Akrasia

Chapter 2: Lacuna I

As the carriage shakes its way down the path of an estate far grander than she's ever seen, making Aimée's look humble by comparison, Drift wonders again if she's somehow been given the wrong address. The worry first began to set in when, after the third day of travel through the rugged highlands—the smog coated sight of civilisation finally rolling again into view, nestled away in the smokey valley they soon began to descend into—her driver turned away from the city, and rolled off into the woodlands instead.

No matter, she thought, they are vampires after all—it is understandable to not want to live in the heart of the city. But after trundling through the woods for a few hours, the vegetation around her began to strike her as less wild than she would have expected, and then she caught a glimpse of it: a shock of cream walls and red-tiled roofs cast in a deep orange glow by the late afternoon sun, flashing through the dark green foliage flickering past the window.

While Aimée's estate features a sizeable manor and a handsomely maintained garden, Drift discovers as the carriage rolls through the grand gateway and into the courtyard that it would appear her best friends have somehow acquired themselves what she can really only describe as a small castle and several acres of rolling fields and forests.

The manor in Oakhurst had been quite an imposing and impressive work, but that was in large part due to the inhuman speed at which it had been constructed. They had frequently referred to it as "the castle", but its stonework was simple and utilitarian, parts of it were uneven due to the lack of planning and rushed construction (she tries not to remember the windows in the ballroom), and you really didn't need to take Scott's word for it that it was a shadow of its former glory—the crumbled remains of its old foundations can still be seen half buried in the grass and moss around it, the breadth of its original footprint never quite reached. But for Drift, after the place transitioned from a place of danger into a safe haven, the mansion developed something of a homely charm. The uneven flooring, the wonky arches, the little things you noticed after spending enough time in its walls... with these, the image of the terrifying den of monsters quickly fell apart.

There's none of that here. Truly, this was a castle—not a medieval one mind, though there is a pointed tower attached to one side of the u-shaped building, but aside from that it is almost entirely Renaissance with its flat roofs and boxy construction. A château, for sure. But there's a weight to the place. You can feel how long it has been there—the cracks in the plaster ooze with history, the visible bits of stonework stained and weatherworn, the light clash of architectural styles speaking to its age. If this had been the castle in Oakhurst, Drift is not sure she would have ever felt any kind of comfort in its walls. Is this really where they've been living?

Of course, Scott Goldsmith is not known for his frugality, but she had assumed when Shelby told her they had found a place here that it would be a bit more like her own dinky little flat and the renovation she had mentioned of a much more humble scale, and so never really thought to ask much about it. Now she wishes she had, because a thousand questions are buzzing around in her head like an annoying swarm of insects.

However, as she steps out of the carriage, all doubts about being in the right place are quickly erased from her mind—for the world around her suddenly tilts, and then spins and spins and spins.

"Driftyyy!!" Shelby squeals out, body slamming into her and then lifting her into the air, hugging her close and twirling in place, sending her hat flying. "You're finally here!"

"Woah!" Drift laughs, grabbing onto Shelby's shoulders to steady herself, determining that it might be some time before they decide to put her back down again. "Hi, Shelby."

Shelby giggles, elated, slowing to a standstill and squeezing her tight enough she might struggle to breathe if that were something she needed to do. "I've missed you!"

"I've missed you too—though I didn't realise you'd become an actual princess in my absence?" Drift says with a chuckle, looking pointedly at the massive building and then quirking an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, the—" Shelby glances back, finally setting Drift back on the ground. "It's a long story."

Drift reaches down for her hat, and discovers a rather unceremoniously discarded lacy parasol also at their feet, which she gives a little shake and a brush, then hands back to Shelby. "Yeah I can imagine, but I thought you'd have mentioned you've been living in a castle this whole time!"

