Witch Hunt

In a familiar alley across from my apothecary, I am standing completely stock still. Alabastra, Tegan, and Faylie walk past me into the backstreet, eyes peeled over the brick and grime.

"This the place?", Alabastra asks, a rhetorical question. I nod. "Good! Well, ladies, look around for anything... vampy."

"There's no way that's a real word", Tegan mumbles, walking toward the center of the alley.

Alabastra scoffs. "Of course it is. Vampy; adjective, as relating to a vampire."

Faylie puts a finger to her chin, taking a scholarly pose. "Does that make anything related to me... faun-y?"

"Fauny lookin'", Alabastra says, ruffling Faylie's hair as she walks past. Faylie gives an overdramatic hmmph. Then, the blonde turns back toward me. "Well don't just stand there slack-jawed, show us where you found her!"

I have no idea why they're doing this or why I am here. I am a body unmoored, drifting, dragged along in the current these women leave behind. I can do nothing but follow this through, to whatever strange conclusion they insist on bringing us all to. If I were more assertive, more concerned with my own survival, had even a drop of healthy preservation, I might have recognized long ago how far into the jaws of the beast I've willingly climbed, and would act accordingly. At this point, the most maddening aspect is simply that those jaws have yet to snap.

Shambling forward, like one of the less vigor-filled undead, I lead them around the corner to the site of the attack. In the light of day, it just looks like any old alley, a dead end in too many ways.

"Must've been a lucky break, to see her from your window", Alabastra says. I look back behind me. With the angle of the crime scene, behind a stack of crates and around a corner, and at night... not just lucky; blatantly impossible.

"I wasn't in my office."

Faylie bounds forward. "What were you doing out here at night?" Before I can respond she interrupts, "Ooh, wait, were you hoping someone tried to mug you? Because I do that sometimes. Just, like, wander out into the dark."

"..." I'm not even sure how to process that.

"Like, imagine it, you're looking all lost and helpless, you lead them into a corner and they go, 'Hand over your stuff, girlie', then you go, 'Just try it, assholes', and then you fireball them in the face!"

Everyone stares at the faun, wide-eyed. Tegan exclaims, genuinely shocked, "That's why you go out at night?! I thought you were stargazing!"

I add, "How often does that happen to you?"

"Oh, never. But it's fun to imagine."

Alabastra's fingers are locked and pushed against her chin, both indexes over her mouth. "Okay, we're gonna have to revisit our safety tips when we get home, Glowbug. Also... non-lethals for muggers, 'kay?" Faylie's long ears point down as she sulks. Alabastra turns to me. "Questionable nighttime hobbies aside, or, maybe related... what were you doing out here?"

At this point, there's hardly any point in anything but honesty. I can only hope that eventually they'll put the pieces together themselves, stab me, and then move on with their afternoons. Is it even possible they don't know? Surely they mustn't if they're dragging me around, but, how? "I don't remember."

Alabastra huhs. "Must've been a wild night." I feel like I might scream.

"Some blood here", Tegan says. The rest of us crowd around where she's crouched. Sure enough, a dried stain of ruddy red is splattered across the floor. Beside the splotch, a jagged shard of glass is alike stained in red at the tip. Subconsciously, my hand rubs over the new scar on my abdomen, an action I only catch myself in partway through.

Tegan rises to her feet, armor clanking in the usual cacophony of a paladin.

Wait... a paladin. Suddenly an idea occurs to me that will end this whole ridiculous affair. "You have divine abilities, don't you, Tegan?"

"Uhh, yea?"

"Then maybe you should perform a ritual to sense for undead presences. This is where the vampire attacked, after all." Finally, they'll have all the undeniable proof they need.

Tegan fumbles slightly, umms and ahhs. "Well, I uh, I guess I should, yea..." She looks between the other two frantically, like she is adrift at sea and expecting a line. When she is thrown none, she sighs, gets down on one knee, and begins an incantation under her breath. Faylie looks as if she'll cringe out of her robes. Alabastra stares, completely stone-faced.

A rush of energy like an upward draft buffets Tegan's hair, and her eyes open as twin signal beams, golden and glowing. Immediately, her face twists as if she's smelled something foul, and she grabs the bridge of her nose, cheeks puffing out.

"Well", Alabastra says, slow and deliberate, "Sense anything?"

