Erica, January 2nd
I hope you are doing well. I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. There haven’t been that many postal offices between NorDale and Demsen. I’m not even sure there is a postal in Demsen. It’s such a small town, more like two crossroads that have buildings attached to it.
You’d probably like it. You always liked the small towns for whatever reason. Yes, yes, I know. You hate the noise, the people, blah blah. You know, I jest. Just as I know, you’d never truly leave Avelton. You got the shop to run, don’t you? Given, I hope you aren’t running it now. You are simply not in shape to do any such blacksmithing, and I don’t care what you say about it. Maybe in a year from now.
Mihr thinks we’ll be done in a week or so. Optimistic of him since we’ve been working on this for four months. But whatever, as soon as it’s finished I’ll be going home for the weekend. We can start on the baby’s room. I know you don’t want to jinx it, but I refuse to let you do everything by yourself. There’s two of us, and I will be doing my best to pull my weight, so that means we’ll be getting everything ready early.
I’m hoping for a boy still, so maybe we can keep all the colors on the blue scale? Something light and happy. Like the ocean. After everything, I’m going to steal you away, you know. Me, you and our little angel will be taking a nice vacation out by the ocean so you can see the beauty. Nothing beats watching the sunrise over the sea. Absolutely stunning.
With lots of love,
Yours.
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Malakai taps the pen against the piece of paper, trying to think if there is anything else to say. Sure, there’s a lot that he isn’t saying, but there is only so much he can say to begin with. For the past hour, there’s been magic creeping into the air, a sour but sweet taste that hangs heavy on the tongue.
It doesn’t bode well for the tiny town.
Mihr is nowhere to be found, having vanished the second they got to the room. Probably the only reason Malakai was able to taste the magic tainting the air with a splash of sour sweetness. If Mihr was there, it’d be a dark cloud of rot smothering everything in the room. Honestly, it was a wonder Malakai was even able to work with the man.
He folds up the letter and presses it next to the other two letters he has tucked away in his bag when the door to the hotel room swings open. Malakai doesn’t even wait a second, “Someone died.”
The look Mihr sends him is one of such disgust that it sends a sick kind of thrill zapping up Malakai’s spine. Mihr’s never appreciated Malakai’s talents. Then again, the walking skeleton never seemed to be able to enjoy anything outside of his own skills. Malakai, in-kind, has never been able to appreciate the skill set of a healer turned killer. He finds it a bit too ironic for his own tastes.
To be honest, he finds Mihr to be too much for his tastes. The man smelled heavy of death; his magic tasting like rot and always clouding over his too-small frame of what, by all accounts, should be the body of a child. Everything about the man was unnatural, and it made bile rise to the back of Malakai’s throat whenever the walking skeleton came too close.
Unfortunately, after four months of working together, Malakai has learned how to ignore his own reactions to the foul stench of magic wrapped around Mihr.
“What told you this time? Let me guess, there’s magic in the air? Did I get it in one?” Mihr snaps, voice a low hiss. He juts forward, out of the doorway and further into the tiny hotel room. Probably to grab one of his bags or collect the daggers laid out on the counter. Mihr would know what Malakai meant. It wasn’t the first time Malakai said those words, and depending on how everything goes, it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been playing cat and mouse with Ghost since they started, but the killer seemed to always move two steps ahead.
They find out where the killer is and then Ghost is gone. He vanishes to some other city and leaves them a cookie crumb trail of magic and corpses to track the killer from one end of the kingdom to the other.
Malakai levels Mihr with a glare, opening his mouth to say there is magic in the air before snapping it shut. Better to just not say anything and leave the silence where it rests. Mihr could be a miserable wretch when he wanted to, and the walking corpse has been in a mood since they arrived in the small town.
Unlike Mihr, Malakai has barely anything to grab. He’s been slowly packing things since he first tasted the familiar magic in the air. They’re late, of course they are, and by the time they reach the source all that will be left is the explosion of magic and whatever victim Ghost left behind. The longer they wait, the more the magic disperses; thoughts lost to the wind that will never be found again. It’s something Malakai does hate about working with Mihr.
Mihr never had a sense of urgency, mostly because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel the heavy presence of magic falling in all around him. He’s not the one that can smell it, taste it. After all, Malakai is the tracker of the two of them. The hunting hound to Mihr’s hunter.