Shelby spins the parasol in her hands absently, and glances back at her with a wry smile. "Well you know what Scott's like. It was a whole thing, you know—Scott had some like ancient deed to the lands here that was signed by some old king from before the empire or something? So he was like, this land is mine and so are all the buildings on it!" she puffs out her chest and puts on a fake deep voice as she says the last bit that sounds, frankly, nothing at all like Scott, which makes Drift stifle a giggle. "And they were all like whaat? No it's not! But like, it was though. They spent forever trying to prove that the deed was forged but that was some bona fide nasty old scroll. Can't fake that kind of musk, you know? So now the castle and everywhere around it is his!" she twirls around with a sweeping gesture. "Do you like it? Most of the renovation has been inside so far, but there used to be this massive tower riiight there." She points over Drift's shoulder and she turns to look. Sure enough, now that she's pointed it out, Drift's eyes can't help but catch the fresh plastering on the eastern wing and the raw, vegetation free swathe of earth between it and the walls of the gatehouse. "But it was blocking the view so we got rid of it."

Drift hums appreciatively, looking out at the fields and wooded hills now apparently unobstructed thanks to them. It is quite a view: a cute little creek lined with willow trees cuts its way through what begins as a garden of neatly arranged, geometric gravel paths dotted with trees and hedgerows that then expand out into wilder foliage, the paths becoming wild and rough alongside it, following the creek and the landscape and disappearing into the thick blanket of trees encircling the estate, beyond which lies the hazy backdrop of the mountains.

"True." A familiar voice comes from behind her, ever tinged with that amused tone. "It was an eyesore."

"Scott!" Drift spins around. She holds her hand out and feels a faint flicker in her stomach as his hand takes hers, his long claw-like nails pressing against her skin, but she ignores it and gives him a firm handshake. "Hey man, how've you been?"

"Good, good! Very busy." He smiles at her, clapping the back of her hand with his other one and then releasing. Drift is a bit taken aback by his appearance, if she's fully honest. The last time she saw him, he was wearing his dramatic, ancient looking getup with its high necked collar and sweeping cloak. She wasn't really sure what to expect when she saw him again—would he continue to dress in his old clothes, or blend in with something more appropriate for the times?

The answer, it seems, is neither. He's managed to make himself look almost French—as if he took one look at the current subdued fashion trends and asked his tailor to do the entire opposite. His coat, with its huge exaggerated lapels that echo the collar of his old cloak, hugs his form almost effeminately, giving him quite the striking silhouette that is sure to garner many a disapproving look, and he continues to dress in a shocking bright red and black combination. He has, somehow, managed to replace his old clothes with something that is even more dated in its refusal to fit with the current trends. Maybe he should have woken up a century ago, she muses. Or perhaps, after visiting Vienna, they should make their way to Paris, where he is sure to find good company amidst the dandies.

Not, mind you, that she's particularly surprised by any of this. Really, she ought to have guessed this would be how he would dress after entering wider society. She smiles back at him. "I'll bet—so you're, what, a lord again?"

"I was always a lord, Drift." He says with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if to banish the thought he could have ever been anything else.

Drift laughs. "Well, yeah, but Oakhurst was kind of in ruins. Wait, how are you planning on traveling if you've got all this to manage?"

"Well." He squints at her, and Drift notes the faint familiar sound of his skin sizzling with neither a brim atop his head nor a parasol in hand to block the evening light. "How's about we get out of this dreadful sun and chat about it inside? Come on in, Drift." Scott says, turning and not actually waiting for her to answer, briskly walking towards the arched entryway, calling out for his servants to attend to Drift's luggage and carriage as he goes.

As he disappears into the shadows of the vestibule, Drift stares at the building in front of them and needs to take a moment to really process that she's about to go inside it. She feels a hand slip into hers, and glances at a grinning Shelby, who tugs her along and yatters about the building and decorating they've been doing.

Scott did not like the interiors when they arrived, apparently. It was all done up in the Viennese style—which amuses Drift, seeing as that is where they are headed—so the first thing he had done to the place was have the windows ripped out and all of the interior plasterwork chipped away, replacing it all with deep red and purple stained glass and dark wooden panelling.

It's a bit disorienting when she sees it, as if she stepped into one building and found herself inside another, momentarily transported back to Oakhurst. And yet, the sheer scale of the place is incomparable: they pass through the dark stone vestibule and it opens up into a vast entrance hall with a great vaulted ceiling and a grand stone staircase, of which she has little time to admire, for as soon as their accoutrements are whisked away by the lanky servant boy waiting to attend to them, Shelby whisks her away and up the stairs, into a dining hall that is so large it appears to double as a ballroom itself. Dark stained windows with thick heavy curtains framing them span from the marble floor to the ceiling on one side of the room, casting the space in an ominous and familiar red glow, once offering what she imagines was probably a lovely view of the gardens before all of the windows were tinted to keep the sun out, accessible now only by stepping out onto the balcony she can just make out beyond.

