Headington

Claire eagerly embraces Liam, her warmth and vitality a sharp contrast to his cold, undead body. The passion in her exchange is palpable, her enthusiasm leaving no doubt that she revels in her bond with him. Her lips part from his skin with a breathy laugh, her eyes shimmering with admiration as she wipes a trace of crimson from the corner of her mouth. "You always know how to make us feel alive, Liam," she says playfully, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm. "The party is coming together beautifully. It’s going to be the event of the year, trust me." Aisha, on the other hand, is more reserved. She hesitates for a moment before stepping forwards, her movements almost mechanical as she accepts the exchange. Her touch is tentative, her breath uneven and her expression carefully guarded. Yet, beneath her professional demeanour, there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a subtle indication of her internal conflict. When she steps back, she adjusts her jacket, avoiding Liam’s eyes. "Thank you, Liam," she says softly, her voice tinged with unease. "My project is progressing well. The interviews are yielding some fascinating insights into the challenges faced by women in sports. I may need your input on analysing some of the gender dynamics — it’s your area of expertise, after all." "She’s just too proud to admit she misses you, you know,"   Claire interjects with a smirk. Aisha shoots her a sharp glance but says nothing, her lips pressing into a thin line. Instead, she redirects the conversation. "We’ve been keeping everything in order while you were gone. The party’s ready to go and Claire’s been obsessing over every detail, but, honestly, we were worried. How long were you in the Hedge? Did you find what you were looking for?"

Liam sighs and sits down into the chair at Mehdi's table. Though exhaustion didn't really take him anymore, the human habits that came from mentally battling a problem stuck with him. He gestures for the girls to join him. "That is tough to explain. I suppose I should start at the beginning. Last time we met, I told you that I was in some trouble, that many people would be wanting to harm me and that I was left in quite a bind between a murder and getting murdered myself."  He looks to them, waiting for the nod of confirmation before he continues. "Well, the hedge is a complex place, so complex that tracking me there is more or less impossible. Mehdi is a wonderful guide, and a gracious host and he found a place where we can safely stay. The drawback is that time flows differently there. To us, less than a day has passed since we left you. Moreover, none of the technology we use, functions in quite the same way there, so we can't call or email." He waits for a moment for this to sink in. "Now, that's not to say I haven't been thinking on my bind. Tomorrow, after I help Mehdi with his task, I owe him that before I risk my life, I shall throw myself on the mercy of my sire. Before then though, and perhaps after until she catches up with me, I have some things I have wanted to do. Helping you both is an important thing for me to do. I would love to look at your data and offer you guidance there. A last party is obviously essential too." He grins. "But there is a bigger weight on my mind, if I may be departing this existence. Before I became what I am now, I never had the chance to father a child. Before you, I had never taken a ghoul either, and I felt it may be my opportunity to experience that mentorship. I enjoy it very much, but I think now, I desire to continue my bloodline, and I suppose it is right to offer that to the two of you first." He pauses, looking for the immediate reactions of the pair. "It is a big thing, to leave your families, leave the sun and your soul, and I would not blame you for hating the idea, but I would not give the gift to another should you want it."

Claire's face lights up at Liam's words, her enthusiasm nearly bubbling over as she leans forward, eyes sparkling. "You really mean that?" She asks, her voice tinged with awe and excitement. "To be like you? To have all of this... power, immortality, and to be able to stay by your side? Liam, it's — it's incredible." Her voice falters slightly, her words both eager and nervous. "Of course, it's a lot to think about, but... I can't imagine a greater honour." Aisha sits more stiffly in her chair, her expression guarded. She glances briefly at Claire before her eyes return to Liam. "You're offering to sire us?" She asks slowly, her tone measured and cautious. "That’s not a gift to take lightly, Liam. You said it yourself — leaving the sun, leaving our families, our lives as they are now." Her lips press into a thin line and she folds her arms across her chest. "I need time to think about this. It’s not something that I can decide in the moment." Claire reaches out and takes Aisha’s hand, giving it a squeeze. "I understand," she says softly. "It’s... a lot, but think about what we’ve already given up, Aisha. We’re already part of this world. Liam’s already changed our lives in ways we can’t undo. Maybe this is the next step."

Liam smiles. "It's really nice to see the two of you getting on. I made good choices in you both. It is a big decision and I would like to give you all the time you need, it is not something that can be undone, but be aware, I cant make you a vampire if I meet my final death before you decide." He pats them both an affectionate pat on the knee.

