#.....well

The ideal time to hunt for the remaining bruxae, and see if he could find the creature that had destroyed the two he’d found the previous day. He’d need to seek out Anslem, too, and tell him that the job was half finished.

He hoped it was half finished. While Geralt was dismissive of Jaskier’s fears, he had no desire to draw this out any longer than he needed to. The creature that had killed the bruxae was dangerous, and quick, and deadly. Better to deal with it swiftly.

Grabbing his clothes and his armour, Geralt dressed quietly so as not to wake the snoozing bard. It was trickier buckling the leather straps without Jaskier’s dexterous fingers to help him, but if he could slip out while Jaskier slept it would be less likely that he’d attempt to follow him, and he’d avoid another difficult conversation.

Jaskier was scared for him. This wasn’t the first time Jaskier had feared for his life, and while Geralt found the hovering anxiety to be a little unnecessary - a little cloying - it was reassuring, as well. Jaskier didn’t fear Geralt’s death because of the inevitable consequences that would come with it - the fact that if Geralt was gone there would be one less person standing between death and himself - but because he cared.

At first, Geralt had hated it. He didn’t want to be needed - not in that way. His role as a witcher was a necessity, but himself? He was just… incidental. Yet Jaskier, apparently, did need him - he needed him in a way that was nothing to do with the monsters Geralt killed, the darkness he kept at bay.

It was a thought he didn’t care to linger on too long. Because Jaskier was his friend, and the path of needing was a dangerous one, leading to other, more treacherous roads.

Finally dressed, his armour bucked and his swords slung over his back, he took one final look at Jaskier - still, somehow, fast asleep - and crept from the room without a noise.

~

He headed for the docks, first, hoping to find Anslem up with the dawn. Geralt needed to decide exactly how much to tell the man who’d hired him - what to reveal, and what to keep close to his chest.

It would be prudent, he knew, to alert the man to the unforeseen danger stalking the city. It would be easier to keep people safe if they knew the thing they were hiding from was more than a couple of vampires.

But it would also cause panic. Panicky humans were, more often than not, more of a hindrance than a help. A handful of dock and factory workers leaving their posts before the sun had set were easy to manage, but an entire city on edge would split its own seams in a matter of days. He’d seen people turn on each other when locked down or hidden away or barred in their homes. There’d be accusations and fights and feuds between friends and families, all while some unknown beast stalked the streets, ripping people apart.

At least there was some good news: two of the beasts were dead. That, Geralt hoped, would be the reassurance Anslem craved. Better to tell him that two were dead, but the task unfinished, than two were dead at the hands of something far, far worse.

The vagueness of it all was concerning. How could he tell Anslem to keep watch for a creature he didn’t even know the name of? Could he even admit to not knowing what it was?

He’d had time to think since last night, and come up infuriatingly empty handed. To kill two bruxae meant the thing would need to be exceptionally strong, but the largest and most deadly of the beasts he was familiar with were simply too large or too wild to exist within the confines of a city.

Either the thing could transform, to disguise itself amongst the humans, or it had hidden itself somewhere in the city, out of sight. Geralt wasn’t familiar with the layout of the architecture, but if it was anything like Novigrad there was likely a wide, easily accessible sewer system beneath the buildings, the perfect hiding place for all manner of creatures. He would have to ask Anslem, when he found him, and hope he didn’t question why vampires might be flocking to the sewers.

The sun had risen properly by the time he reached the docks, and workers were milling about, readying themselves for the day. It was clear that the place was still out of bounds after dark - usually at this early hour the place would be heaving with life.

A startled looking woman wearing a bandana around her head and carrying a heavy coil of rope pointed him in the direction of Anslem’s building, and he thanked her with a curt nod. As he went to leave, she called after him.

“You’re the witcher?”

He paused. “Yes.”

She regarded him, her face stony. “Kill it.”

“I intend to.”

When he found Anslem in his makeshift office, he was surrounded by people, pouring over documents on a rickety wooden desk, marking them with a stubby pencil. Numbers and trading routes and pay agreements - the bustling life of the dockside carried on as ever, vampires or no. He looked up when he saw Geralt enter, the smile quickly sliding from his face, and he shooed away the others, pulling up a chair and motioning for Geralt to sit.

