Jason Blood in the Cat-Tales Universe from Lady Dien

Mars

Six weeks. I go home--the apartment-- in the evenings, too tired to make it to the damn bed sometimes; I collapse on the sofa and wake mornings after with headaches that don’t go away until two cigarettes and three cups of coffee-- which means I’m back to normal just in time to go back to his place and spend the next sixteen hours ‘studying.'

Bastard’s been working me to the sodding bone. First there were the books. I dug my rusty Latin and Greek out from childhood to tackle them. Which is really quite amusing, when I think about it-- at age eight, I whined and pleaded with my father to get me a private tutor, just so my brothers couldn’t lord it over me that they could read the Iliad and Odyssey and L'Morte d'Arthur and so on in the original languages. Father indulged his baby girl hardly thinking she'd ever use the knowledge for anything. And now…? John’s taking over the family business from Father; Allen is supposedly considering politics. And I’m the one actually using the dead tongues of Plato and Pliny…

So, yes, the books. Old books, terribly old; weird books…. bound in leather and iron; wood and bronze; strange scaled skins and semi-precious stones. I cannot say that all the pages have been of paper, nor would I wager money on the inks being substances I can identify. Strange books, to match the strangeness of their contents.

So the mornings have been given over to the readings. He installs me in his study and sets me up with a large pile and I read until the words blur on the pages; trying to assimilate concepts that Blood calmly informs me have driven better men than I mad. Charming man, non?

The afternoons are given over to application and development of other senses. This is where we have the dead sparrows…

There is an adequate hot-house of sorts, with plants, on the rooftop. Potted roses and a wrought-iron bench. And the coop. He keeps pigeons there; fat happy stupid birds. Why? For sacrificial purposes, of course, and the occasional reading of entrails, Miss Ashton. Or such was the response I received when asking.

Charming, charming man.

…but my being here means the pigeons have a different fate than a grisly death by ritual knifing. Instead, they get to serve as target practice for my ever-improving aim.

Last week…. last week, I shot a sparrow from the sky. A sparrow on the wing, diving through Parisian skies in search of gnats; far enough above my head to be little more than a wheeling speck. But with my new…. vision… 'aim' is only a matter of concentration. I hunt auras now, with my mind; not shapes with my eye. I’m very…. accurate, now. And skilled at killing songbirds.

Jason is fairly unsympathetic to my discomfort. Do I want to destroy d'Allamaign. Yes. Then this is what must be done, so do stop being squeamish, Miss Ashton.

After all, this is what you wanted….

I hear a step in the hallway and I 'listen,' though not with my ears. A sort of gray presence, unobtrusive yet fairly antagonistic. That will be Henri, the butler who objects quite strongly, and quite silently, to my presence in his master’s house. I put out my cigarette with a slight smile, not taking my eyes from off the view out Jason’s study window. The door creaks open.

"Will mademoiselle be taking espresso today?" My back to him, I grin at the stiff indignation in his tone as he forces himself to ask, in English no less. He might as well be saying, Will mademoiselle kindly pull her barbaric guns out and shoot herself in the head today? Ahh well. Henri doesn’t like me.

…I suppose my pointing a gun at him the first day we met might have something to do with it.

"Sure thing, Jeeves," I respond, taking out another cigarette from my pocket and lighting it, just to piss him off. Okay. Okay, I don’t really like Henri either. But I find it so damn fun to tweak him.

"Mademoiselle--"

"Yeah. I know. Your name is not 'Jeeves.'"

"…precisely, mademoiselle."

"Got it. Actually, do we have any beer?" (In my most American drawl.)

Rampant displeasure. I wonder if I can offend his sense of propriety enough that he'll have a heart attack? "…I shall enquire of the cook, mademoiselle."

Yeah. You do that, Jeeves. Enquire of that fat old woman who never stirs from the kitchen but who does, I admit, make excellent bread. Been taking a lot of meals here, lately.

"Real beer, German beer, not this French domestic crap, Jeeves," I call after Henri as he exits, and laugh sadistically for a bit in the silence of the den. Stupid old relic.

The street outside is fairly quiet. It’s mid-morning on the last day of March, a soft rain falling against the long panes of the windows. I let my gaze drop from the view back down to the books and the room, staring at the by-now-familiar armchairs.

We sit in those chairs in the evenings, which are given over to our discussions. "Discussions." More like arguments, really. We generally start with something supposedly magic-related, but within ten minutes we're talking…. oh, anything. The arts, history, philosophy, music-- Marco Polo to Chinese fireworks to Mayan calendars. Blood’s quite happy to spend three hours arguing with me about Plato versus Aristotle, Galileo versus Newton, Chopin’s music being superior to Bach’s…. He seems to know something about everything, if not being an actual authority on the subject.

In fact, the only thing I haven’t been given quite an education in…. is him.

Six weeks… and I still don’t really know who he is, any more than I did at the start of it. Mr. Goddamned-wrapped-in-a-mystery likes to keep up his personal enigmas; he likes to keep up that shadowy separation between him and the world.

There was a time when I liked mysteries. I got into… everything, into this whole world, because of the mysteries in the first place.

Because, my God, there was absolutely nothing like the moment: that moment, when you discover something secret and incredible and unreal-- when you know for a fact that the world is a richer and more fascinating and stranger and better place than advertised. Better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of humanity believes it to be.

I used to live for those moments. When I knew I was onto something, into something, that was as far beyond the mundane as you could get. And the mystery of it just took me and engulfed me and enchanted me into a world where anything was possible… and how could I have ever gone back to dinner parties and debutante balls, after that? To prospective husbands and making sure my dance card for the evening was full, when just on the other side of that painfully shallow world were things I knew to be real? Monsters and demons, angels and gods; magic and legend and myth.

Here there be dragons.

And I could say that of my life. I exulted in being part of the point-one percent that did not settle for this world, this world that gets smaller and duller by the day. I gloried in it-- in being more alive than the rest of humanity. Once upon a time. Before.

