HOME | DD

Description
Blood pools and trickles from my mouth. Warm, fresh. Human. I bite into the child's back again as it screams. I tear flesh away and eat. Screams of pain and fear surround me, but they're almost drowned out by the laughter. The child rolls over and I see, to my horror, that it's my son. Horror clutches me, and I try—thrashing and reeling away in my mind—but my body leans in and tears out his throat. And the laughter drowns out the screams.

I snap awake in my bed. The cold sweat washing over my face is thinner than the gore that was there moments ago, and I'm relieved. "Just a dream," I tell myself, wishing I believed the lie. "You are Marcus Andronicus. You are twenty years old. You are a college student with all his life before him and nothing unusual about him."

It's all lies. But it's also all the relief I can get. Marcus Andronicus. What a ridiculous name. It amazes me that I haven't been called on it yet. Hell, I pulled it from Shakespeare. Granted, it is my legal name. I don't know how that was pulled off, but I do have all the relevant documents to prove it. And I can thank my son for that. My son who's my professor. And yet, stranger things do happen.

I was born Ross Clark Zapfino. My parents, John and Prudence Zapfino were farmers in Vermont. They gave me a love for learning and a love for the world. Father never left the farm, but he had books and books about the world and any other subject you could imagine.

I went to Marlboro College, a deliberately small school. I became and anthropologist and an archaeologist and worked around the world. I met the love of my life at the age of twenty-five, and Emilia Crescenzi and I worked together and lived an enviably blissful life. We had a son, and she stayed home while I continued to tour the world and unlock its mysteries.

Then my life went to hell.
Then, eventually, I was freed.

The cold water I splash into my face snaps me back into the present. I stare at a face that looked so much more confident when I was used to it three decades ago. Of all the changes I've had to adapt to, that one is the most unnerving. If I understand correctly, my Emilia turns forty-five this year. My son Inlé will be twenty soon and is at the Ersatz College. Teaching. As a professor. He starts there this year, and I started last year. I look twenty, the same as him. And he won't know me.

I taught him when he was young what the world would be like. More fool am I for thinking I would know. I hope the training I gave him helped prepare him, but I don't think it was enough. Now he's more than I'd ever imagined. John Constantine hiding as Indiana Jones. I don't know what he's involved in. But it terrifies me.

Some time this year, he'll save me from my madness and leave me here. That it already happened for me is inconsequential. Until it has happened for him, I can't risk getting close to him. And the thought that I'm in the same city as my Emilia again terrifies me. I live in fear that she'll see me. Though I can't imagine she'd recognize me thirty years younger than I should be.

It's my first day in a class he'll be teaching. I'm flush with pride for him, and fighting to restrain myself from showing it. I doubt it will be noticeable. You learn to turn off emotion to resist madness. It even works sometimes.

"Welcome," he greets the class, "to Beginning Mythology and Folklore. Many of you are new students to this college. We share some uncertainties, as this will be my first class as professor. It is my hope that we will all learn and grow through this course. A wise man once told me that to teach is to learn from those who know less than you about a thing. With that in mind, my class will be somewhat informal."

He turns his cool gaze on the class, and we remain silent. "Lectures will be open discussions. Feel free to ask questions, to call out answers, to make observations. I am at liberty to grade you each as I see fit. Homework, tests, participation, projects, and any other criteria I see fit. I will grade you based on your strengths. None of the work I will give will be mandatory. However, the more work you choose to do, the more I will have to determine whether your grasp on the subject is adequate. This course is elective for all of you. You may think that means it will be easy. For me, it means there is no guilt should I fail you. Keep that in mind."

And with that, my professor, my son, made friendly enemies of his students. I watch him begin his lecture with the Greek pantheon, figuring it to be the one people will be most familiar with. The lecture is accurate and thorough, for the hour that he has. I wonder if anyone beside myself notices that some of his information seems more personal than would be found in the textbooks we have for the class.

"So what'd you think," a big man asks me as we left class. His name is Jock Caimbeul, and he's as much the big Scotchman that the name implies. Granted, he's born and raised here in Ersatz and has, sadly, no brogue in his voice. But his eyes and smile are as bright and warm as his temper promises to be. I heard he once beat three teammates bloody in a locker room for no reason at all in high school. He's on his second year here, and we became fast friends last year in a classical music seminar. He's a fourth generation construction worker with a natural talent for every sport he's ever tried. And his grasp of the nuance and technical detail in classical music is profound.