Anslem was a tall, broad man with dark hair slicked back behind his ears. He radiated that same sort of calming power that most men in his profession did - Geralt suspected that before settling down in the docks, he had once been a ship’s captain. He positioned himself in the seat on the other side of the desk.

“Well?” He said, finally. “Tell me good news, Geralt. My workers are getting restless.”

Geralt rubbed at his jaw - his stubble was growing in. He’d need to shave, soon.

“I have… news.”

“You’ll forgive me for saying that doesn’t sound very hopeful.”

Geralt ignored that. “You were right,” he said. “Vampires. Bruxae, to be specific.”

Anslem winced. “More than one?”

“Several. A pack.”

“And do they usually travel in packs?”

“On occasion,” Geralt lied. The first of several he would tell, he knew.

“I take it from your expression that they’re not dead?”

“Not yet.” Geralt shifted in the uncomfortable seat. “Two are. But there’s more out there.”

“How many more?”

Geralt shrugged. “Hard to say. I’d guess no more than three or four, at the very most.”

Anslem whistled. “Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“So I suppose you’ve come here to tell me that we’re still on curfew? No work after dark?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“This is bad for business, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed, sitting up straighter. “Your workers being slaughtered is worse for business, I would assume.”

Anslem rolled his eyes. “Fucking witchers. They warned me you were a dramatic lot. Yes, Geralt. That would be worse.” He shook his head, looking back down at his papers on his desk. “Have you any more bad news for me?”

The bruxae, killed. The spreading blood, the stink of death. The creature - vanished - into the water. “No.”

“At least two of the creatures are dead,” Anslem said, more calmly than Geralt would expect. “And I’ve not heard that there were more killings in the night. You appear to be doing something right, witcher.”

A small victory. “Good. Hopefully we can keep it that way.” He paused, thinking. “Is there a sewer system beneath the city?”

Anslem looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “Old as the city itself.”

“And can I get in there?”

“There’s an opening by the harbour,” Anslem said, “for maintenance. Disused now, of course.”

“Good.”

“Can I ask—” Anslem started, then cut himself off with a low laugh. “No: far be it from me to question a witcher’s methods. Good luck to you, Geralt, whatever your plans are. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got a dockyard to run.”

Geralt shook Anslem’s hand and found himself being manoeuvred back outside, the men waiting for a moment of Anslem’s time shouldering past him to get back to haggling and arguing over the best shipping routes. It was busy, now, and he was largely ignored as he continued to explore the docks, looking for signs of either more bruxae or the creature that he’d failed to catch yesterday.

He even snuck around a corner and made his way back to the storeroom where he’d found the bodies. The smell of blood was gone, the only evidence that something had happened here the scorches on the floor. He followed the path of the creature once more, out towards the water. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find - perhaps something he’d missed in the darkness, now illuminated by the strong morning light - but there was nothing more to see.

Fuck.

Geralt spent the rest of the morning exploring as much of the docks as he could. Now there were people at work, more of it had opened up, and no one paid much mind to him coming and going, poking around. They were well aware, of course, of the deaths: many of them were friends, or at least colleagues, of the people who had been killed. No one was keen to get in his way.

The buildings were nothing more than dead ends, too busy to be hiding anything more dangerous than a spider. Geralt made his way down to the water’s edge, kicking about in the silt, and again found nothing. He honed his senses, desperately hoping there was something he’d missed - a scent he’d passed over, a trail of footprints half-buried by sand - but, again and again: nothing.

He left the dockyard empty handed, no closer to finding the vampires or the thing that had been killing them.

It had been an unsatisfactory morning. Whatever the thing was, it was good at hiding its own tracks, and had seemingly vanished.

It was… curious. The thing had escaped, but there had been no further deaths that night - at least, none that had reached Anslem’s ears, and he appeared to know everything that happened in the city. Perhaps it had been satiated by the bruxae. They’d been so eviscerated that Geralt wouldn’t have been able to tell if it had eaten some of the remains.