Jason Blood enters my field of vision, passing in front of the window as he walks along the sidewalk towards the door. This morning, when I had arrived prepared for another bout with the books, I found a message instead, waiting on his desk for me. I was to wait. He'd be back shortly. And thus the morning has gone by, one cigarette at time, anticipation building. Something is coming.

I hear the door, then the sounds of voices in the hall; imagine Henri taking Jason’s coat and umbrella. Steps in the hallway, and then the study door. I turn to face him, attentively waiting for whatever news he’s brought.

"I've found d'Allamaign."

The world sharpens a little at the edges. I feel myself lick dry lips, and take a breath to steady the sudden keen hunger that rises up. I've been waiting over two months for this. "Where? And how soon can we go?"

Jason steps into his study, his expression calculating and thoughtful as he seats himself in one of the armchairs. "Today is the 31st of Mars. A season of war. I think… I think that we should attack tonight. The Ides would have been better, but we neither knew his location then, nor were prepared for the confrontation."

I exhale in satisfaction, feeling a savage grin on my face. No more waiting. No more wasted time. I reach behind me, under my jacket, and draw one of the Colts from its holster. Heavy and somnolent in my hand; but it will wake soon enough to battle. Got to clean them and oil them though-- in preparation for tonight--

"I want to talk to you, Claire."

Surprised, I glance up at him. He’s called me by my first name a bare handful of times, and his expression is-- heavy, foreboding, troubled. I scowl back down at my gun, pretty sure I’m not going to like whatever he’s going to say. "So talk," I mutter with a shrug.

Blood sighs, looks from me to the window to the wall to the books to me again. "Somewhere else. There’s a café down the street. This… it’s something we should discuss, before tonight."

I eye him skeptically. He’s normally so damn good about being an impersonal sonuvabitch; something’s strange gotten into him. "Okay," I say, slipping my gun back out of sight. "But for your information, Jason; this sounds suspiciously like you're working up to an especially bad proposal to me, and I’m likely to take out your kneecaps if you try that."

I’m rewarded with a genuine, startled laugh from him. Shaking his head, he opens the door for me, and together we step out into the City of Lights.

***

The March air and light rain is cold enough that the warm, dry café is welcome. He orders a cappuccino; I take my usual bitter espresso. We wait for the coffee to arrive, and awkward silence descends upon us. This-- going out for coffee, sitting in a café-- feels too much like something normal people do.

I cross my arms and lean forward over the small table. "Monsieur Blood. You dragged me from a warm room into the rain for a reason, I presume?"

Jason gives me an irritated glance, which demands a bright and infuriating smile on my part. I've found they're very effective at annoying him. He shakes his head slightly at me, then taps his fingers on the tabletop for a moment, the 'calculating' expression back on his face. "Miss Ashton-- Claire-- what are your intentions for tonight?"

Blink. Hardly what I expected, though I don’t know what I did expect. "My intentions are to go after that undead bastard and kill him until he stays dead. What did you think they were?"

He looks marginally annoyed. "I know you intend to do that-- what I mean is… ah, merci." Our coffee is here and that occupies our interest for a few moments, me drinking my black poison in contentment and him fussing over adding sugar and milk and so on to his. Finally, "…What I mean is, do you intend to come out of the altercation alive, Claire?"

…Damn. That really wasn’t fair. I stare at the coffee in my cup for a long moment, imagining I can see faces on the surface of the liquid. Jean-Michel, Cheng, Luc, the others. I miss them.

"What is it to you, Blood?" I say after a long moment, attention on my cup. Idly, I stir the espresso, watching the faces vanish in the swirl. "Look-- you've helped get me ready for this, and I…. appreciate that. But beyond that, you don’t have any responsibility for me. It is my choice. My life. I am not a damsel in distress here, Jason. Nor do you have an obligation to save me."

He’s quiet for a moment. "Then life is that distasteful to you?"

I fidget in my seat. This isn’t fair. We don’t talk about things like this. He is the distant and scholarly teacher; I am the willing if skeptical pupil; and our conversations cover many things-- but not this. Goddamnit, Blood, teaching me why we use a wooden stake in a vampire’s heart is fine; asking me about the stake in my own heart is not.

I grit my teeth and answer him. I will not back away from the conversation because he’s hit a nerve; I am not a coward. "I don’t know if you can understand this, Jason, but every living soul I cared about died that night. Lover and friends, people whose lives I had saved and who had saved mine. We were a family. And-- and--"

--No; not going to say that part. Too mucch to admit.

"And?"

"And it is not your responsibility, alright? If I choose to take my revenge and choose to follow them when I do it, that is not something you have the right to interfere with," I snap, yanking my pack of cigarettes out from my pocket. I refuse to look at him as I pull one out-- Christ, my fingers are shaking-- and light it; refuse to look at him as I smoke it. I can feel him watching me. Goddamn it.

"Knock it off, Blood. I mean it. And drop the subject while you're at it."

He looks away, thank God, and sips his coffee. I pull my nerves back together, thankful for the reprieve. Damn. Not fair at all, that a few quiet questions can do this to me. I rub at my temple, thumb brushing against the patch over my eye. Every day I look in the mirror, I can see that; and if I needed the reminder of what I lost last month, that would serve to be it.

"Claire."

I drop my face into my hand, cursing under my breath. He just can’t leave it alone, can he? "What."

"It was not your fault."

Fuck. What is he, a goddamn mind reader? Probably. Angrily, I shove my chair back from the table and walk-- walk, not run, I am not running-- outside. I can’t deal with this. I don’t want to deal with this. Can’t we just skip ahead to tonight, get the whole bloody mess out of the way, and have it all be a moot point anyway?

I stand silently under the café’s canopy, watching the rain fall. It’s picked up now, hitting the streets hard and flowing through gutters until each raindrop reaches the Seine, and from there they will be carried onwards, outwards, to the sea. And there to merge with a million other drops and forget, and be forgotten. …Any wonder I envy the rain, these days?

"You're going to catch a cold. Come back inside." He’s holding the door open, watching me with that level, dispassionate gaze that I both hate and wish I was capable of. Maybe it’s something that comes with practice. I shake my head and exhale a plume of smoke. Jason doesn’t say anything to that, though I’m aware of him standing behind me, waiting. Finally I hear the door close softly and him stepping forward.

