#baz 002

Baz didn’t typically notice when they were followed. It was something one might assume they’d be better at, given their tendency towards running away from their problems, but they weren’t often the most observant person around. They didn’t know their father found them in London until he was inside their flat, didn’t know Sebastian knew they were sleeping in an alley until he stood at the mouth of it, didn’t often realize someone was trailing behind them until that someone made themselves known in one way or another. It was the sort of thing they thought they might try to get better at eventually, but getting better also sounded like more work than they were interested in. 

Maybe they had improved to a certain extent, though, because he was fairly certain the pretty brunette a few paces back was following them. It wasn’t something they were particularly worried about, in all honesty; they weren’t even wearing their normal face today, had tried on another with long dark hair and a nice button nose. They’d brushed against the woman a few weeks ago and worn her face out once or twice because they liked it, because the hair was pretty and the jaw was grand and the eyes were a color so different from Sebastian’s. The woman following Baz now wouldn’t know their face tomorrow, which meant it didn’t matter that she was behind them now. Losing her in a crowd and sauntering on home to let this problem remain someone else’s would be a simple thing. 

Intent on doing just that, Baz practically skipped down the street towards Downtown, where the crowd was sure to be thicker. He doubted the woman would try anything before then, mostly because Baz also had a habit of doubting danger before it arrived. (A wiser person might suggest that this was why Baz ended up in situations like the one that had chased them from London; Baz was never much interested in wisdom.) 

—

Lady Something-Or-Other was supposed to die. Siobhan had seen it during one of her boning excursions, when the woman stomped by with those pointy-walky sticks the humans used (Siobhan had always wanted to kill someone with them; tenderize them like a slab of chicken breast…incidentally, Siobhan had missed lunch that day). Lady Something-Or-Other was going to fall into a hole. This was not an exciting death—all things considered—but a death was a death. Siobhan put it in her calendar, which was inside her calendar tent, which she lost. Still, she remembered the date, thanks to the rhyme that she came up with on the spot: at the end of May (perhaps on a Wednesday), think of your stroll, and the lady and the hole. Unfortunately, around the end of May, she was attacked, in a most egregious act, by leprechauns. So, she’d forgotten about it. Until she saw the woman, walking around, bouncing brown hair, decidedly not dead. 

Instinct drove Siobhan forward, even the worst of banshees—which wasn’t her, that was Regan—needed to act when Fate was disobeyed. The humans wouldn’t get it: this was catastrophic, apocalyptic. The thing of plagues and earthquakes and spontaneous tornados and the kind of days where it looked like it was going to rain, but then it didn’t rain, but you planned your whole day around it raining. It was her duty, regardless of who looked on (if a Siobhan does good without a family to clap for her, does it make a sound), regardless of if anyone understood it. Saving the world was a tragically thankless task. 

Siobhan sped up; the woman was moving fast. Once they arrived Downtown, it would be harder to steal her away somewhere private to be murdered (was it still murder if… Honestly, Siobhan was tired of making that point). And tired of the pain, Siobhan flicked off her heels and continued following barefoot. The click, click, click of her heels that punctuated the air vanished, leaving a heavy silence except for the woman’s… Fates, was she skipping? Once close enough, Siobhan burst into a sprint and lunged forward, snapping her hand on Lady Something-Or-Other’s shoulder. A chill trickled up her spine—rain gone the wrong way. A fae. Her grip on the woman’s shoulder tightened. “Darling,” she said. Now was the difficult part: she couldn’t just stab her here. The streets weren’t exactly bustling but even without that, cars zipped by often, and the windows around them loomed with voyeuristic possibilities. She couldn’t risk some other fae seeing either—she cared about it more than a human recounting her boobaciousness to the police—they wouldn’t understand that the woman was meant to die, they hadn’t seen it, and how much trust would any of them be willing to give her? Yes, she had to kill this fae, and also all those leprechauns. Yeah, it’d really go over well. 

“Darling,” Siobhan said again, walking around so she was in front of her, staring into her blue eyes. Her hand was still on her shoulder. What was a reliable way to get someone to follow you somewhere private? Siobhan thought about it, then mustered as sweet of a smile as she could. She asked, “want to fuck?” 

