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1. Recall
Mina startles when Mirage whistles, high and sharp. It grates across her ears, curling lip and baring teeth like an animal. She startles further when the beast, the legend, leans out of the alley's gloom.
Her skin itches. Her soul itches. The Drifter is dirty, inside and out, and the sight draws her muscles tense, bowstring transformation, bloodied arrow nocked. Yet, yet- the Drifter halts at the curb, ignoring her completely, looking past her.
It feels worse than being recognised.
She expects that same beast to lunge, to rip out the throat of the man who dared to command him. Instead, the Drifter’s grin widens, and he trots forward with a loose-limbed, shambling gait. Faintly, she recognises, because she is not stupid, never stupid- there is a terrifying lack of dignity in the way the most wanted creature in the Baronies moves, a deliberate parody of obedience that suggests he could snap the leash at any moment simply because he finds the snap funny.
The ambassador’s bodyguard does not look as amused. He stands with the rigid posture of a statue, his dark overcoat immaculate against the grime of the alley. When Drifter comes to a halt at his boots, Mirage does not offer a treat or a word of praise; he simply adjusts his cuff, looking down his nose at the creature with the detached disinterest of a man inspecting a smudge on his shoe.
It, really, truly is the tension that unsettles her, the not-quite-silence that hangs between them, thick, coagulated. The Drifter leans into Mirage’s space, brushing his cheek against the rough wool of the bodyguard’s coat like a cat claiming territory, his fangs glinting in the streetlamp's yellow-green haze, and yet, still, Mirage does not push him away. He merely rests a gloved hand atop the monster’s head, a heavy, possessive weight that looks less like affection and more like a warning, daring the Drifter to bite while Mina prays he doesn’t.
"You came," she hears him say to the monster.
"I always come, sweetheart," the monster says. "'specially when you call."
2. Sit
Mina watches the scene from a 24 hour diner booth, coffee cooling before her, though she barely notices the temperature.
She cannot look away from the window. The street is full of people, full of noise, full of life, but her eyes are glued to the small, still tableau across the road. There is a bench there, iron and green, flaking paint, and on it sits Mirage.
The Drifter sits at his feet.
Once she started noticing, really watching, she couldn't stop realising how often it happens. Not just at the end of a hunt, or a meeting, but in the between-spaces, in the quiet moments that the city ignores. Now, he rests his back against the bodyguard’s legs, sprawling in a way that takes up half the sidewalk, his grin sharp and bright, claws wet with blood (and something else).
Mirage holds a newspaper, folded with military precision, his eyes scanning the headlines with a stoicism that suggests he is utterly alone, asides from the metal vase sat besides him. Every so often, he turns a page; the rustle of the paper is the only sound between them, but when he shifts his weight, crossing one leg over the other, the Drifter moves with him, tilting his head to rest on the man's knee as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
Passersby step around them, averting their eyes, hurrying past as though they sense the predator in their midst, but the Drifter doesn't look at them. He looks at nothing, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, seemingly content to be nothing more than a piece of furniture. A monstrous piece of furniture, but a piece of furniture nonetheless.
The absurdity of it makes Mina want to laugh, or scream, or perhaps both. This is the creature that slaughtered an entire Coven, the creature that the Elders fear above all others, acting like a well-behaved house pet while his master reads the funnies.
3. Down
She is close enough now to almost hear the words, though she keeps to the shadows.
There is another move happening, a small, meaningless squabble over territory between two minor lords that Mina decided to observe, but the real drama, the real danger, is happening here, where Mirage stands with his back against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls around him, hazy and grey, blending with the city smog.
The Drifter is there, of course. He is always there. He stands close, too, too close, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his threadbare coat, swaying slightly on his feet as if drunk or high on blood. He’s talking, a low, rapid-fire stream of mockery that Mina can’t quite make out, but she can see the effect it has; Mirage’s jaw tightens, a subtle tick in his cheek, his eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance.
He ignores the goading with the stoicism of a man who has spent a lifetime ignoring things, but the Drifter is persistent. He steps closer, into personal space. He says something, a whisper against the shell of Mirage's ear, and Nashala's one-man army moves.
A single, downward gesture, sharp and precise, accompanied by a low, rumbling word in a tongue Mina does not speak, and the effect is immediate.
The Drifter drops.
He hits the dirty pavement on his knees without a sound, the playful mockery vanishing instantly from his posture, replaced by a terrifying stillness. He bows his head, exposing the long, pale column of his throat, eyes fixed on the scuffed leather of Mirage's shoes. She shivers, pressing further back against the dark, like it would protect her.
Mirage takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke directly down onto the bowed head, ash falling onto dark, matted hair and cap.
He puts it out on the Drifter's collar.
4. Leave It
They have walked into a trap, a clumsy ambush by a pack of younglings who think themselves big bad wolves in a city full of them.
Mina crouches on a fire escape, watching. The blood spills, bright and hot against the asphalt, and she expects the Drifter to join in. The violence is palpable, thick in the air, a scent she knows he craves. He is a killer, after all. A monster.
He doesn't.
He stands back, the neon sign above the street buzzing a frantic hum, casting his shadow long and jagged across the brickwork.
