Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Armand is terrified. He’d like to say he isn’t terrified often, but in truth he barely knows another way to be. It's his way of life, and his way of death - or of undeath, at least.

He’d thought - he’d really thought - he could leave the two of them home alone for one hour. Just one hour, while he filled his veins and got some fresh air and satisfied the urge to hunt that used to run through him daily, but is now an infrequent, unwelcome friend.

And then a ship comes into harbour, and it’s a real beauty, the Regent Seven Seas Splendor, their newest offering that he hasn’t had the chance to see in person yet. He watches from under his new sunglasses and counts the windows on the port side as thousands of passengers hang over the railing, waving smugly like passengers always have since the advent of cruise ships, except these passengers have surgical masks covering their Christian Lacroix lipstick and their expensive veneers, and he likes the incongruity of it. How it reveals something rotten and decaying beneath the beautiful facade.

And by the time he’s disposed of the corpse almost two hours have passed, but it doesn’t matter, because with a blood-warmed body and a new ship to note down in his diary he’s feeling better than he has in months. He carries that positivity with him until he walks back through the door of the apartment he shares with Louis, only to find Louis and Daniel staring. Staring at him with disdain, with betrayal, and he looks between them and knows they’ve uncovered something, something he didn’t want them to know. And he keeps his face calm even as he falls straight back down, slipping and sliding, sinking endlessly into the familiar state of terror to which he’s accustomed.

Geralt immediately hates Dubai. 

The heat feels like a personal attack, designed to tire out his old body that has been carefully calibrated to survive northern winters. The excess of everything in the city - coin, power, cruelty - makes him want to turn around and slay the government official who called the meeting, then to work his way up the chain of rotten men until he faces the ruler himself and slips a sharp blade under his ribs. But he's learned from centuries of bitter experience that another monster will just take the Sheikh’s place before the guts and life have even drained out of him.

The man who sits at the mahogany desk before him is, on the surface, just a staffer of the Minister for the Interior. But the file Lambert provided suggests he is also a member of the ruling family, albeit a second cousin whose father’s image has been tarnished by two failed marriages and a phone tapping scandal.

“Sit,” orders the man, and Geralt sits even as he grits his teeth and wishes he'd managed to keep at least one weapon on the way into the building. A manila folder thuds rudely onto the desk before him, and he glowers at the man for a second before curiosity leads him to open it.

The photographs are high-resolution images of the body that had been dragged out of the ocean off Kite Beach and laid out on a medical examiner’s slab, alongside a headshot of a cocksure young man who’s wearing wraparound sunglasses and preening at the camera.

“Malik Al-Fayed,” says the man, nodding towards the photographs. “Age 33, found yesterday evening weighed down with a brick, some distance offshore.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Geralt, spreading the photos out to look at them more closely.

“Anything look strange to you?”

“Strange? Not really,” replies Geralt. A flicker of irritation crosses the man’s eyes at Geralt’s curt reply.

Geralt sees exsanguinated corpses semi-regularly, especially since the boom in the garkain population caused by the latest pandemic. The lesser vampires are attracted to the dead bodies, and come out in droves every time an event causes excess deaths. This is not the work of a garkain though - they're messier eaters and they don't have the sentience to cover their tracks.

“Our medical examiner has confirmed the time of death, and suspects that Mr Al-Fayed was killed around half an hour before he entered the water.”

“Yet?”

“Yet he can't confirm the cause, except that it was not by -” the man pauses and picks up some notes “- drowning, blunt force or strangulation. There are no signs of lacerations on the body -” another pause as he stumbles over an unfamiliar word “-antemortem, barring two small puncture wounds on the left side of the neck. However, some of the soft tissue had already been eaten when the body was found.”

“Exsanguination,” says Geralt

“What?”

“The cause of death. Exsanguination. He's been drained.”

The man narrows his eyes, even though this is presumably what he brought Geralt here for. “Do tell.”

“What's left of his gums are too pale. The skin is dehydrated even though it’s been sitting in the water for-”

“For six hours.”

“For six hours. There aren’t any visible veins on his wrists.” He sits back and folds his arms, letting his biceps visibly bulge under the sleeves of his t-shirt. “So his blood was already gone by the time he was thrown in the water.”

The man pales. “Could a human do this?”

“They could. But the blood would have to end up somewhere. Have you found the crime scene?”

“We think so. Service road, not far from the Burj Khalifa.”

“Much blood?”

“Minimal. Just enough to confirm it belongs to Mr Al-Fayed.” He frowns. “So what does this mean?”

Geralt sighs. He knew he wouldn't be lucky enough to get this job over and done within the day. Humans are inevitably messy, but monsters somehow manage to be even messier. 

He makes sure to maintain eye contact with the man as he says, “This means you've got a higher vampire on your hands.”

Back in his hotel room, Geralt writes down the facts of the case as he knows them, then calls Eskel to give his report.

“Wolf,” Eskel greets him, “what's happening?”

“Victim’s been drained, then weighed down with bricks and dumped in the ocean.”

“Uh huh,” Eskel says, and Geralt can almost hear the dollar signs chime behind his eyes. “Just the one?”

“One that’s been recovered, but there've been an increasing number of missing persons cases in recent years. And I quote: ‘Important people - politicians, businessmen and expats’ .”

“Gross,” says Eskel, and Geralt is glad he's not so far gone on the promise of a hefty payday that he can't see the problem with that sentence. “Hence they've called us in.”

“Yep. The known victim is a good school friend of the Sheikh’s favourite grandson.”

“Okay, that explains it,” says Eskel, and Geralt can picture him wrinkling his nose. “Send everything you have on the victim to Lambert, and I'll get him to look the guy up.”

Geralt hums his assent and says his goodbyes. Immediately after pressing send on the email to Lambert, he pulls up the room service menu and orders a steak, a pint of ale and an ice-cream sundae for dessert. His hotel room has a large freestanding bath with a line of sight to the TV, so he plans to spend the evening soaking and watching football while dining courtesy of the Dubai ruling family. The rest can wait until tomorrow.

It's been hours now since Daniel and Louis miraculously uncovered their memories of that week in 1973. That horrible yet exhilarating week, when Louis had tried to meet the sun, letting the weakness and darkness inside him win. The week they’d first met Daniel, gotten to know Daniel, seen Daniel laid bare and honest, and Armand had discovered that Louis was right - he was fascinating.

Remembering is painful for them. It has made them both melancholic in a way they weren't this morning. Doesn't that prove that Armand did the right thing, all those years ago? Doesn't that absolve him of his crimes? When he tinkered with their brains he’d released them, allowing them to live free and happy lives without the spectres of the past looming over them all. In exchange, Armand had carried the knowledge for them all these years, weighed down by the burden, existing and enduring and remembering, and protecting them.

And now, forty-two years later, Armand is being punished. With silent treatment, no less, which makes him want to scream and cry and throw himself in front of them so they’ll look at him, so they'll see him, so he'll start to exist again.