Mihr was just a hunter that didn’t want a hunting hound.
Mihr’s always the first one to leave. He doesn’t even send a glance Malakai’s way before charging out the doors he just entered; a bag is thrown over his frail shoulders as he exits. It doesn’t take long for Malakai to take the lead, long legs by-passing the much shorter man within a few steps as he forces his way out of the doors leading to the outside. Mihr follows with disgruntled murmuring humming in the air, his magic a never-ending ooze that clogs the oxygen around them.
Ghost’s magic consumes everything, teasing around Mihr’s cloud of death and suffocating Midnight with the sickly sweet taste that fades to a biting sourness. It twists in the air, fresh and panic-filled. It’s an urge to flee that makes Malakai itch like he has ants crawling across his skin. A call to run away and escape. It’s something that makes the sour aftertaste linger at the back of his throat. Usually, the magic is calmer, still a chaotic swirl of emotions, but nowhere near as flighty. Not so drenched in fear.
The heavy magic is good for one thing, the heavier it is, the looser it holds its secrets. Secrets about thoughts and misgivings, the purpose driving behind every single use of magic and that is what Malakai needs in order to track someone when their magic vanishes from the air. Those thoughts are how he decides to go to which town or which fork in the road to take. It’s how he decides whether or not the target will be moving or staying, where there might be a trap planned, or if the suspect knows something they shouldn’t. It’s what is going to help him catch the ever so elusive serial killer despite Ghost’s ability to shapeshift into his victims.
The overpowering taste and smell leads Malakai and his wayward hunter into an alleyway covered in snow. It’s dipped in between one of the older bars, loud and crowded with the candle lights flickering in the windows, and a closed-down shop with snow piled around its doors. The alley itself is a dark hole, trash cans littering the sides, and the snow mostly untouched.
Mihr has his nose curled, chin digging into his fragile chest and shoulders hunched about his neck as he braces against the cruel winds of winter that tore into every obstacle it hit. He’s got this look in his eyes, something dismissive and judging. Something saying, and what is this supposed to prove? The hunter still displeased at their hound and looking for any excuse possible to dismiss it. Malakai can’t help but wish to reject the hunter instead.
Unfortunately, Malakai was never much of a killer. Not a single harmful bone in his body. It didn’t mean that he wants to stand by and watch as nephlims abused the abilities they have and so he found the in-between. He can find the abusers, and whoever he works with can do the killing. He was an indirect killer, but one without bloodied hands. Mihr’s hands drowned in crimson; the healer seemed to make a hobby out of the unsavory task.
“This is it?” Mihr gives a derisive snort, his hand gesturing to the seemingly untouched alley. “It doesn’t even look like it has been touched, let alone be a scene of a murder.”
Mihr defies his words, carefully picking out a path to trek into the dark maw of the alley. Some trust had to be given, after all, Malakai was rarely wrong. Malakai just stood there at the mouth, breathing deeply inwards before letting it go in one heaving exhale. He drags the air, the magic across his tongue, and his eyes close as he focuses. His task was never to deal with the body of the victim; instead, it was to track down the magic and get a sense of direction where the bastard would go next.
A sharp inhale, Malakai forces his thoughts to freeze, to empty out like a tub that just had the drain pulled. He needs to focus, focus, focus-
Panic. That’s the first thought, an all-consuming waterfall quickly following in pursuit of the first hint. A face, someone who shouldn’t be here, and why are they here? Why? Why? Why? There’s hysteria singing the edges, a hint of burnt sour tumbling above the sweet taste as emotions run high. It’s whiplash, panic flooding in to suddenly turn into a sense of hopelessness, and then everything clicks, and there’s hope and happiness for one split second before everything crashes.
It’s the remorse that is the worst, like stepping into quicksand. As soon as Malakai realizes it is there, he can’t get out, and he drowns. I’m sorry; I’m sorry rings around him and drowns out every other thought. It’s gut-wrenching, something stabbing; twisting his insides around with panic breaths and guilty, I’m sorry’s.
Malakai releases his breath, letting the thoughts and magic flow out of him. He waits a minute in stilted emptiness before he tries to even wrap his head around the seconds that passed like hours in his head. Malakai tries to grasp something other than the consuming thoughts that weren’t his own. The ideas of the killer, the panic that paces back and forth in the alleyway.
