[ Please read the kickoff post before commenting! ] 

There really was no question in Webb’s mind about whether or not they’d hear these two out, regardless of their intentions. Webb couldn’t imagine being able to sleep at night without learning more about what was going on. It went against everything they prided themselves on as a dedicated Batflix binge-watcher.

“The Grimm clan,” they echoed, resting their chin on their hand and looking between Dapper and Motorcycle Helmet with bemusement. “They don’t exactly operate much around here.”

Vampire clans weren’t anything to trifle with; Webb knew and respected that, of course. On this side of the gate, vampire lords were some of the most dangerous monsters you could come across, both from a personal power standpoint as well as their social and political influence as leaders of their respective clans.

Here in Hallow Point, the crowded valley-adjacent town that Webb called home, there weren’t a ton of big-name power players like there might be in, say, New York, or Paris, or (for some strange reason) Mississauga. But there was a hierarchy, and there were clans and groups and territories that operated within it, and as far as Webb knew, the Grimm clan simply wasn’t one of them.

“No,” Motorcycle Helmet acknowledged, fiddling compulsively with the ends of her hair. Webb watched the gesture, thoughtful. “They’re mostly based further to the northeast, in some of the mountain towns. But Lord Grimm has been getting more… um. Ambitious, in recent years.”

“And his ambitions somehow factor in me?” Webb let out a little laugh. “Darling. Look around. I’m a lightweight. A tiny feral kitten. I run Baby’s First Adventure tours. I send people out to trap wolpertingers and set up scarecrows for were-ravens. I’m not the kind of broker that arranges vampire assassinations. Why would Grimm have a bone to pick with me?”

All true, as much as it made Webb grimace a little to admit. There wasn’t a lot of pride or glory in their work. They knew they had the potential for more. And maybe sometimes they found the end of an interesting thread of information and longed to pull on it to see what would unravel—

But they never did. Dramatic adventures only ended in tragedy. They stayed out of trouble and did their best to ensure trouble stayed well away from them.

“Well,” Motorcycle Helmet pointed out, “if that is true… maybe that’s why. You’re not a big enough deal to retaliate. And the people you work with aren’t strong, right? So they’d be easier to hurt.”

There was an unpleasant ringing sound in Webb’s ears, an ashen taste in the back of their throat. They bit the inside of their cheek, fiddling with one of their lip piercings until they faintly tasted copper instead. Thoughts buzzed through their mind in spiteful sequence.

“… who are you?” they asked finally, chafing their palms together in annoyance. Buying themself time. “I mean, say I believe you. I don’t, not yet, but pretend I do, for a minute. How’d you find out about this? Why’d you decide to help me? And what do you need my help for?”

Dapper smiled like he thought Webb’s slight capitulation meant he’d won this round, or something. Webb seethed a little. “My name is Faraday. This lovely one is Ariadne.”

“That can’t be your real name,” Webb muttered sidelong at Motorcycle Helmet.

She tilted her head to the side. “It is now. Has Webb always been yours?”

“—you know what? That’s fair. I deserved that. Ariadne it is.”

Faraday was still talking: “I’ve lived not far from here for the past few years, though I spent a fair amount of time on the other side of the gate prior to that, of course.”

“Is that so?” Webb did lean a little further towards him at that, giving Faraday another scrutinizing look. Unfortunately, although plenty of the denizens of the valley and from beyond the gate were recognizably other—serpentine bodies, horns, tails, you name it—others could appear completely, unremarkably human. All Faraday had going on was his perfect hair and his stupid fancy coat.

“Faraday is a witch,” Ariadne piped up, and honestly, bless her and her apparent need to compulsively share information at all times. “Though that’s not… I mean, I’m the one who learned about this. Faraday is just… helping me.”

Webb filed that first bit away for later: witches could be good news or bad news, honestly. They sighed, leaning back in their chair and bracing their sneakers against the edge of the desk, making it creak as they rocked perilously back and forth. “Alright,” they drawled, “so you’re the I-knew-she-was-trouble-when-she-walked-in dame in distress in this scenario, then. You and the helmet you’re mysteriously refusing to take off.”