—

The footsteps behind them faded, the sound stopping in a way that allowed Baz a small sigh of relief. They hadn’t been worried, exactly, but it was nice not to be followed. What bothered them more, really, was the fact that they’d noticed the footsteps at all. Baz had met a lot of people who responded to less-than-ideal circumstances with a bit too much paranoia to be fun. They let it twist its way into their heads, let it turn them to nervous wrecks. Baz had always vowed that that wouldn’t be them. They wouldn’t be someone who jumped at their own shadow, someone who thought every stranger out there was planning on depositing a knife in their gut. That was such a boring way to be, wasn’t it? 

It was stupid that they’d noticed the person trailing behind them. It was silly. They’d have to rectify it in the future… somehow. Perhaps if they put more of an effort into not thinking about unpleasant things like their father waiting in their flat in London the day Sebastian had died, or the warden that chased them down the street and promised to find them again the moment the witnesses became too much for him to handle, it would help. Baz needed only to push those thoughts from their mind, and they’d be fine. Things still existed when you weren’t looking at them, but didn’t they matter so much less? Trees that fell in the forest when no one was there might make a sound, but the sound was swallowed up by the dirt, anyway, so who really cared? 

So — yes. Yes, Baz would spare the footsteps and the warden and their father no more thought. Baz would go downtown, still, but not because they were running from anything. They’d like to check out the clubs, like to find someone to go home with tonight, like to prove to themself and to everyone else that they weren’t the sort of dull, uninteresting person who worried they were being followed when they were just walking down the street.

They were probably already pretty successful at pushing the thought from their mind, because they didn’t realize anyone was still behind them until a hand landed on their shoulder. There was a quiet jolt down their spine, a familiar thing. Fae. Not as welcome a sight to Baz as it might have been to other fae — growing up as they had, with their father and his iron (ha) fist, had sort of killed the sense of community that some fae had with one another. Baz didn’t dislike other fae, but they didn’t feel an immediate kinship with them, either. Still, fae was a touch better than warden, so they flashed the woman a grin that stretched their borrowed lips thin. 

The woman spoke — nice lilt to her voice there. Irish? Baz loved the Irish! — seemingly uncertain of what she wanted to say until she said it. But when she got it out, any remaining uncertainty melted away. Ah, a come on. A bit forward, but maybe she was from one of those secluded, off-in-the-woods communities. Nymphs loved those, didn’t they? Others, too, presumably. Baz preferred to be amongst people, of course, and his father and the rest of their family had needed them to feed, but most fae weren’t as gung-ho about humanity, so it made sense, in a way. In any case, it saved Baz some trouble; they wouldn’t have to find someone to go home with if this woman was offering. She was gorgeous, too, all dark eyes and long hair. Those out-in-the-woods communities were usually all about… group activities, too, weren’t they? That probably meant the woman had experience! 

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” the doppelganger purred, leaning in a little closer to the woman. “I’d ask ‘your place or mine,’ but I’ve a roommate who might take offence to the intrusion. Got a spot nearby, love?” The woman they were impersonating wasn’t English, but it was difficult to drop the slang sometimes. In any case, it likely wouldn’t register as strange. Americans loved appropriating English slang! It was trendy!

—

And now would come the hard work; once upon a time it had been fun. Convincing people to sleep with her was itself a game, and was itself a dance, and was a delicate art of— “What?” Siobhan blinked. The woman leaned in and Siobhan leaned back reflexively, shocked, before she remembered that she was trying to flirt and leaned back in. The university was close; they were going towards Downtown anyway. Could Siobhan stomach a conversation of pretend interest? She imagined being touched, she imagined the woman leaning in, she imagined being wanted. Her skin burned; bile clawed up from her stomach, transforming her esophagus into the bubbling channel of a volcano. She could pretend; acting was a skill she learned before she could spell her first word: acting good, acting quiet, acting clean. Acting was breathing. Acting was supposed to be breathing. 

