to the second demon, the only thing to be seen is Leila, swaying gently on her feet. 

“I told you I can look after myself,” is all she says, voice barely a breath on the wind. As he looks on, her knees seem to give out: she falls the ground and throws up over the demons grave.

Leila is cursed. 

“Cursed by my fathers blood,” she elaborates, her smile wan. It is not genuine; it does not reach her eyes. “Every other Inferno can create flame from nothing. I transform into something like the more animalistic demon he carries with him.” The one from less than three centuries earlier, she doesn’t say. The one who caused the entire mess with Gina. 

Axel has not seen anything like this before, not in the Inferno line. They are, all of them, pyrokinetic. They create and manipulate fire. It is what makes them, literally, hotheaded: he believes Intella coined the term in a past life specifically to describe the family. “There are worse things,” he says. She scoffs. 

“I am an Inferno. Everyone in my family is beautiful. And then there’s... that.” Her lip curls in disgust. “I’m a freak among freaks. It is not something to bother lying about.” 

He very carefully does not point out that she has not mentioned this ability in all the time they’ve known each other. Instead, he slowly crosses the space between them, taking her bloody hand in his, using the a scrap from the ruins of her bedding to start cleaning away. 

He doesn’t say anything as Leila breaks down, tears pooling. He doesn’t have to.

Axel spends probably too much time after that mess figuring out how to cozx smiles from Leila. She is beautiful like this, with her human skin. Pale and blonde and with eyes such a piercing shade of blue they can only be inherited from Christabella.

Leila has always seemed fragile and sad to him, though he did not have an explanation. Now that he does, he is certain he can make it better. She is sad because she is depressed; she is depressed because she has low self worth; she has low self worth because she believes her value as a person starts and ends with her looks.

He really hopes someone does something particularly horrific to Paimon in this era, because if not, he may figure out how to do it himself. 

He does not consider why it matters so much. Instead, he focuses on giving compliments and commentary alike, distracting and praising and flattering in turns. It does not seem to occur to her what he is doing, and it breaks his heart a little bit that, at first, she looks so surprised at every compliment, like he is saying something unbelievable. It isn’t the delighted surprise he has seen on Intella’s face when she is presented with new information: it is the dubious surprise he has seen on the faces of people that Herontesuto and anti-supernatural groups lock away for years, the surprise they show when someone actually appears in an attempt to rescue them. 

The rescues always work out, in the end. He will make sure this does, too.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” 

“What ? – No, that’s completely unnecessary, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Except he does; his flushed face would show it, if she could see in the dark. He is fairly sure she cannot, as he doesn’t remember anyone mentioning Inferno’s having that ability. Then again, apparently he doesn’t know everything there is to know about the family.

Shit, can Inferno’s see in the dark?

They are trapped in the smallest closet he can imagine, and it is fortunate that he is not claustrophobic and that Leila is tiny. It means that she is eating poorly again, of course, but she remains waiflike in build. She is still beautiful like this; she is always beautiful. He wonders if this is how Jonathan feels when he looks at Intella. 

He kicks himself for the thought immediately, because Leila appears to be smirking at him. “So you are claiming that you are not happy to see me,” she says.

“No more than usual.”

“Really?”

“Are you giving me that look again?” ‘That look’ involves a raised eyebrow. She is almost as good at that look as Intella, now; he resents his new sister in law – in this lifetime – for passing on that skill to his Leila. 

To Leila. Just Leila. She is not his.

In answer, Leila shifts her hand. He wouldn’t notice – it is very dark in here – except that she brushes against him and – oh. That’s why she has brought this up. He has not realized that he is hard, apparently turned on by his proximity to her, as though this isn’t par for the course for them. 

“Oh.” 

“Do you want me to kiss you?” she asks again. He can hear the laughter in her voice. 

He doesn’t wait for her to ask again, leaning down to meet her, to kiss her himself, thanks very much – and if it feels like this is meant to be, and it’s happening, so maybe, maybe, it is. In the years to come, he will try not to dwell on it too much.

This time, a lone man enters the little wooden building just before sunset. 

