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Stabbing the barely finished cigarette out on rather posh (and well chosen) wall across the street Cassandra stared at the shop across from where she stood. Her breathing slightly aggravated not only from the chemicals slowly rushing their way through her body, but also from the tingling sensation that ran up and down her spine as the Siren breathed deeply behind her. Its voice that was always tuneful was currently caught singing, something Cassandra might of enjoyed if she wasn't so very aware of what it meant. Although the daemonic beast was a mere shadow to the mortals that made their way past the journalist its voice was not so easily hidden and often someone one would take a second glance at Cassandra, locking eyes for that moment that made it extremely uncomfortable for the office girl.

"Please Siren, shhhs, I dont have time for this now. I need to talk to Mister Fauste."

The Siren giggled as her humming ceased, the caress of her shoulders showed Cassandra she would be quite for now, as she shivered at its touch.


"Thank you, please, lets go." She murmured trying to shake off the uncomfortable personal space issues the Siren seemed to display to her. Waiting for the rather expensive Limo to pull away Cassandra made her way across the road and into the building that had caught her interest all those weeks ago. Forgetting manner momentarily she open the door without a second thought, only remembering her strict upbringing as she walked in on the growing group of people in the room.


"Oh....oh am sorry, am I interrupting anything?" She enquired as she viewed each person in turn, each giving the same vibe she felt as the building, as if they had been tainted.

"Its just that...I really need to talk to you Mister Fauste, its about...well....you never said anything about more daemons showing up after I summoned this one." She half nodded behind her at the still giggling Siren, its long fingers pulling at the skin over its face as if it were a pretty accessory to show off to the new people.

"He's asleep," said a sepulchral voice. The door unlocked, and then opened; the woman behind it was skeletal, barely human in appearance. Her skin was dry, cracked, spread over obvious bones. "What is so important?" The smell--sulfur underlaid it, but much more overpowering was the scent of burnt offerings, the smells of spices and cooked meat. This person was not human; and yet, she seemed not to be a demon either. Her hair hung lankly over her shoulders--and her eyes were the same shade as Edward's.

"What is it you want? Shop hours begin at five."

Martel gave her a baleful stare and turned to disappear into the stacks. She would not help someone so... rude. "Wake him yourself, then. Upstairs, second door on the right." And she faded into the stacks of books.

Upstairs was dark; oppressively so, in fact. The floors were hard wood, the walls covered in intricately detailed paper. The entire area screamed Victorian sensibilities. Off to the right was a small kitchen, and on a side counter a pot of coffee had begun to run. There was a box of poptarts open on the counter; the space gave an implication of someone having just left. In fact, if Mischa listened, there was the sound of running water...

The second door on the left was open a little bit, and if the redheaded woman looked inside--

Well, she did. And there was Edward, alive, breathing, unharmed--and asleep, shirtless, peaceful. His bed was small, wedged into the corner under a window; the rest of the room (it was so small!) held a dresser, with the top drawer slightly open, the sleeve of a sweater no one had ever seen him wear hanging out. On top of it, there was a line of photographs--

Edward, young, with two people who looked like his parents. Edward, a little older, with someone who looked like an younger Tae-yul and the woman downstairs. A picture of Edward bending down to kiss a dark-haired girl in a white sundress--Hae-min, maybe?

--and then a line of books, none of them with titles in a language Mischa could read. The walls were empty of decoration, and the rug on the floor had been rolled back to allow for a line of salt across the space.

He seemed oblivious to her entrance--just sleeping, blissfully unaware of the world.

Edward woke up without a jolt, just opened one eye and said, in a voice made hoarse by sleep, "Good morning, Mischa. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He didn't sit up for a moment, looking to the old-fashioned alarm clock on the tiny nightstand. "At two in the morning? Truly?"

The man didn't comment further, just sat up and made room for Mischa on his bed. "Warn me of what," he said patiently, patting the side of the bed nearest his pillow.