Shelby points out a couple of doors on the far side of the room as leading to the private wing and guest quarters respectively, and then pulls her through a different door into the drawing room off to the side, where Scott has already made himself quite comfortable in an armchair beside the fireplace. It's cosy honestly, and surprisingly modern—jade-green, damask wallpaper lines the room trimmed with a warm, dark wooden wainscot. The mansion at Oakhurst had been all stone and wood, a medieval style reflected in the grand halls they just passed through. This room then was Shelby's touch, Drift surmises.

However, while the interiors of Scott's abode seem to be successfully keeping in with the tastes of a modern gentleman, his manners... "Well don't rise for my company." Drift says sarcastically as he makes absolutely no move to stand. "I'm sure your ancient bones must need the rest—can't have our elder straining himself, can we Shelby?"

Shelby snorts, and Scott's eyebrows twitch the tiniest amount, small enough that Drift is not entirely certain she didn't imagine it, then his eyes flick her up and down, and a toothy grin flashes onto his face. "Exaactly," he drawls, and gestures to the settee beside the centre table. "Come, come, have a seat."

A chill runs up Drift's spine under his piercing gaze, which is subsequently followed by hot irritation at herself. Scott is a friend. She has nothing to be scared of anymore, she can crack a joke and call him out for being rude. She exhales lightly, and takes a seat with Shelby beside her.

Once settled, Scott wastes no time in continuing their discussion—simply put, he has been caught in a whirlwind of local politics and has been making moves to establish people he can trust to manage his estate in his absence. It seems he could ramble about his frustrations with modern politics and how he wishes he could simply slaughter a few people to make a point for hours, but neither Drift nor Shelby are really interested in talking about the beaurocracy of managing an estate and the accompanying farmland and, it turns out, village that Scott is now overseeing. Not that he really seems to care—if ever there was a man who loves the sound of his own voice it is Scott Goldsmith, and the man loves to complain especially.

But as he prattles on, a guilty, anxious feeling settles into Drift's stomach. The similarity to Oakhurst cannot be ignored: somehow, he has managed to finagle his way into a position identical to the one he left, ousted some other noble family, and established himself as a lord again, something that feels deeply, deeply wrong.

Yet, she reminds herself, Scott has promised to turn over a new leaf. Perhaps this is the best way for him to prove his change of heart—a fresh start for him to show his strengths, without indulging in past vices. He at least hasn't killed or eaten anyone yet, and it has been several apparently very annoying months now.

Scott sighs dramatically, again, now lounging in his chair in a way that makes one question exactly how comfortable it could be with his limbs arranged in such a bizarre manner—every dramatic sigh throughout this rant has resulted in him rearranging himself into stranger and stranger positions, the concerns of propriety evidently not Scott's own. At this point he now finds himself horizontal in the chair. "It really would be much easier if I could just kill some of them." He says, his head making its way into his palm and a pout onto his face.

"I mean good job, man." Drift chuckles. "Proud of you for not giving into the temptation."

"Mm." Scott grumbles, and seems about ready to launch into another rant, but Shelby cuts in first.

"But what about you, Drift?" she says, her words coming out a little too fast. "How has city life been treating you?"

"Oh." Drift says, glancing at Shelby. Months of grabbing rats from the gutter and ducking away into dark alleys out of a desperate need to curb the hunger while barely holding herself together amidst the constant thrum of warm human life flashes through her mind. "You know, well enough!" she laughs lightly. "I really just kind of went back to my old life after—I mean, I wrote to you about it right, Shelby? Did you ever tell Scott?"

Scott makes a noncomittal noise.

Drift glances at him, and then back at Shelby. The answer to that is obviously yes, but she elaborates anyway. "Well, they'd all thought I'd died and my body gone missing, so I'd become a case all of my own."

