Sequester. [Open]

[Casimir]

The bookstore was quiet and nice. The store was filled with book after book, all used, all old, most out of print and even some rare. There were hallways and columns of books, vintage posters, and everything he could dream of. The rugged scar figure was an oddity in the place as he quietly kept himself hidden behind the counters and stacks of book. He quietly inspected each book, removing them quietly to run his fingers over the cover softly, meticulously. Slowly and persistently he flipped through each page of a book, either setting it down or carefully cradling it like a child and hiding it away. The hours slowly drained by as he inspected the merchandise carefully, taking a couple of posters and a few odd little books he found buried in the back detailed with weird things of the supernatural, ironically, and a few other rather normal books.

The intense eyes flickered over to check the time now and then and as the store prepared to close, at exactly 6:58 as perfectly planned, the man headed to the counter with a frown. He was harsh, mouth tight watching every little move she did with the books he deemed “precious”. He twitched at everything that was near a wrong move, a growl nearly arising from it as the brown eyes remained locked on the books and the woman’s hands. He could feel the slight fear and see it flickering in her eyes at his behavior, at his actions and physique. Underneath the boiling skin it was like reassurance for the almost cautious wolf, the creature put at unease in the area they were in. In the passionate bond of the man and the creature their beliefs were nearly linked, this was no place for him but the bookstore was like a beckoning mistress. How was he to deny? The wolf was not pleased with this.

Books and business were near the only reason he interacted with people.

Casimir left the store holding the books and posters to his chest, shielding them from the hideous air outside who would dare to try and touch their paper and binds. The posters had been kept rolled up and put in the bag. Immediately after his exit the bookstore closed its gates. It had been precisely 7:00 when he left, perfectly as planned and with that he would soon be gone from this area. It wasn’t smart for a lone wolf to be out in the heart of a pack but they weren’t exactly stable where they?

No not at all.

The previous masters had bailed, sending off to find whatever their little minds and dreams could muster. Kings or something erected a new leader he suspected wasn’t even a wolf. The situation was odd and maybe a part of him was curious over what exactly had happened and may have brought him to the center, to the unsuspecting bookstore at Downtown Crossing. His wolf did not agree as it bristled beneath his skin, hostile in hostile territory and he felt the edge, eyes flitting defensively from corner to corner expecting nothing less than large dogs to jump out from the shadows. Casimir didn’t like it, no, but he had been in the werewolf business long enough. The air around him felt toxic and he could feel its fangs gnawing at from his inner core.

If it had been something other than books they would have been destroyed in his grasp.

This was a new age in Boston though wasn’t it? The wolves must have been on edge and either the smell of the werewolf would be enough to send an army, maybe one knew he was a man for hire. With ideas like this flitting around his head, he hurried his pace somewhat, just slightly, not enough to be read as fear as more caution.

Or maybe he could leave the territory and go to the motel and read silently in his room.

[Matthias Walker]

There is a difference, Matthias finds, between learning to like a city and liking somebody enough to stay anyway.

Boston’s streets are familiar now, but they lose their appeal faster and faster with every passing day. The city is alive with the supernatural, and where Mattie had found distractions from the slow settling wanderlust in the ghosts and killers before, now? Now trying to outrun an crippled alley cat is only debatably possible; even roaming the streets is made laborious by Silas’s insistence on bandages—and, well, Matthias knows, sort of, that getting shot is not entirely conducive to wandering around within a week regardless of severity, but that is not enough to stop him when the alternative is camping in an empty apartment for hours on end.

Not that this option is entirely attractive, not when Boston is fucking cold and the constant ache that jars sharper with every step drags at the familiar easy lope. It is completely by accident that he ends up on a bench flipping carelessly through a newspaper, scanning mechanically as he slouches, burrowing his chin into the neck of the hoodie for warmth. And maybe it is habit that has him searching for strange deaths and injuries, but it is pure restlessness that has him actually eyeing a small, two-inch block of dark text, contemplatively folding the newspaper down to frame the tiny section.

Nobody has died, and nobody has gotten more than badly scared, and even that is debatable. But Mattie is bored enough, frustrated enough, that even a petty poltergeist in some stupid haunted house is interesting enough to pique his curiosity. He may have doctor’s orders to take it easy, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a look for future reference.

It helps that the walk there is short.

It does not help that he is halfway there before common sense catches up with him and Matthias’s footsteps slow to a stop, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl. The silver pocketknife he keeps in his pocket will do exactly nothing at all against a ghost, and walking blind and unarmed anywhere is patently stupid, and the smart thing to do—easier thing to do, even—would be to stop, turn around, return to the warmth of Cesan’s apartment and read for a few hours. Instead Mattie lingers mutinously on the sidewalk, grip tightening on the weakly fluttering newspaper, and sweeps his gaze through the few pedestrians in the halfhearted hope that one will be conveniently armed with iron or salt.

The street is empty save for a few lonely wanderers, most of whom are doing a very good job radiating pointed disinterest in being interrupted.