That’s what the magic is doing after all. It paces, coming in like ocean waves before pulling back. It’s laced with this crippling fear, hands drenched with blood that never should have been spilled, and a face haunting them when it shouldn’t even exist. It’s-
“We need to call the police.” The voice is a freezing chill, scattering any strings Malakai was able to drag out of the chaotic mess. Mihr is crouched on the ground, staring at something behind the trash cans.
“Found the body?” It’s a stupid question; Mihr was never a fan of involving the police unless it was absolutely necessary. The CME was never one to deal with the crime scenes, leaving that task to those that were not nephlims. Too dangerous they’d say. Too hazardous for humans to chase after the nephlim criminals, but if the victim is human, then the CME has no responsibility. Fear of the body being contaminated is what Malakai always assumed. Instead, the CME would always call in the crime scenes they came across, and as long as there was magic lingering around, they’d get jurisdiction over the actual criminal.
Mihr looks up, his eyes a pale abyss as he opens his mouth before snapping it shut. He doesn’t even need to give voice to the words lingering the air for Malakai to understand that he clearly intends to say, yes, you dumbass. Malakai forces his feet forward, deeper into the alley and the panic. His feet embrace untouched snow, messing up the perfectly neat trail Mihr left with his small feet.
At first glance, everything is untouched. There’s fresh snow covering the body, and moonlight offers little light to distinguish anything amongst the pale shadows. A dark stain bled from the victim, tainting the once pure snow to a crimson black that trailed from the victim’s neck. Her hair blends in, mixing with the dark red and spiraling onto the wall she was leaning on.
“It’s a clean-cut, nicked both her arteries. No signs of struggle, and it looks like this is the place where he committed the crime. No signs of the body being moved.” Mihr nudges the girl’s head, so it tilts in the other direction. He doesn’t even hesitate before he presses two slender finger to the frozen blood blossomed across her smoke colored neck. “His usual kill. Just earlier than we expected.”
Earlier than expected, wasn’t that the biggest understatement of everything. Usually, Ghost would wait months before making a kill. He’s had three in the last two months. Well, two confirmed and one suspected. A massive burst of magic by the foot of a lake, but no body to be found. His magic had been calm and soothing then, as if whispering that everything was going to be okay, and you won’t be alone. The first kill was across the kingdom, a good three-week journey if you didn’t make any stops.
Malakai bites his tongue, eyes darting to the side of the alley where the magic still oozed out, heavy with emotions and exposing every thought Ghost had. The magic smothers everything with panic, a knowledge that something, someone, was here who shouldn’t be. The urge to flee feels like your skin is getting peeled off, and you are just trying to get away from the pain. “He knew we were here.”
Mihr gives a snort, “Not like we were subtle. You have a giant neon sign on your head saying you’re with the CME. Tell me something I couldn’t figure out on my own.” He’s got this sardonic smile spreading across his too sharp face as he forces his tiny frame up into a standing position. Malakai can’t really argue with the words, he’s got the military build with the essence of magic seeped into his skin that was donned with the CME uniform. Malakai was never one to go for subtle.
Mihr, well, he was always subtle. He was the frail broken child that no one would suspect of doing the heinous acts he does on the daily. He’s the starving stranger in oversized clothing and a decaying face. Mihr was the one that looked like he was a knock away from death’s door. He got called Death though, that was the name most know him by if it’s by rumor. Death, the one who stands outside the door to the realm of the Godlings and drags people in. It was a name that fit him better than his own skin.
Malakai closes his eyes, lets his mind drift away from the broken body on the ground and rot from the CME’s own personal grim reaper. He goes back to the sweet magic with the sour aftertaste. The magic that curls into his grasp just as much as it flees from it and parades its secrets in front of anyone who would listen. Malakai was always one of the rare few that would always listen.
He coaxes it with silence, an open ear awaiting for the panic-filled words to dribble in again. It’s the faces first, or the face that wasn’t supposed to be there. That shock of fear that got drowned by the need to plan and run. Thoughts whirling too fast for the magic to carry and then guilt that feels like a punch to the gut. The I’m sorry, and It’ll get better, I promise, I promise.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
It’s the pleas of a broken man, and then the horror of why won’t it stop, I don’t want to- I don’t want to-
A victim’s haunting wails echoing in the sour aftertaste, dragging the flavor into burning panic. Cries that bring change and make everything stop into this stilted silence as the magic withers away in frigid air. Nothing else follows, and Malakai is forced to backtrack. To look behind every thought and feeling because there had to be something. Anything.
