#rhett.

It was important for her to buy her own weapons. This wasn’t something Daiyu examined closely — she just knew that the need was there and that she answered it. She did understand her desire for financial freedom, however, and that this probably tied into it. The Volkovs were the rich type, after all. Upper class. Made rich through the exploitation of beasts and shifters and any other shady thing alike, fingers stained with blood money. Family money was a collar and leash, though, a way to yank and keep people close.

Because money bought happiness. Money bought knives, handmade and silver. Money bought independence, autonomy. And so Daiyu was determined, if not gleeful, when she set foot into the forge. When she met the warden called Rhett who looked like he’d known better days. Regardless, they shook hand and exchanged pleasantries (not many, neither of them the type) and got to the meat of the meeting. Daiyu tried hard to not get distracted by all that surrounded her. It was a cool place. It almost made her drool. She was already thinking about what other things she’d like to commission. 

Daiyu got bored easily, after all. New weapons were a good way to keep the hunt (and with that life) exciting. “Alright, alright,” she grinned, “I’m curious to see this prototype.” She held up a hand, that soon disappeared into her jacket where her favored knife was sheathed. Custom-made, too, both the knife and sheath. “This is the one I prefer to work with now. But I want something smaller — preferable ones I can double wield, ya know?” Her eyes flicked around. “This place fucking rocks, by the way.”

—

Rhett lacked the usual spring in his step when it came to weapon design, and that wasn’t just on account of the iron leg. This was going to be his last one, and that understanding tasted bitter on his tongue. He’d have to give the young hunter a good reference for one of the other blacksmiths so she could keep patronizing this place in his absence, but he’d make sure this piece was one she truly loved before kicking off. He was a man of his word, after all. 

Taking the knife she’d brought from her, unsheathing it and turning it over in his hands to give it a careful inspection, he nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, can do that.” He ran his fingers along the blade, his gaze raking over the weapon. It was quality, a nice piece. He could do better, of course, but it was very excellent besides. Passing it back as ideas started to form in his mind, he leaned back on his stool and reached for a leather pouch on the work table beside him, flipping it open and pulling out a hunk of silver that was dagger-shaped, but lacked any detailing or a grip. 

“Can work this down into somethin’ smaller, like ya want. Here, I got some hilt options…” He started pulling out other finished knives that all had different styles to them. “Pick ‘em up, give ‘em a few swings, aye? See what feels good for weight n’ the grip. Can work out the details to make it unique to ya after that.” He sniffed, nodding his head over toward the corner of the room. “There’s a dummy back that way, if ya wanna see how it feels in action. Take yer time.”

—

Maybe she should try to get into weapon making. It was the other hunter who’d told her, even if it was indirectly, that perhaps she needed to add another skill to her arsenal. Besides, Daiyu liked custom weapons. She had turned a regular shotgun into a sawed off one before she’d turned eighteen, so who knew — maybe there was something to gain there. But for now, she was just antsy to try a few knives. Her eyes kept passing to the Warden who did have quite the reputation, it turned out. Daiyu preferred to go off what she was given at face value rather than whispers at a hunter bar, though. 

She eyed the options with wide eyes, lips curling up, “These are awesome, did you make all of ‘em?” Greedy fingers reached for two knives, both hands wrapped around their hilts, testing their weight. “Nice.” She put them to the left, tried two more. One was discarded immediately, the other joined the other two. Daiyu knew what she was looking for, though she was making a mental wishlist in her mind at the same time. She’d have to ask Rhett if he had any references for bows.

After a quick selection, she moved over to the dummy, turning the knives in her hands and launching them into the dummy’s neck. It wasn’t often she fought humanoid creatures, admittedly — she preferred to hunt shifters when they were shifted and besides, she was most often on the tail of various beasts. Daiyu released the knives, mimed the gushing of blood and grinned at the warden over her shoulder. She spent a short while retrieving the knives and slashing a few times, but it didn’t take her long. She was made for impulse decisions and purchases. Returning to the table, she extended one of them, hilt towards the warden. “This might be a good one to go off. I dig the look of it. Slips nice and easy in the palm, but also offers enough of a grip, y’know?” 

—

“Aye, over the years… decided if I was gonna start takin’ custom orders, oughtta have a few things fer the ol’ portfolio.” Rhett watched her pick them up and test how they felt in her hands, making note of which ones she seemed to prefer and parsing out why that was based on how she held them. His gaze followed the young hunter when she went over to the dummy, and watching her mimic a few attacks and subsequent blood spurts actually brought a slight smile to his face. He couldn't help but remember when he'd been as young and full of vim and vigor as she was now, and it was comforting, in a way. He was a relic, but there'd always be more hunters to pick up the mantle. 

