Chapter Text
It had been eight days since Dettlaff last slept.
At first it was guilt and grief that had stolen his sleep. He hadn’t wanted to kill Count de la Croix, and it had seemed like a cruel joke of fate that the blackmailers had forced his hand so soon after Dettlaff had befriended the man. It had been agony to choose between his long-gone beloved and his newly-made friend, but in the end, he had done as the blackmailers asked.
Did they know Dettlaff had befriended de la Croix? How much of this grim obligation was in service of the blackmailers’ mysterious crusade, and how much was torture tailored specifically for Dettlaff?
He couldn't go out for a few days after that, waiting as he was for his severed hand to regenerate. It was foolish to leave it, and he hoped the bruxa he'd dispatched to retrieve it would soon succeed so as to leave as little evidence as possible.
But even after his hand had regenerated, his outings grew fewer. Dettlaff kept his interactions with others to a minimum, to the point where he would go days without speaking. All that kept him going was hope that Rhenawedd would finally be restored to him, unharmed, as the blackmailers implied she would be if Dettlaff complied with their demands.
You shall slay five men in the manner we prescribe, the blackmailers had written.
Five men. Dettlaff had killed three. Only two remained, and Rhenawedd would be in his arms again.
It was only after receiving the name of his fourth victim that sleep began to evade Dettlaff in earnest.
Sir Milton de Peyrac-Peyran, the note read, and inside its folds were Dettlaff's latest grisly instructions.
He had recognized the name instantly as one of the Duchess’s right-hand men. He was relieved it was no one he knew personally this time, and someone renowned enough he would not have to draw attention to himself for the asking.
There was just one problem.
No one seemed to know where the man was.
It had been two days since Dettlaff received the note, and he was teetering on the brink of madness with all the court gossip that swarmed like lazy, irresolute mayflies in his head.
“Did you hear the Duchess sent Sir Peyrac-Peyran away on a secret mission? And with the tourney right around the corner!”
“They say he’s with Baron de Launfal in Vizima, on some business with the Emperor.”
“I heard he was in Novigrad with a whole retinue of knights errant, defending non-humans from the accusations of the Church of the Eternal Fire.”
“Not at all! Didn’t you hear? He’s on a crusade to slay the pirate lords of Skellige, with a whole battalion of soldiers!”
No matter how many hours he crept as a cloud of seething red smoke in the ducal palace, Dettlaff could not ascertain the knight errant’s whereabouts. No courtier or noble, no servant or field hand, seemed to agree on where the Duchess had sent Sir Peyrac-Peyran.
It was almost as if she knew, Dettlaff thought, and he had almost confronted the Duchess herself when the thought occurred to him. He recognized at the last moment that his paranoia was driving him to behave recklessly, and he abstained from revealing himself in such a foolish, damning stroke. But that nevertheless left Dettlaff pacing at the same roadblock he'd been stuck at for the past two days.
Dettlaff left the The Rocking Horse through the window, reassembling into corporeality in an alleyway. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion by walking in and out of the derelict toy shop.
It had not escaped his notice that the crows in Beauclair had begun behaving strangely soon after he arrived. Knowing them to be Regis’s familiars of choice, he had avoided them, not wishing to embroil his friend in the ghastly predicament in which Dettlaff had found himself. Though he had told Regis his business was private when he left the other vampire in his home in Metinna, it was touching that Regis had nevertheless pursued him out of what could only be concern.
Now, Dettlaff’s gratitude was multiplied by infinitudes when he found a crow on a fence post by the docks outside his home. The bird visibly straightened in recognition when it saw him approach.
Dettlaff held out his fist, and the crow nearly battered his face in its haste to alight on his forearm. He couldn’t help the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth, though anxiety swept it away just as quickly as it had come. The bird’s eagerness spoke to how desperately Regis awaited news of him.
“Tell Regis I need to meet with him as soon as possible,” Dettlaff said. “I... need his help.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, the crow winged away in a gust of black feathers. A few dock hands cast him curious looks, and Dettlaff made himself scarce.
