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It was always a laborious task, dragging himself up the three flights of stairs that led to Doctor Braginski's office. It wasn't the actually effort that the task itself demanded; it was more the thought of what was to come, the dread curdling his stomach and pounding his head. An hour and a half in a small, stuffy room where you could see the dust mites hovering in the air, with a woman who started off quizzing him about his feelings and ended up collapsed in tears herself. Her current record was fifty straight minutes of sobbing, no pause for breath. He wasn't sure exactly how much research his parents had done when choosing his therapist, or if they'd simply picked the first one they'd seen. Most likely the latter. Her name sounded professional, and she had the necessary qualifications, but apart from that...well, to be frank, she was useless. No two ways about it. There was always that rush of guilt that swamped him whenever he thought like that, but it wasn't like it was his fault. The Ukrainian just wasn't suited to this job.

The final step creaked as he set his foot down upon it, sounding like an old man who'd just been aroused from his nap by rowdy grandchildren. The building was dilapidated, the type that no longer showed its age by the termite-infested furniture or the lingering smell of must or the filthy, peeling wallpaper, but by the warning notices pinned up everywhere, urging people to tread carefully, to not touch, and to basically leave before they sorrowfully regretted it. He rapped on the flaking door, colour no longer discernible, and waited, hands clasped behind his back like an impatient toddler. He didn't dare rock on his heels: that one small movement could send him toppling down the stairway and reward him with a smashed skull and snapped neck. At that gruesome image he shuddered, remembering his confrontation with Natalia earlier that day. He knocked again, louder this time, letting his impatience get the better of him. There was no reply.

Arthur frowned. It wasn't like Doctor Braginski not to answer. For all he knew, she lived in her office — he'd never seen her about the town, or even exiting the building. He tried the door handle, brass and shaped like a clenched fist. The door swung open easily, throwing strips of light into the old room like luminescent streamers. He braced himself, expecting the interrogation to start immediately.

"So, how would you describe your mood today?"

"And what, in your opinion, is the reason you need to come here?

"Do you think that's affecting you personally?"

"Are there any other troubles going on in your life?"

"Would you say it's connected to something else? Friends? Family?"

"And how does that make you feel?"

He'd heard those words a thousand times over. They were empty, meaningless, devoid of any true depth, just letters stuffed together in a vain attempt to form something coherent. Yet still she repeated them, asked those same questions on a weekly basis, sometimes twice a week if the self-proclaimed 'adults' felt he was acting extra aberrant. She jotted down her notes in that notepad with the turquoise cover, this woman, this supposed expert, and continued to try and pick his brain even though she was using the completely wrong tools for the job. And Arthur went along with it, because what else was there to do but smile and nod and give back false, dry answers? It seemed to satisfy her well enough, this mantra of fibs and lies.

But the onslaught never came. She wasn't there. He stepped into the room, peering around as if she might be hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump out and grab him. It was a simple square, three quarters of the space occupied by a grey, mottled loveseat, a luxurious black recliner and desk coated in miscellaneous documents and papers. The walls were beige and rosewater, the floors carpeted a soft cream. It was a desperate attempt to be soothing, trying to make up for the ruin that was the rest of the flat. Arthur awkwardly leapt over the loveseat and eyed the pages on the desk speculatively. He didn't want to pry, truthfully. But what if one of them was a note she'd left? Doctor Braginski was known for being scatterbrained, so it wouldn't come as much of a surprise that she'd forgotten to stick it to the door. He snatched a page and read it quickly, scanning for some indication as to where she'd gone. Some sort of form, he assumed, placing it back down again. The others all appeared to be the same — that was, until he spotted one neatly folded, tucked under a pile of electricity bills. He plucked it out. On the front was written her full name — Yekaterina Braginski — in joint cursive, the type that was neat without being polished, readable without trying to be. The type that you used when writing to family.

He shouldn't look at it. That would be nosey and rude. He should just put it back and leave. Arthur chewed thoughtfully on his lip. He'd never heard of anyone using her proper first name before — it was always her nickname, Katyusha, although how that related to Yekaterina he could never suss out. And who would be sending letters to her, anyway? Nobody did that anymore. She'd already confessed to having been raised without parents during one of her waterworks, and her sister lived with her, which meant there was only one other option...

Just one peek, he thought, and unfolded the letter.

