Chapter Text
The war council is almost boring enough to make Cassidy regret taking the job.
If it wasn't for the lord's presence, he'd put his boots up on the table, just to see if at least one of the arguing officials would shut up. Right on top of that ancient dusty map, mud-caked heels and all. The thing has to be as old as the castle itself. The marshal would likely drop of apoplexy on the spot.
A bit extreme, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Cassidy gives it serious consideration when even the lord's eyes begin to glaze over.
In the end, all he allows himself is a drawn-out, quiet sigh. It's not even that the pay is good. It's the room he's got all to himself, with a blazing hearth and a bed piled high with warm quilts. It's the best night's sleep he's had in months and the hearty breakfast he's had in the kitchens, and the cozy stables for the horse. Winter is coming and he's far away from anywhere he could pretend to call home; now that he's had a taste of sir Wilhelm's hospitality, he knows damn well he won't do anything dumb to lose it. Even if it means sitting here listening to idiots argue with each other.
Of course there's still the risk he'll offend the lord simply by falling asleep. After the second barely suppressed yawn, Cassidy lets his gaze wander, desperate for something interesting to focus on. On the opposite side of the table, the so-called alchemist has clearly arrived to the same conclusion, judging by the way she's glancing at her lap and the book she must be hiding there. Her large and surly companion chose an even better option and hasn't shown up to the council at all. That, or Ana drew the short straw. Sure would be nice to work with a partner — not that Cassidy wouldn't be the one sitting here even if Gabriel was present. He lets out a quiet huff at that thought, and Ana looks up from her book, meets his gaze and winks conspiratorially.
At least he can console himself with the knowledge he's not the only one struggling: the marshal all but throws a huge leather-bound tome onto the table and half the room jumps in their seats, lord himself included. A truly impressive cloud of dust billows from the map in the wake of that impact, and the way it swirls in the pale rays of late autumn sun is more interesting than anything else in the room. Cassidy leans forward on folded arms, as much as possible while maintaining a pretense of decorum anyway, and divides his attention between the dust motes dancing in the sunlight and the increasingly bulging veins on the marshal's forehead.
He's about to stifle another jaw-cracking yawn when the door to the grand hall starts opening, and his left forearm throbs.
The surge of adrenaline instantly clears his mind, straightens his spine, makes his hand twitch before he remembers he's practically unarmed. There's no yelling, though, no sounds of fighting, so it can't be an open attack yet — and there's nothing alarming beyond the door when it opens, just the seneschal, talking quickly and quietly to another man at his side.
The man must have only just arrived, because Cassidy would definitely remember his face if he saw it before. Traveling clothes, mud-spattered cloak, stubble above the line of his beard — not only just arrived, then, but ushered here straight from the road. Well built, bulky even under the layers. Armed, with an unstrung bow strapped to his back and a quiver full of arrows. To all appearances he's the mercenary they've been told to expect, the last member of their party of four… except that when he enters the room, Cassidy's forearm throbs again in clear warning.
"Hanzo, master of the bow," the seneschal announces formally before proceeding with lengthy introductions.
Cassidy stands up with the others, keeps his posture relaxed and focuses on identifying the threat. At least he can scratch 'vampire' off the list straight away: the skies are clear for once and the chamber has tall windows, and the sun shines through one of them directly at the door. The newcomer reacts to the bright light in his face with nothing more than a squint. At first glance, there's nothing visibly unnatural about him. Not good.
"…Cole Cassidy, a monster hunter of world renown."
Cassidy's attention snaps back to the conversation. His reputation probably doesn't reach that far, but he's not going to complain. "At your service," he says smoothly, stopping himself at the last moment from tweaking the brim of the hat he's not wearing.
The archer holds his gaze briefly, gives a shallow bow and turns to the next person. If he knows about the amulets embedded in Cassidy's forearm, knows that Cassidy is on to him, he doesn't show it.
After the introductions have concluded, the lord seizes the opportunity to adjourn the council with barely concealed enthusiasm. As everyone files out, Cassidy considers asking him for a private audience before deciding to keep his mouth shut for now. Sir Wilhelm has a temper and does not take kindly to his decisions being questioned, and Cassidy has no proof yet, even though he knows without a doubt that the lord's fourth hire is not a human.
Hanzo the archer looks and acts like a perfectly normal person, which significantly narrows the list of possibilities. He can't be a werewolf or a shapeshifter of any kind, or he wouldn't have picked up the silver lid of a soup vase at dinner. He's obviously not undead, or he wouldn't be able to mask the smell. On the off chance he's dealing with a particularly sun-resistant vampire, Cassidy even goes to the trouble of checking his reflection, but a strategically placed polished silver tray reveals nothing out of the ordinary. With all the simple and easy options out of the way, all Cassidy can do is keep watching, look for subtler clues, and wait for the archer to make a misstep.
And the clues are plenty, if one cares to look.
