Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 18. Malls and Malice

The tension from the car ride clung to them as they stepped out into the mall.

Alex kept his arms crossed as they entered, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The air inside was pleasant, perfumed with a touch of cinnamon and synthetic pine, but it did nothing to ease the stiffness in his spine. He still wasn’t over what Marcus had said at Maison Noir. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be.

Marcus, for once, held his tongue—a silence as comforting as alarm bells swaying gently in the breeze, reflecting dark storm clouds.

Already, the mall began shifting into the strange, chaotic limbo between Halloween and Christmas. A plastic skeleton still dangled above the entrance to a department store, half-smothered by garlands and fake snow. The first bright holiday displays clashed with the lingering remnants of ghosts and grinning jack-o’-lanterns. It was all too much—too bright, too loud, too crowded.

But worst of all were the mirrors and glass storefronts.

Alex had spent days avoiding his reflection, ignoring the stranger in the glass. And just as he thought he’d get used to this new self, thought he could enjoy himself, Marcus had gut-punched him back to reality. Now, every surface seemed designed to throw his own image back at him. The tight borrowed clothes clung too much, hung too wrong, a constant reminder that he still didn’t know how to move in his own skin.

He tugged at his sleeves, hunching his shoulders.

Behind him, Marcus took in his discomfort and sighed. He wanted to say something—probably a joke. He hesitated, as if weighing his options, then went for it.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this is torture,” Marcus drawled. “Worst case, you get free stuff and stop looking like a guy wearing his little brother’s hand-me-ups.”

Alex didn’t even glance at him.

Marcus exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. His usual smug confidence was subdued ever since they left the car, but he wasn’t giving up yet. His tone softened as he tried again.

“Look, I know this whole thing’s weird,” he said, nudging Alex’s arm. “But clothes help. You’re different now, right? So maybe it’s time to wear something that fits you. Trust me, it helps.”

Alex hesitated.

Marcus wasn’t wrong.

That was the worst part.

But even knowing that, even with the weight of Solomon’s gaze pressing between his shoulder blades, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here—that he wasn’t supposed to take up so much space. People moved around much further away than they used to do.

He glanced toward the nearest store, the mannequins pristine and well-dressed, and tried to imagine himself in something that actually fit.

He couldn’t.

So he said nothing and kept walking.

Solomon had been silent the whole time, but Alex could feel him watching. He wasn’t looking at Alex, though. He was watching Marcus.

The realization made something twist in Alex’s gut. Marcus wasn’t only being careful with his words. He was too careful. Did Solomon think he up to something again?

For the first time since they stepped into the mall, Alex’s discomfort wasn’t just about himself anymore.

 

***

 

Alex picked a large department store and let himself drift toward the racks of clothes, half-aware of Marcus and Solomon flanking him. The store was modern enough, sleek, but not over-the-top—it got everything between everyday brands and higher-end fashion. He kept his head down, moving past mannequins dressed in layered fall outfits, fingers brushing over the fabric of a sweater before he checked the price tag.

His stomach twisted.

He hadn’t expected the clothes here to be cheap, but the number still made his throat tighten. He’d need a whole new wardrobe.

They never had much money growing up. His sickness made sure of that, but even after Noir Foundation started covering his medical expenses and schooling, he had never needed to spend money like this. Clothes had always been practical, simple, cheap. What was the point in wasting money on a shirt just because it fit better? His grip on the sleeve loosened. He should stick to the clearance section.

“Please, Alex. Noir Foundation is covering this.” Solomon’s voice cut through his hesitation, calm and unbothered.

Alex turned to look at him, but Solomon was still browsing, his gaze moving over the store displays with practiced detachment. He hadn’t even looked at the price tags.

“In the rather short time we’re having this conversation,” Solomon continued, adjusting one of his cuffs, “we’ve already earned more than several times of what you’d be able to spend here today—and that’s putting it mildly.”

Alex frowned, shifting his weight.

Not that he thought Solomon was lying—but knowing that money wasn’t an issue didn’t make it easier. Clothes were at least as much attitude as fabric.