In a way Armand’s used to getting the silent treatment from Louis. They've endured a 77-year companionship, and when time stretches before you endlessly it can be hard to think of words to fill every moment. Especially when Louis gets in his own head and shrinks into himself and Armand dips into his mind only to run into floating thoughts of Lestat Lestat Lestat and sometimes Claudia so he reverses right back out again, not wanting to know any more than Louis wants him to know.

But Daniel - Daniel has never been silent for a minute in all the time Armand has known him, not even when he's been preoccupied by whatever story he's hunting or whatever high he’s chasing or whatever warm body Armand’s dragged in for him and presented like a cat showing off his latest kill. Daniel is words and words and more words, and he's never silent, except now he is, and that's what makes Armand wonder if he’s fucked things up so badly, messed things up so badly , that he might never be forgiven.

Chapter Text

“He's an arms dealer.” Lambert growls down the phone like it's Geralt’s fault that Malik wasn’t an angel of a human whose very name must be avenged.

“Sounds about right,” says Geralt.

“Bastard grew up wealthier than most kings, went to Eton and Oxenfurt, then decided to dedicate the rest of his life to ensuring every side in every war had the biggest arsenal they could afford.”

“What a loss to the world,” Geralt says drily. At least this vampire had discerning taste when it came to its victims, even if it had flown too close to the sun on this occasion.

“I was able to hack Al-Fayed's email. It's encrypted but he wasn’t quite smart enough to hide the encryption key from me. He'd arranged a meeting yesterday about a ‘high-octane business opportunity' with a man named Rashid, haven’t found a last name yet. Address given for the meeting is the penthouse of Al Osman Tower. The listed owner is a shell company, and no matter how hard I dig I can't find a name attached.”

“Thanks Lamb,” says Geralt, grabbing his phone and his room key from the side table. “I'm just on my way down to breakfast, so you've got half an hour to send me everything you know.”

The car park beneath Al Osman Tower is too well lit for Geralt’s liking. With his striking white hair and Continental features he stands out like a sore thumb, and his standard disguise of Old Homeless Man won't work here due to the lack of visible homelessness in the city.

He's made do with a maintenance worker disguise this time, using axii to convince a lowly employee that he was about to have a diarrhoea attack of epic proportions, and that the reasonable course of action was to take off his uniform shirt and trousers to keep them clean before high tailing it to the nearest bathroom.

The shirt buttons strain across Geralt’s chest, and the trouser fit lends itself more to clubbing than espionage, but the uniform gives Geralt just enough cover to wait around unnoticed until the building staff start filtering in for the day through the workers’ entrance.

He doesn't have to wait long before he spots the penthouse’s Head of Household Staff, early to work, eyes red and shoulders hunched, compulsively jangling a set of keys. The stench of nervousness rises off him, undercut by a much more pleasant waft of cardamom and orange.

Already on edge , Geralt thinks, I wonder why . Lambert’s intel on Rashid was minimal, but that seemed to be because there wasn't much to say about him. Rashid Momin, thirty-five years old, born in India, raised in England to immigrant parents with enough money for a comfortable life but not enough to make any waves. Got a summer job at seventeen as a porter at a spa hotel, worked his way up the ranks until a regular guest put him onto an unmissable job opportunity in Dubai. Probably didn't expect to be facilitating murder as a part of that job opportunity.

Geralt had wondered if Rashid could be the vampire, a young one who still needs to work to make ends meet, but he discards that thought the second he sees him in person. The higher vampires he’s met all have an unshakeable confidence. They’re at the top of the food chain and you’re just kelp, floating around helplessly in the ocean and hoping they’ll never decide to eat you. 

Geralt absently touches the wolf medallion on his chest, wishing Yennefer had found a way to attune it to higher vampires. She and their vampire friend Regis had experimented for years, back at Corvo Bianco, trying to figure out why the more sentient of the bloodsuckers didn't set it off, but they had never found the answer.

Intercepting Rashid just as he’s about to step onto the service elevator, Geralt casts axii again and slips a handful of small electronic dots into his pocket. “Set these bugs up around the penthouse,” he instructs. “Make sure they can't be found.”

Rashid nods, then steps into the elevator and swipes his key card. Geralt examines him as he waits for the doors to close. He looks harmless enough, but Geralt has met plenty of harmless-looking bastards in his time. That means nothing.

Back at the hotel, Geralt launches the surveillance app on his laptop and sends a quick message to Lambert and Eskel. Bugs live . I'll take the first shift.

He removes his contact lenses with a sigh of relief - his eyes are always too dry to tolerate them for long - then begins flicking between the feeds, pleased to find that Rashid has managed to place all six bugs, or at least he thinks he has. Certainly none of them have that muffled sound they might if they were still in a pocket.

Good man , he thinks, and settles in for the show.

“ No vampire must commit to writing the history of the vampires .” Louis recites one of the Great Laws that had tripped Claudia up so many years ago, looking at Daniel meaningfully as he does.

Armand sighs. This again. “It's not like I made the rule, Louis. I merely enforced it.”

Daniel scoffs. “Now, where have I heard that before? Oh, that's right, the Nuremberg Trials.” His sarcastic delivery has given way to a blatantly scornful tone that digs its nails right into Armand’s brain. But at least he’s speaking to Armand again.

Armand tries to unsettle him with a stare and Daniel narrows his eyes, maintaining contact until Armand looks away first. Bastardo . He's still so handsome, with his grey hair and the lines on his face, but there’s hurt in Daniel’s eyes if he looks too closely, so Armand’s capacity for staring is diminished today.

Louis ignores them and continues as if on autopilot. “Claudia was distracted. Let down by the coven she had so desired, forced back into a little girl’s body by her maitre, it’s only natural that she looked elsewhere for gratification, for validation.”

That gets Armand’s attention back. He doesn’t appreciate what Louis is implying. “Oh, so Madeleine was my fault?” 

“Madeleine was our ticket out. Madeleine was our opportunity to build a life together, just you and me, with Claudia happy and cared for, and safe.” Louis’ voice cracks slightly for effect.

Armand is rapidly losing patience. He’d known this whole idea was a mistake. He’d resisted Louis’ mato plan to have Daniel record his story from the start, but had eventually relented out of fear that Louis would leave him if he didn't. 

He takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s short on oxygen that he doesn’t even need. Despite his inner turmoil, the words that come out are steady. He’s got this, as Louis would say. He’s in control. “You know I had much to consider. Santiago was threatening my position as coven leader -”

Daniel interjects before he can get the whole sentence out.“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Louis, you wanted your daughter to have a companion just so you could run off with your boy toy as soon as she was out of the way? But Armand, you wanted Louis to… to what? To just slot into your life like a decoration you put up for Christmas, then take down once the party’s over?”

Armand closes his eyes, willing the day’s interview to be over when it’s only just started. “I don't observe Christmas, Mr Molloy.”

“Don't ‘Mr Molloy’ me, buddy, I think we're beyond that. Fine then, I don’t know… do you put up decorations for Eid?”

He can’t remain in this room. Buddy? Buddy? Armand stands and picks up his iPad. “I’m going to see the kitchens about morning tea,” he says smoothly, and leaves before he does something else he’ll regret.

Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Not the first marital tiff he's heard during surveillance, but certainly the first time he's been dropped in the middle of - actually, now he thinks about it, he's not sure what this is. Therapy? Therapy’s all the rage in the 21st century, though to Geralt it sounds more off-putting than medieval torture. And he's been tortured. In the medieval era, even. But no, he's pretty sure therapists aren't supposed to be outright hostile to their patients.

Could this 'Mr Molloy' be a third in the relationship? Possibly, they sound vaguely intimate, though he must be a recent addition if so. He'd have to ask Lambert’s opinion, considering he's almost 750 years into a ménage a trois with the cat witcher Aiden and the sorceress Keira. But would their arguments be so scathing if they were exploring a new and exciting dynamic? Could Mr Molloy hate them already? Geralt could cut the tension with a sword and he’s not even in the same building as them.

He quickly jots down names and a few notes, grabs an orange juice from the mini bar, then reluctantly tunes back in.

Rashid enters the conversation just before midday, ushering Mr Molloy - Daniel Molloy, Geralt now knows - out of the building for lunch. Geralt gives it another ten minutes to see if Louis and Armand will talk among themselves, before giving up and deciding to check in with Eskel and Lambert instead. There's only so much information he can glean from the slam of a refrigerator door and the light tapping of fingernails against a touchscreen.

He calls his brothers over FaceTime. “New name for you, Lambert. Daniel Molloy. American, sounds older, fifty at least. Most likely human, but he’s aware he's conversing with vampires. Though I can't figure out why he's even there. It'll be interesting to see if he stays the night - I'd like your read on their dynamic.”

Lambert nods before Geralt continues. “The vampires - yes, there are two of them - go by Armand and Louis, didn't get any last names. Louis sounds American and mentioned World War II as if he was there, so he's at least, what, eighty years old? Armand sounds older, though. He has a similar accent to Regis - I think he's been around so long and lived in so many places that there's no single discernible influence.”

“So like us,” says Lambert, rolling his amber eyes.

“Well, yes,” says Geralt, “but I didn't pick up any hints of Kaedweni.”

“Two higher vampires,” ponders Eskel, frowning, his prominent facial scar causing his lip to wrinkle on the right side. “Well then, I'll see if I can strong-arm the Emiratis into doubling our fee. Geralt, anything yet we could use as leverage?”

“Nothing concrete.” He pauses. “Though the way things are going, they might get divorced and leave under their own steam before we get the chance to push them.”

Eskel looks intrigued. “That’d be a nice bonus.”

Geralt says his goodbyes, then turns his thoughts to lunch. There's a shrimp machboos on the room service menu he hasn't tried yet.

“I sent Rashid with Daniel to Izakaya today.”

“You did? Why?” Louis has his photograph album open in front of him, pulling out the Fred Steins Armand had placed in there to rattle him, and scribbling down figures on a notepad. His mood seems to have improved slightly now that he’s eaten and turned his mind back to his art sales, so Armand risks approaching him.

“I don’t know if I trust him.”

Louis looks up. “Rashid? Or Daniel?”

“Daniel.”

Louis snorts. “I could have told you that.”

Irritation flares in Armand’s gut. He doesn’t understand Louis much of the time. “Then why give him so much? Why pile guilt upon guilt onto me until I relented to having him bear witness to your story? Why gift him this?”

Louis gives a dismissive look. “You know why.”

Armand doesn’t know why - that’s the problem. But he can guess. “I can only assume it’s to torment me. To dangle him in front of me like a light I can’t look away from. A glass of champagne I can’t drink.”

Louis actually rolls his eyes. “You can’t even imagine the possibility that it might not be about you. That I might desire something you don’t. That I need something you can’t give me.”

Armand considers Louis for a moment. Is Louis playing with him? Maybe his mood hasn’t improved as much as Armand had hoped. Not if he’s taking the low road.

He closes his eyes, centres himself. Brings the focus back to what’s important. There are things on his to-do list, things that have nothing to do with Daniel, nothing to do with Lestat or Claudia or the other ghosts from their past. He opens them, gaze resting on Louis, his beautiful Louis whose brightness had blinded him when they met all those years ago in Paris. Now he looks dull. But carry on, Armand must. 

He takes a breath. He knows this topic will be contentious. “Louis,” he says decisively. “I’d like to discuss the east wall in the living room. It needs a redesign now that the Bacon triptych has been sold.”

Geralt tunes back in partway through an argument about wallpaper. By the end of his surveillance shift, he's also had to sit through Daniel taunting poor Rashid about his cocktail-making skills and hours on end of Louis recounting long-ago Paris coven dramas in that flowery, rambling idiolect of his, that makes Geralt think Louis could have been a bard if he had a bit more pep in his step. And he does not intend that as a compliment.

He gets a video call from Lambert for the handover. “It took me two seconds to find Daniel Molloy, you could have just googled him yourself. He has a Wikipedia page.”

Geralt is being mocked. He'd been able to begrudgingly figure out phones and keyboards and even some of the software they used for work, and he admits he dips into YouTube on occasion, but Google and the enormity of the internet - which has been around for only a tiny fraction of their lives - still horrifies him.

Lambert continues. “He's a prize-winning journalist and author, sixty-nine years old, twice-divorced, two semi-estranged adult kids, early-stage Parkinson’s Disease, nothing to suggest he's anything but human. Could be doing a story on them, which sure would open a giant can of centipedes.”

“They do seem to be telling him a story, but that still doesn't sound right,” says Geralt. “Why would they let him expose them? And Armand, at least, seems to subscribe to the Great Laws. One of the many things they argued about today.”

“Huh, okay. Could the other one -”

“Louis”

“- yeah, Louis, be acting against Armand’s will?”

Geralt frowns. “Seems unlikely. I still think Armand is older, and he mentioned being a coven leader, which suggests he’s the more powerful of the two. And he just seems to be letting Louis talk, apart from the occasional pointed interjection.”

“Hmmm. Research for a novel, maybe? Make it out to be fiction?”

“Maybe. Though it seems Daniel has a prior history with them, which I still can’t get a handle on.”

“That could still work.” Lambert sounds excited - he loves solving mysteries. “He's met them before, somehow found out what they are. Now they’re, what, doing him a favour? Giving him a story in exchange for silence?”

Geralt shakes his head. “They could just kill him. Letting him publish instead would be too risky. And the way he talks, he seems angry at them - certainly not grateful for the opportunity.”

“Oh. Oh,” Lambert’s voice drops. Geralt is not going to like his next theory. “Are they fucking holding him captive?”

“Huh,” said Geralt. He hadn't thought of that, but it makes sense in hindsight. None of them seem happy to be there. Daniel’s been let out once to get food, but only with a chaperone. He thinks of Daniel’s profile - lives alone, no close family. Nobody to notice if he goes missing. “God damn.”

Geralt can imagine the fire starting to burn behind Lambert’s eyes. “Well, we'll see what happens tonight, I guess. If he stays the night it probably means he can't leave even if he wants to.”

