Archive of Our Own

The Ritual ended without much fanfare. The Patron fell, and next there was a flash of orange.

Drifter's team had made ado with their wishes, shared stiff nods and departed. Some stayed and made new lifelong friends, most went back to their lives.

The opposing team survived, much to some dismay. A few had vouched for the enemies' lives; Mina to Geist, Pocket to Dynamo, Infernus to Abrams…

It wasn't surprising. Birds of a feather flock together.

Drifter originally joined for the massacre, but now he had a wish.

Though he slipped away into the shadows when the ordeal was over. The Patron asked him, but he paid no mind. If they were so bothered, they would insist.

His mind stayed rather quiet, free of a newly summoned god's voice.

The whole event attracted unwanted guests; the Venators, the Baxter Society, and the Elder's lackeys. He left New York with no argument.

The big cities weren't his favourite hunting grounds anyways. Too noisy. There was always life in the night, the type that made him nauseous with the smell of piss and alcohol mixed into one. As if the drunkards weren't the ones pissing alcohol.

New York was alright, it had plenty of game but he liked simpler settings. Drifter liked to think of himself as a simple person.

With that, the Drifter disappeared like sand scattered in the wind.

He fell back into routine. Hunting was routine. Wherever the prey went, he followed. His life was routine. Plain, and simple, just like his name, he thought.

Louisiana nights found him lurking through his old village. It wasn't like him to visit any remnants of the past, it was no part of his routine to take sentimental strolls on the dark streets.

But a newly summoned Patron made him felt the itch to go somewhere. Somewhere in particular.

The village became a small coastal town, living side to side with the creatures and trees of the bayou.

Leaves played around his feet, he grinned at how it looked he had summoned a small tornado by the street.

With his head down, he bumped into someone. As he was about to slice the poor deserted traveller who somehow did not see a man his size walking down a barren street, the person grinned before him.

Red eyes, perfectly kept hair and make up, and impractical shoes.

“Mina?” Drifter said in surprise. She looked like she had dressed for Autumn, scarves, gloves, coats and all. She smelled different. New perfume, he thought.

The new blood put a hand on her hip. “Drifter.”

“The Hells got a new Viscount like you going around this town for?” Drifter said disbelievingly. Mina only laughed.

“It’s a whole world out here. I'm in need of inspiration.” Mina outstretched her arms theatrically, then shoved a sketchpad in Drifter's face. “My friends are helping me with my show, I have to top my last one.”

“Don't you have meetings with the barons to attend?” Drifter scoffed, and walked away but Mina bounced to his side.

“Nah, my shows are more important. I got a show for Top Model, can you believe it?” Mina flipped through the pages, pushing it in front of the man.

Drifter saw messy doodles of outfits, next to detailed pieces of quaint scenes of the town and bayous. Those drawings featured frogs. A lot of frogs.

“Great.”

“It is great,” Mina said. “If I keep this up, I might move to France. The centre of fashion!”

“France?”

“Yeah, I've travelled most of Europe, but staying is different. I usually move house to house. What do you think of France?”

“I don't think about France.” Drifter snarled. Mina only giggled, amused, as if they were friends. The thought only made Drifter's scowl deepen.

Drifter didn't think about moving. He had hideouts, not houses. The Drifter doesn't need houses.

“Alright, I won't keep you. You can, uh, continue whatever you usually do.” Mina smiled, but continued walking by his side.

Confused, Drifter stopped and raised an eyebrow at the girl. Mina was eyeing him like an art piece. He was about to say something but then…

“Here.” Mina unfurled the scarf she had been wearing. “You look less like a murder hobo now.”

“The Hell?” Drifter was about to tear off the scarf but Mina was distances away. “Something's wrong with her.” The vampire scoffed, and continued strolling the town.

Later that night, he saw another familiar face standing on a balcony.

“When did Louisiana get so popular?” Drifter had climbed the side of the hotel building, and dropped next to the other being.

“Who did you see?” The Doorman said in lieu of a greeting. He was sitting on a divan, reading a book.

“That vampire brat. She gave me her scarf,” he said, putting his elbows on the railing, and idly fiddled with the new addition around his neck. It looked like bat wings, with a bright red that faded at the ends.