Her nose wrinkles slightly as she remembers. By far the most enthusiastic leader of the search for Drift, she found out, had been Aimée. By all accounts, Aimé Hawthorne had poured his "every waking moment" (and a great deal of money) into the investigation—yet all the while she was lashing out and racking up her kill count. Five more dead. Five! And worse: Drift had managed to become the perfect alibi for her by convincing the utter idiots she left behind that Mr. Hawthorne was a terrible victim who had tragically lost his "intended" to the same killer before he could propose, that he was far too distraught and invested in figuring out what happened to her to possibly be considered a suspect.

When she came back, her flat had been in a state of complete disarray, her papers and her belongings scattered across the floor, every drawer and cupboard flung open, her furniture shoved halfway across the room in places. In the centre of her dining table a vase had been set, deep blue orchids still flourishing in its mouth.

"Yeah!" Shelby says enthusiastically, pulling her back to the present. "They thought you'd got got by that killer you were on to, right?"

Drift schools her face into calm, casual mask as her wrist begins to itch and a vision of Aimée leaning in and pressing her against the tree in her garden enters her mind's eye, accompanied an annoyingly accurate mimicry of her voice saying, I did get you in the end, didn't I, Drift?

To which she silently tells to shut the hell up, then smiles at Shelby. "Yup, but then I came back and just had to pay off a looot of missed rent. Luckily I don't need to buy food anymore." She laughs. "But yeah, I've just been doing odd cases here and there, nothing especially interesting. Most of it's just been petty theft and infidelity."

"Nothing interesting?" Shelby exclaims. "But you went back there to close the case and catch the killer!"

The itch only grows more intense, and Drift slides her thumb underneath her cuff and presses down on the mark to soothe it. "Ah, well. Y'know, it's not always that simple. Anyway, how have you been, Shelby?"

"Spending every moment she can in those woods." Scott chuckles, rolling his eyes and earning an indignant glare from Shelby.

"There's something out there!" Shelby huffs, her cheeks puffing out and her arms crossing. "Maybe it's not Bigfoot, but there's something there, I can sense it."

The conversation then shifts into a list of theories as to what might be wandering the grounds, winding down into idle chatter as the evening sets in and Scott pulls out a bottle of "wine". Drift tries to decline at first—she's loathe to be wasteful when she doesn't need to eat, and (she doesn't tell them this part) with Aimée's blood in her system, she could last at least another week before the hunger becomes truly unbearable—but Scott insists, and she eventually relents.

Periodically, the conversation shifts back to Drift and the case that pulled her away from them, and each time Drift carefully deflects it. Eventually, after both the bottle and their glasses have been drained dry, Drift excuses herself—she's had a long journey and, as wonderful as their company is, she could really do with a little quiet rest.

The same tall lad who had taken her and Shelby's things earlier shows her to the room that has been prepared for her, and Drift gratefully collapses onto the soft, plush bed within. Her luggage waits beside the chest at the foot of the bed, and a fire has been lit for her. The bed, she notices, is already warm, and her eyes fall to the metal warming pan resting beside the fireplace.

What a life of luxury they're living, she thinks, shaking her head.

As the orange flicker of candlelight is replaced by a bright, red glow of filtered sunlight, Drift realises just how many hours she has lost, and decides she should probably make herself sociable again. She snaps her book shut, stretches her creaky bones, and makes her way back to the drawing room.

She pauses as she enters the dining hall, the faint plinking sound of a piano reaching her ears, played with slow, careful deliberation. It appears to be coming from the room beside the one they were in the night before. It is not a melody she recognises, but she also can't say she is really the most cultured individual so that isn't saying much. She's a private detective, after all, not a lady of the gentry. But it's a sweet, melancholy melody, and she decides to wait where she is until it concludes before she disturbs them, casting her eyes about the grand dining hall instead. In particular, her eyes are drawn to the length of the table before her, dotted with chairs from one end of the room to the other. Fourteen of them, she counts.

A sour note rings out, disrupting her thoughts before she can really even begin to muse about it, and she takes the silence that follows as her cue to knock.

Another sharp note. "Oh!" Shelby's voice comes, muffled and startled. "Yes?"

"It's me Shelbs, may I come in?"

There is a loud scrape and a series of scrambling thumps, and the door swings open to reveal a bright eyed Shelby. "Drift! Good morning!"

