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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 19: No Sympathy for the Bloodwraith

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Cadence recounts one of the worst events in the Council’s history as the bloodwraith’s motives are brought to light. Taylor’s new empathy turns into both a helpful gift and a terrible burden.

[READ IT ON AO3]

New Orleans, 1921

“If you think the entire Garden Coven unwilling to march on you without hesitation, then you’re far more a fool than you’ve already proved yourself to be.”

The Nighthunter rounds on him with stake in hand. Even as unofficial allies his intent is clear: I will use this.

But Cadence doesn’t step back because he fears the weapon. He fears the man using it.

Has seen that wild look in his eyes elsewhere — though never in a human. It is the look that watches his every step, that hoards the limp limbs of their meal closer, that seeks only to gorge on thick veins and will not be sated until red ichor spills from their lips they are so full with it.

In a reversal of fortune it is the human who looks at the vampire with the gouging claws of bloodthirst and madness.

Any creature of sound mind would fear Reimonenq now.

“They can’t touch me,” the sneering reply, “those damn Accords keep y’all from actin’ as a faction!”

“Those same Accords demand the same of you!”

“It’s different for me an’ you know it, Smith.”

“No—honestly I don’t. You’re just as much a part of this community as any of us. You’re beholden to the Accords just as we are!” But the thing he’s still struggling to grasp, the thing that leaves him gaping even as Derek Reimonenq resumes shoving his things into a ratty sack, is far worse.

“Even with the legality aside — you just murdered three young women in cold blood.”

If any vestiges of warmth remained in his once-alive body they are dashed in the moment the man’s cruel laughter reaches his ears.

“Trust me when I say there weren’t nothin’ cold about it.”

A blind fury consumes him. Sends him rushing at the man with preternatural speed to pin him to the wall; the same grasp capable of turning concrete to powder wrapped around the mortal’s neck.

“You think this is funny?!”

“What it is, damn bleedin’ hearted fool, is justice!”

Derek shoves him back; only succeeds when the vampire is too stunned to speak or hold his ground. “You storm in here spoutin’ all yer high-horse shit about them Accords but you think I’m the only one what broke ‘em? You think those devil-whisperin’ freaks didn’ bend they’re own rules just the same?

“Those girls were unnatural. Even for they’re kind. I been at this all my life Smith — I know how to suss out the ones who ain’t got no hope a’goin’ anywhere but bad.”

“You killed them before they even had a chance. You’re no seer Reimonenq, you can’t possibly think you’re justified on a hunch!”

Derek’s upper lip curls. Cadence is almost surprised he doesn’t glimpse fangs.

“A Nighthunter’s job ain’t easy an’ it ain’t nice an’ it definitely ain’t simple. I already compromised every-damn-thing I believe in when I joined in on ya damn Council. But Come Hell an’ high waters if I stop makin’ this city safe for me an’ mine.”

Like a creature in her own right there comes a small hollow noise at the door. Low and center — the tap-tapping of child’s knuckles. The men break their brawl to watch — to wait.

The knuckles tap-tap again. Firmer this time.

Derek wars with himself for only a moment — opens the door and smooths the kind eyes of a father over those of the beast before.

Cadence knows it isn’t his spectacles that cause him to see a familiar child; not the honey-eyed daughter of Reimonenq but the wild ginger mane of Meredith LaPointe’s youngest. Her face frozen in terror as it will always be; carved behind his eyelids and in his soul.

Even in a town like New Orleans some hauntings have nothing to do with the supernatural. Some are personal.

The little girl stands with her nightshirt bunched in impossibly tiny fists. Wide eyes shining at the sight of her father before realizing he isn’t alone. When her lower lip begins to wobble the vampire realizes his mistake and averts his unnatural ruby gaze.

“You’re supposed to be in bed baby girl,” croons the same man who had burned three girls mere hours ago.

He picks his daughter up and tucks her in close. Cadence wonders if she can smell burned flesh and hair on his old army coat. “Where’s that momma’a yours…” Doesn’t look back to his guest even as he closes the door behind him, ventures deeper into his slumbering home.

Now alone the towering man begs for an answer only he can give — the same thing he had thought with the sunset a looming enemy at his back on the steps of Reimonenq’s domain.

Why is he here?

He has no stake in the Nighthunter’s life. In fact they’ve run afoul of one another more than most. For a man apparently so dedicated to upholding the tenets of the original Nighthunters he sure found himself in debt to the creatures he should so despise often enough. They’d met that way — another payment to Cadence’s three year debt to Carlo in strongarming the money that was promised.