Ariadne touched her gloved hand to the motorcycle visor. “And you’re wearing mirrored sunglasses and a toque and a hood indoors. I think we all have our secrets here don’t we?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Webb offered.

Ariadne hesitated, glancing aside to Faraday, who looked a little concerned. “… really?” she ventured after a moment.

“No,” Webb said blithely. They dropped forward again, their chair wheels rattling, and picked up their phone. “Listen. You’ve obviously got a lot going on here, and I’m prepared to do business at this point, but you’re going to need to sweeten the pot a little.”

“Sweeten the pot?” Faraday echoed, visibly affronted. Webb got the impression that people didn’t tell him ‘no’ very often. “We have come to warn you that you’re in danger. The Inquisitors may be coming for you as we speak. We have absolutely no obligation…!”

The Inquisitors. That idea admittedly did give Webb a little bit of a chill. The valleys didn’t exactly do law enforcement, not really: humans and their laws stayed in their lane, and the closer you got to the gate, the more that safety and order was maintained by interlocking structures of territory, power, making the right allies, and keeping your head down. Contract law was a whole thing, sure—but Webb made very sure they were always on the right side of their contracts.

But in some towns that spilled over into a valley, like Hallow Point, it was natural that new organizations might spring up. The Inquisitors were one such faction, usually called in to deal with those who were a significant danger to the safety of others. Even though Webb had a clean record, the Inquisitors didn’t exactly have a reputation for their fair trials and their compassionate willingness to negotiate.

If the Inquisitors thought that Webb was putting others in danger, that was a big problem. But even more than that—if it were true, and Webb was responsible—

They realized they’d fallen silent, staring at their hands, and that Faraday was still talking, and that Ariadne was still watching them from behind that mirrored helmet visor.

“Listen,” they said, raising their voice over Faraday’s, sitting up straight and feeling their spine crackle in protest. “Before we move on, I have one very important question. Come here. Come closer.”

“… yes?” Ariadne prompted nervously, leaning in, eager and a bit uncertain.

Webb slid their phone across the desk, tapping one finger on the screen. “I’m starving, and I can’t decide. What do you think? Tacos? Burgers? There’s a couple of these places I haven’t tried. You said you lived nearby. Any recommendations?”

Faraday opened his mouth, then closed it again, and rubbed his face with one hand. Ariadne was silent for a moment, then began to laugh.

“Oh, there’s this place I really like,” she said. “The Witch’s Brewery. Amazing craft beer.”

“Nice,” Webb said casually, spinning the phone around to face them again. “Not on the app, though. Do they do delivery…?”

“… why don’t we go out together?” Ariadne suggested, tone thoughtful. “You said you wanted me to sweeten the pot. How about it? Dinner and drinks on me, and I’ll tell you anything else you want to know.”

[Please suggest or +1 an action in the comments.

As a reminder, it can be thoughts, words, deeds, or curiosities!]

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[ Please read the kickoff post before commenting! ] 

“Just sign here on the dotted line and you’ll be all set.” 

It was a Friday afternoon. Webb sat across the table from a trio of would-be thrill-seekers—adventurers, investigators, hunters, whatever these ones wanted to call themselves—drumming their fingers on their desk in time to the pattering of rain outside their window and trying not to look too impatient. 

This would be their final sale for the week: one that would make the very important distinction between being able to spring for a nice hot pizza delivery or having to jockey for discount sushi of questionable origins on their way home. Webb was very invested.

And their clients seemed to be getting cold feet.

“You know,” Webb pointed out reasonably, drawing the group’s attention back from where they’d begun to mutter to each other, “just because you’re buying the intel doesn’t mean you have to use it. Though, if I may say so myself, it is an interesting job…”

“You say that, but we don’t know,” responded one of them gruffly. A lycanthrope of some kind, Webb would wager, judging by the slightly shaggy appearance and the way his hackles raised when Webb raised their eyebrows. “If you told us what it was…”

“If I told you what it was prior to payment,” Webb said very patiently, “I would not be making very much money in my business of selling information. Once I’ve told you something, I can’t very well take it back, hmm?”