The crows in the city seemed to track his progress, alighting on the eaves of buildings he passed and murmuring to each other in their raspy voices. A single knot in the gnarled ball of tension in his chest unraveled, knowing Regis would seek him out as soon as he’d learned of Dettlaff’s plight.
Though he'd focused on spying and skulking for the past two days, he couldn't afford to remain unseen any longer. If the blackmailers were as well-informed as Dettlaff had been lead to believe, they would also know of Sir Peyrac-Peyran’s absence, and they would want to send Dettlaff new instructions. He would need to move about in public to receive the covert notes his malefactor was so fond of.
Though it grated on him to sit idly by, there was little else he could do with so precious little to go on.
So he went to have his shoes shined.
“Welcome back, sir,” said the young bootblack.
“Good day,” mumbled Dettlaff as he seated himself in the bootblack’s empty chair, though it was anything but.
“If’n you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” the bootblack said as he began polishing Dettlaff’s boots, “I haven’t seen you in a while. I was beginning to wonder, what with all this Beast of Beauclair talk...”
Dettlaff stiffened in the chair. “What of it?” he snapped.
The bootblack glanced up at Dettlaff with a keen eye, but Dettlaff took a deep breath and stayed his claws. The young man had a sharp mind and an ear for gossip, but it was impossible that he suspected Dettlaff. He was just making small talk. Dettlaff silently chastised himself for his paranoia, and reflected that his lack of sleep wasn’t doing him any favors.
“... Only that it’s terrible business, sir,” the bootblack said softly, “and what with you being personally acquainted with the Count, I’d wondered if you were all right.”
A shot of grief struck Dettlaff’s heart anew, and he looked with silent gravity at the empty chair beside him. The clever bootblack clearly didn’t miss the look, but he didn’t comment on it either.
“I’m... as well as I can be, given the circumstances,” Dettlaff said evasively. “I... thank you for your concern.”
“‘course,” the bootblack said, as if he offered veiled condolences to all his customers.
Somehow the young man salvaged the bitter silence, letting it stew for only a moment before quietly chattering about the gossip he’d heard, and how business was, and how the weather was awfully humid, and how the tourney was right around the corner, wasn’t it? The consideration of the gesture, the concerted effort to distract him from his sorrow, nearly overwhelmed Dettlaff.
“Pardon me,” said a strikingly familiar voice, and Dettlaff’s eyes snapped up to see Regis smiling politely, as if they were perfect strangers. “Mind if I sit down while I wait my turn?”
Dettlaff’s throat tightened, strangling any reply he might have made, but the bootblack was already ushering Regis into the seat beside him.
“Regis...” said Dettlaff, his voice raw with emotion.
“I’m sorry,” Regis said quietly, as if he were not here at Dettlaff’s request, “I couldn’t wait until you were alone.” Regis smiled down his hooked nose at the curious bootblack polishing their shoes. “And I suspect all the reserves in the ducal treasury couldn’t buy the silence of such an enterprising young lad.”
The bootblack perked up at the smell of coin. “Oh! I can keep quiet, sir, truly! Silent as the grave -”
“Perish the thought,” Regis interrupted wryly. “How about I double your fare, and you don’t ask any difficult questions, hm?”
The bootblack nodded gamely, and a grin spread on his smudged cheeks when Regis sportingly dropped a handful of crowns into his waiting hand. The young man glanced at Dettlaff, as if wondering whether his loyal customer would reveal to his friend that the amount of coin he’d just been given far exceeded his usual fare - but Dettlaff only smiled. He doubted Regis needed telling.
“You needn’t apologize,” Dettlaff assured his friend once he felt confident in his ability to speak. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“As am I,” Regis said. “Now, let us speak no further, lest we give our young friend reason to delay his work in the hopes of overhearing our conversation.”
It was a long walk to the Pheasantry, but traveling as smoke was out of the question. Despite the onset of dusk, the crowds were out in force. The city of wine and revelry never slept - and even less sleep was to be had when there was a tourney to prepare for.
As they began to walk the cobbled streets, Dettlaff worried the silence between them would be uncomfortable. He had left Regis rather abruptly, after all, and without much explanation. "I hope you didn't encounter any trouble traveling here," Dettlaff tried.
