AMARANTH

It’s a curse, always having some kind of clue where Jamie might be. His favourite haunts, scattered around the city. She’d much rather free up the space in her brain and make room for something useful, something better than this absolute prick of a man. Yet here she is, walking through the door and scanning the room until she finds him at the bar. 

Her movements are smooth and practiced as she moves closer, leans herself up against the old wood and plasters on an only slightly vicious smile. God, she hates this. She really, really hates it. But she’s run through her options, and she thinks the upcoming embarrassment is something she’s just going to have to face. She can stomach it, if it gets her what she wants in the end, if he can take her where she needs to go. 

He’d been good at that, once. But he’d been good at a lot of things.

He was a good actor, too. She was counting on that, all part of the plan. She could stomach talking to him if it meant she could use him at the end of it all. 

A slow drawl, a sharp smile. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie –– Long time no see. Fancy seeing you in a place like this, eh?” 

Zion nods along with her assessment of things, letting out a little sigh of his own frustration, before taking a deep drink of his coffee, hoping it might bolster him. There just wasn’t ever going to be an easy way to find what they needed to know, and perhaps worse, there was no cut and dry way to find it. Hell, there wasn’t even anything to say they would find anything.

That was always going to be the problem with this sort of thing, even before anything like this had started up in the otherworld. He had been acutely aware of the differences in doing the same thing on this side of the veil and that side when he had first come to Dublin, when he had first been brought over into the fairfolk’s world by Declan all those years ago. He’d tried to do the same thing on both sides. In more ways than one, he realized how much more straight forward what his father had been trying to do was, than what he had been suddenly sucked into. And, in more ways than one, that had been why he’d chosen to give that up, and try to help this side instead. Nothing was cut and dry, as straightforward as the natural rules seemed. They needed all the keen eyes they could get.

She keeps going, though, before he can even think of replying, brainstorming where to go from her. Knowing she’s got a plan does more instantly than the coffee does, he’s already leaning forward even before she’s told him anything more than that.

“I’ll be frank with ya, from what I’ve seen in this world and that, crazy ideas are the only way to get anything done. What’ve you got?”

Now, theres a motto she can get behind. She knows all about taking the creative way out of a problem, after all. Taking the system the world built for humanity and cheating her way out of it. She’s learned to survive with unfair advantages, luck on her side in a way that other humans couldn’t achieve, unless they knew the right people and the right things to say and do. 

“Well, that’s the spirit.” She says, leaning closer, a hint of excitement in her voice. She feels unsure, she feels uncertain, but she feels ready to take a leap of faith and potentially get herself in trouble. What she has is a plan, almost. The bones of one, at the very least. She has favours owed to her and an ideal time to collect. 

“So –– The Dagda Institute doesn’t really vibe with the hard-hitting journalist types. They’re pretty private. There’s this bloke who works for the Irish Times that’s been trying to get an interview with their higher ups for years.” It comes out quick as she combs through her mental notes on the topic. That had been her first idea, lie her way in, say she was a reporter, say she had an appointment. “But we don’t really need to do that. We just want a better look at whats happening inside, what they’re doing in there.” She moves, pulls up a page on her laptop, turns so Zion can take a look. “Well, they’re hiring three new interns in their communications and marketing department, and I’ve got enough stored up luck to get me in to NASA at this point.”

Oz grunts a halfhearted greeting as he slouches through the door, but not before he catches her eye and offers her a small, grateful smile. 

He makes his way over to the couch and all but collapses onto it, tossing his bag into the corner. At the mention of tea, he actually groans. The sound comes out a little muffled from where his face is smushed into the cushions, but he figures Afric gets the point. 

For a few calm, quiet moments he drifts, comforted by the familiar sounds of Afric puttering around in the kitchen. Her apartment has always carried a certain cozy, lived in quality that can instantly put him at ease. In a way, he’s almost a little envious. His own modest flat, while possessing a certain charm of its own, has never felt like…. much of a home, really. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t spend enough time there. (Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s always empty when he arrives. That he has no one to share it with.) Either way, these days he much prefers mooching off of the kindness of his friends instead of going home - if, for no other reason, than to keep himself from being completely alone with his thoughts. 

By the time Afric returns to the living area, most of the tension he’s been lugging around with him since early morning has drained away, leaving him pleasantly hollow. Like a cup, waiting to be refilled. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and levels her with another half-smile.

