THE TREK DOWNSTAIRS is much shorter, and Hadley realizes this because one whole flight of stairs has disappeared. Molly's breathing—because hey, she breathes—has eased, somewhat, as if a leash has been untied.

How much of magic Hadley would've dismissed so easily, if Molly didn't exist. Ever since he stepped in here, so long ago, every goddamn doubt about the existence of magic he's ever had has disappeared. Shown him that magic could exist anywhere, in places, things, people, people as bland and boring as Hadley. He'd never have thought of houses as living things, but then came along David, pulling back the curtain to a world Hadley'd heard of but never paid attention to.

Shame that the same guy who showed him all of this has disappeared, so conveniently.

Salome's in front of Hadley, slowly taking one step at a time, considerably slowing down the both of them. Hadley would tell her to hurry the hell up, but he fears that if Salome goes any faster than this she might fall down the stairs and fall flat on her face.

"You good?" Hadley asks.

"Yeah," Salome says. She takes another step. "I don't want to hurt Molly."

The stairs creak in appreciation.

"I didn't know she got hurt when people walked down the stairs."

"If you were a house," Salome says, "wouldn't you want people to walk gently?"

No, Hadley thinks. I'd want them to leave.

"Sure," Hadley says.

When they get close enough to the ground floor, Hadley hears several voices in conversation. No. Just one voice, dominating the conversation, which doesn't sound like much of a conversation at all. He hears fragments of sentences, among them: 'unacceptable conduct', 'reckless risk-taking', 'what was he trying to do?', 'Charlie's going to kill him,' and 'David should have known better.'

"Wait," Hadley says, and Salome nearly falls over stopping herself, but he catches her just in time. "Easy. Just wait."

Salome looks at him in bewilderment. "Why?"

"Nothing," Hadley says. "Just wait here."

Salome obeys, and when they reach the door, Hadley opens the door as quietly as he can.

The first thing he sees is Francis, leaning against the wall right next to the staircase. Francis's are eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. In the flickering firelight of the room, he looks striking, painted in strokes of gold and shadow—but, too serious. Hadley's not sure if he's ever seen Francis like this, though granted, he hasn't seen Francis all that much.

Francis notices Hadley, and with a laconic expression, he holds up a finger to his lips, and with the same finger, points at the scene before them.

Hassan, Benji and Jeanne stand like loyal troopers behind Vic and Shani, both of whom are talking to a tall and imperious looking woman—olive skin, hair twisted into a braid, her profile sharp and Etruscan in the murky glow of the room—and there's a boy standing next to her. Everything about him is washed out; from the pale blond of his hair to his whitish-mouse skin. And when he looks straight at Hadley, Hadley sees that his eyes are a pale and frightening blue.

Vic, Shani and the woman are talking. The boy, however, is staring at Hadley.

"Don't mind him," Francis says, tilting his head towards Hadley. "He does that a lot."

The boy narrows his eyes at Hadley, and gently taps the woman on the shoulder. The woman stops her conversation with Vic and Shani—who, judging by their expressions, consider this insulting—and turns to look at Hadley.

"Now, who in the world," the woman says, her gaze remarkably cold as she looks Hadley up and down, "is this?"

"Character witness," Hassan says.

The woman doesn't acknowledge his answer. She stares right at Hadley, boring two little holes into him with her hard-black eyes. A crow's expectant and curious gaze.

"My name is James," Hadley says, for the first time in his life leaving out the latter two parts of his name. He wouldn't chance frivolity on a woman like this.

"I see," the woman says. "And?"

Shani looks at Hadley, her expression pained. Vic's face is carefully neutral, and her hands are clenched at her sides. But White-Mouse boy is standing right behind the imperial looking woman, his head cocked at an arrogant angle. Watery eyes slipping all over Hadley's face.

"What are you doing here," the woman says, and as an afterthought she adds, "James?"

She has incredible eyes. Inquisitor-like eyes. You wouldn't dream of telling a lie to this woman's face, not with eyes like that.

"I was there the night the—" what did Hassan call it? "—the thing came. I was there. With David."

The woman smiles, too sweet of a curve for her face. "Excellent. Then you know he was responsible for bringing it here."

"No," he says. Abrupt. Sure.

Jeanne is looking at him with his eyebrows raised. Benji, for the first time since Hadley's ever met him, is making an expression. He's wincing.

"No?" says the woman. "How can you be so sure?"

"I was there. I know him."

She smiles, politely, like he's a child to be indulged. "How long have you known him for?"

Vic starts, her voice carrying the edge of barely concealed frustration. "Sophia, please—"

"I asked him a question, Victoria," Sophia says. "Not you."

Victoria stays silent.

"A month," Hadley answers.

"A month," she says. "I've known him for two years. But I suppose you'd know more, wouldn't you?"

The mockery in her tone is so venomous that Hadley feels its sting all the way to his face.

Mouse-boy is smirking. If this were somewhere else, Hadley would have no problem closing the distance between them and wrecking his sniveling smile into his face. But this isn't somewhere else, and he can feel the keen burden of eight people's gazes resting on his body. Anger would only be an admission of defeat.

So.

He lifts his chin, just slightly. "I was there. That night at the graveyard."

"So were we," says Mouse-boy. His smile turns in on itself. "All of us. There's nothing you can tell us that we don't already know."

Fuck defeat. If Hadley's angry, he's going to be angry.

"I wasn't fucking talking to—"

A grip on his shoulder, forcibly pulling him back. Reining him in.

"What James is trying to say," says Francis, his voice terrifyingly calm as his fingers dig deeper into Hadley's shoulder, "is that he can offer specifics to the circumstances that led to the nyx breaching in."

"Really," says Mouse-boy, his nose twitching. "It didn't sound like he was trying to say that at all."

"He has anger issues," Shani says, her eyes boring holes into Hadley's eyes.

"Which are, of course, the effect of a curse," Jeanne says.

The list of people in the room that Hadley's angry at increases, just slightly.

"A curse," says Sophia, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "How interesting. What is your connection to David?"

Hadley hates this. Every second of it. Every fucking painful, stare-at-and-interrogate-Hadley second of it. There's tired and then there's tired. He's feeling the latter pretty goddamn keenly. Why can't things ever be simple? Why can't things ever be straightforward? Why does David's disappearance have to be such a huge goddamn deal?

Hadley lets out a hard breath. "I'm David's client. I have a curse. And I'm no closer to getting rid of it than I was a month and a half ago."

"Client," Sophia says, repeating the word with distaste. She turns to Vic. "You weren't supposed to have clients."

"We don't," Hassan says. "David does."

He's standing much closer to Vic than he was, just a while ago. So is Benji. So is Jeanne. They look like soldiers closing in up on a wounded comrade. Hadley'd laugh if it wasn't inappropriate.

Sophia looks at Vic. "You aren't allowed to have clients. Have you forgotten, so fast?"

"We remember," Vic says. "And we will accept whatever punishment will come our way, on David's behalf."

"What interest would I have in punishing you for a rule you did not break?" Sophia says. Turning to Hadley, she says, "I don't know who you are, or why David thought to bring you into all of this, but you are under the impression that your opinion means anything to me," she says. "Let me assure you, it does not."

Mouseboy smirks.

Anger flares up in the pit of Hadley's stomach and how badly he wants to punch the pale mouse shitweasel right next to the woman, how badly he wants to—

Fingers digging into his shoulder, a hand gently pulling him back.

"Of course," Francis says, his hand clamping down onto Hadley's arm. "We just thought it would be helpful if we got a first-hand account from someone who was there."

"We were all there," the mouse-boy says. "You don't need a first-hand account for something on a scale of an earthquake or a tsunami, because the effects are felt by all. With the proper tools, anyone can deduce what causes natural disasters. It is the same for this."

"We aren't all gifted—" Vic spits the word out, like its an insult— "as you, Warren."

Warren looks at Vic, and the exact same way someone would talk about the weather, he says, "Shame then, that Carter's not able to see to that."

Hassan and Jeanne exchange confused frowns. Benji, for what might be the fifth time this day, makes another expression. Francis's grip on Hadley's shoulder loosens. Shani's scowls, the only other person apart from Vic who isn't confused.

Speaking of.