His hesitation must have been obvious, because Solomon turned his gaze to him, assessing, calculating.

“You represent Noir Foundation now,” he said.

Alex blinked. “I what?”

“You heard me.” Solomon gestured toward the surrounding store. “Whether or not you like it, people will see you as part of Noir Foundation. That means you need to look the part. When you walk into a high-class setting, I expect you to be presentable.”

Alex exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. So this wasn’t just about buying clothes.

It wasn’t about comfort, or even about looking good. It was about expectation. Image. A part of the world he had never thought to belong to.

Marcus, who had been unusually quiet through the exchange, finally jumped in.

“Look, if we’re doing this, we might as well do it right,” he said, nudging Alex’s shoulder. “I mean, I’ve known Jacques forever. The guy was never, like, openly gay, but let’s be real…”

Alex shot him a look. “Oh?”

Marcus smirked, shaking his head. “I saw him checking out guys. ‘The competition’ as he would deflect it… But I definitely noticed what he liked.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, skeptical but mildly curious. “And what was that?”

Marcus grinned and gestured toward a rack of sleek, fitted jackets and dark-toned clothing. “Sporty, but elegant. Fitted, but not too tight. Clean lines. Dark colors. Jackets that don’t look like they belong to someone’s dad.” He flicked his fingers over a particularly expensive-looking leather jacket. “Trust me, if Jacques sees you rocking something like this…” He let out a low whistle.

Alex hesitated, his fingers ghosting over the sleeve of the jacket.

For the first time since they stepped into the store, he considered what Jacques might like to see… him in.

Marcus, watching with close attention, saw the hesitation. Progress.

Solomon, meanwhile, had been silent through the exchange, his sharp gaze flicking between Marcus and Alex.

Something about this interaction didn’t sit right. Marcus wasn’t just being helpful. What was he up to? What’s his end game?

Solomon said nothing yet, but his suspicion grew. He didn’t trust this guy.

 

***

 

While Alex touched the leather jacket, feeling its texture, taking in the smell, Marcus flicked his phone open with practiced ease and scrolled through his messages as if they were nothing more than a passing distraction. His expression remained carefully neutral—until it didn’t. A brief scowl creased his face, gone in an instant, smoothed over like a misplaced card in a stacked deck. But it was too late.

Solomon had seen it.

The older man said nothing at first, but his sharp, knowing gaze lingered, a quiet weight settling between them. Marcus felt it like pressure behind his ribs, a barely-there hand at his throat.

“The guys made it home safe,” Marcus said, his voice casual, slipping the phone back into his pocket. The words sat heavy in the air, an answer to a question no one had asked.

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, with a half-hearted shrug, he muttered, “Perhaps I should’ve gone too.”

A polite, unreadable smile ghosted across Solomon’s lips. “Perhaps.” He didn’t press, didn’t pry. He didn’t need to. The silence between them already said enough.

Alex, unaware of the exchange, grabbed a few shirts and jackets from the rack, uncertain what size he even wore. He had never needed to know. For most of his life, clothes were easy—loose, practical, unremarkable. Now, after everything had changed, he didn’t even know where to start.

He didn’t belong in places like this.

Solomon, watching his hesitation, made a small, expectant gesture toward the fitting rooms.

“Please, Alex, take your time. Quality and fit are paramount here.” His voice was smooth, firm. “We’re not leaving until you have something that truly suits you.”

Alex exhaled, venting his frustration, but nodded and vanished behind the heavy curtain.

The fitting room was too bright. Too clean. The mirror stood tall in front of him, waiting.

He didn’t look yet.

Instead, he pulled off his borrowed clothes and reached for the first set he had grabbed—a slim-cut button-down and a jacket that looked right on the hanger. He shrugged into them, tried adjusting the fabric over his shoulders, pulling at the sleeves.

Too tight.

The buttons strained a bit when he moved, the jacket tight where it shouldn’t be.

He scowled at his reflection, frustrated. His broad shoulders now were a new problem. He never had to think about how things were supposed to fit.