For one, despite the simple name, Hanzo is definitely no commoner. No titles, not even a last name or a birthplace, and yet he dresses in silks and carries himself with the effortless arrogance of someone of noble birth. When the war council gathers again, he gets away with comments that would surely get Cassidy kicked out back to the road, and in the evening of the second day, at dinner, he even dares to question the truthfulness of one of sir William's tall tales of past exploits. The lord just roars with laughter instead of having him thrown into a cell, and Cassidy tries hard not to be impressed by the sheer audacity. Only a man not used to talking to his superiors can have a tongue this sharp.
Then there's the way Hanzo looks. A mercenary has no business being this goddamn pretty. Monsters, on the other hand, are always either hideous or beautiful, and the archer falls squarely into the latter category. And even if he was born a man with no magic involved in his appearance, he still doesn't look like someone who lives by the sword, but rather like someone who dwelled in a palace and never stepped out his whole life. Cassidy's got more tricks up his sleeve than a common sellsword, and he's still collected a bunch of scars as parting gifts from his kills; Hanzo doesn't look a day older than him, and he doesn't have a single scratch on his face.
One thing is certain: whatever he might be, he is no coward either. Whether he notices he's being watched or not, he doesn't seem perturbed at all by the presence a monster hunter. Cassidy does put moderate effort into being at least somewhat subtle, but even if he's successful, his reputation alone should be enough to unsettle the archer a bit. Apparently it's not; either he doesn't care about staying under one roof with a well-known hunter, or he's very good at pretending he doesn't. Cassidy does catch a few glances in his direction, but they seem curious rather than wary, and Hanzo always looks away with a perfectly disinterested expression. Cassidy can never quite decide whether the disinterest is feigned or not.
Maybe Hanzo is trying to figure out whether Cassidy knows. Or maybe not, maybe he's utterly confident in his human disguise. It is, after all, convincing enough that Cassidy could almost believe he was mistaken, except his amulet has never been wrong before, and it reacts without fail whenever the archer is nearby.
The evening of the third day leaves Cassidy with only one kind of monster still on the list.
He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes with a groan and rubs his face. Creatures driven by hunger or rage are as uncomplicated as their motivations, and fighting them is simple enough. Demons are different: cruel, insidious, manipulative, subtle when they want to be and always a pain in the ass, not least because of the people they've enthralled usually ready to defend them to the death.
Except a demon selling its services as a mercenary makes no sense. It's too straightforward. Too simple. Demons are drawn to power, they become advisors and consorts to rulers, maybe commanders if they particularly enjoy shedding blood. Not lowly sellswords. Why would a demon ever bother with hard and unpleasant work?
On the other hand, it would certainly explain both Hanzo's appearance and his brazen behavior. Maybe he's spying for the witch who's supposed to attack the castle, or maybe he's planning something bigger, playing a longer game. He's certainly managed to gain the lord's favor already, and not just that: Ana appears to enjoy his presence, even though she must know by now he's not what he seems to be, and even Jack, who wouldn't give Cassidy the time of day at first, treats the archer with something akin to respect.
And then there's Cassidy himself, fixated on him for the better part of three days. Granted, it's because of the amulet's continuous warnings, and not because of the way Hanzo acts, or talks, or looks.
Well… mostly.
The second amulet in Cassidy's arm is supposed to protect his mind from unwanted magic influence. He opens his eyes, raises his forearm slightly, runs his fingers over the inscriptions on the scuffed protective plate. There's no reason for it to suddenly have stopped working. If Hanzo knew about the amulets and possessed the kind of power needed to suppress them, surely he would have silenced the one that detected him in the first place.
Wouldn't he?
Some time later, after at least an hour of tossing and turning in bed, Cassidy gives up and rises to dig in his bags. There is a way to check if an item has magic properties. It's not cheap, requires some of the most potent and expensive of his precious few ingredients — but he hesitates for only a moment. Ingredients can be replenished. His mind, not so much.
The spell confirms that the magic in the amulet holds strong. The knowledge doesn't help him fall asleep.
He wakes up in a strangely foul mood for a hunter who finally caught scent of his prey.
Knowing that Hanzo is most likely a demon is only half of the problem. There's still the question of verifying it without drawing attention. Cassidy can hardly walk up to him and upend a bowl of holy water over his head; even if the archer somehow lets him get that close, there's still a chance he's not a demon after all, and he needs to remain oblivious of Cassidy's suspicions until after they've been confirmed.
Cassidy knows perfectly well what to do, of course. He's done it before. It's just that he hates it: he's a hunter, not a goddamn poisoner. Still, the method is tried and true, so in the morning, after a prolonged breakfast in the kitchens, he finally sets out on a search for holy water.
An hour later he's exactly where he started, except in an even worse mood. There's no chapel in the castle, not even a small altar, and not a single priest to be seen. Sir Wilhelm, as it turns out, doesn't limit himself to antagonizing witches. An interrogated servant shares the story in a gleefully scandalized whisper: it's been months since the last chaplain packed his things and left after a difference of opinions loud enough to echo throughout the castle. The nearest church is in a village a couple of miles away, and leaving is the last thing Cassidy wants to do now, with the threat of an imminent attack looming over the castle and a demon gaining more of the lord's favor every passing hour.
