Pierre nodded shortly and stepped past Robert, making his way back to the main manor. "You start tomorrow morning. I will need an escort to the school for a meeting and later to the Changeling's Lounge for skin."

He didn't stay to listen to the man's mild objection. He would have time to explain later. It hurts. I need to feed.

The boy went back to the kitchen, quietly scoffing at the mess Callum had made. It would take a couple of hours to clean. Instead of doing so, he moved to the fridge, sifting through the drawers for one of the few remaining packs of blood he had stolen from the hospital down the road.
Pierre sliced through the plastic with his clawed fingernail and ravenously emptied the contents down his throat like some starved animal.
It didn't taste like blood would to a human, instead it was sweet. A subtle flavor that would have been hidden to even Callum. It was delectable though, and an unfortunate requirement of Pierre's diet.

He gulped, and wiped the drip from his chin and lips, only smearing it across his cheek and mixing it with Dobson's blood. Then he returned to the solitude of his room before Robert had even made his way back to the foyer.

The first advantage he took of the opportunity shortly after capturing Hartherworn was his bedroom. A stately master bed and bath with a desk and reading nook near the window.
Pierre threw the curtains aside, allowing the moonlight to brighten the room in lieu of the lamps.

Then he locked the door and made his way to the bathroom. It still hurts.

His skin burned, in a tiny ring around his neck and he flipped the light on and stripped down to rid himself of Dobson and Tarney's remains.

He stopped, pausing for a moment to stare into the mirror. It wasn't the first time he'd seen himself. When mirrors stopped being backed with silver he was able to see what a thing he'd become.
A grayish, mangly child. A frame leftover from years of trying to survive the streets of Paris before the guillotine came. Pointed ears and crimson eyes— marks of being made by a High Coven.
Mother liked us all to look like a family, after all.

Pierre scowled and turned the water on, furiously scrubbing his hands and face until every trace of blood was removed. He hissed at the heat of it, the ugly burning on the back of his neck until he slapped his hand over it and dug his claws into it.

It wasn't visible, the only marring of his skin that ever stayed, forced to by the silver emblem burned into his skin. Proof that he wouldn't be free of that vile woman who stole him away in the night.

It flashed in his head, over his eyes. They fear that made his heart race until it was made to beat so slow not a soul would know he was alive. The way Cosette screamed— he screamed too. But only because he realized that there was no escape.  Putain elle.

***

"Mon cheri," Mother stood at the edge of the steps, her hands outstretched in welcome. "There is no reason to run, my love. Nous savons tous les deux que tu reviendras. You just won't survive in the human world all on your own. They will find you, and kill you."

Pierre swiveled around, glaring back at the vile woman. He stood in the shadows, the sun inching closer every second he wasted listening to her. It was still light out— if he ran now, she wouldn't be able to follow until dusk.

"I won't! I won't come back and I won't die! tu me tueras si je reste!" He spat back, taking a cautious step toward the fading light. He made it this far. He made it out of the house, to freedom. To a place she couldn't follow— was too cautious to follow. "I don't belong to you!"

Mother clicked her tongue in dismay, crossing her arms as a small smile spread across her lips. "How wrong you are, my love. You're my son, I made you. Brought you from the streets and protected you."

"You SOLD ME! vous vile putain de femme!! YOU SOLD COSETTE!!" Pierre hissed, taking a defensive step backward when she moved and feeling the sunlight char his skin. The woman stood in front of him now, far closer than comfort allowed.

"Pierre," Mother cooed. The boy flinched when she reached for him, pressing her fingers into the silver emblem branded into the back of his neck. "Cosette was loved deeply....but she tried to escape The Family."

He grimaced at the touch, hissing and struggling to keep from dropping to the ground as she stood there, a smile on her face as if she weren't feeling the same awful burn he did.

"Do you even know what year it is?" She asked softly, fully aware that the child couldn't answer through his clenched jaw. "I am so fond of you mon cheri, and I cannot bear to see you suffer."

Mother leaned in, pressing her lips to the boy's as her nails dug under the silver emblem and violently ripped it out of Pierre's skin.

He howled and flung his hands up, cupping them over where he bled and stumbled back into the sunlight, charring his skin further.

"Let's wager." the woman smiled, moving closer to the shadows as she watched him stand confounded and in pain, staring back at her as his skin began to burn and blood trickled down his neck. "You'll have your freedom, Cosette's as well. If you can put an end to our business...or come home."

"Wh— what?"

"A wager," Mother repeated, "if you can end the ring— without being caught by The Family, you and Cosette will be free to live your lives in the human world once more. If you return home, I will buy back your friend and set her free in exchange. You have a year."

Pierre blinked, too dumbfounded to answer or move. She would— she would set him free? Just like that?

The woman's smile widened, splitting her face with a monstrous fanged grin.
"And if we catch you, I will kill you both."

