"WHAT VISION?" DEMANDED the soldier.

"I do not know," the Wytch admitted flatly. "Visions are bestowed upon, not sought."

Adam Persad had just about had enough of her vague riddle-like responses. "And how would I go about having a vision if I can't fucking sleep?" he hissed, increasing the pressure with which he held a strip of cloth he had ripped from his shirt around his arm.

"I..." she dithered, disorientated by his sudden agitation. "I suppose you cannot...I do not give visions."

"Who does?" Adam growled.

"Wytches believe that it is Morpheus," she answered nervously. "The god of dreams. Others believe...that is through Dreamcatchers, from whomever governs the World-Weavers."

"Dreamcatchers?" he echoed.

Adam had heard of those —human-like creatures of magic who were the only species who didn't possess such abilities. They blended in well with his kind —one could only tell them apart occasionally from their hair or eye colour; and their blood of string.

To his knowledge though, Dreamcatchers had fled the Gamma Plane when the war began —and had had no incentive to return.

"Where can I find one?" the soldier hissed.

"I know one," the Wytch assured him, "who is still based nearby, on Oxford street."

Adam moved to get up, making the chair clatter to the floor. His brows furrowed in annoyance as he stomped in the direction of the door.

"Are you going to go right now?" came the surprised cry from the Wytch as she scrambled to clear up the spell circle and the blood. The liquid splattered as she shook the knife —before she brought the blade to her mouth and ran her tongue across it.

Months ago, when he was still expressive, Adam would have jumped right out of his fucking skin. Now, he simply frowned. "That's disgusting."

"It is sweet," remarked the Wytch, licking up the rest of it. "I can definitely taste the magic in it."

She was dragging her tongue along slowly, suggestively; making a show of it —in a way that Adam knew half of what she could do if she got between his legs. Everything in him cringed. Her eyes twinkled, glued to his. Clearly, no one else but her would go to such lengths to make someone so uncomfortable.

And the soldier was definitely sure in that moment that refusing her had been the smartest move.

"Please stop," he snarled.

She giggled hysterically, self-satisfied to no end. "Too late," she quipped, twirling and slotting the dagger back at her side. "...Did you not know that Wytches can drink human blood?" she purred.

"It doesn't mean that they should," the soldier grunted.

Everything about her oozed mischievousness and lust. Exactly what he had been taught that Wytches were. If he didn't look too closely, if he took her at face value, he wouldn't know about the crippling solitude and anguish which her grin truly hid.

The Wytch shrugged, not quite understanding Adam's reaction, for it was perfectly ordinary to her —before moving to the door and folding her arms. "I do not think that you can go right now."

"Why not?" Adam scoffed. "The longer I have to wait, the longer I have to be awake."

"The dream shop is...not open," she settled for, as if just having thought of it. "I remember that their opening times are from eight o'clock until sunset."

Adam swore and slumped against the wall.

Right then, more than sleep and food, he craved instant gratification.

He wasn't getting any from this Wytch, and his patience was wearing thin. What if he wouldn't get any answers from the Dreamcatcher either?

Or what if the two creatures of magic were simply laying a trap for him? He had no reason to trust them —especially the Wytch. Yet...he knew that this was his best shot. If anything might aid in gaining rest, this was it. He only had to make the decision to pursue it.

Even if that cost him his life.

Then again, perhaps he would get some sleep that way —assuming there was no Hell waiting for him.

He considered asking the Wytch what such a world of fire and brimstone might be like.

"...Do you not still need to get food?" she then reminded him, pulling him from his thoughts. "That might occupy your time until the dream shop is open. And look," she murmured, nodding to the cracked window beside them. Streaky rays of sunlight pierced the musty grey air. "It is daybreak."

Adam Persad abruptly realised that he still did not know the Wytch's name.

They had spent a night wandering the streets together; had unintentionally flirted; had swapped romantic advice; and she had even tasted his blood —yet he hadn't once thought to ask her name.

He also wondered why she seemed to be uninterested in learning his in turn.

