Mal Lilystone

Mal sauntered up to the Nightclub owned by an infamous demon named Imariel. She was no alien to working with him, as one of her favorite pastimes included toying with the emotions of unleashed hellions as though their hearts were on a set of strings and she were the puppetmaster. She'd met Imariel once-or maybe twice- before, she couldn't quite remember. Clearly, whatever had happened between them was entirely forgettable.

As she stepped through the doorway, her senses were overwhelmed with loud music, glaring lights, and obnoxiously oblivious clubgoers. They were all here for fun; entirely unaware of the fact that- should they be mortal with a soul still intact- they were at risk to have it be devoured by the very man inviting them into his club. Pathetic.

Mal wanted to smile at his deviousness; the clever way that Imariel had disguised his bad intentions with philanthropy towards the youth of this god-forsaken city. However, she was here on business and no pleasure was to be extracted from the night. Or, at the very least, minimal pleasure would be experienced.

A very large, imposing man stopped her as she approached the V.I.P. area and Mal had to suppress her natural inclination to roll her eyes. She felt the tip of her fangs with her tongue and gave him a warm, innocent smile. These were two things that she had become incredibly adept at faking over the years.

He tried not to look as though the mere prospect of a Vampire both disgusted him and filled him with a tantalizing fear and he raised an eyebrow, clenching his jaw. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and noticeably scrunched up his shoulders. Some would see this as him trying to make himself seem taller. As Mal knew from experience; he was actually giving her less of his neck to bite.

Tsk tsk. Silly man. If I were to bite you, I wouldn't need your vulnerable neck. In fact, I much prefer the veins of your arms. She had to swallow her desire to salivate as her eyes focused on the pulse of his blood pumping through his veins and she smiled yet again.

"Imariel is expecting me," with the amount of years she had practiced speaking, the speech impediment she had contracted because of her fangs was hardly noticeable.

"I'm going to need you to state your name and business," the man spoke harshly; his words dripping with a sickly sweet fervency. He'd give anything to be away from her right now.

"Mal Lilystone, and wouldn't you like to know?" she asked as she looked up at him and winked; giving him a smirk that she used to get her way on multiple occasions.

"Mal, it's a pleasure to see you," a voice interjected as a figure came up behind the bodyguard. It was Imariel; silver eyes devoid of life and midnight black hair curling atop his head. His features were handsome; thick lips drawn into a knowing smile and a small glint of a burning star sparking in his eyes upon the sight of her. He had a pronounced jaw and his thin, wiry frame was so pale it was almost incandescent as it caught the faint glow of the cigarette he brought up to his mouth.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Mal let herself into the small, roped-off area of the club to join Imariel in his own private section. She caught his eyes and smiled lightly; a playful hint dancing on her lips as she did so.

"You look even lovelier than the last time I saw you," he caught her hand as she brushed past him and he pulled her to his side, dipping his head down to kiss her cheek. She pushed down her instinct to cringe and smiled even wider, throwing her hair over her shoulder as he pulled away.

"I know," she replied as she sat down on the black leather sectional and instinctively pulled at the bottom of her skirt. He placed himself next to her. Maybe too close, as she could smell the aroma of cigarette smoke and burning flesh that wafted off of him. If her nostrils hadn't already been accustomed to the stench, she would have gagged. Instead, she looked at him with and chewed on her lower lip.

"Always so modest," his voice was scratchy as though he'd swallowed glass and it had carved it's own path down his throat.

"Let's talk business," Mal didn't have time for small talk and reunions she'd not wish to sit through in a million years. Imariel frowned and pulled away as he realized that Mal was not here to catch up. It was visible in his face and the way his shoulders slumped that his interest in the conversation deflated along with his ego.

"You want to know what information I have about Dorian's murder, don't you?" he sighed as though he expected as such and a small pout found its way onto his lips.

"That may have crossed my mind," she smiled coyly and watched his face as he shook his head.

"You know I don't give out information for free, Mal. It comes at a price," he ran a hand through his hair and let his eyes meet hers.

"Do I look like an idiot? I am well aware that knowledge comes at a cost," she reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out an envelope with his name scrawled on top.

"What is this?" he asked, leerily eyeing the stark white envelope as he turned it over in his hands.

Unfortunately, something you'll like.

"Well, it is a list of weak souls that have gladly accepted my proposal to be devoured. A list of people who are on their deathbeds. A list of humans waiting to fuel you," she smirked as he cautiously opened it to find that Mal had not lied at all.

A demon like Imariel was not hard to please; he had an insatiable craving for the human soul, and if she thought that her cravings would turn her into the bloodthirsty monster that was in front her, she'd never miss a single meal again.

"Information first," she pulled the envelope from his hands as he licked his lips and he almost glared at her with all the fury remaining in the shell of his body.

"I don't have much, but I can tell you that this being stole a godsmetal sword from the armory that I have beneath the club. The man I had guarding the door didn't remember much, except that the killer referred to themselves as "The Great Dragon Killer", however the hell that's supposed to help considering the circumstances," he responded softly, not daring to take his eyes off of the envelope.

"And what about this?" Mal reached back into her pocket and pulled out the necklace; wincing as it burnt her fingers. She was used to the pain by now, but not used to the idea that a piece of silver could be her kryptonite.

Imariel plucked it from her hands and turned it over, his eyes scanning the entire surface like he would be able to uncover something Mal hadn't yet discovered about the jewelry.

"Hmmm," Imariel drew this out as he considered the piece before shrugging his shoulders and looking at Mal again, "I will see what I can find out, and whatever information I bring to you will make us even then, right?" Mal nodded in reply and stood up.

She blew a kiss at him and turned to exit the V.I.P. area when she noticed a familiar figure watching her. A chill traced the entire length of her spine and had she not already been perpetually cold, she would have shivered. This caused her to stop in her tracks as a plan formulated inside of her head.

"I have another proposal, Imariel," she looked over her shoulder at him and he only briefly glanced up at her from the list of names in his hand, "you find me a list of Dorian's enemies, and I'll tell you about one of your own,"

"I'm interested," his eyes caught hers again as he rose his eyebrows and tilted his head in consideration. His life was precious to him; which is why he devoured human souls to keep living it.

"That demon over there- they go by the name Brandy- and they're here to steal that list from you," and as she walked away, the commotion behind her told her that the Demon wouldn't be around much longer to stand in her way of solving this case.

"You have to be able to know when someone is an enemy and when they're an ally. Sometimes, your enemies beliefs and intentions align with your own. This makes them more dangerous; they will try to stop you before you succeed. Make sure you don't give them the opportunity," Elder Vlad's voice drilled itself into Mal's brain; burrowing deep within.

The twisting in her gut made her hate the fact that she listened, and the pounding in her heart made her hate the fact that she took thrill in him being right.

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

Ace Acadia

Ace couldn't remember when she'd walked into the bar. She lay against the back, nurturing a beer in her hands like it was a child. It was stronger than anything she'd ever had before. There was blood in it, just the way she liked it, and the lesbian bartender really knew how it serve it up right. Ace knew she was a lesbian because her hair was cut short enough that Ace could see the veins in her head. Fucking...fuckin'...haircuts. Haircuts ruin everything. No, no, no no no! I'd like that long hair. Gimme...gimme a man with a nice, thick, long--hair. She started giggling, knowing where she'd cut herself off. It came out a bit too loud, but what did she care?

She'd been waiting on that fucking demon to see her for at least an hour.

He was a busy man, that was true. While the rest of the team was out there trying to get information from backwatered sources, Ace knew to follow the sewers straight to the man himself. A demon by the name of Imariel. She shouldn't have been drinking while she waited but it wasn't like her boss was there to watch her. Or that he could even get ahold of her. That stupid burner phone sat in the car, where she didn't have to hear it's obnoxious ringtone and could ignore it in peace.