Vic's reaction is much more visible. Everything about her has shifted. This isn't Vic, and if it is, it's a version of Vic that Hadley's never seen. Too murderous looking to be the girl that Hadley held hands with, too angry to be the girl Hadley has a crush on.

"I don't see," she says, her voice deceptively quiet, "what Carter has anything to do with this."

"I see I've touched a raw wound here," Warren says, mirroring Sophia's expression of impassiveness. "I wasn't aware that David's brother was such a sore subject," he says, blinking languidly at Vic. "My apologies."

Even an idiot can tell that Warren doesn't mean anything he's just said.

"We must be leaving," the woman says. "This discussion has proved somewhat fruitful, even if you clearly don't think so. Please do find David—I'd rather this not get ugly. I am quite fond of this little cabal you have going on here. It would be such a shame if all this—" she gestures around at the room, the polished floorboards, the crystal lamps gleaming with the orange glow of the fire—"went to waste."

Warren fetches a coat and holds it up for the woman, who shrugs into it. Warren is still staring at Hadley, his eyes narrowing—not with any malice. Curiosity, like he's never seen anything like Hadley before.

"Come, Warren," Sophia says, walking to the door. But Warren doesn't follow. He lingers.

"Warren?" the woman calls, but he still lingers, staring at Hadley.

"Strange," says Warren. "Your curse doesn't smell of anything at all."

Before Hadley can answer, Warren turns on his heel and walks towards Sophia, joining her at the door. He whispers to Sophia, and she throws a lackadaisical glance at Hadley, somewhere in between amusement and slight concern.

"James, was it?" Sophia says. "Be careful. David isn't going to be the only person who's going to try and use you."

And with that, she and Warren leave, shutting the door behind them.

The silence that follows is painfully palpable. No one is breathing, not even Molly. Every nerve in Hadley feels raw and electric, a fuse about to go off.

"Jesus fucking shit," Vic says, the words barely more than a croak. She presses a hand to her head, massages her temple. Her eyes close, and she looks much, much older. "God fucking damn it all."

And with that, Hadley feels much calmer. As if looking at Vic and realizing that she seems about ready to crush her head against a wall puts his feelings into a much more different perspective. Clearly, whatever Hadley's feeling is nothing to the sort of head-clutching emotion Vic is currently experiencing.

"I think that went well," Jeanne says, "for the first five seconds."

Vic—still massaging her temples—throws herself into the armchair next to the fireplace. Something about her seems slightly more frantic. Her shoulders shaking, her thick and curly short hair covering her face, her constant stream of curses under her breath.

"Vic, what did he mean about Carter?" Jeanne says, more a reprimand than anything. "Victoria."

Vic is still cursing under her breath.

Hadley walks wordlessly over to the armchair and, as gently as he possibly can, touches Vic's shoulder.

Vic stops muttering. She looks up, her gaze crystal clear as she looks at Hadley.

"Hey," Hadley says. "Are you okay?"

She lifts an eyebrow. Her smile is laced with sarcasm. "What do you think?"

"What was all that about?" he asks, staring right back at her. "Who was that woman?"

Vic doesn't say anything, not for a moment. Her glance falls on Hadley's hand resting on her shoulder. Gently, and without any expression, she removes his hand. Hadley blinks. Something about Vic is radically different, but it is a shift under the skin. Or maybe she'd never changed at all, and it was Hadley—

Before the sting of the gesture even has time to register, Vic answers.

"That was Sophia Marzetti. She's been doing us favors for god knows what reason," she says, "and the white kid was Warren. Her lapdog. Both of them are Coterie. Our protection."

"That more or less just spat in our face," Benji says, taking the armchair opposite Vic.

"We deserve it," Francis says, still leaning on the wall, looking like some dashing and roguish suitor. "Don't do anything stupid, they said. Surely, you're capable of that?"

The room has started reverting into the familiar shape Hadley's used to. A neon sign starts to coalesce into form right next to Francis's head. PIZZA. 99C. Casting the side of Francis's head in red light.

"So, what do we do now?" Jeanne asks, sitting down on a newly appeared leather couch.