That wasn’t quite the truth. But they didn’t need to know that.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” said one of the others, a brunet with a steely disposition. She patted her companion on the arm when he continued to grumble. She picked up the pen, giving Webb a small smile. “He’s just a little protective, that’s all. We’ve heard this line of work can be quite dangerous, but…” 

Webb flashed her a smile, feeling momentarily grateful that she wouldn’t be able to see their eyes behind their sunglasses. “It can be dangerous,” they admit. “But that’s part of the whole thing, right? Money, power, fame, keeping the peace, dispensing justice… there’s lots of reasons people come looking to get into the business. You’ll figure out quickly enough if it’s for you.”

The brunette nodded, turning the pen around in her fingers and examining it closely, watching the way the green-gold wisps of magic ghosted around the tip. “One way or another, hmm?”

“One way or another,” Webb echoed. Indeed.

The brunette signed the contract, then handed it to the others, who also signed with minimal lingering complaints. Webb gave them all another smile, accepting their pen back and signing their own name with a flourish; the pen gave off a pulse of light that formed into a plume, leaving lingering motes dissipating in the air as its enchantment sealed the contract as binding.

“Now,” Webb said, feeling much more pleasant about the whole situation now that dinner was secured, “we can begin. In the town of Tranquil Hollow, about two hours north from here, there have been reports of nocturnal housebreaks…”

Webb felt pretty good about this one, all things considered, as they ran through the details. Their source for this investigation was one they’d worked with many times before. Petty break-and-enter cases in small towns were usually simple enough to sort out, but would build their confidence. Webb was in the business of making repeat clientele, not instant regrets, after all. 

They entertained a few more questions, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and finally oozed back in their chair with a long sigh of relief once the group had seen themselves out. With a little flick of their pen, Webb sent the contract slithering across the desk and into the filing cabinet and began to gather together their belongings for the night.

The bell over their door jingled.

“The divorce curse removal specialists are next door,” Webb said immediately, without looking up, already starting to scroll through their phone. Pizza had been their first thought, but the Pizza Hut nearby had grown legs a few months ago and had a tendency to wander off, so their delivery times were unpredictable these days. Maybe HexMex instead…?

“… oh,” said a quiet voice from the door. “No, I’m not here to curse anybody. Or uncurse anybody. No curses. I was looking for you. You’re Mx. Webb, aren’t you? The quest broker?”

Ugh. Webb hated that term. Quest. Something coined by idiots who thought there was some kind of grand purpose or calling associated with hunting vampires that got a little too murder-happy or clearing out rampant pixie infestations from vegetable gardens.

It hadn’t always been like this. About two decades back, the mundane world had undergone an abrupt transformation as rifts spontaneously opened up across pretty much every continent, connecting the “normal” world with the worlds beyond, and all the strange magic and creatures that lived within them. Most of the strangeness stayed more-or-less contained within the Uncanny Valleys that formed around the rifts, but some of it bled out into the cities and towns closely around them… which was where Webb’s work often came in.

“I deal with paranormal jobs and information and the exchange and selling thereof, and I am closed,” Webb said. “And by appointment only. You can fill out a form on my site.”

“Oh, good,” was the answer, and although it was a bit of a weird one, Webb thought that was the end of that, until they heard the door close, followed by a creak as someone sat down in the chair across from them.

Webb spun around in their chair to face the Person Who Couldn’t Take a Hint and discovered that it was, in fact, Two People Who Couldn’t Follow Basic Instructions. The one in the chair was slim and curvy, dressed from head to toe in black riding leathers and wearing a helmet with two small protuberances on top. Webb swore they’d seen something like that in an anime, once. All that Webb could make outside from that was their long blond hair, and the way they leaned forward onto the desk, posture tense and eager.

