A deal is only as good as the paper it's written on.
Moses was meticulously applying the final touches to his work, his brow furrowed in concentration. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he stepped back to assess his progress.
"Hey, you," a ghostly voice called out from behind him.
Startled, Moses whirled around, only to stumble over his own feet and crash awkwardly onto the floor. He looked up at the ghostly figure with wide eyes.
"Yes?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion.
While he was not surprised by the ghost's presence—he could feel its ethereal energy in the apartment and had noticed a peculiar pulsation from the bathroom mirror—he wasn't indifferent to it.
"What are you doing?" Simon asked, his voice a spectral whisper.
Moses glanced at the intricate setup around him. "You needn't worry. I'm just setting up protection around your home."
"That's not what I meant," Simon replied, shaking his head. His gaze was intense, almost as if piercing through Moses's very soul.
Moses raised an eyebrow, puzzled, but Simon's unwavering stare conveyed a stern message.
"I meant the knife," Simon clarified, his tone firm. "If you're about to perform a dangerous ritual, I will stop you."
Moses's eyes shifted to the dagger in his hand and then back to Simon's translucent form.
"Why?" Moses asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Shay doesn't want you to get hurt," Simon replied, his voice soft yet resolute.
Moses managed a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll just need a bit more blood than usual."
Though Simon's expression remained unchanged, a flicker of doubt crossed his ghostly face. Despite this, he made no move to intervene.
Rolo and Alex arrived at the house almost simultaneously. Alex, who could not quite articulate his unease, felt an invisible barrier around the property.
Rolo's eyes widened as he took in the bluish glow encircling the house. The magic pulsated in the air, creating an electric-like vibration. He had never encountered such formidable defenses before, not even in their old house.
"Unbelievable," Rolo muttered in awe, "Did that dork really do this?"
Without a word, Alex strode purposefully toward the front door. Rolo followed, albeit with more caution and hesitation. He paused momentarily before the boundary, wondering if it would permit him through. The swirling magic was light and tingling, confirming that he could cross it. As they entered the house, they found Moses sitting on the steps, casually sipping tea.
"I don't know what you've done," Alex said with a grin, "but it's impressive!"
Mose responded with a similar grin, nodding in agreement. Alex bounded into the kitchen, eager to prepare a meal, while Rolo observed Mose's bandaged hands with curiosity.
"Blood magic is dark magic," Rolo remarked casually.
"Magic isn't inherently dark or light," Mose corrected, "It all depends on how it's used."
Rolo nodded, acknowledging the validity of Moses's point.
Des arrived for dinner, tossing a pile of papers onto the table in front of Rolo. Rolo raised an eyebrow in question.
"What's this?" he asked.
"My squad gathered all available information within the Crosspherat about Acheron," Des replied with a shrug, plopping down in an empty chair.
Alice took a seat as well, dropping a few coins onto the table. "And these are our tickets to the next show."
Alex, furrowing his brows, picked up a coin and examined it.
"Really?" he asked, "Does this actually get you in?"
"Yeah," Des mumbled through a mouthful of food, "Hrrrm mgh mhmmmt…"
"You'd better eat, love," Alice said with a sigh, "I don't know how familiar you are with Greek mythology, but some accounts suggest that Charon did not ferry souls on the River Styx, but rather on the River Acheron. The ferryman was paid with a golden coin."
"You hunters have a rather grim sense of humor," Rolo observed.
"The next Acheron Day is in a week," Alice added.
A tense silence fell over the table as the memory turned into mist before my eyes, just for another to take its place.
At the family table, Coffee sat sipping her drink, accompanied by her father, Mr. Blutkaiser.
"I know what you're planning, and I forbid it," Mr. Blutkaiser said, his icy gaze fixed on his daughter.
"He saved me; I owe him," Coffee replied, meeting her father's gaze without flinching.
Few people could endure Mr. Blutkaiser's scrutiny, but Coffee was one of them.
"Not by turning against the Crosspherat to save him!" he snapped.
"You're mistaken, Father," Coffee said simply, "They have turned against us."
Mr. Blutkaiser was taken aback by her words. His daughter had evidently made a serious commitment.
"You want to start a war?!" he growled.
Coffee, her anger palpable, stood abruptly. The chair clattered loudly against the floor.
"Whatever you think, Father," Coffee said firmly, "I'm going."
"I won't let you," he declared, his tone resolute.
"You forget something," she said with a small, defiant smile, "I am not my mother."
With that, she turned and left, leaving her father standing alone, frozen in his disbelief.
Simon withdrew his hand and said nothing.
"Thanks, buddy," I whispered.
He still didn't say anything.
"Don't be like that," I pleaded. "I made the decision that posed the least amount of risk."
"For who?" he hissed. For the first time in a week, I heard his voice.
His eyes, which had mostly missed the fire of the living, now burned with fury.
"For my friends," I confessed.
Simon turned away, almost insulted. "Don't you wonder how we feel? Do you think it's good to see you like this?"
I pressed my lips into a sharp line. Maybe that's why I tried in vain to placate Simon with my life force. Not once did he accept it.
"I'm fine."
"The hell you are!" he protested.
There was an intangible fear in his eyes that I couldn't understand.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Isn't it obvious?" he asked as if to avoid answering.
"No," I said, confused. "That's why I asked."
"Why is your light dimming, you simple-minded asshole?" he growled. "Are you dying, you idiot?"
I looked at him stupidly for a moment, then laughed. Simon looked even angrier. I thought he was about to explode.
"Don't worry," I said quietly. "I'm just conserving my strength."
I didn't really seem to have convinced him. I smiled and took his hand. He wanted to pull away from my touch, but I didn't let him.
"See?" I asked.
Simon's eyes widened.