It was desire that was the issue; desire the thing that burned; desire that twisted her innards and made it impossible to reknit the bloody fabric of what she was supposed to be—the word, the idea, the thing that had ruined her life. Or maybe it was the lack of control? This reaction wasn’t her doing, all she’d done was ask. Or maybe it was the lie? Siobhan didn’t want to sleep with this person, she was going to kill them, and she had strict rules about sleeping with people she was going to kill: she didn’t do it. But, so often had she played this exact scenario—yes, it was easier to lead a man to his death if he thought he was going to look at your breasts. Maybe it was the simple thing instead: she was getting what she wanted, without a fight, and that never happened. How could you know you earned something if it didn’t hurt? Or maybe it was something else—the impossible thing inside of her that she has never given a name—or maybe it was all of it, or a mix of things, or maybe it was the time of day, or the season, or the year she’d had. 

No, Siobhan wouldn’t be able to stomach the walk down to the university. “How about a shag in the alley? Call me old fashioned.” She gestured to the damp, cramped space between the buildings beside them. Even from where they stood, it reeked of sun-bathed garbage. “I just can’t wait, all that. You’re familiar: blah, blah, blah, I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful before, blah, blah, horny now.” Again, she gestured to it. “Come on, love, before I dry up.” 

—

There was something about the woman’s reaction to Baz’s acceptance of the proposition. Baz leaned forward and she leaned back, even if she leaned towards them again a heartbeat later. There was a hint of uncertainty to her eyes, a quiet thing that seemed strange given her forwardness before. It was possible, Baz supposed, that she’d asked without expecting affirmation. It was possible that she’d asked the same way one might jokingly ask a stranger to share their food when walking by, possible that she’d meant it as a joke rather than a serious thing. It was also possible that she’d thought she’d need to work for it a bit more; Baz was easier to get into bed than most, after all, and if she’d prepared to put in the work only to realize it was no longer necessary she might be readjusting now.

But Baz wasn’t sure any of that was the case. They were well versed in being in a position where the thing that was expected of you was not the thing you wanted. They looked in her eyes for a moment, made note of all the uncertainty there. The crudeness of her words didn’t quite match that expression. She didn’t want a quick shag in the alley; Baz doubted she wanted to fuck at all. And they weren’t interested in someone who wasn’t interested in them, no matter what body they wore. 

So, they’d let her off the hook. They smiled, waved a hand, shook their head. “Ah, I’m not sure that’s up my alley,” they said, doing their best to sound apologetic even with the pun. “Sure you’ll find someone interested, though. You’re lovely, really. Bound to get an alley shag by the end of the night, if that’s what you want.” They emphasised the last bit a little, though they weren’t nearly invested enough to open up the conversation in earnest. Whatever had her out here propositioning strangers for things she didn’t really want, it wasn’t Baz’s problem to solve.

—

Rejection! Much more palatable. Siobhan smiled, swelling with relief; being disliked had always suited her. “Thank you.” She touched her chest, forgetting for a moment that she was here to kill this person. It was a sweet exchange, she thought, she appreciated being told that she could find someone else. She knew she ought to be acting offended, as she usually did—I’m so beautiful, gazing upon me should cause spontaneous death—but she was a fae, this woman was a fae, she could drop a layer or two. It took Siobhan a few silent seconds to remember who she was, where she was, what she had to do. She could insist on the alley again, but begging for sex was a level of pathetic Siobhan hoped she would never drop to, and couldn’t force herself to entertain. 

“I’ll cut to the chase,” she said. Siobhan pulled out a knife, it sang as she whipped it from its sheath. The shiny metal caught the woman’s reflection, and then Siobhan’s smiling face. This was much better. “I’m here to kill you. Not fuck you. Sorry!” She blinked like an innocent doll in a shop window. “It’s you, not me. And fae to fae?” She leaned in, full of interest, pressing the knife to the woman’s throat. “Being English is embarrassing, love.” 

—

The woman smiled, and Baz smiled back. Better this way, really. Random hookups were only fun when every party involved was very enthusiastically into what was happening, and despite having been the one to float the idea, the woman in front of them now seemed happier to be let off the hook than she had been at the idea of actually going through with her offer. This, Baz thought, was proof that they were a good person, wasn’t it? They were good with people. They’d recognized what this woman had really wanted, and they’d handed it to her on a silver platter. Didn’t that make them decent? Didn’t that mean they were someone who deserved good things, who had earned a life where they got what they wanted? 

