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wonder-in-wings · 2 years ago

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The Collector's Basement

TIMING: Wednesday July 12th, Evening LOCATION: Parker’s House PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist and Parker (@wonder-in-wings SUMMARY: After an interesting first interaction, Parker invites Inge to his house to see his more exotic collection - and hopes to get some of her mare blood while he’s at it. CONTENT WARNINGS: Medical Blood (brief mentions of surgery)

It had taken Parker a few days to arrange his collection in an aesthetically pleasing way, at least by his standards which he acknowledged could be unreasonable sometimes if the mood gripped him. He was in his living room, the sun having set hours ago and after briefly entertaining making his guest for that night some dinner, he ultimately decided against it though he did make enough gumbo to last for several days. The process was slower than he’d have liked, still feeling the aftermath of his fight with the lake nymph a couple of days ago; he kept being reminded that he shouldn’t lift his arm too high or bend over - he’d already opened the one on his stomach once. He couldn’t keep himself from being a little nervous, however. Parker was incredibly proud of his collection, obsessively so oftentimes but it was also a very intimate affair with him - usually when other people saw the wings, it was during a transaction so they could hang them on THEIR wall or whatever else they did with them. They weren’t something for other people to simply view with the same pleasure Parker did… But maybe that could change. Inge was to be among the first to see his secret collection, and certainly the first one this year. She wasn’t a fae though, she was supposedly a succubus. With shimmery, powdered blood. Nonetheless, Parker kept his breathing even and he sat in a small, comfortable armchair next to a bookshelf that held books with curios wedged between them such as a polished wolf’s skull, jars with animals suspended in fluid and, of course, a magnificently kept Palos Verdes Blue Butterfly in a display case. He faced the door, leaning on his other arm, a bowl of steaming gumbo in his hand and occasionally his blue eyes darted to the knob as though expecting it to start turning on its own.

___ Though Inge spent her nights instilling terror in strangers (and sometimes familiars), there tended to be a feeling of monotonousness that took her over. Life had a steady rhythm, an artist’s spirit never tired if inspiration kept coming. But sometimes she felt so very dead amidst it all, and required some kind of thrill to feel grounded once more. Maybe this was that thrill, or maybe this was just her looking for more inspiration. Either way, willingly going to the house of a hunter was a risk.

The sun had sunk already and that meant Inge was able to travel a little quicker, observing the hunter’s house from the plane before manifesting herself near his doorstep. With sunglasses perched on her nose, she made her way to the front door of the address she’d been given, pushing the shades onto her head when she’d rung the bell. Red glowing eyes might as well be a trait of a succubus, she supposed. She did hope he didn’t get greedy for her eyes, though.

When the hunter showed his face, she smiled. It was easy to be outgoing and sociable, a natural instinct honed years and years ago. There was no need to mention the blade she carried on her body as a safety measure. “Good evening,” Inge said, “You have a very nice home, Parker.” But he himself didn't look his best self. Keen eyes took in a bandage peeking from underneath a T-Shirt. For now, she refrained from commenting, despite her wondering who or what had caused such a thing. ___ She rang the doorbell and Parker got to his feet, his brow twitching as he did so but he approached the door easily enough where his blue eyes met with glowing red ones. For a moment, he found himself staring intently at them, completely ignoring what she’d said as his mind started to simultaneously wonder and remain fixated on what he saw. Succubus eyes glowing red didn’t seem like an abnormality when Parker thought about it but she said herself that succubi were a rarity. He wondered… An exhale brought the Warden back to reality and he shook his head, blinking and tearing his gaze away from her mesmerizing eyes. “I appreciate the compliment.” He said, stepping aside and allowing her entry. “I didn’t make any food for you because I assumed this was just a business arrangement but I have… gumbo. If you’d like some.” Parker offered awkwardly, his delivery carrying a slightly different tone to it, one that hadn’t been present at the museum. He closed the door behind her, one of his hands resting on his stomach subconsciously for a moment before he straightened up. “Unless you’d rather skip straight to the collection. That can also be arranged.”

—

She blinked at him, eyelashes batting as if to emphasize their unnatural color. There was something so entertaining about this too, the way she had him convinced she was some biblical creature. Succubi were somewhat iconic, anyway, in Inge’s humble opinion nothing but an invention to keep women pure and chaste. Because of course a woman confident and indulgent in her sexuality could only be evil!

Walking into the house, she let her gaze travel around. She had resisted the urge to look inside each and every room from the astral plane, wanting to keep the entire ordeal something of a surprise. She was disappointed to not see any interesting trinkets lining the walls just yet. “No thank-yous in this house, hm?” While Inge didn’t know a lot about fae, she knew the basics: don’t verbally give things away and don’t thank people.

She waved away his offer, “No, I’m quite full. I appreciate it, though,” she said. He had probably prepared the soup with salt and besides, she didn’t trust him not to have poisoned it. Inge would like a drink, admittedly, but even that wouldn’t do. “Whatever you wish. Like I said, I’d appreciate to talk about fae with you. I’ll gladly answer your questions in return, of course.” But she did itch for the collection. Best not to show her cards, though. “I have all night.” She did, aside from her plan to go step by Jeane for her weekly feeding.

—

His gaze followed her as hers moved in turn, casting her red eyes on this and that and he followed behind her casually, wanting to cross his arms but finding the task somewhat difficult so instead he placed his hands into his pockets. “You can say ‘thank you’ as I’m not a fae and have no intention or ability to bind you to your word.” Parker explained at the start; if she wanted to learn more about the fae, that was as good a starting point as any he supposed. However, Parker also knew that Inge wasn’t here to make small talk. She’d have to be okay to wait for him to at least manage his affairs when it came to the dishes, though; he was a creature of habit and besides, he only made one meal a week, most of the time. What did succubi feed on, anyway? “What would you like to know?” He asked, indicating that he was going into his kitchen and for her to follow while he cleaned up, sweeping the bowl from his chair up before doing so, slower than he’d have liked considering the thudding holes in his abdomen. Parker would’ve been lying if he thought Inge was actually interested in discussing fae matters with him - it’d been a long time since someone implied genuine intrigue instead of mockery or derision when it came to his profession, the one instilled upon him by a legacy and a name and not one he chose for himself. He entered the kitchen, a roomy place with a table off to the side and he got to work starting to put the remaining gumbo in a container. He did make sure to lock onto her astonishingly beautiful red eyes on occasion to nonverbally let her know that he was still participating in the conversation.

It seemed Parker Wright was a very serious person. Inge was fine with that, even if it didn’t align with her own nature — never able to take anything too seriously, in case it forced her into a state of reflection or deep thought. “Got it. Thank you. Still, it’s good praxis, isn’t it? To avoid the words altogether. Make it a habit.” It was one she’d developed over the past decades, fae popping up more as she ventured into more places filled with other supernaturals. Bars in New York, campgrounds in Sweden, gatherings in LA. There was always something.