"Are you stocking up for an entire year?" the Wytch deadpanned as they carried ten plastic bags between them back to Adam's bungalow.

"This will last two months," the soldier corrected.

The Wytch was surprised. "Humans eat that much?"

"Some eat even more."

She frowned and twisted her black-painted mouth with thoughtful perplexity. She did not understand most human habits. Wytches ( and most other immortals ) could survive on a meal-per-month diet.

"What is your name, Wytch?" Adam then plucked up the courage to ask. "I feel that this incident has warranted us to know each other's name."

She turned to him, her expression suddenly blank and eerie. Her eyes had lost their playfulness —cold malice lingered in the flat blue colour. Without a single word, she challenged his entire question.

Was it a Wytch thing, Adam wondered, as well as a Faerie thing, to think that giving out names resulted in involuntary servitude on their part?

"I just thought that referring to you as Wytch was getting tiresome," he reasoned rather nervously, glancing away to avoid her cold, deadly gaze.

"Try and get used to it," she said in a voice like ice —though very levelled, still chilling and harsh.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he offered in the way of an apology, though he was frowning sternly.

"You did not offend me," she clipped, sticking her pale, pointed nose in the air. "I simply do not go around advertising my identity. I also thought it unnecessary to exchange such information —we will part ways as soon as you set foot in that dream shop."

"Oh? Is that a fact?" Adam deadpanned.

"It would not look good for me to keep ties with a human I let get away," she said a little softly. That glint in her eyes returned, harbouring a deadlier meaning.

Adam let out a small uncertain sound in response, but he didn't argue further. The rest of their journey was spent in welcome silence. He appreciated her quietness; her realisation that some pauses of noiselessness need not be filled with words.

When they arrived at his doorstep, he had to stop her from coming inside.

"It's just...my wife didn't like strangers coming into the house," he explained. "It was the one place she felt at ease —safe. It was sacred to her."

Even if he had come back from the real battlefield to find her dead on the floor.

The Wytch understood. He had thought that it would take more than that to convince her, but it seemed that she knew of such anxiety. She waited for him to drop the bags inside, before handing over the rest.

When he had finished organising the cans and packages he stood in the doorframe and watched the Wytch for a moment; just observing. Yes, she wasn't his ideal, but he noted the scope of her hips and marvelled at all of that hair. Had it been a choice of style? Or an influence of tradition? It suited her, though. It was a line of black to contrast her near-pale skin.

Though her severe black ensemble had a similar effect. He would prefer to see less skin than she was showing, but that was not quite with what he had an issue —that band of black across her chest looked tight and suffocating. But it was her choice, and he wouldn't bring it up —everyone deserved that much respect.

Her arms and legs were on the spindly side, though they were corded with strong muscle. Even her abdomen seemed rock hard.

His own chiselled stomach had since rounded a bit.

Besides her appearance, he realised that she was hardly ever relaxed. Her body was always tense —always poised and alert. Was that a job requirement or instinct? And if it was instinct, he was worried that it had been partially his fault, along with other humans.

What more carefreeness had the war taken?

She showed no indication for a while that she knew that he was staring ( he was certain that she did ), but then her gaze snapped to his, hard and critical.

"Had enough of the view yet?" she snapped. "I thought that you made it clear you were not interested."

A soft, dry chuckle escaped his lips.

"There is no way that it is eight o'clock yet," the Wytch then remarked, looking at the sun. "If you are just going to sit in your house until then, I can leave."

"That would be boring," Adam quickly responded.

She arched her brows. Was there an inkling of hope there, that she might not have to go solo for another indefinite amount of time?

"No, I am not inviting you inside," Adam clarified.

"I will settle for an abandoned building," she quipped with worrying sincerity.

"There will be no sex, for the last time," Adam sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Fine," she huffed. "What did you have in mind?"

Tucked-in wings and bark-like skin wafted in his memories. It was a miracle if that small cottage was still there, standing, to this day. But he had to —he had to make good on his promise.

He tapped his bearded chin. "There is someone I want to visit. Call them an old friend."