The mist lingered well after sunrise. It crept along the hedgerows like it had somewhere to be, curling through the grass and weaving itself into the sleeves of Grey's coat. She pulled the collar higher, breath turning silver in the cold. The path to the nearest village bus stop wound through a long, lichen-streaked valley, damp with sheep print and slow drizzle. It was a familiar route—muddy, quiet, brambled at the edges with gorse.
She was trying hard to ignore the stray currently trailing her, apparently insistent on following her home. The warnings were clear: don't follow the Huntsman, don't meet his gaze, don't listen if he speaks softly. She'd failed all three before dinner.
Alaric was not impressed.
"You do this. On purpose," he said incredulously, stepping around another puddle like it might bite him. "With human feet. And nothing but wool between your tender skin and the elements."
"It builds character," Grey replied, dry as peat smoke. Then, after a beat, she added with narrowed eyes, "Why are you following me, anyway? Shouldn't you have buggered off back to whatever storm cloud you drifted in on the moment I shut the gate?"
The arrogant Fae made a show of carefully inspecting his newly-glamoured coat for rain spots, ignoring the barb. It was black again, as usual—but this time reworked through glamour for mortal eyes: a stylish wool trench, too expensive for anyone in these parts, paired with boots that belonged in fashion spreads, not farm paths. Still, it suited him. Everything did, she noted with derision.
And the glamour didn't dull the truth beneath. Not really. Even toned down, Alaric drew attention. Too symmetrical. Too elegant. The kind of man who made people glance twice and then look away quickly, as if instinctively suspecting they'd seen something dangerous, something they shouldn't.
Grey hadn't commented on it yet. But she noticed. Ironically, it wasn't his beauty she was immune to. She was just tragically allergic to insincerity. Depressingly so. Alaric Fen looked like a cathedral designed by someone who'd never known joy but had excellent taste in ruin. Obviously untrustworthy.
He leaned one hip against the crumbling stone wall, arms loosely folded, the curve of his mouth just shy of a full smile.
"I need to understand how much your lot know about the anomaly soulgates, pet. Surely you have some superiors I could converse with? An overprotective large dog, perhaps?"
His tone was mild, but the glint in his eyes suggested mischief. Or provocation. Or both. Grey couldn't decide which was more aggravating.
Grey arched a brow without looking up from her notes. "Stop fishing and do your own homework, Fen."
She rolled her eyes with theatrical calm. Honestly. Did she look like she needed supervision? What part of her damp cloak, fox-bitten satchel, and cursed left boot screamed unaccompanied minor?
She could feel his gaze lingering like static—less heat, more pressure. Like a storm waiting for permission.
Alaric let out a hum, half amusement, half approval. "You know, most people flinch when I tease them."
"Most people aren't trying to map a spectral rupture before lunch," she muttered, finally glancing at him. And damn him, he was still smirking.
The bus rattled up late, shuddering like a dying beast, its side advertising a local dairy festival. They sat near the back. The driver barely glanced at them, and no one else boarded.
Alaric sulked visibly.
"You could have let me open a gate."
"You said they were being watched," Grey replied.
"I also said I had alternatives. Faster ones."
"This is safer."
"This is slow, pet," he groaned miserably. "It smells like wet wool and missed opportunity."
Grey smirked and leaned against the window. "You'll live, I'm sure. I like the quiet. And humans don't stare if you act normal."
Alaric cast a glance at the rearview mirror where the driver was very much staring at him. "You don't act normal," he muttered eyes narrowing slightly.
The train was newer than Grey remembered. It hissed into the station with a prideful wheeze, all blinking signs and clean upholstery. The smell of fresh coffee and old newspapers filled the platform. A teenage couple argued over headphones. A woman with a plaid umbrella tutted, fussing at a spaniel who refused to get off the yellow line.
Inside, they found seats near the middle carriage. Grey took the window. Alaric sprawled beside her like he owned the row, his glamour flickering just slightly with each blink of overhead light.
The effect was magnetic. Grey spied a middle-aged woman three rows up who kept turning pages in her book, obviously without reading them. A young man with a piercing in each ear paused his podcast and stared openly, mouth slightly ajar.
Alaric noticed. Of course he noticed. He stretched one leg out. Just slightly, all belligerent long-limbed glory. Crossed his ankles. Tapped one ringed finger on the fold-down table between them.
"Something wrong?" Grey asked, still watching the fields begin to blur past.