The other stranger was resentfully handsome, tall and broad-shouldered. He had warm brown skin and an absolute mane of long, wavy dark hair that cascaded over the shoulders of his long, brilliantly patterned and brightly-colored coat, and Webb hated him on sight.

“We do apologize for the disturbance, but we have some news for you that we think you’d very much benefit from hearing,” said the Dapper Man. His voice was deep and warm and rich, and he didn’t actually sound sorry at all.

“I also take tip submissions online,” Webb said, the phone in their hand practically vibrating with the force of their knee jumping up and down with agitation. “So if you really don’t mind—”

“You’re being used,” blurted Motorcycle Helmet. “The Grimm clan has been feeding you tainted information, and using it to lead people into deadly traps, and the Inquisitors are starting to look into it and are going to trace it back to you..! You’re in danger, Mx. Webb.”  

Webb fell still. The rain continued its persistent dreary pattern against the glass, and for a moment, it was the only sound in the room.

“… that was a lot of information all at once,” said the Dapper Man in that damnably gentle tone, putting a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “But… she’s right. We’re just here to help, and… well, to ask for your help as well. Please, give us a chance.”

[Please suggest an action in the comments.

As a reminder, it can be thoughts, words, deeds, or curiosities!]

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[Author’s Notes / Story Q&A]

Thank you, everyone, for joining me in Final Call! Whether you hopped in or just read (or are reading this in the future), I’m so grateful for your time and presence with me. It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!.

The final length of this story was almost 40,000 words (around 90 pages in gdocs)! Which is a lot, but I also achieved my goal of not trying to hit NaNo wordcounts during this hell year, lol. If and when you want to reread it, you’ll be able to find this story linked from my Interactive Fiction page. Feel free to check out some older interactive stories there too!

If you enjoyed the story and are looking for ways to support me and my work, you can learn about and pick up my books over here. Read some already? Leaving a good rating or review on Goodreads or Amazon can make all the difference. I’ve also got a tip jar over at Ko-Fi if you’d like to buy me a drink! And please, feel free to follow me on social media to see what I’m up to: Personal Twitter and Book Twitter.

Now that that’s done—let’s do a story Q&A! Feel free to ask me anything you want about the story, whether it’s about what my writing process was, how I got the idea for certain events or characters, things people may have suspected but not had confirmed, other ‘routes’, etc. Wonder what would have happened if you’d done X instead of Y? Ask it here! (Lurkers are totally allowed to ask too, you don’t need to have participated to ask!).

I think, also, the story managed to hit the full list of tropes you turned in way back at the beginning, whether in the play within the story or within the story itself. We had a betrayal, a monster who-isn’t-that-monstrous, unrequited love AND secret longing, a costume that’s more than a costume, a duel, a sudden earthquake, a key that refuses to be used, two characters mistaken for each other because of their startling resemblance, crossdressing for flimsy plot purposes and, of course, an emotionally-fraught kiss.

Thank you once again… and happy Halloween!

[Ask Me Some Questions, I’ll Tell You No Lies]

There is one thing that Lucien knows, though he knows nothing else here: he cannot let Shuni ascend.

Does Shuni even want to become a Lord? He never expressed interest in anything but getting his own heart back, and the fear of it ending up in someone else’s hands. Sacrificing it now seems—wrong. It’s Shuni’s choice if he wants to become a Lord, of course, but right now, it’s not one made with full consent. In a best case scenario, he’s making it because his powerful ex told him that if he did it, he’d take him back. In a worst case scenario… well, Shuni has already admitted to Lucien that he doesn’t feel anything deeply with his heart out of his chest. Is even capable of deeply wanting to become a Lord? Of deeply wanting anything?

More simply: Shuni’s affair with Lord Peacock didn’t end well the first time, and he deserves better than being manipulated by this asshole.

