[ The way Brandon stares at Petre, it seems he instinctively understands that the plea for help is fashioned out of animal mimicry. For a moment he has the definite air of a scientist observing animals learning to use tools.
Then he turns to look back at Tavor, not fully ignoring Petre - he really can't, not even if he wanted to - but certainly dismissing him from immediate concern. ]
Astonishing.
[ From the dry tone, he must mean Haran as much as he means Haran's maddened demon father. The whole situation. The Morrisons in general. ]
Might I ask you more questions, Tavor? About down here, your family... whatever you feel like answering.
[ Wheels turning in every word, a mind that curls up while extending in several directions. Brandon is only a magus, and a young one at that, he's under a nightmare house with a monster and a demon, he has no trustworthy allies and his so-called masters have never once shown themselves or sent a single message... yet he's confident and composed, mind going a mile a minute, focused on Tavor in a way that perhaps few people have before. ]
[ Stooped over on the barrel, hunched into his cigarette, Tavor looks particularly inhuman, especially when his eyes flicker up at Brandon. He doesn't care. To him, the family gossip is utterly uninteresting. A morality tale with an obvious ending. That's how it went with witches, even the members of the family proper knew that, but. You got a little power in the world before you spent eternity in Hell. It was an okay bargain. ]
Sure.
[ The only questions he won't answer are the ones about himself.
His tail uncurls, creeping over to rattle the bars of the cage. ]
Don't waste your energy, he's not going to do anything for you.
[ Petre maintains the pathetic little whimpering look, gaze incisive in hopes that Brandon will turn back to him and be moved, if he just sticks with the mimicry long enough. No such thing happens, though. He remains focused on Petre's jail keeper, and so he shifts his breathing until he goes incredibly quiet, readies his limbs until he's incredibly still. Tavor warns him just in time.
His hand and arm, thin and swift, reach right between two bars to grab Brandon by his jacket, yanking him against the metal to claw at his neck with his other hand. His intention is clearly to dig his teeth into that throat, get a taste of fresh blood for the first time in years, but his head can't possibly fit. Instead he clenches clawed fingers around his neck to choke and puncture, too blinded in his focus to eat the magus to prepare or defend himself against any measures to make him stop. ]
Brandon of all people knows the value of not underestimating the old bad arts, though, and while he's clearly expressed his disinterest in demons, there's no denying how interesting the Solomonic system is, how its seals are beautiful examples of historical warding.
And, fortunately, easy to call to mind. The biggest struggle Brandon has once Petre has yanked him close enough to claw at his neck is twisting enough to get his own arm through the bars, and his own hand flat on Petre's chest. He's clumsy from the sudden adrenaline surge, too, which is no help, and panic is on the horizon but under control for the moment - Brandon is touched with cold to the very heart, the very quality that kept him calm before Haran and sedate following Tavor into a slaughterhouse-smelling darkness. (He does not look for a second to Tavor for help.)
The reason he has to call the seal to mind rather than use the gesture he had ready is because Brandon does not incorporate such symbols into his personal items. The whole system is, after all, looted wholesale from Jewish religious texts, and he isn't Jewish. Hopefully, that won't matter; hopefully, it's the icy-burning glyph that emerges from his mind and out of his palm to fill Petre's chest with a couple thousand volts of freezing, muscle-juddering pain that matters. ]
[ Well, it's a good thing Brandon isn't looking to him for help, because Tavor is under no particular obligation to give it. He's even being pretty slow about even contemplating it, wondering how much he would actually care if for some reason this would bother Haran. Which he's not really convinced it would. He sits back, head tilted, cigarette at his lips. That's the most energy he's seen out of Petre for a while. It's novel.
And the stupid magus kind of looks like he's on top of it? Tavor's not so sure, he's going to go it a 70/30 spread because there's nothing quite like a starving demon to beat the odds. ]
[ Petre's scream is a mix of a monster and a child, starting with the heaviness of something dark and hoarse and ending with something wailing and pathetic. Claws, arms and body recoils away from the bars as he lets go and falls backwards. He curls on himself, still on his feet, to heave with a stream of blood and saliva hanging from his mouth.
His anger, however present, doesn't show in his twisted features. Instead he displays the despair of a creature that just really wants to eat, eyes blindly set on the ground.