Evidently not.

Rather than the universe aligning and delivering Baz all the wonderful things they deserved on a pretty crystal plate, the woman pulled a knife on them. The knife pressed against the skin of their borrowed throat, and the fear shining in Baz’s eyes was just as real as the cool metal of the blade. They scrambled back until their back hit the wall, throwing their hands up between themself and the woman as if it would make much of a difference. It wouldn’t. Baz didn’t know how to fight. But they could talk their way out of most situations. They figured they’d earned some good will, and being fae must have earned them a little more still. They could still worm their way out of this the same way they wormed their way out of everything. “Whoa, hey, let’s talk this through! If you’re after money, I’m afraid I can’t help you much, but I’ve some lovely paintings I’d be willing to part with in exchange for my life! Perhaps a poem or two? I’d be happy to sketch you, which would be rather difficult for me to do if you cut my throat. Blood would get on the paper, yeah? A whole mess.” Their smile faltered a bit. “It’s not my fault I’m English.” A beat. “And I’m not English. I’m American.” The lie twisted their stomach into knots, but the American accent that came with this body made it sound true, anyway.

—

“Darling, there’s nothing to talk through.” The more fear there was, the more desperation, the more backing up, the more meaningless barriers created by fleshy hands against her, the woman holding the knife, the better Siobhan felt. “Wanting to be English, you idiot. Wearing it like a skin. Throwing around your love and…” What had the woman said? She was English? No, she was American, like her accent. The discrepancy was probably nothing, and the sudden pained expression was a by-product of the situation. Siobhan tapped the woman’s middle finger with her knife. “Don’t you want to know why I’m doing this? Usually people ask why first and then get to the begging.” Siobhan frowned. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more irregular this was. People were confused, angry, scared, all before they turned to bargaining. Was it the fae side of the woman that felt the need to make a deal? Or had she expected this? These were the actions of someone who didn’t want to die, but not someone who didn’t understand why someone wanted to kill them. 

“How pathetic are you? You jumped right into the begging.” Siobhan rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course: paintings, poems, sketches.” Siobhan was dealing with muse; cursed forever to be tasteless and unappreciative of true beauty. The trouble all started when Siobhan was ten, and she made a self-portrait out of dead worms. A muse told her it was ugly. Siobhan had never forgotten it. Fucking muses. “At least argue a little. Do you think I want a poem? Do I look like someone that likes poems?” Siobhan did, in fact, love poetry. And the offer was, in fact, quite tempting.

—

Wanting to be English. Right. That was a little pathetic, probably, if not for the fact that the only reason Baz didn’t have the accent to match their phrasing of choice was because the face they were wearing didn’t come with one. Which they supposed begged the question — were they English at all? They’d grown up in London, sure, but the moment they took on someone else’s appearance, they took on their voice, too, and — actually, that wasn’t important right now. Focus. Yeah. Baz ought to be focusing. Namely, they thought, on the knife of it all. Focusing on the knife would be wise. And, actually, the woman holding the knife made a good point. Why was she doing this? Plenty of people had attacked Baz in the past — they thought of their father at their flat in London, thought of the way Sebastian’s neck sounded when it snapped, and then forced themself to think of anything but, because they had no desire whatsoever to think of memories that made them uncomfortable — but Baz had always at least known why. They had no recollection of this woman at all. And if she’d worked for their father, she’d have been more interested in hauling them back to England than killing them. So maybe the why was important here. “Okay,” they agreed with a nod. “Okay, yeah. Why are you doing this?” Maybe her problem wasn’t with them at all? If the mask they were wearing was an issue, Baz was more than happy to change.

