Cheeks flushed from his poorly thought-out throw, Crispin watched as Remoulade's expression shifted from frantic to puzzled. Both query and apology died on Crispin's lips as a scream rang out. For a moment, silence stretched, and then snapped as a naked body came cartwheeling onto the road.

The body skidded for a moment, coming to an artless stop in the middle of the road. For a moment, it simply lay there. Slow, like a worm crawling, the body rose, then drunkenly stumbled to the nearby railing of the canal below.

Head lolling forward, the figure's movements were disjointed, yet somehow languid. Leaning against the railing, soft blonde curls obscuring its face save for a slight smile, the thing that now held Crispin's body seemed to be at peace.

That peace didn’t last though. Harsh shouts echoed, and hard boots on cobblestones announced the arrival of a score or so of men, all well-armed, their leader's face set in a scowl.

Though Crispin had seen the livery rarely, he recognized it as the Grand Duke's own. "Listen, lad," said what Crispin assumed to be the company captain, "I've no clue what dust, smoke, or drink you're on, but you best step away from that railing."

Crispin felt his heart warm. He thought he was about to witness some well-armed soldiers knock his body's teeth out its back door, but it seemed he had read their leader's expression all wrong, and the older man thought that the thing in Crispin's body was in the grips of a bad trip.

The creature—for Crispin still had no name for his body's bandit—ignored the captain. Instead, it began to run its hands over Crispin's form. Its movements were exploratory, almost sensual. It used his nails to score pink lines rising on his skin, just short of breaking, bruises blushing fast and then gone.

Finding a long shard of glass protruding from Crispin's arm, the creature flicked it with a finger, giggling as if the sharp thing were some novel charm.

"Whoa, easy there," the captain tried again. "We aren't going to hurt you; just come on over, and we'll see to that arm."

"Hurt?" said the thing with Crispin's mouth—a single word, but there was a weight to it. It was as if each and every wound that Crispin had ever received or dealt became fresh.

His vision swam; colors he couldn't name emerged. When next Crispin could see clearly, he found the well-meaning soldiers crumpled to the ground...

"Hurt, hurt, hurt." Each time the thief spoke, Crispin felt the crack of it a little less, but less torture is still torture. Every shame, every slight, self-inflicted or accidental, became fire. It scored him.

Voice sing-song sweet, the thief came to a stop in the middle of the street to stand before Crispin's tiny cart and take a performer's bow. Rising from its bow, the creature stretched its borrowed arms out wide, placing itself on exhibition. The bruises, cuts, and scrapes that adorned Crispin's body seemed more like farcical paint, a costume worn gaudily.

Once more, the creature spoke, though this time its words did not hurt. "Well met, traveler. Are you here for the show? It seems we're both a bit early. Understandable though; it's not every day a witch is born." Preparing to respond to the fiend's mad rambling, Crispin bit his tongue as Remoulade placed a firm hand on his shoulder and spoke.

Her words were a sharp, clipped command: "Name, nature, claims, and affiliation."

"Oh, you're one of those," said the fiend, his voice still playfully warm.

"One of those?" inquired Remoulade.

"Yes, bor—"

Boom! Like a cannon's crack, the thief went flying back; Remoulade's blunderbuss held steady before her.

Crispin flinched as his body went crashing through a nearby storefront. A few moments later, the thief staggered back out onto the street, a pilfered bottle held loosely in its hand. Pulling the cork and placing the bottle to its lips, the fiend began to drink.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Throat distending as it consumed the liquor, glugging it down with abandon till the last drop was consumed. With an effusive sigh of satisfaction, the malign spirit threw the bottle aside and then fell to hands and knees, regurgitating the cheap liquor it had just consumed.

Finished purging, the fiend, spirit, or whatever the thief truly was, stared up at Remoulade and Crispin with a puppy-dog frown that quickly shifted to a bright, jubilant smile.

Lips stretching wide, splitting so that blood ran free and mixed with the wine on their chin, the creature began to laugh—no malice to it, just wild and mad. It went on and on and on until finally, it just stopped, abrupt and sharp.

