remade, repaired, reshaped but somehow, still the same

His stomach lurches uncomfortably, and he can't help the way that he immediately draws in a lungful of the cold night air - but there's no scent lingering here. This parcel, whatever it is, must have been left hours ago, in the warm summer sun, while the vampires in the Dessendre Manor slept like the dead. Perhaps if he interrogates their staff he'd be able to get some kind of indication of who it might have been, but there's hardly any point; even without the scent of him, Verso knows, deep in his soul, exactly who has been visiting the Manor this afternoon.

Close and still too far, he thinks stubbornly as he kneels down to pick up the offending parcel.

"What is it?" Alicia asks curiously.

From the weight of it alone, he already knows; if his heart still beat, it would be racing.

He hefts the parcel in his hand, sizing up the shape and feel of it, and has to bite back the fanged smirk that wants to leap to his face. "It's a book," he answers.

Rather than face off against Alicia's burning curiosity, he retreats back to his own chambers - having long-since learned his lesson, he locks the door behind himself, sealing himself in with his privacy and the offending item. Placing it down on the desk, he studies the neat parcel for a few extra moments.

A 'gift' from the future Head of the Writers' Guild. After Gustave Stoker's little flex of power in the lecture hall a few months ago, Verso really should know better than to trust a single word written by him. At the very least, he should have it examined before he opens it.

And yet…

His need is stronger than any sense of caution. His hands scramble with the twine, snapping it when it won't untie easily, then using his nails to claw through the brown paper underneath, ripping through the orderly writing of his name on the front.

Inside, remarkably unremarkable, there is a hard-copy of a new novel.

The cover is a deep maroon that only makes Verso think of colour of Gustave's drying blood on his clothes; printed on the front, embossed with gold lettering, there is the title of the book, and the name of the author:

THE LIGHTS OF LUMIERE GUSTAVE STOKER

Verso tries to hold back a shiver down his spine, without much success. His mouth is watering, damn it, all from a name.

He runs his fingertips over the letters, then flips the cover of the book open. On the title page, scrawled in heavy black ink, he finds the handwriting of the man he's been hunting for months.

With the latest book launch happening under the harsh light of day, I hated to think of you having to miss out. Here's a copy of my latest work, just for you. Don't take too long with it.

Yours eternally,

G Stoker

Verso wants to kill him - he wants to taste him - he wants to have him.

He wants the chase to be done, so he can sink his teeth in, sink his claws in, sink himself into Gustave's body and finally manage to own the smirk that's been taunting him from afar for all these months - and now, all he has, is a book.

Yours eternally, Gustave writes, and yet he's the most frustrating human Verso has ever met. He's the most elusive one too, impossible to track down, impossible to catch.

A growl rattles through his chest as Verso scoops up the book, yanking it up to his face: it's humiliating, but the scent of fresh pages envelopes him as he sinks his face against them and breathes in deep.

Fresh pages. Expensive ink. The lingering metal from the nib of a fountain pen.

He screws his eyes shut and chases the very last scraps of scent from the man who wrote those words; even as he's grateful for the lock on the door for hiding his shame from the world, it doesn't stop him from soaking in every last second of Gustave's hand against this page, every reminder of the scent of his skin. It makes him think of their snatched moment in the lecture hall, the way that Gustave's blood had tasted when it finally poured into his mouth, the way that Gustave had moaned against him like solid proof that he truly wants this as badly as Verso does. He knows this scent; he needs it; he would drown himself in it if he could.

He's perilously close to licking the page - and that's when he picks up on something else.

There's another scent here. Something botanical, possibly even floral.

It's not just pages, not just writing.

Opening his eyes and shamefully pulling the book from his face, Verso slams it back down against the desk, harsh treatment for a new novel - but it leaves him rushing through the pages, looking for the source of that scent.

The fresh pages contain screeds of neatly typeset words (no doubt another genius story; in the past year, Verso has devoured every word Gustave has ever written and he will gladly gorge himself again) but it's at the very back that he finds what he's looking for. The source of that scent is a single pressed flower, slipped in between the final pages. In life, the flower must have been a luscious, bright red thing; pressed and dried, it has settled into a darker, deeper shade.

Delicately, Verso peels it from between the pages. It's a fragile thing, already falling to pieces, but the scent is strong - and it's distinctive. He wonders, eagerly, how many places in the city have flowers like that growing nearby. He wonders how long it might take his sharp senses to track down the scent.

It's a clue, open and blatant; it's an invitation, one as clear as any that could have been written down on paper. The scent is stronger than ink.

Verso flicks back to the front page of the book with one hand while the other refuses to let go of the flower's stem. Gustave's written warning is right there in black and white.

Don't take too long with it.

It might be a challenge, or it might be a game. To Verso, it's a sharp injection of hope and motivation - it's the promise that he's not the only player in this chase.