It could have killed them for sustenance, merely a predator hunting prey. It could be territorial - larger, sentient beasts rarely shared their stalking grounds with other, lesser creatures.

If it was sentient.

He’d seek out the sewers, first. That seemed as likely a spot as any: they let out near the harbour, which would account for the attacks there, and ran beneath every building in the city. It was easy to imagine the crumbling outer walls of the city destroying the ancient stonework of the sewer, releasing whatever creature lurked inside.

The midday sun glared down at him as he made his way towards the harbour. With any luck, the remaining bruxae might be sequestered away in the dark beneath the ground, even if the creature he was hunting wasn’t.

He was sure, still, that there were remaining vampires to see off. Anslem’s description of the worker’s deaths had come nowhere near close to matching the horror of what he’d found in that tiny storeroom yesterday. If the creature had killed them, he would know: they would have been destroyed. Anslem would have never been able to identify them.

It was a puzzle. It had been a long time - far too long - since Geralt had to figure out a contract like this. Truthfully, he’d rather missed it: it was far more satisfying to use his mind, for once, sorting through clues and stalking near-invisible tracks than it was to simply storm into a monster nest, sword swinging.

He was completely lost in thought when there was a voice behind him.

“There you fucking are! Fucking—” a panting breath, “slow down, you prick!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt turned, with a sigh. “Good afternoon.”

“Don’t you—” Jaskier huffed, pressing his hands to his knees as he attempted to regain his breath, “don’t you good afternoon me! Just… fucking off like that!”

Geralt didn’t want to listen to any more of Jaskier’s protestations. He knew his job was dangerous. He knew that the creature he was hunting was more dangerous, still. He didn’t need Jaskier to fuss over him, to try to convince him to leave.

Part of him - small but burning hot, like an infected bite - feared that it wouldn’t take all that much convincing. It was hard, sometimes, to resist saying ‘no’ to Jaskier - especially when he was giving him that look.

“I told you last night,” he said, striding onwards so Jaskier was forced to jog to keep up and Geralt wasn’t forced to look at his face, “I’m going after this thing, no matter what it is.”

“For fucks—” Jaskier darted around him, slamming into him, making him stop. “I know,” he said, face flushed. “You’ve got to go and get yourself fucking killed in the name of witchering, or whatever it is you think you’re doing. But you could at least give yourself a fighting chance.”

“What are you—”

“Did you eat before you set out at some gods cursed hour this morning? Have you eaten since?” He reached up to one of the straps of Geralt’s armour, across his shoulder, and gave it a forceful tug. “Did you strap all this on yourself? Because you did a piss poor job of it.”

The strap had far too much give beneath Jaskier’s hand, jarring the armour forwards, making it slip. Jaskier scowled at him.

“Look,” he huffed, placing his hands on his hips in a petulant little stance that Geralt was all too familiar with. “If you want to go and get yourself killed… fine.” His expression betrayed that it was not fine, not at all, but Geralt didn’t comment on it. “But come. Let me buy you lunch and fix your fucking armour, at least?”

Geralt hesitated. He didn’t enjoy admitting when he was wrong - that he had, possibly, acted rashly in his eagerness to leave their room that morning.

“Fine.” He grumbled the word out, but he was more annoyed with himself than Jaskier.

“Good.”

The bard gave him a smug smirk, looped his hand around Geralt’s arm, and began to lead him back up the street towards the busier part of the city where they could find something to eat. It was, Geralt was forced to admit, an improvement to Jaskier’s usual behaviour when he was worried about him: At least he hadn’t followed him into danger again.

Jaskier led him to a stall in the market square selling hot, spicy-smelling pastries, shoving a handful of the crumbly parcels into his hands, wrapped in a little square of cloth. They were good - very good - and Geralt hadn’t realised that he was even hungry until he’d taken the first bite.

At his side, Jaskier was more hesitant, only nibbling listlessly on the single pastry he’d purchased for himself. Geralt chose not to probe - despite Jaskier’s cheery expression and the confident way he was still berating him for leaving so hastily, he was clearly nervous. He’d finally grasped that Geralt was not going to leave the city, no matter what Jaskier said, so was channeling that energy towards making sure Geralt was, at least, better prepared.