And fucks sakes… there’s nothing redeemable about a man who would hold his daughter with hands still stained with the soot of a witch pyre.

The Council will come for him. There’s even a likelihood the vampire himself would be one of the men tasked with bringing him for his trial.

Maybe he just has to accept that there isn’t a reason for confronting Reimonenq alone.

Maybe he just wants to understand.

Monster to monster.

“What foul…?” He catches another whiff of burned flesh and a shudder rolls through him. He wonders if it should remind him of the battlefield. Still so strong even with thin walls between them — like Reimonenq hadn’t even left the room.

Curious.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the lumped and dark shadow of the hunter’s sack. Ready to cut and run even with a family awaiting his return on the city’s outskirts.

Cadence doesn’t have a family — or if he does he doesn’t know where to find them. Are they waiting for him? Are they just as ignorant to the truth?

All his unanswered questions and here the other man is almost eager to abandon it all. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

When he reaches for the bag it’s because he’s angry; because he wants to delay Derek as much as possible. Not just to face the consequences of his actions but so he knows what the fuck he’s leaving behind. Has to dial down his strength lest he send a myriad of Nighthunter’s essentials hurtling through the thin drywall.

Stakes clatter to the floor. A medieval crossbow lands arm-down and snaps the archaic metal off like shattering glass. Bare essentials of fabric tumble out and reveal the prize he had wrapped within with care and greed both; what remaining skin was peeled from muscle tissue and bone from the flames that had consumed them starts to flake off and settle on scuffed wooden floors.

One cooked finger snaps off and rolls under the nearby bed. The rest are curled up and in like spiders after they die of starvation.

He’s caused his fair share of bloodshed but this—

Trophies…

Cadence’s tears gather and the world goes blurry at his eyes. From rage, from disgust, from incredulity…

He rips his glasses off and shatters them in his fist.

To the Elders of the Garden District Coven, Carlo de la Rosa was at the center of the city’s vampire community. If they weren’t of his blood they owed him in one form of another — Cadence is proof of that.

He was old, powerful, and connected. He had to go.

To the malevolent specter of Derek Reimonenq, Carlo was a threat. Not just as the leader of the vampires of New Orleans but on a personal level as well. In the months following his death Reimonenq’s wife and daughter inherited more than his legacy — they inherited his debts too.

He was as remorseless as he was undead. He had to go.

The Elders witnessed firsthand the rapid rise to power of Denna Ostrowski; a shapeshifter rumored to have had over a hundred forms under her pelt. To the mundane world she was new money investing in the rich history of Louisiana. And money opens many doors — even among the supernatural.

She had her hands steeped in the cauldrons of both worlds. She had to go.

Only Denna came to town long after The Bloody Hand had been dealt with — near forgotten.

That didn’t stop her from learning as much as she could about the history of the Council; from allies to enemies. Learning where they lived, where they died, and where they had hidden every rotten putrid trophy hand.

It was a part of the past best left forgotten yet that didn’t stop Denna from destroying them all the way down to the bone. And for that her days were numbered.

Though they didn’t know it the Elders and their ghoulish pet saw eye-to-eye when it came time to level that gaze on Tonya Reimonenq. They called her Lady Smoke because those who ran afoul of her always disappeared without a trace.

Poof — gone like smoke.

She never asked for her gift; the Reimonenq Curse. But she took it and she used it without shame or guilt. Made a show of keeping her touch under expensive wrappings but everyone knew the truth.

She liked having such power; control over who lived and who died. And despite being of Derek Reimonenq’s decaying flesh and molded blood, Tonya had turned herself into a target — made herself a creature more than she ever was a human being.

“I was the one who brought him in front of the Council,” Cadence says without regret, without remorse; “I kept him from going into hiding. If I hadn’t gone to him that night the Garden Coven may very well have never found him.”

Cal frowns. “I thought you said he couldn’t be accused and punished. Which I still can’t make a lick’a sense of.”

“In the eyes of the Accords both sides were at fault — for different things, but equally guilty of knowing the laws and consciously choosing to break them.”

“What did the Coven do?”

The vampire shifts in discomfort.

“The girls Derek burned weren’t born into the families that made up their ranks at the time. The Elders back then had plans to blood them fully — sort of like an initiation you can’t back out of — but they were brought into the city from outside covens before it was done.”

“To put it plain they brought enemies onto Quarter soil,” explains Katherine with a tired rub of her eye.