"N-nope", Tegan says, like she's on the verge of vomiting. She hacks and coughs. "No undead here..." Tegan does not once look in my direction as she struggles to maintain her composure.

I raise my brow. "You're coughing up a storm."

Alabastra cuts in, "She must be smelling the trash. Hyper paladin senses, they'll getcha every time." Behind her, the glow of Tegan's eyes cut out, and she heaves in recovery, hands on her knees, cursing and muttering under her breath.

That isn't an... impossible proposition. After all, with my own enhanced senses, the garbage in the alley does give an acrid scent. My knowledge of a paladin's abilities is insufficient to confirm or debunk. But then, does she truly not sense me? Do I not count as undead? Or is my own essence masked, somehow?

Or, are they simply lying to me? My eyes narrow at Alabastra. There is absolute confidence on her face, not a hint or shred of deceit that I can read. Dammit.

"Now", she says, "We've got some very important business to get to." Alabastra turns and walks away, the others following behind.

* * *

"Order for... 'The Alabastra Camin Fan Club'?", the hostess calls over the crowded eatery.

As it turns out, Alabastra's 'incredibly important business' was lunch.

I put my hands to my temples and keep my head firmly down, avoiding eye contact with the approaching waitress, the women that have dragged me here, or any other living soul for that matter, like the plague.

Stacked plates full of food begin to slide onto our table. The waitress in a black bow tie and vest ensemble says, "And who ordered the rare steak and red wine?" I raise one hand, still refusing to look up.

Across from me, I see Alabastra's own plate, piled high with small round sandwiches, singular tiny patties of ground beef, dripping with ketchup. I cannot help but ask. "What... in the Gods' names... are those?"

"Only the greatest thing to come out of Marble City since the skyway and goblin musicals. They're callin' em sliders." Then, in a display that is equal parts disturbing, disgusting, and impressive, Alabastra stuffs one of the miniature sandwiches into her mouth whole, chewing with her cheeks stuffed like some starved rodent.

Tegan, sharing my side of the table, leans over to me and says, "She can put down like twelve of those things. It's kinda scary."

I look away from the horrifying display, and instead spy the locale, a collection of middle class workers eating a narrow array of basic and easy meals, soups and finger foods and the like. My own order seems somewhat gaudy by comparison, but, I can hardly be blamed for having standards.

Once more I ponder, why am I even here? I had asked Alabastra as we sat down, to her expectedly flippant response, 'I was hungry?'. Sitting here, I feel as if I'm in some haze, a horizon of reality bent around their immense pull, shifting even light and sound. Blended further is the unexpected emotion of... nostalgia.

After all, this is hardly the first time these three have dragged me along on one of their escapades. Usually such ventures stopped including me the second they began to plot some new scheme, or otherwise stepped outside my rather narrow wheelhouse of comfortability, but I was often an unwilling tagalong for outings to cafes or art galleries or walks to city locales they insisted were fascinating, but I simply found odd.

Of course, that all came to a stop years ago. We've moved at different speeds for some time now, but I never could tell who was moving forward, and who was stuck in the past.

I begin digging into my meal. The steak is tender, but clearly ill-seasoned and of mediocre quality, as expected of a restaurant picked by Alabastra. And these kinds of places never do make my steak as rare as I want them to.

Typical foods do little for my true hungers, but I enjoy them all the same. For the taste, if nothing else. To my current growling stomach however, this feast only reminds me of the gnawing in my gut that I absolutely must deny. I think better of any further bites. Best not to remind the beast of its cage.

As I put my fork down, I notice the three looking at me askance. "What?", I ask.

Tegan coughs. "That's just, uh, a very... red meal." I narrow my eyes at her.

Before she can elaborate, Faylie butts in, "Y'know, Moodie, I could fix your glasses for you!"

I roll my eyes. "Now you're insisting on the nickname?"

"Yea!", Alabastra says, mouth full of ground meat and bread, "What happened to 'call people what they want-'" She interrupts herself by taking a moment to swallow, thank the Gods.

Faylie puts on her overdramatized tough guy voice from earlier, "I'm askin' the questions here, bucko."

