That long day waxes into a brisk week. The little lady wakes up fourteen hours later; Loch’s frustrated whining throbs in the back of her head like a migraine. Dim candlelight cushions her eyes with its dainty blaze, and a crooked spoon presses against her mouth. Her lips are chapped.

Lenore frowns, turning her face away from the spoon with a grumble.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” Odell says, “You said you’d eat something if I let you sleep another ten minutes. It’s been half an hour!”

Lenore mumbles into her pillow, “When did I say that?”

“When I woke you up for breakfast. Don’t you remember?”

“... No?”

The singer sighs, “Drink. It’s peach and rice soup. You love peaches.”

Odell is a rather good cook. Unfortunately, a good cook can only do so much with the ingredients they’re given. For this soup, it was either peaches or pickles. Rice or stale rye bread. You do your best with what you have. Supplies were always scarce at the end of the month but they didn’t dare dip into their reserves. Not with winter on its way.

Peach and rice soup is almost decent once you get used to the tanginess. It takes a couple of bites. If only they had some cream, a pinch of sugar, cinnamon and vanilla for flavour; it could have been great. The soup isn’t great. But it’s edible, so Lenore guzzles down a few sips. In the back of her head, she hears more of Loch’s grumbling, presumably after another less-than-successful attempt at his next lesson.

On the bright side, the boy has finally mastered his first lesson. Elasticity and size manipulation. He can shrink to the size of a cat and he can balloon to the size of a truck with ease. If he wanted, Loch could probably grow even bigger than a truck. Big as a skyscraper if he pushed it. But right now, the boy has other priorities. The second lesson is morphing and mimicry, and it’s proving to be a real bitch. It started when Jean-Luc shape-shifted into a little red bird. On his first try, Loch easily matched him in size, but no matter how he contorted and curved his body, nothing else changed. He remains the same bulbous blob, with his wide eyes and quarter-moon smile, whether he’s ten metres tall or ten millimetres small. Not a faux feather in sight.

Days pass. It’s agony for both of them, although for very different reasons.

While Loch makes little progress with his lessons, Lenore’s recovery advances ahead of schedule. For a woman who looked like she was on her deathbed the day prior, the little lady is suddenly spry as a rabbit. There are mysteries to solve. There isn’t time for silly things like rest or relaxation. By day three, Lenore’s ready to get back on track. It’s early. Still more midnight than dawn. Silent as a mouse, Lenore gently pulls her cover’s away. She moves leisurely, anxious that even the tiniest shuffle would draw unwanted attention. She makes no sound, but that hardly matters.

“Leaving so soon?”

The little lady flinches. Her head whips around, eyes widening when she sees Odell leaning against the far wall, watching. The singer’s arms are crossed, her foot is tapping, and her left eyebrow is raised. Odell smiles, “Morning!”

Lenore freezes in place, blinking slowly in astonishment, “... Good morning.”

“How are you?”

“... Fine.”

“Fine enough to sneak off while everyone’s asleep?” Odell walks up to the bed, looking down at her.

Lenore looks down at her lap like a scolded toddler, “... Perhaps.”

Lenore narrows her eyes. Her feet dangle off the edge of her bed, not quite touching the floor. Three days into this maddening respite and the little lady had thought they’d settled into a schedule. The singer would leave at dusk and be gone throughout the night. Odell rarely returned before nine in the morning. It’s barely six.

Lenore was supposed to be alone.

“Okay, if that’s what you want. I guess Loch will have to stay here and suffer through his lessons alone, then. But I’m sure he’ll be okay, right?” Odell smiles sweetly.

“...Yes.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Her endearing voice tempts Lenore with a false sense of security. “There’s no point fighting the inevitable.”

Lenore stares, “... Would you bring me my shoes?”

With a spring in her step, Odell fetches the little lady’s footwear. She kneels and as she slips the left shoe over the little lady’s sock, she says, “So, where were you planning on sneaking off to this time? To the Theatre? The raccoon’s hideout?” The singer grits her teeth ever so slightly, “To Felina’s...?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But you’ve already decided to go alone.” Odell moves on to the right shoe, loosening the laces and slipping it onto Lenore’s right foot.

“... I’m not doing any of this to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s never been about me.”

Odell’s grip tightens around Lenore’s foot, her fingers subconsciously digging into the worn leather vamp. The little lady winces, although it’s hardly from any kind of pain. The shoe’s leather is too thick. Her feet aren’t quite sensitive enough to feel the pressure. But the way Odell’s knuckles go white from the angry clench she has on Lenore’s foot brings forth a different kind of hurt.

“... You’re hurting me.” Lenore mumbles.

Immediately, Odell yanks her hands away.

“Sorry,” She says, standing up and taking half a step backward, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Lenore rolls her ankles a few times, “It’s my fault for trying to run off without you. Again.”

As she holsters her bag over her shoulder, Lenore feels though the fabric to make sure she’s got everything. Her notebooks, her mask, and her knife. All present and accounted for. She slides off the bed.

“I don’t know why I did that.”

Lenore looks up. The singer is staring down at her open palms. Her fingers slowly curl into firsts. Every motion her hands make, Odell is alert. It’s her conscious decision to dig her nails into the meat of her palm. She chooses to clench her fists so tightly that her forearms tremble. If she wanted, Odell is fully capable of relaxing her grip.

So why can’t she remember tightening her grip on Lenore’s foot? It was as if this haze had overtaken her. Some kind of instinct. When was it that her grip had gone from gentle to painful? Why had it happened at all? It was almost as if it had been someone else's hands. Someone else’s grip. But, at the same time, she can remember other things. She remembers bringing the little lady her shoes; she remembers kneeling down to slip them over her feet. She can feel the phantom texture of the leather on her skin, though the weight of it evades her.

But the tightening of her grip, that had to have been someone else. Emerging at random, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

Odell frowns, “I don’t know why I get so angry.”

“Everyone gets angry sometimes,” Lenore says. She lifts her arm, showing off the bandages around her knuckles, “How do you think this happened?”

An amused smile graces the singer’s face, “You know, I was wondering about that…”

But as much as she tries to hide it, Odell’s smile is shaky. One wrong move, and Lenore knows that the singer’s smile would crumble apart.

Lenore sighs, “Could you grab that blanket for me?”

Odell’s brow furrows, “Um… okay?”

She grabs the blanket off the bed, then she and Lenore walk up to the nearest white wall. Both of them take a deep breath before they step through the wall, which seamlessly dissipates into vapour around them. Five seconds later, and they can breathe again on the other side.

Lenore opens her eyes first.

The laboratory is different once again. The kindergarten it once was has been stretched thin and warped into a room larger than it was likely made to be. This strain has left the decor rather distorted, shapes unhinged and colours perverted. It seems like no one has bothered to straighten up these imperfections. Did they not have time? Or were they just too lazy? For all Lenore knows, it could be a stylistic decision. This new laboratory did have a surreal sort of elegance to it if you squinted at it long enough.

Either way, It’s a bit of a circus. Messy, but manageable.

“Good morning, my good miss.”

“Good morning, Detective.” The little lady whispers, carefully keeping her voice low. Loch is curled up in the middle of one of the carpets, napping like a kitten. She doesn’t want to wake him. It’s good to see him sleeping. He needs his rest just as much as Lenore, if not more. It’s even better knowing that he is capable of sleep. For a creature like Loch, unconsciousness is a privilege.

The Detective is sitting in a rocking chair beside Loch. They have a small tambour hoop on their lap, the wood of which is old and beginning to splinter. It’s difficult to tell where the Detective is looking, but judging by the tone of their voice, it’s obvious they're distracted by the needle between their fingers and the fabric between the hoop. Embroidery is a hobby the Detective regularly indulges in. It’s something they do to relax. The monotonous shades of black that the Detective stitch together is calming. They only ever embroidered in black. Cheap onyx fabric, licorice thread, and shiny jet sequins.

“And Miss Averill,” The Detective mumbles, “How kind of you to join us so early.”

The flower twins, Belva and Astra, have wrapped themselves around the Detective’s elbow. Jean-Luc perches on their shoulder in the form of a bird. They’re still, but certainly not sleeping.

“Loch’s lessons start at eight, right?” Lenore asks.

The Detective nods.

Odell watches in confusion as Lenore grabs her hand and shuffles over to the nearest empty couch. The little lady sits, tugging Odell down with her. She grabs the blanket out of the singer’s fist, throwing it around both she and Odell’s shoulders. Once the warmth of the heavy fabric settles over the two of them, Lenore burrows into Odell's side with a sigh.

