Chrysalis Ch24: Different Worlds (pt2) (Patreon)

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         “Daphne.” Astraea whispers, as if speaking it softly will somehow keep the reality at arms length. Her face is hollow, dull to the stabbing pain of that single, foreign word. “Daphne.”
         The Wilds call to her, as always, but its song has changed. It calls her home to mourn, to settle roots and weep tears of sunlight.
         But not now. Not yet.

She has to focus.
         “Oooo, he got her a new name and everything.” The Leanan Sidhe leans against the wall, hands in her pockets, a casual grin on her face. “Daphne, Daphne… you know, I kinda like the ring. Bet she’ll get used to it.”
         “She ain’t getting used to nuffin.   We can’t just leave her like that-”
         "We can and we will." Neith folds her arms, her cap casting her face in shadow. "Far as I care, lolly had this coming. Running where she shouldn’t, talking with the powerful and unsavory… moths like that always end up in jars.”
         “Fuck off.” Ian stands up from his rocking position. “The ‘ell do you get off?”
         “You said Spencer Harcourt had her, right?” Neith’s eyes spark. “You know who he is?  You know what he does for the King, for the Market?  He might be any other human but here in the Market he’s a big name. Bigger than I’m keen to steal from-”
         “Steal? This isn’t some heist.  D- Daphne is a person!  What he’s doin is called kidnapping!” Ian clenches his fists, face bent in rage. “You ‘eard ‘at fackin’ message, he calls her his wife.”
         “And more power to him,” Neith sneers. “You don’t know how these things work, gumdrop. Lolly was bound for this. Far as I’m concerned, I already showed her the best Keeper she’d ever hope to-”
         “Neith.” The vampire flinches back. Astraea rises to her feet, skin glowing.
         “Right. Royal Consort. Forgive me, my Lady.”  She turns to Ian “But you want my advice, boy? Scurry off to your little bar and buy a couple dozen calendars. Your girlfriend will be nice and ready in a few dec-”
         “Enough.” Astraea commands, the aether in Astraea’s voice fizzling in the air.  She turns from Neith to Ian, taking his hand in hers.  “Ian, right? Don’t worry.  We’re going to help you-”
         Neith rears back. “We’re going to what?!”
         “But are we sure her captor is this human, Spencer Harcourt?   A fetch or a korrigan might be impersonating him.”
         “I don’t follow”  Ian asks confused.
         “Well it doesn’t make sense.”  Astraea shakes her head. "A human would not perform a Keeping. Human relationships can only be equal.”
         Ian pulls his hand away, flabbergasted.  “How do you figure?”
         “Everyone knows this,” she answers casually. “It is part of your custom of consent.”
         “Astraea ya heard the message, yeah?  Heard the screams, right? Does that sound like consent to you?”
         She blinks slowly. Why is he looking at her like that? It’s his species, one would think he’d be informed of this. “N… no. He-”
         "Oh, he's human. No question." Neith cuts in. "He’s been planning this for a good while, you can tell. And planners are the worst. He’s probably spent years thinking of what he’ll do to her-”
         “... which is why we need to save her.”
         “Not happening sugar plum.”
         “Why not?  What on Earth is he gonna do to stop us?  I’ve seen you two. A snap from her fingers, and all of Kensington is ash. ”
         “It’s not him I’m worried about, cream egg” Neith sneers. “The King is in HIS pocket, do you understand?  Or are you so stupid as to think the King would let somebody whisk her retainer away without her approval?”
         “... the King?  You mean…”