“Has anyone told you lately that you’re a Godsend? Because you are. People should write sonnets about you, or something.” 

She lets out a soft chuckle. Watching as he drifts and floats and makes himself comfortable. That’s what Afric likes her friends to do, treat her space as if they have the god-given right to share it. It makes them feel like family, like they’ll stick with her through whatever tough shit comes up. Like they have something that might transcend how fucking exhausted they are, how hard life is to keep on living. 

“Right, right.” She says, voice light and happier than she would have been capable of, before he’d directed his own smile at her. “You get started on that while I make you a cuppa. Compare me to a summers day, and all that.” Wry and amused, she moves to the little kitchen just off the sitting room, no real doorway to separate them from one another. They can still see each other, then, as she works. Mugs, tea bags, a splash of milk. The familiar old ritual, endlessly comforting. Afric prides herself on doing things like this well –– she knows how all her friends take it, the perfect way to go about it so she can hand them exactly what they want. 

Her smile is warm and full of softness when she moves back, setting the hot mugs down on the coffee table for them, lightly nudging a book out of the way so that they sit flat. Then, she situates herself in the armchair, her very favourite spot in the whole apartment. 

“So –– share the news, dear friend. How goes the outside world? I’ve been cooped up here all day, working, and now I have to live vicariously through you.” 

The restlessness is something that he’s learning how to live with. Even less sleep than usual, if that’s really possible, more time spent pouring over the same notes again and again, trying to see something he might’ve missed. Mostly it’s waiting for the right time to move to action. Now more than ever, he’s prepared to be ready at a moment’s notice. With more hands in the pot, there’s more room for error, and suddenly working to make sure the others who want to help are actually prepared to help is his task.

It’s not anything he could have foreseen himself undertaking, knowing full well he’s not necessarily the first thought when it comes to people skills, but if there’s one thing he can do, it’s make sure no one else fucks up what they’ve started building. So when he gets a message from Afric asking him to meet to go over some of what he’s already found, he agrees much quicker than he normally would. All the better that coffee’s involved. 

He grabs a drink––dark roast, black, bitter as they come––and then looks around, spotting Afric surrounded by a mess of notes and books.

“Handsome? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want something from me,” he says gruffly, a hint of amusement spilling in, as he takes his seat across from her.

If there’s one thing he does appreciate greatly, it’s someone who gets right down to business, no beating around the bush, no skirting the subject, just exactly what they met up to do. There’s no time for anything like that nowadays. The more time they waste, the more likely they’ll lose someone else before they can find any way to stop it.

“Wish I had more to give you, but it’s only a whisper of anything helpful. Easier said than done to get anything on them, apparently. Saw the name in a few police reports I had a peek at when Ailis first asked for my help. Some kind of genetics shite, something bigger masked as simple science, from what I found.”

Her grin sharpens, just a little bit, at the returned joke. “Oh, hon. If I want something, I’ll lay it on thicker. Not subtle.” She shakes her head at herself, brushes her hair behind her ears as she focuses back in on him. 

Part of what she likes about Zion is how straightforward he is. She always knows where he stands, she can always guess what he’s going to be focused on. Planning, that’s his sweet spot. He’s like fucking Batman or something –– he seems more in control when the world is falling apart, even if it isn’t true. 

Her cheeks puff out a little bit in response to his answer, a breath held, a small show of shared frustration. She’s nodding, though, because it’s pretty much what she had expected. “There’s the fucking rub, eh? I’ve been digging around online, but it’s all the same vague bullshit. Genetics, bio-medical engineering, and they talk like they’re gonna fecking change the world. Whatever, I’ve seen Orphan Black and it all sounds shady to me.”

Which brings her to the stopping point of planning, so many different paths leading off in so many different directions. It’s clear that they’re only going to learn so much from the outside. It’s clear that they need some kind of foot in the door if they want any more clues as to how the Institute might be involved in all of this. Her mind is moving a mile-a-minute still, the coffee hitting her hard. She picks up her pen just for something to do, twirls it through her fingers with practiced ease. “But –– Listen. I might have kind of a crazy idea about getting in.”   

june 30th - afric’s apartment ( @africosullivan​ )

The walk to Afric’s isn’t long, but he drags his feet anyway. The messenger bag thrown over his shoulder weighs him down with every step and, the farther he gets from home, the more he longs for his bed. 

