I point at the amphitheater. “What’s that?” Then I point at the pyramid. “Also, what’s that?” Then I point at the people. “Also also, why the fuck are there so many people here? I know you said this place was a city but I was genuinely not expecting a whole city’s worth of people. Was everyone here taken from other worlds?”

Bashekehi isn’t even fazed at this point, which is really quite rude of him. “Lair of the Beast, the Pyraplex, and those aren’t people.”

My plans to interrogate those first two points are immediately derailed by the third. “Eh? Not people?” I peer at the passersby closely, expecting to see that they all lack faces or have identical faces or some other strangeness like glitching out or being slightly translucent, but no dice; they look as real as can be.

Cheshire manifests next to me in a swirl of smoke and winks at the incubus. “I’ll handle this one. I speak her language.”

Bashe rolls his eyes and starts walking in a seemingly random direction. “Be my guest, but let’s keep moving. I saw a good falafel stand on my grocery run and I want to grab some before we talk about your food.” Ooo, falafel!

Cheshire and I follow, the catgirl walking like a person this time. “So,” she begins, “do you remember that old thought experiment about philosophical zombies?”

“Of course,” I reply. Then I blink a few times as the implication hits me. “Wait. Okay, just to be clear: you’re talking about the idea of a person who looks like a person and acts like a person but isn’t a person, right? A simulacrum that can mimic all the observable traits of personhood but lacks consciousness?”

Cheshire gives me a thumbs-up. “Got it in one, babe. We’re talking about someone that would scream in pain if you stabbed them, but can’t actually feel that pain. They’re just going through the motions.”

I frown at the crowd around us as we follow Bashe through the streets of Sanctuary 7. “You’re saying all these people are fake? A whole city of p-zombies?”

Cheshire nods. “We call them ‘figments.’ They’re a feature of any throne world, but the ones in the Labyrinth have a few special rules. Aside from not actually being able to feel anything or think anything, the figments of the Sanctuaries will always act like the Labyrinth’s idea of perfect citizens: they can’t commit crimes, they forgive easily, and they are incapable of harming anyone.”

That is… vaguely creepy. “How do they stop someone from stealing or murdering? Are there other figments that can do harm, at least in defense of innocents?”

“Nope!” Cheshire chirps cheerily. “In fact, since none of the figments can break the law, they don’t even have law enforcement here. The only real consequences are social consequences, but since you can just take what you want even that isn’t really a big deal.”

Okay, that’s even creepier. “Those sound less like perfect citizens and more like perfect victims,” I mutter.

Cheshire winks at me. “Don’t they just?”

I chew on that idea and a question comes to mind. “Did Katoptris make the figments, or are they just a byproduct of making the Labyrinth?”

The catgirl taps her chin in consideration as we weave through more people and keep close to Bashe. “I would argue that the distinction is irrelevant; whether she intended her figments to be perfect victims or not, that’s the result. If we look to the throne worlds of other Royalty we see that the figments of their realms always reflect some quality of Royalty or of how that Royalty sees the world: Indulgence fills her world with hedonists, Acuity’s figments perform neverending military exercises, and the figments of the Wolf Queen’s Arcadia are prey to be hunted. Perhaps Katoptris intended this, perhaps not, but either way it speaks to her perspective.”

Bashe interrupts before I can respond. “Philosophy aside, here’s the practical: this city doesn’t have money and the figments will freely give you whatever you need to survive. Hungry?”

“Always,” I respond automatically while I try to parse the vast implications of that statement.

Bashe veers off the main road–it’s not accurate to call it sidewalk because without cars people go straight down the middle–and brings us to a food cart selling falafel pita wraps that have my mouth watering.

I glance over at Cheshire, who is still walking about instead of lurking inside my shadow. “Do you eat?” I ask the mysterious catgirl.

The geist shrugs. “I don’t need to eat, but I can consume and taste if you let me. You just have to manifest me, which I can teach you how to do.” She makes one of her signature wide-mouthed grins. “It’ll be good practice for when you need to manifest me for a fight.”

Interesting. Definitely want to learn how to do that. Bashe orders two falafel wraps and I quickly butt in to say, “Make that three.”

The incubus raises an eyebrow at me before shrugging and confirming with the vendor. Or, well, I guess vendor isn’t the right word? The cook, maybe? True to his word, Bashe doesn’t hand over any money and the woman who takes his order doesn’t seem to mind.

