A/N: Charlie is featured in my other story, The Boy in the Woods, but you don't need to read that to understand what's happening. This is a stand-alone story for him. I intended for him to be a cracky side character in TBITW but people ended up liking him, so here's a story about him. I hope you all enjoy :)

A/N, 8/10/22: This has been edited. I added some stuff, because I got stuck with the next chapter, which I'm still working on. Had to re-write a few times.  

»»——⍟——««

Paris smells like piss.

That was my first thought when I stepped out of the airport terminal that I arrived in to cross over to the one that would take me to the city.

Perhaps I was being a bit harsh, but really, toilets are possibly one of the greatest human inventions and it truly hurt my heart to see humans not taking advantage of them. This is coming from someone who was around before toilets, not that you could tell from my appearance, being an immortal vampire and all. I flick my hair over my shoulder at that thought, smirking at the way the middle-aged man standing next to me follows the movement with his eyes.

It's oh-so amusing to see that nobody blinks twice at my red eyes. The popularity of red contacts has made life amongst humans so much easier than how it was back in the day. Back then, if a human saw eyes like mine, they'd be calling a priest or accusing them of witchcraft. Or be kept as a pet for their exoticism. This way, people just thought I was... eccentric. It's a nice change.

Standing there amongst the hustle and bustle of those coming in and out of the trains and smelling like all parts of the world, it's easy to remember how different I am from those around me. It's hard to watch the teenaged girl ignoring her father beside her by shoving her face in her phone while feeling the echo of my age as the memories of my human life strain from behind the reinforced barriers I consciously uphold to separate the 'me' from then to the 'me' I am now.

My nose begins to burn--not from pain but from being overwhelmed from the scents--and I rummage through my coat pockets to look for the herbal cigarettes I use for this very purpose. My fingers brush the coconut-shell case I keep them that were a gift from a friend. I grab the shoddily-wrapped cigarettes and breathe in the mixture of herbs that I've consistently used since my visit to Central America however-many hundred years ago. I light it and take a long drag with my eyes closed before leaning my head back to blow it back out. The sound of a throat clearing near me brings me out of my peace and I turn to look at the source.

A policewoman stands a few feet away from me, staring at the cigarette in my hand before pointing at the sign posted on the pillars before the train tracks. "No Tobacco Zone" in French with the emblem of a cigarettes being crossed out is in bright red. I glare at the sign, take another long drag, release the smoke in my lungs, and shift my glare to the woman. She stiffens at the expression on my face. I fix a soft smile, my expression slackening into something pleasant.

"But this is not tobacco. It is herbal," I tell her in French, shrugging my shoulders apologetically. She frowns, her ungroomed eyebrows furrowing at the bunched wrinkles between her eyes. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

"Put it out or leave," she demands. I sigh and crouch down, letting my body wobble on the heeled boots I'm wearing and extinguish my cigarette on the cement, before walking over to the trashcan and staring into her eyes as I dramatically toss it in. She rolls her eyes and walks away as I regain my spot.

I step up to the incoming train, allowing the flow of human traffic pass me by, with the occasional supernatural mixed in, before crossing onto the train and finding a place to sit in a cramped spot away from the doors.

My face twitches with the effort of keeping the content-but-superior expression on it in order to stop anyone from approaching me. It doesn't work as well as it should with how attractive I am, but I hope nobody would approach me with the shit mood I'm in after coming all this way after a shitty phone call from a shitty person who asked that I come to this shitty country.

And after she called me at one in the afternoon, the audacity of this bitch waking me up so early.

I turn my head and stare at my reflection in the window rather than whatever is passing by, focusing on my red eyes and brown mascara. I trail my eyes over the bridge of my nose... my pale skin... the red-tinted lip balm... I jerk my head away from the image with a curl of my lips to observe the people in the train car with me.

A family of five sit across from me, with the stereotypical blonde hair and blue eyes, the dad being the exception with his brown hair. The older brother holds his handheld gaming system away from his younger brother who is leaning over him in order to grab at it while whining. The little girl is having her hair pulled out her face by her mother with the tie as the father stoically looks at his phone, ignoring the chaos, legs slack in their spread-out position.