“I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much. I know there’s the binding, the language tricks — or at least, I know not to verbally – and maybe also not literally – give fae things, like a name. The no-thank-you’s. What else should a person such as myself look out for, when it comes to words?” There had to be more. Inge wished her tongue could be so powerful, that she could bind others to her will at any time of the day or night. “Besides that, I don’t know much. They tend to look like you and I, hm? Regular humans, I mean.” A smile. “If you ignore my eyes.”

The red glow had lessened now that they were inside and there were lights again. She watched him clean his kitchen, took note of the way he seemed somewhat slow, tried to get another glance at his injuries. It was strange, to get such an inside look into the life of a hunter. Inge had to remind herself of this fact: this was a hunter, and despite the lack of violence there was still room for threat. She wondered if what- or whoever had harmed the warden had been fae, or something like herself. “Are there many here, in Wicked’s Rest?”

—

Fae knowledge was simultaneously complex and yet also very simple once you had a grasp on it. Fortunately, it seemed that Inge already seemed to understand the notably important ones, at least from what she described to him. Parker glanced around his kitchen slowly, making sure everything was put up as part of his ritual that he had to perform whether or not he had company. “Binding, language tricks. No ‘thank-you’s, if they ask for something, explicitly say ‘you may not have it’.” He started, drying his hands on a towel that hung from a hook. With that, he turned to regard her this time, his own eyes subconsciously flickering to hers occasionally before he turned his unblinking stare to something else, something just past her so it looked like he was making eye contact, which Parker knew humans enjoyed. He wasn’t sure if succubi did but he assumed this one did by how she looked at him. “There are; this place is like a beacon for them, it seems.” He explained, motioning for her to follow him out of the kitchen and down a hallway with yellowing paper that threatened to peel itself away from the panels below them - this house was old and he held little interest in renovating it. “They disguise themselves with something called a ‘glamour’.” He went on to explain as he approached a door that looked decidedly different from the rest of the house, with dark wood and painted filigree on it - it looked newer than the rest of the house by at least thirty years. “A veil of magic that allows them to exist with humans.” Parker reached for a keyring that hung on his belt and loosened it, unlocking the door and opening it to reveal a wooden staircase that led into the inky black mouth of what seemed like a basement. He paused, inhaling as though to steel himself for the descent. “And never make promises or deals with them.” He said, his flat affect punctuating the importance of the sentence he said. “That is why I don’t ‘make deals’ in that worded sense.” His gaze drifted and for a moment Parker was staring at nothing in particular. “But I’d still appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone what’s down in this room.” He said, casting his gaze down to her as they stood at the opening of an abyss.

—

She was listening intently, a thing that was rare for Inge. She was, however, not very fond of being tricked or driven into corners and it seemed that fae did have this enviable ability. As Parker gave his fae 101, she nodded along with his words, sure to remember what the warden was telling her. This wasn’t to say she agreed with his general praxis or the way he had come to gain this knowledge. Probably in murdering fae 101. Still, who was she to deny a lesson? She should try a little harder to focus on self-preservation, anyway.

“It seems to be a beacon for plenty of non-humans,” she pointed out. It seemed harmless, to say such an obvious thing. There was a reason this place was filled with hunters, and it was because it was filled with supernaturals. As she moved through the house, she was momentarily distracted by the ugly wallpaper and the lack of decorations on the walls. No fae memorabilia on these. That might be a bit gruesome, anyway, but that hadn’t deterred Inge in quite some time.

Still, she was aware of the weapon on her body as he pulled her further into his house. “Interesting. And you … see through it, or?” How hunters functioned exactly, she also didn’t know. They were annoying, stubborn brutes more focused on mindless murder than doing something else with their lives. But that bitter train of thought was abandoned as he opened a door, revealing a staircase that might have come straight out of a horror film. She stared down it, then at him.

“I appreciate the information. It’s good to know.” Maybe this was deflection. If this were a horror movie, the audience would surely be chastizing her for considering going down those steps. But Inge knew her role in the story: she was no martyr, was she? She was the monster in people’s dreams. And this warden did not know of her ability to slip away into another plane of existence, nor her ability to put him to sleep with touch. She nodded solemnly. “Of course. And I’d appreciate your discretion in return.”

—

“Indeed, if it draws succubi to it, as well.” Parker kept looking at Inge, his eyes moving in subtle ways as though looking for a fine detail among a bigger picture - he was gauging to see if she was going to be deterred by the mouth of the cellar. She didn’t seem to be though it wasn’t until afterwards that Parker realized that if there was one who probably wouldn’t have, it was her - after all, she came to the museum specifically for knowledge on which bugs were considered the scariest. So with that, Parker was ready to lead the way into the basement of this antiquity of a house in the neighborhood where the sun sets astonishingly early, which is fine by him. Instead of falling silent and letting the treasures that waited below sit in anticipation for their arrival, he opted to follow up on some of her statements and inquiries. “Of course; you aren’t fae, you’re out of my jurisdiction.” He loosely repeated what he said that day at the museum as he descended the stairs. “What you are is none of my business.” Once he was a few steps down, he reached into the darkness and flipped a switch from seemingly nowhere, bathing the room in rich warm light. It was decorated almost like a jazz lounge, with deep wood panels on the floor and partially covered with a large wine-red rug. There was a recliner in the corner with a small table next to it and a few books stacked on top of it. Tucked under the staircase was a bookshelf that was molded to fit into the space but while there were a healthy amount of books, half of the shelves were covered with decidedly stranger things such as taxidermies of what appeared to the untrained eye as ‘fairies’, more jars that contained a variety of strange-looking creatures and the stretched mandibles of a large insect. The main attraction and one that was impossible to miss as one made their descent, however, were the wings. In large display cases both on the wall and a few glass stands aesthetically placed on the floor were wings much too large to belong to any normal insect and far too exotic to seem to be from earth itself. One of the sets on the wall were hooked at the ends, representing pincers, a deep rusty red in color. Another in one of the stands flowed around each other appearing almost like water, though if you looked closely you could almost tell that they moved with an unseen, impossible breeze through their feathers. There were about seven pairs in total, each one as unique as where they came from, the light dancing off the intricate patterns and ethereal textures. “This… is my collection.” Parker reached the bottom and immediately his expression turned into something few had seen. It was gentle, soft, as though he were a normal man gazing upon the angelic visage of a child. He hadn’t forgotten that she asked how Wardens could sense their quarry but at the moment, he was taken by the beauty of what he created, the hours of meticulous work, the spark of his imagination that was strange, but unique in his vision. He didn’t even looked back at Inge to watch her reaction; for a few moments, she could’ve fatally stabbed him and he probably wouldn’t have even acknowledged her.

—

Parker Wright was certainly an interesting individual, different from the other hunters Ingeborg had come across in her decades roaming this earth. He was informative, somehow almost respectful of her supernatural form. Ignorant, even, too ignorant to know what a mare was and that they bled glitter and had glowing red eyes. And then, of course, there was that tendency to collect. This cool attitude towards his appreciation and approach. From the few interactions they had (two, actually, including this one) she figured him an apathetic individual.