She was supposed to have gone in there to talk to the damn demon more than an hour ago. At least an hour. It felt like eternity. It sucked. The world spun and her teeth ached and her stomach said that the blood in the drink was a little too old to actually drink but goddamn, she wasn't having it for once. She stood up, grasping the wall as the world spun just a bit, and stumbled into the room where Imariel was talking to a woman in a tall trenchcoat.

"Hey!"

The woman laughed, muttered something to him, and walked out. It was like watching an angel with a bad hairdo and crooked teeth slither away. Not a pretty sight, but perhaps that was because everything looked...off.

Ace went in further, feeling the world kick at her and she kicked right back at it, her feet moving of their own accord. "Okay! Give me your..your..."

"Information?"

"YEs! All on the...the dragon prince. You...you know why he died! Tell me what happened." She drew closer to him, grabbing him by his jacket and pulling his face next to hers. Amusement laced his features and he smiled goodnaturedly at her.

"You're a bit too drunk for this." He pried her hands off his and placed them to her sides but she instantly grabbed his shirt. "Wouldn't you rather know what happened to your ex instead?"

"Who--who the fuck cares about exes? I killed two of mine!" Ace laughed, letting go of him for a moment as she tried to figure out which leg she stood better on. Neither seemed to be doing their job right.

"You'll owe me three newborn children." He raised an eyebrow but Ace shook her head, grinning as she got closer to him. He didn't seem fazed in the slightest.

"Sure, whatever, just get me the names."

"I'll text it to you. Sound fair enough?"

"Sure, sure."

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

Penelope Wickers

DID NOT HAND IN

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

Foster S. Phoenix

The pulse of the club was strong enough that Foster could taste it with every sip of the beer in his hand. It was cold enough to make his hands ache, combatting the warmth that blossomed there but only enough to make his whole body feel like it should have been sweating but it wasn't.

He'd been watching the bar for a while now, staying close enough that he could keep an eye on all of its occupants but far enough away that he didn't rouse any suspicion. Seeing as the beer was the first thing he'd picked up when he stepped into the club, he could accurately say that he had been nursing it for even longer although his lips had barely touched the brim.

Imariel was something else to study. From where Foster stood, leaning against the wall perpendicular from the bar, he could see the demon in his natural habitat. He was a lean and wiry fellow, with fingers that never stopped moving and a grin that never quit twitching. The air was alive with his laughter, the music thrummed with the chords of his voice, as if the whole place was his own heart outwardly projected for the universe to see each and every beat that made up him.

Foster watched the jumpy demon brush away the strands of his fluffy blonde hair as he tried to convince his newfound friend to buy another drink. It was the same scheme he'd been pulling all night. Befriending patrons, learning their stories and their secrets, and then emptying their wallets into his establishment until he could safely boot them out when they were staggering drunk and penniless. It was an easy gimmick to learn, especially when you didn't know the name of the owner.

He resisted the urge to take a sip of his beer, sliding it back and forth between his hands as he debated whether or not now would be the right time to make his move. Foster's eyes darted towards the bathrooms, where the dragon who owed him a drink was engaged with some sort of discussion with a brown haired man in a jean jacket. It seemed heated, but like there wasn't much going on on the side of denim guy. Too shy, perhaps? Cat got his tongue? Foster didn't know. He could deal with that and maybe get some of that later. First came the information. That was the most important.

Dragging his eyes over to the bar, he watched as Imariel escorted another guest safely towards the door with a farewell wave. Foster's feet were moving before he could even think to hesitate or play it safe for another half hour. He crossed the floor to the bar, seating himself on top of one of the barstools and nodding at the bartender as he showed her his drink. He could feel his heart quickening in his chest, fluttering against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to escape from the horrible party trick he was about to perform.

Fingers sliding over jeans, he pulled out his phone to check how many messages he'd missed since his investigation began. Twenty unread texts. A low hiss of air escaped his teeth as he swiped them off the screen one by one. Ten missed calls. Again, swiped away, just like the rest of life's problems. That could wait. Everything could wait except for what was happening at that precise moment.

It didn't take long for him to feel the clap on his back and Imariel's arm wrung around his shoulders as he slid into the little space between the barstools. "You've been working on that for a while now," he said with a grin, eyes sparkling with champagne bubbles as he looked between Foster and the beer.

A miniscule smile crossed Foster's lips as he tilted his head, barely acknowledging the drink as he spoke. "That's because I've been waiting on you."

The laugh that echoed through the room chased away the tempo of the music, replacing it with something lighter—something brighter. "Me?" Imariel sounded surprised, delighted maybe. "Why's that?" he asked and the smile on Foster's face started to grow.

"I'll make you a deal," he promised. "I'll show you, if you'll do me something in return?"

Suddenly, the lights seemed sharper, just like the edge of Imariel's teeth as he grinned. I really hate demons, Foster thought with a shudder. "Okay, friend," he agreed. "Whatcha got?"

That was all the confirmation Foster needed. He turned around on his barstool, scanning the open air for anything that looked remotely flammable just to be safe. Then, taking a huge swig of his beer, he held the bitter liquid in his cheeks just long enough for him to make the thinnest of flames sprout from his fingertips. It wasn't dragonfire by any means. But could it light alcohol ablaze, especially when spit into open air? Yes, yes it could. Which is exactly what Foster did, sending a torrent of fire into the screeching crowd, only to have them laughing moments later when the danger was gone.

With a little half turn, he faced the demon once more. "Okay," Foster told him, wiping the edges of his lips with his sleeve, "now what can you tell me about godsmetal daggers?"

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

The Cachail

Until now, the Cachail's best work had come from solitude. He had assumed it always would.

When the Court had first employed the Cachail, hundreds of years in the past, his rank had been diminutive and shared. Plenty of Unseelie fancied themselves detectives—the culture valued shrewdness above all else, breeding fae who would fashion crowns from their own intellect—and so the Court had assigned multiple fae to the same neighborhoods and same crimes. It was in the monetary theft division of a quiet suburb that the Cachail had learned to innovate. Detectives assigned to his cases could not help him, as they investigated according to routine. But the Cachail could solve the most cases and win the most praise if he followed his own intuition, alone. And so the Cachail had advanced quickly as an investigator, earning the right to carry out his work in solitude.

Yet the H'Langraash case was a step backwards, into the working conditions of his early career. Murder was a far cry from monetary theft, and yet the investigative approach was identical—legions of detectives pursued the same leads, scrabbling to piece together the mystery before anyone else. Perhaps the Cachail should have spent more time working with colleagues. Perhaps his path in this case would have been easier; perhaps fewer mistakes would have been made.

The moment his taxi halted behind of Seventh Heaven, the Cachail recognized another error in his judgment. The sight of crowds milling around the nightclub made his stomach seize up. He should not have tried to secure his own transportation from the H'Langraash mansion—he should have traveled with another, faster group. Clearly, investigators from separate factions had banded together to more quickly solve the case. Behind one corner of the nightclub, a vampire and an undead whispered covertly; just in front of the gold-painted door, a Tuath and a dragon were gesturing towards the inside. All of these Others had not only thought of the same course of action as the Cachail had, but had also arrived before him.

Some innovation might have helped the Cachail circumvent the crowds. Unfortunately, innovation wasn't possible when the case itself was so narrow. The stranglehold on the Godsmetal weapons trade meant that the easiest way to proceed was to study recent black-market dealings. In Chicago, at least, only one person was likely to have comprehensive information on illicit arms deals. That person was located behind the gold-painted door the Cachail now studied; chances were, he was already talking to another investigator. Again, the Cachail should have arrived sooner.

Outside the taxi, the Cachail could better examine the faces of those crowded around the nightclub. Sure enough, most of them were recognizable from the H'Langraash mansion. None of them had stayed to examine the body like he had; in all likelihood, they had learned there was nothing of value to be obtained there and left. But the Cachail had followed orders and double-checked the autopsy. Nothing he discovered was more important than the words of Dorian himself, words that the Seelie detective had no doubt passed along to the other investigators gathered here.