The sour taste bites into Malakai’s flesh, dragging him deeper into the depths of panic, and then he finds it. It’s a small sliver, a backlash of fear and fleeing and then mountains and away sink in like bricks in a roaring river. Mountains, it's the only word offered to him before the magic dips back into the panic-filled symphony it sung previously.
The word is enough, there’s really only one mountain range near Demsen and that, as insane as the idea was, is, “The Qleehl Mountains.”
“What.” Mihr drops the frigid smile; instead, the thin lips take on a frown with furrowed brows digging into shadowed eyes.
“That’s where he went. To the Qleehl Mountains.”
Mihr offers a squint, pessimism visible, but he holds his tongue. Offers a shrug and says, “If that’s true, then this case is closed. He’ll die out there, and my job is done.” The unless you are wrong goes unsaid, but rings in the skeptical tone just as clearly as words in the air would.
“I’m not wrong.” Malakai doesn’t think he is, but he doesn’t know. There’s no guarantee that he’s correct. Nothing proving the strewn together words and his assumption are accurate. All he’s got is the one word to go off of; for all he knows, that could have been a passing thought that the magic decided to latch onto. He could be heading back east to NorDale.
Magic isn’t supposed to work like that, of course. It’s supposed to drag out the emotions that ring the loudest. The most honest thoughts, the ones that magic scrapes across as it escapes out of its host. So, he should be right. Mountains should be pointing to the Qleehl Mountains, and the urge to flee should signal him leaving Demsen. Logic says that no matter how insane the idea, Ghost was heading towards the mountains of the dead.
“But what if he doesn’t die?” What if they stop looking for Ghost; count him as dead even, and the killer wasn’t dead. What if he started killing again? It would be chaos.
“Then we’ll deal with it later.” Mihr’s eyes flicker towards the body, “Even if he doesn’t die, we’d be waiting for him to come back. If he comes back. He could just vanish and never return. The wastelands span over thousands of miles after all. It’d be like a needle in a haystack.”
“We can’t just-“Malakai sputters, body jarred into movement as his mind sticks to the buzz of magic roaring around him. “We can’t just leave it alone. That’s hoping we catch wind of him again if he shows up. We’d be leaving people vulnerable. If we just-“
“Just what? Follow your suspicion and then end up dying ourselves?” A cold laugh follows the words, and Mihr is merciless as he continues, “Everyone dies there, and I for one will not become another corpse to add to the body count.”
“You already are a corpse.” The words are out without any previous thought. A stampede that explodes out into the open air and leaves it sourer than the magic still raining down upon them. The stilted posture fractures into pieces as Mihr whirls around to send a glare at Malakai.
It’s amazing what a few words of honest reality does to a man who does nothing but hide from it. Malakai has seen the skeleton spend an hour painting his face to the point where the hollowed decay disappears from view. Mihr is like a disgruntled cat, bristling at an invader with a muted kind of spitefulness sparking his pale eyes.
Mihr works his mouth open for a second before he goes back to staring at the victim, a thin coat of snow hiding away the monstrosity of her death. Then in the coldest voice he says,
“Call the police. We can look into some of the farms, see if anything is missing. He isn’t going to walk across the wastelands if he is heading that way.” The words are sickeningly sweet, clinging onto Malakai’s taste buds as his mind takes in the terms. It sounds like Malakai won, like Mihr accepts that they need to follow Ghost. It’s a trap is what it is. A warning that there are specific topics not to be breached.
Mihr’s reaches over with his pale, delicate fingers, eyes slanting in Malakai’s direction as a threat of the consequences that not abiding by the warning, the trap, would cause. Malakai flinches back from the frail outstretched hand. Mihr has his fingers curled, not fully stretched out and reaching, but still a warning. Rot wafts up into the air as Mihr just lets his hand hang. The threat serves as a reminder that Mihr was the one that held power in their partnership. Mihr was the one with magic that could bring someone to death’s door just as soon as he could rescue someone from their own doomsday.