         Neith smiles with a nod.  “THERE’S the lightbulb.  It’s what I’ve been saying.  The king is in HIS pocket, understand?  Why would he steal when he can just ask for lolly outright? No, the King must have signed off on this, meaning if we intervene… we won’t just be making enemies with Spencer Harcourt.   We’ll be making enemies with King Catnip herself.  Her and her whole Market.  As if we weren’t already on her naughty list.”
         Astraea tries to keep her breath steady. “I have survived Xylia’s forests.   Surely we can navigate the politics of The Market.”
         Neith rolls her eyes. “This isn’t your Grove. This is her realm, her hospitality, her rules. But if you think you can convince your potentate to march on London to get your pet nymph back, I’m sure Evander would love-”
         Astraea’s hair rises like embers licking the air. “Don’t speak his name.”
         The words evaporate in Neith’s throat.   She grimaces, coughing before continuing.  “And don’t ask me to work above my pay grade,” Neith hisses back. “My job is to protect you, and that’s all I’m doing. The Rite has started.  There’s no world where we arrive before he seals it.  And once it’s sealed, no Dryad or Cait Sith can undo THAT bit of magic.”
         Neith hisses at them both.  “No rescues, end of discussion.”
         Astraea stares at her, the air around them warmer as it absorbs the Dryad’s heat.  Astraea whispers “... we have to try.”
         Neith hisses. “Your feelings-”
         “After everything I’ve done, after all the years I’ve waited-”
         “You can wait forty more,” Neith interrupts.
         “Neith, I made a promise.”
         “To Lyra,” the vampire replies.
         “To myself.”  Astraea huffs, stamping her foot. “Neith, if the King has revoked her favour from Daphne, it is because of our error.”
         Neith crosses her arms. “We don’t know that.”
         “Don’t we?” Astraea looks earnestly into Neith’s face, expecting another retort. But Neith shudders a breath, throws her arms in the air, walks away from both of them.
         “You know what? Fine! Fuck it! Let’s all just march off like storybook heroes! If he hasn’t hid where she is, he definitely has something in store.  Maybe if we set out now we’ll get there just in time to watch him complete the Rite! I’m sure when you see Daphne dancing along to his tune, you’ll feel like a big, bloody victor-”
         “Neith you’re trembling.” The words pass through Astraea’s lips like autumn's winds over falling leaves. “You are not… are you afraid?”
         Neith’s breath cuts short. When she turns around, There's no hint of her usual dark playfulness.  “... What?”
         “This isn’t about the King,” Astraea answers. “This isn’t about us being stupid. You’re terrified of this… human Keeper. Why?”
         For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Neith’s lips slowly curl back into a smile. “I don’t get scared.”
         “Prove it,” Ian adds, approaching them. “Yer the bounty hunter, right? Any traps this wanker’s laid should be a bloody cakewalk.”
         Neith winces at the word, retreating to Astraea with a hiss.
         “There somethin’ you’re not tellin’ about this? ‘At’s fine.” Ian smiles, pointing to himself and Astraea. “But then you best come wiff us to keep safe.”
         Neith’s eyes thrum with a strange heat, before she tilts towards the floor, hiding her expression with her cap. “... Don’t even have a way to bring glowstick ‘round London,” she mumbles.
         Ian runs a hand through his mohawk. “I can gettus a car.”
         Neith scowls. “Sure you do, jelly bean. That’s why you keep crawling to us for song money, isn’t it?”
         Ian chuckles to himself, and turns on his phone. Astraea stares at the screen, glowing with the runes of the New Speech. “I don’t own it…

