Some People Chain Smoke...to Cope??

Midoriko’s meeting with the Russian man seemed to go unnoticed by Westbrook. She had just used the wet clothes as an opportunity to do laundry, so it wasn’t unusual for them to be hanging to dry in her room. The broken teacup was disposed of, and he didn’t seem to miss it.

If he did happen to notice she’d left the house, even just for a moment, then it didn’t matter because she was still there.

It had been five days since she was brought to England against her will. At first, Midoriko tried to keep track of the dates and times between there and Japan with the geographic difference, but gave up after a couple of days. She wasn’t entirely sure what day of the week it was now–she’d stopped checking.

After eating dinner that night, Midoriko went straight back to the study. She’d managed to sort through over half the collection with Xiǎomíng’s help, but had taken it upon herself to continue working on it into the evening.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and Midoriko was willing to trust Westbrook to let her go after completing this task–assuming the Russian man wasn’t going to come back. Was that even someone she could trust? The thought nagged at her.

While Midoriko was deep in thought, Westbrook quietly observed her from behind his desk. She was quite diligent and thorough. He’d looked through the notebook once or twice during the process to see that she had left very organized notes about each object. Suwa Midoriko was an expert, after all.

Xiǎomíng was just writing down the object and confirmation that it was cursed when he took notes. But Westbrook noticed that a different style of handwriting would provide additional annotations–what kind of aura the curse gave off, whether Xiǎomíng had guessed correctly, and the nature of each curse if it was known.

As he watched her work, Westbrook wanted nothing more than to bother her. He wanted to pick her brain, learn everything there was to know about her incredible and rare ability. But instead, he contented himself to watch while he shuffled papers around under the pretense of his own important work. People like her loathe being disrupted when in the zone.

“Where did you get this?” Midoriko asked, holding up a painted wooden Orthodox Christian icon depicting an old man adorned in crosses.

Westbrook perked up. He loved it when she asked questions about the collection. “I got that one in Russia.”

Midoriko looked back at the icon–an expression of deep concern flashed across her face before vanishing.

“Ah. Yes, I seem to recall you also speak Russian,” she said, coldly.

“Well?” Westbrook pressed. Is it cursed or not?

“It’s not cursed. But do you know what this is?” Midoriko asked him.

“Nope!” And frankly, he didn’t really care unless it was actually cursed. He hated the thought of having wasted all that time collecting fakes. Westbrook started rolling a cigarette, already bored with the conversation.

Midoriko sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. She still couldn’t get used to this man and his whimsical ways. “You stole this without even really understanding what you were taking?”

“Well, as I said before, I steal anything that’s rumored to have powers to keep it away from bad actors,” he said, licking the rolling paper closed. “I learned that hideous work of art had something to do with curses, so I wanted it.”

“This religious icon depicts a man known as Saint Cyprian of Antioch,” she started to explain.

“Oh, are you a Christian?” Westbrook interrupted. Midoriko watched as he lit his cigarette with his thumb, showing off that trick again.

“No, I’m not Christian. This particular Saint just came up a lot in my research.” The strange, sickly smell from his cigarette started to fill the room. Midoriko crinkled her nose and continued. “He’s the Patron Saint of the Occult.”

“Really? I didn’t know there was something like that,” he said, taking a drag off his cigarette.

“Well, I…cough…went down a rabbit hole once when I learned about him…cough…There are pretty much Saints for everything…cough…including murder.” Midoriko started coughing as the second-hand smoke irritated her throat.

“But this guy…cough..is favored by witches and sorcerers…cough cough…so they like to pray to him for spell–cough–casting and dealing with curses…cough cough cough…”

She was coughing uncontrollably now as Westbrook continually took deep, long drags off his cigarette, exhaling more and more smoke into the room.

“Do you fucking mind?!” Midoriko snapped, startling him. It was rare for her to curse. “Is it necessary for you to constantly do that?! At least open a window or go outside!”

“Yes! It is, in fact, necessary for me to constantly do this,” Westbrook retorted, raising his voice slightly. He held the cigarette up. “These aren’t ordinary cigarettes! I cut the herbal blend with opium because I’m in constant pain, for your information!”

“Opium?! Opium?!” Midoriko jumped up from the floor and slammed her hands on his desk. She was beside herself at the utter audacity of this man.

“Say it louder, I don’t think they heard you on the ISS!” The cigarette burned between his fingers, creating a long trail of ash that dropped off as he gesticulated. “I grow the poppies myself, for myself, so I don’t see what the problem is…”

Westbrook leaned back in his chair and brought the cigarette to his mouth, only to realize it had burned itself down to the filter while they were arguing. He clicked his tongue and smashed it into an ashtray.

Midoriko noticed he was only wearing a glove on his right hand at this moment. She never saw him without it on–he only seemed to take the left one off during meal times. Westbrook clenched and unclenched his gloved hand repeatedly.

“Does your pain have something to do with that?” she asked, pointing to his right hand.

“Ah. Right. Xiǎomíng already let slip that I’m cursed,” he mumbled while looking at his gloved hand. “I guess I don’t need to hide it from you anymore.”