Still wearing the smirk, the old warden accepted the blade of choice back from her, nodding in agreement. “Thought ya might prefer this one.” From there, he reached for his sketchbook and flipped it open, starting with a rough drawing of the hilt of choice. “What kinda blade shape you want? Hawksbill, tanto, guthook…? Here's a few, in case ya ain't familiar with the names.” He flipped back to the beginning of the book and produced two pages full of different knife blade styles, pushing it toward her. 

—

The concept of a retired hunter was a rare one, but Daiyu found it a comforting thought. It wasn’t quite like she wanted to leave this life behind, but the concept of perhaps retiring towards something else after years of fight was something she might like. Maybe not even for herself, but at the very least for her uncle who always seemed so weighed down. (She didn’t expect to live to an age of retirement, anyhow.) “That makes sense, yeah. So you’ve been doing this a long time, then?”

She had never been the best at retaining knowledge and learning, but when it came to these things Daiyu had been quite good at remembering. She knew the fight, the grit, the violence and the tools it took. Sometimes it seemed it was all she was good for. And so she didn’t have to look at the book of blades to answer the question, “Hawksbill would be perfect,” she said. “Might have to step by for another set or something soon. Got some nice shit here. And this town, well… Crawling with stuff.”

—

Her question was answered with a slow nod, and after a moment of thought, a few words. “Grew up on it. Trainin’ under masters’ah the craft while I hopped from town to town. Huntin’ didn’t always pay well, ya see… needed a skill I could use anyplace.” Chuckling approvingly at the swift decision, Rhett flipped back to his concept drawing and started to sketch. “That it is, that it is… won’t never run outta quarry, it seems. Good to have folks like you in places like this.” He sucked in a sharp breath, pressing harder on the pencil as he made the stroke for the edge of the blade. “Afraid I won’t be around after I finish this for ya… but the folks what own this place, the twins, they’re damn good smiths. Can make ya anythin’ ya like, won’t balk at no kinda requests. I’ll let ‘em know to give ya a discount.” He lifted his head, cocking it to the side as he looked at the drawing so far. Next was the hilt style, which he started in on as he spoke. “Which, speakin’ of… this order’s on the house.” It wasn’t like he needed her money—any that he already had had been left in a place in Emilio’s apartment where he might find it someday, or maybe whoever moved into that shithole after him. Didn’t matter, so long as someone had it. 

—

Hunting had always paid her family quite well, but then they’d had ties in all kinds of murky corners. Daiyu didn’t want to know how her father and the men before him had acquired their riches. It’d make her feel too much like them. She did wish she’d learned a practical skill like this, though. “So you moved around a lot? Cool. We didn’t stray very far, mostly stuck around in Washington. Lotsa woods to protect there.” They’d flown to other corners of the world where family lived, but her world had mostly been those pines and mountains.

She watched the other at his work, a little envious. She supposed she could try and pick something like this up, but Daiyu hated learning things she wasn’t immediately good at which was why her skillset remained limited. “Ah, hopping town again? Can’t blame ya, this place is a little bonkers.” She liked the chaos though, so far. “I get it, I don’t stick around long places either. And hey, I’ll take those discount tips.” Her lips curled into a grin and it almost faltered when he said it was on the house. A kindness. Those always got lodged in her throat. “Whoa, man. You don’t have to. Are you sure?”

—

“Aye. Was born on the water, didn’t have much of a home fer a while that weren’t the inside’ah that boat. Instilled me with the need to migrate, I guess. Weren’t a bad life.” 

The finished product was coming together on the page, and Rhett’s gaze lifted from the drawing to meet hers. “Don’t need money where I’m goin’, kid. Got no use fer it. You might as well keep it.” He cleared his throat and pushed the drawing her way, tapping the pencil on the paper. “Pick a material for the hilt, n’ if there’s any personal flares ya want—engravin’, a replaceable scale, whatever, lemme know now so I can work it into the design. All said, she’ll take ‘bout… mm, twelve more hours or so to make. Can do it all in one.” Wasn’t like he was sleeping, anyway. “Have the order ready for ya by tomorrow.”

—

“What?” The word was drawn out as she was genuinely intrigued, not having met many hunters who were based at sea. “That’s cool. Way more original than being born on regular schmegular land, that’s for sure.”

