Mal Lilystone

Mal drew a deep breath into her lungs: fulfilling her desire for oxygen even though her true desire was to hold it in her body until she had died for the last time. Not that she was suicidal or depressed, but because life was just so fucking boring.

Humans were all the same. Others all pretended they were different and unique; not that any of them would ever know the meaning of the word anyways.

She reached a hand up and knocked on the ornate wooden door perched at the front of the homestead of the Fallen. She didn't know his name and she didn't really have a necessity to know it to get what she needed.

"Who sent you here?" a voice asked softly; a gentle, lulling whisper pushed through the slats of the door and forced into her head. At first, she wasn't quite sure that she had heard it in the first place.

"I am here to speak to you," she replied smoothly; her own voice a calming stroke of a clocktower reminding her that she's still alive. She knew very little about this man, save for the fact that insanity was a dear friend of his and was afraid that she did not know how to handle him.

Sure, her friend Leo had been a little insane at times but she had never really known him to be the sporadic kind and had never seen him at his worst times. He had made sure of that. Maybe he found it as some sort of protection; in the particular instance, Mal had found it as a curse.

Not all crazy is the same, Mal, you'd do good to remember that. We are all insane in some aspects, and we are all not the same in these ways. Vlad's voice ricocheted in her skull, carving cavernous coffins into the one thing protecting her brain from being turned to mush.

"What do you want?" his voice was airy, afraid, and a light song carried away by the nighttime breeze.

"I hear you have a specific dagger," Mal brought this to his attention; watching and listening carefully for how he'd react. If she could figure out his ticks, she could figure out how to use them to her advantage.

"Oh? You mean... this dagger?" the door was swung open and the Fallen stepped out into the bask of the moonlight. He had hair the color of a raven's feathers and it was perfectly coiffed so that his bright green eyes clashed with it. He brought the point of the dagger up so that it flashed a small sliver of light into Mal's eyes and it nearly blinded her. She held back the urge to grimace and gave him a gentle smile.

"Exactly! That dagger!" she exclaimed, using all of her energy to feign surprise. His handsome features curved into giddy excitement and he pushed the tip of the dagger into her cheek; painting a splatter of blood on the edge of the blade.

"It's a pretty dagger, isn't it? I've been playing with it all morning," he smiled deviously; a wild look passing onto his face and contorting his features into something sinister. She could see his desire to spill her blood written on his face like he wore a novel that he wanted the entire world to be blessed with an opportunity to read.

"It's beautiful, just like you," she coated on her sugary sweetness and coaxed his ego into a calm state.

"I am beautiful, aren't I? A vision that would inspire so many masterpieces should I ever be in the presence of an artist," he smiled to himself and brought the dagger in front of his face so he could regard his features in the blade. Mal tried to suppress the urge to roll her eyes, but lost to her instincts. Luckily the Fallen was far too interested in his own image to notice.

"You are so beautiful that the song the birds sing is a praise to it; the tune that is carried upon the wind is only to spread news of your beauty," Mal spoke quietly, slowly inching herself closer to me as she lulled his insanity with talk of his appearance.

How to do this without striking more insanity to wash over him?

"Do you hear that?" he asked her abruptly; tilting his head and looking around as if someone had said something.

"What did you hear?" she questioned him in return and he blinked once before looking her directly in the eyes.

"They told me that you're here to steal my dagger, and then they said that the only proper way to he rid of a thief is to kill them," his smiled tilted up in a manner that made it look as though there were fish hooks in the corners of his mouth. His brow furrowed and he watched her every move like she were prey.

"I would never steal from anyone," she replied calmly, remaining rooted in her spot merely a few inches away from him. She refused to be afraid of this man and his lack of reasoning.

"Are you sure? I've already had to take care of two thieves today, I don't mind adding another onto the list," he opened the door to his house so she could see the two figures on the ground behind him. If Mal could remember correctly, their names were Ozias Alva and Imogen Swan.

Shame they had to go this way, but at least they won't annoy me anymore.

She thought this and immediately shuddered at the fact that she would even think it in the first place.

Your true voice lies within; who you are displays itself in how you think. Vlad's voice yet again was a prominent one in her head and she clenched her jaw, focusing on the task at hand.

"Why would I want to steal from you? I merely wished to be graced with your beauty," she gently laid a hand on his shoulder and directed him towards the mirror that sat in his entryway. She had to nudge the foot of one of the dead bodies aside so she could stand behind him and admire his facial structure.

He is quite handsome, I'll give him that.

"Look at me," he spoke, his smile coming to rest into something more like absent admiration and not killer mania.

"I could see better if you set the dagger down; the light is catching it so I can't quite see your entire face," she frowned softly with the hopes that he believed her lie.

He took this proposal into silent consideration before setting it down on the cabinet to his right; not taking his eyes off of himself. Mal smiled lightly; this time, her smile being genuine as she thought of what to do next. The Fallen was a ticking time bomb and any wrong move would tilt the odds out of her favor.

"Oh my goodness, I..." Mal reached up and felt for a necklace she knew would not be there, "I think I dropped my necklace,"

She let her face be twisted by an artificial fear as she looked around on the floor for the nonexistent jewelry.

"Is the necklace important?" he questioned her gently, still refusing to look away from his own reflection. She nodded her head, trying her best to remain in character as she slyly and swiftly snagged the dagger from the cabinet; tucking it into the back of her skirt and covering it with her shirt. The blade was about the same temperature as her body as it pressed against her skin. She stood up as straight as her spine would allow so as not to allow the dagger room to carve into her.

"I'm going to go look outside for it, I'll be back," she calmly backed out of the room and the moment that she was out of the house, she took off running.

It wasn't until the furious screams of the Fallen had subsided and they no longer echoed inside of her mind that she even stopped to catch her breath.

Let's hope this was worth it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ace Acadia

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foster S. Phoenix

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Cachail

The Cachail followed a simple code: protect the law, and protect the Court. On most occasions, protecting the law and protecting the Court were identical interests, seeing as the Court executed the law itself. Therefore, the Cachail could follow his personally-prescribed code without much difficulty.

When the law and the Court diverged, however, matters became complicated.

The Cachail found himself in Willow's office once again, the folded paper he had recovered spread out across her desk. A day had passed since his visit to Seventh Heaven, and the first-aid team at the precinct had easily purged the hallucinogens from his system. Having to explain the hallucinogens to his colleagues had proved more challenging, and the Cachail's mental tally of his own professional mistakes had grown. He'd ruined evidence, stolen from another investigator, and needlessly jeopardized his own health, all in the span of twenty-four hours. The Court could not be pleased with him; the anticipation of their disapproval had conjured a gaping sensation in his gut.

Now Willow stared evenly at the Cachail, golden irises glinting in the candlelight. The gaping sensation deepened. For not the first time in his career, the Cachail wished he could read Willow's conduct as well as he could others'.

"You've done well," she said at last, placing a hand on the stolen paper without breaking eye contact. The Cachail's brow furrowed. "The club drug could have been avoided, but the Court is impressed regardless. For an agent to imbibe pixie juice and continue to carry out their investigation...well, there's hardly a better test of one's skills."

The Cachail blinked, slowly and deliberately. The gaping sensation had turned to something else, fizzy and inarticulate, and he found that he'd lost his grasp on the situation. "I don't understand," he said.

"I didn't mean it literally," Willow replied, letting her gaze wander to a gold-framed portrait of her aged predecessor. "Of course, the entrance examination is the best test of skills available."

"That's not—" The Cachail paused. Willow did not understand his concern, meaning that she had somehow overlooked the errors in his professional conduct. Perhaps she was saving them to hold above his head at another time; perhaps she believed his actions had spoken for themselves.

But the Cachail would speak plainly. If he did not, he would continue to ruminate on his mistakes for the rest of the investigation.

"Let me be clear," said the Cachail, his words bereft of inflection. "I stole this—" and he pointed to the crumpled paper on the desk "—from a dead investigator. Earlier in the day, I damaged the skin on Dorian H'Langraash's arms. Does the Court intend to address either of these errors with me?"

Willow's face did not change. "Errors," she said, and the Cachail's mind spun.

The Court did not consider these errors.

"Willow," said the Cachail, his voice rising, "I stole from another investigator. I tampered with evidence. Do you mean to tell me that these are not errors?"

The Cachail's voice rose very rarely. Usually it was for effect, when an interrogation could benefit from feigned passion or when he needed to convey a false lack of coldness. He did not raise his voice naturally; he did not do so here.

Willow knew this, and so she understood the true thrust of the Cachail's question. He asked not to alleviate self-doubt, but to clarify the Court's stance on the investigatorial profession—a stance he had believed he understood.

"The Court considers these actions procedural," Willow replied coolly. "The frost damage on Mr. H'Langraash's arms was minimal, and it marks a devotion to protection of the other factions. You saved the lives of two dragons and a Seelie investigator. Anyone will assume that the Court intends to cooperate with the other investigations and will risk the well-being of its own agents to do so.

"As for the 'stolen' information, well, it wasn't exactly stolen, was it? Legally, property of the dead must be written in a will or deed, or else it's not property. No one could contest the acquisition of an unclaimed item, if anyone knew this item existed. But they don't, because you took it alone. Any squabble over 'spirit of ownership' or 'fair play' is irrelevant now."

The phrase "spirit of ownership" caught the Cachail's attention, and he leaned back in his chair as he considered it. The information the dead wraith had acquired should have passed to his organization of employ. This was the natural assumption, and honorable investigators would have adhered to it.

The Court, however, was not honorable. The Court was just, but did it not care for honor or"fair play." Of course, it cared for the appearance of caring for these things; this was why the the Court had embraced the Cachail's first mistake. In turn, it had embraced the Cachail's second mistake because no one had overseen the mistake, appearances were consequently unimportant, and the Court ultimately benefited.

The Cachail did not perform inter-faction investigations often. Unseelie crime against Unseelie victims was more common, mainly due to proximity and ease of access. But the Cachail's lack of experience in broader investigations had left him ignorant to the Court's relations with other factions, and he had assumed good will where there was none.

To honor the property of others, even that of the dead, was to be a good investigator. But to serve the Court was to be a good agent of the Court, and the Cachail had forgotten his true profession.

"I appreciate the clarification," said the Cachail, eyes drifting to the bracer on Willow's arm. Its current design, twitching with anticipated movement, was a building that the Cachail did not recognize. It appeared to be a cottage, with thick-paned windows and a ramshackle roof, but it dissolved into indiscriminate swirls before the Cachail could examine it further.