“Wake me when he’s ready to start.”

Lenore feels the singer’s body relax. They shift until they find each other's hands under the blanket. Odell’s hands are hot. Lenore’s are cold. Hand in hand, everything is just right.

~*~

After this, there are no more escape attempts, if you could even call it that.

Odell comes and goes, caught between her responsibilities at the Theatre and her devotion to her loved ones at the Cocteau. Thank goodness for Mr. Tanner. Though his job is technically limited to manning the door and cleaning after the Theatre closes, Mr. Tanner steps up. He shuffles schedules, he takes over accounting, he even gives the official statement, first to the employees and then to the guests, when the time comes to explain why Lady Averill’s performances had changed so suddenly. Where were the lights, the curtains that moved on their own, the drumbeat that roared from the walls? Where had the magic gone?

These questions could only be put off for so long. At the end of the week, early into the night, Lady Averill doesn’t show at all. Instead, atop the balcony, Mr. Tanner appears.

“Good evening,” He speaks in a loud, deadpan voice, “And welcome to the Theatre. Unfortunately, I am sorry to say that Lady Averill will not be performing tonight.”

Murmuring erupts from the onlookers below. Many are confused, most are alarmed, and a few are even outraged.

Mr. Tanner continues as if he’d not heard even a peep from them, “I am here to announce that the Theatre is planning a special performance for the upcoming new year. Lady Averill, her band, and a select few other performers, will be putting on a show for our glorious ruling family, the House of Romilly.”

The janitor expected to hear gasps from the crowd. He expected turmoil. He expected a commotion of bewilderment and fury. All he receives is an ocean of blank stares.

“I’m sure you are all as delighted as Lady Averill.” Mr. Tanner enunciates slowly so no one could mishear, “That is why we hope you will be understanding as Lady Averill takes time away from the stage to prepare for what she plans to be a gratifying show unlike any has ever seen. Something that the House of Romilly truly deserves.”

The crowd watches in silence as the man they only knew as the Theatre’s plain-faced doorman retreats behind the listless, unmoving curtains. They stew in their shock for some time. It would take an hour for them all to disperse, but it would take mere minutes for the news to spread like a plague.

And what of the part-time doorman, part-time janitor? What did he think of the news? The other employees had kept their thoughts to themselves, submissive to Lady Averill’s commands. Even her precious bandmates kept their mouths shut. Why would Mr. Tanner react any differently? He manned the doors, he swept the halls, he shuffled the schedules, and he managed the accounts. He was loyal. He did what was asked of him. Mr. Tanner played his part like any good actor should.

The next evening, he drives to a seemingly abandoned hotel. Odell had given him the address over the phone. He waits outside in his worn suit and shoes, and a few minutes later the hotel doors open.

“Mr. T!” Odell smirks, “You’re such a doll! Thanks for coming to pick us up.”

Mr. Tanner says nothing, as usual. He watches as his boss struts down the steps, the sequins of her dress catching the fleeting daylight. She’s wearing violet. A thin, barely there, scrape of a frock. Her hair is free as a lion's mane and that scrappy frock, practically painted onto her body, does little to hide her checkerboard skin. She’s a spectacle.

Odell pats the hood of the car fondly, “Hey Duds! My ugly little rustbucket…”

And then, a few reluctant steps behind her, Mr. Tanner spots Lenore. To the man's shock, the little lady is also wearing a dress. It’s a tattered beige-brown evening gown. It’s long sleeves, matching gloves, turtleneck collar, and layered skirts act as a shield against wandering eyes. But, as Mr. Tanner expected, Lenore is also wearing one of her masks. The Clara mask to be precise. The false curls and bubble brown eyes suit her outfit. The uncomfortable frown on her face does not.

Lenore yanks the hotel door shut behind her and scurries into the car without a word. Once Odell and Mr. Tanner join her, they’re off. The roads are unsteady under the wheels of the car, an Otha-Bates Funeral Limo. Lenore fished it out of a scrapyard years ago and spent months fixing it up. Odell named it Duds, short for Bo Dudley. Other nicknames that commonly spilled out of the singer’s mouth were Duddles, Bo-boy, Doobles, Buddle-Duddle, and Bo-bo Do-do. Lenore called it The Hearse, and nothing else. She and the singer sit in the backseat, while Mr. Tanner drives upfront. The singer is delighted to find Mr. Tanner hadn’t forgotten her most prized possession, securing it in the backseat just as she had instructed. Odell’s solid-body electric guitar with a built in amp. It’s the only instrument the singer’s ever played, and although the shape of the guitar was rather strange, it played like a dream. More likely than not, the instrument will come in handy, what with the night they have ahead of them.

Odell frets over the little lady’s skirt. Dud’s engine rumbles on, puffing like an old smoker. The springs under the seat cushions poke them as they sit, and the redness of the darkening sky bathes them in its dusk. Every few seconds, Mr. Tanner checks on them from the rear-view mirror.

“Fuck, maybe we should have gone with black,” She mutters, “Or added a second layer, maybe? People might see your ankles when you sit down…”

Lenore doesn’t say anything, too lost in her thoughts.

Odell continues, “Or is it too many layers? Are you hot?”

Silence.

“Lenore?” The singer pokes the little lady’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Lenore blinks, “I apologize, did you say something?”

Odell sighs. She puts her arm around Lenore, but when she opens her mouth to speak, she hesitates. Her gaze flickers up to the rear-view mirror. She meets Mr. Tanner’s eyes for a split-second and then he looks away. The singer struggles to find the right words for what she wants to say. Words that would be clear to Lenore, but not too obvious to their driver.

“Look,” She says, “I’ll admit we were a little… harsh, back there. But we made the right choice. And I’m sure that… others… will understand why it was the right choice soon enough.”

Lenore’s frown only gets deeper. She wants to disagree. But when she glances up, she catches Mr. Tanner’s gaze again, watching them silently.

It’s not that they didn’t trust Mr. Tanner. Far from it. He’d long since earned his place as their right hand, but, at the same time, he is also their third wheel. One step outside their little circle. You know what they say about secrets; fewer people in the know means an easier time keeping unknowns low. And Loch was an unknown they needed to keep on the down-low.

So, instead of answering, Lenore broods.

~*~

Loch had wanted to go with them tonight. Lenore had the misfortune of watching the boy bouncing off the laboratory walls, yammering about how excited he was to go out with them.

“I’ve never been to a party!” Loch gushes, “I mean, I don’t think I have… This is gonna be so fun! How many people are gonna be there? What about those weird kids we met at the train station? If they’re going to the party, maybe we can become friends!”

It would have been so sweet if only he was gushing about anything else. Unfortunately, Odell reacted poorly. Before Lenore had the chance to voice her objections, in as soft a way as she could, the singer spoke up. With shoulders shaking in frustration, Odell said, “Yeah, you’re not going, buddy. You’re staying here. A cathouse is no place for you.”

In hindsight, letting it slip that the “party” was being held in “a cathouse” was bound to add fuel to the fire. Lenore had mentioned something about cathouses, what had she said it was again? Maybe it was like a pet shop, with cute kitties and kittens to play with all night long! Wouldn’t that be amazing! Now Loch had to go. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

And, to his frustration, “no” was all he was being told.

“Why not?” Loch had asked over and over. And over and over, they dodged his questions.

“Because we say so,” Was all Lenore said, “We should be back tomorrow morning.”

“And if you stop making a fuss, maybe we can have a party here when we get back,” Odell said in a way that was probably supposed to be kind.

But for hours, Loch would not be dissuaded. He wanted to go! And if he couldn’t go, he wanted to know why! It was Odell who finally put her foot down. Under no circumstances was Loch coming with them. The singer would sooner die than let that happen. The reason didn’t matter.

The tantrum Loch had thrown was a sad thing. No kicking or screaming, Loch didn’t even cry. He merely sank to the floor and cried quietly. That evening as Lenore and Odell left through the dark foyer, the fireplace was cold and barren, Loch sent the little lady a little goodbye message.

“Have fun at your party,” He said in a tone more depressed than angry, “I won’t be there so I know you’ll have a good time.”

~*~

Mr. Tanner clears his throat, “My ladies, if I may speak?”

Lenore scantly glanced in his direction, her mind still caught up in the past, “Of course, Mr. Tanner. What is it?”

“I wanted to inform you that I delivered the early paychecks to all of the workers last night, as you requested. I also deliver the announcement of the change in schedule to the patrons. There wasn’t much of a reaction, positive or negative. I kept an eye out for any rioters, but luckily the night went on smoothly…”

They both hum in absent acknowledgment.