She was looking at the drawing with an eager, growing interest. Daiyu had tried drawing but as she lacked natural talent (if that even existed), she’d given up in frustration. She didn’t like failure, but she could appreciate another person’s skill. Most of the time. “Alright, cool. Thanks.” She hit her head, then pointed. “Am only saying that ‘cus I know you’re not fae.” She gave a shit-eating grin. “Wood handle, something dark. Don’t need any special things beside it, ‘tis the blade that matters most.” She doodled on her weapons when she was younger, which had been considered a personal affront to her neat father and not just because she was a shit drawer. “Tomorrow, cool! I’ll be here.”

—

The thanks and subsequent joke earned her a good-natured scoff, and the man leaned back on his stool. “Perish the thought,” he muttered with a smirk, marking down her request for a dark wood for the handle. 

Reaching out a hand to shake, Rhett cleared his throat. “You ever get a hankerin’ for somethin’ else’ah mine, I do got a few pieces put up in Chet’s shop, Fable Blades. He buys products from this forge pretty often, can just ask him to show ya ol’ Rhett’s work n’ he’ll set ya up. He’s a retired warden too, so, y’know. Good people.” Rising to his feet, the man showed Daiyu back toward the exit, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “Seeya tomorrow, kid. N’ be careful out there, aye? Don’t fly too close to the sun.”

—

She decided she liked this Rhett. He looked like the very image of a withered, alive against all odds hunter and yet he still humored her yapping. Daiyu liked her hunters with a bit of humor. “Awesome, I’m gonna do that. If your piece satisfies, you know.” She missed the innuendo for a beat, then let out a ha as if to make it seem like it had always been her intention to make a dirty joke. Bravado came easy these days. “Got no doubt about that, though.”

Food was one of the basic requirements, so it seemed only logical to Wynne that they continuously flocked to creating it in moments of crisis. Despite their appetite being hard to find, they still had that incessant need to busy their hands. To do something. And there wasn’t much that worked except getting in that tiny kitchen and creating. To remind themself that they were alive, because they needed food, because they were around people who needed it.

After an evening of stress-cooking their way through the empty hours, they were left with containers of thick, aromatic soup that they now had to get rid of. Not that they were lacking. Some of them were stuffed in their fridge, for Zack, Arden and Sully, as well as the steady flow of visitors. And then a few were carried through the hallway towards Emilio’s door past sundown. 

They weren’t sure if they should knock, or if they should just leave it with the note they’d already written. In their hesitation, they loitered, thoughts stuck on Emilio. Revisiting memory, twisting themself in doubt and crouched in front of that door, they ended up looking more like a paranoid thief in the night than a kindly neighbor. When it opened, they jumped up, tupperware clattering against the floor. Wide eyes met those of a stranger – one with a large beard and a lot more height than they had. “Oh!” Eyes flicked to the apartment number. This was the right one. “Evening.” Wynne tried to push the containers to the side with their foot. “I was just … dropping off some things.”

—

Half the time, Rhett didn’t even announce that he was coming over, instead surprising Emilio , sometimes to the slayer’s chagrin. Didn’t bother him when his little brother bitched, though—was his damn right to drop in whenever he wanted. Not like Emilio had anything to hide, anyway.

Tonight had been one of those nights, with the warden feeling unusually down and out and craving company, even if that company gave him hell all the time. But Emilio wasn’t home when he got there, so he just shrugged it off and figured he’d hang about until the man got home, assuming he must have been out cracking a fucking case or whatever the hell it was he did with that side business of his. 

There was a sound outside the door, and after a few seconds of waiting for his brother to enter without results, the warden clicked off his phone screen and pocketed the device as he got to his feet and walked up to the front door. Opening it to see a young person crouched there with tupperwares in their hands was not quite what he expected, and it showed in the surprised expression that settled over his grizzled face. They jumped up from the floor, dropping the container in the process, but it remained shut, thankfully. 

Brow raised, Rhett let his gaze dance between them and whatever they’d dropped. “Literally, I see,” he joked, letting a smile spread across his face. There was no buzz in his head warning him of the presence of fae, and as he thought about it, those containers looked familiar. “You must be… the one always bringin’ food over, eh?” Shit, what was the name Emilio had used…? “.... Wynne? That right? M’Rhett.” He stepped back, gesturing for them to come in. “Go on, then. Just me here right now, ‘fraid. Milio’s out doin’... god knows what. Waitin’ for him to get back.”

—

The other smiled and Wynne forced themself to breathe a little easier, to not feel the need to turn on their heel and scatter to the door of their own apartment. Not every situation was one where they were a deer in headlights. Not every kind stranger could be a vampire with the potential to rip open their neck the way Zane had. And besides, this person came from Emilio’s place. Emilio, who they trusted intrinsically by now.