I clench my jaw and turn away, distracted by the man—who just so happens to be the one from earlier that had been staring at me on the platform—who's steadily been leaning closer to me as the ride goes on. A less brave person would ignore the man sniffing their hair and curl up and wait for the next stop. Me? No, "not brave" is just not one of my personality traits. Though it'd be wrong to call me a Gryffindor, because a Gryffindor definitely would not have survived as long as I have.

I snap my head to glare at him, his wrinkling eyes widening as he shuffles to avoid it.

I give an angelic smile, one that makes my eyes close in a smile as well, and softly, but loudly, ask "Can you please stop smelling my hair? It's making me uncomfortable." His eyes dart around at the loud tone, freezing at the father from the family of five who has stopped looking at his phone and is now glaring at him. He stutters out a response and gets up at an ungraceful jog from our train car to another.

A stream of French flows from the speakers above us and a sigh of relief leaves my body at the sound of my stop. I gather everything I carried on here with me, which is nothing but myself and the shoulder bag of clothes that I usually carry with me when I travel somewhere other than America. A nod of acknowledgement to the father for his Deadly Dad Glare, who huffs out a sound and nods back, and I'm off.

It's been about a century since I've actually visited Paris. Last time I ended up wanted by the human authorities but since it's been so long, I doubt they're still expecting me to show up looking exactly as I was when I stole from their fancy art museum. If they do happen to be on the lookout, I'll just say I'm cosplaying. Works every time.

I start my trek from the stop along the Seine. While the inner city doesn't quite smell like the piss at the airport, the smell of the restaurants only barely covers the stench of an old city. My nose, sensitive even by vampire standards, picks up a lot more than you'd expect. The stench of stale blood never quite leaves, even more so for a city with such a bloody past.

Fortunately, I arrived during the day, so all the creepy crawlies are still sleeping. While I'm always up for a good time, the discomfort of coming anywhere near Europe, much less one of its capitals is unnerving enough to make me not want to dip a toe into the supernatural drama that tears up the city at night. One thing that made me make America (and Canada, by the fault of Vizin's little shits moving up there) my home was how widespread supernatural creatures are. In Europe and Asia, there's probably more supernaturals than humans in the cities, more so in the capitals.

I finally arrive at the place I was directed to, or at least the corner. Avenue du President Kennedy. (Heh, ironic).

I ignore the crowd around me and do a twirl in an effort to locate the rich person building that I know that bitch lives in. I see the big ass fancy building and just know that she lives in the penthouse. I look across the river and see the Eiffel Tower and twist my lips in disgust at how expensive this place probably was. A shame how semi-immortal people actually make a living for themselves to live comfortably instead of mooching off others like how I make my living, with little to no personal residences to call home.

I cross the street and bang on the door.

Moments pass and nothing happens so I press my ear to the door to listen for heartbeats around the loud noise of the humans around me. At first, there's nothing but then I hear two heartbeats, one being the rapid heartbeat of one of my kind, a vampire, and then another that's all too recognizable: the dryad bitch who called me here, probably ignoring me in favor of taking a luxurious bath in her rich person bathtub, which I can hear by the giggles and water splashing.

I back up a few paces and look up the side of the building, locating the walkout balcony that she probably leaves unlocked. Ignoring the stares from the (mostly) human stares around me, I back up a bit more, do a running jump (ignoring the now-screaming humans), and scuttle my way up the building until I reach the balcony. I lurch myself up by my fingertips and swing up onto the surface.

Unfortunately for me, the balcony is a one-way blacked out window, so I don't see the naked woman jumping on me until the door is open and she's already pressing her soaked boobs to my now-soaked sweater.

"OFF OFF OFF OFF OFF-" I hear before the creature with boobs is torn off of me by another creature and I am unceremoniously shoved right outside the penthouse and onto the balcony with the door being slammed behind me.

I simply lay there for a moment or two, my arms spread eagle as I stare at the sky with a sigh. The lock being latched pierces the silence and I close my eyes. Why did I even come here?