On the inside was complete gibberish. Arthur squinted, taking in the strange shapes and angles the letters formed, and realised, no, not gibberish — Russian. Which in all honesty, was probably worse. He let his eyes wander the sentences, not one of them making an ounce of sense, and severely wished he hadn't taken French (which tended to happen on a regular basis, but for deviating reasons). Then he caught sight of the sign off at the bottom, and the rest of the page ceased matter:

С уважением,

Ivan

Ivan Braginski. The big brother Natalia blabbered on about oh-so-proudly. He actually existed. Arthur went over the letter again, perusing. None of the words seemed any easier to decipher. He heaved a sigh, about to put it back down again, when a single word leapt off the page to greet him. It was different; it was English. Not just that, but it was a name. A name he knew. A name he would carry with him to his grave, which he would keep even then. A name he had tried so many times to change, to shed, to lose association with, but always ended up returning to. A name that was his right.

The name was 'Kirkland'.

Arthur blinked at the page, as if the movement of his eyelids might act as a rubber and erase the word. This didn't make any sense. If it was Katyusha sending the letter, perhaps, but why would her brother be writing about him or his family? He felt a chuckle rise in his throat. He was just being silly. There was probably dozens of Kirklands throughout Nottingham, he just hadn't encountered any of them. Still...he hesitated, the letter wavering between the desk and his pocket. Curiosity was his vice, and he was well aware of it. Plus, knowing Doctor Braginski, she wouldn't even be aware of its absence. Surely it couldn't hurt to—

A sudden crash sounded out, followed by a sob.

Arthur's head jerked up, startled. He quickly stepped back from the table, stuffing the letter into his pocket. It took several tries before it would fit. The crumpling sound the paper made was suddenly outrageously loud in the following silence, the air charged like the calm before a storm. He tensed up, listening. For a moment there was nothing, just his heavy breathing and the steady thump of his heart in his chest, syncing with an inaudible beat. Then a slow string of whimpers met his ears, drifting over from the far side of the room. There was a door, leading to a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. The noise continued, muffled somewhat by the obstruction between Arthur and this despairing person. But his mind instantly recognised those low notes of sadness. He tiptoed towards the door, strangely reluctant to break the silence even though this person would have certainly heard him by now. Then again, they were rather easy to sneak up on, as he'd learnt on those first few sessions when it hadn't occurred to him to knock. He leant on the door, easing it open slowly, deciding not to ask permission for entrance. If they hadn't let him in when he'd knocked earlier, then there was little chance they'd answer him now. But either the slab of rotting wood was much lighter than he'd anticipated, or maybe he leant into it a little too heavily, because it swung open as if the hinges were brand new, and suddenly he was tumbling to the floor.

Thanks to his lack of social life both during and after school hours, Arthur had had the wind knocked out of him more times than he could count, so he recovered rather quickly from that. What was a little bit more of an obstacle was the position he landed in, limbs twisted and piled atop one another, face smushed against the floor in such a way that no air could be sucked in through his nostrils. He flailed about desperately as he attempted to untangle himself, all the while trying to accumulate enough oxygen to keep his brain functioning. His foot lashed out and struck something metal. A loud clang followed, accompanied by a sharp blow to his head as a sweeping brush fell upon it. Arthur swore and swatted it away, rolling onto his elbows and pushing himself to his knees. His shoulder hit the edge of a shelf, and even more intensely coloured profanity spilled out of his mouth. When he finally staggered to his feet, he was bashed, bruised and all around peeved. Not to mention acutely aware that his discreet entrance had just turned into a clown's routine.

The crying had stopped. In the middle of the floor sat its source, hugging her knees, eyes rimmed red like garish spectacles. A strand of silver hair had fallen into her face, but she didn't appear to have noticed, so intent was she on staring at him as if he'd just crash landed his space ship in here and offered to introduce her to one of his alien travelling companions. Arthur tended to get these sort of looks a lot.

To be frank, he'd never been overly fond of Katyusha Braginski. It was nothing too personal — she was, all in all, a sweet and caring woman, with empathy that far superseded anyone else's. But that was the problem. He found it ridiculous how much time she dedicated to others, how she could be so patient, so altruistic, how she listened and sympathised and acted like she could take on his burden as her own, how she'd actually made a job out of it. He didn't trust anyone under the occupation she'd chosen. To him, psychotherapists were frauds, useless, people who couldn't find an area in life in which to succeed so they turned their non-existent talents to analysing the lives of others. Pathetic, he thought them, their methods illogical and unorthodox. And all the while, they were getting paid for his having problems.

