Work Text:
The streets of Manhattan could be equated to a linear maze. Logically, the streets made sense on a map; this did not translate well to a non-native resident of the city trying to find his hotel.
Mirage has one hand around Nashala’s vessel and the other holding paper, eyes scanning the printed numbers and addresses. He knew he was on the corner of West 71st St, he knew which direction to walk for Central Park or for Pier 1, but the Baroness eludes him. Office workers and busybodies passed him by, eyes forward and straight to their destination. Every person he had asked for directions gave him a different street, a different neighborhood of the city, and Mirage swore that the landmark of the Baroness was shifting on the map, too.
Damn these haunted hotels. He dealt with one in Yemen, and across Europe; apparently he should have considered them *commonplace* here, too (even though the states shouldn’t be old enough of a nation to *warrant* it.)
“Excuse me,” he asks a man crouched in an alley, ragged clothes doing little in the November afternoon air. “Do you know which way the Baroness is?”
“Two blocks t’yer left,” the homeless man responds, accent heavy with something as a clawed finger points. It sizzles in the setting sunlight and he hisses, retracting it back into the shade of the alleyway. “Can’t miss it— less it’s three down Columbus. Been a bit.”
“Thank you,” he replies, taking five dollars from his wallet and giving it to the man. Blackened nails pinch it and tuck it away into the shadows, not before scratching the tip of his finger. “Stay warm, vampire.”
“Stay safe, stranger,” the homeless man calls out, laughing low. “Streets get dangerous after dusk.”
Mirage keeps Nashala tucked close as he walks down the street, head high. The foot traffic of the city sidewalks overwhelms him, momentarily, humanoid and otherkin passing by without a caring glance at who he escorts— the Djinn presence is not strong here, he knows, but it still feels offensive that none split the sidewalks for Nashala.
Two blocks down to his left, Mirage fights a groan of annoyance when the Baroness is nowhere to be seen. Nashala laughs in her vessel, a noise not too off from the tinkling of glass beads against one another; elegant and fragile. To Columbus, he thinks, reorienting himself on the paper map and starting his new trek. Damn you, Robert Moses. Damn you.
When making the next turn, passing by a busker and at the edge of the sidewalk, Mirage is met with a sudden wave of dread.
It burns in his chest, heart beating with sudden adrenaline as his hand finds the butt of his pistol. His eyes dart amongst the sidewalk crowd, tracking every stranger within sight. He quickens his pace, one arm wrapped around Nashala tight as the other rests on his weapon; the map gone as litter under the footfalls of people.
He walks three blocks, maneuvering past the evening crowd of highschoolers and workers heading towards the train station. The dread does not leave him, nothing but fear haunting his rational thought as he marches onwards. It feels like he’s being watched– no, he is being watched, and now that he’s aware of some sort of mark has been casted onto him, the paranoia is manageable. It doesn’t settle, this occultism is wrong in the way it is powerful, but Mirage must protect Nashala. It is his sole duty, and therefore, he does not have the time to stress about his safety. Nashala is his priority.
The burning does not fade as Mirage walks, scanning every person he passes by. Flashes of red start to catch his eye, contrast even against the dark hues of Manhattan fashion, and suddenly it’s all he can see. Red trimmings, red claws, a bright glowing red staring dead into his own eyes. He walks down into 66th station, slipping onto the train as it pulls into the station. The feeling does not ebb, paranoia settling in as he scans the tight crowd on the train car. Red accents on coats and suits, a bright red umbrella tucked into a lady’s side, red purses and shoes, red, red.
When he departs off the 1 train, ascending the station stairs, the paranoia haunting him is now screaming. The evening glow of Manhattan is replaced by midnight black. The street is empty, along with its sidewalks, and Mirage tucks Nashala close to his chest and aims his pistol out. Something has been hunting him, ever since–
vampire.
The homeless man had red-stained hands, blackened claws like an animal. Of course.
He can’t make out any street signs or landmarks. Dark fog creeps around every corner, the surrounding buildings a faded gray with the evening sun replaced by a heavy dark red. Hushed silence makes every step he takes echo out, a clear indication of where he is for his hunter to find. Faintly, a whistling can be heard, a slow crooning tune that tells Mirage that the vampire is taking his sweet time in approaching. The hunter underestimates him. Foolish.
