When Geralt had initially begun expanding on Corvo Bianco, he had seen no reason to build a stable for more than one horse; Roach was all he would ever need, as far as he was concerned, and should something happen to her, she would be replaced with another Roach. But Yennefer had insisted they needed a handful of horses, and had argued that it only made sense they should get an expanded stable to match. It was only practical, she had told her husband, to provide enough mounts that everyone in the house might be able to flee concurrently, should the need arise for such things. Witcher work was dangerous, after all, and the enemies he made unpredictable – but despite her reasoning, Geralt could not help feeling her insistence came from somewhere else entirely, and that she might simply have wanted something that depended on her to care for and pamper without question.
Yennefer had chosen a black gelding from the stables for their ride into the city that day, and Geralt had to admit they made a striking pair as they pranced over the cobblestones of Beauclair's street. The two of them had parted ways at the common trough not long after, leaving their horses tied securely in the square, with Yennefer heading first to the bookstore to browse while Geralt visited the butcher to restock on meat. He had never been much of a cook, himself – his roadside stews could make even the strongest stomach turn – but he knew good meat, and so when Marlene had approached them with a shopping list, Yennefer had quickly assigned him to that task. It was something he could do by himself, after all, and something he did not mind doing, as it gave both him and Yennefer some peaceful time alone before the inevitable slog of trying to drag the witcher's opinions on paint shades out of him.
Geralt folded his hands on the ordering counter, watching the butcher hard at work at his station, wondering faintly when the last time was that the man had washed his hands. The witcher had no fear of contamination, himself – his mutated immune system filtered out most impurities before they even had a chance to take root – but he made a mental note to ask Marlene to wash and thoroughly cook the meat in case any residue lingered that might disagree with less hearty stomachs. Just then, a thought occurred to him, and he turned, listening for the sound of soft hissing from somewhere in the shop, or the telltale sign of a pair of slitted eyes staring out at him from behind a barrel. He had never noticed a cat on his previous visits to the butcher's shop, but he supposed he had little reason to keep track of such things, as cats in general tended to avoid witchers like they carried the plague.
"Cat must be hiding," Geralt commented, looking back towards the butcher again.
The butcher looked up in surprise at the remark. "Cat?" he asked, shortly. "What cat is that?"
Geralt frowned at the question. "Thought you had a cat," he answered, shrugging.
The butcher shook his head, starting to saw through a stubborn vein of fat. "No cats 'round here," he said, wiping his brow. "Wouldn't be good for business." Geralt's frown deepened at the unexpected answer, and he turned, taking another quick look around the shop. Apart from the chop of the butcher's cleaver, he realized, the shop was completely devoid of sound, and he could not see any residue of fur collected in the corners or around the bases of the barrels sitting on the floor. In addition, the shop smelled only of blood, salt, and meat, with none of the distinct scent of feline on the air to indicate a cat might be hiding in there, or had ever hidden there at all.
Bringing the cleaver down with another hard chop, the butcher suddenly paused, before looking up at Geralt again. "Why?" he asked. "You in the market for a cat, master witcher? The book-seller might be able to help you out. Pretty sure his cat just had herself a litter."
Geralt grunted at the offer, lowering his gaze to stare intently at the meat. "No," he said, feeling suddenly a bit foolish. "Sorry. Didn't mean to waste your time."
"Not a waste of my time, sir," the butcher answered, cutting another hunk of meat from the bone. Picking up a fold of cloth, he scooped the chunks of meat onto it, wrapping them up and tying them securely before handing them over the counter to Geralt. "On the house," he said, nodding to the witcher. "Heard what you did for Rudin and his boys. Nasty thing, whatever that was. Glad it's out of the sewers."
"Yeah, me too," Geralt agreed, taking the package. "Thanks."
The bundled cloth was cool against Geralt's palm as he exited the butcher's shop, still feeling a bit out of sorts, and he rested it absentmindedly against his hip as he searched the crowd for some sign of Yennefer. He had not spent very long in the butcher's at all, so he hardly expected to see her raven waves standing out from the crowd just yet, but the act of looking for her still kept his mind from wandering too closely back to the strange conversation he had just walked away from. His attempts to distract himself were short-lived, as his wandering gaze soon came to rest on the town signboard, and he wavered in place, certain he was making a mistake by even considering going over to look.
Yennefer would be furious if she caught him browsing for contracts during their shopping-trip, but his wife was not around right now, and he could not see any harm in simply looking to see what was there. The state of the board was not wholly apparent until he was actually close enough to inspect it, and Geralt frowned at the bird's nest of paperwork, pushing up a few leaves to see what was buried underneath. It had always been hard to find work on the path – in most villages, there were usually six or seven contracts, with most of them being requests for aid in tilling fields or retrieving ingredients. Actual monster contracts were few and far-between, and good pay even more difficult to find, but it seemed that, without a witcher around, contracts had a way of piling up, with coin to match as desperation grew for them to be answered in a timely manner.
To Geralt's surprise, a few of the jobs posted on this board seemed actually legitimate, and his brows began to raise as he realized that a few even offered what he would consider respectable pay – but his attention was quickly torn from the board at the sound of a throat being cleared behind him, and he turned on his heel, immediately straightening and tucking his hand guiltily behind his back.
"Only looking," he explained, quickly, earning a curious look from his wife.
"Hm," Yennefer answered, mimicking his usual response. Then, tilting her head towards the bundle in his hand, she adjusted the armful of books she held, shifting them to one side to balance them more comfortably against her shapely hip. "I see you got the meat," she noted, holding out her now-free hand. "Give it here. I'll cast a chill charm on it so it doesn't spoil."
"See you got books," Geralt returned, nodding towards the volumes in her arms as he handed over the meat. "Any good ones?"
"A few," Yennefer answered, noncommittal, pulling in the bundle and starting to concentrate on it. As Geralt watched, the meat began to frost over delicately in her palm, until she finally nodded, satisfied, handing it back over to him to stash away. She seemed lost in thought as she watched him put it away, but as soon as he finished, she quickly began to move again, shifting her books around to the front and starting to hand them over for him to take. "I don't know if these are the most recent iterations," she admitted, allowing him a moment to observe the tomes. "The bookman wasn't particularly helpful in that regard. But if they're not, they'll at least look good in the clinic until we do get the most recent publications."
Picking up another book, an olive-green tome with a gold impression of a fern along its spine, she turned it over, observing the binding, before stacking it atop the rest in Geralt's waiting arms. As soon as the olive tome touched his arm, Geralt felt the familiar buzz of his medallion against his chest, and he frowned at the reaction, taken aback, wondering what about the book could have set the wolf's head off. It could have been something else, he figured – perhaps another of the books Yennefer held, or something going on nearby in the city that had triggered a burst of magical energy – but he made a mental note to check out the book on plants as soon as he arrived home, regardless. Yennefer would not have to know the details of why he was doing it, he told himself; she could just be happy with the thought that he was finally responding to her scolding and brushing up on his botany and alchemical studies.
