Paid Rent

Mochrie tossed the ball up into the air, caught it, threw it back up again, repeated the process; it was technically Bramble's toy, but Mochrie was borrowing it for the time being. He was overwhelmingly bored.

Ioeth wasn't here; their presence had been sporadic at best, and on occasions where new jewelry was to be sold, he—or Mac, rather—had to give uncomfortable lectures on why they couldn't be made at the moment, but that he would take their order, write it down, and give the smith a note upon return, and it shouldn't be too long, thank you very much. Despite the intent Lasair had made him with, Mac had lost a solid amount of stoicism over the last few months, replaced with an apologetic, almost sheepish demeanor that didn't quite fit the look.

Mochrie missed the ball and it landed squarely on his eye, eliciting a hiss from him and forcing him to sit upright on the bed, muttering and squinting. He blinked a few times, tried to untangle his hair from his eyelashes; it was long again, potentially longer than it ever had been, and he still hadn't bothered to cut it. He hadn't shaved, either, or paid attention to much else. It was easy to ignore the body no one would see, and spent most of its time alone.

As he rubbed the last of the sting out of his eye, he blinked, gaze lingering over the sack of coin on the nightstand. Once plump, it was growing thinner by the day—but he still owed rent. If there was any good time to pay up—which really, there wasn't—he supposed it would be when he had absolutely nothing better to do.

He dug out the proper amount, stuffed it into his cloak pocket, then snapped the clasp shut, returning to the well-groomed and fit form of Mac, which would last about another fifteen minutes. The shift didn't bother him, now, not so much as before; if anything, it just felt like a sudden relief.

"Be back in a bit, Bramble." Bramble mewed in response as Mochrie shut the door, not bothering to lock it for his excursion ten feet down the hall. He wandered forward, double-checking he'd counted the coin right, and hovered in front of Mrs. Hudson's room, landing a heavy knock on the door.

"Mrs. Hudson? It's Mac, Haiza and I are paying rent." He waited a few moments, intermittently humming, knowing the old woman took her time getting to the door, raised his voice a little in case she hadn't heard him. "Rather just pay it a little early, this month."

He continued to wait. He'd expected a little chirp of acknowledgement, or some other cheerful reply, even if she hadn't gotten to the door yet. She hadn't said anything, though, this time. He needed to hurry, too; not much time left for Mac.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

Nothing.

Part of him was shocked ice-cold with panic, immediately assuming she'd had a heart attack, or fallen, or just died of old age somehow. He shook the doorknob; locked. He took a deep breath, held it, and used Mac's hefty frame to shove the door open.

The door loosely splintered near its handle and the chain popped off the top, its beaded end clinking onto the floor and rolling off. His eye flitted over the room, taking in everything he could, before he caught sight of her in the doorway to her bedroom, leaned against the doorframe.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said, and began rushing over. "Are you alright?"

She let out something between a cough and a retch, and he froze in place, suddenly wary for his own sake. She moved slightly forward, her features becoming much more visible in the fraction of light.

"Oh, no."

Pallid skin, flecked with green pock-marks; sunken, yellowed eyes; something like congealed blood, but ink-black, pooling around the edges of her fingernails; cracked lips, lacking any color. Her normally tidy hair was frayed, and she shivered in place, fingers trembling.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't leave her, could he? Not like this. But maybe he should, for his own sake—it could be some sort of plague. Or maybe it was a curse, magical in nature. Maybe it was—

Hudson lunged. Mochrie swept back, shocked back into reality by her sudden movement, watching as she gripped the edge of her kitchen table, nails tearing at the tablecloth. She hacked again, black spittle speckling the pale fabric. She wheezed, sounding worse than half-dead, and she turned her sticky eyes toward him, fatigue weighing down her fragile bones.

"Listen—I'll get help, I'll bring someone in—I can't leave with you, I don't think I should touch you, I'm sorry—"

Mochrie reeled back as Hudson leapt again, near stumbling on her way over, gripping the sides of his cloak to hold herself upright, letting out a vile groan as her tightened fists shook—

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I can't take you with me, I—you might already be too close, I don't want to—"

Hudson choked. As she curled in on herself she yanked down on the cloak, snapping the clasp off; Mochrie was forced back into his own body, crumpling under her as the momentum of the transformation carried them both downward. Black bile spattered over Mochrie's shirt, stinging the skin wherever it managed to seep through, and Hudson pinned his neck, dirty nails digging into his throat.

"Sorry," he hissed, teeth clenched, and kicked her off of himself, immediately, horribly regretting harming an old lady even if she was feral and enraged. She whammed down onto her side, hitting the floorboards, and Mochrie scurried toward the door, snagging the tail end of the cloak before Hudson could get up. He slammed the door shut, then rushed into his own room, immediately locking the door behind him. He stood there, gasping, heart pounding so hard he could see it push against his shirt. Bramble let out a concerned mewl behind him.

"I don't know," he answered, and he meant it. "I have no idea what happened to her. I also might have made things worse. I might still be able to get her help, I could run out and—"

He paused. The inky ooze covering the front of his shirt had stained it black, and it smelled rotten and acidic, almost chemical. Gingerly, he pulled the garment aside; beneath the stain, patches of his skin looked singed, and it stung a little, the sting doubling at every beat of his heart. 

Though his heart still raced, his breath slowed. He stared at the door.