Malakai obeys, skittering off to the mouth of the alley before fishing out his phone. Not something he’s used to using, the east was too bogged down with magic to make use of frequency waves, but the west was usually kept free of the disease. Instead, they didn’t get the easy access to the inventions the east made, such as electricity. Give or take. One or the other. Nephlim or human.
“Police Department of Demsen, what’s your emergency?” The woman on the other side of the line sounds bored, static chopping up a few of her words and giving it a robotic ring. She’s probably counting the hours until her shift ends, and Malakai is mere seconds away from demolishing any sense of normalcy she has.
“I’m reporting a homicide in the alley between Dangerous Drink and Hagins on Satchin Street.”
At this point, if he was Mihr, Malakai would have just hung up the phone rather than listen to the girl stutter out, “Wha- A homicide? How do you- the alleyway between Dangerous Drink and… Hagins? Did you see the murder?”
“I’m with the CME and am currently in pursuit of the killer. I need a patrol to be sent out to the crime scene to record and report the crime so that the CME can add it to their files.” The words are calm, controlled. Something laid out nicely with no room for argument.
“With the CME?” Her voice shakes with the static, “A patrol has been sent out, they should arrive within the next ten minutes. Is there-“Malakai shuts the phone with a click, silence snapping into the desolate alley. Mihr steps behind Malakai, his back hunching into the oversized coat that drapes across his form.
They stand there, muted and greyed out before, “No one is going to be awake at this hour. We’ll have to wait for the morning hours to see if anyone stole a horse or got a late-night customer.” The words are tossed out offhandedly, Mihr doesn’t even bother to look up from the snow-filled darkness in front of them. The suggestion makes Malakai’s skin crawl, the sweet-sour magic clings to his skin, but it is vanishing with each passing second. Come morning, it could just be an echo, spread thin across the street and indistinguishable amongst the other traces of magic that cling to the air.
“If we wait ’til the morning, the magic will be gone. We won’t be able to track him as easily. It’ll be a hit or miss, and the wind could carry it miles off.” Malakai releases the words with a defensive huff, a dwindling hope that vanishes as soon as Mihr shrugs his fragile shoulders.
“I don’t need you to find Ghost.” It’s a blatant lie. The only reason Mihr has come as close to finding the elusive shapeshifter as he has was because of Malakai. The man can’t try to hunt someone down who changes their appearance on a dime and seems to make random kills and moves in mysterious ways. There’s a pattern, more in the killer’s magic than in the kills themselves or in the actions, but there is a pattern. Albeit a small one.
“We wait until morning, and we aren’t going to find him. Even if you can pull off some impossible detective skills. He’s going through the wastelands during winter, snowfall is going to cover up any tracks he makes. And,” Malakai takes a deep breath before continuing, “there is no clear cut trail to the Qleehl Mountains to begin with. Following his magic is going to be our only way to track him.”
“If he is going to the mountains, I will not be following him. All that needs to be done is reporting it to the CME and moving on with our lives. If something pops up in one of the neighboring towns that seems like it could be Ghost, they’ll send someone to check it out. But, most likely, the man will be dead. He’s doing my job for me, and I have other things I need to do. We will check the stables in the morning.” Mihr clicks his tongue as if he could end the conversation with the single sharp sound.
Malakai bites his tongue, copper blends in with the sourness coating the back of his throat. He fights the urge to argue because it would get him nowhere. It never gets him anywhere; once Mihr makes up his mind on something, the man stuck to it as if he were glue. It’s like Malakai is still trying to prove his worth as a hound to the hunter, and Mihr refuses to acknowledge any successes and only points out the failures. Only points out the oh, looks like Ghost went to another city and not this one.
“We can’t stop just because he’s gone off the grid. That’s-“ Malakai loses the battle, the words fall out of his mouth even though he knows it’s a lost cause. “What if he’s only going in the direction of the Qleehl Mountains, using the wastelands to cut to Heisenworth or one of the other cities up north without hitting any of the smaller towns?” The defeat tastes like the magic hanging in the air, overly sour as the words slip out.
“It isn’t my problem. We will check the stables in the morning.” There’s a bite now, a threat lingering underneath the words even if Mihr is still staring fixedly at the end of the road. The argument is a loss; Malakai reluctantly drops it and shifts further away from the tiny, broken frame that was engulfed in ragged clothing.
