Irene Didn’t Flinch When Lucian Sat Beside Her — Didn’t Look At Him Right Away Either. Her Gaze

She doesn’t flinch when his shoulder clips hers — just rocks with it, weight shifting like she’d braced for it long before he made the choice to move. Sharp pain blooms across her collarbone, a jolt, but not unfamiliar. Pain never is. Not anymore.

She doesn’t draw. Doesn’t reach. The blade never so much as twitches in its place beneath the coat. It’s not mercy. It’s not fear.

It’s calculation.

He walks, and she lets him. Watches the shape of him disappear into the storm, the space he leaves behind already closing like he was never there.

He doesn’t look back. He shouldn’t.

The scent of him lingers —blood, rain, something older—and she lets it fill her lungs once before letting it go. The kind of monster who chooses to walk away doesn’t need her knife in his back.

Not yet.

She’s still there long after he’s gone, the storm curling tighter around her. Hair wet, face unreadable, and something sharper coiled behind her eyes now. Not rage. Not even fear.

Resolve.

It’s not that he didn’t scare her.

END.

        the sound of caperucita’s voice becomes a monotonous, boring buzz that rails into his skull, falling in time with the rain, becoming the background music to his restlessness. hunter or not, she keeps fucking talking him in circles. fuck fairytales, fuck barking, fuck judgy eyed little knife-wielders who can’t stay off of his fucking nerves. a chase in a hurricane sounds thrilling, but it feels too much like baiting into a trap, like she’s trying to call his bluff by denying him. that’s the human part of him speaking sense, far off and distant like the water he has his back turned to. even if it’s the wolf that delivers the violence, there’s nothing more he hates than that truth, buried deep, and pulsing. he’s alive, making conscious choices, he isn’t a slave to the feral nature, the curse. not yet, anyways. he won’t make it to be matteo, but now, he has choices, no matter that he doesn’t fucking want them.

        still, it’s only partially his choice not to listen to her. all he hears are little pathetic stabs at him, trying to provoke the monster that she claims isn’t on her list. it doesn’t matter, of course, he’s done enough to deserve it, could do more right now to make it worth bringing his skin back home with her. she might not be scared, he might want to give her a reason to be, but he doesn’t care. if she’s so eager to threaten him, he’ll come back later, if the rest of the world fails to kill him after all the blood he’s thirsting for is spilled. the long kind of chase, fueled by spite. and he’s fine with messes, just loves ‘em, never once been clean. césar gives her one last dry chuckle, one last look.

        control steers him away from chiquita and her steel, her stupid wolfsbane perfume, her list. but it doesn’t quite aim right. he moves forward, blowing past her with a sharp check of her shoulder. it’s a sharp kind of pain that wakes him up with a smile, but he keeps going. if she stabs him, it’ll be in the meat of his back, because he’s walking away now, bidding her goodbye without saying anything at all, and retreating into the dark of the storm.

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

Irene watched her emerge—fluid, effortless. Like the sea didn’t just allow her, but had shaped itself around her coming. The kind of grace that made the dock feel artificial beneath Irene’s boots. A clumsy invention. An interruption to something older.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing, just once.

“I’m not here to trade,” she said after a beat, voice still quiet, still certain. “Troubles or otherwise.”

She didn’t smile, but something like acknowledgment flickered across her face —thin and weathered, like light through stormglass. She wasn’t startled by the woman’s ease, nor her offer. The world had stopped surprising her a long time ago. But this—this small act of being seen and not dismissed—had a kind of weight that pressed different.

“I’ve got shelter if I need it,” Irene added, gaze drifting toward the churn of black water. “This isn’t about dry clothes.”

The sea cracked louder behind her, a gust pushing against the edge of the dock like a warning. Irene didn’t flinch.

“You jumped like someone who knew exactly where they’d land.” Her eyes cut back to her. “That’s rare.”

The wind pulled her hood loose then, tangling strands of hair against her cheek. She didn’t fix it.

“You don’t owe me company,” she said finally. “But I won’t say no to it.”

And still, she stayed where she was —hands steady on salt-slick wood, boots rooted in storm-soft ground, eyes on the woman who had come out of the sea like a story no one dared finish telling.

She heard her. Not by any human range. But she was no human.