“Good. And what you do is none of mine.” Because it shouldn’t be. Inge had no interest in making more hunter enemies. This wasn’t to say she was looking for hunter friends, either: she sought experience, the kind of things that could still stir her and move her, affect her in a way that most other things no longer did. Thrill. Shock. Fucking anything. Life was fun, certainly, with the way she followed whim and little reason, but it was also sometimes incapable to make her feel alive. She figured herself an apathetic person as well, after all.

But the warden seemed not so apathetic after all, once he was in his basement – which was decidedly less intimidating with the light on – and a sheen of peace seemed to pass over his face. Inge kept her composure, following down after him and letting her eyes take in the neatly decorated room, where suddenly a level of taste did reveal himself. Parker Wright was, as it turned out, a basement-dweller. It was almost funny.

Eyes passed over books and jars, but remained stuck on the sight of wings. Her breathing ceased as she approached, an almost human response if you forgot that she didn’t need to breathe. In front of her were wings, similar to those of a bee but somehow more colorful and large, large enough that they could fit between her shoulderblades and look like they could fit there. She was, for a moment, silent. This was a perfect representation of what was wrong with hunters, wasn't it? Entitled creatures born in some kind of murderous legacy where they felt they were owed something — people's lives, or in this case their body parts. Displayed in a cozy reading room. It was, in a sense, horrifying. The glow on his face, the pride with which he brought her in, the way it was clear he came here often. Hunters would call themselves protectors and then do this. At least she was willingly offering blood, but that was because she had plenty of it. How had he acquired the rest of these bits of the supernatural? What kind of force had it required? Was it a byproduct of murder, like a serial killer collecting trophies or was it something else entirely? She turned to look at him. “Impressive,” she said. “How do you get your hands on them?” There was no judgment in her tone. Inge knew how to play docile when she had to. She moved to look at a different pair. No matter her disapproval, these wings were still a beautiful sight and she’d always had an appreciation of the aesthetically pleasing.

—

Much to his relief, Inge hadn’t shied away or immediately gotten aggressive, as people tended to do when they saw his work. Parker didn’t necessarily blame them, simply attributing their horror and disgust as intellectually-weak and unable to appreciate the artistic beauty in his arrangements. Or even a misplaced sense of duty, an empty sympathy for creatures they’d never met and couldn’t know about unless they were there. The assumption that fae were innocent beings and that all hunters were inherently evil was something Parker was warned about in his youth. ‘They’ll never look at you like you’re one of them, like you’re protecting them’ he heard his father’s voice in his head. ‘You’re different. Your brain is broken but I’m not upset about it anymore. You need to find your own way to fulfill your role as a Wright Warden.’

This was what Parker did, the man with the inadequate mind, the Warden who was assumed to treat anything non-human as the pestilence it was when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Fae were entitled, possessive, petty but enjoyed fine things and collecting their own treasures. He was a reflection, or so his brother had told him once; they liked to play their games but acted affronted when someone decided to play by their rules, as though surprised that they weren’t the only ones who could think. Parker could collect things, too. It wasn’t about the kill or the despair - it was simply about the acquisition of things he deemed precious. He knew deep down that they understood that. None of that mattered now though as Parker pulled his gaze away from the sylph wings, his blue-eyed stare, softened with appreciation for his own work, drifted over to Inge. “I ask for them.” He explained. “Sometimes they say yes - those entomid wings you were standing near, she hated them. Never wanted to see them again.” He straightened up, placing a hand on his stomach with a twitch of his upper lip as he went over closer to the succubus. “Others are more violent. Sometimes I have to kill them but that’s not preferable.” He gazed up at another pair with a soft exhale. “Otherwise, sedation. Surgery. I make it as quick and painless as possible. Then I leave them somewhere they won’t be exposed to live and walk among humans, doing whatever it is they did before.” He turned his head now, his eyes following behind from gazing at the nymph’s appendages to snap to her. “Most of them don’t take compensation. But I’m willing to pay for them. I have before and I am now.” One of Parker’s eyebrows flickered up for a moment. “Is your blood still an offer? I have a space on my shelf for it.”

—

Inge didn’t do fear, at least not for herself. Fear was failure, wasn’t it? It was a confession to the humanoid side that remained within her, that young mother she’d once been, plagued by nightmares that seen her institutionalized, afraid of the man she’d married and looking at her daughter as if she was the greatest opportunity for both success and failure she’d ever get. Fear was something of days past — but it snuck in. Not now, certainly, now there was only a quiet anger and disgust. But still, an instinct unfurled.

The wings were things of beauty. So, to her, were mares. There had been days with Sanne where they had laid on an abandoned corner of a beach, shining bright in the sun. They had looked in each other's red-glowing eyes at midnight, met each other in the astral and other dreams. Beauty could be terrifying — was perhaps best when terrifying. It was hard not to look away, even as the other explained how he’d gotten his hands on them.

How pitiful, to hear of a fae who had wanted to be separated from such glorious things. If Inge had wings (preferably leathery and black, like those of a corvid) she’d never let them go. “Ah.” She looked at the other as he calmly explained his history with murdering for trinkets and nonconsensual surgery. Quick and painless, he called it, as if it was a favor, and she swallowed her tongue to stop herself from wondering who he thought he was, to be entitled to any of this. To decorate a room that nearly no one saw with the body parts of creatures better than him. It didn’t scare her, no, but it fazed her. There was no use in anger, to become justly furious over actions that had occurred in the past. There was no point in attack, either — Inge was no good at combat, and she valued her life most above all else. Heroism was reserved for others. “So why let them live, when you’ve taken from them? Shouldn’t hunters …” She cocked her head as she looked at him. “Finish the job?”

Her fingers flexed. The astral was so easily accessed, but she wasn’t a coward. She did not do fear, but she certainly did disgust. At least those years married to Hendrik – when she’d still been pitifully human – had prepared her to pretend not to be disgusted. Inge lifted her shoulders. More money never hurt, especially as she grew more and more uncomfortable in this town. It sadly did cost quite a bit to upheave her life and move. “It depends on what you’re willing to offer. My blood doesn’t come cheap. I don’t think you very likely to come across another one like me in your short lifetime,” she said, feeling comfortable in the lie. There were at least two more mares in this town. (No succubi, though, as far as she knew.) “How much are you willing to part with?”