"Good morning! I didn't know you play pianoforte?" she says, peering past her. The room inside is very similar to the other one, but with a warmer, ochre chosen for the walls, and of course the grand piano in question as its centrepiece.

Shelby laughs, a dust of rosy pink spreading across her cheeks. "Well, sort of. Scott's been trying to teach me, but I'm still not very good at it as I'm sure you heard."

"What? You sounded great to me! I'd love to hear you play some more, if you don't mind my listening." She says emphatically, causing Shelby's face to only grow pinker.

"Oh! Well I... maybe another time? I thought perhaps I might show you around the grounds this morning, actually."

Drift blinks, and notices the complete absence of the other vampire in the room. "Oh, is Scott not teaching you now?"

Shelby glances at the piano, and then back at Drift with a grin. "No no, it's the morning so he's off doing his lordly business for the day. Which means." She closes the door to the music room behind her and links her arm with Drift's. "It's just you and me for the time being!"

Drift narrows her eyes. "Now what are you planning, Shelby? I can see the mischief in that face of yours, you know."

"Whaat?" Shelby exclaims, eyes going wide with innocence. "I just want to show our esteemed guest around the estate!" she continues, punctuating it with a gentle tug.

"Mmm." Drift hums, allowing herself to be lead. "And might this tour by any chance end with you luring me out into the creepy woods?"

"Lure you into the woods? Why, Drift, I'd never!" she grins at her again. "We're just going to walk right in."

Drift laughs. "Ah, of course we are. Well if a beautiful woman invites me to go into the haunted woods with her, who am I to refuse?"

"Exaactly!" Shelby says, uncannily Scott-like, and then sticks her tongue out at her and yanks her along in a distinctly Shelby-like manner.

True to her word, Shelby does in fact show her around the grounds of the estate. Around the back and a little way down the path that follows alongside the creek is the livestock area, where the barn, coop, and stables reside. There she is told she is welcome to grab a snack any time she wants (an offer she doubts she will ever feel the need to take up), and Shelby then attempts to introduce her to the horses.

Unfortunately, while they have been long desensitised to Scott and Shelby, they are not keen to be acquainted with a new vampire. Shelby assures her that they'll warm up to her with enough exposure, but Drift honestly prefers to give horses a wide berth, not really keen to know what their hooves feel like.

And so, they continue their way down the path and before long they find themselves at the cusp of the woods encircling the estate, the weeping willows alongside them falling away to a wall of ancient broadleaf trees—beeches, oaks, chestnuts, all nestled amongst the blanket of moss and detritus that the path theyre walking disappears into.

"So." Drift says as they wander seemingly aimlessly through the underbrush. "What exactly makes you think there's something in these woods?"

"Well, have you seen this place?" Shelby replies, as if the question is the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard.

Drift laughs. "Ah! Ah, okay, so you haven't actually seen anything?"

Shelby frowns at her. "Well no, not yet." She mutters, and then immediately brightens again. "But you're here now! Your whole job is looking for clues and finding things!"

"Sure." Drift says, eyes crinkling. "I suppose you could say that."

"Well, how would you describe your job then, detective?"

Drift taps her chin. "A lot of watching and waiting, usually."

Shelby stumbles and stops walking, whirling around to face her fully. "What? But, but then, wouldn't people die!?"

Drift laughs. "Oh, I don't get hired to investigate murders, Shelby! I'm hired to catch adulterers and thieves."

"Oh..." Shelby's brows twist with confusion. "But... the orchid case?"

"Mm, nobody hired me to solve that one. People just kept being killed, and I took it upon myself to look for the culprit." She chuckles to herself. "The police were not keen to let me get involved at first—not only am I an impertinent so-called private detective, I'm also a woman. But they were getting desperate." She slows to a stop, narrowing her eyes. "And you're right, I do have a sharp eye for seeing things other people miss, that's ultimately what won them over. Speaking of." She wanders off to the side, and flicks a half broken branch holding itself together by a few fraying fibres. "Something passed through here recently, this is freshly snapped."

"Oh!" Shelby skips over excitedly. "Oh!! Where do you think it went?"

"Mmm." Drift hums, scanning for further signs of life passing through. "Not sure yet. Poke around and see if you can spot anything else."

