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themaleficperformers-blog · 7 years ago

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Chapter XXXII: Leopold / Ronan

Dreams came easy to Rot as a warlock - fleeting moments, like memories through the eyes of another soul. Dreams were powerful foci for magic. Warlocks found they channeled raw, untempered, uncorrupted magic when they slept. Sometimes it was welcome; sometimes not; sometimes dreams never came at all.

Rot had always dreamed: he saw nightmares, terrors and glimpses of things that were, things that are and some things that have not yet come to pass. After Hightower's mission into the vampire den, Rot's dreams came to life from the second his head hit the soft pillow.

Rot could never sleep on a hard pillow. He believed it impossible to find comfort with what felt like a block of wood beneath one's neck. Fatigue made the finest pillow, but a ruffled mind made a restless one. Nightmares and questions came knocking when Rot's mind was torn apart, unable to pull himself away from the events that he had witnessed.

His dreams were red that night.

Rot woke early the following morning. His bare skin, the blankets and the sheets were drenched in cold sweat. He lay in his bed for an age, staring at the ceiling which provided little comfort. It was times like this - although few and far between - Rot actually wanted to wake beside someone he trusted. But, for all the moons he had seen, he never once experienced trust like that.

Eventually, Rot dragged himself from his bed. He threw his feet over the edge. His upper body followed slowly. His head shook painfully with the effort. He stood even slower, sighing deeply. Rubbing the sleepy sand from his eyes, Rot went to the bathroom and took a long shower. He washed away the memories and nightmares. When he stepped out again, he felt more like himself.

"Let's get this over with."

He dressed himself in an elegant shirt, leaving the top button undone, and pulled on boxers and trousers. His shoes from the night before, caked in mud, dust and the blood of an unknown vampire, possibly burnt to nothingness, were still by his wardrobe. It was as if they were asking to be worn again. One more chance. A chance they would never get. Rot made a mental note to dump them when he returned.

He slung a jacket over his shoulders and left his Keep. He walked along the riverside, breathing in the fresh air as the sun began to rise in the east. The early morning sunlight cast a golden shimmer over the water.

Rot did not care for the beauty of the water like he usually would. The sound of the birds only pissed him off. The bell-beat of wings above his head only adding to his headache. The shower had taken away the initial rawness of the nightmares but they soon came slouching back, like mangy mutts returning to their master's feet.

Edward Ravenscar. Lady Simone. Duke Sol. Diz. Unknown faces in the shadows.

Rot's mind did not clear until he reached the steps of the Institute, where it was ripped asunder, left clear and empty. Looking up towards the main doors, he saw them thrown open. He heard the roaring next. The heart-breaking and gut-twisting scream of a man possessed. Rot had thought himself to distance himself from the pain of others, it made life a little more bearable, but Ravenscar's scream made it hard to hide away. It cut through Rot like a shard of glass. It was the kind of scream that rooted you to the spot. It was wild and feral.

Rot climbed the stairs, taking two steps at a time. In the central foyer, he found the Shadowhunters gathered. They were awestruck, fixed in place. To Rot, it was as if the whole Institute had fallen under a wicked spell. If it were not for Ravenscar weeping in the middle.

The High Inquisitor was cradling the broken body of his son. Pale. Bruised. Throat slashed open. Blood pooled and congealed.

Edward Ravenscar had been brutally murdered.

Rot vanished in an instant. He appeared again on the grand staircase and raced up the steps. The whole Institute was gathered in the foyer except Hightower, Rose, Burke and Diz. His company and the orange-man were nowhere to be seen. His company were the only ones able to act now. The others were crestfallen.

He needed to speak to Hightower. Immediately.

Rot made very little noise as he gracefully took to the second floor. The early sunrays lit the hallways of the Institute. Rot, had he not been so obsessed with what was going on, may have appreciated and welcomed the warmer light. He hated the candles the Institute insisted upon.