—

He paused for a moment, letting the environment sink in. Was she afraid? If she was then she was proficient at hiding it. Was she disgusted? That seemed more likely but again, most people who didn’t know or couldn’t see the nuances in behavior, the appreciation for beauty tended to be disgusted. ‘How dare Parker take something that wasn’t his, it wasn’t as though fae did that– oh wait.’ It was his brother’s voice that said that in his head, a comment he remembered from many years ago. His brother was more cognizant of Parker’s thoughts than the man himself was most of the time. She had said a few things he would need to address but it made more sense in his mind to go in the same order she did, regardless of how that would affect the flow of conversation. He was a state of pseudo-euphoric bliss anyway; she could turn away and storm off, horrified or furious or whatever emotions she could choose to feel and he probably wouldn’t even pursue her. “Oftentimes, I find them first.” Parker explained, his eyes now dancing over every intricate detail of the bumblebee entomid’s wings. “When they’re existing in the world. Contrary to our reputation, not all Hunters are inherently bloodthirsty and obsessed with needless killing.” He cast her a brief glance. “My brother is that way. I’m not. If a human life isn’t actively in danger or if their illicit dealings are done out of my jurisdiction, I don’t seek fae to murder. “Some of them do want to die once I relieve them of their vestigial appendages.” The man seemed to lower his head in contemplation, a strange, corrupted reverence. “Some of them die because they relentlessly push back against my–” It was then that Parker suddenly cut himself short, a sharp inhale through his pointed nose barely audible. He cleared his throat and placed his hands behind his back. “They enter a fight-or-flight mode. But I don’t prefer to kill, even when they’re actively harming society behind closed doors.” Strangely, though knowing his history would’ve told someone that this shouldn’t have been the case at all, he was telling the truth. “Not to mention violence just makes things messy and might damage them.” He inhaled deeper this time, more collected after his brief but notable verbal slip-up. Whatever Parker was going to say in that moment had managed not to leave his mind and, indeed, it was questionable whether or not whatever that thought was was still there. “How much do you think it’s worth?” He asked now, turning his steely-eyed gaze to Inge. “If you’re to be believed, and at this juncture I’ve no reason to think you a liar, then I’d wager you actually think your blood to be priceless.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Though for the record, I don’t regret showing you my collection.” Not that he’d ever say that he enjoyed getting to share it with someone aloud.

—

Perhaps this was more terrifying than those murderous, single-minded hunters, or maybe Inge had just grown desensitized to the notion of slayers wanting her dead. Besides, if she were to die she left nothing for them to lay claim to besides a terrifying energy in the air. And sure, there had been hunters that had been excessively cruel (the same way, some would argue, Inge was to her sleepers) and had watched her suffer rather than go for the killing blow — but this was something else. A kind of entitlement that didn’t just pertain to a life, but to body parts.

It was, in a sense, inspiring. She wasn’t easily stirred or shaken after all, but here she was, her imagination twisting the things she saw into other images. She watched Parker, listened to him speak with that cool distance and thought about how hunters hated this about her kind: how they appeared so human if they wanted to. She didn’t believe in the concept of monsters, except for the creatures she created in nightmares — but if she was to be one, then he certainly was one also. One who claimed pacifism despite the proof of his mutilations around him. “So you have a code you abide by, then.”

That was more than she could claim. Inge tried to avoid murder herself, certainly, seeing no value in letting her sleepers die (and then becoming competition) and having a few limits to what she tended to do (haunting people she knew intimately, for example, or plaguing her students with nightmares) but still. Morality was dull to her. “Well, it seems that the way you approach it all leaves you with some beautiful benefits. It is a gorgeous collection.” And it was. Things could be beautiful and terrifying all at once. She looked at him intently, trying to gauge what words he’d swallowed and why he’d done as such. “I suppose it makes sense, though, that they put up a fight, and that you give one in return.” Only part of that statement she agreed with. “I doubt you’d want someone to take your arms, but I recognize that your arms and these wings … are not the same.”

She considered that question for a moment, “Sure, my blood is priceless. Very precious to me. It is, however, much like your own: I can lose a fair bit of it and be okay.” How mortal, to let someone draw her blood. Would he check her values? It was almost amusing. “You wanted a vial, no? I’m sure I’ll live after parting with that. Compensation wise, though …” She thought, hummed a little. “Five thousand US dollars? Wired or cash, I don’t mind.” Inge looked around. “And I’d like to see your workspace. You’ve got me intrigued.”

—

“...Thank you.” Those words were very personal, very rarely said coming from him as Parker’s expression softened slightly but not because of the fondness with which he held his collection. Make no mistake, he was immensely proud of it, despite the voices of negativity, both quiet and loud. It was something he was good at, something even he could create, something even he could do when he couldn’t do anything according to his father. It was something he poured his time and effort into, something intimate. A treasure for him to clean and admire during sleepless nights. His collection was something that made him feel, that much he knew but the acknowledgment also made him feel and that was the small, priceless thing that Parker coveted more than he ever remembered until it came up. She was probably just saying that to placate him, Parker understood that almost as immediately as she said it but she said it regardless. And he fell for it regardless. She had complimented his work, even if the true beauty was in the wings themselves and he was just the tool that helped immortalize them. It was an unfair deal and a selfish hoard, inherently, but it was also an addiction that he refused to acknowledge. A machine’s drive, a hunt to chase that feeling. Five thousand dollars was her asking price and the numbers printed themselves through Parker’s mind, comparing it to things he’s sold, jobs he’s done, work, effort, labor. She was supposedly a succubus, surely her blood was worth more than that? Or perhaps she was much older than he thought and money wasn’t that big of a deal despite her saying it didn’t come cheap. He thought on it for a moment and his eyes were lifted to glance up and to the right slightly in thought. And then there was the matter of her wanting to see his workspace. He’d never allowed a non-fae to enter it before, excluding the insects but even then, most of the time he did that in the house. It was one thing to introduce her to the displays in the basement, another entirely to bring her to where he operated, where he worked the hardest on his projects. It was a private place, one he valued knowing as well as valuing that other people didn’t know where it was. Parker slowly looked over at Inge, his unblinking expression narrowing and boring into her, as though trying to perceive what intentions lay under her pale skin, her shimmery blood. The risk was greater. Was the reward worth it? Parker could just pay her now and decline her request. “How do I know you won’t use that against me.” He asked, his tone lacking accusation but the concern, subtle as it was, still tinged his flat delivery.

—

There was concern in his voice and Inge reveled in it. Not from a place of cruelty, but because in a way she felt a level of concern herself — not closely, not viscerally, but still. All around her was proof of the results of the others hard, torturous labor, the rewards he’d reaped from violent and intrusive sewing. From theft and entitlement. From being, at the end of the day, a hunter. A poacher.

Inge was a liar, and a good one at that, and this meant she assumed most others were duplicitous as well. At least in these corners of the world, where people were aware of the supernatural and didn’t mind causing harm the way some mere humans would. Perhaps Parker Wright was telling the truth, but what did it matter? He still stood among the proof of his greed and there was no way of knowing whether there were uglier intentions lying beneath his willingness to pay her. So wasn’t she the one who should be concerned?

That was why she wished to see it, why she thought this a risk worth taking. Fear and concern for her well-being were emotions Inge thought below her, but the fact that something in her had been stirred was still thrilling. Was something she wished for again. This wasn’t enough, this nicely decorated room with pretty things, this after-effect of the other’s methods and approach to his status as a hunter. This wasn’t enough to appease that part of her that needed constant shocking in order to function.