He was relieved, in a sense, that the Court would not admonish him for his actions. The tension that had filled his shoulders and limbs had vanished, and his relaxed-yet-professional posture was now easier to maintain. But the fact that he had misjudged the Court bristled—he was not used to being wrong. Something else bristled, too, though he could not decipher what.

"At any rate, our course of action is simple now," Willow continued, rotating the stolen paper on the desk so that the Cachail could read it. He'd already read it multiple times, on the blurry cab ride home and in the first-aid room, but he could process it for the first time here.

The neat print read, "CHARMEINE. NEW GM DAGGER."

Charmeine was a name well-known within the Other community. Their renown came from their collection of magical items—jewelry, artwork, clothing—but most of their possessions were old. The more ancient an item was, the more likely its acquisition by Charmeine would be. The newness of the dagger, then, marked Charmeine's interest as particularly unusual.

Of course, the dagger itself was unusual, given that it had been produced and sold without any factions' knowledge. If the Court somehow obtained the dagger, tracing the path of the dagger from forge to Charmeine would be simple—godsmetal retained its magical history of ownership, regardless of how many times it had changed hands. Furthermore, given that the dagger was godsmetal, its likelihood of having killed Dorian H'Langraash was high.

Imariel could have provided a misleading tip. No one could know that the dagger was the murder weapon until it had been examined. But this was the strongest lead available, and choosing not to pursue it would be foolish.

The Cachail nodded and glanced up from the paper. Willow still stared at him, though her gaze had dulled, as if she thought of something far away. "What leverage should I provide for Charmeine, then?" he said.

Charmeine had proven unreasonable in previous investigations. On most occasions, they had refused to relinquish items for examination unless investigators had met their unreasonable standards. The Cachail himself had once needed to lift fingerprints from a magical gauntlet in Charmeine's possession, only to be hindered by an impossible request—Charmeine had demanded the egg of an long-extinct fae-wyvern in exchange for use of the gauntlet. In the end, the Cachail had obtained his convicting evidence elsewhere, leaving his working relationship with Charmeine fairly shaky. Some leverage would be necessary here to ensure Charmeine's cooperation.

But Willow blinked and said, "Oh, you won't need leverage."

"Pardon me?"

The bracer on Willow's arm displayed a trembling dagger, lifted from its display case by a slender hand. The Cachail scarcely had time to guess his assignment before Willow spoke:

"You'll be stealing the dagger."

The Cachail's mind had gone blank, and the room in which he sat seemed a dream. The implausibility of Willow's request jarred him.

"Willow," he said, barely cognizant of the words he spoke, "that is illegal. That is theft."

"It is only illegal," said Willow, "if it falls under the eye of the law."

The Cachail could not reply. In his head, a refrain of dozens of criminals' words echoed discordantly: "You're only breaking the law if you're caught." It was a criminal's rationale, after all, to assume that an action was less illegal if it wasn't seen.

"We will return it," Willow said. "It should take less than a day to analyze, and when we're done, we'll return to Charmaine's residence and replace it. In multiple respects, this isn't truly theft."

The chorus of criminals in the Cachail's mind sang, "I didn't steal it—I borrowed it."

"We would prosecute someone for this, if Charmeine were Unseelie." The Cachail ensured that his tone was even, his words outwardly neutral. He would come across as professionally curious, though his internal upheaval was of a different nature.

"He isn't Unseelie, though," Willow replied. "He's Fallen. Do you understand?"

Unfortunately, the Cachail did understand. The understanding itself was sickening, a sour, syrupy feeling that had filled the hole in his gut. The Unseelie law was sacred, but other factions' was not. Any manner of justifications could be made for an Unseelie breaking their law, though the root of it was simple: it was not Unseelie law.

In that moment of realization, the Cachail did not feel like an investigator at all. In that moment, he was only an agent of the Court, wholly and unalterably.

*

The Cachail was no thief, but the investigation was his, and so he had been sent with a couple thieves. Their job title was "technician", meaning a person skilled in the application of some craft. On most days, the technicians' craft was entry into a home to silently apprehend a suspect. Today, their craft was theft, and the Cachail could not forget it.

His hands were cooler than normal, barely noticeable yet a little paler than they were normally. Behind Charmeine's glass-walled home—strikingly modern, considering the age of the artifacts they kept—he rubbed his hands together as he crouched in the shadow of an elm tree. The technicians were explaining the plan again, as they had explained it at the precinct and in the Court's near-invisible car. The Cachail was unused to matters of stealth, and so they needed to ensure he was as little of a liability as possible.

The technicians had located the dagger in Charmeine's weapon vault, a floor underground and almost impossible to reach. But one of the technicians could separate matter from like matter, silently and with little force. This technician would cut an entry-hole in the glass, and the others would slip through it as covertly as possible. When this was accomplished, a hole would be cut in the floor, over the weapon vault, and the other technician (who could apply magical force in close quarters, minimally but skillfully) would hold together the rest of the floor and the ceiling below. The Cachail would lower himself through the hole with the first technician, who would open the case or drawer the dagger was held in, and the Cachail would take the dagger. Only the Cachail could take the dagger—this was his investigation, and the Court would allow no one else to handle the evidence.

Charmeine was somewhere in the house. This was unavoidable, as Charmeine was always in the house. Artifacts and other supplies were delivered to their door; Charmeine had no reason to leave, other than desire to leave, which seemed to be absent. But if luck held, Charmeine would remain in their sitting room at the front of the house. This was the room in which the Cachail had met them fifty years back, and the technicians' entry point into the house was far from it.

When the technicians held fingers to their mouths and nodded, the Cachail nodded in return. They hoped that he would remain silent, though this was a small concern—the Cachail was unsure he could speak, even if he had needed to. He had spoken little since Willow had issued his instructions.

The nature of the Court had changed in his head, and he could not stop to consider it. He needed to consider it eventually, but the investigation prohibited it; in order to do his work efficiently, he needed to be of a single mind. Still, his discomfort bled through in places—his evaluation of the technician-thieves, his disapproval of the plan—and he felt as if any further straying of his thoughts would derail his focus entirely.

The first technician was already holding her hands to the glass, a rectangular frame of light glowing at the tips of her gloved fingers. Before long, the technician was stepping backwards, and the panel of glass that had adhered to her hands moved with her. Charmeine's house was now open.

The Cachail would be the first to enter. This was his investigation.

Gingerly, he stepped through the hole, his fingers prickling as he eyed the neat edges of glass. Damage to property, he thought, though he could not dwell on it. Still, the words lingered at the fringes of his mind, and his mouth tasted sour as he surveyed Charmeine's house. He had entered into a back hallway, where only a few sparse paintings had been hung. The paintings themselves were simplistic, splashed with abstract swatches of color, and the Cachail watched them while the technicians entered the house behind him.

The hallway smelled sterile, and the effect was dizzying; the Cachail's eyes blurred. Struggling to regain some presence of mind, he found himself staring at the closest painting. The bottom half was yellow, and the top half was a dusky pink.

Unbidden, a phrase entered his mind: Couldn't one go back, if they tried?

The Cachail shook his head, and he could no longer remember the words that had materialized moments before. Instead, he glanced at the painting. The bottom half was pink, and the top half was yellow.

A soft thump sounded from the ground to the Cachail's left, and he spotted the second technician with his hands extended toward a hole in the wooden floor. The first technician had made the noise and was gesturing toward the opening urgently.

The Cachail would be the first to enter the vault. This was his investigation.

Silently, the Cachail walked toward the opening. Gripping either side of the floor, he lowered his body into the darkness; when he could feel nothing beneath his feet, even with his body extended, he let himself drop.

In the darkness, the Cachail's Tuath eyes could see countless display cases lining the walls and at various points throughout the room. Outlines of swords and daggers filled the cases—this was the weapon vault. The Cachail had barely realized this before the lights turned on.

There were bodies on the floor.

A boy with a gaunt face and long fingers lay face-up on the tile, next to a young woman with bright red hair. They had no scent. They were soulless.

At the far end of the room, a person stood, diminutive in figure with silver eyes and golden hair positioned wildly about their head. Their garb was white, and their skin was pale. They only stared at the Cachail, who stared back.

"You're not the first," said Charmeine.

Obviously he wasn't. These people had known the dagger was here, and they too had tried to steal it...or had they tried to trade? Either way, the Cachail had been caught. He had broken multiple laws, regardless of their origin, and here he was, his hands ice, his body vulnerable to attack. He could not fight Charmeine—they were too old, too strong, too dangerous.

The Cachail could not breathe.

The words echoed in his mind again: Couldn't one go back, if they tried?

Charmeine took a step closer, then stopped, their skirts swishing about their ankles. "Say it again," they said, face blank, mouth barely moving.

Couldn't one go back, if they tried?

Charmeine's entire face transformed. A grin split the edges of their cheeks, and they laughed, a hearty guffaw filling the weapon vault. "Oh, you've paid for this," they said, then continued to laugh. Their hands were on their knees, their spine was bent, and they laughed and laughed.

Couldn't one go back, if they tried?

"Haven't we all?" Charmeine straightened and grinned at the Cachail again. "But you can't, can you?

Words rumbled in the Cachail's mind, enough for him to latch onto them. They were in plain focus now—"couldn't one go back, if they tried"—and suddenly the Cachail realized that they were not his words, and yet they were. He could not recall what had placed them in his head. He could not recall what they meant.

Charmeine's remark played again in his auditory memory, and his jaw stiffened. "Can't what?"

Charmeine laughed again. "Just take the dagger," they said, then kicked something small and metallic across the floor. The Cachail did not look at it. "You've paid me already, you pitiful fae. Take your godsmetal; I have what I need."

And Charmeine dissolved into the shadows, humming an eight-note refrain that left the Cachail clutching his stomach.

Suddenly, the Cachail was neither an investigator nor an agent of the Court. He was something, he knew; but in that moment, something felt like nothing at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Melia

They had been wandering the warehouse for what felt like an eternity, trying to find any sign of life among the cold walls and the hollow smell of dust and decay that lingered over the building. Melia kept her eyes firmly on the floor, unwilling or unable to look at the collection around them. She already knew what it would possess. Alec, on the other hand, was unable to look away from any number of the horrors that surrounded them.

"I've seen worse," was all she offered in explanation as the walked.