It also didn't help that Francis, upon having learnt where he disappeared to every Friday evening, had pointed out that 'psychotherapist' could be anagrammed to 'psycho-the-rapist.'

"Arthur?" A soft voice broke through his reverie. Katyusha shifted slightly, drawing her knees up to her chin, peering at him through doe-like eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I—" he began, about to tell her how worried he'd been when she hadn't answered the door, but stopped when it occurred to him what a silly excuse that was. It was perfectly plausible she hadn't heard him straight away, and it certainly didn't warrant him barging in here. He'd sound like a total prat. Although he had been correct in his assumption that something was wrong, so perhaps his breaking and entering was justified? Not to mention she was the one who had told him to come early. In the end, Arthur broke off his mental debate and simply said, "I wondered why you weren't answering."

"Oh." She looked down at her toes. Her body was trembling slightly, like a leaf clinging to a branch during strong wind. "I'm sorry," she said. Her voice shook too, though he could tell she was trying to keep it steady. "This isn't the best time."

"Are you alright?" The question formed in his throat and slipped past his lips before he could stop it. Arthur immediately felt stupid. Quite obviously she was not 'alright.' Who even asked that sort of thing to a woman as clearly distraught as Katyusha was? He fought down the urge to slap his forehead like an aggravated cartoon character, but Katyusha didn't seem to mind. She gave him a watery smile.

"I'll be fine. It's just me being silly, don't worry. I just need some time on my own, to get myself together."

Arthur just looked at her, curled on the ground, alone in a supply cupboard mostly taken up by mops, brooms, feather dusters and strange-smelling bottles of cleaning liquid, her head bowed to hide her tears. He highly doubted the validity of her words. "I could get Natalia," he offered, despite how little the prospect appealed to him. "If it's a family thing."

She shook her head. "I really don't need you to, but thanks."

"How about I get you something, then? A tissue? Some water?"

"I appreciate the offer, but —"

"Or maybe I'll just clean up the things I knocked over?"

"Arthur, this really isn't necess—"

"It won't take too long —"

"I don't —"

"Look, I'll just —"

"Arthur." Her voice was sharp, each letter piercing like a knife's blade. She reached up and rubbed her eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. "Please."

He swallowed. "Sorry."

Katyusha sighed gustily. It sent her fringe up in a puff. "No, you were only trying to help. It's just—" She broke off suddenly, her face twisted slightly, eyes losing focus. The unexpected change in expression caught Arthur off guard, though it lasted a mere moment before she regained her composure. She clutched her knees, her gaze at him imploring. "...things aren't going very well right now."

When are they ever? Arthur thought petulantly.

"I just...I need the comfort of my own company, just for a little bit. Others cannot help me at the moment, and I assume you of all people understand what I'm talking about."

Her assumption was correct. Arthur did understand. And that was why he'd been sent to therapy in the first place. Apparently, if he just learnt to communicate instead of bottling up his emotions, and told adults when he was feeling upset, then they could aid him in overcoming the dark trench around his heart, the malevolent part of him preventing him from breaking down those barriers of awkwardness and tension and finally spouting his multi-coloured wings and becoming the social butterfly he was always destined to be. Then they could all hold hands and sing round the campfire, before riding magnificent stallions into a never ending sunset. Or something to that effect. It aggravated him to no foreseeable end, the hypocrisy of going to a therapist whose mentality was in worse shape than his own. He disliked her because of that. But he also empathised with her.

Not quite sure how to explain his decision — nor really feeling the need to — Arthur opted to give a curt nod by way of agreement. Some distant, whiney voice in the back of his head was chastising him for just relenting like that, giving him a strict telling off as he reached for the door handle and reminding him that a gentleman should in no way leave a lady by herself in a state such as the one Katyusha was in. Another voice joined it, this one soft and convincing, telling him other people's problems had nothing to do with him and he had every right to just walk away. The lines dividing them blurred, their words mingling and overlapping, indistinguishable. He could not differentiate between them, tell the rational from the irrational, as if either had held an ounce of rationality in the first place. As if the world itself did.

His hand froze around the doorknob. Was it really right to do this? Should he just abandon her?

Fortunately — or unfortunately — the decision was made for him when Katyusha let out a small scream.