"Okie-dokie!" Shelby says, setting herself to the task immediately.

But some time passes with neither of them finding anything else. Drift scours the nearby trees for more broken branches, pokes through the leaf litter for anything strange, and curses her lack of knowledge. An outdoorswoman she is not, and although she can hear Shelby humming as they quite literally poke around in the underbrush with the tip of their parasol, she can't help but feel like she'll be disappointing them if they don't find anything else. The frustrating part is that she's certain that she's missing obvious things an experienced hunter would have spotted already.

Then Shelby's humming stops. Drift's head snaps over to her. "Shelby?"

"Mmm." Shelby muses loudly in response, much to Drift's relief. "I... might have found something?"

"Oh really? What is it?" Drift weaves her way through the brush to stand beside her, holding tightly onto her hat as she goes so as not to lose the thing to a low hanging branch.

"Well, this mushroom has been stepped on." She pokes the squished little thing as she draws close. "And I don't think it was me? And you've been all the way over there. But maybe it was me?"

"So it has. Well then, if it is something then we should find more if we keep going that way." She nods in the trajectory it casts from the broken branch.

Shelby frowns and chews her lip.

Drift glances back at her. "...Shelby? What's up?"

"Um..." she stares down at the mushroom, nudging it again with the tip of her parasol. "It's just, what if it was just me, or, or something else stepped on it ages ago, and that's completely the wrong way?"

"Ah." She thought so. Drift offers her arm for Shelby to take again. "Well, I mean, I've enjoyed our walk together thus far. Whether we find something today or not, I'd happily walk with you again tomorrow and see what we find, and the day after that, as many times as you like."

Big, round eyes come up to meet hers. "You would?"

Drift smiles at them, bemused. "Of course I would Shelby, what else am I here for if not to indulge in your company?" she chuckles and shakes her head. "I'll spend as much time looking for beasties in the woods with you as you want."

Shelby blinks at her, her cheeks developing a rosy hue, and she looks away as she takes the offered arm. "Okay then. Let's um, go that way."

Luckily for them, it does appear to be the right way. Drift steps on an already broken twig, a patch of soft dirt has been disturbed with multiple sets of mysterious tracks kicking through it, yet more low hanging branches have been snapped in half..! Shelby's excitement is infectious, each new discovery making her buzz more and more. The tracks they've managed to find have all been too nonspecific to really decipher, definitely not belonging to just one thing, but Shelby swears one of them looked distinctly like a large footprint.

"It has to be him." Shelby insists. "I knew he was real!"

Drift laughs. "I mean, if we're out here then I'm sure anything could be."

"Yes but." Shelby huffs, and swats a twig out of her face. "It has to be Bigfoot—that footprint was huge!"

Drift smiles at her. "I'm not disagreeing. I'm curious what the—" she freezes and her ears flick, arm flying out to stay Shelby in place.

"What is it?" Shelby whispers, and Drift just shakes her head.

Her ears flick again—a twig snap, the rustle of leaves. She glances at Shelby, then reaches inside herself and pulls on her shadow. Shelby nods beside her, the air beginning to ripple and shift, and then she, too, disappears.

Cautiously, they creep towards the rustling sound, ducking under leaves and stepping as lightly as possible. Belatedly, Drift realises it might actually have been smarter to turn into bats, but it's too late to communicate that to Shelby now.

Shelby gasps faintly somewhere to her left, and then Drift also sees it—the distant silhouette of a six foot something figure, almost human-like in form if not for the strange, bulbous shape across its torso where a head would usually lie, shuffling its way through the shadows of the woods.

"I knew it!" Shelby hisses excitedly. "I told you he was real!"

The figure whirls around.

"Erm." Drift whispers. "Shelby, is... is Bigfoot dangerous?"

"I." Shelby's voice squeaks, sounding tiny. "I don't know, I-I was hoping we could be friends."

It begins to trudge briskly over towards them. A thin sunbeam streaks across its form, and beneath the thick, brown furred top half, Drift catches a flash of red and black.

She frowns. That looked almost like—

"And what might you two be up to?" Scott's voice calls out to them.

"Oh." Shelby's voice comes, so small now Drift's ears almost didn't hear it.