Geralt agrees. He can feel this job becoming more complicated by the second - at this rate, the Emiratis will need to quintuple their payment to be worth it. 

He has a sinking feeling he’s going to need to launch a rescue mission.

Chapter Text

Geralt wakes up even grumpier than when he'd gone to bed. He'd spent the evening trying to come up with another logical reason Daniel Molloy might be in the penthouse, but he has nothing. He'd known they’d have to find a way to evacuate the humans before approaching the vamps, but normally axii would take care of that pretty easily. That only works when the bystanders are actually free to leave.

He has over an hour left before his next surveillance shift starts, so he meditates to make up for his shitty night’s sleep, works out some anger in the gym, then makes the most of the buffet breakfast.

Daniel appears to have stayed the night, but Lambert reports with noticeable disappointment that otherwise the night surveillance revealed nothing. No arguments, no story-telling, no acerbic commentary from Daniel, just the dull sounds of eating and then people turning in for the night, tapping on an iPad then the drone of a 24 hour news channel. “Also,” says Lambert, “someone snores like a foglet getting its rocks off.”

Geralt sighs and settles in for the day shift. He's not sure if he's hoping for a quiet feed this time, or, against his better judgement, another day of melodrama.

“Yeah, alright, I sold him out.” Armand doesn’t mean to say it out loud. It’s not wholly accurate, after all. He didn’t sell Louis out; he acted in Louis’ best interests. He acted with love. But he’s said it now, because that’s what Daniel wants to hear him say, and he’s feeling weak today.

Daniel’s gaze swings from Armand back towards Louis. “And then he put you on a show trial-”

“Yes,” says Louis, and Armand gets the impression he’s been waiting seventy-three years for someone to ask him these questions.

Daniel continues, because Armand doesn’t know how to stop him. “-in front of a live human audience.”

“That's right.”

Why is Louis agreeing like it’s a fact? Like Armand had a choice? Like Louis wouldn’t have done the same if their positions had been reversed?

“And let me guess, the star witness's testimony was scrupulously impartial?”

Finally, Daniel’s thrown him a bone. Lestat. For the first time in his life he’s glad someone’s brought Lestat into the conversation. This - this is something Armand can work with. He catches the bone and runs with it. “Neither Louis nor I had heard from Lestat in many years. He'd given us nothing - not a note or a letter, not even a call to let us know he was alive and well.”

Louis looks at him, face troubled, and nods. “I still don't understand… I still don't know why you couldn't hear him, out there in the wilderness for years-”

“Lestat has always had the mind gift,” he says. “Once he realised you and I had formed a companionship, he blocked himself off from me. I suspect it was easier for him that way.”

Louis nods, and Armand chances a glance at Daniel, who looks dubious. “So who called him up? Who knew where he was to get in touch with him and say ‘Hey, I've got this great idea for a play. We'll string up your ex-husband and your daughter - your would-be murderers - and let the audience decide how they should die. Except when it comes time for the big reveal, we'll really kill them! I've read the script. It’s a banger! ’”

There's a tightness in Armand’s chest. “I don't know who called him up, I wasn't involved in the planning of it.”

“Mm,” says Daniel. “Okay.” And Armand can tell that Daniel doesn't believe him.

Geralt finds himself getting drawn into Louis' story in a way he didn't expect. He even finds himself getting teary in some parts. He hasn't cried in a long time, but he has cried before, contrary to popular belief. In his 800 plus years he’s had plenty of painful situations to cry about. But recent years have been much kinder to him, with his daughter Ciri happy and healthy and thriving and he and Yen getting on, and his brothers finding renewed purpose in their little business they've managed to build together, rather than toughing it out alone like they used to.

But hearing Louis’ account of Claudia’s death… well, that brings up a lot of feelings for him. The thing is that he's almost been there with Ciri, he's let her down and he's lost his grasp on her safety and watched her suffer, and he's accidentally brought people into her life who have hurt her. And Louis, at the last minute, was wrenched away, wasn't even able to give his daughter the honour of watching her die, wasn't able to offer her the comfort she was no doubt looking for in her last moments. Who can blame Geralt if he imagines himself in Louis’ place, and Ciri in Claudia’s? Who can blame him if he sheds a tear, or five?

“I'm going to send Aiden to you for backup-”

Geralt starts to protest as Eskel raises his hands placatingly, looking giant on the screen in front of him.

“-just in case. He's about to wrap up that wyvern contract in Montenegro, he can be there by tomorrow.”

Geralt grumbles one last time for posterity. He likes Aiden, really. He'd never admit to it out loud but he finds him amusing, and admires his quick wit and the agility he’s kept even in his old age. It'll also be handy to have someone around who can pass for a local in case they need to go undercover again.

“Tell him I miss him,” says Lambert.

Geralt glares. “You own a phone. In fact, you own three. Tell him yourself.”

“Just for that, I'm not taking over surveillance until -” Lambert makes a show of checking his watch. “8pm your time.”

“Fine,” says Geralt, “but -”

“Hey,” interjects Eskel, “I've got better things to do than sit here and listen to you two bicker. Lambert will take over at 6 -” Lambert glares “- so Geralt can get a good night’s sleep. And I need to organise new plane tickets for Aiden, and a hotel room…”

Geralt gets it. He gets it when Louis burns down the theatre where Claudia died. He gets it when he hunts down each and every perpetrator and goes so out of his mind that he starts speaking kittenish. He's seen it happen before with Lambert, when Lambert had thought Aiden was dead, seen him so deranged with grief that he was incoherent and irrational, a tornado destroying everything in its path.

He'd even felt it himself, a bit, when Vesemir died, the closest thing he'd had to a father, the only person who'd ever made a home for him. The last wolf witcher they’d had to say goodbye to, hundreds of years ago now. When they'd set fire to the funeral pyre he'd wanted to resurrect the dead, to bring back to life every wraith of the Wild Hunt just so he could kill them again, just so there was a way to enact his revenge.

And Jaskier - his best friend’s death might have hit him the hardest, even when Jaskier, as a mortal, had the privilege of dying old and content and surrounded by people who loved him. People that included Geralt, even if he'd never said those words to him. His death was worse because there was nowhere for Geralt to put his feelings, no blame to be placed, no wrongs to be righted. And still he'd wanted to destroy the world, to take it and bury it and go down with it.

And he'd happily go the rest of his long life without witnessing anybody else having to experience that.

Aiden is delayed. The wyverns turned out to have been harbouring a real dragon, and when he refused to kill it, because witchers don't kill dragons, the clients had refused to pay any of the fee. And when he protested they threatened to throw him into prison, and then he did get thrown into prison, but he'd escaped because he's Aiden and getting out of improbable scrapes is what he does, and it's already dawn by the time he gets in touch with Eskel and reports that he's missed the flight to Dubai.

So Geralt, while he's waiting, starts to plan. He needs a way to get in, and he needs a way to get Daniel Molloy out (and himself out, but that's less of a concern).