“Miss Ha? Indeed, she mentioned going out on a stroll tonight. She has been at it for a few weeks now.” The Doorman didn't look up. “Didn't know you were friends.”

It would be the day Drifter dies. No Viscount and civilised vampire would be his friend. The Drifter doesn't have friends anyways.

“I thought she'd be busy in New York?”

“She’s busy running shows from what I've seen.”

“And you as well.” Drifter then turned around, facing the other. It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“The Baroness believed that being at different stations would benefit my position,” The Doorman said, putting his thin reading glasses and book on the seat. He stood next to Drifter, and took out two cigarettes from a metal engraved case.

He handed one to Drifter, and lit a match for both of them.

“You smoke?” The vampire burned the stick down easily. It went down smooth, and had a cool feeling. Tasted premium.

“Occasionally.” True to his word, Doorman started coughing, wincing at the taste. Drifter could only turn away with a smile on his face. Poor fool.

The two stood on the balcony, the red hot tip lighting the night as they both watched lights of the houses go out one by one. Fireflies, Drifter thought.

“There will be a branch opening in France in the next decade,” the Doorman said in-between his puffs and coughs.

“When did France get so popular?” Drifter scoffed, already stomping out the butt of the cigarette.

The Doorman frowned at his action, bending down to pick the butt. As he was about to throw it in the ashtray on the coffee table, Drifter took his unfinished cigarette and finished it in one long drag.

It tasted better.

He crushed the butt in his fingers, and placed it in the Doorman's hand. The other being didn't comment, and simply deposited in the ashtray.

The Doorman’s back was facing him. “The scarf looks good on you,” he said.

It smelled like Mina and nicotine. The Drifter managed a tight smile and tipped his cap to say goodbye.

* * *

France wasn't all that different the last time he had visited.

Dirty, smelly, full of thieves and good food. Paris was charming as ever.

For reasons he decided to leave America, he can't say. He wondered about it too.

He was strolling down an alley, dark and damp after a fresh kill. It was a long hunt, something that should delight Drifter but he found himself not as thrilled as he should be.

It was odd. People were odd these days. In the corner of his eye, rats were scuttling about. Listless and directionless.

He watched the creatures prance around, not knowing they were going. Then, he bumped into another familiar face. Green and mean.

“Drifter.” Geist greeted him in a random alley. Her wrinkles were more prominent the last time they met. More importantly, the lack of a green arm.

“Geist.” Drifter felt courteous enough to return the gesture since Oathkeeper had been set free.

“Good hunting I presume?” The woman glanced at the sheen of his shirt.

“Decent. Are you missing Oathkeeper?” Drifter shook off the blood from his hands. Geist took a step away from him.

“Hardly.” Geist swirled the drink she had in her hand. Looked like honey, Drifter thought.

“Really? You look not a day over 70.” The vampire leaned on the back of the wall across Geist.

“Wonderful, no?” Geist smiled, surprising Drifter a little. He crossed his arms, suddenly awkward of the camaraderie. Odd, indeed.

“I guess so.” The man only shrugged. Geist then reached out with the glass in her hand, giving it to him. Drifter took it, though he had no idea why.

“Has Paris been influencing you?” she said casually, as if they were catching up like old friends.

“No?” Drifter said, half listening. The glass looked cartoonishly small in his hands. It had engravings and clear sheen. Clearly for an important guest, Drifter thought.

Reminded him when he used to be more cordial centuries ago.

“Really? Did you happen to rob a corpse of a Ha scarf? I'm surprised there isn't a speck of blood on it.” Geist managed to sound genuine.

Drifter didn't know how to explain that the vampire child tossed it onto him like a mannequin.

“Something like that.” He settled.

“What a coincidence. Miss Ha is having a ball right now. Well, it's more of a welcome-home party,” Geist said, gesturing upwards. Drifter looked up and saw lights coming out of a window.

“She moved here?” Drifter was surprised, he didn't think she would leave New York so soon.

“Recently. And I happen to be in the area.” Geist idly inspected her nails. It reminded him of someone in red.

“Hm. You got a pack?” Drifter said, taking a sip of his drink. Sweet and bitter.