Scott steps further into the light, revealing to them that he is in fact walking around with a giant dead boar draped across his shoulders.

"What are you doing, man?" Drift exclaims, releasing the magic hiding her from wandering eyes. "Why on earth do you have a boar?"

Scott sniffs. "I was... redirecting. We'll be having it for dinner."

"Oh, fair enough." She glances over as Shelby ripples back into reality next to her, and slips her hand into theirs, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Well to be honest with you man we were looking for monsters in the woods, and ended up finding you." She considers this for a moment, and a cheeky grin slips onto her face. "And you know what, I guess you could say we succeeded, huh, Shelby?"

Shelby frowns at her. "Wh—Vampires aren't monsters, Drift!"

"Quite." Scott says dryly, quirking his eyebrows at Drift, and looking at her with an expression that puzzles her.

She tilts her head at him questioningly, then looks back at Shelby and nudges her. "Mmm, I dunnooo, that depends on who you ask. So I'm going to consider today's hunt a success!"

Scott huffs a light chuckle. "...Alright. Well Drift, it's good to see you—a letter came for you this morning, actually."

Drift's eyes snap to him and her heart stutters. "Wh-what? Already? How, I haven't even..."

Shelby squeezes her hand this time. "Drift? Are you okay?"

Drift blinks and her cheeks flush. "Oh, I'm sorry—that sounded—no I'm fine, I was expecting a letter, just not this quickly. Do you... have it on you?"

"I can't say I make a habit of hunting with private correspondence in my pockets, Drift." Scott says, lips quirking.

"Right. Uhh, well, if it's alright with you Shelby, perhaps we should all head back?"

Shelby narrows her eyes at her, and Drift silently curses herself. Smooth, real smooth. Now she's definitely not going to get a million questions.

"...Sure." Is all Shelby says, following behind Scott as he begins to walk in the direction Drift assumes must be out of the woods.

"Alright." She says, joining step beside them. "Um, how much do I owe you, Scott? Quite a bit, I imagine?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous Drift. I have no need for your money. Not that it particularly matters, the letter was pre-paid."

"Oh. Right, of course it was." She shakes her head and mutters to herself. "I should have expected that, really."

Before long, they are out of the woods and wandering back up the path to the château. Scott excuses himself and the boar for a moment as they pass by a smaller building just outside that Shelby informs her is the kitchen—not that she really needed to say so, the warm scent of freshly baked breads intermingles with the tang of fresh blood and meat, and the sounds of pots and pans clattering and scraping echoes out from within. Scott returns before long, boar free, and they make their way inside and to the drawing room they gathered in the night before.

However, Drift does not join them in taking a seat.

Once Scott hands her the letter, she smiles and nods at them both. "I expect I'll need to write a response, so if you'll excuse me for a bit?"

"Sure, but do come back for dinner Drift. I would hate for my hunt to go to waste, hm?" Scott says, then puts his head in his hand and turns his attention to Shelby, seemingly done with her.

"Ah, of course. I'll be back soon, then." She gives Shelby another nod, and exits the room, feeling the woman's eyes boring into her back as she goes.

The smile falls from her face as the door closes behind her and she takes a deep, unneeded breath. She stares at the the letter for a moment, and a shiver runs up her spine as she catches sight of the wax seal emblazened with the same sigil currently hidden beneath her sleeves—which she notes with a great deal of irritation is no doubt exactly the response Aimée wanted and why she bothered to seal it with wax at all. She sighs and shakes her head, then begins to make her way over to the guest quarters—

"Ugh, Scott! I'm not crazy, right? She's totally acting weird!" Her ears flick, and her head slowly turns back to the door.

Scott laughs. "When isn't she?"

"Scott." Shelby snaps back. She can hear the glare in her voice and finds herself smiling, despite the cold dread stirring within her.

"What?" Scott's lazy voice returns, entirely remorseless.

"I'm serious! What was that? Why won't she tell us anything about the city." She enunciates that with a frustrated, mocking tone. "It has to be related, right? Like, any time I ask her anything she just smiles and dodges the question, or gives me an answer that answers nothing at all!"

Drift swallows, grasping the letter with one hand and rubbing the sigil on her wrist with the other.