Still, it's not as if he's got any other options, unless he wants to stand aside and watch as the demon weaves its schemes unopposed.
He shivers the moment he steps into the courtyard. The sun hasn't shown its face since the very first day, and this morning is particularly miserable, dark and cold, the sky overcast with heavy clouds and remnants of last night's fog lingering above the cobblestones. He's buttoning up his coat on the way to the stables, longing resentfully for the fires back at the castle, when he spies a flash of bright white out of the corner of his eye. There's a square of packed dirt outside the stables, used by the castle guard for sparring and practice, and somebody is there, heedless of the weather. Cassidy recognizes the silhouette instantly. Nobody else moves like the archer does.
Hanzo is alone, punching and kicking the air like he's attacking an invisible enemy. It must be a fighting technique of some kind, but it looks almost like a strange dance: every step calculated, every move graceful and fluid. Dressed in white and red, in stark contrast with the bleakness of stone and dirt that surround him, with wisps of fog swirling around him as he moves, he looks otherworldly. Unreal. Like one of the illusions that dance in the marshes and lure unwary travelers off the road at night.
Cassidy only remembers he's supposed to be going somewhere when he shivers hard enough for his teeth to chatter.
The stable walls protect him from further temptation until he's saddled the horse. He manages not to glance at the practice square until he's almost to the gate, but then he falters and looks over his shoulder one last time before the courtyard disappears out of sight. The white figure in the distance kicks the air, jumps, lands softly in a crouch and stays there, motionless like a beast preparing to pounce.
Cassidy is too far now to make out Hanzo's features, but suddenly he's sure the archer is looking right at him.
The horse, bless her, tosses her head with a snort and paws the ground, breaking the spell. Cassidy swears under his breath, gives her a well deserved pat on the neck and rides out with renewed resolve.
The rest of the trip goes unexpectedly smoothly. The clouds don't disperse, but the rain doesn't come either, and the roads stay dry enough that he can ride at a decent speed. The old priest tending to the small village church not only doesn't object to the font being drained, but he insists enthusiastically on blessing the filled flask, Cassidy's weapons and Cassidy himself, for good measure. The witch is considerate enough not to have launched an attack in Cassidy's absence, and even the weather has improved somewhat by the time he rides through the castle gate again with a flask of holy water bobbing at his belt.
The training ground is empty and the morning fog has lifted. The magic is gone. The courtyard is gloomy and shabby again, filled only with servants carrying out their mundane duties, and even the air smells of rotting wood and horse shit. For a brief moment Cassidy hates demons, his job and the world at large for how most of the beautiful things in his life turn out to be monsters.
Nobody supervises the flagons of wine opened for airing before dinner. Cassidy doesn't even need to create a diversion when he walks into the kitchens. A few seconds, and the emptied flask disappears back under his coat. Good thing sir Wilhelm doesn't keep any ambitious relatives at court, or he wouldn't have lived to reach his age.
It's done. Three days of work about to come to fruition. Except the thrill of the hunt doesn't come, and all he really wants is to get it over with. Maybe get drunk after.
He takes the long route to the dining hall and drags his feet to avoid appearing too early, and only turns the corner and enters when sir Wilhelm's booming voice starts echoing through the corridors. The effort turns out futile, because the archer still hasn't arrived. The lord is in good humor, it seems, laughing at something so loudly that the flames dance on candlesticks halfway down the table, and Cassidy's arrival goes unnoticed. Probably for the better, because Ana raises her eyebrows questioningly from her place of honor at the lord's side, and Cassidy realizes he's wearing an expression that would sour anyone's mood.
Such a stupid slip. Could have spooked the demon. The sooner this is over, the better.
By the time Hanzo enters the hall, Cassidy has assumed his best bored face. Hanzo gives him a nod of greeting before taking a seat and Cassidy returns it, and freezes when Hanzo's eyes focus on him again after briefly scanning the room. Has he given himself away after all?
"You look unwell," Hanzo says lightly, leaning back in his chair. He's perfectly at ease, immaculate in his blue silks except for that one lock of hair that always seems to escape its place, and for a moment Cassidy hates him so fiercely he has trouble keeping his voice even.
"Just one of those days," he replies curtly.
Hanzo hums in acknowledgement. A heartbeat, two, and his gaze finally slides away.
Cassidy exhales, but the relief doesn't come. A serving maid passes by, and Hanzo extends his goblet with a polite incline of his head. Cassidy's stomach twists. He's suddenly seized with an awful feeling that he made a terrible, irrevocable mistake.
Hanzo raises the goblet to his lips. Cassidy holds his breath and stares, all subtlety abandoned.