The woman only raised an eyebrow, then opened her clutch purse and tossed a box of cigarettes towards his direction. It was heavy.

Just like he thought, it was full. But he didn't ask any questions. She was old now. Old people shouldn't smoke. Only the dead or dying do.

“Thank you kindly, Miss Geist.” She had been rather compliant despite being on the opposing team on that day. Old people get less prickly in their downtrodden age, he thought.

Geist gave him a small smile and exited through the door next to her.

Drifter looked up again. A studio apartment, he noted.

He left, downing the rest of the drink and slipped the glass in his coat pocket. There was atleast someone that never changes.

* * *

Drifter let himself in through the balcony window and flopped onto the divan.

“I met that green hag today,” he started.

“Lady Geist?” The Doorman was reading a book, sitting on a round sofa with a set of cheesecake and tea on the table.

What an odd sight. Did someone like him need to eat?

“Is France that popular?” Drifter thumbed the glass rim in his pocket, feeling the bumps.

“France is the center of art, like-minded people tend to flock,” Doorman said simply.

“Your reason in France?” The vampire then took out the pack of cigarettes, a stick already between his lips.

“Same as before.” He stood up, taking Drifter's cigarette and pack from him and threw it in a bin. Just as Drifter was about to complain, a new stick appeared before him.

Confused, the vampire plucked it gingerly from gloved hands. Doorman then walked outside to the balcony, and lit a match for him.

The red tip was a distant sunset in the glow of the night.

Drifter walked towards him, letting him light it and took a long drag, then blew it gently in the other being's face.

They didn't break eye contact once. The being only had a slightly amused smile on his face.

“You then?” the Doorman asked, and placed an arm on the balcony, turning and looking distantly at the specks of light donning the city horizon.

Drifter didn't answer. He couldn't answer. It was not like the Drifter to visit France. To visit Paris, where he knew certain people would be here. To be here was not his routine.

He didn't dignify a response. Instead he let out some puffs, smoke heavy on his tongue.

“Have you heard of the scorpion and the frog?” he said indifferently. “A tale from Russia.”

The Doorman glanced at him, curiosity dancing in his eyes. He indulged him.

“The scorpion asked to travel across the river on a frog's back.” Drifter leaned one arm on the railing, his scarf blowing in the wind gently.

“The frog hesitated, ‘You would sting me.' The scorpion promised not to, since it would drown the both of them. The frog agreed, and swam across with it.”

Drifter inhaled deeply, the stick burning until the very end. He played the hot, tiny ball between his fingers.

“What happened?” Doorman prodded.

Drifter stepped closer, his body fully facing the other. The Doorman remained in place, his head craned up to meet eye to eye.

“The scorpion stung the frog. ‘Why?’ the frog asked as they drowned.” The vampire stubbed the hot butt into the Doorman's wrist. He didn't wince, only sprouting a frown on his face.

“Why?” the thing asked.

“It is within my nature,” the man said.

He let the silence stew between the two. Darkness finally fell on the city like a blanket, faces only lit by the warm light spilling from the room.

“You sound like Paige,” the Doorman commented, and looked down at his wrist distantly, as though he was observing at a gallery.

“I was startin' to wonder when you became a bookworm,” Drifter said.

“Her talents include people getting interested in books.” Doorman picked up the stub on the floor and moved it into the ashtray nearby. “It's been rewarding.”

Drifter didn't comment on how the Doorman wasn't exactly a person. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

The vampire fell silent, taking his cue to leave. As he did so, taking steps towards the ledge, a voice rang out to him.

“I was thinking of becoming a book dealer,” the being said.

Drifter let the words sit in his head, before scoffing and left without a word.

He smelled like smoke. Blood should wash it off, he thought. He would hunt another one tonight.

* * *

He found himself back in New York. Why New York City in particular, he didn't know. Usually, he would not find any reasons to. He was the Drifter, after all. In perpetual motion.

The world was changing. He heard the Troubadour was killed, with a local town sheriff dying in sacrifice. He buried her guns with her mentor, an old friend, that day.

Then, a well-loved professor, also a researcher, passed on, with his wife soon after. He visited the grave and placed a shot glass next to it.