"It was more than I expected," I say, lifting a thick folder with today's handouts. "I thought new teachers were supposed to be ... I dunno, easier? Professor Zapfino seems harsh."

Jock laughs in a melodious deep basso. "Yeah, Inlé's an interesting guy. Believe it or not, I was in high school with him."

"Really?" I ask. "Then how how'd he get to be a professor here?"

"Something about attending college by correspondence while attending high school to appease his mother. Something about being socially awkward."

My son? Socially awkward? "How do you mean socially awkward? He seemed fine today. A bit standoffish, maybe. But that must be normal for a teacher younger than some of the students."

"Nah, he's always like that," Jock asserted. "He seems aloof, like the world around him just isn't that important to him, and the people in it least of all." This disturbs me. I remember him being such a loving boy. Certainly, I've seen him cold. But considering the situation, I wasn't surprised.

My discomfort must have shown, because Jock quickly said, "Oh, not that he's actually like that. Inlé's one of those truly good people. But I never want to see him pissed off. I saw him put a guy in a coma for three days once."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Actually," he looks embarrassed, "that's how we met. A bunch of us picked a fight with him. He was in an entirely different class from us. I'm not bad in a fight. He's something else."

"You ganged up on him?" My scorn might be heavier than I meant, because he goes on the defensive.

"He'd just beat up a couple kids on our football team without any provocation! We were just getting even." He shakes his head. "Or that's what we'd though at the time. Firstly, he took us to task, then I found out that he hadn't done anything but protect a classmate from a bully and defend himself when he was attacked by the bully's brother." Jock shrugs. "Of course, if it wasn't for him, I'd never have met my girl. All in all, he's a good guy. Just don't even bother trying to read him. The Stoics could have taken lessons from him."

We go our separate ways, and I lose myself in the mundanity of academia. School is pretty much the same wherever you go. The teachers change, the courses change, the students change. But the atmosphere is blearily, terrifyingly the same.

There's a hopelessness in most schools nowadays that terrifies me. School is supposed to be the place where your mind is opened up and you learn for the sake of learning. It's supposed to be a passion, this trading and telling of ideas. Some people still have that. But unfortunately, it's so politic now that it's not always so. People have to go to school. It's mandatory and, whether you like it or not, you have to keep going for years and years. Even the pseudo-voluntary climes of the collegiate have this depression, as students yolk themselves with debts in trade for occupations that, dismally often, the workers are suddenly over-educated and wasted on.

I love school. I love learning. I spent the entirety of my first run of life learning and sharing my knowledge. In fact, one of my classes this semester has a textbook I wrote as its foundation. I love to see people enjoying their personal discoveries. I love the passion that some teachers show for their curriculum. This makes me lament that not all of them hold to the passion that they should have had coming into their career.

I walk the streets of Ersatz city. Tonight, I have nothing to do but start homework from two classes. Neither will be a problem. I have the unfair advantage of having written one of the courses and having been the one to introduce the professor to the subject of the other.

It unnerves me, this city. The mayor is the woman who founded the city twenty years ago, which means many of the people here are older than the city itself. You wouldn't be able to tell it from the work done here. It's a large city, and well developed. On top of founding and leading the city, the mayor is also the city's designer and the headmaster of both the college and the high school. The initiative that woman has is matched only by her endurance.

The design itself is very interesting. It draws and binds energy here. Supernatural forces congregate here. My skin crawls when I see the fey, shapeshifters, vampires, and other creatures out and about in the city. Literally rubbing elbows with unsuspecting mortals. None of them notice. They don't see it. I wonder at their blindness, but am further in awe of the power of this city to keep—well, the expression is mortal enemies, but it doesn't quite suit—acting civilly with each other. It's a subtle binding. So subtle that I doubt they notice it. It isn't mind control or compulsion. Just a subtle sensation of peace. Of home. And because of who and what I've become, that sensation actually unnerves me.

But I won't let that get to me. The Italian restaurant I enter is run by a fairy king from one of the realms of the fey. His wife fell in love with the Italian lifestyle a century or so back, and he acts and dresses like a mob boss circa Vito Corleone. I wish that was a joke. In order to have a solid foothold in the mortal realm, they needed a location to set up a permanent bridge between their realm and this one. In order to disguise it, they made a restaurant. That serves damnably good penne. Well, everything, really.

"Back again, Mr. Andronicus?" the waiter asks me.