Even Faylie couldn't futz a mending spell, I suppose. I surrender my glasses to her. She takes them in her hands, eyeing the crack up the right lens with uncommon focus. It is at this point that I would expect her to perform the arcane sigils taught at the Institute, but instead, she produces a card, presumably tucked under her sleeve. The card is emblazoned with the image of a man with a staff, raising it forward, a light shining at its tip. Purple magical energy begins to glow along the drawn lines, emanating a ghostly mirror image just past the face of the card, hanging in the air. Faylie takes a small breath, and with a voice laced with power, she utters, "CONFIGO!" The spectral figure emanating from the card animates, leaning forward, and the construct of magical light taps his scepter to the edge of my glasses. In an instant, the crack seals itself, and my ruby spectacles look good as new.

She hands them back to me, smile a mile wide, as the magic dissipates. I stare at her, admittedly dumbstruck. "That was... different than the Institute's methods."

"Well, the Institute's methods are stupid and boring." She flicks her wrist, and the card disappears. Suddenly, I'm less certain she had it under her sleeve at all.

As I bring my glasses back toward my eyes, I notice another problem. I stare at the faun, indicating to the greasy fingerprints now smudged all over the lenses. Her smile grows guiltier, cheeky, but doesn't leave as she offers a simple shrug. I sigh, and wipe the spectacles down with the hem of my shirt.

As the rest near the end of their meals, I pat along the sides of my slacks. Ah. I didn't think to bring money. I look sheepish at Alabastra.

Midway through picking something out of her teeth, she brushes a hand through the air. "No worries, I'm buyin'."

"With your... not-stolen funds?"

"Well, we gotta rid of it somehow." What does that mean?!

Faylie says, "Yea, speaking of, you should probably spend that money from the other day, like, quick. Super quick."

Before I can ask any of the logical follow-up questions to such an insane volley of information, Alabastra stands, leaves our payment along with a very generous tip on the table, and says, "Welp, no more dawdling ladies, plus Moodie, we still have some stops on this train."

"If you intend on taking us somewhere unrelated to your... vampire hunt", I say, pointedly, "May I suggest we instead skip to the end?"

"Oh, ye of little faith!", She says, hand on her chest in mock offense. "We just so happen to have ourselves a lead!"

Tegan asks, "We do?" Alabastra shoots her a look, and the paladin corrects, "We do!"

Alabastra continues, "No more dawdlin'. This vamp is close, I can feel it!"

* * *

We've now thoroughly exited The Reds, into the other half of the cliff downs, the yet more squalid and impoverished Grennard. The streets gradually lose their paved exteriors, the roads constricting into tight and branching lines, like the edges of a tree canopy.

The streets are run through with rivers of grime and mud. The sludge matches with the ever-present fog in the sky, churned from the northern factories and power plants, to squeeze the life between with filth; as above, so below.

Grass grows, but it is a mockery of life. It appears simultaneously unkempt and completely dead, and I remind myself that's how all the flora here looks. The fauna, too, come to think of it. I remember now why it is my habit to stay to The Reds. I prefer my brickwork to the corruption of life on display here. There's an honesty to The Reds, a certain sense of pride in its embrace of the cityscape. It isn't pretending to be anything it's not. Grennard, on the other hand, isn't just poor; it's pitiful. Desperate, even. There is no dignity in these mud-soaked streets, dwelling in the hovels or ruined tenements or factories beyond. This is where honor comes to die.

And that's to say nothing of the smell. My stomach churns; how does anyone live like this?

Alabastra has lead us here for reasons undivulged. She walks ahead of us, humming to herself.

Tegan steps beside me, a curious raise to her brow. "Been a while, huh?"

"I suppose so..." Of course, the only time I ever saw Tegan before graduating was on these outings. She may be the only one of the three that, by technicality, I see more of these days. That isn't uncomforting. Tegan is the closest to broaching normalcy in their little posse. Still an odd duck by the standards of the rest of polite society, but I'm certain she doesn't mind that. We don't have much in common, but, she's less frustrating to talk to, by virtue of her tendency to talk very little at all.

"Shame it took a monster hunt to see you out again." She ribs me in the shoulder, like we're friends.

My eyes roll. I hardly see the point in meaningless walkabouts.

Ahead of us, Alabastra stops, turning on one heel, and snap-points to her side. "Alright, this one's a bit of a detour, but it's all the same path."

A detour... I fear that's just another word for 'errand'. "Another distraction?", I intone. "Are you taking this seriously?" Not that I need to ask. Of course they aren't.

"Why, Moodie, got somewhere to be?" Alabastra says, flashing another smile my direction. "We'll be in and out, trust me."