"Wait, I suppose." Shani sits next to Jeanne, and another neon sign pops right above Jeanne's head. PSYCHIC READING. In purple. "Negotiate. See what we can salvage. Try and keep our head out of the water."

Vic laughs, a dry and bitter chuckle. "We're pretty much fucking drowning at this point. What's the point?"

"Then what do you want us to do?" Shani snaps back. "Just accept that we're fucked? That the Coterie isn't going to give a shit about us anymore?"

"Shani," Jeanne says, warily.

"No, don't Shani me." She hasn't stopped glaring at Vic. "Two whole days of negotiations. You, trying to save our collective goddamn necks. And you're going to, what, give up now?"

Vic pretends to ponder this. "Maybe."

Shani snaps. "You can't be fucking—"

A loud and wet sneeze from the door to the stairway startles them both. Shani sits herself back down, still seething. Vic rises up from her chair, discarding all signs of her mini-breakdown.

"Sorry," Salome says. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"I think it's a good thing that you did," Hadley says, which earns him a light and stealthy punch on the back from Vic.

"Hey, Sal," Vic says. She brushes some of the hair away from her face. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Salome says. "I got—um. Bored. Duchess and I are going to leave soon. We have to meet someone."

"Oh," Vic says. "Okay. Tell Duchess I said hi."

Two more neon signs show up. BURGERS. SHAKES. CHEAP. In orange. HOLIDAY SALE. Pink. The fire flickers momentarily, as if aware of the incongruency of the space. Polished and distinguished floorboards with seedy looking signs. Small details to anchor Hadley here.

Salome hasn't come back down.

Molly's special, he reminds himself. She's got doors.

"So what's Carter got to do with all this?" Hassan asks. "Isn't the guy all the way down in San Francisco?"

"Carter has nothing to do with this," Victoria snaps. Much more calmly, she says, "Warren's just trying to get a rise out of all of us."

"It worked on you," Jeanne points out.

"Because I'm more sensitive than all of you put together," Victoria says, without missing a beat. "My emotional receptors have higher capabilities than that of any average human being."

Hadley is mildly impressed. "Really?" he asks.

Victoria looks at him.

"Oh," Hadley says. "You were being sarcastic."

"But for real," Francis says. "Why'd he mention Carter?"

"Because, Francis," Shani says, quietly seething, "Carter was the one who made curse club, gave this place a fucking reason to exist, and Carter promptly fucked off as soon as Charlie moved up in the coven, and not even David can convince him to come back. And Warren thought David told all of us, but apparently—" Shani looks around the room, at the shocked faces—"he didn't tell anybody except Vic and me."

Molly is silent, yet again.

"Did he tell you that," Vic says, more of a statement than a question.

"You think," Shani says, every word dripping with acid, "that you're the only one David told?"

Vic only smiles. "And you think he told you the truth?"

"I'd fucking ask him," Shani says, "but he's not here, is he?"

"You say that like it's my fault."

"Maybe it is. I don't know. God, I just—" Shani runs a hand through her hair, messing up her neat braid—"why would he do this?"

Hadley, who'd been standing by the fireplace and perversely enjoying watching this unfold right before his eyes, is ready to argue right back that no way in hell David would do this, not on purpose anyhow, and besides, hadn't Hadley already told them?

But he stops himself. Not because of doubt (of which he has plenty), or of the lack of conviction, but because someone calls him.

"You should probably pick that up," says Benji.

"I was going to," Hadley says.

He picks up the phone.

"Hey," Philippa says. "The car's all clean. I'll be there in ten minutes."

There's absolutely no way he's going to stay here any second longer than necessary, not with all the weird tension in the air. If it means standing outside freezing his balls off, so fucking be it. This day's been pretty shitty—no reason for him to be here, being reminded of that fact for ten more minutes.

"Great," Hadley says, "Be right there."

"What? James, I'm not here ye—"

Hadley hangs up. "Well. I have to go now."

Hadley finds that no one in the room really gives a shit about his departure. Too busy thinking about other things, or too busy bubbling in the thick silence of the room, too busy to acknowledge him.

"I said," Hadley says, "I'm leaving."

"Are you?" Vic says, absent-mindedly. "Take care, James."

