“Do you catch that scent? The intoxicating perfume of desire, sin, and shadowed craving. Ah, humans… You remain the most delectable morsels of all.”

  – A particularly “sensual” Fae

  Nearly a week had passed since leaving the apartment on the twenty-second floor. Backup arrived swiftly—Bureau Exorcists alongside officers from the Paris police force. They sealed the room, cordoned the floor, and began the meticulous work of documentation, evidence collection, and containment. Mary and I were questioned separately for hours: every detail of our entry, the state of the bodies, the sequence of events, and my decision to fire. I answered with calm precision, explaining the miasma’s nature and the necessity of release. Richard, predictably, delivered a stern lecture afterwards—his voice tight with frustration—though he conceded my reasoning once I reiterated the soul-trapping effects.

  Upon our return to headquarters, my quarters were raided a second time. This time, it was the Journal of St Lark Church. A team in crisp uniforms swept in without preamble, confiscated the tome, and departed as abruptly as they had come. I appreciated the removal of such a dangerous artefact from my possession—yet I could not help but wish they had at least knocked first. Small courtesies, after all.

  The days that followed were pleasantly uneventful. I devoted them almost entirely to Water and Ice. It transpired that Season 3 concluded a major arc, after which two feature-length films were required before one could proceed to Season 4. Season 3 centred on Miyala, Hendro, and the newcomer Elzo as they pursued leads to Hendro’s long-lost mother—a peculiar premise executed with near-flawless tension, character work, and emotional payoff. My enjoyment was only slightly diminished by Ricard’s recurring presence in the plot; the man seemed determined to insert himself into every corner of my entertainment.

  The films themselves were… adequate, as humans might say. Mediocre. The only redeeming quality lay in the fight choreography—fluid, brutal, and occasionally inspired—though several sequences felt gratuitous, padded for spectacle rather than story.

  Today, however, promised better things.

  An additional privilege had been granted: access to the bureau's officer clothing stores at an eighty percent discount. A most welcome development, given my limited wardrobe.

  I dressed in my official suit—crisp black, impeccably tailored—donned my ever-present gloves, took up the vulture-skull cane, and made my way to reception. I had spent enough time exploring the dorm sublevels to navigate without hesitation. Jules was on duty, slurping noodles from a takeaway container while openly watching explicit content on his screen. He gave me a half-hearted nod as I passed. I returned a polite smile and continued to the same door that had previously led me to the cane boutique.

  This time, I turned the dial to “Fashion Gala” and stepped inside.

  The interior assaulted the senses at once: blindingly bright overhead lights; mirrors everywhere reflecting infinite versions of oneself; racks of clothing arranged with military precision—formal suits on one wall, casual streetwear on another; and footwear displayed like museum pieces on tiered shelves. The air carried a crisp, expensive scent: new leather, fresh cotton, and faint cologne undertones.

  I had barely advanced ten paces when a man burst into view, halting a few feet in front of me. He struck a series of exaggerated, suggestive poses—hips cocked, chest thrust forward, hands framing his face like a model on a runway.

  He was muscular, blond, and objectively handsome—yet the presentation left much to be desired. Shirtless and adorned with silver rings through both nipples and a scattering across his chest, the shorts he wore were slashed and strategically torn, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. For someone managing a clothing store, he seemed remarkably averse to wearing any of the merchandise himself.

  I stood in polite silence, observing the performance with detached curiosity. Humans were endlessly contradictory: they invented garments to conceal the body, then spent considerable effort designing clothing that revealed as much as possible. Was this a cultural peculiarity? A rebellion against modesty? Or simply another facet of their restless desire for attention?

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  After several seconds of posing, he finally looked at me properly. His expression collapsed from eager anticipation to visible disappointment. The energy drained from him like air from a punctured balloon. He muttered something under his breath—“You’re not him”—and shuffled toward the reception desk with the enthusiasm of a man condemned to paperwork.

