Before being quite literally forcibly removed from the United States, I rarely thought about spending time in South Africa again. The red dirt held the blood of too many memories I would prefer to pretend were another lifetime away, even though in all reality, it was another lifetime ago. Instead of exhuming the body of the past and resurrecting my old life, I spent time with myself. Why? Far less stomach churning and blood boiling of an experience than if I were to waste time with others who, more often than not, triggered intrusive thoughts about sticking pins in my eyes. Fortunately, the glasses came with me and it's safe to say at least there was a barrier between me and performing the action subconsciously during one of those times.

8,209 miles away, safe and sound from the individuals and events that landed me with a one-way ticket out of the country. 475 days have passed since I was "legally" permitted to spend time on the streets of the city again. Another approximate 1,097 days since I've actually been here, though. Mind-numbing, teeth-pulling, IQ-lowering 1,097 days. Not that I counted.

I missed Sacrosanct.

But I'm a liar, and I don't know if I actually missed the city or if I missed the feel of familiarity of a life led here. I'm also a self-proclaimed, though verbally denied, hypocrite. It's worth a reminder not to trust my perspective, even if it's really only about my feelings about being back.

I've been home in the city for a few months, but heavily monitored by the hunters, who I'd prefer not to think about any more than I have to. Another waste of time, a further waste of oxygen. They should, and could, take it upon themselves to reduce their use of oxygen, decrease global warming and overpopulation. Then again, I'm not particularly invested in either their mission or the opposing side. So long as I don't find myself with magic bound and a distinct lack of personal freedoms that I'm rather attached to, I'm surprisingly, and increasingly, content with my latest arrangement. I've always dealt in information. The exorbitant amount of it I have access to allows for far more strategic expansion of not only in the network for the wares I find myself selling, but also as a very believable cloak of darkness on my less kosher activities.

Remember, I'm a liar.

Which is most likely the exact reason my glass is empty, save for the single half-melted ice cube in the last drops of the remnants of whatever cheap whiskey Cull & Pistol was serving these days. There's been an influx of a certain variety of magical objects hitting the black market, with a particularly savvy purveyor of interesting artifacts that's caught the hunters' eyes. As much as I'd simply be curious about what kinds of watches said purveyor might have under their coat (alright, there was a little too much Sesame Street watched in my time in South Africa at the mercy of some of my oldest sisters' children), I'm more curious about the distributor that the hunters are watching: Simon Delgrange.

I'm a gentleman, of course I left several crumpled dollar bills on the counter beside my empty glass after I heard the very gentle chime of my phone, alerting me it's time to skedaddle out of here and get on with business. I have no real desire to leave the dimly lit bar and head to Syn where the music, the lights, the noise, and the company will make my head hurt. I'm unsure if meeting Simon Delgrange will be worth the headache, but I'll know soon enough as I make my way through the West Ward of Sacrosanct towards the club, sporting my own alias of Diedre Davis.

I regret to admit I am not particularly skilled in the art of glamours, unlike some of the fae who would certainly be patrons of Syn tonight. Prior to my arrival at Syn, I took a lesser-known route through the industrial district to find the fairy who was contracted to help with the glamour and quickly slipped out the back of the tiny garage donning a red satin slip dress, heels far higher than I'd like, and a Chanel purse under one arm. If one thing is a given tonight, it's that Diedre looks like sex on legs. As regrettable as my glamour skills are, it's entirely unregrettable that I make a stunning woman. It is 2024, after all.

Syn was, as I predicted, buzzing. Not in the way partiers and patrons might think; the artistic lighting, wash of overly perfumed people, and the music held a level of electricity that made my ears ring. A low level of irritability began to creep up the base of my spine, and I brought a hand to my lips in the anxious tendency to trace a finger over my lips when I wasn't able to pull out a cigarette. That had to wait until I was able to meet Simon and assess whether or not it was better to continue living in Ms. Davis' shoes for the evening, or if I were going to be able to drop the glamour and partake in the meeting as myself. The only truly identifying factors visible through the glamour were my crystalline blue eyes, and a pack of Marlborough menthol black 100s sitting beside the glass of champagne I would order as soon as I was settled.

One of the hostesses - are they called that - ushered me towards the black light room, which was reserved for Ms. Davis. "Right this way, Ms. Davis," She purred in a voice that could only belong to a shifter. When she lifted an arm to open the door to the black light room, I could see the outline of a thinly traced lynx and I knew my initial instinct was right. I gave her a small smile and slipped past her into the black light room to get comfortable and await Simon's arrival.

Tick, tock.

Davante Dorian

Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash