Herne didn’t let me out of the attic until a week after I first arrived in Baile Bo. He had finally arranged for a buyer and when I stumbled downstairs, still in the same clothes as I brought, he grimaced at the smell and layers of grime.

“We can’t have you looking like that when the Necrium come, boyo. Though I’ve sniffed quite a few that put you to shame”, he chuckled.

The bathroom was tiled with blue mosaics and lit with a warm buttery light from ornate wall scones. But most importantly, there were no windows. The sink was simply a large porcelain bowl fixed to cedar countertop; there were no sign of pipes, yet when I turned the faucet cool, clear water flowed out. At the bottom of the bowl, the water emptied out through a seemingly ordinary hole which upon closer inspection to be a sticker. I wouldn’t have noticed at all if one of the edges hadn’t peeled away. I picked at the sticker, which easily came off, and pocketed it.

The tub was a simple, clawfoot tub and like the sink, there were no piping. I filled the tub with deliciously warm water and stepped in delicately. I scrubbed myself with a coarse bristled brush and a bar of old-fashioned lye soap. After I was done, my skin was the fresh pink of a newborn baby and I could feel the ghostly lines that that abrasive brush had traced against my skin.

Deidre had dropped off a pair of slacks and a white button-down shirt earlier with a smirk and a knowing look.

“See you never, dead boy” she had whispered, blowing me a kiss.

The clothes were old but clean, slightly too large for me. The shirt was so worn, it was practically transparent, and the pants had obviously been patched many times. On the underside of the belt were a monogramed AM. Somehow, I doubted Deirdre had legally purchased them, or if she had, it was from the rattiest secondhand store in the city. Though I suppose the clothes were well suited to my mission. To complete the look, I buttoned up the shirt wrong and left it untucked, let out my belt an extra notch, then mussed up my hair.

I emerged from the bathroom clean and if I looked a bit sloppy, we could just put it down to nerves. Herne was waiting for me just outside the door and when I came out, he looked at me with the gaze of a farmer calculating the value of a prized bull.

“There that’s much better! Tuck in your shirt and fix the buttons.” He said with a look of disdain then walked over to the living room, expecting me to follow like a loyal dog, which I did slowly, slouching as I went.

“Wait here”, Herne commanded in the same tone as one would tell a dog to stay.

The living room was dim and musty, carpeted in a faded, Oriental rug that had once been a rich red, threaded through with a swirling pattern of gold leaves. The furniture was all dark heartwood and cracked leather that let out a poof of dust as I sat down. I could see myself in the mirror atop the dresser; my face looked pale and gaunt and dark hollows had appeared below my eyes, my normally brown hair seemed to have darkened a shade and was dry and brittle. Death had taken its toll, though the sentence was light. Still human, tired looking but otherwise normal.

I waited ten minutes, then twenty; an hour passed. Finally, as I was about to doze off, I heard voices and the sound of the door unlocking. As I listened to that ghastly knocker handed out its customary insults, my heart beat a little faster. I harbored a secret hope that Azaroth would notice and come to my aid if my need was dire enough.

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The door opened, revealing Herne and a grossly obese man by his side. His nearly bald head was shiny with oil and sweat and the rolls of his fatty neck were pink with exertion.

“Why must you live like a beggar, so far from the heart of the city, Herne dear” he gasped, jowls shaking. His striped suspenders strained against his impressive girth, struggling to hold up a pair of ugly blue pants. A matching blue jacket hung on his arm, giving me a full view of his white shirt, damp with sweat.

“My grandfather’s house, it has … sentimental value” Herne replied, graciously holding open the door.

“Ah, you must be Finn, Macha’s get.” He said by way of greeting.

“He’s Macha’s nephew, not that it matters.” Herne corrected.

“My apologies dear boy, you do resemble her quite a bit, I’ll have you know.”

The man sat down with a heavy thump in the armchair across from me, a cloud of dust lifting into the air. Herne sat next to me with delicate grace, hardly disturbing the couch as he did so.

“Would you like some tea, Baron Mac Raith?”

“Yes, yes, that’d be wonderful”, the baron replied, dabbing at his forehead with a lovely, silver handkerchief.

Herne turned towards the stairs and called for Deirdre. She came down quickly, her feet lightly trotting on the thin carpet. Yet once she reached the bottom, she sauntered into view with a slow, elegant grace.

“Hello, Baron Mac Raith, it’s always such a joy when you visit us”, greeting the Baron with uncharacteristic #graciousness.

“Deirdre, I must say, you’re more stunning each time I visit aren’t you”, he looked at Herne with a questioning glance and a pleasant smile. Herne simply scowled and mouthed ‘No’. And as the baron chatted with Deirdre who had sauntered off to the kitchen, I heard Herne mutter under his breath, “for the last time, thrice damned slaver’.

Deirdre returned with a platter of fragrant, steaming tea and beautiful, porcelain cups so thin to be almost transparent and painted in delicate, botanical patterns. She poured and handed each cup out with practiced ease and a grace I did not know she possessed. The tea was pitch dark, heady, and floral. One sip and I felt invigorated and refreshed, yet somehow relaxed and calm.

“Ooh hoo hoo, what’d you lace this with this time, Herne?” the baron chuckled.

“Bit of carnelian and Worshchester and a little something of my own making. It is to your liking?” Herne asked politely.

“It sure is, I must ask you for the recipe after we discuss business.”

“Of course, and I might politely remind you to refrain from touching the merchandise this time.”

The baron gave a great, booming laugh. “Of course, my apologies for the last time. You should’ve seen Andrea’s face though, what a hoot!”

Herne gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“Does the boy have any special abilities, talents?”

“He is Macha’s kin as you know, I suppose that would mean, he has the potential to possess some of Macha’s potion-making prowess. And I had him sign a contract with Namazu, the god of river bottoms and poisons.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment you’ve got here Herne. I haven’t heard the name Namazu in quite some time and in combination with Macha, I’m almost salivating.” The baron grinned, revealing rows of razorsharp, shark teeth. “I hope you haven’t shown him around to anyone.”

“No, you’re the first, I assure you.”

“Good, good. Well, the Necrium could use an asset like that. Could you imagine if we were able to doll out a narcotic of the caliber that Macha used to make? We might even be able to take over East Haven.” The baron’s eyes lit up with excitement at the thought. He took a loud sip of tea, a few drops splattering onto his sweat-soaked shirt. “How much do you want for him?”

“Finn, would you mind helping Deirdre brew another pot of tea.” Herne asked me, the first time he even said a word to me since walking in.

I glared at him. When I tried to snap at him or give any sort of indication of the disgust of being sold like this, my throat clammed up, always my enemy at the worst of times. I could tell my cheeks were going pink with indignation, so I simply stomped away, upstairs. If I couldn’t tell him off, the least I could do, was a blatant show of disobedience.

But Herne and the baron didn’t seem to care a bit as they simply went back to their conversation. “I’d hate to discuss money in front of the boy.” Herne told him.