> “Love, or the hint of it, isn't something one apologizes for.” - Mme Bougie

Nord leaned against the door frame, her eyes following Baal's movements as he meticulously positioned empty glass jars on the freshly built shelves. The wood still carried the scent of fresh lacquer. It was another one of Baal's eccentric requests, and it filled the room with an oddly comforting aroma.

"It's looking good," she commented, her voice echoing softly in the contained space.

Baal glanced over his shoulder, momentarily breaking his concentration. "You think?" he replied, holding a jar out to her. "Care to lend a hand?"

Nord approached, lifting a jar from the crate near Baal's feet. She observed how he had been placing the jars—bottom down, evenly spaced, like little soldiers standing at attention. She mimicked his actions and set the jar beside its neighbours. "So, how does this arrangement work?"

"With Merlin, you mean?" Baal asked, now holding another jar in his hand as if pondering where it should go.

"Yeah. Why's Merlin making deals with you? What's the catch?"

Baal placed the jar he held onto the shelf, aligning it carefully. "Honestly? I'm not sure. The plan is I'll collect his happy memories with these jars when Merlin breathes for the last. What I owe him in return, well, that's still up in the air. And that makes a lot of jars."

Nord looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you worried? What if Merlin asks for something dangerous—or worse?"

"I like the old man," Baal mused, his hands momentarily still. "I think he's lonely. This is his way of not being alone at the end. Clever, really. Death has no need for memories, good or bad."

Just as Nord opened her mouth to reply, "Adamastor said we're ready for the—" her words were interrupted by Baal's sudden change in tone.

"Adamastor?" Baal interjected, a discernible edge to his voice. "That was quick, even for you."

"Baal, you know I need to maintain a peaceful relationship with him. I need him for—"

"But I don't need him. So excuse me if I don't jump for joy when I hear his name," he shot back, placing another jar a bit more forcefully than before. "He hurt you, Nord."

Nord looked at Baal, her voice dropping to a shy whisper. "And I need you."

It was as though a switch flipped in Baal. He turned to face her fully, his guarded expression softening. "You need me?" he asked, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the jars and their arrangements forgotten, if only for a moment.

Nord shifted uncomfortably, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We've got everything set for the opening except entertainment. Adamastor mentioned you might be able to help, so I thought..." Her voice trailed off as if venturing into uncharted territory.

"Violin," Baal supplied, his voice steady as he continued to place the jars.

"Oh, I didn't know you played," Nord said, surprised and somewhat relieved.

Baal's lips curled into a brief, enigmatic smile. He didn't elaborate.

"So, will you?" Nord pressed.

"I don't have my violin here," he said, setting another jar on the shelf with deliberation.

"Where is it?" she asked, intrigued by yet another layer of Baal she had yet to discover.

"Far away," he replied, pausing to draw a deep breath. "But I can find one. And I'll get someone to play the piano."

Her face brightened instantly. "Really?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

He placed the final jar on the shelf, aligning it just so before answering. "I'll think of something. A condition of sorts."

Nord felt a flutter of unease. "Do you want a happy memory in return?"

Turning to face her, Baal looked directly into her eyes, his expression unreadable but intense. "I will never again do that to you."

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The air inside Mme Bougie felt almost viscous, heavy with the ghosts of last night's merriment, which now seemed like a distant echo. It was as if the walls themselves were absorbing the silence, wrapping it tightly around the room's dark wooden bar and deserted tables. Baal's footsteps punctuated the quiet as he walked in, sounding like intruders in a forbidden sanctuary. A rhythmic swish of a broom accompanied his entrance—the lone caretaker of this still space.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Excuse me," Baal ventured, his voice timid yet hopeful, reaching across the quiet abyss.

The man wielding the broom looked up, revealing a moustache as dark as a raven's wing. His attire—a vest of alternating white and grey stripes, along with matching pants—gave him the air of a showman who'd lost his audience.

"Can I help you, young man?" he inquired, sizing Baal up.

"I'm looking for Mme Bougie," Baal stated, his voice gaining a touch of assurance.

The man's eyes twinkled like shards of glass catching sunlight, and he leaned on his broom as if it were a staff of wisdom.

"Speaking. How can I assist you?"

Baal looked around the near-empty bar and then back at the man. The whole scenario felt oddly intimate as if he'd stepped backstage of a performance where the main act had yet to begin. He hadn't expected Mme Bougie to be a man, but then, the world was full of surprises.

"Ah, so you're Mme Bougie," Baal said, allowing a small, intrigued smile to slip onto his lips.

The owner straightened from his bow, eyes twinkling brighter than before. "But during the day, call me Lucero!" he declared, completing the introduction with a flourish.

Baal extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm Baal."

Lucero gripped it warmly. "Ah, I know who you are. You've captivated my girls the other night, and seeing you now, I can understand why."