Mr. Tanner continues, “Furthermore, I made sure to lock down the Theatre before I left to pick you two up. I understand that it is expected of me to return after dropping you off, to ensure there are no trespassers while you’re out, but--”

The two ladies hum again. Mr. Tanner pauses. Did their humming mean they wanted him to continue speaking, or that they expected him to stay at the Theatre as planned? Was he now speaking out of turn?

“...But I was hoping,” He stumbles over his words, “Or, rather, I wanted your permission to, perhaps, briefly, make a detour to my former living arrangements. There is some business I was hoping to attend to…”

Lenore raises an eyebrow, “Business?”

“But I understand if you’d rather I postpone my leave until a later date.” Mr. Tanner barrels on, voice monotone and fast.

Odell frowns, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” He states firmly, “No, it's just… I left some important belongings there when I moved and there’s been word of scavengers in the area. I wanted to make sure nothing was stolen.”

“Hey,” Odell smiles reassuringly, making sure Mr. Tanner saw her expression in the mirror, “There’s no reason to panic, T. We just want to know where you’ll be if we need you. You’ll be back in time to pick us up?”

“Of course.”

“Then do what you have to do.” Odell shrugs, “I trust you.”

Abruptly, Duds comes to a stop.

Mr. Tanner unbuckles his seatbelt, “We’ve arrived, My ladies.”

The tinted windows blur the outside world. Mr. Tanner opens his door, and the bustling sounds of the crowd outside flood in. He quickly shuts the door behind him. He’ll open the door for them once the crowd has been fended off.

As they wait, The little lady speaks.

“You’ll have to distract Missus Van Der Venne while I find the raccoons.” Lenore says. She ready’s her bag over her shoulder while the singer fiddles with her tiny purse and parasol.

Odell scoffs, “Lucky me...”

“Keep conversation light, keep people’s attention on you, and for the love of all that is sacred, keep your temper.”

“Fine, fine. But if she makes even ​one​ comment--”

“You will handle the situation like the respectable, intelligent, resilient lady that I know you are.” Lenore interrupts, “I know you hate her. You have every right to hate her. But you have to keep your temper.”

The door on Odell’s side swings open. The outcry of the crowd crashes into the car so loudly it would’ve surely knocked them off their feet should they have been standing. Fickle light filters in, not bright enough to make them squint. The Corda roads are the only streets that are lit up at night. Still, it's only weak lantern light.

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, their car’s already garnered some attention. Faces blur together, although there really aren't that many people. It’s not safe to be out at night; most take that warning to heart. Emphasis on “most people.” Those foolish enough to be out here whisper amongst themselves, eyeing the car like ravenous vultures.

While Lenore rolls her eyes, Lady Averill pulls her guitar strap over her shoulder and slugs the instrument upside down on her back. She readies her prettiest smirk and rises out of the car seat. The whispers swell into a dull roar. When Lenore scoots out behind her, and no one really notices. Mr. Tanner holds the door for them, standing tall with the charisma of a withered worm seared onto a hot sidewalk. People barely take note of him. One would think the dirty concrete street was a red carpet, what with the way the singer struts through the horde of onlookers with the confidence of a queen.

Lenore hobbles behind the singer, a mere afterthought. An unimportant shapeshifter in the crowd. Thank goodness.

“Make way, if you please,” Mr. Tanner instructs, “Give the lady her space!”

The singer spares no expense on smiles; she grants everyone she sees a friendly look and a sweet-natured wave. No one waves back. The two of them walked through the lineup at the door to the building across the road from the car. Most of the crowd is gathered there. Other buildings are open; musky bars and inns with one or two glowing lanterns to draw in customers like fireflies to a flame. The building they’re looking to enter has lanterns to spare, hanging in cramped rows outside the door. But the windows are shadowy. Pitch-black figures are obscured behind the gunmetal drapery. There’s a storm of chattering beyond the door, muffled but loud enough to tickle the ear.

The line-dwellers part for them unthinkingly. The doorman takes one glance at Lady Averill and swings the doors open.

Before they step inside, the little lady glances back over her shoulder. With so many people in the way, she can only see Mr. Tanner in distant fragments. His shoes scraping the concrete. His hands clenching and unclenching. His tense shoulder disappearing behind the car door. The side of his head; Lenore has never seen such an odd expression flash across Mr. Tanner’s face before. So earnest in its anxiousness.

Bo Dudley’s door slams shut in time with the Cathouse doors.

All chatter ceases. Surprised, suspicious eyes stare.

They’re in. No going back now.

Beyond that tepid threshold, Felina Van Der Venne’s Kitty Cathouse awaits them with bated breath. The Cathouse isn’t the only speakeasy in the city, but it is the most popular. It's much smaller than the Theatre, but what it doesn’t have in size, it makes up for in personality. Maybe not an appealing personality but personality nonetheless.

The sight of Odell Averill standing casually by the doorway causes whatever personality the Cathouse had to grind to a halt. Drinkers lower their shot glasses and the musicians let their tune dissolve. Dozens of thin off-white curtains cloak the dozens of silhouettes in the dozens of boudoirs; they slow their activities. The heavy breathing, shuffling sheets, and the occasional squelch of fluid irritate the singer. Worse than that, Odell can’t help but feel the eyes of the silhouettes all over her skin; creeping past her face, down her chest, and zeroing in on the space between her legs. She tries to put it out of mind. The sound will only become more intense as the night goes on so there's no point getting worked up over it. The little lady, sensing the singer’s growing discomfort, nudges her foot until her toes touch Odell's ankle.

Odell takes a subtle breath.

The drinkers, the musicians, and the silhouettes all wait in various stages of paralysis.

“Hi,” The singer grins, “Room for one more?”

The sound of her voice causes a wave of sharp breaths.

“Or, I guess I should say two more.” She shrugs.

She and Lenore tiptoe over the bottles abandoned on the floor and the piles of discarded clothing. Her laugh cuts right through the tension.

“Goodness,” Odell giggles, leaning on her parasol, “I didn’t realize I’d arrived during the graveyard shift… Or does this place usually have a shower singer’s ear for music?”

Some silhouettes peek their heads out from behind their curtains, holding the fabric against their presumably naked flesh like bath towels.

“I’m looking to have some fun on my night off. I don’t get a lot of nights to myself, you know. And variety is the spice of life.” Odell reaches into her purse and flips a coin to the wide-eyed piano player, “Play me something, honey? A good hummer to mellow me out.”

The crowd watches as the coin seems to flip in slow motion. The pianist fumbles the catch but manages to keep from dropping it. He and his band blink down at the coin and up the singer.

Odell raises her brow, “Well? Hop to it, hepcat!”

And the Cathouse unfreezes. The music booms back to life with a sharp beat from the drums and a rift from the piano. Drinkers turn back to their glasses, blushing in embarrassment and drunkenness. The boudoir curtains sweep shut and those uncomfortable noises grow louder with great enthusiasm.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” A voice exclaims, “If it isn’t the Quin city siren herself!”

Odell’s smile strains.

The woman whom the voice belongs to sashays down the stairwell, her shedding fur wrap aimlessly trails behind her like a long white tail. Shiny hair, fashionable marcel curls, and rosy skin topping off with stormy pale eyes. Her dress is burgundy; ritzy like a nightgown indecently thrown over the shoulders after a risque evening in bed.

Simply put, If lust were a lady, Felina would make her blush.

“Missus Van Der Venne! Just the woman I was hoping to run into!” Odell grins, approaching Felina with comically wide open arms. Lenore follows with a barely concealed wince as Odell pulls Felina into her grip.

Felina laughs gayly, returning the hug, “Of course you would run into me, deary! Where else would I be? After all, the place is pretty packed tonight after you shut down your Theatre.”

The two ladies hold each other tightly, neither one letting up even as the embrace turns choking. Lenore discreetly kicks Odell in the shin. Strangling the Cathouse’s owner, no matter how friendly she acts as she does it, isn’t very respectable.

Odell shoots Lenore a look. She breaks away.

“Yes, didn’t you hear?” Odell squeals, clapping her hands together, “The Theatre’s been asked to perform for the Romilly’s this coming winter! Oh, when I got the invite I nearly fainted! How exhilarating!”

“What an honour...”

“Oh, yes. But with such an honour comes so much responsibility. Oh, the chance to see the Romilly’s in person, I can hardly wait! But that’s all to come later. Right now, I thought celebration was in order so I figured your Cathouse would be a nice change of pace. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion...”

