Nearly midnight;
Saturday, 14 January.
Following an abrupt departure from We Bet Our Lives.

There were only so many places that he could go looking for trouble so late at night, especially if he were feeling too tipsy to apparate, and so it was hardly a surprise when he found himself standing at the edge of Knockturn Alley. 

Hovering near the gloomy entrance, Kurby let out a puff of breath that set wisps of warm air spinning upwards into the night. Somewhere behind him, the gaggle of carousing Ministry employees was likely still laughing and trading toasts, pretending to care that one of their number was dead. Up ahead, the streets of Knockturn were mostly dark, stretching into the shadows. This was the time of night that he'd once warned Nemo about: when adventuring usually turned to tragedy, as wrong turns led to stumbling into dark corners or being ambushed by hags.  The odds that he'd find the sort of trouble he wanted were extremely slim.

But for once, he didn't really care.  The werewolf hunter tugged his hood up over his head, his movements far less cautious than usual as he started into the alleyway.

The cobblestones here felt sharper under his boots as he made his way down the dark street, as if they hadn't been worn down by quite so many feet than their cousins back in Diagon.  The Sellaphix Apothecary was always his first landmark.  Kurby glanced up blearily as he passed it, but the windows of the little store were completely black, its front door firmly shut. Across the street and a few storefronts down, Grimshaw Tailoring appeared to be dark as well.  He tried hard not to look in its direction as he passed by, his promises to Nemo beating a solid rhythm against his temples.  Still, he almost thought he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, the slightest of breezes ruffling the sleeve of an old, musty-looking wedding dress in the window. 

Just past it, the Demon's Head was a lively contrast, its raucous Saturday night crowd on the verge of spilling into the street.  For half a second, the werewolf hunter considered veering off and making his way to the pub instead, but that wasn't the kind of trouble that he was looking for tonight.  The thought of pretending to raise another pint to Carter's death made his stomach roil.

And so it went, on and on down the alley. The few figures that passed him by were swaddled and hooded for warmth. Some of the shops appeared to be open for midnight visitors: Borgin & Burkes; Crinchley's Potion Shoppe; a shadowy, mysterious bookstore.  Down one crooked alleyway, two candles burned outside a grimy antique shop with a spider on its sign.  The shadows seemed longer and darker the further that he ventured, as if the night was richer and thicker here, making even the dim lights of the storefronts a little blurry.

Then, finally, at the end of the alleyway next to a dead end brick wall, was the shell of a building that he'd come to see.

Kurby had never visited the Black Chimaera when it was open.  Messing around with purists and the darker side of magical society had never appealed to him, even on the nights when he was out being stupid and mucking about for a fight.  But he had had friends and family who had gone slumming in the infamous pub: Dolly St. James, a couple of his cousins on the Whitman side.  They'd all spoken of premises that catered to those with a darker bent and of the friendly, charismatic bartender, who was welcoming to all those resentful of the Ministry's long arm but particularly gracious to any who had lost their wand.

Standing before it now, the building hardly looked like it deserved its harrowing reputation.  The paint was cracked and peeling; the wood underneath gave off a musty aroma in the wet night.  Bright yellow tape marked with black letters that read MINISTRY OF MAGIC - DO NOT ENTER  hung limply across the doorway.  One of the upstairs windows had a large, jagged hole in it, smashed by a rock and never repaired.

The werewolf hunter kept moving past it until he reached the brick wall at the end of the alley.  Turning to lean against it, he rested his head against the cold bricks.  Between the rooftops, what he could see was heavy with dark gray clouds, with only the barest glimpse of the moon peeking through. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kurby forced himself to let out a shaky breath.  Slowly, he inhaled again, filling his lungs up with the cold night air.

Up close, there was no question that the Black Chimaera had long been abandoned, victim of the Ministry's untiring hunt for its onetime proprietor.  There weren't any clues to be found here, no enemies that he could hex to make himself feel like he was pushing back against the darkness.  All he could do was focus on the rhythm of his breathing, steadying himself against the chill of the night.