It lasted barely a second before it was cut off, transforming into a hiss as she sucked in air between her teeth. Arthur whirled around just in time to see her hand dart out, grabbing hold of a shelf, fingers scraping along the smooth wood. Her whole body began to shake, tremors racking it, her face red and contorted with pain. She wobbled precariously, tethering on some invisible edge. Arthur gaped, taken aback.

There had been something off about her, moroseness aside. He should have already noticed. She'd always been a disconsolate sort of person, but now there was a change in the way she sat hunched, different from all her other weeping postures. Her shoulders sagged dejectedly, as if gravity was slowly dragging them towards the Earth's core. Her face, hidden behind bedraggled hair, was ashen grey, lined and strained in a way someone in their twenties' shouldn't be. The woman who normally resembled a cherub had taken on the appearance of a tattered ragdoll, one stitch holding her entire form together. She slumped, and without a second thought he lunged to grab her, hands closing round her collarbone. It was prominent enough to press into his palms.

"Katyusha —"

"No!" The word seemed to tear itself from her lips. She jerked back from him as if his touch burnt. "No, please, you mustn't —"

And then she collapsed.

Her weight fell into his arms like a sack of spuds and he crumpled under it. He attempted to push her back up again, blatantly ignoring the feel of her horribly large knockers pressing down against his windpipe. With a desperate heave he righted her, his hand flying to his throat, massaging it as he drew in haggard breaths. His oesophagus was raw and burning. Her form was still, loose, her head lolled and eyes rolled back to the whites. Arthur felt a startling wave of concern rush through his veins.

"Katyusha?" He lightly tapped her face. "Katyusha, can you hear me?"

No response.

Shook her shoulder.

Still the same.

Pulled her hair.

Motionless.

He was slowly beginning to panic. Mind clear of ideas, Arthur's hands darted to his coat pockets, fumbling with the buttons and then frantically searching the interior. Tissues, his wallet, a packet of gum — where was his mobile phone? Dammit, dammit, dammit! A tirade of curses surged past his lips, each one escaping like a caged bird darting for freedom. What the bloody hell was the protocol for something like this, anyway? Who was he supposed to ring? An ambulance? The guards? Her sister?

Natalia. The mere thought of her sent shivers up his spine, which he struggled to repress. Her image swam before his eyes, all angles and cruelty, the fair of her hair against the dark of her smile. And her twisted, blood red lips, mouth curving to form the sentence from before, over and over, a chant, a mantra, a curse.

She'd been looking at Alfred.

No. Arthur pushed these thoughts away, locked them in a chest and hid them in the furthest, dustiest corner of his brain he could find. That was nothing — the rambling of a cracked woman, nothing to worry about at all. He need not fear her, nor her warnings. And he needn't ring her, either — most days she came with Katyusha to work and lurked in the lower levels of the building, doing who-knew-what in that time. Prowling for young male virgins to devour? It seemed a likely theory.

Muttering an apology to Katyusha — whether for leaving her, or for fetching her sister, he couldn't say — he made to stand. A pale blur sprang from seemingly nowhere and latched onto his wrist, snatching it upwards. Arthur stopped dead. He stared at the pale fingers encompassing his wrist, each one like the leg of an albino spider, yanking him back to his knees. They struck the floor, hard. Arthur gasped as a wave of pain shot through his bones. His eyes were fixed disbelievingly on the hand, as if merely looking at it would explain its presence, but slowly they began to move, to run up the arm, to the shoulder, and straight across. To the face that was most certainly no longer unconscious.

Two teal orbs were staring him down, wide and dark and filled with disgust. The Ukrainian wrinkled her nose and dropped his arm as if it were a used tissue. It fell heavily to his side. She wiped her hands on her trouser legs, her face much too pristine to ever be Katyusha's, lip curled and brows drawn. Eyes flickered upwards, regarding him coolly, emanating an almost eerie aura. Arthur found himself staring back, transfixed. Finally, that alien mouth curved upwards in a grotesque sort of amusement. "Arthur," she said. "Hello at last."