Cal throws his glance back to Taylor and Vera and matches their confusion.

“I’m missin’ somethin’. ‘Cause no offense but I can’t see a guy like Elric agreeing to put kids to death over bein’ somewhere they shouldn’t’ve.”

“You’re right — Elric knew the girls were smuggled into town. The whole Council did, actually. Given the circumstances they agreed to turn a blind eye.” When he’s met with a silence that screams for him to keep going Cadence does, though the reluctance is clear on his expression.

“Listen — I never met them personally. I only know what I do from rumor and that’s putting it lightly. But one person heard from another who heard from God-knows-who-else that the girls all shared the same power—could do the same thing in the craft, you know?

“It was said they could remove free will. I don’t know how, or if it was wild speculation or the truth watered down. Even I laughed when the story reached far down enough to my rung on the ladder. Nothing of the natural world — be it magic or sensation or psychic connection — can truly take away all resistance to command. Even my kind, while connected to our Makers on a deep and intimate level, can resist their influence if we do so with all of our being.

“None of this mattered though. The Coven may have concealed their nature but everyone could put two and two together.”

“No one thought they were gonna try somethin’ shifty?” asks Nik. Cadence shakes his head.

“One of the Elders had a natural gift of his own; he could sever the witch from their ability to practice the craft. It was clear that was their plan — that the city didn’t have to worry. They just couldn’t do so until after being blooded into the Coven.

“I think most of us just felt sorry for them.” Doesn’t stare at the carpet underfoot but through it; both in the room with them and some place he thought he had left far behind. “I did. All around the country young men had been sent off to war and returned home empty husks, if they returned at all. There was a sort of cultural agreement that didn’t need words: children and their innocence was worth protecting.”

Kathy’s hand hovers over his before making a decision, offering contact to ground the man to the present. But the smile he gives her is hollow. The memories still haunt him — maybe they always will.

“Derek Reimonenq didn’t agree,” he continues to everyone’s surprise, “not that anyone expected him to. Neither did the Bayou Alpha but the war didn’t even give her back a body to bury, so she fell in with the rest. Everyone figured he would air his grievances and follow through as he usually did… bottle in hand.

“It’s the only time I can remember that the Council tried to find a flaw in their own laws. They wanted to convict him — everyone was demanding justice. But rather than two trials and needless punishment on the side of the Coven the only solution they could all agree on was a clean slate.”

“Which didn’t sit well with the witches,” Vera rests her hand on her racing heart like that will help — it doesn’t, “so they Cursed him. And all the Reimonenq blood ‘longside.”

Cadence nods tight-lipped; has said more than he thought he would have to and more than he wished to if his tension is anything to go by.

“Makes sense, now.”

Nik’s fingertips are warm on Taylor’s scalp. They card through his hair as if to remind them both they are here; that it’s all come down to this.

“Those Elder bastards were targetin’ power in the city but somehow usin’ Derek’s spirit gave it an agenda. Carlo for the past, Denna for revenge on his stuff — can’t say I blame it for hatin’ Smoke but —”

“And how exactly did I piss off ‘The Bloody Hand?’” Taylor asks in bewilderment. Nothing about the casual way the man shrugs reassures him.

“Dunno — you were convenient?”

“And we’re back to that now.”

“Sometimes a spade is a spade is a spade,” his mouth twists with deep thought, “though now we know why it wasn’t houndin’ on us the second you were outside a ward. They gave it a hit list but it chose the order.”

No one responds — what is there to say? Sure it’s satisfying to finally know, to understand.

But does it change anything?

It has to. Otherwise The Fate wouldn’t have led him on this; the altered path.

“This is good — this is a really good thing.”

The incredulity and judgment that bears down on Katherine isn’t personal — she knows that. More than that she doesn’t care. Not with the wry look she’s sending Ryder’s way. “Damn,” she laughs dryly, “it might actually be the only time in all this weird crap that things might work in our favor.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“You said it yourself; a spade’s a spade. Think about it, Nik — finally this is just a job like any other. Just creatures following their nature.”

A look of understanding comes over his weary features. “So maybe it’s time we follow ours, you mean.”

Like she’s reading his mind Vera speaks up where Taylor still struggles to connect the dots; “For the class, guys?”

Kathy’s smile is a rare thing. Rare and unnerving.

“We do what Nighthunters do best; we hunt.”

