I walk along a worn cobblestone street lined with Muggle construction equipment. It looks as if someone has angrily knocked over a glass of pumpkin juice across the city skyline, giving the pavement and surrounding buildings a warm glow.
I make my way past a group of tourists chatting away in English, many of them wearing 'Niagara Falls, Canada' T-shirts under their jackets. One girl tries to ask me a question in wretchedly pronounced French, but I ignore her, needing to keep pace with Lestrange who's half-a-block ahead.
It took me over two weeks to find Lestrange, much longer than usual for me. In that time, he's killed five more creatures: two vampire merchants, two well-known nymph musicians, and a werewolf Beta. Lestrange has already proven more of a challenge than any of my past targets. I'm quite curious to see if the trend continues, but I won't allow it at the cost of more High-Realm lives.
During my investigation, I've learnt that Lestrange has been calling himself Eyas Rosier. Every few weeks, he has moved to a different country in an attempt to remain undiscovered. His alias is what tipped me off. A surname not in the Pure-Blood Directory would have served him better. Like with most Dark wizards, his pride would be his downfall.
Lestrange disappears around a corner.
I curse and sprint forwards, manoeuvring around pedestrians as best I can.
As I turn the corner, I slam into a hard, muscled body. "Oof." I take a step back. "Pardon."
I'm not a short woman, but I have to crane my neck to see whom I've crashed into.
Whom I find is Rabastan Lestrange gazing down at me. His brows are up, and a smirk graces his mouth. I hate to admit it, but he looks good. Okay, better than good. Alright, fine. He looks gorgeous. He's wearing olive trousers and a white Oxford shirt with a casual-but-stylish, violet-blue coat. His dark hair is a little too long, and a few strands fall over his eyes and ears. His irises are amber with flecks of gold, and his hawkish nose completes the picture of him resembling a bird of prey.
For a second, I lament over my task. It will be such a shame and waste having to kill such a clever and attractive man, but needs must.
"Follow me," I order.
His smirk widens, and I frown. On his face, he has the unsettling look of a raptor that's been triumphant in nabbing its dinner. If he thinks the wand in his hand will save him, he's wrong. I return his arrogant expression with one of my own.
"We meet again, my little pullet"—I narrow my eyes at him for calling me a young female chicken—"It was quite a sight to see those wings of yours sprout from your back all those years ago. Been wearing this ever since." He pulls something from underneath his shirt and then taps his temple.
I take a closer look and see a small glass ball filled with water hanging from a silver chain. An air bubble inside it shifts with his movements. Fuck a duck. Water and air are my affinities. He must be wearing a charm against the Sway of a siren. This poses a huge challenge. The Canadian Ministry has strict laws against using magic in Muggle areas, so using my wand is out. I'm left with only one workable solution.
As Lestrange drops the charm back behind his shirt, I attack with superhuman strength and speed, aiming my fist at his head. Lestrange doesn't avoid my hit, but he does move quick enough to not get knocked out as I intended. I ignore the concerned yells from nearby onlookers and immediately strike out with my foot. Lestrange dances out of the way and uses my momentum against me.
An instant later, I find myself on the pavement with him on top of me. As I struggle to gasp in a breath, his fist makes contact with my face, busting my lip.