"Yes, Cleto. How's business today?" I ask politely. I try to come in regularly to acclimate myself to the fey. He isn't of the sort that I'm most accustomed to, but this 'Anacleto' still smells of fey. They don't recognize me as anything but human, I'm sure. But I can smell them. A gift from my time in Perdition.

"It is good, thank you. We've been quite busy. And business should be picking up, with school back in session. Do you know what you'd like today?"

I order penne with pesto and today's special. The special is ossobuco with a delicious gremolata on a bed of risotto. I eat it all and, though nowhere near sated, I am satisfied. The meal is fantastic. I daresay it would have stuffed anyone else. Unfortunately, I will never know the satisfaction of a full stomach again. So I eat whatever I want and feast to please my tongue and not my stomach. I've become a gourmand. Which my wife would find amusing since I couldn't tell the difference between wheat and rye when she knew me.

Thinking of her sours my meal, of course. Not wife, I remind myself. Widow. As good as. I vanished for years. Now she has a new beau. I don't blame her. She thought I was dead. I've been 'gone' for almost seven years now. In a few months, I'll be legally declared dead. As it stands, nothing will change. And I won't interfere. I've neither the right to do so nor evidence I could use to prove myself. I should look fifty. And I don't know what dangers I might bring with me. A year since I've been free, and I'm hiding in plain sight.

The owner sits down in front of me as I'm starting my dessert consisting of a slice of genoise cake and a scoop of stracciatella gelato. I recognize him, though I've never met him. The smell of power envelops him like a London fog. So thick that it drowns out the garlic in my mouth. I look up, feigning surprise at the appearance of such a well dressed person sitting across from me. The light smile touching one corner of his mouth is a practiced exercise in confidence. The deep purple of his suit and tie is offset by a rosebud boutonniere and a dress shirt of identical shades of silver. His cufflinks appeared to be crescent moons at a glance, but on closer inspection, I realize that they're smiling teeth. Cheshire cat grins.

"Can I help you, sir?" I ask politely.

"You can, Mr. Andronicus," he says. "You've begun frequenting my restaurant this last year, and I was hoping to know your thoughts on the quality of the chef I have employed."

"Well, sir, I must say he is quite skilled. I spent a few years in Italy, and fell in love with the sauces there. It's a rare place here that makes such fantastic gremolata. Your choice of chef was well made."

"I see," he says. "Thank you. There have been some poachers lately, trying to steal him away. Should I beat them away and keep him for myself?"

"Sir," I say, "I am no businessman and don't know anything about the situation. Why would you ask me?"

The dark king leans back and eyes me like he's trying to decide whether I'm an enemy or prey. "Frankly, though I suspect you to be working for one of my competitors, you entertain me. This restaurant is a passion of mine. I strive to make everything perfect. And I notice patterns when I can. The more you eat here, the more businesses attempt to steal away the chef."

"Coincidence," I say. I don't work for any restaurant. Or any other competitor this king might have. But this may be some sort of game he is playing with me. The fey are like that.

"Perhaps," he accedes. "But if that is true, then your opinion is less biased and more informed. There are other restaurants in the area. Is their quality less to your liking, or only their styles?"

"I find many of the other restaurants pleasant, certainly. But I prefer Italian food. And this place is the best in the area. Perhaps on this side of the Atlantic."

"Thank you," he says. "I will pass that praise along. Enjoy your dessert, sir, and thank you for your opinion. That my restaurant is of such quality is a delight I will cherish."

He leaves me confused and unnerved. What reason did he really have for speaking with me? Could he tell I wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely human anymore? Was he checking to see what I am? Or was the conversation truly just about the business? Who can predict the fey? Am I safe going home? Am I in trouble?

I sigh, pay the bill—which I notice is discounted the price of the special—and leave. I hope I didn't cost anyone his life. But then, I really don't care much if it's a fey that dies. Be happy to do it myself, in that case.

The city is quite tonight, to my relief. I walk the street nights like it's some sort of beat I'm patrolling. I don't really know why I bother. I'm supposed to keep my head down. But I can't help wanting to protect the mortals from everything they don't suspect. I've a feeling some nights that I'm not alone in this mission. It comforts me that there may be humans who'll fight back. Of course, I won't seek them out. I may well be as bad as any monster. It may only be a matter of time before I become the worst thing in this city. It scares me. Not in the least because I know how many other horrors lurk just in the corners of everyone's eyes.