Near the stables, a woman is standing with a man around her age, laughing uncertainly at something he has told her. Neither of them are aware of the time, or if they are, they are in no hurry. 

“A horse, thank you,” says the first man. He has vivid red hair, and ink marks his arms beneath the shirt he has had to don, the standard for men of the period. It’s a little bit scratchy, as these things are at the time, but that’s fine. He’s dealt with worse – worse, like the pain that is starting to take hold of his brain, a migraine to rival the worst he’s had in the past. Something in the timeline has shifted, something major has not happened, and it takes everything in him to maintain his neutral expression and not crumple from the pain of it. 

The old man behind the counter smiles, oblivious, and demands payment, a coin or some other amount – it is barely anything.

“Of course, sir, excuse me while I prepare your horse. Take a moment.” 

Outside, the old man pauses to admire the young woman, laughing with her companion. A couple, he thinks, offering both a smile and a nod of greeting. Had he a hat, he would tip it to the prettiest woman he has seen in some time. 

Shortly after, he returns to the company of the man inside. “Your horse awaits you,” he says. 

When the man goes outside to mount the horse, the woman and her friend are departing. He does not notice them, distracted by the ache in his head. 

He does not know what he has missed.

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Sanele Junior Xaba: ‘I take pride in my albinism’ | Fashion

Sanele Junior Xaba makes photographers and stylists get a little carried away. This year alone the South African model has posed naked save for a swarm of butterflies on the cover of Polish design magazine Label and worn feathered angel wings and a loincloth for Dutch art photographer Gemmy Woud-Binnendijk in a depiction of the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Viewed more than 25m times on YouTube alone, the jawdropping pièce de résistance in Sanele’s portfolio is the ad for sportswear brand Adidas Originals in which shirtless Sanele stands in for the wind god Zephyr in a dystopian reworking of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. Here, he writhes on a set strewn with broken computers to a cover of Sinatra’s My Way as Venus takes a selfie inside a giant satellite dish.

It’s all gorgeous, captivating work, and Sanele isn’t complaining one bit, but I wonder whether he might sometimes like to be asked just to stand next to an attractive young woman at a bus stop, or mope handsomely on a staircase. You know, standard male model gigs like those performed by his contemporaries at Boss Models in Cape Town. Jobs where you turn up and pull on a beanie and some jeans, rather than don a ceremonial wreath and pour a carton of milk down your front.

“People have said things to me like: ‘Oh, but you don’t look like the Heineken- drinking guy,’” he says. Today he’s dressed in his favourite black fedora (“I love a hat”), black skinny jeans and black Dr Martens. “But I do drink Heineken,” he continues, “so maybe they need to get out there and look at who’s actually drinking that stuff.”

‘I was an undercover black’: Xaba wears T-shirt, £230, and herringbone trousers, £450, both Stella McCartney (harrods.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

I can’t fault his logic. But if we’re honest, the reason image-makers seem to go a bit high concept at the prospect of Sanele is because, apart from all the standard-issue stuff – runway-ready 6ft stature, muscular torso, exquisite face furniture – he has what several photographers I speak to refer to obliquely as “a very special aesthetic”. In other words, Sanele has albinism, a genetic condition that results in the absence of pigment in his eyes, hair and skin. This does not make him “albino” or “an albino”, a term that’s unhelpful because, as Sanele puts it: “It implies that we’re a species, or a race apart.” In fact, people of all races can be affected by albinism. Still, the condition seems to be most prevalent in Sub-Saharan Africa, where the UN Human Rights Council is implementing a five-year regional action plan to counter the astonishing discrimination and persecution that continues to exist.

I realise that it sounds a bit Zoolander, but I want to play my part to promote diversity in the fashion the industry

In his professional life, Sanele has encountered tokenism from image-makers of all stripes. “I’ve had situations where casting directors have said: ‘No thanks, we’ve worked with Shaun Ross already” – Shaun Ross being an American model with albinism, who has appeared in music videos for Lana Del Rey and Beyoncé. Does that make him angry, I ask? “Well, it makes me want to say, ‘How many white models have you used this week?’ They’re not all considered to be the same person.” Still, he’s known for being patient and polite: “I realise it sounds a bit Zoolander, but I want to play my part to promote diversity in the industry. The commercial end of fashion is crucial as it dictates what’s cool, and the idea of cool is changing drastically. It feels more inclusive, but it can still do a whole lot better.”