Ha-Jeong didn’t really want to leave the water. The stranger was correct. People shouldn’t be swimming in this. Shouldn’t even be out in this. Yet she was. Despite her apologies and interruptions, this human still stood there. A silly thing yet her countenance held such sadness she was reluctant to leave the young woman alone.

In a few strokes Jeong was at the dock again and with little effort hoisted herself out of the water to perch below the forlorn girl. “While the sea will take your troubles sonyeo, sometimes it isn’t quite worth the price.”

She looked up at the girl. “The main facility isn’t far if you are looking for some sort of dry place, but I also won’t interfere if you wish to somehow wrestle with your demons.” Ha-Jeong leaned back on her arms tilting her head up towards the rain. On another person this stance could have looked relaxed but it had been centuries since almost any pose she could take had been able to convey that.

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.

She followed without a word.

The stairs creaked beneath her boots, but she moved like someone who already knew the layout, or didn’t care if she got lost. Her hand skimmed the bannister once — more reflex than balance — then fell back to her side. There was too much noise in her head to leave room for grace. Her fingers clenched tight around the charm in her palm, skin pale where it pressed.

She didn’t look at Thera until they reached the landing. When she did, it was sharp — not angry, not yet, just sharp. Focused.

“You said their body needs time,” Irene said, voice low. “Fine. I get that. But why are they here?”

She wasn’t trying to accuse, but the words had a certain edge anyway. Like she hadn’t slept. Like something inside her chest had cracked open and never quite closed again. They would all get in trouble.

“If they’re in danger — if something did this — keeping them in the middle of nowhere while you play nursemaid doesn’t exactly scream smart. You know what they'll think? A witch's got one of our own.”

But the fight drained out of her in the next breath. She wasn’t here to argue. Not really. Not yet.

“I just—”

She shook her head once, as if trying to clear it. Something too thick, too tangled.

“—This is not good, Thera.”

She stepped around Thera before she could be invited again, gaze already flicking toward the room she knew had to be his. Something magnetic pulled her toward it, like her magic could already feel his somewhere just past the threshold.

Only once her hand was on the frame did she pause, not turning back — just holding herself still there in the door like the question had waited until now to surface.

“What happened?”

Finally, her voice cracked a little. Not much. Just enough.

Because Irene could stitch a dream to keep a soul from falling apart. She could hold a barrier for days on raw will alone. But none of that meant anything if she didn’t know what tore Shiv down in the first place.

Her head snapped up as she felt the protective rune in her side door snap. She had know people would come. That the moment she had set the letter people would come to find them.

She rose from her chair and wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. As she walked around the bed she noticed the spot where her head had left an indent in the bedding, Kanta’s motionless hand seemingly extending towards that spot. She didn’t want to leave them, a warped anxiety that the moment she left the room danger would enter it. Someone would come to hurt them again. But she swallowed it down. Someone was in her living room.

She hadn’t expected it to be Irene. She stood on her stairs and took in the young hunter witch, the girl looked bedraggled. She didn’t know how Irene had connected herself to Kanta but she could see the desperate worry in her eyes. Knew Irene wasn’t here to fight her. A weird knot of pride and longing formed in Thera’s stomach. She was happy Irene had found Kanta. That somewhere along the way the two had found each other. Thera let out a breath. “I’ve done everything I’m capable of for the moment. Their body needs time to heal.”

Thera descended the rest of the stairs. Her voice felt foreign to her as her aching hands clutched the shawl around her. “You are more than welcome to see them, but I fear their body needs time.” Another breath in as she tried to push away the memory of Kanta’s crumpled body, clenching her hands so she wouldn’t feel the memory of his blood coating them. “They need time to heal.” Thera turned back towards the stairs, a silent signal for Irene to follow.

She doesn't roll her eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t flinch — doesn’t give him what he wants, and that’s a kind of answer all its own. Irene just watches him for a breath too long, like she’s measuring something invisible in the space between them. Not his strength. Not his bite. But the shape of the wall he’s built and how high he plans to throw rocks from it.

“Spare me the theatrics,” she says, voice low, even. “You’re not the storm, and this isn’t your stage.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. That would take more energy than she’s willing to give him. Just the plain truth, laid out between them like salt lines on wet stone.

“Cirque du soleil: hurricane,” she repeats, tone dry enough to blister. “Cute.”

She glanced over at him, then back to the dark waters.