The dragon's face twisted in repulsion, body jumping to avoid the glass box hanging on the wall. "Worse than this?" he asked incredulously. But as the words left his throat, they died on the hollow air that surrounded them, replaced by a hushed and horrified look as his eyes focused in on the case he had lurched so quickly away from. Even in the low light, it was easy to make out what was inside. It was a shape she had committed to memory, every rounded edge like the mournful cries of a long missed friends. "Melia these are—"

"Wings," she cut him off, unable to pull her eyes away from the disembodied pieces of fae who had come too close to the collection and regretted each second after. " I know." Some of them were soft, scaled with color like a butterfly's, but others boasted the shimmering translucent appearance of a creature much too pure to ever know such pain. They were pinned to a board like an insect collection, scraps of paper detailing their sources in scrawling black ink. Catalogued like taxidermied vermin to be studied beneath a microscope. "They're a collectors item." Her words tasted like ash on her tongue when she spoke, heavy and thick and reeking of nothing but suffering.

Inside her head, her thoughts shivered and made way for something vile to press through her consciousness. "How poorly kept," the voice critiqued, clicking its teeth in disgust as she tried to pull her eyes away from the carnage. "Look at the dust on the cases." Melia didn't want to, but she did. Her eyes followed the thick, grey dust that lined the top of the case and nausea boiled in her stomach. "See how they curl towards the center, like paper set alight? They're decaying, just like this place is."

Both the walls and her throat were closing in too tightly, leaving her breath ragged as she forced her eyes to the floor. The first step forward was agony, as if she was uprooting herself from the spot in the patchy, molded carpet where her feet had found home. The second was easier. Alec fell into place beside her, shielding her eyes from the glass containers where the darkened silhouettes of butchered creatures stared out at her with hungry eyes and tongues that whispered of her hypocrisy. She slipped her hand into his, fingers tightening until Melia could no longer feel the blood circulating between digits.

"Stay close to me," she whispered, pressing her body close to him as if that would somehow still the racing of her heart. "Please." The word was foreign and strange on her tongue, but never before had it felt so necessary. Alec did not respond, choosing instead to give her hand a squeeze and let the warmth of his body radiate over her.

The room only seemed to expand the further into it they walked, walls dissolving into rows of shelves that glowed under the same grimy lighting until they were surrounded by a maze of collected trinkets. Most of them Melia could stand. They were curious things, objects that meant nothing to her but at one point must have been important to somebody. Jewelry that glittered as brightly as the diamond studded sunglasses tucked away in Alec's car, or rusted pieces of metal twisted into shapes she did not recognize but knew held a significance that put them among the rest. Some of them were streaked with blood. Most of it dry, but occasionally she could make out the vivid red and copper scent that promised fresh violence and nothing less.

What she could not stand, however, were the more macabre additions. Pixies floated in jars of embalming fluid decorated with dollar-store stickers, like some demented child's homemade snowglobe. Skulls grinned out at them with elongated canines still sharper than razors and ready to kill. Those were the ones that left a bitter taste on her tongue and left her watching around every corner for anything that might want to add her to the room's decorations. "It's a beautiful sort of momento to mortality, isn't it?" The voice asked, leaving a shivering down her spine as they dove further into the collection.

"Are you okay?" Alec's voice kept her grounded in reality, saving her from the paranoia that spread its dark tendrils with every breath. Each set of eyes seemed to watch her, moving from shelf to shelf. I've done that, Melia thought as she surveyed a container full of teeth that had long since browned from the oxidized blood stained on top of them. A fox's pelt was stretched across a wooden plaque, too large to be any normal fox. The fur matted with cobwebs and dirt, and she could hear the whimpers of the long dead animal echoing in her ears. I've killed those.

Slowly, her head nodded. Eyes straight ahead, she narrowed her range of focus to the only lights in the room that looked polished. "Let's just get out of here fast." It wasn't a reply, at least not one to the question that he asked. But it was better than the truth even when it threatened to spill from her lips the way a hurricane rips through a building.

Panic was like lightning in her veins, never striking the same place twice but leaving tremors down her spine and raising her hair on end no matter how tightly she clung to Alec's grip. His skin was getting warmer, breathing labored by the sights that they took in together the deeper into the maze they went. "In the end, we all die," the voice was saying as she tried to stop herself from looking at the twisted, anguish-ridden face of a young Enlightened just beginning to grow some warped, unwanted appendage from their temple. The expression in its glassy, marbled eyes was almost worse than the fact that there was no head attached to the creature. As if someone had delicately peeled away the flesh from their face while they were still alive, immortalizing their last scream of anguish by keeping the skin well preserved and out of sunlight. "But that's the most miraculous part of living. Not even immortality is forever."

The lights grew brighter, illuminating a workspace surrounded by cardboard boxes that overflowed with more trinkets and oddities. "I think I see it," Alec whispered, letting his hand slip free of Melia's as he approached the circle. "Wait here."

"Alec," she hissed, swiping at the air where he should have been as the dragon moved fearlessly forward. Melia slunk back, keeping her body pressed against a shelf as she tried to watch his movements through the piles of boxes and junk that were strewn around the workspace. You fucking idiot, she wanted to scream, every fiber of her being begging her to betray their arrival by yanking him back over towards her. This place was too big. There were too many risks, too many uncalculated problems, and the feeling of soft breath against the back of her neck where there should have been nothing but cold steel.

"Are you afraid of the dark, my pet?" The voice taunted, louder now as if it was approaching her from somewhere in the darkness. "Or of me?" For a split second, she shut her eyes, trying to still the spliced air that left her hollow throat, but when she opened them again Alec was completely gone from her line of sight. "Or of what he'll think of you when he knows how stained with blood your pretty face really is?"

"Melia?"

She spun around, slamming her fists into a chest that felt like punching solid concrete. Pain reverberated up her fingertips as she sucked in air between her teeth. Warm, familiar hands wrapped around her wrists, yanking her forward and stopping her from assaulting their owner again as Alec's face breached the light. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" Melia scolded, pulling her hands free long enough to shove him in a last resort effort to relieve her fear.

There was a strange look on his face. Somewhere between shock and horror as he looked her in the eyes. "Melia, someone was already here." A heavy chill settled over her bones and her body grew still, lips parting in a soundless look of surprise. Without another word, Alec jerked his head towards the direction of the workspace and started forward again. Tentatively, she followed after him.

The scent of blood assaulted her nostrils, growing heavier the closer to the light her feet carried her. "Do you think he'll try to kill you?" The voice whispered in her thoughts, but she shoved away its taunting as best she could.

Streaks of coppery red stained the desk sitting in the middle of the room. Melia could feel her throat tightening as her eyes moved across the corpse. It was ripped apart, beyond recognition, with only the vague shape of a person to tell her that there had ever been anyone there at all. "Where is the dagger?" The words were acid in her throat, searing through each syllable no matter how hard she tried to keep her composure.

Alec didn't reply, guiding her attention wordlessly to the other corpse in the room. This one was easy to recognize. With eyes still staring blindly out at their collection, the Fallen they had been sent to find waited. Scraps of cloth clung to his torso, the only remnants of whatever shirt he had been wearing during the attack. Bits of polished white jutted through the wounds that made up the carnage of his ribcage. "Life is so full of transactions," Melia could hear the smile in the voice's words as her eyes trailed to the smiley face painted in blood on the corpse's cheek, "surely this one is insignificant in the grand scheme of things." He had been torn apart like an animal, but it wasn't the savagery of the crime that collected a heavy weight on her shoulder. It was the feeling of an invisible kiss against her cheek, of a gift she could not repay. "I know you always make good on your debts."

Out in the darkness, Melia swore she saw something. It was a creature with eyes that gleamed with cruel starlight and two sets of smiling teeth that taunted her with laughter that only existed inside of her thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Limerick

DIDN'T LOOK BOTH WAYS CROSSING THE STREET

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brandy Alva

The hotel bar was barely crowded. There were enough people to make a profit, but not enough to make it a destination spot. Cold air conditioning flushed the room, breathing down the back of Brandy's neck and releasing the tension from her shoulders while relieving her back from sweat. It felt nice to finally catch a break. Even if the break was in a rather old bar with ring stained counters and a single bartender that seemed more than a bit out of his depth. She could understand the frustration of dealing with Others. They were always picky, and cocktails filled to the brim with essence, blood, and souls was more than a hassle.

At least Brandy liked hers simple. A shot of tequila and a good, sweet soul. Preferably it would be something stronger than human but anything over three hundred years old tended to get her too tipsy. Today, she could care less. Brandy swallowed half of the glass in one go. It was spicy and sweet, sliding sweet down her throat. Warmth cascaded down and pooled in her stomach as a content sigh passed the woman's lips. She had needed it, a soul to help settle the way her stomach had been tossing and turning since she'd left Mar's club behind.

She hadn't know what she expected really. It'd been a slim chance he would say yes and drop on her knees to help her - though he had certainly used to. Now, she was lucky to be riding on the coattails of the other two investigators that were currently upstairs. It hadn't felt right to follow them up, but she'd wait here and see what they came back with. Hopefully, it'd be something she and Adam could jump on. If not, at least he was out looking for other leads at the moment instead of waiting around for something that would or wouldn't pan out.

"What are you doing here, Miss Alva?" The sweet voice sent a chill down Brandy's spine, her drink curdling after it had already entered her stomach.

"Getting a drink," she replied distastefully, trying to shoo Gene away without a fight. Of course, they both knew that wouldn't be happening. When Swan found someone to torment, she tended to cling to them like a liche until they had no fight left in them. She wouldn't do that to Brandy, though, not so intensely at least. That would ruin the already rocky relationship they depended on each other for. If it hadn't been for the money, Brandy would have killed the wraith in a second and if it hadn't been for her services, SWan would not have stepped within a three hundred foot radius of the demon. That was why it was detrimental that they kept things civil. Sometimes, though, Gene tended to forget that.

Her lips were puckered as she leaned over onto the bar counter and gave Brandy's empty glass a delicate poke with her finger nail before tracing the rim. "Well, I see that." She sniffed whatever had been inside and crinkled up her nose in disgust. "I thought you would've already headed upstairs and dealt with our friend, Mr. McBride, though." There was a gentle scolding in her voice as she said it, her head shaking ever so lightly.

Brtandy smied back with plasdtered on patience. "Foster and Limerick are up there now," she explained, refusing to roll her eyes when Gene gave her excuse a rather unimpressed look. "I'm waiting until he is finished."

