“If you can remain blind to the world, do so. There are horrors you were never meant to witness."

  — Anonymous police officer.

  I closed the book, already weary of it. The tale had proceeded admirably until the author thrust in a superfluous character, quite spoiling the principal romance.

  With a soft sigh, I placed the volume gently in my bag and reclined in the seat. Through the window, the day grew brighter, sunlight piercing the passing greenery with clean precision. These three days upon the trains—various lines, sufficient repose between—had afforded me a most invigorating acquaintance with the human realm: fervent disputes resolved by words or fists, the mosaic of fresh-paved streets and time-worn structures, the harmonious discord of antiquated and novel machinery, and, above all, the cuisine. I entertained not the slightest regret at my emergence from that singular incident.

  Turning from the prospect, I took up the remote and activated the television. Channels succeeded one another—chiefly serialised entertainments, none truly captivating. One news channel presented a curious diversion upon rocks, already advanced to its fourth through sixth seasons. I perused the selections once more without success, then set the device aside.

  Rising with measured grace, I stretched discreetly and departed the cabin in search of the lavatory. A clerk stood near at hand; I approached with a courteous inclination.

  “Pardon me, miss—might you be so kind as to direct me to the gentlemen’s convenience?”

  She stiffened, eyes widening before she averted them. Mildly perplexed, I repeated the request with gentle patience. She recovered, blinked, and conducted me thither in silence.

  “I am most obliged for your gracious assistance,” I said, bestowing upon her a small, sincere smile.

  “You’re welcome,” she muttered, gaze still elsewhere, before departing swiftly.

  Her manner remained in my thoughts, yet necessity prevailed. Afterwards, I washed my hands with thorough care—propriety in such matters endures, though my gloves ordinarily preserve cleanliness. The black pair rested by the basin.

  At the dryer, the mirror compelled my regard. I had paid scant attention to my countenance since my birth. Short pale hair, eyes of polished pearl, features poised betwixt serenity and gentle somnolence, lips bearing a faint, amiable curve. Handsome, it would appear, by mortal estimation. Yet the vivid crimson tattoo encircling my neck asserted itself foremost—bold, resonant of some prior personage or emblem.

  The likeness nearly elicited a quiet, appreciative chuckle.

  Gloves restored, I emerged. The same clerk traversed the corridor. I paused, offering a slight bow of the head.

  “My thanks once more, miss, for your earlier kindness.”

  She coloured, eyes dropping, and hastened onwards. I observed her departure with quiet amusement before returning to my cabin.

  Seated once more, I revived the television—preferable to unbroken silence. Programmes passed agreeably; context frequently eluded me, yet diversion prevailed. Providence favoured me with a marathon: the complete inaugural season of Water and Ice. Fifteen episodes. Farewell for the present, Hendro—may fortune attend you.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The cabin clock indicated 4:17 in the afternoon. My appetite stirred; I had not yet dined. Stepping forth, I intercepted a passing clerk.

  “Good afternoon. Might I impose upon your good offices for some light refreshment and perhaps a measure of cold water?”

  He regarded me with a vacant expression, enquired about my preference, then nodded curtly. “Soon.”

  “I am grateful.”

  Once more, I selected the news. Discussions of poverty, scandals, calamities, border frictions, yet another scandal, a suspected ritualistic homicide…

  I returned to the latter.

  The presenter continued: "The Rennes police commissioner states that while evidence indicates young historian Alexander Holmes hanged himself, no blood was recovered at the scene. Authorities suspect an unknown group conducted a ritual to compel the suicide, afterward collecting his blood for unknown purposes. Back to you, Sarah.”

  The commissioner perceived certain truths: Alexander’s mind had been influenced, he had ended his existence, and a ritual had transpired. No assailants, however. The young scholar had encountered something proscribed, perused it despite peril, succumbed to derangement, then recovered sufficient lucidity to conclude matters. Thus ended Alexander Holmes.

  His blood had served—unwittingly—in the rite’s consummation, granting life before the working vanished entirely.

  A knock. “Pray, do enter.”

  The clerk appeared bearing a tray: sandwiches arranged with care, sausages accompanied by a fork, a pitcher of chilled water with a glass, and two modest yoghurts—strawberry and plain. I settled the account with thanks and commenced my repast, attention upon the screen.

  The segment shifted to Alexander’s bereaved kin and conjecture regarding cults. I knew those societies. Only one commanded such potency, though they presently contended fiercely for new leadership.

  In due course, I extinguished the set to dine in tranquillity. Sandwiches vanished promptly. Sausages ensued, sufficiently spiced to necessitate several measured draughts of water. I partook of the yoghurt deliberately, observing rural edifices glide past. The fourth city drew near. This protracted journey approached respite. A season of rest appeared prudent.

  The train decelerated to a stop. I gathered my bag and proceeded toward the exit.

  Humidity enveloped me beyond the conditioned carriage. I extended my limbs with discretion, then advanced toward the station portals, contemplating suitable accommodations.

  “Excuse me, sir—please, we’d like to talk to you.”

  I maintained my measured pace. Amid the throng and clamour, disregard came easily.

  “Sir, we wish to speak with you.”

  Curiosity as to their proposed narrative arose, yet I did not pause.

  “Mr Whitehair, we wish to speak with you.”

  That merited notice. I halted and turned with calm civility. A handsome black-haired gentleman approached in company with a beautiful yet impassive blonde lady.

  I inclined my head fractionally. “It is scarcely courteous to address a stranger as 'Mr Whitehair'. Might one suggest ‘Sir with the white hair’ instead? Or have I erred in my observation, sir?”

  He blinked, then gave a short, awkward chuckle. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “No offence whatsoever is taken.” I regarded them both with even composure. “To whom have I the honour of speaking?”

  “I’m Richard Holt, and this is—”

  “Mary,” the woman cut in flatly. “Mary Hellen.”

  “…as you have heard. We’re from the Paris Arcanist Bureau of Investigation—P.A.B.I. for short. We need to ask you some questions. Are you free right now?”

  I regarded them a moment, then permitted a soft, restrained laugh. Richard appeared nonplussed; Mary remained unmoved.

  “I am entirely at liberty,” I replied. “Yet permit me to enquire—do your questions pertain chiefly to these three particulars?” I raised fingers with deliberate poise. “First: What manner of being am I? Second: Who, precisely, do I prove to be? Third: What do I bear that carries so potent an arcane residue? Or does the inquiry embrace the entirety?”

  A brief silence ensued.

  “…Yeah.”

  “Very well.” I offered a small, gracious inclination. “I shall furnish full and candid answers—provided you will accord me the courtesy of procuring some modest sustenance. A simple repast would suffice.”

  Richard rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Let’s go.”