“Nonsense, deary!” Felina playfully punches Odell on the shoulder, “Come have a drink with me!”

Felina’s gaze swoops down, locking onto Lenore like a hawk, “Oh, and who’s your little friend?” Her eyes narrow and her smile widens.

Odell grabs Lenore's shoulders roughly.

Lenore wants to scowl, but she manages to keep a straight face. She thinks to herself, “Settle down, feisty… We’re so close, don’t lose your temper now…”

“This is Clara Janson, my right-hand girl. She’s young…” The singer emphasizes, casually putting herself between the little lady and Felina, “Not to mention spirited, never one to sit back and take it. My Theatre encourages those kinds of traits in our workers.”

“What a lovely sentiment.” Felina giggles, “I myself always did like a girl with a little fire. The smell of the smoke when you blow out a flame is intoxicating…”

Odell’s teeth clench and Lenore decides now’s a good time to step in. She bobs a curtsy, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.”

“Pleasures all mine.” Felina bends down, grasps Lenore’s wrist, and as they shake hands, Felina rubs her thumb along the little lady’s knuckles. The singer’s hands latch onto Felina’s shoulders, pushing her upright so she’s face to face with the toothy grin on Odell’s face.

The singer chortles, “So! How about those drinks…?”

The three of them snag seats at the bar; Lenore on one side, Felina on the other, and Odell in the middle. The bar stools are mysteriously sticky. Lenore tucks her legs under the seat. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that Felina isn’t done with the little lady yet. She says, “So, where did you pick up this little mouse, Averill? She looks a little rough, don’t tell me she was a street rat! Or worse, a raccoon…”

Odell opens her mouth to speak but Felina isn’t done yet.

“Then again, I see why you’d be drawn to that kind of woman. Paupers always stick together...”

Lenore winces. Luckily, Odell manages to take it in stride.

“Don’t we both have a habit of collecting strays?” She says, “You know it’s not polite to ​look down ​on people because of where they come from. I like to judge a person's character based on​ what they​​ do now, don’t you agree?​”

Felina narrows her eyes, chuckling, “Quite.”

The bartender sets down their ale. Felina gets a row of one-ounce shot glasses while Odell and Lenore receive a large, overflowing mug each. Felina downs two of her shots, Odell brings her mug to her lips but only mimes taking a sip, and Lenore doesn’t even touch hers. After she swallows, Felina fingers the rim of her third shot.

“So,” She smirks, “How’d you two become so well acquainted anyway…”

Odell stifles a scowl. Conversation with Missus Van Der Venne is agony, but that’s to be expected. Over and over, the singer tries to turn the topic away from Lenore and over and over Felina turns it right back around. It’s infuriating. It’s doubtful she really cares about how the two met, or how long they’ve known each other but she’s a crafty woman, quickly noting how aggravated Odell gets when she turns her gaze down on this overdressed little mouse. So, like any cat would, Felina takes her sweet time pawing at this little mouse. No one ever told Missus Van Der Venne not to play with her food.

“By the way,” Felina purrs, “I love her dress. Did you pick it out for her? But she must be so warm, all covered up like that--”

“Missus Felina?” A deep voice cuts her off.

A tall shadow falls over the three of them. They spin around.

He’s naked. Aside from the leather collar around his neck, the man is very, very naked. Purple bruises, nail crescents, and sweat laid bare for all the world to see. A musky vinegar scent clings to him. Basically, he’s almost indistinguishable from most of Felina’s escorts. Maybe he’s a touch less rough than the others; his skin is relatively unblemished which is a surprise. His hair isn’t patchy or balding; quite to the contrary, the man has a waterfall of chocolate locks that cascade messily down his back. He’s a little underweight, but certainly not a skeleton. His dazed expression might have been seen as endearing, even handsome, to certain types of people.

Lenore makes the mistake of looking down. The man’s maypole is flying half-massed.

“Oh, Rafael!” Felina exclaims. She takes his limp hand and kisses his palm affectionately, “What can I do for you, my pet?”

“I… um...” Rafael stumbles over his mumbled words, “I was finishing up with Mr. and Mrs. Rothchild and… uh… one of the macks told me to find you. I think it was… Paris? And maybe Maximus? Not sure what they wanted.”

Felina’s mouth twists into what could be a smile or a grimace, “Ah, yes. I’ll go see what they want later.”

Rafael nods. Task accomplished, he gently pecks Felina’s cheek, a chaste goodbye kiss before he goes back to work. His neck, and the collar around it, is eye-level with Felina, and she happily takes advantage of the fact when she curls her finger around the thick leather. She yanks Rafael into a deeper, open-mouth kiss, tongues tangling and hands wandering. Neither of them closes their eyes. Rafael doesn’t seem to be aware of what’s happening to him, disoriented and pliant under Felina’s grip. Felina only has eyes for Odell, searching for the jealousy that she’s certain is seconds away from appearing on the singer’s face.

Odell meets Felina’s smouldering gaze and lets out a wide yawn.

Felina and her escort separate, a line of drool bridging the gap between their spit-shining lips. Rafael straightens to his full height, but as he tries once again to take his leave he feels something hook around his wrist. His gaze falls down to the guitar strap snagged around his waist, travels up the body, up the neck, up the arm which the umbrella is held by, and stops at the friendly smile on Lady Averill’s face.

“Hi,” She smiles, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Odell Averill, and you are?”

Rafael blinks slowly, “Rafael Medina.”

“Nice to meet you,” She reaches out her hand and it takes Rafael half a minute to meet her halfway. As they shake, Odell hears the band finish off their song. Instead of playing a new tune, the bandmates step into a circle and debate what song to play next. There are so many songs to choose from; The Sky Bleeds Red? Happy Grass? I’m Waiting On You? Mitt Me Kiddo? They just can’t decide. Odell Averill is in the building, listening to them play. The need to impress was simultaneously inspiring and suffocating.

An idea pops into Odell’s head. The singer says, “Do you like music, Raf?”

Rafael frowns, “... I don’t know…?”

“Oh,” That wasn’t an answer she was anticipating. Still, she takes it in stride, “In that case… There's no better time to find out!”

With a smirk, Odell grabs Felina by the wrist and yanks off her seat, “Come on, you two! The stage awaits!”

“Now’s your chance, Shapeshifter,” Odell thinks as she shoots Lenore a wink over her shoulder, “Go find our guy. And be careful.”

Prancing like a pony, the singer jumps onto the stage. The bandmates stumble back in surprise as Odell steals a microphone with one hand, and maintains a steady grip on Missus Van Der Venne with the other.

“Hey, hepcat,” She smirks at the piano player, “Mind if I join you?”

The little lady watches the shenanigans unfold from her spot by the bar. Felina flounders awkwardly on stage left while Rafael sits cross-legged at Felina’s feet. Lenore takes note of how they fidget; Felina in a way that’s meant to mask her anger while Rafael squirms as if his skin is an ill-fitted suit.

The bandmates crowd around Odell, talking over each other in their excitement. A moment later, and they all disperse to their positions and take up their instruments. The singer finally lets Felina go, using her free hand to swing her guitar over her shoulder. She switches the amp on and suddenly a catchy little ditty fills the Cathouse. The little lady recognizes it almost instantly, as does most of the patrons.

“Yeah, I figured you’d know this one…” Odell laughs into the microphone, her giggles perfectly in time with the music, “Sing along to the lyrics, hum to the rhythm if you’re tone-deaf, and don’t worry if you fuck it up. We’re all fuck-ups here, aren’t we?”

Drinkers laugh as they sway to a stand and stumble up to the stage like zombies to a pound of flesh. With so many people surrounding her, Felina forces a smile on her face. She can’t get off the stage now, not with so many people in the way, and she knows it.

Odell and Lenore meet eyes for just a second through the chaos and then the show begins.

“Dizzy dame dancing with dead hoofers tonight.

You play the doghouse, dolls drilling in the big house

I’ll doss with you in the dreamer

And from Diddy Wah Diddy, you and I’ll take flight!”

A reluctant earworm, that’s what this song is. People love it and hate it for all the same reasons. It’s the kind of song you slur at the bar when you're ten shots in and swear you don’t actually like when you're hungover the next day. Even Odell didn’t really like this ditty, and she wrote the damn thing. It was the first song the singer ever wrote, when she got drunk for the first time on a bottle and a half of riesling white wine. Still, Dizzy Dame somehow always stole the show.

Taking advantage of Odell’s expertly executed distraction, the little lady quietly creeps away. Slinking between the legs of the tables and flappers, all she sees is a bunch of drunken louts wasting away scarce dollars on pointless fancy.