"Oh?" she asked. The woman grabbed an almond from the bar and popped it into her mouth like a chipmunk storing food for winter. She certainly was skinny enough that Brandy would believe if that was all she had eaten per year while alive. "Well you don't mind if I go up then." Her smile was a dangerous sort of sharp. It invited you in and then bit ur hand the moment you grew too close. Picking up her purse from the empty chair she'd set it on and swinging it back up over her shoulder, Gene waved a hand. "Come on."

"Gene," Brandy protested, standing up to stop the woman and watching her hand go right through when she tried to grab onto her arm. Frustrated, Brandy stalked after her with a steady click of her heels and finally stopped when Swan stopped at the elevator doors. "I'm sure they have it under control." Far from it more likely - but at least she was trying to be polite about it and let the lawyer and the behemoth have a chance before she went and fixed things with a little persuasion.

A scoff hit Ms. Swan's lips. She jabbed the elevator button for the second time and allowed herself a small smile when it dinged in response and the doors on the left slid open. "Don't be silly. I'm sure they could use back up."

Brandy rolled her eyes at the controlling snake as she stepped in after her and hit the button from the fifth floor up. "If you insist on dragging me up with you, you're going to let me handle it," the demon decided, not taking no for an answer despite the huff that escaped the wraith indicating she would be doing no such thing.

"I'm sure that's what you'd like," was the only reply she got.

From there the ride was silent up until they reached the designated floor and stepped out as the elevator made another small chirp and closed on their heels. As they walked down the corridor and through a turn in the hallway, Brandy felt herself stiffening up. Something felt off. It was the presence of another wraith in the hall, no, two. She dragged her hand through her silver hair and turned to glance at Gene. It was clear the woman was bothered as well, her hands fiddling with her purse strap and moving it over and over to better rest upon her shoulder.

"Something's wrong," Brandy stated finally, watching from the corner of her eye as Ms. Swan's shoulders relaxed some as she took in the idea and nodded, glad to no longer be alone. "You can feel them, can't you?"

"A fresh wraith," she agreed, looking paler than usual as they reached the door 521, where the fallen they were hoping to meet was meant to be staying.

"Two," Brandy corrected, eyes furrowing as she pushed open the door to the room and peered inside.

"Only one now."

Brandy swallowed back the nerves that were beginning to bundle up in her body. Make that none. Her fists balled as she stepped inside the room and peered around. It was nice hotel, nicer than most around these parts. The room was expensive too. It held two adjacent rooms, the first with a cramped seating area and a kitchen, the bathroom door by the entrance also left open. It was empty and dark, and just passed it sat a minifidge splattered in blood. Foster's body lay no more than a few inches away, his head bashed open.

Brandy swiped the insides of her cheeks with her tongue. "Mr. McBride?" The name had a hollow ring to it, but it managed to summon the man. He stumbled out of the other room, holding onto the door frame and keeping one arm out of view. A smile drew up across his face at the sudden company, his left cheek covered in the same red as the fridge. It didn't seem to bother him, though, as he wiped at it with a sleeve.

"I'm rather sorry for the mess. I wasn't expecting any more guests," he apologized, swiping a hand through his bedhead. It was a messy disheveled look, his skirt buttons half undone and eyes slightly cloudy. How he'd just woken up from a nap and still looked gorgeous, Brandy could only attribute to the natural state of any fallen's good looks. Not that it mattered much in the scheme of things.

Gene took a step back and nudged Brandy forward. "You know what? You're absolutely right, I think I'll let you handle it."

The woman bit back her tongue, hissing a soft, "Jesus Christ," at the state of what she was looking at. Forced to shake her head and keep moving forward, Brandy tried her best to smile as she took a clean step over Foster's body and approached the man half hiding in the shadows. "If you'd like, we can come back at a better time."

The fallen shook his head, disoriented, distant. "No, no, it's... fine." He blinked at her then, his head coking to one side in confusion. "Why are you visiting me again?" he asked with a soft smile.

"You have a dagger we're looking for and-" She was cut off by a heavy sigh as the man's eyelids drooped.

"Oh." He shook his head disappointed and leaned against the wall as if something was pulling him back into the other room again and he was struggling to keep himself rooted where he was. "So you're more like them." The words turned sour and bitter in his throat with a threat lingering on the edge of his tongue. "I really don't like thieves, y'know?"

Brandy held up both her hands apologetically. "I'm sure neither of the people we sent tried to steal the dagger from you." She took another step closer and then another, knowing that the dagger had to be in the room behind him. That's where the safe in the hotel would be. It would only make sense for him to hide it there.

McBride jerked back, struggling with his arm again. "There were three," he corrected with a hiss and shook his head. "I would've given it to 'em if they asked. I'm a nice guy. I would've given it to them if he asked." He shook his head again like there was a tick in his ear that had burrowed in deep. "But they sent a fucking brat up here to steal it while they were distracting me." she could feel the powers beginning to stir in him, a shiver traveling through her. She wished Adam was here. He had a gun. Guns always made this easier.

The words played over in Brandy's head again as she tried to think of a response when a chill hit her. Someone had climbed up into his room. A brat. Her hers wandered his, the way he was struggling to keep the door closed, to only show a small part of him. A bad feeling stirred in her gut followed by a mixture of fear and anger deep in her gut. Without thinking, without having to think Brandy rushed forward and knocked the fallen to the ground.

The door flew open, both Mcbride, and to her surprise, Oz spilling to the ground from the attack. Her son scrambled back to his feet first, clutching something in his hand. It took her a good second to realize what it was, the golden metal covered in his sweat. A bruise was forming on his left cheek, the skin swelling. She reached forward and grabbed onto Oz' almost yanking his arm from his socket as she pulled him tight against her.

The fallen was struggling to get to his feet, his nose bloody. It had never been her intention to just steal the dagger, but Brandy noticed the chance and took it. She all but dragged Oz behind her as they took off and ran back out of the room, Gene following behind with a look wavering between amused and irritated. At least they had the dagger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alexander King

A sticky note was unfolded between Melia's fingernails and stuck on the dashboard just above the air vent. She tapped it twice to make sure it would stay, then pulled the door handle to the coop and slid a foot out onto the sidewalk. Alec flinched at how close the metal came to slamming into an already dented lamp post but said nothing when his girlfriend caught the handle just short.

"Okay," Melia reminded, having her speech practically memorized by now as she was reciting for the third time. "I'm going to go in for five minutes, come back here to where you will be waiting patiently, and then we will go to this address." She pointed to the one sitting between them scribbled in hurried blue ink that Imariel had secured for them earlier that day. There was a pause as she turned pointedly to meet Alec's gaze and waited for him to nod before she continued. "If I'm not back in five minutes, you go without me."

Alec's fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. "Melia, I don't like this." It wasn't that he didn't trust her, but something about the way she said the words were off putting. It was the kind of thing someone said in a cheesy horror film right before they venture into the belly of the beast and disappeared for good.

Rolling her eyes, the fae gave his shoulder a light jab. "I'll be fine. I told you already, it's only a quick errand. I just don't want those vultures catching up to us." She said the word with a dramatic turn of her head over her shoulder to look out the back window of the car. No one else sat on the street except for an old Volkswagen Beetle. It wasn't really the right neighborhood for nice, expensive cars, unless they were stolen and being resold, making it even more important for Alec to stay with his.

A smile parted his lips. "Do you mean Gene and Liam?"

"That's what I said." She shook her head, black hair swaying before it settled back into its neat bob, and Melia swung her other leg out of the car. "I'm pretty sure they're following us."

The dragon mimicked Melia's eyeroll from a minute earlier. "Sure." He leaned across the seat and planted a quick kiss on her cheek just before she slipped from the car completely. Had there been more time, he would've aimed for her lips instead. All he got in return was a quick wave and the slam of a door in his face. Typical.

Alec leaned back in his seat, turning off the engine and watching as Melia crossed the street. Across from the car sat an old laundromat complete with wide floor to ceiling windows and row after row of washers and dryers crammed in on either side by a pair of competing chinese restaurants. Melia's target, however, was an extra store down from the smaller of the two diners. It was an odds and ends store by the window contents, but the sign on top read Pawn Shop in big golden letters and beneath it We Trad Not By with an e and u faded out. It also looked like it might've had a comma after trade at one point, but it was impossible to tell with part of the wood stripped away and the other part either being a stain of a terrible shade of sun faded orange. Overall, the shop looked like it had been kicked in the balls more than once and gotten back up again.

Although, that wasn't why exactly thirty seconds after Melia had closed the car and disappeared into the shop Alec followed after her. It was their line of business to deal with places like this, and Melia was tougher than him in more ways than one. With a thick, tough leather jacket pulled over her shoulders and combats boots laced high, he had no worry she would be fine. Something was eating at the back of the dragon's mind, though, a skepticism that maybe this was to finish the deal with Imariel or that she was doing something dangerous. It may not have been his business either, but that had never stopped him before.

Jaywalking straight from his car to the store, Alec hopped up onto the sidewalk and paused at the window, eyes flickering over a number of trinkets. Most were useless, gold watches that weren't really gold or randomized items like old radios shoved next to a set of silverware that was gathering dust. The only thing that caught his eye was a small jewelry display in the corner covered in sigils. A quick errand, his ass.

Alec pulled open the door handle to the sound of bell. His nose was greeted with the scent of old varnish and dust. There was no question the moment his feet touched the welcome mat on the inside that this was a store for Others. Bottles sat on on a nearby shelf, openly labeled as tonics and potions, some to cure a cold and others to burn a man alive from the inside out. A glass case of silver chains and necklaces sat in the corner pressed up against the back of the display window, and a few wooden rods hung from the ceiling with price tags that belonged on a new car over a rotting stick.

"Melia, good to see you." A voice caught his ears from behind another large shelf. Slipping around it to peer on the other side, Alec found the front counter. The fae stood on one side, her elbows crossed stiffly and back posture straight. Everything about her was on the defensive, even the way her shoes had dug into the small red carpet in front of the counter. Behind it was a young boy. He held both cheeks between his hands, soft eyes dancing over with a well known amusement that sent of a tick in Alec's face.

Instinct took over, the dragon's forked tongue flicking quickly between his lips before he strode forward to pull Melia to his side and behind him. Those soft blue eyes snapped to his in a second. A spark of interest. A grin stretched over soft skin, beautiful skin. The fallen behind the counter looked him over with what Alec could only think of as hunger, his own footsteps refusing to falter. Some snagged inside his chest at the look, not yearning but something more primal that forced the hairs on the back of his neck to stick up.