“Mirage”, Nashala whispers from her vessel, tinny and weak. “Mirage, be careful.”
“I will always be careful when you are present, Nashala,” he replies, confidence unwavering despite the pulsing in his chest. His heart beats unwillingly fast, a rapid thump thump thump, adrenaline beating in his veins like he had just ran a mile. “This monster will not best me.”
“I have heard of legend, of a vampire.”
“No vampire will stop me from doing my duty.”
“This is no normal vampire,” Nashala warns, her voice scared, and that fears Mirage more than anything else. “This vampire is old. Known. He is not like other vampires, Mirage, he is ousted from the Society for a reason. All he does-” the whistling is growing louder, “all he knows-” and louder, louder, almost tauntingly so, “is to hunt.”
The whistling crescendos into its peak as Mirage crosses an empty street and finally comes to face what has been stalking him.
His hat and unruly black hair conceals his eyes, but the unnatural stretch of his grin gives away his emotion. Yellowed teeth stained with red bare like a predator’s maw, blackened gums peaking out from under his lip. His clothes are disheveled and worn, doing little to conceal his large hunched frame. His hands, inhumanely large and clawed, are stained a bright red from carnage. “I did warn ye,” the vampire calls out, low and threatening. “Streets get dangerous.”
“I do not fear you, vampire,” Mirage warns, aiming his gun up to eye level. “I have a duty, and I will make sure to see it through.”
“Oh, you like lyin’ to yourself now?” The vampire laughs, and bright red eyes meet his. “I can hear your heart beatin’ like a rabbit runnin’. Thump-thump-thump-thump; a lil’ ol’ snare drum just for me.”
“My heart may falter but my mind does not,” Mirage says. He fires.
The shot misses, the vampire disappearing into the deep smog that engulfs the area. “Oh, feisty,” the man chuckles deeply, voice echoing out from all sides around him. “I like it when my prey fights back.”
Mirage does not reply, arm steady as he keeps his ground. He waits, and waits, heartbeat in his ears–
something swipes at him from behind, cutting through his clothes and just barely digging into the flesh of his back. He hisses and lurches forward into a roll, Nashala tucked safely into his coat and against his chest. Firing, the shot goes wide, leaving no mark on the monster before him. The vampire licks his claws, a low content hum reverberating in Mirage’s ears. “You taste like heaven,” the vampire groans, teeth stained crimson from his own blood. “I can’t wait t’tear you up and feast on your dead body–”
He fires again, this time the shot landing true; it hits the vampire in his shoulder, a shrill sizzle of silver meeting undead flesh causing the vampire to hiss in pain. Smoke wafts from the bullet wound, and Mirage gives no break, firing two more rounds and watching as they land. One hits just under the first, and the second shot goes low and pierces the vampire’s stomach. “I told you, vampire,” he stands on his feet, rushing forward to kick the beast to the pavement. “I have a duty, and I will see it through.”
He presses his foot against the stomach wound, sneering when the vampire groans out. He aims his gun to the vampire’s forehead. “I do not fear the likes of you.”
The vampire stares up at him, the bright red almost like headlights of a car. “Yer fun,” the vampire states instead, grin unwavering as he drags a clawed hand up Mirage’s calf. It drags down deep, blood staining his pant-leg, and on instinct Mirage fires.
The shot misses. The vampire takes the chance to pull Mirage onto his back, swiping at his face and just barely missing. Mirage fires one last time before scrambling backwards, his free arm tightening around Nashala. He moves backwards until there’s at least five feet of distance between them, arm readied again to fire if the vampire moves. His stance is faulty, the injury on his leg deep into muscle and putting his balance off kilter, and the graze on his back stings, but Mirage will not stand down and die.
They’re at a standoff, in the silent street. The vampire licks the blood off his hands like a bear consumes honey from a hive. Greed and gluttony on display from the likes of a predator. There’s still smoke leaving from the bullet wounds in the vampire’s body, sizzling skin and blisters popping as its body tries to heal around them. They’re both injured, but Mirage likes his chances more than the vampire’s. Silver bullets versus bare hands is a fight he will bet his odds on winning.