"It always helps to look like we've got the latest literature," Yennefer determined, not even seeming to realize anything was amiss. "Even if the texts are nearly useless in practice. They'll at least fill out the shelves a bit. Make us look like we know what we're doing." Stashing the next book in her husband's arms as well, she paused as she noticed the next book down, before her countenance began to lift a bit, and she smiled, picking it up to show him the cover. Compared to the other books she had shown him, this one seemed almost painfully plain; it was bound in black, with no noticeable embellishments, and no name on the cover to indicate an author. The only thing that seemed to indicate it as a book at all was a title etched into the spine in thin lettering, but even that had been worn down to nearly nothing by years of scholastic handling.
"I picked up a few of these as well," Yennefer explained, setting the book down again and flipping to a page somewhere near the middle. "Further Developments on Theses of Symbiotic Evolution of Species By Necessity. Fascinating." Geralt's frown deepened at the wordy title, reminded suddenly of the book on centipedes, before his thoughts jumped over instead to Shani, wondering how she was faring with the megascope in their absence. He shook his head as he realized his mistake, trying quickly to clear it before Yennefer could pick up on it, before looking up again and setting his expression, hoping his wife had not taken notice of his momentary lapse.
"I haven't seen studies on this topic in ages," Yennefer continued, seeming not to realize anything was happening with her husband. "I thought I'd read everything published on the subject. I don't know how I could have missed these."
"No idea," Geralt answered, finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Then, remembering something, he paused, before asking, "Did… you see a cat in the bookstore?"
Yennefer hesitated, still staring at her book, as if unsure she had heard him correctly. Then, looking up again, she narrowed her eyes, clearly frustrated with his lack of reaction to what she had thought to be a fascinating find. "No, Geralt," she answered, slowly, as if speaking to a difficult customer. "I wasn'tlooking for cats. I was looking for books. There's an observation to be made about your singular vein of interest, but I won't stoop to comment on it." Geralt faltered at the stinging pun, blinking a few times in surprise, but Yennefer only pursed her lips, her expression hardening as she closed her book again. "Why do you care about a cat anyway?" she asked, raising an irritated brow. "I can seek one out, if you really want. Though I question why you would, considering your mutual distaste."
"No," Geralt answered, quickly. "It's nothing. Forget it." Pulling his pack around again, he shoved the meat to the bottom of the bag, layering an empty burlap sack over it before stashing the books on top for safekeeping. He had no idea if magic frost affected books the same way natural frost did, but he did not want to risk ruining Yennefer's purchases, regardless. "Just something the butcher said," he added, securing the pack, before slinging it onto his back again, feeling as it bumped heavily against his swords. "Don't worry about it. Books look great."
"Yes, they do," Yennefer agreed, still sounding unconvinced. "But looking great is only half my concern. We should still try to find a few things that are functional as well, or this will all be a wasted trip."
"Not wasted if it still ends in the catacombs," Geralt pointed out, a small, wry smile starting to move across his face.
Yennefer sighed, turning her violet gaze up again. "Yes," she answered, dryly. "Well. That remains to be seen, at this point."
Geralt's smile faltered, and he shifted his thumb uncomfortably under the strap of his pack. "Want me to take those, too?" he asked, more humbly, inclining his head towards the books still in Yennefer's arms.
Yennefer's expression lifted at the offer, and she quickly pulled the books in a bit tighter to her side. "These are for me," she said, a bit too sharply. "You know I've always been interested in biology."
Geralt frowned at the unusual reaction, wondering if he had accidentally pinched a nerve; he was aware of Yennefer's ongoing interest in finding a solution for her sterility, but these books were about evolution, she had said, which was not the same thing, as far as he knew. Shani had mentioned that certain creatures had developed evolutionary workarounds for their own reproductive shortcomings, so if that was the subject dealt with in these books, then it would explain Yennefer's interest in acquiring them – but not, he realized, why she would be so hesitant about sharing them with her husband, when it was a topic he already knew. If anything, the tomes themselves were likely valuable in some way, he figured; that would explain why she seemed so pleased to find them, and so hesitant to hand them over to his much less delicate grasp.
"Hm," Geralt answered, working to keep his voice impassive. "Guess I forgot."
Yennefer pursed her lips at his answer, as if expecting something different, but she offered no comment in return, only tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear before turning to look towards the carts behind her. "I'm going to look for paint," she announced, still seeming a bit distracted. "You go find that friend of yours. We'll be needing his services to bring everything back to the house."
Geralt's frown deepened, realizing he had no idea where Rudin would be at this time of day, but he nodded regardless, not wanting to disagree with Yennefer over something so small. As he watched his wife walk away towards the stalls, he thought back to everything Rudin had told him; he had mentioned that his profession took him all over Beauclair, including down to the waterfront – which made sense, Geralt thought – but which still made it difficult to pinpoint where to begin looking for the man in a city so large. He supposed he could ask around for news of fresh bodies, to see where Rudin might have been heading that day, but he could only imagine how suspicious that would look coming from an already threatening-looking witcher.
If experience was to be counted on, Geralt figured, he could look for Rudin at the Clever Clogs later in the day, and he let out a huff as he turned back towards the notice-board, debating checking for things to do until it was time to collect his associate. He did not have time to look, however, before a sudden soft tug on his hand made him jump nearly out of his boots, and he yanked it back, looking down at the disturbance, before settling down again with a weary, put-upon sigh.
"Oh," he said, his frown deepening at the familiar emerald coat. "You again."
Rosie nodded at the comment, not bothering to answer. Then, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, she shoved it up towards the witcher's face, standing on her toes to better reach him. "You forgot this up on the board," she told him. "I saw you looking at it, so I got it down for you."
"Wasn't looking at it," Geralt answered, curtly, pushing the paper back down again. "Left it on purpose. Didn't come here to work."
Rosie frowned at the rejection, settling down on her heels again. "Then why did you come?" she asked, sounding a bit annoyed.
"Shopping with my wife," Geralt answered, jerking his head back towards Yennefer behind him. "Witchers do normal things sometimes. Believe it or not, we're people, too."
"You don't look like a person," Rosie returned, making a face, and Geralt had to suppress a snort at what he knew had not been intended as the insult it had inevitably come out as. Rosie did not even seem to notice his reaction, instead tilting her head to lean around his side, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he had indicated as his wife. Her lips thinned for a moment as she spotted Yennefer, as if considering something only she could see, before she finally leaned back again, looking up at Geralt once more. "The sorceress is your wife?" she asked.
"Yep," Geralt answered, wondering about the strange wording but deciding not to pursue it.
"How long have you been married?" Rosie pressed, rocking a bit on her toes.
Geralt thought back, doing some quick calculations. "About four months," he finally said.
At this, Rosie stopped rocking. "Four months?" she insisted. "Then who is the other woman living in your house?"
"Marlene? She's our cook," Geralt returned, nodding. "She lives with us. So does Barnabas-Basil, our majordomo."
"No," Rosie answered, shaking her head. "Not Marlene. The other woman living in your house."
At this, Geralt faltered, feeling a sudden twinge of apprehension. Of the two times Rosie had visited Corvo Bianco, he could not remember her ever seeing Shani, or hearing a conversation that might insinuate another woman could be living in the house. There had been gaps in his observation, of course, during the times he had been changing into his armour, but he still did not remember Shani ever mentioning that the girl had come to see her, or that she had gone downstairs to see the little guest, herself. "How do you know there's another woman in my house?" Geralt asked, not bothering to mask his suspicious tone.