Baal shifted uncomfortably, a tinge of blush warming his cheeks. "Oh, I...I didn't notice."

A sly smile unfurled on Lucero's lips. "Well, it seems a little bird has already found a cage around your ribcage. Not many men are willing to admit to such when summoned by Mme Bougie's finest."

Baal looked down, a sense of vulnerability washing over him. "I'm really sorry about that."

Lucero waved it off. "Don't be. Love, or the hint of it, isn't something one apologizes for. Now, you're here, and it's not for my girls, so what is it that those mesmerizing eyes of yours desire?"

Baal met Lucero's gaze, and for a moment, his eyes flickered with an intensity that matched the room's dormant energy.

"Do you have a violin? You could loan me for just a couple of days to practice and then..."

Lucero sized up Baal again, this time with an air of mock appraisal. "Handsome and talented? I'm beginning to feel a twinge of jealousy, I must admit."

Baal chuckled awkwardly, "Huh... thank you, I guess."

Lucero's eyes danced with a mischievous glint. "Ah, but a violin isn't the usual instrument of choice when one seeks the more, let's say, tactile pleasures Mme Bougie has to offer. I've got other instruments for that, both literally and figuratively." He punctuated his statement with a cheeky wink.

Baal sighed, disappointment washing over his face. "Damn, I was really counting on you having one. I won't take any more of your time then. Thank you again, Mme Bougie." Baal reached for Lucero's hand and lifted it gently to his lips for an elegant, quick kiss.

Just as he pivoted to make his exit, a voice boomed from above, descending from the balcony like a theatrical pronouncement.

"Demon!"

Baal's head snapped up, and there, leaning over the balustrade of the dimly lit upper floor was Ursula. Her eyes met his with an intensity that could rival the sun—blazing, yet unfathomable.

Lucero followed Baal's gaze upwards, and a knowing smile stretched across his lips. "Ah, it appears the story thickens. Would you like to go up, or should I invite the lady down?"

Baal hesitated for a moment, caught between the gravity of Lucero's theatrical realm and Ursula's celestial pull. Then, making up his mind, he said, "I'll go up."

"As you wish," Lucero said, waving his hand toward the staircase as if he were a magician conjuring a path. "The stage is yours, my intriguing friend."

Baal felt as if he had crossed an unseen boundary when he stepped into Ursula's chamber. It was like entering an intricately woven tapestry of veiled intents and unspoken transactions—a far cry from a mere room. One part office, the other part intimate space, all adorned with mirrors that reflected every conceivable angle. It showed with prime what Ursula's talent was.

"I told your little girl I wasn't interested!" Baal's voice cut through the air like a knife parting water.

"Do you really think I chase after clients? Do I look like someone who doesn't know her trade?" Ursula retorted, her eyes narrowing as she sat behind her desk. She motioned for Baal to do the same.

"You want to make a deal?" Baal couldn't help but let curiosity slip into his voice.

Ursula's response came like a whip. "First, I want to slap that arrogance right off your face!" She opened a metallic box from her drawer, took out a cigarette, and lit it. After a long, contemplative drag, she exhaled a trail of smoke that seemed to write invisible words between them. "Do you know how difficult it was for me to hire two hunters without revealing who I was?"

"So you're the one who hired Han and Leelo?" Baal pieced it together.

"Yes! Hunters armed with Allatori weapons! Months of planning, ruined by you in mere seconds!" She slammed her hand on the desk for emphasis.

"I thought Adamastor was a client," Baal admitted, confused.

"He's an excellent client. Pays well and treats me even better. I wish all men were like him," Ursula paused, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. "But you don't know what he asks of me. You don't know him at all."

Baal's eyes sharpened. "Are you in danger?"

"No, it's not me who's in danger," she said, locking eyes with him. "Come on, demon, ask me what he asks of me."

"I don't want to know; he already told me," Baal deflected.

"Come on, ask me who he wants me to be," Ursula insisted.

It was a question Baal couldn't bring himself to ask. He had visions of Nord filling his mind, but not like this. Not this way. Irritated by Baal's reticence, Ursula stood up and began unbuttoning her dress.

"Please don't, I really..." Baal began.

Ignoring him, she removed her blouse, revealing a chemise covering skin marred with bruises and teeth marks—perhaps thirty or more.

"I'm sorry, I thought..." Baal's voice faded into a whisper, "He said..."

"The feed is agreed upon, and it's even sort of exciting. I don't dislike it," Ursula cut him off. "Now you'll see why he needs to be stopped."

Her skin began to darken, transforming before Baal's eyes. Bruises vanished, replaced by intricate black ink tattoos. When he finally looked at her face, framed by short, dark hair, it was almost like seeing Nord—but not quite. It was a distorted reflection, an obsession that had taken on a life of its own.

Adamastor's fixation wasn't Nord. It was something far more insidious.

Adamastor’s obsession, the vampire spawn addiction, was... no other than…

… the Hollow.