This scene honestly feels a bit... unnecessary? I feel like if I had an editor, they'd probably tell me to cut or trim it. I don't hate it, but it sort of just feels like Sabrina getting involved in other people's business. I love the way the two of them interact, and the discussion of whether Layne is ace is good worldbuilding (insofar as highlighting that queer people exist visibly in this fantasy world as they so often exist invisibly in the real world counts as "worldbuilding"), but this isn't the kind of conversation you have with someone you've known casually for the two or three years that I feel Aiden and Sabrina probably know each other. It feels like a forced conversation. Iunno. But either way, I'm collecting it here. It does work as good characterization for what these two are like.
We also get more of Frank. Some hints at who he is and what he's like as well. I try to convey that he and Sabrina have a pretty close relationship, but at the same time she is capable of upsetting him. He's got sore spots around Juste. Since these are characters who I fleshed out as NPCs originally unconnected to each other, they all have their own identities separate from the main character. I was actually thinking about writing something with Frank and Juste going into the Underworld as well and also being gay, but I haven't gotten around to it.
Aiden slept late, like he always does with me. Maybe it was the double dipping of my and Grandmother’s emotional resonance fulfilling him. Maybe he just feels comfortable around me. When I extricated myself from him, he rolled over and splayed himself out, lunch box just hanging out. I made sure he had head support and the Blåhaj that every trans person is mandated to have to wrap his arms around, then pulled the covers back over him.
“Stay,” he mumbled, taking my hand despite being half asleep.
I leaned over and kissed his forehead, tucking him back in. “Got work to do, little faun.”
He grumbled, but was snoring almost instantly.
I left him a note thanking him for the night, and listing off some suggestions Grandmother gave for getting rid of bloodstains from cotton—Hey, it helped with the Suicide Shirt, and how different could death-infused silk be?—Then I gathered up my clothes and took a shower. I don’t really get many of those, living in an abandoned speakeasy and all. Closest I’d get to hot water is the Phlegethon, and lemme tell ya, you don’t want to wash up there. An hour later, I came out smelling like the good conditioner and Axe body spray.
Layne was in the kitchen.
I had been air drying.
Whoops.
He nodded to me, giving me the once over. “Ms Granger.”
Oh. Oh, he was like gay gay. “Hey,” I said awkwardly. I’m not exactly shy—in fact I’m a bit of a showoff—so I went to the fridge and grabbed the orange juice, then got two glasses.
He nodded again in thanks. “Never seen you with your clothes off. You look like you’ve been through Hell.” He took the glass of OJ I pushed towards him.
“Technically, no, but close enough. I’ve seen your scars, too, from fights,” I raised the glass in a little salute. “L’chaim.”
He raised his own glass, barely perceptible silver scratches on his arms. “Manuia. I’ve fought my share of dragons.”
We sat drinking juice for a while. Me at the table naked. I sat sideways and crossed my legs, leaning on the table. He definitely had a Daddy vibe going on. He looked like a gracefully aging rockstar. Shaggy sunbleached hair. Freckles on his tanned cheeks. Crows feet, if you’re into that kind of thing (I am). Smile lines, in spite of it all. And little scars. Across his lip. Along the bridge of his nose. Keeping one eye slightly less open than the other. Almond eyes of seaglass blue. He wore collared shirts, but they were always, always unbuttoned to show off his chest, which was broken up by thin lines of white on his dark skin. He wore simple jewelry, mostly things he made himself from shells he picked up at the beach, or worn pebbles.
Those stormy eyes were watching me as he sipped.
“So…”
“So?” He raised an eyebrow.
Gotta rip the bandaid off. “So, you know he loves you, right?”
He shrugged, but looked out the window.
“I mean, you don’t need to fuck him or anything, but you love him back, right?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know if I can give him what he needs there.”
“You’re not gonna say it to him?”