Mina watches the Drifter’s hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing in a rhythmic, agitated motion, a physical manifestation of the restraint he is exercising. He looks at the spreading pools of blood on the ground, his eyes dark and wide, nostrils flaring to take in the copper tang that hangs heavy in the air, but he does not step forward. He does not bend to drink, even as the gunshot rings. He watches the violence with a singular, intense focus, a moth mesmerised by a flame, yet his feet remain rooted to the spot as if they have grown through the concrete.
When the last youngling falls, gurgling on the pavement, Mirage finally turns. He is breathing harder, a sheen of sweat on his brow, but his posture remains immaculate. He looks at the Drifter, then down at the carnage at their feet, and makes a small, sharp gesture with his chin, a silent command that cuts through the quiet of the aftermath. "Leave it," he says, his voice barely carrying across the alleyway to where Mina hides.
The Drifter’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He tears his gaze away from the bleeding bodies with visible effort, his shoulders hunching forward as if he is physically fighting the urge to throw himself into the gore. Instead, he looks at Mirage, that unsettling grin slowly creeping back onto his face, strained and hungry, and he gives a jerky, mocking little nod. "Good boy," the chained beast murmurs to himself, the words twisted and strange, but he follows Mirage out of the alley without looking back, leaving the feast behind.
Mina watches Mirage glance to the side, eyes almost, nearly softening. "Yes," he says, so quiet Mina can hardly hear. "Good."
5. Speak
The bar is a place where people go to be loud enough that they don't have to listen, and Mirage sits at a small corner table, a glass of untouched water in front of him, posture perfect. The Drifter sprawls opposite him, boots up on the table, long legs taking up all the available space, grinning that grin at the patrons who are smart enough to avoid looking in their direction.
She’s not stupid, and curiosity, in the city, is a terminal disease but Mina still sits two tables away, her back to the wall, watching their reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
"Ask nicely," the monster says.
Mirage does not look up from his glass, his hand resting loosely beside it, fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat against the scarred wood of the table. "You are in a public establishment," he says, his voice smooth, carrying easily over the din of the bar, but his tone is that of a man reprimanding a pet that has chewed the furniture. "Conduct yourself with a modicum of decorum, or I shall take you outside and remind you of your place."
The Drifter only laughs, a low, gravelly sound that seems to vibrate right through Mina’s bones. He leans forward, dropping his boots to the floor with a heavy thud that makes the water in Mirage's glass ripple, and props his chin in his hands, batting his long, dark eyelashes with a mocking innocence that belies the sharp points of his fangs. "But I like it inside," he whines, though there is a hungry edge to the words that suggests he isn't talking about the bar anymore. "And you like it when I'm bad."
It happens so quickly that Mina almost misses it, a flicker of emotion in Mirage's dark eyes, a crack in the porcelain mask he wears so carefully, quickly suppressed but undeniable. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the skin, and for a fleeting second, the dispassionate bodyguard is gone, replaced by a man who is painfully, acutely aware of the beast sitting across from him, a man who is holding himself back by a thread that is fraying, fast.
"Speak," Mirage says, the word bitten off and sharp, a command that is less an invitation and moreso a plea.
The Drifter’s grin widens, triumphant, and he leans in even closer, until their faces are just inches apart. "I think you want to take me outside," he purrs, the words a low, seductive rasp that sends a disgusted shiver down Mina’s spine. "I think you want to put me on a leash."
Mirage’s hand moves, his fingers closing around the Drifter's throat, but he doesn't squeeze. The touch is a collar made of flesh and bone, holding the creature back through more will than sense, and he holds him there, staring into his eyes with an intensity that is almost unbearable. "I think," Mirage says, his voice dropping to a whisper that is barely audible over the noise of the bar, "that you would enjoy that far too much."
Drifter wheezes, grins. "That's the point, sweetheart."
+1
Mina is tired. The Ritual has dragged on for weeks, the endless, bloody game of cat and mouse across the city wearing her down to the bone.
Paige smiles at her, half-soft and half-nervous. "You look like you could sleep for a week, Mina."
"Two," Mina replies. "Maybe three."
They turn down 54th. There is a light fog, swirling around the streetlamps and blurring the edges of the world, turning the city into a watercolour painting of grey, green and gold.
They are there, of course. They are always there. She has seen too much, and the sight of the two of them together now feels like a final insult to her sanity.
Mirage stands apart from the world, his back pressed to the damp brick of a tenement wall. He has removed his gloves, and his dark hands are buried deep in the hair of the creature kneeling at his feet; he strokes with a slow, rhythmic motion, thumb tracing the line of a pointed ear, his expression unreadable in the half-light. The Drifter, for once, is silent, his eyes closed, his head tipped back into the touch with a terrifying vulnerability, the monstrous grin finally absent from his pale face, replaced by something that looks painfully like relief.
Mina watches Mirage’s hand still, his fingers tightening just enough to command attention without causing pain.
"Easy," Mirage murmurs, the word drifting through the damp air to where Mina stands frozen.
The Drifter sighs, a rattling, contented sound that settles in the base of Mina's skull. He turns his head just enough, his eyes opening to slits to fix Mina with a single, glowing red iris, a final, silent warning that she has seen something not meant for her eyes, before he nudges Mirage's palm with his cold nose and closes them again.