Geralt ate as Jaskier chided him, and he was put horribly in mind of Vesemir chastising him as a younger witcher: Always be prepared, Geralt. Don’t let your guard down. Remember to keep food in your belly and oil on your blade. Expect the unexpected.

When they’d finished, both covered in crumbly pastry flakes, Jaskier got to the task of tightening Geralt’s armour. Geralt hadn’t done a terrible job - he’d been dressing himself for decades, for Melitele’s sake - but perhaps he’d become a little complacent at the task after so long, and after so many years of having someone willing to do it for him, too.

Jaskier muttered at him as he worked, half-caught little insults and further beratement for being, as he put it, a stupid bloody-minded witcher - but the job was soon over. He moved to Geralt’s front, re-fastening the final strap that curved between his shoulder and chest with a tug and an annoyed little noise, frowning.

“There,” he said, finally.

His hands lingered on Geralt’s chest. For a moment, neither of them moved. Even in the crowded marketplace, Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat beneath the intricate stitching of his red doublet - could recognise it above the cacophony of the rest. He’d be able to recognise it anywhere, he suspected. The familiar thrum had quickened - a drumbeat played at too fast a pace. For a moment, Geralt was struck with guilt for being the source of Jaskier’s nerves: but then again, Jaskier had chosen to attach himself to a witcher. He should know, by now, what that entailed.

Jaskier peered at him - his lips slightly parted, a pale flush across his cheekbones. His eyes were wide and blue and deep in the midday sun. He looked, for a moment, like he was going to say something - another warning, no doubt, urging Geralt to be safe - but he swallowed whatever it was down.

He tapped his fingers lightly against Geralt’s armour a couple of times before balling his hands into fists and letting them drop to his sides. “Right, then. You’ve got… some horrible monster to slay, I take it?”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier lowered his gaze, his tongue nervously wetting his lips. Geralt followed its movement, unconsciously.

“Where will you look next?” He asked. Geralt raised his eyebrows, and Jaskier frowned again, that line between his eyebrows a seemingly immovable mark. “What?”

“Don’t follow me.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier spluttered, indignantly.

“I know what you’re like,” Geralt said, folding his arms. “You’ve a habit of… turning up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t!”

“You always—” Geralt cut himself off before he could continue. This was not a fight he wanted to have. Not right now, in any case. “I’m going to look in the sewers,” he said. “Maybe the warehouses, after sunset. Do not follow me.”

Jaskier took a step back, smiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

~

The sewers were wide and dark and disgusting. Geralt stood in the mouth of the wide tunnel that led deeper into the system, bright daylight behind him and dark, dripping walls in front. It stank. If there was a creature lurking down here - be it bruxae or something more - it would take an army to find it.

Or a singularly dedicated witcher.

It would be easier, he mused, lighting his torch with a blast of Igni and stepping forwards, if he could actually track the fucking thing. Things.

The rank smell of the sewer pressed on him from all sides, making it impossible to pick out any scent above the stink. Even the stench that had overwhelmed him when he’d found the bruxae corpses would be lost down here.

Still - it was the only lead he had, and the twisting maze of tunnels and pathways was perfect for hiding something monstrous. He kept away from the dripping walls, holding his torch ahead of him, partly to guide the way and partly as a flaming shield: should anything leap at him from the darkness, it would be met with a powerful, burning blow to the face.

This deep underground the silence was ringing, and after a while Geralt wasn’t sure which noises were real and which were imagined. The shadows thrown onto the walls by the torch flickered and danced, casting weird shapes across the brickworks that looked like faces - like something coming towards him - like nothing at all. Occasionally, there’d be a rush of air, and he’d find himself in a wide, low-ceilinged room. The light from the fire never quite reached from one end to the other, and the effect was unsettling, even to a well-practiced witcher.

He couldn’t be sure - not really - that was he was alone. In other cities, you could almost guarantee that the sewers would be infested with something. Often, it would be drowners, lurking in the muck, crawling in from the harbour and getting lost in the labyrinth. But here all was quiet, apart from the dripping of water and his own splashing footsteps.