Ever since the party, since these murders started, he… hasn’t been sleeping. Not really. He catches cat naps here and there, but every time he tries to get some real rest, he’s plagued by the same nightmare. The same distant, uneasy feeling. He’s tried over-the-counter sleep aids. Meditation. Counting sheep. Nothing’s seemed to help. If anything, he feels worse (and he’s sure the bags under his eyes are a glaring testament to that.)

He spends his nights staring up at the ceiling, weighing his options. To stay. To go. To turn a blind eye and pretend none of this is happening - watch the Otherworld, and all it’s inhabitants, burn from afar. When it’s laid out like that, the choice seems obvious. Easy, even. But… nothing, nothing, about this has ever been (or ever will be) simple. The reality is, he’s already involved. 

He may not be a Fae, but he’s as close as a human could ever possibly get. His fate and theirs is intertwined now - his and all the all the other mortals unfortunate enough to possess some tie to the Courts.

If he chose to feign ignorance, to look past the violence and the killing and the fear mongering, there’s no guarantee he won’t be next. That Griffith or Zion or Alfric won’t be targeted right along with the Seelie and Unseelie and Solitary Fae that have already been slain. And that’s something he just… can’t stomach. Because unlike the faerie population, the Seers haven’t done anything to deserve a fucking death sentence. None of them asked for this. They didn’t chose it. They’re all just here, treading water, finding their own ways to try and stay afloat. 

He doesn’t care what happens to the Fae, that much is true. But he does care what happens to his friends. And if he can do anything to help them, to stop this, he will. Because his own survival depends on it. (Because it’s the right thing to do.)

By the time he makes it up the stairs to Afric’s landing, he’s dead on his feet. He leans against the door jamb and knocks, resting his head against the cool wood as he waits. 

She’s so tired she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself, during the hours shes at home and alone with nothing to do except try and catch some fitful type of rest. Her mind is so full, that’s the problem. When she tries to lay down and relax, it runs a mile a minute instead. Makes her fidgety, makes her antsy and half-trapped in the walls of her own home. 

It’s just that Afric can’t stop wondering. She can’t stop making plans. She’s high on too much coffee and working to gather too much luck from where its owed to her. She’s full up of pondering and half crazed plans, full up of information about The Dagda Institute that she doesn’t know how to parse, yet.

It’s the worry, as well. The fear every time someone she cares for walks out on the streets of Dublin. She’s scared that one of them will be next, that it’s all they deserve after sticking their noses in other peoples business. 

Seeing them tends to calm the aching of it in her chest, set her back towards something easy and almost relaxed, unfurling some of the worst of her panic in favour of the warmth of friendship instead. She could take or leave the fair folk with whom she makes her many deals, but she’d give her life for her true friends, her clan of misfit seers and changelings. 

She already feels herself lightening just at the news that Oslo is on his way over, a feeling only intensifying when she hears the knock on the too-thin wood of their shitty apartment door. She moves to open it, and levels Oz with a sympathetic look when she catches a glimpse of his face. He looks as run down as she feels. 

     “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” She inclines her head and moves aside, gives him room enough to slip through the door and in to the apartment proper. “I’ve the kettle on, if you want some tea.” 

Afric is going to have to consider, someday soon, that she’s living on the wrong side of a coffee addiction. She’s a grad student, sure, but this is getting excessive. Between her work and the half-crazed flighty plans and ideas that keep her up at night, she needs as much of it as she can get. Cafe Flux, therefore, has become her home away from home. They make the good shit. 

She has her books and notebooks sprawled out over one of their tables, tucked away in the back corner. Her laptop is open too, endless tabs that worryingly have nothing to do with her thesis. 

She perks up when she sees Zion come in, starts clearing away a space for him to sit before she can think better of it. She’d asked him to come, hopes she hadn’t sound too unhinged when she did it. She doesn’t exactly want to sound like a sleep deprived weirdo right now, though she supposes that thats usually when she’s at her most genius. 

     “Ah, there’s that handsome face I adore.” She says, when he gets close enough to hear. It’s a tease of a thing, just the way she talks. “Sit, sit. Don’t mind the mess.” 

She’s shoved some notebooks away to clear space on the table, thrown the most vital one down on the keyboard of her laptop. She leans in close, voice low and secret and quiet enough to go unnoticed but not so obviously discreet that people start to wonder what they’re hiding. “Right, boss. Talk to me about the Dagda Institute.” 