By the next morning, his plan is still only half-baked. In essence, he’ll be staging another prison break-out. But unlike the prison Aiden had busted out of, this one has fanged creatures as the wardens and a six-million-crown apartment as the cell, and an elderly human writer as the prisoner.

And these wardens can’t be killed. They can be injured and sent into a long, coma-like state for decades at a time, spending years underground while they heal and regenerate. But even a witcher cannot end the life of a truly immortal creature - that dubious honour is reserved only for vampires.

So instead, he has to convince them to leave. But to convince them, he has to get close to them first. Walk right into the monster’s giant gaping maw and stand on its tongue, hoping it's not hungry. And then, find his way back out of danger before the monster decides to close its mouth.

Chapter Text

Geralt can’t tell who Rashid is talking to. A man, certainly. Another American - which, Geralt had no idea there were so many Americans in Dubai. The voice is tinny, compressed through a phone line then further degraded as it travels through the air, into the bug that Geralt has realised, much to his disgust, sits in the staff bathroom. Why Rashid had chosen that location for one of the bugs he couldn't say, but he can't exactly complain when he didn't specify.

The man on the phone sounds too cavalier, considering the subject matter. “You don’t get a say in this, Rashid.”

“This is not what I signed up for. You said information only. Report back, don’t get involved. If I do this… you’re signing my death warrant, mine and Daniel Molloy’s.” There’s desperation in Rashid’s hushed whisper.

“No, you’ll get the chance to leave before the shit really hits the fan. As soon as the newspaper’s in their hands, you’ll give the staff orders to evacuate, then… let them burn themselves down.”

“And Daniel? What about him?”

“Daniel Molloy is exactly where he wants to be, Rashid. You can’t keep a maggot from a festering wound. The newspaper will be dropped off at the building’s reception in fifteen minutes. You’ve got until then to gather your things. And kid?”

“What?” snaps Rashid.

“Don't forget to block this from them. Then you'll keep your blood where it belongs.”

Geralt swears out loud as the line goes quiet. He has no idea why this newspaper is so important, but it’s obvious that his organisation isn’t the only one with ears and eyes on this particular duo of vampires. And their rivals are about to get involved in a way that could, on the one hand, finish Geralt’s job for him. On the other hand, there’s at least one innocent party about to be caught in the crossfire.

Geralt stands and starts changing back into the stolen maintenance worker uniform with one hand as he tries to message Eskel and Lambert with the other.

Molloy in danger, going in. Dnt wrry i hav a plan

He grabs his potion belt before realising it’ll ruin his disguise, so he hastily shoves two vials of Swallow in his pocket and tucks a dagger into his boot. He throws his contact lenses in, presses ignore on the incoming call from Eskel, then switches his phone to silent. He has less than 10 minutes now to make the 20-minute journey across the city to Al Osman Tower.

Into the Tower, and into the maw of the beast.

Geralt makes it to the service entrance just as the last of the penthouse’s catering staff are hurrying out of the stairwell, handbags and backpacks clutched to their chests and confusion on their faces. He heads confidently for a nearby wall, then pretends to study one of the pipes jutting out until he catches Rashid’s scent getting stronger. There’s panic in his scent, potent enough that he can hardly catch a hint of the underlying orange and cardamom aroma that Rashid had left behind him after their first meeting. Finally, thirty seconds or so after the last staff member, Rashid bursts through the fire door. Geralt blocks his path and casts axii . “Give me the keys and keycards for the penthouse and the elevator,” he instructs. Rashid does so, gasping for breath, and Geralt takes pity on him. “Relax. There’s no need to worry, you’re safe and you’ve kept your staff safe. Now go.”

Rashid visibly relaxes as the sour scent abates, then starts walking calmly towards the nearest exit. Good. He hates when innocent people get caught up in bad situations. 

Checking around to make sure he’s alone, Geralt shoves the keys into his free pocket, and steps into the elevator.

Armand is spiralling. He knows Daniel is the way he is; that’s the problem. He's an investigative journalist; he can’t let things go; won’t let sleeping dogs lie. And Armand let him come here, let him invade his home and his marriage, and now he’s sitting there behind his laptop, looking more smug than Armand’s ever seen him as he holds a lit match to a fuse that is tethered to Armand’s entire life.

“I know, I know,” Daniel says. “It’s my job, I’m built this way.” He shrugs mock-apologetically. “I know it’s a stretch but…”

Armand doesn’t know what’s going to happen, can’t let it happen, but he doesn’t know how to do anything else. He can’t prevent it. So he tries to run down the clock, tries to delay the explosion until the phone rings or the building caves in or an ender dragon sweeps down and strafes him with fireballs and puts him out of his misery so Louis will never find out the truth. “It’s in your nature, Mr Molloy,” he says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Couldn't get out the door without lobbing one more bomb.”

Daniel is unmoved. “You said it yourself just now, he loved Louis. Lestat would have tried to save him as much as you did.”

“And he certainly would have made it known that he had.” Armand forces a smile, thankful for the upcoming distraction of the special meal Rashid has prepared, that Armand has prepared, to thank Daniel for his time, his attention, his services to Louis. “Shall we take these follow-ups and specious theories to the dining room?”

Louis helps him out then, unknowingly, by adding, "We have something special prepared for you, Daniel,” like he's the one who had the idea and made the preparations.

But instead of agreeing and following them like Armand hoped, Daniel lifts the edge of the newspaper in front of him and pulls out an envelope, and from the envelope a sheaf of paper. Armand frowns, trying to get a closer look without letting his interest show. And then he catches a glimpse of a long-forgotten typeface, and red ink, and familiar handwriting that he should be able to recognise anywhere, because it’s his. It’s his own handwriting, and before he can even react, Daniel is gesturing towards Louis, and saying, “These are just some notes along the margins here. Uh... ‘This is too early for Lestat to acknowledge Louis. Have him look at Louis later, the moment he describes meeting Louis in New Orleans. ’” 

“Where did you get that?” snaps Armand. It must be fake, the script for the show trial burned in the theatre fire alongside everything else Armand had, everything he held dear.

Daniel ignores him. “Read it for yourself,” he says instead, tossing the script towards Louis like it’s a newspaper rather than a live grenade. As Louis begins reading frantically, Daniel takes a look back at Armand. An accusatory look, seething with blame, and just in case Louis doesn’t get the point, in case he’s slow on the uptake and doesn’t fully understand the implication that it was Armand who condemned him to death; that it was Armand who murdered his precious daughter; that it was Armand who betrayed him; he announces: “He didn’t witness the play. He directed the play!”

Then Armand is pinned under that accusatory gaze again, and Daniel's saying, “When’s the bullshit start, Armand, Amadeo, Arun?” and it might be the worst thing he's ever heard, because those last two people are gone, and their names were never meant to come out of Daniel's mouth. But Daniel’s mouth keeps moving, and the words keep coming, because he follows it up with his coup de grâce.

“Louis, you were supposed to die with Claudia. He didn’t save you, Lestat did! He just took credit for it when the opportunity presented itself. Seventy-seven years based on a seismic lie.” 