Hanzo doesn't scream or choke. He doesn't burst into flame or change into a monster on the spot. He just lowers the goblet and glances inside with a small frown, raises his eyebrows and takes another careful sip. This time he tilts his head a little and purses his lips thoughtfully, as if trying to recognize the taste. He doesn't look like a demon that's been served holy water, he looks like someone who's just discovered a new and interesting flavor, and right as Cassidy slumps in his chair with the strangest mixture of frustration and relief, Hanzo makes sudden eye contact.
It's too late to look away. Cassidy makes an attempt to look innocent and disinterested, deeply aware he's too rattled to succeed at either. Hanzo watches him for a while, face impassive except for slightly narrowed eyes — and then he suddenly smiles, wide and brilliant and smug, and raises the goblet in a silent toast before emptying it all in one go.
Cassidy watches the movement of his throat before he finally remembers he's supposed to look away.
Hanzo doesn't say anything, but he keeps smiling for the rest of the evening. It's a small, secretive smile, like he's been made privy to a joke nobody else in the room understands. Cassidy knows very well that he's the joke; after the tide of disproportionate relief has passed, he's left with nothing but a whole lot of frustration. No demon, no matter how powerful, can chug holy water without batting an eyelid, so Hanzo can't be one — but he's still not a human, and Cassidy doesn't have the slightest idea what else he could be.
And whatever he is, Cassidy should stop fucking staring at him, which he utterly fails to do. Worse, he fails not to be caught at it. Hanzo's eyes glitter with amusement and his smile grows a little wider every time he notices Cassidy looking away too late, and the angry knot in Cassidy's chest grows hotter and tighter, and eventually he excuses himself with a headache and leaves before the candles have burned even halfway down.
The memory of that smile haunts him even as he lies in bed. At least when he finally falls asleep, the archer stays out of his dreams.
The next day brings no change. The sky is still overcast, the air is still cold, and Cassidy still fails to keep his mind on the job he's been hired for. In his defense, there's nothing left to do apart from waiting for the witch to make her move, and searching the castle library for even the smallest hint of what kind of a creature Hanzo might be feels like a better option than sitting around stewing in frustration. He ends up stewing anyway, because the most interesting the library has to offer is a stack of crumbling herbariums and old recipe books, and when the need to do something useful becomes too much, he sets out to do a round of the walls.
He doesn't get further than ten paces from the door. Hanzo is in the courtyard again, but this time he's not training and he's very much not alone: there's a crowd of an audience around the practice square, with even the lord himself present, sat on a folding stool like he's presiding over a tourney. With a couple of officials and Ana with Jack watching from a bench and a number of guards and servants gathered around the sides, it really does look like an improvised tourney, especially that as Cassidy watches, Ana's silent companion shrugs off his coat, rolls up his sleeves and steps into the square.
The fight is nothing like the dance Cassidy had witnessed yesterday. There's nothing graceful about it, for a start. It's just good old-fashioned grappling, except Hanzo and Jack circle and size each other up for ages before they finally engage. Unsurprisingly, Jack ends up pinned to the ground first — but then he springs to his feet with the speed befitting someone half his age, and he almost manages to get Hanzo in a surprise chokehold before the archer slips out of his grasp. The lord bellows encouragement and the crowd starts cheering, shouts and whistles erupting after either side gains an advantage. Muddied and mussed, with his clothes in disarray and a feral grin growing on his face, Hanzo no longer looks too perfect to be human, and Cassidy couldn't tear his eyes away if lightning struck the ground at his feet.
After Jack finally yields, Hanzo helps him up and turns his head to look right at Cassidy, as if he somehow knew the entire time where Cassidy was standing. He's not even breathing heavily — in fact, Cassidy's not convinced he's breathing at all. Hanzo straightens, holds his gaze with a smirk, and gives him the tiniest of nods before turning to bow respectfully to the lord.
The smirk and the nod feel like mockery. In all his years as a hunter, Cassidy has never felt helpless, and he's not going to start now. It's time they have a talk.
After a few hours of fruitless searching, Cassidy starts wondering if the archer somehow managed to read his mind. There's no other good reason for him to disappear right after Cassidy's made the decision to confront him. He's not in the courtyard, not in the common rooms with the others, not in the kitchens, not on the walls; he might be hiding in his chamber, Cassidy supposes, or perhaps he's decided to turn invisible and mock him behind his back.
There's also a chance he took offense at being served holy water and he's busy plotting revenge.
Cassidy should probably be more worried than he is, but he vividly remembers the smile at the feast and that little mocking smirk in the morning. Even if Hanzo is not a demon, he still seems the type to play with his prey rather than kill outright. After all, Cassidy is still alive despite the holy water fiasco, even though he's spent most of the day wandering around the castle and providing opportunities aplenty for anyone who might wish to ambush him.