"Go away, Jason. For chrissake, just go away."

"You had no way of knowing what would happen that night. You had no way of knowing d'Allamaign had spells set up to keep him from truly dying. You had no way of protecting them, and you are not to blame for the fact that your friends died and you lived."

I swear and spin on my heel to glare at him. "Dammit! Let it alone, will you?! D'you know who it was of us had the bright idea to go after d'Allamaign in the first place? Me! D'you know who it was led them to that damned house? Me! And do--"

"They do not hold you responsible, Claire. Their ghosts do not blame you-- only you're doing that. And even if you were right and every death that night could be placed squarely at your feet, what does dying tonight do to help that? What good does it do?"

"It means I stop hurting, Blood. That’s what the hell good it does." I drop my fag onto the wet pavement and make to shove past him, to go back inside. He grabs my arm, startling me again; I can’t recall him ever initiating any sort of physical contact, really. "Let go of me."

"Gladly, if I could be sure you weren’t going to walk off before I could finish a sentence."

We glare silently at each other for a moment, and then I sigh. "Say whatever it is then. I’ll pretend to listen."

He shakes his head in exasperation, letting go of my arm. "Claire. Just listen. I know guilt, alright. I know it well. But I also know that giving into it accomplishes absolutely nothing. If there’s one thing I actually teach you, let it be that."

I cross my arms and give him a deeply skeptical look. "Throw me a bone here and tell me why you actually care, all right?"

"…why wouldn’t I?"

"Ohh, I don’t know; simply because you seem to pride yourself on having no human emotions, perhaps?"

His face turns unreadable. I point at him. "See? Exactly what I mean. Bloody Stoic."

"Leave Marcus Aurelius out of it. May we go inside and discuss this in a warm and civilised environment, please? I mean it; you are going to catch a cold."

"And again-- what is it to you, Jason? Whether I live or die or catch a cold?"

He scowls at me. "Bloody hell, woman, is it that unthinkable that I might actually give a damn about you, and not want you to throw your life away pointlessly?"

I look at him silently, as he jams his hands in his coat’s pockets and looks determinedly elsewhere, feeling a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Why, Mr. Blood, what a charming declaration of concern for my welfare."

He snorts. "Yes, well, I’m eloquent like that, aren’t I?"

I nod. "Let’s go inside and talk. It’s freezing out here."

I can feel him roll his eyes at me as we head back inside.

"….you have to understand, Jason; I don’t have a lot left for me here. Everyone I've ever really loved is gone. And whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that if I hadn’t been in the picture, then all those wonderful people might still be alive," I say quietly once I’m situated with my espresso again. He watches me calmly over folded hands, his face unreadable.

I stir my coffee, finding that steady gaze disconcerting. "Your concern is…. well…. touching, I suppose. And I know you've put a lot of time into teaching me, and that maybe you think I’m pretty ungrateful, being willing to throw that all away tonight." I wait for his response; he’s silent. I take a sip of coffee that’s getting cold.

"Or maybe you don’t. Whatever. But life really just fucked me over on January 14th, alright? On a cosmic scale, Jason. And every moment since then has been a goddamned uphill battle. Trying to find the energy to wake up in the mornings; and from there trying to find the energy to get out of bed; and from there trying to find the energy to face the huge damned world….. and I’m pretty near the end of my energy. I’m tired. I am so goddamned tired," I whisper, my gaze on the table-top between us.

"D'Allamaign is something that needs to be taken care of. The… last thing that needs to be taken care of. I owe it to them. But once that is done…" I close my eye and cradle my forehead in my hand, feeling every bit as weary as I said I was. "I’m tired of living in this world that’s so damned unfair, Jason. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," he says calmly. I lift my head and make an irritated gesture. "No. No, you don’t. If you did, then you wouldn’t be trying to talk me out of this."

"Just because I understand the emotions driving you doesn’t mean it wouldn’t still be a mistake on your part, Claire."

I snort. "Alright. So what’s the tragedy in your life, then; that you think you know how I feel? Come on. Since we're being so open with each other."

Jason drops his hands from his face to the table and looks out the window. I don’t think he’s going to answer me, but he does. "I have lost…. people that I cared about, too. My wife and daughters. And many others. My father. My… brother."

I’m genuinely startled by the admission, by what he’s admitting and that he’s admitting it to me at all. "I’m… sorry. I didn’t even know you'd been married."

His eyes close and his brows raise, thoughtfully. "Well. It was many years ago."

"An accident?"

"A madman."

I busy my hands with my cup, wondering if I don’t have more in common with him than I perhaps thought. "So…. did you get him, then?"

He laughs. It’s bitter and angry and I haven’t seen that in him before; unless maybe that one moment when he told a drunken me that he was no poet. "No. No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t. He is… far beyond my reach now. As he will always be."

"I’m sorry," I say again. It’s a terrible fate indeed; to be denied retribution. He nods and leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. "But, Claire, you must understand…"

"What? What must I understand? Jason, you obviously went on and got over it, and that’s admirable, really it is. Good for you, you know that? But hell, I guess I’m just not as god-damned strong as you, because I don’t want to get over it. Got that? I don’t want to. It takes too much fucking work, it takes a desire and a will that I just-- don’t-- have-- anymore."

Jason lets out a slow exhalation of disapproval and leans back in his chair. "…We are who we choose to be, Claire. We can make excuses and we can rationalize-- but in the end we are the ones who make the choices as to what our lives will be."

"I know. And I've made my choice," I say bitterly, shoving my cold coffee to one side. "Blood… Jason… don’t interfere with me tonight. Don’t. Whatever I choose-- it’s not yours to get in the way of."

"As you say, Miss Ashton." We're back to formality now, I see. I sigh and wish more coffee would appear before me, and give me something to do with my hands. "Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Blood?"

"Yes, actually." He sits up and pulls something from his coat pocket. Intrigued in spite of myself, I watch him push a small black box across the table to me. Feeling the corner of my mouth twitching, I glance up. "…you do remember what I said about proposals and kneecaps, don’t you?"