Geist's old age caught up to her. Last he heard of her, she had been working together with Mina with her fashion line as a model. Something about old age and beauty.

The kid became the centre of the spotlight in France, and with Fairfax, they had been working together to uplift the poor. Odd, really.

There were more stories floating by when he visited a string of dingy bars, but he stopped listening to the chatter after he heard something about a walking cadaver found washed up on the riverbank this morning.

His feet took him outside, the dead of night with the only company of lights and drunkards about.

Drifter pivoted into an alleyway, following the unending lines between bricks, trash and torn posters. There were dead rats here and there. An extermination happened recently, the magic gas left a foul smell.

He had taken a meal today, a finely stewed clay leg. It had the softest of texture and an enduring aftertaste, but meat just tasted like meat these days. Ashy and metal. He could only eat the thigh before dumping it in the trash.

When he stepped out the alley, to the right of him was a shop with warm light seeping out of it. From a glance, it was a book shop.

Drifter could only raise an eyebrow at what he saw. The only things open at dead of night are bars, brothels and diners in this part of the city.

He peeked at the display glass, ‘Paperbrook & Co.' was written on it. Inside were countless shelves of books.

He was never one for books. It didn't suit the likes of him. It was not part of his routine.

Yet he stepped into the bookstore anyways.

The bell chimed when he entered. He was just taking a peek, that was all.

“I'll be there with you in a moment!” A male voice called out somewhere above.

Drifter hoped the person would have the senses to converse with him before fainting. He didn't bother using a glamour cantrip all evening.

He took the time to peruse through the bookshelves. In a row, he could see familiar names. Bram Stoker, Frances Burney, and a couple of others. A silent, short laugh came out of him. To think their stories end up here.

Drifter plucked a book from the shelf, ‘An Interview with A Vampire', an apparently true story of a vampire emigrating from France. As he was reading the first few pages, a voice came from behind.

“I believe that vampire was French Creole,” the person said. "A kindred spirit?"

Confused, Drifter turned to the worker, a question on his tongue. Only to turn to blue eyes meeting his. Blue met red.

Drifter didn't say anything at first, putting the book back and said, “I’m French.” He'd play along, curious to see this through.

“Not Cajun?”

“No, Louisiana was my… place for a century at best.” Drifter adjusted his scarf idly. “France was where I came from.”

“How long have you lived here then?” The person was wearing a respectable white button down shirt with an almost green-yellow ascot, tied once over, with a squarish jacket cut short where the navel is.

He wore long straight pants that tapered at the end with glossy pointy slacks. A modest, ordinary look.

“Not long, I moved here a couple years ago,” Drifter replied.

“I see, has New York been treating you well?”

“Well enough.” He'd keep his head low and those hunting him wouldn't catch wind of his newfound place. Last they heard of him, he was in Europe.

“Vampires are well respected here in the city, I believe Miss Mina Ha was responsible for uplifting the reputation,” they said.

Drifter snorted internally. The only time she used her Viscount status was to push campaigns for new laws and uprooting old vampiric traditions. She got lucky, otherwise most people wouldn't even know she was a Viscount. Most people just knew Mina Ha as herself. A friend.

“You seem like a person of taste.” They gestured to his outfit. “I would be happy to recommend books.”

“I’m not one for books.” Drifter felt irked somehow. He was wearing something more decent these days. It was considered luxurious compared to the rags he used to wear. That was what Mina said.

“Then, are you here to pick up a book for someone?” The person titled their head to the side, a confused, polite smile gracing their face.

“I was curious.” Drifter started walking down the aisle, fingertips caressing the spines of the books. “Curious about a bookstore opening at this time in the human district.”

“Paperbrooks aims to cater to all,” they said.

“Somewhere nearer to the Square would've been a better pick.” Drifter rounded the bookshelf, now peering the other through the small gaps of the books.

“I'll take it into consideration.” They stood still, keeping eye contact with Drifter, putting their hands behind their back.

“Your family,” Drifter paused, eyeing the other closely for any reaction. But none came. No correction, he noted. “How have things been?”