They just… needed to be able to concentrate well enough to do that. Which was hard, as it turned out, with the knife between them. Baz had never liked knives much, preferred a paintbrush to a blade any day of the week, but this woman seemed fond of hers. “Oh, I’m exactly as pathetic as I need to be to keep you from using that very lovely knife on me. Do you want me on my knees? Begging isn’t my favorite thing to do down there, but I’m happy to give it a go.” If they endeared themself to her, was she less likely to stab them? Baz was good at endearing themself to strangers. It had gotten them a place to live in London with Sebastian; maybe it could get them out of this situation stab-free, too. “Everybody likes poems. The only people who don’t haven’t heard the right one yet. Come on, I haven’t done anything to you! And you’re fae! It’s not as if you’re a warden. You and me, we should be sticking together, yeah? We’d make a great team! You do the stabbing, I do the running away. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

—

“There you go! Good girl!” Siobhan smiled. “Happy you asked. Don’t you feel better now?” She threw the knife from one hand into the palm of the other. She threw a glance up to a dark window; the sun caught it in such a way that all she could see was the sheen of glass. She looked down at the cowering woman. “I’m here to kill you because it has to happen. Does that clear things up?” Siobhan slashed, catching the front of her shirt, spreading a jagged gash across the fabric. “I do like it when people beg.” She hadn’t decided on how she wanted to do it yet; she was playing with the visuals. A brick wall always brought to mind a bashed skull, but the way her shirt ripped brought to mind the tearing of flesh. Siobhan had always loved the way a sharp knife could peel layers of skin like parting theatre curtains: the show on the stage was all the beating bits inside a body—what if she ripped her heart out? What if she laid her down and butchered her like a caught rabbit? Flesh, muscle, meat. Blood, bones, sinew. 

It was easy in those moments when the world was as real as a breeze—when another body seemed to her like a character—to imagine all manner of things. In the cold realm of Death, facing the truth of murder, bodies always turned into people. Very Cinderella, she’d always thought: the magic was undone, the ball was over, there was a mess she ought to clean. And there she went! Thinking about stories! The woman’s talk of poetry mixed up her thoughts. The use of “fae” snapped Siobhan’s attention back. The word transformed into an insult inside another mouth; the emphasis was a jab, not a plea. What was the cardinal rule of a fae? What was it that Fate made impossible in their biology? Fae didn’t hurt other fae, fae couldn’t even feed off other fae. 

Siobhan lunged forward, pressing the woman against the rough brick, levelling the tip of her knife to her chest. Her smile was dead. “Give me a poem then, if you’re so keen,” she whispered, “for your sake, make it a good one.” 

—

Mmmm, bit worrying that being called a good girl still sent a thrill through them, even with the knife between them. What could they say? Baz loved a bit of praise from a pretty face, even when that face seemed to think they ought to die. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t trying to kill me, I think.” It had to happen? What did that even mean? Baz flinched as the knife ripped through the fabric of their shirt, allowing the warm air to touch against borrowed skin. “Well, I don’t think it has to happen! In fact, I’ve got other plans today. Other things I’d like to get done. I was going to go to the farmer’s market. I’d invite you to tag along, but I’m not sure I’m enjoying your company much anymore. Sorry, bit rude, but you are being a bit of a pain. First you want to fuck, then you don’t, now you’re cutting my clothes off. Very indecisive!” They were afraid. Their heart was pounding, their blood rushing, their hands shaking. They were afraid, but they were so good at pretending they weren’t. When you grew up in an oppressive house with an angry man, you got good at swallowing your fear. But swallowing it wasn’t the same as getting rid of it entirely. The fear was still there, even when you’d pushed it down deep. 

They doubted seeing the fear would have done much to change this woman’s mind. She seemed very set on her goal as she pushed Baz against the wall, pressing the knife to their chest. She must have felt the way their heart thumped against her hand. The frustrating thing, Baz thought, was that she was still beautiful. The light bounced off her hair, her eyes shone with a quiet excitement, and they were terrified of her but they wanted to paint her a little bit, too. 

They were caught off guard, a little, when she asked for a poem. Her smile was dead, eyes still shining with that joyous thrill of a predator ready to tear into its prey, and they didn’t think the poem would make any difference. They didn’t think their words could convince her not to drive the knife home, but they were scared and they were desperate and they had to try.

“Won’t be my best work. Bit distracted by the knife and all. But I’ll give it a go.” They flashed a nervous smile, clearing their throat before launching into it.

“Death rides a pale horse, And wields a brutal knife. She stays her bitter course, And fights her bitter fight. But ‘neath resolve and boldness, Is a heart inside her chest. A beat dissolves her coldness, And allows that course a rest.”