Even now, people were eying the Cachail, their gazes following him as he walked from the street to the nightclub door. The word "frozen" was whispered in the Cachail's periphery, but he refused to turn and identify the speaker, even as his heart jumped in his chest. The only fact of importance was that Penelope Wickers or the dragons themselves had spread the news—the killer was not an angel or demon, and the Cachail had damaged Dorian's body trying to apprehend him.

Of course, the lasting impact of freezing Dorian's flesh was minor, in spite of Dorian's heightened vulnerability in an undead state. But tampering with evidence bothered the Cachail regardless. It was part of the reason why he had stayed to examine the body further, and why he had arrived late to Seventh Heaven. Investigators in any field did not tamper with evidence. It was bad form and, in an inter-faction investigation, poor sportsmanship; it was one of the few things an investigator could "do wrong."

As a result, the Cachail was on edge. The ride over had seen his taxi window frost over and melt three times, and the throngs of investigators only intensified the tingling in his fingertips. All he knew was that he couldn't stay here, where everyone watched him and the sun burned ominously on the horizon. He would wait for his contact (and, apparently, everyone else's contact) inside the club.

Beside the back door, the Cachail paused. This was the entrance through which Others might meet with Imariel, the nightclub's demonic owner. The front entrance was more commonly used, though only by the patrons of Seventh Heaven; it made sense that investigators were gathered here instead. But what were they waiting for? A group of detectives must have already entered the club and begun to question Imariel. When they emerged again, other detectives would either steal the information they'd gained (if they'd been successful) or question Imariel themselves.

The Cachail would not steal information from another investigator. Neither would he wait until everyone else had met with him. Imariel's next meeting would be with the Cachail, whether these detectives knew it or not.

Quietly, the Cachail peeled away from the back door and started around the corner. The black brick wall of the club was sparsely adorned, though from here the Cachail could spot more colorfully-dressed Others than the ones he'd abandoned, gathered in front of the building. These Others were louder and more boisterous, posing for pictures in front of a sign the Cachail couldn't see.

There was no line to enter Seventh Heaven. The club had only been open for an hour, though rhythmic music still pounded from behind the open front door. Patrons entered the building freely, their IDs checked by a burly Moon's Beast wearing a suit. As the Cachail approached the front door, however, the Beast squinted at him.

"You here alone?" he said, his voice akin to the rumble of a motorcycle.

The Cachail met the man's gaze and found he could not manage a smile, even a false one. "My colleagues are coming in later," he said. He realized he resembled the businessmen that frequented Chicago's club scene, in attire and appearance.

Thankfully, the Cachail's scent must have been old enough that the Beast didn't ask for ID. With a nod and a gesture, he ushered the Cachail inside the dimly-lit rooms of Seventh Heaven.

As the Cachail understood it, Seventh Heaven was arranged traditionally. The main room, in which the Cachail now found himself, was the largest and housed most of the club's guests throughout the night. The VIP room was located off to one side, and the owner's office was at the back; both of these areas were supposed to be guarded by highly-trained Others.

But the main room seemed enough of a distraction for the common patron. Almost immediately, the Cachail's keen hearing was overwhelmed by the music. The DJ in the corner was still setting up, but the club's stereo still blared an erratic, Latin-inspired number that resembled "La Cucaracha." Lights in myriad colors—crimson, aquamarine, chartreuse—engulfed the tables and dance floor, where at least a hundred guests mingled and drank. The entire scene was utterly unlike those with which the Cachail was familiar, and his discomfort was palpable.

He only needed a seat by Imariel's chambers. From a table in the back, he could listen for the sounds of an investigator leaving, then approach the guard with his Court badge and gain an audience with Imariel. The investigators behind the club would have to wait a while longer.

Unfortunately, all the tables in the back were taken, and the closest seat to the back rooms was at the bar. Slowly, the Cachail advanced through the club, struggling not to wince at the sound of the music, and took the seat at the end of the bar, where a couple of vampires were already seated. They barely responded to his arrival, though; upon further inspection, he noticed that their eyelids were half-closed, and they squinted blankly into the shining counter in front of them.

"What'll it be?"

The Cachail glanced up, where a bartender watched him expectantly with inky-black eyes. He smelled faintly of heliotrope and cardamom—he could only be an older demon.

"An Old Fashioned," the Cachail replied, and the bartender nodded and set to work.

Through the haze of music—fainter now that he was further from a speaker—the Cachail listened for the sounds of the back room. For a while, there was nothing. The bartender returned and handed the Cachail his drink, for which he paid immediately. He waited, and sipped on his cocktail, and waited some more. Still, there was nothing.

The Cachail found himself more frustrated than he'd been before, his heartbeat drumming a fraction faster than it should. In all likelihood, Imariel had soundproofed his office, and the Cachail would miss his opportunity to speak with him. This plan was foolish to begin with. It would only be another mistake in the long record of mistakes the Cachail had made within the last three hours.

He was angry. He was angry, and irritated, and his hands felt—

Warm.

His hands should not have been warm. For some reason, the Cachail could not remember why they shouldn't be warm, and he struggled to process the disjunction.

But in that instant, the Cachail heard something, and his attention snapped back to Imariel's chambers. The sound was too impassioned to be a moan and too high in pitch to be a groan; it drifted from the back doorway the Cachail had been eying, the one guarded by a Beast wearing a gray suit, and then it died away.

The Cachail listened harder, his eyes trained on the doorway and the gray-suited Beast. No more sounds seemed to come, though he strained to hear anyway.

Perhaps the most startling change came when the Beast changed color. In one instant, the Beast appeared wholly normal, his skin and hair brown and his suit gray and his shoes a polished black. In the next, everything was blue.

The Cachail blinked. The man was still blue, though it wasn't the same blue as before. As he watched, the shade changed from indigo to navy to blueberry, then back to indigo.

The whole club was blue. Somehow, the Cachail had failed to notice this, but the club was blue and vibrating slightly. The music still played in the background, but it was less harsh now; the melody was an inviting lull, undulating with the colors that floated around him.

A part of the Cachail's mind said, You did not drink an Old Fashioned. That was all right, though. Things were suddenly all right.

The groan drifted from Imariel's office again, and the Cachail rose to his feet. His stance felt shaky, and someone behind him might have said something to him, but he paid no attention. In one instant, he was beside the bar; in the next, he was standing in front of Imariel's guard, holding his Court badge, and the Beast was laughing. Vaguely, he registered that the Beast was laughing at him, but this didn't seem to matter much.

In the next instant, the Cachail was no longer watching the Beast laugh at him, because he was staring at a dead body.

The body was soulless. It slumped against the black-painted wall of a back corridor, perfectly intact except for the utter lack of smell. It should have smelled of smoke, because it had clearly been a wraith; yet it was nothing now, a bag of bones with a stricken face and a paper folded in its hand. The body was blue.

In the next fraction of consciousness the Cachail could perceive, he was on the floor, and he was throwing up. He had no knowledge of how much time had passed. The mess he had made smelled awful; a part of him was glad that he was smelling something, yet he wasn't sure why that was.

Then, Imariel. He was laughing at the Cachail, his blue features a blur of motion.

"No more deals," he was saying. "No more deals."

And then the Cachail was staring at the body again, and he was taking a piece of paper from its tightly-clenched fist, and he was collapsed on the floor again.

Later, he'd regret that he'd stolen from another investigator, regardless of the circumstances. Mostly, however, he would regret being alone. The mistakes would eat at him, assuredly; but the truth of those mistakes laid in his isolation, and he would understand that his best and worst work came from solitude.