And yet the instinct of fear hadn’t fully left them, blood pumping in their ears and their fingers feeling somewhat useless as they moved to pick up the containers. Wynne became very aware of their bare throat now as they raised to their full height again, fingers digging into the plastic of their tupperware. “Yes, that’s me. Wynne. Always bringing over food.” 

So this was Rhett, the brother that Emilio had spoken off as they’d discussed their own family. I don’t know if you’d like him, he’d said, and Wynne thought of that statement as the other introduced himself, inviting them into the space they had entered only a handful of times. Their M.O. was just dropping the food on the doorstep, after all, knowing that someone would pick it up sooner or later.

“His brother, right?” They gave a polite smile and moved into the apartment, looking at the tall, bearded man over their shoulder. Funny. He reminded them a bit of Rhys, and not just because of the similarity in name, but that beard too. Wynne glanced around the empty space, feeling like an intruder as they tried to look as normal as possible when approaching the fridge. “Is Perro not here? And that’s okay, I tend to just … drop it off. Not in that literal sense. I’m … skittish, I guess.” They tried to tack a laugh onto that statement as they opened the fridge door while balancing the previously-fallen meal.

—

“Ah, mentioned me, has he? Sure he only had mean things t’say,” Rhett responded with a snort, knowing the way his brother talked about him to others… These days especially. Something between them had changed, he just couldn’t figure out what exactly it was… aside from the obvious. They’d lost their family, sure, but this wasn’t that. He’d spent enough time with Emilio after the fact to know that they’d still shared a strong bond, even if they were both miserable. But since they’d been apart for a couple years, since he’d found his little brother here in this godforsaken town, even that had felt different. 

He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much to do about it. It wasn’t like either of them were about to open up about their feelings. They didn’t do that kind of thing.

“Oh, the mutt’s here, somewhere. Sleepin’, I assume.” He and the dog didn’t exactly get along, they merely tolerated one another. Plus, if the animal needed to go out and Rhett didn’t take it, it would take a dump on Emilio’s floor, and that would be funny. 

“Skittish? Guess that makes sense, in a place like this.” Whether he meant the sketchy, dilapidated building or the general aura that was Wicked’s Rest was anyone’s guess. Cocking his head to the side, he crossed his arms over his chest as he watched them put the food in the fridge. “... how’d ya meet Milio, anyway? He never told me.”

—

“He said that you were brothers. Because you grew up together.” And that Wynne wouldn’t like him, which kept nagging at the back of their mind, because that had been such an off-hand comment and thus far, the bearded hunter had done little to make them dislike him. To be fair, this interaction had only lasted for a minute or so and their standards were rather low.

They nodded. “Oh, cute. He’s a funny guy.” Not a mutt. Or maybe he was, but that wouldn’t be something Wynne would use in a derogatory way. 

After closing the fridge (it was easy to fit the food in there, considering the lack of anything in there), they turned towards the other. Emilio had explained he was a hunter too, so maybe there was no need for beating around any bushes. Still, they felt a little uneasy trying to recall the initial meeting with Emilio.

“Well, I was hiking in the woods. And there was something behind me, and it was ustras? They were onto both of us, so we kind of kept running when we came across each other, and then he set them aflame.” They shrugged. “I mean, after I stabbed it. A little. And then after we found out we were neighbors.” Wynne wondered if that was a good summary. “And we kind of kept interacting after that.”

—

“Aye. Met ‘im when he was knee-high to a cricket,” Rhett explained rather unhelpfully, though he did wear an affectionate smile as he said it. “The rest of that clan, too. Good family. Good people.” His thoughts threatened to turn to his sister-in-law and his niece, so he cleared his throat and pushed through the memories. “Stayed with ‘em a good long while in Mexico.” Twenty years, give or take. He’d thought his road had ended there. He’d nearly let go of his obsession with finding Mariela. 

Nearly.

“Ustras, aye? Choice.” He laughed. “Ya stabbed one? Good on ya! Everyone oughtta keep stabbin’ utensils on ‘em at all times, I say. Never know when y’might run into a beastie.” He eyed Wynne, looking curious. Obviously not fae, and if they were chummy with Emilio, then surely not undead. Probably not a shifter, or they’d know better than to hang around a hunter. Unless they were a really stupid shifter. 

He hoped not. He liked them.