They’d been right: it wasn’t their best work, but then they weren’t usually coming up with poems on the spot with a knife to their chest. They gave the woman a small, hopeful smile, heart still pounding. Maybe she would change her mind… or maybe Baz could find some other way to weasel out of this while she was pretending to mull things over.

—

Fear had a mesmeric quality for Siobhan; to hold it was a thrill of power, to know it was hers. She could play with it, twist it, send it away with a spank on the arse if she wanted to. Yet, a lingering pathetic impulse remained: what if she soothed the worry? What if she set her knife down, cooed like a mother—not her own, for certain—and promised things would be okay. Siobhan was certain that that was far from anything she wanted to do and yet. What if? What if she hugged her? Held her? Patted her back? What if she became someone she wasn’t, for just this one moment, for a new sort of thrill? A thrill she had long since wondered about: affection. Siobhan’s knife quivered. 

It was always a terrible thing to let her mind wander. She was happy to be distracted by a bad poem. Sorry. A bad poem, she thought. Was thinking. Was hoping for. Siobhan touched her chest. She did coo, not so much like a mother, but like an awed child. “That was lovely,” she said. She pulled her knife away. “And it rhymed! Did you come up with that on the spot, love? How darling. Truly, I am impressed.” Siobhan stepped back, half a mind to just walk away now; a queen pleased by her court jester. “I find myself… sad that I need to kill you,” she confessed. “You see, I screamed for you some days ago—don’t ask me how many days—and yet… here you are.” No one had ever made a poem for her before. Yes, it was happening under threat of death but most of Siobhan’s fondest memories happened that way. She turned her face away, chewing the inside of her cheek. “You rhymed ‘horse’ with ‘course’,” she said. “Such bold acts of simple rhyming have not been seen outside of Rhymes-dot-com and yet… transgressive. Inspired.” And only interesting to Siobhan because it was hers—Siobhan was aware of the bias. And yet… And yet…

Siobhan couldn’t quite meet the woman’s eyes. “You truly are a leanan-sidhe, aren’t you? You have such a talent for words.” Siobhan waved her knife around as she spoke. “Rhyming ‘knife’ with ‘fight.’ Honestly, I’m not sure those words even rhyme. What a bold statement! To use two words that don’t rhyme and thus break your own rhyme scheme. The foundational principles of the quatrain poem quiver; only a genius could break the rules of poetry so expertly.” Really, wasn’t it so nice that someone had made a poem just for her? The poem's actual content was completely unimportant to her. —  

Regardless of how shaky the poem had been, how far it was from Baz’s usual fare, the woman seemed to have enjoyed it. Fascinatingly, she liked it enough to pull the knife back, and Baz took a breath big enough to fill their lungs completely for the first time since the metal had found their torso. It wasn’t an obvious relief, wasn’t a gulping gasp or a loud sigh, but it was clear enough that they were more comfortable without a knife threatening to gut them than they had been with it firmly in place. They liked not facing down the threat of death. That was their preferred state of being. They liked to think it was a popular opinion to have.

“On the spot, yeah,” they confirmed. “Could do a better one with a few day’s notice.” And without a knife in the middle of it all. “Other sorts of art, too. Painting, sketches. I’m not the best at crochet, but I’d be happy to make you a hat if you promise not to kill me.” A clumsy attempt at a bind that he doubted this woman would fall for. Whatever sort of fae she was, she was an experienced one. (But why was she trying to kill other fae? Weren’t most of them all about the togetherness of it all? What was the point of this silly little sense if it didn’t even stop other fae from gutting them?)

The woman stepped back, and Baz inched away, though not enough to be obvious. They could probably outrun her long enough to get somewhere more public, but how much would that matter? What if she’d be willing to kill them, even in the midst of a crowd? Better not to risk it just yet, not when they’d just succeeded in calming her some. 

“You don’t need to kill me!” They insisted. “You – Wait.” She’d screamed for them? Wasn’t that a banshee thing? Screaming for… something. It didn’t matter much. What mattered was… “You screamed for this face? Some days ago?” Some days ago, Baz hadn’t even had this face in their arsenal yet! They’d only stumbled upon the woman recently, taken her face when they’d seen her. If this banshee (?) had screamed for her before that… 

Baz grinned, finally seeing the way through. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake here, love. See, some days ago, I wasn’t wearing this face. Happy to give you a demonstration if you’d like, but I think you’ve got me a bit confused with someone else. I’m not a leanan-sidhe. I’m a doppelganger. Do you know what those do?” If she did, she might need no more explanation, and the two of them could be on their merry ways. If she didn’t, Baz could demonstrate, and the end result would be the same.