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

Melia

The only problem with coming to clubs, Melia had found, was coming to clubs with Alec. The dragon's grip on her arm never slackened as they weaved through the crowd, keeping her close to him and far away from any eyes that wandered towards her. She could feel the heat pouring from his body, the pressure of the crowd pressing around him enough to make his muscles tighten. "I always forget how antisocial dragons are until I take you places," she teased, leaning into Alec just long enough to steer him away from the mass of drinking college kids that had probably already had too many shots and didn't need to piss off an already highly flammable dragon.

"Let's just find him and get out of here," Alec told her stiffly.

Melia rolled her eyes, trying once again to wriggle free of his vice-like grip. We're never going to make any progress if he's treating me like his security blanket. "Let me do the talking," she offered, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the demon they had been told to find. Alec was the one who had gotten the information last time, she wanted to be the one to get it today. How hard can finding a six-foot, demon in a club that he owns be?

Alec hesitated beside her at the offer. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Life is full of disappointments." A figure moved, making way for her eyes to find a tall man in a jean jacket standing in the middle of the room. Gotcha. "Time to let me go." At last, she pulled her arm free, ignoring the hurt look of protest that crossed Alec's face as she started to move away from him.

"Wait—"

"I'll be quick," she called to him, stepping into the crowd to try and reach the figure before it disappeared once again. It was easy for her to navigate. People moved out of her way without much struggle, or they were unceremoniously pushed. "Imariel," she purred once she got close enough, letting the name pour from her lips like velvet. Alec's eyes were burning holes in the back of her skull as the demon turned around, letting her lean in close and wrap her fingers around the collar of her shirt as she pulled him out of the crowd. "You're just the man I was looking for."

Taking a half step backward, she watched his eyes flicker over her body as Melia's grin continued to spread. He cocked an eyebrow, brushing the hair from his face before wrapping his arms around her waist. "Do I know you?" A shiver spread over her body, goosebumps prickling her arms at the contact as she looped her hands around the back of his neck.

Melia pressed her features into a thin pout, tugging him farther away from the crowd. "Not yet," she confessed. With every step, she could feel her confidence growing as her body pressed against his. "But you will, if you're lucky." Once more, his eyes darted over her, taking in the skin tight material of her dark red dress and everything that was promised beneath it. With her hair pulled out of her face and her long fingers glittering with rings that scraped against Imariel's skin ever so gently, it was almost too easy for her to ensnare his attention.

"How much of you do I get to know?" he mused, warm hands sliding lower than they needed to as she let out the thinnest of laughs from between dark, parted lips. Out of the corner of her eye, Alec was still there, watching her movements with a determination strong enough to make his fingers smolder. There was something oddly satisfying about having his attention on her— just her, and knowing that after this was said and done he would drive the two of them back to his place where she'd spend the better part of the night and the following morning in his bed until he was convinced she was his.

The voice uncoiled itself from the back of her thoughts, like a piece of shadow detaching itself from the wall to manifest in her ears for her alone. "You're nothing if you're not desperate for attention, aren't you?"

Melia brushed off the sting of the words, focusing her thoughts back on the task in front of her. "That depends." Her tongue stretched every syllable, letting her lean in close enough to feel Imariel's breath against her lips. It was everything but a kiss, taunting him as she took him as far away from the crowd as she could. "How much can you tell me about anyone who might have stumbled on a godsmetal dagger?" They were in the dark now, backed up nearly to the wall where the light couldn't reach and even Alec wouldn't be able to tell where their hands were roaming.

"Why?" Imariel asked, letting a small grin stretch across his cheeks. "You bored with your sugar daddy?"

Wouldn't you like to know. Melia smiled, fingers detaching themselves from around his neck long enough to undo the top button of his shirt with a petite shrug of her shoulders. "I can make it worth your time," she offered. Whether it was impulse or the thought of making Alec's blood boil at the thought, Melia tilted her chin upwards and stretched on her tiptoes until she could reach the demon's ear. "I'm very good at keeping my promises," she whispered, and Imariel's hands tightened around her.

"I do know you." Melia realized much too late that his voice had changed, interest turning to anger as he spun her, letting her chest slam against the wall of the club. Pain spiked through her body, forcing the air from her lungs as he grabbed on to her arms and twisted them behind her. Imariel stepped in close, broad shoulders blocking her from view as he leaned in to hiss in her ear. "You're the Curator's little pet," he spit, yanking her arms further up her back until her body stiffened. "And you've got the nerve to show up at my club? Walking around with that filth on you?" She grit her teeth, muscles straining to pull herself free as Imariel forced her body closer to the wall until her cheek was pressed against the cold stone.

Alec, where the fuck are you now? Her shoulders ached with the strain of having them pinned behind her, eyes darting towards the crowd of people for any sign of the dragon who couldn't stop looking at her just moments ago. "I'm not here for him," she swore, words leaving her lips in a compressed gasp of air.

A bitter chuckle left his lips, grip tightening until her whole body flinched. "Sure," he replied, sarcasm dripping from the syllables. "I've seen his collection. I know what he's doing."

"I don't like this one, Melia. He talks."

It wasn't until she bit down harder that she realized her tongue was between her teeth, flooding her mouth with blood as she tried not to scream in frustration. What the fuck do you want me to do about it? she challenged the voice, waiting for a response that didn't come soon enough. "Trust me, buddy," Melia spit back at last, "I don't like it one fucking bit either." A minuscule amount of pressure left her body, so small that it could have been dismissed as nothing—but it was hesitation, a pause that offered an opening for her to slither her way out of the mess she had created. "Let me go and I'll get out of you way," she bargained. "I won't come back."

"I want his tongue. Make it hurt." She didn't have to acknowledge the command, it was accepted before the last syllable had even processed in her thoughts.

Imariel released her at last, solidifying the deal as she pushed herself off of the wall and turned until she could face him fully. Melia's shoulders throbbed with pain as she tried to move her arms, straightening out the few strands of hair that had escaped her careful styling. Her heart pounded faster than the beat of the music, making her muscles tremble and her breath shaky as she composed yourself. "Can I ask you for one favor?" she asked, hoping the breathlessness of her tone would be enough to open the conversation.

He laughed, stepping back from her with a shake of his head. "The dagger?" Imariel asked incredulously. "I wouldn't tell you if my life depended on it. Get out."

"That's not what I want," Melia promised. "I just need a kiss." The words tasted like dirt in her mouth, like half-truths that were too close to the limit to be friendly. Still, she managed a flicker of a smile through them, letting something wicked glimmer up from beneath the surface. "To torment my sugar daddy, obviously."

It shouldn't have worked. Melia didn't want it to work, but it did. Imariel scoffed, pulling her towards him with hands that were too rough to at least get something for his troubles. It was a mistake. Her arms were around him as soon as their lips touched, deepening the kiss much further than it should have been. He tasted like smoke and high-end liquor, but with her fingers caught in his hair it hardly mattered. What mattered were the iron rings slipping from her fingers, the studs pulled from her ears until she could feel magic fluttering inside her ever so gently. What mattered were her teeth sharpening, grip tightening, until she tore through muscle like tissue paper and felt the warm spray of blood against her face.

"You know, darling, suddenly I've changed my mind. Get rid of that thing, will you?"

Spitting blood and muscle, she pressed her hand against Imariel's chest just long enough for the magic to surge through her and change his look of shock and horror into something much more numb and confused. Melia crouched down, scooping her jewelry off of the floor as Imariel stumbled backwards with blood pouring from his lips without a sound. "With pleasure." Wiping her face off with the shoulder of her dress, she kicked what remained of the organ out onto the dance floor, watching with satisfaction as it was crushed beneath the innocent feet of the dancers.

Melia shoved the rings back onto her fingers, feeling a familiar burn course through her veins as the magic cringed away and then died.