There were rats down here, at least, that much he knew: they kept running over his boots.

Time passed strangely in this underground space. Without the steady movement of the sun across the sky, and with only his own thoughts for company, it was hard to tell just how much time he’d spent trudging through the tunnels. Geralt was aware that the longer he spent down here the more time he was wasting elsewhere, as well: it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to find anything.

Two more tunnels - a left turn, and a right turn - and then he’d go back and retrace his footsteps towards the harbour. With any luck, his boots would have left prints on the disgusting floor deep enough for him to follow all the way back to the entrance.

He’d barely taken another step when there was a noise from the tunnel ahead. Not the sound of something living - not the skittering footsteps of a drowner - but a tumbling, clattering sound like falling rock. Picking up his pace, he headed in the direction of the noise, turned a corner, and was struck, suddenly, with a faceful of cool, clean air.

The tunnel had collapsed, exposing a wide expanse of sky above. It was dark, twinkling with stars. He must have been wandering about in the sewers for hours.

Judging by the thick layer of dust across the fallen stones, it had collapsed some time ago, but as he watched more little pebbles toppled down from above, landing wetly at his feet, embedding themselves into the muck.

Leaning down, he lodged the end of the torch in the mud, keeping it upright, and scaled the pile of rock that had once formed the ceiling of the tunnel. He emerged into the cool air beyond, and peered around. He’d popped up in the warehouse district inside a wide walled-in space which once might have served as a yard. Now, it was overgrown with weeds, full of discarded boxes and rotting wood. It appeared unused.

He pulled himself from the hole and onto the grass, heaving himself to his feet and wiping off as much of the sewer muck as he could against an enormous patch of weeds, peering around. The moon, half full, was hanging almost directly above.

He wondered how long he’d been down there, looking for a creature that was doing its best to not exist. Perhaps it would emerge in the darkness, called out by the light of the moon.

The stars continued to merrily sparkle above and he felt, suddenly, guilty. Jaskier would be driving himself mad waiting for him to return to the inn. He was filled with the urge to get this over with quickly - partly to see the job finished, and partly to soothe that unpleasant feeling. If Jaskier worried, he’d no doubt convince himself that Geralt was dead and set out looking for him - the sewers and the warehouses, Geralt had told him, before they parted.

In the sewers, it would be easy enough for Jaskier to get lost and simply starve to death before Geralt would even be able to find him. Out here, in the city cursed with monsters, he could meet a far more unpleasant end.

But Geralt couldn’t think like that, not now. He needed to keep his attention undivided and honed, ready to strike.

The building that flanked the yard was a squat, wide thing only two stories high, the once-white walls stained darkly grey. Geralt had intended to search the warehouses once more - this would be a good place to start. He pulled his silver sword from his back, readying it in his hand. He would not let himself be taken by surprise.

There was an old, wooden door at the far end of the building, and while he was prepared to blast the thing from its hinges with a well-placed Aard, it was clearly unnecessary: all he had to do was push it, and it swung open with an infuriatingly loud creak that would have alerted anything within a mile’s radius of his presence.

Fuck. He gripped his sword tighter, and headed into the dark room beyond, instantly regretting not bringing the torch with him.

As he could have guessed from the state of the yard, the building seemed to be largely disused - what few sparse bits of furniture remained were thickly coated in dust. No one had been here for some time, simply letting it go to rot.

He headed further in, towards the main storage room. There were tall windows at the front of the building through which the moonlight slanted in, casting a pale light across the struts and supports, illuminating the motes of dust that flurried around his feet as he walked.

The expansive space was apparently empty, aside from the few things left by the workers who had abandoned this place. Yet there were patches of bare wood - marks on the floor in pools of moonlight, on the wide support beams, almost like someone had dragged a hand across it, taking the dust with them.

Something had been here. Someone had been here, recently enough to disturb the dust and not long enough ago for more to have accumulated. There was a sudden tension in the air. Geralt took another step forward, waiting, fingers flexing on the hilt of his sword. His medallion began to twitch against his chest.

Silence. Just silence, and the sound of his own slow heartbeat in his ears. He would dismiss the sudden tightness in his chest as simple paranoia - anyone could come here, seeking shelter or warmth - but the medallion was vibrating, now, impossible to ignore.