"Charlie!" I hear before the door is unlocked and thrown back open. Blanche comes back out, her brown hair tied up and her previously naked olive skin covered by a sweatshirt, Louis Vuitton, of course, and her legs bare aside from the sweatshirt hiding the scary bits.

She throws herself at me, and I am more than happy to catch her this time. I ignore the discomfort of having anybody touching me and embrace her as best as I can with her being only slightly bigger than me.

She leans back and grasps at me, inspecting my eyes and then my face and then my body, before coming back to my face. "As gorgeous as always, I see! I haven't seen you in so long! 120 years, right?! How've you been?! How's America?!" Her French accent is thick in her excitement. She pulls me back into a hug. "Oh! I have so much to tell you! You remember Vlad? He's opened a-"

"Blanche," a firm voice echoes from the door. We both start and look at the door where a tall blonde man stands, his red eyes darting from me to Blanche and the floor, uncertainty plain as day on his face. Blanche perks up once more.

"Oh! This is my boyfriend, Jamie! He's American! Do you know him?" She begins, her unnaturally green eyes crinkling as she begins to hop on my lap. I throw her off before she gets too into it though, because for all that I'm gay, that's just a bit too much sensation for my gay lil heart. And dick.

She oomphs when she falls and I struggle to get back up from being on the concrete too long. I dust off my clothes with a sniff and look down my nose imperiously, a mock expression of superiority on my face as I look at this 'Jamie'. I swagger over to him.

"And what makes you think you're good enough for Blanche, hm? I've known her a reeeaal long time and I just don't know if you'll make the cut, my dear." I flick my hair over my shoulder. 'Jamie' starts backing up into the penthouse, the door slowly closing by the automatic mechanism. I stop it with my hand and get closer. "Last name? I need to do a background check, if your name is even... Jamie." I say with a straight face, mine about an inch away from his as he looks scared out of his mind at my pointed stare.

I open my mouth to continue but my long hair is yanked, and I fall backward, just catching myself from falling completely on my back. I turn incredulously to see Blanche's pouting expression, a pout on her adorable mouth.

"Jamie is shy. Don't intimidate him," she says as firm as she can, a glint to her eyes letting me know that she's serious about it despite her petulant tone of voice. I smile and relax my posture.

"Alright, alright. I was just messing around." I wave my hand in a dismissive way and I look back at Jamie, past his guarded face and smile as genuinely as I can these days. "Sorry about that. Blanche is one of my only true friends. I'd hate for someone to hurt her." Jamie offers a small smile and a nod as he lowers his arms from their defensive position across his t-shirt-covered chest.

Blanche laughs next to me and brushes past to go inside. "Just because you've had less luck in the love department doesn't mean we all will, Charlie." My smile falters behind her but she's not there to see it. I take a deep breath and follow her inside.

The first step has me blasted by the air conditioner but despite my soaked sweatshirt, it feels lovely. I ignore the swanky interior and head straight for the couch which is made of leather (possibly faux). I plop down, face first, and sigh at the sinking sensation that pulls me into the softness of the couch. I wriggle around and pull the throw over me in a semblance of sleep.

Blanche giggles behind me in the kitchen. "Asleep already, mon chéri? You just got here!"

There's hushed whispering that my tired mind ignores but notes that it's from 'Jamie'. Then I fall asleep in the safest place in Paris.

»»——⍟——««

"-so beautiful." A hand strokes my chin and it's tilted up to stare into brown eyes that widen when they see the color of mine. "He's six, you say? How soon-"

A strand of my hair being pulled wakes me up. Unfortunately for me, there is no gentle awakening for my mind, but more of a switch that goes from asleep to awake, always a jarring experience no matter how often I awaken.