Rosie twisted her mouth at the question, wrinkling her button nose. "I have been in your house before, master witcher," she answered, as if this were unbearably obvious. "And I do have ears."
Geralt frowned at the answer, but found he could not argue it – the first time Rosie had come to the house was when Shani was still attempting to settle in, and he could recall several times during those days when he, himself had quite plainly heard her moving her things around upstairs. Even so, it seemed strange to him that she should mention Shani at all, and, looking up past her, he scanned the crowded street, searching for any suspicious-looking adult who might be listening in on their conversation. "Where is your uncle?" Geralt asked, half-irritated, wondering what kind of man would let a small girl wander alone through a busy marketplace.
Rosie shrugged, folding the contract she still held between her little fingers as she thought. "He won't be here for a while yet," she said. Then, holding the parchment towards the witcher's face again, she stood on her toes, bouncing a bit, causing her shoe-buckles to jingle with the motion as she waved the paper for him to take. "You should take this," she told him, insistently. "It's good pay. At least, I think it is. I don't know much about money, except my uncle says it can buy happiness in hourly intervals."
Geralt grunted at the comment, unimpressed, before finally sighing and taking the paper from her little hand. She was unlikely to let up until he indulged her, he realized, and there was no harm in at least reading through the contract. He had been considering looking for work until the evening anyway, and if the pay for this job was truly worthwhile, then perhaps the job might be worth looking into, regardless of who brought it to him. "Last few contracts you gave me were a lot more dangerous than they sounded," he said, looking up at Rosie again over the contract. "My wife thinks you're picking hard ones on purpose. Intentionally setting me up."
Rosie frowned at the observation, swaying slightly as she took hold of the hem of her coat. "I thought those jobs sounded easy," she answered, pulling her coattails distractedly up and down like a little bird. "Witchers fight corpse-eaters all the time. How was I to know you were so out of practice?"
"Hm," Geralt grunted, not convinced. "Doesn't explain the last one you brought me. Monster had something in its neck. Never would've found it if you hadn't told me to look. How'd you know there'd be something there?"
Rosie looked up at him at this, her cute frown never lifting, her expression half confused, half incredulous at his reaching questions. "Something where, master witcher?" she finally asked, sounding a bit mortified. "I only asked if you collected trophies. Do you think I put something in your monster's neck?"
Geralt frowned at the answer, still not completely swayed, but unable to think of a reasonable response. She had a point, he had to admit – looking back, nothing she had asked him seemed entirely strange. Witchers had a reputation for fighting necrophages, after all, and taking monster heads as trophies was a standard part of their work. He guessed he had allowed Yennefer's paranoia to colour his thinking on the matter, and he suddenly felt a bit foolish for even asking, realizing how ridiculous it all sounded – him, a professional monster hunter, asking a six-year-old girl if she was setting him up to die. Realizing he would not be getting anywhere with his questions, Geralt instead turned his attention to the contract, going through the text twice before looking up again, confused.
"Mutilated corpse," he repeated, reading off the page. "Want someone to investigate. Not really my thing."
"I thought you said you took all contracts brought to you by little girls," Rosie returned, crossing her arms.
Geralt shook his head. "Policy's changed," he told her, handing the contract back again. He watched as she took it back, folding it into a little square, before shoving it in her pocket again, looking as disappointed as he had ever seen a child look. She seemed hesitant to leave, he noticed, hardly bothering to look over her shoulder to see if her uncle had returned to collect her yet; he had no idea what her story truly was, but the more he saw of her, the more he could not help wondering why she seemed so often alone. She was too well-dressed to be a street urchin, he noted, but he had never known a child so young to be so thoroughly unsupervised.
Letting out a soft sigh, he paused, thinking, before crouching down to meet her level, resting his elbows against his knees as he looked up into her unusual green-blue eyes. Rosie blinked at the sudden act of confidence, taking a step back and sucking nervously on her lip, but she made no act to run, clearly trusting him enough to hear him out. "If your family is mistreating you, you can tell me," Geralt told her, causing the girl's brows to raise in surprise at the offer. "Dunno why your dad isn't doing more. If you want me to talk to him—"
"He's just sad," Rosie answered, honestly, squirming a bit as she spoke. She seemed uncomfortable with the topic, Geralt noticed, which only raised more questions. "My father's a good person. He's just distracted a lot."
"That's no excuse," Geralt frowned, insistently. "He's got a kid. That's more important." Rosie's face twitched at this, her expression twisting, difficult to read, but she quickly swallowed it back, trying hard not to let anything on to the observant witcher. The topic of her father seemed to strike a nerve, Geralt realized, though he could not figure out why – but he decided to drop it, not wanting to scare her off before he could discover what was now something he was intent on unravelling. "If you're in trouble, you can talk to me," he told her, nodding in confirmation, deciding that now would not be an opportune time to reach out and touch her little wrist. It would look strange enough for a grown man to be touching a child that was not his in public, let alone a witcher. "Don't have to keep bringing me these contracts. You can just tell me if something's wrong."
Rosie hesitated at the offer, staring down at him, intently, as if considering saying something more. Then, looking up again, she faltered, seeming to notice something, before her little eyes widened, and, before he could stop her, she quickly turned, disappearing once more into the marketplace crowd. Geralt frowned at the strange reaction, unsure what had just happened, before standing and glancing over his shoulder to see what had made her flee the way she had; there was nothing unusual there as far as he could tell, apart from the sight of Yennefer making her way to him across the square. She looked just as puzzled as he did about the girl's sudden departure, and he turned quickly to face her, holding out a hand for the paintbrushes he saw she now held at her side.
"Who was that?" Yennefer asked, tilting her head a bit to try to catch a glimpse of the girl. "Were you speaking to a child? Whose child was that?"
"No idea," Geralt answered, shrugging. "Same kid as before. Brought me another contract."
Yennefer's expression darkened at his answer, and she thinned her lips, looking up at her husband again. "I hope you didn't accept it," she told him, coldly. "You promised you'd help me shop today."
"Turned her down," Geralt confirmed, nodding. "Contract seemed a little weird, anyway."
Yennefer hummed at this, her expression not lifting, and Geralt could not help wondering if he had said something to upset her. He ran his statement over in his mind, trying to figure out where he had slipped up, where he had stepped out of line, but he could find no hidden insult in his words, no hint of defiance to his wife's wishes. "I don't like that girl," Yennefer finally spoke again, breaking her frigid silence, causing Geralt's brows to shoot up in surprise at her words. Of everything he had expected to hear as the reason for her sour disposition, that was nowhere near the top. "I don't like that she keeps coming around the manor," Yennefer added, making a face. "She asks such strange questions whenever she stops by. Invasive questions. She makes my skin crawl."
"Just a kid, Yen," Geralt answered, frowning, unable to help a bit of worry at her vehement distaste for the girl. He had been guilty of finding her presence somewhat irritating, himself, but Yennefer's vitriol seemed to stretch beyond that into something he could not quite comprehend. "Kids ask weird things."