“How do I know that you will not use it against me? I hope you can appreciate the risk it might be for me to come down there and offer my blood,” she pointed out, tone calm and flat as well. What if he’d trap her with salt lines or cover the keyhole? What if he brought out an axe? What if he knew, somehow, that she’d been lying about her nature?

Maybe both their respective concern was valid, because there could be a future in which Inge used this knowledge against him. She felt no loyalty to any hunter, but for now he had two things she wanted: cold hard cash and a place that might inspire her both as an artist and nightmare creator. “There is no way to know either of us won’t use this against the other. I can tell you I have no interest in doing so — I’m here and will be there as a curious individual. Chalk it up to my demonic nature, to wish to see these things.” Sure, that made sense. It wasn’t even half a lie. “I suppose what we have to do is trust each other. Which, considering … might not be easiest. But I can assure you I have no motives besides curiosity and intrigue.”

—

There were times that Parker wondered if part of his inability to properly read other people was because of a fae’s inability to lie. They played word games, avoiding topics, opting out of certain terminology and danced through carefully-crafted sentences and structures but he could always tell when they were lying. It was a double-edged knife, a gift that harmed both of them at some point or another. Here, he wasn’t sure of her true intentions. He didn’t know if she was actually a demon, he didn’t know if this was part of some grander scheme. He didn’t know if Ingeborg was her real name. He couldn’t tell if she was lying which made both of them more human than he’d have liked as they stood in one of his troves of gilded treasures. But while Parker couldn’t tell if she was lying, what he could do was allow himself the time to do some research. He was a Warden (and a rather isolated one, at that) but he’d made and kept contact with others over the years, irritating as they were to deal with. Or perhaps he should look into an exorcist? … Or he could just consult some religious texts. In any case, the gears started turning in his head as he took three steps in one direction, then turning and taking the same three steps the other direction - a slow, steady pace back and forth, all the while keeping those blue eyes on her keenly. A deep inhale, quiet through him but lingering in the silence between them. “Very well.” Parker replied quietly. “Give me one week to gather the funds and sort my affairs.” Even as he said the words, he felt that tug of uncertainty on his mind. It was a rare feeling, one he wasn’t accustomed to and wasn’t sure how to navigate around at the best of times. “Is that agreeable to you?” He asked, watching her carefully, wondering if maybe she’d call the whole thing off so he wasn’t the one who looked like he hit his limit first.

—

His pacing made him human, fragile, interesting. Inge watched it as she herself remained still, keeping any negative emotion and worry buried deep enough where she could not reach it herself. She was not human, after all. To Parker she wasn’t even a mare — to him she was something not born human, contrary to her actual nature, so all hints at humanity were abandoned. It was how she lived plenty of days anyway. Sure, as professor Endeman she played at humanity with dedication, but it was all play.

If she had any doubts, it was mainly about her asking price. Maybe she could have asked for more, bled this hunter more dry of his funds in exchange of her blood. Blood that, admittedly, spilled pretty easy and often — no matter how precious it was to her, it wasn’t that hard to get to. But to backtrack now would be bad praxis. “Very much so,” she said, deciding to come to an agreement despite instinctual distaste at this entire ordeal. All of this came back to her main philosophy: art demanded suffering. To be comfortable with life and existence would be to lose what she was. Inge moved towards the hunter and did what she never did with his ilk: she shook his hand in agreement.

#wickedswriting #writing // The Collector's Basement #writing with // Inge #The Collector // Writing

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nightmaretist · 1 year ago

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TIMING: Mid-December PARTIES: Zofia @zofiawithaz & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Dance Macabre/the streets around said bar SUMMARY: Inge finds Zofia in the undead nightclub by accident and addresses her — the two string up a conversation and find common ground. CONTENT WARNINGS: None.

Dance Macabre always enveloped her with welcome arms, it seemed. Inge didn’t really wish to go out in any place else in this godforsaken town, as she kept finding herself looking over her shoulder. Here, though, her kind gathered and here, she was certain she could find some kind of sanctuary. Nothing perfect, nothing that didn’t make her wonder if perhaps she should be looking out for that Cortez, that Rhett, that Owen.

She was in a good mood, all things considered. The alcohol helped. As did the relative absence of Christmas decorations in this place. But she was still alert, at least somewhat, and when she passed by a woman introducing herself to another as Zofia she halted, turning on her heel. Inge took her in, this dark-haired beauty and went over all she knew.

A woman scorned, a woman maimed, a woman seemingly maddened — these were all grounds for her hard-to-gain sympathy. But then she had undone Cassius, hadn’t she? And so, her empathy ended before it could even properly begin. She mixed herself into the conversation with little hesitation, not having struggled with taking up space in at least a few decades. “So you’re the elusive Zofia,” she said, extending a hand when she’d like to raise it to smack the other like she’d smacked Cassius. “Ingeborg.” She was sure to squeeze tight and smile sweet. “Heard a lot about you.”

___

Zofia needed a fucking drink.

She’d finally obtained some clothing that didn’t look as though it had taken a trip to hell and back and was also her own taste. She’d traded in the jeans and t shirt she’d been given by Alistair for some new finery the moment she’d had the means to do so. Donned in sheer black lace cut in a deep v down her chest, maroon pants, and red lipstick, she felt more herself than she had in an eternity.

Sat at the bar, she kicked one leg over the other as she surveyed the space. No familiar faces. For the best, probably. She wasn’t sure she could deal with complicated reunions and questions of where she’d been. Or worse, running into those she’d already seen since she’d been back.

She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, downing the last of her drink. She felt a tap on her shoulder and a face she didn’t recognize asked if she was someone named ‘Jessica’. Did she look like a Jessica? “No. I’m Zofia. Sorry.” The stranger went on their way, and Zofia went back to her drink.

Her name carried over the music from a voice she hadn’t heard before, and Zofia felt as though she’d been doused in ice water. She went still as a statue, fighting every urge to hastily dispatch whoever it was and get the fuck out of there. But that would cause a scene, and scenes were bad for people trying not to be hunted again. That and something about promising to try and better herself and then lashing out sat wrong with her. A fake smile gritted across her face, appearing more like the bared teeth of a wild animal.

She turned, taking in the other woman, trying to assess if she was a threat or not. “I’m at a disadvantage, Ingeborg.” She took the woman’s hand, giving it a shake. “You seem to know me, but I don’t know you.” Her eyes narrowed. “So who sent you?”

_____

Was she a bad friend, for being intrigued by this elusive creature? Sofie, the person she’d only ever known as Cassius’ disappeared lover as he’d never introduced them. Zofia, the person who had left him crumbled upon her return. Were there other versions of her out there, just like she carried her past versions with her? Nika Beinhacker, Ingeborg Beenhakker-de Jong, Ivonne Coëme and now Inge Endeman, all different editions of the same person. Who was this Zofia and perhaps more pressingly, why was she?