"Whoops, did I wake you up?" Blanche's voice bounces off my ears. I keep my eyes closed and hum out an affirmative. "I was doing your hair. Do you dye it? As you Americans say it, 'I'm digging' the white roots and ends." The words don't register until they do, and it feels like an icicle was shoved into my abdomen. I nearly jerk upright and go find a mirror but instead I let out another hum and calmly get up, extracting my hair from her hands in the process. When my hand meets an up-do-braid-bun thing, I get up and use my supernatural speed to get to the mirror. I ignore my paler-than-normal face and look at my roots and ends, noticing the brown dye is coming out.

I freeze at the sight of the fading brown at my ends, not even registering the two people on the couches a few feet away. I think back to when I last dyed it, a mere three days ago, and it's already wearing off. I haven't even washed it since I dyed it. Commercially-made dye has never worked for me, it just slides off my hair like butter. So I've continued using the same dye from a witch in Africa since I started dyeing it however many years ago, one that's brewed with magic.

I ignore the sweat gathering at my temples and stare blankly at my reflection in front of me, my eyes trailing from the lighter ends to stare at my pale, white skin that's stayed unchanged all this time. My sight lingers on my eyelashes. Fortunately, mascara works much better than hair dye, which I assume is due to the nature of mascara as something more like a cover-up than the changing that dye does.

I huff out a breath of annoyance. Shit. Shit. Shit. I don't even know why I'm panicking so much. The fact that magical brews are losing their effectiveness means nothing, right? Witches and wizards aren't all-powerful. Sorcerers even less so (gods, I fucking hate sorcerers, the misogynist bastards that they are). I ignore the tugging in my chest that points to the gods ensuring that I don't forget where I came from. Maybe I just need to find a new witch to brew my dye. At that thought, my racing heart calms and I pull my face from my reflection to glance at the pair on the couch out of the corner of my eyes. I take a deep breath and get up to walk to the kitchen, ignoring the two people who've been staring at me during my (hopefully hidden) breakdown, singing a toon as I go.

I glance around the kitchen for the mini-bar that I know Blanche has and grab a bottle of whatever and drink straight from it, ignoring the taste. It takes a vampire a lot of alcohol to get drunk, but hopefully Blanche has some stronger stuff here seeing as she's a dryad and it takes every more for a creature of nature to be inebriated.

As I drink, my head tilted back and my eyes closed, I startle when arms wind themselves around my neck from behind in something of an embrace. A cough escapes me and I release the bottle and sputter a bit as I place it back on the bar. I wipe my mouth and turn in the embrace, once again ignoring the discomfort from being touched and lean my head on Blanche's shoulder.

I inhale her scent and ask the question that I've been waiting to ask since I arrived. "Why did you call me here, Blanche?"

She sighs and pats my head before letting go. She grabs my hand and takes me back to the living room where Jamie is sitting on a couch across from the one I was sleeping on, pretending to be on his phone when I see him observing us underneath his lovely lashes.

Blanche pulls me to sit beside her, and she motions Jamie to sit next to her, which he does slowly and stilted. She takes a deep breath and puts on her Serious Business Face.

"You remember what I do for a living, oui?" She begins with a rather redundant question because I know and she knows that I forget very few things, and those that I do are for a purpose.

Blanche is a gangster.

Okay, not really, but kinda. She's not a gangster, but she runs the Underground, a nickname for something nameless but is essentially a network for supernaturals in most countries and she happens to head the French sector. Most of the hubs are underground so that's where the name comes from. It's like a place where supernaturals look out for one another. Connections, more or less.

I nod and look at her seriously, my emotions wiped from my face. Her lips thin at the nothing that she finds on my face and she looks away with a sigh, her grip on Jamie tightening. Dread builds in my chest at the sight.

"Well, I've been getting something...weird, from the feelers I've been sending out. And by weird, I mean I've been getting nothing back. As in, my feelers aren't coming back. On top of that, I've heard from others that entire communities are being wiped from the map." Her brow furrows as she looks at the floor. My hands sweat and I pull my hand from hers to shake them.

"Alright, but what does that have to do with me? You know I've got nothing to do with this side of the world anymore," I laugh it off. She frowns at my reaction.