Even with everything he’s seen and endured the sight of rusted cemetery gates still form knots in his belly; dread and memory all tied up with the knowledge that at the end of the day he’s just as vulnerable here and now as he was that first night.

And you know what doesn’t help? Being in the Garden District again; that doesn’t help.

Being so close to their enemies — those literally plotting to kill them with more than one attempt under their witchy robes — that doesn’t help.

But it must be done. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Katherine had said while hoisting a rusted toolbox from its shelf in Cadence’s office, “since it’s proven already it can attack us anywhere — wards or no.”

“There aren’t any protection measures we can take?” Vera had asked; though they were all sure that if there was an answer they would have found it by now.

“Find a god and pray.”

That the cemetery is largely untouched is a miracle. Not for fear of ghosts and the scary stories tour guides like Tilly tell but for the fact that tourists usually just don’t give a damn.

Then again this is the closest cemetery to the Coven. That has something to do with it no doubt.

Cadence leads them through the dark and winding paths — Cal bringing up the rear. “No flashlights,” the vampire had insisted, “the moment we trespass is the moment the mundane authorities become just as much a threat as the witches.”

Lucky they have a vampire and a werewolf on their team then. Precision hunters pretty much known for their ability to see at night.

They keep close-knit ranks but let’s be honest; they’re about as subtle as the Scooby Gang would be in this scenario.

A joke he will not be saying within earshot of Cal if Taylor values his life.

Though the vampire insists—almost too much—that he hasn’t been to the Reimonenq crypt since Derek was put there almost a century ago he sure knows his way easy enough.

“Are you sure you’re okay with us doing this; vandalizing your family crypt?” Taylor asks Vera, because this just feels awkward especially with her here. And if she says stop you better know they will be stopping.

But nope; it’s all good. “I’m only frustrated I can’t get us in myself.”

They come to a stop — abruptly, like jostled dominoes — in front of an old stone grave.

Any other day Taylor would have walked right by it; dismissed it for another piece of city history made illegible from erosion over time. But through the greenish muck and years of wear, maybe because he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there.

REIMONENQ “Mourn not the dead, but those burdened to continue living.”

His heart sinks at the inscription beneath Vera’s family name — chances a glance her way, ready to offer what little comfort he can.

Her eyes scream of hatred but he can feel beneath the surface. All that anger stemming from a place of hurt, of loss; of regret. Hatred at the bones they hope to find within and regret for every life that could have been spared in the aftermath of him.

Cadence motions for Cal to help him strongarm the front slab.

“Wait,” says Vera through the stones in her throat and the tears in her eyes she refuses to shed, “gimme a second.”

Katherine holds her breath — thinks better of pointing out that they may not have a second to spare. They know; Vera knows.

But she also deserves this.

She removes her left glove while approaching the crypt. They step back, give her a wide berth and not just for her sake.

Fingers stretched as far and forward as they’ll go Vera lays her palm on the surface. Pushes with a fruitless effort but it probably isn’t the physical barrier she’s forcing back. At least that’s not what Taylor feels in her soul.

“When I was a lit’le girl Momma told me we didn’ have the luxury of choosin’ whether or not to be killers. That day I vowed to myself to be the first — to keep the Touch from ever takin’ a life so long as I held it.

“I was fifteen when she tricked me into usin’ it on a man — staged it like I was savin’ her life by taking another. And I’ll never forgive her for it.”

Taylor feels his heart begin to crumble, then crash into a deep dark sea in chunks as tears roll down her cheeks.

“But she proved something to me that day —” she continues, “— she proved she was right. That so long as we had the Touch we would be killers whether we wanted to or not. She may have tried to make me a hero but no one who can do what we do could ever be one.

“But here—lookin’ at this grave, knowin’ what I know and all that The Bloody Hand did? I don’t feel guilty anymore. I finally realize that I really never had a choice.

“It was always gonna be in my nature.”

Cal’s knuckles crack hollow in the silent cemetery. Cade averts his ruby eyes, swipes his tongue over the hint of a fang.

If anyone here can understand her, it’s them.

“That’s what makes him so evil,” Vera tugs on her glove with jerking frustration; and not for the first time turns her back on the name REIMONENQ, “he had a choice an’ he chose to kill. And I ain’t gonna forget that — no matter how ‘tortured’ his soul is supposed to be.

“Those Elders ain’t in the right in what they’ve done but he wouldn’t have been their weapon had he not chosen to do great evil first.”

Not a rallying cry or solemn eulogy — but her intent is clear.