***

"Je te tuerai! Je ferai en sorte que chacun d'entre vous souffre pour ce que vous avez fait!" Pierre slammed his fists into the sink counter, cracking the marble with the force of his blow. "I'll kill you...I'll make you suffer..."

The boy sank down, dropping onto the floor as he shoved down his visceral hatred of the woman so he could compose himself once more. There's no reason to get so worked up. It's only been a few weeks...I have time. I've already nearly cut their supplies in half. Muramoto will be a heavy blow.

"I can do it...I can do this," he whispered softly, in dear need of the encouragement. Pierre opened his eyes,  brought back into the world by the water that had flooded the sink and poured on top of his head, drenching him and the floor he sat on.

Dupont is at the door. He could hear him, his breathing, and the soft sound of his steps as he shuffled, contemplating to turn around and leave. Then came to knock, prompting the boy to hoist himself up, turn off the water and throw on an oversized robe.

He opened the door and stared up at the man, the smell of him hitting Pierre in the face, forcing him not to wince at the pungent stench. Remind him to take showers twice from now on. "Yes, Mister Dupont?"

"I— I just, I wanted to check in on you is all. What— you showed me some real awful stuff and..."

"I can assure you, I am not bothered by the things that took place in Mister Hartherworn's basement." Pierre cut in, readying himself to close the door before Robert jutted his foot out and stopped him. "If you would like me to remove your foot from your person, you could have asked."

The man pulled back slightly but still stared at him with that strange look in his eyes. It was unfamiliar to Pierre. It looked like fear but wasn't. He had it since the moment he met him.

"Please don't." Robert smiled, trying to pretend he didn't understand how threats worked. Then he made that face again. The kind where his eyes flickered down and his smile faded into a hollow sadness. It was infuriating.

"How you holding up?" He asked, his voice trembling with a soft breath.

"Fine."

"I mean..." the man hesitated, and Pierre could hear his heart behind to pick up pace in his pause. "I mean, you're just— you're only a kid, and Nina— I can't imagine how hard it's gotta be to sleep here, in this room where he...."

"Mister Hartherworn did not harm me," he stated plainly. He didn't have time to.

"But others did."

....what is that supposed to mean?

He didn't notice it himself, but Pierre took a small, unconscious step back at his words. "If you are under the assumption that it has negatively affected me, you are sorely mistaken."

That face again. Stop making that face.

Robert's eyes drifted down and he dragged in a shallow breath. "You kids remind me of...someone very close to me. My daughter."

Okay?

"She was about your age—"

"I can assure you I am much older than I look—"

"You're still a kid though." Robert cut in, not allowing Pierre the opportunity to control the conversation. "You are still just a kid. And...and well, I know if it were Nina in your shoes, she'd be trying to act all tough too."

Act? Sir, I could rip your throat out before you even comprehended that I'd done so. I don't act. Pierre opened his mouth to object, only to be interrupted by Robert's soft laugh. It caught him off guard and silenced the boy as he continued.

"She was— she was what? Six or seven? Some kid kicked her off the jungle gym and she landed so hard on her arm. I thought it was broken! But she got right back up told me, told me, 'Daddy, I'm a big girl! No booboos this time.'" The man grinned, wiping a stray tear from his eye at the memory and utterly confounding Pierre in the process. "Whole elbow was bruised up and she got right back on that jungle gym— made friends with the same kid that day."

"What is the purpose of this?" Pierre glanced behind him to see if Callum put the old man up to this strange one-sided reminisce. "Why are you telling me this? What is a jungle gym?"

Apparently his words caught Robert off guard as well and he stopped, his smile dropping as that same look flickered over his face. "You've never just...played before have you?"

Pierre's nose scrunched up, the way he said it sounded different from the words themselves. He couldn't tell if it was an insult or not.

"Of course I've played," he countered, "Cosette and I used to have a game of stealing from the fruit stands. She would—" Why am I telling you this? It's none of your business!

"Who's Cosette?"

Pierre scoffed and took another step back. "That isn't pertinent for you to know."

Robert took a small, hesitant step forward. "She's your friend, huh? The one you're trying to save."

"Mister Dupont, I think it is time for you to go to bed." Pierre glared at him, forcing him back through the threshold of the door and briskly shutting it once he was on the other side.

"Je n'ai rien à te dire," he muttered softly, deliberately ignoring the fact that the man had successfully gotten him to speak of her at all.

Pierre pulled away from the door after locking it and milled in the center of the room. He paced for a moment or two, muttering french idle negatives until he plopped down on the mattress and buried himself in the blankets.

Maybe this was a mistake... he huffed at the ugly thought. No...his heart can't lie. It only gained pace when he felt anxiety— fear.

"Mister Dupont..." Pierre muttered, staring up at the velvet canopy over him. "Do not mistake your position."