Description
Blood pools and trickles from my mouth. Warm, fresh. Human. I bite into the child's back again as it screams. I tear flesh away and eat. Screams of pain and fear surround me, but they're almost drowned out by the laughter. The child rolls over and I see, to my horror, that it's my son. Horror clutches me, and I try—thrashing and reeling away in my mind—but my body leans in and tears out his throat. And the laughter drowns out the screams.

I snap awake in my bed. The cold sweat washing over my face is thinner than the gore that was there moments ago, and I'm relieved. "Just a dream," I tell myself, wishing I believed the lie. "You are Marcus Andronicus. You are twenty years old. You are a college student with all his life before him and nothing unusual about him."

It's all lies. But it's also all the relief I can get. Marcus Andronicus. What a ridiculous name. It amazes me that I haven't been called on it yet. Hell, I pulled it from Shakespeare. Granted, it is my legal name. I don't know how that was pulled off, but I do have all the relevant documents to prove it. And I can thank my son for that. My son who's my professor. And yet, stranger things do happen.

I was born Ross Clark Zapfino. My parents, John and Prudence Zapfino were farmers in Vermont. They gave me a love for learning and a love for the world. Father never left the farm, but he had books and books about the world and any other subject you could imagine.

I went to Marlboro College, a deliberately small school. I became and anthropologist and an archaeologist and worked around the world. I met the love of my life at the age of twenty-five, and Emilia Crescenzi and I worked together and lived an enviably blissful life. We had a son, and she stayed home while I continued to tour the world and unlock its mysteries.

Then my life went to hell.
Then, eventually, I was freed.

The cold water I splash into my face snaps me back into the present. I stare at a face that looked so much more confident when I was used to it three decades ago. Of all the changes I've had to adapt to, that one is the most unnerving. If I understand correctly, my Emilia turns forty-five this year. My son Inlé will be twenty soon and is at the Ersatz College. Teaching. As a professor. He starts there this year, and I started last year. I look twenty, the same as him. And he won't know me.

I taught him when he was young what the world would be like. More fool am I for thinking I would know. I hope the training I gave him helped prepare him, but I don't think it was enough. Now he's more than I'd ever imagined. John Constantine hiding as Indiana Jones. I don't know what he's involved in. But it terrifies me.

Some time this year, he'll save me from my madness and leave me here. That it already happened for me is inconsequential. Until it has happened for him, I can't risk getting close to him. And the thought that I'm in the same city as my Emilia again terrifies me. I live in fear that she'll see me. Though I can't imagine she'd recognize me thirty years younger than I should be.

It's my first day in a class he'll be teaching. I'm flush with pride for him, and fighting to restrain myself from showing it. I doubt it will be noticeable. You learn to turn off emotion to resist madness. It even works sometimes.

"Welcome," he greets the class, "to Beginning Mythology and Folklore. Many of you are new students to this college. We share some uncertainties, as this will be my first class as professor. It is my hope that we will all learn and grow through this course. A wise man once told me that to teach is to learn from those who know less than you about a thing. With that in mind, my class will be somewhat informal."

He turns his cool gaze on the class, and we remain silent. "Lectures will be open discussions. Feel free to ask questions, to call out answers, to make observations. I am at liberty to grade you each as I see fit. Homework, tests, participation, projects, and any other criteria I see fit. I will grade you based on your strengths. None of the work I will give will be mandatory. However, the more work you choose to do, the more I will have to determine whether your grasp on the subject is adequate. This course is elective for all of you. You may think that means it will be easy. For me, it means there is no guilt should I fail you. Keep that in mind."

And with that, my professor, my son, made friendly enemies of his students. I watch him begin his lecture with the Greek pantheon, figuring it to be the one people will be most familiar with. The lecture is accurate and thorough, for the hour that he has. I wonder if anyone beside myself notices that some of his information seems more personal than would be found in the textbooks we have for the class.

"So what'd you think," a big man asks me as we left class. His name is Jock Caimbeul, and he's as much the big Scotchman that the name implies. Granted, he's born and raised here in Ersatz and has, sadly, no brogue in his voice. But his eyes and smile are as bright and warm as his temper promises to be. I heard he once beat three teammates bloody in a locker room for no reason at all in high school. He's on his second year here, and we became fast friends last year in a classical music seminar. He's a fourth generation construction worker with a natural talent for every sport he's ever tried. And his grasp of the nuance and technical detail in classical music is profound.

