The streets were dark, but they always were. Lavalles was the most alive these precious hours of the night, the city of lights. She drew in a deep breath, a small pirouette given to take in the full sights of the lanterns that swung over the park yard that stretched around her. The open air and the quiet privacy of the dark water lake so nearby with its gently lapping waves with the breeze gave her a strange sense of peace. She toppled playfully into the large snow drift behind her. Another small detail she was grateful for. Death had robbed her of her warmth, allowing the cold to find no purchase upon her.

The winter months were gorgeous, pale and reflecting even the faint evanescence of the moon far over head. She appreciated that gentle dormancy of the trees. They shed their flesh, baring only their skeletons to view, a privilege that she felt many others gravely looked over or ignored completely. Typical. None appreciated a flower without her petals.

Her sainted reverie was disturbed by the sudden appearance of one dark and familiar. She would tilt her head at him, but like all the other times, he would not speak to her. He was not like the others that shared her skull. As per his usual, he would fade, even from her view, only to appear a short distance from her. He would once again turn, expectant of her, and as she began to follow, he would repeat this process. It brought a bittersweet inclination to her musings, overshadowing the carefree young lady that could even be seen tempting the sunlight with a giggle.

She brushed her hair from her shoulder, pulling it upwards as she unleashed the ribbon from her wrist to restrain it near the apex of her head. Tightening it, she would brush the lingering snow and ice from her dress. "Why does he never call to me?" She inquired of the man, knowing full well that he would give her no answer. At least this time he turned the empty of his hollow sockets upon her and she would purse her lips in response. If he had eyes, they would have rolled. She could feel it.

She couldn't help the giggle that the imagery elicited. The sound died as the wraith drifted through the barrier of a door, one of her bonded's haunts, she supposed. She placed a palm to the surface, feeling the biting threat of the wooden material like an electric raze through her fingertips. A brief exchange of sobering reality, followed by a knock.

He sat at his desk, listening to the voices and music through the wall. Laughter echoed, the shrill screams of delight close behind. The clink of glassware as drinks were poured and the scent of sweet smoke from burning cigars. The revelry of the masses, packing the bar thick. With them came other unfamiliar faces he hadn’t quite learned to block or filter through. Specters moved through his wall, their pleading eyes seeking his own, their mouths moving rapidly, struggling to speak through whatever void separated them, but he was unable to hear them. He kept his gaze pointedly on the open ledgers before him, running through the numbers and accounts silently. Disheveled black hair tangled around his face, his long coat was thrown over the back of his chair, leaving his dark shirt open to the cool night air. The black cane rested against the desk, easily within his grasp if he needed it.

A featherlight touch brushed against the tension in his neck, eerily familiar, breaking his concentration. He turned to see Amara’s face, half beautiful and familiar, a smile on her lips. The other half also smiled, skin ripped away to expose a haunting skeletal grin. Her empty eye socket seemed to glare, staring down at him with rage, pushing its way into his blackened soul. A familiar knife was pressed into her still bleeding chest, one hand clutched to its hilt. Her face was a breath away from his, what remained of her mouth mockingly close. He sat frozen, as though he could no longer control the muscles in his own body.

Long skeletal fingers reached for him, jagged sharp nails that threatened to rip his throat apart. He lurched from the seat, his shadows coiling around him defensively when a knock sounded at the door. The woman was gone, as though she’d never stood there at all. Matthias sighed heavily, feeling the cold sweat that had broken out over his flesh. Frustrated, he grabbed the cane and limped towards the door, pulling it open without a word.

A familiar face greeted him, savior and warden all in one. The dead woman who’d saved his life so long ago. He could feel his soul call out at the sight of her, part of him aching and grateful for her gift. The other recoiled, angry and bitter at the sight of her for pulling him from death’s grasp in that unhallowed field. Matthias knew he had been meant to die there beside his family. He wasn’t sure if Amara haunted him from her gift or because of the dark powers he’d foolishly tried to use to bring her back, corroding her sweet soul into the venomous thing she had become. He should have known she was close by with so many spirits wondering about. "Persephone," he spoke her name, a mix of reverence and disdain, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

They swarmed here. These lost and vagrant souls to which nothing belonged to any longer, not even the peace of death able to console them for one reason or another. Regret, a need for vengeance, a weeping sadness that ran far too deep for any but they to truly understand. Regardless of their reasons, they understood not why even the after life rejected them, failing to realize it was their very own selves that halted their progression forward into that calming rest or the next chapter of a story without a true end. She loved them, these books that only she and a few select others could read.

Pages he was privy to.

She smiled up at him as his imposing figure met her at the door. Her hands clasped behind her back as she rocked back and forth slightly from her heels to the tips of her toes. She could never quite get over how intimidating he always looked. Dark and towering, a looming figure of dread to some perhaps. Yet the intimidation was lost upon her, a being very well acquainted with horrors far beyond the comprehension of mortality - and also what those terrors were capable of. Though her own death and revival varied if but just slightly to those that haunted the current space.

"Persephone," she would sharpen her attention upon his face as he greeted her, sight having drifted to the ghoulish apparition of a woman she often witnessed in his company. Her details always hazy, and her distance always kept, one she felt chilled to behold. Unnatural, even in loving death's arms. She would raise her hand, a snap of her fingers dismissing the collective pool of distracting spirits. Though those without close proximity were still free to roam, she would grant the two of them a moment's peace. "-to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Matthias." His name was returned, though her intonation was simply one of fondness, like one would a beloved they hadn't seen in some time, jovial even. "Have you always been so tall?" The hum, while partially joking, was still slaked in curiosity. Perhaps it had truly just been quite some time since last she had been before him. Regardless she would reach out her finger tips towards him in an effort to brush his arm softly, dancing dangerously close to the silver top of his cane should he not pull away. "I came to see if you would like to have dinner with me." While the words were partially truth, the both of them knew she would simply accompany him rather than dine herself for fear of making him uncomfortable. The edges of her eyes softened, knowing well the anguish he had recently suffered. She hoped he had taken care of himself well, but she had her doubts. Mortal medicine could not quell his ailments.