Blue eyes settle on a lone figure about to step past him, and Matthias twists on his heel and steps swiftly to intercept the man, gaze focused on the bag in his hands, and he offers a bright smile marred by a faint furrow of pain in the line of his eyebrows at the annoying twinge of his leg, “Hey, hi, you wouldn’t happen to have salt on you, would you?” The rampant paranoia in the way the man carries himself is not missed, but neither does Mattie allow it to deter him. He demonstrates with a vague gesture, sketching out the shape of a box in the air with his hands, “I mean, like actual salt, not like—I don’t know, it’s not a weird euphemism for drugs or anything.”

[Casimir]

The mission completely failed when suddenly a friendly looking man approaches. He’s a beaming creature, too friendly, too open and his request is simply odd. The older man’s eyes slightly widen, staring at the creature before him and his nostrils instantly flare slightly like a bull getting ready to charge. He takes in all he can and his body goes ridged. His scarred face comes to look at the man who dares to approach him.

He isn’t a werewolf but that doesn’t mean he isn’t connected to the pack. The stranger has some odd smells on him.

“Hey, hi, you wouldn’t happen to have salt on you, would you?”

Maybe he’s a drug addict, an alcoholic, a sociopath. His guards are up. Those worked muscles, gritty from use coil like a snake ready to strike as he prepares to fight. Casimir’s job isn’t exactly the friendly Walmart greeter and his first instinct at the man’s sudden appearance and near frightening openness is to ring his neck; yet there is a level of control. His voice is silent but that look in his eyes reads of bloodlust he controls.

The wolf underneath howls and moves; motivated already by the environment and now ready to move by the sudden infiltration. There is no fear in its eyes only hunger and it begs and fights for release, but not too much because it knows, it will always get what it wants, usually. But patience is not a virtue a devilish creature follows when needing and wanting.

Before he could even get out a response the other outlandish fellow is gesturing and speaking, like an annoying, hyper gerbil. “I mean, like actual salt, not like—I don’t know, it’s not a weird euphemism for drugs or anything.” The words at last tell him he is incomprehensibly stupid or crazy, approaching a stranger, a wolf, on the street alone, at night. Maybe he had no clue that he had just poked the bear with a stick but there is some supernatural smells to him that bother him. Casimir does not like them at all.

The brown eyes are already flashing to something animalistic and like a magician pulling rabbit out of the hat; he slips into the persona he built over years. It is a strategic move, because his first intent is to scare him off, convince him it would be well worth his time to back off and try again later. His first move is defensive and calculated.

His mind planned it perfectly; his words and actions were planned to the very millisecond. The man would try again, back off, and maybe in his surprise, Casimir would make his quick getaway. There is still an underlying suspicion that this is the pack, the wolves pulling the strings but they wouldn’t be that dumb. They were much more civilized (to a point) creatures.

Animalistic and brutal was one way to describe his first response as he pulls his lip back, looking more and more like a madman. He growls like the thing underneath his skin orders. There is still cunning in his eyes but it almost seems to vanish to primal mentality as reason seems to vanish.

”GET.” He snarls loudly into his face, and he pushes past the man, rudely, hitting his shoulder as he storms off into the street. Maybe he was starting something. He didn’t know. Maybe he was only going to lead the man on more but a smart man would turn. He already had decided this man was a fool and what would stop him because of this?

The aggressiveness of his actions?

Somebody else?

Casimir himself?

[Matthias Walker]

Being dismissed is not exactly a frequent occurrence.

Not that it doesn’t start to happen, because it does, and often enough, but Matthias has spent too long depending on other people’s attention for a bed at night to be anything but very persistent. This is different. This time there isn’t a place to stay at stake, the possibility of no dinner as incentive; this time there is exactly nothing at all to keep Mattie from reaching the immediate and decisive conclusion that Jesus, this guy is an asshole. It isn’t even usually a conclusion that keeps him from chasing conversation, from insisting on making nice and casually turning a blind eye because it will pay off in the end, but now?

He stumbles back a step at the—fucking deliberate—shove, the unexpected stagger sending a jolt through his leg. It takes a moment to regain his balance, never mind his dignity, and the look he shoots at the man’s back as he storms away is cold. It’s a small offense, really, and Mattie would be inclined to let it go, ignore it and move on with his life because it is one stranger.

Not worth chasing down a street to yell at him, not when he probably can’t chase him, not when he isn’t actually looking for a fight.

On the other hand, it takes a better man than he is to keep silent.

“Who the fuck peed in your cereal?” he snaps, too loud to be discreet. Heads turn in the street; strangers that had been pointedly ignoring them before begin to take notice, their faces shocked. Following the man like a kicked puppy asks too much of his pride (and, more importantly, his leg, but Mattie is inclined to disregard his limp even at the best of times); meekly slipping away is equally impossible. This—immature comments shot at a stranger’s back in the middle of a street—is not actually much better, but.

Impulse control has never been one of his strengths anyway.