Spun between John and this corpse is a series of slim threads. It is a tenuous hold, growing more and more fragile as the moments pass, as Bertalan speaks. Snapping, fraying. John's hold slipping away.

The throbbing pulse of magic hooked into the gash at his palm ebbs.

"Will there be others looking for you?" John asks, watching those blank eyes roll towards him. "Is there something we should do to conceal your leaving?"

A dribble of blood spills down Bertalan's neck, pools in his collarbone. A wet sucking breath heralds his answer.

"My brother," he rasps. "My boss expects payment come week's end. Leave a message that I've gone to fetch a prize on Captain Moira's ship. It'll be months before she returns and anyone realizes I turned her offer down."

A message with any one of the names given to them tonight, any one of the people John had seen within that tavern or who they might ply with coin later. John's eyes had flicked upwards at this, a slight lift of his eyebrows underscoring this response before Bertalan draws a last, faltering breath to add, "Three more use this alley nightly. Best leave nothing in the open."

The spell completes. The corpse sags to the side. John closes his fingers over the sluggish flow of blood beading along the torn flesh of his palm.