27: The Visiting

The cloaked figures turn into an obscured alleyway behind a tavern and descend down a series of steps.

Following them, I glide into the narrow passage.

When I'm four feet above the ground, my wings and body elongate down to the wet, filthy cobblestone. My brown feathers turn pitch black as they grow and meld into each other, looking like an inky mass is being poured from a never-ending, floating, pint-sized pitcher.

I straighten myself from my crouched position and follow the group of six through the closing door, squeezing through just before it shuts.

The group pauses and waits until the door clicks shut. Confirming they weren't followed, they — and I — all nod to each other and murmur in hushed tones.

They don't suspect a thing.

I do my best not to start cracking up. They probably should have done a head count, but in this cramped entryway of damp stone, what was one more head?

Soon, all that can be heard is the rustling of our cloaks and the hushed taps of our footsteps.

The winding tunnel goes deeper into the earth. The further down we go, the damper and mustier the air grows, giving the impression that it hasn't seen fresh air in decades, if ever.

Gradually, the tunnel widens and the air becomes slightly fresher, but tinged with the scent of blood, dough, and pepperoni. What, are we in the basement of a pizza joint?

The tunnel splits off into three passages, and the group separates. I follow the person closest to me and we walk in silence for a few minutes.

Before long, we can no longer hear the echoes of the others in the tunnels.

After traveling for a few more minutes, the figure takes a quick glance at me but says nothing. We walk a bit more, and they turn to look at me again, this time their gaze lingering for a beat longer as if they have something to say.

Okay, then? Did they finally notice? Is there perhaps someone competent among what I thought was an oblivious group?

The person looks at me once again and slows their pace until they are walking side by side with me.

Taking a few quiet strides along me, he finally speaks. "How did you manage to stay dry?"

Whoops. "My ability?" I offer. Technically, it isn't wrong.

He nods.

We walk next to each other for a bit longer. He looks at me, then looks at the ground before turning back to stare at me.

What is it this time? …Am I being tested?

"Have you tried the pizza joint upstairs? I've heard it is fantastic…"

Is this some sort of code? Well… there's nothing I can do about it if it is. It would be more suspicious if I didn't answer… but I really, really hope this isn't some sort of code.

Ack, I did mess up… didn't I? Should I bail? No — even if it became a battle, I'd remain untouched and I wouldn't go against Struan's conditions.

Or, maybe it would be great if it was a code… then I have an excuse for claiming self-defense.

Bracing myself for a sudden attack, "No," I tersely respond.

But, the attack never came… or rather, it came in an unexpected form — psychological torture.

"… Who knew they were hiding all this beneath."

"Mm…" I grunt.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

You talk too much.

"M," I grunt, even more brusque this time.

Would deleting him right here count as self-defense, I wonder?

"Is this your first time here?"

What was with these questions? Did I give myself away somehow and I didn't notice? Am I the oblivious one here?

"Crazy weather, huh?" he asks.

"..." Yet again, he asks me yet another question.

"How much longer?"

Again — the questions? Why?

I think about how to respond — I'm not sure why I do, but I do. … Apparently, I take too long which he takes as my answer, or lack thereof.

He stops walking entirely and turns to look at me. I keep marching forward. Seriously, I agree with him on one thing — how much longer!?

The man jogs a few steps to catch up. He gives me a sheepish glance that I can barely see from under the shadow of his cloak.

Too close. This dude's getting way too close… I tug my hood down further and do my best to sink deep inside of it for good measure. I hurry my steps, almost jogging away.

"I'm… I'm lost…! I didn't want to tell the others that I have no idea what I'm doing… but please help me!"

"Hm." Perhaps I chose the wrong person to follow. How can he possibly be lost? There are literally only two ways to go in the passage we chose — forwards or backwards.

I'm not sure how to respond to this spontaneous begging. In the past, everyone who begged me all had a reason — getting me to stop torturing them.

Since he's begging me… am I, perhaps, the one doing the torturing here, rather than the other way around? Are we both mutually torturing each other?

Argh! Imma give myself a headache.

Finally!

The tunnel sharply turns and widens into a well lit area. My eyes burn from the sudden flood of light.

The musty air and delectable scent of pizza fully fades away, replaced with the overwhelming stench of blood.