Claire reaches out and places her hand over Liam’s, her eyes shimmering with a mix of gratitude and trepidation. "Liam, that means… everything to me, that you’d even offer something so monumental. You’ve given me so much already. Your guidance, your protection, this crazy new world that I never imagined existed. I…" she hesitates, biting her lip. "I’d be lying if I said that the thought of it doesn’t scare me, but it also excites me. I don’t think I should give you an answer right now. I need to really think about what this would mean." Aisha, sitting a little more stiffly, nods as Claire speaks. When Claire falls silent, Aisha clears her throat. "I appreciate the offer, Liam. I really do. It’s just…" she looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "I need to know if this is the right path for me. If this is something I could live with... or unlive with, I guess. You’ve opened my eyes to so much, but it’s not just about me, you know? My family, my career…" She shakes her head slightly, before meeting Liam’s eyes. "I’ll think about it. I promise I will."

Liam turns up his palms in acceptance. "I would have expected no different. It is right to think heavily on this. I hope that I can be around to sire you both when the time is right. Now, shall we sleep? I have a gig to play in the evening!"

The late-night streets of Headington are damp with drizzle and reflections of the neon shopfronts glisten in the rain-darkened pavement . Daxon leaves Liam's flat with his hood pulled up, the chill autumn air curling around him like an old friend. The sound of traffic on London Road is a constant hum in the background. Buses grumble and the occasional siren wails in the distance. The changeling's phone buzzes and the caller ID reads 'Jimmie Franks'. Unusual for this hour.

Daxon watches the mist of his breath electrified by the neon lights for a moment before raising the phone to his ear. "H'lo, Jimmie! Glad you called - everything alright?"

When Daxon answers, Jimmie’s voice is tight. He sounds a little frantic, but like he's trying to stay cool. "Dax, I’ve got a problem. One of my drivers picked up a fare near Cowley Road. Slick fella. Too pale and smelled wrong. Paid in cash, but when the guy pulled the bills out, something else fell with 'em. A coin. Heavy, old… the thing's warm, Dax. Warm like it's breathing. Driver’s spooked. Brought it straight to me and now the coin's gone missing from the glovebox. Vanished. You catch my drift?" Jimmie clears his throat and lowers his voice. "This is your kind of weird. I don’t want it blowing back on me or the boss. Can you get over here? I’ll keep the driver at the office. Headington depot."

Daxon blinks and stops walking for a moment, easing his back to a wall and glancing around as a chill that wasn't the rain thrummed over his spine. Settle down, man... Deep breaths... 5...4...3...2...1.  Then he shakes his head and starts walking again. "Be right there. And... I'm sorry."  He jabs the End Call button with his thumb and shoves the phone back in his pocket. He rubs the back of his neck for a moment, his fingers tracing the mark there. It isn't MY kind of weird. I didn't ask for this madness.

The rain is light, but persistent, blurring the lamps and turning the slick tarmac of London Road into a smear of reflected amber and red. The hour's late enough that even the kebab shop is shutting down, the scent of old fryer oil hanging in the mist. Daxon's boots leave dark crescents in the puddles as he heads downhill, past the row of shuttered takeaways and toward the cab depot wedged between a tyre shop and a fenced-in car wash. He knows the place. This is Jimmie's domain. The man runs dispatch for the small-time boss who owns the cab firm, which is a front for petty loans and worse. It’s not the kind of place that most people walk into after midnight without a purpose... but Daxon isn’t most people anymore. The forecourt is half-lit and a single flickering fluorescent strip above the office casts a pale rectangle on the cracked concrete. Two cabs idle under the awning, the rain tapping gently on their roofs. One of the drivers  watches Daxon approach, his  cigarette glowing and his shoulders hunched in his hi-vis, before looking away again. No trouble unless you make it. The swollen, damp wood of the depot door sticks as Daxon opens it. Inside, the smell hits first. Diesel, instant coffee and the faint, sour musk of old tobacco. The walls are lined with faded posters of lost cat flyers, gig adverts from a decade ago and a faded tax-disc calendar still pinned above the desk.  Behind the desk sits Jimmie Franks, his bulk framed by the pale glow of three cheap monitors. Dispatch software is open on one and a spreadsheet on another. He looks up, tired eyes narrowing under his greying buzz cut. His voice, when it comes, is a low growl wrapped in familiarity and nicotine. "Dax. Christ, you look like you’ve seen a ghost."  Jimmie leans back in his chair, eyeing Daxon’s soaked jacket and the tremor in his hands. "You want a coffee first, or you wanna go straight through?" He asks,  jerking his chin toward the back office, the door to which stands ajar.  Beyond, the smell of gasoline mingles with something metallic and faintly sweet.

