as kindred should

one

A bitter autumn chill had set in that morning. At approximately 10AM, the frost had only just begun to melt, and Dorian's breath clouded the air in front of him.

He leaned against his car, one hand shoved deep in his pocket and the other wrapped around an empty mug, tucked under the flap of his Elite-branded jacket. It occurred to him, as it had a thousand mornings before, that the Elite didn't much care to offer protection from the cold. Magic, sometimes, occasionally a fist. Weather? God forbid.

The hum of another car approached, and as he had for the last three, Dorian looked up, watched it meander down the cozy suburban lane with his brow furrowed. He expected it was someone else off to work or school or whatever else.

This one parked at the curb, and Dorian perked up, a stray lock of hair falling over his eyes.

"Did the Commissioner give you trouble?" He asked, genuine despite the teasing words.

Eurion snorted.

"Oh, no, no, no. He's a right peach, he is."

A man of sharp words and frequent sarcasm, Eurion had the looks to match. He was lean, with high, thin cheekbones and eyes so dark that they were almost black. His hair was just as dark, almost untouched by grey; a streak had started on one side of his head, little more than a fleck now, but plain enough a promise of more.

"Well, what do we know?" Dorian asked, pushing off his car with a white huff.

Eurion bent at his door, pulling a case of red-and-orange cans from beneath the seat. The label was fancy and antique-looking, print Dorian expected to see on a high-class furniture shop before an aluminum can.

"Spiced water?" Eurion asked. "Cinnamon, it says. You ready to take a risk?"

Dorian arched a brow, and held out his empty cup.

"Hit me."

Eurion popped the tab on one of the cans and poured. The liquid was mostly clear, tinged with yellow-orange. It fizzed when it landed in his cup, burbled like a fountain. Dorian thought it looked like dishwater. He screwed the lid back on.

"So what we know," Eurion said, filling his own. "Is that this is one of the guys with the Dead Cedars. D'you remember them? Former branch of whats-his-fuck's gang. Henry Bowles was his name. According to the caller he took a hell of a lashing. Well, bashing. He was supposedly murdered with a hammer."

"Oh," Dorian said flatly. "Don't you just love that."

He took a sip out of his cup and cringed.

"Jesus Christ, Eurion, what the hell is this?"

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Eurion retorted, and took a sip. His face screwed up in disgust. For a moment he was green around the gills, and rightfully so. It tasted like gasoline and peppercorns.

"It's fucking awful."

"Leave your cup out here, then. I'm going to. The next one'll be better."

Dorian set his cup on the roof of his car, tongue ablaze with the taste of lousy cinnamon. Eurion mirrored him. He started for the scene with a wave of his hand.

The house looked like something off of a postcard. White and grey and finely decorated, with a well-maintained lawn, if he squinted he could almost see a Hollywood family sitting on the porch, three kids and a hundred bottles of wine into their lives here.

It wasn't the truth, a reality first betrayed by a splintered dent in the front door and a collapsed metal knob laying a foot away.

Eurion nudged the door open and they entered a house almost as lovely as its exterior, if not for the scalding stench filling every corner of it.