No sympathy for the bloodwraith.

No sympathy for Derek Reimonenq.

Ryder insists on proceeding with caution—still a statement Taylor’s trying to wrap his head around to be honest—and earns Katherine’s grumbled agreement that they should at least check for remnants of the Elders’ visit.

Cal spots a couple of markings drawn in chalk by the base that set teeth and fangs on edge but ultimately Kathy concludes they’re nothing more than lay-hexes; the witch equivalent of spitting on someone and cursing them to burn in Hell. A bit ominous but not meant to guard the abandoned tomb.

Which, frankly, leaves Taylor more than a little unsettled.

“If they saw no need to enchant it, does that mean there’s nothing inside we can use?”

Nik shakes his head and steps back, allows the two creatures among them to really give in to that nature of theirs and pry the weathered granite from its seal.

“First thing any hunter does when dealin’ with the hereafter is t’learn about the life of the haunting dead. We got the life story and we got how he died —”

“Step two is consecrate whatever bones can be found.” Katherine finishes.

A groan of resistance cuts off with a loud THUD, the noise bouncing from crypt to crypt definitely more than loud enough to awaken the dead. Nice timing to start regretting not bringing Ivy along.

Cade props the front plate on the side of the structure, waves his hand at the irritating dust and sand set off from their force.

It must be nice not to have to breathe, Taylor would say — if he wasn’t hacking his lungs out and praying there isn’t any powdered body on his tongue.

When it settles and they can properly peer inside — the good news is that aren’t any corpses that might make him lose his nerve. One more fainting spell and Taylor might just have to live in shame in the backwoods of the Bayou.

The bad news, though, is also that there aren’t any corpses; rather a large black hole stretching into a void. Darker than the night around them, practically made of nothing.

The vampire sighs and pushes up his glasses. “It’s a small stairwell,” then looking back to Vera, “I know you aren’t to blame in the least but… there’s a reason no one has a basement in Louisiana.” Judging by the look she throws his way it’s better that she takes the high road and doesn’t comment.

“I can’t smell any water rot,” Cal sniffs the air again and the face he makes might as well curl the ends of his hair, “but there’s definitely dead things below.”

“Wow, dead things in a crypt, who would’a guessed?”

“Hey Ryder?”

“Yeah Kujo?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

There’s only enough space for them to go one at a time; and even that is being generous. Taylor can’t help but try to imagine the dignified Elder Daniels in her power-suit crawling into this muck — or Elder Vion hobbling through like a bag of bones.

Kathy volunteers Cadence to go first — an act the vampire looks like he objects to strongly. “Tall people aren’t really made for small —”

But it isn’t his height the huntress is concerned over; a revelation spurned by how she shoves him through the passage—crawlspace, really—and holds her breath as if waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does. “The inside isn’t bespelled. You can come out now if you want.”

If Cade could turn his head he would no doubt be glaring wildly. “Why bother, I’m already inside!” He seethes but takes cautious steps into the tomb, then into the earth.

Vera goes next, and of her own volition.

“Anyone else worried about the amount of oxygen down there?” And it’s such a clear opening for Nik to take a shot at the werewolf but Cal does have a point — while also looking a little green in the face.

So he and Katherine stay up top to guard the rather obvious and gaping hole in what should be a sealed grave. And for the sake of conserving breathing room, can’t forget that.

Nik’s hand is warm, solid as it coaxes him at his lower back. Only a few steps in he feels the drop of the descent. Waits until what little light from outside is obscured by the bodyguard at his back before he begins the journey down.

Down into the not-so-final not-quite-at-rest place of Derek Reimonenq.

Cal was right; there is a body down here.

But—and he’s just spitballing here really—he’s like… a little pretty-damn-sure it isn’t the guy who’s been dead for 98 years.

Ninety five, ninety four percent certain.

As he finishes igniting the last of the half-burned candle circle Cadence pockets his lighter and stands — doesn’t even have to hunch over. It had felt like they were walking for an hour in the pitch black but maybe he wasn’t that far off.

It’s not a tomb like anyone buried would have a tomb; more a room made sturdy with brick and mortar to do one purpose — and not even for forever. The candles have to be a new fixture courtesy of the Coven Elders and whatever hellish ritual they performed. Even the ground beneath them still holds traces of their visit; looks like Elder Daniels got her heel stuck in some as-yet unpacked dirt.

Derek Reimonenq’s body is probably supposed to be on the waist-height stone slab in the middle. Only it isn’t.