On the second floor landing, Rot could sense Hightower. He had climbed the staircase not long before. But, Rot could also sense pain. Littletower and Hightower were in pain. Deeply hurt.

Rot rushed to where the sense was strongest and knocked on the door softly: "Hightower? Littletower?"

“Leopold!” Clara sounded, her frown turning into a wide grin.

Ronan exhaled slowly, turning around to see Rot standing a few feet from him. He looked as awkward as they all did now, no doubt he had seen what had transpired below.

With Clara wriggling in his arms, trying to get free, the horror downstairs, and the ringing chimes in his mind, Ronan felt as if he was going to implode. He placed his daughter down, and she instantly ran towards Rot, wrapping her arms around his left leg. Ronan couldn’t be bothered to scold her for it now.

“Rot,” he finally said, his tone cold. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Rot tussled Littletower’s hair, bending at his knees and lifting the small girl into his arms: “Hello Littletower, have you been crying? What’s wrong, little one?”

Rot looked over Littletower’s shoulder and into Hightower’s harsh eyes. He looked like his tongue was about to tell all the anger in his heart. If he didn’t, his heart concealing it would brake.

“I came to see how everyone was and to speak about last night,” Rot said softly, keeping his voice low and calming, despite Hightower’s cold tone. “About Ravenscar, Diz and so much more.”

Ronan nodded, looking over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

With that, he took off down the corridor, not checking to see if Rot and Clara were following. He pushed open the door to his room, holding it wide for Rot to enter.

“Take a seat.”

Rot held Littletower tight in his arms as Hightower brushed past without a turning glance. He is in a foul mood, Rot thought, what in hell happened?.

Rot hoisted Littletower higher as he followed down the corridor. The little girl had rested her head against Rot’s neck and, even though she was smiling at Rot, he could feel small tears falling on his skin.

“Hush now, Littletower,” Rot soothed, “Don't be crying. The day is sad enough without our own problems taking hold. Hush now, what happened?”

The little girl said nothing. She just held on tight.

Rot sighed softly as he stepped into Hightower’s room. He took a seat on the couch, putting Littletower down beside him. No sooner had Rot sat down, Littletower had once again jumped up next to him, wrapping her arms around Rot.

Ronan sat on his bed, watching Rot cradle Clara. At least she was calm. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted. “A group went to the Den to retrieve the boy’s body. There was no number, before you ask. I don’t think they are related.”

Littletower was much calmer now in Rot’s arm. Rot gestured with his fingers in front of her small face as he spoke to Hightower, miniature fireworks and shooting stars and twinkling colours jumping forth. The poor thing didn't deserve to feel unhappy.

“No number?” Rot asked, his brow furrowing. “That's odd. So, Edward wasn't part of whatever twisted countdown they have. Strange - did Diz and the others report of anything else? I saw them go in, but I didn't expect them to come out the boy.”

Ronan watched Rot entertain Clara, and leaned back slightly, resting on his elbow. He thought about it for a moment, curious about why it all happened. Edward didn’t seem to be involved in anything Clave business, so was this all just a way to get at Oswald?

“I didn’t get much of a chance to ask, seeing as his father is still screaming over his dead body as we speak,” he grumbled, looking out the rain slicked window to his left.

“Yes,” Rot mumbled in agreement. “I doubt any man could hold his screams against him. He has lost his son.”

Rot looked to the window. The raindrops were running down the glass. It was almost peacefully. If it wasn't for the screaming of the High Inquisitor and the nightmares that still plagued Rot even while awake.

“If there's no number. I may have an inkling as to why the boy was killed.” Rot said, whispering the final word, barely audible. He didn't want Littletower to hear him speak like that.

Ronan tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the Warlock. He wondered where Warlocks got all of their information. Have they just been around so long that they eventually know everything? Is it a magic-type deal? He supposed he would never know.

“And that is?”

Rot looked to the young girl in his arms. Littletower was smiling and laughing at Rot’s conjuring spell. The feelings of hurt that hung around her shoulders like a yoke began to fade away.