With a sharp exhale, he yanked the shirt off and reached for another.

This time, it was better. A dark, fitted t-shirt. A jacket that sat on his shoulders just right. Jeans that weren’t too baggy or too stiff.

He forced himself to look at the mirror.

A stranger stared back.

Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Sharp lines that had never been there before.

This body was stronger, better, healthier. It should have made him feel relieved. Instead, it felt to him like a costume—something someone had forced him into.

He swallowed down the unease and stepped out of the fitting room.

Marcus, lounging by the racks, took one look at him and let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Alex.” He tilted his head, grinning. “Jacques has a type, and that hits the spot.”

Alex shot him a dry look, but there was a flicker of something—not quite amusement, not quite embarrassment.

“You think?”

Marcus smirked, giving him an approving once-over. “Trust me. I’ve known Jacques for years. If he sees you in that? Game over, resistance is futile.”

Alex rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

The clothes, he could maybe admit, didn’t feel all that wrong.

Alex adjusted the jacket again, rolling his shoulders, testing the fit. It still felt strange—somehow unnatural. Not bad. Just… different.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror and frowned. Ok, he didn’t hate it.

That was almost worse.

Marcus watched him and grinned.

Alex shot him a dry look, but there was no real bite behind it. He still felt a persistent discomfort, a sense of uncertainty about himself while he figured out who he was now, but something about the way the jacket sat on his shoulders—the way Marcus reacted to it—made it feel… possible. Like maybe he could grow into this version of himself.

A reluctant nod. “It’ll do.”

For now.

Marcus’ grin twitched, his usual cocky confidence on full display—but Solomon caught the flicker of something else beneath it. Relief, guilt?

Marcus clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Alright, now that we’ve figured out you’re not wearing dad jeans, let’s find you some actual clothes.”

He grabbed a few shirts off a nearby rack and tossed one at Alex without looking. Alex caught it just before it hit his face and gave him an unimpressed stare.

Marcus just smirked.

They moved through the store, picking out a solid set of everyday clothes. Well-fitted, comfortable, nothing flashy—just things Alex could wear without feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

Along the way, Marcus even picked out two shirts for himself.

Marcus kept the energy up, throwing out snarky comments and half-serious fashion critiques, making the whole thing feel less like a chore and more like an actual, almost-normal experience.

And Alex?

He didn’t fight it.

Maybe he’d never needed good clothes before.

But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to have them now.

From the side, Solomon said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Marcus., who turned to him.

“Great so far, don’t you think? But if money’s no issue, maybe something proper tailored for his frame might be a good idea? He’s out of his comfort zone anyway.”

Marcus had been cocky, abrasive, making crude and offensive jokes all morning. Now he was careful. Almost too careful. Nice and helpful.

Maybe it was just guilt? Or was there something else?

Solomon was frustrated, he just didn’t have an answer.

 

***

 

Jacques flexed his right hand, curling and uncurling his fingers as he paced the dining room. His gut twisted, a dull throb of unease settling deep in his bones. Something wasn’t right—he could feel it.

But there was no proof, no reason for this tight, sick feeling coiling in his chest.

Only that it wouldn’t go away.

“Stop pacing and try something, darling.”

Madame Marie’s voice was smooth, unbothered, but edged with quiet expectation. She sat in her usual chair, watching him with sharp, patient eyes.

Jacques exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he sank onto the couch. He hated this. Hated feeling useless.

He had to do something.

His mind drifted to what happened earlier—that fleeting moment where he had borrowed, where he had stepped inside something else.

Could he do it again?

Jacques closed his eyes and reached.

Not for anything specific. Not forcing. Just… feeling.

A hundred tiny sparks flickered at the edges of his mind—scattered thoughts, fragmented instincts. It took him some time to recognize them as minds, but they were there, alive and moving in the dark.

One stood out.

Sharp. Aware. Waiting.

Before he really knew how, Jacques sank into it.

Suddenly, he was lowered to the ground. The world was a tangle of shadows and motion, scent and sound more important than sight. A warm wind carried the smell of damp concrete, oil, something sharp and distant.

