Dilaudid. [Zeke]

[Scratch]

It is, predictably, the dead of night.

The canopy of the clear late autumn sky is at its peak overhead, the world beneath lit softly by the glowing face of the full moon and its myriad collection of companion stars. It should be beautiful, crisp and clean, but the solitary figure on the street far below has no mind for the brilliance above him. He walks, nestled into the thick and layered fabric of a woolen overcoat, with enough confidence to suggest there is nothing strange about the hour; that though townsfolk and locals would not recognize him, he is perfectly at home. It has been centuries, after all, since the night sky held any true meaning for the man – or the suspicions of humans caused him any concern.

The perpetual rise and fall of both the constellations and humanity ceased capturing his interest long ago.

More important than some ephemeral and romantic view of the heavens is his destination, the goal that has dragged him out of well-worn haunts and deposited him in this godforsaken stretch of country. Even the season’s bitter chill has not kept him away, billowing out the tails of his coat and wicking up the legs of his pants; there is a scarf wound about his neck, a pair of fine classes perched on the bridge of his nose, and a dangerously determined look in his golden eyes. This night is the culmination of research and planning, two things the man has not felt the motivation for in recent months, and he resists the inevitable tug of hope and expectation. Even the thrill of anticipation is stymied and quelled, replaced instead by a stark coldness that is matched by the temperature outside.

Were anyone on the street at this hour they would avoid him instinctively, sidestepping without thought like wary deer from a wolf. He is glad for the silence, for the emptiness that echoes with only the sound of his neat leather boots, and for the recent warmth in his gut that allows his breath to trail behind him in a fine mist. The slender man has always preferred handling negotiations – particularly with strangers – on a full stomach. The consequence of restraining his temper otherwise, should things go sour, has irreparably damaged too many deals in the past.

Let it never be said that he cannot learn; it simply has to be worth his while.

The object of his search at last manifests out of the night, a matching of numbers to memory that takes no more than a single cursory glance. He reaches up to rap soundly upon the door, the pull of his sleeve revealing the watch about his wrist, and settles back on his heels to wait with a patience learned through decades. Too long a pause will be met with a louder knock, insistent, until the house’s occupant at last sees fit to unlatch the lock.

What the wizard within will find outside is a sharp-dressed man with no plans to leave, and a boot slid surreptitiously forward to prevent the door from slamming in his face. A brief meeting of eyes, a short study of the homeowner’s face, and the stranger will butt in before there is any chance for pesky questions. Humans, he is well aware, so often despise being woken up at this time of night – but it is an irritation he gladly inflicts upon them.

”My name is Lucian,” the golden-eyed man begins, dipping his chin just so to manage an almost innocuous air. ”I apologize for the hour, but I have some business to discuss with you.” It is important to sound urgent without sounding desperate – to emphasize that it must be discussed now without saying so outright. The man’s lofty accent helps his cause, but so too does a lifetime’s worth of practice.

It is then that the small smile cannot be kept from his face, the expression that at first seems inviting but manages to toe some predatory line towards hunger. The vampire has never been particularly good at hiding his nature, and there is always some brief buzz felt at the simplistic nature of this con. His hand slides up the smooth wood of the door, and he leans forward, waiting.

”May I come in?”

[Westernbullet]

The windows of the modest home are fogged with steam, obscuring the world outside into nothing more than a series of vague shapes and hazy outlines. Zeke has all that he needs right in front of him, a crumbling book propped up behind the cutting board, the pages dog-eared, annotations filing the margins. Feminine script rolls beneath one of the listed ingredients, some relative or another insisting that the dosage be cut by half. He has to agree--three cups of grave dust does seem a bit excessive.

His ladle clatters against the sides of the pot as he stirs, muddy eyes following another haphazard line of text jolting down the page. Forgo the hazel, unless you like indigestion. Someone's drawn a red line through the note and added their own. She is allergic to hazel--do not forgo. Important, helps speed up reaction time. So dense are the notes that they nearly crowd out the original text.

The same is true for most of the book, a collection of potion recipes handed down through his family, preserving not only the witches's endeavors, but their voices, their feuds, and every day life.

Zeke's stained fingers trace down the ingredients list, converting measurements on a scrap piece of paper. He hasn't made the brew since he was a teenager in high school; back then he'd used the invisibility potion to skip class, but now he needed it for more serious purposes. Such as sneaking into a private home. He had moved to Benton Harbor, Michigan, following the trail of an old friend of his mother's, reported to have a rough draft of the grimoire. It wasn't the sort of thing that would be easily given up, and besides, Zeke had no idea how to ask for it. But necessity had stalled his investigation. Funds were running low and the fishing season offered good money to able-bodied men. A short visit to the lake-side town had turned into renting a house, putting down roots he'd never intended to.

In rapid succession, three loud knocks sound out. Zeke throws his head up like a startled horse, eyes wide, breath mingling with the steam. The time on the oven reads well past midnight. The dark concoction bubbles and pops, filling the kitchen with a strange, heady scent of spices and earth. He stirs frantically, calling out to his uninvited guest,

"Just a moment!"

Moving the pot off its burner, he tightens the belt of his robe, crossing the short distance. Zeke even remembers to duck beneath the eave of the door, one smarting bruises was enough. "What can I--" Crisp words and a honeyed gaze relegate the wizard into silence. The full moon overhead and the porch light illuminate the man's face and eyes that seem all too familiar catch his own. It takes him a moment to place the memory, but it settles over the stranger like a second skin. An image superimposed over the lean figure, a wolf that he had come across years ago as a boy, hunting in the snow. They had watched each other for a few taunt seconds, and then the animal, a rarity in the mountains at that time, had disappeared among the pines, fur melding with the white landscape.