“I may be wrong. I may be looking too much into it,” Rot said, not looking up. “But, last night, after our little venture, I dreamt of Oswald Ravenscar firing a single arrow. One arrow. Straight into the heart of a vampire.”

Rot glanced at Hightower through his eyelashes. The Shadowhunter was staring at him. Perplexed.

“If Ravenscar had killed one of the vampires involved in this deadly production of murders, then it is possible that…”

“I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Rot,” Ronan muttered lowly. “Spell it out.”

Rot shook his head, tutting under his breath. It is not rocket science nor a guessing game, Rot thought, scolding Hightower’s lack of imagination or critical thinking. Maybe he just has not been kicking around long enough. He looked back to the rain falling against the window before continuing: “If Ravenscar killed one of them, it is very likely that they killed the Ravenscar boy as revenge. A dish best served cold, as vampires’ love to say.”

#Script #Leopold #Ronan

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themaleficperformers-blog · 8 years ago

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Chapter X: Leopold / Ronan

The infirmary was a tucked away in what seemed like the darkest part of the Institute. Rot walked along the hallway with defined purpose. The only light came from half-melted candles scattered on the windowsills, ledges and along the floor. It was a dark and eerie place, resonating more with a warlock's keep or a demon's cave than where the sick and injured came to lick their wounds.

After High Inquisitor Oswald had given his rhetorical masterpiece, Rot had lingered in the darkness of the ballroom. The little space he had chosen was nestled behind the grand staircase, partially hiding him for the annoying merriment. He had dusted off his suit, finally ridding his sleeves of whatever the werewolf had past to him, trying to think of a way out. He opened the top button of his shirt as the Inquisitor spoke, the silvery words barely reaching his ears.

Rot did not care for the speech. He knew why he had been summoned to the Institute, there was absolutely no need to spell it for him.

The only people that saw him, sulking in the corner, were those that past by. Small groups came now and again to go further down the hall, chuckling to themselves and glancing in his direction. At one point, a few Shadowhunters even stopped halfway up the staircase, craning their necks over the banister to catch a glimpse of the High Warlock of Toronto. They would not get to see him otherwise.

He was hiding. There was no use denying it. The Institute was the last place he wanted to be. He had no time for all of this, but it had to be done. So, as the crowds began to slowly dwindle away, Rot had left the security of the shadows and took to the main hall again.

He sighed heavily. The crowds had only gotten more and more energetic with time, spurred on by whatever the Nephilim were serving. One young Shadowhunter, with dark hair and enough power in his stature to knock even the biggest of men off their feet, could barely keep his balance. He came tumbling past Rot, his lips curved into a drunken smile. Idiot. Rot hadn't paid much heed to the High Inquisitor, but he felt that the reason for this gathering was not to have a festival. There were three Shadowhunters dead. Three of their own - if it was looked upon as an attack on the Shadow community in Toronto. This was not a time for fun and games.

As he moved towards the centre of the room, more careful now to avoid any interactions, he heard the large doors of the Institute burst open. He turned on his heels, tilting his head to the side as a flash of scarlet darted into the night. A red-headed women had thrown the doors wide open, running frantically down the steps of the Institute. She's no Cinderella, he thought. Besides, it wasn't even midnight yet and Cinderella didn't leave with a look of determination etched onto her face.

He glanced around the hall. No one had noticed, or if they had, they didn't want to show it. They were too enthralled by their festivities. Simple minded fools. Then, as he caught sight of the High Inquisitor, Ronan Hightower began to run too, tearing past Rot's line of sight, following the red-headed Shadowhunter with equal determination.