Lazarus Blackburn, born again from the Great Chicago fire, would forever be immune to cold. Regardless of season, he wore what he liked and most of the time it was all the same. A black suit, dark striped shirt, and a black hat. Today he had a white scarf hanging untied over his neck; minimal effort to blend in with the humans, cursory acknowledgement of the season. If Lazarus was ever asked, he preferred winter obviously because there were more hours to move about.

If he'd wanted to, he could have made himself known to the prowling Kurby Bagnold yards and yards ago. He could have taken a breath, struck a match, let his bootfalls make a sound on the grainy cobblestones, but that wasn't any fun. Lazarus fell into step behind the werewolf hunter who didn't really hunt anything about the time he passed Demon's Head and followed him all the way to the terminus of Knockturn Alley. Lazarus was fond of Kurby Bagnold, the first human he'd come to know in quite awhile, and the feeling seemed to be mutual because there was no other reason for them to be near one another besides them making it so. But what, oh what, was Kurby Bagnold up to? He'd gone down a dead end and passed every opportunity. The only thing waiting for anyone at the end was, well.

Lazarus watched Bagnold for a few smoky exhales before he started to feel lonely. So he struck a match to light his own cigarette. His gravelly voice cut through the wet and cold.

"That's a dead end, Bagnold. That what you're looking for?" he exhaled some smoke. "Deads or ends?"

The gravelly voice cut through the otherwise silent night unexpectedly, and Kurby nearly banged his head against the wall as he jumped almost three feet in the air.

He grabbed for his wand as he pivoted to face the new arrival. Kurby stared at the vampire, his entire body tense, for a full three seconds until recognition sunk in.  The werewolf hunter clenched his teeth for a moment, still staring, and then let out a solid string of swears as he slumped back against the wall behind him.

"Lazarus," he gritted out, shooting the vampire the nastiest look he could muster.  "Don't bleedin' do that."

But at least it was only Laz.  Kurby forced himself to exhale, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to slow his embarrassingly rapidly-pounding heart.  There were far worse things that could sneak up on him in Knockturn Alley, and far worse company than that of Lazarus Blackburn in any circumstances.

As he opened his eyes again, the werewolf hunter reluctantly moved his hand away from his wand, crossing his arms against his chest instead.  He hadn't seen Lazarus since he'd gone to visit the Hooker coven just after Christmas; the vampire had never gotten back to him about his offer to act as a consultant for the Werewolf Capture Unit, and he'd been completely absent during the last full moon.  Considering what had happened, perhaps it had been for the best.

"I was lookin' for the bit just before the dead end," he grumbled, giving the vampire a slightly sore look.  "What the hell are you doin' out here?  You're a bit far from Camden Town, mate."

It wasn't truly the wisest thing to be sneaking up on a quick-draw, tendon-tense wizard. Lazarus had seen Kurby Bagnold snapping spells, seen this slight sulking form animate in the way only those with pumping hearts could manage. It was a good thing for Lazarus that Kurby Bagnold didn't hunt vampires. And a good thing for Kurby Bagnold as well.

Time passed differently for vampires. Both faster and slower. The stakes were different. He'd both seen and not seen Kurby Bagnold for moments or months and Lazarus had nearly forgotten there was a question in the air between them. He wondered if that was rude.

The bit just before the dead end? Now what was that? Lazarus wound his gaze back around behind him. The Black Chimaera? That's been closed for awhile and Lazarus wasn't disappointed to see the end of it.

Kurby interrogated Lazarus's movements and Lazarus thought that was nice. He smiled and meandered around the small space as if taking a turn around a salon. 

"Hmmm, it's a fine night. The stars are hung up in the right order, so I thought to myself, well, I thought that I'd go shopping."

He tipped over to lean against the wall next to Kurby, mirroring his stance as if to pretend to be alive.

Lazarus was really the first vampire that Kurby had ever come to know personally.  After their initial encounter in November, the werewolf hunter had just assumed that all vampires acted as awkwardly as the gravelly-voiced American, cheerfully meandering and speaking in half-sensical riddles.  Since then, though, he'd quickly managed to build a bit of an expertise.  Neither Tristan Vaillancourt or any of the other vampires at Terrence Hooker's pub acted quite like Lazarus did, and Kurby couldn't help wonder if the others of his species found Laz just as odd as the living did.