Cheshire takes my free hand in both of her hands and holds my gaze, and I force myself not to tense up at the sudden contact. She says, “As a demon, not all of your abilities require mana. The changes to your appearance didn’t take mana, and among other benefits you can manifest your geist without spending mana. You will need to use an anchor, however.”

I frown, a thought tickling my brain. “When I killed the sin eater, it left behind a clay heart instead of a corpse. Was that an anchor?”

Cheshire grins. “It was. If you want me to fight by your side, it’ll be worth making an anchor object as purpose-built as that one was, but for a simple bit of eating you can use pretty much anything with physicality. Your cloak would work, or the notebook. You’ve staked both of them as ‘yours,’ and that helps.”

I pout, since I like both of those quite a bit. A new outfit is on the docket eventually, so I could feasibly ditch the cloak, but ditching the notebook would free a hand. “Do I get it back at some point? Like, if I gave you my notebook as an anchor, would I be able to use the notebook again or would it be gone forever?”

“You’ll get it back,” Cheshire assures me, “unless someone destroys my manifestation in the time between manifesting and getting a better anchor.”

“Hmm.” I glance around. Odds of a fight breaking out in the next few hours or so?

Higher than I’d like. Still, the notebook is already pretty damaged and the cloak has an actual function, so…

“Alright, use the notebook.” I offer the item in question and she lays a hand on it but doesn’t take it from me yet, other hand still holding mine.

Cheshire says, “Manifestation is an act of will. You’re telling Pandaemonium that something exists which didn’t a moment ago. That would be pretty tricky to do entirely mentally, so demons have an aide: an incantation that Pandaemonium recognizes and can thus shortcut most of the process. All you have to do is think of me, hold the anchor, say the words, and will it to happen. Make sense?”

I nod affirmatively and force myself to actually focus on Cheshire’s physicality: shorter than me (only by a few inches), lean and scrappy, pale and white-haired, cat ears and heterochromatic eyes, swishing tail, and that JRPG-looking outfit. Her face is impish, somehow looking mischievous even in those rare moments that she’s not smiling.

“When you’ve got a good image, recite this incantation: ‘By my will, let this object become your anchor, and let the stuff of dreams become your body. Rise, geist, and fulfill my design.’ Oh, and don’t be afraid to personalize it! That’ll actually help forge the connection.”

This magic system is absurd and I love it. I take a deep breath, let it out, and straighten my posture. “By my will, let this notebook become your anchor, and let the stuff of dreams become your body. Rise, Cheshire, and fulfill my design.”

The image, the anchor, the words, and my will. Rise, Cheshire. I will the geist to take form and to move with the weight of physicality. I will her to manifest through false matter, just one more lie in a world seemingly made of them. And the world hears me. The world hears my request–or perhaps my plea, or my command–and answers. The notebook vanishes in shadow and smoke, and something about Cheshire changes.

It’s like when you only notice a noise by its sudden absence; I never consciously felt that there was something immaterial about Cheshire’s presence, at least not beyond the obvious, but now there’s a realness to her form that wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s like she wasn’t really there a moment ago, but now she is.

The catgirl stretches luxuriously in a way that does very interesting things to her body, and she winks at me when my gaze flits to her face out of self-conscious habit. She does it just to fuck with me, doesn’t she? I stick my tongue out at the creature and she laughs at my childishness.

Bashe interrupts by shoving two pita wraps at me, which I retrieve daintily like the elegant lady that I definitely am. I pass one of the wraps off to Cheshire and tear into mine like a starving beast, devouring the falafel with the frenzy of someone who didn’t have breakfast, like, a couple hours ago. It is delicious: rich and herby and warm, with all that wonderful veggie goodness you’d expect from a meal like this. This was one of my favorite meals during the couple of years I went vegetarian.

Bashe and Cheshire eat like normal people, so I’m done well before them and have time to check my mana again while they finish. I felt a bit more coming in during my meal, so I cycle through all three spells and compare the results: [Prey Upon] has the fullest gauge at nearly a third, while [Exsanguinate] still has barely a sliver of the required mana and [Carrion Swarm] is at maybe a tenth or an eleventh. I suppose it’s only sensible that violently ripping the blood from someone’s veins should cost a bit more than summoning a few bugs and rats.

That same headache pounds at me when I try to focus on each spell diagram. It’s still difficult to tell any kind of pattern in the symbology, but I do recognize one icon that I’ve seen before: the black-on-black mark of the Abyss, now nestled inside [Prey Upon]. Is that an element, or an oneiron? Both this and [Abyssal Armament] eat souls, but the details are significantly different between them, so maybe this represents the elemental Abyss?

