ash

Pabla watches Dominic through sooty lashes, eyes half-closed in fatigue, as Dominic cradles the viola gently, running scarred fingers over the varnished wood, sniffing gently the smell of rosin left behind on the strings of the instrument. The viola, so carefully tuned to the perfect pitch and tone, so lovingly taken care of; not a scratch on its unblemished, glossy surface, contrasting with the jagged scars that mar Dominic's skin, a result of monthly transformations in the milky light of the full moon.

Pabla has only once heard Dominic play the instrument, the sacred family heirloom that once belonged to his maternal great-grandfather. Dominic's expression is hidden from her through a shroud of wavy red-gold locks, but she can sense his fear when he looks at the instrument with his beautiful amber eyes. She can see how his fingers shake when he touches it, tentatively, then grasping it lightly and lifting it from the viola case. She knows that he is afraid that he will mar this last scrap of perfection that he holds in his hands.

Pabla sometimes indulges herself by pretending that she can still remember how the viola had sounded, so long ago, but in actual fact she can only remember the words for it; the actual sound is lost to her memory. She knows that it was mellow, less soaring than a violin. Sorrow crying soft, low sobs in a dark corner, oft drowned out by the high wails of the violin or the deep thrum of the cello. Pabla only knows what it should sound like, but she cannot remember anything else.

Her wings are unfurled, blood red mottled with midnight-black, quivering slightly as if poised to fly. More angular, more jagged than the wings of other flights, none of that downy white goodness that humans associate with angels. But Pabla knows that angels' wings are far more glorious than the wings of a flight, and sometimes she envies them.

Pabla turns her gaze from Dominic to the fireplace, watching the flames dance and lick and burn at the firewood, glowing sparks and liquid flames spitting and hissing and moving in an intricate warm-orange-yellow sign language that nobody understands. Sometimes she looks at the flames and wishes that she could be like one, flashing brilliance in temporary warmth and then disappearing after the height of her existence, instead of plodding along life's dreary paths with slush clinging to her boots and the wind blowing sleet into her tired, bleary eyes.

"The moon is waxing." Pabla can detect the quiver in Dominic's voice as he says so, carefully replacing the viola into its case at the same time.

Pabla's wings express her subconscious thoughts and beat once or twice in agitation, but her face is a mask of calm. "Then it shall be like the past."

Dominic doesn't move from his position, only says, "I am afraid, Pabla."

"What is there to be afraid of?" Pabla struggles to keep the fearlessness in her voice.

"It will be different this time," Dominic tells her, "I can feel it."

"Intuition-" Pabla begins.

"But a wolf's intuition is never wrong," Dominic interrupts. "I can smell my death with every breath I take."

"You will live," Pabla declares stubbornly, and the topic is closed.

…

Julio watches, eyes narrowed, as Gabbro lights Merox's cigarette with his lighter, which is an intriguing colour of pink. Pink, Gabbro always says, is a good colour, because then your enemies won't know what to think of you. Personally Julio has never believed him.

Gabbro has raven hair and eyes the colour of cigarette ash, and a goatee that covers his chin. Merox has golden-blond hair and the characteristic red eyes of Kindred, and he never stops grinning, baring his fangs out of habit.

"Business, Julio, is a tricky thing," Gabbro declares as he lights his own cigarette and takes a puff. Julio crinkles his nose slightly at the unpleasant smell of the smoke.

"I only call you when there is good business to be done, and you know that, Gabbro." Julio's voice is mildly indignant. He sips his tea and watches Merox watching Gabbro.

It is warm during midday and the shade of the umbrella covering their table outside the café does nothing to ease the sweltering heat. There is a faint sheen of sweat glistening on Gabbro's olive skin, but Merox shows no sign of discomfort.

"Any business is good business, Julio," says Gabbro, chuckling. "What is it this time?"

"It's transporting." Julio swallows, pauses, chocolate eyes subconsciously following a blue BMW as it purrs down the street past them. "To the Hypogeum."

Shock registers on Gabbro's face only for a fraction of a split second, but he doesn't miss a beat. "What's the job like?"

Julio takes another sip of tea and sets the cup down on the table, placing his hands on the plastic surface and thrumming agitatedly against it. "Remember ten years ago? The flight we transported? Employer wants him back up here again."

Julio can see Gabbro's brow creasing slightly as he considers carefully. "He's a flight, you know. Even if he's severed."

"I know," says Julio, "But there's three of us."

Gabbro glances quickly at Merox. The corners of Merox's mouth twitch slightly.

Julio shrugs. "It's up to you, Gabbro, really. But the money is fantastic."

Gabbro perks up slightly. "How much is the Employer offering?"

It's Julio's turn to grin widely. "More than we've ever seen in all three of our lifetimes."