And it’s utterly clear that Lord Peacock is manipulative. He manipulated Frederik into starting this while planning to stop Frederik carrying it through. He manipulated Shuni to take it up after. Knowing that, even if it fully were Shuni’s choice—why should Lucien trust Peacock’s word that the end wouldn’t come so long as someone other than Frederik took it? Sacrificing anyone at this stage could lead to that abyss. To the future those dreams were hinting at.

Peacock seems just the sort of self-absorbed individual to want the Lords to consist of just him and his obsessed ex, Shuni. Why would anyone else matter when it could be just Peacock and Peacock’s counterpart?   

And Lucien thinks of his old key, of what he sacrificed in his dream, of how it had always acted to him as a symbol of survival, of getting through this. How it had never unlocked anything. He doesn’t have it any more. It had been gone when he woke up. 

But Shuni still has a key.

So…

Lucien reaches Shuni in three quick steps and grabs his wrist as the knife descends. Shuni snarls a curse, but Lucien doesn’t let it turn into a duel. He twists Shuni’s wrist sharply and forces him to drop the knife, then stops on it when it falls. No good if Peacock or—anyone, really—gets it while he’s busy.

Shuni opens his mouth to snap at him again, to accuse him of betrayal, something, and Lucien kisses him.

It’s a hard kiss, a desperate kiss, a kiss which is as much about trying to communicate his fears and his hopes and his demands as it is about his passion and his concern and his soft, uncertain, not-quite-yet-formed love. It’s fraught, and it’s emotional, and it’s frightening, kissing Shuni right now.

Shuni’s mouth moves, first in words that Lucien can’t translate, and then because Shuni is kissing back, almost stunned.

It’s just as well, because Lucien is pretty sure the next part will hurt. “Sorry,” he whispers into Shuni’s mouth, and he runs a hand over Shuni’s chest, finds the pendant, and snaps it off.

And then he drives his hand with the pendant in it into the stab wounds in Shuni’s chest over where his heart should be, inserts it between Shuni’s ribs, and twists.

Shuni’s chest opens up like a morbid flower, flesh tearing open, ribs gaping, everything inside wet and red. Shuni gasps, arched back over Lucien’s arm, and, oh, the pain must be unbearable, mustn’t it? Lucien tries to work fast, grabbing Shuni’s heart out of his other hand before Shuni can drop it. He needs to work fast, but he tries to go slow enough that he won’t squeeze it, despite his fear and desperation making his muscles tense. It feels so soft, so strange, fragile and wet and fleshy, pumping blood thinly over his fingers. 

What way does a heart even go? Lucien only has the faintest idea of which side is forward, which side is up. But this is magic, and the Endless’s gift, and she is here, up there, in the booth, and he has to rely on that. He pushes it into the hole that’s left in that horrible maw, and the heart snaps out of his grasp, shifting around on its own, finding its place.

He barely has time to pull his hand out of the gaping teeth of Shuni’s chest before it snaps closed with a crunch, muscle and flesh reknitting, healing up the wounds that he had taken from Frederik’s knife.

Lucien can’t hold Shuni up any longer and tries to lower him gently to the stage, where Shuni lies gasping, trying to pull himself together. Lucien pets his hair just once with a bloody hand, then scoops up the knife he’d stomped on and rises again.

The knife seems to fit perfectly in his grip. The stage bucks again with another shock of earthquake and Lucien spares a moment to be glad that didn’t happen while he was putting Shuni’s heart back. He spreads his feet, bracing himself more firmly, and lifts the knife, looking across the stage to where Katarin has gone into a crouch to keep herself from falling. 

“Hey,” he asks, hefting the knife, “Would you stop me if I did it?”

Katarin lets out a yell that’s half-despair, half rage, and pulls a pistol out from a holster under Revelle’s skirt. She tries to level it, but it’s hard for her to get a bead with the earth moving under them. “You can’t!” she says. “I don’t want to do it, but the world—the prophecy—”

Lord Peacock is suddenly beside her, a swirl of feathers and colors, and he knocks the pistol out of her hands. “None of that. Let’s see how this plays out, all right? This is fun.” 