Another cat.

It moved with perfect balance, muscles coiled beneath sleek fur. It knew itself completely. It did not question. It simply was.

Jacques let himself settle into the creature’s instincts. The twitch of its ears, the slow blink of its golden eyes, the ripple of movement through its body.

Then he pushed.

Not a lot. A thought, a suggestion—go that way instead.

The cat hesitated.

Then it moved.

Jacques felt it like a jolt in his chest—real, undeniable. It wasn’t instinct, it wasn’t coincidence.

He had done that.

Excitement flared in his ribs. Holy shit. This was real. He could do this. If Alex could see this…

The thought barely formed before the world ripped apart.

The street, the scent and sound, the cat’s body—gone.

Something pulled him sideways, violently dragging him into something else.

 

***

 

The boutique seemed wrong.

At first, it looked normal—golden mood lighting, polished mirrors reflecting rich fabric and delicate displays. But something about it was wrong.

The reflections flickered, shifting at the edges. The air was thick, heavy, as if waiting.

And Alex stood in the center.

Still. Too still.

His arms hung at his sides, his head tilted slightly, lips parted just barely, like a mannequin set in place.

He should have moved. He should have blinked.

But shadowy strands curled around his wrists, his throat, his waist.

They weren’t just holding him. They were part of him now.

His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, but his eyes were vacant.

A ball of thick, shifting shadows filled his mouth, gagging him.

It pulsed with each exhale, like a living thing, pressing deep against his tongue.

Jacques felt his own breath catch, the pressure in his chest tightening.

The shadows pulsed.

Alex exhaled softly. His body arched.

It wasn’t pain.

It was something else.

Jacques felt it like a whisper against his own skin—foreign, wrong, overwhelming. Pleasure that didn’t belong to him. Pleasure that didn’t belong to Alex either.

It was being drawn from him.

It was fed to him.

A figure approached through the flickering light.

Her face was blurred, indistinct, but her smile was sharp. Knowing. Hungry.

She didn’t touch him.

She didn’t have to.

The shadows tightened. Alex’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly—the only sign of resistance before the tension melted from his body.

Jacques’ stomach twisted.

The boutique shifted further, warping at the edges.

And then he saw them.

Marcus, kneeling at Solomon’s feet.

His head was bowed, shoulders shaking, hands clutching at the hem of Solomon’s coat like a man praying for forgiveness. Tears streamed down his face. His body trembled—wrecked, ruined. A man who had done something unforgivable.

And Solomon—

Solomon stood tall, composed, but drenched in blood.

It dripped from his hands, his face, his chest—seeping into his crisp suit, staining everything red.

A steady, slow trickle.

But he didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even seem to notice.

The woman turned away from Alex—toward Marcus.

Without a word, she lifted her foot and shoved him hard against the shoulder.

She had no use for him anymore.

Marcus collapsed onto his side, curling in on himself. A discarded thing.

The mirrors no longer reflected the boutique.

They showed something else.

Figures.

Unmoving. Masked. Watching. Waiting.

The sensation rippled outward, a thread stretching from Alex into something unseen.

They were taking this. Feeding on it.

The shadows pulsed blue.

Jacques ripped himself out of the vision, gasping.

His body lurched forward, muscles locking, his breath coming in hard, shallow bursts.

The boutique was gone. The parlor returned in its place, warm lamplight flickering against dark walls. The air smelled like tea and old wood—but his chest was tight, his hands were shaking.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been gone.

Madame Marie had not moved.

She watched him, hands folded neatly in her lap, as composed as ever.

She did not ask what he saw.

She did not have to.

Instead, she simply said, “Interesting.”

Jacques swallowed hard, his pulse hammering.

“Something’s wrong.” His voice was hoarse. “They’re waiting for him.”

 

***

 

The boutique was small but luxurious, the kind of place designed to make people feel important. Rich wood, dim golden lighting, the faint scent of leather and expensive cologne. There were no cluttered racks, no loud advertisements—just a curated selection of impeccable garments displayed like works of art.