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

Limerick

It's early in the morning and yet it's still night but through the bus window I can feel the steady rays of morning coming up and shooting just inches above the streets of Chicago, firing through alleys and between the underbellies of cars parked on the side of the road. I haven't slept in a full twenty-four hours and my temple rests against the large window beside me. It's cold. I'm at the front of the bus so the engine roars loudest here, and as we speed through the downtown area, every roll of tire over asphalt makes the window vibrate, and so my entire skull vibrates, my entire being, but I don't care because I'm just so goddamn tired and my eyes are drifting to a close and I'm so glad that I'm sitting by myself and that nobody can appreciate someone as tall, someone as glowing, as sinful, as me.

There comes a time where I don't even realize my eyes have closed, and it feels like bliss, it truly does, relief deep in my brain and behind my eyes where the pressure is most throbbing. For the first time in twenty-four hours, my body relaxes. Heaven, if I've ever known it.

Then the bus stops.

The entire vessel lurches forward and my forehead smacks directly into the back of the seat in front of me. Nose, smushed; cheek, slapped. I bounce back instantaneously and against my own wishes. "Fuck," I say quietly, but my voice is always so deep that it can't help but be louder than I mean. My long fingers rub carefully at the place of impact. Feeling for a knot that I know won't exist. Fuck indeed. "Fuck indeed."

A light tinkle of a laugh sounds to my left, and my eyes dart to the corners, looking bitterly through the peripheral. There's that girl again, that dainty one with the pink hair all propped up in her seat, knees folded under her like they tell children not to do when en route to elementary. My gaze softens; my face flushes. "What?" I whisper. I shouldn't have.

"I didn't know you spoke," the girl says.

I'm still staring at her when Nickel, the officer in blue I've knocked over on multiple occasions, hops to attention and stands at the front of the bus, clapping his hands together once, firmly, for all faces to gather 'round. I'm still staring at her when she turns away to listen intently to what he has to say, and I think it wise to follow her example, so I do the same.

"Alright, okay, just another briefing of what we're doing here, everybody, nothing too hard to grasp. We're looking for a demon named Imariel, who runs the nightclub just outside right there, see, I'm pointing to it, there, yes. We want any information he can offer about Dorian's circumstances, about his murderer. We may need to split up to accomplish this in an efficient manner, but before we do, I want you all to know the stakes heading in. It may be dangerous. You may be hassled or offered something. If offered anything, anything at all, say no. Unless it's Imariel's direct location, deny, but gently, so as to not anger the clients. I don't care if a sexy beast is offering to buy you a drink - it cannot be trusted here. You will die. Understood?" Nickel the Officer pauses, lets his smoldering gaze linger just a moment longer, and then he claps his hands together in peppy fashion and smiles brightly, bouncing on the balls of his heels like an elf. "Alrighty, now let's get moving, kiddos! It's not every day we go on a field trip!"

In that moment I decide that I like Nickel and his dramatic personas, and that if he touches me again, I'll at least try to refrain from throwing him into the gutter. Because I'm in the second seat from the front, I'm behind him in an instant, following closely like a stray puppy begging one kind stranger who fed them so graciously to take them home, feed them more, stay near.

Feed me more. Feed me more. Feed me more. A few short seconds of vertigo. Fuck indeed, I think, because despite having eaten just that night, it's never enough. You're always hungry when cast down to Earth. That's the worst part about all this.

Walking up to the entrance, I feel heat from the neon pink sign that I shouldn't be feeling. My cheeks are glistening. My face absorbs it. But the world is so shaky and I'm still so tired that I can't read the sign properly, and I think it might read "Miriam's."

Nickel flashes his badge and then stands outside to shuffle us all in. Once I'm in, warmth and the salty aroma of sweat hits me, and my vertigo is gone. Everything's as clear as it once was. I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I slide a hand down my chest, checking to make sure the buttons of my shirt are still in place; it feels tight against me but it's fine, and I'm fine, and perhaps I even fit in with the crowd I see mulling about, pierced and dressed up and dressed down and all manner of things. I'm not out of place, except maybe in my face and height, but if I look close enough I can see others like me, other Fallen dancing around, and the alienation flees my body for the first time in a long time. Why haven't I come here before?

Never needed to.

I glance around, looking for someone on my team, but they've already spread out, and I've been left alone again. "I..." I say, craning my neck every which way. "Uh." Nothing.

No, no, forward, straight ahead! Pink hair weaving through the mob of dancers in the middle of the club. It sways and disappears sometimes but it always comes back, and I decide I need to follow it and so I do; I take four long strides forward and then there I am, at the start of the crowd, and then I make the piss poor decision to squeeze through.

I seem to have forgotten the part about myself not liking to be touched. This is all it is - touching. Bodies thrumming against other bodies, tall and short. What if someone gets trampled? What if I trample someone? It's a pulsating mass of everyone stuck together, glued by sweat and salt and a little bit of blood, if I'm being honest; but some of the dancers here like that, getting the blood sucked out of them, lapping up crimson with their long, parasitic tongues. It smells like copper and armpit and alcohol, and I gag a bit, but nothing comes out, although I'm sure I step in puke more than a few times regardless.

People keep bumping into me. I'm usually pretty rock solid, but I'm off my game today, and little fragile twiggy things ram their hips into my thighs and I tilt, stumble, nearly knock over a couple who probably just met, fingers entwined in one another's hair. They shoot me a look and I say "sorry" but the music is too loud for them to hear and so they give me the finger and I keep moving. Pink hair. Pink hair. There it is - I see it. I haven't lost her yet. No - she turns around and it isn't her. It's someone less sharp and small.

It is at this point that I begin to panic. I could offer plenty of little descriptions about how all that goes, about how my chest feels like it's growing like a fat cyst filled with pus, about how my fingers are starting to tremble and my knees are wobbling and nearly tripping me up. But those details don't matter because I only register them after they've been going on for a while, and the only thing I can think of is how lost I am.

I look left, and I see a tall woman, much taller than the rest of the crowd. We're eye-level, almost, except that I'm somewhat taller, and she sees me looking around so confused and helpless and I know that she's Fallen by the way the ice blue lights bounce off her sharp cheekbones and reflect out of the sharp emeralds that are her eyes. Her lips are painted a deep red to match the straight hair around her face. It doesn't move as she pushes others out of her way in the gentle-giant way typical of us. She can help me, I think. I want her to help me so I wait for her to come to me.

As she nears, she begins to dance like the rest of the crowd, and then she's against me and I don't like it and it feels very wrong to me and the pus bursts and my fingers shake with broken light and I still can't find the girl with the pink hair and I put my hand against this other Fallen and push, as hard as I can, to get her weight off of me. She goes but a golden flash goes with her, from my fingertips, and it's an accident but it's enough to make her fall upon five others and knock them all to the ground. "Fuck off, fucker!" they say, and I think maybe she's the one to say it, but I don't care because I need to get out and so I do, unrelentlessly knocking people out of my way until in the end, finally, I'm free, untouched, and able to breathe.

At some point I keel over, hands on my knees, eyes closed. Panting. My fingers are still trembling. They feel hot and I feel hot and this sweat dripping down my back could either be mine or twenty others'. It feels absolutely disgusting. "Fuck," I say again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Fuck indeed," someone else says.

My head shoots up and my eyes snap open. And there she is. The pixie of a girl so shrunken in comparison to me, but level now that I'm bent over. We see eye to eye and she smiles, then frowns, unsure of how exactly to react to...me.

"Hi," I say. "I don't know what to do."

"I can see that," she says, now eyeing me as warily as possible. She hesitates, but extends her hand. "I'm Penny and I also don't know what to do but that's okay because I don't think anyone does."

I want to take her hand, I truly do, but I've had enough touching for one day so I bow my head and chuckle lightly, less weighted than before. The pus is gone. "I, ah, Limerick. I don't like to touch people."

Penny drops her hand, brings it to clasp her wrist behind her back. "O-kay. Fair enough."

We stay there, me crouched and she on her tippy toes, in silence for quite a time, but then Penny clears her throat, and I perk to listen. "So, I think we need to find Imariel?"