         …I just know the person who does.”

+++

         Astraea breathes London and all its strange senses. Husks of brick and glass rise as high as Xylia’s great canopies. The musk of concrete and Men’s Metal;  the girders of buildings, the posts and street lanterns, the bins and booths.
Iron. She was never allowed to see it before. And now, it’s everywhere, sending excited tingles through her spine and light through the hair she’s shrouded beneath Neith’s hat. Astraea walks over to one such structure, a black box about chest-height. She wonders absently what it would be like to touch it.
         “Neith, it’s… marvellous…” Astraea points to it, eyes wide with awe. “This is what human freedom has built.”
         Neith starts to speak, but evidently thinks better of it. Instead, the Leanan Sídhe pats Astraea on the shoulder and turns to Ian. “Oi, macaroon. What car does she drive? She’s late.
         “She’ll be ‘ere, don’t worry.” Ian chuckles. “You’ll hear ‘er before you see her.”
         “Well, she better get a move on, before miss urban explorer here starts leaping into rubbish bins.”  She says, jabbing a thumb towards Astraea.
         Astraea’s eyes go wide. That’s not a bad idea. In the stories about human spies, all sorts of messages were placed there. Who knows what secrets she could find?
         But her thoughts are drowned out by the squeal of tires.
         The rusty crossover accelerates in uneven, arbitrary spurts. Whereas the other cars stuck to the black road, this car seems content to travel along the sidewalk. At one point, another steel-rider forces his machine to blare an alarming cry, but that only ignites a string of human curse words.
         Neith looks to Ian with concern, but he only smirks. “Told you.” Another chuckle that fails to hide his nerves.
         The car comes to a screeching halt in front of them, the suspension rocking forward and back, before honking twice. The window rolls down and a face pops out, hair wet and makeup roughly applied, her hand layered in bracelets. The woman wears an oversized men’s shirt with the crest of Chelsea of the Football Clan, which Astraea assumes is some demonstration of fealty. A spent cigarette flies into the cobbles before the woman shouts over the music.
         “HEY IAN!” The woman waves her hand excitedly. "WHICH ONE'S YOUR GIRLFRIEND?!"
         “MUM!” Ian immediately starts, his cheek flushing red.“They’re just mates. Mates of a mate!”
         It’s another confusing behaviour; why would he deny it?  Human males place great pride, not embarrassment, in their ability to find partners, don’t they?
         "I'm just saaayyyingggg~" ‘Mum’ waves her wrist.“Yer not bringing yer ‘mate’s mates’ home every day, are ya? Now cahmon! I’m not missin’ Pointless for ‘is-”
         “You’ve got it on VCR.” Ian rolls his eyes, walking forward.  “Really appreciate you doing this mum.  Yer a lifesaver.”
         Neith clicks her tongue, hesitating and giving the CRV a dubious look. “... You sure we got a car?”
         ‘Mum’ looks to Neith, then leans out and slaps the car, proving its sturdiness.  “Oh, don’t mind ‘er, she’s reliable!”
         Neith pulls Astraea back from the door.  “Don’t touch the handle, my Lady.”
         “I know not to touch the iron handle, Neith,” Astraea huffs.
         “I’ve got it.” Ian says, pulling the door open.   “Careful ‘round the edges.”
         Astraea nods her appreciation and clambers inside, looking around.   “You’re ‘car’ is quite impressive, ma’am!” She chirps cheerily to her driver.
         “Thaaaanks,” ‘Mum’ winks back. She leans over the window, loudly whispering in her son’s ear. “Hear ‘at? I got ‘ma’am’ed! So they’re polite and pretty…”
         “MUM!” As his mother cackles with laughter, Astraea inspects the vehicle. It‘s floor is strewn with human baubles. Astraea spots a great many sheets of condiment-stained paper, and identical yellow bottles built of the same strange material. Curious.
         Neith goes to follow after, but Ian promptly slams the door in her face. She hisses, showing fang to the smug human.
         Ian puts a hand on his hip, “I need you to promise to show me mum summa that patented fae hospitality,  she’s really helping us out here” his eyes narrow. “If you’re capable.”
         Astraea peaks through the window, watching the interchange.   She notes that Neith is grinning, too, but in that Neith way where she doesn’t mean it.
         “Hospitality’s for hosts, gumdrop. It’s not my rolling coffin.”
         Astraea calls out to Ian “Do you need help? If you want to perform the ritual, you need to list your obligations as host and then ask her to promise-”
         “He doesn’t need anything,” Neith hisses through gritted teeth.
         “Close,” Ian smirks. “Just promise me, yeah?”
          Neith’s eyes flick down to Ian's neck, then slide back up to his face. "… Alright.  I promise to be courteous.  But only as far as this little trek takes us.”
         There’s an odd momentary quality to Neith’s voice.   Enough to satisfy Ian.
         “Look at that. She can be civil.” Ian pops the door open for her, closing it once she climbs in. “Buckle yer seatbelts, girls!”
         Astraea is still exploring the backseat when she notices ‘Mum’ staring at her through the mirror. “So, how’s it goin’? What’s yer name? Where ya from?”
         “I’m-” Astraea isn’t given a chance to finish.