All around the room, the rest of curse club give him their own dispirited version of a goodbye. This is so much worse than getting no goodbyes.

And so, muttering his own dispirited version of a goodbye, Hadley leaves.

He steps out, closing the door behind him. He watches the oak and handle disappear under his hand, and when he blinks, where there was a door, there is now a wall of jagged brick.

He lets his hand linger, before taking it off. Somehow, he resists the temptation to walk back into curse club and get ensconced into its strange safety and warmth—even after that awful and tense discussion, back into that frigid silence—and instead he walks out of the alley, into the weak winter sun. Not a minute has passed since he left curse club, now that he looks at his phone. How strange. Another one of Molly's mysteries.

Time goes back to normal. The seconds tick by. Hadley lets his breath steam in the air.

It's still afternoon. He considers, briefly, the idea of eating at Li Wei's in hope of catching David while waiting for Philippa. It's a nice idea. He'd be seated at one of the booths, dejectedly poking at his food, and David would walk in, unannounced, slide into the seat opposite Hadley and help himself from Hadley's food.

Is this what he's been reduced to? Hoping for the least? Not even hoping for his curse to be gone but for David to come back and talk to him? Inane chatter. Small talk.

I still have a year, Hadley thinks as he walks to the curb. That's more than enough time. Enough time for a stupid little crush to be rid of itself. All the time in the world.

Someone's leaning on the hood of one of the cars lined up and parked by the sidewalk. No. Two people. One leaning, the other standing. One woman and one man. Hadley's hand goes to the pendant out of habit at his neck, and it is cold, colder than the air around him. Lifeless. For once, just the painted plastic it is.

Maybe just two people resting against his car. Maybe not, not by the way the pendant is piercing his neck with its cold. Certainly not, not by the way the man leaning on the car looks at Hadley with some anticipation.

Hadley keeps walking.

When Hadley gets closer, the guy breaks into a smile. It's a practiced smile, designed to be charming. Not too wide, not too small. A smile that doesn't quite reach his grey eyes. Hadley can't tell much about this guy, only that he's good-looking, dark-haired and stormy-eyed and young and had a physique that promised that if the smile couldn't convince you, there were other ways of changing one's mind.

The woman—Hadley swears he's seen her somewhere before, knows her, everything about her—but everything about her is eluding him. The familiar shade of blue in her eyes, the dark, pitch black hair, the odd but prettily shaped mouth. He knows that he knows her, but it's like someone's cut off the link that he's supposed to make from familiar face to someone he knows. Even though he knows her face and her name, he cannot, for the life of him, recall who she is.

This is how he knows something is deeply, deeply wrong, in this moment.

"You're James Hadley, right?" the man says, amicably. He stands up straight. Everything about him is easy and relaxed. Not even the expensive cut of his clothes is enough to disguise it. "Heard a lot about you."

"James Bishop Hadley," Hadley corrects, distractedly, too busy trying to keep his cool. "A lot of people forget the Bishop."

The woman presses her lips together. That, too—the disapproving gesture is familiar.

"James Bishop Hadley, then," the man says, moving away from Hadley's car. The smile shifts, just a shade more mischievous than movie-star. "You're not going to ask me who I am?"

"Figured you'd tell me that yourself."

The woman. Where has he seen her?

"Do me a favor," the man says, "and humor me."

He knows her. He knows her. And she knows him too. She must. She's staring at him.

"Okay. Who are you?" Hadley asks.

"The name's Charles Hopper," he says, tilting his head forward, "but you can call me Charlie."

Hadley has to remember to breathe, to blink, to close his mouth. The rest of his body goes as cold as the pendant. This what people mean, when they say their heart stopped. Hadley feels like he's been body-slammed. Twice.

A call rolls up to them. One with heavily tinted windows and a shadow of a driver.

"You've heard of me, no doubt. And I know you want answers," Charles Hopper—Charlie, Charlie—says, the smile slipping from his face. "Answers others have been unwilling to offer. Answers I'm willing to give."

The pendant is so cold, it almost bites at Hadley's skin. What had Hadley expected, when he thought of Charlie? Someone who was a lot like David, someone just as easygoing and carefree. Not this man, whose movements speak of a careful but effortless precision. Not someone who looks like he'd be in an advertisement for expensive fountain pens. In short, not someone who Hadley wants to look like.

