AUDENTIS FORTUNA IUVAT

It seems to be his place, if the recognition on his face tells the tale. The hollow in her heart makes itself known - inside he goes, then the little sip and then the false dream, perhaps - she's not sure she has the heart to rob the world of him.

His pushed his bottom lip out, and musters all the balls of being brave, and not soppy together until he doesn't embarass himself more in front of pretty Sasha.

Tomás plans to stumble-step towards it, hoping that he can squint enough to find his key in one of his pockets and get it in the hole. Ha! So he can go inside, and collapse on the sofa, and maybe watch one of his favourite trash horrors, whilst he overthinks the entire night of beer, and that random pair glossy blue eyes at the bar. Forget all about the reason he's a little skewy in the snow.

His encouragement makes her laugh, though. If only it were as simple as just getting it. It makes her a little sad - because maybe for other vampires, it is just that simple. Maybe there's something that always been fundamentally broken for her. She has been practicing. And she has been trying the self medicating thing again. Baby steps, as always.

"We'll see. I'm giving working on it a shot." He doesn't know the particulars of her extensive therapy appointments, the arguments with Autumn, or the nights she has to lock herself in a steamy bathroom to try and fight the clawing panic of her mind choosing to latch onto the worst things. It's nice, she thinks, that he seems to know her only at the surface level. It means she doesn't have to be so laid bare.

The darkness comes quickly, in a blink rather than a slow fall into the sky. At first, Lara doesn't think much of it - ah, it's night again. But hours pass, and patrons at the club begin to panic. Something doesn't feel right, everyone is on edge, everyone starts to move towards the exits.

Lara peels away from the rests of the crowd once she hears the screams start. Call it being a coward, call it worry for someone else in her life. Things are worse outside - sirens, screams, creatures she'd never seen nor heard of..

So she runs away from it all.

By the time she comes back to herself, she's found herself in the deep snow, out in the forests and too far from home or civilization to realize what's following her. Over the wind and blinding, blistery snow she can hear something or someone, and decides to follow the sound.

He thought at one point, he'd felt a hand, clawing for his t-shirt, but then he'd fallen and it'd been gone and his head started aching. Run, T. Just once, just run.

So he did, through the snow and fog, and the glassy unknown of how he's not sure how he got here. Is he dreaming? It'd be neat but...

"Hello?" He calls back, slowing, panting, and hoping that maybe a familiar face might explain to him the last few hours. Did he leave his apartment, was he looking for something; a story? C'mon T, remember. But he's always worried his memory stutters at the worst of time; a nightchild might have got hold of him again. No. He's safe, it's just a bit of fog, in the early hours. Sun should be out. Somewhere.

She likes him, and his questions. "You know I've never had fideuà - I think I might have heard of it." Memories still splintered, she has no idea.

Another laugh, and they're approaching the warmth of the bookstore soon. "That may be someone else's area of expertise - not mine, though. I just enjoy what I can get." She opens the door for him, and while she can feel the temperature difference - it really doesn't matter. Still, she takes off her coat and gloves, hanging them on the rack by the door.

"Really, really, really good wine." She takes his coat for him, hanging it up, as well. "I can smell that you taste fine, actually. They were probably more controlled than me. Got issues and all." She taps at her temple.

She uses Ms. Howell's blood too? Woah. She's neat.

"Never? You're missing out!" It's perfect for adjusting; he thinks that blood isn't a difficult task to add, either. "I'll get you some, make you mi abuelo's recipe. Bring it over, if you're into that?" His grandfather had been the best, and Tom had spent summers running between his vineyard, squashing grapes in the dry heat thinking about it. And maybe, if not Aria selling the newest bloodied cookbook, he could encourage someone else to, off the back of her idea. She'd take the best pictures for the cover, though.

And then they're inside bookends, and the chill thaws from his fingers.