And she did resent her, this vampire who had hurt someone she cared for. But another part was intrigued, the way she often was. In a way that went against better judgment, in a way that made her cross whatever boundaries she may have set for herself. Inge had never been a person of very strong principles. She followed her heart, and if not, she followed her desire for whimsy, inspiration and distraction. She wasn’t sure win what category the vampire fell, yet.

The other didn’t seem quite as charmed by her, as it turned out, and Inge was intrigued by this. She was quick to take the seat next to the vampire, settling easily as she crossed her legs and considered her drink options. That could come later, though.

“Oh, no, no. No one send me. I am not someone who is sent.” She gave a knowing smile, which hardly revealed anything. Perhaps she should try harder at not seeming like a hunter type, but the notion of her being anything like a hunter was so offensive to her that she hardly considered it. She turned her attention to the barkeep, ordering another round of, “Whatever she’s having, for the both of us.”

Then, back to Zofia. Sophie. Sofieke. Whoever. “We have a mutual …” Inge thought for a moment, then shrugged, deciding against a label, “Cassius. I heard you went through quite an ordeal, but …” Tsk, her lips clicked together. “Have been causing a stir yourself. That’s all. I figured we should meet and hey, here you are.”

————-

She was pretty. About the same height as her, with big brown eyes and auburn hair. Zofia’s eyes flickered from feature to feature, looking for any clues as to what she was, and what she was up to. She had come to Dance Macabre, so there was a good chance the woman no longer had a pulse. Or she was a hunter who was running the risk of being caught for the sake of staking out a target. Literally.

The stranger ordered another round, and a few moments later two dry vodka martinis with lemon twists floating on top were set before them. Good. The drink would make whatever this was about to be more tolerable.

At the sound of an all too familiar name, Zofia took a lengthy sip of her drink. “I imagine whatever you heard of my ordeal is lacking in details.” Another lengthy sip as she started thinking of an exit strategy. There had to be other places to drink in this town where she wasn’t likely to get a stake in her chest. Or that didn’t have friends of Cassius lurking to confront her for her actions at their little reunion.

Perhaps, on second thought, being staked would be preferable.

“So you are a friend of his?” She asked. It wouldn’t surprise her. Cassius, after all, was a good person. A kind person. A person who frequented all the same spots as her- how the hell was she going to find new places to go when only a handful of places were designed for undead clientele?!

__________

She gave a hum of approval at the drinks that appeared, taking her glass and taking a small sip. The vampire had good taste, that at least could be said. Inge could appreciate that. As for who she was and what she’d gone through and done subsequently — well, she hadn’t quite made up her mind. For all the love she had for Cassius, she did sometimes think his judgment to be rather poorly. (Which in Zofia’s case could be a blessing or a curse.)

Not that Zofia’s judgment seemed all that sound. Leaving bodies around for a past lover was admirable on a dramatic level, but otherwise a rather outrageous action. “Well, they do say every story has many sides. I’ve heard his.” Inge shrugged. “I am not opposed to hearing yours.”

And that was true. She had been in a position like this before, hadn’t she? Escaped from hunters, her mind frazzled and not quite her own. Looking over her shoulder. She was a solitary creature, one of little loyalties, but she did feel a kinship with her fellow undead — most especially when they had fallen into the claws of some cruel slayers. “What I do know is that hunters can do a number on you. Irregardless of whatever else.”

Inge nodded, circling the rim of her glass. “Yes. But like I said, he didn’t send me. It’s — well, pure coincidence.” She smiled, as if it was a lucky and happy accident. She considered rubbing in the other’s face that Cassius was properly heartbroken, but swallowed the words.

———

The music changed in the club to something with a consistent pulsing beat. It made Zofia’s skin crawl. She lifted the glass in a half-salute before downing another sip, trying to chase the thoughts away.

Her eyebrow raised over the lip of her martini glass as the other woman offered to listen to her story. “Are you asking out of morbid curiosity?” The music thumped on. Her eyes closed, her face screwing up in concentration as she tried to shove away the matching plink plink plink of leaky pipes in her mind. The tempo changed and the thoughts subsided.

A sad smile settled on her face. So that was it. She sat back in her seat, her hackles no longer completely raised. “They certainly can.” She sighed. “Tell me, how old are you?” Zofia cocked her head to the side. How much had she experienced? How much running, how much fear? How much living had she done?

She hummed, unamused. It figured that the universe would have a warped sense of humor. Depositing friends of his directly into her path. “It’s a small world, after all.” Zofia glanced around the space, trying to determine who else might be a friend of Cassius’s, intent on coming over and reminding her of what she’d done just by announcing his name. “Care to take this conversation outside? It’s quieter.” And less of a chance of being overheard. And there were more routes for a quick escape.

———

Many things Inge did were out of morbid curiosity. She’d watched a zombie maul a man because of it, just as she’d entered Parker’s workshop because something within her needed to be satiated. But this wasn’t really one of these cases — whatever Zofia had done and gone through wasn’t bound to stir her to her core like a hunter’s place for torture, after all.

Maybe it was simple solidarity. She did think that important among her fellow undead and besides, she could not help but draw a parallel between what she’d heard about Zofia and what she herself had gone through. “No. Curiosity, yes. Morbid, no.”

Some relief seemed to spread through the other which was a welcome sight. Inge didn’t mind people being distrustful of her, but she disliked it a little when it came to people like Zofia. Undead. “Almost eighty,” she said, knowing it could be relatively young by certain standards. “What about you?”

She nodded. “Exactly.” Never mind that Zofia had returned to Wicked’s Rest, rather than flee to another town — which is what Inge would have done, in her shoes. Always running, barely ever returning in case of what if. She considered the other’s proposition. “What do you suggest? An alley, in stead?” That wasn’t particularly safe, either. “A quieter place would do, though. We could go for a walk?”

________

Zofia could respect curiosity. A little. She thought. But what good had sharing the little details of her life done for her in the past? Gotten her friends? Maybe so. But where had those friends been when she’d needed them? She took another long sip of her drink.

Almost eighty. The ‘almost’ drew a smile from the vampire. It reminded her of when little children insisted they were almost the age they’d be in eleven months, which meant they were practically a grown up. Of course, almost eighty was long past childhood. Long enough to experience, long enough to grieve, to love, to mourn, to hurt… But still young. It was closer to childhood than Zofia had been in a long, long time. “Three hundred fourteen. Three hundred fifteen in the new year.”

Taking one last sip of her drink, she set some money down on the bar before sliding off her chair. “A walk sounds good.” Moving was good. Moving meant if she was being followed she would notice sooner rather than later. She slipped her coat on, wrapping herself in the burgundy wool, even if the cold night air wouldn’t really bother her. She extended her arm for the other old woman to link her arm through before heading out the door. “I’m sure you have questions.” She sighed, glancing back at the other woman. “Will you ask them now, or shall I start at the beginning?”