Daxon doesn't drop his hood until he's in the depot with Jimmie. A crisp breeze follows him and wafts the cabbie's cigarette smoke in arcane curlicues as the changeling passes through.  "Coffee and a smoke, first, if there's time. Sounded urgent." Daxon raises his eyebrows in an interrogatory, his voice tense and quick as his eyes run over the walls, looking for anything new.

Jimmie pauses mid-drag, watching his cigarette’s ember flare and dim. The crisp breeze that trails Daxon makes the smoke coil and twist unnaturally, like it’s being tugged at by invisible fingers. Jimmie squints through it, mutters something under his breath and stubs the cigarette out in an old mug. “Yeah… urgent,” he finally says. The man's voice is roughened by age and nicotine and his chair creaks as he pushes back from the desk, reaching for a chipped mug besides the kettle. Jimmie's movements are heavy and deliberate with weariness and the coffee tin rattles in his hand as he spoons out granules. The fluorescent light hums overhead and t he smell of burnt coffee can’t quite cover the tang of copper and ozone in the air, like the scent of a struck match that never quite dies. Behind the dispatch counter, a pile of receipts flutters, even though the breeze has stopped. Jimmie finally sets the mug down in front of Daxon and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, transparent plastic bag. Inside is a scrap of paper. It's torn, water-stained and covered in spidery, cramped handwriting. The ink glistens faintly in the light, although it looks long dry. “Driver swears this wasn’t there when he left the cab,” Jimmie mutters in a low voice. “Found it on the seat after that fare I told you about. Passenger paid, dropped that coin, then this shows up like it grew there.” He glances toward the back office with uneasy eyes. “Coin’s gone now. Door’s locked, window’s shut, cameras didn’t catch a damn thing. Just… this,”  he emphasises, tapping the plastic bag, “and the smell.” A faint vibration rumbles underfoot, as though something deep in the concrete is stirring. The fluorescent light flickers twice, dimming for a breath, and  Jimmie rubs the back of his neck with a humourless laugh. “You ever get the feeling something’s listening?” In the alley outside,  a cat yowls, faintly.  It's a long, drawn-out sound that is uncomfortably human in its cadence.

Daxon starts at the sound of the cat. The will of some elder catgod of Egypt... Don't like that! His hands shake a bit as he lights his own cigarette and draws deep, exhaling the plume up towards the ceiling before taking a sip of Jimmie's coffee. He'd been around folks in recovery too long to have high expectations, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins didn't help. But the caffeine did. He swallowed a hot sip and then nodded. "Something's definitely listening -- too many somethings, in fact. People been living here for at least a millennium. Lots of things going bump, day and night." Now that his hands are a little steadier, he pinches two corners of the plastic bag between his fingers to flatten it out so he can see the script.

The scrap inside the bag crackles faintly as Daxon smooths it and Jimmie leans back just far enough to give him space, but not far enough to hide the way his eyes track every movement, as though he’s afraid that the thing might wriggle. When inspected  under the harsh fluorescent light, the handwriting resolves into something unmistakably deliberate . Calm, practiced strokes written by somebody who knew exactly what they wanted each letter to do. Except... it isn’t quite English. The first line looks English-adjacent with letters shaped like they should be familiar, but the way that they curve at odd angles makes them bend in and out of recognition. Daxon's eyes try to turn one of the characters into an "R" and then a "K" and then something rune-shaped, before it settles back into a shape that belongs to none of them. The second line is a shock. This is  Hedge script that's been  tainted and twisted, as though somebody wrote it standing halfway between a dream and a set of grinding iron teeth. The rhythm of it sparks an instinct like muscle memory.  The shapes seem to wriggle against the plastic and, behind them, glimmers the faint spiral of a water stain, as though something has soaked into the paper from the  inside .  Jimmie clears his throat softly. "Driver said that when he touched it, the letters felt... raised. Like braille." He rubs his thumb and forefinger together. "When I picked it up? Flat as anything. Didn’t smell right either. Like the inside of a church and the inside of a dead engine at the same time." Then, the air shifts. The faint tang of ozone pulses once and a subtle wave of pressure floods the room, just enough to make the hairs the arm stand up.  The dispatch monitors glitch for half a second, all three screens flickering with static, before they snap back to normal.  Jimmie flinches. "See? Told you. Ever since that fare, weird stuff. Lights. Cameras. Joe swears his radio whispered his name." He nods towards the paper. "Whatever that says... I don’t think it’s meant for me ." Outside, something scrapes along the metal fencing of the car wash. It sounds like claws, or something pretending to have claws. The same cat yowls again, but this time closer. Much closer.