An incredibly reckless idea comes to me, and unlike prior showings I have enough fear in me to hesitate and hold off, wary of dire consequences. If our working theory is that the symbol stands for elemental Abyss, could we crack it open and see the oneiros inside? Would we face backlash for such an act? Risk of the Abyss lapping at my soul?

Is that any riskier than trusting Cheshire?

I dismiss the spell diagram and see the catgirl in question watching me, pita wrap consumed, a curious glint in her blue-and-yellow eyes. When she notices my attention return to my surroundings she winks and asks, “Fun daydream? Kiss any cute girls?”

Do we respond to that? Do we just ignore it? Do we try to tease her back? I choose to change the subject instead. “Bashe! Where’s a good place to feed?”

Bashe has also finished his food and rolls his shoulders before answering, “Depends. Remind me what you feed on?”

“Blood, love, and fear,” I list off.

“And violence!” Cheshire adds with a grin.

“So blood, love, fear, and violence,” I correct.

“Right,” the incubus mutters. “Okay, that makes it pretty fuckin’ easy. See all the figments wandering about?” Bashe gestures at the not-quite-people going from place to place all around us. “Pick one, shove them into a dark alley, and do whatever you want with them.”

I deflate a little. Well that makes it sound downright dreadful. “That’s it? Just grab a rando off the street and chow down? That seems… both too easy and very unsatisfying. You know I can’t cast any spells yet, right?”

“You don’t need spells. Have you not been paying attention? They can’t fight back, they can’t do anything to you. They’re not real people.”

I shiver. That’s so fucking terrifying. I watch the figments passing by, every one of them looking like an ordinary human being. But apparently they’re not, and nobody would stop me if I decided to just murder one of them. What the fuck is wrong with this place?

Do I have to kill to feed? I don’t know how to feel about that thought. I feel hesitant, but is that because of some shriveled sense of conscience, or is it the remnants of social programming? It’s not like I haven’t thought about… murder. I always said I wouldn’t because I was afraid of going to jail, not because of any moral objection, but is that just edgelord posturing?

Can I become a murderer? Do I have that in me?

I don’t know that I’m ready to find out. The thing in the school, the sin eater guarding Bashe, they didn’t feel like people to me; they were clearly monsters, and clearly trying to kill me, so it was just self-defense. It wasn’t really murder, even if I might callously call it that when being flippant. I’m not a murderer. Not yet.

What are you more afraid of: that you might not have it in you to murder someone… or that it’ll be a whole lot easier than you expect?

Maybe I’m just afraid of knowing either way.

“Cheshire,” I finally ask aloud, “when I feed, will it have to be lethal? I know vampires in stories can often feed without killing, but I’d be ripping a fucking hole in someone’s neck and drinking their blood. Actually, how does that even work? Vampires always get a pass in fiction but like, are my fangs hollow? How do I drink blood???”

The catgirl snickers at me. “You’re still thinking too physically, Maven. What matters is the meaning of the act: a vampire bites, a vampire drinks, a vampire feeds. The physical mechanism is comparatively unimportant because what you’re really feeding on is metaphysical. So to answer your first question: no, you don’t have to kill, but you’ll get more mana if you do.”

“Right. Okay.” So. Pick someone and feed. Who do we pick?

I’m saved from having to make that choice by Cheshire adding, “If I may: you’ll also get more mana if you make use of layering. Remember our conversation about how picking the right clothes and the right moment can help spellcasting? Well, the same is true of feeding; if you feed in a way that feels more true to your nature as a demon, you’ll get more mana out of the act. So where do you expect a vampire to feed, Alice?”

“Nightclub,” I respond automatically. “Vampires are always lurking about nightclubs, it’s their favored terrain. Oh!” I clap my hands together excitedly. “Plus, if it’s a nightclub with drugs and shit we can get someone high and make sure it doesn’t hurt too much when I stick ‘em in the neck.”

“They don’t feel pain,” Bashe reminds me.

I scowl at the incubus. “You say that, but I’m not convinced yet, so I’m gonna play it cautious for now. Take me to a nightclub, Bashe! Or whatever this city has that fills the same niche.”

Bashekehi shrugs. “Sure, I know a place. Let’s call that my last favor to you, then.”

“Lead on.”