Brandon is safe again, and Tavor is still bored. ]
[ Staggering back from the bars, Brandon runs a shaky yet thorough hand over his throat. It might become clear after a moment, if Tavor cares enough to notice, that he's not comforting himself or in shock, but rather checking how deep those claws got into him. Never mind any concerns about demonic infection, he'll settle for concern about regular old mundane infection. It's filthy down here.
And he's annoyed with Tavor, of course, though he doesn't bother to express it. He doesn't even change his initial assessment of the situation. He couldn't chart out the math for the calculation of his next move, either. His instincts are always rationalized after the fact. ]
You're wrong, you know. [ Not about standing too close. That is indisputably correct. ] I'll do something for him, all right.
[ It could be a threat, except that makes no sense whatsoever: Petre can't understand him and Tavor wouldn't care. So it's just a bit of raspy conversation, then.
Brandon points the hand he used to hurt Petre with at the ground right outside the bars. The gesture is technically not necessary, it just helps him focus, and he could use a little right now. A glyph sullenly coalesces on the ground, nothing more arcane or mysterious than a symbol which simply indicates "here," and fades.
The messengers aren't especially smart and may not like flying underground, but they'll find the glyph easily enough. ]
Anyway. Where were we. Right: what does Qetzi'ah want most in the world. Besides Haran dead and her family back.
[ Brandon's request startles a cawing laugh out of Tavor that lowers to a hissing snicker. ]
Can't figure out how to flatter her? Probably can't, she's not who she was. [ Tavor espouses no sorrow for the transformation his little cousin has been forced to go through. ] She was never very important. Two sisters and two brothers, and she's the least ambitious one. She liked being out of the squabbling, she was always out on the mountain playing with the flowers.
[ His shoulders go up in that bored shrug of his. ]
That's why she's alive. She'll wrap up that scratch for you too.
[ Stubbing out the cigarette he gets up to peer at the place where the glyph had briefly flared, contemplating idly, ]
I'd feed him myself, but the hyenas have picked our villagers clean.
[ And like Hell is Tavor putting extra effort into dragging anyone down here.... ]
[ Perhaps he's grasping at loose straws, distracted and irritated and yet also intrigued by what Tavor tells him, yet something in the description gets to him. The flowers. She brings them into the house. She brought them into the kitchen when they first met. He's wondered since then why she comes into the house at all, other than sheer bloody-mindedness, the rejection of Haran as master of the house that belongs to her family.
Brandon keeps his eyes on Petre the way one might converse while watching a stream. Tavor didn't really answer his question, but he won't nag about it. ]
What does she do out there, in the flowers.
[ It really is mercenary interest, of course, it's only the thoughtfulness of the question that might make it sound like anything else, such as, god forbid, even vaguely romantic. ]
[ The hint of disbelief in Brandon's glance doesn't develop into any more elaborate a response. He's only annoyed that the one somewhat forthcoming member of the Morrisons has no useful information about his own cousin. Or whatever he and Qetzi are to each other; Brandon will have to make a tree.
Well, perhaps that's a topic he should stick to. ]
What about the ones Haran did kill, then. How many were there? What were their names?
[ He makes it sound as if this information is of secondary interest at best, something that he might as well find out at the least. ]
Well, I won't be able to make that gold-threaded tapestry to hang in the entrance hall without your thoroughness.
[ If Tavor thinks Brandon is sufficiently funny, hopefully that will go over well too. One can imagine that if he really did have the tapestry made, it would be more likely to end up as the entrance hall rug. ]
[ A long suffering sigh, another cigarette. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, wondering where to even start. It's going to become a mess one way or another. ]
I'll just... start with Qetzi and work my way out. Qetzi'ah is the daughter of Eden and Kelly. Kelly is still alive, but he won't come here, there's no one to protect him. His other daughter was Kandake. They have older twin half-brothers named Mattan and Havilah, from another father. They're alive, they won't come here either. They also had an older half-sister named Sapphira, she was the daughter of Eden and her twin brother Ram, she was set to take the House after Adina.
Adina, Eden, and Helah are the daughters of Bethle and Tallendi. Adina was Haran's mother, Eden Qetzi's, Helah was mine.
Those three had three brothers: Lehi, Ram, and Othniel. Neither Ram nor Othniel were married, and Sapphira was Ram's only child. Lehi's wife Acacia had three...
[ What even were their fucking names. ]
Lamia, Parkin, and... [ A shrug. ] Whatever his name was.
The last of them was Haran's older brother, Nekoda. Half-brother. He's the one responsible for the hyenas, met some dog-faced demi-goddess who took to him and bore his whelps.