“I’ve seen better shows from driftwood and ghost light,” she adds, and there’s something bone-dry in the way she says it — not quite a joke, not quite mockery, but something with teeth behind it. “You burn loud. Doesn’t mean you burn long.”

She shifts the bag again, not because it’s heavy now, but because she’s starting to feel the distance she’ll have to walk. Doesn’t make a move to leave yet. Maybe because something in him still smells like salt and loss, and she’s not done parsing the difference between danger and damage.

“If you want the sea to clap for you,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, “— you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.”

Then she turns. Not quick — nothing dramatic — but with the slow certainty of someone who already knows if he follows, he’ll talk again. And if he doesn’t, the wind will say enough.

         he rolls his eyes, “ yeah, alright, chiquita. saw that in those judgy lil’ eyes of yours, don’t need to tell me. ”  you talk to much, just you fuckin’ wait. if she’s not walking away by the end of this, he hadn’t succeeded in pissing her off enough. césar’s goal jumps from entertainment to making her ears bleed. it’s likely she’ll turn on her heel, stick that ski slope nose in the air and stomp off. but he’s more interested in what she’ll do if she stays. if he’s earned himself a taste of ice, or if she burns, like he does. césar waves her off, like he’s heard her, like he’s listening. he hasn’t, he isn’t. spite burns instead of understanding, but it’s fierce enough to keep his interest, his attention.

         sure, she doesn’t care about being liked. césar imagined he did, once. knows he did, once, but it’s a time that’s so far away that he hadn’t dare touch it, let alone reach for the memory. eventually, when you’re pushed out, enough, caring fizzles into fury. but it doesn’t mean that anyone else’s opinion matters, only that they should suffer for it. “ what’s earning it look like to you, huh? you want a show? ”  he could give her a show. there’s a thousand dangerous, incredible things someone can do in the water. drowning takes the tippy top of the list for césar, but, well, he’s always been told he has terrible taste. he doesn’t really care, though. the air tastes of magic, the ports to be ruined, that’s enough show for him.  “ cirque du soleil: hurricane? ”

Irene’s eyes flicked up just long enough to catch the shape of the woman behind the counter before dropping back to her screen. One corner of her mouth tugged — not quite a frown, not quite amusement.

“Goody Stephens isn’t in,” she said simply. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

She finally set the tablet aside, screen darkening with a quiet blink, and leaned back in the chair like someone bracing for a shift in weather. The stranger —no, not quite a stranger, not if she knew where the burdock root was kept and didn’t flinch at the smell of the drying room —had that familiar kind of confidence that came with previous access.

“She’s not here,” Irene said, tone dry but not unkind. “But I can take the parcel.”

She didn’t move to grab it. Instead, her gaze followed Briar’s fingers drumming on the wood. The sound grated just enough to set her nerves on edge, but she said nothing about it. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “New-ish.” That was all she offered at first.

As for the dreamless tea, she gave the barest shrug. “Nothing fancy. Valerian, skullcap, pinch of nettle. Enough to knock out a restless hedgewitch without leaving ‘em foggy in the morning.” She paused. “Does what it says. No bells. No vampire facials.” That part almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

Then, softer —less like a statement, more like a test, “You worked here before?”

"Oh I wasn't aware Goody Stephens closed shop til dawn, given... well..."

Best not be outing things to new faces, Briar - a bit of subtlety, indeed. This one might be soft-headed, might need held by the hand; it has slowly dawned on her in her some five months living in this town that not all are quite so well equipped to handle the mania of the second, darker world lurking below the obvious.

"I'm simply here to drop off some fresh herbs for her; a gift in exchange for a favor paid; is she not here? Zounds, I'd have spoken with her."

Briar adjusts a parcel under hear arm, drums her heavy acrylics along a counter as she peers about the shop before settling on Irene. "You're new - or I simply haven't been back in a while." Then she's behind the counter, like she knows her way around; Goodwoman Kiri had helped her along in work for those first few months. Now she has slightly more exciting employment, but she's a soft spot for this little shop still.

She leans on the counter then, looking up into the woman's eyes, trying to suss out a first impression. "Dreamless tea, though? Do tell."

She never knows, with things as they are. Things are sold with strange names that are all smoke and spice and no delivery on substance. She'll never forget the disappointment that was vampire facial.

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640