“Well! Good tah meet ya officially, n’ I’m ‘fraid you’ll be seein’ my ugly mug ‘round here quite a bit more,” he chuckled. “By the by, food you cook’s fuckin’ aces, mate. Dunno if Milio ever told ya, he ain’t mannered like that.” He paused. “He always ends up givin’ me some,” he added, not wanting them to think he was eating all of it. Even if he kind of was… him and Nora, anyway.

—

They blinked at that. Family, he said — that insinuated there had been more people there, ones that Rhett too knew. Wynne thought about the wife Emilio had spoken of, of the few hints they’d gotten of his childhood. “Must be nice to see each other again.” They punctuated their statement with a bit of a smile. They imagined Iwan coming here, to Wicked’s Rest and then they told themself not to think about such stupid things. “Have you been in town long?”

Eyes widened in surprise and they found themself echoing that laughter, partly out of nervousness and partly because there was something infectious about it. “I mean, he did all the other work, it was just in the foot but — I guess it felt good.” Wynne thought about the knife they’d lost when the vampires had cornered them. “It does seem smart. Ever since he got me one I’ve had to use it a few times. This town’s just full of weird things, huh?” He probably knew about all that more than them.

“It’s nice to meet you too s—” The sir was omitted, as it felt very much out of place here. “Rhett.” Wynne beamed at the compliment, shrugging. “It helps me relax. And I don’t know, I kinda owe him, and he seems like he needs it, right? I figured out he was sharing a while back, so I just make more. But thanks.” Their lips tightened. “I mean. Appreciated.” Not that the other was fae — they just didn’t want to seem like the type who kept using that word despite all the warnings. 

—

Seeing Emilio again in this town wasn’t exactly what Rhett would call nice, but he couldn’t expect anyone else to understand that. It hadn’t even been nice to find him back in Etla after days of tracking him from the scene of the massacre. He’d been relieved, sure. Relieved but fraught with grief, and anger, and… too many things to really process at the time. And this year, stumbling upon his little brother in a place he’d never have expected to find him was neither a warm reunion, nor a reunion that either of them seemed to want. Not… not in the way folks would assume, anyway. Rhett knew it was challenging for him to be around, now. That it was a reminder of things lost, and that Emilio’s desire to get himself killed taking out the rest of those vampires was made far more complex by the warden’s presence. 

So no, it wasn’t nice, per se, but that wasn’t something Wynne needed to know. 

“Aye. Been a real hoot,” he answered with a soft smile in return. “And yer damn right ‘bout that. Critter count in this place ain’t like nothin’ I’ve ever seen. Sure, human folks outnumber ‘em a great deal, but still. Ya normally get, what… a handful in any given town? This place be a damn breedin’ ground fer trouble.”

“Aye, that he does. Dunno how he fuckin’ gets around with the way he eats… or doesn’t. Pity. I do got methods fer trickin’ him into it, though.” There was a pause, and he gave them a curious look. “You been in town very long? Wonderin’... if ya work somewhere in the neighborhood, mighta seen someone I’m lookin’ fer, actually.”

—

“It does seem like there’s a lot more in this town,” they said, trying to sound like someone who had definitely lived in a normal town before. And they had, just not for more than a few weeks at a time. Wynne’s hand moved to their neck, tracing their stitches. Trouble seemed right. Whatever they’d had at home, there had never been vampires. Or creatures wanting to eat fingers or honking so loud they could make you pass out. “Emilio said you were also a hunter? That’s pretty cool.” 

It was hard not to think of Iwan now, the concept of him showing up in town. If he did, it would most likely be bad news — but Wynne couldn’t help but imagine it anyway, a reality where just he showed up. No agenda. Just an embrace and reunion. They wondered if he was mad with them, for having left, but then Iwan had always gotten on better with their mother and even the cousins. One thing they did know: he’d be welcomed in their place, the same way Rhett seemed to be in Emilio’s.

“What kind of tricks? I like to think me dropping off the food helps, but I’m not sure.” They shrugged. “Since January, so not that long? I work at one of the coffee shops, though — a Latte to Love? A lot of people come through there.” Wynne tried to give a small, confident smile. “Who’re you looking for?”

—

Ah, so they were privy to all that, then. “Cool?” he asked, a little surprised. That wasn’t the typical reaction. “Ahh… sure! Fanged bloodsuckers ain’t really my specialty, though. More suited fer huntin’ fae. Tricky little shits, they are. Not a good idea fer regular folks to deal with ‘em… other hunters, neither. Use your own mind against ya, they will.” He tapped a finger to his temple, smirking. 