Last time she said would be 'in and out' of somewhere, she ended up under campus security lockup for two weeks. "We should stay focused, Alabastra." Whatever their intentions, it's better we're not wasting all day meandering from place to place.

She shrugs. "I'm plenty focused! Got one of those, watcha call it... Where you remember everything?"

"An eidetic memory?"

"Right! Thanks for reminding me!" Her grins never falters. I can't tell if she's joking or insane. "C'mon, it's all part of the process. Our stop is right around the corner." I should have figured it was pointless to try to talk her out of anything.

Beside me, Faylie issues a surprise chirp that reminds me she's still here. "Ohh, that's what we're doing!" I jump at how close she's gotten. For how boisterous her default state is, she can be surprisingly sneaky when she wants to be.

Alabastra leads us toward an alley between two slope-roofed buildings, at the edge of a droop into the deeper areas of the slums. Just down the hill, the sludge gathers like a fetid swamp. Between the shopfronts, the small nook seems unremarkable, a place of brick and stone, graffiti on the walls reading charming slogans such as, 'CLAM UP OR GET OUT', or 'SKEETS WUS HERE', or 'TRY SHEILA AT THE STENCIL PONY'. There are faded symbols scratched into the brickwork, older, forgotten words, or perhaps insignia, but they're too faded to make out.

The half-elf gives a conspicuous once-over to our surroundings, and pulls away a wooden box that had been resting in the corner. A manhole cover lies underneath. She leverages it open with the metal tip of her bow, and turns to us. "After you", she says with a flourish.

I stare blankly at her. She wants me to crawl around in the waterworks. Perhaps this is some form of protracted punishment. Or do they intend to slay me in a more discreet location? I breathe a long sigh, making my peace with the fact that I am, in fact, going to do this. In for a damned copper, I suppose.

A metal ladders runs down the side of the hole, rusted iron descending into darkness. With my superior aptitude for seeing through shadow, I can make out that it doesn't descend far before reaching slick brickwork at the bottom, the manmade embankment to a river of filth. Putrid and rancid odors enact their bloody revenge upon the world above, assaulting my senses. I spare a look back to Alabastra, hopeful that this is the moment she reveals she was joking. She does not. I grumble, grab the sides of the ladder, and descend.

The hollow drip-dropping of water deeper within the sewer tunnels echoes off the walls. There's little in the way of hand-holds, so I move slowly over the slimy brick to not lose my footing. The others descend behind me, Alabastra taking up the rear, pulling the metal cover back overtop the ladderway with a dull scrape across concrete. She steps into the space, walking as briskly as she had been up top, balance unfettered. "Alright... This-a-way, Moodie."

"Where are we going?"

Faylie practically slides through the muck. "A land of mysteries."

I look down at the sewage canal beside us, and the thick coating of awful sludge now sticking to the bottoms of her hooves. "You're the only mystery down here."

She tilts her head, thinking for a second, then laughs. "Oh! That's funny!" Her voice bounces down the tunnel ahead of her.

Before I can ask what any of the bizarre things she says mean, Alabastra answers my first question, "Headin' to a little place we call Stilton. Kinda of a... shanty town square."

"And we're doing this because...?"

"Just got some folk we gotta check in on. Like I said, it'll be nothin'." She takes the lead, routing a winding path through the waterworks and warrens that stretch wide and deep into the earth below Marble City. The subterranean stretch, the Underburrows, is practically a secret sixth borough. The city under the city, a cramped and putrid mirror world of the one above. Little can thrive down here at all, save for the monsters that crawl up from the dark, thieves hoping cops don't brave the tunnels, and the true outcasts, too destitute even for Grennard. The bottom of the barrel.

Ten minutes of winding pathways and concerning descents later, and finally Alabastra says, "Here we are!" She pushes through a smaller side passage, a rounded puncture through the brickwork. I swear we passed this once before... Not that she would ever admit to being lost.

The pass opens up into a massive vestibule, about the size of a baseball field, cast in cold blue light from tinted crystals jutting from a perimeter pool of running water. The masonry of the dome's stonework chips with age, and a strong scent of mildew wafts through the air. Set up around the edges sit ramshackle buildings of tin metal and rotting wood, stalls with ripped and molding blankets hung over, and the rundown machine work of a water wheel, spinning along from the dripping flow over the outer river, exiting at the east and west.