"Just open it, Claire."

I do. There’s no ribbon or card or other such nonsense, just a plain lid that lifts up. Inside, on the black velvet, is a ribbon of dark gold satin attached to a round glass eye-lens. Delicate filigreed silver work conjoins the two; the monocle itself is of smoked glass, opaque, and gleaming gently in the café’s lights.

I take it out from the box, feeling clumsy and fairly miserable. "You didn’t-- have to get this. You, really, you didn’t have to."

"Please. You're going to confront and destroy d'Allamaign with that unsightly patch over your eye, then? Grand battles require a certain amount of élan, my dear Miss Ashton." He smiles slightly as he says this. I swallow around a surprisingly large lump in my throat, this gesture of his hitting me harder than I would have thought.

"It’s lovely."

The glass disc is a solid weight in my hand. I hold it by the edges so as not to smudge the lens. It is lovely; the craftsmanship is exquisite. As I turn it to the light I can see what looks to be a yellow topaz set into the filigree.

"You had to have this custom-made. The average jeweller… or optician…. wouldn’t have had this lying around," I add accusingly. Blood smiles with infuriating blandness. "Would you like more espresso, Miss Ashton?"

I sigh, turning the monocle in my hands. I can’t accept this. I really can’t. You see, I know what this represents. I know what it is. Two months ago I would have been delighted with it, as I delighted in so many bright and shiny and beautiful things in my life. …This is something that belongs to her, to that other woman; she whom d'Allamaign destroyed that night. And not to me, the shadow that goes on fighting in her place, until the fight is done.

Taking this-- wearing this-- means… would mean…

--I don’t know if I can go back to being her. I really don’t. She was so… much more confident and careless and sure of herself. More of a fool, and far happier than I. Ignorance of grief is such pretty bliss.

Carefully, I wrap the satin ribbon back around the monocle and set them back in their case, slipping the lid over them once again. I slide the box back across the table. Jason watches me ruthlessly but doesn’t react to what is, really, a very rude gesture on my part.

"I would…. hesitate to wear something like this to-night. Too much chance of it getting damaged," I lie calmly. "Perhaps you would hold on to it for--"

"No. I will do no such thing," he interrupts curtly, and pushes the box back under my hand. His own hand comes over the top of mine, firmly holding it down and trapping the box in my possession. "It is your responsibility, now, and I am not going to make this any easier for you by removing your obligations for you."

"I don’t want it." Christ, that came out more frantic than I meant it to. His hands are surprisingly rough for a scholar’s, and strong, and warm-- or I’m just cold-- "I don’t want it. It would be wasted on me, can’t you see that? I can’t appreciate things like that anymore!"

"And that is also a choice," he says evenly. "Whether or not you allow yourself to see the sublime of the world, or only the monstrous. The choice is yours; your prerogative. But I will not make the choice simpler for you by removing the presence of the sublime."

I can’t yank my hand out from his without causing a scene, and I think I've already attracted some attention what with my prior outbursts, so I sit here and grind my teeth together and hold back tears. Bastard. Why can’t he just let me be, let me have my world that is not worth living in? I had a plan for that life, and it was a nicely finite one.

It’s easy to justify self-destruction in a world of horrors. It makes sense. If life is only pain and ugliness, then why should one go on? But to accept-- that the world is as good as it is evil--

"Why are you making me face this," I whisper, my eyes tracing the outlines of his fingers and hand, tendons and bones, atop my own.

"Because you deserve it," he says as if that was an adequate explanation, and the hand is gone from atop my own. Jason stands up, leaving me still staring at the box under my own palm. "It’s yours, Claire," he murmurs. "Do with it what you will. Come; the rain’s starting to ease up."

I stand mutely, slipping the box into my trousers' pocket as Jason pays for our coffees. It isn’t fair of him to do this to me; to require this sort of responsibility from me. Not today, of all days.

"You're cruel," I growl at him as he holds the café’s door for me.

"So I have been told. But cruelty is sometimes necessary," he says blandly, popping open the umbrella. It’s still drizzling somewhat, miserable drops splattering on the wet pavement. We start back to his maison, the umbrella necessitating closeness as we walk. I can feel the weight of my gift, the box, at every step. After thinking about it for half a block, I cautiously slip my hand around the crook of his elbow, as if we were any normal man and woman taking a walk in Paris.

Testing the waters… I haven’t touched anyone since Jean-- since he-- since the night that-- (dammit, Claire, just SAY IT-- ‘since Jean-Michel died.' There. There, was that so fucking--) Contact, any sort of contact, that’s another obligation, another responsibility, another commitment to living; don’t want any of those-- like this damn box in my pocket--

I’m aware of Jason arching an eyebrow at me, but he doesn’t say anything, and so we walk. Walk, with the world not ending because I dared reach out a hand and violate the distance that we both have set up to be sacrosanct; with the world showing no signs of ending. In any case, the Apocalypse needs better signs than an indecisive dribbling rain and the woolen scratch of his coat on my hand.

Deep, calming breath. "So. Where is d'Allamaign, anyways?"

"Later. You have focused to the point of obsession on him for over a month; and my association with you means that I am by this point well sick of hearing about a dead man I've never even met. Let us break with tyrant routine and talk about something else for the duration of the afternoon, Miss Ashton."

…Now that was a low blow. Obsession!? I am not-- and certainly not over that-- I grit my teeth. "All right. Fine, Mister Blood; what would it please you to discuss?"

The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction in his personal expression of amusement. "Your graciousness in conversation never ceases to amaze, Miss Ashton. …very well. I’m interested in your choice of clothing. Do enlighten me as to your reasons."

That gets a disbelieving hiccup from me. "My clothes?"

"Yes. Your clothes. Men’s suits; tailored a bit for you, yes, but still men’s suits. You do know that Henri believes you to be a lesbian?"

And that one would get a cough, save that I've heard it before. Jason is smirking quite annoyingly at this point. "Does he now. Is that why he hates me?"

"No, I believe that has more to do with your tendency to scatter the ash of your various smokables over all flat surfaces of my home."