"I'm aware," Yennefer returned, coldly, looking up at him again with a cutting gaze. "And if they were just odd questions, I'd be more understanding. But they're not, Geralt. They're…" She paused, her lips hardening into a thin line. "The first time she was at the house, she asked if I could have children," she said, doing her best to cover the hurt in her voice with an audible layer of ice. "What kind of question is that for a little girl to ask?"
"And what did you say?" Geralt asked, concerned.
Yennefer huffed, propping her free hand on her hip. "I told her it was impolite," she returned, curtly. "That some women are sensitive about those subjects. Particularly sorceresses."
Geralt frowned, discouraged at the news, before reaching up to adjust his book-laden satchel on his shoulder again. Despite his wife's conviction, he found it difficult to support the idea that Rosie's intentions were at all malicious; he had had similar suspicions, of course – moments where he wondered if the girl was more knowledgeable about the world than she let on – but the thought that she both knew Yennefer could not have children, and had brought it up to hurt the sorceress intentionally, was a bit too far-fetched a chain of events for even him to consider.
"Just ignore her, Yen," he said, tiredly, ignoring the scathing look from his wife at the suggestion. "Probably didn't mean anything by it. Like you said, she's just a little girl." Looking up again, he made an effort to avoid eye contact with Yennefer's acerbic gaze; it was not that her worries did not trouble him – they did, of course, and they always would, no matter how many times they had gone over them – but he had heard the sort of questions Rosie asked first-hand, and had seen no reason to be so bothered by them. Some of them were strange, certainly, but there was generally a reasonable explanation behind them, and it seemed bizarre that Yennefer would take such a vehement dislike to the girl when her questions were often only asked out of innocent curiosity.
"Asked me the same thing," he added after a moment. "Wanted to know why there were so few witchers left. Asked why I didn't just fuck a bunch of younger women and make more."
Yennefer looked up again at this, her steely expression faltering, replaced momentarily with something half-shocked, half-concerned. "She asked why you weren't fucking a bunch of younger women?" she finally asked, seeming more confused than offended by the implication.
Geralt grunted at the question, trying to decide how to answer. "Not in those words," he finally said, frowning again at the thought. "Uncle told her witchers were dying out, so she thought the solution was just to make more. Don't think she understands the… limitations, of people like us." Having said this, he paused, his lips thinning to a razor's edge, before he finally let out a soft, censorious snort at the thought. "You should hear some of the things she says he tells her," he added, grimly. "Girl's uncle is either an idiot or a sociopath. She says he works in Beauclair sometimes, but… never seen him. Always seems to be somewhere else."
Yennefer frowned at this, seeming to momentarily forget her affront towards the little girl. "Are you sure the uncle even exists?" she asked, folding her arms in thought.
"Pretty sure," Geralt answered, nodding. "Seems like a weird story for a six-year-old to come up with."
"Assuming she really is a six-year-old, and not something else," Yennefer scoffed. "A godling or a doppler seem more likely, the way she continues to cause mischief."
Geralt frowned at the observation, propping his hands against his hips. "Don't think she's a doppler," he mused, thoughtfully. "Being around her doesn't set my medallion off. Touching her doesn't do it, either. A doppler or a godling wouldn't be able to hide their magic."
"I was being facetious, Geralt," Yennefer returned, dryly. "Though I suppose that means she isn't a Source, either." Geralt looked up in interest at the comment, and Yennefer faltered, having clearly not expected a need to explain herself. "Most of them can't control emitting magical energy," she clarified. "Some can, but it takes training. Lots of training."
"I remember," Geralt agreed, nodding in understanding. "Don't think she's one of those, either." Letting out a huff, he stared at the ground, crossing his arms as he considered the topic. "You helped Ciri train her Source powers," he mused, now interested.
"I did," Yennefer answered, looking up and angling her elegant head. "Which is why I know how much training goes into even starting to be able to control them. Even after years of training, Ciri would still have bursts of magic, go into trances… all manner of things I couldn't train out of her."
"Hm," Geralt grunted. "She's better now, thankfully."
"Somewhat," Yennefer returned, letting out a soft sigh at the thought. "So long as she keeps her head about her, she can keep her powers under control. But she's susceptible to outside influences. Magical ones, mostly, but… emotional ones as well." Pursing her lips, she rubbed a pensive thumb along the weather-worn spines of the books still in her arms. "If I'd been able to train her sooner, I might've had more success preventing that," she lamented. "But I know that's not your fault. Calanthe was never going to give her up without a fight."
"No," Geralt agreed, letting out a soft, gruff chuckle at the memory of the steely lioness. She had tried to trick him into choosing the wrong child when he had first come for Ciri at the age of six, but he had refused to take any of the offered children, realizing there was no way he would be leaving with his actual ward so long as her protective grandmother still drew breath. "Can't change the past, though."
"I suppose," Yennefer conceded, nodding along, still half-distracted. Then, suddenly, she stopped, her gaze drawn to something on his person. "Geralt…" she said, pointing towards his trouser pocket. "What… is that?"
Geralt faltered, looking down to see where she was pointing, only to frown as he spotted what she was looking at. A small, whitish shape stuck inconspicuously from the lip of his pocket, just large enough to be spotted by an observant viewer like his wife, but as he started to pull on it to get it out, he quickly realized that it was not a small object, but a folded, full-sized parchment, shoved nearly to the bottom of his pocket. He set his jaw as he slid it out, unfolding the paper to see what was written inside, only to turn quickly as soon as he finished, looking all around him to see where it had come from.
"It's… the contract," he said, looking up at Yennefer again, distressed. Glancing over his shoulder again, he scanned the street for any sign of the deliverer, but it seemed that Rosie – or whoever had put the contract in his pocket – had long since disappeared into the crowd. Whenever the paper had been snuck into his pocket, he had felt nothing, seen nothing, and he felt a chill run up his spine at the thought of having been so unobservant that an untrained child could have pulled something like this on him, undetected. If his heightened senses were so out of practice that a six-year-old could sneak up on him like that, then he had to wonder if Rosie was actually right, and the only reason his recent contracts had been so difficult had been because he was slowly losing his skills as a witcher.
"You're not going to take it, are you?" Yennefer asked, folding her arms disapprovingly. "Just because she can't take no for an answer doesn't mean you should forget why we're here."
"Didn't forget," Geralt answered, shaking his head. "But…" He paused, staring down at the contract, unable to help his eyes from moving down to the final line again. He was too old to let foolish pride dictate his decisions, but he had always considered himself a witcher first, and had forgiven many of his other shortcomings with the thought that he had willingly given them up in pursuit of the path. The idea, then, that he might be losing what he had always considered his defining feature was disturbing at best, but the only real way to test if those skills were truly waning would be to put them to trial in the field again. This job seemed simple enough in its own right – if nothing else, it would do well to test his senses – and it also paid unusually well for a job that sounded like a low-risk investigation, a fact which still seemed suspicious to him, despite his wounded pride making it difficult to think objectively.
"Yeah," he finally said, not looking up at Yennefer as he spoke, intentionally avoiding what he knew would be a look of condemnation from his wife. "Think I will. It's just one contract."