         “Ohmygosh,” ‘Mum’ pushes closer, eyes wide. “Lush, ‘at skin’s angelic, what’s yer routine? Where ya gettin’ ‘at stash, Boots? Space NK? I ‘ave to know.”
         Astraea tries to start again. “I-”
         “I mean, chrissakes, yer practically fahkin’ glowin’!”
         “It’s my… n-natural skin,” Astraea answers self-consciously. “But thanks for the compliment, ‘Mum.’”
         Ian’s mum grins wider, and Ian and Neith cover up a snicker.
         Astraea blinks. ”Did… I say something strange?”
         “Name’s Angela, but ‘Mum’ works just fine!”  She squints at Astraea, trying to piece out some mystery.  “Wait, I get it. ‘At accent’s not from around ‘ere, innit? You a tourist?”
         “Yes!” Right, tourists. That’s what Neith said she should tell people. She was a tourist from… what was it called? Something with… ah! Her face lights up, and Astraea proudly states: “I am a Swisscake!”
         Silence. ‘Mum’ blinks once, twice, her smile frozen. Ian’s laugh momentarily freezes.
         “Wait, sorry, I…” Astraea tries to recuperate. “I was a Swedish… fish?”
         Neith claps a hand over Astraea’s mouth. “She means Swiss. We’re from Switzerland.”
         “Oh! There it is, innit?   Well anyhow, welcome to London girlies!” Angela presses into a pedal, and the car starts tearing through the sidewalk.
         Neith scowls at the various papers strewn about her feet. “So Angela. I was curious, is your vehicle always in this state, or do you hire out for bin pickups?"
         Ian twists around to hiss into the backseat “You promised.”
         She grins back at him. “What? It would be rude to assume.”
         All three of them slam into their seats as Angela swerves dramatically to the right.
         “She’s right, dear! Someone must have skimped his turn on cleaning the car” Angela grins as she elbows Ian several times. Each thrust makes the vehicle veer.
         “Mum, P-please.”
         “Oh calm down Ian, I’m just showing our swedish fish how us Londoners get about,” she beams back.
         Astraea is too preoccupied with the yellow bottles to answer. She has a dozen of them on her lap, following their curvature with her fingers. The craftsmanship marvels her: the shape, the markings… everything is completely identical. How do their guildsmen pull it off?
         She can’t stop herself from swirling the liquid inside, over and over, until she feels a hand press on her shoulder.
         “Um, my Lady… what are you doing?”
         Astraea holds the bottle over Neith’s nose, shaking it so they might both observe. “The material! It’s so exotic. Durable, yet lightweight.”
         “My Lady,” Neith looks at her bluntly. “It’s… plastic. This is human refuse.  It’s everywhere.”
         Astraea’s eyes go wide. An entire civilisation, built with these? “Where does it come from?”
         Screeching tires interrupt her words. The car lurches to the side, sending Neith careening from her seat and onto the rubbish-strewn carpet.
         “MUM!” Ian shouts. “Calm down! I ‘aven’t even told ya where ta go!”
         “Ahhhhhhhh, I don't need directions!" Angela shouts back. Quite impressively, she’s managed to withdraw and light another cigarette, all with one hand. “You shaid it on the phone, Chenshington somesuch? It'sh Easht End, innit?"
         "West End, Mum, West End.”
         “Shame difference,” Angela chuckles. She forcibly swerves the car to the left, hard, nearly colliding with another steel-rider for it. They both blare their horns, but she seems unfazed.
         Neith finally manages to push herself back into the seat. She yanks off the slip of white paper that was pierced by her fang, reading the contents. “Oooh, lovely parking ticket, Angela. You even let it age.”
         “Oi, moody, lookin’ for somefing specific?” Angela casually takes a drag from her cigarette.  “Could always stop at Boots if ya needed sanitary-”
         “Mum,” Ian looks over to Neith in clear horror; she’s just grinning as usual. “You can’t joke about ‘at stuff.”
         “Why not? What’s ‘at one yer always pulling on yer one? Time of the month?”
         “Because Da.. Daph… because he’s a GUY! ‘AT’S THE JOKE!”
         “Bet ‘ese Swiss types don’t know ‘at,” Angela nods to the music. “Kids from the Continent gettin’ spoiled, ya ‘ear about ‘at one Swedish lass? The Sun’s always goin’ off about-”
         Ian tries to keep his mum on track as Astraea pulls thin strips of cloth from a ‘wet wipes’ container. She marvels at the utility of it. Have humans developed their own magic, too? She looks to the package, trying to decipher the runes for clues, but all she sees an illustration of a human woman rubbing the cloth against her cheeks Astraea mirrors the gesture, brows furrowed, feeling the damp cloth against her skin. If it has any effect, she’s not sure what it is.
         “Gimme that,” Astraea jolts as Neith snatches the cloth out of her hand. Wiping down her face, the vampire sorts through more of the trash at their feet. “More Makkies’ wrappers. Your mother really likes her Chicken McGrills, doesn’t she?”
         Ian turns his attention from his mother back to quietly arguing with Neith, so in the interim Astraea stealthily plucks the ‘wrappers’ from Neith’s knee.
Each of the pages bear the same rune: two tall archways merging in the middle. Is the ‘Makkies’ some kind of chicken market, or does it do something to people’s chickens that makes them ‘McGrilled’?