He huffed out another quick breath as he eyed the vampire, the wisps of warm air escaping upward in the cold night.  Shopping didn't sound like something that one did in the middle of the night, but then again, he wasn't undead and didn't have his activities restricted by the presence of the sun.  If his morning started when evening rose, perhaps he too would want to go shopping when the stars were hanging neatly, or whatever the hell Laz looked for.

"Well, cheers, then," he said, looking back at the Black Chimaera.  "Hope you have a grand time on your errands."

The former pub still sat there, just as desolate and empty as it had been when he'd arrived.  The Ministry probably had wards on it to alert them if anyone broke in, but plenty of the Aurors were out with Spectre's little self-indulgent drinking club tonight.  Maybe he'd have time to poke around a bit and look for clues related to Tawse's current escapades before anyone zapped in to run him off. 

Lazarus tapped the brim of his hat up a few inches as if to see Kurby better. He looked pointedly at the sullen Kurby, then to the battered Black Chimaera, then back to Kurby. He sucked his teeth and shook his head, trying to divine the human's strange intentions. A great deal of bloody violence had occurred on the full bright moon, the kind that humans both brought and fought. It had to be frightening to face death, that Lazarus remembered. It stayed with you. Vampires stared down immortality in the same way. Some sought oblivion. Some risked their ends.

Kurby Bagnold had hosted Lazarus in something new and interesting. Perhaps it was time to return the favor.

"Yes and no, I think you want to come with Old Laz," said Lazarus who actually didn't look that old. A hard-lived forty at most.  He stood up from the wall and began to walk along the shadowy brick and stone wall terminus. Then he disappeared around a corner that simply hadn't been there before, like it had been concealed from all vantage points like an Escher print.

Lazarus stepped out again, lifted his arm over his head, bent his elbow and pointed with a long finger into the dark passage.

"Well, come on."

For all that the vampire sounded certain, Kurby actually didn't want to go anywhere with Old Laz.  He'd come traipsing down Knockturn tonight because he wanted to sulk somewhere that wasn't his flat, and because if he was going to be nursing a hangover in the morning, he might as well have a few bruises to add to the tenderness.  He'd come because he was becoming endlessly frustrated after having spent the whole goddamned week feeling helpless, and because getting into a fight would at least make him feel like he was doing something productive, even if it ended with him getting laid flat.

He hadn't come to go run errands with his undead associate, and Kurby was in the process of opening his mouth to tell Lazarus that when the vampire seemingly walked into the wall and disappeared.

The werewolf hunter went still, staring after him.  For a split second, he wondered if he were actually more intoxicated than he'd realized.  Spectre and the others had been doing most of the ordering, and for all he knew, the shots could have been mixed much stronger than he'd thought at the time.  But then Laz stepped out around the impossible corner and pointed in the direction that he'd gone to disappear.

"Well, come on."

Kurby realized that his mouth was hanging open.  He shut it with a snap, straightening from where he'd been leaning against the wall.  Cautiously, he stepped forward, peering around the vampire to look down what indeed appeared to be a dark passage, which had up until that very moment blended right into the wall.

The werewolf hunter stared at it, his brows knitting.  Silently, he glanced at Laz, and then stepped a foot to the left.  The passageway didn't disappear so much as it simply wasn't present, blending into the wall like a trick of the light.  A step to the right and there it was again, although he would have been hard-pressed to spot it if it hadn't been for Lazarus pointing the way.

An impossible passage, hidden in the brick wall right next to the Black Chimaera.  Kurby paused, glancing back reluctantly at the  abandoned pub behind him.  A short while ago, this had seemed the obvious place to come if he wanted to find trouble.  But Laz hadn't failed yet when it came to making his nights more recently.

He hesitated for half a second more, rubbing a hand over his face, and then shrugged.  It wasn't as if his week could get any worse. 

