The Lamia Hunt

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Reports

20:35 08/03/2015

"I told you it was a good idea," said Jones, leaning back in a pudgy armchair the same shade of beige as nearly every other object in the room. "This is a perfect place to rest."
"Be quiet." Claire knew that he was right, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of telling him if she could help it; the last thing he needed was encouragement. "Get up and help me."
With what she needed aid, she didn't need to tell him; he knew already, and she thought it likely that it was precisely because he knew what she was doing that he was doing everything in his power to distract her from the task.
She ignored his efforts, however, and now set about checking for the third time whether she had gathered all necessary equipment for such an undertaking, this being the following: a spiral-bound notebook, open on an unused page, a biro, a tube of Tipp-ex, another biro, a pencil, and a rubber. She found herself in possession of all of these. In addition to this, she had on the table before her the knife they had found in room 106, on the first floor, the blade of which shone faintly under the warm light of an array of halogen lamps that Jones had turned on since their arrival.
It was time to write her report; according to Praedatori protocol, a report was the first course of action taken by any hunter in a situation where their life was not ostensibly at risk. In this report, they should detail any activity they took part in, as well as any information noted about any Lamiae or traces of Lamiae encountered, for the benefit of both themselves and future hunters, who were expected to use the reports of others in order to further their own abilities in the field. With a function of such great import, it was unsurprising that Claire was already experienced in their writing, and that Jones was eager to avoid them.
But then, Jones wasn't the only one; had she had any choice in the matter, Claire would never have sat down to write it in the first place, and would have immediately joined her comrade in doing anything else. However, this was impossible. Though the report she wrote would not contain any information about particular Lamiae, as they had encountered none, the confirmation that the asylum was empty was just as important as that of its inhabitation would have been, had they discovered it. Any information regarding Lamiae - or even regarding the previous lairs of Lamiae - was information that could be used, and the more information the Praedatori had, the more certain their chances of future victory against the creatures. For the sake of this, writing a report was no large sacrifice, no matter how dull it seemed.
That said, upon writing the report, Claire was unsure it provided anything useful at all with regards to the asylum; the building was, by all accounts, exactly the same as it had been fifteen years ago, when Theodore Taite had died - or rather, when Theodore Taite's body had been removed, along with the corpses of the Lamiae he'd slain - save for a few new leaks in the roof, and a shattered window or two on the second floor.
Save for these, and the knife.
Really, the knife was the only result of their search worth noting, and Claire made sure to do this, detailing exactly the manner in which it was found - in one of the drawers of a stiff roll-top desk, which Jones had both broken and fixed again in his attempts to retrieve the object - as well as its appearance. On the latter of these, there was much to say, and both she and her companion were somewhat perplexed, for several reasons. Firstly, it was unmistakably of Praedatori origin; upon its hilt was clearly emblazoned the heavily layered flower crest of the organisation, albeit without the customary motto that accompanied it. There was no likelihood that the design had been replicated by accident, and so it must have followed that the item had come from their own people.
Who of their own people, though, remained very much a mystery, which the knife did little to counteract; in fact, it seemed to carry just as much confusion as it cleared, if not more, and Claire didn't know at all what to make of it.
It was not large in size - in fact, it was considerably smaller than a knife of standard issue, both thinner and lighter than the majority of blades either she or Jones had seen - and was odd in colour, to say the least. Well, its blade was, at any rate; its hilt was unremarkable, black in colour, and perhaps lacquered wood. Whatever it was, it wasn't nearly as interesting as the blade to which it was attached. From appearances, Claire guessed it was ceramic, which was uncommon, although not unheard of - certainly, their sharpness could be useful, and some hunters found them practical in hand-to-hand combat with Lamiae, but their brittleness often outweighed whatever good they might do in the field - but it was of a colour she had never seen before in a weapon, nor even heard mentioned, but that she might have described as somewhat akin to a sunset. At one edge, its colour sunk to a deep pink, which faded out into a pastel nothingness, which itself then curled and marbled into pale orange, sliding over the point in a cascade of soft, warm colour which seemed far more beautiful than any knife had any right to be. 
Of course, Claire wasn't going to write that. Her description would be concise, correct, useful. In the report, the knife's blade was merely unconventional, pink and orange in colour, and ceramic. Anything more was unnecessary, and she had no reason to include it.
And that was that.
She finished the report in good time, her reason for this mostly being that, really, there was nothing useful she had to say; after nearly two decades of disuse, the asylum had remained for the most part unchanged, save for a few more leaks in the pipes and a few more cracks in the windows - even the hideout itself remained still, and silent, without any sign of having been touched since the Praedatori last surveyed it. Whilst a relief, such uneventfulness seemed almost disappointingly anticlimactic, even for Claire.
But then, she was happy with anticlimactic. She was happy with the hideout, and whilst she didn't show it, she was pleased that Jones had coerced her into staying the night there; though perhaps not the most technically correct of practices, it was the most convenient, and she was glad at the thought of not having to repeat the journey between the town and the asylum twice in a single day, especially on such a day as this had been - the rain had only worsened after they left the café, and the trail to their destination had been, for the most part, right in the teeth of the wind, leaving them exposed to both the cold and the wet from every side. Perhaps, had only the weather been an issue, it would have been bearable, if not particularly pleasant, but this was not the case; for, added to the inconvenience of the trip, there was a distinct and worrying element of danger in the pathway, which wound haphazardly around the tops of cliffs and crests of hills, veering perilously close to the drop to the grey-blue sea below, and without any form of rail or barrier in case one were to fall. Thankfully, neither of them had, and they had made it here without danger, but fear remained in the back of Claire's mind about making the journey again, and so she was - though it surprised her - content, for the moment at least.
Really, she had no reason not to be; the hideout was comfortable, and warm, which certainly couldn't be said for the asylum above it. Yes, the air was a little stale, but it wasn't necessarily unpleasant, and it was better than she'd expected. To be fair, though, she hadn't expected much, and half of what she had found here would have exceeded her expectations. As it was, she was almost - but not quite - blown away.
Though not large, the place provided all - and more - the two of them needed: several sleeping areas, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen, all of which were fully stocked and habitable, as well as spotlessly clean. In addition to this, Jones had been delighted to find a TV in the centre of an arrangement of ugly second-hand lounge furniture, which he had promptly plugged in, finding himself nearly crushed when he discovered that it was impossible to watch anything on it, and then completely revived by the discovery of a DVD player tucked beneath it.
Claire had watched this without fuss, but she, too, accepted that it was pleasant. It was, perhaps, queerly silent, but such silence was welcome to her - it, in combination with the muted colour of the place, was exactly what she needed to write.
In fact, it might have been a bit too pleasant - there was something inherently welcoming in the place, despite its blandness, and it made her feel almost as if she never wanted to leave. What did Fidèle and Lucy matter - heck, what did the Praedatori matter - if she could stay here, safe beneath the ground in a haven of peace?
She let such a thought brew in her mind for a few seconds, simmering quietly as she regarded it with an amused awareness of its impossibility, before it was shattered abruptly by the interruption of Jones, who glanced towards her, and then spoke:
"Say," he began, his voice teetering with a shifty lilt most often adopted by small children currying favour with their elders, "are you... Are you hungry at all, Clairy-fairy?"
She shrugged.
"Not particularly. Why do you-"
"Don't worry;" he interrupted, a wide grin on his face, "I'll get dinner on."
Claire made to protest, but in vain; before she had the chance to form a word on her tongue, he was gone, disappearing into the kitchen with great purpose and determination. Despite herself, she smiled, and turned back to the report.
She was never going to remain here if he did.