         Astraea looks out the window, great glass behemoths greeting her outside. The human’s sun has long since set, and the streets are illuminated by strange, blinking lights along the building’s windows. A bus drives past, an image on its side depicting a… meat sandwich and that same archway emblem. Ah, that’s it! ‘Makkies’ is a chef’s guild! They brand their creations with their seal, just like in the Wilds!
         No wonder Angela seems so unconcerned about leaving ‘rubbish’ in her car - in the Groves, any meals made by guildsmen are inhibitively expensive. These papers are clear testaments to her family’s wealth.
         The radio cuts in: “We’ll be right back after these messages from our sponsors…”
         Astraea closes her eyes, meditating on the words. Out-of-body merchants petition her to sample their tooth creams or seasonal furniture. Each message has her complete and rapt attention.
         “Mum, we’re still not goin’ the right direction. This is King’s Cross!”
         “I already said, I’m takin’ ya to Chensington.”
         Astraea studies the ‘weather report’ sounding beneath them all. The humans definitely have some form of magic. How else could they foretell the coming rain?
         “Mum,” Ian lowers his voice, with difficulty. “I said Kensington. ‘At’s near Buckingham, where the Queen lives, innit?”
         Another slam on the brakes. The air floods with crumpled parking tickets. The next swerve is so fierce that Neith’s annoyed face bounces into Astraea’s shoulder.
         "Shite, really? Why didn't ya fahkin' say? If I knew we was seein' the Queen, I woulda dressed a bit better than Stephan's ol'-" Angela suddenly cuts herself short, face frozen is sudden fear.
         The car, for a single second, travels straight and cleanly down the road.
         Slowly, Ian turns towards his mother, who turns to hide herself from sight. There’s a change. In his face, the way he holds himself. It’s stark enough to wipe the grin off Neith’s face. “... Stephen?”
         Angela doesn’t respond, tightly gripping the wheel, keeping her eyes on the road.
         Ian presses forward. “You ain’t seein’ ‘at piece of shit again, are ya?”
         “No idea what yer talkin’ about.”
         Ian takes a long breath,. “... Mum. I thought we decided-"
         "I ain't seen him! Chrissakes, just chillax!" There's a shift in her tone, as well. Angela turns up the radio. “Don’t tell me it's yer time of the month, too.”
         Angela bites her lip as Ian’s hands tightly clench into fists. Neith slinks into her seat, looking between the two with renewed interest.
         Ian’s mother chuckles, shaking her head. “Why would it ever matter? Yer just… lookin’ for new ways to bully him.
         “I’m the bully?” Ian taps his chest, voice rising. “Mum, he called you a whore.”
         “It was just a joke, Ian, God!”
         “Is grabbin’ ya like he does part of the standup?”
         “Better than keeping that stick up yer ass.” She gives her son a nasty look. “Oh, don’t start pouting.”
         This next radio message details how Astraea can acquire a special coin from the Royal Mint. It’s a bizarre exchange: 25 pounds for a single coin. 25 pounds of what? Of anything?
         "He was offering drinks, 'at's all.” Angela still refuses to make eye contact. “Oh, what now, is that not allowed? You get to hang wiff yer mate for weeks, and I can’t have a single night out?"
         “Mum, it’s not like ‘at, I was helpin’ ‘em out-”
         “And maybe Stephen was helpin’ me out, hmm? But you never care when he’s nice, do ya?”
         “Neith!” Astraea’s surprising chirpy voice interrupts all their thoughts. “We have to go to that movie!”
         “What? What movie?” Neith hisses at her, clearly annoyed.
         “The one the voice is talking about,” Astraea points at the radio. “He says it’s the best comedy of the year!”
         “They all say that,” Neith rolls her eyes.
         “Hey, Swissgirl, you liking the radio?” Angela forces a smile, reaching out to the dial. “Great, how ‘bout we turn that up? Fink we could all use a bit of music-”
         Neith stops listening, her eyes going sharp. She watches Angela’s forearm shoot out of her trackie sleeve, giving her a clear view of the spots peppering it.
         All coloured black and yellow.
         The Leanan Sídhe leans up for a better view. "Nasty knock you took there,” she says, thoughtfully.
         Before Ian can speak, his mother pulls her arm back, recovering the bruise. “Heh, yeah, nuffin’ to worry about.  Just a bit of clumsiness on my part."
         “Yeah I bet,” Neith tilts her head. “Sure it’s quite the story.”
         The smile Angela’s forcing quivers. “... Just an accident. Happens all the time.”
         “Do they?” Neith crosses her arms, makes herself comfortable.
         Ian’s breathing shakes. He slowly bends to and fro, as if he might fall over at any instant. Angela tries to hide herself beneath her sunglasses, never looking in his eye. They hold that frozen tension for seconds, while Astraea leans into the window, watching the buildings pass with her nose pressed to the glass.
         Angela chuckles nervously. “Of course, of course! Tch, I... I don't even remember 'ow I got this.”
         "I wouldn't imagine you do." Neith's smile glitters. It doesn't reach her eyes.
         The rest of the ride is silent.