“You’d better!” Aoibheann says. The chastisement is mostly playful, but there’s the undercurrent of being serious. She hopes her friend will check in with her, but if the worst should happen and Afric is under someone’s spell, Aoibheann knows it won’t even cross her mind. All the better for Aoibheann to keep something of her own head, keep a watch over her susceptible friends.

“Is that right?” Aoibheann encourages, a smile just for Afric on her face. “I do love it, too. Especially because it means that summer has arrived.” Crown on Afric’s head, Aoibheann lets her hand drift along the seer’s hair, toying a strand back. “That must have made your whole yard smell of the stuff.” Her eyes follow the smile on Afric’s face – the relationship must have been a good one, or could still be good. Aoibheann entertains, only for a moment, what it would have been like to have any sort of connection with her mother, before she passed.

Aoibheann waves her hands and shakes her head. “No, no,” she insists. “All I ask for in return is your friendship and company, of course.”

She cherishes the smile she recieves more than she would expect to. Afric is good at making friends, most of the time, but she always got the impression that Aoibheann could be a deceptively illusive thing. Ephemeral, changeable. It made her all the happier to win the smile, to win this beautiful glimmer of happiness. 

“It did. The whole house, too, sometimes.” Dreamy, sweet. She missed home, sometimes. But she didn’t miss how hard things had been before she learned to make her own way in the world. Their whole family was better off with Afric out and about, winning favours and luck where she could get them. “And now it will remind me of you, too. Isn’t that lovely?” She asks it sweetly, bright. It will always remind her of this, she knows it. A rare bright and perfect memory she can hoard away for the times when she needs a reminder of the worlds goodness. 

“Ay. You can have as much of that as you like.” She says, with a laugh. On a whim she reaches up, brushes a strand Aoibheann‘s hair back and corrects the position of a falling flower. “So, oh brave and wise one –– which of the wine here is safe for me to drink?” 

Aoibheann puts a hand on either side of Afric’s head, jostling it gently, as if testing how tightly it’s screwed. She puts on a thinking face before nodding. “Hmm, yes I think that will do for now.” A laugh breaks through and Aoibheann lets it, grinning to her friend. “Be sure to check in several hours, though. Can’t be too sure.” She’ll looks back in as well, before the end of the night. Make sure Afric and the other humans are all where they want to be. Not that she would know just what to do if they weren’t – how could Aoibheann blame one of them getting lost in the lush world of the fae, wanting to trip through it forever?

“Oh, I intend to!” Aoibheann assures Afric, nodding. It’s true – there’s much more merriment left in Midsummer. And she’s sure she’ll be sated on this party for days to come. It reminds her, faintly, of Easters when she was very, very young. One of the few times that she didn’t feel out of sorts with her family, where the magnanimity seemed to extend for a week or more afterward. “Sounds quite like Cian,” she agrees, sparing a moment to hope that their shared friend is having a good time.

Immediately, Aoibheann sets out gathering the best sprigs of lavender, weaving them deftly. “I could do more lilac,” she says, nodding to the blossom she bestowed upon Afric at first, “but lavender just smells so nice, and it will hold a little better I think.” It’s not long before she has a crown formed. “No trouble at all.” She has a couple inches on Afric so it’s easy to set the crown in place.

She lets out another little spurt of laughter at the playful treatment, letting Aoibheann jostle her gently and beaming through it. It feels warm, feels nice, feels like she could spend hours here getting lost in the glimmer and the heady sent of honeysuckle. “I’ll come right to you if i feel it loosening.” She promises, voice amused but bright in the wake of it. 

She watches with rapt attention as Aoibheann gathers the flowers to her, her delicate hands moving quickly and confidently. It must come so naturally to her, Afric thinks. She must not have to try at all. Afric knows dozens of other humans who would sell an arm and a leg for some small semblance of Aoibheann’s natural beauty and grace, for her deft hands and her winning smile. She smiles again, warm and easy, as the girl moves. “I like lavender.” She admits, sweet. “It’s always been one of my favourites.” And it’s a truth that she doesn’t expect, full of fond memories and warmth. “My ma’ used to grow it in the back garden.” 

Her smile brightens back to the beam again as the flowers settle on her head, allowing herself to grin open up at Aoibheann. “Thank you. It’s wonderful. I wish I had something I could give you for it.” 