"Lead the way," he said, and followed the vampire into the darkness.

---

The passageway started off narrow -- narrow and tight, with at least a few sharp corners that he had to squeeze through.  There was no light at all, but he kept moving forward through the pitch blackness, following behind Lazarus, who was thoughtful enough to let his footsteps make noise for a change.  But after a couple minutes of squeezing, it seemed to open up into a wider underground tunnel, about the height and width of some of the hallways back at Hogwarts. 

The entire passage looked as if it had been carved through solid rock. The rounded walls and ceiling shimmered with a faint purple glow, as if thousands of tiny pinpricks of lights clung to the stone, shifting and glittering in the darkness overhead.  It reminded him vaguely of the vision chambers on Level Nine, where the deep sea creatures had floated and drifted with their own uncanny light.  Beneath his boots, the stone floor was slick and wet, giving him reason to concentrate on keeping his balance as he matched the vampire's pace. 

Despite the dampness, it was much warmer down here than it had been back in Knockturn Alley, enough so that Kurby had quickly let his hood drop and was considering abandoning his cloak all together.

"So where the hell are we --"  One of the purple glowing lights dropped from the ceiling, hitting the ground right in front of him.  Kurby started, and then paused for a moment, squinting down at it as it squirmed out of his way.  It looked like a two-headed purple slug.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked up at the ceiling.  Upon closer examination, all of the glowing lights appeared to be two-headed purple slugs, crawling and sliming their way across the stone surface.

"Uh," he said, suddenly deciding that it was a smart idea to wear his hood after all.  He clumsily pulled it back over his head, hurrying to catch up with Laz.  "So, uh, where exactly are we goin'?  You didn't mention what you were shoppin' for."

Lazarus had grinned all fangs and wide at Kurby's dance to make sense of the portal. It came and went. It was only here when it wasn't somewhere else or closed off entirely. And tonight it was exactly where it was and it was open.

As they walked, Lazarus just let the cigarette burn hanging from his lip and strolled hands in pockets. He was pleased Kurby had come with him; Lazarus thought that he'd be interested but, naively, hadn't weighed all the consequences. Here, a human was an unwelcome beast in many measurements.

When Kurby stopped so did Lazarus. He waited patiently, interested in his reaction to the low road.

"Hag's market," he answered obligingly and ashed his shortening cigarette. "Or the Cheapstow. Craeky Hob, if you want.[1] Doing a little bit of business for Hooker."

Terrance Hooker, top boss at the Camden coven. Kurby would know him, now.  Whether Terry had actually asked Lazarus to head down below or not wasn't material; Lazarus did his part for his kith. Looking at Bagnold though, he'd never pass as a vampire. Too lively and animate and there was alcohol in the blood. There wasn't much to do about that, and Laz might have thought of that before.

He assumed a thinking pose, considering Kurby's fashion. He swayed a little on his feet. He waved a finger just from the hip.

"You're very human," he observed as if Kurby should know what to do about that.

1.	Cheapstow from Old English ceapstow for 'market'. And Craeky Hob sounded like something in Gobbledlegook.

The werewolf hunter stopped short as Lazarus turned to face him.  The vampire proceeded to rattle off a series of words that didn't really make any sense when strung all together, including a phrase that had the hacking, back-of-the-throat quality of well-spoken Gobbledegook.  The only bit of useful information that he was able to glean from the explanation was that Terrence Hooker had apparently sent Lazarus here on business, which meant they were either looking for fancy blood-red liquor, blood itself, or possibly some sort of fancy black ties.

As he thought about it, though, the name hag's market seemed like it ought to ring some sort of bell.  Kurby couldn't quite place it, but then again, his brain was still feeling a little fuzzy from the alcohol that he'd already had to drink.  What the hell was a hag's market?  Other than the obvious, although he hoped that Laz wasn't going somewhere to shop for premium cuts of most hags' favorite type of meat.

Lazarus, meanwhile, had assumed what could only be described as a thinking pose, one hand pensively to his chin, the other tucked under his elbow at his waist.  The werewolf hunter shifted position, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny, as another glowing purple slug plopped onto the wet stone nearby.