Tomás understands really good wine; he's partial to it, even. Whilst he unzips his jacket, and hands it off to her, she reaches for it and he's talking again. "I don't... actually know. I don't remember much. But I figured it'd been me." He admits, because that's a truth that falls easily, regarding that night. "But if you're a sommeliar, I trust you'll get the finer details hashed out, huh?" Whatever she taps her temple for, he doesn't entirely get. Aria's not a problem, or an issue. She's great. From what he understands, nightchildren have to practice to be good at anything, like anyone. Maybe she's just gotta do ti a bit more. "You'll get it. I trust you will. Yeah?" She's too lovely not to.

"Ohhh," she replies as he explains and she pats at his arm. It's patronizing, but she doesn't want to dismiss it anymore than she wants to jump headlong into giving up the game.

"Aw, that's so sweet." She smiles to him. "Fashion," she says - it's a lie. Her coursework here is whatever she wants it to be. In this way she's gleaned countless skills and professions over the years. "I prefer to be behind a camera, not in front of it." Also untrue.

"They allllways say that," About the camera. "I would take lots of pictures. Art." Priestley doesn't think through how that sounds; not with his smile, and his blinding idiocy to let himself get beer drunk in the middle of the night. He's hung up on a man who doesn't want him, that's what. "Sasha," it rolls of the tongue, "You find someone to take lots of pho-graphs."

And then their feet cease, and the chill begins to creep into his jacket. Confusion draws his brows to the centre, and he turns at her question, again.

She wonders if Tom here has.

"Uhm-" she ponders. "I don't know, honestly?" Her laughter's quiet and nervous. "I don't know what's for the best. But I do think working together's better - rising tide lifts all boat, and what have you yeah?"

"Coke's fine, thanks," she says with a sweetened smile. She could do with a bit of caffiene and sugar anyhow. Holly peruses disheveled papers - some look like mockups for issues of his newsletters, others are dartboard-worthy collections of information. She waits for the drink while she reads about the city she's arrived in as told by him. Masquerade balls, moon-shifters, magical hurricanes.

He fishes for a couple cokes from the fridge. "You want a glass, ice?" Priestley's already dispensing cubes from the fridge into a clean glass and leaving it on the kitchen counter for her. Then, he's popping the cap of a can for himself. "Yeah, right? There's no harm in sharing knowledge, like, just imagine what we could do if everyone put their heads together."

It'd be awesome.

Tomás lets her have free roam of all his research, because Holly's got her own to share with him. Great minds. He wants to know it all, and especially about the town that isn't talked about, popped like a zit out of existence. Even if they could blow it wide, what would they say, gas leak? Earthquake.

They need to get proof, and better yet, solve the mystery of it entirely. He's briefly sideswept by the desire to know about him, and how long he's been in the city.

"In Oregon? Uh, I got here just before I started my Masters. What's that? We're like, I guess just over a year?" A beat, because he has to now explain why it's taken him so long. He scratched the back of his head, "I got some extensions... for the study." My sister's in a coma. But that isn't what they're talking about, that's his battle with juju. "I'm almost finished with that. But it's just the same in Florida, y'know. Strange things, juju. Yet, not like Port Leiry, this place it's... like something's bringing everyone here, and it's cool, but it's real big. Big like the juju you saw is."

Tomas seems nice enough, and she hesitates to say anything too inflammatory to break his fragile little heart. Seems like he wants to believe the best in people - even her. That sucks for both of them, she thinks.

"Yeah." She chews on her lip. She does know the last remaining member of that family, and unfortunately there's no talking to her right now. "I can't get in touch with Anika right now. But as soon as I can, I will." If she'll even want to answer questions about that night - she highly doubts it. She's about to take her stuff, and call it good, when he starts rummaging again.

"It's strange that there was no marks..." Quieter, as he racks his mind over and over that detail. "You think she consumed it... like, I'm not sure, but a drink with it on, or shared a bagel or something..."

Priestley's running out of speculation, fast.