  I had no notion who this mysterious “him” might be, but I already felt a pang of sympathy for the poor soul.

  He typed at the computer with glacial slowness, as though every keystroke required monumental effort. Eventually, he glanced up and asked—in a flat, deflated tone—what style I preferred.

  I considered for a moment. “Formal wear, if you please—yet with a touch of casual comfort.”

  He nodded once and beckoned me to follow.

  What followed was a two-hour odyssey of selection. He moved through the racks with practised efficiency, pulling suits, shirts, trousers, jackets—each piece seemingly tailored to my exact measurements before I even tried them on. Bureau enchantments, no doubt. He attempted several times to steer me toward more provocative options: sheer fabrics, plunging necklines, trousers cut scandalously low. Each suggestion I declined with polite firmness—“I believe I shall pass on that particular style, thank you”—until he ceased offering them.

  Footwear followed: another hour of careful consideration. Leather oxfords, brogues, sleek loafers, even a pair of understated boots. All impeccable. All fitting as though made for me alone.

  When we finally concluded, he seemed marginally revived—enough to offer a parting remark in a low, suggestive purr: “Come back soon, handsome." I’ll have something special waiting.”

  I smiled courteously, inclined my head, and departed without committing to a return visit. The Bureau appeared to employ a remarkable number of eccentric shopkeepers.

  Back in my quarters, I spent a careful hour arranging the new garments in the wardrobe: suits were hung by colour and cut, shirts were folded precisely, and shoes were aligned on the lower shelf. The process was oddly soothing—a small act of order in an often-chaotic world.

  With the wardrobe sorted, I considered my next move. Divination could easily uncover another case—something diverting—but I found I still enjoyed the simple pleasure of sight, of moving through the city without foreknowledge. I would reserve the spell for true boredom.

  Instead, I sat at the computer and logged into the Arcane Library once more. My studies had progressed steadily; today I wished to delve deeper into elemental arcane, particularly its human interpretations.

  The material unfolded easily. I mastered several new elemental spells—fire weaves, wind bindings, and water shaping—with minimal effort. Healing spells followed: mending flesh, staunching blood, easing pain. Useful knowledge, even for one such as myself.

  Two systems in particular caught my attention.

  The first: Bloodline Magic. Arcane potential is tied directly to lineage, passed from parent to child, generation after generation. A hereditary gift—or curse—depending on the bloodline’s nature. Humans had refined this into family traditions, guild secrets, and noble houses of power.

  The second: Elran Focus Spell—known among fae as 'Arcane Concentration'. A technique to intensify a spell’s potency by narrowing its parameters: targeting a single condition, a specific enemy, a precise effect. The greater the concentration, the greater the power—and the greater the drawbacks. Backlash, exhaustion, unintended consequences. Temporary, of course, but reusable at will so long as one possessed sufficient residual energy and arcane understanding.

  I paused to reflect. Human arcanist were limited by divine decree to a scant three hundred spells—far fewer than fae commanded naturally. Yet they had found a clever workaround: concentrate a spell via Elran's focus, bind the refined version to their bloodline through ritual, and—effectively—create an entirely new hereditary spell. Innovation born of restriction. Quite admirable.

  Curiosity drew me next to the elemental roster. To my mild surprise, Darkness appeared on the list—listed as “advanced” and "high-risk".

  Intrigued, I cast the spell.

  My shadow deepened at once, thickening into an inky pool that rose from the floor like spilt oil. Tendrils extended at my thought, coiling around the room. I directed one to the computer’s power button; the screen winked off obediently.

  I smiled. Darkness was among the simplest elements to master—once one understood water manipulation. Both flowed, both yielded to intent, both could be shaped and directed with the same subtle pressure of will. Humans merely complicated it with chants and fear.

  Satisfied with the day’s progress, I rose, stretched, and retired to bed. Tomorrow I would venture into the human streets—perhaps sample more of their cuisine, observe their customs up close, and wander without purpose.

  A pleasant prospect.