"That's what you said about the others, too," Yennefer reminded him, her displeasure clear in her voice. "You realize, of course, that you won't be able to go see Ciri if you're dead."
"It's not the same, Yen," Geralt answered, holding it out for her to look over. "Just an investigation. In and out, plus good pay. What could go wrong?" Yennefer hummed as she took the parchment, her eyes trailing slowly as she searched for hidden language, anything that might prove her inhibitions were correct, and Geralt was painfully naïve to believe otherwise. "I promise, Yen," Geralt added after a moment, reaching out to take the paper back. "After we're done shopping, I'll do this, get paid, and be back before you know it. In fact, I'll meet you in the catacombs. Ten o' clock. You know I wouldn't miss that."
"I know you wouldn't mean to," Yennefer answered, still not sounding convinced. Then, letting out another sigh, she tossed her dark hair, before turning to look towards the stalls again. "Well, so long as we've finished our shopping before you go, I suppose I can't see the harm," she said after a moment. "If you do die, I'll at least have your horse to help carry everything back to the house. And I'm sure there are plenty of strapping young men who'd be more than happy to help a beautiful grieving widow."
"Glad to see you're coping so well with my passing," Geralt smirked, reaching out to place a hand on her waist.
Yennefer shrugged. "It's the life of a witcher's wife," she returned, giving a soft sniff. "Tragic. Utterly tragic."
Right from the start, the night had been shaping up to be a strange one, even by witcher standards. Geralt had gone down to the Clever Clogs at the time he expected to find Rudin there, only to find no trace of the corpse-collector in his usual spot at the bar. When he had asked the other working-men where Rudin might be, they had told him they had not seen him all day, and had assumed he was probably sick and would likely return to work on the morrow. When Geralt asked if they had seen any trace of Rudin's boys, the men again shook their heads, claiming to have no knowledge of the boys' whereabouts – and so, discouraged, the witcher had departed, heading instead for the location indicated in the contract to begin his investigation.
Roach blustered as Geralt checked the parchment, pulling on her reigns to guide her down a narrow side street, and he patted her neck, humming low in his throat to assure her he knew where he was going, even if he actually had no idea. Yennefer would not be happy with the news of Rudin's absence, Geralt was sure, but he could not really be blamed for the corpse-collector's untimely illness. Humans were fragile, and a man who worked with the dead was more likely to fall ill than others, he knew. If worst came to it, they could probably find a way to bring their purchases back on Roach – perhaps strapped to her saddle, or pulled behind her in a makeshift cart they could acquire in town. Either way, if Rudin was truly ill, the witcher had no intention of asking him to work; even if he, himself could not catch whatever Rudin had, he did not want to risk it spreading to the crib, and thereby endangering Yennefer or Shani on its arrival to Corvo Bianco.
It was nearing nightfall by the time he finally arrived to the location indicated by the contract, and he checked it again, ensuring he had identified the correct place from the vague instructions given. The building was a warehouse, long abandoned from the look of it, a fact which did little to quell his suspicions about the nature of the job; the smell of death wafted out from the open doors, and Geralt wrinkled his nose at the familiar odour, sliding a hand across his belt to ensure his potion satchel was still securely attached to his hip. With Rudin out of commission that day, there would have been no one to move the corpse from its position – meaning it was still inside where it had been left, undisturbed by well-intended interlopers.
Geralt hummed at the thought; apart from the smell, the preservation of the crime scene was a good thing, as less interference meant there would still be more intact clues to the identity of the unfortunate soul's attacker. "Ah, plough me down," a voice from behind him suddenly spoke, causing him to turn quickly, a bit startled by the interruption. The source of the voice was easy to find, as there was only one other person around to provide it: a tall man, standing a few yards back up the road, staring at the witcher and holding a dull machete at his side. Geralt tensed at the sight of the weapon, resisting the urge to reach for his own sword, but he only watched as the man came closer, his features sharpening as he entered the witcher's focus.
"A damned witcher!" the man spoke again as he approached, indicating towards Geralt with his weapon. "Didn't realize I'd be competing with a professional for the job. Got no chance of it now."
Geralt relaxed at the comment, his hand stilling at his side, before he began to take in the man's appearance; he was well-dressed, draped in a traveller's cloak, with a stern face and hands not yet hardened from labour. The witcher paused as he stared down at the man's hands, noticing with some surprise that the traveller was missing the same finger on both hands – his middle finger, removed at the base, leaving only a smooth dip between his index and ring fingers. The man faltered at his lingering gaze, glancing down at his hands as well, before looking up at Geralt again, his expression hardening even further in annoyance. "What of it?" he asked, harshly.
Geralt shook his head. "Just curious," he answered. "Must've lost them a while ago. Fully healed over."
"I didn't lose them, witcher," the man returned, his grip tightening around the handle of the machete. "I was born this way. Birth defect. But people always think I lost them, which makes it hard to get work." Sniffing a bit, he looked down at his hands again, running his opposite thumb over the protruding knuckle of the missing finger. "People think I'm clumsy," he added. "Think I lost them in an accident. Always pass me over for other workers. Like witchers." Looking up at Geralt again, the man narrowed his eyes, and Geralt frowned, before suddenly pausing as he began to hear a soft, persistent noise in the silence between the man's words. It was too dull to recognize what it was at first, but as the man took another step closer, it began to grow louder, and Geralt soon realized with some surprise that the sound was actually the man's beating heart.
He had never heard a heartbeat so loud – hammering like a war drum in the traveller's chest – and he could not help wondering if this man was only trying to appear brave to cover an unimaginable level of fear. The witcher grunted at the thought, wondering if it was him who was upsetting the man with his very presence, or if the idea of losing his much-needed earnings to a more qualified monster hunter was what was setting him off. "Be happy to split the profit," he offered. "Could probably use help identifying the creature. Or whatever caused the carnage in there. Haven't looked yet, so don't know for sure."
"Didn't hear nothing about a creature," the man returned, his brows raising, heart starting to beat a bit faster. He paused, thoughtful, before bringing the machete up to rest it against his shoulder. "Makes sense though," he added, tilting his head. "Don't know many men who go about mutilating corpses. I'm not scared, mind you, just hoping it's something simple. None of those strange exotic beasts."
"Hm," Geralt answered, finding it harder and harder to concentrate on what the man was saying. His heartbeat had grown even louder as he spoke, and Geralt wondered if he was aware of its sound; as a witcher, he was sensitive to things like that, trained to pick up on indications of fear or weakness, but the doggedness with which this man's heartbeat thrummed in his ears made him wonder if he had other health conditions apart from just his missing fingers. "Didn't catch your name," he said, trying to steer the topic back to something the man might find more comforting.
"Didn't offer it," the man said, not bothering to extend his hand. "It's Mirik. I don't care what your name is, witcher."
"Fair enough," Geralt agreed, nodding. "Guess we should investigate, then."