"You've brought a live one in this time," the boy commented, his eyes finally falling back to Melia as a wickedness took over his smile. "That's quite a surprise."

"She's with me, actually." The words were quick and far from timid, almost lashed out and spit into the stranger's face as Alec's hand snaked around Melia's waist and pulled the fae tight. There was a need to kiss her right there, too. An urge to mark her and ease the tension in her body before the strange boy before him could think to do anything. Resistance came with Alec biting down on the inside of his cheek and swallowing the habit when he noticed the way Melia was looking at him.

He eyes were narrowed, lips drawn tight even if she didn't move to pull away. He was in trouble. It wasn't anger, not exactly. Something between contempt and irritation, but also another smell that coiled around her so faintly that the dragon would have been oblivious had they not been pressed so close. His tongue slid out and tasted it in the air. Fear.

Her body language hadn't changed. She remained defensive, guarded. Her muscles were stiff beneath his touch. "I told you to wait in the car," Melia hissed, smacking him light across the chest before turning back to the fallen that watching them like a game of ping pong ball, eyes darting back and forth until they looked to be crossed. "Ignore him. I'm just here to pick up an order." Despite the grip tightened around her, she managed to wiggle free a small receipt from her pocket and set it onto the counter to be snatched up by eager fingers.

The fallen's lips soured. "And here I thought you were being generous." He tossed another shameless glance at Alec and shook his head. "I'll be right back then." The boy disappeared with the slip of paper and left them alone.

"Five minutes, Alec." Melia was scolding before the other man's footsteps had time to fade. Her brow was scrunched, her black eyes in a narrowed gaze that normally would've made the dragon smile. "How hard is five minutes?"

A shrug was her response. Alexander dodged her gaze and pulled her head beneath his chin instead. The struggle was minimum, a slight shove to his chest and a huff from her nose before the girl realized it was pointless. "You know him?" he asked, lips barely moving so that his jaw didn't have to.

With a tight nod, the fae shifted in his arms. Her scent began to die down, the worry leaking back out. It didn't relieve the tension in her shoulders, but it did give her a sliver of courage, a cold hand sneaking beneath his shirt as he continued to prod her. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

A soft chuckle escaped her lips like the words were even a question. "What is it usually?"

Figures. Alec didn't respond as the footsteps came back. He released Melia only enough to stand on her own, keeping one hand resting on the small of her back as she leaned across the counter to meet the fallen again. He pushed aside a curtain to the back and set a small box down on the counter. Whatever the contents was, it was hidden beneath a small purple sheet.

Melia reached to take it, but her hands were smacked away. A glitter danced in the shopkeeper's eyes as mischief began to bloom. "You sure you don't have any other business while your here?"

Her eyes gave him enough of a response, but the fae answered regardless. "I'm sure, Lear."

Something between a whine and a growl emitted from the fallen's lungs. His eyes caught sight of something just to the left of Alec's hip, and he lifted himself onto his elbows until he was almost spilling over the counter. "Not even that?"

Unable to stop himself, the dragon glanced down. His stomach pitched. The edge of the Godsmetal dagger was showing. He hadn't even noticed Melia's touch had moved his shirt out of the way. Gold glittered beneath the dim lights of the shop, an instant beacon for the hungry collector before them. Alec pulled his shirt back down, cheeks warming up. "Not on your life," he warned.

Lear smirked. He rounded the counter to Alec's dismay, body bunching and tensing for a fight. Heat began to pool at his fingertips as one foot naturally slid behind the other into a stance. The fallen merely laughed. He picked up the box from the counter and held it out personally to Melia. "Here, you're lucky it's already paid for. Tell him I said hi, too, will you?" Melia snatched it from him quickly. Her eyelids fluttered and mouth twisted, and then she gave up. With a jerk of her head and a nod to him - not quite a thank you but the closest the fae ever got to one - she turned to leave.

Alec meant to be on her heels. His body caught, though, no more than half a footstep from the counter. His brain sent every signal to move, but nothing was working. That was, until the dagger was yanked from his waist. Everything reset. His body stumbled forward and crashed to the ground with his elbows hitting the dirt covered floor first. "Alec?" Melia's voice was shouted from the front of the store as she turned to watch him scramble to his feet.

Dammit. God fucking dammit. "Give me a minute." He didn't wait for her response, turning around and launching himself back over the counter to go after the fucking weasel that had just stolen their only lead. His feet hit the concrete behind the counter with a loud thump, and he tore aside the curtain to the back.

"No, no, hey!" Melia yelled behind him, struggling to catch up with the sudden turn of events. "Alec, wait. Get back here!" The store's bell chimed from behind, signalling someone else had walked in behind them, but Alec didn't stop.

The dragon dashed full forward into the back of the store. The storage space was what stopped him dead. Rack upon rack, hidden in barely any light. He tried to push forward and not to stop, but his eyes caught glimpses of things as he ran past. Skulls, wings, bone, stuff that shouldn't have been sitting on shelves collecting dust, things that shouldn't have existed either. It was like a disorganized and forgotten museum, and whoever the curretor was they'd stopped trying to regulate the exhibits long ago.

Something clattered to Alec's right. His neck snapped, eyes straining to see what it had been. His heels spun and he ran in that direction, leaping down another row of endless shelves. There were too many to count, to bother to stop and gaze at what was left behind. All of it was unnerving, sending prickles up and down the dragon's spine as he struggled to find the theft among his treasures. A shadow flickered past Alec's vision. He thought it was a figment until he twisted, eyes watching the Other watching him for only a moment. Then it was gone, and he was turning right again and losing breath.

What finally lead him back to the fallen, was a scream. It hit the ceilings and echoed off them, bouncing back to Alec's ears. He traced it to a small corridor with wood pressing in on him from either side. Two piles of ash lay on the ground, spread out as the magic leaked out of them. It tasted of death in the air, but not the kind of death that came from something living but from something already dead. Lear smiled when he noticed the dragon lingering before him. His grin grew as he tsked him. "You really shouldn't have brought friends here. Customers aren't allowed in the back." Friends? Alec's brain wracked, trying to think but having trouble catching up with his oxygen deprived body. "Shame they wouldn't stay still," the fallen continued, shaking his head as he reached down and scooped up a small pile of ash before letting it sift through his fingers. "I rather enjoy wraiths. There's such better ways to use them up."

It clicked then, Alec blinking in surprise at the dust. Melia was right. They had been following them. He swallowed the thick spit within his throat, skin beginning to burn beneath his clothes. "Give me back the dagger." He held his hand out, barely clinging onto his patience. The only thing stopping him was the way the fallen was holding the metal piece. He twisted it around, eyes flickering between it and Alec as if deciding whether he wanted to test it out.

"Really?" Lear feigned innocence, battling his eyes and leaning against a shelf full of jars. "You don't want to talk first?" Alexander pulled his lips into a tight frown and got a burst of laughter in return. The dagger twisted between the fallen's hand and pointer finger, the razor sharp edge letting a thin line of blood leak down his hand and drip onto the floor. "Well I want to talk. I want to know why."

"Why what?" The words slipped from Alec's tongue on accident. Curiosity was stirring with his rage and mixing up to be a dangerous combination, making him wonder just what would happen if he burned off the fallen's head and used it for beef jerky.

"Why you're willing to walk around with that thing," he clarified, shaking his head. There was almost a strange sympathy in his voice, a mock understanding. "I can't imagine no one's told you it's a bad look before." Alec's skin prickled hotter. His hands began to glow as he took a step in as a warning. He knew what Lear was getting at and didn't care for it, or at least he thought he did until the next words left the Other's mouth. "I'd think a dragon would at least want to own his own property."

Alec cocked his head. The heat in his hands redirected to swirl back inside his own bloodstream. "What?" The accusation left the inside of his mouth bitter tasting and cold.

He let Lear lure him in without thinking, stepping up until he was face to face with the boy before him. A soft laugh echoed from the fallen's throat. He shrugged lazily like the matter was trivial, as if the claim he made had not sent the dragon before him seconds away from turning him to dust and watching the boils bubble up onto his skin when he burned him alive. "Oh, come on. You must know," he laughed like they were sharing a secret at the bar together, intimate and personal without ever really touching deep enough. Alec shook his head, only enough for Lear to see, to push him forward. He touched Alec without permission, almost soothingly as his gaze reverted to sympathetic, understanding a difficulty that Alec didn't even know about. "She's not yours," he answered finally, "You're about ten years too late. In fact, I could tell you about him."

Alec's eyes narrowed. The glow of his own eyes blinded him as a string of fire lashed out and made Lear jump back. "You're lying," he hissed, tongue flickering dangerous. He could smell the fear rolling off Lear's skin, but there wasn't deception. The idea stung like ice. Melia was his. It wasn't a question. He had to be lying. He had to.

A grin cracked the boy's expression. "I wish I was." It was his turn to step forward and surprise Alec, not shying away from the temperature the room had heated up to even as beads of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. I could help you both now, though, and save everyone the trouble." The promise was dripping with venom as Alec watched him warily.

"Help me how?"

Teeth turned to spikes as the fallen laughed softly, his fingernail scraping over the dragon's bicep. "By taking that pretty skin off her hands for her."

Alec's back hit the wall of a shelve. Eyes wide, uncertainty swirling. "What?" It was a croak past his burning throat, his defense rising.

"Don't act naive, kid." The sympathy feel away. Blue eyes grew hungry again, so intently focused that Alec felt his body was pinned down beneath them. His limbs shook to move as his eyes suddenly caught sight of what was floating in one of the jars. A severed tongue, forked at the ended and pickled. "You must know how much a dragon's parts cost by now. Your friend certainly does."

There was no time to move. The blade sliced into Alec's shoulder, his body exploding in unfamiliar feelings. Warmth swirled around him until it was burning. Until every damn thing around him was radiating heat so scorching hot that Alec began to sweat. Something warm and foreign gushed down his chest in the midst of the flames. He could see red, dark red. It smelled of smoke and copper, and tears appeared at the edges of his eyes. His body collapsed beneath the weight of itself. Devoured, burning, unable to stop.

It only stopped when a cold bath of air washed over him and the spray of foam hit his cheek. Alec wiped it away with his good arm, staring down at the blackened and charred corpse a foot away from him. In its hand was a blade covered in soot. He took the burning hot handle, unable to register the heat as he brought it back to his own chest.