I part my lips to speak, to say, yes, Penny, I think we do need to find Imariel, but we're interrupted by the man himself; speak of the devil, and we both turn to the source.

"You looking for me?" a scrawny man, more like a boy, says at the bar counter. He's sat atop it, long legs flung over the front edge, a cup in one hand and a towel twisting inside the glass to dry it in the other. If I'm being honest, I was expecting a bit more, given Nickel's expansive background summary of this guy before we filed onto the bus. I was expecting a goatee, two little devil horns and perhaps dark pools for eyes. Instead I'm met with shaggy hair fit for the young teens of today (what they call "fuckboys" I believe), two thin, unsuspecting eyebrows, and a pointed chin similar to that of Penny. His face is narrow and small, as are his lips, his nose, and even his eyes, beady and bright. He looks sixteen and sounds less than that, high-pitched and accented in something I can't particularly identify.

Beside me, Penny sucks her cheek into her teeth and I can hear it. Then she says, "If you're a demon with a lot of information nobody else knows about, then yes."

Demon, I remember. Demon. This boy looks nothing like a demon but now I see that little clever glint in his eyes and I begin to tremble again, this time with my fingers clenched into little fists held upon my knees. I raise myself to my full height, then, and I tower over the both of them, even with the guy propped up on the counter. Still, I say nothing. I don't need this conflict and it'd be beneficial to the whole lot of us if we'd just give up this search and head home, head to bed, get some rest.

But there's that little voice again, telling me that this is the path to atoning for our crimes, and it's up to me, little old lonely me, and so I unclench my fists and let Penny take the lead.

"I don't know what I can give you unless you give me something in return, dolly," Imariel says, a boyish smirk settled upon his lips. "I certainly do have what you're looking for, but do you have what I'm looking for?"

Penny blanches and I want to wring his skinny neck for it, although I don't know what he's done; I don't like to speak but for her sake I step forward and I do. "What might that be?"

"Well." Imariel rolls his eyes to the ceiling and lets them stay there, bouncing from fixture to fixture. "What can you possibly offer that might be valuable to a man with almost everything he already wants?" His eyes fall and catch mine and I hate this. "What can a disgraced Fallen give me that I don't already have?"

I pause to think, but the few seconds I spend are a few seconds wasted for Imariel, and he tsks at us, waves us away. "Fuck off, sniffers. I've got business to take care of."

Heat fills my throat and I almost say something very regrettable and take two steps too many but then there's a soft hand on my elbow, tugging me away, and I follow it along, lead on a leash. I am the puppy and she has fed me. It's been decided, we've been established. We stop in a corner.

"Well, we royally fucked that one up, didn't we?" Penny asks, giving Imariel a sideways glance from where we stand.

Instead of answering properly, I growl like the guard dog I am, eyes still caught on Imariel's even though he's looked away long ago. Penny taps my arm again and I swallow. "Sorry. I don't like him."

"I can tell."

"I'm gonna..." Teeth grind against my bottom lip and I glance around our surroundings. There's a tall vase filled with flowers. I pluck one out aggressively and shove it deep into my pocket. "I'm gonna steal his flower."

"Oh, yeah, that'll show him, alright," Penny says. She laughs with her mouth closed, at the back of her throat, and it leaves her nostrils. But then she's not laughing and she's squinting and pointing. "Wait, wait, lookie there. She's one of us. He's actually talking to her."

I follow her finger and there's a woman up there with him, donned in a short black dress that flows out around her knees. Her bun is tight and her hands are on the counter beside him, and I recognize her as the woman who can't shut up, the one with the pipe, and she is most definitely making an irresistible offer. They nod in agreeance, and I feel my hands clenching again as they depart.

Penny whispers, "Let's wait and see what happens."

And so we do, and after five minutes, the woman has returned, this time with another young man, and then they're leaving through the back entrance. He looks both fearful and oblivious and I don't like how this seems so I creep closer to the door. Penny tries to tug my arm back but I hush her gently, unable to process any other words, and then shimmy up to the knob, temple pressed against it. It's cold. Their voices vibrate. It's foggy, too hazed to decipher.

Then there's a crack and a fall.

Briefly, I push the door open just a millimeter or two, just enough to peer through and catch the scene, and I wish I hadn't, for the man-child is bent over the boy brought to him, sucking the life out of him, sucking out the existence of another Other. I detach myself from the door and return to Penny, now chewing on my lip, tasting the blood blossom.

"What's wrong?" Penny asks.

"Nothing," I say, but I know what I will do to that woman when she comes back in - that's a lie, I truly don't, but I can't help it.

She has done a wrong and I know that I, like always, will be the one to pay for it.

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

Michael Caim

DID NOT HAND IN

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

Aboleth

EXTENSION

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

Brandy Alva

"And you'll make sure he gets home?"

Despite asking, Brandy didn't consider it a question and Adam knew it. He sat with his fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel, oddly quiet. Most of the time he spent around Ozias was in hyper bursts of excitement, words flying out his mouth before he could think to stop and reconsider a single sentence. Every attempt had been silenced with a single glance.

"I will," he replied. His gaze flickered to Oz who sat in the back seat on top of an old flannel, the rest of the junk shoved to the other side of the car and some shoveled into the trunk to make more room. His hands were clasped tight together and squeezed between his thighs, head obediently bowed. It wasn't like she wanted to punish him. Having her son out on a dangerous murder case, however, was something that wasn't covered in any parenting book, and Brandy couldn't imagine that letting him tag along was a smart idea. The chances he'd get hurt were too high. Not to mention that the club they had pulled in front of, a seemingly uninteresting hole in the wall by the name of the Black Cat, didn't allow minors. There was already enough illegal shit going down inside the walls without ignoring fake IDs.

Brandy nodded. "Thank you." She opened the door and stared out at the warm sidewalk, a breeze of heat sweeping in and brushing over her skin. A sigh crossed her lips as she let her eyes drift to Oz one more time. Leaving things on a sour note was often her strong suite, but it was unfair to be so short tempered. He was almost an adult. Even if it didn't seem like it to her, decades often passing like months in comparison, and it was hard not to see he changed from the little four year old that had been afraid of the dark and asked if there were monsters beneath his bed. Still. There was a difference between growing up and falling into a mess like this one. The woman leaned back over the passenger seat and pushed silver hair off of Oz's forehead to press her lips there briefly. "Be good. I'll see you tonight."

The most delicate of smiles risked appearing on his face. Oz nodded with a quite, "okay," and Brandy pulled away, satisfied.

As she turned and stuck one foot onto the sidewalk, she caught Adam giving her an almost expectant look. Rolling her eyes, Brandy placed her hand briefly on his cheek in replace of a kiss. Sometimes she forgot how similar they looked. "I'll meet you back out here when you get done." He reassured her he would indeed do that, and with a grab for the car door, she swung herself out of the car and slammed shut the door behind her, waiting until the engine purred and rose and then faded away before heading for the club.

The Black Cat was by far the worst place Brandy had ever visited. Sex and drugs, illegal trades, a hub of black market gossiping, sure, but considering it was all for Others? The establishment was Hell on Earth, and in that sense, a home away from home. After all, there was a good reason she'd spent most of the 90's there. The familiar purple neon sign passed over her head as the woman ducked beneath the outcropping of brick protecting the double black doors from the sun. One tug brought the left one open, and she stepped inside the beautifully air conditioned hallway. From there it was a short waltz through the empty corridor and down a flight of stairs only five steps high.

The music hit her before she stepped inside, loud, obnoxious jazz. The only kind the man ever knew how to play. Nostalgia curled her toes as she turned into the club and was met with a wave of sweet smelling sweat and lots and lots of souls. A couple passed by, giggling in ecstasy and more than a little tipsy. The smaller girl, clinging to her girlfriend's waste for support, gazed as Brandy as they passed each other, those two going up to get fresh air and her on her way in. A flavor struck the back of Brandy's tongue hidden behind the vodka that rolled off the two, tart, sour cherries. She smiled at the little thing as she passed and watched eyes widen before they disappeared from view.