Turning away from his unfriendly companion, the witcher started again for the doors of the abandoned warehouse, pausing a moment as he reached the crooked frame to take in the layout of the room inside. A high-set window in one wall of the building had been left open by its previous tenant, allowing a stream of misty moonlight to illuminate the warehouse floor, and Geralt could clearly spot the victim's body still laying out where it had been first discovered. He frowned a bit as he stared at the corpse, unsure what he had been expecting to find; even from a distance, he could see that the man had been twisted in such a way that the witcher hoped he had been dead long before it happened. The man's neck was broken, swollen and black – the killing blow, Geralt figured – and both his legs had been broken violently as well, making the poor sod an easy target for whatever had gotten to him.
Moving cautiously inside the warehouse, Geralt glanced around, inspecting for any sign of movement, before bending to kneel beside the corpse and turning him over to examine for more clues. The body was stiff as it was turned, and Geralt felt his stomach clench at the sight of the man's expression, his milky eyes wide as he stared up into the rafters with a look of terror frozen on his ghostly face. "Rudin," the witcher breathed, reaching out a hand to lightly touch the corpse-collector's face. Rudin was pale as bleached bone as Geralt touched him, stiff as a plank of wood, and he frowned as he inspected the shrivelled body, noting the lack of blood around the corpse. He grimaced as he turned Rudin's head between his fingers, hearing the cracks of rigor mortis as he searched for signs of trauma, before humming low in his throat as two deep, withering fang-marks became apparent on the man's neck in the dim light.
"Vampire," Geralt muttered, pulling a face. "Shit." Letting go of Rudin again, he paused, before a sudden thought occurred to him: Rudin had been the town's corpse-collector, which meant he would only have come out here to collect a body – but now his was the only body around, and Geralt felt his nerves tense at the implication. Had there been another corpse set out here before, one to attract in people like Rudin, it had since been methodically removed to make way for a newer lure – like a hunter refreshing a snare.
"Fuck," Geralt hissed. "It's a trap. Mirik—!"
Jumping to his feet, he turned to the warehouse doors, only to stop short as he realized the doorway was empty, and his fellow contract-taker gone. A dark shape lay on the floor where Mirik had stood, and the witcher hurried over to inspect the mass, only to hiss another curse as he realized it was only Mirik's crumpled cloak and machete. Crouching down, Geralt listened for the telltale hammering of Mirik's heart from somewhere in the warehouse, but he frowned when he was met with only silence, cursing himself for not noticing earlier. He should have been more aware, more vigilant, but he had been too distracted by Rudin to notice anything else going on around him – likely the vampire's intent, he realized, though he doubted it had been expecting two meals to enter its domain instead of one.
Lifting Mirik's cloak to his nose, Geralt inhaled, searching for some clue to what had taken his companion, and he was rewarded for his efforts with a familiar scent, though it took a moment to place what it reminded him of. The smell was similar to a bruxa, though there was something just disparate enough to give him pause, something musky and masculine that did not quite align with the scent of a female vampire. Dropping the cloak to the floor again, the witcher stood, reaching for his silver sword, before narrowing his eyes against the darkness and listening for the sound of movement in the rafters overhead. He could hear the faint skittering of something across the boards, a whispering that sounded almost like a hiss, and he held his breath, waiting for something to show itself before he made his move.
He did not have to wait long – a soft rushing sound was the only warning he got before he was suddenly slammed to the ground, pinned down by something massive jumping onto his back from the rafters. The witcher gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, before feeling as an enormous hand slid under his chin, lifting his head to expose his throat as a pair of fangs sank deep in the flesh of his neck. He shouted in pain as the creature fed, his vision swimming with the loss of blood, and he thrashed, struggling against its inhuman strength, before a sudden thought occurred to him. Grabbing his sword from the floor where it had fallen, he forced it back over his shoulder where the creature was feeding, smashing the monster in the face with the pommel and forcing it to let go.
The vampire screamed as metal connected with bone, before immediately turning its body to mist, and Geralt gasped, filling his lungs with air as the creature's weight dissipated from his back. Sitting up quickly, he faltered as a wave of nausea crashed over him from the loss of blood, but he pushed himself through it, reaching up to feel his neck wound and making a face as he felt something still wedged in one of the holes. Pinching the mass, he hissed as he felt something hard slide out between his fingers, before looking down at the sharp piece of bone in his palm where the vampire's tooth had broken off in his neck.
Pushing himself to his feet again, Geralt turned to face the vampiric mist, watching as it skirted a few yards away before materializing into its solid form. He felt his stomach drop as he stared at the creature, realizing he had never seen this type of vampire before: it was massive, easily seven feet tall, with a bulbous forehead and a giant, throbbing chest, and Geralt bit back a grimace as he watched its abdomen pulsate like a waterskin with every beat of its colossal heart. He should have known it would be something like this, he told himself – something completely off-book from all his hard work and studies at Kaer Morhen – but the fact that he once again found himself facing something he had no idea how to fight made him curse his curiosity and foolish pride.
"Fucking vampires," Geralt growled, trying to remember if he had thought to brew a dose of Black Blood before coming. Spinning his wrist, he swung his sword around, stealing one last look over the monster in front of him, before he suddenly stopped, finding his gaze drawn in interest to the vampire's hands. They were large, clawed and deadly, but that was not the feature he noticed most – it was that both its hands were missing the middle finger, severed uniformly at the base, as if they had never formed at all.
"Mirik," Geralt hissed, looking up again and baring his teeth. "Should've known. Got a bad feeling from the start."
Mirik snarled at the witcher, baring his broken teeth, before disappearing completely from sight, turning invisible the way Geralt had only ever seen higher vampires do. Geralt took a step back, readying his sword, before shoving his hand in his satchel for a bottle of Black Blood, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as his fingers closed around the familiar shape. Pulling the vial from his pack, he ripped the cork out with his teeth – but he did not get a chance to down the concoction before it was slapped from his hand by an invisible force, sending it skittering across the floor towards the stacked crates at the back of the warehouse. Geralt swore as he watched the bottle slide away, spilling precious liquid out across the dirty floor, and he quickly dove after it, snatching it up and downing what last few drops still remained at the bottom of the glass.
Throwing the now-empty vial aside, Geralt turned back, only to find the vampire already waiting, and before he could react, the monster tilted its head, sending a spike of psychic energy pulsing through his skull. Geralt growled in pain as his vision swam, clutching his head to dull the ache, but he forced himself to look up again regardless, watching as the vampire seemed to waver, before suddenly splitting into eight disparate copies, all moving entirely in sync. Geralt gritted his teeth at the cheap illusion, before picking a copy at random and swinging at its head, only to overbalance as his blade cut empty air, the mirage fading into smoke as soon as his weapon passed through it. Letting out a yell, he swung at another copy, only to once again find his sword without a solid target, and he swore as his blade cut through nothing again, hearing the grisly heartbeat growing louder with every failure.
Turning back again, Geralt held his weapon, watching as the last six copies began to close in on him. Then, thrusting his hand down, he cast an active Yrden focus, feeling the rush of chaos as it flared to life in the middle of the ring of illusions. The spell lit up the dark warehouse, crackling with magic in a jagged rune, and the vampires squealed as the mass of energy began firing homing bolts out in searing, violet arcs. The magic sizzled as it struck its targets, dissipating the copies one by one, until all that remained was the real vampire, who shrieked as it was blasted with a final discharge of magic.
