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Buildings and people were rushing past, windows and faces a blur of an unfocused lens. Wind blowing in ears, the persistent tap of soles on concrete, and surprised yelps echoing all around. A man barely jumped out of the way, an angry yell escaping his lips, shoulder crashing into another. Almas kept running, delight bubbling in her stomach. She glanced behind briefly to shout: "Make haste, Ollie!"
"This is me making haste as we speak," came a call of reply laced with huffs of effort.
A giggle escaped her lips as she slowed her steps into a stride and halted, gaze wondering. London was grayer than she remembered it to be, though Almas couldn't decide whether it was uglier or prettier. The smell had certainly improved as the distant scent of a storm inched nearer without being clouded by the pungent odor of— Almas heard something topple over and looked beside her to see that that something, no someone, was a very sweaty Ulysses Iago, clutching his stomach and panting like a dog. As if sensing a remark from her part, he whipped out his arm, shushing her with the point of his index finger. So Almas only looked forward with hands on her hips and eyes narrowed, an explorer on a voyage.
"Carriage?" Ulysses managed. "They've invented carriages. Open for use."
Almas only shrugged as a response, not a single sign of strain showing in her stature. She could feel Ulysses' annoyed gaze assessing her as the boy straightened also, comically brushing and adjusting the collar of his coat. "Is this not more refreshing? The air on your face and filling your lungs?" Almas remarked.
"Ah, the smell of piss from the corners of the streets." Ulysses looked at her blankly. "To die for."
"It certainly has improved."
"When did you become such an optimist?"
"I'm simply stating a well-assessed observation."
"With a nose that has stopped working, apparently."
Almas smacked his shoulder.
Like all the other starless dark hours that settled, it had been an especially busy one in London— so busy that the pouring chit-chat from the clusters of people making their ways through the misty streets seemed to be enough to make it all seem a bit lighter. Now that the clocks struck midnight, ones in need of security were slowly retreating behind the safety of their houses and flats, leaving the peculiar behind. The Bohemians, the scandalous, members of the Downworld, and even a mix of all, occupied the pavements and tracks of London, finding their security and their freedom in the comforting night.
Fleet Street was busier than usual, which wasn't surprising since the Devil Tavern was accepting almost everyone who desired a release from their pains; ones who wanted to express their joy, bottle their anger, forget their fears, spill their secrets or overhear new ones. The Devil was a simple place, really: The oblivious mundanes that could not see through the fabricated curtains of glamour were not welcome, and the Nephilim were not to step foot inside either. There were a few exceptions, of course.