If I did have a fag out right now, this would be a grand moment to exhale a plume of smoke into his smug face. As it is, I am forced to settle for a very unsatisfactory glare. "Your home could use the added decoration."

He laughs, warm and amused, a sound that completely conflicts with the miserable wet city around us. "Indeed? You still haven’t answered my question."

I roll my eyes. "I wear the clothes I wear because I like them. Because it irritates people and turns heads. Because it’s fun. Satisfied?"

"Ah, no deeper political or sociological reason? I’m disappointed, Miss Ashton; I didn’t think you were quite this shallow."

It takes two seconds, and him laughing at the expression on my face, before I realize he’s teasing me. Horrible man. I swat at his arm. "You, Mister Blood, are an awful man."

"I have always preferred the adjective 'incorrigible….'"

"You are that as well. I cannot understand why I am in your reprehensible company."

"Because I have the umbrella."

I concede the point silently, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. It feels-- good-- to tease, to be teased, to be playful again-- his sense of humor is unexpected and pleasant surprise, like if the sun were to break through the dismal sky above us.

We end up walking for three hours. Hardly what I meant to do, in the cold and the drizzle; not when I could be polishing my weapons and preparing for a fight. But we talk, and talk and talk, and there is no mention of magic or death or wizards or evil or the occult, just us and the umbrella for three hours.

And even if I know what he’s doing, even if I know he’s really just trying to change my mind about tonight, I allow myself to pretend that I don’t, and instead I let myself move in a regular Charleston of a conversation-- from Charlie Chaplin to Buster Keaton to brewing bathtub whiskey in the States to No, No, Nanette; and we get wet when an automobile splashes us with water from a gutter, and since we're drenched we stop bothering with the umbrella, and we each are sopping and it’s freezing and we're the only two idiots out in the streets of Paris, this stupid anglaise and equally stupid expatriate américain--

--and it’s wonderful--

***

"Achoo."

I blink, startled by that, and find another sneeze threatening right on the heels of the first. Oh no. Oh no, I cannot possibly be-- aaa- ah--

"AH-CHOO!"

I wipe my nose and glare angrily up at Jason, who’s watching me quite wordlessly from over the pages of his book. I curse and set down the gun I’m currently cleaning on his desk--

"Achoo, oh no, ohbloodyhell, Blood this is all, ah-ah-aa-aahhh…. vehhh, dammit, Jason this is YOUR fauCHOO! Ah, ah--… godammit! =Snf-- snfff="

I dig my handkerchief from its pocket and wipe my nose furiously. This is absurd. We're inside, we've spent an hour drying off and warming up and my hair is fluffy like a Chinese Pekingese and I had to deal with a glare of righteous wrath from Henri for dripping in his hallway and now, now, on top of that all, with an hour left before we go hunt down that bastard d'Allamaign, I am sneezing?!

Jason’s not saying a thing, just staring at me, the raised book hiding half his face but not enough to conceal the fact that he’s trying not to laugh. Absolutely awful-- horrible-- incorrigible-- wretched-- man. Sniffling, I stomp over to him and wave a finger in his face.

"Not a word, monsieur Jason Blood. Not. One. Sodding. Word-- ah, dammit ahchoo, ah, ah, Ahchoo--"

***

"Claire, I really don’t think that this is--"

"Jazon. Shuh ub."

"We can still go after d'Allamaign another night, you know. No, it won’t be March, but that’s all right. You're obviously not--"

"Jazon. Shuh. Ub. I bean ih."

"…I know you mean it; waving a loaded firearm in my face is not really necessary to emphasize the point. All that I am saying is that perhaps you would be in better form if we were to wait, perhaps a few days, to--"

"If you do noh shuh ub thizh instant I will reboov your internal organzsh frub your body with very great forzh. You unbelievable jackazh. Why, O God, isz he noh likewishe curzhed? Why?!"

"….I’m-- sorry, I really didn’t catch that one--Ow! Alright, alright, we're going! Bloody hell woman-- see, I’m getting my coat, calm down, Christ, I think you drew blood…"

***

So I surely didn’t imagine my grand confrontation with Noël d'Allamaign would come about with a handkerchief plugging my nose and my eye watering like one of those garden statues of little boys piddling on the flowers. It’s just as good there’s no one around but Jason and myself, and he’s sworn to dire secrecy on pain of mutilation.

…not that he is likely to tell anyways. Of this night. …It’s bitter cold, so cold that the only thing I can feel is my how much my head hurts and how raw my throat feels. It’s wet and it’s dark, and when I look with the inner eye, I can see lots of little shapes around us. They are rats.

And mon Dieu, the filth. You see, we're in the sewers. Phauggh.

I smile grimly. Where else does one find trash like d'Allamaign, after all? Very fitting, that he makes his home down here with the rats and the corpses. …..of course, even more fitting is that whatever hideously unfair immunity to the common cold Jason possesses means that he is getting to enjoy every single scent and fragrance and odor and perfume of the underbelly of Paris.

And I cannot smell a thing. You see? God does have a sense of justice… or at least humor.

I stifle another sneeze and try to find Jason with my mind. It’s so dark that the only things I can pick up visually are vague shadows and the occasional gleam of faint light on water. We're navigating by our other senses, down here, and I suddenly forgive Jason Blood for those endless drills on this sort of thing. Crumbly moss-covered walls to my right, and I don’t have to touch them to know that; I’m already stepping around the broken, uneven paving in front of me before I rightly realize it’s broken and uneven. It’s surreal and actually rather fun.

So Jason is leading, better at this than I am, and he’s vivid in my mind, like a solar flare… he always feels vaguely red and copper and iron and embers and sharp; none of which satisfactorily describe his aura, but how does one explain something you can only understand on a metaphysical level in words? There are vague images, vague whispers of rhyme, and Jason burns in my mind, like a brand. Nobody else does that. Is it his magic I sense, then?

"Stop," he says very softly, reaching a hand back towards me; I feel it as fire in the darkness around us. He’s listening for something, and I stand here quiet as well, hearing the sounds of water running, and dripping down from the streets above, and the faint scratch of rat’s claws over damp stone….