Hightower's movement meant trouble. It was why he had informed the High Inquisitor. It was why he was on his way to the infirmary. It was why suddenly, he got worried. A young mundane on her way home had been attacked by a vampire, who now had an arrow sticking out of his black heart for his bloodlust. But, the violent act had not gone unnoticed. This wasn't the first time Rot had heard talk of a vampire making such a blatant attempt at a bloodmeal. There were rumours that a vampire was among the suspects - a possible three-time murderer in their midst. No Child of the Night had responded to the Clave's call, which only added unwanted strength to the whispers behind closed doors. Whether this was attempted murder number four, soon to be marked XII, or simple a vampire desperate for fresh blood needed to be deciphered.

He pushed on the door of the infirmary, closing it behind him as he stepped inside. The mundane was lying on a bed, her skin already beginning to show the blue-red rosettes of deep-seated bruising. Beyond her was Hightower, dressed in traditional clothing. A hoodie and a tracksuit bottom. Rot shook his head, smirking mischievously. He had known the sophisticated style would never last. In front of him, his daughter, Clara, stood staring into his eyes.

Ronan’s eyes flickered up when the doors opened once more. Again? However, this time, instead of an unwelcomed burst of energy from frightened Shadowhunters, it was the High Warlock, Leopold Rot. Ronan knew him, not well, but enough to know that he never enjoyed meddling in Shadowhunter affairs.

Clara’s eyes lit up at the sight of the man, though. She had only seen photos of him - not the real deal.

“Rot,” Ronan said, nodding towards Stella’s body. “I assume you’re here to attend to the Mundane?”

“Hightower,” Rot nodded, smiling brightly, more at Clara than at Hightower himself. “You assume correctly. It wouldn’t be the most difficult of detections, now would it? But, I also want to speak to you. We have much to discuss.”

Rot made his way to the bed, looking down at the young girl. The bruises were deep, set into the tissues and far beneath the skin. It wouldn’t be difficult. A few small spells. A few angelic runes would have been sufficient had she been Nephilim, and he would never he been called.

“How are you, Littletower?” Rot asked, glancing at Clara, her lighting up at the attention.

“She’s fine.”

“I can talk, dad,” Clara butted in. “I’m good, thank you.” She gave Rot a slight bow, something Tilly must have taught her during their lessons. Most Shadowhunters bowed to people like Rot. Ronan understood why, exactly.

Ronan’s eyes flickered up to the clock resting on the wall. “Clara. It’s nearly midnight. You need to get to bed.”

“But I’m not tired.”

“And I don’t care. Go find Tilly, she’ll tuck you in. I’ll be up shortly.”

Clara protested a little longer, but eventually was sent on her way. Ronan sighed, closing the door behind her and locking he and Leopold in. He turned, folding his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his arm when he did so. The deep scrape on his cheek was slowly beginning to fade due to the iratze.

“What would you like to discuss?” Ronan muttered.

Rot smiled and nodded his head at the young girl, as she was sent away, disheartened, by her father. Hightower didn’t realise how lucky he was with her - she was always a good child. As Clara left, Rot bent over the young mundane, examining her carefully with expert eye. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully, but Rot could she the pain that had been inflicted on her.

His fingers began to glow in response to a few sweet, lilting syllables in an ancient tongue, light rolling onto the girl. A sky-blue mist washed over her, the bruises beginning to fade. “What’s her name,” he asked, not glancing away from her. Hightower was a cold and as callous as always. Like Rot himself. “Does she have any internal injuries? I can’t sense any.”

Rot eventually looked up. He couldn’t avoid speaking to the Head of the Institute. He wanted to make a bristling comment, see how Ronan Hightower reacted to being an underling in his house. But, he held his tongue. They would have to work together.

“I need to talk to the person in charge about these murders; how I can help you,” Rot said, noting the grimace Hightower made. He was hurt, he just did not want to show it. “But, most importantly, about an uninvited guest who slipped by your shitty wards.”

Ronan tightened his jaw, pacing over to where Rot was hovering over the Mundane. He looked down at her, at the mist that had cleansed her wounds. Out of every Downworlder species, Warlocks were by far the most impressive, and the most useful.