Aoibheann shares a light laugh with her friend, nodding easily. Afric is no stranger to parties, that’s certain, nor to the faire folk in general. “I’ll agree with you there.” Booze and pretty people are two of the main ingredients to what Aoibheann considers a good time as well. And this Midsummer happens to have both of those, as well as several other tick-boxes on Aoibheann’s list. “Be sure not to overindulge of course.” The meaning is plain in her words. Perhaps it isn’t very fae of Aoibheann, but she would rather her human friends all keep their facilities and free will. If they want to stay about the faire folk of their own volition, that’s fine. But she would hate to see them caught up in some malevolent web. Least of all Afric. But this particular seer was smart, Aoibheann knew that.  

The peal of laughter does her well, lets her believe that her friend truly is having a good time, whatever slight uncertainty might lurk. “You’re too kind,” she replies, petting back a strand of Afric’s hair. “Anyone looks lovely dancing. Especially on Midsummer.” The sun golden and warm, the scent of fresh flowers… It gave the air a special quality. “I wish every day could be Midsummer,” she sighs. “Though, I reckon that would make it less special.” She touches a finger to her flower crown, as if just remembering it. “Did you see Cian? I’m afraid I forced a ringlet of astrantia onto him.” Her eyes dip to the bursting bouquets. “I could make one of lavender for you, if you’d like.”

Her grin settles in slow and easy, the rhythm of the exchange washing over her. Aoibheann is sweet, so much more genuine than a lot of others that Afric knows. There are layers and layers to her, that’s as clear as day, but Afric can’t help but really wanting to be their friend. The hint of concern is enough to melt something in Afric, to set aside a large chunk of the caution she likes to keep on hand. She raises her hands in a display of deference. “Don’t worry, buddy. Got my head screwed on nice and tight.” She wrinkles her nose, just for a moment. “For now, at least. I’ll check in later to confirm.” 

She levels Aoibheann with a warm look, happy to hear her talk about Midsummer with that dreamy expression on her face. “There’s a long day ahead of us yet, Aoibheann. Better enjoy it while it lasts. You can start counting down the days to next year when tonight is over.” She smiles brightly at the mention of Cian, one common spark in the link between them. She wishes they were there right now, keeping here company. “Ah, lost them a bit ago. But I’ll find them soon enough, probably just lurking somewhere out of the way.” Something in her brightens at the mention of the flowers, fondly amused and a little eager for it. “Lavender? That sounds lovely.” A moment of hesitation. “If it wouldn’t be a bother, that is.” 

date: june 21 time: late evening  location: on the fringes  (closed @africosullivan)

The bodies pushing a pulling around them was rapidly becoming far too much for Iona, the constant touch of strangers against their arms and back was overwhelming. Leave the dancing to Maeve, Brin, and their ilk––let them have the attention, in this moment Iona was done with it. An empty glass of cherry wine was dangling from their finger tips, the glass stained a light red with the dried sugary excess of the drink. It was one glass of far too many that night, leaving Iona’s cheeks warm and their mind a little bit tipsy. Indulging in alcohol was not a habit Iona had formed, but parties like this lended themselves to indulgence.

This far from the fire, Iona was surrounded by dancing shadows instead of people. It was comfortable in a way the throngs of people never would be, though it seems that Iona wasn’t as alone as they thought. Long blond hair and bright eyes moved somewhere in their periphery. They had seen her before–– perhaps in passing––but had yet to formally meet her. This made Iona’s need to speak to her all the greater, and in a choice that only could be made drunk, Iona moved towards the individual. Without caring, and with the secure knowledge that they wont be the one picking it up, they dropped the glass into the grass.

With slow and measured steps Iona made their was closer to the individual, a purposefully soft grin sliding across their face, “And here I thought I was alone out here, but I wont lie and say this isn’t a pleasant surprise.” 

She likes the dark. The shadows. Maybe its delusional, but the dimming of the light feels so much more malicious in the city. Sure, the fae could hurt her in ways she doesn’t even understand, but somewhere along the road of her life they became the devil she knows. She’s made friends with enough of them to know they likely won’t hurt her, that if she doesn’t slight them she’s as safe as she can be. Maybe a few tricks, maybe a little torment –- it’s a rare thing. And oh, she loves them for it anyway. Her fellow humans can have darker streaks that make far less sense to Afric. 

She’s a little too tipsy, just on the right side of being drunk. She needed a break, she needed air she didn’t have to share with so many others. She settles on the outskirts, hidden in the trees, enjoying the cooling air and the feeling of the rough bark against her back. 