+++

         The glow of moonlight settles over London’s fog. A drizzle has picked up, and the clouds overhead only grow darker as they pass.
         Ian perches himself beneath a tree, cover for the coming rain. He watches the Honda squeal away, the bad tire losing its grip as his mother swerves out of sight. Angela didn’t take them to Kensington, but that was alright. It was close enough, and Ian desperately needed to get out of the car.
         He looks past the fog to the girls, quietly discussing their plans. He knew he should be there, figuring this out with them, but… his head was swimming. Why now? Of all the bloody times, she has to pick this week to get back with Stephen? Or was it her choice, at all? Ian would like to think the bastard was only waiting for him to get out of the picture so that their ‘restraining order’ could become a de facto ‘restraining recommendation.”
         But Ian knows his mother well enough to know which of them approached first.
         With a pat on the shoulder, Neith pushes Astraea into a Cro-Mart and leaves her to her own devices. She walks casually towards Ian, droplets sliding down her hair
         She’s still smiling.
         “She wanted to get umbrellas,” Neith explains. “I expect it’ll take her a few good minutes.”
         Ian sighs, turning away from her. They’re on an elevated platform, an iron railing guarding him from the busy traffic lanes below. “Can she even hold them?”
         “Most of that is aluminum, which is fine for us fae folk to handle.  But really, she’s mostly worried about you. She said you looked sick, thinks you’re catching a cold.” Neith slips behind him, looming near his shoulder. “But it doesn’t look like you’re all that bothered about the rain, are you?”
         Ian doesn’t reply.
         Not that it stops her. Neith leans against the tree, patting the bark. “Not a bad drive, all things considered. I only passed out from the smoke once or twice.”
         “I’ve seen you take a shark’s fist to the ribs, you’ll be fine.” The iron rings wherever the rain touches it. Ian breathes out an exhausted huff. "... besides.  You get used to it.”
         "You do, don't you? You get used to all sorts of things,” she replies. A gust of wind chills his bones, and suddenly he feels Neith’s breath on his neck. “Been like that a while, gumdrop?”
         Ian's skin prickles. Turning, he places his hand on her shoulder, pulling her close. Their noses almost touch. "What do you fackin’ think?"
         Neith doesn’t push back. She grins wider, eyes swirling bright violets
         "So, fink you got me all figured out, issat it? Some cute crackerjack box wif the prize inside,” Ian retreats a step towards the railing. “Well go on! Have yer fun! Ain't gonna be anyfing I haven't ‘eard before."
         “I’m not saying anything. You’re smart enough that I don’t have to.” Neith taps her tongue against the tip of her tooth. “But I see you’re motive for Daphne now.  You really think you’re gonna save this one, don’t you?”
         “I’m gonna bloody well try,” he replies.
         Neith rolls her head back and laughs, easing a little closer to him. She keeps a wary distance of the iron railing. “And what happens after, in this little plan of yours?  You think Daphne is gonna fall into your arms?  Her knight in shining armour?”
         "Speak fer yourself. Think I haven't noticed how you look at yer boss? the way you fuss about until she finally stamps her foot, And then you’re right back in line-”
         “You don’t know shit.”
         “You’re right, I don’t. We’ve only spoken, what, three times? What’s ‘at say?” He whistles a little note, getting comfortable on the railing. "Can’t say yer strong suit’s subtlety."
         Neith's mouth twists. "You think I’m blind? Lolly's barely a side dish, and the Lady treats her like a banquet. But it doesn’t matter, for the same reason lolly’s gonna leave you.”
         Ian snorts, pointing to the store. “What, for her?”
         "Nymphs and dryads… they’re drawn to each other." Neith glances sidelong at him, her eyes gleaming. "Sure, she fancies you now, but it’ll always be fleeting. That's how they are. And the sooner you work that out, the less her sting’s gonna hurt.”
         Ian crosses his arms. “Yer takin’ the piss.”
         “I’m only taking your blinders,” Neith replies.
         "Astraea hurt her. Kidnapped her. Facked wiff her body like ‘at and… heh, what sane person falls back in wiff someone like ‘at?"
         “I don’t know,” Neith grins. “Who’s Stephen?”
         Ian doesn’t reply.
         "See, gummy bear… safety is stale. Sometimes a little danger’s part of the fun." Neith tilts her head, snickering. "Sometimes, people just don't care. It's not up to them, or they just can't picture it any other way.”
         “I think anyone can picture an arm ‘at doesn’t ‘ave bruises on it.”
         “But bruises vanish. Scars fade. Insults get swallowed down. Only thing you can’t heal with time is boredom.” Neith twitches her fingers, popping something from her pocket. A wet wipe. She flicks it at Ian. "Got a little turnip in your beard, by the way."
         Ian catches it, by instinct, but wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Yeah, well, no worries. I blew whatever shot I had. I'm definitely not an option anymore.”
         “Awwww-” Neith mimics a sad face.
         “It don’t matter,” he shakes his head. “It’s not why I’m ‘ere.”
          Neith's eyebrows raise, and she slips a little closer. "So what are you here for?"
         He scoffs, more to the world than her, and tips his head to the rain. Drops crawl down his neck, nestle into his shirt. “Ya wanna know what I want?”
         "Mmm?" Neith tilts her head, leaning forward.
         He looks down at her, earnestly. "I’m still holdin’ out that maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a time when the women in my life don’t need me protectin’."
         Neith is only inches from him now. Close enough to watch the rain fall down his face. Close enough to smell the iron. She smirks. “Sounds like a problem for them, not you.”
         “Not ‘ow the world sees it,” he smirks back.
         “Naw. See, gumdrop, there’s a lot of women in this world…” Neith’s free hand trails the railing. She presses her fingers into the metal, smiling past the sizzle on her skin. She marches her fingers, one by one, down a tiny, pain-filled path, until they reach his hand.
         She looks up, and smiles. “... And not all of them need protection."
         With a start, Ian clasps his hand around her wrist. She hisses in surprise, her other hand instinctually pulling for the sweets in her pocket.