Finally, Lazarus unveiled the observation that he'd been working on.  "You're very human," he said perceptively.

Kurby paused and looked down at himself.  He was, indeed, very human.

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously, looking back at Laz. 

Lazarus hemmed and hawed in place. The Hag's Market predated a great deal of the wand-waving that went on above them, or so Lazarus had figured out. The Craeky Hob, as the goblins called it, had come into being before Ministry trade restrictions or witching hours, and sometime after pickpocketry and taxes. (But everything was after taxes.)[1] The Ministry of Magic officially acknowledged its existence in the 1760s[2] and attempted to regulate it, but kept losing track of it, so they fell off the effort and lost the records of it out of spite. Happy for all, witches and wizards who knew how to enter the market had enough sense to know when they weren't wanted.

He finally said, "don't worry about it. Well."

Lazarus clicked his tongue again, indecisive. "Play it down if you can, is all I'm saying. Wands aren't exactly welcome."

Feeling satisfied at having done little to nothing about disguising his companion, Lazarus turned on his heel and meandered off again, in such a way that Kurby might come along. The tunnel gave way to stairs and soon posters and papers began showing up along the wall, none of them in English, but there was no mistaking the hallmarks of advertisements. And where words weren't enough, pictures sufficed.

Even well rendered some of them were difficult to parse. There was a drawing of what might resemble if someone attempted to draw a giraffe going only from a description from someone else's dream. Another showed a human prince grinning to show off needles through his tongue.  Other bills showed herbs, cages, rooks, cats, cauldrons, coffers, and sweets. There were life-size portraits of Veela with silver ink that glowed. One poster was wet with something dark, though the color was hard to see under the purple light of the slugs.

And then the light began to change. The slugs became fewer and the light came through a hazy green. The floor got wetter and there were more and more drainage grates in the floor. And nestled in crannies were shards of pale ceramic tubes, like shards of bone.[3]

Lazarus had to spin to the side as something the size, but not shape, of a child rushed past them.

1.	Shameless reference to The Princess Bride by William Goldman.
2.	Amid one of the Goblin Rebellions of which hags were also embroiled.
3.	Remains of old clay tobacco pipes.

Kurby raised an eyebrow in the vampire's wake, and then finally rolled his shoulders in a shrug.  Wherever Laz was taking him, there was nothing stopping him from apparating out of it if this turned to trouble.  Although he was far from an expert at dealing with near-human beings and beasts, at least he felt like he had his feet under him now after a couple of encounters with the vampires.  As long as he stayed calm and kept his temper under control, the worst thing that could happen was needing to remove himself from the situation quickly.

And so they moved onwards further down the tunnel, down the stairs, towards whatever this hag's market might be.  As he tried to avoid stepping on any fallen purple slugs, Kurby silently glanced over the strange posters as they passed by.  He didn't recognize any of the languages present, although some of the announcements looked like they were written in Gobbledegook script.

The strange child-like creature that ran by them was the first other living creature that they had come across.  Kurby twisted his head to look after it, and very nearly walked through a blue-gray ghost that happened to be floating towards them.  She gave a harrumph, hiking up her long layered skirts as she floated up to the ceiling, and then continued over their heads.

The floor had gotten considerably more wet now, and there was water dripping from the ceiling too.  The entire tunnel seemed to have taken on the musty, stale smell of old laundry that had been left out too long, as if it had never quite been allowed to dry out the way that it should have.  It was also starting to get busier, as other passageways started to converge with their tunnel.  They overtook a trio of chatting goblins, who were so engrossed in studying a poster that seemed to show an upside-down drawing of a golden pitcher that they barely spared them a look.  A swarm of pixies went buzzing by overhead; one enterprising little imp dove down, attempting to snatch Lazarus's hat off his head as it flew by.

Then, as they rounded a corner, the gate to the Cheapstow finally loomed before them.