“Yer a fighter,” the vampire starts, taking his sweet time to stalk a circle around him. “Yer heart still beatin’ in your chest like a drum, but ya still fightin’. Most prey gives up by now.”
“I am not prey.”
“Ye are t’me,” the vampire continues, slowly stepping back into the shadows. “Not bad marksmanship. Makes me excited to see how far I can push ya.” His voice echoes around him, now, muffled and close. Like he’s whispering right in Mirage’s ear. “I’ll drift on by fer now… but I’ll be back, pretty boy. I’ll be seein’ you around.”
Like a veil, the fog and dreary red sky lifts. The street is dark from the night, but there are still people out. While office workers ready to go home and citizens of New York ready to have supper, Mirage finds that he’s still bleeding. He curses silently, glancing around for any street sign, only to stop himself.
The Baroness stands tall in front of him, neon sign like a glowing beacon in a heavy storm. He approaches the doorway, entering the building and being greeted by a tall, ginger man.
“Welcome to the Baroness,” he greets with a bow. Striking blue eyes find his and the man smiles. “I am the Doorman. May I ask for your names?”
“I am here escorting emissary Nashala, of the Djinn,” Mirage reports. “I am her bodyguard. You may call me Mirage.”
The Doorman claps his hands together in familiarity. “Ah, yes, welcome. Your luggage has already been sent to your room, as well as refreshments. But you seem to be injured. Were you injured on our property?”
“I am unsure. A vampire was stalking me for a kill. I was lost in… an altered reality, I suppose.”
The Doorman’s smile drops, a scowl forming on his face instead. “Hm. I will let our security team know to keep an eye out for vermin,” he states, before the smile is back on his face. “Let me show you to your rooms, and I will have our on-staff nurse stop by to treat your wounds.”
“It is unnecessary–”
“I must insist; at the Baroness, all of our guest’s needs are attended to,” the Doorman continues as he leads them to the pristine elevators. “We do our best to make sure our guests enjoy their stay. And do not worry yourself with that vampire. I know who you speak of.”
This catches his attention. “Does he have a name?” Mirage asks as they step into the elevator car.
The Doorman hums, arms neatly tucked behind his back as the lift starts to ascend. “He has a title. Many tend to refer to him as the Drifter, but do not fret; he cannot enter the Baroness nor approach it’s property. If he does, there will be consequences.”
Something about the way the Doorman states this unsettles Mirage. A cold chill crawls up his spine, conflicting with the red-hot scratches on his back, and he meets the taller man’s eyes. The blue is bright, as bright as the Baroness’ sign outside, and Mirage can feel the hairs on his neck stand in attention. This is not a normal man.
The ride goes on for longer than it probably should. It feels like the car is being moved manually upwards rather than on a system of cables and pulleys. “Ah, here we are,” the elevator stops, the Doorman extending his arm out to keep the door from closing. The walk to the exquisite room is short, somehow, and the hallway feels like it’s closing in on Mirage until they get to their door. They stand there, side by side, for what feels like two hours. “I will have the nurse sent up momentarily,” the Doorman tells him, smile unchanging. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“You’re not a mortal, are you,” Mirage states, looking at him. “You’re apart of Es Menitras.”
The Doorman laughs, and laughs, the sound growing louder and louder until Mirage thinks his ears might bleed. “You are perceptive,” the inhuman says, smile stretched wide, not unlike the Drifter’s yellowed grin, “and rather foolish to ask such a question. You’re fortunate I am not the Distortion,” he continues on, long spindly gloved fingers patting Mirage on the shoulder. A rush of vertigo and nausea spikes up his spine. “Do enjoy your night, Mirage. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Baroness.”
He’s left alone in the hallway as it settles back to its normal state. The nurse is sent up quickly, treating the wounds on his back and leg, before disappearing into the service stairwell. He props Nashala’s vessel onto a pillow, ensuring it is comfortable for her, before going to the bathroom and puking.