"Hey, Alec." The voice was soft, reassuring. He felt a hand fall onto his shoulder and begin to wipe away what the fire extinguisher had left behind.

He didn't look at her, couldn't look at her. "I'm fine." His body was aching. More than that, it was bleeding. He watched the puddle at his knees spread out thinner, unable to understand how he could have that much blood. His skin had never been cut before. He'd never been subjected to pain and now it was rolling over him and cutting off his air supply, making it impossible to breathe.

"Alec," Melia repeated, her hand still resting on his back. She tried to pull him against her, to reassure him but her attempts were met with a touch shove of his elbow against her stomach.

"I said I'm fine," he growled, pulling away and trying to stand in his own. The movement was shaky and impractical, one of his arms unable to give the support it needed and the other busy clutching a dagger tight in his hand.

A sign brushed the fae's lips. She reached out to slide an arm around him and help him up. "Come on."

Pain. It flared up at her lightest touch, sending his body shaking as he trying to yank away from where she held tight. "Let go." The words were barely a whisper from his cracked lips as she continued to try and help him. He didn't want it. He didn't trust her.

"I'm trying to help you, dumbass," she tried to laugh as she hoisted him to his feet and send another wave of pain through his shoulder, making him want to double over.

It hurt. It was the only thing he could think. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stand. His body was cold and shaking and missing the warmth he need and she wasn't listening. It hurt. "Dammit, Amelia, I said let go."

Like magic. She let go of his arm instantly, body reeling back as if she had been holding an wriggling, live fish instead of his arm. There was something about her movements that were jerky and uncharacteristic, but Alec hardly noticed. He was too busy regaining his own footing. A steady and slow breathe escaped him finally, but that didn't help the guilt he felt when he saw the look on her face. Stiff and horror stricken, too numb to be enraged. He had barely noticed the order coming from his lips, using a tiny chunk of what had become her debt to him.

Alec bit back the pain and moved forward, pulling her in stiffly against his chest, but the words to say he was sorry wouldn't come. He couldn't help the suspicious that swirling at the back of his mind. She was his, wasn't she?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Iris Bell

The next morning was always the worst. No matter how good the night before it was, the next morning sucked. Iris' case was no different. She woke up with a pounding headache and a bad case of the cramps. She looked over at the bartender from last night and pulled the covers off her. She quietly jumped out of bed and pulled her pants up. She glanced over her shoulder as she pulled her shirt over her head. Jacob stirred and opened his bleary eyes. Iris cursed silently in her head. Why couldn't he have woken up after she left?

"Hi," she smiled at him. "I thought you might want to take the first shower." Jacob nodded slowly and headed towards the bathroom. When the door closed, Iris breathed a sigh of relief. She finished getting dressed, grabbed her bag, and silently headed out the door. As soon as her foot touched the street outside her phone started ringing. Iris flinched and answered it grudgingly.

"What the hell, Jacob?" she asked. "It's not a good time."

"Look, I found out more about that guy Seymour."

"What? How did you even find out about that?"

"You texted me last night, remember? Anyway, I found out where he lived. And get this, he's a Fallen."

Iris listened as Jake gave her the address of the Fallen's apartment. Oh shit. It was the same apartment she had just come from.

"Thanks, Jake," she said quietly.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he added. "This guy's got a pretty nasty reputation. Be careful, Iris."

"Yeah yeah, whatever," she grumbled. "I promise I'll be fine." She hung up the phone and called Jacob.

"Iris?" he asked. "Where are you? Where did you go?" She sighed exasperatedly.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob," she said earnestly. "I went outside to get some fresh air and accidentally locked myself out. Can you please come down and let me in?"

"Of course," he said, and hung up. Iris waited outside for a moment before the door buzzed and opened. Jacob stood in front of her as she walked onto the stairs. "So," he said slyly, "why don't you head back up to my apartment so we can do some more 'dancing?'" He winked at her but she pushed him away.

"Shut up and get out of my way," she grumbled. Jacob started after her.

"Wait, what's wrong? Come on, don't be a tease." He grabbed her around the waist but she kicked him in the crotch and punched him in the face. He fell and curled up on the stairs.

"Stay out of my way, go back to your apartment and you won't get hurt."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he practically yelled.

"A lot of stuff," she replied, kicking him away. He crawled after her.

"Fine, then I'll call the cops on you!" he shouted as he got to his feet.

"You do that and I'll tell them how old I really am," she retorted coldly. "Do you really think they'll believe your word over mine?"

"Wait," he faltered. "I thought you were nineteen." Iris shook her head and smiled. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," she said brightly. Jacob paled and stopped following her. "Now, go back to your apartment before I call the cops on you for seducing a child." Jacob fell behind her as she ran up the stairs and headed for apartment 2a. She quickly picked the lock on the door and pushed it open. A man immediately jumped at her and tackled her to the ground.

"No, you won't get it!" he yelled. "It's mine and you can't have it!" Iris looked to her right and saw the bodies of two Fae lying on the ground. Foster and Melia were covered in blood and their glassy eyes stared back at her. Iris grunted and saw red as Seymour sliced her face with a knife. She howled with rage and transformed, howling in pain instead. She slipped out from under the Fallen and jumped onto his face, clawing and biting and scratching. Seymour screamed and tried to pull her off but her claws were embedded too deeply into his face. She finally let go long enough to climb onto his shoulder and bite his neck. He screamed as blood spurted onto the carpet and stumbled around wildly. Iris let go of him and scrambled towards an open cabinet, hiding inside. Seymour dropped the knife and ran into the kitchen. Iris took the opportunity and ran to look at the knife. Definitely godsmetal. She changed back and threw her clothes back on, scooping up the knife and running out the door. She stopped only when she got out into the street. She ran all the way back to her apartment and collapsed onto her couch. She grabbed her phone and called Jake.

"You okay, Iris?" he asked concernedly.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Look, I need you to find a guy who can track godsmetal, okay?"

"You gotcha," he said. "What are you going to do now?" Iris sighed tiredly.

"I don't know. I'll probably just have a horror movie marathon."

"Sounds good," Jake said. "I'll call you when I find the guy."

"Great," Iris said while hanging up. She groaned and turned on the tv, flicking immediately to the Hallmark channel. She would never admit it, but she loved the sappy Hallmark murder mysteries and love stories. She opened a bag of Oreos and settled in for a long night. After all, she deserved it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Avacado Marissa

Waking up next to a warm body always felt...off. Like Ava was outside of their own body but somehow also connected to someone else's body. The only worse thing was when Ava woke up and Foster was still asleep next to them, snoring lightly and curled up in the fetus position. They'd just have to lay there and sigh, hoping that Foster would let go of their arm so they could stand up and do something other than lay there. It wasn't even like Ava needed sleep to begin with--though she did it far too often nonetheless--but sleeping with another person was nice.

Until she was awake. And Foster was asleep. And she was bored as hell.

Her phone wasn't offering up anything good. Twitter was full of some stupid politics, a new cat meme that was circulating the internet like it was 2004 again, and a lot of shitposters who didn't seem to know what the hell they were even talking about. Her fingers paused on the phone, wanting to type out something about being dead was great until too many people decided they wanted to nap with you for six years, then she put down the phone next to her, leaving Twitter for a moment.

Her eyes drew up to the ceiling of her apartment. She was supposed to be on a case. Today, they were going to find out about a dagger. They were going to do real stuff. So why did Ava feel so dead? Why did Twitter seem so boring and Foster too clingy? Why was everything feeling wrong? Shaking her head didn't clear the situation, though it certainly made her feel a little better. Foster turned onto his side and she wiggled her arm out of his grasp, thankful that it remained intact.

Zombie body parts were tricky things. Living was a tricky thing too, though, so she accepted her would-be-life as it was and didn't take it for granted anymore than the average Joe. That is to say, she took every fucking second for granted and god it felt so good to do that.

Squirming until she was able to get out of the bed without waking the freaking log that lay there, Ava combed her hands through her hair, contemplated washing it, told herself that washing day was in three days and she'd just put some oils in it and wait, and waltzed her way into the bathroom to get some cleaning down.

It was a big day, so she washed her body, scrubbed her face, tried to make her skin look more like she had oxygen and shit in her system, put some oils in her hair to make it fresh, brushed her teeth, and even put on sunscreen. All the essentials.

By the time she came out again, Foster was up, dressed in a suit, had mussed up his hair something awful, and had a grin on his face wide enough to tear apart the world. She smiled back at him.

"...hey.....Foster."

"Morning." He tilted his head to her still naked body. "You going to get dressed today, or are you going out like that?"

"New....look.........don't....you...like?"

Laughter spilled from his mouth in small chunks as she worked on putting on a shirt and pants. Those little things like underwear and bras could wait. Besides, she didn't really have enough to truly need them. At least, that's what she always convinced herself. The shirt was thick, or at least not dollar-store-cotton thin, and her skirt came down to halfway to her knees.

"That's better. You want to get breakfast with me?"

"I'm.....okay."

"You sure?"

Asking a question twice was something that Ava still didn't quite understand. She sighed, shaking her head and wanting to shake it until it fell right off. "Yes." She waved her hand at him until he nodded and looked at his phone, checking up on whatever it was. The living...do that far...too often. They...don't...take...anything....unless....it's what....they want. Damn. Thought Foster....was a...little...better....at least. At....least....he's....not....that...awful.........better than the others.....on this case.

She still wasn't certain to think of the rest of their team. They were mismatched, not quite fitting together yet, or those that did fit together didn't in front of her. She saw all the different pieces but they didn't belong to the same puzzle. Hell, half of them were chess pieces trying to fit onto a two-dimensional plane.

"So, here's the thing." Ava hardly looked over to where Foster was reading off his phone. "We lost Penelope, Michael, and Aboleth." She vaguely remembered seeing them at the beginning of the investigation. "They died in obtaining this information on the knife...and it looks like it's probably about to get rougher from here on out. Sure you want to come with us today to get this knife?"

"What....and....die...again?" She chuckled. Each sound was slow, foreboding. It was all that she could muster. "The....godsmetal....can remember shit...we need that. This....is our job."

Foster ran a hand over his tie and adjusted it. Under his breath he muttered, "Way to make capitalism sound great."