Sanele was due to spend this summer at the most commercial of all the fashion capitals, New York. Several agencies there had expressed interest in representing him and ordinarily – because of his proven track record in modelling – a visa would have been granted in a jiffy. Instead, Sanele’s application was declined twice in the midst of Donald Trump’s chaotic visa shake-up. “The authorities weren’t sure about my intended reasons for coming to the States,” Sanele says, neutrally. I make an unfavourable reference to the example of Slovenian-born First Lady Melania Trump, who was apparently paid for 10 modelling jobs before she received legal authorisation to work in the United States, but Sanele will not be drawn. “It’s fine, it’s OK,” he says. “I’m the kind of person who believes everything happens for a reason.”

Instead of New York, Sanele decided to go to the Netherlands, where he has family, including a great aunt who moved to Dordrecht during apartheid. Nowadays she’s what Sanele calls “a hardcore Dutchie” and she was proud to see him walk in Amsterdam Fashion Week, one of several engagements arranged at short notice by Elite Model Management Amsterdam, the agency that supported Sanele’s straightforward visa application.

Xaba wears Taplo jumper, £655, Dries Van Noten (selfridges.com); jeans, £225, Dries Van Noten (libertylondon.com); boots, £230, grenson.com. Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

While appearing on a popular late-night TV talk show, Sanele met Nicky Libert, a Dutch local and fellow Elite charge who worked on a building site but shot to Instafame after being snapped by a British tourist. The two unconventional clotheshorses hit it off and a bromance began. “He’s Tweedledee and I’m Tweedledum,” says Sanele. Libert invited Sanele to come and live with his family in Almere, just outside Amsterdam, and has been introducing him to Dutch culture, one Turkish and Surinamese takeaway at a time.

I used spray tans and very dark foundation. It looked really bad, especially because I had braces and terrible acne

“There’s so much variety and diversity,” says Sanele. “It’s rich with culture from all over the world – and I thought that South Africa had a lot going on!”

Sanele was born in a township outside Durban in 1994, the year South Africa transitioned from apartheid into democracy – making him a first-edition “born free”. When he was little, strangers would assume he was a white child in the care of a black nanny. In fact, his Zulu mother, Sithembisile, is a medical technologist who took Sanele’s albinism in her stride, but left the township after an incident in which another child shouted “umhlope” (Zulu for “white man”) and threw a rock at his head. There was considerable bleeding and he still has the peanut-sized scar on his forehead. “That was when my mum decided to move to the city,” says Sanele. His father, he says, was never in the picture – “a rolling stone” with an undisclosed number of kids.

Unusually, given that racial integration was in its infancy, Sithembisile enrolled Sanele at the fee-paying, majority-white Open Air School in Durban (motto: “I can and I will”) where he was, he jokes, “an undercover black”. Although he was acutely aware of the stares that his alabaster skin and naturally ginger hair attracted when he was out in public, he says his mother’s insistence that “I shouldn’t look on my albinism as any sort of disadvantage” bolstered his self-esteem. But with puberty, it collapsed entirely. “When you hit 13 or so, you become self-conscious and you start to want to impress people,” he says. Other pupils began to taunt him about his appearance. “I could give you a whole list of names: Casper the Friendly Ghost, white pudding, milk of magnesia, Tipp-Ex, snow globe…” Sanele’s actual name means “enough” in Zulu. He is an only child.

Xaba wears striped top, £75, Raf Simons x Fred Perry (fredperry.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

“I went through a stage of depression during which I did lots of desperate online research on how to get melanin,” says Sanele. Predictably, his attempts to boost the pigment-creating substance came to naught, so he resorted to the cosmetics counter. “I was experimenting with spray tans and very dark foundation,” he recalls, “and it kinda looked really bad, especially because I had braces and terrible acne.” He was already taking Roaccutane, the controversial retinoid drug, to try to get his spots under control. “For four months I had this circumference of heat around my face and it was bright red, like a tomato.”