“Her name is Stella Burke. As for internal damage, none that we are aware of.” He examined her face, still unsure of what the course of action would be when she finally opened her eyes. If she ever did… He supposed that was the one good thing about not being Head for the time being: he didn’t have to make the decision.

“Oswald has retired for the night,” he finally muttered, stepping back so that he sat in his chair once more. “So, if you have anything to say, you can say it to me, and I will inform him.”

Rot nodded his head slowly, his magic pouring over the mundane. He could feel it falter, somewhere across her chest. As the bruises cleared, he gently ran his fingertips across her ribcage. The bones seemed to be okay, but he could sense that something was amiss. His magic seemed to dip somewhere along a rib, dropping like a stone into a crevice. One broken bone, he thought, the Shadowhunters must have missed that. Another quick utterance, full of dark sounds, forced the bones to mend themselves.

Flexing his fingers, the joints popping, Rot turned away to face Hightower, “Ms. Burke will be fine. She will recover in due time. She should be awake by the morrow, if not, the afternoon. Her side may be tender, that vampire had broken a rib. Your healers need to go back to the Shadow Academy.”

He moved across the room, sitting down gracefully in the chair beside Hightower. He took one last look at Stella Burke, pleased with his handiwork. It wasn’t common for him to cast magic on mundanes. For some spells, it was harder. Humans generally did not let the magic take. He put his left leg over his right knee and leaned back. “Yes, Oswald has taken over hasn’t he. How is that going down? Lots of chatter, you know.” Rot smirked - he knew this got under Hightower’s skin. He could see the jaw tensed tight.

“But, if you were to ask me opinion, he’s not in charge here. He never will be. I know him of old, he’ll end with a jade’s trick. You are the Head of the Toronto Institute. Fuck Oswald,” Rot explained, “He’s not from around here. He has no idea what he’s doing. It’s why I’m still with you, in this ghastly place.”

Ronan chuckled, tilting his head back. “Well, that makes one person on my side.” Although, if that one person is the High Warlock of Toronto, it couldn’t be all bad.

“We don’t really know enough about the murders to put many people to work,” he said, feeling the wound in his cheek fade completely now. “We’ve mostly been questioning those who could be suspicious, and sending out spare Shadowhunters on watch. We know the Night Children are involved now, at the very least.”

Rot smiled. He wasn’t expecting Hightower to chuckle. It sounded almost foreign. He remembered their first meeting, on the steps of the Institute. He had barely gotten the man to speak at all. Nevertheless, he nodded in agreement, “Unfortunately, it most certainly looks that way. Not a single one of them decided to show up this evening, and then, Ms. Burke gets attacked.”

Rot threw his head back, moving his fingers through his hair, “The Night Children will come looking for you. One of them has been killed. The leader of the clan will be demanding reasons, even if they are responsible for the murders. Vampires love to keep their appearances so sunny.”

Rot laughed, “Can we throw Oswald to them? Please? I would not mind throwing him on the martyr’s sword. It would help us both.”

Ronan didn’t look back to Rot. He simply kept his eyes trained in front of him, in Stella’s general direction. Something about the entire thing felt off. Vampires killed before, sure, but they were never alone… and the numbers. None of this felt normal. Ronan had dealt with murders before, but it was always quickly figured out and rectified.

“I…” Ronan caught his words in his mouth, unsure if he should finish his thought. It was a horrible thought to have, he knew, but what else could be done? “I think we may have to wait until more has been done on the murderer’s part. We can’t move forward without any more information. The Fey aren’t talking, the Werewolves say they haven’t heard of anything like this. We can see about confronting the Vampires, but… it’d be risky. We’d also need Oswald’s green light.”

Oswald’s green light? Has Hightower been clipped? Rot glanced in his direction. Hightower was right, in one regard. Rot understood the dark thought that broke the surface of both their minds. It had struck Rot way sooner, when the second murder had happened. Whoever the murderer was, they were killing and marking their prey. The markings would not come to an end unless the perpetrator was apprehended, or they simply ran out of numbers.