"I'm sorry, could you say that again?" He passes a rough hand over his face, rubbing at the center of his forehead, trying to clear away the strange sight. Turning in the doorway, Zeke gestures him in with a lopsided smile. "Come on in, I have to," Finish cooking an invisibility potion. "Make sure my stew hasn't thickened up too much."

[Scratch]

Michigan is not where the vampire would have preferred to end up, all things considered, but desperate times often call for desperate measures. There is also, of course, the little matter where any well-known witch worth her salt would hex him into the next decade for showing his face at her door – but he prefers to think of his hand as forced, and not at all by his own doing. This is what has brought the sharp-eyed man to some forsaken corner of a half-forgotten state, his mouth half hidden by his scarf and his glasses clouded by needless gouts of breath; this is what has urged him to the warped-wood stoop of an unfamiliar hedgewitch.

Zachary Harris. What research Luc could dig up on the wizard suggests he would be a powerful player in the underground if he chose to make something of himself; that his capabilities are enormous, but his motivations less so. It makes him a prime target, the appropriate mix of gifted and out of the loop that will keep these dealings clear of disapproving channels.

Luc does not like dealing with covens. Little good ever comes of them.

The warmth of the rental home floods outside, fogging the crisp air and bathing the wan vampire in a dull yellow glow, and the scent of muddled spices and fresh-cut herbs is quick to follow. Despite his only average height, there is a presence to Luc that rarely leaves him feeling short; Zeke is quick to relieve him of this small superiority, ducking as he does beneath the door frame. The vampire’s reaction is almost imperceptible, a pulling of the corner of his lip as the wizard stumbles through his greeting, but it burgeons into an honest smile at the invitation inside.

”Lucian,” he repeats fluidly, stepping in at Zeke’s heel. ”Business.” Wherever the wizard stops is of no concern to the Englishman; he makes for the kitchen as though he has been here before, fingertips trailing distantly upon the rustic wood paneling of the walls. ”The same sort as your stew here, I imagine,” and here the man shoots the beleaguered conjurer a knowing look over his shoulder. ”What is this – binding spell? Protection?” A beat; an impish smile. ”Love potion?” He pinches a sprig of goosegrass from beside the cutting board between his fingers, but any meaning the leaves might have is lost upon him. Witchcraft has never been foremost among his pursuits.

Turning, Luc leans back and rests his palms on the counter to either side of him, conveniently settled between Zeke and his steadily brewing tincture. ”Or are you simply a terrible cook?” Herbs or not, the pot behind him is certainly no stew, and the worn tome left open nearby is no book of mundane recipes. The vampire tilts his head slightly to focus the gaze of one eye solely upon the wizard, the curve of his smile playful – and revealing a tooth too many. This game is only amusing as long as Zeke’s piss-poor masquerade lasts, and Luc much prefers cutting to the heart of the problem. ”I would hope not. I’d hate to have come such a long way for nothing.”

The poor wizard’s original lack of suspicion is a mixed bag of prospects, the hallmark of a good man who expects the same basic decency in others, and it is a pity it will take a meeting with Luc to absolve him of this misconception.

[Westernbullet]

Somehow, Zeke finds himself trailing after the sharply dressed man, casting a long shadow over him that licks up the book's spine and curves, distorted around the fogged windows. In the low light, his finger tips seem to leave traces on the very walls. "Now isn't a good time." He murmurs, wincing a bit with the ache that starts above his left eye, a thrum that seeks to drown out everything else of importance. It's a familiar pain, the product of meeting someone's eyes for too long. Most magic users possessed the Sight, and most learned to control it, least they suffer a life time of headaches and unwanted, intimate glimpses into their friend's and family member's lives.

But Lochlan in her meddling, had taken more than just his power away--she'd stolen his control as well. These days, he was lucky to be able to light a candle. It was a pain easy enough to cure though. A hot tea of peppermint would ease the tension from his mind, if only he could get to his cabinets.

His guest bars the way to the kitchen, back to the counter top, fragrant herbs rolled between his fingers. The potion steams behind him, smoke twisting out of the pot and he makes no effort to move when Zeke side steps nervously, trying to reach for the ladle. This was no mundane visit. No late night missionary, roaming the street in hopes of converting him to their particular brand of God. A few of the dark green leaves flutter to the linoleum, Lucian leading him into the real purpose of his visit through a series of smiles and questions throw up like cards on a poker table. The wizard flushes red and tries to conceal it with a hasty clearing of his throat, "I think you might be--"

Mistaken, but it's clear that Lucian is no such thing. Terrible understanding dawns on him, the polite request to come inside and the darkness that he had arisen from. Zeke's shoulders sink, a wary sigh escaping his chest as the weight of his mistake presses on him. A phantom reflex has the long fingers of his right hand curling inwards, beckoning his staff from its resting place in amongst the jackets and umbrella at the door. The pitchfork handle, engraved down its length with runes, rattles back and forth, the burnt markings glowing faintly, embers that are soon put out. It stills and Zeke accepts defeat with the grace of a man who knows it all too well. "I'm sorry, but whatever it is that you want, I can't help." The loss of his magic might be a blessing in disguise this time. The undead would surely return home, or go on to harass another witch or wizard.

He strides forward, bare feet thumping against the slick flooring. His shoulder brushes against Lucian's as he leans down to inspect the contents of the pot, ladle brandished, a poor weapon against a vampire, but the only one within reach. Dipping it into the dark liquid, he brings it to his lips, and empties the ladle in one smooth swallow.

The effects aren't instantaneous, but months removed from his powers have taught Zeke to focus on the finer arts of the craft. The top of his head is the first to go opaque, and then chocolate eyes disappear, his mouth fading with a narrowed smile. The ladle thunks against the floor, one hand raised in a farewell wave. In the matter of a few seconds, a pair of owner less feet dart down the hallway.