“I’ll be dizzy with the dame…

I’ll be dizzy with the dame…

Dizzy with my dame…

And everything will be all right.”

As she wanders, Lenore notices a very young lady conversing with two equally young gentlemen at a table by the back door. They’re very well-dressed; probably a couple of sheltered teenagers sneaking downtown with a wad of cash stolen from mommy or daddy’s fat pocket. It’d be cute if it weren’t so stupid. While the young lady is speaking to one of the gentlemen, Lenore notices the second boy dropping something in the girl’s drink. Thoroughly distracted by their conversation, the young lady unthinkingly lifts her glass, bringing it to her lips.

Lenore grabs her by the wrist.

The young lady squeaks, “Hey! What the fuck!?”

Lenore swipes her glass out of her hand, “Watch your drink.” She shoves the glass into the first boy’s stunned hands, “I know we’re in a brothel, boys, but that doesn’t mean you can take what isn’t being offered.”

Lenore shoves her hand into the second boy’s pant pocket and pulls out a plastic bag filled with white powder. Ketamine, if Lenore had to guess. She holds it up for the young lady to see.

Lenore gives her a stern look, “This place is a cesspool. Go home.”

As she walks away, Lenore listens to the hard twang of the young lady’s hand colliding with the boy’s face. It’s music to her ears.

“Everything will be all right, tonight…”

With that taken care of, Lenore exits the lounge, letting her darling Odell’s singing become muffled background noise. When she steps through the back door, a deep cloud of opium smoke invades her lungs, causing the little lady to break into a coughing fit that brings tears to the corner of her eyes.

Behind the lounge is a discount Goldmine. People were supposed to come in here to gamble. In reality, patrons hung around the gambling room to chase the dragon and mainline brown sugar. It’s intoxicating. She needs to get through this room quickly, lest the fumes overwhelm her. She covers her nose, speed-walking between around the drugged-up patrons lazing mindlessly on the floor. Her shoulders sag in relief when she finally reaches the stairs but as she begins her ascent a hand shoots out from between the steps and snags her by her foot. Lenore almost letting out a shriek. She kicks the hand away and jumps over the railing, knife in hand and ready for a fight.

“Oh. You’re not Felina…”

Lenore peeks under the staircase and all the fight seeps out of her. It’s a group of users huddled around an oil lamp, opium pipes held possessive in their hands. The little lady sheaths her knife and scowls. They meet her scowl with doped out grins.

The person who grabbed her through the stairs holds out their pipe.

“Want a drag?”

“How generous…” She shakes her head.

“Not even a little puff?”

Lenore shakes her head a little harder.

The person shrugs. They lean forward to heat up the end of the pipe and nearly fall into the flame. When they bring the pipe to their lips, Lenore cringes. Every tooth in their mouth has a cavity and their tongue looks like sandpaper. Still, they seem like they'd know their way around a place like this, and Lenore is already very lost. But, to the little lady’s annoyance, when she asks if any of them have seen a group of young children, between the ages of five and fifteen, their answers are less than helpful.

They meander their sentences, endlessly repeating, “I… Um… I think… Maybe… Maybe… Uh… What was the question again?”

Their voice makes Lenore’s skin crawl. Parched, croaking grunts. It sounds like they haven’t had a proper drink in decades, but the empty bottles of beer piled around them prove that to be a false assumption. Beer and opium? That’s not a great combination.

Lenore doesn’t have time for this. She needs to go, she needs to leave this person and their friends to their unfortunate life circumstances, she needs to abandon them and never come back.

Lenore scowls, “I’ll be back in a second. Don’t go anywhere.”

She marches back to the bar and orders two mugs filled to the brim with ice chips. It’s the most expensive item you can buy in the Cathouse. On the way back, she knocks into a naked woman. Literally. Her nose squishes against the naked woman's bruised navel, thank goodness she isn’t any shorter, and when she bounces back she falls flat on her ass. The woman sniffles out an apology. She daintily wipes away the tears under her eyelashes, carefully avoiding the cut beside her left eye. The skin around her eye socket is light pink. Her eyeball is bloodshot. No doubt, in a few days, she’ll have a nasty black eye.

The ice will start to melt soon. She really should just walk away.

Lenore sighs, “Bend over. Let me have a look.”

The woman blushes, an incredulous expression overtaking her swelling face.

“No, not like that…!” The little lady sputters, “Your eye. It’s starting to bruise. Let me have a look.”

The woman doesn’t look any less incredulous, but she does as she’s asked. Lenore inspects the woman's face. The bruising is recent, but the cut is old, probably reopened from whatever, or whoever, had struck her. The little lady is tempted to search for other injuries but, given the circumstances, decides against it.

She holds out the two mugs of ice, “Hold this.”

The naked woman takes hold of the mugs, and with her hands free, Lenore uses her knife to cut a square of fabric from the top layer of her dress. The fabric underneath keeps her legs covered. She tells the woman to shake some of the ice into the fabric, ties the ends of the square together, and reaches up and presses the cold, wet makeshift compress against the naked woman's face.

The woman sniffles as she hands the mugs back and cradles the ice to her face, “Thank you…”

Lenore says nothing, moving to walk past the woman when a half-naked man almost knocks into her.

“Okay,” The man runs up to the naked woman, holding a bag of pills and a folded up blanket, “Milo wouldn’t give me any ice but Kenya let me take some of her roxanol--”

The man spots the fabric full of ice, “What? Where did you get--!?”

“You shouldn’t take opioids without a prescription.”

The man’s gaze darts down to Lenore. He frowns. What is this bubble-eyed little girl doing here, in such an expensive dress, and with such a queer look on her face?

Hesitantly, the man unfolds the blanket, “Jeanette?”

The naked woman, Jeanette, touches the man's shoulder and gives him a shaky smile, “Thanks, Atticus, but this little lady’s already got me covered.”

The man, Atticus, wraps the blanket around the naked woman. He takes the ice compress out of her hands and presses it to her eye for her, all but forgetting the little lady’s presence. All Atticus cares about is making sure Jeanette is okay.

“By chance,” Lenore regains the attention, “Have either of you seen a group of raccoons around here?”

“Yeah, they sometimes drop by for cash. They hang around the dumpster out back.”

“I see. Thank you for your help.” Lenore walks away, but after a few steps she stops, “... After a couple of days, switch to a warm compress and gentle massage the area once the swelling goes down…”

The little lady hesitates, “If you experience any vision trouble or the swelling doesn’t go down…” She pulls a cream-coloured ticket out of her purse, “Come to the Theatre. Don’t worry, we won’t tell your boss.”

Gobsmacked, that’s the only word that could possibly describe the look on Atticus and Jeanette’s face. What? Where? How? Who? All these questions bing and bang inside their minds and Lenore wastes no time answering them. She takes her mugs of ice and leaves, dropping the ice off to the users under the stairs on the way. The person who’d grabbed her through the stairs looks faintly surprised at this impromptu gift. The rest of the users swarm the ice chips like it’s candy. They crunch and munch, ignorant of the little lady’s presence slinking away. Lenore walks out of the gambling parlour, a determined gleam in her faux-brown eyes.

~*~

Before she even opens the backdoor, she can already hear the whistles, chirps, and trills.

Should she glide the door open gently or aggressively? The little lady does something in between; not too harsh, not too soft. Beyond the doorway, there are five children, bony knees and hungry eyes, sitting in a little circle, playing with a pile of stones and chalk. When the sound of the door opening reaches their ears, they jump up, fists raised and feet aimed away and ready to run. That confirms it, they’re definitely raccoons.

The little lady sighs, already knowing this isn’t going to go smoothly, “Easy up. I’m not here to hurt you.”

These raccoons are even shabbier than the raccoons at the train station. At least most of those kids smelled like they’d taken a shower this century. These kids wear tunics made from tattered old potato sacks., and they smell like rotting spuds too. One of them steps in front of the rest. Their crusty brown eyes narrow but they don't say anything, just stand and stare, almost daring Lenore to try something. The little lady assumes they must be their “leader”.

“Anybody named Hayes around here?”

The leader scrunches their nose, “What?”

“Is there a kid here named Hayes?”

The rest of the raccoons stand up on thin, shaky legs, crouching like a beast ready to pounce. Their leader doesn’t take her eyes off the little lady, even as she opens her mouth and lets out a series of whistles and chirps. One of the other raccoons, taller and rougher than the rest, lunges for one of the sharp pieces of rock they’d been playing with, brandishing it like a knife. They charge with the single-minded ferocity of a cheetah, which Lenore finds rather unfortunate for both of them.

