As soon as I see the red head’s golden eyes as she approaches with Tereza, I feel in my gut that she is a Cercel. She is the spitting image of Riolene, an old friend of mine from back before the Witch War.

Prior to the bloodshed, Witches and Cryptids alike lived in relative harmony within Naclall. Riolene and I frequented similar establishments and circles, becoming fast friends that would trade magic work for physical labor.

There was a brief blip in time where we were lovers—we never gave into the idea that we would be anything more than sexual partners, though while we were in the confines of the bed we did give into a few intimate urges.

There was a lullaby that I sang to her. One that I’d written decades before when I thought that I was going to be a father. The child wasn’t mine, as it turned out, but the song was too good to lose to time.

Riolene loved it so much that I sang for her each time we gave into our intimate urges, and she learned to sing it with me rather fast. We didn’t last, however, and my guess is that she shared our song with the family she started after we broke up. It is in the way that the girl before me bristles when I get to the chorus of the lullaby.

The Cercel line fled when the war started, so they had no direct involvement, but there were rumors they carried a type of magic that no other line could perform. This made the Queen nervous, and ever since she had taken the throne orders are, if we are to run across a Cercel Witch, to bring them in so we can slow the potential spread of an unknown magic type.

I’d almost had Miss Cercel years ago, but she escaped me, a feat not many can boast about. It’d been a kind of mission for me ever since to acquire her for my Queen and thankfully for my $300 shoes, and my new suit, Miss Cercel agrees to trade places with Miss Miller, in exchange for no more death. A selfless act. Stupid but selfless. Instead of having to find an adoptive family for the baby, I can leave Miss Miller be to raise her son.

I whistle, sharp and fast. Myles isn’t the killer out of my team—and Zion hasn’t surfaced yet, so I assume she’s sating the blood lust I could never quite rid her of. This whistle was for ‘cease and desist’, something that is likely annoying her, but will be heeded regardless.

“Done,” I say simply.

“I don’t believe you, Red Eyes,” Miss Cercel keeps making a flicking motion, and it’s obviously her preparing to fight either Myles or myself.

“Of course, you don’t.”

I hate it when they’re difficult. The time I’m among the plague that is Humanity lengthens considerably, and though I do appreciate the overtime, by now I can afford to retire for at least the next century, making it entirely unnecessary.

I’d much rather be home reading one of my favorite first editions than amid carnival folk.

Thankfully, Zion shows up, with only a few noticeable traces of blood on her, a vast improvement from our first hunt together. This time the worst of it is her hands, which she is wiping down with a piece of cloth.

“Sometimes I wish you’d quit being so damn efficient, Ayers,” Zion sighs though she has a satisfied smile on her face. “You’re such a fun sponge.”

“Efficiency gets you to your weekend sooner, Miss Leif, and if that makes me a fun sponge then so be it.” I don’t’ take my eyes off the pair of Witches, and the Cercel Witch has the same idea about myself and my team. Her eyes flit between the three of us, the surface-fear movement drawing Zion’s attention.

“Does our target have a bodyguard?” Zion barks a cruel laugh and hunches down, ready to spring at Rosilyn. I’d let her do it just to see what happens, but I’d prefer to not have my date night ruined by being in the hospital.

“Miss Leif, you touch either one of them and I will punt you to the Beast, myself.”