He arrives to dinner early, and something in his chest unknots when he finally feels a familiar throb in his forearm. Despite the conspicuous absence, Hanzo doesn't look or act any different than usual, except that when he's seated, he looks directly at Cassidy and raises his goblet in a toast with a small smile. Cassidy gives him his best dispassionate look, but the smile doesn't waver. Cassidy is not engaging in a stare-off across the table with someone he may end up killing tomorrow, so he silently vows to ignore all challenges and redirects his attention to the food. He still keeps one eye on Hanzo, though, just in case he disappears into thin air again before Cassidy's had a chance to corner him and demand some answers.
The scream is remote, barely audible over the conversations around the table. Cassidy almost thinks he imagined it — but Hanzo stiffens and turns his head towards the windows in a sharp motion that's just a little too fast to look natural. They both stand up at the same time. The scrape of heavy chairs across the floor cuts the conversation immediately.
In the silence, Cassidy listens. The archer does too, frozen in place, head still turned. Nothing.
"Something is happening," Hanzo says finally, no trace of the smile left. "There was a scream. Let's meet at the doors. Do not go out alone."
He cuts a look at Cassidy as he says it, and I don't take commands from the likes of you sits on the tip of Cassidy's tongue, but everyone has already abandoned the dinner and people are crowding around them with questions, and there's no point being petty when every second matters.
In his room, hurriedly fastening his armor, he realizes grimly that if Hanzo is spying for the witch, then he might show his true colors tonight. Even if he's pursuing an agenda of his own, the chaos of a night attack is a perfect time to act, especially now that he's gotten everyone to trust him.
Well, there will be at least one man watching his every move, and Cassidy's crossbow is still loaded with blessed bolts.
Determined as he is to thwart any nefarious plans the archer might have, Cassidy still nearly trips over a threshold when he gets back to the grand hall: Hanzo has pulled off one sleeve of his jacket for some reason and tucked it behind his belt, once again disregarding the cold. Cassidy had only glimpsed the edges of the tattoo before, never had the chance to see it whole, never expected it to wind around Hanzo's whole arm and spill onto his chest — and never had the chance to see the archer half-naked either, didn't realize just how much muscle was hiding under all that silk.
He'd seen a few monsters in the past that were more than easy on the eye, but it was never this difficult to remember that evil can hide behind a pretty mask.
This time there are no mocking smiles. Cassidy receives barely a glance before the archer starts barking commands, all of them offensively obvious: go together, weapons at the ready, find the guards on duty first. If he was ever human, he was definitely born a noble. Nobody else would try to herd fellow professionals like a band of peasants, especially when not appointed leader in the first place. Cassidy gratefully dismisses the warmth that started stirring in the pit his stomach in favor of heartfelt annoyance, ignores whatever else the archer might have to say, grabs one of the torches and nods at the doormen, ready to reach for the crossbow.
He whistles when one wing of the heavy door opens. There have been a few foggy nights recently, but never anything close to this. It looks like a heavy cloud has descended upon the castle and sat sprawling over the courtyard. Ten paces, maybe fifteen, and then a wall of slowly swirling white. The braziers burning outside the door do little more than light it up.
"This is unnatural," Ana mutters behind him.
At least they don't have to look far for the guards: they're all huddled around one of the braziers and scared out of their wits. All of them heard the scream, they report in hushed voices, but no one could tell where it came from with all sense of direction lost in the thickening fog, so they all wisely fell back to the door, except for two lookouts that are still unaccounted for. After that scream, Cassidy is willing to wager at least one of them won't be coming back, but he keeps the thought to himself. Poor bastards. Always the same story: a noble pisses off someone they shouldn't have, but it's the common folk who bear the brunt of the consequences.
"We'll search for the missing men," he says decisively before the archer can try ordering them around again. "You stay where you are, defend the door." He expects some kind of resistance, but Hanzo doesn't seem to care about having his authority hijacked; he just stares into the fog, frowning like he's trying to pierce it with the force of his glare alone.
Ana nods in agreement. "Jack and I will check the east wall. You boys take the west and shout if you find something."
Hanzo silently turns on his heel and strides away. Cassidy gapes after him, thrown off, until the silvery tail of the silken ribbon Hanzo ties his hair with disappears in the fog.
"Make sure you don't split up," Ana says behind him. "This is no ordinary weather."
"I'm not letting him out of my sight, that's for damn sure," he grumbles.
"You just did," she points out. There's a smile in her voice that makes him look over his shoulder, but she's already turned away. Jack follows her without a word. A few steps, and they're nothing but two silhouettes and a muted light in the fog.
Cassidy realizes suddenly that Hanzo went ahead without a torch or any other source of light… which means the bastard can see in the dark, even if his eyes seem normal.
He curses under his breath, transfers the torch to his left hand and follows with the crossbow at the ready. The archer can't have made it more than twenty paces ahead, but once the fog swallows him, Cassidy can't hear any footsteps but his own, with an occasional piece of gravel crunching under his boots. He tenses up when he reaches the narrow stairs leading to the battlements. If something were to lie in wait to drop on him, this would be the perfect opportunity, now that the braziers at the door are but two blurry bright spots in the distance. If the archer wanted to get rid of him —
"You are very noisy," says a familiar voice from above.