"We don't even—" Shelby's voice falters, and Drift's undead heart wrings in her chest. "We don't even know why she isn't coming with us anymore." Shelby murmurs, her voice tinged with a note that makes Drift's stomach roil with nausea.

"Mmm." Scott hums back. "Perhaps she's found herself a sweetheart."

Drift freezes completely, no longer breathing.

"Wh—No, she would, she'd tell us if she'd met someone like that, right?"

"Who knows? But, she showed up here... remarkably well fed despite the journey, with a letter arriving the very next day that she has just excused herself to read in private."

Whatever Shelby's response is, Drift does not hear it. Just as readily as they froze her in place, Scott's words spur her into rapid, clumsy motion—her limbs feeling heavy and as cold as ice, and a surge of bile filling her throat. The world around her shifts in a blur and she stumbles into her room. Once again, the fire is ready lit for her, and for a moment all she can do is stare into it.

"I'm not... Aimée isn't..." she rips her eyes away from the fireplace and drags herself to the little desk in the corner, collapsing into the intricately carved chair and staring down at the wax seal on the now crinkled letter. The wolf that emblazons Aimée's crest stares back at her, and then the wax cracks open and Aimée's elegant hand spills across the page before her.

My sweet Drift,

Oh, how my heart weeps to be so far from you again. The blood that it pumps boils for it to be because you are in his home that you leave me. Do you feel it too, as my vitality warms your body? Does my mark still burn with my passion? Yours does. Its fiery itch soothes me as it reminds me I am still with you, giving you strength, the heat of my blood taking my place in embracing you, its dust on your cheeks an echo of my touch.

But I swear it, if he lays but a finger on you I shall carve a stake from my own namesake and drive him from this world. Say he even the smallest slight and I shall part the mountains for you. It is with great restraint that I write to you instead of joining you there. Say the word my sweet and I shall arrive swifter than even this letter.

Write to me soon, return to me sooner.

Yours eternally,
A. Hawthorne

Drift's first reaction is to laugh. She reads it once, twice, three times, then glances over to the fireplace. "Who am I trying to fool, really?" she mutters to herself, leaning back in the chair and casting her eyes to the ceiling instead. "Certainly not you, certainly not me." Her brows twist, and she swallows, nausea pooling back into her stomach. No, she's not trying to fool anyone. No matter how sweet her words, how gentle her touch, Aimée is a depraved person who she should not be attached to. It's a matter of principle. They will never be sweethearts, and she will never accept her proposal. What they have is a mere necessity—by keeping Aimée occupied, she prevents further casualties. Anything more than that cannot come to pass.

She sighs, and reads it again. "Is she stupid?" she mutters, shaking her head. "Honestly, how is this the same person who avoided giving me anything incriminating for an entire year? She must know I have to burn this."

She sets the letter down and her head into her hand, and drums the desk with her fingers. Then she exhales out her nose, reaches into the drawer for a fresh sheet of paper, and scrawls out her response.

Mr. Hawthorne,

I would first question how it is you know of this address already before I have even had opportunity to write, but I suppose I really should not be surprised. I instead ask that you perhaps have a little more discretion in your words, should I not be the only one to see them. In any case, you have nothing to worry about—I am amongst dear friends. But I appreciate the sentiment.

Take care. Remember your promise to behave.

Drift

Drift reads it over, nods, then folds it neatly, wets a wafer seal with her tongue, and stamps it shut. Then her eyes fall back to Aimée's letter. Truth be told, she doesn't really want to burn it. Setting aside whether or not they are returned, the feelings within it are sincere and heartfelt, and it feels a cruel response to send them up in flames.

But, if Scott were to see the threat within... it's simply too unwise to keep such a thing around. She sighs again. "No choice, really." She mutters to herself as she rises to her feet. "I have to burn it."

And so she does. In no time at all, Aimée's delicate hand is engulfed in flames, dissolving into thin, blackened curls, and finally into dusty grey ash.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she hears a floorboard creak outside. Immediately, she spins around and opens her door to peer into the hallway, but she is met by nothing but empty air.

She frowns, waves her hand around in front of her, then shrugs absently to herself and retrieves her letter from her desk, making her way back to the drawing room to rejoin the others for the evening.