The voice exploded into Arthur's mind like a punch in the face, shattering the glass wall that seemed to have built up between him and reality. It had changed. The tone was smooth and cold as black ice, but something else was amiss. The accent, he realised. To the untrained ear it sounded the same, but Arthur had been coming to Katyusha for nigh on two years now. For him, there was a discernible difference. This new voice was brighter, at odds with her expression, a little more persuasive, too. The heavy sadness which usually coated every syllable that poured out of Katyusha's throat had vanished entirely. What had replaced it was something unnerving in its cheer, deadly in its benignancy. Encroaching, he thought, described it accurately indeed. Seeping in like a steady stream through his eardrums, polluting his thoughts and twisting his notions — and she hadn't even said five words yet.

Arthur shook his head roughly. His neck creaked with the force. He tried to quell his errant thoughts, currently scattered like petals to the wind, and gathered and compressed them together until they slowly formed some semi-recognisable part of his mind. Drawing strength from this, he took a breath and stared evenly into a face that had now resolved into an affable grin. Yet it did not quite reach the eyes. "Who are you?"

Katyusha tilted her head to the side, feigning confusion. "Whatever can you be meaning? Clearly I am Yekaterina."

"Except that 'Yekaterina' refers to herself as 'Katyusha.' " He fought to keep his voice strong, along with his resolve, and repeated, "Who are you?"

Katyusha laughed. It was nails scrapping against a blackboard, against his skull. "Okay, you have got me. I am not Yekaterina. I am merely — how you say — a visitor."

Visitor. The word resounded around Arthur's mind, loud and dissonant, like an alarm bell. For the first time in so many years, memories resurfaced, bits and pieces taken from books with cracked spines and dusty covers and weathered pages. Paragraphs about the infamous bodysnatchers, demons and ghosts — beings who bode no substantial form and so were reduced to commandeering the bodies of others in order to wreak havoc upon the world. Or some form of superstitious nonsense like that. Nowadays, Arthur didn't believe a word of it. He wasn't a little child, to fantasise consistently about other realms and underworlds and monsters under the bed. Yet despite that, he found himself desperately trying to recall the ways to exorcise a possessive entity, if the chant could be spoken spontaneously or if he needed to read it out, whether or not materials were necessary. If it was the former, he was done for. Even if push came to shove, he doubted he could banish the creature with a mop and a bottle of Cif.

Katyusha was watching for his reaction, running a pinkish tongue over chapped lips. A shudder ran through him at the sight that wasn't quite human. He swallowed, opening his mouth, but words had fled him. There was something in those eyes, something hungry that seemed to snatch syllables off his tongue. No. That was impossible. This was all impossible, fairy stories he had long since dismissed as fictitious, a chest from childhood that ought to stay buried. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. Focus on priorities. And his utmost priority was —

"What do you want?"

"Oh." Those piercing eyes widened. Arthur too, had surprised himself by blurting out the question. "Very brusque, are we not? I assumed you would be worrying about Yekaterina."

Arthur's breath caught. His immediate reaction was to deny it, but then he realised the creature was right; he hadn't even spared a thought towards Katyusha's welfare. Hell, someone had just taken over her body. Visiting, was the term it had used. Did that imply that she was still there, just hosting this — this imposter? Could a human being even survive that sort of thing?

It doesn't matter, he told himself sternly. Whether or not she's dead can't affect you now. It was a surprisingly calming notion — after all, if he didn't look after Number One, then who would be around to help save her were she truly in danger? Self-preservation was perfectly natural in the context. He wasn't being cruel. He was being logical.

However, even the best logic cannot disguise one's true emotions.

She must have caught it in his face, a fleeting glimpse of worry, of guilt. Her lips curled, head dropping forward conspiringly as if to whisper a secret. Her sudden proximity made his skin crawl. "There is no need to be worrying." That peculiar accent seemed to intensify by the second. "She is safe. However, if she is to be staying that way..." Katyusha trailed off, sitting back on her haunches. Pallid hands rested, palms up, on her knees. Arthur piled all his focus into dissecting her face, searching to see a crack or breach, something to prove her threat hollow. There was nothing; it was smooth, blank, plain as a sheet of paper.

He averted his eyes. "So are you going to answer my question, then?"

Katyusha's head tilted. "Well, that is rather tricky. What do I want?" She tapped her chin, pondering. "I want...hmm...I want information."

Arthur started. "Information?"

"Yes. A certain piece of information in particular, though." Her face hardened, jaw pulling taunt. "Tell me, Arthur — what is your relationship with the American boy?"

The question was about as expected as an honest politician. Arthur's mouth dropped open. "My — what?"