_______

Oh, she was old. Properly old. Inge felt a tinge of inferiority spread through, almost wished she had lied about her age — seventy seven was still just a human age, one that people lived to with some back pain and complaint but generally little issue. But being over three centuries old, now that was an accomplishment.

But she swallowed her insecurity and gave a look that did reveal her being impressed, “Good job on sticking around for so long.” Not everyone managed, did they? She’d known undead like them to lose their minds in their immortality. Though that might be a kinder fate than having your head chopped off. She thought of Sanne, how there had been a small moment of her head falling before she’d turned into dust.

She threw down some money as well, still wanting to pay for the round she’d ordered on proud principle and wrapped her own body in her leather trenchcoat. She’d gotten it in the nineties. Inge stared at the arm offered to her, bemused and surprised by this move, and took it. If it was a challenge, she’d meet it. If it wasn’t, then she wasn’t sure what it was. Once the night air greeted them, it seemed the conversation was bound to properly start. “I’d rather you tell it however you want. I know speaking of such matters isn’t always the most … easy.” She certainly did not talk of the ways hunters haunted her, still. “Speak, if you’re fine with that. If you’d rather have questions, sure. Start with what happened.”

________

Zofia snorted. “It goes by in a blink.” She’d heard it said so many times over the years, from people with white hair that spilled around faces with lines and wrinkles. People with eyes that spoke of a wealth of human joys and sorrows. She wondered what her eyes spoke of. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know anymore.

Ingeborg linked her arm in Zofia’s, and the vampire led on. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, she sang over and over in her thoughts. She didn’t know if she had friends any longer. It was safer to keep everyone so very very close. The closest of enemies, so that she could see the cogs tick in their minds, so she could figure out the trap before it snapped shut with her inside.

She sucked the cold night air in, embracing the chill. “It’s a story that started some time ago.” Zofia said simply. “You would have been a young thing. Maybe in your twenties. I had a family. A family that I chose, and for hundreds of years a family that continued to choose me. And god, did we live.” A wistful smile stole at her features, only to be swept away as the story continued. “Someone plucked them all away from me. Dead. Missing. Who’s to say, really. I never saw them again, and I gave up hope that they’d ever turn up a long time ago.”

“And then I started to rebuild. Let myself enjoy life again. Enjoy love. And…” She cut herself off, her eyes darting toward an alley at the sound of a crunch. She watched, waiting for the trap to spring to life. A rat skittered out of a dumpster with some papers in its little mouth, squeaking as it scampered away with its prize. She continued walking.

“It was dark there. You’d think I wouldn’t mind the dark, since I can’t enjoy the sun anymore. You’d think it would have been a wonderful little respite. But it’s never been fully dark out here. I’ve always had the stars… the moon…” Zofia looked up at the distant, twinkling lights. A reminder that she had found a way out. “A dark, small room. A bunker, really. In the ground, deep down, below some old cabin in the woods. Probably long since forgotten by everyone in this damned town, except for the monsters who hunt things like us.”

“They were looking for information.” She continued, not wanting to live in the details for any longer than what was necessary. “They used all the tricks of their trade. All the things they knew could hurt, to try and figure out where the members of my clan, my family, had hidden themselves away. I was the easiest to find. The easiest to catch. The weakest remaining link. And they tried so very hard to break me.” Her voice wobbled. She stopped talking for a few minutes, refusing to cry in front of a stranger, especially one who’s knowledge of Zofia consisted of information gained from a love story that had ended spectacularly badly. “They succeeded. Just not in the way they were hoping.”

She couldn’t always see them. Couldn’t always hear them. But she knew they followed. The ghosts that had visited her. Haunted her. Watched her, unable or unwilling to help. She could see them now. Lurking just at the corner of her vision. Still not helping. Still not quite comforting. Simply watching. Waiting. Zofia fixed her gaze on the woman who’s presence she’d proven to herself was real when she’d taken her arm. “What questions do you have.”

__________

“So they say,” Inge said. And she supposed on one hand life had flown by. How many years had it been since her daughter had died? Since Sanne? Since she had died? It all still felt like something that had happened not much longer than a few weeks ago while simultaneously feeling like a lifetime ago. Decades stretched, decades melted together. Time was an incomprehensible thing, both in dreams and in real life.

As the other started speaking she moved with her in tandem. She had always envied the vampires and their clans, those houses and families that stayed together forever. She’d had Sanne once, her former nightmare and for a while current dream — but it hadn’t been the same. She was glad for her nature, did not envy those that had to drink blood to survive (boring, compared to the nightmares) but mares were often so solitary. Even if named after animals that moved in packs.

But what good where these micro-societies when hunters could rip them apart? It meant there was more to lose, more to leverage against you. Inge did not envy Zofia any more in that regard. The losses she’d suffered had ruined her enough, she figured.

She let her talk, resisting the urge to interject or let out an expletive, but her expression was one of empathy. Slayers were a cruel kind. Never able to simply kill, it seemed. Taking advantage of the undying bodies of their prey that could be maimed endlessly. She needn’t ask what had happened. She remembered Italy. She remembered Switzerland. She remembered Wicked’s Rest.

The story wrapped with a request for questions, as if Zofia was one of her students presenting a piece of art. Inge looked at her inquisitively. Her eyes were red. She should don her sunglasses. “First off, I am sorry that some people felt entitled to ruining your family. That they thought — that there was some righteousness there, that it was their right to. They’ve taken from me too.” Sanne’s head toppled from her neck and turned into dust before it could hit the ground. She blinked up at the stars. “And I am sorry they did this to you. It is an ugly delusion, that they think they can. That they think —” She shook her head. “It makes them better than us. I’ve always figured it makes them worse.” At least vampires healed fast, she figured. At least there was that blessing. In this area she envied her blood-drinking kin, too.

“Did they survive you, in the end?” That was most important. “Are they after you, still?” That mattered to her personally, too. More slayers was never a good thing, especially not in this damned town. “And … what is it you’re after?”

__________

Zofia knew what pity felt like. It was cloying and smothering and altogether intolerable. This wasn’t pity. This was understanding. She didn’t cringe away from the red eyes as they studied her. Whatever Ingeborg had been through in her life, it was enough to compare to the last half century of her own life. Steely eyes shifted to a red that matched Inge’s, and Zofia met the younger woman’s gaze.

“I’m sorry for whatever cruelties you’ve endured at their hands.” She wasn’t used to this understanding. It wasn’t uncomfortable, thankfully. It was bolstering. It made her feel as though she could reforge the broken bits of her with damascus steel, remake herself into something that would not be torn asunder again. They both could.

“Only one was there when I got out.” A dark smile drew up the corners of her mouth as a memory of lullabies and the metallic scent of fresh blood drifted through her mind. “I wish I could say he got what he deserved, but I didn’t have time for that. He’s burning in hell, all the same.”