From afar, it might look like two lovers having a moment in an alley. They still smelled of sweat and liquor from the club they'd met in, bodies finding each other's in the throng of movement. Dancing, writhing, and then a few words were exchanged before they were outside. It was cold, but Winter had never minded the cold, and he didn't really care about how the other felt about it.

"Just a little taste," he reassured the other breathlessly, detaching from his neck to whisper in their ear. Winter smiled, fangs bared, and dove back in, not needing to take a breath even if his partner probably could have.

When he'd finished, the other was no longer conscious, held up only by Winter's hand firm on their shoulder. He wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand, leaned down a bit to take a look at the human, and then let go of them. They slumped to the ground, and for a moment it seemed like Winter would just walk away.

At the last second, he hesitated, and then he leaned down to fix the other. It was quick, no more than a second or two, and the human's back was against the wall, head lolled to the side but definitely looking more comfortable than before. They were breathing, Winter knew, and they were bundled up well enough as long as they were found soon. He made sure they weren't in the dark, light enough on them to alert some passerby.

But then he was walking away, leaving the alley, finally noticing the individual who had likely seen a lot of what had just happened. With his hunger satiated, he was calm, confident in a way he usually reserved for at work. Winter smirked at the other, raising a brow. "Problem?"

He wanders just out of the gathered crowd of smokers, and finds a quieter spot to stand, with his plastic cup of water, and a dark camel coat he can't fumble the buttons up on. So he's given up on that.

The writer wonders if one of the folk just up ahead of him might mind helping him with the buttons in a bit, maybe they'll laugh about it and call him silly or drunk. Maybe he's both. Maybe it's time to go home, and not go back to the super nice, very well-dressed, sparkling green-eyed pilates instructor waiting at the bar, with Tomás' number in his phone. Feels kinda like he's chasing things he's missed out on, lately. (Compensating for heartbreak, also) But before Tomás can even amble up and talk about buttons on a jacket to more strangers, they're getting intimate and he's quick to red flag himself outta the private moment. He thinks he's done pretty good over the months to not get bothered by the reminder of an ex that got bored of him, and pushed him out and never came back.

But that used to be them, fumbling in the alley.

His ex never dropped him to the ground, though.

Are they okay? Priestley misunderstands the question fired off at him, and thinks it's a statement. Fog-brained, and sobering by the second.

Quickly, Tomás' feet kick through the snow, coat whipping in the wind as he jogs up the alley to check on the pair. "Hey! Is, uh, you guys okay?" He's tapping his pockets for his phone in case they need medical. Sudden, fleeting moment of concern. Oh fuck. He didn't leave it at the bar, did he? No. Maybe it's in his jeans. He'll find it in a second. Dropping to his knees down on the snow, the wet soaks through denim, and he's nudging the slumped figure. Be awake, be awake. Please. "Hey, you uh good — can you hear me?" Whilst he reaches for the neck, to brazenly check for a pulse, there's a wound beneath his fingers. No. He's imagining that. Was. He knows there was. There's a smidge of red on the inside of a collar; it doesn't match the non-existent, Tomas' imaginary —

All the neurons in his brain fire at once. He's been this guy.

Head snaps back up to the stranger, "You're a... nightchild. Oh boy, you can't —" a beat, to shake his head as he's relieved to hear the thrum of a pulse, "Not cool! I mean, awesome." Sort of. He wishes he got a photo — "But, you, this. You were gonna leave? Mierda." Shaking his head, both relieved and exasperated. He'd had Priestley panicked for a second, and just as confused about the circumstances of the whole thing. But the sleeper's breathing. Thank fuck.

What's he gonna write about this?

Heron had wolf venom, but she was careful, and she would have taken herself out if she'd accidentally infected herself. Or told Althea before it was even a problem. So the conclusion is that she had no idea she'd been infected either.