"Guns out, Claire," he murmurs, and I comply, cold steel a good thing to grip here in the under-city. We start moving again, and I can feel the air breathing on our faces from another tunnel; Jason was apparently deciding which way to go from a junction.

And then, not sure whether it’s my brain wanting some sort of light so badly that it’s making it up, I see ahead what seems to be a lessening of the blackness. We get closer, and it’s not a hallucination, there’s definitely some sort of light source ahead. Flame, I realize, noting the way the illumination is unsteady on the walls of the tunnel. I can make out Jason’s face, as he half-turns back to me; we pause mutually. And now I can feel it too, a sick stench in the back of my head-- rotting flesh, and I think of yellowed eyes and long fingernails.

I don’t realize I’m bending over and fighting the urge to retch until I feel Jason’s hands helping me stand upright, hear his voice telling me to breathe. Nausea grips me worse than the chill does; mon Dieu, but d'Allamaign stinks.

"The taint of the undead," Jason whispers softly in my ear, and I nod jerkily, sure I’m going to be sick. "It’s something you get used to…"

I hope not. Jason, thankfully, is real and solid next to me, living, warm, not some goddamn zombie with lifeless eyes and a sick, stomach-turning presence in my mind. I hope I don’t embarrass myself by vomiting over Jason. …not that the idea is entirely unpleasant; he deserves to have his coat completely ruined just for bringing me down here. Gahh. For a long moment, I just concentrate on keeping myself from throwing up, and finally the nausea begins to fade. I shiver slightly.

"Ready to go on?" Jason murmurs, and I realize with a fair amount of embarrassment that he’s basically holding me upright, since my legs decided to give out on me or something. Hmm. Not that it’s all that bad a place to be-- Jason’s arms, that is, and not the sewer. The sewer is quite a bad place to be. And Jason’s arms we are not going to think about right now. I straighten, blush in the darkness, check my guns. "Ready when you are."

And then it’s twenty feet or two hundred, I really don’t know; being absolutely quiet as we get nearer, oh hell, my hands are shaking, let’s not screw this one up, shall we-- round the corner--

And there’s our bastard, just like at the hôtel except farther along the road of decay. More bone than before, with the flesh hanging in absolutely nauseating strips that are even more disgusting when he moves. He’s crouched in a ring of mutilated corpses that are all in various states of decomposition themselves. Makeshift candles, the light source we saw, illuminate his actions: he’s got a fresh body in front of him that he’s working on getting the heart out of-- I flash back to lessons, told in the dry clean sanity of Jason’s study, about how liches and zombies have to work to keep up their unlife. They must now sustain themselves with the lives of others, in order to keep themselves from an inevitable return to the grave-- are you listening, Miss Ashton--

Yeah. Yeah, I was listening; but right now Jason I’m just a bit too busy for the academics of it-- would you look at that; every single bullet’s hitting. To my left Jason is sketching sigils in the air and chanting words I’m really going to have to get him to teach me, because that’s a pretty neat trick to be able to shoot bloody lightning from your hands!

D'Allamaign’s head snaps around to look at us, a bullet catches the right side of his jaw and shears it off; God but that feels good. I hear someone yelling some choice French damnations in a somewhat nasal tone, and surprise surprise, it is I.

We keep up the assault. D'Allamaign’s body has already taken a lot of damage, jerking as my bullets shatter his joints and Jason’s spells do, well, whatever the hell it is they're doing. But the bastard is still standing, and moving, hell, what do you have to do to kill this asshole? My eleventh and twelfth bullets take out his right and left kneecaps respectively, and he falls very satisfyingly to the ground with a crunching noise. Dear God, let that be it--

Not that easy; he’s getting up again. I swear and dig out my extra clips; I have to reload. I’m struggling with that, Jason’s still casting, and I hear another voice added to it; nasty gargled words. I don’t have to look up to know d'Allamaign’s casting too, dammit, I’m taking out the other half of his jaw next, I swear to God.

"Claire! Behind you!"

Spin to look-- just in time to get clocked across the jaw, thank you so very much Jason. Hell, as if I wasn’t wet enough, I think as I go down in a puddle of scum and water. All around me, the dead are rising; d'Allamaign is apparently putting some re-animation spells to good use on his victims. The zombie that got me with that cheap sucker punch shambles forward like, well, a zombie; I don’t have my guns re-loaded yet but that doesn’t prevent me from kicking the thing’s knee in and following it up with a pistol butt to the skull.

I struggle to my feet, drop half the ammo, swear, glance up; the tunnel junction is full of bodies moving mindlessly towards me and Jason. Shit, shit, shit, there’s got to be at least thirty--

--hell with it all, I wanted to die tonigght. Didn’t I? I've got one of the guns loaded now and quickly share those six bullets with our new undead friends, who at least have the courtesy to go down with one shot unlike goddamned d'Allamaign. Jason is on his own, because I’m out of ammunition and down to hand-to-hand combat with the bastards. Block, kick, punch; doesn’t do any damn good in the long run, they just keep coming and now they've gotten behind me. And I am going to die-- with a miserable cold and not even a last cigarette--

"Gone, gone, o form of man
"And rise the demon Etrigan!"

…What the hell? There’s-- Light, and fire, filling Jason’s side of the room, and… laughter… I’m in the middle of a punch, but the enemy isn’t interested in me anymore, they've got something else to worry about it seems like. There’s a brilliant burst of flame, and the smell of sulfur, and I can see through the ranks of the zombies to where Jason was, except he’s not around anymore.

Taking his place is a figure that wouldn’t be out of place on a cathedral rooftop, save that the gargoyles of Paris aren’t colored. The… monster… the demon… is dressed in a medieval-esque tunic of blood red, a tattered cloak of indigo swirling about him, and his skin is a mottled ochre. It-- he-- burns our foes, in a fire that looks hotter than any I've ever seen.

Jesus God, what is that thing.