The smile fell as another face drifted through her mind. “The one in charge wasn’t home. He’s still out there. And the other one probably had friends.” Zofia took a moment, mulling over the final question. “Everything they took from me. Security. Family. Peace. And I won’t have any of those things until I see the life fade from their eyes. Is that too much to ask for?”

———

She supposed that was an acceptable way of putting it. Having endured cruelties at their hands. Inge refused the title of victim. It was not one she would don, not for Hendrik, nor Sanne and certainly not a handful of hunters. But she had endured cruelties at all their hands. Endured, being the key word, cruelty being the condemnation of the other party. To have gone through it made them stronger. To have doled it out made the perpetrators worse than them. (Still – she didn’t quite think her ex-husband or creator perpetrators. She preferred not to think of them at all.)

“It’s okay,” she said resolutely. “I will outlive them all, in the end. And so will you.” Those slayers, with their petty lifespans and their even pettier lives … most of them didn’t make it that far in life. “Let every scar we bear remind us of what we’ve managed to survive, hm?” This unlife was to be a celebration.

Zofia had killed one of her tormentors. That was good, Inge thought. A closure of sorts. She wondered if the vampire was vengeful enough to after the rest of them. “Good. Let him burn there forever.” She wondered for a moment how the other murdered. Was it all vampiric fangs and bloodshed? She carried herself with grace now, but perhaps she was more brutal out there.

She halted, looking at the vampire. “I understand.” Did she? She ran from her tormentors. She ran from town to town, finding no security, no peace, no family. But art — there was always new art. “It is an understandable approach. They deserve nothing less.” Inge wasn’t going to offer her assistance. She barely went after the slayers she encountered. Worse, she’d recently bought one a drink and fucked another. “You deserve nothing less.”

But. There was a but. She let it dangle in the air for a moment before grabbing it. “But, Cassius. Can you leave him be? I know — well, I don’t, not fully. But whatever transpired, it must ache.” Sanne’s head toppled from her neck. A lost lover could make one quite lost. “I suggest you do if you want those things in this town. Security. Peace.” Inge shrugged. “Perhaps even family.”

———

“That we will.” She certainly planned to outlive hers. It would be easy, since she didn’t plan to rest much until they were incapable of doing harm to her or anyone else again. Though Zofia supposed it would be easier when the scars weren’t still open wounds on her soul. It would be easier when every noise and shadow wasn’t another threat. If that day ever came.

A dark smile danced across her features for a moment. It was a memory that gave her comfort. One gone. She managed to avenge the lives of those she’d lost and herself, even just a little.

She paused in their walk, the humor that had momentarily flickered in her eyes all but snuffed out at the reminder of who she was there on behalf of. Even if she hadn’t been sent by him, he’d no doubt hear of this exchange in passing. “That won’t be an issue,” Zofia’s affect was cool and detached. “He has another, now.” Now. As if so much time had passed. The vampire felt herself bristle. Replaceable. Was that what she was? A piece that could be swapped out and exchanged easily with another?

“Perhaps,” she echoed, the anger that had bubbled up fading at the mention of the one thing she still, somehow wanted. Family. “I’ll rebuild, I’m sure.”

_______

There was a switch, like all the heat was sucked out of the air. Inge wasn’t surprised. She looked at Zofia calmly, vaguely understanding of the anger of a scorned woman but also, most of all, protective of Cassius. It was a strange balance to try and uphold. To care for him while also understanding her.

Because there was a string of past lovers, faces that had come after Sanne. She had broken some – if not most – of their hearts, but some of them had left her own metaphorical one cracked. There was still, even after all these years and all her experience, something deeply intimate and vulnerable about the exposure of sex, the constant return for it. She was still emotionally driven, more than by lust. She’d haunted a man who’d broken her heart, once. She got it.

But she wouldn’t tolerate it. Not in herself, let alone in Zofia.

“Indeed.” And it was cruel of him, wasn’t it? To have moved on. It was, in a way. But matters of the heart often were. She got that, too. “And I am sorry, for that. It’s no easy thing. But there’s no use in … eyes for eyes, and the like.”

Inge hesitated for a moment, then linked her arm back with Zofia’s. “You seem like you know what you want. So you shall get it. And there’s plenty interesting people in this town, surely you know that.” Cassius was one of them — but there was a whole world beside him. “If there’s one thing our kind has, it’s time.”

———

“Well there is a use for it,” the vampire sighed, shaking her head. “But not in this case. Not with him. I can spend that currency elsewhere. With people who actually deserve what is coming to them.” Zofia would rather spend her resources securing her safety and exacting her revenge on the hunters that had taken everything from her than wasting it on someone who, at the end of the day, did not deserve it.

She let out a soft huff. “I’m very old. I have only so much time before some switch in me flips and whatever humanity I cling to burns out like a lightbulb. If there’s even much of it left, now. This town may be full of interesting people, but I’m not sure time has much left in that particular deck of cards for me.” Still, there was no point in writing it off entirely. She could still enjoy herself, if she could allow anyone close enough to her to enjoy.

“You have my word. I’ve no intention of hurting your friend. I have better things to occupy my time with, and no interest in spending it hurting myself further.”

———

Inge had killed a slayer before. Humans died so easily compared to the likes of her. Lacerations of her skin hurt, but she would never bleed out, her skin would always regrow — but humans bled. Humans didn’t need their heads cut off or their bodies starved from sustenance for over a week. But when she’d taken a slayer’s life it hadn’t been calculated revenge. It had just been a move of self defense and desperation. She tended to run, after all, as that was the easiest option for her. Flee into the astral and look down on the world and its dangers. Except for that time. That time she’d drawn her gun and loosened all six bullets and disappeared.

Had it felt good? Sure. There had been a satisfaction. But it hadn’t lasted. Not because she felt guilty, but because in that case death wasn’t the end. She was still looking over her shoulders, there were still hunters out there. It had been futile. It was not something to just throw on the table, though, this insight in that fear of hers she was still convinced didn’t exist. “Good. Focus it on them, then.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. Maybe the issue is that you’re still thinking in terms of humanity when we’re not human any more and haven’t been in some time,” Inge said. “But you can find your people again. That we do need, hm?” Even she had her tethers. Even if she snipped them from time to time, when she ran.

She nodded, appreciative. “Perfect,” she almost smiled while saying it. Unsaid went the pain she’d already delivered to Cassius, but Inge wasn’t the type to think much of a slap to the face anyway. “Perhaps we can spend some of that time together, hm? I’d like to hear about all the things you’ve seen and done in your years.”

______

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “Perhaps,” the woman drawled. It was a difficult thing to let go of, humanity. She’d been playing pretend for centuries. Drinking blood from glasses as if it were simply another expensive vintage from the DuPont wine cellar. Zofia had known better, had always known better. It might do better to let herself be something more. Something new. Something not quite human, but not quite monster. And perhaps it was time to find more like minded people.

“ I think,” The flicker of a smile caught on her lips and lingered. “I think I’d like that very much.”

#threads.#zofia.#friend of a friend.

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