Sounds spill through the air. The chatter of dozens of voices, grinding metal, crackling fire, shouting, crying, splashing. The people living here do so without a care to their acoustic footprint. They mill over the space like aimless ants, darting from merchant's stalls peddling a pauper's wares, to a sorry excuse for a saloon. Their clothes are tattered and run through with muck, and many look to be in poor health, a gaunt and green pallor to their sallow skin. Despite the miserable dwellings, many hold a high smile, children play, old women laugh to each other. I think I even hear a guitar's low melody somewhere in the sonal mix.

A community of beggars, below the feet of the already-destitute. Fascinating. Alabastra says, "Alright. Just gotta touch base with..."

"Alabastra!" Interrupting her words, an older man rushes forward. Wrinkles carve deep tunnels through his face, his eyes sag low like an aging dog's. His shorter gray hair carries a shock of grease through the side, and his scarf is matted and unkempt. He smells like cigarette smoke and must. But he carries the spry gait of a man thirty years his younger. "Alabastra Camin!", he yells, both worried and relieved, the tone of an arson victim when the fire truck arrives. He wants for salvation.

"Graolo!" She reaches out to pat the old man on the arm, then turns to me. "Graolo's the elder statesman here. Stilton's his place."

He grunts. "It's everyone's place, Alabastra." His voice reminds me of a rumbling oven, thickened with the accent of the old empire. "Alabastra, Mrs. Matricia is in fits again. She wants to know how is the search going."

Alabastra so-so's with her hand. "It's... goin'." The search... she doesn't mean... As if she read my mind, Alabastra say again as an aside for me, "Unrelated. Well. Maybe related."

I raise a brow. Maybe related? What does that mean? I can't exactly ask in front of all these people, and... well, even if I did, I can't be sure she'd give me a straight answer anyways.

She says to Graolo, "Thanks for lettin' me know. Faylie n' Tegan'll talk her down."

"Uh. Yea", Tegan says. They could put that on her gravestone.

Faylie begins to skip off ahead of us, shouting into the distance, "Mrs. Matricia it'smeFaylieI'mheretosayhiiii!" Tegan swings her arms down in defeat, and follows after the faun.

Graolo turns to me, his eyes keen, peeling over my form. I shirk under the weight; I've never liked being seen. Especially by unfamiliar people. "Who is the new one?"

I stare at him, blank.

"Just a friend, Graolo. Not a threat." Alabastra puts a hand on my shoulder. If only she knew... The old man simply shrugs. She continues, "We're just gonna see how Sydney's brother is doin'."

He nods in understanding. "Ahh, I see. You are taking care of the business. As you were." His wry smile scrunches his face along the folds.

"Will do." Pushing me through this cavern of brick, Alabastra directs me toward one of the taller and more structurally sound buildings, an accolade it only wins by default for having a foundation at all. A sign swings on rusted chains, reading 'Stilton Infirmary'. It doesn't exactly look like a hospital, from the outside anyways, but I suppose I don't have much experience with shanty architecture.

Arms folded, I say, "This is our place?"

"Yea. Just...", she rests a hand on the door, head craned over shoulder to meet my gaze. "Sit tight. I'll be right out." She passes into the office. I catch a brief glance of the inside, partition walls and curtains creating pseudo-rooms, a glass-cased cabinet stocked full of jars and vials of medicine, and a single tall, lanky figure in a black leather long coat and matching hat, bird-beaked white mask of a doctor obscuring their eyes behind empty round lenses.

As Alabastra disappears into the building, my ears once more catch the acoustic stylings of an amateur guitarist. Their sweet, nostalgic plucking casts the community in an almost cozy light. This is home to somebody. More than a few somebodies, in fact. Though somebody implies they aren't the forgotten refuse at the bottom of society's shoe, desperately clinging on despite all attempts to scrape them away. I can't deny their resilience. At the underside of Grennard and its squalor, here lies a swell of defiance.

It's a blessing their merrymaking can't be heard through all the stone and mud. This is the kind of place Marble City stamps out. I wonder how long they've been here. How long they have left.

The door opens, and Alabastra returns with a plus one. A teenage girl with a tail of brown hair and freckles stares up at me. Alabastra says, "Sydney, Moodie. Moodie, Sydney." She motions between us.

"Hi", says Sydney, sticking out a hand. I look down at the outstretched palm, then to Alabastra. The half-elf groans, and makes an x with her arms, grabbing and jerking my left hand with hers, and meeting Sydney's waiting shake with her own right. She completes the awkward triangle shake in a tangle of arms and an eye roll.