“Turnin’ it into a competition usually works,” he explained. “Little shit’s always lookin’ to out-do me. Classic lil’ brother rubbish.” Thinking for a moment, Rhett knew it was probably a long shot, but… “Well, her name’s Mariela,” he explained, picturing her in his mind and finding it to be… unpleasant, to put it nicely. “She’s ‘bout… this tall,” he motioned to something resembling five foot three, “has dark hair n’ eyes that look almost golden.” A beat. “Would look somewhere between thirty n’ forty, but mighta had someone with ‘er that was closer t’you in age.” Fae aging was different, of course, and there was no doubt in his mind that Mariela would, at this point, look much more youthful than he did. “She had a birthmark on ‘er neck, pale spot that looked kinda like Maui.” He raised his eyebrows. “Anyone like that ringin’ a bell?”

—

Oh, so he was a hunter for fae. Wynne thought of the few fae they knew – Teagan, Cass, Regan and maybe that Sián woman – and wondered if they should be more wary of them. If they should warn them about this hunter. They also thought of Beau. He seemed malevolent. “Oh, right. There are different types, right? Of hunters. I don’t really think I’m equipped to deal with any of them. Vampires or fae.” But they could befriend the latter, though that went unsaid.

Iwan and them had been competitive sometimes, Wynne recalled. He’d often outsmarted them, but they had always been the fastest, on land and in water. “Ha, brothers, right?” The comment was devoid of anything, but it was something. “I don’t think it’d work for me, though. To try and compete.” 

Their brows creased in thought as the other went on. They saw a lot of people at work, and though not a lot of them stood out, there were a few that stuck in their mind. The memory of a young mother with a child about their age with golden eyes did resurface now. It had been at the beginning of their job, and they’d asked a ton of questions Wynne couldn’t answer — which was probably because they remembered. Failure stuck to them like permanent glue. “I made a drink for a woman with that name, yes … in February? I think. She was, um … asking about the State Park? I was very new to town, so I didn’t know, but she kept asking things about it. The things that were there. And there was someone my age, who wanted to know about … something called a secret menu, which we don’t have.” Apparently that was a thing, which they thought was ridiculous. Not relevant, though. “My colleague helped her with the questions, ‘cause I didn’t really know.”

—

“Aye. Slayers like my idiot brother, rangers, n’ wardens.” He lifted a brow. “Careful ‘round wardens, kiddo. We’re a weird bunch,” he warned in good humor. His good mood seemed to fade a bit as they confirmed their interaction with Mariela, or who they assumed was Mariela—not that long ago, asking about the state park. Made sense, if she was looking for an aos sí to hide in. And she had someone with her, someone young. Curious. The answer, of course, was obvious, but things as they were, Rhett left enough room for the possibility that it was just a friend or caretaker. He wasn’t entirely sure how well he’d handle the alternative. 

Dreams were nonsensical things and for that, Ingeborg loved them. It was so easy to jump from one thing to the other, the subconscious an easily distracted and moldable thing — if the dream a person was having didn’t interest her, she could just get her fingers (or claws, depending on the night) in there and swap the scene. And this dream, had by a man sleeping in a van somehow decorated by fungi, was neither nonsensical nor interesting.

So the scene transformed, as dreams tend to. One moment, the bearded man is sat on a boat talking to a woman laying in the bright sun (something about baby names, which makes sense considering the swelling of her stomach). The other moment, the sun is gone, as if someone flicked a lightswitch and the sea starts swelling and sinking, waves growing restless, licking the side of the boat. Inge took charge of the strange woman, letting out a piercing scream and holding onto the deck of the boat with one arm while clutching her pregnant belly with another as a storm took over the confines of the dream.

Strange, to touch a pregnant belly again, but there was no time on ruminating on her own past as she screamed once more at the bearded man, a gust of wind making the boat sway dangerously. “Help!”

—

It wasn’t quite right, but as one is wont to do when it comes to dreams, Rhett didn’t question it. Mariela was far more pregnant than he’d ever actually seen her, and they were on a boat that wasn’t quite the boat he’d lived on with Dez—and the aforementioned warden was nowhere to be found. It was just the two of them, enjoying the sun and the ocean breeze together, talking about the child that would be born soon and what to name them. Most startlingly, Rhett wasn’t infuriated by the sight of her. But it was a dream, and maybe dreams simply showed him what he wanted most. Peace. For nothing that had happened to them back to have happened at all. He could have been a father. A husband. A good person. 

But he wasn’t any of those things, and that seemed to be reflected in the way a storm suddenly rolled in, casting shadows over the comforting scene. In one moment, he was twenty-five and still full of hope for the future, and in the next… the unbearable weight of loss and anger and hopelessness came crashing down on him, aging him appropriately. Still, his lover screamed and held herself as the boat rocked dangerously, and still, the warden reacted like he would have when he was young. 