It’s not long before headlights flicker through the darkness as one of the older cars crept up the road. Mihr shifts further into the shadows, tilting his body so that his back is facing the nearby wall and his eyes watching as the car pulls to a spluttering stop near them. Malakai heaves himself up to his full height, chin jutting forward and a frown tight on his lips. If Mihr was going to continue his refusal of dealing with the police, then Malakai was going to have to keep them from getting distracted by the skeleton huddled next to the wall.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last; unless Mihr actually does tell the CME that Ghost is dead. Even the thought sends a sickening lurch in Malakai’s stomach. To let a serial killer run loose just because it might be dangerous to follow them was unimaginable.
The men who exit the vehicle are whispering, one giving a yawn while the other stares at Malakai as if he was a monster veiled in human flesh. They ignore Mihr, striding up to Malakai with dark frowns. The taller of the two snaps out, “Where’s the body?”
“Over there.” Malakai moves a step back, and a sweeping motion of his arm in the direction of the trash cans and the victim’s body. The shorter man makes a halting step forward, eyes flickering around the scene. He makes a soft humming noise that freezes as he creeps steadily closer to the travesty.
Mihr sits back, looming like the reaper waiting to strike. Not a single eye flickers his way, but Malakai can still taste the rotting nervousness wafting off the man. He at least had the decency to wait until the shorter man is crouched by the corpse and inspecting it before he chimes in, “We need to leave-“
“What did this?” It’s the taller one, his eyes skid right past Mihr and land on Malakai. It makes sense, Malakai seems like the dangerous one of the two. Those that don’t keep track of the going ons of the CME would never even think of Mihr being hazardous. His hiding just makes the belief of innocence and harmlessness that much more believable.
“It’s-“There’s still a copper taste in Malakai’s mouth, which is the only thing that stopped him from biting onto his tongue as he forced the words to halt. “This will be going under Ghost.” Whether or not they know what he means by that doesn’t matter. As long as it’s marked as Ghost, it’ll make its way to the CME. Another name for another criminal.
“Ghost? What-“The shorter one stops, eyes wide as he looks up at Malakai. The magic pulses in the air, more thoughts tickle the edges of Malakai’s mind that he has to swat away.
“What are we going to be telling everyone else?” The taller one is talking again, voice sharp. It’s a good question, saying that there is a nephlim killer on the loose is the best way to get a town into a frenzy. Especially in the west were nephlims are more ostracized.
“Newspapers like to sing songs about unfortunate incidents happening in dark alleys. Like a mugging gone wrong.” Mihr’s voice is soft, a quiet whisper into the air. He’s stepping forward, the ooze of his magic pushing up and around Malakai with his movements.
“That’s-“actually a good idea, Malakai assumes the taller policeman would have said if not for Mihr snapping out,
“We need to leave, though.” Mihr gives this smile, a jagged little thing that belies his helplessness. Malakai forces out a nod, offering,
“I would keep an eye out for anything that was stolen through the night, or if anyone else suddenly vanished. If something does come up, contact the CME to let us know.”
They don’t even try to put up a fight, giving in to the inevitable with lost eyes and a frozen body at their feet. Mihr’s the one who leads the way; he doesn’t even spare the two a glance.
Malakai isn’t so heartless, he stares at them. Watches as the two shuffle around the body and as they talk with their frozen breath dispersing in the air. He can imagine the thoughts, the worry as they touch a body that was killed by a nephlim. They’ll probably go home and pray to the Godlings that they didn’t interact with enough magic to catch it.
They’ll probably pray for a leech to come this way and cure them if they did catch the disease.
Leaving is something of a gift for the policemen, and for Malakai and Mihr. Less exposure, less communication. Pass the needed word and move on. The police would then cover up the homicide and keep everything calm as the CME did its job.
The silence between them stretches thin as they walk away. Thoughts whirl, words buzzing at the tip of Malakai’s tongue and he wants to speak. To argue, to demand things that aren’t his to demand. The copper burns as he swallows, the sour taste still clinging as a reminder of what’s there. Of what the next step is, what it should be.
There's a sweet, sweet kind of magic with just the tiniest bit of sourness to it dangling in the air. It drowns out the remains of the last bout. The old batch. This was new. Fresh and it prickles. It’s not another death, not sour enough for it and there’s no emotion being carried with the sickly sweet taste. It’s more… innocent. A shift in forms, something natural and smooth.