That’s what Lucien had thought would happen, but it’s nice to see that he’s right, and that he understood her—that Katarin simply won’t seize this opportunity to ascend, even if she can. He laughs a little to himself, and hefts the knife, looking up at Lord Crow’s box.

It’s still impossible to tell if the Lords can hear or see through the strange prisons of their own nature that the box seats have become, but… well, the rib-opener worked, and Shuni healed after, so Lucien has to assume that at least the Endless’s power could go through. And if hers could, Crow’s should be able to as well.

Lucien raises the knife high and does his best to make eye contact with where he assumes Lord Crow must be, seated in his booth, leaning forward to watch with interest. He announces: “Lord Crow, Carrion-Eater. Perhaps you’re lonely. Perhaps, like Lord Peacock the Heartbreaker, you want a counterpart too. You never said. But—” he spins the knife here. All eyes are on him, he’s sure of it, and he loves the attention. “If so? Court me properly. Come to my shows. Be my patron. Let’s get to know each other as I learn what Lord I want to be instead of jumping on the first available opportunity without a plan.”

His voice is echoing in the theatre, would reach the back seats easily. He carries on, caught up in his own monologue. “Honestly, this? This stupid affair? This isn’t enough of an offering to you to warrant my ascent as your counterpart. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t drive this. I’m not interested in some kind of cosmic duology where the world as we know it ends, wild and messy, just so you and I can be the only ones left. That sounds like a nightmare! That sounds like my childhood, frankly—why should I ascend on the back of my trauma, instead of my wants? No, I want a better ritual, one that fits who I want to become when I become him for the rest of eternity. I want this to be mine, and I want to choose to do it myself.”

Then, voice loud, somber, a declaration that cannot be denied, Lucien finishes: “There is no ascent here. The ritual is over.”

The earthquake stops so abruptly that Lucien almost loses his footing in the absence of motion. The three boxes clear, and show their Lords once more, rapt, focused on the stage.

And there is silence.

In that silence, he turns to Katarin and shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you there. It’s just all about the drama, you know? It’s not a good promise if I can’t back it with a dedication, and I can’t do a dedication without making a scene.” He doesn’t take the time to see her reaction, turning instead to Lord Peacock. “So that’s that. Nobody’s going to do it. The ritual’s over.”

For a moment, Lord Peacock seems inscrutable, emotionless, unmoving: a perfect statue. And then the eyes all over his train blink, off-beat from each other, and Lord Peacock sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. But he’s grinning when he speaks. “What an anticlimax,” he says. “A total disappointment all around. Though I admit you’ve got my attention now.”

Shuni pushes himself up on his hands, lifting his head. “Peacock—” His voice is ragged, pleading.

Lord Peacock’s eyes roll—all of them. “And you? No follow-through. Do something that impresses me in the future, and then we’ll talk.”

He vanishes, and then, as if they had just been waiting for Peacock to leave first, the lords wink out one at a time. First is the Endless, gone as if she had never existed; then the Moonlit Lord, winking out with a fading of her light like moonset. And last, Crow, in a whirl of feathers and the sound of a flock taking off.

It is the three of them, alone.

Lucien bows to the empty seats of the audience.

***

There is riotous applause as the finale of The Thief King comes to a close. Lucien, playing the titular Thief King, Ransom, bows, then steps aside so his costars may come on.

This play was as variable as all plays are, but was no ritual. Instead, it was fun. He feels more confident with this sort of character now, in his element. He applauds his cast as they come on one by one, but his gaze is scanning the box seats. There are two Lords in attendance today: Lord Peacock, who sometimes deigns to come see a show, and, of course, Lord Crow.

His frequent presence at Lucien’s shows is to be expected, but never fails to fill Lucien with a sense of pleasure.

After he’s cleaned up and changed back into plain old Lucien, he shakes his head and demurs about getting drinks with the cast. “Sorry, I’ve got an obligation,” he says. “But let’s catch up properly tomorrow, maybe.”

Rude? Perhaps. But it’s one year since that day, and he owes it to his friends.