[ At first, Brandon is bemused by the byzantine way Tavor decides to lay out the family lineage. It quickly becomes clear why, however, as the Morrisons are like one of those trees that are actually comprised of several trees all entwined. Or perhaps he's thinking of a flower that's really many flowers. In any case: a perplexing collection of names pours forth, and though he would love to write it all down, he's still pretending that this isn't important to him, so he doesn't.
Still extant Morrisons in unknown locations is not great news, but not necessarily bad news either, depending what they're like. As for the rest, he commits only a handful of names to memory for now: Sapphira. Adina. Eden. Helah. Nekoda. The ones that sound most relevant to those currently in the House. ]
What, all of them? All the ones still around?
[ Brandon avoids commenting or inquiring too much of the Morrisons themselves, for now. The hyenas seem a safer topic, and besides, probing at what kind of relationship they have with Tavor might be useful. ]</small.
[ The twins, Mattan and Havilah, were magus of an utterly divergent breed. Adina's hope in selecting their father as a stud for Eden had been to harness that magic, bring it into the Morrison fold, but the dreamchasers and their ilk were nigh on impossible to imprison. The boys had been taken by their father, and protected from the touch of the Hill. They were sorrowful at the death of their mother and their siblings, but not at all perturbed by the fall of the Hill's twisted monarchy. They would not interfere here. ]
Yes, all of them.
[ A slight impatience from the half-man. ]
The girl was a fine prize. A hell hound's half-breed. [ The Morrisons did such dabbling in their breeding, trying to make themselves more, trying to extend their roots ever further. Adina had had such plans. ] She pushed them out in litters, there were more before the females ate them.
[ A hesitation, chewing on his lip with a sharp tooth before replacing that with the cigarette. ]
They choose to be here. The hell hound won't tolerate his blood enslaved.
[ Brandon doesn't physically shoot him the sharp look that he feels Tavor's last comment merits. Maybe it's still somehow obvious in his deliberate stillness, the absence of it pointed. That almost sounded like a warning, or maybe it's impossible for Brandon not to take it as one, given all the balls he still has in the air. Hard for him to measure the significance, of the hesitation and the sinking of pointed canine into lip that preceded it. ]
Well, I do have fellow feeling for the persistent underdog.
[ Not. A pun. Not really. ]
I met a few of them. Hekate and Ivor.
[ He doesn't mention Dinah. His guess is that she's not the one bringing Tavor cigarettes, but it will be interesting to find out for sure. ]
( he reacts only when his rapist's name is mentioned again; otherwise Petre just moans and grunts to himself miserably on the ground, reduced to a sad demon brat who couldn't get what he wanted. The walls of his mind are raised again, attention closed outā¦ He hates the magus now, and Tavor continues to be of no interest to him. He's so hungry. )
[ Nothing, apart from the patience of his rapt attention, changes in Brandon's expression to indicate his thoughts. But then, that's a matter of course for everyone in this house, or under it (Petre aside). ]
Interesting.
[ He can begin to understand something of the Morrison attitude toward - well, breeding, he supposes, though of course he finds it distasteful. It certainly did yield some fascinating results, but then what did they do with them? Apparently, they locked Tavor in the basement and put the hyenas outside, and then the favored hybrid murdered them.
If he was going to say anything else, Brandon stops at the insinuation of some faint sound. Flapping, not from leathery-skinned wings, but a feathery rustle that grows more frantic as his messenger careens around the tunnels, trying to avoid cages and anything else that might be lurking down here to find here. When it finally barges into the musty gloom, the spot of illumination from Brandon's flashlight glancing off its oily black wings, it first deposits a chunk of meat on the designated spot, then hurls itself into Brandon's waiting hands to tremble violently.
The meat is a substantial chunk, a few pounds, perhaps, not too fresh, and not human, either. But it is meat. As for Tavor, Brandon rummages amidst the feathers a moment and retrieves a carton of cigarettes, which he unceremoniously tosses Tavor's way. Gifts all around. ]
[ He catches the cigarettes, turning the carton over in his hands thoughtfully for a moment. He could complain that they aren't his brand, but... it doesn't matter. Silent contemplation. Does any of this matter to him? No. It doesn't. His eyes flicker up at Brandon. ]
Play your game carefully, magus. Haran is not as stupid as he seems.
[ He makes noises of excitement, breathless and wordless when he grabs the chunk of meat and immediately digs into it, the first tasty meal he's had in months.