The Fallen, Seymour, was their target. Ava had heard of him before. Mostly because she'd had to do ends-and-odds for her dragon to keep herself 'alive' every week with that damned dark magic. He'd often have her fetch things or give things to people, and Mr. King was no exception. She'd given him at least two different bottles, of what she'd never ask, and by the way he'd acted then, Ava knew it wouldn't be an easy job. The Fallen were all a little odd, sure, but odd didn't have anything on Seymour.

He wouldn't let her touch his brass door handle because it was too precious for him to let fall into the hands of anyone else. She wasn't allowed to step on his grass, to go off the concrete, or to look too long at anything inside the house. The door only ever opened thirty-degrees at a time, it was held stiff and proper, with gloves, and the fallen would have two guns on him at all times. For protection, of course.

The obvious way to get the dagger would be to steal it, because there is nothing that anyone could do to actually obtain something of his legally, but that didn't seem like it would be very safe.

Or logical.

In fact, it seemed like something she'd be quite content to let the rest of the group figure out, but that wouldn't be right. She wouldn't get paid for that. Or, in broader terms--the investigative force wouldn't pay the dragon to continue doing the spell on her every week, which meant she'd slowly fall apart and lose more of herself each day until, after over seven days had passed, Ava lost herself to the ravages of death. She could always go after people and eat them, but she'd lost her hunger years ago.

"What's...the plan?"

A glint in his eye, Foster nodded towards the door and began walking. "Let's go find out."

***

Sitting in the middle of a treeline was boring. Sitting in the middle of a treeline in the dead heat of day, roughly four pm, and staring at a small black device that occasionally made noise and told her what to do was even worse. Still, a job was a job, and something told her that it wouldn't be smart of her to lose this one like she lost the job at the morgue.

Alexander King, sharing the name with the guy, was their main man. Him, alongside The Cachail, were there to 'trade' Ace and Leo for the dagger. Meanwhile, Liam was to enter from the back without triggering any alarms, and try to steal the dagger while they talked. Ava played guard alongside Iris (on the eastern side), Foster (waiting as insurance in his family's vehicle), Melia and Brandy (guarding the back), and Imogen and Ozias were waiting in vehicles on the other side of the road. The house was swarmed, something unusual given the fact that it was fifteen miles outside of the city and surrounded by a vast array of trees and ticks and other stupid bugs that crawled up Ava's feet as though she gave a shit.

Swatting at her knees, she tried to tell herself that soon enough everything would be over with. That the plan would be executed perfectly and they would no longer be pieces that didn't fit together and everything about the case would be easy after this. But easy didn't kill high-profile princes.

The black device started to beep.

From her position outside, she couldn't see what went on in that defeated house. The windows were tinted and the door had been closed. The walls had to be reinforced with something thick and strong, but that didn't stop the screams and loud crashes to stop from wafting through. Ava stood up, watching as the others too left their positions.

Something's...wrong. She needed to move faster, to go inside and figure out what was wrong, but Ava held back. That man....keeps people like me....and all of us....and we're....stealing his dagger. It was a sickening thought. It was a sickening job. But it was a job.

So she started moving, leaving the treeline and crossing across his precious yard.The grass sighed in her presence, moaning as though a human were there. What the fuck? It was better not to question why, but when she heard the garden gnomes moaning too, Ava wanted nothing more than answers. Is this...a fetish?

Everyone else had made it in by the time she'd reached the door. The large brass was just as shiny as ever and she slowly reached out, letting her fingers trail across it. It was cold. Nothing special, just cold, shiny brass. Sighing, Ava entered.

His house was full of blood. Ace's blood, to be exact. It stunk, though not like old death, just like...death. She shuddered as she forced her way through, trying to ignore the Fallen that lay against the back wall. They'd forced through him like a chain, everyone attacking, hitting, biting. A large chunk of his arm would forever remain in Ace's torn mouth. Disgusting. Mal stood against a back wall, talking to herself, and Ava was content to not ask questions. They did what had to be done.

And she, like always, had been there but never truly there. Living a stolen life and pretending that she was doing good with it.

Ava's feet beat hard and loud against the porcelain floors. She shuddered at the sights before her. Body parts hung from the ceiling. The rich, familiar smell of the morgue was there, a reminder of all the things that he'd had brought to be embalmed before returning to his house. Oh, yes, Ava had known of that man before--but never had she ever needed to get close to him. She'd seen the house but never beheld it before.

It wasn't what she expected.

The....dagger....is at the back.

It was just a house. Empty of everything but life. Life strung itself through the walls, hanging across every corner and wailing with bated breath. He had enough daggers to arm a small army and enough arms to fill it. One room was stacked full of chairs; she closed the door to it slowly. She made her way through each room with a soft gentleness that she'd never had before. Though she wanted to do nothing but stare at each intricacy that hung or had been attached to the wall, she couldn't bring herself to. Especially not for the blood he kept in jars, just stacked up, at the corner of each room.

Bear's body remained where he died, though the dagger had been removed from his hands. Liam floated above him, holding it in his hands, and looked to Foster with sad eyes. The boy had lost his teddy bear when she last saw him and something told her that he no longer minded. The way he looked at Foster made her question which of of them had been sleeping with him at night.

"He was enlightened," Foster said. Something thick lined his words. Remorse? "So he must've known...He did his job well." Each word surrounded Ava heavily as she looked down at the broken piece before her. Their team was being dismantled, bit by bit, and she couldn't help but wonder how many of them would go before the killer was caught. How many....lives....are...worth...a...Princes?

"It's time to go," The Cachail said. Ava turned, watching as he stood in the doorway. He was sober as night.

"How many people are going to die before this ends?" Foster's voice was harsh.

The man merely walked back out of the house. Ava watched his retreating form until he'd turned down the hallway. He's....more of a ghost....than Liam....will ever be. His footsteps hung in the air like matches, striking at every turn. The house was about to blow, though there'd never be any flames to lick up the walls. It would burn down without ever finding itself growing warmer. The house would remain forever, caught between the stages of life and death. Each cherry colored wood would remain intact, standing bold, and all the items that kept the house sane would be there, their lives screeching in the lost night. The walls shook, wanting free from their confinements.

Liam shuddered. "Let's get out of here. We can grieve later."

Ava couldn't agree more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bear Wilder

Leo, what would you do to get that dagger in your possession?

Hm, that's a good question; what would you do, Leo? Would you become the one thing you so hate about yourself?

Leave me alone, let me think.

A sardonically sweet laugh erupted in his head; clattering against every part of his skull as though it were a pair of crashing cymbals.

Don't forget that we are your thoughts, Leo, so when you speak; it is proof that you are still alive. Maybe you should be grateful.

"Are you alright?" a meek voice asked of him, digging its way into his mind with razor sharp claws and forcing his insanity into the back where he usually attempted to keep it bottled up. Which was proof of his insanity in of itself, considering he knew it would always be a part of him; a festering reminder that he was living a life he did not want.

"I'm great, thank you," he offered a small smile to the forgettable face before pushing past her and letting stone settle back on his features.

He was only incredibly aware that each passing moment in the middle of this investigation made it more and more difficult to remain sane. Where are we going, Leo? Dorian's house is IN the city, not out of it.

Dorian's house has no more to offer me towards this investigation.

The rain pelted the leather of his jacket; soaking his hair and only mimicking the melancholic tune that had strung itself to his bones and pulled on his limbs like he were a marionette.

Of course there's rain, you little emo cliche of an individual. I bet that you feel awfully reminiscent on your entire life right now, don't you Leo?

I hope you know how pathetic you are.

I do, you don't have to worry about that.

His feet slapped against the wet pavement and he let out a soft sigh as he fell into the rhythm of the atmosphere around him. He was tired of always sticking out, and it was only when he was alone that he felt he didn't. When he was alone, he could fade into the environment and didn't have to worry that others would notice when he did.

Isn't that a little selfish of you, Leo? To want to disappear, but not want others to be aware that you did?

No, because no one would care if I disappeared, it's just easier for me if others didn't notice when i did.

You wish for Death to visit you, then?

No. To disappear does not mean to welcome Death; it means to welcome the silence of being amongst those who do not understand or care what you are.

Leo-

He clenched his fist again, digging into his palms until a small pool of blood had formed on the ground by his feet; quickly washed away with the rain. While he knew that the voices in his head were merely reimaginations of his own doubts and fears, he didn't care to hear them unless it was in his own voice.

So, he began to whistle a song that his mother had sung to him when he was barely old enough to remember it; a lullaby that had only ever calmed him when the chords came straight from her and plucked at his brain to calm him.

My sweet, sweet Angel;

close your eyes.

Get lost in the whisper of my lullaby.

LEO.

More temporary plain flooded his vision as he clenched his fist yet again and dripped more his own blood onto the pavement.

I love you, even through your cries;

even if those teary eyes

keep me up at night.

LEO

LEO PLEASE LISTEN TO ME.

IT'S A FALLEN.

His steps faltered and he looked up at the face of a Fallen. The man was tall; his limbs categorized by a distinct ability to all be equally proportionate. His face was strong and his features all perfectly aligned; a signature of those that are descendants from a generation once welcomed in the Above. His hair was a charcoal black; perfectly manicured and slicked back to allow one clear vision to see his enigmatic green eyes.

"Quite an odd hour for a..." he paused briefly, sniffing the air before his lips curved into a wicked grin, "human to be out walking alone,"

"I don't mean to cause any trouble here, sir, I just would like to inquire about a certain dagger that I have come to understand is in your possession," Leo refused to look into the eyes of the Fallen for he did not want the Fallen to be able to sense the fear that had settled within the raging current of his bloodstream. His adrenaline was running as though it had been cranked all the way up and this made him fight just to keep a part of himself in tact.

Just being in this close of a vicinity with the damned Fallen is doing this to me. I am weak.

I won't argue with you on that point.

Fuck off.

The Fallen laughed abruptly, as if he could hear Leo's inner turmoil just by looking at his face. This only caused Leo to grimace, trying to stand up straighter and make himself seem more imposing than he knew he looked.

"You aren't the first to ask about this dagger today, you know," the Fallen ran his thumb over his bottom lip absentmindedly; a look of something other than diplomacy flashing across his handsome features.

The Fallen whistled softly, pulling the Dagger out of his pocket as though he were in a trance. He placed the tip of it against his pointer finger and smiled as he twisted it around. This man was by no means in the right state of mind to be anywhere near a weapon.

Especially a dagger forged from Godsmetal.

"Of course, I had to dispose of your friends that came asking about it because they didn't seem to understand how I can't part with it," he spoke matter-of-factly; as if he were relaying this merely to remind himself that his reasons to commit murder were valid.