But someone’s is.

Ryder’s hand ghosts over yellow chalk marks on the walls. He pulls back a fingertip of the powder residue and gives it a little sniff; instantly regrets it with a recoil.

“Sulfur,” and he smears it back on the brick feeling desperately unclean.

Cadence joins Vera in looking up to where something large catches the reflection of the flames. He’s just tall enough to reach and brush the surface with a touch. “Looks like a quartz geode… I think I’ve read somewhere that halite can be cast to ward away weathering.”

“Explains why this place wasn’t swallowed up in Katrina,” agrees Nik.

There’s a long moment of silence before Taylor just can’t take it anymore.

“Is no one else gonna mention the dead corpse?”

Cadence snorts. “As opposed to the living one?”

Not what he meant.

But as the rest of the room’s oddities had been deduced the only logical progression was to the young woman laid to rest in a grave that isn’t hers. Maybe wasn’t supposed to be.

That she hasn’t shown any signs of decay isn’t even the strangest thing. No, that would be the pile of bleached-white bones serving as her funeral bed. Definitely more than what one human body should be made up of — but who says it’s human?

The almost medical distance with which Nik studies the long gash across her throat—not scabbed over but not bleeding, either, simply open—has Taylor looking away in discomfort.

While Vera may not have been initially as shocked as he, though, she keeps her distance beside him. “She’s so young…”

“Eighteen, maybe a tad less,” Cadence shrugs off the way they stare at him, “I tried out medicine a ways back, I think I can date a body.”

“Then how long has she been dead?”

“That’s the misleading part — but I think we have the halite ward to thank for that. Context included—I’d say she died the same night as Carlo de la Rosa.”

Vera sucks in a breath. “It killed her, too?”

“No, she doesn’t look like the other bodies.” Nik grunts and stands, wipes dirt from his palms and grabs one of the bones from under the girl’s knee to study it closely. “Conjuring the wraith — pulling Reimonenq’s spirit from the Veil, that’s some heavy necromancy, the kind you have to have in your blood. It could be one of the Elders but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she’s our born Necromancer.”

Why is it that with everything he’s seen Taylor still has a hard time looking into her face, soft and so very still, and imagining her bringing that much evil into the world?

Ryder uses the bone to drag a wide circle around the dais in the dirt; follows the path just inside the candles and forces the other three back against the walls. “The Elders stood in a triangle — see the concentration of steps — and she did the summoning over the altar. When they were done… she wasn’t of any use to them and and had to go.”

“But she was one of their own,” Taylor protests, “they keep talking about how they’re trying to protect their Coven — she had to have been one of them right?”

It’s a heavy thought. Makes the air in the room feel a little thinner. Cal was right there isn’t enough for them down here.

“Come Hell and High Waters,” says Cade; and he probably means well but those words make him feel sick to his stomach now — some of that ends justifying the means bullshit.

“A sacrifice of one for the survival of the many. I wonder if they told her… that what she was doing was the right thing.”

“The right — they murdered her. There’s no way that’s right.”

“You’re questioning their morality now?”

Taylor falters. He has a point.

There’s just so much grief building up inside his chest he feels like his lungs might burst out of him. A terrible loss; losing himself, losing faith in something, losing trust and truth and…

And where the hell is this coming from?

I can’t breathe. Clutching his hand to his chest, heart seconds away from giving out, that familiar burn of breathing in too hard—too much. “I can’t breathe.”

Before he can collapse Vera helps ease him down to his knees, Nik suddenly at his side hands hovering — unsure of what to do, how to help, but filled with the desperate need to do something because feeling useless is a thundercloud gathering overhead.

“Rook—Rook breathe. I — what’s wrong? Can you talk? Talk to me Taylor, please —”

“Give him some space, Ryder.”

“Do you not see him having a panic attack?”

He gathers enough energy to rasp out only once; “Hey—huff—Nik—huff—backthehelloff!”

And because he can’t say it again he just waves Vera away with heavy slaps of his hands. He doesn’t mean to hurt her. Only to get his point across.

The breathing room they give helps a little. Not enough. Doesn’t stop the feelings he’s feeling or the confusion about those feelings.

They wait in silence while his panic subsides. Maybe it wouldn’t take so long if he understood what had caused it; but he’s met with nothing but patience and a whole lot of concern on Nik’s end.

When Taylor reaches out with a shaky hand it’s immediately grabbed; his entire being tethered to that one act. Nik squeezes first, he squeezes back.