He leaped toward her, shouting her name over the crash of thunder in the sky above. “Mari!” The waves swelled larger, heaving the vessel, turning it damn near on its side. He fell, body slamming into the handrail as he watched Mariela fall into the water, hand outstretched toward him. “Mari! No!” His bellows were drowned out by the storm as he reached for her, desperately, even as someone else came up behind him and pressed a knife to his throat. 

He knew it was Desmond, his dead brother. Rhett’s arm reached further in spite of the blade, feeling the edge cut into his skin and spill his blood. Mari’s fingers brushed against his own and he howled in pain, lunging forward to grasp her hand. The current threatened to rip her away from him, and Desmond’s knife was burying itself deeper in his flesh. Of course, because it was a dream, he didn’t immediately begin to bleed out. 

—

The minds of the people in Wicked’s Rest were glorious mazes. Inge preferred to take charge of the nightmares she visited, but in this town it sometimes was just as easy and watch the subconscious’ of her sleepers take charge. It seemed there were ugly pasts buried in many a people’s memory here, ready to be transformed. Sometimes, she really did wonder if maybe she did something right by them, by putting their bad memories in another context. Most of the time, though, she barely thought about it at all.

She let the dream flow, watched another figure join the scene who pressed a knife against the subject’s throat. The figure she had inhabited was bound to drown in the ocean if she just let it be, but instead Inge took charge. The screaming face grinned, not at her subject but at the person behind him — as if there was some kind of secret between them.

She did not know what was going on here, but it was simple enough to figure out that the person in front of her cared for the drowning woman, so much so that he’d cut himself open for it. So Inge reached forward, pushed by a wave and grabbed the hilt of the knife he might bleed himself dry on and pulled it towards her.

Loss was so dreadfully simple. People died. They were murdered or taken by disease, got old or got in accidents — it was an undeniable truth of life. Something much harder to digest was betrayal. And so Inge did not bring the knife to her/the woman’s throat, but instead brought it forward, two hands wrapped around the hilt, and slammed down the knife in the other’s chest, pulling it out with the intention of bringing it down again. 

—

All at once, the fear, anger, and hate came rushing back into Rhett, so intensely that it ripped him from his sleep. His paranoid mind sensed a threat, be it external or from within, and he wouldn’t be snoozing after that. 

His eyes flew open, lungs gasping for air as the pressure of a knife buried in his chest still ached from the dream. His gaze was fixed on the van’s roof, body pinned to the floor of it by an invisible force. Paralysis. Recognizing that it was just another episode, Rhett attempted to calm himself. At least until he noticed the unusual red glow in the van, and managed to angle his gaze downward toward his feet. 

A figure was crouched there, eyes burning red like the devil’s asshole. Fuck. Rhett gave a throaty groan and forced himself to move, knowing a god damned mare when he saw one. It was perhaps only thanks to his status as a hunter that he didn’t just succumb to the feeling, and instead ripped through it like a chainsaw through tissue paper. 

Kicking one leg out, Rhett tried to hook it around the figure’s own and drag them to the floor of the van as well, finding it easier to move his legs than his torso just yet. 

—

This happened sometimes. Inge tended to go overboard (both literally and figuratively in this case) and push her sleepers into wakefulness before she was done. It was the red thread of failure through her life as a mare in general: her pushing it too far. Playing with people’s dreams too much and that leading to moments like this.

He woke up and so, in a way, did she: staring at his paralysis with her red-glowing eyes. In the time she spent considering whether she would try and force him back to sleep, he seemed to gain enough consciousness to make the decision for her. Fuck. Fuck. 

This didn’t happen often, especially not with first-time-feeds. It tended to happen after repeated feedings over a long stretch of time, where she made her appearances predictable. The fact that this man’s instincts were this sharp and this quick to put him to action made Inge respond with fitting panic. But there was no chance to get her mind to focus and get out, with his leg moving for her, pulling her down on the ground of the van. 

She could not suppress the groan that flew from her mouth at the impact. How she hated this, being brought back with force onto the earthy plane where she had none of her powers of terrorization and transformation. Here, she was nothing but her pitiful physical form. Inge pushed herself up on her arms, making a move to crawl away from his reach and most of all taking great care to keep her face somewhat obscured. 

—

With great effort, Rhett rolled onto his side, grunting as he did so, still recovering from the creature’s ill-effects. His breaths came in heavy pants as he pulled himself out of the episode and reached for the intruder, sitting up and lurching forward to grasp at an ankle and giving an exhausted wheeze. 