And Armand freezes where he sits and he can’t move, and can’t speak, and can't defend himself because it's true. But when he finally dares glance towards Louis he can’t see him anymore.

He can’t see him because Louis isn’t there and instead in the doorway there’s a maintenance man: a man with long white hair and muscular arms and a beard clipped close.

A man who looks at him like it’s an ordinary day and says, loudly, unmoved by Armand’s world crashing down around his ears, in an accent Armand doesn't recognise, “I was told you have a problem with your hot water system?”

Chapter Text

Geralt can't move. He is pressed up against a wall with his back to the plaster like a butterfly pinned to a spreading board. He can breathe, thankfully, but he can’t so much as twitch a little finger. His head aches where it hit the wall.

A terrifyingly beautiful creature is scowling at him from the sofa, posture straight as a board and lips pressed together. It rises, brushes an invisible wrinkle out of its spotless black shirt, then stalks towards him like a jaguar hunting prey.

“How did you get in here?” it spits. 

Geralt tries to answer but finds he can't speak. In his peripheral vision he can see a grey-haired man - Daniel, no doubt - mouth agape and rooted to the spot like he’s also paralysed, but then Geralt notices his posture droop and his fingers come up to rub against his temples.

“Speak,” orders the creature, and he feels a sudden slight release, and he can move his mouth again.

“Rashid let me in,” says Geralt, trying to insert a tremor into his voice. “He hired me to look at your plumbing.”

“What's wrong with my plumbing?”

Geralt can't tell if the creature - Armand, he knows, now he's heard him speak - believes his flimsy cover or if he's just playing along. He takes a moment to study him. He really is beautiful. Spectacular bone structure, luscious black curls, a rosebud mouth and golden brown skin that seems to shimmer in the light. Unlike most, his sorrow doesn't diminish his beauty at all. Geralt suspects it highlights it, if anything. But his scent has a different profile - he smells incredibly distressed, like acrid smoke and wet dog, likely due to the big reveal that had happened just as Geralt got here. He decides he has no choice but to keep up the ruse as long as he can, now that he's here. “I don't know yet,” he says, letting just a hint of irritation slip through. “That's why I came to look at it.”

“Why wouldn't Rashid tell me about it?”

Geralt tries to shrug but realises he still can't move his shoulders. “Maybe he didn't want to bother you? You seem busy, I'm sorry to have interrupted-”

“Why doesn't your uniform fit properly?” asks Daniel, out of the blue, and Geralt doesn't have time to think of an answer to that question before Armand, frowning and impetuous like a child being denied a lollipop after dinner, says, “Why can't I hear your thoughts?”

Oh. That's not a good sign. Or is it?

Geralt frowns. “I don't know,” he says, which isn't a lie. He'd known most vampires could read minds, but he's never been in a position before to find out if they could read his , specifically. If it has troubled Regis he's never mentioned it, at least. But Regis is a gentleman - maybe he's genuinely never tried.

The psychic hold on him releases further, and Geralt finds himself slumping suddenly, unprepared to use his own muscles again. He tries to subtly test the new limits of his entrapment, to find he can only move slowly, as if underwater. He thinks he might just be able to make a sign if he tries hard enough, to form his hand into the right shape to use his rudimentary magic, but he's not sure any signs would be useful right now. He could probably injure Armand with igni or aard, if he comes much closer, but this is a higher vampire - he'll be at a massive physical disadvantage regardless.

No, this is going to be purely psychological warfare, if Geralt has anything to say about it. Though the way things are going, he's not sure he’s going to have any say at all.

“What's that, uh, necklace thing for?” asks Daniel, and now that Geralt can get a better look at his surroundings he can see that Daniel is keeping his distance but peering at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion obvious on his face. He notes, curiously, that Daniel’s scent doesn't really seem to match his demeanour. He's scared, but the fear is mostly eclipsed by something else, something slightly spicy… arousal? Yes. Geralt did not see that one coming.

He glances down at his chest and realises he's lost the top button of his stolen shirt where it was straining around his pecs, and where it’s come open his wolf medallion is peeking through.

“Plumber’s Guild,” he tries, directing his answer towards Armand. “The wolf’s our mascot.”

Armand just stares at him with the most striking, giant orange eyes he's ever seen, and Geralt can still smell his distress but at least it's not getting worse. 

He's about to attempt a joke to try and lighten the mood when he hears footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Armand gives a noticeable full-body twitch, and then a fourth person appears, a handsome green-eyed man carrying a small suitcase and a leather messenger bag.

“Louis,” Armand pleads, and Louis stops. Geralt tries not to hold his breath as he waits for what happens next.

Louis stands there, obviously avoiding Armand’s gaze, sniffling and wiping his eyes as if he's been crying. A streak of blood smears his hand.

Geralt thinks he's going to launch into Armand, or maybe even Daniel, if he's a shoot-the-messenger type, and he just hopes he won't get caught in the crossfire.

But instead, Louis says, “There’s no hot water. Did you do something to it, Armand?”, voice full of accusation, and Armand and Daniel both look confused.

“Did I… do something to the hot water?” splutters Armand. “Of course I didn't…”

Then all eyes turn to look at Geralt, and Geralt lets out the breath that he is, in fact, holding. Daniel makes a strange, regretful noise, mutters, “He is a plumber,” and then Geralt’s released suddenly, crumpling to the hard concrete floor with a thud and he realises there's a chance - a miniscule chance, but still a chance - that he might get away with this.

Louis has gone. Louis has gone, and Armand is entirely out of control. He’d asked Louis where he was going, when he saw him standing there with a suitcase too small for one of their regular trips, and Louis had given him his warning face, the face that tells him he needs to back off, and said, “I'm going home.”

Armand’s first thought was San Francisco. They still have a house there, after all, and it's the one they’d lived in for the longest amount of time before Dubai. But then Louis said, with finality, “To New Orleans,” and Armand thought he'd vomit if there was any blood left in his stomach. To New Orleans . Somewhere Lestat is. Somewhere Armand isn't.

And now Rashid has gone, as well. Louis has gone, and Rashid has gone, and Armand is still here, sitting on an uncomfortable sofa in an apartment he hates.

He's not sure how much time has passed since Louis walked out. All he knows is that he's suddenly back in the present, in 2022, and he's alone. He'd reached out to Rashid, tried to brush against the edges of his mind, for comfort more than anything. Rashid’s a simple man, at any one time his brain is filled with thoughts of food and home and sex, ordinary things that ordinary people think about. And he was there, but he was faint, so faint that Armand knows he's nowhere near the apartment anymore.

He can hear Daniel nearby, thinking about how hot Geralt is. Geralt, he assumes, is the plumber, and he can feel him, he knows he's still in the apartment, which is good, since he needs to remove himself from his memory. But there's nothing when he reaches in to test his mind again - just a murky swirling sensation that he still doesn't like.

