The Dragon's Bane

VII

Évrard D'Aboville-The Creature 

Evenings with her are sacred. And they belong to me. I was standing on my familiar perch. My eyes piercing through the darkness at her quietly sleeping form.

I bet you'd like if I described the rhythm she breathed in at REM. Or which side of the bed she generally ends up on. Or any other quirks I'd discovered she had during sleep. No, you can't have everything.

Weekends are far less fulfilling. It starts with the same flash that her weekday does. Once all important tasks are completed, she is free to be a person that I simply don't believe in. For on the weekend, she is Amélie's.

I have concluded that Amélie is a would-be pimp. A low life of an even lower order. They go out, the witch pays. They eat, the little witch cooks. They mate, she does all the work and Amélie does all the enjoying.

She feeds on the little witch in ways even I would consider indecent. I thought of killing Amélie by vivisecting her heart and feeding it to her before her eyes wander up into the black.

But that simply will not do. Too brief an affair. Amélie and I have a promised dance someday that will take time. No, in this there will be no rush, rush, hurry, hurry. I will not make her into a mourning martyr.

I must journey into this witch from the periphery and my exodus, Amélie. Slow and steady with surgical skill. My discovery of who this witch is will be a process and not an event.

Do I think stalking is wrong? I don't. Obviously. At worst I prefer to think of it as a slightly unfair advantage. A competitive edge that skirts the rules of competition but is not technically cheating.

You should take some comfort in knowing, dear reader, that I stalked all forty of my wives in like fashion. Not that I have any intention beyond my own satisfaction in her death. The general idea being that you can't love a person until you know them. And you can't know a person until you've watched them operate as just themselves. Caught them with their pants down, makeup off, and buttons pushed. When you see the worst of a person. That is them. It is certainly more than the best faces we put on.

I know her now. The little witch. She is quick-tempered, volatile, temperamental, passionate, dramatic, and slightly unhinged. But she carries the most hard-earned smile I've seen since the dawn of my time. She is fiercely loyal, consistent, educated, and without regret.

Of all things she managed to earn my respect. It is for this reason, I lied to my king, for the first time. Sabien, the precious, ennoble, soulless, Grimm's brother, fucking nightmare fairytale villain. I'd come far in my life upon the wings of his generosity. I am in so much debt to him, but I don't really care. Because for the first time in many a year, I feel alive.

This is how I found myself in a bookstore. A quaint, pongy, locker-box sized bookstore. All of us on top of each other. Reaching over, under, and across for what we need but more on that in a moment.

When I left the little witch, Amélie had just gone to bed and as usual she stayed behind to wash the dishes. It was Saturday night; cool down stretch yoga night. I figured this was a good spot to leave.

For watching evening Izmir, stretch that lovely frame across creation can be unfair. I returned in the A.M. to find Amélie already gone but so was she. But at 8 in the morning?

Her car never returned to its preassigned parking space 102 as per her usual. 10am rolled around, then odd gave way to concern. Then I began a proper search.

I started at her favorite package store. Then I went to Amélie's job. Then Amélie's sister's house. And then two of her friends' houses. Then I visited the neighbors and canvassed the neighborhood. And the cinemas they frequent. The gay bars, which were closed. The chocolate shoppe, etcetera.

All the while dodging sunlight and jumping shade to shake down local dealers for sightings of her. The day bore nothing, nothing, and more nothing.

I went back home to the black. To give my body a blessed rest from the sun. And that's when it hit me. All I had to do was trace her scent. It was a little bit more of a process than I anticipated but certainly not impossible. And now we skip forward and we're at the bookstore. That's where I found her but also where I found him. And her scent in his mouth.

The Dirty Cauldron is the name of said bookstore. The owner would take a bow for that given its shabby state. But he probably would prefer it to be a little less of a hot spot. I am sure he was thinking that the disrepair would scare people away but the locals find it to be a rustic chic.

Its bizarre nature attracting Goths and lovers of the macabre, dark arts hobbyists, and trinket collectors all. For us in the know. This place is what we call a SPAIC easy. S.P.A.I.C. Supernaturalis Pertinet Adinteriorem Circulum. If your Latin is above reproach, you will have the translation.

Senior members of the community are approved and backed by the night sect. There are stores for you and stores for us. And occasionally stores for both. The Dirty Cauldron is the latter and the trickiest to operate.

For example, at his rate of growth he is risking losing his license. Too much attention is indeed bad for business. The husband runs the first business out of the front. The wife, the other out the back.

But the place is so small really, that they are sitting side by side, out in the open. How do you operate a business that is selling two very different products? Simple, transaction differences.

The regular supply is bought with paltry green paper and the real goods with true valuables; gold, diamonds, raw materials, rare metals or if you have something to offer a service trade.

I wasn't here on homework. I was here because she was here. You might imagine following anyone in a 6x8 ft space with books and flesh all crammed into what little area oxygen has left, to be a difficult task. You would be correct in that assumption.

Not only is she clever, she has reasonable eyesight. And following her clumsily she spotted be straight off. And just before she could say the first bitter likely bile-filled curse words to my face, a lumpy frumpy deer in headlights stepped right into my gaping mouth.

This man, who I recognized but couldn't place the face, spoke for her. But I didn't actually hear his words. I was stunned-slapped by the scent emanating from his tongue. A breath of fresh strawberry cough syrup, cannabis, mixed with the witch's blend of cess.

The smell had been intermingled in a way that projected a sort of intimacy that I simply would not approve of. And that is when he made eye contact. Perfect.