When he's done, he does manage to mutter more, more. ]
[ Well, there could be other reasons Tavor bothered to warn him. Brandon chooses to take it as his due. He's obviously not won Tavor over — who even knows what that would be or look like — but it's an accomplishment open to his interpretation, so naturally, he willfully interprets it in his favor.
Not that he shows it. He only lowers his gaze in acknowledgment, pretending to be interested in watching Petre tear into the meat. ]
I don't think he's stupid.
[ It's more like he's almost naive, blooded and bred on the incestuous power intrigues of the Morrison clan without having had much need to consider the rest of the world.
The equivalent opposite is true for Brandon, though. Yet he thinks he's doing as well as he can, so far. He tosses his messenger back into the air to fetch more meat. Now that it knows the way, it can return on its own, when Brandon bids it.
Which will not be often. Petre is not tamable. Something interesting might yet come of him, at least. ]
Any further advice, Tavor? [ His gaze finally slides that way, narrow, demure. ] Or is it time for me to stop bothering you.
[ Tavor makes a little snerk sound, smiling nastily. ]
I think he's pretty stupid.
[ I mean, just to be fair about where that particular comment came from. But Tavor didn't have to worry about Haran. They lived in different worlds. The only reason they communicate at all is because their mothers were sisters and... that counts for a little bit. ]
Last word of advice magus, there is no way out for you beneath the House.
[ He's not looking anywhere in particular when he says that, so along with Petre, declared interest in monster remains, and undeclared interest in unspecified things, he means Tavor. Obliquely, almost coquettish in a way designed specifically for him: not so much out of genuine personal interest, but because it's clear to Brandon that Tavor stays out of these things, and it's worth trying to keep that channel open. Just to see what might come out of it.
Brandon doesn't push it, though, he only gives Tavor a jaunty nod of farewell, and starts off without any further acknowledgment of Petre, the other undeveloped interest. More meat will be along in a ten or fifteen minutes, when he's long gone. Then none for a few days, then a few scraps, then... a piece of meat spiced with some of those grubs he gave to Haran. Why not see what happens. ]
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Then he turns to look back at Tavor, not fully ignoring Petre - he really can't, not even if he wanted to - but certainly dismissing him from immediate concern. ]
Astonishing.
[ From the dry tone, he must mean Haran as much as he means Haran's maddened demon father. The whole situation. The Morrisons in general. ]
Might I ask you more questions, Tavor? About down here, your family... whatever you feel like answering.
[ Wheels turning in every word, a mind that curls up while extending in several directions. Brandon is only a magus, and a young one at that, he's under a nightmare house with a monster and a demon, he has no trustworthy allies and his so-called masters have never once shown themselves or sent a single message... yet he's confident and composed, mind going a mile a minute, focused on Tavor in a way that perhaps few people have before. ]
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Sure.
[ The only questions he won't answer are the ones about himself.
His tail uncurls, creeping over to rattle the bars of the cage. ]
Don't waste your energy, he's not going to do anything for you.
[ He means that in the nicest way possible. ]
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His hand and arm, thin and swift, reach right between two bars to grab Brandon by his jacket, yanking him against the metal to claw at his neck with his other hand. His intention is clearly to dig his teeth into that throat, get a taste of fresh blood for the first time in years, but his head can't possibly fit. Instead he clenches clawed fingers around his neck to choke and puncture, too blinded in his focus to eat the magus to prepare or defend himself against any measures to make him stop. ]
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Brandon of all people knows the value of not underestimating the old bad arts, though, and while he's clearly expressed his disinterest in demons, there's no denying how interesting the Solomonic system is, how its seals are beautiful examples of historical warding.
And, fortunately, easy to call to mind. The biggest struggle Brandon has once Petre has yanked him close enough to claw at his neck is twisting enough to get his own arm through the bars, and his own hand flat on Petre's chest. He's clumsy from the sudden adrenaline surge, too, which is no help, and panic is on the horizon but under control for the moment - Brandon is touched with cold to the very heart, the very quality that kept him calm before Haran and sedate following Tavor into a slaughterhouse-smelling darkness. (He does not look for a second to Tavor for help.)
