Having hit up a few of his London contacts already this month - or at least, having attempted to; the murder that the Prophet had put down to a potential vampire attack had unsettled no shortage of people - Ishmael had returned to the caverns in Hogsmeade to try some of the slum folk instead.
Besides, he didn't like to live in Monty's pocket, didn't like to make out that he orbited him and wasn't capable of anything else. The caverns afforded him some space, some independence, some contact with his own kind (mixed bag that they were). Rolling his eyes, he parted ways from a bickering pair in one of the caverns - they'd be at it a while yet, they'd barely notice him slinking off - and picked his way back towards his own.
He flung a few more pieces of kindling on the fire he'd left burning - they were so isolated, this far in the forest, that trying to conceal their presence was hardly necessary; if anyone approached, it'd be a poor, desperately lost human, drawn like a moth to the (literal) flame - and Ishmael, though he possessed plenty of restraint, wasn't usually one to turn away snacks were they to wander right into his lap.
He'd just been about to pick up the Count of Monte Cristo again (he'd never been much of a reader before, but, then again, an afterlife stretching emptily out in front of you drove you to odder things than books), when he heard the rustle of branches and bushes - near, very near.
It had to be an animal, Ishmael had just thought, though most prey knew by now not to venture too close to the caverns, because they did very well at quenching some of the inhabitants' thirst. He stood, silent and listening, and then circled round the fire and headed towards the thicket line. And there, he saw her. He hadn't smelled blood at her approach - humans continued to reek of it, after all his years bridling his reaction to it - but he also didn't recognise her, which would be... rare.
He stepped up, better into her eyeline, wondering whether he had been mistaken. She'd called hello?, though, which begged conversation as first call. (Ishmael was more than happy to oblige. He was also exceptionally pleased to be first on the scene: the caverns so rarely had visitors; everyone else would quite jealous.)
"Well, well, well," Ishmael drawled, though there was a glint of actual interest in his eyes, an interest that was, for the moment, eclipsing instinctive wariness. He was on familiar terrain, at least, so he'd likely have the upper hand. "What do we have here?" Or who, rather.
Besides, he didn't like to live in Monty's pocket, didn't like to make out that he orbited him and wasn't capable of anything else. The caverns afforded him some space, some independence, some contact with his own kind (mixed bag that they were). Rolling his eyes, he parted ways from a bickering pair in one of the caverns - they'd be at it a while yet, they'd barely notice him slinking off - and picked his way back towards his own.
He flung a few more pieces of kindling on the fire he'd left burning - they were so isolated, this far in the forest, that trying to conceal their presence was hardly necessary; if anyone approached, it'd be a poor, desperately lost human, drawn like a moth to the (literal) flame - and Ishmael, though he possessed plenty of restraint, wasn't usually one to turn away snacks were they to wander right into his lap.
He'd just been about to pick up the Count of Monte Cristo again (he'd never been much of a reader before, but, then again, an afterlife stretching emptily out in front of you drove you to odder things than books), when he heard the rustle of branches and bushes - near, very near.
It had to be an animal, Ishmael had just thought, though most prey knew by now not to venture too close to the caverns, because they did very well at quenching some of the inhabitants' thirst. He stood, silent and listening, and then circled round the fire and headed towards the thicket line. And there, he saw her. He hadn't smelled blood at her approach - humans continued to reek of it, after all his years bridling his reaction to it - but he also didn't recognise her, which would be... rare.
He stepped up, better into her eyeline, wondering whether he had been mistaken. She'd called hello?, though, which begged conversation as first call. (Ishmael was more than happy to oblige. He was also exceptionally pleased to be first on the scene: the caverns so rarely had visitors; everyone else would quite jealous.)
"Well, well, well," Ishmael drawled, though there was a glint of actual interest in his eyes, an interest that was, for the moment, eclipsing instinctive wariness. He was on familiar terrain, at least, so he'd likely have the upper hand. "What do we have here?" Or who, rather.