Cheshire and I follow along behind the incubus as he leads us through the city, and I silently contemplate whether or not I want to try and keep the imp around.

On the one hand, pretty much anything he knows is something that Cheshire probably knows, excepting stuff specific to this city and his history with it. On the other hand, Cheshire is entirely untrustworthy and getting a second source of information might help me spot holes in what Cheshire tells me. Cheshire is much more forthcoming with information, and other things, but Bashekehi… well, honestly, I’m not sure he has much value left.

He’s helped immensely, of course, but I’m not sure I need him anymore. I have a guide to this setting, I have magic of my own, and while Cheshire may one day stab me in the back she’ll make a much better minion/ally until that sudden-yet-inevitable betrayal. Bashe, after all, has made his distaste for me rather clear.

I don’t believe that Cheshire loves me, but… I think I can make her love me, if I work at it. Affection is like one-third proximity plus time and I’m going to be spending a lot of time in very close proximity to Cheshire, so I have that covered. I just have to figure out what she really likes and become that, and she’ll be too enamored with me to ever pull the trigger on that whole “betrayal and gruesome murder” thing. That seems like the sanest plan.

Sanity has nothing to do with it, you BPD bitch.

Shush! I’m plotting. Actually, hey, this could be a good opportunity for us to get a better read on Cheshire. There’s a couple of ways she could respond and none of them give us perfect information but it might help us develop a model.

I hang back a bit to put some distance between me and Bashe, then sidle up to Cheshire and nonchalantly murmur in her ear, “I’m trying to decide if I should make any effort to keep Bashe from leaving after this outing. What do you make of the incubus? Do you think he still has value to be extracted?”

Cheshire tilts her head and hums, then grins and whispers back, “If I were to guess why you’re asking that, and if I were to guess correctly how you expect me to respond, would I get a treat?”

Alarm bells immediately ring in my head, but hey, fuck it, I like a good gamble. “Sure. Make your guess.”

Cheshire taps her chin and, speaking softly so the incubus ahead doesn’t hear, tells me, “You’re still trying to figure out what my true nature is, so you want to ask questions that will give you clues. If I say to you, ‘No, get rid of the imp, you only need me,’ then that might indicate that my love for you is real, deep, and possessive, but it’s also what I’d say if I were lying about my love and trying to isolate you for nefarious purposes. If, on the other hand, I kept your best interests at heart in some rational manner, I might tell you, ‘Keep the imp close, for a second opinion is valuable even if I am trustworthy.’ Is that about right?”

Bah. Why do I keep getting into intrigue duels with people who are better at it? Not that I’ll stop, mind. “Okay, that’s about what I was considering, yeah. So what’s your real answer?”

“That it’s a moot point,” she whispers to me, “because nothing you can do will convince him to stay. If you want a second opinion or even just a second set of hands, you’d be better off finding a new mark.”

I grimace at the answer, but she’s probably right. My relationship with Bashekehi was critically sabotaged by the circumstances of our first interactions, and there’s probably no repairing that; he’ll always know me as a delusional clueless weirdo. I think there’s a term for that in psych, actually, something about how your first impression is the stickiest impression you’ll make.

Now that I actually have an idea of how this setting functions, and now that I have a power source in the form of Cheshire and my fledgling demonhood, it should be much easier to make friends and influence enemies.

“So,” I muse, no longer whispering, “what kind of–”

“We’re here,” Bashe interrupts me from where he’s stopped ahead.

I look past him and see what must be the club: a slab of stone adorned in metal, with inscribed designs and bits and bobs sticking out. No sign, I note. What is it with this Labyrinth and its aversion to branding?

I move for the entrance but Bashekehi holds up a hand for me to wait. I tilt my head at him curiously, but he just grins and says, “Give it a minute. You burnt enough time sleeping, eating, and getting lost in your own head that it’s almost six o’clock.”

“What happens at six?”

The clock strikes six and the blue sky above vanishes. In its place is an endless span of glittering stars and colorful nebulae, like those pictures of far-off space. There’s no moon, but the night sky is plenty full without one.

When the sky above shifts, the city shifts with it: street lights turning on, building lights brightening, and the crowd changing. People in mundane day clothes head to their homes and new people–new figments, I suppose I should say–hit the streets, dressed darker or brighter but always more interesting. It’s amazing how fast the switch happens.

Bashe gestures at the nightclub, which dozens of figments are now streaming towards, and says, “Shall we?”