Someone had to have done it, passed on the moon gift to the next. She makes him think that maybe she's always been a moonshifter, or a late bloomer, or something? Tomás wishes he saw the body too (respectfully), to wonder if he'd see something they didn't. Like what, he doesn't know. But something. Because now they're digging a fresh hole, and the soil they're throwing could land anywhere. Where do they look now?

"We'll find out." He won't say he doesn't know. But it's obvious he's grasping at straws. He's determined to solve the mystery, now that he knows there's something far more to the story. "They heal with like moon juju? You sure it didn't uh, heal?" Just to be sure. Not to say he doesn't believe the revelation. "We gotta solve it. This is important. When you saw her... um, sleeping, was it just how she died that well... no other marks?"

He's trying to be polite, and honourable about her autopsy. But he hadn't been there.

Nightchildren. Artists, and the family of such. Tomás doesn't see the conection. Even in all the collections of documents, first accounts, pages ripped out of books he probably shouldn't have been allowed near, printings and sketches with maps and locations. Endless lists, and photographs, blurred or otherwise. They're missing something, but he's not sure what it is.

He feels less stupid knowing she doesn't think it makes sense either.

"Well, you think we should talk to them, then? Maybe they know things we don't." He thinks the artist liked him, maybe. He doesn't like recalling what he remembers of that night, really. But this is bigger than him. "If that'd been her um, job, then that's gotta have something to do with it, right? ... I got a lot of accounts where they talk about different times of moon changes, for the... first time, yeah? Maybe something happened with those people, or the job, something new." Had to be. He doesn't know why Althea doesn't want to try talking to the packs — but he's mostly denying admitting he does know, but doesn't like to think he's got any part in hurting anybody. "I think we should start with the family you said about, the ones Ms. Yearwood knew, and the nightchildren that you know about. That makes most sense, doesn't it?" He looks down at the self-made markings of the moonshifters he thinks he's spotted in town, and wonders if there's correlation to nightchildren in the same spots. 'Cause maybe they're friends or something, and they have information that'd help.

The cold isn't a bother, no, and she shakes her head. "I don't, but I dress like I do." She shrugs on her coat, too, hiding her hands in the large pockets in the front. "But yeah - the food stuff?"

It's just a short walk down the street from Silver Scream to Bookends. "Cheeseburger, pizza, pad thai - so long as there's blood on it or in it, I can taste it all. Without the blood, it's just ash in my mouth - or completely flavorless." She shrugs, passing by some of the other smaller shops here on their street. Bookends is a beacon of shining light just a few blocks down. Snow and ice crunch beneath their feet and she makes sure to watch Tomas' feet just in case he slips on a patch.

"I don't know how good it'd sell, but other vampires should definitely give it a shot. It's not, like, filling or anything - I still need to drink." She pauses and turns to Tomas, eyes wide. "Not from you. I'm still working through the stopping issue I have and don't wanna put you in danger. I've got a stock, so no worries, yeah?"

He's getting all the sauce from the source.

"Oh, right! Damn. That's cool, it works with any blood?" Maybe that's a silly question. But, it could be important in the recipe thing. He likes spicy foods, maybe Boughton doesn't, so she picks a different sort on the positive, negative scale. He won't know, unless he asks. And nothing could kick the smile off his face, or the giddiness as he walks alongside her, practically skipping each time he's got a new question for her. He's not even writing it down, just storing it away; convinced he'll remember it later. Prince of exaggerations, Tomás deliberates what exactly he'd do if he had to cut out food for eternity. "I think I would die if I couldn't taste abuelo's famous fideuà again."

Well, his mother's hand-me-down recipe version of it, at least.

He wonders what Aria and Autumn are having for dinner. He's invited. It's still sinking in. He's having dinner with Ms. Aria Boughton! "We can definitely get the word out!" He says, sudden like a revolutionary giving a speech. "It'd sell. I know it. You're too awesome for it not to."