Afric doesn’t have the senses sharp enough to hear someone coming, not one of the fair folk, with their graceful movements and footsteps that hardly seem to make a sound at all. She’s mainly proud of herself for not jumping, for just turning to look at the approaching fae and take them in. Pretty. They’re all pretty, but this one is stunning in the way that could cut you like a knife. 

     “Seems like you’re never quite as alone as you seem, out here.” Can you lie? She wants to ask. The answer is likely no. But they could talk around the truth prettily enough to make Afric understand things in the manner they wanted. “You’re free to join me, if it really is pleasant. I’ll trade you a name for the company.” 

The party is everything Aoibheann would have wanted, keeping her heart light and body glimmering with happiness. Sometimes, your expectations for an event are set to high and you can only be disappointed. That isn’t the case today, not for Aoibheann. It’s only afternoon, but already she doesn’t want the party to end. Lucky for her, though, there are still hours to go.

It’s one of the first moments she’s been on her own for longer than five minutes. Aoibheann has been making it a point to trip and spin from one circle to the next: a clutch of Seelie fae, pocketed rendez-vous with changelings and seers, a trio of Unseelie. Now, she stands off to the side and lets her eyes drift over the crowds. Dancing and making merry… Her heart sings for it. Off to the side, Aoibheann plucks a few lilac blossoms from a decorative garnish. She crushes the petals between her fingers, revels in the scent a moment, and then slips them under her tongue.

And then, another welcome friend. “Afric!” she greets, returning her smile. She can see the hint of uncertainty, though, and slings a familiar arm over the seer’s shoulders. “I am. Very much so. How is it, to your liking?” She wonders, not for the first time, what it’s like to be a human among so many fae, and their trappings. Is it anything like how Aoibheann had felt for so long, an unknowing fae caught in nothing more than the human world? Feeling fond and protective, Aoibheann pulls the whole sprig of lilac she ate from and tucks it behind one of Afric’s ear. 

It’s a nice touch, the arm around her shoulder. Another weight to keep her grounded in the world, another reminder that Afric is usually blithely confident in situations like this. She’s made a career out of making herself agreeable to the fair folk, after all. Making herself sweet, making herself strong enough to get the job done if they have one for her. A loyal servant. 

“Most parties are, that’s my secret.” Soft and conspiratorial. “If there’s booze and pretty people around, hard not to enjoy it.” Then again, Afric had brought all her own booze for herself. She’s not planning on getting entrapped in the territory of the unseelie fae, dependent on their food and their wine and their hands. She may be a good little seer, ready to do the odd job here or there, but she’d like to go home at the end of the day with her head screwed on straight. 

Her smile widens when the lilac sprig gets tucked behind her hear, a soft laugh that seems to pale in comparison to the joyous giggles of those around them. “I saw you dancing, earlier. You looked lovely.” 

The event is a cacophony of sound, but they always are. Melodic, yet rambunctious. Hundreds of people packed into a space only half real, mystifying to the mind and almost impossible to keep track of. She lost sight of Cian early on, her only solace found in the fact that they’re probably safe as long as Brín is around. Still –– it’s hard not to feel lonely in the crowd, not to feel othered and at odds with the world. Like she could drown and disappear here, and no one would know it. 

Seeing a familiar face quiets something in her chest, sets her more at ease among the dancing and the revelry. She lets her feet carry her over to where Aoibheann is standing, lets a smile spread across her face. “Hey, finally, someone I actually know.” Spoken smoothly, the barest hint of self-depreciation. There are actually dozens of people here that Afric is more than friendly with, but the courted fae can have sharper teeth on days like this. “What’s the story? Enjoying all the feasting and merriment?” 

     time. just past 4 AM, 19 May      place. Armitage Antiques           ( @africosullivan )

She makes her way to the crime scene by cover of night, blending into the shadows of the sleeping city unseen. She has no personal connection to this crime, except in its connection to all the others: she has no qualms about seeing the place old Armitage died, no grief for a man she hardly knew, and– no, that’s not quite true, there’s a hollowness in her chest, still, a tightening in her stomach: someone is dead, killed by someone she hasn’t been fast enough to stop. Another strike, and so soon after the last. 

The shop is dark, but that’s alright. It isn’t hard to slip past the tape blockading it and into the building. But she’s just making a quick lap of the perimeter, barely starting her search, when she hears a noise from within, like glass cracking underfoot or something of that kind, and someone else is in here with her.