"And if I say no?" Hadley says. He doesn't add: Not that I would have much of a choice. 

"Then you lose one of your chances at getting honest answers from someone who knows what he's doing," Charlie says, all teeth, no smile. "The people you associate with, they mean well, but they don't have the, how do you say, skillset. Amateurs, and good amateurs, but amateurs nonetheless. Amateurs don't know how to be honest."

The car is a Mercedes, and impossibly shiny.

"I'm not the one you should be suspicious of," Charlie says.

Charlie simply watches him, a pleasant expression still on his face. He can't possibly be much older than Hadley. Twenty? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? But he seems much, much older. Something about the eyes that doesn't line up with the rest of his face.

"Think it over," Charlie says, "you've got all the time in the world."

He walks up to Hadley, and they're both of the same height, but Hadley feels smaller. Out of his depth. Or is it the shock of seeing someone Hadley thought he'd never get a chance to meet? Charlie pulls out a card from his jacket pocket, and Hadley sees that his knuckles are raw and reddened.

He smells, strangely enough, like lavender.

Hadley refuses to think about it.

He takes the card. Charlie doesn't break eye contact with Hadley.

"We should get going," Charlie says, as he steps away from Hadley. "Give David my regards, if you ever see him again. I suspect we'll be meeting soon again in the future."

"You and David?" Hadley asks. "Or you and me?"

Charlie smiles again, and Hadley thinks, is this where David learned to smile like that?

"Who knows? Don't worry, I'll give you your answers. And break that bitch of a curse you have on you," Charlie says. "Don't look so surprised. You're a bit of a celebrity, you know. Well, not you, but your curse." Patting the woman on the shoulder, he says, "And I got Tamara to find out everything we possibly could about you and your little problem."

Tamara. Of course. His ex. The witch. Almost unrecognizable without all the makeup, all the dark clothes. How could he have not seen before?

But it wasn't just the lack of makeup that kept Hadley from recognizing her, he realizes. The same magic used to keep him from reading the notes that he took from David's desk, used here, but just for a person.

Drastic times call for drastic measures. Only, Hadley doesn't know what in the hell the drastic time is supposed to be, and his only shot at finding that out is in the shape of his ex.

"That's very creepy," Hadley says, playing along.

Tamara visibly relaxes. No, not visibly. Not visible to anyone who hadn't dated her. Just a slight intake of breath, something that could be easily taken as shock at an insult.

"But necessary. You'll be pleased to note that your curse isn't a family curse," Tamara says, blandly professional, "as is so often the case."

"All the more easier to break!" says Charlie, smiling. Glowing. In the midst of all this. He radiates magic, he must be, for Hadley to feel it.

Charlie sticks out his hand, and Hadley shakes it.

You can tell a lot about a man by the way he gives a handshake. And Charlie's handshake is confident, easy, and makes Hadley's hand feel like something special.

Hadley is slightly unnerved.

"We'll be seeing you soon, James Bishop Hadley. Take care."

And Charlie turns and gets into the car.

It's just Tamara and Hadley. Her back is facing the car. How do you say a hundred things in the span of a few seconds? How do you ask a hundred questions when the subject of those questions is sitting in a car eight feet away from you?

Here's how:

You don't.

Tamara sticks her hand out and Hadley shakes it. And he feels something on his palm, something that isn't the warm skin of Tamara's hand. Everything about this feels illicit. The car, watching. Tamara's intense gaze. The small clump of paper hidden in his hand.

"I'll be seeing you soon," Tamara says, as she takes her hand out of Hadley's.

Hadley's no stranger to secretly passing notes in the middle of class. This really isn't any different.

"If—no, when you meet Grant, tell him to go fuck himself," Tamara says, in the same bland and professional tone she's used for the entirety of this bizarre exchange.

And she, too, gets inside the car.

As the car speeds off, the only thought that goes through Hadley's head is this:

Who the fuck is Grant?

***

a/n: if hadley were real and if i was forced to interact with him i would legitimately kill him then myself 

also nanowrimo bitch. quantity over quality. as you can so clearly see.