It was unavoidable. The way the place drew on her appetite was a pair of claws raking away at her stomach line slowly and deliberately. She had to swallow the saliva pooling in her mouth before continuing forward, pushing past the idea of stopping for a snack. Any other time she would've. Maybe one of the boys on the dance floor with their skin shining with sweat would taste good or any of those up at the bar chatting away with each other. Her tongue probed the edge of her lips and brought back only the taste of lipstick.

Stay focused. Shaking her head, Brandy reached up and drew her hair back, clawing at the tangles once, then letting the silver hair fall back onto her shoulders. The sooner she was done the better. With a steadying breath, the woman pushed through and swerved around the crowd. It was always packed, the tightness of bodies pressed against each other so close it left no room to breathe. Each Other left a taste on the back of her tongue, begging her to take a bite of a boy who was like lavender and honey and girl that tasted more like tequila than the drink in her hand. It was like an empty craving that sent her thoughts down the road of ripping a soul out and swallowing it right that second, crowded club or not. It was a drunken lust she forced deep down in her stomach as the woman escaped the dancing mass of people and spotted the very bartender she was looking for.

He stood at the back of the club's bar, polishing glasses with an enchanted rag, which worked on its own and left him nothing better to do than watch it work with dull eyes. His body had faded some over the years, his stomach was as shrunken before and eyes sunk deep into his skull from sleepless nights. The gold tooth he had was a prominent as ever though, flashing back the multicolored lights that were strung across the ceiling even as the light passed through the rest of him. Brandy approached the counter and settled one bar stool to the right of him, giving a sharp rap of her knuckles on the hardwood and bringing his eyes shooting up. A wave of nervous energy dashed through his body and made him flicker once.

"Need something?" His eyebrow quirked like he was trying to act tough in front of her, but the facade was fading with each passing second.

"I need to speak with Mar," she replied, flashing him the barest of smiles. It was only a courtesy. If she had wanted, Brandy could've spun him around her finger and slurped him up like leftover pasta. Not that she would've wanted to. The wraith was old and stringy and well past his prime. He'd lasted a hell of a lot longer than she'd assumed he would, but he was the only wraith she knew that didn't have a temper too.

"Imariel is-" The wraith started to lie and stopped himself. It was evident from the guilt on his face, the fear of her rooting him to his spot and keeping him honest. She widened her honey laced smile as much as possible to prove she wasn't a threat. Even if she was, Imariel had seen a hell of a lot worse. Sighing, the bartender pointed toward a door over his shoulder marked "employees only" in bright red. "He's in his office."

Brandy gave him her thanks and got up from her seat to slip through the push flap of a door. It wasn't even locked, which was typical demon arrogance to be honest. They might not have been as hot shit as dragons, but there was a certain superiority that came with being able to steal what made people themselves. The plastic flapped against the door frame, and Brandy took in the scent of the back hallway. Sawdust and blood, which wasn't a surprise at all. From there, her feet carried her to the second to last door in the back, a large oak one painted deep purple and scratched to hell by wolf paws. She knocked twice.

"Need something?" The gruff voice's response was music to her ears. It'd been too long.

Parting her own lips, the woman got a single consonance to touch the back of her throat before she thought better of it. Instead of responding, she twisted the handle and slipped inside the brightly lit office. Barging in meant he couldn't reject her presence. The desk lamp was turned on, casting heavy shadows on the edge of a high stack of documents. Behind the desk sat a man Brandy recognized instantly and yet didn't recognize at all. Black, wispy hair fell across dark skin. Behind them peeked a set of brown eyes as the man jutted his chin up and looked away from the cellphone in his hands to see who had walked in without permission.

He blinked after their eyes met. A hand pushed him back from the hunched over, focused position he'd been sitting and he sat as tall as possible to take her in. "Brandy?" The name was a surprised whisper on his lips.

She took the address as an excuse to get her foot in the door, crossing the carpet and settling on the edge of an arm of a couch that sat alongside the wall and beside Imariel's desk. It was the plush, leather kind. No surprise there. He had always liked the simple comforts in life. It showed in his appearance too, all muscles and good looks. He really had chosen a good body this time. "My, my, isn't that a spanking new form?" she complimented, placing a hand to cheek and crossing her legs as she but more weight on the couch behind her. "I love the new face, the sharp jaw is very you."

Imariel's lips twitched. They were thinner this time, such a shame. Raising a well natured eyebrow the demon leaned forward across his desk. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he sighed, letting his gaze wander her form as she had him. It wasn't like she'd changed, though. Aside from the new, near backless tank top she was wearing and silver hair she was the same as before.

Pushing off the couch and crossing the few steps to his desk, Brandy leaned over the table top and grabbed the other demon's jaw. It was only to twist his head slightly and let his face bathe better in the office light. A disappointed click sounded as she ran a thumb over the bridge of his nose. "I do miss the freckles, though."

"Hands off" He smacked her away, eyes narrow as his voice dropped. "I haven't seen you in over a decade." There was a bitterness she sensed that made her pulled away. A sigh passed her lips, not surprised by the rough greeting.

"Fine." Brandy brushed her hair behind her shoulder and shook her head. If he wanted to be all business, they could be all business. It didn't matter to her. The sooner they got this over with the sooner she could go home and check on Oz, make sure he wasn't up to anymore trouble. "I'm sure you've heard of Dorian's passing."

"I've heard of everything," Mar replied, not missing a beat. He stood up and rounded his desk from the other side as he walked over to the small liquor cabinet in the corner. "If you're here to tell me about it, you wouldn't be the first."

"Actually," Brandy followed him on light feet, watching as he flipped over two glasses and began to pour two, one for himself and another she hoped was for her, "I was going to ask for your help."

A bark of a laugh rang out in the small room, the demon tossing his head back. He shook his head. There was a strange sort of pity in his eyes when he turned that made Brandy's heart harden and retreat closer to her chest. "You don't see me for over a decade and you want my help? You haven't changed one bit, have you, bitch?"

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. The comment didn't sting. It was as effective as a chill running down her spine, making her twitch but nothing more and it was gone a moment later. "I suppose not." She stood forward and snatched the glass he had already poured, giving him no option but to take the second for himself. "So, you going to tell me any dirt you have for me?"

He scoffed and brought the alcohol to his lips. "You going to give me something in return?"

"How about for old times sake?" She took a sip from the glass and reached forward, trailing a fingernail along the new shaor and prominent jawline he'd gotten.

Imariel turned away. "Find out yourself." He grabbed the glass forcibly from her hands and marched back to his desk, refusing to make eye contact with her one more time and keeping himself guarded against her. "I'm sure you know the way out."

Brandy didn't say anything else. She swallowed what pride she had left from the encounter and left. Adam wasn't going to be happy, but it could have gone worse. She hoped it could've gone worse.

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

Alexander King

Alec zipped up his fly. A harsh breath of air passed his lips, the stirring in his stomach finally brought down. His arms were sore from the position, but the tension in his shoulders he had drove the whole way there with had disappeared. Taking in another breath, slower and more regulated than the last, the dragon unhooked the flimsy metal clasp and exited the bathroom stall with a quick push against the cold metal.

The bathroom was surprisingly clean. Aside from some bad, drunken aim near one of the urinals, the place hardly smelled of piss. Alec stepped around a questionable stain on the black tiles and stepped up to the nearest sink. He waved a hand beneath the faucet absently and flexed his fingers beneath the freezing cold water, the chill shocking his system and sending a spike down the back of his spine. The water ran over in cool waves. He made a cup with both hands and watched as it spilled into his palms and then began to overflow. The only soap dispensary was empty, though, so Alec merely folded his hands over and moved the water around until it felt like his fingers were somewhat less sticky.