Cassidy doesn't jump, but he does swear, viciously and with feeling to help disperse the flood of adrenaline in his veins.
When he reaches the top of the stairs, he finds Hanzo standing still in the dark, head slightly cocked like he's listening for something. He stops, too, and takes in his surroundings. The fog rolls over the wall in lazy waves, so thick that it swallows even the sounds of wildlife, leaving behind nothing but eerie silence. The torch gives them maybe ten paces of visible ground ahead before everything dissolves into darkness. It's not the worst set of circumstances Cassidy's had to hunt in — he's standing on solid ground and he's still mostly dry, for a start — but he's also half-blind and half-deaf, and he's got a companion who's as likely to turn on him as he is to help.
He tamps down a shiver, lowers the torch a little and eyes Hanzo's exposed shoulder. Not even a trace of goosebumps. At least he's gotten a confirmation that Hanzo does, in fact, breathe, in the form of small puffs of mist escaping his mouth and mixing with the cloudy air.
Hanzo finally moves. "Something is nearby," he says under his breath. "Do not stray far."
Cassidy adds inhumanly sharp hearing to the growing list of the archer's unnatural abilities and makes sure to fall in stride rather than following. "I'm a hunter," he mutters. "Don't teach me how to do my job."
Hanzo huffs. The fog swirls wildly in front of his face. "I am keenly aware of who you are."
The meaningful note in his voice would be a perfect opportunity to segue into a confrontation, except they're alone in the dark, and after witnessing him train and fight, Cassidy has no illusions about the outcome. Should the archer attack him now, no one would ever know why he disappeared in the fog.
He grips the crossbow tighter instead and does his best to split his attention between Hanzo and the path ahead… except there's nothing ahead, the lights of the western tower are barely two faint sparks in the distance, and in between there's only stone, fog and silence. The archer, on the other hand, is fascinating to watch. Even now, visibly tense, with an arrow nocked and ready to draw, he moves gracefully and quietly as a ghost. Cassidy doesn't exactly stomp, but the soles of his boots are far from soft, and compared to Hanzo's barely-there footsteps his own sound deafening. There's also the way Hanzo keeps sharply turning his head, as if he's heard something in the complete silence, and the way his tattoo seems to come alive in the light of the torch, and how the wet, biting cold doesn't seem to affect him at all despite the half-bared torso —
This time he manages to look away before Hanzo catches him staring. Maybe focusing on his surroundings is the safer option after all.
When they finally reach the tower, he feels a little like he's waking from a disturbing dream. The danger is still somewhere out there, but at least now he can see something other than the stone under his feet, even if it's still so quiet that he can hear the hissing and crackling of torches framing the tower entrance. At his side, Hanzo stops abruptly and raises his chin with a sharp inhale. Cassidy does it too, on reflex, but the cold, damp air stings his nostrils, and all he achieves is that his eyes water. He takes a few careful steps forward instead, towards the fuzzy light of the torches.
A glance over his shoulder reveals the archer still frozen in place. The way he's tilted his head back, he's either listening very intently or scenting the air like a hound. At least he doesn't seem inclined to shoot Cassidy in the back — and Cassidy realizes with dismay that he's readily turned his back to Hanzo in the first place.
If Gabriel saw him now, he'd never let him live it down.
The memory of Gabriel's flat look of disappointment is exactly what he needs to get himself together. He takes a couple more steps, raises the torch, takes a look around. The fog is not as thick in the corner between the parapet and the tower, and between the three torches there's enough light that he can actually see details: lichen growing in the cracks between wetly glistening stones, patches of rust on the closed iron grating, water dripping from the sconces.
And then he finally realizes that the throbbing in his arm has grown stronger than the soft vibration he's almost gotten used to, and glances up.
He very carefully avoids doing a double take. The archer is still somewhere behind him, but Cassidy can't turn around now. He calls out Hanzo's name instead, as conversationally as he can manage.
The soft footsteps behind him are still barely audible, even in this silence. "Yes?"
Cassidy evens out his breath, relaxes his stance. "Look up," he murmurs.
An arrow whizzes past his ear before he's even managed to take aim. The misshapen figure in the niche above the door comes to life, unfurls leathery wings and raises its head. It's still mostly hidden in the shadows and obscured by the fog, but the burning red eyes make for obvious targets. Cassidy shoots and knows instantly he missed, because the gargoyle doesn't even flinch. Behind him the bowstring sings again and one of the eyes goes out, replaced by an arrow buried nearly to the fletching; useless, it's only going to enrage the gargoyle, and he opens his mouth to tell Hanzo as much.
The monster shrieks. Cassidy nearly bites his tongue: the sound is so loud it hurts, pierces his skull like a needle through the ear, makes his vision swim and his knees buckle. He drops the torch but keeps his hold on the crossbow, staggers but manages to stay upright, and his eyes refocus just in time to see the gargoyle plunge from its perch right at him. He knows he won't dodge in time, not like this. The only thing he can do is hit the second shot — so he does, he shoots nearly point blank and winces, bracing himself.