"Nothing at all," Alaric said. "Just basking in the adoration of your species."
Grey snorted at his arrogance and looked sideways at him. "They're staring."
"They often do."
"Must you endure this constantly? Is this normal?"
"For me? Always."
Grey blinked. Then looked out the window again, jaw tight, shoulders tense like a violin string not quite tuned. She hated when anybody looked at her. She was objectively aware of the fact that she wasn't reasonably attractive, but she always suspected that that wasn't the reason they looked at her. Not really. She never really felt seen.
"Maybe tighten the glamour up a little," she muttered, voice too casual to be anything but purposeful. It came out sharp-edged, meant to cut through the fog of him—the perfection, the attention, the unasked-for presence pressing in around her like perfume she hadn't agreed to wear.
"Oh? Jealous, pet?"
Grey frowned, sincere. "Just don't want any other strays deciding to follow you home. I've got enough to deal with."
Alaric choked on his breath. He turned fully toward her now, amused, intrigued, and just slightly alarmed.
"Greylene Wyrde," he said, voice low, "was that an actual line? Did you just warn me off like I'm a stray cat in heat?"
Grey raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes with all the weary disdain of someone who'd been through this before and hoped, in vain, to never go through it again. "If I throw something at you, will you leave?" she asked. Then, tilting her head just enough to signal danger and interest in equal measure, she added dryly, "How are you around iron? Asking for a friend. With a fireplace poker."
Alaric's mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. "I—" And then he laughed. Properly. Bright and startled and entirely unguarded. His eyes lit up for the first time since the boy's ghost disappeared.
The train rolled on. Towns passed by in fog-softened glimpses: stone fences, tin rooftops, wild daffodils tangled in roadside gravel. A little girl pressed her nose to the window across the aisle, staring at the sky. Her mother gently pulled her back.
Grey sipped lukewarm tea from a cardboard cup she'd got from the station, the paper already soft at the rim. The tea tasted faintly of tannin and train station floor sweepings. Across from her, Alaric had somehow procured a croissant—still warm, flaky, and golden—and was eating it with the self-assured delicacy of someone aware he might be immortalised on film at any moment. His posture was nonchalant, his expression vaguely amused, like the pastry had confessed a scandal and he was savouring the aftermath.
She couldn't get a read on him. He flirts like it's muscle memory—just something his face does when he's bored. I'm not special. I'm just nearby.
It was absolutely clear he wasn't interested in her physically—at least, not in the way most men were. His flirtation was too smooth, too rehearsed, like a well-thumbed script. Calculated, not carnal. There was no real hunger in it, no genuine invitation—just the lazy cadence of someone who'd long ago learned that teasing was safer than truth.
He wore his 'baby-I'm-trouble-and-you're-gonna-love-it' persona like a mask, charming, curated, and utterly unreadable beneath the eyes. She was so not interested in what lurked below.
Eventually, she spoke again to fill the silence. "Talk about a puzzle."
He eyed her sidelong. "Oh?"
"You're not… cold. Or cruel. Not like the stories."
"Not always," Alaric admitted quietly. She thought she saw something flash briefly behind his eyes.
Grey nodded. "But you're dangerous."
Alaric didn't answer. The humor slipped from his face, but not unkindly.
"Aye," he said softly. "I am."
They sat in silence for a long moment. She got the feeling he was waiting for her to chase him off.
Then Grey leaned forward slightly and frowned, "I feel I should warn you," she began seriously. "You have jam on your chin."
Alaric blinked, visibly flustered as if someone had just accused him of improper table manners in a royal court. His hand shot up to his chin, movements sharp with consternation. He wiped it quickly. "Where?"
Grey pointed with vague amusement. She enjoyed messing with the unaffected poise he wore like armour.
"Got it?"
"No. Other side."
Alaric tried again. Failed. Grey finally reached over with an exasperated sigh and brushed it away with the corner of a napkin, with the brisk efficiency one might use to tidy a museum display. Fitting, she thought. He is practically a relic. An expensive looking one.
"There," she said, with the air of someone granting mercy from a great and terrible height.
Alaric swallowed. She was staring at him down her nose with a hint of amusement. Still… she looked. He saw it. That flicker. That hesitation. Like a moth pretending it's not circling the flame. And stars help him—suddenly he'd never wanted to be fire so badly. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to die of an embarrassment he absolutely refused to acknowledge, pull his glamour tighter and vanish into the ether, or kiss her just to see what she'd do.
Probably both. Definitely both.