“He’s been here.” Malakai doesn’t hesitate to spit out the words. Mihr gives him the ugliest look, his glare colder than the outside air.
“We are going to the hotel.” There’s no room for argument.
“We might be able to find him before he leaves.” Malakai presses his luck, feet speeding because he can still taste, feel, smell the sweet magic. It’s been drifting, maybe for miles, but it was there and new. It was a chance.
“In the morning-“ Mihr begins but Malakai stops listening. It doesn’t matter because he’s going to go for it. He’s… Ghost is within reach. He’s right there, his magic dangling a carrot, and all Malakai has to do is reach out and grab it.
“Look, we can just follow it. Stay on the outskirts? We have everything we need. There’s no need to go back. Just, let’s just follow the trail. If he goes towards the wastelands we can stop. I won’t even say anything.” Malakai stops, he watches as Mihr mentally battles himself to just abandon him before the walking skeleton stops.
Mihr gives a sigh, hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose, “We’ll look. But as soon as he goes into the wastelands I’m going to head straight back to the capitol.” It’s not much but it tastes even sweeter than the magic lingering in the air.
“We’ll need to grab the horses if we are following.” The look Mihr sends Malakai says everything. No shit, dumbass. Thankfully, Mihr doesn’t feel the urge to say the words. Instead, he gave a small snort and then says,
“Wouldn’t it be ironic if he stole one of our horses?”
In the end, Ghost had not stolen one of their horses. The walk made Malakai lose track of the magic, but he still had an idea where it was coming from so he had hope that he could find it again. As long as he could find it, he could locate Ghost.
Mihr looks up at the horses as if they’re some kind of monster. His small frame dwarfed against the beasts. He always acts like a skittish cat whenever it came to them. He’d circle, step closer and then skitter back the second they moved. One would think he’d have gotten better after riding horseback for so long. He hasn’t.
“I promise she isn’t going to bite you.” Malakai couldn’t resist letting the words fly into the air. Mihr dutifully ignores him as he decides to brace himself, small chest puffing up and then he’s hurtling himself up and over the saddle in a choppy motion.
Malakai swings into the saddle, pulling himself up high and then, “Let’s go, we have a ghost to hunt.”
Mihr stays a dark cloud of rot, but squares his shoulders anyways. There’s a small kick, and they’re off. A slow trot, nothing too quick since Malakai has to take notice of every scent or taste in the air. Anything that could pinpoint the next location and-
He finds it. This little aftertaste, but undoubtedly the sweetness of Ghost’s magic. It’s rising high in the sky, a barely-there quiver, but he finds it. He tugs at it, drawing it down and lets it flood into his mouth.
The horses go faster. Ripping through the town, passing by the murder in the alley and into freedom. Snow explodes underneath the storming hooves and Mihr slowly falls behind, but Malakai has the taste of magic sticking to the roof of his mouth. He can feel it in his bones that this is the best chance they’ll have. The magic stays parallel to the wastelands and goes right out of town.
There’s a house up ahead, and magic is rich in the air. It lingers, a familiar thought brushing across Malakai’s mind. The words getting away and Qleehl filtering in. The house has a stable in the back, probably missing one horse that they’ll find in the morning. Maybe Malakai will be returning it home in a few hours, and he’d be done with the mission.
After all of this, he was going to go home. He was going to collapse on his couch and hold his wife and not worry about Ghost ever again.
The magic vanishes after a few minutes. The trail too dispersed in the air for Malakai to catch. Suddenly, everything is empty, and there's nothing to go off of outside of the thoughts and direction from before. So he pretends that he could still feel it, taste it. Mihr wouldn’t know any better after all.
The house is a mere speck in their shadows when Malakai finds it again. The horses had slowed down to a trot when he catches wind of the magic again. It’s a hint, a tease in the wind, but enough for Malakai to grab onto and hold.
He doesn’t think, digs his heels into his horse with a kick, and he’s off. The scent drags to the left, and he follows like a cat after a mouse. Chasing, chasing, chasing-
And then the smell disperses. Rising high up in the sky and out of reach.
Malakai freezes, jerking the reins back and-
Mihr is nowhere to be found, and the world was a haze of grey and white. The wind sweeps the snow up and acts like a cover of fog.
The air is quiet, tasteless. He reaches for strings and pulls up nothing.
“Fuck.” The whisper is lost in the wastelands.