Gripping its wound, the vampire hissed, springing back into the rafters again – but it was only gone for a second before Geralt felt its hands on him again, and a moment later, felt its savage jaws sink into his shoulder from behind. The witcher howled as the vampire buried its broken fangs into his shoulder, but it seemed what little Black Blood he had ingested had done its intended job, as the vampire quickly let go, gagging and choking as black vomit bubbled up over its chin. Using the monster's distraction to his advantage, Geralt tore his arm free from the vampire's grasp, grabbing his sword and turning to face the creature before driving his blade through the left side of its massive chest. The vampire shrieked as the sword pierced through it, the blade bursting from its back in a spray of gore, and Geralt twisted it deeper, listening for the sound of its monstrous heartbeat slowing in its chest.
It took him a moment to realize that the sound he hoped for was not coming – in fact, if anything, it seemed his efforts had only caused the organ to pump more vigorously. Another spurt of blood from the wound drew his attention back to the vampire, and he watched in horror as three other sections of its enormous chest began to throb more furiously, the chambers of a heart he now realized comprised its entire upper torso pulsating like live hares trying to break free from a hunter's sack. The vampire screamed, swiping out with a massive claw, and Geralt recoiled as he felt its nails slash across his chest, piercing through the leather and padding of his armour to the tender skin underneath. Then, before he could stop it, the vampire leapt into the darkened rafters again, taking his silver sword along with it, still sticking out from both sides of its enormous chest.
Geralt staggered back, wiping a mix of his and the vampire's blood from his face, before looking around anxiously for the creature, listening for the sound of its heartbeat to alert him to its location. Reaching for his crossbow, he loaded a bolt into it, waiting for a sign of movement to alert him the monster was coming back for more. No sooner had he finished loading his crossbow bolt when a sudden flicker of motion from the corner caught his attention, and he spun quickly, aiming with deadly precision and loosing the bolt into the vampire's face. The bolt whistled as it zeroed in on its mark, before zipping straight through to lodge in the wall instead, the image of the vampire vanishing into smoke as soon as the missile passed through it.
Geralt swore at the trick, loading up another bolt, before taking a step back as seven more shapes began to emerge from the shadows all around him. This was just the same as last time, he told himself, though he had worn himself out too much with the last sign to be able do the same thing again just yet. Gripping his crossbow, he looked between the vampires, watching them closely for some sign, some tell, and he was rewarded for his observation as he noticed one moving just a millisecond before the others. Its movements were so subtly off the perfect sync that he would never have noticed had he not been looking for it, but he quickly took aim at it, launching a bolt into the vampire's frontal lobe and grinning as he heard the arrow sink into its mark.
The vampire shrieked as the bolt found purchase, gripping its head and staggering back, and as Geralt watched, the other copies began to flicker out, leaving only the wounded vampire to face its prey. Seeing his chance, Geralt quickly rushed forward, yanking at his sword to pull it free from the vampire's chest – but the vampire hissed as it felt pressure on the blade, before leaping into the rafters again, this time taking the witcher with it. The vampire perched upside-down in the rafters, hissing and snarling at its unwelcome hanger-on, and Geralt swore as he dangled from the sword's handle, feeling his arms start to ache with the weight. A sudden jolt from the blade drew his attention upward, and he watched in horror as the bloodied weapon began to slip from the vampire's chest, weighed down as it was now with his added mass.
Glancing down, Geralt growled in frustration, realizing he would break his legs from a fall this high, before looking up again and letting go of the silver sword with one hand, using it to reach back for his meteorite blade. His shoulder ached like needles on fire as he sought to support himself with a single arm's grip, but he slowly drew his steel sword from its sheath at his back, before letting out a yell and plunging it into the right side of the vampire's chest. The vampire screamed as the second blade skewered it, puncturing another chamber of its massive heart, and before Geralt could react, the monster turned to mist again, sending the witcher and both his swords falling towards the warehouse floor.
Thinking quickly, Geralt held out a hand, casting a bubble of Quen around himself, and he barked in pain as it slammed against the floor, the forcefield bursting violently around him. The shield was only meant to take one hit, he knew, and most hits were nowhere near comparable to this kind of fall, so the fact that it had spared him from taking worse damage than he had was a blessing in itself. Getting shakily to his bruised feet, Geralt grabbed both his swords up from the floor, sheathing the meteorite sword on his back before turning to look for the vampire again. He could hear hissing coming from somewhere nearby, the noise slithering in and out of the shadows around him, but he did not have a chance to find the source of the sound before he felt a sudden pain in the back of his calf, sending him to one knee.
Geralt hissed in pain at the vampire's newest attack, using his sword to struggle back to his feet, but he did not have time to fully right himself before he felt something strike him in the back of the head, knocking him down again. He could hear the loud beating of the vampire's heart behind him, and a second later, felt its grisly weight on his back again, pinning him down, and he shouted, clawing at the floor, trying desperately to drag himself free of the vampire's mass. His efforts were entirely in vain, however, as the monster leaned forward, smashing his sword hand with a heavy fist, and Geralt screamed as the sound of breaking bones reached his ears, pulling his wounded hand in protectively to his chest.
Gritting his teeth, the witcher twisted around, blasting the vampire with Igni from his one working hand, and the vampire shrieked as the flames licked its face, turning to mist to avoid the worst of the burns. Geralt panted as he struggled to his feet again, clutching his broken hand to his chest, before bending down and fumbling to pick up his silver sword with his non-dominant hand. Holding his sword with his wounded arm, he reached into his satchel, rummaging desperately for a vial of Swallow, only to feel something rush past him inhumanly fast, its wicked claws swiping up his spine to the back of his head. The force of the blow sent him back to the floor, and he coughed, seeing warm blood spray onto the ground in front of him, before sliding his hand down into his satchel again, feeling around urgently for the vial of Swallow.
Geralt hissed in relief as he felt his hand close around the tulip-bulb shape of the healing potion, and he pulled it out quickly, uncorking it with his teeth and gulping the concoction down. He could feel the Swallow starting to take effect as soon as it passed his tongue, but he knew it would be a few minutes at least before his hand would be usable again. Pressing his elbow into the dirt, the witcher started to push himself to his feet again, only to be slammed back down to the ground once more as the vampire jumped onto his back again, this time taking hold of the back of his head and smashing his face into the floor.
Geralt saw stars as his head was lifted again, feeling the world start to tilt around him, but he did not have time to regain his thoughts before his face was slammed to the ground again, and again after that, over and over, leaving a bloody pool as his nose and lips split from the beating. He could feel his nose break as it made contact with the floor, cracking loudly in his ringing ears as he braced for another blow, and he coughed again, dribbling blood and saliva over his broken lips as he reached desperately for his silver sword. Realizing what the witcher was doing, the vampire snarled, kicking the sword away across the floor, before grabbing him up by the scruff of the neck, yanking his head back so roughly Geralt felt his neck crack with the force of the motion. Letting out a hiss, the vampire sunk its fangs eagerly into the witcher's throat again, starting to gorge itself as the half-dose of Black Blood began to lose its weak effect.
