The potluck was still going strong, but two hours in, Eadwulf had had his fill. At a proper function, back in the Empire, he might have offered his compliments to the host before he bowed out. Here, there was only Alexis – and she was still on the dance floor.
Of Rowena, there was no sign. Constantine was no doubt preoccupied with Sylvie and his sheriff – or perhaps both at once. Strange hadn't come. Neither had Gordo.
That simplified matters.
Eadwulf slipped out much as he had come in: alone and unsmiling. Who was he kidding? At a function back in the Empire, he would've left through a window, likely with blood on his hands or secrets safely tucked away beneath his cloak.
Dunwich, with no enemies about, was an improvement in every sense. To want more was sheer gluttony. He was supposed to be above such intemperance. He was supposed to be–
He breathed in cigarette smoke. A familiar scent.
Someone was loitering outside MIST. A familiar someone.