“Apologies, are you close with my family?” Ah, there it is. Drifter could only laugh in his head, they really are playing charades.

“My niece knows a girl from yours,” he said a white lie. “She funds the libraries and orphanages your family works with.”

“I believe that would be Paige.” They took a step forward, the bookshelf separating them only. “A friend of hers is a friend of mine. The family has seen better days, but we'll manage.”

“Also…” They smoothly slided a book that was between each other into their hand. They propped the book up for Drifter to see, on the title it displayed ‘The Trumpet of the Swan'. “I believe this book would suit your taste.”

“Sure.” Drifter did not bother asking what it was about. All he wanted to do was prod the other, know them more.

“To the counter?” They gestured in the direction of it.

Drifter followed suit, quietly. At the counter, they packed and wrapped the book in brown paper. Clearly high quality, he thought. The sounds of crinkles filled the bookstore while he waited.

When it was over, and they handed the paper bag to him, Drifter remembered to reach down for his wallet to pay. He was still getting used to that concept.

As he did so, the person raised their hand, stopping Drifter. “It's on the house. You're a friend, after all.”

Really? They were anything but friends, they were acquaintances at best. He was only playing along, he pitied the other.

A fateful beginning, a blossoming of newfound friendship. Mina would laugh at the idea, he thought. It had happened to her.

Something twisted in Drifter's guts. “Thank you kindly,” he tipped his hat, now quick to leave.

As one foot was out of the door, he heard the other call out to him. “Let's stay in touch?”

When Drifter turned, a card was handed out to him. Snow white, golden engravings. The font was simple but classy.

Paperbrook, Brian. Paperbrook & Co. Book dealer.

He turned the card around. A number.

Drifter managed a tight smile, and tipped his hat to the book dealer.

He returned to the alleyway he came from, walking directionlessly in darkness, before puking his dinner on the side of an unfortunate wall.

He stared at the dark red spot, bits of pink and yellow sliding down the surface. He felt like someone had pulled his guts with each step he took away from the store.

It was odd. The way the Bookseller smiled, talked, and the look in their eyes. They stopped playing the game. It was an impossible thought.

Drifter tried to puke again, but nothing came up. His feet took him out of the grimy district, and walked back to his house. His legs ached.

When he arrived at his penthouse, he immediately bolted to the balcony.

He snatched the book out of the now torn paper bag, his nails digging into the pages. He tried to throw it, to never see it again. To never see them again.

He tried again, this time with a running start. But he couldn't. No, it was a fool's errand. He was all too curious and angry, it felt wrong all the same.

The sun was now fully peeking from the city line, and Drifter went back inside with the book intact.

* * *

He didn't call the Bookseller. And he was more than content to.

Drifter visited Mina and that Fairfax child in France. He had arrived at their office, asking to catch up. Instead, the secretary had come down personally, sent him a sorry smile and a vase.

Rich people always apologise by giving away free stuff. It was always a vase, or a cheese cutting set.

Mina was too busy, scrambling from meetings to meetings with her management team. She had been preparing for her next show, while Fairfax was equally running around the world to fix up loose ends or appear for charity events as a guest.

He left the premises without further ado, and decided to go to the park. On the bench, he lit up a cigarette, smoking the night away underneath the harsh white of a street lamp.

In his coat pocket, he took out the snow white card and held it high under the light.

Brian, Paperbrook. What a joke. It was funny. Very funny. So funny that Drifter started laughing. He laughed all night, alone in the night. It was all but dead at that park. Dead.

He laughed, laughed and laughed until he started wheezing. He heard his lungs pop and crack from all the cigarettes he smoked.

When he stopped laughing, he looked into the vase. The vampire poured all the ash and cigarette butts onto the sidewalk, and took a teleporter back to New York.

He returned the same day he came, and when he finally reached his penthouse, he taped the card on the ceiling right above his bed.

He climbed into bed.

Drifter closed his eyes.

* * *

The Venators had found his place, and planned a raid. They teamed up with the Baxter Society, a brother in arms.

The building was swarming with hunters, sanctioned with only the best of the best. The man who led the raid had an unusually well-kept pompadour, someone who had personal history with the acclaimed vampire.