We were so close I could see his eyes crystal clear. His eyes usually didn't react to light or darkness, because he wasn't alive. Yet at that moment, his pupils constricted as if he were looking into the sun.
For a moment, I thought I saw a golden light reflected in the darkness of his dark pupils, similar to the eyes of the living, but perhaps I was imagining it. For a second he looked at me as if he could see me, but not at the same time.
I put my other hand on his hand and concentrated on warming it. To give him some of the warmth of the living.
"You don't have to worry," I reassured him. "A week of starvation won't get me down. It'll take a lot more than that to kill me."
Simon jerked his hand away and turned away.
"Idiot!"
I chuckled a few times. "But thanks for worrying about me."
"I wasn't worried!" he hissed.
Anyway, that got him to finally look at me again.
"Thanks, Simon," I repeated. "It's nice to have someone who worries about me."
"Everyone's worried about you," he corrected me.
"Then I'm even luckier," I smiled.
After that Simon left, still offended.
(...)
I pretended not to notice his arrival. Of course, he knew I was actually awake, but I didn't bother to look at the lowly person arriving. The beating of his heart told me that I had managed to irritate him, though I suspected he might still present himself as the impassive ice sculpture he usually was. A small, satisfied half-smile curved my lips. There was only one person who could piss George Willingham off more than I could.
"How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?" he eventually snapped, clearly frustrated by my stillness.
I had hoped another day would pass without him trying to communicate with me.
"Well," I replied lazily, "as long as you're here."
My voice made it clear that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Not that I was trying to hide it—if anything, I aimed to irritate him further.
Willingham snorted—a reaction I wouldn't have expected if anyone else were around; he probably would have exploded instead of indulging in such behavior. George Willingham suffered from an incorrigible snobbery.
"Don't you care why I'm here?" he asked, and I felt that my indifferent silence might provoke him into a good swearing session.
"Perhaps you're here to make sure I'm starving to death," I said mockingly. "I must disappoint you; I'm quite fine without food."
I turned my attention to the loaf he held out.
"Here," he said, "only those who fight get to eat. The rest of the scum are destined to starve."
"Oh?" I sat up on the floor, intrigued. "So you were planning to starve me? You are meaner than I thought."
"Not at all," he said, "I merely thought it best to minimize the number of battles you engage in until your trial date."
"So there will be a trial?" I grinned mockingly. "Will the Crosspherat decide whether to burn me at the stake or throw me back here to be executed by one of the prisoners?"
Willingham didn't even respond to my comment—instead, he held the loaf out to me between two bars.
As much as I didn't want to take the food offered by Willingham, I changed my mind after only a few minutes. Hunger won, and I accepted the food. After all, food is food, and hunger sucks.
"I know the half-blood is innocent," he said quietly.
"You came to tell me what I already know?" I raised an eyebrow.
Willingham nodded. "I suppose you've got the robbery pinned on you too."
Well, my favorite hunter didn't need to know the truth. I looked at him with the most innocent eyes I could muster as I nodded slowly.
"Someone was really trying to frame you," he remarked.
"You don't say?" I rolled my eyes.
"At first, I too believed your famiglia was just a small group of murderers," he continued, "No, that's not entirely true. I wanted to believe that, and didn't even consider the possibility of false accusations."
I glanced up at him impassively while munching on the bread.
"You are not what I thought you were," he said. "I found that out when we caught you. You're a sharp-tongued, ill-mannered brat… but not the kind of beast that kills without reason."
"You came to tell me that?" I asked. "Maybe you wanted to ease your conscience?"
"I started investigating," Willingham said, his voice dropping, "and found out that the people who put you here are the Inner Circle."
I looked up at him, bored.
"You knew," he whispered to himself in disbelief, "you knew all along…"
I grinned. George Willingham stared at me as if he had uncovered something unpleasant.
"I surprised you, didn't I?" I said. "But you know I'm an informant. This shouldn't surprise you."
"What are you planning?" he hissed.
"What do I plan?" I wondered mischievously. "I don't know…"
"Don't play games with me!" he snapped.
"Actually, the game started a long time ago," I declared.
"What do you mean?"
I chuckled as I stood up slowly. "After all, everyone wants the same thing, right?"
I leaned closer, and, as he stood right in front of the bars, I almost purred in his ear. "You're no different, Willingham."
The man took a few steps back, and I watched his pale face with satisfaction. It was over. At that moment, George Willingham, one of the Crosspherat's best strategists, had failed miserably.
"The only reason you'd put my case to trial is because you think you have a better chance of stopping someone from the Circle from sitting on the throne if I help you. And then you'd just have to make me disappear—maybe even lock me up again."
Willingham's fists clenched, his fingers forming tight fists.
"Am I right?" I gave him my sweetest smile.
"I never thought you'd be such a threat," he said through his teeth. "I underestimated you."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I shrugged.
"You said everyone wanted the throne," he began. "Do you want it?"
I shook my head. "Frankly, I'm not interested. I never wanted to be king."
"Really?"
I nodded, locking my gaze with his.
"Seriously, I don't need any of this. To be involved in so much trouble without even being king, I don't even want to imagine what being one of them must be like," I sighed. "I've always just wanted a quiet life."
"If that's what you really want, stand by me! Will you help me overthrow the dark mages?" Willingham asked earnestly.
I grinned. "What do you think, smart guy? Of course not."
"I could get you out," he argued. "Think again!"
"There's nothing to think about," I said cheekily. "No, Willingham, there is nothing to think about. You'll stand by me, not the other way around."
Willingham was initially shocked, but then his anger exploded.
"Then," he began, "you'd better prepare yourself for hell."
George Willingham never took rejection well—not often, and certainly not when he found himself humiliated.
"I am always prepared," I replied, still smiling.