"The boy. Tell me about the bond you two share."

"Bond?" Arthur wasn't sure what was going on. He'd expected her — or whatever the hell was speaking through her — to ask for something important, some secret he kept buried within and would rather have taken to his grave than revealed. Alfred was the last thing on his mind right now. Why on Earth would a demon take an interest in him? There was no sense to be found in that.

Arthur revised that sentence. Sense. He was thinking about sense whilst sitting before a possessed psychotherapist who was blackmailing him with her host's life. Now that was just gelastic.

Why was he going along with this? Why was he torturing himself so? It couldn't really kill Katyusha, because it didn't really exist. It was all Arthur's mind, addled due to the stress of exams. Or perhaps it was just a dream. Yes, that was it. He had spent the previous night studying much too hard and, as such, had fallen asleep in class. He'd wake up in a little while, in trouble with teachers but safe and sound, and none of this would even matter. He'd dismiss it like every other barmy thing he'd dreamt. None of it was happening, so there was no point in staying.

Though following that form of reasoning, there was no harm in staying, either.

"Arthur." Katyusha tapped her leg impatiently. Her fingernail nearly tore through the fabric of her trousers.

He swallowed. Curiosity and rationalism grappled for supremacy, a tremendous battle, but eventually, the former won out. It was his vice, after all.

"We don't have a 'bond' or 'relationship' or whatever the bloody hell you're on about," he told her. "We only became acquainted today."

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?" Arthur scoffed despite himself. "Just because it's recent, doesn't give it less depth. How do you feel about him?"

Now there was something familiar, at least. He was used to being asked things like that even when she was in control of her body. But perhaps he was a little too accustomed to this line of questioning; before he could bite his tongue, he'd opened his mouth and blurted, "Indifferent."

It was a default word, something he'd respond whenever he wasn't feeling up to composing some sort of fabrication. Usually she'd sigh in exasperation but delve no further. The demon, however, wasn't so forgiving. Her face twisted, eyeballs bulging and turning globular, hands clenching and unclenching. "Arthur," she practically sung, voice oozing sweetness and poison, "I don't like it when people lie to me."

Arthur set his features, unflinching. "I'm not lying."

Which he wasn't. He felt nothing towards the bespectacled git. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

"Oh, I think you are." Her hand shot out, grabbing his chin and pulling him towards her so sharply she extracted a strangled gasp. She pressed her forehead to his, staring at him as though a flutter of her eyelids might see him ripped away and cast into eternity forevermore. Her eyes were hungry, greedy, devouring up every inch of him, studying contours and angles and shadows as if they harboured some secret language only she could decipher. "I see everything," she muttered, "It's early, but it's there. Interlocked...is it a good or bad thing?"

Arthur grabbed her wrist, attempting to tear it off him, but her grip held fast, almost as strong as her sister's, painfully so, as if she wanted to compress his jaw so much that it crumbled into dust and bone. Some distant part of his mind wondered if they came from a long line of pro-wrestlers. "What the hell are you on?" he spat.

She chuckled as if his attempts were the ever-so feeble struggles of a child. "Don't say that, Artie." Arthur felt his spine grow rigid. "This could be to your benefit. After all, despite everything, despite what's to come, you're ever so selfish."

He froze. "What do you mean what's to come? What's coming?"

She ignored his question, her eyes narrowing to the point of slits. "I am not certain how it will transpire. Alfred, wasn't that his name? What would you be willing to do for him?"

"I don't —" Arthur began, but she cut him off.

"Would you give up your house? Your money, your belongings, your family and friends?" She let her nails dig deeper into his chin, pulling him close enough that he could catch the sour scent of her breath. "Your life?"

This was nuts. She was nuts. The world was nuts.

Demons, he thought, snorting derisively. Had he really fooled himself into believing that? Katyusha wasn't possessed; she was merely barmy. Loony. Off her rocker. Her mental health had never been in the best of states anyway, so it was really only a matter of time before she cracked completely and became worthy of the mad house. It was nothing but delusional bollocks, all these things she was spewing, about visitors, about bonds, about things approaching and about Alfred—

Wait. That didn't make any sense.

How did she know about Alfred?

It's alright, Arthur told himself calmly, There is a perfectly rational explanation for this. His brain tore through the entire situation to find one. Natalia — she could've put her sister up to it. Perhaps she was pissed at him for walking off on her earlier, and forced Katyusha to act in this way to exact her revenge. There were so many holes in that theory that it was a proverbial sieve, but it was plausible none-the-less. Well, more plausible than possession, anyway.