"Yes, but I also know that you're the oldest person I know. And I've already brought this to the council but it was blocked by the assembly before it even reached them. Apparently word from a dryad isn't important enough for them," she snaps. I look back at her and her fierce glare before sighing and slumping back on the couch.

"And what is it that you want me to do? I-"

"I want you to listen to me!" She snaps. I close my mouth and nod, watching as she relaxes. "Nobody that I have connections with has seen this before. All you old folk-"

"You're like over 1500 years old-"

"Charlie!" She sighs, this time in exasperation. I laugh and hold up my hands. "There are so few ancient supernaturals out there. So, you're my only source for this. Anyways, this whole thing started about 50 years ago but it's getting worse. Not only that, but there's been some kind of sickness that hits the community before it vanishes. The only symptom is black liquid in the lungs-" a roaring hits my ears and I don't hear her after that.

Her mouth is moving and I open my mouth to tell her she isn't making noise but then I realize I can't make noise and nothing is coming out of my mouth and—

Black liquid.

"-don't know what's causing the sickness and I've taken up the matter with Him but I was sent away and-"

"Charlie?" Jamie asks. I snap back to the present and see that Blanche is looking at me expectantly. She doesn't seem to have noticed but Jamie seems hesitant in a way that lets me know that he could tell I wasn't present.

"Well? What do you think this is?" Blanche asks bluntly with a raised eyebrow.

The fact that I'm the one who has to deal with this phenomenon really makes me wish I allowed myself to die however many centuries ago. So few supernatural creatures are still alive from ancient times. Demons–pantheonic and natural types–are attracted to human civilizations solely due to the nature of how they feed. Pantheonic demons, or the demons of world mythology, are created solely through the belief of humans. Natural types that feed on the lust, blood, or whatever else from humans require humans, so they are attracted to human gatherings. Unfortunately, Natural types are attracted to the very creatures that result in their deaths, as more natural types end up encountering one another and fighting over resources (read: humans).

It's even more unfortunate that the signs that Blanche pointed out reflects the same ones that started the catastrophe that ended up with my turning into a vampire–an event I very much so not want to experience again.

I decide to not tell Blanche any of this. I want nothing to do with it.

I get up and stretch, the chill of the air conditioner freezing the sweat on my lower back. "I dunno, Blanche. I was a recluse in my early days, ya know, didn't really become aware of the world like everybody does now the moment they're turned." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue but I ignore it. Whatever buzz I probably didn't experience but miss from the alcohol is gone.

I pull the pins from my hair that she used to do the elaborate braid-bun up-do thing and let my hair fall back into waves down my back, shaking it out and fluffing it. I turn to the people on the couch and put my hands on my hips. Blanche looks disappointed at my answer but accepting but Jamie looks skeptical. I paste a bright grin on my face.

"So. Jamie. Is that what I should call you or is that your pet name?" I ask. He scrunches his face up in a scowl.

"My name is James. It's bad enough that Blanche calls me that. Just call me by my full name," he says. I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest.

"Which is...?"

He smiles and stands from the couch, his hand offered to mine for a handshake. "James Clark, 38 years old, born and raised in Mississippi. Anything else, milord?" He says in an obviously exaggerated Southern accent.

I laugh and bow over his hand, kissing the top of it like a debonair gentleman, despite being nearly a foot shorter than him. "Adequate introduction, my lord. A pleasure..." I purr out, blowing air on the back of his hand, "to make your acquaintance." He snatches his hand back with a blush and Blanche laughs behind her.

"You know, Charlie, you haven't been here since leaving for Southampton to go on that cruise, like, a hundred years ago. So, that's a hundred years since we've gone out and partied like we used to." Blanche smirks as my eyes go wide and my mouth opens to protest (something bad always happens when I go out with Blanche, like robbing the Louvre back before I left and never came back). Before I can say anything, though, she stops me. "No! You promised me that we'd have a good time and it's taken so long! I wanna have fun!" She whines out the last bit and stomps her feet.

I sigh. "Fine, I know I am rather hard to resist. I suppose I'll let you have your fun," I say while inspecting my flaking black nails, which I need to paint because they're icky.