“I’ve always felt actions speak louder than words, but…”
“Yeah, but those are pretty big words. I know it’s hard, but come on. Give him a break.”
Layne sipped on his drink and looked out the window at the tree across the street.
I took another swallow.
“I’m pretty sure I’d hurt him. You or Lace is much better suited to giving him what he wants.” He turned back to me and smiled. It wasn’t even lecherous or perverted, he was completely on the level. “I heard you this morning. You seem to be pretty good at it.”
Look, I try to be stoic, but whomst among us doesn’t love a good compliment? “Heh. Practice makes perfect. But he’d give you his heart if you asked.”
“I know,” Layne swallowed his glass, and went to the cabinet. “That’s why I don’t ask him to give it to me. I couldn’t bear to hurt him again.”
“Again?”
“Ah.” He paused. Then pulled down a bottle of vodka. “He doesn’t remember, so I’d rather not get into it. But anyway, I don’t think I could be a good lover, so I try to be a good father instead.”
He came over and offered me the bottle. I pushed my glass over to him, and he added a splash of alcohol to it. Then he sat down and poured some for himself, adding orange juice.
“What, are you ace or something?” I asked, sipping.
He shrugged. “I’m not really familiar with that, so I’ll trust your judgement. You know, it’s surprisingly easy to talk to you. We should do it more often.”
“Usually the bartender is the one listening to people’s stories.”
Layne smiled, and once again I could tell what Aiden saw in him. “A lot of them are sad stories. A lot of them long for something better, and I take a little off the top.”
“Mm. The dead have sad stories as well.”
“You help them, don’t you? I’ve never been quite clear on that.”
“I solve problems. Not all of them are ghost related, I’m just pretty good at knowing about the shit like us that goes bump in the night. But yeah, the Underworld draws me to help the dead move on.”
“Sounds nice. I often feel like I take more than I give.” He poured another shot into his glass, not bothering with the OJ. “I used to fight, but I gave that up. For him.”
“Hope you don’t have to again, though the way things are going with the straights…” I shrugged.
“I’d kill for him.” No hesitation. “But until I need to, I want to be peaceful.”
“Mm…”
“Anyway, I won’t hold you up any longer,” he said, finishing his last shot and taking both our empty cups to the sink and rinsing them out. “Take care around that vampire. I haven’t seen him before, but they often can’t be trusted. They give off Desire like nothing else, but it’s perverse and hungry.”
“I can handle a vampire,” I said with a wave of my hand.
“I believe you. Mr Rook told me what happened with Rueben the other night.” He turned back to me and leaned against the sink, arms back against the countertop in a way that showed off his chest. “But since you can give Aiden what I can’t, it would break his heart if you were to die.”
I got up and stretched, raising my fingers to the ceiling and letting myself get lightheaded. Grandmother finally stirred from her slumber. “I don’t really think I can stay dead anyway. I’ll come back to him.”
The smile he gave me warmed my cold, occasionally dead, heart so much that even Grandmother was fluttering. “I’m glad.”
After that I went back to get dressed and left. Time to go see a man about spelunking equipment.
I took the bus. Not very fancy for a witch, but it’s not like the broom actually flies. I mean, I could probably slather it in fly agaric and run my ass along it, then I’d get really high. But I think Grandmother’s suggestion works best with a cunt, and I’d rather just smoke. So instead, it’s Ashcroft’s robust public transportation system for me. Besides, I get stares, and I love to turn heads. Not every day people see a tall, buff witch with a straw bristle broom riding the bus. Kids love the outfit. Lesbians love the muscles. Cis men know not to talk to me, usually.
So an hour later I was in another, much worse, part of town, shoving against the misaligned security door that lead to Francis Rook’s basement apartment.
“Yo, Frankie!” I called out, “I got you some Micky D’s.”
“Don’t call me that, and you couldn’t spring for Carl’s Jr?” came a voice from below the floor.
“Not on the way,” I said, kicking my boots off and heading down the ladder. “Got a new job.”
