The way mist hung through the tall buildings of the warehouse district ruined every cigarette I'd tried to light during my walk from my day job in one of the fancy buildings to my night job in the farthest end of the district from the day job. Job number two was nestled underground in a shop that looked like it should be some psycho future-telling Madame who claimed to be a witch and owned all kinds of fake artifacts. Instead, if you could see through the glamour of the shop, you'd see the walls lined with ancient weaponry passed down through families of the same witch lineage. When I had first moved to the city, I loved the shop more than my home with it's familiar weapons, smells, sounds, and aura. I know, I know... Auras sound so bull-shitty, but from everything I've learned since I learned how to open my eyes a little wider than what feels natural, auras are real. The candles lining every counter, every end table, every nook and cranny of the shop only added to the appeal. It was a soft lighting, built for eyes tired of seeing the somewhat mundane regular world.



I opened the old, rickety door to walk down the stairs into the empty shop. There was no welcome sign, no neon "open" sign flickering in the entrance, but honestly? We preferred it that way. Recluse, maybe, but it was preferable to having customers from the street come in to browse things they didn't even realize they were looking at. Granted, normally humans were the only ones fooled by a glamour. All kinds of others wandered in, too. There was a hunter who frequented the shop, aware that it was neutral ground and the weapons sold to her were never allowed to be linked back to us. Sometimes there were were-animals who wandered in, curious to see what kinds of torture tools were available to the populace. Vampires, too. Although, the recent ones all seemed to have a tendency towards whips. If you ask me, there are much better ways to subdue a victim, but then again...




The air was a little muggier inside the shop, weighted down with the smell of sandlewood and cigarette smoke. Even though it was heavy, it was welcomed and smelled like home to me. I was finally able to light a cigarette, inhale heavily and exhale the stress that came with working with the set of humans who had crossed my path today. Normally, I'm not so preju-... Fuck it. I'm prejudice against nearly anyone who crossed my path, ever. I slipped out of my some-what damp jacket, leaving me in a plain white t-shirt that made several of my tattoos visible, among other things. My dog-tags were hanging beneath my shirt, as well. That was never something I wanted to flaunt; being a soldier, being whatever it was that I happen to be, was better kept quiet. Better kept to myself.



The cigarette burned all too quickly, and I was tempted to grant my lungs a little bit more tar and possibility of cancer but the temptation waned when I saw something I hadn't seen in a very long time wrapped in shipping bubblewrap and placed in a box of peanuts. Obviously, it had just come in but there had been no notes of new shipments from anywhere. When I reached for it, there was fresh blood coating the silver beneath the wrapping.



Blood was never a good sign, but always interesting and fairly welcome here.



I set about unwrapping the dagger, wondering whether or not the shop owner had intended for me to see it or if it was simply just shipped in for any one of us to try and sell. Sometimes, the shop was used as a bit of an armory for the witches or warlocks of the city and surrounding areas. It wouldn't have surprised me if the owner had meant to use it, or if she had and that explained the somewhat fresh blood. But then again, she knew where I had come from. She knew it would have significance to me and strike a chord, provoking interest. Proving her right, I slipped the artifact from it's wrapping with the help of a knife I often kept in my pocket. That knife had been the first I'd ever made myself using my own power and it had never, ever served me wrong. Supporting that, the bloody dagger slipped from the packaging and into my hand, sending a shiver up my arms.



The dagger had earned me my first scars, my first wounds of any kind of significance or magnitude. I cleaned it slowly, relishing in that it might be blood of individuals I'd been yearning for for as long as the scars marred my arms. Once cleaned, it was placed on the desk where the money was kept, in my plain sight while I did light that second cigarette, exhaling curiosity about how she'd procured it.