“I am not suggesting you confront anyone,” Rot advised, keeping his cool. He steeled his voice, like he always did when things needed to get done. “We have no idea what the fuck is going on. Not a clue, Hightower. That vampire might have just been attracted to Ms. Burke in her little outfit, and went too far. We don’t know. But what I can tell you, is that the Fey possibly know more than they are willing to admit. One of the fairfolk attended this evening’s soiree, didn’t she? Lunaria, outcast of the Court?”

Ronan nodded. He didn’t know much about where Lunaria stood with the Court, but he had a feeling she wasn’t welcomed warmly, seeing as Sol was an ex lover of hers.

“She was here, yes. I spoke with her briefly.” He looked back over to Rot now. He had somewhat of a distant look in his eye. Something he noticed with Warlocks that had aged over a few hundred years. “I had a feeling she wasn’t telling me everything, but I don’t think she was lying. Still, we can’t cut the Fey out completely.”

“You do not need to worry about faeries and lies,” Rot said plainly, his eyes fixed on a distant spot. “Faeries cannot lie, that is a universal truth. But, there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. They must always tell the truth, however, they have their tricksy ways to get around that physiological weakness.” Rot sighed, his mind rolling back to the mercurial presence he had felt, just after Hightower and his red-haired friend had taken to Toronto’s streets.

“The truth is subject to what each person believes. I believe you have a cold stone for a heart, which is not true. But, I believe it. So, as a Fey, I could tell that truth and not be bound by natural laws. I believe Lunaria knows something - or knows something, she does not yet know she knows. That is partly why Duke Sol came to see her this evening, that silvery-eyed bastard. Slipped right under your defences and disappeared before I could get to him.”

Ronan furrowed his eyebrows about Rot’s ‘cold’ comment. That was the second time in less than an hour. He grunted, shaking his head, but perked it back up at the sound of Duke Sol’s name… and presence at the Institute.

“How…? No, that is impossible,” Ronan said, shaking his head. “Duke Sol was not invited, and the only way into the Institute is through the front doors. The Wards would keep anyone else away.”

“He was here,” Rot spat, bile rising in the back of his throat. Duke Sol cut no ice with him. None. He tricked too many of his kind in the last few years, since the day Leopold Rot was named High Warlock of Toronto. “He arrived just after you and the lady in the inappropriately big hat went out to play hero for our damsel in distress.” He thrust his head in the direction of the sleeping mundane.

“He was on the first floor balcony. He’d been leaning against the railing. I could smell it. Oh, if I had caught him,” Rot mumbled, a sharpness to the steel of his voice, “I would have ripped him from his stupid Seelie Court in Allan Gardens.”

Rot’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. The dull pain triggered his relaxation, leaning back further in the chair. “I told you, Hightower. Your wards are shit! If he wanted in, he’s powerful enough to get his wish. Even, if only for a second.”

Ronan nodded to himself, his teeth grinding on each other. He’d been told countless times that they would ware out if he continued to do so, but the habit was unbreakable. He turned his head from Rot, exhaling slowly.

“I need to attend to my daughter. So, if you are done here, I ask that you make your leave.” He stood up, moving over to the large double doors, unlocking them. “If you learn of anything regarding the murders, do not hesitate to inform us.”

Rot bit hard on his tongue. He had let his emotions take control, his deep untrust of those around him seeping into his words and his actions. He sighed softly, shaking his head. “Of course, absolutely, of course. You have my full support, Hightower. I shall not detain you any longer.”

He stood slowly, offering Ronan Hightower a gentle smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little loonie coin. He flick it from his thumb into the air, “Catch.”

As the coin arched, it began to glow. It shone brightly in the room, giving off a brilliant, white phosphorescence. It always reminded Rot of fireflies - it was why he loved the trick.

“Give that to young Clara,” he whispered, “Tell her it’s a gift from me.”

#Script #Leopold #Ronan

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