The reason he has to call the seal to mind rather than use the gesture he had ready is because Brandon does not incorporate such symbols into his personal items. The whole system is, after all, looted wholesale from Jewish religious texts, and he isn't Jewish. Hopefully, that won't matter; hopefully, it's the icy-burning glyph that emerges from his mind and out of his palm to fill Petre's chest with a couple thousand volts of freezing, muscle-juddering pain that matters. ]
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And the stupid magus kind of looks like he's on top of it? Tavor's not so sure, he's going to go it a 70/30 spread because there's nothing quite like a starving demon to beat the odds. ]
Huh.
[ The most apathetic commentary. ]
Shouldn't... stand too close.
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His anger, however present, doesn't show in his twisted features. Instead he displays the despair of a creature that just really wants to eat, eyes blindly set on the ground.
Brandon is safe again, and Tavor is still bored. ]
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And he's annoyed with Tavor, of course, though he doesn't bother to express it. He doesn't even change his initial assessment of the situation. He couldn't chart out the math for the calculation of his next move, either. His instincts are always rationalized after the fact. ]
You're wrong, you know. [ Not about standing too close. That is indisputably correct. ] I'll do something for him, all right.
[ It could be a threat, except that makes no sense whatsoever: Petre can't understand him and Tavor wouldn't care. So it's just a bit of raspy conversation, then.
Brandon points the hand he used to hurt Petre with at the ground right outside the bars. The gesture is technically not necessary, it just helps him focus, and he could use a little right now. A glyph sullenly coalesces on the ground, nothing more arcane or mysterious than a symbol which simply indicates "here," and fades.
The messengers aren't especially smart and may not like flying underground, but they'll find the glyph easily enough. ]
Anyway. Where were we. Right: what does Qetzi'ah want most in the world. Besides Haran dead and her family back.
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Can't figure out how to flatter her? Probably can't, she's not who she was. [ Tavor espouses no sorrow for the transformation his little cousin has been forced to go through. ] She was never very important. Two sisters and two brothers, and she's the least ambitious one. She liked being out of the squabbling, she was always out on the mountain playing with the flowers.
[ His shoulders go up in that bored shrug of his. ]
That's why she's alive. She'll wrap up that scratch for you too.
[ Stubbing out the cigarette he gets up to peer at the place where the glyph had briefly flared, contemplating idly, ]
I'd feed him myself, but the hyenas have picked our villagers clean.
[ And like Hell is Tavor putting extra effort into dragging anyone down here.... ]
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Brandon keeps his eyes on Petre the way one might converse while watching a stream. Tavor didn't really answer his question, but he won't nag about it. ]
What does she do out there, in the flowers.
[ It really is mercenary interest, of course, it's only the thoughtfulness of the question that might make it sound like anything else, such as, god forbid, even vaguely romantic. ]
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[ And his tone suggests how the fuck should he. ]
What do little girls do out there in the flowers?
[ Having mainly lived his life surrounded by dirt and meat and monsters, he really wouldn't have the foggiest. ]
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Well, perhaps that's a topic he should stick to. ]
What about the ones Haran did kill, then. How many were there? What were their names?
[ He makes it sound as if this information is of secondary interest at best, something that he might as well find out at the least. ]
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Fifteen. Are you sure you care about all their names?
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[ If Tavor thinks Brandon is sufficiently funny, hopefully that will go over well too. One can imagine that if he really did have the tapestry made, it would be more likely to end up as the entrance hall rug. ]
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[ A long suffering sigh, another cigarette. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, wondering where to even start. It's going to become a mess one way or another. ]
I'll just... start with Qetzi and work my way out. Qetzi'ah is the daughter of Eden and Kelly. Kelly is still alive, but he won't come here, there's no one to protect him. His other daughter was Kandake. They have older twin half-brothers named Mattan and Havilah, from another father. They're alive, they won't come here either. They also had an older half-sister named Sapphira, she was the daughter of Eden and her twin brother Ram, she was set to take the House after Adina.
Adina, Eden, and Helah are the daughters of Bethle and Tallendi. Adina was Haran's mother, Eden Qetzi's, Helah was mine.
Those three had three brothers: Lehi, Ram, and Othniel. Neither Ram nor Othniel were married, and Sapphira was Ram's only child. Lehi's wife Acacia had three...
[ What even were their fucking names. ]
Lamia, Parkin, and... [ A shrug. ] Whatever his name was.
The last of them was Haran's older brother, Nekoda. Half-brother. He's the one responsible for the hyenas, met some dog-faced demi-goddess who took to him and bore his whelps.