Nothing, just like Armand is nothing. Nothing, like he is without Louis. He is just cruise ships and Minecraft and death, and he’s boring. He is boring . But Daniel - Daniel doesn't think he’s boring. He said so, so many times. And Daniel’s in his house and there's a special meal being prepared for him, and Armand means for him to have it, even if Daniel’s spent the afternoon taking a carving knife to Armand’s life, just like Armand took a carving knife to Daniel’s brain 40 years before. 

But that doesn't mean Daniel can't have his special meal. Armand and Rashid have already planned it, and the caterers are cooking it, and Daniel will eat it.

He rises, and heads towards the kitchen. Rashid may be gone, but Armand's just as capable of ordering the caterers around.

“So, uh, busy day?” Daniel asks as Geralt peers at the hot water heater, pretending he knows anything at all about it.

Geralt can't help but shoot him a side glance. “Busier now I've spent some of it paralysed,” he says, and Daniel blanches.

The beam of light from the torch Daniel's holding up for him shakes noticeably as he says, “Look… I'm really sorry about what happened back there.” 

Geralt blinks, and then blinks again. His eyes are getting dry. “That's, uh… it’s not your fault.”

A waft of guilt rolls off Daniel. “It kind of is actually, I'm the one who set him off. I was so glad to be right about him screwing Louis over that I didn't really think about the consequences. So yeah, I, uh…” Daniel stops then, and looks at him quizzically. “How are you taking this so easy?”

Shit. Geralt realises that he's underplayed it a bit. “Was in the military,” he grunts, which is another of his more useful covers, and is close enough to the truth to allow him to lie smoothly.

“So… what? You've been trapped like that before?”

Geralt nods, and does not elaborate, so Daniel continues. “To be fair, I was off my tits when he did it to me, so I was having a lot of trouble telling what was real and what was a hallucination…” Daniel trails off and stares into space, and Geralt smells a complicated wave of aromas roll off him. There's his baseline hickory with a hint of bergamot, then a sourness, then some spice, then more sourness, and it's giving Geralt a nasal overload. Geralt really needs to find a way to get Daniel out of this apartment and to safety. 

But the problem with that - the big, glaring problem - is that they're in the utility room, which is an internal room with only one door. And on the other side of that door is a butler's pantry, and on the other side of the butler’s pantry is the kitchen, and from the utility room Geralt can hear the unmistakable sounds of pots and pans banging around, accented by a constant low voice in the background. The unmistakable sounds of somebody in the kitchen, cooking.

Chapter Text

It's been a long time since Armand’s set a table. Luckily, he did it a lot back at the palazzo in Venice, and he finds himself guided by unexpected muscle memory. He puts out three place settings, exactingly arranging each component, ensuring an even distance between plate and fork, between fork and salad fork.

He pulls three crystal wine goblets out of the vitrine, polishes them, then sets them in place. The napkins are fresh from the linen press, spotlessly white and already steamed. He tries to fold them like Rashid does, into a kind of pyramid, but has to give up after his third unsuccessful attempt. He's always liked the folded napkins, they remind him of when he was young in the palazzo and he and Riccardo would have parchment-folding competitions, and then Marius would find them and get mad at the waste of good parchment, but then later he'd change his mind and call Armand - no, not Armand, Amadeo - tesoro and say he was charmed by their childish frivolities after all.

He rolls the napkins instead and lays them carefully on the side plates.

He goes to the drinks trolley and makes Daniel a martini, with just the right amount of vermouth, just how Daniel likes it, and sets it at Daniel’s place setting.

Then, he steps back for a moment, surveys his handiwork, and makes a few miniscule adjustments. He feels accomplished, which is not something he expected to feel today. 

Now, time to call Daniel for dinner.

Geralt is so close to helping Daniel escape. He's managed to keep the man occupied for a good long time in the utility room, asking him to hold the torch and pass Geralt tools - which he'd fortuitously found in a drawer - and note down long strings of numbers that mean nothing. Daniel natters away nervously all the while, open and fairly pleasant and definitely less sarcastic than he had been to Armand and Louis over the last few days. Geralt assumes he's being nice out of guilt and attraction, even though Geralt can tell Daniel is in a fair amount of pain, most likely from his Parkinson's. But Daniel doesn't mention it so neither does he.

Daniel does ask Geralt questions about his childhood and his time in the military and what brought him to Dubai, and when Geralt only gives his customary short answers Daniel switches to talking about himself. About how he's heard Kaedwen’s nice this time of year but he's never been, anything above 50° north is too cold for him and he's already spent too much time in Russia for work. About his lack of DIY skills and his daughter who has her own carpentry business and where she got her talent from, because it certainly wasn't from him, and what got Geralt into plumbing? Because he'd heard it was a solid trade but at home there were a lot of cowboys in the market, his colleague had done an exposé on them back in the day, and did Geralt find the same in Dubai? And Geralt hums and nods and mmm’s and lets himself enjoy the now-faded familiarity of having constant commentary in the background.

Finally the kitchen noises ebb away and Geralt decides it's his best chance of getting Daniel out of here. He herds him back through the butler’s pantry, then through the kitchen, which is somehow more of a mess than when they'd come through it the first time, meal preparation having been blatantly abandoned when the staff left in a hurry. He leads him into the short corridor he knows leads to the service entrance, because he'd come in that way. He’s about to explain to Daniel that this whole plumber thing has been a ruse after all, and that it’s actually a rescue, and would he see himself out now, thank-you-very-much, so Geralt can get on with his job. But then Armand appears as if out of nowhere, looming towards them with a smile pasted over his sadness - and Geralt had not even heard him coming, which makes him concerned for his hearing until he realises Armand is floating, gliding just millimetres off the floor, instead of walking.

Armand gazes at them both with a fraudulently pleasant countenance, and says, “Daniel, Geralt. It's time for dinner. Come this way, please.”

“Me?” asks Geralt, wondering how Armand knows his name, and at the same time Daniel says, “Him too?” and Armand smiles and nods like his face will fall off if he doesn't, and says, “Mr…”, and looks pointedly at him. It takes Geralt a moment to realise he's waiting for a last name, so he says “Rivia”, and Armand looks at Daniel and says, “Mr Rivia is our guest of course, it would be quite rude for us to exclude him. Now please come through to the dining room,” and Geralt follows because he doesn't have a choice.

Geralt’s been spoiled these past few days in Dubai. He's had breakfast, lunch and dinner at the hotel, courtesy of the Dubai ruling family, and he's very happily indulged himself since the opportunity was there. It took him many years of modernity to learn to let go in that way, to properly internalise the idea that food scarcity was a thing of his past, and that now in modern day Kaedwen there was always more to be had. Eventually he'd started to let himself believe it, and his standards increased until he no longer found raw meat and half-rotten apples and ham sandwiches he found on day-old corpses to be acceptable meals. He's been seduced by post-industrial comforts, for better or for worse, and sometimes he feels a stab of guilt directed at past-Geralt who would have been disgusted by the excess, but then he remembers that at least Jaskier would be proud of how far he's come with regards to letting himself have nice things once in a while.

This meal, however, is rancid.