Geralt wheezed as the vampire drank, feeling his consciousness start to slip away, before he gritted his teeth, reaching back to take hold of the monster's neck in a steely grip. The vampire shrieked in surprise at the contact, but it did not have time to detach itself before Geralt turned, sinking his own teeth into the monster's meaty neck. He could taste vile fur and blood on his tongue as he ripped a chunk from the vampire's throat, and the creature screamed, releasing the witcher as Geralt spit the hunk of flesh onto the floor. The vampire hissed at the blatant injustice, its eyes glowing red in its hideous face, before it suddenly began to change before his dreading eyes, shifting shape into a massive, monstrous bat.
Spreading its newly gargantuan wingspan, the transformed vampire grabbed Geralt in its claws, lifting him into the air and barrelling out the open warehouse window into the night. Geralt could feel the rush of cold wind against his face as the vampire climbed higher through the scenic sky, and he thrashed against the monster's grip, trying to pull his steel sword from its scabbard, only to realize he was pressed too firmly against the vampire's chest to draw his weapon. Thinking quickly, Geralt reached to his belt, feeling around for the familiar shape of his beheading knife, until, finally finding it, he slid it out, stabbing it under his arm and into the vampire's pulsating chest. The vampire shrieked at the sudden wound, surprised and affronted at having been attacked in flight, before Geralt felt it suddenly withdraw its grip around him, sending him plummeting towards the streets of Beauclair.
The witcher swore as he felt the wind whip against his face, knowing a Quen bubble would do him no good against a fall like this, until he suddenly remembered his use of Aard to propel himself during the cemetaur fight. Taking a chance, he thrust out his hand, signing the blast of energy through the open air, and he was surprised and relieved when it did exactly as he hoped, sending him crashing into a nearby rooftop. Rolling to his feet, Geralt quickly regained his balance, sliding down the tiled incline to drop to a second-story balcony. Then, descending down a nearby ladder, he began to make his way for the warehouse again, drawing his steel sword as he ran.
The witcher breathed heavily as he reached the warehouse doors, looking around for some sign of the monster, only to find himself immediately knocked back by a mighty gust as the vampire rushed past him in mist form. His steel sword clattered to the ground as he fell, and he growled, struggling to grab it again, only to find his hand pinned to the ground by the vampire's mighty foot. The vampire, back in its transitional form, hissed, picking up the steel sword from the ground, before grabbing the witcher by the hair with its other massive hand and tossing him carelessly into the middle of the warehouse floor. Geralt shouted in pain as he landed on his ribs, clutching his side as he looked up towards the vampire again, before his gaze was suddenly drawn to something the monster had apparently overlooked – the place he had been thrown was almost within reach of the silver sword he had dropped earlier, and, dragging himself over to it, Geralt snatched it up, before staggering to his feet again and turning to face the vampire.
He did not manage to get in even a single swing before he found himself suddenly slapped to the ground again, causing his head to ring as he clambered dizzily back to his hands and knees. Picking up his sword again, Geralt struggled to his feet, before he sensed movement coming his way, and he ducked, rolling out of the way of another invisible strike, feeling the rush of air as the vampire swiped for him again. Taking advantage of his momentary edge, the witcher dropped down, sliding across the floor behind the vampire, before jumping to his feet on the other side and taking a mighty swing, feeling the satisfying resistance in his muscles as metal connected with invisible flesh.
The vampire screamed as an enormous piece of it went flying into the air, and Geralt felt a rush of adrenaline as he realized he had cut off one of the monster bat's mighty wings. He did not have long to celebrate, however, before he found himself slapped to the floor by the vampire's one remaining wing, causing his ears to ring like never before as he struggled to regain his feet. It was back in its transitional form again by the time he managed to find his footing, and he panted, staring in fascination at the bloody stump where its muscular arm used to be. Brandishing his sword again, the witcher gave another swing, only to look on in horror as the vampire threw up its remaining hand, catching it in flight. Gripping the silver sword, the vampire ripped it from Geralt's startled grasp, before driving it mightily into the ground, shattering it before his disbelieving eyes.
The vampire shrieked at its proud achievement, kicking the broken pieces aside, and Geralt swore, realizing that his only weapons now were his crossbow and the beheading knife still lodged in the vampire's lower chest. The vampire hissed at him, before it suddenly rushed forward, stabbing its claws into the witcher's stomach, and Geralt doubled in pain, feeling its nails puncture his intestines. Gasping for breath, the witcher gritted his teeth, looking up at the monster with hateful, bloodshot eyes, before stretching out with both hands to grab hold of the beheading knife, impaling himself further in his effort to reach. He could feel his strength waning as he pulled on the knife, but he gave it a sharp yank anyway, dragging it across the monster's flesh, using it to slice open the creature's chest to reveal its beating heart.
The vampire screamed as it felt its skin split, digging its claws even deeper into the witcher's stomach, and Geralt growled in pain, feeling a warm rush of blood spill over his lips and onto the floor. Letting the knife drop from his shaking grasp, the witcher shoved his hands deep inside the gash he had created, snaking them between the bones of the vampire's ribcage and feeling for the last two beating chambers of its massive heart. He could feel the warmth of the organ through his gloves, the sickening rhythm pulsating through his body as he cupped it in his numbing palms, and, with one last scream from the vampire, Geralt crushed the last two chambers of its heart between his bloodied hands.
The vampire opened its jaws to howl, but this time, only a gurgling sound came out. As Geralt watched, a fountain of blood began to trickle from its mouth into its matted fur; its vile red eyes began to dim, the light fading as its expression began to slacken, and, after another moment, the vampire slumped, its claws sliding from his stomach with a slick sucking sound as it collapsed to the floor, finally dead. Geralt panted as he stood over the vampire, holding a hand against his stomach to keep his intestines from spilling out, before reaching up a gloved hand to wipe the blood from his chin, not realizing he was only leaving more in its wake. He looked down to the beheading knife, and then to the vampire again, wondering if it would be worth it to take a trophy from this monster – before a sudden, blackening dizziness overtook him, and he staggered, collapsing to the floor beside the beast.
The world spun around him as he fought to stay conscious, forcing himself to stay upright through his pain. Looking down to his wound again, he faltered at the shape, at the four uniform holes punctured through the leather of his armour; he could feel panic start to flood his brain at the sight, but he shut his eyes tightly, pushing the memory aside, before drawing in a shaky breath, feeling the sharp ache of his punctured lung as he fought to fill it with air. Another wave of faintness washed over him as he sat, and he fumbled for his satchel, feeling in vain for another dose of Swallow – but his search turned up nothing, and, with no strength left, he finally allowed himself to collapse to the floor, barely feeling the dull thump as his head hit the ground.
He could feel his eyelids growing heavier as he stared up at the moonlit window, the blood on his lashes sticking to his cheeks as he fought to keep them from closing. He wondered if Yennefer would think to find him here, or if she would even bother to look for him at all, after he had left her so unceremoniously high and dry in the catacombs that evening. He had promised to come for her after he was done here, but it seemed she was destined to be disappointed, let down once again by some stupid decision from her predictable witcher husband.
A night in the catacombs would have been a nice thing to live long enough to experience, Geralt thought, before he finally closed his eyes, allowing darkness to overtake him.