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Still extant Morrisons in unknown locations is not great news, but not necessarily bad news either, depending what they're like. As for the rest, he commits only a handful of names to memory for now: Sapphira. Adina. Eden. Helah. Nekoda. The ones that sound most relevant to those currently in the House. ]
What, all of them? All the ones still around?
[ Brandon avoids commenting or inquiring too much of the Morrisons themselves, for now. The hyenas seem a safer topic, and besides, probing at what kind of relationship they have with Tavor might be useful. ]</small.
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Yes, all of them.
[ A slight impatience from the half-man. ]
The girl was a fine prize. A hell hound's half-breed. [ The Morrisons did such dabbling in their breeding, trying to make themselves more, trying to extend their roots ever further. Adina had had such plans. ] She pushed them out in litters, there were more before the females ate them.
[ A hesitation, chewing on his lip with a sharp tooth before replacing that with the cigarette. ]
They choose to be here. The hell hound won't tolerate his blood enslaved.
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Well, I do have fellow feeling for the persistent underdog.
[ Not. A pun. Not really. ]
I met a few of them. Hekate and Ivor.
[ He doesn't mention Dinah. His guess is that she's not the one bringing Tavor cigarettes, but it will be interesting to find out for sure. ]
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Those two are different.
[ He knows he'll have to explain that, anticipates the question but takes his time with it. ]
Recessive, like the jackal girl's mother. Different kind of demon.
[ He motions at Petre to elaborate on who he is making a comparison to. ]
Hekate is the hell hound's favored.
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Interesting.
[ He can begin to understand something of the Morrison attitude toward - well, breeding, he supposes, though of course he finds it distasteful. It certainly did yield some fascinating results, but then what did they do with them? Apparently, they locked Tavor in the basement and put the hyenas outside, and then the favored hybrid murdered them.
If he was going to say anything else, Brandon stops at the insinuation of some faint sound. Flapping, not from leathery-skinned wings, but a feathery rustle that grows more frantic as his messenger careens around the tunnels, trying to avoid cages and anything else that might be lurking down here to find here. When it finally barges into the musty gloom, the spot of illumination from Brandon's flashlight glancing off its oily black wings, it first deposits a chunk of meat on the designated spot, then hurls itself into Brandon's waiting hands to tremble violently.
The meat is a substantial chunk, a few pounds, perhaps, not too fresh, and not human, either. But it is meat. As for Tavor, Brandon rummages amidst the feathers a moment and retrieves a carton of cigarettes, which he unceremoniously tosses Tavor's way. Gifts all around. ]
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Play your game carefully, magus. Haran is not as stupid as he seems.
[ As for the other one... ]
And vengeful witch is a terrible thing.
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When he's done, he does manage to mutter more, more. ]
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Not that he shows it. He only lowers his gaze in acknowledgment, pretending to be interested in watching Petre tear into the meat. ]
I don't think he's stupid.
[ It's more like he's almost naive, blooded and bred on the incestuous power intrigues of the Morrison clan without having had much need to consider the rest of the world.
The equivalent opposite is true for Brandon, though. Yet he thinks he's doing as well as he can, so far. He tosses his messenger back into the air to fetch more meat. Now that it knows the way, it can return on its own, when Brandon bids it.
Which will not be often. Petre is not tamable. Something interesting might yet come of him, at least. ]
Any further advice, Tavor? [ His gaze finally slides that way, narrow, demure. ] Or is it time for me to stop bothering you.
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I think he's pretty stupid.
[ I mean, just to be fair about where that particular comment came from. But Tavor didn't have to worry about Haran. They lived in different worlds. The only reason they communicate at all is because their mothers were sisters and... that counts for a little bit. ]
Last word of advice magus, there is no way out for you beneath the House.
[ Don't come back down here. ]
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[ He's not looking anywhere in particular when he says that, so along with Petre, declared interest in monster remains, and undeclared interest in unspecified things, he means Tavor. Obliquely, almost coquettish in a way designed specifically for him: not so much out of genuine personal interest, but because it's clear to Brandon that Tavor stays out of these things, and it's worth trying to keep that channel open. Just to see what might come out of it.
Brandon doesn't push it, though, he only gives Tavor a jaunty nod of farewell, and starts off without any further acknowledgment of Petre, the other undeveloped interest. More meat will be along in a ten or fifteen minutes, when he's long gone. Then none for a few days, then a few scraps, then... a piece of meat spiced with some of those grubs he gave to Haran. Why not see what happens. ]