Initially, he skips over the detail that she's looking at him like she's said something bad. Concern, or some sort of shock. He supposes he'd thought about the idea of what it'd cost to get the inside peek into the photographer's world, because he owed her. For the movie. Not that he's too keen to be on the menu, without good reason. Is this a good reason? "Oh — yeah, I mean if you needed..." His teeth stab his lower lip because she talks about issues, and maybe that's the bad part. Might be why she's pulling that face he wants to apologise for. He's messing it up. He lifts a finger, and laughs quietly, kicking aside nerves for the second time in two minutes. "Guess it's like a really good wine you can't put down, huh? Pop the cork, and glug, glug, glug."

They stroll, lightly, after he tells her - to the best of his ability - where he lives. It's not far, she thinks - but she hasn't yet decided if he'll make it there.

"You're sweet," she repays the compliment, tilting her head with her wide smile on full display.

Oh boy. He gets dizzy for a second, and he pulls on her arm, before shaking it off. There’s nothing to say that he thinks is gonna sound cool. The ice is stealing his thunder, already.

But he’s convinced she isn’t gonna let him fall. “Weeell I—“ Tideview he can talk about. “Si, yeah! Journa — journa-lism. I write. I like to write. Paper. Pen pen. Stories about those hiding — sneaky sleuthsss in our world, mhm?” Nobody ever knows, but he doesn’t mind tonight. Because one person will, and then eventually, so will two.

"No, I don't think she wanted to attack me - not if she were.. aware." Clearing her throat, she wipes at her face, trying to ignore that sinking feeling in her gut that's reappeared for the first time since it happened. "So far I've ruled out any sort of bite, which is unusual as fuck. But I have no idea how else that would even happen."

She's lost.

"Last I heard it was something about Booker. But I don't even know if that was related - because that was all bloodsuckers." She looks down at the map though and sucks in a breath through her teeth. "You're close, man." She points down to a few areas - "The packs, I know 'em - that there's one territory, and over here by the docks is that Warwick shit. But she wandered."

Something awful happened to her, and it probably wasn't her fault if her brain was juju mush for a little while.

"I'm sorry." Priestley says, solemn and honest. He takes pause in the quiet, where some barebones respect beats the excitement for what knowledge they could share with each other. The silence is three seconds long. Althea's got tears at the ducts and it make Tomás think about loss, and his sister. He's a coward about going back, and he knows it. He doesn't know what he'd say if he sat at her bedside whilst she slept as his parents bickered about work like nothing was wrong. He dreads the day they think enough time's passed, that there's no longer a bed for her. There's going to be a way that's gonna bring her back, juju can best sleep; he had a boyfriend — ex, now with juju powers to go into minds. There's going to be a way.

Just as there will be a way for Heron's memory to be respected. "Juju fog. Yeah." Something else to research more.

And then Althea presents him with an equation he's never once considered.

"No bite?" Tomás eyes bore into hers, expectant for more than that. "Whadd'ya mean there's no sign of a bite?" Did it heal? No scar? Did she hide it all this time, she's one of the moonshifters born that way? "There's gotta be a bite. That's how it works—"

This changes it all. Pity, and loss goes out the window because there's a puzzle now.

Now there's a new name? He thinks he knows that one. Waits. Eyes dart to the pages to think back to his own foggy, messed-up memory. "Like Anika Booker, the artist?" Nouveau. He remembers, in pieces. The way it ended, not so much. "Where's she come from? She's not a moonshifter." He knows that because he's talked to her, he thinks he recalls that conversation about animals, too.

And nightchildren? If Althea didn't just widen her heart about Heron, Tomás might have thought she was screwing with him, and taking him for a ride.

But now it's just got messier. "Okay." he begins again, deep breath and fingers strecth out on the documents between them; backtrack to the first lead. "You know the packs? That's awesome. Wow. Neat." Holy fuckballs. "You talk to them?" Maybe they'd have said something about Heron being around, if that's a new thing?

A new spell from juju, a curse? A gift, maybe, to them. "Where's the last you had contact with her before uh, y'know..."

