Malodore did not need to sleep; like many undead, it did not physically tire in a way that required the restorative properties of sleep to repair. However, there were times when it sought sleep for its ability to relax and restore the mind, during times of great worry or stress.

Now was one of those times, as much as it hated to admit it.

It knew the story as well as any Amityville student: four of their own had collapsed into a coma that not even Infermiera Cricket's arts could dispel, along with a few of the Horsemen. Medea had claimed to have found a 'cure', and a number of students had gone to her, to fall into Trance and seek the minds of the afflicted.

Riley, of course, had been among those who sought the 'cure'.

Malodore was both proud of her, and afraid for her. She was a natural choice, of course, with her exquisite command of the mental arts - but Malodore did not trust Medea in the least. The High Priestess seemed to use others only for her own gain, to further her own agendas. It had seen how Medea had tempted others into her ranks, students who had no business entangling their hearts with the Horsemen. She offered power but spoke little of the cost. And Riley had gone with her.

It did not want to be afraid, and yet there was a gnawing thing in the back of its mind, something sharp and cold that had been born on the Isle of Famine, nearly a year ago, when Riley had fallen to the Insanity and become stone. As a creature of fear, it was more than capable of recognizing its own terror, and yet it felt powerless before it.

You will lose her again, its fear whispered, impossible to ignore. You will lose her, and you will lose the others, and you will be alone. You did not save her. You did not save any of them. You cannot save them now. There is nothing you can do-

The plague doctor made a soft sound of distress and curled more tightly into the bedclothes; next to it, Luce echoed it with a whine of her own. It hated this fear, hated feeling so powerless and weak, so prone and prey to emotion. It should be stronger than this, it felt. It should be confident, believing in Riley and her abilities without question, as it once had...

And yet.

Thus troubled, the plague doctor sought sleep as a sanctuary, looking for a bit of solace, a small space of peace untouched by that gnawing fear.


---------------

What it found was pain, white and hot in its left shoulder; Malodore cried out, jerking away, moving from sleep into wakefulness in a jolt of pure adrenaline. For an instant, it caught sight of a shadow stretching over it, a sense of someone there, far too close. It snapped its wings forward like a cage and hit something soft, something that hissed and twisted away, moving backwards and giving the plague doctor enough room to get up. Its shoulder throbbed as it got to its feet, hooves clacking oddly on the floor.

It raised its right hand to the wound and found something embedded in it, something that felt like metal. With a hiss of its own, it plucked the object free, funneling its own FEAR into that part of its body and closing the wound. A harsh, rasping chuckle came from the shadowed figure, which was now standing a good distance away, well out of range of Malodore's wingspan. "Monster. I knew you would be a monster."

The plague doctor's feathers bristled as it tensed. "Who are you? A Hunter?" It flicked its tail around, catching up its tailblade in both hands. "The last of your kind who challenged me did not find me an easy mark. If you would care to test that hypothesis..."

The laugh came again, and Malodore's gaze narrowed; there was nothing of sanity in that sound. "I am... Io sono te. A piece, a fragment only. The Voice told me so. The Voice..." The shadow giggled. "Cazzo bugiardo. I saw your shadow. I am your shadow. You- you ruined everything." Its voice twisted into a snarl. "So I will kill you, and take your place. As you took mine."

Something silver whipped through the air, and Malodore staggered back as another burst of pain flowered in its gut. Again, it pulled the object free, healing itself with a burst of FEAR, but this time it looked at the item that had struck it.

A scalpel.

The shadowy figure lurched forward, its movements oddly stilted, though its silhouette was clearly humanoid. No... not just humanoid, Malodore realized, as its opponent came into focus. Human. White-clad, but not in the same way as the Hunters were. It saw no gold insignia on the shadow's coat, though it did see a liberal splashing of dried blood. Black hair framed a sharp-nosed face, pale as if it had never seen even pumpkin sunlight; smoked lenses covered the shadow's eyes, though the glass was cracked and crazed.

"Who are you?" it demanded, once more.

"Il mio nome รจ Malodore," the shadow - the fragment laughed, and this time the plague doctor saw the scalpels fanned out in its hands. "I saw you when I died. The Voice - oh, pretty lies he told me, si. Very pretty. But I found her first. I did, I did. I found her first." The fragment's face stretched in a wide smile. "L'ho uccisa."

Bladed feathers chimed against each other as Malodore shifted forward. "Who. Who did you find?" it demanded, rage rising like bile in its throat.

The fragment threw back its head and laughed. "The pretty one - oh, bella, she was a monster too, was she not? So striking... that purple flesh, those tentacles, that-"

The plague doctor snarled and lunged, its rush aided by pure, visceral fury. In a moment, it snapped its wings sharply forward, tangling the fragment in living metal, pierced by a hundred bladed feathers. "Cosa hai fatto per lei, pezzo di merda?!"

The fragment gasped, though the look on its face looked more pleasured than pained. "I told you already. I... killed her," it said, beatifically.

With all of its strength, Malodore lifted the fragment off the ground, fully enclosed in its wings and held up by the many blades that impaled it. Blood flowed as the fragment's wounds deepened sharply under the increased weight. "Something like you could never kill her," the plague doctor hissed. "Debole, patetica creatura umana-"

Another scalpel tore a ragged stripe down the side of its neck, parting bandages and flesh alike. "She knew you. She... she loved you," the fragment said, giggling again. "I feel it, I feel... I taste it. So good. You taste so good..."

Malodore threw the fragment to the ground, crashing down on top of it, both of them still enmeshed in the cage of its wings. "You lie. You lie," and its long, sharp fingers found the fragment's throat, tightening around it, feeling the flutter of its pulse. "You could never hope to destroy her, sciagurato-"

The fragment was gasping now, writhing beneath it as breath failed it - and yet that smile, that damned smile would not leave its face. "You... will... see..." it gasped, with the last air left to it. Malodore held on, grimly, feeling that heartbeat slow.

Stop.

The body went slack in its hands - and then, to Malodore's shock, the fragment's corpse dissolved into a fine, silvery mist tinged with blue. The plague doctor pushed itself up off the floor as quickly as it could, but the mist followed it, coiling towards it with as much wicked intent as it had ever divined from any Insanity-fog. It had only a moment before the world went white-

"You will not speak to me such, precioso."

And then, you will perish. No one is ever allowed to kill you, even this shadow of you, but me. Tu sei solo mio.

"Does it hurt, tresorina?"

Stop it. You have no right to call me that. YOU DON'T GET TO CALL ME THAT -

"Vieni, vieni, tresorina bella-"

I know you're not mine. But I can't believe a shadow of you, even the smallest shadow, could be so cruel. I know you're good, even when you're not you, Malodore.

"You speak as if you know me, mia cara. Intrigante. I do intend to get to know you... very well indeed..."

Perhaps. In another life.

---------------

Malodore awoke with a shudder, kicking the covers away with all its might; one hoof hit Luce, who yelped and leapt off the bed, giving her master an insulted look. It barely noticed, though - not with a sure, sick knowledge creeping into its mind, memories that belonged to it and yet did not, years spent in a city glowing with blue, redolent with every kind of vice. Of another self, with the capacity for cruelty it had always known it possessed allowed to grow to full flower, unhindered by any moral code or any fondness whatsoever.

Of a Voice, breaking the world. Of a battle.

Of Riley.

It had killed her.

"No," it gasped, half falling off the bed as tried to stand. "No-"