“How are you going to get yourself killed this time?” he asked, looking over an array of strange objects, all of which had vibes so off that even the straights could probably feel it. Fetishes, tokens, mementos, reliquaries. He had them all. He’d only been on the spooky side for a year, but he dove into it, desperate to understand. He also had a half smoked cigarette between his lips. I hear that was what did him in.
I could see the shadows flickering on the wall behind him, even though the lights were stable. A winged, batlike creature. I knew it drove him to get vengeance. For himself or for anyone else. It was also a chatty geist, and the toys were an attempt to placate it’s sense of mystery.
“Vampires, underworld,” I said, tossing the mcmuffin on the table. “Plus a fancy spearhead.”
“No hashbrowns?” He rifled through the bag. I sat the coffee down before he could get out “No coffee? Anyway, what kind of spear?”
“The Lancae et Clavvs Domini kind,” I said, hopping up to sit on the edge of his desk.
“Get your fat ass off my bench, and don’t give me this bullshit.”
I pulled out a very rough sketch of the spear that Grandmother helped me recall. “Found this in a vampire’s journal. The whole thing was Grave-Dirt.”
Rook took a bite of his breakfast and leaned back in his rickety second hand office chair. “That doesn’t mean it’s real. Just means the book is a memento.”
“Yeah, but I figure if it isn’t, I’ll just take the book.”
“You’re going to double cross a vampire?” he took a bite and looked over my shoulder, where he could no doubt see Grandmother. “Wicked Witch okay with that?”
At the suggestion of it, I felt her squirming in the hollow of my soul. “No. No, I’m not going to do that,” I assured her. “But if he betrays me, that’s a different matter.”
“Well, what do you want from me?” Frank went back to looking at the pair of yellow tinted plastic glasses in the middle of his table.
I snatched up the glasses and held them up to the light, much to his chagrin. “I need some toys. Who knows what I’ll come up against. Plus, some info. Journal pointed to Dead Man’s Hand. Only been there once, and that was when I was in Baltimore for a job.”
Seeing nothing unusual, I put the glasses on. Instantly I got sensory overload. It was like wearing a computer. Strange symbols flashed around everything. Not Digger’s Cant, but I could still understand them. I blinked, and tried to focus. Composition of matter, hidden compartments. I looked at Frank and could see information about him. I could see that he had some kind of Death related phenomena around him. That would be his geist. I could see a relative level of how supernaturally powerful he was. I could see how old he was and even injuries he suffered. Ah, so it wasn’t lung cancer after all.
I took the glasses off, blinking. “Woah.”
Frank snatched them away, and put them into a drawer. “Don’t go grabbing things. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Where’d you get that one?”
He grumbled something under his breath and put his head down. “Juste.”
“Ah,” I teased, “the old flame.”
“Fuck off.”
I guess I deserved that. “He clearly still likes you.”
“Thanks for breakfast, now fuck off.” He wasn’t even playing around with any of his toys, just staring at the desk.
I waited a bit, then slipped off the workbench.
“Come back tonight. I’ll have my contacts get me a map. Anything else you need, send a text.” Frank took off his jewelers glasses and ran a hand through his peppery grey hair and sighed. “I want a look at that spear.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever.” He grumbled, pulling a wicked looking knife over from the side of the workbench and started looking over it. “Ten PM.”
I leaned on my broom, and stood there for a bit. He didn’t say anything, and stalwartly ignored me.
Guess I fucked up. “Maybe I’ll stop by the Forge of Orcus, pick you up something nice.”
I headed back up the ladder. From behind me I heard a groan and stopped. He still wasn’t looking at me, but muttered “Juste might like that.”
I smiled, “I’ll pick something up for your boyfriend.”
“Fuck off, witch,” Frank said, throwing a screwdriver at me.
“Ack!” it bounced off my suicide shirt, and I climbed up the ladder before something else came flying.