There's no impact. Something grips his arm instead, painfully tight, and pulls him to the side with enough force that his shoulder screams in protest. He's still too dazed to regain balance on his own, slips on the wet stone and nearly goes sprawling, but Hanzo steadies him at the last second, and the monster careens past them and plummets into the darkness.
There's a moment of stillness, disrupted only by Cassidy's loud breath.
Hanzo growls something unintelligible, lets go of Cassidy's arm and leaps towards the parapet. He looks like he's about to jump right after the gargoyle and Cassidy lurches after him on instinct, but Hanzo stops and just stares over the edge, into the churning fog. Cassidy picks up the torch and carefully leans over the parapet next to him. Nothing. Everything is still and silent again. His shoulder aches and so does his head, and his ears are still ringing, and he's pretty sure the archer just saved his life.
He didn't even have to do anything. He only needed to stay where he was, and Cassidy would never be a problem again.
"It's gone," Hanzo says curtly, pushing away from the parapet.
"Gone as in dead, or —?"
"Gone as in gone," Hanzo snaps. "I don't know. I can't sense it anymore."
Cassidy steps away from the edge and turns to look at him. For the first time since they met, the archer looks truly pissed off. There's a deep frown between his eyebrows and he's grimacing slightly, as if the monster offended him somehow. Maybe he thinks his arrows should have killed it, or maybe he's annoyed that Cassidy saw it first. Either way, Cassidy's instinct tells him in no uncertain terms that it's not wise to press Hanzo for answers right now.
Then again, if for some unfathomable reason he just saved Cassidy's life, he's not likely to ruin his effort immediately after. Probably. Unless he acted on pure instinct, and he's only now realizing that he missed a perfect opportunity, and it's about to occur to him that he can still throw Cassidy off the wall, after the monster.
The sound of footsteps makes the dilemma moot. Ana and Jack come running, alerted by the noise, and from then on it's all questions, explanations and more futile searching and staring into the fog. No more monsters come out of the darkness. They follow Ana back to the eastern tower, where she and Jack found one of the missing lookouts, clinging to the grate and whimpering in blind fear; Ana has to force-feed him one of her concoctions to unroot him from the spot. The fate of the other lookout remains unknown until Cassidy notices Hanzo eyeing his boots, and he realizes why he slipped earlier, and that he's leaving red footprints.
Back at the castle, after they do the explaining all over again, a decision is made to pull back all guards and bar the doors. Cassidy doubts the witch would have bothered scouting if she planned a full-blown attack tonight, and Hanzo unexpectedly agrees. Cassidy watches him speak from the corner of his eye. He seems calm now, but he's still frowning something fierce, and after all has been said and all plans agreed upon, he's the first to leave the room.
This time Cassidy is ready for it, and walks out right after him.
As expected, Hanzo ignores him entirely. Cassidy follows him doggedly, stays five paces behind until they turn into the guest wing, where there's no one to overhear and he can finally call out his name.
Hanzo slows down to a stop and his shoulders droop, as if he's sighing. "Yes?" he asks without turning around.
There are several things Cassidy wants to say, or ask, or accuse him of, but what unexpectedly comes out of his mouth is: "Thank you."
This time Hanzo does turn around. "What are you thanking me for?"
It's the last response Cassidy expected to hear, and it throws him off for a second. "For saving my life," he manages finally. "Thought that'd be pretty obvious."
"I attacked before you were ready and nearly got you killed. I forgot how slow you are. Don't thank me for correcting my own mistake."
The statement is outrageous for at least three reasons. Cassidy sputters for a moment, trying to decide which one to bring up first, and Hanzo turns on his heel and resumes walking. Cassidy abandons all pretense of dignity and jogs after him, suddenly sure that if he lets the archer disappear around the corner, he won't find him there when he catches up.
"Why did you do it?" he asks, stepping rudely into Hanzo's path.
The glare he receives in response makes him wonder if he'll get sent flying down the hall next. It also stirs something warm in the pit of his stomach, which is such a wrong reaction that he immediately decides to blame it on the shock — but while he braces for possible violence, Hanzo's glare slips off his face and onto something over his shoulder. Cassidy is just about to turn when he hears the sound of an opening door and light footsteps.
Hanzo folds his arms without a word. Cassidy sticks his thumbs into his belt, just to do something with his hands. They stand in an awkward, silent impasse while a maid walks past them with the stiff gait of someone dying of curiosity.
Hanzo doesn't move or speak after she closes the door behind her, so neither does Cassidy. The oil lamp on the wall casts enough light that he can see the way Hanzo's gaze softens and loses focus. It's obvious now that he's listening: the maid is probably eavesdropping with her ear to the door. There's a permanent frown line etched between his eyebrows and a tense set to his shoulders, and his hair is starting to grey at the temples, silver weaving through black, and his lips are dry; this close he looks a lot more human, and yet the amulet keeps buzzing under its cover, annoying like an itch that can't be scratched.