"It was more than I expected," I say, lifting a thick folder with today's handouts. "I thought new teachers were supposed to be ... I dunno, easier? Professor Zapfino seems harsh."

Jock laughs in a melodious deep basso. "Yeah, Inlé's an interesting guy. Believe it or not, I was in high school with him."

"Really?" I ask. "Then how how'd he get to be a professor here?"

"Something about attending college by correspondence while attending high school to appease his mother. Something about being socially awkward."

My son? Socially awkward? "How do you mean socially awkward? He seemed fine today. A bit standoffish, maybe. But that must be normal for a teacher younger than some of the students."

"Nah, he's always like that," Jock asserted. "He seems aloof, like the world around him just isn't that important to him, and the people in it least of all." This disturbs me. I remember him being such a loving boy. Certainly, I've seen him cold. But considering the situation, I wasn't surprised.

My discomfort must have shown, because Jock quickly said, "Oh, not that he's actually like that. Inlé's one of those truly good people. But I never want to see him pissed off. I saw him put a guy in a coma for three days once."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Actually," he looks embarrassed, "that's how we met. A bunch of us picked a fight with him. He was in an entirely different class from us. I'm not bad in a fight. He's something else."

"You ganged up on him?" My scorn might be heavier than I meant, because he goes on the defensive.

"He'd just beat up a couple kids on our football team without any provocation! We were just getting even." He shakes his head. "Or that's what we'd though at the time. Firstly, he took us to task, then I found out that he hadn't done anything but protect a classmate from a bully and defend himself when he was attacked by the bully's brother." Jock shrugs. "Of course, if it wasn't for him, I'd never have met my girl. All in all, he's a good guy. Just don't even bother trying to read him. The Stoics could have taken lessons from him."

We go our separate ways, and I lose myself in the mundanity of academia. School is pretty much the same wherever you go. The teachers change, the courses change, the students change. But the atmosphere is blearily, terrifyingly the same.

There's a hopelessness in most schools nowadays that terrifies me. School is supposed to be the place where your mind is opened up and you learn for the sake of learning. It's supposed to be a passion, this trading and telling of ideas. Some people still have that. But unfortunately, it's so politic now that it's not always so. People have to go to school. It's mandatory and, whether you like it or not, you have to keep going for years and years. Even the pseudo-voluntary climes of the collegiate have this depression, as students yolk themselves with debts in trade for occupations that, dismally often, the workers are suddenly over-educated and wasted on.

I love school. I love learning. I spent the entirety of my first run of life learning and sharing my knowledge. In fact, one of my classes this semester has a textbook I wrote as its foundation. I love to see people enjoying their personal discoveries. I love the passion that some teachers show for their curriculum. This makes me lament that not all of them hold to the passion that they should have had coming into their career.

I walk the streets of Ersatz city. Tonight, I have nothing to do but start homework from two classes. Neither will be a problem. I have the unfair advantage of having written one of the courses and having been the one to introduce the professor to the subject of the other.

It unnerves me, this city. The mayor is the woman who founded the city twenty years ago, which means many of the people here are older than the city itself. You wouldn't be able to tell it from the work done here. It's a large city, and well developed. On top of founding and leading the city, the mayor is also the city's designer and the headmaster of both the college and the high school. The initiative that woman has is matched only by her endurance.

The design itself is very interesting. It draws and binds energy here. Supernatural forces congregate here. My skin crawls when I see the fey, shapeshifters, vampires, and other creatures out and about in the city. Literally rubbing elbows with unsuspecting mortals. None of them notice. They don't see it. I wonder at their blindness, but am further in awe of the power of this city to keep—well, the expression is mortal enemies, but it doesn't quite suit—acting civilly with each other. It's a subtle binding. So subtle that I doubt they notice it. It isn't mind control or compulsion. Just a subtle sensation of peace. Of home. And because of who and what I've become, that sensation actually unnerves me.

But I won't let that get to me. The Italian restaurant I enter is run by a fairy king from one of the realms of the fey. His wife fell in love with the Italian lifestyle a century or so back, and he acts and dresses like a mob boss circa Vito Corleone. I wish that was a joke. In order to have a solid foothold in the mortal realm, they needed a location to set up a permanent bridge between their realm and this one. In order to disguise it, they made a restaurant. That serves damnably good penne. Well, everything, really.

"Back again, Mr. Andronicus?" the waiter asks me.