They meet at the Fox’s Den. Katarin shows up first, sliding in across from him without much preamble. “Saw the show tonight. It was lovely. The finale really pulled things together.”

“Well, full credit to the director for that,” Lucien says. “Kine is much more hands on than that director was. They made notes after every performance to suggest scenes for the next day, to really guide it into a cohesive work night-by-night. Exhausted our poor SM, mind.”

Katarin laughs a little, then busies herself with a sip of her beer as Shuni slides into the booth next to Lucien and steals a kiss. It’s meant to be a quick one, but Lucien’s still running the high of a work complete, and, well, Katarin seems quite busy with her drink, so he makes it longer.

Not that he doesn’t have ample opportunity to kiss Shuni these days, regular lovers as they are. They don’t live together, and see other people, sure, but they’re in each other’s company as often as they are not. It’s perhaps for the best—Shuni’s still experimenting with having a heart in a chest again, how to both protect it from the wrong sorts, and how to make it vulnerable with the right sorts. Keeping Shuni to himself might be satisfying, but not the best thing for Shuni.

They’re both working on doing the best thing for themselves, these days.

When they break apart, Katarin lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half sigh. “Good to see how well you’re doing,” she says.

“You too,” Shuni says. “Though Lucien says you’ve quit acting.”

“Well, for now, anyway,” she says. “I don’t know that I’d ever be happy in the long run as an actor, even if I’m good at it. But I’ve been writing my own plays, and working as an ASM in the meantime. I don’t want to leave the theatre. I’m just not cut out for the spotlight.”

He waves a hand, dismissing the apologetic note in her voice. “If you’re doing what makes you happy, that’s all that matters. Just a shame we won’t be able to play across from you again.”

Shuni might say that, but none of them have played across from each other since that day. It may be coincidence—an actor has to be cast, after all. The actors don’t decide who they’ll perform with. But they haven’t been trying out for the same shows, and Lucien thinks that perhaps, at least for now, they just don’t want to see each other as competition. They’re working on having partnership instead, despite the attention of certain Lords complicating things.

Lucien wouldn’t take it back for the world.

They finish their drinks, and Katarin heads off, with a promise to give them both copies of her next script and a suggestion that they catch up again in a week. Shuni and Lucien walk home together through the early dawn, the darkness of night just starting to give way to the reds and oranges of the rising sun. 

Time to sleep soon. Not yet, though. Not yet.

They pause in front of Lucien’s house, and Lucien gives Shuni a kiss. “Do you want to come up?” he offers.

Shuni laughs. Lucien is still not used to how soft it sounds these days. “I’ll pass, thanks. I know what happens right after a performance ends, and I don’t plan to get in the way of that. But one more kiss.”

A lingering kiss later, Lucien heads up the stairs into his cramped apartment. And there, as Shuni had correctly assumed, is Lord Crow, sitting on Lucien’s bed. Corvids are perched on every available surface, making a ruckus, and his shirt is open already, showing curling feathers instead of hair. He’s eager, then. Excited.

“Good performance tonight,” Crow says, with one of those raw, scraping laughs. “Sorry I couldn’t make yesterday’s, but you know how it is.”

Lucien does. Lord Crow isn’t Lucien’s to command. He’s untameable. But he shows up to more of Lucien’s shows than he misses, and Lucien knows that his offer of a year ago wasn’t rejected.

Lucien grins and goes to him.

When he’d held the knife, he hadn’t known what kind of Lord he’d become even if he went forward with it. Looking back, Lucien doesn’t think that the him of a year ago could have become more than the Lord of Survival, defined by his losses and scrambling to stay on top of things. That could have been some kind of counterpart to the Carrion-Eater, certainly, but he’s not sure it would have been the one he wanted.

He’s doing more than surviving now. He’s thriving.

And he’s excited to see what sort of utter nonsense he’ll have claimed for himself when he’s ready to ascend.

[Head on over to the Author’s Notes/Story Q&A?]

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