The dead aren’t paying attention to me at all, now; and if I was in their position neither would I. After all, what’s one human woman compared to a fire-breathing demon, right? I get down in the scum and the muck and find my dropped clip of bullets. Reload both my Colts, and look around for d'Allamaign. He takes priority. Him. Jason pulling a demon-summoning on me is quite interesting and will need to be discussed with him at a later date, preferably with me holding a big cross in front of me, but right now I want d'Allamaign.

The magicien is standing on the far side of the room, conducting his miniature army like a general, for all the good his leadership is doing them against… what did Jason say? Etrigan? Yes, that was the name. I bring both weapons to bear and fire, this time at d'Allamaign’s head. And I keep going until I hear the click of empty.

Sacre bleu, what a mess, is my first thought as I slowly lower the guns. It is a mess-- with his brains and skull and what-not literally blown away, a headless corpse wobbles uneasily for a moment before pitching down into the mud and sewage. Around me, the bodies that had been fighting the Etrigan-thing suddenly plop and fall jerkily, puppets with their strings cut. The sudden quiet is the first clue of how loud it really was in here, what with a crazy laughing demon spitting out roaring flames and twin .45s going off inside these echoing tunnels.

I take one long shuddering breath and start shaking in the aftermath of the adrenaline. Cheng, Luc, Jean-- everyone--- he’s gone, my friends. I promised you, and he is dead, and it’s over. Over.

So. Now what-- out of the frying pan and into the hellfire?

Etrigan is watching me with a smile that reveals razor-sharp teeth. I feel sharp, metallic fear coursing in me, real and chilling. The demon grins wider, and comes my way, moving in a half-crouch, half-saunter. His talons scrape the stone as he walks.

"So. You're Claire. We meet at last.
"You're a pretty morsel, I confess.
"Methinks you'd be better repast
"Than this unholy undead mess.
"So will you scream, and give me sport?
"A chase before I cut your young life short?
"For Jason’s sake, I’ll even give
"A brief head-start, that you may live
"For some precious seconds more.
"Well? What say you, savoureux amour?"

He grins like a hungry, amused wolf, teeth showing and tongue lolling. And like anybody confronted with a predator, I do want to run, flight taking supreme imperative over fight. If I can just get my legs to cooperate--

Suddenly I feel very goddamn annoyed. I am tired. I am cold. And sopping wet, and filthy, and aching, and shaking, and I have a stuffy nose and bruises on parts of me that aren’t supposed to bruise and slime in my hair, and I've just spent the better part of an hour wandering around the bloody sewers of Paris in a hunt for the undead, and I blew his brains out, and damned if I am going to scamper away now because Jason’s pet demon or whatever has shown up.

I look the demon in the eye and give him my best go at Jason’s "unimpressed" look that I remember so well from my party. Without letting go of my guns, I blow my nose on my handkerchief and then rummage in my pockets for my cigarettes. Pull one out of the pack, light it, and take a long drag. Exhale the smoke into the demon’s ugly face.

"Is that supposed to be impressive? Your meter is extremely inconsistent and your syllable count follows no measure known to man. Etrigan, is it? Well, Etrigan, let’s get something straight here. I’m not sure who, or exactly what, you are; and I’m none too happy about Jason calling you up without telling me about it first; but before you get any ideas about me being tonight’s menu, I’m going to share a quote with you: 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'

"Or in this case, Hell hath no fury like a woman who’s in dire need of a bath and a drink and damn well intends to get them both within the hour and heaven help whoever gets in her way," I growl, lifting one Colt to place the muzzle right between those fiery red eyes.

Etrigan blinks, his smile fading as his eyes cross to regard the barrel of the gun. Then he looks back at me, and starts to laugh.

"I’d call your bluff, mademoiselle
"Save that I think a deeper hell
"Awaits my keeper with you whole.
"You've got some balls, you've got some fire
"You've got a lot I do admire
"Like the chance to wreck his soul.
"For you will. I see it plain.
"Pride and time and love and pain
"Conspire in your future, dear.
"So think of me, keep my words near,
"Enjoy the life you'll find tonight;
"And please, dear Claire, when time is right--
"Break him like the finest glass,
"With words so calm, so cruel, and crass.
"Aye, I’ll look forward to what you'll say
"When you go on your separate way.
"But for now, my work is done,
"So au revoir, my callous one!
"Now, Gone the demon Etrigan--
"And rise once more that wretched man."

Before I can do more than sort out what he’s saying, he’s shifting-- changing-- gone. Jason Blood appears before me again and slumps to the ground, coughing and shivering. Wordlessly, I help him get to his feet, and blow my nose again while he’s looking around us at the carnage. After a bit, with his back to me, he says, "D'Allamaign?"

"Taken-- ah, oh dear here I go ag, ah, ah, ahchoo-- …snf, taken care of."

"Gesundheit," he says absently. "Well done, Cl-- Miss Ashton. Then…. our business is done, it appears. Did… I hope-- Etrigan didn’t… give you any trouble."

"Nothing I couldn’t, snf, handle," I mutter around my handkerchief. I want to get going back somewhere warm. Stupid Jason’s standing there like he’s expecting the other shoe to drop or something. "Though I definitely could have used some information about him before we started, Jason. Six weeks and you couldn’t think to mention that you have a habit of changing into a demon when situations get nasty?"

He turns around at that, looking at me with something terribly… vulnerable? in his eyes. Etrigan’s rhyme, about me hurting him, flashes through my mind. Christ, what are he and his demon expecting? That I’m going to up and walk away from Jason just because I've learned he’s got a nasty little pet living inside him?

Hell. They're both idiots… I wipe my guns and put them back in their holsters, then reach out and hook my arm through Jason’s. "Come on, Monsieur Diable. I want to go get a very hot bath and something alcoholic, not necessarily in that order. You're paying for the drinks at the least."

"Mis-- Claire--"

"Fine, spendthrift, I won’t make you pay for the drinks. Christ Almighty. In return I want to know about any other little ‘secrets' well ahead of time, understood? You can hardly expect me to work with you if you're going to keep these little surprises for the last minute, you know."