"Who?" Leo's heart pounded against his ribcage; trying to break out of its prison as he awaited the answer.

Please don't say Mal.

"Alexander King, and someone who goes by the name The Cachail; quite easy to kill, by the way... in fact, I'd say I had a hell of a lot of fun with it," he looked at Leo without truly seeing him; his eyes completely void of the awareness that came with lucidity. Leo let out a deep breath and although his heart refused to stop trying to escape, at least he knew Mal was okay.

The Fallen laughed again and used the dagger to point at Leo, accusing him of a crime he hadn't yet committed before he even had the sense to open his mouth.

"Are you here to take the dagger from me? If you were, that'd be an intention most contemptible and I'd have no choice but to kill you as well," his face was contorted in a sinister sneer and he took a step towards Leo; not stopping until the point of the dagger was pressed against Leo's cheek. Leo's breath hitched in his throat and his nerves went haywire.

"I would do no such thing, sir," he tried to keep his voice even as he spoke, looking at the rain as it danced on the edge of the blade. He could see the reflection of the Fallen's grin in the dagger as he gulped.

"Are you sure? My friends are warning me otherwise," he tilted his head in the direction he believed the voices to come from, but as Leo's gaze followed it was evident that these friends did not physically exist.

Leo knew exactly how that felt.

This guy is batshit crazy, eh? Maybe you should forget the investigation and become his friend, you two should get along just fine.

He is far beyond the extent of recovery; I can handle my insanity.

But can you, though? Or do you want to rip his throat out as much as I do?

I...

Yeah, that's what I thought, so let's have some fun here buddy.

There was that laugh again; scratching the inside of his mind like it were sharp glass shard and he were the only thing standing in the way of it being placed back into its home.

"The dagger is part of a.." the laugh made it hard for Leo to think straight as it refused to cease existing inside of his mind and he stuttered.

"Spit it out, we don't have all day. I must tend to my garden," the Fallen sighed; bored with the conversation and looked at his wrist as if there were a watch placed there to tell him that he was late for something.

Is he serious? Christ, put this loon out of his misery already Leo.

It was in one swift movement that Leo had ripped the dagger out of the Fallen's hand and pointed it back at him.

"Give that back! You thief!" the Fallen's voice was harsh as it whipped against Leo's eardrums He lunged at Leo, clawing for the dagger and Leo didn't even hesitate for a single moment before he embedded the dagger into the Fallen's heart. Then, as the Fallen collapsed onto the ground and blood sputtered from his mouth, his laugh rang through the air again.

"Pathetic," the Fallen spoke coolly, acting as if he weren't lying in a pool of his own impending doom, "I knew you were here for my dagger! They told me you would bring pain into my home!"

Stab him again, Leo, I want to see what you'd look like painted in his blood. would you be a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa? Or would you be like the scribbled mess that is the drawing of a toddler?

Leo didn't want to listen to the voice, but his limbs were not his to control anymore. He was not an autonomous being when at the will of his own insanity. So; he stabbed the dagger into the Fallen again. And again. And again until his hands were coated with paint and he was no longer sure if the wetness on his cheeks were rain, tears, blood, or a combination of all three.

You aren't a painter, but I'd say your technique has a certain... je ne sais quois.

Well done, our little Artist.

shut... up...

His chest rose up and down with sharp breaths as he struggled to find a reason to be deserving of air.

I did this... I...

You're an absolute monster, Leo, and it's the single greatest thing about you.

As he stood, his legs were weak and almost did not support his weight. He felt heavy; like his limbs were coated in concrete. The dagger was pressed against his palm, reminding him that it was there. He had succeeded in obtaining it. This investigation would continue until someone had solved Dorian's murder.

But at what cost?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liam Hughes

Teddy bears were amazing. They were soft and cute and cuddly. They were always there for you when you needed them. Maybe that's why Liam loved Percy so much. Maybe that's why it was so hard on him when he realized Percy was gone for good. He was never coming back, no matter how hard Liam wanted him too. Percy was Liam's anchor, his only friend. Percy was the only thing keeping Liam there. But now his anchor was gone, never to be returned.

It was hard for other people to understand. Most Wraiths had an anchor, something to keep them tethered to the real world. Something to stop them from being eaten alive by their own memories. And without an anchor, there was nothing keeping you from dissolving into the spiritual world forever.

Liam didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. Everywhere he turned he saw Allison. She was the face of every girl leaving the nightclub, on every billboard. There was nothing he could do. He curled up into a tight ball as he attempted to block her face, but every time he closed his eyes he saw her. Laughing, taunting him as he lay in the piles of garbage that had fallen out of a dumpster. He deserved his fate, he knew he did. His father had told him, God would punish the wicked and the sinful. And Liam was most definitely sinful.

He was brought back to the present by a pair of hands grabbing his arm. He flinched, and yanked his arm away. A face peered at him from above. Foster's face surrounded by the sunlight looked like an angel's. Foster shook Liam again.

"Liam, are you okay?" he asked quietly. Liam whimpered as Foster rolled him over. "Liam?" Foster tried to shake him again but his hands passed through Liam's body. "Just hold on, Liam, you'll be fine." He rubbed his hands together and blew what seemed to be sparkling dust into Liam's face. Slowly, Allison's face disappeared from the Wraith's vision as Foster breathed a sigh of relief. "God, Liam. You had me worried there for a second. What the hell happened?"

"Percy," Liam muttered. "Percy's gone."

"Percy? Who's Percy?"

"Percy," Liam said, grabbing Foster's arm. "I need Percy." But something had changed. Liam didn't feel the same longing for Percy he had last night. Now, he felt a longing for Foster. Foster was his friend, he had saved him. Liam pulled himself up and stared at the Fae before him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Foster asked. Liam nodded slowly and grabbed Foster's arm. For some reason, he couldn't stand the thought of being away from the Fae for even one second. He clung to Foster's arm as Foster tried to jerk it away. He couldn't let go, would never let go. "Okay then," Foster said. "Um, can you let go of my arm?" Liam held on tighter. "Alright, fine. Can you at least help me track down this dude Seymour?" Liam nodded, not questioning how Foster knew about the dagger. "Great," Foster said. Liam held on to him as they walked down the street.

"So," Liam said, "do you know anything else about this guy?"

"I know he's a Fallen," Foster replied. "His name's Seymour King and he has a godsmetal dagger."

"Wait," Liam said flinging his arm out. He got the felling someone was watching them. Suddenly, another Wraith stepped out from behind a corner.

"Hello," the Wraith said. "What are you doing here?" She peered down at Liam. "And why do you have a Wraith attached to your arm?"

"Don't ask," Foster said. "I have no idea. What are you doing here?"

"Investigating," the Wraith said coldly, "which is none of your business."

"Look," said Liam, "I'm sure we can all work together long enough to get what we want. You're looking for Seymour King?" She nodded slowly. "Great, so are we. Do you have any information on this guy. All we know is he's a Fallen." The Wraith scowled.

"I know where he lives," she said sullenly. "But he has a reputation."

"What kind of reputation?" Foster asked.

"Let's just say he doesn't play well with others."

"How do you know so much about him?" Liam asked.

"I have lots of connections," she said. "You might know me, my name is Imogen Swan." Liam gaped.

"The Imogen Swan?" he asked. Imogen Swan was one of the most powerful Wraiths in the city. She practically owned every Wraith in the city. She scowled at Liam.

"That's Miss Swan to you," she growled. Liam gulped. No one wanted to disrespect Imogen Swan. If you got on her nerves, she could rip you apart.

"Of course, Miss Swan."

"Anyway," said Foster, "I'm Foster and this is Liam." Miss Swan narrowed her eyes at both of them.

"Whatever," she said. "Let's just hurry this up. I have an appointment in two hours. His apartment's only a block away." Miss Swan glared at Liam. "Are you going to let go of his arm anytime soon?" Liam slowly released his grip on Foster's arm. "Come on," she sighed. "Not you," she said to Foster as he attempted to follow them. "I need to talk to your Wraith." Foster nodded and fell in behind them. "So," Miss Swan said carefully. "Is he your anchor?"

"My anchor?" Liam asked.

"Don't play dumb," Miss Swan said. "I saw the way you were clinging to him. You can't stand the thought of being without him, can you?"

"I guess not," Liam answered.

"You should be careful. Having a living thing as an anchor is much more difficult than an inanimate object. We're here." They were standing in front of a tiny apartment building. The door was hanging open as if it had been forced.

"Stay here," Miss Swan told Foster as she teleported into the building. Liam shrugged at Foster and followed after her.

There was complete chaos in Mr. King's apartment as Liam materialized there. Blood covered the wall and the eyes of a a red-haired vampire stared up at him as he stepped over her body. Ace, that was her name. She'd been investigating along with the rest of them.

A shout drew Liam to the living room where a man of unnatural beauty was battling a Demon. Miss Swan stood off to the side, rooting through the Fallen's drawers. The Cachail grabbed the Fallen's head and jerked it to the side, causing a loud crack to ring through the apartment.

"How the hell did you do that?" Liam asked. Most Fallen were early indestructible. The Cachail opened his mouth to speak, but toppled over, blood spurting from a wound in his back. Miss Swan eyed Mr. King warily and shrugged.

"He's a Demon. Probably used his Demon strength. Besides," she said, kicking the fallen Fallen's body, "he couldn't have lasted long. It looks like his last meal was ages ago." Liam nodded and a glint of metal caught his eye. He reached down and pulled up a corner of the rug and removed a floor board. The dagger was there, nestled in a small blanket with the edge sticking out. Liam grabbed it and held it out to Miss Swan. She nodded in approval and took it from him, turning it over and over in her hands. They teleported back into the street and over to a waiting Foster.

"Great, I have a friend who can track the metal," he said. "Come on, follow me." He walked off in the opposite direction and Liam and Miss Swan followed him. She nudged him and gestured to Foster who was a few feet ahead of them.

"You should watch out for that one," she said quietly. "The magic binding both of you is extremely powerful. Should anything happen to Foster, it won't end very well for you." Liam nodded in understanding and gulped. Foster was his responsibility now and he would do everything in his power to protect him. Liam caught up with Foster and smiled at him.

"Everything okay?" Foster asked.

"Yeah," Liam said. "Everything's fine."

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Imogen Swan

DROPPED A HOUSE ON HER

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Ozias Alva

DID NOT HAND IN