Murdering her, I guess.

"You're very drunk," she says, steadying him further as he stumbles out an answer, gesturing wildly in a direction, and the Vampire's calculus begins its lethal arithmetic. Will this cute boy live or die? Will he remember her or not? Choices she has been making for centuries begin to balance the invisible scales in her mind. Is he important? Will he be missed?

"I'm Sasha," she says. "You want to walk with me a bit?" Her voice affects something more modern - spurred on by her slow descent into the era, from her conversations with Oksana and Frankie and even Madison. She lets her accent poke through, ancient and slight, that she may affect the countenance of an affable tourist.

"You can barely walk."

He pinches his fingers together, and smiles back at her. Hiccups. "A li'tle bit."

Tomás doesn't remember it now, but the last time he let the beers run their course, he stumbled into some guys bed, and woke up apologising for it. It'd been nothing (quite literally, he'd stayed dressed), but damn it had been embarrassing.

"Saaaasha?" He tries it out on his tongue, and he does want to walk with her because the ground is very close to him, with every step he tries to take. "I think — si?" He blinks, and kicks feet back into the snow to get himself upright, once again. Between jumbled confidence, and trying to keep his eyes open, he tells her where he lives, and asks how far they are.

Her teeth grit together as he keeps going, and she has to lean forward to grip the edge of the table - careful not to mess up his piles just in case they're in some sort of order. Her back feels rigid and tight, like a massive weight is pulling her down towards the earth. She wishes it would just swallow her whole at this point. Maybe then the grief wouldn't be so all-consuming.

"I want to find who bit her. And - and why." She'd lied to get in close with this man, and now she might pay for it. But it's too much to bear alone, she needs to have someone helping her, since all she's done is run into dead end after dead end.

He continues and it's like he'd pulled the thoughts out of her head, and she finally looks up at him, dumbfounded. "..you'd really help? Even knowing I killed her?" The word 'someone' caught on her throat, because at the end of the day: it's still hard to view these things as people.

Ms. Yearwood? Eyes drop down to the bracelet tightly wrapped around his wrist. She'd given it to him, once. Protection. Something. His mind's all messy, now. Because she's dead, and he's looking at her murderer. There's a murderer in his apartment. But that's suddenly so unimportant, he's almost laughing (and then crying). Heron's gone? Instead, he just feels hurt. Aching. A hand pulling at the bracelet on his wrist, and the memory it held. He's quieter, "You were Ms. Yearwood's friend?"

He didn't know her much, but he'd call her a friend. Kindness didn't cost anything.

When she catches his eyes again, she probably sees that Tom's are uneasy. Trying to compose himself, he sucks in a breath. She has a point, there had to be reason? Heron must have known them, maybe there's more to the story that they've yet to chalk up. He'd like to know, too. "We can find that out." He's confident in it, and he looks to all the clippings, and notes he's drawn on various documents.

If she can tell him who she might've ruled out, or what areas. Maybe some of the places Heron went, they could start talking to some people. "She wouldn't have meant to attack you. Not her." That's something he's certain of. "Probably confused, lots of reports say that it's a big shift through the juju brain, yeah?" Takes a second to adjust. It's on a first account he found posted online, on a forum.

He doesn't like that she did something so bad as to kill... but she's not the first of the type he's met, either. It sounded like a mistake, and he's not going to get bogged down by that. If he does, he'll have to get heavy with his thoughts and he can't do that right now. "I wanna help. I can. Look, I got stuff on a bunch of folk, and there's moonshifter packs, you know what she might've been looking for? Or maybe we uh, hold on," He sifts through more papers, "She go anywhere, I made a map, see, every moonshifter I bumped into, and where?" Albeit, he leaves off that a bunch of the dots on his crassly sketched out map, were him making assessments of the situation. Some he talked to, others he just passed. "I got one for every month I've been here. Look."

But he thinks he's pretty good at figuring it out; it's all in the fingernails.