Regis was clearly surprised that it was Dettlaff initiating the conversation. "Not at all," he said when he recovered from the shock. "There are few things that can trouble a higher vampire on the road, as you well know, Dettlaff. And Beauclair is not so far from Metinna, at that."
Truth be told, Dettlaff had missed their talks. It was strange. Normally he was satisfied with the company of garkains and fleders, who weren't much for conversation. It was much easier to deal with their simple instincts than the double-meanings and subtext that was so frequently found in the common tongue. In retrospect, nursing Regis back to health had been similar: in the state Dettlaff had found him, Regis had only been able to broadcast vague impressions of his thoughts and feelings, not unlike the lower vampires in whose company Dettlaff was most comfortable.
Perhaps that was why it had felt so natural to help him - almost effortless, though Regis had always shaken his head and insisted he owed Dettlaff his life whenever he tried to tell him it hadn't been any trouble. When Regis had recovered enough to convey more complex ideas, and then eventually to speak, it had felt like a natural progression from the impressions which had only hinted at his true thoughts. Dettlaff had even been glad of the development, despite his usual discomfort with conversation, because it was a tangible sign of Regis's improving health.
"How is your recovery?" Dettlaff asked when it occurred to him. Regis had been well enough when Dettlaff had left for Beauclair, but he knew Regis still wasn't at full strength.
"Oh, well enough, I should think," Regis said vaguely. At Dettlaff's frown, Regis hesitated, seeming to reconsider his uninformative statement. "... I do tire easily when I've many errands to run, and I have been worried about you... But it's nothing to concern yourself with, my friend. I daresay, you look to be in worse shape than I am!"
Dettlaff suspected this was an understatement. Vampires didn't have the benefit of looking at themselves in a mirror, so there was no way to tell how truly haggard he looked. With how long he'd gone without sleep, and how intensely his grief and worry plagued him, he suspected he was a sight to make eyes sore.
"It seems neither of us has been getting much sleep," Dettlaff agreed. Regis offered up a rueful smile, which Dettlaff returned as best he could. "We can return to my home after this. You should drink from me."
"Out of the question," Regis said sternly. "You look like the living dead, Dettlaff, if you'll pardon the cliché. I have absolutely no intention of exacerbating your condition."
Dettlaff frowned. He was tired, true, but not ill or injured, and he doubted he would worsen by offering Regis succor. But he let the matter lie for now, as they had arrived at the Pheasantry.
Dettlaff spared a glance for the tables out front, but he couldn't bear to look at them for long. It seemed like just yesterday he was sitting there with de la Croix, where the man spun yarns of their precious few exploits to the delight of his friends.
"Seems quite popular," Regis observed, though Dettlaff knew he was remarking on the risks posed by their own visibility.
Dettlaff would rather have taken Regis back to The Rocking Horse, but he couldn’t afford to miss a note from the blackmailers. "It won't be a problem. I've been here before," Dettlaff assured him. As a slightly disgruntled aside, he added, "... And it's the closest tavern to my home that isn't a brothel."
Regis's lip quirked. "I see. Hard to argue with such a glowing recommendation." He gestured grandly with one arm, inviting Dettlaff to step inside. "Shall we?"
They entered the establishment to the warm welcome of the barmaid. The other patrons were taking advantage of the outdoor seating on the veranda to enjoy the golden Toussaint sunset, so Regis and Dettlaff easily found a vacant table indoors tucked into a corner. No sooner than the barmaid had taken their orders and walked out of earshot did Regis take Dettlaff’s hand and look into his eyes imploringly. “Tell me what's wrong, Dettlaff.”
Dettlaff squeezed Regis’s hand, grateful for the contact. Though he had missed Regis, he had despaired of involving his friend when he was still recovering from the state Dettlaff had found him in. Now he supposed he had little choice. “I’m being blackmailed.”
Regis’s brows shot up in alarm. Regis discreetly disengaged from Dettlaff when the barmaid returned with their drinks, and he responded politely, if distractedly, assuring her they wouldn’t be needing anything else, thank you, yes, we’ll let you know if we change our minds.