Blanche hops up and down while squealing. "Yes! Come, come! I have clothing that will fit you! Would you like to go handsome, sexy, or cute, this time?" I squint one eye and tilt my head at her closet as I ponder, then point at the clothes hanging on the left side. "Sexy, it is! I have the perfect thing!" She grabs some black skinny jeans (very, very skinny), a small white button-up shirt, and an open black suit jacket that I know is going to cling to my figure.

I change right there, admiring the fit of the clothes as I slide them on, as Blanche brushes her hands across me to smooth out the lines. She tucks in the white button-up, but left the top open and belted my jeans to bring attention to the small-ness of my body. And my hips. My hips are sexy as fuck. Very breedable. 10/10. Would recommend.

She puts her finger to her lips as she runs her eyes up and down my body, considering. Then she claps and runs to her makeup station to grab something, and comes back to put some dangly earrings on me, as well as two rings for each ear on the cartilage. Then she untwists a tube of lipstick and puts it on me. She gives me a peck once she's done and rubs her own lips to spread it on herself with a giggle. And then she passes me some slightly-heeled, slim ankle-boots to put on. I laugh at her and turn to the mirror to see how it turned out.

Yep. Still working it. And the red lipstick was a nice touch, really brings out the blood red eyes.

I turn back to see her and James ready at the door, and wow, absolutely gorgeous. I almost feel bad for the humans at the club because our supernatural sexiness will make them feel so self-conscious, though that's not to say that there aren't gorgeous humans. I'm still not sure that Ben Barnes is completely human. He's hotter than some demons I've seen, and demons are literally created to tempt humans into sin. Well, the demons from certain pantheons are at the very least.

I dramatically stalk past them and head for the door. I realize that they're not following and dramatically stalk back. "How are we getting there?"

»»——⍟——««

Turns out we're getting there by car. Driven by shadows or something, probably, because Blanche is poetic like that. The three of us cram into the back seat, with me in the middle of James and Blanche. Blanche leans down and pulls out two bottles of wine from the compartment attached to the front seat.

She hands one to me, which I pop open with my hand and take a few deep gulps. I wipe my mouth with my hand, licking off the excess, before handing it to James. He takes it hesitantly, his hand just grasping the neck of the bottle.

"Will this actually get me... I haven't really drunk anything since I was turned." He questions me. I blink in surprise because I didn't expect him to be so newly-turned.

"Ah, you can still get drunk. This will affect you more than me because you were turned fairly recently. The closer you are to when you were turned, the more things will affect you. Alcohol, the sun—only a bit of a sunburn, mind you, but you burn more easily than humans—oh, and don't forget magical objects. If a warlock ever hands you a book and doesn't tell you what it is, it's probably a trap. I was dating a warlock once and he had a book that made tentacles-"

"We're here!" Blanche interrupts, because she's a bitch. Though now looking at James' wide blue eyes, it was probably to stop me from traumatizing him.

We all slide out of the car, which is soundproofed as best as it can get, because the throbbing pulse of music coming from the club in front of us is literally shaking the air. The night air is illuminated from the neon lights streaking from the lanterns and words covering the front. There were wards crossing all over the front of the building, although it's somewhat difficult to see with all the decoration. From what I can see, they're there to divert the attention of humans. Or, at least, unaccompanied and uninformed humans that have no idea about the supernatural world. It all seems very, ah, City of Bones, you know?

Blanche leads us to the entrance where she grows a flower out of her palm and puts it in the bouncer's pocket, patting it without a word as she flows right past him. James and I trade looks as we follow behind.

The club is packed to hell when we arrive.

Blanche pulls us into a closed off booth, a blue, glowing curtain hiding it until she pulls it back. Her name is written on the table with a few other French words I don't know. My guess is that she pulled some strings to get her own booth, or she owns the place. Or she fucked the owner. Could be either. Or all.

James and I slide into the booth, and I twist so I have a view of the entire club so that the wall is behind me. Blanche vanishes.

"Where did she go?" James shouts at me over the music as he leans in to hear my answer.