And one very enthusiastic tailor.

The man, tall and impeccably dressed, took one look at Alex and visibly short-circuited. His lips parted, and he placed a hand to his chest as if he had just been struck by divine revelation.

“Oh. Mon Dieu.”

Alex shifted, already feeling self-conscious. “Uh… hi?”

The tailor exhaled slowly, as if steadying himself. “You are—” He waved a hand, searching for the words. “Magnifique.” He pressed his fingers to his lips in a dramatic flourish before shaking himself out of it. “Apologies, I am being unprofessional. You are here for a fitting, yes? I will give you perfection.”

Marcus choked on his laughter.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he murmured to Solomon. Solomon said nothing, but his glance at Marcus suggested he was already regretting this entire outing.

The tailor composed himself quickly, shifting into professional mode, but the occasional glance at Alex suggested he was internally screaming. “Please,” he gestured smoothly. “I need to take your measurements. If you could step on this platform, sir?”

Alex stepped up, standing stiff and straight as a rod as the tailor worked with swift precision—measuring his shoulders, waist, arms. The man’s hands were quick, efficient, but not entirely detached.

“A frame like this—” he muttered under his breath. “It is a gift.”

Alex blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

The tailor smoothed his hands over Alex’s shoulders, muttering to himself. “These proportions… this waist… oh, I could cry. I need to be as exact as possible…”

Marcus buried his face in his sleeve to muffle his laughter.

Alex, trying to be helpful, began unbuttoning his borrowed shirt.

“Would it be easier if I—”

The tailor’s breath caught slightly, but he didn’t stop him. “I—well, yes, it would allow for more precise measurements, but—”

Alex slid the shirt off, baring his lean, defined torso. The tailor swallowed.

Marcus looked seconds away from passing out from laughter.

The tailor forced himself to continue. “Pardon, I am simply in awe. Such symmetry. A sculptor’s dream.”

Alex, still oblivious, moved to unfasten his pants. Better do this proper.

“Should I—?”

The tailor held up both hands quickly, eyes darting to the ceiling like a man resisting temptation.

“It is not necessary, but if it makes you more comfortable—”

“Jesus Christ,” Marcus whispered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Solomon let out a slow breath through his nose, his patience wearing thin.

Alex hesitated, then shrugged and pushed his pants down.

Now standing in just his underwear, Alex let the tailor continue. The man was clearly suffering, but his professionalism remained rock solid.

Marcus whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “This is the best day of my life.”

Then came the inseam measurements.

The tailor knelt in front of Alex, completely focused on his work. His hands moved carefully, measuring the distance from Alex’s ankle, his knee, and up his thigh.

Then, just as his hands hovered dangerously close to Alex’s bulge—

The door chimed.

Alex startled, shifting instinctively—

His bulge pressed right into the tailor’s hands.

The world froze.

The tailor stiffened—eyes wide, face pale, hands still pressed against Alex’s very prominent bulge.

Marcus made an inhuman wheezing sound.

Alex, realizing what had just happened, turned bright red.

“I—OH MY GOD—” He stumbled back, nearly falling off the platform.

The tailor, horrified, jerked his hands away as if burned. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

“Mon Dieu.”

Solomon pinched the bridge of his nose.

Marcus collapsed onto a chair, howling.

The tailor pressed a hand over his heart, whispering to himself in French. He looked five seconds away from having a spiritual crisis.

The moment might have lasted longer—if not for the voice that cut through the chaos.

 

***

 

“Alex, really,” she purred, lips curving in amusement. “so desperate you’re molesting poor, innocent tailors the second your boyfriend’s not here?”

Cecile stepped further inside, her heels clicking sharply against the polished wood floor. The warm, intimate atmosphere of the shop had vanished, replaced by something tight, suffocating. The dim golden light seemed to darken as she took her time, appraising the scene like a cat watching a wounded bird. Her eyes settled on Alex, half-dressed, still flustered by the tailor’s overenthusiastic admiration.