At first glance, the large entryway looked to be an elaborate carving, a decorated archway drilled into the stone itself.  Two large eyes sat at the very top, set in the stone and staring down at the passerby who made their way underneath.  Sharp white rocks hung down ominously like icicles from roof of the curved archway; they were matched by a row of stalagmites, rising up from underneath in the middle of the passageway.  The entire thing was backlit by the strange green glow, which seemed to be coming from some light source on the other side.

Kurby paused for half an instant as they rounded the corner, eyebrows raised as he regarded the archway.  As a wobbly figure in a hooded gray cloak limped under the structure up ahead of them, the enormous eyes seemed to rotate downwards to follow its movement.  Something that looked like green drool dripped down from one of the stalactites above, and a strange red whip darted between the lower pointed white rocks, almost as if it were a snake tasting the air with its tongue.

The werewolf hunter turned his head slowly to look directly at Lazarus.

"I'll just play the wand bit down, then?" he asked the vampire with a perfectly reasonable amount of cheerfulness.  "There's nothin' at all about this that could possibly go wrong, aye?"

Lazarus barely dodged the hat-thief pixie by holding his trilby on his head and ducking lower than he needed to. He slowed his pace as they came into the market proper all the better to show things off to Kurby as well as having a relaxing shopping experience. The vampire liked this place because humans and all their worry were rare; one could move about freely hampered only by pickpockets and dangerous merchants.

"That's the spirit, that's the spirit, that's the spirit," Lazarus hummed in his throat. The shadow on Bagnold's back seemed to have lifted and with death around every corner he seemed more at ease. Lazarus made sure his pace matched Kurby's. He kept half an eye on anyone who might register what his friend was.

The market was busy and loud. The smells were strong and visible in the air. Folk not found in the Ministry's unity statue[1] or the Ministry's lists dominated the population. A trio of Veela glowed at one stall, a ghost argued with someone on the other side of a metal grate, a sphinx held court at a bridge. The sound of water ran beneath everything. And of course, hags. 

"This place has everything," Lazarus said, "which ain't bad. Books, even."

He nodded down to Kurby's hands. "Rings for fingers, too."

1.	Fountain of Magical Brethren

The tunnel had opened into an enormous bustling marketplace, full of colorful stalls and vendors hawking their wares.  Freshly ground spices and roasted meat warred with a slightly musty smell that lingered in the air, as if someone had left their wet socks out too long to dry and then forgotten about them.

The entire place was lit with the same eerie green glow that he'd noticed in the tunnel, except now, the entire ceiling seemed to be glowing, throwing a murky green light down on the stalls below.  When Kurby glanced up, it took him a moment to register that it wasn't glowing at all.  Instead, it looked as if there were an enormous body of greenish water suspended in the air above them, with drops slowly dripping down onto the tents below.  When he squinted through it, he could almost make out shimmering hints of the night-struck world above -- the waning moon, lights along the riverbank, even the shadow of what had to be a passing barge.

And everywhere, everywhere, there were creatures. They stepped around a short, squatting frog-like thing with bulging eyes and scabby knees that bent inwards, and then politely made their way past a family of stern-looking goblins with strange knobs on their foreheads.  Kurby glanced at his friend, his eyebrows raised.  Everything was quite the statement coming from a vampire who had been alive for going on two centuries.  But he would nearly believe it, seeing the wares spread through the stalls here.

At Laz's last comment, he glanced down at his left hand, wriggling his fingers.  Most of the silver rings were ones that he'd made himself, with light enchantments woven into the metal.  But there was something to be said for a souvenir from a place like this, which seemed fantastic even from a wix's perspective.

"What're you after?" he asked, squeezing his hand shut into a fist.  Aside from his usual silver -- the rings, the chains, the knife tucked in his boot -- he hadn't worn any of his hunting gear tonight.  The absence of it left him feeling oddly exposed.  "Just browsin', or have you got something specific in mind?"

Lazarus smiled at his human companion's interest in his new surroundings. Kurby wasn't rushing and looking all around. It made him seem green and Lazarus could feel eyes on them, but for now, no trouble comin'. Lazarus meandered on his heels, on guard but pleased. If he had brought Kurby along to give him some distraction from the live of the living, maybe he was succeeding.