"You are wondering why I am asking you this." It wasn't phrased as a question. Arthur looked at her, eyes consumed by a silent inferno, lips tightened to the point where they were a mere dash across her face, cheekbones sunken and skin the colour of ashes in the fireplace. Not human. Not pretending. Real, oh so real. Theories out the window.

"Yes."

She cocked her head to the side, mouth quirking. "Death," she replied simply, and her eyes flickered to the space above his shoulder, her small smile slowly spreading like butter over bread. A strange fear clawed at his chest, as if some psychotic cat resided there, and Natalia's words echoed in his head: You bring death with you, Arthur. It follows in your wake.

His head jerked around as if some invisible puppeteer had pulled on his strings, finally breaking her grip. He didn't know what he was expecting to see — most likely a rotting skeleton clothed in a flowing black robe, a long, bloodied scythe held brandished in front of it. Apprehension tightened his throat, moistened his palms, but when he turned around he met nothing but air. Katyusha laughed.

"You won't be seeing it. Not yet, anyway. You need to be having patience." A flicker of pain crossed her face; she winced, features twisting, before shaking it off. "I have little time left. We will be meeting soon, Arthur Kirkland. Be sure you have your American when we do." A shadow crept across her visage, consuming, blotting, and for just a moment, transforming. "You will be needing him very much."

The words were a snake's hiss, drilling into his ears, drawing out blood. Arthur could feel their icy cold as if it pressed to his skin.

And then the shadow shifted, and her body stiffened, her eyes hollowing then registering shock before she tipped forward. For the second time in so many minutes Arthur helped her back up, her breathing erratic, her entire body leaden. She sat back, gasping, before her gaze fell on him, a question in its own right. Confusion was practically chalked on her face. "Arthur," she managed, "What —"

Arthur shook his head. "I should be asking you that. Were you really just — do you remember what happened?"

Only after the words had been spoken did it strike Arthur how foolish they were. There was nothing saying that this really was Katyusha, that this wasn't just an act put on by the creature to catch him off guard. But the puzzlement and worry sparking out of her eyes told him otherwise. She had the appearance of a deer caught in headlights — no, worse than that, for a deer could still bolt for safety. She bore more semblance to a cowering insect, eyes squeezed shut in terror, in anticipation of the boot that was about to descend and crush the life out of her.

"What happened?" she echoed uncertainly. "We were — I was speaking to you, and then...and then I collapsed? No, that's not right. There's something else." Realisation suddenly dawned in her eyes, her face paling to the point of transparency. "I said something, didn't I? Oh God, I did. Not again." She began to shake. "Again...Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry...again..."

Arthur swallowed, digesting her words. "This has happened before?"

Katyusha pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking her head, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes like raindrops in a gutter. "I wanted you to leave," she whispered. "I didn't want you to witness it. You weren't even supposed to be...not this early...But it doesn't matter, does it? He said you were a key asset — a link. But you never told me anything. I had nothing to relay back. So of course he'd want to speak to you before —" She broke off with a sob.

"Before what?" Arthur pressed, trepidation creating a well in his heart. "What the bloody hell is going on, Katyusha? Why did that thing want to know about Al — about me?"

Tears had begun to pour down her cheeks, fat and glossy. "He wanted," she gasped, "He w-wanted—"

"Yes? He wanted what?"

"He wanted —" And then she froze. Her mouth flopped open, eyes widening to the size of saucers, glued to an eerily familiar point behind him. Slowly, as if she were moving through honey, she raised her left hand, finger trembling, pointing at something over his shoulder as if she were a ridiculous character in a film, as if this were all staged. A strange sound emitted from her throat, not quite a word, more a whimper, a mewl.

Arthur practically snapped his neck trying to catch sight of what had got her so transfixed. But once again, the apparition eluded him.

"D-d-d—" she stuttered, each letter a knife twisting in his chest, "D-d-d-de—"

"Death," Arthur finished, and the word tasted like arsenic.

Katyusha mutely nodded.