The table setting is beautiful, fine china and crystalware and linen napkins, the surroundings are well-designed if a bit austere for Geralt’s taste, and the company is as pleasant as he can expect when two of their party are hostages and the other is in the middle of some kind of nervous breakdown. But the food Armand has served is bordering on inedible, even for Geralt - dense and granular yet greasy at the same time - and he chokes it down and makes faux-appreciative noises and wonders how many years it’s been since Armand's eaten human food. He assumes it's long enough that he's forgotten what human stomachs are even capable of digesting.

He looks to Daniel, who is sitting at the end of the table with a veil of tiredness settling over his face, grey curls starting to droop and glasses crooked. He's been chewing the same mouthful for so long that even Geralt’s noticed the uncharacteristic quiet, and he can feel the agitation start to rise off Armand as he watches him too, eyes looking concerningly bright and lips pressed together in displeasure.

“So,” says Geralt, trying to get the attention off Daniel long enough to let him dispose of his mouthful into his napkin. “Nice place you have here.”

Armand’s eyes flick to him like a trap snapping shut, and he wonders if he's picked the wrong topic. 

“Is it? I find it unexceptional, myself. Louis’ tastes have become increasingly achromic over the past twenty years or so. A trendsetter, nonetheless - he was ahead of the curve on millennial grey.”

Geralt doesn't know what millennial grey is, so he nods and then takes a long sip of his red wine, which is excellent and the meal’s only saving grace, and decides it might be better for him to say nothing at all.

Daniel audibly clears his throat, which at least means he's managed to dispose of the food in his mouth, one way or the other, and all his prior sarcasm returns in full force as he says, “Tell us what’s in this dish, Armand. It's just it's, you know…like nothing else I've ever eaten.”

Armand smiles wanly at Daniel and says “I tried my best, Daniel. For you.”

“For me?” says Daniel, “for me?” And he seems to have gotten a second wind from somewhere - likely the martini that he's followed up with two glasses of wine already. “Trying your best for me, Armand, would have meant not saw-trapping me because I kept your boyfriend's attention for more than five minutes! Trying your best for me would have meant dropping me off at home instead of in the worst drug den I have ever had the displeasure of waking up in! Trying your best for me would have meant letting me keep my own memories!” He's standing now, chest heaving, tears springing to his light green eyes.

Geralt turns to Armand, concerned he's too fragile to cope with this kind of outburst. He's right to worry. Armand stands too, stares at Daniel across the expanse of the table, then yells, “No! I did this for you! You needed to eat this meal, and you've hardly touched it!”

“It's inedible, Armand! It's barely even food! You could have just ordered us a pizza or something! Why would you try to cook?”

Armand gives a small sob then, and he sits again, abruptly, and places his forehead in his hands. There's silence for a solid thirty seconds, while Geralt tries to will Daniel's heart rate to slow before it sends him into a coronary attack.

“You needed my blood,” Armand eventually says, so quietly that Geralt doesn't think Daniel heard. 

“What?” says Daniel.

Armand lifts his head from his hands, and ruby-red rivulets run down his face as he says, slightly louder, “You needed my blood.”

Daniel just stares at him, aghast, then looks down at his plate, then to Geralt, then back to Armand, and then he points at the plate, disgusted. “You put your blood in this?”

Geralt has eaten a lot of strange things in his time, and has even fed lesser vampires his own, poisoned blood in order to kill them. But this is most certainly a new one for him, and does go at least some way to explaining the unidentifiable flavours of the dish.

“I did,” says Armand, seeming to pull himself together slightly. “It was to say thank you for what you did for Louis, for recording his story. And to say sorry for what-” he takes a deep breath “-I did to you.” The last sentence seemed to be as sincere as Geralt thinks Armand can be.

“Why would I want to eat your blood?” asks Daniel, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's hearing.

Armand takes another breath. “Dr Fareed,” he says, “has a theory.”

“Who?” asks Daniel, and the corner of Armand’s mouth quirks up, and it takes Geralt a moment to realise that this is apparently a joke, though he doesn't understand the punchline. It breaks the tension somewhat, at least.

“He theorised that a vampire’s blood may be able to help you overcome your conditions.”

“Okay,” says Daniel, slowly. “So you, what? Cooked it into this… this…” He gestures towards his plate helplessly.

“Blood pudding,” says Armand, “a delicacy in Ireland. You've had it before, and you liked it then, so it seemed to be a suitable delivery method.”

Daniel stares at him, and Armand follows up with, “I wasn't meant to be the one preparing it, of course. I had a Michelin-starred chef for that, before she made herself scarce.”

“You couldn't have given it to me via I.V., with the Levodopa? You couldn't have asked me first?”

“Would you have accepted?” asks Armand, and Daniel doesn't answer that, and he smells confused enough that Geralt suspects he doesn't even know the answer.

Daniel sits down again, then, and starts poking at the remains of his pudding with a knife. “You - did you even follow a recipe for this?”

“I watched a YouTube video,” says Armand indignantly, and Geralt lets out an involuntary snort of laughter as he realises that was the background voice he overheard in the kitchen. Thankfully, Armand and Daniel both ignore him.

Daniel puts down the knife and eyes Armand again. “Why do you care if I overcome my illness?”

Armand’s scent turns sour then, and Geralt turns and frowns at him, wondering what Armand is hiding now. Armand picks up the glass of blood in front of him, downs it in one go, and then asks, “How much of the meal did you actually swallow?”

Daniel frowns and says “One mouthful. One small mouthful.”

Armand nods. “Okay then. Well.” He seems to gather himself then says, “That’s likely enough. My blood should have helped your Parkinson's, and also your -,” he swallows then, and looks away from Daniel as he says, “- remaining memory loss.”

"Remaining... I don't have memory loss!" says Daniel, but then his scent turns sour to match Armand’s, enough to obscure the hickory-and-bergamot, and he stares into the distance as if seeing a ghost, and then his scent is all over the place again, spicy and sour and sweet and then sour, an olfactory disarray, and Geralt is overstimulated and tired. He can't imagine how Daniel is coping with whatever’s going on in his head. If Armand is right, it sounds like he's suddenly regaining a whole pile of lost memories.

Geralt sighs quietly and rubs at his eyes where his contact lenses are bothering him, as always. He's hungry. He wonders if there's any other real food in Armand's kitchen, whether Armand will think to try and feed them properly. He finds himself staring into the distance like Daniel, except that Geralt’s thinking about the crab linguine he had last night.

Then, suddenly, a chill comes over him, a sudden chill in the air, and the wet dog-and-smoke smell is back.

Before he can process that information, Geralt is being pulled upwards by an invisible force, his knees cracking hard on the edge of the table, his chair clattering backwards, his head slamming into something solid and unyielding. Stars appear in his vision and then he's hovering helplessly. His stomach lurches as he looks down and sees the devil, sees Armand still sitting in his seat at the dining table, irises ablaze and shuddering like an earthquake in the depths of hell.

Geralt doesn't know exactly what’s changed, but he knows something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong when Armand snarls at him, “You will tell me exactly who you are, or I will kill you.” And then he blacks out.