His gaze drifts over the leather-clad shoulder to the body on the stone slab and… and he understands.

“I’m feeling her.” The aching grief twisting in his gut like a rusty knife, the purposelessness, the betrayal. “It—she—is everywhere in here. She’s suffocating.”

“She’s dead, Rook.”

“I mean her emotions—her soul. She wants to be known. She wants to be grieved.”

“So grieve her,” Cadence says, “however you can, you must. If you’re feeling that strong of an empathic connection there must be a reason why. It could tell us something we don’t know—something crucial.”

Taylor hopes to see some sort of confident support when he looks to Nik for help — but the worry is staggering. That makes it better, somehow; genuine.

“You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want,” his voice is quiet; hiding the scratch of emotion in his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs.

If only it were that simple.

On shaky legs he stands, makes his way to the altar where Cadence gives him a wide berth and waves for the others to do the same. Nik looks ready to stand by his side no matter what happens. He will, too. But he shakes his head, whispers “it’s okay,” and lets their touch linger until he’s too far to reach.

There’s no manual on this kinda crap — hopefully he doesn’t need one. He doesn’t think he does.

No… he doesn’t feel like he does. Which is apparently different now; a thing to worry about later.

Taylor inhales and brushes a trembling touch along the soft curve of her copper cheek.

“You swore a sacred oath to your Coven in blood, dear girl.”

Elder Vion’s voice rasps in his ear. Makes Taylor want to recoil out of a bygone terror. He’s half a step back when he remembers Nik is there and the Elder is not. And stands still.

“No one else would have you Cassiopeia. We took you in, gave you our protection.”

“We gave you a family — a home.”

Then an unfamiliar voice among them; young and trusting and tired—so very tired, dragged out of her bed in the middle of the night.

“Of course, Elder Millet, a-and I’m grateful! Please, please…”

“All of these things without expectation of repayment. Because our kind must stand together — must straddle the worlds of both dark and light and know balance in them.”

“You have been cursed, darling girl. But today we will turn that curse into a blessing.”

“But you made me promise —”

Then the feeling changes — grows old and damp and determined to do good by those who took care of her, by those who loved her.

The bones of a persecuted witch. Of three. The last three to fall victim to The Bloody Hand and the ones to call him forth from the hereafter.

They bind him in torment, in hellfire unseen.

The sight of them, knowledge that she could be one of them, makes her skin crawl.

Elder Daniels watches ever-present at her back as Elder Vion finishes the rite of conjuring; sprinkles the last of the dry spell over the bones. The mandrake powder tickles her nose. She holds her breath and prays not to sneeze.

The ochre within stains the bones her favorite shade of orange; the burned hue of a Bayou sunset. But combined with the flakes of iridescent mica that catch in the candlelight — the spell takes hold of the bones and claims them for their use. Leaves them a bright, almost bleached white as the powders are absorbed into the long-gone marrow.

Cassiopeia looks to her left for Elder Millet’s familiar motherly smile. It gives her calm and hope — reminds her of all the other fostered witches they are acting in faith for tonight.

This is what she was born for. This is why she was abandoned; because the Garden Coven was meant to find her.

She’s meant to do this; use her curse. This is how she’s going to repay them for all they’ve done for her.

“Cassiopeia, sweetheart,” Elder Millet doesn’t move—can’t move—from her spot in the triquetra; coaxes her forward still with a nod of her chin, “whenever you’re ready.”

A hasty nod; then she takes one final moment to steel herself and her nerves.

She’s meant for this.

The sulfur powder itches at her palms but Cassie resists the urge to scratch. Spreads her fingers wide and hears a pop in her thumbs as she reaches over and above the ritual bones.

On the other side of the altar comes the thud. thud. thud of Elder Vion’s walking staff on the ground a this feet. The candle flames around them flicker — almost to death.

Then comes the slow and throated chanting of Vion’s native tongue. The flames begin to grow.

The young witch buries that last shred of doubt way deep inside and trusts her protectors.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”

A whispered wind overcomes them. Fills the room warm near her toes and chilly to the touch.

Around the crypt it circles round and round — and grows.

“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed I now bestow…”

She can’t quite tell if the shaking in her hands is the growing itch, her nerves, or the power of the spell. Nothing worth the reason to stop.

“My darkest will with blackened vein Unto this rotted soul I chain.”

“Again!” Elder Daniels commands. A tone that takes none but obedience.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone. Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed I now bestow. My darkest will with blackened vein Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

“Again!”