"To get drinks!" I shout back, and he nods, his mouth falling open as he realizes. "You've not known Blanche very long, have you?" I ask her. He shakes his head.

"No, but she rescued me after I was turned a few months ago. I was vacationing here," he says. "How could I not fall in love with her after that?" He laughs out as he says it. I smile. How pure their love is, too. A yearning makes my chest ache, but I nudge it away once Blanche returns.

Blanche appears at the table with about 15 shots. I blink at them and blink at her. She only smiles wider and nudges about ten of them over to me. I blink back down at them before a shit-eating grin stretches over my face. It's been much too long since I've been around someone I trust enough to be drunk around.

One after the other, I down the shots until only two remain and my stomach sloshes like a good feeding. I leave those last two as I shakily stand. Blanche whoops at me from where she's sitting on James' lap, who seems to have downed four or five, and is steadily on his way to being trashed. She gasps as she sees something behind me, and I sway as I turn to see, only for her to grab my hand as she runs us through the crowd with James following close behind.

She takes us to the metal stairs that lead up to the second floor. Tables litter the area, with a few people making out on them and others enjoying the diminished crowd. The door that leads to a room that overlooks the main room of the club is still closing once we get to the top of the stairs. Next to me, James is eyeing the one-sided glass that looks out to the rest of the room with a nervous slant to his eyes.

Blanche shoves people aside with her wide hips with no shame, tugging us along for the ride. I stumble as I try to keep up but the alcohol hit me pretty hard. It must've been a magical variety–fae wine, probably.

The room we enter is darker, with felted walls and starlight twinkling in the ceiling and walls. The music is a bit quieter than the music of the main room, but more enchanting. That, and the fact that the majority of the crowd in the massive room is adorned with supernatural attributes tells me that this is the non-mortal side of the club. The table that we pass that is taken by two older men with forked tongues, eyes flashing yellow as they look me up and down, tells me that this is the fun side of the club. Blanche pulls me away from a potential good experience and into another room off the side.

"Oralis!" Blanche shouts as she centers in on the man standing at the glass pane overlooking the club. The greenish tint of the man belays his supernatural species. Mermaids, and mermen, typically come in blues and greens, which help them blend in with whichever waters they come from. They rarely leave their waters, so the sight of Oralis makes me double-take. My hand slips from Blanche's as she keeps going forward to embrace the merman, whose white button-up and slacks crumple as Blanche launches herself into her exuberant greeting by hugging him with all of her limbs.

Oralis's blue eyes focus on me while he embraces her. His eyes soften before he looks down at Blanche who beams up at him, rambling a mile a minute. She notices where his focus is and she skips back to me and pulls me over to the merman, leaving James to stand by the door–the lucky bastard.

Oralis's eyes don't leave me even as we get to him.

"Charlie. It's nice to see you," he rumbles out. His voice makes my insides warm at the familiar sound. His hand reaches out to grasp mine. "I haven't seen you since–"

"1933. Yeah. I remember, seeing as you left two months after we met to become a fucking politician," I snapped, ripping my hand from his. He let me, and I refused to be cowed by his sad cow-eyes. Or sea-cow eyes. Whatever they are, they're cute as fuck and he knows it.

Oralis sighs. "You know it has always been a dream of mine to change things for us. My kind are so self-centered, never leaving the waters. I finally had the chance to make a difference." I cross my arms.

"Mm. Yeah. Like you're gonna make such a difference in the Council. They're just as self-centered. Though I guess that since you're a merman, as you said, you probably fit right in," I sneered, ignoring the hurt welling in my chest at the age-old wound. I also ignore the admiration at the fact that he, as a merman, was even invited to stand as a Second in the Council for the Siren Elder, as Sirens have a much larger population than Mermaids and Mermen and therefore have representation on the Elder Council.

"Well," Blanche draws out, presumably astonished at the venom in my voice. "I didn't know you two knew each other. Oralis, you certainly never told me that you knew Charlie." She raises an eyebrow.

Oralis sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, and my eyes are drawn to the fins on his forearms before I look away just as quickly. "In my defense, everybody knows Charlie."