Now I’ve realised I can use my looks to raise awareness, I’ve started to take a lot more pride in my own albinism

To make matters worse, it was around this time that Sanele’s father – a perfect stranger – came back on the scene, only to tell Sanele that he was dying. “He apologised to me for everything before he passed,” recalls Sanele, before starting to giggle reflexively. When I listen to the recording later, the peals sound like nervousness bordering on panic. “I’m sure it seemed like I was heartless at the time, but I just couldn’t get emotional about it because I didn’t really know who had died and I was just too confused,” he says.

Back at school, he resolved to toughen up and confront the bullies. “I knew of another kid – not someone with albinism – who had hanged himself at the age of 10 and I just thought: ‘That’s not going to happen to me. I’m not going to let my entire student career go like this.’ I decided to beat the hell out of the next person who called me names.”

The strategy worked (“People learned not to mess with Sanele or he’s going to beat you up. That’s not the kind of person I am, but I had to grow a pair,” he says). In due course, so did the acne treatment. Sanele refers to what came next as his “blow-up season”. Buoyed by the confidence of clear skin, a promotion in the playground pecking order and his newfound athletic prowess as a championship swimmer with the body to boot, he began to socialise with a vengeance.

Xaba wears sweatshirt, £235, Yeezy, and shirt, £480, Vetements, both selfridges.com; cords, £255, Etudes (libertylondon.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

It was at the age of 15, while attending the Durban July horse racing, that he was approached by a model scout. “I took the card and then I thought: ‘Nah, I’m not going to do that shit,’” he recalls. The scout persisted, tracking Sanele down via Facebook and persuading him that there was money to be made. “As a teenager, scoring a buck is a big thing,” Sanele smiles. So he walked in Durban fashion week and appeared in campaigns for local designers before transferring to a more prestigious model agency in Johannesburg. “They got me catalogue work for Adidas, I did GQ magazine, and that’s when I realised that this industry could use a whole lot more diversity.”

Increasingly, he now sees his Instagram account as a means of owning the conversation, and photos are frequently accompanied by lengthy and heartfelt “believe in yourself” captions.

“At the end of the day, I know there’s an expiry date to what I do and my dream is to make my presence last a bit longer, to leave a footprint in the industry.” Among his 21,000-plus followers are teens struggling to come to terms with their own albinism. “I get messages from people saying: ‘Oh you are so brave for what you’re doing, I’m ashamed to even go outside,” he says.

Things are much worse, he notes, in the parts of Africa that GQ doesn’t typically reach. In some regions of Tanzania, for example, people with albinism live in fear of mutilation and murder because potions made from their body parts can command large sums on the black market. “There’s a whole industry run by so-called spiritual leaders,” says Sanele.

In some regions, people with albinism live in fear of mutilation and murder as potions are made from their body parts

Since he has been in Holland, he has connected with Inside The Same, a charity that campaigns for the rights of individuals with albinism. With them, he’s planning a visit to an orphanage in Tanzania for children who’ve been abandoned as the result of stigma and ignorance. In some communities, children with albinism are believed to be reincarnated ghosts of slave masters, as opposed to what they are: innocents with a genetic idiosyncrasy.

“The charity provides the kids with sunscreen and medical treatment because a lot of them have skin cancer,” says Sanele. “Now that I’ve realised I can use my looks to raise awareness and to challenge the perceptions and stereotypes about the condition, I’ve started to take a lot more pride in my own albinism.”

As I pack up my things and we say our goodbyes, Sanele tells me he would hate for his nascent activism to somehow overshadow the meticulous work done by others: “I’m glad to assist and I really want to learn,” he says. He’s flying back to Cape Town tomorrow for a wedding – a cousin from his dad’s side of the family – so I ask what he’s most missed about South Africa during his summer away. His response is a little more starry than before: “I miss the nightclubs where they give me a private table because I’m a model, and I can take my friends and drink champagne all night without having to open my wallet. It’s fun, now and again, to celebrate your youth.” Good on him, I think. But so much for Heineken.

Grooming by Jade Leggat-Smith using MAC and Elemis; production by Christopher Smith; model Sanele junior Xaba at Boss models

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