Daxon blanches as he looks at the slip of paper, and even more as he listens to Jimmie. "No, it wasn't - let me get this away from here," he says. "I think if I can get it away, it won't trouble you any further." He swallows the last of his coffee and crushes out his cigarette. "I'm sorry, Jimmie. Try to forget you saw me tonight, eh? I'll call you when I can and check in." He gingerly picks up the plastic bag, the thing's  energy setting the changeling's teeth on edge like sucking a lemon coated in battery acid. He tucks it into his coat, turns the collar back up, and rushes back out into the enveloping night.

As soon as Daxon pockets the evidence bag, the atmosphere in the depot changes.  The fluorescents steady,  the hum of the dispatch computer returns to its usual mechanical drone and  the metallic tang in the air thins, dissipating like steam off a kettle.  Jimmie watches the changeling with an expression caught somewhere between relief and dread. His shoulders sag, as though an invisible weight that the man didn’t even realise that he was carrying just slid off of them. "Yeah. Yeah, alright," the cabby mutters with a sharp, jerky nod, rubbing the heel of his hand against his sternum.  "Forget I saw you," he echoes with a tremor in his voice.  "Forget tonight. Forget the bloody coin. No problem. Just, be careful out there, yeah, Dax?"  Jimmie calls after Daxon, as the changeling turns towards the door.  " Whatever that thing is," h e adds, gesturing vaguely at Daxon's coat and the night beyond,  " it’s not normal, even by your standards. "   The night outside hits like a cold hand.  The breeze that always follows Daxon sharpens into a knife-edge chill that tugs at the hem of his coat. The rain has eased off into a fine, needling mist that drifts through the orange glow of the streetlamps. Meanwhile, the rumbling bus engines, distant laughter and the hiss of tyres on wet asphalt feel muted, as though they're muffled by a layer of unseen gauze.  Beneath all that noise, Daxon can hear something else as well.  A soft patter of  light, deliberate steps, just out of sight. He pulls the depot door shut behind him and the world narrows to the empty forecourt, the gleam of puddles and the faint outline of a cat sitting atop the bonnet of the nearest cab. Its tail flicks back and forth and its eyes reflect the light in a too-bright green.  The cat’s ears twitch, prompting  it to stand, s tretch  and hop down with the almost soundless pat of paws on metal.

Daxon freezes in the shadows near the depot door, eyes fixed on the approaching cat. As its paws patter on the metal of the cab, he mutters, "Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit. I'm dead. I'm dead. Shit. I'm dead," while starting to count down from 60 the seconds in his head.

The cat pauses mid-step, one paw lifted delicately off of the wet concrete. Slowly and deliberately, it tilts its head.  The rain hisses softly, filling the air with a mist that turns the depot forecourt into a blurred, liminal space, like something out of a dream. The glow of the streetlights glints in the  two chips of eerie, liquid green that are the  cat's eyes. They don’t blink, or waver.  They are fixed on Daxon . 56... 55... 54... As the changeling counts, the shadows around him ripple. The cold that trails behind him gathers at his ankles in a coiling spiral of crisp air. His pulse thuds in his ears, until  a soft click breaks the moment. It's  tiny and rhythmic, like claws gently tapping against concrete.  The cat steps forwards and  the closer that it gets, the more that Daxon feels the faint tingle in his coat from the paper in the plastic bag. A  shimmer of cold runs up the back of his neck, almost the same as the sensation that he gets when walking close to a Hedge gate, but this isn't Hedge magic, or glamour. It feels  older. 42... 41... 40... A breeze curls around the cat, briefly lifting the fur along its spine, and, for a heartbeat, Daxon sees the cat's shadow cast in two directions at once. One of them stretches out  towards the far end of the depot, until it is  unnaturally long.  Then, the second shadow twitches and  the cat pauses again, its ears pricking.  A low, warbling yowl rises from the far side of the car wash fence. Then, a third further away down a side street. The feline voices layer together into a strangely harmonised chorus . 33... 32... 31... The cat closes to within ten feet of Daxon and then  sits with its  tail neatly curled around its paws.  Its mouth opens ever so slightly a nd a sound comes out that is not a cat's sound. It's a  low, breathy exhale, l ike wind through a hollow reed.