Midoriko watched as Westbrook moved his hand under the desk for a moment. He slapped the brown leather glove on the desk while making eye contact with her, then rolled his shirt sleeve up to the elbow.

“This…” he said, slamming his elbow on the desk, raising his forearm. Midoriko’s eyes widened. “...Is extremely painful.”

Westbrook’s right arm was completely pitch black–from the tips of his fingers to his elbow and beyond. If it wasn’t for the fact that his skin looked otherwise normal, it would have resembled the most severe frostbite. It was like his arm had been dipped in paint.

“It goes from here…” With his left hand, he motioned from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. “...To here.”

Now, with the skin free, the smell was stronger than ever. Midoriko finally understood what she was smelling on him–the scent of his cologne mixed with the scent of his curse.

She couldn’t help herself. She was presented with something fascinating, and the scholar part of her brain took over. Midoriko took his cursed hand in hers.

Westbrook flinched in surprise, but Midoriko appeared to be too engrossed with the hand itself to notice. Like petting a timid cat for the first time, this moment felt too precious for him to make any noise or sudden movements, so he stayed still. He could ask questions later.

She stroked the back of his hand with her fingers, which felt warm against his skin. Her feather-light touch sent shivers through his body. Midoriko brought Westbrook’s hand to her nose and sniffed.

She pondered the smell for a moment, then sniffed again. “Smells like resin.”

“What does?” he asked quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper.

“Your curse. At first, I thought it was your cologne…” Midoriko trailed off. She pinched his palm between her index finger and thumb. The feeling sent a jolt of electricity through his body. “You said it hurts? What does it feel like?”

“Pins and needles. Tingly. Like when you sleep weird on your arm, and it’s gone numb when you wake up,” he explained, watching her hands as she examined his like a valuable treasure.

“Fascinating…” she whispered.

She hadn’t let go of his hand yet, and Westbrook couldn’t bring himself to pull it away either. He had noticed it faintly during their scuffle in the museum, but when she touched him, the pain and numbness seemed to go away.

However, the moment was cut short when Xiǎomíng burst into the study unannounced.

“Master!”

Midoriko yanked her hands away from Westbrook, grabbing something off the desk to pretend like she had been standing there to retrieve that thing in the first place.

“What is it, Xiǎomíng?” Westbrook asked, drumming his fingers on the desk. He cast Midoriko a quick sideways glance–she was facing away from him, but her neck was unmistakably red. His mouth curved into a slight smirk.

“It’s urgent! We have to talk!”

The boy looked at Midoriko, who was absentmindedly standing off to the side.

“Alone,” he added.

Westbrook waved off Midoriko. She rushed out of the room without much of a fight, closing the door behind herself.

She had made it all the way to her room when she realized she was still clutching something in her hands. Midoriko looked down to find herself holding the small, clay Congolese fetish. She didn’t mean to take it with her!

Her face still felt hot. Just what the hell was she thinking? It was like she saw that cursed arm of his and lost all reason. Was that the reason why he was amassing all those items? Was he trying to find something to break that curse? It didn’t dissipate when she touched it either.

She wanted to know more. Take notes on it. Study it. When did he become cursed? How did he become cursed? What exactly is the curse?

Midoriko looked at the clay figure in her hands. Well, at least this is an excuse to go back…

When she reached the study again, she could hear hushed arguing through the door.

“--saw people outside at the tree line. But I couldn’t see them.” That was Xiǎomíng’s voice. Was he telling Westbrook what had happened a few nights ago? Midoriko stopped herself from entering and listened.

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Westbrook’s tone was stern, like a parent disappointed in their child’s grades.

“Well, when she looked again, they were apparently gone. You’re the one who said she hit her head! I thought she was seeing things!”

“I never said that…”

Xiǎomíng groaned. “Well, whatever. I found footprints in the mud on the property. Between that and the men Miss Suwa saw…”

Midoriko pressed her ear to the door to listen more closely.

“If this house has been compromised, we’ll have to move–” Westbrook’s sentence was cut short.

What does he mean by move?! Midoriko felt her stomach drop.

Xiǎomíng switched to Mandarin. “一只老鼠正在偷听.”

“明白了,” responded Westbrook.

Damn it! They knew she was there, didn’t they? That’s why they switched.

Midoriko tip-toed down the hallway back to her room, trying not to let her internal panic take hold.

***

The atmosphere inside the study was tense. While it sounded like she left, they continued speaking in Mandarin.

Westbrook let out a long, deep sigh. “It really is a shame…”

“What is?”

“I was going to let Miss Suwa go soon, but I guess that’s been moved up,” he lamented.

Xiǎomíng was surprised. He hadn’t expected his master to let her go so easily–especially not after everything she’d learned about him. But his master always made carefully calculated decisions.

“We’ll go to the house in Gunma and lay low for a little while,” Westbrook explained. He was always calm in a crisis, something Xiǎomíng admired greatly about him. “Pack up because we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Xiǎomíng bowed. He would follow his savior to the ends of the Earth and the pits of hell.