Blanche barks out a musical laugh. "That's certainly right. Anyways, what are you doing in France? You should've told me you were coming!"

Oralis sighs and looks back towards the crowd outside the window. "It's Council business, I'm afraid. I believe it was your proposal that we are investigating. A community of sorcerers vanished which alarmed Councilman Gaian. This is the last place that the head sorcerer was spotted." Blanche's demeanor shifted to one of seriousness and she straightened.

"When did this happen? I would have been notified by now," she asks him, her brow furrowed. Oralis tightens his mouth.

"It happened approximately 28 hours ago. The tip was taken directly to Councilman Gaian, from one of the missing sorcerers of the community," he says. I think it's funny how we're dancing around the fact that she wouldn't have been informed anyways, because of the... traditional perspective that Sorcerers tend to take towards women. Especially because Blanche is the most powerful woman in the city.

Blanche clenches her jaw and looks away in frustration. Oralis looks at her with a sympathetic expression before catching my eye and ticking up an eyebrow. I look away with a huff.

"So, what, this missing sorcerer just happened to be spotted in a club of all places?" I scoff. "Doesn't this seem a bit off to you?" I ask him with a 'duh' expression and my arms linked behind my head as I crack my neck.

"It does, which is why me and my partner were sent here to investigate. He's down there while I observe from above," Oralis explains, looking back into the crowd. "We only arrived a few minutes ago."

"I know, I saw you," Blanche grins. "It's been awhile, but I guess we'll have to catch up another time, oui?" Oralis smiles back at her and nods in agreement. He turns to say something to me but I turn away and stride to the door where James has been guarding.

"Welp, this has been fun and all, but I was promised a good time, and a good time is what I'll be having tonight," I say as I leave the room with the slam of the door. I make my way back down to the main floor, my shoes thumping on the floor as I get to the bar. I make eye-contact with the bartender. "Give me something strong!" I shout over the music. The bartender sees the color of my eyes and nods, retrieving a bottle of something. They grab a shot glass, but shoot a look at me and put it down in favor of a bigger glass to pour the drink in. I grin and gulp it down, slamming down a wad of cash on the bar. "Merci!" I shout as I turn to the grating bodies on the dance floor.

I join in, forgetting everybody in that second-floor room and flowing with the beat of the song. Hands crawl all over my body, and I let them, the usual disgust from being touched overwhelmed by the alcohol and sensations.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, losing myself. Occasionally, a new body will appear and begin grinding against me and I reciprocate, the two of us sharing a moment of closeness before the next person appears and so on.

There's just something about the anonymity of a stranger dancing so closely that lights fire to the veins. Two people, two out of seven billion being close for a split second of eternity before moving on that gets to me.

I open my eyes to the bright lights of the club, grinding against the newest person to appear. His hands—because there's no way those hands belong to anyone but a man—glide up my thighs and rest on my hips. I tilt my head to the side and let his nose ghost my neck, one of a person's most vulnerable spots.

Then I meet the black eyes of someone alone in a booth not unlike the one I was at after I arrived. He stares at me as I move my body against the strangers around me. The way he looks at me is nothing but predatory. But he's hot, so it's cool. Or hot. Very hot. The person grinding against me instantly turns into something to use as I open my mouth to exhale, the sway of my hips becoming deeper, smoother, as I stare into the man's eyes across the club.

He doesn't break eye contact and tilts his head back as he takes a sip of whatever purple liquid he's chosen as his drink for the night, his black hair falling against his forehead as he does so. The neon lights reflect off of nothing on his black button up, nor on whatever dark pants he wears beneath the table. He's definitely sitting back, his legs splayed in a way that makes me want to crawl between them.

At that thought, my lips become dry, and as I lick them, his lips perk up into a smirk.

And then, just as I am about to leave the man that I'm dancing with, he grips my hips in a too-tight grip and whispers something that cuts through the pounding music around me. My limbs go numb and ice water metaphorically douses the heat of the night and all I can think is run he knows why he knows run run get away.

"Amasis."