Her heartbeat picks up, racing suddenly, as she whips around silently towards the source of the noise, and sees s figure there, a half dozen meters away, slight and frozen up at the sound as well, and as fast as she can, she takes off towards the figure, moves to grab their arm, to try to restrain them. Her mind racing: what if this is them, the killer come back to haunt the scene of the crime, come back to reclaim something they forgot, or– or– or–

     “Freeze,” she commands, her grip tight around their arm.

A curious nature is something Afric has always had. A desperation to know things, to have all the information, so that nothing can take her by surprise. 

She’d liked Mr. Armitage, was the thing. She’d liked him more than most people did. He was a crazy old man, and he said awful things to her, but he seemed to respect her in some small way. And he never sold her anything cursed, which must mean that he liked her somehow. She brought him cups of tea and pastries from the bakery down the road, little gifts to keep his favour while they gossiped together.

She’d liked Mr. Armitage, and she likes Jessica and Sarah too. The O’Neills have been nothing but kind to her, nothing but motherly. They’re what’s good about this crazy world they live in, and now they’re distraught and strung out and so exhausted, so scared. 

Breaking into a crime scene is one of the worst decisions she might make, but she feels like she has to see it, she feels like she has to know. So she gets to the door, finds the key he always hid in a crack in the brick, and lets herself inside. It isn’t technically breaking and entering if you use a key, right?

With calming breaths she starts to look around, eyes adjusting to the dim light. If she needs to, she’ll pull out her phone to use the torch, but she’d rather avoid anything that might draw attention to her. After a few minutes, a sound makes her freeze in her tracks, someone moving. Her chest goes tight with fear, a shaky breath escaping her. She thinks: oh god, i’m going to die here. And then whatever it is grabs her. 

But it isn’t a monster. It’s a person. The smell of something otherworldly, a voice with power. Its a fae, and she lets out another breath. “Hey, hey. Easy now.” She gets out, tugging lightly at the grip. “I’m friendly, I swear.”

He raises an eyebrow, but lets out a small puff of laughter. She’s got a bit of humor, then, not completely unwelcome when it feels as if the knot in his back’s never going to loosen at this point. “I’m a two-for-one, way with words and strong to boot,” he says wryly, taking a drag of his cigarette. It’s not a surprise to hear her confirm, and it’s also not a surprise that she can tell they’re the same. “S'pose my parents didn’t anger any fae enough to warrant them switchin’ me out; just the government. Worked out alright in the long run for all of us, though, I’d say.”

He gets it, gets not wanting to go inside and face the death, because no matter how warm and cozy they try to make this little vigil, that’s what it comes back to. All of the death in their midst, bloody and wicked, impossible to ignore, and impossible to get over, now, when it just keeps coming. They can cry and light candles and recite poetry all they want, but it isn’t going to bring anyone back. And it isn’t going to stop it from happening again.

“Alright, fair trade,” he shrugs, putting his own in his mouth to fish the half crushed pack from his pocket, offering her the pack and his lighter. “Haven’t seen the likes of you around before, don’t know how I could’ve missed ya, though. Got a name I can have? I’ll even give you mine.”

She smiles slightly at his laughter, pleased as she always is when someone laughs around her. Even if its directed at her, she’s never really cared. “A jack of all trades, then. What an appealing trait to have in a protector.” With a wry voice and a dimpled grin, amused at the the little comment about angering one of the fair folk. She arches a curious eyebrow at the implications, wanting to pry with more curious words. But it seems too rude to ask for an elaboration. “Thank our lucky stars for that.” 

She lets out a relieved little sight at his agreement, taking the pack with steady hands to fish out a cigarette. “Go raibh maith agat, oh brave one.” Another little joke, but its polite to say thank you. There’s a moment where she’s fumbling with the lighter, a second where she has trouble getting the cigarette lit, taking a long drag to ensure the flame has caught and its smouldering away well. She hands him back his pack, lighter safely tucked. 

     “Aye, I’m an illusive one. We must have been like two ships in the night, all this time.” She breathes it out with the smoke, leaning against the window next to him. Talking like this is a comforting thing, easy as breathing, enough to settle her anxious heart. She’s wound tight, and maybe she can pretend she’s even slightly useful if she’s standing next to someone who actually does something. He’s strong and he has a way with words. What does she have? Some strong connections, someone who can get her nearly everything she wants, a head full of knowledge. “It’s Afric. Afric O’ Sullivan. As long as we’re doing a fair trade here, otherwise I’ll have to take that back.”