Dettlaff always marveled at the way Regis was able to put others at ease. Even as she cast an uncertain look at her returning customer, the barmaid smiled warmly at Regis, and seemed to place any doubts she had about the darkly-dressed regular out of her mind as she wandered off again.
“Blackmail?” Regis whispered, despair and disbelief written in every line of his face. Dettlaff imagined he himself had borne a similar look when he first read the letter. “For what? By whom?”
“If I knew who it was, it would no longer be a problem,” Dettlaff muttered bitterly. He lifted his tankard and took a drink, to fortify himself, perhaps - but he barely tasted it. If nothing else, it helped the way his mouth dried out when he prepared what he would say next. “They have Rhenawedd.”
Regis’s face sagged with sympathy, and Dettlaff had to look away. Perhaps he should have enlisted Regis’s assistance in the first place. Regis would have been eager to help, and all this terrible business might have been avoided.
“And what do they want?” Regis asked.
Dettlaff took a deep breath. “I am to play the part of the Beast of Beauclair ,” he said, sneering at the moniker the duchy had given him, “and kill five men, per their instructions.”
Silence met him, and Dettlaff grew uncertain. He had looked down on Regis’s human-hunting and blood games of ages past, and Regis was a staunch advocate of the worth of human life. Doubtless Regis would disapprove of his actions, and Dettlaff despaired of losing his friend over this.
When Regis sighed quietly, Dettlaff flinched.
“I suspected as much.”
Dettlaff was so taken aback by this admission that he met the gaze he had avoided until now. Regis’s brow was furrowed, but he did not look at Dettlaff with judgment or derision in his dark brown eyes. “You suspected -?”
“Yes, Dettlaff,” Regis said, patient and resigned. “I followed you to Beauclair, as you must now know, but I lost your trail. When the murders began and rumors spread, it seemed only a higher vampire could have committed the crimes. And with how quickly you’d left...”
“I’m sorry,” Dettlaff said, voice hoarse. “I know how important humans are to you -”
“And to you,” Regis reminded him. “Don’t think I didn’t see how fond you are of that bootblack. Dettlaff, you don’t have a deceitful bone in your body. Serial murder?” Regis shook his head. “I knew you had to be in trouble." Then his brow furrowed, and he stared into the murky depths of the drink he hadn't touched. "I just wish I could’ve done something sooner...”
“Don’t,” Dettlaff said. “Regis, please. You couldn’t have known. I should’ve told you.”
He should have told him, he was certain now. Seeing the way Regis smiled sadly, Dettlaff should have known Regis would have helped him save Rhenawedd and avoid all the bloodshed.
“It is unfortunate,” Regis said, as if he could read Dettlaff’s mind, “but what’s done cannot be undone. And you’ve sought my help now. What changed?”
A new dark pit of shame opened up in Dettlaff’s chest. He could tell from Regis’s tone that his friend wanted to hear that he’d had a moral crisis, that he couldn’t bear to kill innocent humans any more. How disappointed would he be when Dettlaff told him he couldn’t find his next mark?
Surprised warmth bloomed in his chest and fought with the tangle of shame and dread when Regis took his hand again. “Dettlaff, please, ” Regis implored. When Dettlaff met his eyes, Regis’s gaze was heartbreakingly beseeching. “Don’t shut me out again.”
Dettlaff shut his eyes momentarily, searching for inner strength. When he opened them again, Regis looked despairing, like he was afraid Dettlaff would vanish in an instant and leave him searching once more.
Dettlaff would be lying if he said the urge to do so wasn’t tempting.
To assure his friend while he mustered the strength to answer, Dettlaff took Regis’s hand with both of his. “I won't. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “The man intended to be my next target is nowhere to be found. I’ve hunted for two days without sleep, and I’m afraid... Rhenawedd will be...” Dettlaff couldn’t bear to say it, much less think it, but the thoughts overcame him despite how desperately he tried to stave them off.
Regis closed the distance between them on the bench and pulled Dettlaff into a tight embrace. Dettlaff shuddered and clung to Regis’s shoulders. “We’ll find her,” Regis promised.
Now that Regis was involved, Dettlaff was confident Rhenawedd would be found.
He only hoped it was before the kidnappers mailed her to him in pieces.