Glancing up in the mirror, he caught just how messy his hair was. Blonde strands had been tugged up and yanked into a messy tangle that he took little care in fixing. One quick dash of wet fingers through his locks, and they were more than fine. He spent a few extra minutes on his lips, though, trying to scrub the red lipstick off. It worked for the most part. Mostly satisfied, Alexander slid his sunglasses from his back pocket and over his eyes. As he did, a bulge in his pants brushed his fingers. It had almost passed his mind that the Godsmetal dagger was still there, hidden conveniently in his jeans where it would be safe from prying eyes. Taking it from the crime scene was a bad idea, but leaving it there felt like a worse one. Who knew who else could've grabbed it?

Wiping the water off on his jeans in lieu of the hand dryer on the wall, Alec left the bathroom and headed back into the club. It was a mosh pit of stupidity. Everyone was drunk or high or both. It would've been nice to be right there with them. Too bad he had to fucking work. Any other time, Alec would've bought a few flaming tequila shots and caught right up to where that cute piece of ass on the dance floor was. Then again, Melia was supposed to be around here to. No matter how much anyone told you they were cool with an open relationship, they didn't want to see it. That was a lesson Alec had been forced to learn more than once.

Sighing through his nose, Alec turned away from watching the bodies squirming beneath the soft dance floor lights and focused on finding his girlfriend. It was kind of hard to find her among all the people. She wasn't particular tall or noticeable, black hair styled neatly and her frame skinny. He would've lost her for good if he hadn't turned toward the sound of a glass shattering. At least that was one way to always find her. Melia stood with both hands pressed against a dining room table, visibly trying to harass the man in the booth she had currently pinned into his spot by blocking the exit with her body. Cursing beneath his breath, Alec hurried past the other tables to go rectify things. Sometimes, the job seemed neverending.

As he approached Melia, Alec caught sight of the man sitting in the booth before her. Of course, it was Imariel. Just what they needed, another hostile game of twenty questions. After all, Dorian's had gone so well. The only good thing was Imariel didn't look one bit phased by her outburst. A tall glass was raised to his lips, and he stared her down as he took a slow sip of white wine.

"Is that so?" he asked coldly, surprising the dragon with an invitingly deep voice. It stirred up his gut again, curiosity getting the better of him as his eyes drew their way up and down the demon. Damn, damn, damn. He would've let Imariel take him right in that booth, and that was saying something. With a flicker of his forked tongue over his lips and a longer than needed stare at the tight fabric of the demon's shirt, Alec finally stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Melia's waist.

"Have fun while I was gone?" Dipping down, Alec pressed a soft kiss right below her ear and then turned to look back at Imariel who was now staring at him with what was a cross between curiosity and disgust.

Melia rolled her eyes at the scolding undertone of his voice. "I actually met a guy," she replied, teasing him right back before she mad an over flourished gesture to the man no more than two feet from them.

"You want a guy that'd know a thing or two about weapons, right?" Imariel interrupted. It was clear he was bored and uninterested by the two of them barging in and causing a scene. It didn't help that he'd have to buy new glassware either. He propped his head up on his palm and stared between them before settling his eyes on Melia. "Too bad I'm a rather tough sell."

The look said enough. Their conversation had already gone far south. Alec did his best to hold his composure. His fingers dug a little tighter into where he was holding her around her waist. "So you're not going to tell us?"

The demon didn't answer. He savored the moment he had, all eyes on him and not a single one budging. It was like the moment an actor savored right before he delivered the big soliloquy at the end of an act. His chest was puffed up, his ego swelled. He gave Alec a once over and then worked his lips around before saying nothing. The irritation crept up Alec's spine, but glaring at Imariel did nothing when he couldn't see that behind his shades.

Alec pulled off his glasses to show off the glow of his red eyes as he tucked the glasses back into his back pocket. He didn't like revealing them, especially not just so he could try and intimidate another being. It felt abusive of the powers he had, or more often, it felt silly that they were scared at all. That was how he made most of his living, though.

Imariel snorted, clearly unimpressed. He folded his arms in front of his chest and leaned back against the red leather seats. "Look at that. I didn't realize I was receiving a visit from royalty."

Alexander felt his cheeks heat up at the statement. It was rare that someone took the opportunity to spit back in his face and rarer still that they did it so blatantly. Unfortunately, that didn't help Imariel's hotness meter either.

The demon must have caught the clear surprise on his face before it turned back to a narrowed glare of hatred because he laughed. "Sorry, kid. You don't scare me. I know you're nothing." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a cigarette packet. He flipped open the lid and pulled one out with his teeth, not bothering to break eye contact as he did so. It made Alec's cheek color fluctuate more. For a second, he almost considered offering to light it before he remembered to scold himself and bit back the words with a sharp stab at his own tongue. "All dragons think they're hot shit, y'know?"

He wasn't really asking Alexander, but the dragon had no want to respond anyway. He merely kept quiet and watched as a lighter was flicked open and the tip of the cigarette bloomed to a warm orange. Imariel puffed once and then twice. The smoke curled up and he chewed some on what to say. "Truth is, though, they aren't anything if they don't have a parcel of land to put their name on. And don't bother lying," he added, then took another drag. "I know anyone's face who's as high up as that, and it doesn't fit you."

Bile rose in Alec's throat, his body warming up with defensive energy. He didn't care to be belittled down to something he didn't even give a damn about. "You think I give a shit?" he seethed, not caring that Melia had taken a cold hand and placed it just beneath the hem of his shirt to remind him that the table cloth before them was dangerously close to setting on fire.

Imariel raised an eyebrow. "I think you should." He watched the smoke curl up and threw an arm over the back of the booth to further stretch out. The demon drew his eyes over Alec again and smiled smugly. "Now that Dorian's is all up for grabs."

Alec felt his body go cold. The warmth died at the idea, something that hadn't even occurred to him. He didn't want that land, though. A dragon had just gotten disbowled on it yesterday. But... Something itched at the back of his mind, distracting him so that he almost didn't notice the small paper that was dropped off onto the table.

The demon nodded gratefully at the waiter and made eye contact with melia, silently urging her to pick it up. She did with slim fingers and silently scanned whatever was written with a small smile.

"What's that?" Alec asked.

"The address of the guy we're looking for," Melia said, picking up the small sticky note and folding it neatly in half before she tucked it away in her pocket.

"You already got it?" Alec's brow furrowed. Then what the fuck had that all been for? He didn't like the feeling in his stomach. The taste in his mouth was sour.Warmth began to boil there, scratching at him for understanding where there was none.

Melia curled a hand up and brushed his hair back gently, trying to distract him. "Come on. Let's go before it gets too late."

Imariel smiled from his cozy spot in the booth and tipped the rest of the glass upside down to polish off his wine. "She had plenty to offer," he assured, though the way the words left his lips was anything but assuring.

Before Alec could complain, however, he felt cold fingers slip into his and begin to tug him away. There was no real reason to argue. Letting her drag him through the crowded club, Alec tried to match pace with Melia. She looked different under lighting other than the dark corner of the room; she looked tired. Alec gave her hand a comforting squeeze that she didn't return. "What'd he want?"

"Something I'll worry about later," she answered. It didn't surprise Alec. He'd grown used to the vague answers she gave him. They weren't lies, but the truth they held was only enough to push them past her lips.

Knowing it was better to let the issue go then press it, Alec held his breath as they reached the club's main entrance and pushed out into the street. Cold air swirled around his skin and sent a relieving prickling sensation along the hairs on his arm. "We stopping for coffee on the way there?" he asked absently, pretending not to care one way or the another as she released his hand and lead the way confidently towards the car. The least he could do was pay her back in some way, make her feel a little better.

Melia shrugged, tossing her short black hair over her shoulder as she gazed back. A thin smile stretched across her lips, not daring to be happy but refusing to let him see her as anything else. "I didn't think that was a question."