"Yes, Cleto. How's business today?" I ask politely. I try to come in regularly to acclimate myself to the fey. He isn't of the sort that I'm most accustomed to, but this 'Anacleto' still smells of fey. They don't recognize me as anything but human, I'm sure. But I can smell them. A gift from my time in Perdition.

"It is good, thank you. We've been quite busy. And business should be picking up, with school back in session. Do you know what you'd like today?"

I order penne with pesto and today's special. The special is ossobuco with a delicious gremolata on a bed of risotto. I eat it all and, though nowhere near sated, I am satisfied. The meal is fantastic. I daresay it would have stuffed anyone else. Unfortunately, I will never know the satisfaction of a full stomach again. So I eat whatever I want and feast to please my tongue and not my stomach. I've become a gourmand. Which my wife would find amusing since I couldn't tell the difference between wheat and rye when she knew me.

Thinking of her sours my meal, of course. Not wife, I remind myself. Widow. As good as. I vanished for years. Now she has a new beau. I don't blame her. She thought I was dead. I've been 'gone' for almost seven years now. In a few months, I'll be legally declared dead. As it stands, nothing will change. And I won't interfere. I've neither the right to do so nor evidence I could use to prove myself. I should look fifty. And I don't know what dangers I might bring with me. A year since I've been free, and I'm hiding in plain sight.

The owner sits down in front of me as I'm starting my dessert consisting of a slice of genoise cake and a scoop of stracciatella gelato. I recognize him, though I've never met him. The smell of power envelops him like a London fog. So thick that it drowns out the garlic in my mouth. I look up, feigning surprise at the appearance of such a well dressed person sitting across from me. The light smile touching one corner of his mouth is a practiced exercise in confidence. The deep purple of his suit and tie is offset by a rosebud boutonniere and a dress shirt of identical shades of silver. His cufflinks appeared to be crescent moons at a glance, but on closer inspection, I realize that they're smiling teeth. Cheshire cat grins.

"Can I help you, sir?" I ask politely.

"You can, Mr. Andronicus," he says. "You've begun frequenting my restaurant this last year, and I was hoping to know your thoughts on the quality of the chef I have employed."

"Well, sir, I must say he is quite skilled. I spent a few years in Italy, and fell in love with the sauces there. It's a rare place here that makes such fantastic gremolata. Your choice of chef was well made."

"I see," he says. "Thank you. There have been some poachers lately, trying to steal him away. Should I beat them away and keep him for myself?"

"Sir," I say, "I am no businessman and don't know anything about the situation. Why would you ask me?"

The dark king leans back and eyes me like he's trying to decide whether I'm an enemy or prey. "Frankly, though I suspect you to be working for one of my competitors, you entertain me. This restaurant is a passion of mine. I strive to make everything perfect. And I notice patterns when I can. The more you eat here, the more businesses attempt to steal away the chef."

"Coincidence," I say. I don't work for any restaurant. Or any other competitor this king might have. But this may be some sort of game he is playing with me. The fey are like that.

"Perhaps," he accedes. "But if that is true, then your opinion is less biased and more informed. There are other restaurants in the area. Is their quality less to your liking, or only their styles?"

"I find many of the other restaurants pleasant, certainly. But I prefer Italian food. And this place is the best in the area. Perhaps on this side of the Atlantic."

"Thank you," he says. "I will pass that praise along. Enjoy your dessert, sir, and thank you for your opinion. That my restaurant is of such quality is a delight I will cherish."

He leaves me confused and unnerved. What reason did he really have for speaking with me? Could he tell I wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely human anymore? Was he checking to see what I am? Or was the conversation truly just about the business? Who can predict the fey? Am I safe going home? Am I in trouble?

I sigh, pay the bill—which I notice is discounted the price of the special—and leave. I hope I didn't cost anyone his life. But then, I really don't care much if it's a fey that dies. Be happy to do it myself, in that case.

The city is quite tonight, to my relief. I walk the street nights like it's some sort of beat I'm patrolling. I don't really know why I bother. I'm supposed to keep my head down. But I can't help wanting to protect the mortals from everything they don't suspect. I've a feeling some nights that I'm not alone in this mission. It comforts me that there may be humans who'll fight back. Of course, I won't seek them out. I may well be as bad as any monster. It may only be a matter of time before I become the worst thing in this city. It scares me. Not in the least because I know how many other horrors lurk just in the corners of everyone's eyes.