She tries to be gentle, but that’s hard to do when someone’s trying to stab you. Dodging their blundering jabs and slashes doesn’t take much effort but finding a way to make them stop is a whole other issue. The kid makes the mistake of going for the little lady’s neck, and Lenore finally has an opening to finish this relatively painlessly. She gets hold of their wrist and the back of their head. A half-second later, the fight is over. Face pinned to the gravel, the kid’s wide-eyed astonishment at how things had gone so wrong so quickly is cute. The poor thing is nothing but skin, bones, and youthful naivete.

Lenore pries the rock out of their hand, checks for any other weapons, makeshift or otherwise, and then lets them go. She takes three steps away and leans against the door. Just because someone tries to stab you, doesn’t negate their right to personal space.

“I’m not here to settle a score or anything so let's not get violent.” She says, “Is Hayes among you? Don’t lie; I’ll figure you out, I promise.”

“He ain’t.” Their leader says.

“Is he inside the Cathouse?”

“... Yeah.”

“Mind taking me to him?”

“A little bit, yeah.” They grumble. Reluctantly, they step away from their fellow raccoons but just as they’re entering the building, a whistle causes them to halt in their tracks. The smallest of the raccoons, a freckle-faced little boy whose missing half an ear and two of his teeth, warbles loudly like a baby bird. his lip trembles and his eyes are watery. Lenore isn’t sure what they’re saying; for all she knows, they might not be saying anything at all. Perhaps this little boy is simply crying out in a way that neither words nor whistle could honestly convey.

The leader clenches their fist. They whistle back in a tone that sounds almost angry. The kid who’d tried to attack Lenore with the rock picks up the little raccoon and ushers the rest into the shadow of a dumpster. Hidden from the world, they’ll wait restlessly for their leader to return, no matter how long it takes. They aren’t going anywhere.

The little lady follows the leader into the Cathouse, gently closing the door behind them.

“....What do you want with him?” There's a nervousness in their voice. Whether it was for this Hayes fellow or themself, Lenore can’t tell.

“As I’ve said, I’m here going to hurt anyone. I just need some information.”

The two of them walk silently into the gambling parlour. Most of the patrons do little more than gaze half-heartedly at the newcomers, not really seeing what was in front of them. The leader remains paranoid, stealing worried glances at the little lady. Lenore, feeling a tiny twinge of pity, tries to make light, casual conversation. Unfortunately, small talk is not her specialty. It’s a shame Odell can’t be in two places at once.

“Do you have a name?” She asks.

“You gonna hunt me down or something?”

“Not an especially trusting person, are you?” Lenore notes, “Smart.”

The gambling parlour’s a little more lively now. There are a few sparse groups of people playing pool, poker, and darts. Lenore and the leader circle around one of their pool tables, quiet as can be. Their presence doesn’t go unnoticed.

A stocky man with a grungy mustache leans on his pool cue. He hollers, “Hey, dollface, did your mommy buy you that dress?”

This is why Lenore didn’t want to come as Clara. She’d love to see if they’d try something like this on one of her other personas. Would these people catcall Judith Millhouse, the Theatre’s haggish manager? Probably. These people would hit on a pile of mouldy tuna left to ruminate under the hot sun. It’s ridiculous. The patrons of Felina’s Cathouse are never satiated.

She doesn’t give the man a second glance but as she passes him by he suddenly strikes out with his pool cue, whipping the end of it under her dress and against her inner thigh. The glossy wood is cold and clammy against her skin. Her hands twitch. A lady in white drags a bony finger down the little lady’s back; her nails are like razor-sharp talons. Two more men close in on Lenore from either side.

“Nah, I bet she got it from her daddy, instead,” The lady in white croons in her ear, the stink of her breath could burn the hair off your chest, “How irresponsible, letting a doll like you roam around like that. Poor baby must be so lost! We’ll look after you...”

The man with the pool cue chuckles.

The leader wrinkles their nose in disgust but they make no attempt to stop the advancements. The gamblers aren’t really interested in them, so why should they care to step in? Some of the people lounging on the floor look up at the commotion. No one steps in.

Lenore takes a deep, calming breath. She steps over the pool cue and shrugs the invasive fingers off her lower back.

“I think not.” Lenore glowers at them, “I have places to be.”

“Better places than this? I’m hurt.” Now she’s surrounded. The man with the pool cue gets an aggressive glint in his eye, “Does the baby princess think she’s too good for us? Got a fat stick up your--”

Lenore pushes past them, bumping the man with her shoulder.

“Places. To. Be.” She seethes, “Good. Night. Sir.”

The man’s aggressive glint turns into rage. His veiny hand snatches the little lady by the wrist, wrenching her up. The ends of her dress dangle high enough off the ground that those laying on the floor could see under her skirts if they wanted. A few of them crawl closer to get a good peek.

The man’s shouting is shrill and not particularly intimidating, “Watch your fucking mouth--!”

Fast as a bolt of lightning in a cloudless summer sky, Lenore latches her free hand around the man's arm. She flips her torso upward. The kick she lands into the man's stubbly jaw is ruthless, further amplified by the knifelike heel on her shoes. The back of the man’s head smacks into the floor and the little lady gracefully touches down, heels first, directly on the poor dunce’s chest.

“My apologies,” Lenore says, holding the ends of her dress out of the way so she can easily hop down. Her heels leave tiny dots of blood wherever she walks, “However, I do not appreciate being manhandled.”

The silence is sweet. Brief but so very sweet. The lady in white gets her bearings first. Foaming at the mouth, she marches towards Lenore like a school teacher about to box some poor pupils' ears. The rest of the now unconscious man’s friends aren’t far behind.

“You fucking brat!”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Honey, you’re gonna regret that…”

They brandish their half-empty bottles of liquor, pool cues, and used needles like swords. Lenore steps in front of the leader, who shrinks away from her but does not flee.

“Look,” Lenore sighs, “It took me less than five seconds to do that,” She points at the bleeding man gathering dust on the floor, “To your rather handsy friend, do you really want to see what I can do in five minutes? Walk away, I’ll pretend this never happened.”

One of the fallen man’s friends gathers some courage and charges at Lenore with a broken whiskey bottle. Lenore uses their momentum to flip them onto the pool table, putting a sizable tent in its green-carpeted top. Another two men rush upon her sides. The little lady slides back and sweeps their legs from under them, ripping another layer of her dress's skirt in the process. Thankfully, these people were too drunk to put up much of a fight.

“Are we done?” She huffs.

Apparently, one man thinks grabbing the leader would give him a leg up. The leader squawks as he clutches them by the collar of their tunic.

“Get off me! Get off, you ass!” They struggle.

The man covers their mouth with his palm and snarls, “Drop to your knees you ugly tart!”

Without warning, the lady in white grabs Lenore from behind, screeching like a harpy. The little lady throws her head back, hoping to break her nose, but the harpy evades her.

“Ha!” She slurs, tugging Lenore close, clawing at her neck, “Think you’re so tough--”

A sound pops beside Lenore’s ear. How to describe such an unusual noise? Not deep, definitely not squeaky. A hard sound that’s hollow and short. Like the noise a golf ball makes when struck with a club. It pops right beside the little lady’s ear, and the harpy’s talon-like fingers fall away from Lenore’s neck. The weight of her body tips away and her shoes get caught in Lenore’s dresses as her body meets the unforgiving hardwood.

“Oh… Oh no…” Unfamiliar footsteps stumble closer, but a familiar voice says, “Did I kill her?”

The person who’d grabbed Lenore through the stairs rocks back and forth with a mug of ice chips hanging from their fingers. They blink their eyes closed, and then slowly blink them open again.

Behind them, a shout rings out, “Let go of me!”

Lenore hisses under her breath, “Fuck…” She turns back and sees that the leader, this little raccoon kid, has struggled out of the man’s grip. Droplets of blood trail down the leader’s mouth. The man’s hand is bloody, teeth marks embedded into his palm, but the struggle isn’t over yet. The man rears back and smacks the leader in the teeth, leaving a bloody handprint on their tear-stained cheeks. Lenore pulls her knife out of her bag but the person from under the stairs is somehow faster. Their glassy eyes snap to alertness. The mug goes hurtling across the room, missing Lenore by an inch, and their aim is proven perfect as it collides with the man's forehead. He stumbles, hands clawing at his face, giving Lenore time to rush forward and finish him off. Body number three hits the floor, alive but unconscious.