The tension ran high among the group, ready for a bloodshed for the maker of the Oklahoma Massacre. Some had cold feet, saying goodbye to their fellow men. No one blamed them.

When they broke into his apartment, it was all but silent. Dead silent. There was a layer of dust in the place.

They kept searching the place, but found no traces of their target. It was as though he had vanished to thin air, sand scattered to the wind.

There were no leads, no signs. “It's a dead man's house,” the leader said. “We don't need to worry about the Drifter.”

“He's still out there,” one of the Venators said. “He needs to pay.”

“No.” The man's gruffy voice booked no argument. “No use beating a dead horse. Just be glad you're lucky today.”

The men shared a look, and left the empty building without a fuss. They thought they were lucky that someone got to him first, or that he had gone to another plane other than Earth's.

But the man knew better. He stayed, saying that it'd be best to be sure. No, he wanted to take a look around the place. It was not the Drifter's house. The Drifter doesn't have houses.

He walked around the barren house. It was mostly plain, as though it could be a simple movie set for any rich person. Aside from a room furnished with only ornate vases from top to bottom, there was not much to tell it was lived in.

When he checked the bar, there was only one glass among the shelves of bottled goods.

It looked old and of high quality, engravings in gold and had an amazing sheen. The only time Shiv held something like it was when he got promoted to the Head of the Baxter Society.

His feet took him to the bedroom upstairs. It was much like the rest of the house, plain and unoccupied. Though, on the small bedside table, he approached it and found a pile of used cigarettes in an ash tray. If he would, he could scoop the ashes in two hands and it wouldn’t be enough.

He looked around some more, finding spare clothes in a closet but there were gaps between the hangars. His outfit, then. But there wasn’t much around. The bed was oddly tidied, clean and neat, void of any dust on it, he noted.

Then he looked up. Something small and rectangular. A card on the ceiling. Shiv placed some well aimed slashes and retrieved the card, holding it deftly in his hand.

Paperbrook, ————. Paperbrook & Co. Book dealer.

Paperbrook? The family of that girl from the Ritual? Shiv turned the card around, finding a number.

It was his only lead, he figured he would try. It was better if he asked the source directly. He looked around for a phone, a penthouse this fancy would have one somewhere. True to his assumption, there was one.

It was somewhat hidden by the pile of ash. What was weird was that the numbers needed were only missing on the rotary dial.

The rest were present, comparatively fresh to worn ones. Only five numbers, he noted, and the last number needed to dial was left alone.

He dialed the number, the ring reverberating throughout the quiet. The call went through once, then picked up on the second.

Before Shiv could say anything, a crisp, male voice answered.

“I’m already here.”

The line went flat. Confused, Shiv called again, though only loud rings answering him. He let out a sigh, putting the receiver down.

But then, there was ringing, as though the call was still going through. Someone was calling him.

It sounded like it was coming from the balcony, the ringing got louder and louder as he approached.

In the sun, he could see a broad, humanoid silhouette through the curtains. Shiv readied his gun, and slid the door to the side.

The person was leaning over the balcony, watching the city. They had a modest, simple outfit, save for the peculiar scarf they were wearing. It looked like bat wings.

Shiv approached the person. “Sorry, you are…?”

The stranger turned their head around, a relaxed quality to their posture. “I believe you have my card.” They looked familiar.

“You are Mx Paperbrook?” Shiv flexed his fingers on his gun handle. There was something wrong with them. Their smell, all smoke and ash. It was unpleasant.

“Mr Paperbrook. I'm a simple man, I sell and trade books.”

“Mr Paperbrook, do you live here?” Shiv knew he didn’t, but he had to know what relation he has to Drifter, impressionable enough to tape his card on the ceiling.

“No, I wouldn’t live in such a miserable place.” The man took out a metal cigarette case, lighting up a smoke. “You called me. What can a humble book dealer do for you?”

He was far from a humble book dealer. He offered a smoke, Shiv refused it. “Heard that stuff kills you.”

“My sister said the same thing,” he let out a mirthless chuckle. “I smoke on some occasions.”

“What would be the occasion?” Shiv tried to dig deeper into his memories, to find a reason why the man looked like someone he knew.