"This and that," Lazarus replied with no intention of being evasive. "Guys like you have mothers, guys like me have  - what would you call it..."

Lazarus waved a lanky calloused hand over his head as he continued walking. His tongue stalled, pressed gently behind his fangs

"Lineage. We have lineage. Sometimes they end up in books."

But not always. It was of interest to some. It was of interest to Lazarus. He liked to keep track of things.

It was about then that Lazarus lifted his eyebrows and paused, his attention caught by a little stall snuggled under the terminus of a large pipe. It was a bit ramshackle but at one time it was carefully managed, you could tell by the detail. A large sign said, "Grimshaw's Tailoring and Abominations." A smaller sign said, "be back soon." But the latter sign may have have been tacked to a coffin it seemed so old.

Lazarus knew the stall's mother.[1]

1.	19 Dec 2011 - Little Tailor Shop of Horrors

Lineage.  The word hung in the air, heavy in the vampire's wake.  Kurby had never paid much attention in Care of Magical Creatures -- were vampires even technically creatures?  No, not if they were Cepheus Gamp's problem -- but Lazarus's comment tugged at the strands of barely-kept memory. 

Something brown and furry darted unexpectedly across his path, and the werewolf hunter nearly had to step twice to avoid trodding on it.  Sires and clans and lineage.  He still felt tipsy enough that he wasn't sure if he were actually remembering something he'd learned once, or if it was just the sort of thing he'd picked up at some pub or from Rosheen's endless prattling about equal rights for magical beings.  Either way, he was certain that he knew better than most people what it felt like when one's lineage ended up unexpectedly in a book.

"My condolences, mate," he'd started to say to Laz, except the vampire suddenly wasn't on his heels. 

Kurby stopped short, looking back for his friend. 

Lazarus had paused a few paces behind him and was staring in the direction of one of the stalls.  Raising his eyebrows, the werewolf hunter followed his gaze, tracing its path to a ramshackle booth that made something catch in his throat.

Grimshaw's Tailoring and Abominations.

Without a word, Kurby tucked his hands into his pockets and casually strolled over to the stall.

It was easy to tell that at one time, it had been well cared for.  The table at the front of the stall had been covered with an intricate, lacy tablecloth that must have once been white, although now it had faded to something closer to yellowed ivory.  It was covered with what looked like it had once been a thoughtful display of now-ratty ribbons, blackened buckles and buttons, and out-of-fashion gloves, interspersed with items of a less wholesome variety: a tarnished copper knife with the faintest hint of dried blood still on it; a discolored golden ring still attached to a misshapen, half-rotten finger; a sooty-looking jar with a shrunken head inside it, which had strangely sharpened teeth and eyes that seemed to follow him when he moved.  Behind the table were a collection of a half-dozen old-fashioned dresses displayed on stands, one of which looked oddly like the wedding gown that he'd seen in the window of Grimshaw's Tailoring earlier that night.  And above it all hung a sign made of damp yellowed parchment with curling edges; its faded, looping handwriting cautioned patience to any would-be shoppers: Be back soon.

Kurby paused a few paces back, attempting to look nonchalant as he examined the objects scattered across the table.  A small, dusty book, no bigger than his palm but twice as thick, caught his eye.  On the cover, under gold-leafed words that read 'Hymns, Rytes, & Maledyctions,' a tiny woman wearing a medieval-looking headdress puffed out her cheeks as she blew on a flute outlined in silver.  Next to her, an eerie-looking man clapped his hands to his face in a silent scream, as he seemingly rose from the chest of a bone-white skeleton lying prone before the flautist.

"CAW!"

The sudden sound, piercing even through the buzzing of the crowd, made the werewolf hunter jump for the second time that night. 

Kurby jerked his head up in time to see a large black bird settle on top of one of the dressmaker's dummies.  The corvid fluffed its feathers up, as if it were trying to maximize its size, and then let out a loud, guttural croak, its beady black eyes fixed on him from across the stall.