“Shit… Definitely killed that one…” The person from under the stairs says. They look around, spotting the pool table in the corner of their eye. With a heave and a ho, they drag the heavy piece of furniture over the man’s body, narrowly avoiding dropping one of the legs on top of his head, “Ha! Try and catch me now, fuzzy dick…!”

Calm gives way to the storm; everything goes to shit. Who starts it? Who knows. Some people will just take any excuse to pick a fight. The least, and perhaps also the most, intoxicated patrons rise from the stupors, throwing hands with each other in their mindless need to harm somebody, anybody, within arms reach. Bottles smash against temples, fingers scratch and claw, teeth snap, and thoughtlessly angry yelling deafens them to all reason. The hairs on the back of the little lady’s neck tingle as she senses somebody closing in behind her. They’re already too close, she doesn’t have time to turn around, to defend herself, but before they get the chance to act on whatever intent they might have had, a bar stool smacks them right in the gut.

The leader delivers a few more hard wacks to their groin, and Lenore’s would-be attacker scrambles off. Lenore gives the leader a look of surprised gratitude.

“Hmm,” Lenore nods in approval, “Not bad, kid.”

“Thanks,” The leader eyes her with one last fading hint of wariness, “... My name’s Estella, by the way.”

Lenore nods, “Clara Janson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“My name’s Hinata!” The person from under the stairs exclaims, bending down to pick up their mug, “Stella, Clara, Hinata… Hey, we all end in ah!”

An empty heroin needle goes flying by Hinata’s face, embedding itself into the wall. Hinata reaches out to touch it.

“Nice meeting you, Hinata,” Lenore grabs them, “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

The three of them dash across the parlour. For some reason, the fighting parts for them like a very polite sea of rage and intoxication. It doesn’t take long for them to get to the staircase and Hinata's little hovel underneath it. The oil lamp has gone out, and the other users are clumsily trying to light it back up again with little success. Hinata waves happily, but their smile falls off their face when they glance into their mug and see that it’s empty. A trail of ice has been left in their wake. Apparently, they’d been holding the mug upside down.

Hinata peers sadly at the melting pile of dirty ice at their feet. They bend down, pick up a piece, and bring it to their slowly opening mouth.

“Don’t eat that!” Lenore and, surprisingly, Estella order in unison.

“Aww… Fine…” Hinata groans, throwing the ice chip away, “Can you get us some more? Please?”

“If I give you money, will you use it to buy ice or opium?”

Hinata thinks about it for a second, “... I’ll try to buy ice… But I’ll probably, accidentally, buy more gum instead.”

The look Lenore gives them is distinctly unimpressed.

Hinata scratches their arm, “Sorry…”

“We’ve got to go,” Lenore says, “But, if you’re willing to wait, I’ll buy you more ice when I get back.”

Hinata throws both of their arms up in excitement, launching the empty mug into the ceiling, “Thank you!” They crawl back under the stairs. The joyful cheers of Hinata’s friends echo from the darkness, and why shouldn’t they cheer? They’re gonna get more ice.

With that settles, Lenore and Estella begin ascending the stairs, but a croupier meets them halfway. Several other dealers storm down the stairs and into the parlour, intent on breaking up the riot that’s already simmering down. Already, people are forgetting why they were fighting in the first place. The ample amount of opium pipes and needles make it easy for them to get distracted.

The croupier eyes them, torn between trying to kick them out and leaving them be.

Estella steps forward.

“Hi Mr. Tamboli,” She slides her palm up the croupier’s shirt, smiling coyly, “Did you hear all those junkies fighting? They’re so loud!”

The croupier's eyes shift and his hands shake as he grasps Estella by her elbows. Struggling to find the right words, he doesn’t pull the young raccoon closer but, at the same time, he certainly doesn’t push her away.

Estella smiles, “Hey, maybe if you know of somewhere quiet we can go to--”

Lenore pulls the young raccoon away from the croupier with a scowl. The little lady reaches back into her purse, making the dealer stiffen for a moment. He relaxes when all she does is pull out a bank bill.

“Here’s a fifty,” Lenore says, slipping him the money, “You didn’t see anything.”

The croupier narrows his eyes, looks over his shoulders and then snatches the money.

“Get wherever you’re going, girls.”

~*~

Estella and Lenore exit the gambling parlour with no further incident. The effects of excessive drinking is getting to everyone in the Cathouse, however, and as the night goes on, the place was sure to erupt in more violence, cartoonish and inebriated.

The stairs are mounted along the wall like a fire escape, providing a rickety pathway to the boudoirs. There are two levels, thirty-two rooms. From up there, you get a lovely view of the front room’s stage. The performance is still going; Odell is singing “Sentimental Drinking” while sadistically trying to pull Felina into a dance. It feels childish to admit this, but Lenore can’t help but find Odell’s pettiness funny. At least they’re pretending to get along.

All the boudoirs have their curtains closed. The noises are as distracting as ever.

At the end of the line, the last boudoir is boarded up, with the only way in being only a low hole that’s small as a doggy-door. Estella crawls in first, and Lenore follows closely after. It’s dusty, damp, and dark. Much like Hinata’s hovel under the staircase, there's a single oil lamp resting on top of a low pile of timber planks, but thankfully there is no smoke, no opium pipes. Just a stack of cash, two straw baskets with contents unknown, and an adolescent boy, looking to be around Estella’s age. His hair is badly matted. When he turns to them, only one of his eyes focuses on their presence, while the other looks off with a clouded glaze over his iris and pupil.

Lenore stands up, “Hayes?”

The boy frowns. His hands shake when he lifts the lamp off the board, the flame swinging to the rhythm of his nervousness.

Estella scoffs, “Fuck no. Colin would never pull shit like this.”

She stomps up to Colin, who points to the shabby floorboard under his feet. Estella snorts in a snobbish, unimpressed sort of way. She jumps high in the air, making a cavernous thump when she lands hard on the wood with knees bent at a ninety-degree angle. She hisses, “Get up here, Soma! I know you fucked something up, and you didn’t even get away with it this time! What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

She jumps off the plank pile and the longer she waits for those planks to do anything other than nothing, the angrier Estella becomes.

She stomps her feet again, “Get your ass up here! I ain’t playing around!”

Finally, from underneath the floorboards, Lenore hears a groan. The pile of planks shift and a little head pops up from within the tiny cavity the pile was covering. Lenore winces. If she didn’t know better, the little lady would think children couldn’t possibly be this skinny, this fragile. The boy is thin. His spine sticks out of his back like it's trying to escape his skin. Looks can be deceiving, but Lenore would have to guess he’s around six or seven. Eight if his growth was hindered by starvation. His hair is a strikingly bright blonde in contrast to his dark skin tone. His lips are puckered as if he’d just sucked the sourest lemon and when he lays eyes on Colin, Estella, and especially Lenore, his cheeks puff up like a chipmunk.

“What the fuck, Colin!” He whines, “Stop being such a rat!”

He jumps out of his hole and points angrily at Lenore, “And who the fuck is that!?”

Estella snaps back, “Watch your fucking mouth! I don’t know what she wants, or what you did, but this girl’s got a score to settle with you and I won’t be covering for you this time. So stop acting like an ass before you get us in even more trouble!”

“I didn’t do shit!”

The little lady watches the argument unfold, impatiently tapping her foot.

As the pair argue, Colin sets the lamp down, snags the two baskets, and hooks them around the crook of his elbows. The baskets swing as he skips up to Lenore with an open, easy smile. His boldness takes her by surprise as he snatches her hand and kisses her dry, scarred fingers. What a little gentleman.

“Colin Blomgren,” He gives her a grin dripping in manufactured charm, “And you are…?”

“Too old for you.”

Colin leans back, head tilting in confusion, before he laughs, “You’re funny! I’m fourteen and you’re, what, eleven?”

Lenore smirks, “Higher.”

“Twelve?” The little lady shakes her head. “Thirteen?” She shakes her head again. “Okay, how old are you then?”

Suddenly, they hear a shrill yelp. The spindly blonde boy thrashes his arms and gnashes his teeth, jumping up at Estella, but his attempts to attack her are futile. Estella rolls her eyes, holding the little guy back with only her palm against his reddened forehead.

Lenore sighs, “Too old for this, Mister Blomgren. Far, far too old.”

The little lady approaches the snarling raccoons. She clamps her hand over their mouths and quietly says, “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that none of us are supposed to be up here. Perhaps you two should keep your voices down before we get caught.”

She lets her hand fall away. The blonde boy snaps his teeth at her. She continues. “You’re Hayes, yes?”

“My name is Soma!”