The Ritual, he thought. But the memory faded like water held in his hands, as though someone scrubbed his head clean.

“My friend died,” he said simply. “We would smoke together on the balcony.”

Shiv held his gun handle tighter. “Who’s your friend?”

The man didn't answer at first, taking a long drag. He showed no sign of being threatened or scared. This man was unusual. Shiv doubted there would be guns in the line of book selling.

“He was rather weird,” he said, letting the silence stretch.

Shiv didn't say anything, offering the man to elaborate.

“In our last conversation, he told me a story. The frog and the scorpion.”

Shiv knew the story.

He continued, “He liked the scorpion. It was a simple creature, someone of its nature.”

Then, he reached for something in his coat. A book. 'The Trumpet of the Swan’, it read.

The book was a popular children's novel, Shiv remembered. Something about a swan named Louis. The animal was born muted, and went through an adventure of choices only a fictional swan could make. It found friends, love and fame through human inventions.

The book looked worn and well loved.

The stranger's eyes were focused on it, a wistful tone coloured his voice. Just slightly. “It was funny. He was more of a frog, he had choices. If he knew that, he would be alive.”

Then, he put the cigarette to the edges of the book, the pages turning bright. “What a fool.”

The man held onto the book until it was thoroughly burnt, smelling of ash and nicotine.

It scattered to the wind, the grey now gone.

Then, he walked back inside, Shiv following a distance away. He stubbed out the cigarette, placing the butt of it neatly among the pile on the bedside table. It stood out like a sore thumb.

He turned to him, “I'm afraid I'll have to go now,” he said. “My time is up.”

Shiv didn't question him.

He let the scorpion go.

* * *

Paige considered herself a spry woman despite her age. The rain of the city today got her crocheting.

Outside, she could hear thunder left and right, as though the sky was angry.

A knock came from the door. “Come in.”

“Paige.” Ah, it was her brother.

She turned to him, an easy smile gracing her face. “What's up?”

“Just quickly dropping by. How have you been?” He rounded around her chair, giving a small peck to her cheek and stood across her.

“Fine, except my crocheting could be finer. Look at the unevenness from the starting line and the top.” She held up her work, a gnarly green piece of cloth so far.

“It looks… alright.” He grimaced.

“You hate it but I'll make you wear it,” she said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” They both laughed. His brother laughed in his own weird way, it was different than it used to be. But it didn't matter.

A pause, then, Paige's face scrunched up. “Smoking?”

Her brother gave an apologetic smile and raised his hands up. “You caught me.”

A sigh escaped her. “You know how I feel about that.”

“Sorry, it's a bad habit.”

“What’s the occasion this time?” Paige put the work aside and crossed her hands over her lap.

“I’m moving to a new place.” It was not entirely surprising. The family goes wherever they need to for business. They didn't have one home.

“Oh, where?”

“Wherever my friend is,” he said.

“When?” Paige asked.

“I had to rush over here, but I'm moving now.” The man walked towards the door and put a hand on the knob.

“When will you be back?” Paige followed him closely behind.

His face turned slightly towards her. “I'm not sure.” She didn't like the sound of that.

“Bryce,” she said. “Don't disappear like last time.”

The man blinked at that, and there was a small wavering twitch of his lips, a half smile.

“Don't worry about me, Paige.” He turned the knob, opening the door. What was on the other side wasn't the hallway, but water.

Deep, murky water like ink, with colossal trees in the distance. The humidity could be felt on the tongue. It was a large river, almost like a bayou. The sky was an odd bright blue.

It was not on this Earthly plane.

Before Paige could drag her brother by the sleeve, he took a step through the door, and floated like he was on an invisible platform.

"Humanity has me ensnared, and I must comply.” His back was facing her. "It is in my nature."

With that, the door was slammed shut in Paige's face.

On the floor where the door entrance was, sat a lone, empty metal cigarette case.

There was a lingering smell in the room, of nicotine and ash. Paige could only pick it up, holding the case close to her chest. She only realised now what it really meant.

On that day of the Ritual, where blood, slaughter and souls flooded the streets, she could recognise the familiar smell. A foul smell that remained after a rat extermination.

It was the scent of death.