He wasn’t… a hundred percent sure on what the best method for killing mares was, never having done it before. He’d only been told stories by Emilio’s family, and had only ever seen one in person, himself, before he really knew what they were. But he at least knew the methods of keeping them in place—salt, patched up keyholes, and physical contact. Hence the hand on her leg, and the other one coming down around her throat. Couldn’t be  suffocated, he figured, being undead and all, but it was a good spot for keeping control of her. 

The warden glared down at her, his face illuminated by the red glow of her eyes, and used his own body weight to pin her to the van’s floor. His weapons were, unfortunately, currently out of reach. “Picked the wrong fuckin’ hunter to mess with,” he snarled, lifting his gaze from her face only to try and look around and see what’d happened to his knife. Beheading might do it just fine. Most things died if you removed the head, right?

—

It made sense, when he said he was a hunter. Inge’s red glowing eyes were wide as her own body was pinned on the floor, the quickness and effectiveness with which he’d responded to her indeed fitting with the kind of person who killed for a living. Fuck. She struggled below him on the floor, but with his combined weight and pressure on her throat, there was little wriggling to do.

“Fuck you,” she spat, deeply regretting her decisions. What sour luck she had! Feeding off a hunter, and one twice her size as well. She wished to return to that boat, that sweet dream she’d ruined, the knife she’d sunk into his chest. But here they were, the hunter able to fully see her face and Inge not finding a way to escape at present. All she needed was his weight off her and her skin untouched and she could be gone, far from here. 

With his attention diverted at God-knows-what, however, she managed to wriggle a hand free and press it against his side, under his shirt, clutching the flesh of his stomach. If only he could fall back asleep, she thought, then she could push him from her. With a growl leaving her mouth, neck arching back, she tried to focus on bringing the other back to sleep.

—

He wasn’t a slayer, and he didn’t hunt mares with any sort of regularity, so he was definitely not immune to their sleep inducing touch. As soon as her fingertips found bare skin, he felt woozy. Trying to fight through it, Rhett snatched up his knife as he saw the blade glint red, just sticking out from his jacket pocket. 

“Feeling’s mutual,” came his snarl, grip on the hilt tightening as his mind grew foggy and vision blurry. His eyelids fluttered involuntarily, sleep threatening to overtake him with each second that passed, and he found that infuriating. 

No more thinking. Just stab. He made a motion to do so, to hopefully get her to be still long enough to get a decently sized cut through her neck so he could begin to saw at it, but his aim was shit with the way the world tilted beneath him and her struggling. He wasn’t even sure if he got her with the way she was thrashing and the way his vision went fully dark as his eyes sank closed again, but muscle memory was all he needed, right? 

Right. 

Not so much. “Damn.”

The warden gave in, the weapon clattering to the floor of the van as he slumped over, still half on top of her but certainly dead to the world for the next couple of hours. 

—

So they both brandished their respective weapons now. Inge just had her touch and willpower, her sheer and fierce reluctance to die at the hands of a hunter but this bearded man had an actual knife. It glinted in the limited light and her focus was solely on continuing her touch and keeping it powerful enough. Whatever energy left was spent on wriggling to make it as hard as possible for him. 

She would have goaded him, if she had more energy left to spare, asked him who the people in the dream were. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and only dug deeper when the knife sliced. Not at her throat, but close enough to open the skin of her upper arm near it. The noise came out of her throat was almost animalistic and she clawed, furious, at that bit of flesh she got in her grip. Sleep, you fucking oaf.

Eventually though, he slumped over, his body on hers as glitter drizzled from her upper arm onto the floor of the van. Inge made quick work of taking the knife out of his hand and tossing it to the other side of the van. Whether he had any other weapons wasn’t a question worth asking, because up next was trying to get him off of her, pushing at him with her knees and good arm. She hoped her groans wouldn’t wake the light sleeper up again. 

Once all touch was broken Inge made quick work of broadening the distance between herself and the hunter. For a moment she considered retaliation, retrieving the knife and really sinking it in his chest, but her arm ached and she had always leaned towards cowardice once her recklessness had proven too much. And so off into the astral plane she went, leaving a small pile of glitter in her wake. 

—

Once he woke, groggy and disoriented, Rhett sat up in the van and held his head for a while, trying to recall what the Cortezes had told him about mares. The trip down memory lane was an unpleasant one, of course, and the man lost himself to them for a while, but as the sun peeked over the horizon, he had a plan.