But Arthur was no longer looking — he was too busy wrenching open the door and darting for the stairs. He wanted no more to do with this. He'd had enough. He took the steps two at a times, not even stopping when her call of "Arthur!" reached his ears. It was far too much, all of this, a far cry away from the normality he'd come to accept. He'd promised himself years ago that it was all over, convinced himself that magic didn't exist, that all the creatures he'd spotted growing up were formed purely from his imagination and nothing but. Why on Earth did that have to change now?

He sped down another flight, feet hammering against the rotting wood, and was about to mount the final one when a figure stepped in his way. He tried to go around it, but it blocked his path. He found himself looking at a rather large bosom attached to a rather blonde girl.

"Hello Arthur," Natalia said, her porcelain features composed into an expression that might have been considered friendly had it not been for the shadows that lingered behind her eyes, or the slight way her mouth curled downward. "Fancy meeting you here."

He had another go at stepping round her, but she merely stepped in his way, smiling sweetly. "Where are you off to?"

"To see the wizard," he snapped. "Move."

"Oh, now don't be rude." She placed her free hand on his chest, shoving him backwards so he stood in the middle of the landing. In her other arm she held a bulky object covered with cloth. She clutched it to her side as stepped up to him, a clear act of dominance, glaring him down like an animal might. Arthur didn't flinch. She leant in close, her voice barely a whisper, "After all, your future isn't looking too peachy, is it?"

Arthur went rigid. He jerked away from her as if her very presence burned him, as if she was surrounded by an aura of flames, and backed up until his heels hit a step. Natalia seemed unfazed by his reaction. She didn't even move to follow him. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"You said it might not be me."

"I did, didn't I?" she said, almost absently. "Well, I hardly think that matters. You'll be broken either way, be the deceased you, or someone you care about. A parent, a sibling, a boyfriend..."

"Alfred and I are not dating," Arthur hissed. "What the hell is wrong with your sister?"

"Changing the subject, are we? There's no need to worry, lapochka; your secret's safe with me."

"There is no secret! Now answer my question."

"Katyusha is a little unwell at the moment, is all." Natalia laughed. "But is that really all you're concerned about, Arthur? What with death lurking around the corner?"

"I don't believe in all your superstitious nonsense." A greater untruth had never been told.

Natalia seemed amused by this, letting him glimpse her pearly whites. He was surprised about the absence of fangs. "Well, it's a good thing I have enough belief for the both of us, then, isn't it?"

She slowly began removing the cloth from the object she held. Arthur watched, curious despite himself, as the grey fabric was pulled off and deposited carelessly on the floor. It sent dust particles rising. He looked at the thing in her arms, and blinked. Then he blinked again. Then a third time, just to make sure his vision was working properly. It was. He said, "That's a pumpkin."

Natalia ran her thumb down the tough skin of the orange vegetable. "It is," she admitted. "And it's also your protection."

"But it's a pumpkin."

"Pumpkins are useful," she stated firmly, "They hold a sort of power. Keep the beasties at bay." She tugged him forward by his sleeve and dumped the pumpkin into his arms. "It might just keep you alive until Halloween."

Arthur stared down at the object he was now holding as if it was a bomb that might detonate any second. "Why would you want me to live?"

"Oh Arthur, Arthur." She sniggered a type of snigger that adults usually reserved for children. Her pale hair fanned out from her head as she shook it. "You're so naive, you know. You can never just see the big picture for once. Try to envision, please." And with that comment, she brushed past him and marched up the stairs, pausing as her foot rested upon the above landing. "I'm glad it's you, you know," she mused, "The American ones are so conspicuous." And with that she was gone, throwing a "Keep safe!" over her shoulder as she went.

Arthur heard a door slam, and a key turn, and then silence. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts and an awkwardly shaped vegetable.

I honestly don't know why I felt the need to end it on that.

So anyway, apologies for taking so long! I've been distracted by everything from school to homework to John Green to Eurovision (namely, That Time That Poland Lent Austria His Clothes – now forever my favourite act) and if this chapter feels a little rushed to you — it certainly does to me — then that's probably the reason. Not much occurs either, but it does open up a few questions and there's one or two things that are essential to the plot.

On a brighter note, the next update will see the return of Alfred — only one chapter and I miss him already — and actual action! It might not be posted for quite a bit, due to my good mate pressure paying me a visit, but the minute I finish JC these things should come quite a bit quicker. Hopefully.

And with that, please review and tell me what you think! Feel free to give some guesses on which character you think will be subject to the death everyone keeps blathering on about, or will any at all? Tell me what you think!