Jason goggles at me for a second, veritably goggles, and then manages to put his face back on. "Claire… you cannot be… seriously suggesting we maintain any sort of contact. I… hadn’t wanted you to learn of him, but… you saw Etrigan. You know what I have inside me. ….I am not…. a safe man to be around. For your own sake--"

"Oh shut up," I growl, trying not to sneeze on my cigarette. "Don’t you start lecturing me on safety. If you were going to do that you should have done it in February. Don’t even begin to start playing penitent and noble, it’s really not you and in any case I would get sick of it fairly quickly."

Jason is staring at me silently, so I irritably start walking the two of us towards the tunnel we came in through, waving my cigarette’s smoke out of my face. "If you want something to do, Jason, why don’t you gloat about the fact that I am, in opposition to my previously expressed resolve, still alive," I grumble as we start back through the darkness. "Unless this bloody cold kills me."

He’s quiet for another moment, but it’s a thoughtful silence rather than a smacked-with-a-fish-and-silently-suffering one. "…I, ah, managed to change your mind, then?" he asks, and I can hear the faint smile in his tone.

"No, not really, but I refuse to die feeling this absolutely wretched," I say cheerily, punctuating my sentence with a sneeze. He laughs, and like before, it’s warm, warmer than our surroundings. I’m a little surprised at how good his laugh makes me feel.

"So, what, a week for your cold to clear up, and then I must… talk you out of it again?" he inquires politely.

"Talk me out of it, nothing. You're going to have to take me to the theatre and dinner and drinks, at the very least. And you're likely going to have to do it on a recurring basis."

"Oh. Oh, dear…."

***

Henri is quite fittingly outraged when we enter the hallway dripping and stinking and calling for alcohol. But within record time we are each passably clean and dry (in one sense of the word) and non-dry (in the other) and ensconced in the study with cigarettes and cigars and Pernod and a roaring fire. Jason tells me about Etrigan, and tells me other things besides, not looking at me as he does it, as if he thinks I will label him a monster for the things he says.

Stupid man, for all he knows so much. I patiently sit through an explanation of the fact that he’s hundreds and hundreds of years old, made more endurable by the fine liquor (although, really, I ought to introduce him to absinthe. This Pernod is fine for cocktail parties, but not for really getting drunk) and one of his cigars filched from under his oblivious nose, and I finger the box in my hand.

Jason eventually trails off into silence. I sit up in the armchair and open the black box, that survived the evening with no greater damage than getting a bit damp, and take out the monocle. Firelight dances over it, making it shine and gleam; making it beautiful. Carefully, I reach up and take off the patch I wear over my left eye, knowing Jason’s watching me.

Underneath my fingers I can feel the thin scar lines and damaged tissue, numb to the touch, and always feeling foreign, like it belongs to someone else. I cannot erase it or make it go away…. but… but I can put something beautiful there over it…

The monocle fits perfectly, and I don’t even have to glance at the mirror above the fireplace to know that it looks good. I look at Jason instead, sitting near the hearth, the firelight painting him with red-hued skin and deep black shadows.

"I can’t go back, Jason."

"No. One never can."

I take a breath. "One never can, no… Stagnation or forward movement; these are our choices as humans."

"And is going forward that difficult?" he asks me softly. I stand, and walk to the fireplace, and toss the eyepatch in to the hungry conflagration.

"Yes. It can be."

The flames eat the fabric; quickly, efficiently. At the corner of my vision Jason is getting up, moving to stand behind me. His hands come to rest on my shoulder, grounding me, connecting me.

"But you do not have to do it alone, Claire."

I lean back against his chest, knowing that I will not fall, and close my eyes. It still hurts. But I am not willing to stagnate just yet, and so-- I must live. These are our choices. These are our obligations to ourselves… and to one another.

"Neither do you, Jason." As I thought he might, he tenses uncomfortably, because Jason likes to think that the rules he teaches others don’t apply to him and he likes to think he can always stay where he’s at and he can always do it alone. Stupid bastard. Adorable, but stupid.

I turn around and grab his head and glare at him. "Don’t you think, for a moment, that you get to do that, Jason. I am damned if I will be the only one having to be vulnerable here. No, dear; if you refuse to leave me alone, then you must expect the same sort of vindictiveness from me."

I decide to kiss him before he has a chance to out-argue me on the matter. He’s generally wins our debates on magic and so on, and I don’t want to risk it on this.

It’s probably not a kiss that will get into any Romance Hall of Fame; it’s a little too hurried and hungry and crazy for that. But it’s still good, in spite of that or because of it, and though I can’t taste or smell anything because of my cold, I know he’d taste like the Pernod he was drinking, and smell like woodsmoke and parchment and magic. His body, and his hands, are strong and warm, he’s always warm, and the pain that I still feel when I think of Jean-Michel fades and subsides at his touch. He tastes me, maps me with his fingers, traces my spine, claims my skin, and Christ, I’d almost be ashamed at the sheer physicality of it all if I weren’t doing the exact same thing to him. That fancy silk shirt he’s wearing is temptation like you wouldn’t believe, his back muscles solid and hard and begging to be touched under it; I drag my nails up his spine and savor the sound he makes into my mouth. Running my fingers through his hair just because I can, messing it up; we each pull back for air at the same moment.

Naturally I say the wrong thing. "You're going to catch my cold, you know."

Jason blinks at me, his breathing uneven and his hair mussed. And then throws his head back and laughs, his arms loosening around me to settle at my waist. Chagrined, I try to explain that didn’t come out exactly as I meant it, but he’s not listening, and so finally I give up and start chuckling too, leaning my head against his chest. …and… and that’s good too. Just being there, holding him, being held by him, hearing his laugh rumble in his chest.

"I think I may love you, woman," he whispers in my ear when he’s stopped laughing. And presses a kiss to the top of my head, as gentle as our earlier one was reckless. I smile briefly, painfully, and close my eyes, listening to his heart beating.

I can hear my own too, slowing down a bit now, finding a steady rhythm again after that kiss. There’s no hurry, for either of us, and I know Jason will not press me if I tell him I need time for this. So I listen to his heartbeat, and my own, and they are reminders that I yet live.

And they are welcome.

***

Part 4

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