He stares at her. The rain travelling down her pale hair, the ancient muscles flexing against wet skin, the eyes burning with alluring, alien heat.
         He holds her a moment longer, smiling at the beat of fear on her brow. “Only cuz you always kill ‘em first. Ain’t ‘at right, Swisscake?”
         She tries to match his gaze, tries to look tough. But he releases her on his own, unfazed.
         “Gonna help yer lady wiff the umbrella. Know which shelf they keep ‘em.” Ian strolls past her, placing the wipe in her palm before leaving her to the rain.
         She watches him go, eyes narrowing. The hand in her pocket finally relaxes. Neith takes a brief glance at the cloth before flicking it into the gutter, watching as it slowly disappears down a storm drain.
         Out of sight. Out of mind.
         "Almost always, gumdrop,” she answers, quietly. She lowers her head and waits for her breath to steady.

“... Almost always.”

continue reading -> 

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Only HeartGear could ever make a character like Neith look adorable :3

Howdy, y’all! Lehanna here! This chapter was the first to feature all three members of our creative team, and it was an absolute joy to write Ian’s mother, even if she’s… a bit of a mess. Has her appearance changed the way you see Ian, and in what ways?  

And what about Neith? Seems she’s warmed up to the human, but with what intention? And can either of them reach Daphne before it’s too late?  

Tune in to Chapter 25: A Perfect Union, Part 1 on Friday, April 14th to find out!