“Soma Hayes, then.” Lenore enunciates calmly, “We’ve been looking for you.”

“‘We?’ Who the fuck is ‘we’?”

“Language,” Lenore reaches into her bag and pulls out her gold Theatre pin. All three raccoon’s eyes go wide, “Eight days ago you delivered a package to the Theatre. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you obtained the contents of vial #B[Rh-]T0211?”

Soma wraps his tiny arms around his stomach, and his laughter quivers with distress, “You’re stupid! You think I remember what all that dumb stuff that you’re dumb Theatre ordered was? I didn’t break anything! I gave you what you wanted, and I nearly got skinned getting it for you, so leave me alone!”

“I don’t recall accusing you of breaking anything.”

Soma throws himself down onto the floor and sulks. Estella glares a hole through his head, caught between being absolutely livid at Soma and submissively apologetic to Lenore. Colin plops himself down beside Soma, rubbing the little guys back. The little lady mulls over her options. They need this kid to talk, but what risks are they willing to suffer just to get this kid to tell them the truth? Is the truth worth it? Are lies the smarter choice?

A deep moan pierces through the thin walls, throwing off the little lady's concentration.

She fights to keep her scowl off her face, “...I’ll level with you, Soma, you are in a lot of trouble. You’ve caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people. Am I going to force you to take responsibility for your actions…?”

The three raccoons wait for her to finish, tensions rising and heartbeat racing.

Lenore shrugs, “No. I won’t. Have a nice night, Mister Hayes.”

The expressions on the raccoons’ faces are comical, but Lenore doesn’t break her composure. She turns, falls to her knees, but before she crawls through the hole in the boarding, she comments, “Oh, and that ‘red stuff’ you delivered? It was supposed to be our monthly order of Official’s blood. I assume you panicked when the vial broke, but seeing as you didn’t have time or didn’t want to waste time going back to Jugendstil, you opted to replace it with a counterfeit and hope we wouldn’t notice.”

“I--” Soma stutters, “I didn’t--You can’t--”

“You’re a bold guy, I’ll give you that. I mean, replacing our order with a vial of blood from the dead body of a murdered child? That takes guts, kid. Still, you might not want to make a habit of that. Bad for business.”

Soma flinches, bumping into the oil lamp and burning himself on the glass. Estella and Colin simultaneously choke on their own spit.

“What is she on about!?” Estella gnashes her teeth, “Did you ransack some guy's corpse!?”

Colin groans, “Soma, why…?”

Soma stutters, still clutching his slightly burnt hand, “I didn’t—that ain’t—” He points his finger at the little lady, “I didn’t take nothing from any dead kid! She’s lying!”

“Am I?” Lenore interjects, casually glancing up from her nails, the calming wind at the eye of the raccoon’s furious storm.

Estella rants on undaunted, “You are never—and I mean ever—going out on any job ever again! You hear me? Never!”

“B-but..” Soma’s head swivels back and forth between Estella and Lenore. Without any idea of what to do next, Soma does the only thing he can do. He throws a tantrum. The little raccoon jumps to his feet and throws the lamp at the little lady. He misses by a long shot and Colin grabs him before he can try again. While he tries to soothe Soma, Lenore pulls Estella aside. Estella, red-faced with fury, grumbles but complies without a complaint. Lenore opens her mouth to speak, but the young raccoon beats her to it, whispering in a tone that’s almost pleading.

“Soma’s a brat,” She sighs with a worrisome look that’s too mature for someone so young. “But, please… I don't think he meant any harm. He never gets into trouble for trouble's sake. If he’s got some sorta debt to you, let me pay the price, I can handle it--” She trails off in between her sentences, leaving them hanging with tired sighs and resigned eyes. Raccoon or not, she’s still a child; new to a world that spares little pity.

“I told you the truth. I’m just here for information; this isn’t about revenge.”

Whether or not Estella finds that comforting, she doesn’t let the little lady see her face to tell. She stares down at her feet, swiftly walking away. She grabs Colin by the collar, pulling him into the corner and the two of them begin speaking in hushed voices.

“See, I told, I fucking told you, he wasn’t ready…”

“You say that about everything!”

“And I’m right about everything--”

“Maybe if you let me teach him something, he wouldn’t fuck up like this…!”

“So what, are you blaming me…!?”

Lenore feels a tug on her dress. Dirty, tiny hand cling to her skirt, and wide brown eyes stare up at her. Soma asks, “Whose blood was it?” It seems the boy’s tuckered himself out. He lets go and sits at Lenore’s feet, arms curled around his legs and chin tucked over his knees.

“We’re unsure who the child was,” She admits, “I’ll ask the questions and then we’ll see how much you’re allowed to know.” Lenore knees in front of him, “The red-filled vial you sent me did not contain what was specified. Where did you find the crimson liquid and how did you obtain it?”

He whines, “I had the stuff you ask me for, all of it, but some nasty Officials came after me and the vial broke while I was running. It was an accident--”

“That is not what I asked.”

He scrunches his nose at Lenore but was too nervous to make any insults. There’s an edge to his voice that spoke of his snotty arrogance.

“I ran away. There was this building, it was by the wall. The… the blood was all over, like somebody had been spraying it. I scooped some off the wall and left.”

“What building was this?”

“I dunno. It was behind the Asylum, I guess. I snuck under this spiky gate and ended up in a dead-looking garden.”

Lenore stands.

“A building that’s behind the Asylum with barbed fences. An unkempt garden.” S​he ponders, unconsciously pacing in a tightly formed circle around the boudoir, “Blood residue sprayed all over, fresh enough to gather into a vial, still pourable, but no body. Unless, maybe they ran or off and bleed out elsewhere? Or perhaps, someone removed the body, posthumously.”

Soma frowns, “Are we done now? I told you what you wanted to know…”

Lenore ignores him, “Clearly injured, likely not dying of natural causes; either self-inflicted or by another party. Why would a child be anywhere near the asylum…? Unless, he was taken there, but for what reason? Unless...unless...”

“Estella,” Lenore snaps her fingers as if stumbling upon some eureka moment. Estella and Colin turn to her with twin looks of alarm, “Thank you for your service.”

She pulls a wad of cash out of her bag and hands it to Estella. The girl’s fingers feel numb against the crinkly paper. How much does that Lady Averill pay these people?

“But I’m afraid we aren’t done with your friend yet.” Lenore continues, “My lady will be employing Mister Hayes’ service's again.”

Estella blinks at her in shock. Colin puts both his hands on Soma’s shoulders, watching Lenore like a hawk.

“My services?” Soma murmurs, “Why would you trust me to do anything for you?”

“It’s quite simple, Mister Hayes,” Lenore smiles, “I don’t. That is why I will be accompanying you on your next assignment.”

Colin’s grip on Soma’s shoulders tightens. He and Estella converge on either side of the little raccoon, cocooning him in their embrace. The oil lamp casts Lenore’s shadow over them, her silhouette stretching tall and foreboding. What do they say? How can they refuse? They can’t let Soma go with this girl, they can’t let him go alone, not again. She’s dangerous. Whoever she is, she can’t be telling them the truth when lies are so much simpler. But, for a raccoon, the truth doesn’t matter. The truth is too complicated. Survival is simple. Whatever happens next, they just have to survive and everything will be all right.

Lenore raises an eyebrow, “Well, do we have d--”

Suddenly, there’s a sound. Up above them, through the several layers of brick and wood, the sound starts off small. But then, it builds upon itself. Gaining and gaining, growing louder, flourishing. More and more and more, it multiplies to an uncountable volume.

It’s a scratching sound. Dragging footsteps. Nails on a chalkboard.

A shiver licks up the little lady’s neck. The raccoon’s freeze in place.

And as that scratching sound grows louder and louder, thundering like a storm, they aren’t only ones who hear it. The boudoirs snap to silence, junkies drop their needles and their pipes, glasses of ale slip from lax fingers and go crashing onto the floor, and music can no longer liven up the stillness in the air. Everyone still alive, still breathing, holds their breath. And just as the scratching sounds reach a crescendo, the smell descends upon the Cathouse, strong enough to taste its iron scent on the tip of your tongue. No one dares say a word. Even as the scratching sounds fade, unnervingly, into the night. No one says a word, only withering collectively in anxious wait.

Until, loud as a crack of lightning, they hear a knock. Patron’s shriek in terror, but quickly cover their mouths.

Another knock. And although not a single soul has any wish to heed their beckoning, all know that in the end, they really have no choice.

But who’s going to let them in?

Another, louder, knock.

Who’s going to let it in?