He’d made his way into the centre of the room without even realising, sword high, stance set.

And then there was a screech - shrill and ear-splittingly loud - and dust falling from the ceiling and he didn’t even have time to turn around before it was upon him.

Vesemir’s voice echoed in his head: always keep your back to the wall.

Too fucking late, now.

The bruxa sank its claws into his armour, clinging to his back. He made a note to thank Jaskier for tightening the straps - its claws dug into the leather, not even reaching his skin. He stumbled backwards, slamming himself into one of the support beams, crushing it against the wood. With another shriek, it unhanded him, falling from his back. He span, sword up, but it had already vanished, leaving nothing but a plume of dust where it had been.

At least he could work this to his advantage: he could see its footprints, track its quick movements through the room through the clouds it kicked up. He watched carefully, stepping backwards towards the wall. He couldn’t let it get the upper hand on him again.

What was it Jaskier had said yesterday, about invisible blood suckers? This could be—

There was a cold, clawed hand gripped around his neck. Fuck.

He reacted instinctively, leaping aside, swinging his sword in a wide arc in an attempt to catch the second bruxa before it could escape - but it was quicker than him, stronger than him, sending him staggering off balance as it dragged him around. He righted himself immediately, ready to fight, but before he could take a proper stance it had opened its mouth and screamed.

The noise sent him flying backwards - the force equal to a blast of Aard - slamming him into the far wall. He collapsed onto the floor in a heap, ears ringing. There was no time to regain his breath, though, as the two bruxae materialised in front of him. To the untrained eye, they might have just been women - beautiful, naked, terrifying. They watched him curiously, weighing him up.

He struggled to his feet, sword in one hand, back against the wall. There was a dull ache in his chest, and he suspected that the collision had broken a rib, but there was nothing for it: he had to fight.

He lifted the sword, and with a swift twist of his fingers threw up the sign for Quen, wrapping himself in a shimmering, golden mist.

They struck.

It was like a dance with two partners, too many moves to remember, too many feet. Whenever one was in front of him, there was another behind, and to lunge at one was to open himself up to an attack from the other. They moved in tandem with each other, knowing where the other would be next, pinning him and trapping him. They were teasing him.

Jaskier had been right, again. Geralt could have taken on one, but two? It was beginning to feel impossible.

Quen wore off all too soon, and their claws were digging at him, catching in the leather, ripping whole chunks away to get at the skin beneath. He managed a single jab at one of them, slicing neatly into its arm, but it pushed back, twisting the sword where it was still stuck in its flesh and pushing Geralt back. It happened again and again - every time he thought he was out, thought he had an opening, he found himself passed between them like a wounded bird being tossed around by cats.

To them this was little more than a game - they were drawing him out, letting him exhaust himself before finally killing him.

Fuck. He couldn’t keep them off for much longer. And it really was all he could do to keep them off: defensive moves, fighting back, blocking blows. He’d barely managed to injure them, while he was limping and sore.

One leapt at him, aiming for his neck, its face transforming into something far more horrible as it closed in on him. He pushed at it, the sword useless at such close quarters, but he managed to heave it away before stumbling backwards himself. it roared again, and by now he knew he needed to duck out of the way but his knees were weak and his feet unsteady and the blast caught him again, flinging him back, his sword tumbling from his grip and spinning away as he crashed head first into a wooden strut, yet more dust showering down from the ceiling.

This was it. This was it. Everything hurt, his ears rang, and his sword was too far away to reach. He could keep them off by hand alone for maybe half a minute before they’d rip him to pieces and drain his blood like they had done to the others they had killed.

He forced himself to stand, legs shaking beneath him. He wouldn’t let them take him lying down. He stumbled forwards, and they watched him with dark, hungry gazes, ready to pounce.

A shout. Distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears and the thundering of his own heartbeat. It could have been his name - a final, imagined chance that he wouldn’t die alone.

He took another step. The bruxae twitched, coiled, both of them tense - waiting - ready.