"Glad we sorted that. Sydney, go ahead and tell me what you were sayin'."

The girl nods apprehensively. "Sure. Well, Conor's doing okay... He's still not conscious, but Dr. DuBois says he'll probably make a full recovery, as long as he gets lots of rest."

"That's great news!" Alabastra smacks my shoulder in assumed agreement.

I raise a brow. What exactly does this have to do with anything...? Alabastra had said it was this girl's sibling that needed checking on... "What's ailing your brother, exactly?", I ask. If the rogue won't give me an answer, this girl must.

She shrugs nervously. "Oh... He was, um. He lost a lot of blood?" My eyes go wide. "They think he was attacked by a..."

"I have to go."

Without sparing a second look, I turn on a dime and leave immediately. My shoulders perfectly square, my feet in an automated march carrying me away from this situation as fast as possible. I hear Alabastra shout behind me, "Don't go too far!" I catch her say to the girl, "Don't mind him. Tell me more-"

Their voices disappear into the din of noise. Aimlessly I wander, desperate to be away from yet another source of guilt, eyes darting for some kind of distraction. I spot it in the form of Faylie's excited hopping, and Tegan's armor reflecting the blue light of the cavern. They're speaking with a shorter portly dwarven woman, curly red locks in a perm over her revealing corseted outfit.

I'll take anything at this point. I approach, distant enough that I don't accidentally join the conversation, but close enough to eavesdrop.

The woman, Mrs. Matricia I assume, is saying between sobs, "I just don't understand where she'd go..." Her voice carries a theatric falsetto, and her makeup runs over her cheeks from the tears. It's a sorry sight.

Tegan pats her on the shoulder. "There, there...", she says, not convincing in her role as the emotional support. I suppose she's not the inspiring sort of knight.

Faylie says, brows pulled together in concern, "You said your daughter was... collecting stuff?"

The dwarf nods. "Yes. She'd never done that kind of thing before. I assumed it had something to do with..." She stops, and shakes her head. "No, no, that can't be it."

"Anything might help, miss!" The faun's chipper tone does not match the woman's grieving energy.

"Well... Savina's father was a dragon, you see..."

I shake my head, flabbergasted. I'm not usually one for gossipmongering, but that is... fascinating?

The knight seems to agree, as she sputters at the dwarf's words. "Uh, wow. That, uh, that's... Damn."

"Yes, I know...", the dwarf says, a reminiscent twinkle in her eye. "He was one of my more charming clients, believe it or not. A tad possessive, mind you. But he beat wings outta here once Savina was born." Although I didn't want to make any assumptions about the woman from her garb alone... Her profession does seem obvious in hindsight.

Faylie says, "Typical dragon! Hope his hoard got stolen." Just as quickly as an indignant snarl crossed her lips, Faylie's face switches to surprise. "Oh, speaking of hoarding. Is that was Savina was doing? Her, um, treasure instinct?"

"Well... she'd never done that before, is the thing. It started a few weeks ago, right before she... she..." Mrs. Matricia starts to bawl again. "Oh, my sweet daughter!"

"We'll find her, Mrs. Matricia! We're hot on the case!" Faylie gives her a thumbs up, that wholly fails to encourage.

I wonder why Alabastra sent these two to comfort the woman, if they're so truly terrible at it. And, as far as the missing girl goes... I shake the thought away. Tragedy or no, it has nothing to do with my predicament. I assume these three will get on that once they're done with... whatever this is.

"Come here often?", a voice says right next to me. I jump, scrambling my arms away. Alabastra snuck right up on me. For however sneaky Faylie can be, the most practiced thief is all but a ghost when she feels like it.

She laughs, and shouts, "Girls! We're outta here."

Faylie and Tegan give their final words of encouragement to the dwarf, and return to us. "We have the best gossip, Allie!", says Faylie, pumping her fists slightly.

"Can't wait to hear it. But business first. C'mon." She pulls us back toward the exit.

As we go, Graolo again stops us. "Thank you for stopping by, Alabastra."

She grins. "Anytime, Graolo. I'd offer a hand with the usual stuff, but, we're kinda puttin' out fires right now. As you can tell." Alabastra points with her thumb back in the direction of Stilton.

"That's alright. Though, a shame you are busy. We're running low a little on food, could use some of those sticky fingers of yours..." He wiggles his hands in front of her face.

