Ground Zero

Time had stopped mattering to Calder Seaton a very long time ago. After the first century, everything sort of blends together anyway, he would often say. It was nothing for him to spend entire days, even weeks, engrossed in some book or puzzle, and he never seemed to care for other’s schedules when he made appointments deep into the night or at odd times in the day. Before the damn day the werewolves spilled the beans, most people assumed it was a quirk of his occupation, some sort of criminal code they could never be privy to. The truth was that time no longer ruled his life, and he could not put himself into the mindset of another who was governed by the universal standard. It was an awful life, to be held prisoner by the tiny hands on a clock or by your own mortality. None of them understood how small, how absolutely quaint their little lives were on the cosmic clock.

But still, he ended his meeting with the humans with a customary smile and handshake over the agreement. He had already moved their product through the underbelly of New Orleans; the final meeting was a formality at worst, a complete and utter waste of time at the best. They already knew the drop location for the money anyway – the rest of it was just stroking their fragile human egos. Humans wasted so much of their precious little time on ridiculously intricate rituals that did nothing but stroke their own egos. It was a waste, he supposed.

But he had all the time in the world, and he could waste it as he pleased. In New Orleans, there was no shortage of ways to waste time; it was the Big Easy for a reason. He took from the warehouse district toward the lake and the park that stretched in front of it. Nothing demanded his immediate attention; Poppy was out about the town and none of the other sirens needed him. For once, he had time for himself, and time meant time in the park, where he could watch the sparkle of the river and still keep an eye on the people that passed. He settled into one of the park benches and peered curiously at the beings that milled about the space. It was still too early out for vampires, but there was a fine cross-section of species in the park, including a young woman who felt decidedly non-human on a nearby bench. Her pen bobbed against the notebook in her lap, and the movement caught his eye.

Sharp eyes followed the arc of the green pen as it lifted into a wave before bouncing into the green of the grass. It was an impossible task – or it would have been if he hadn’t seen the trajectory the pen. Or if it hadn’t tapped the toe of his loafer. Bending at the waist, just enough to pick up the pen but not enough to wrinkle his suit jacket, Calder scooped the pen off the ground and inspected it a little. It was no worse for wear. ”Quite rude to throw pens at stranger.” His tone was light, despite the thick Londoner accent. He handed the pen out to the girl it came from. She was not technically a girl, nearly a decade or so out of it if he could tell, but everyone felt so young to him.

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Calder watched the other, reading her annoyed body language. The pen, obviously, had meant more to her than a simple writing instrument. He didn’t understand exactly why; it was a cheap promotional item and nothing more. Still, she seemed intent on getting it back, so he let it go without any fuss. He took the opportunity to inspect her a bit more. She was a young woman, petite, with a glint to her that Cal couldn’t name but very well could appreciate. His own smile widened, sharpening slightly. He made a big show of pressing a hand to heart, as though wounded. ”Whatever you do, please spare my face, miss. I’ve got to make my money somehow,” he teased with a big wink. His quick dark eyes watched her tuck the notepad into her back pocket, and his curiosity picked up automatically. He had always maintained that the hunger sirens felt was not for food or flesh; it was for knowledge.

He merely nodded his head at the woman’s thanks. He didn’t think anything of her gruffness; gratitude was a hard emotion, one he had almost completely lost at his death. Her bluntness, as well, he appreciated. Not many non-sirens could achieve that efficiency of conversation. It was a lost art, even among supernaturals. He had always hated conversations with older vampires; they were so damn loquacious, as they would say. It was a bore. ”I am, but you, you’re from here, I presume? Your accent is a ringer.” She wasn’t the only curious one, his question meant to remind him. He had a wealth of knowledge about the area; a few short answers and maybe he could pin down her heritage and place in New Orleans.

She interested him in the same way an especially ancient artifact in a museum right. He could feel that she wasn’t human. There was something in the way she carried herself, an edge that humans could never near no matter how they tried. The sun ruled out vampire, and she didn’t have the features of a druid. And though she could freeze with a look, she wasn’t a siren. That left succubus, witch, or werewolf, and she just didn’t seem like the first one. He had learned long ago never to count out succubi, however, and wouldn’t discount it. ”You seem to have been engrossed in your notes. Or are they sketches? I would hate for you to have caught my bad side,” he plowed on with the same hap-hazard smile.

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