25 FRANCOIS
Putain de vie.
I lie coiled in a weed-choked ditch behind a timber yard. For the last two hours, I’ve been trapped in the miniature, three-foot coil of my basilisk form—digesting.
Surely this has been long enough?
I guess I will soon find out. The transformation back to a man is strangely agonizing, the grind of expanding bones and stretching tissue several degrees more severe than is usual. Pressing my human palms flat against the muddy gravel, a wave of black, acidic bile fills my mouth.
But the true horror of the shift doesn't hit me until I am completely upright.
Rattus rattus.
Knowing the proper scientific name does absolutely nothing to lessen the disgust and the memory of unhinging my jaw to swallow the thing.
The slow, chemical burn of my own gastric juices working through fur, bone, and dirt registers with absolute, vivid clarity, making me want to claw my own abdomen open.
Beyond that, I am covered in grit and blood, my skin itchy with sticky dried salt spray.
Forcing myself to breathe through the disgust, I pull back the hem of the destroyed blue sweatshirt.
The deep, jagged punctures where the monstre requin had clamped his jaws are no longer weeping. The flesh has closed, replaced by tight, puckered tracks of smooth, silvery scar tissue.
Interesting.
And my magic is slowly returning to a steady, rhythmic simmer in my veins.
And with the magic comes the thread.
My awareness sinks beneath the ambient noise of the mainland. The golden vibration under my sternum is no longer a microscopic spark; it is a live, humming wire. Aurora is moving. I can taste the distinct flavor of her safety, drifting miles ahead in a sharp, northern trajectory.
She is heading deeper into the interior.
Hmm. Looking down at my ensemble, it’s clear a comprehensive change of wardrobe is required before I go any further. I don’t have the power, currently, to spare for transmogrification.
So I walk on.
Ten minutes later, I am standing on the shoulder of the regional transit highway.
A luxury sedan purrs down the asphalt towards me, its polished chrome grille looking like a satisfied smile.
Parfait.
I take three strides until I reach the center of the lane. The driver slams on the brakes, trying to go around me, but I do not allow that. The vehicle grinds to a halt inches from my knees.
As the door flies open, a middle-aged Elite is already red in the face and cursing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you on drugs, man? I could have crushed you!”
I don't bother responding with words. I simply step into his space, tilting my head until the gray morning light catches the flat, reptilian depth of my irises.
“Look at me,” I command, my voice dropping into a low, and vibration-heavy tone.
The man’s chest hitches, the rage instantly draining from his features. With satisfaction, I study his face as the jaw goes slack and eyes glaze over.
“Strip,” I tell him. “Everything off. Your blazer, shoes, watch. All of it.”
Mechanically, the man obeys, undressing to his bare skin, leaving his garments in a messy pile. I happily throw off my own clothing, and redress.
“Now.” I gesture toward the muddy ditch I just crawled out of. “Put on my clothes, then you will lie down in that mud, close your eyes, and go to sleep for the next six hours. You will remember nothing but a deep, dreamless exhaustion.”
The hypnotized Elite slides into my discarded rags, stumbles blankly down into the weeds, instantly dead to the world.
His crisp shirt, the tailored trousers, and the charcoal wool overcoat fit reasonably well, instantly masking the worst of my degradation, but the Oxfords, however, are too small.
No matter. I close my eyes, channeling a tight, focused current of my returning magic into the leather. It’s exhausting but worth it.
The shoes groan as the fibers warm and stretch under the pressure of the spell, until they expand to perfectly accommodate my stride. Better.
There’s a comb and a bottle of hand sanitizer in the middle console of the car. I can improve my appearance somewhat with those, but I’m still a wreck.
My stomach lurches again, and I’m almost tempted to drink down all the disinfectant gel, but I have to move. The road will not remain quiet much longer.
The digital clock on the dashboard glows: 07:45 AM.
Sliding the sedan into drive, I do a u-turn which puts me heading north. I will drive until I find her.
A mile down the highway, I pull over at a convenience store. It’s no good—I’ll lose my mind if I have to carry on like this. Francois de Vaux does not navigate society looking like a common vagrant, and the dark stubble along my jaw is making me jittery.
I grab a disposable razor and a can of shaving cream from the aisle before bypassing the counter and slipping directly into the cloakroom bathroom.
With the hot tap all the way up, I scrub my hands, face and neck until my skin burns, and every visible trace of the Ashgrave coast is erased.
Coating my face in the foam, I use the cheap plastic razor to scrape away the grit and stubble in long strokes until my face is completely clean and restored—though desperately in need of moisturizing.
On my way out, I toss a handful of the driver's stolen cash onto the counter. “A black coffee. And antacids. Lots.”
The cashier slides over a paper cup and a packet of Tender-Tummies. I swallow three of the mint tablets, washing them down with the bitter coffee from the glass jug.
I guess that’s the best I can do for now.
Sliding back into the sedan, I put my foot on the accelerator and start to follow the golden hum in my chest straight towards some rolling hills.