who? @sethlozano
where? fantasmagoria books
Yurena remembers everything, the warmth of family and the betrayal of love, or of what she has deemed a mocker of it. The knowledge she holds is everything, and yet it seems inadequate when she doesn’t know if it is enough to fill the shoes of those who are gone. Take sensing for example. She is aware of what her lessons taught her, that magic senses magic and she is able to identify other species through it. In the months since her return, she had expanded up, learned to tune it to recognize the species she had not known before, the ones of myths and legends that turned out to be real. She is aware that not every species senses magic the same way, she knows not every individual recognize others through the same means.
She knows that tasting the magic in the air is normal, that it it depends on the witch and their senses. Knows that some are capable of differentiating between individuals of a species because of how their magic tastes. She knows that some magic tastes rancid, remembers the bitter flavor of Cavaliere's magic as it twisted around her and drew her life out. Remembers the decadent taste of Seth's presence when they first met. It’s frustrating to remember so well, when she would rather forget. But she has a duty, and will not forget what finally helped made her choice.
The thoughts flit through her head as she stays behind the counter are disjointedness and heavy, tired as she is from waking up early to avoid the other specter haunting the Alstroemeria's Hall, her eyes have taken to wandering around the shop, the taste of an eclectic collection of spirits on the back of her throat. It’s a slow day, as every other day, so she is surprised when she hears the bell ring and looks up, only to meet ancient brown eyes and be hit by the taste a taste so familiar it almost aches.
It's the sweetness of rotten fruit, the enticing allusion of something forbidden and rotten to the core. She knows it was once a decadent and rich flavor underlayed with the particular flavor that described the individual vampire. But those times are long gone, along with his vampirism. In this case, there where there was once layer of something sharp and smokey and almost woodsy. Like the undertaste of grilled meat in a sunny day— a brief memory of her father in front of a grill appears and leaves her before she can process it—, a taste that reminded her of home. Her jaw aches at the reminder of the taste that is still there but has been twisted, and despite her lack of vampirism, she wants to sink her teeth in his throat. It's changed now, by his own choice and his own greed. The familiarity remains, the appeal of home it's the same, but the man who it belongs to is anything but.
She won't allow the familiarity. Not after everything.
“Italy’s Next Top Model is two blocks down,” she drawls mockingly, voice sharp and cruel as she turns to the next page of the grimoire she is annotating for Amaranthus' perusal. As far as she knew, the witch who it once had belonged to was a prolific blood mage and it would help further the coven's research. “And I don’t sell to people that don’t know proper banishment rituals, so that is that. So do get out before I decide to burn you to ashes.”