"Why?" Cassidy repeats as soon as Hanzo relaxes and the glare returns in full force. "Why not just let the gargoyle take my head off?"
A pause. The glare dissolves into several rapid blinks. "Why would I let you die?" Hanzo asks incredulously.
He looks up at Cassidy like he's lost his mind, eyebrows raised, and Cassidy suddenly realizes he's a good few inches taller than the archer, a fact he somehow never noticed before. Maybe it's because they never stood face to face like this, close enough that he can see the color of Hanzo's eyes even with the single flame of the lamp for the only source of light.
"You know I'm a hunter and I won't leave you alone," he points out. "That's a reason."
"Stupidity is not yet punishable by death," Hanzo replies snidely, taking a step to the right. Cassidy matches him with a step to the left, determined. Against his expectations, Hanzo only sighs with exaggerated exasperation and rolls his eyes instead of pushing him aside. "What do you want from me, hunter?"
"Truth," he replies immediately. "You're not a human. Who the hell are you and why are you here?"
It feels good to finally say it out loud, like shedding a burden that's been weighing him down for days. It also occurs to him immediately after that he's decided to confront Hanzo in a dimly lit corridor in the middle of the night, with no soul in sight to witness his very possible demise. So much for picking a better time and place than foggy battlements. And he's already had first hand evidence of how fast and strong Hanzo is, too: his left shoulder still aches whenever he moves it and he's sure he'll find a bruise on his bicep come morning. It would take Hanzo little effort to snap his neck.
Gabriel used to ask whether he had any self-preservation instinct at all. Usually it was a rhetorical question. What he's doing now is yet another proof that he doesn't; Gabriel would probably disown him if he knew. That, or declare him insane.
Hanzo doesn't attack or attempt to silence him, doesn't even bat an eyelid at the accusation, just looks at Cassidy thoughtfully, like he's considering something. It reminds Cassidy of the quizzical glances he caught before. "I am here for the same reason as you: earning my daily bread," he answers finally. "As for who I am, I told you my name. The rest is none of your business."
This is where Cassidy should shut up, bid him good night and leave, if he had an inkling of survival instinct. Naturally, he does the opposite. "See, that's where you're wrong," he counters, trying to keep morbid amusement out of his voice. "It is my business. In fact, it's my job to protect people."
Some of the amusement must have come through, because the corners of Hanzo's mouth rise just a bit. "Why would you need to protect people from me?"
"For the same reason monster hunters exist."
"Are you calling me a monster?"
"Are you not one?"
Hanzo smiles openly at that. "Are you not a killer for hire?" he counters. "You haven't been paid to retrieve my head. Is that not good enough reason to leave me alone?"
The smile is very similar to the one after the holy water treatment: smug, challenging and wide enough to show the sharp tips of his canines. Cassidy wonders briefly if the display is intentional, and if so, then what kind of reaction it's meant to elicit, because fear ranks distressingly low in the list of things that smile makes him feel. Here's hoping Hanzo's hearing isn't good enough to pick up his heartbeat.
He couldn't wipe the answering grin off his face now if he tried, so he matches Hanzo's light tone. "I could make it a personal project."
"Mm. First you ask why I did not kill you, then you threaten to kill me, all within a span of minutes. You're trying really hard to give me a reason, Cassidy."
Hearing his name from Hanzo's mouth somehow makes his pulse even faster: he can feel it racing in his temples now, hear it thudding in his ears. Hanzo takes a step forward, still smiling. It brings him into arm's reach. For a wild second, Cassidy expects either a knife between the ribs, or a kiss. Maybe both.
Hanzo does neither. "I do not owe you any information," he says instead, eyes boring into Cassidy's. His irises glow dark amber in the light of the lamp. "What I will give you is my word: I am not here to harm anyone. Take it or leave it."
Cassidy fails to respond, stuck on the idea his own imagination just blindsided him with. Attempting to force confessions out of monsters is one thing, wanting to kiss them is another one entirely, and yet the thought digs its claws deep into his mind and doesn't let go. It cuts his breath short, locks his muscles, sends a prickling wave of heat across his skin. It would only take one step, a quick dip of his head—
And then you'd get gutted, you idiot, Gabriel's voice murmurs from some distant corner of his mind.
Hanzo is close enough that Cassidy can hear the long breath he takes, the even longer exhale. "Good night," he says finally, still with a shadow of a smile on his lips.
Cassidy watches him take a step back, then another, then turn around and walk away. He watches, still dumbstruck, as Hanzo reaches the arch at the end of the corridor, casts one last glance over his shoulder and disappears out of sight.
It takes him a while to unstick his feet from the floor. He returns to his room slowly, in a daze. He hangs his hat, puts away his weapons, shrugs off the coat, crouches in front of the hearth to feed the dying fire.
"What the hell," he says finally, staring into the flames.