"Apologies," said the thief into the sudden quiet. "I stand corrected, cousin. You're not so boring after all." As Crispin listened to the creature speak, he recognized it more fully. It had been the terror that chased him through the streets and towards his untimely death.

"Little one," continued the thief, "there's no need for us to be at odds."

"The body," Remoulade cut in.

"Oh, this sweet thing?" said the spirit coquettishly. "I'd just made my way into town, and it caught my eye. But why do you care?"

"Paperwork," said Remoulade from between clenched teeth.

"Well, that is serious, but not my problem."

"It's about to be," growled Remoulade as she raised her hand cannon once more.

Boom! The shot went wide as, lightning-quick, the body snatcher closed the distance to the cart. Catching Remoulade across the jaw with a backhand, it sent her sprawling. "Oh, none of that now, cousin. If you want blood, wait a while. There'll be more than enough of it, I promise."

The spirit's back to him, Crispin pulled the cudgel kept beneath the cart's seat and swung. Though it was his own skull with which he made contact, Crispin did not hold back. It made the cutest little _bonk_ sound as it bounced off the back of his possessed skull.

The terror that had chased Crispin turned, and in its glance, he saw recognition and mirth. Boom! The now-familiar report of Remoulade's firearm went off. Crispin found himself flying through the air. He realized that it was his body that had been shot. The gun fired no bullets; instead, it sent flying back whatever it was pointed at.

Hitting the ground hard, body and spirit overlapped. Each cut and bruise leapt alive as Crispin's senses burned, and then, with a shove, he was pushed aside, his corporeal soul ejected from its home.

The fiend, still unnamed, clambered to its feet, only for them to be taken out as Crispin dove at them. Tumbling once more, Crispin was lucidly alive and then a ghost. Crispin fought at the terror that had chased him, the unknown beast that had whispered, keeping pace with him. Crispin could feel its haunting breath on his face, its claws leaving grooves deep and grievous from which his essence drained. He was afraid.

He could see Remoulade coming to his aid, though unfortunately, at that precise moment, Crispin did not hold his body's reins. Closing quickly with the young clerk, the thief grabbed Remoulade's wrist and, with a sharp snap, broke it, then took her firearm, unloading it directly into her once, twice, and then a third time for good measure. There was smoke and darkness, the smell of blood and ink, and the dust found in old books.

Holding the now-limp archivist by her broken wrist, the terrible spirit smiled, but only for a moment. A terrible sound split the night, like bones splintering, like sharp glass grinding. It was a sound of pure malicious hate.

Silly old Wingyatt sat hunched over the cart, eyes gone abyss-dark. Body distending, shifting, stretching, a second head sprouting. No longer simply a bird far too large, wings outstretched, claws sharp, Remoulade's foul assistant was now more a demon beast covered in a coat of feathers.

For a moment, the half-ghost and thief shared a glance, a confirmation of shared horror before the weight of rage-mad Wingyatt struck. Blades, long as scimitars, dug deep, scraping against bone. The mad creature's maw opened with a snap of its beak, cutting through Crispin's collarbone. Hot blood sprang forth, both from his body and soul, melting red and gold.

Wrestling with the thief, unwilling to let it slip away, Crispin was motivated by a rare streak of malice as he waited for an unkind and true death. The thief shrieked; it wanted no part of Crispin's fate. It beat at him, pleaded, promised, degrading its very essence with all that it offered.

Tired, barely thinking, Crispin's honest heart murmured something, and then he was once more whole, himself, alive, and alone, to stare into the unkind depths of death and despair as talons crushed his bones.

Wingyatt had snapped back all of a sudden with a loud thwack. Hands of shadow reached out from all sides to wrap around him. Vision spinning, Crispin locked eyes with Miss Remoulade.

Face painted with blood and soot, expression ice-cold, Remoulade reversed her grip on her blunderbuss and pointed it at Wingyatt. "Winnie," she said, her tone almost sweet, "if I have to shoot you, there will be no dead rats, jammy scones, or brandy for a week." Bound by the hands of shadow, Wingyatt let out a low keening howl and seemed to deflate somehow.

Falling to his knees as Remoulade gave Wingyatt a final warning, Crispin felt the large, rough tongue of the sweet cow who nearly killed him lap as gently at his wounds.