“I—I’m trying!”

“Try harder! Millet!”

“Cassiopeia you can’t break the chant. You can do it, I know you can!”

The whirlwind threatens to catch her voice and steal it from her lungs. Rattles the bones that stay together because they cannot imagine being apart — even in death. Hands stained with the sulfur’s ire and Cassie squeezes her eyes shut to keep it from getting in her eyes.

“Claw and blood! Claw and bone! Bloodied flesh! Endless stone!”

“It’s working! Jean—the knife!”

“You’re doing so good Cassie—we’re almost there!”

“My darkest will with blackened vein! Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

Taylor chokes on his own air; can feel the icy bite of the blade dragged across his throat. Sharp—so sharp it’s barely a pinprick but the wound left in its wake spills warm and wet down his front into his clothes soaking the ground taken in by the dirt and given a home here, below, in this awful place.

Ichor of the innocent to bind and control.

Before he can fall backwards Nik is there; familiar and solid and so so steady against the violent shaking that overcomes him.

He can still feel her— forces everything inside him to will himself not to see what happened next. Knows what was born from her spell, her devotion to the Elders, and her sacrifice.

Cassiopeia.

“She trusted them,” the words hang thick and dry on Taylor’s tongue, “she trusted them and they told her she was doing something good… she felt like she owed them.”

“And repaid that debt with her life…” Vera looks away; suddenly can’t stand to look at her.

Nik helps him back on his feet, brushes a hand through his hair and he leans into the warmth of it. Feels so cold now that the hot sting of Cassiopeia’s anguish is gone from him. Pulled out as if by a rusted hook embedded in his gut.

“Was it Reimonenq that did this to her?” asks Cade, who drags his finger along the curling edges of her wound.

“No, no… Elder Daniels, I think, was the one who sacrificed her.”

Nik frowns. “Why would you sacrifice the one doin’ the damn ritual?”

“The power in a ritual is beheld by the caster, obviously. With her death the entire thing should have been rendered null. But we all know that not to be the case.”

A strange look comes over the vampire’s expression for a moment; lips pursed thinly. He doesn’t look up from the body as he waves towards Vera. “Can you come here a moment? Take your glove off.”

“What? No!”

“Relax, you won’t be Touching me. I need you to Touch the witch’s hand.”

She looks between them all, Cassie’s body included, as if hoping one of them will speak up. “I won’t be Touchin’ anyone because I won’t do it. It’s too risky, especially here all… all cramped.”

“Please.”

Vera pleads at him silently. Taylor can feel her panic icy and crisp at the back of his throat. So he asks; “What do you think will happen?”

“If I’m correct,” whether he steps away from the altar and simply gestures, giving Vera space, is for her sake or his own is a mystery, “then nothing will happen at all.”

That it’s a risk he’s willing to take on behalf of Vera—that he isn’t the one doing the Touching and is all the more insistent anyway—is worrisome. But he’s their friend; they’re all in this together.

That—and the fact that if Katherine were down here she’d already be tugging Vera and her cursed hand forward without hesitation.

Curiosity, survival; whichever wins out it doesn’t matter. Not that it keeps the unfortunate inheritor of her family name from doing so slowly. As if trying to talk herself out of agreeing up until the last second.

“Which hand?”

“Either one will do,” then when her fingertips are a hair’s breadth away— “I seem to recall Derek wasn’t picky.”

Taylor wonders—quietly, in his head, and very much to himself—when the last time Vera actually touched another human was. Was there some sort of coming-of-age trigger for the curse? Or could she have been putting all the other toddlers on the playground at risk should she have decided to pull off her gloves and play tag?

Too long ago, the obvious answer. Obvious when Vera covers Cassiopeia’s hand first in fingertips — then her entire palm.

They wait. Nothing happens.

She shakes off her wrist—like this is something she’s at fault for—and tries again. Pushes this time enough to jostle the poor young sacrifice.

Again, nothing.

There’s a collective sigh of relief. All eyes on Cadence for answers, explanations, anything?

Nope. He just nods, as distantly academic as ever.

“So what does this mean?” Nik finally asks.

The last time he started rolling up his sleeves, Taylor witnessed Cadence’s transformation into some kind of merciless brute; a monster. Is it any wonder the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he sees it again?

“It means I’m going to need something that can cut through bone.”

#nightbound #choices nb #playchoices #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #cal lowell #vera reimonenq #katherine nightbound #oc: cadence smith #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics #cassiopeia

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