Kitty's Keeper/No Clean Blades

II

The smell of food roused Carum from their sleep, pulling them from a bittersweet dream about the shoreline. They clapped twice while still lying in bed, curious about the scent's origin but not quite ready to act upon it. As the candles flared to life, they stared at the ceiling, watching the slumbering colony above. George said bats were very social beasts that loved to gossip. About what, the human would never know.

They turned their head. George. He departed earlier that morning with his fellow band members, to where the acolyte did not question, and the siren did not say. But that was alright. So long as they returned before nightfall. The bed was so cold without him in it.

The scent once again pulled Carum from their thoughts, as if beckoning to them. They finally decided to answer the summons, stretching and yawning to their feet before walking to their grooming crate and clothing chest.

"It is morning," they recited to themself, "Mane est."

They filled their wash basin. "Water. Aqua. Aqua est. Aqua hoc est? This is water?"

They weren't so much questioning whether the liquid was water as they were wondering if their phrasing was correct. All the words were there, but were they in the right place?

They finished their cleaning routine and changed into their robe. "Clothing. Vestimentum. Robe. P-palla? Red robe. Er..."

Of all the colors, red had somehow escaped them! Red, the color of Demonfire! Red, the color of imported spices! Red, the color of freshly spilt blood!

"Sanguis..."

Now, that was a word they knew very well. George spoke often of blood: bloodwine, blood sacrifice, blood ritual... The dark arts emphasized casting from the soul, and one of the soul's manifestations was blood. Meanwhile, vampirics like George used blood for sustenance. It was their aqua vitae.

Carum preferred fresh water, if not tea or fruit juice. They licked their lips. Hopefully the meal they were smelling was accompanied by at least one of those beverages.

"Beverage. Poto, I think. To drink. Bibere. 'I will eat and drink.' Er... Oh, stars, how mine ambition moves faster than mine tongue..."

They extinguished the candles and walked out of the pitch with a hunting dog's focus, stalking the scent towards Ringo's chamber, only to turn as it weakened. Odd that. Where else would one cook?

Carum discovered the answer to that question when they followed the scent to Paul's chamber, where the siren was running between two campfires of golden flame—one that kept a cauldron at a rolling boil, and another that toasted two slices of bread using Carum's grill and skillet. The fires did not belch smoke, they did not even crackle or pop, yet they consumed wood and offered heat like any other flame. Truly magic was a sight to behold.

Carum waved from the entryway. "Good morrow!"

Paul looked up from his progress in the cauldron. "Hello, hello!" he sang.

"You've beaten me to the skillet, I see."

Paul laughed. "Indeed!" He beckoned to the human. "Come in, come in! I made you breakfast!"

Carum walked to the bar and Paul brought out a bar stool for them.

"There we are! Sleep well, dear?"

Carum nodded after sitting down. "Yes."

Paul returned behind the bar. "Dream of anything interesting?"

"The last shoreline we visited, though I fear that might not be very interesting to you."

Paul frowned a bit. "Don't say that, dear. It's well interesting. In fact, I think Ringo misses it just as much as you do."