And then something fast and heavy and strong launched into him, pushing him out of the way and onto the floor just as the bruxae struck. A flash of dark red fabric. A voice - a voice he knew all too well.

Geralt hadn’t even had time to register that it was Jaskier who had saved him from the vampires’ grip before they were upon him.

It only took one.

It grabbed him, its claws ripping through his doublet like it was made of nothing more substantial than paper, blood dribbling over its fingertips. It growled - a visceral, animalistic noise - then its face elongated, its teeth lengthened, its eyes hollowed… and it sank its teeth into the soft, malleable flesh of Jaskier’s throat.

Geralt was shouting. He was shouting Jaskier’s name, at first, but then only a yell - just a cry. It was happening to him, his voice echoing around the room as if coming from somewhere else. No - it couldn’t - Jaskier couldn’t—

He rose again, covered in dust, fuelled by something more, now - propelled up and forwards by a force that overpowered the ache in his chest or the weakness in his legs. His sword, he needed his sword, but it had been thrown aside by the blast of the bruxa’s scream - too far - and he didn’t have time—

The bruxae were content to ignore his struggles. The warehouse was rich with the smell of warm, human blood - nothing he could do would distract them from that.

The bruxa, its teeth deep in Jaskier’s neck, growled at the second vampire as it approached: clearly the territorial urge had returned, now there was something to enjoy. And then it pulled back its head, snarling, teeth still clamped shut.

There was a spray of blood and a pained, gurgling shout. Geralt felt his legs give way as the creature ripped through Jaskier’s throat, splattering the floor, its body, and Geralt with blood. Through the haze, and picked out by the light of the moon, Geralt could see the exposed, bloodied flesh of Jaskier’s neck - bitten down to the bone.

Jaskier twitched in the bruxa’s grip, but remained standing, even with the gaping, jagged hole in the side of his neck.

Geralt could only stare in horror, transfixed, as the bruxa lowered its head once more. Jaskier was still, somehow, breathing - Geralt could hear his frantic heartbeat stuttering, echoing in his own head.

Death was nothing new. Geralt had seen death before. He’d held the dead and dying in his arms. He’d been death - carrying it with him, killing as he went.

But this…

Jaskier had been close to death so many times - in its presence, always courting it with his rash actions and eagerness to throw himself into danger. But Geralt had never anticipated it catching up with him, not really. Not like this.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do apart from watch his friend - his best friend, his companion, his bard, his—

—His Jaskier—

There was nothing he could do apart from watch him die.

Jaskier slumped against the bruxa, lifeless.

His blood trickled in rivulets from the gaping wound in his neck, down his arm, dripping from the tips of his calloused, lute-worn fingers to the floor below.

For a moment, all Geralt could hear was the pattering of Jaskier’s still-beating heart and the drip, drip, drip of his blood onto the ground.

Then - a growl. A moan. Like an intake of air, a gasping breath, one that surrounded him, tugged at him. The dripping stopped. The heartbeat grew louder - louder than Geralt had ever thought possible.

The bruxae - both of them, now - froze. Jaskier was changing. His back was broadening, his arms lengthening, the blood-stained tips of his fingers - his fingers that had played beautiful music and stitched Geralt’s wounds and scrubbed soap across his scalp - were transforming into long, deadly looking talons.

The gaping hole in his neck was closing. His skin was mottling. His face...

It was no longer a face that Geralt recognised.

Jaskier - the thing that Jaskier had become - paused, for just a moment.

Then he ripped the first bruxa in two. It was effortless, using just his new, clawed hands, tugging it apart in a shower of blood and leaving it in a broken heap on the floor. The second vampire attempted to escape, making for the windows, but Jaskier was somehow faster - moving like lightning - and he was on it in an instant and soon it, too, was dead.

He turned, covered in blood. He was monstrous, illuminated by the eerie white moonlight, chest heaving. His hands, now claws, reached beyond his knees. His face was grey, his teeth barely able to fit inside his mouth.

His eyes flashed, and they were still that sparkling blue that Geralt knew better than his own.

“Jaskier…”

And then he was gone - a sudden twist in the air, a faraway crash - then nothing but disturbed dust.

Geralt let himself slump to the ground, breathless.