akin to blood.
It only took her a moment. “It's mixed with the commandant's aura?!”
No, not quite. Another few flashes of uncertainty were enough to explain that Olgun couldn't swear it was Commandant Archibeque. But some human-fae combination had been present within, and frequently.
“Lisette?”
Again, no. That sensation, he'd recognize.
“Then I don't unders—can the fae possess people, like a ghost or demon? Do we need, I don't know, special medicine, or an exorcism? Does the Church of the Hallowed Pact even do exorcisms anymore?”
And then, “You know, that's starting to get really aggravating. If you're going to keep shrugging at me, you can hopping well grow some shoulders already, yes? I—”
The deity's power surged, making her ears crackle, and then she could clearly hear the sound of steps out in the hallway. Steps that grew louder, nearer, with deliberate purpose.
“Right, we'll discuss shoulders later. Don't forget to remind me! Make a note of it. ‘Shoulders.’”
And speaking of shoulders, she had hers (along with the rest of her) through the window, and the shutters tugged closed behind her, before whoever was approaching—be it Archibeque or some lower functionary—could crack the door to the office.
Not, in and of itself, the most inconspicuous exit, but luck—perhaps with a nudge from Olgun; she never did ask—was with her. The commandant's window opened up on a smaller street, to one side of the building, rather than on the main thoroughfare out front. Between that and the thick, soaking mist that threatened to coalesce into yet another heavy rain any minute now, only a smattering of passersby witnessed her unorthodox exit. And while Shins drew more than a few peculiar looks and puzzled mutters, she'd be long gone before anyone—even should they decide to do so—had flagged down and returned with an actual guard.
Arms wrapped tightly about herself, save for those moments when she needed to wipe water or strands of hair from her face, Widdershins made her way back toward more comfortable environs. Her cold clothes pasted themselves to her skin, making her shiver, and the moisture in the air was so think it didn't merely smell but tasted of society's many odors. She was almost sure, were she dropped blindfolded anywhere in the city, she could instantly guess her rough location by the specific combination of flavors.
Which is why she noticed almost immediately when the harsh grating of fire and smoke crept in to season the bouquet. The sting of fumes, the grit of ash, the sharp tang of what had once been wood…all scarcely hinted at in the tiny whiffs that reached her, but imprinted so heavily on her memories that she gagged; her eyes began to water for reasons other than the weather. Something about a burning building…
Fire had ended her childhood, changed her life into something unrecognizable for the first of what would become many, many times. It was not a scent, especially when it snagged her unawares, that she would ever be comfortable with. She couldn't imagine how such a blaze had gotten started in this weather; it must have been intense.
Something else to do with the ongoing chaos and upheaval, no doubt. Still, it was far enough away that Shins couldn't see any billowing smoke amidst the lighter haze, and while the wind wasn't precisely steady, she could tell that the fumes came from nowhere near the direction she was headed. No matter how severe the blaze, the weather would keep it from spreading too terribly far before the locals got it under control.
She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever owned the burning place (or places), and another surge of fury at Lisette, for causing so much widespread hurt and chaos with her insane machinations. Still, deepest and darkest truth be told, what Shins felt more than anything else was relief.
It was good to be reminded, on occasion, that not everything that went wrong in Davillon was her problem.
How in the name of every damn god of the damn Pact did I get roped into this?!
Evrard d'Arras strode—more “stomped,” really, though he'd have rejected the description as undignified—across cobblestones made dark by evening and slick with the ever-present humidity. The wind whipped his long coat about his ankles, where it also collected dirty runoff and occasional speckles of mud from his feet; not-quite-rain dripped from the corners of his tricorne hat. (Popular in all the most fashionable Galicien circles, the damn things never had caught on in Davillon. Of course.) At roughly every third streetlight, he forced his hand to