Alex stiffened. The last shreds of humor from the awkward moment died instantly.

The tailor, still recovering from his mortification, sensed something was wrong. His polite professionalism cracked.

“Ah—pardon, madame, but this is a private—”

One of Cecile’s men moved so fast the tailor barely had time to flinch.

The handle of a gun slammed into his temple with a sickening crack.

The man crumpled instantly, collapsing onto the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. His body lay sprawled at the base of the platform, unconscious, breathing shallowly.

Alex took half a step forward—

“Don’t.”

Cecile’s voice was soft, but it cut like a blade.

The metallic click-click-click of safeties being switched off rippled through the boutique.

Three men. Three guns. All aimed with calm precision.

Alex and Solomon froze.

Marcus didn’t move. His expression was unreadable.

Cecile sighed dramatically, gliding further inside. “Now, now. Let’s not be dramatic. I’d hate for this to get messy.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking between Solomon and Alex. “Ha! Actually… no. I’d love it.”

Solomon shifted subtly. His weight adjusted, calculating. He was fast. Strong. But not bulletproof.

He spoke evenly. Cold. Controlled. “Business or pleasure, Cecile?”

Cecile sighed, as if the question bored her. She ran a hand down the front of her sleek black coat, brushing nonexistent dust from the fabric.

“Oh, both, I think.”

Everything happened at once.

A figure emerged from the shadows behind Alex—silent, precise. Before he could react, an arm locked around his chest, and a sharp sting bit into his neck. A syringe. Cold and efficient.

Panic surged through him, but his body was already betraying him. His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath hitched, and his legs buckled beneath him. Strength bled from his limbs too fast, like the world itself was slipping through his fingers.

Somewhere beyond the haze, Solomon exploded into motion.

His elbow drove into a man’s ribs—a gun clattered against the boutique floor.

Then—a blade sliced through his arm.

Sharp. Precise. Deep. Another syringe was slammed into Solomon’s neck.

Alex’s vision darkened. His body refused to obey him.

His last sight was Solomon fighting—his arms heavy, his body slowing—until he, too, slumped.

Cecile crouched beside Solomon’s collapsing body, watching the slow flicker of consciousness fade from his eyes.

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.

“What a generous man you are, Solomon.” Her voice was honeyed, thick with mockery. “Delivering such a precious gift right to our doorstep.”

Her lips curved with wicked delight.

“A shame you won’t be awake to see what we do with him.”

Solomon’s body went still. Barely a second passed before other syringes came out.

Les Enfants worked with clinical efficiency, sliding needles into Solomon’s veins.

Blood—dark, rich, powerful—filled the vials. They handled it carefully. Reverently.

Cecile watched, uninterested. She wasn’t really here for the blood.

She was here for Alex.

Her gaze drifted back to the platform. Alex lay motionless, helpless.

She smiled.

Then she drove her boot into Solomon’s ribs.

Once.

Twice.

Harder.

The dull, sickening thud echoed through the boutique.

“Enough.”

The voice cut through the room. Shaking.

Marcus.

He dropped to his knees beside Solomon, shielding him. His hands hovered over Solomon’s battered torso, useless.

“You promised.” His voice was raw. Desperate. “My family’s debt is paid. This ends here.”

Cecile watched him, bored. Then—she laughed.

“Oh, Marcus. Sweet, stupid Marcus. I thought you understood how this works.”

She stepped forward—and kicked him.

Hard.

He collapsed onto his side, gasping, curling instinctively to protect himself.

Exactly like Jacques saw in his vision.

Cecile loomed over Marcus.

“The debt is paid!”

She tilted her head, mock thoughtful.

“Oh well… You were always useless anyway.”

Then, her voice sharpened, cruel as broken glass.

“Get out of my sight, dog.” She spat out, giving him another hard kick.

Les Enfants moved, lifting Alex’s unconscious body.

They stepped over Marcus. Over Solomon. Over the tailor’s crumpled form.

And then—they were gone.

The boutique was silent again.

Marcus remained on the floor.

The debt was paid.

But the cost was far, far too high.