Alabastra pulls her mouth aside, consternation demanded by the man's attempt at pity. I pull back the urge to roll my eyes. Heroic types are so... easy. Faylie looks up at Alabastra with gleaming puppy dog eyes, pleading.

"Yeah, alright." She seems to come to a decision, and pulls a wad of cash out of her trench coat. She palms it into Graolo's hands. "S'yours. Get 'em what they need."

The old man handles the cash like a newborn pup, gentle and elated. "Yes. Yes! Of course, Alabastra! Thank you, we will do our best." Graolo slips the money into his own coat. I try not to think cynically about the ultimate destination of that cash. If Alabastra trusts him... well, then he's likely a few cards short of a deck, but unlikely to run off with it. Not that it matters to me; it's not my money to give away, after all. Hells, it's almost certainly not even her's.

"Take care, Graolo. And, uh, maybe spend that lickety-split." She pats him on the shoulder, and ushers us out. The sights and sounds of Stilton stretch away as I give it one last curious glance. The exact kind of odd place I'd expect Alabastra to end up a stewardess for.

As soon as we're around the bend, Alabastra says, "Alright, got us a lead."

"From talking to the girl?", I ask.

"Yyyep." She smiles wide at the three of us. "We're goin' right to the vamp's lair."

* * *

The "vampire's lair" we find ourselves outside of is anything but, considering the fact that it is not my own home. A decrepit dwelling atop a small hill, two stories tall of rotten wood and ramshackle make, it may even be abandoned.  Alabastra led us through at least two neighborhoods, circling back on herself multiple times, before we've finally arrived. She issues an, "A-ha!", and marches up the hill.

Above us, I hear the telltale squawking of Alabastra's bird. She sent it away when we left my abode, and it has only now caught with us again. Just as I was beginning to believe its absence would slip into welcome permanence. At least it has the good grace to stay in the sky. Where it belongs.

Though falling apart, it is a decent home when compared to its surroundings. Perhaps due to its hilltop location, risen above the low level of muck that seeds Grennard's streets.

As we approach I notice, despite all initial evidence to the contrary, signs of recent dwelling here. The walkway leading up the hill is stained with muddy footprints, the mailbox marked up in indication of recent delivery. Even a light on, in the upstairs window. Surely they wouldn't extend this charade so far as to break into some poor unfortunate's home...

Alabastra steps onto the porch, turning to us. "Alright, girls-and-guy, no telling what this thing is capable of, so be ready for any..."

"Vampyness?", Faylie offers.

"Definitely not a real word", Tegan interjects.

Their leader continues, "We're just gonna have to go in, bows blazing. Ready?"

They wouldn't. Someone clearly lives here...!

"One...", Alabastra counts. Tegan steps forward, looking nervous, but rearing back to kick the door in. "Two..." Faylie joins beside her, producing another card, arcana pouring from its face in reddish energy. They've brought this charade right to the edge. And they seem intent to carry it out. To make fools of themselves and break several laws just to prove a point. These ridiculous, petty thieves. They're going to force it out of me.

Dammit. Gods damn you, Alabastra Camin. I can't take this train crash anymore. As the 'three' kisses the edge of her tongue, I yell, "Stop!"

The women look to me, surprised, but with a wave of relief behind it. I sigh. Their excruciating escapades have stripped away every last scrap of resistance I had. Perhaps it was a sign of my cowardice, that I did not, could not, admit it right from the start, but I can't hold it in anymore. I'm exhausted.

"Stop..." I close my eyes, let the pains wash through me, over me, and breathe it all out. I have fought it long enough... no one can say I didn't try. It's time to let go. "You won't find your vampire in there. Because...", the three are looking, hanging on my words, eyes full of pure focus, "Because the vampire... is me."

They stare for a moment. A drawn out pause, seconds and yet eternities long, in which they only glance at each other, then back to me.

And then, in perfect synchronicity:

"Whaaat?", says Tegan.

"Nooooo...", says Faylie.

"Say it ain't so!", says Alabastra.

I stare back. My eyes harden, and I draw a single, long, and tired breath. Bastards have played me for a fool.

"...You knew the whole time, didn't you?"

Alabastra grins. "Right from the start. Let's talk inside." She pulls a set of lockpicks from an inside pocket of her coat, and in one swift motion, unlocks the door and pushes into the building.