—

Siobhan froze, her knife dangling between her fingers like the wagging tongue of a dog. “I’m sorry?” She blinked. The information crawled into her mind, settling in slowly. It made everything fit. It made everything fit very well. Now that she thought about it, the woman she remembered screaming for wasn’t a fae at all. Siobhan’s memory was fuzzy on the particulars; time had that nasty effect on the brain. “I see,” she said. Siobhan put her knife away. Then her hands snapped out, and she pinched the woman’s cheeks. No, not woman. Doppelganger. Fates, how could she have been so stupid! She pulled at their face. “Of course I know what a doppelganger does, you dimwitted British-wannabe! Why aren’t you wearing a sign? You can’t just run around with a new face without a sign! A warning! This is your fault!” Siobhan released them and wiped her hands on her shirt, frowning. “Honestly, you can’t lead people on like this. What goop raised you?” Siobhan jerked her finger at them, her cheeks inflamed. She felt as though some elaborate joke had been played on her. “I would have a word with your blob-mother but frankly, I don’t know how you lot reproduce and frankly, I don’t want to know.” She groaned and spun on her heel, pulling at her hair. “This is your fault! Your fault! I wasted my time!” Siobhan spun around again. “Where is she? The woman whose face you’re wearing? Where did you see her last?” — The knife went away, which was a lovely development. Baz found he liked the woman better without a knife dangling between her fingers. It was a bit interesting, too, that that was all it took; that she’d only wanted to kill Baz for the face they were wearing, even though it was still the face of a stranger. Maybe they ought to read up on banshees to determine why. (They wouldn’t. Information on banshees was notoriously difficult to come by, and Baz was too lazy to put forth much effort.)

They made a face as hands came up to pinch their borrowed cheeks, but they didn’t pull away. They even let the woman tug at their skin, indulging her if only to keep the knife wherever it had been tucked away to instead of pressed against them. “The face is still attached, love,” they told her, voice sounding a bit odd with her hands still pulling at their skin. “Few things there. First, I am British. This woman isn’t, but that’s her fault more than mine. Second, a sign would be a bit of a bother, wouldn’t it? I’d have to match all my outfits to it, and I’m sure the wardens would have something to say. Third, I wasn’t actually raised by goop. I’m disappointed by it, too, trust me.”

With that out of the way, Baz let themself relax a bit. The threat to take things up with their mother, blob or otherwise, didn’t bother the doppelganger much. Now that the knife was gone, nothing really could. “I didn’t ask you to chase me down with a knife, now did I?” They waved a hand, shrugging a shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. No more than a few days ago, somewhere around town. I don’t remember now. Why? Are you looking to hunt her down and kill her? Because I don’t think I’ll be much help — I never even got her name.”

—

“Disgusting,” Siobhan said, though at exactly which part about this person she found disgusting, she did not clarify. “And I suppose not growing up in a proper goop community has contributed to your lack of decency.” Her mental image of doppelgangers was that of blubbering goo-blobs jiggling around like drops of water—as far as the image had been painted to her by other banshees, of course. They jiggled and blorbled in whatever insipid doppelganger language they had. She wondered if they had bones. How did the face-snatching work, again? They absorbed people into their goop and then spat them out? Or was it an intricate goop dance? Siobhan thought about it and then decided she didn’t care. Unless they did have bones. 

Siobhan’s cheeks lit up again, that flaming red creeping up into the tips of her ears. “You insolent—!” She reached out to pinch them again but thought better of it, her hands curled like claws in the air. “I’m trying to make sure she’s dead!” Siobhan groaned. “I would kill you now if it wasn’t blasphemous.” What did it matter to her? She’d killed those leprechauns, she was still swatting them away, what difference did killing one annoying doppelganger make in terms of her sins? Oh, but she’d already put the knife away; it would be too much work to take the knife out again.