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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 8: The Tower Upright

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 ⥽

Ryder and Taylor head to local out-of-the-way voodoo vendor Laveau’s for the final ingredient in their protection ritual. While he waits, Taylor gets his fortune told by the real deal—a spirit medium descended from Marie herself.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Krom’s barely through the threshold before Taylor pounces; hovers around him comically short and buzzing like a gnat.

“So, what did they say? Do I need to call — I don’t have my phone, shit — please tell me I’m not cut from the show.”

Luckily the stone troll looks freaked-out enough to get him to stop and apologize. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I just…”

“No, no I completely understand!” Krom scratches the tips of his head and laughs it off, “I just didn’t want to step on you.”

“He’s not that short.” calls Ivy from her booth at the back.

Taylor shrugs it off. “But I appreciate it.”

“Anyway; the company manager’s a little mad no one could reach you but I convinced them to give you a week of sick leave? Even though there was this one weirdly giddy guy…”

They join Ivy on either side. Taylor groans and rubs his hand over his face.

“That would be Antoni. He doesn’t matter. I really appreciate you doing this for me, Krom.”

“It’s no trouble!” And the troll’s voice is so filled with sincerity he has no trouble believing it.

“That’s our darling Krom.” Garrus returns behind the bar with his tray of collected dirty steins and beer glasses. “He’s like an angel; always helping others. You’ve got nothing to prove sweetheart — you know that.”

Ivy answers Taylor’s question before he even has the chance to ask it; “Stone trolls have a bit of a rep’ around here. You saw their natural element at Persephone.”

“Bodyguards, hired muscle, and the like.” Krom agrees; pointedly trying to keep his voice his usual baritone despite Garrus’ casual compliments.

“So you’re a pacifist?”

“In the flesh — so to speak.”

There’s a thud from behind and all eyes turn to see a stack of crates stumbling out from behind the back room curtain. Not hovering in midair as Taylor originally thought but carried by a very red-faced Cal. Who still forces on a smile through his gritted teeth at Garrus.

“Where… where?”

The fae gestures with a bony finger. “Just leave ‘em behind here. I’ll unpack before the evening rush.”

He slams them down before Taylor can even try to offer help — grumbles under his breath about something he can’t quite catch but he knows Cal’s grateful to Garrus for giving him a place to stay. He must be paying off the stupor he drank himself into following their return as less-than-triumphant heroes.

“I should start taking in strays more often — pun not intended,” Garrus teases but all in good humor; especially when he slides a cool glass of water for Cal to chug when his hands are free, “someone to do the heavy lifting around here and all that.”

Krom shifts in his seat. Something so subtle only the two beside him notice it. But Ivy doesn’t give him the chance to let it go and kicks his rock of a leg with her heels.

“I — I could help with whatever you need, Garrus?” Even though it comes out as more of a question than anything.

The look the two exchange is strange but fond. Garrus’ eyes softening under the twinkling lights. Maybe he regrets what he said — or the implications behind it.

“But if you’re laboring around here then what would I have to look at for inspiration?”

Not the smoothest save, in Taylor’s opinion. But Krom acts like it’s the highest form of praise and brushes the compliment off with a wave.

“Are they always like this?” Taylor whispers to Ivy. The revenant just sighs and nods. A long-suffering struggle on her end no doubt.

Heavy footfalls on metal steps herald Ryder’s arrival from the apartments above. He looks around and beelines towards Taylor in a way that almost has him jumping and hiding.

“You, me; let’s go.”

“That’s not how you ask a man out on a date, Nik.” chides Ivy as she pushes the mortals together.

“What?” He blinks; shakes himself out of whatever thoughts compelled him to seek Taylor out. “Wh — shut up, Iv’.”

“Right,” she winks, “he’ll go with you anyway. It’s part of your brutish charm.”

“Shut up, Iv’.” Taylor parrots with a glare. “Is the spell finally ready?”

Not that he’s not enjoying his time at the Shift. And following the disaster that was the Bayou and Persephone he’s not exactly eager to go into other supernatural spaces any time soon.

But he’s never been one to stay cooped up for long.

Ryder huffs. “Not quite. Damn toad wart expired. Luckily though there’s a shop down the road that carries simple ingredients — so put away that grin Iv’. I’m done owin’ you for now.”

Probably a good thing judging by the low witchy cackle she gives instead.

“So let’s get goin’, hustle hustle.”

“But wait — is it safe?” Taylor follows anyway. Keeping at the Nighthunter’s heels is practically his new job. “You didn’t even want me leaving for the theater.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“With your hallelujah arrows, right?”

“Holy light arrows, Rook. You sound like an idiot when you say that.”

“Well now I’ll keep doing it to piss you off.”

“��Course, because why would you do anything else?”

Their bickering continues out onto the ruins of another day of Mardi Gras fun. At least some things never lose a sense of normalcy.

It’s a small shop — one of those ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ types. The shop name LAVEAU’s is hand-painted above a doorway embellished with the classic purple, green, and golden plastic beads of the season’s parties.

Taylor stops Ryder before he opens the door. “‘Laveau’s’ like…?”

“Read the signs, Rook.”

There they are clear as day; painted by the same hand as the top sign but with an artist’s frustration behind every black-painted stroke. One on the door declaring ‘Yes, like Marie herself’ and then one blue-tacked beneath it; ‘Not Affiliated with Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo.’

“Oh. Got it.”

While the outside may lack the flair and panache that attracts the usual tourist crowds the inside is a whole other looking glass. Probably looks the way it does to differentiate between those who want fake dolls to poke with pins and those who want a real hex to mess with.

God, he’s talking about real hexes. When had this become his life?

Together they weave through the cluttered mess of uneven shelves and their uneven products. Books stacked flat where they’d fallen over at some point and left that way with little concern. A bundle of glass-looking orbs balancing precariously without cradle to keep them from rolling off the edge. A plant hanger in the middle of the room holds a pile of sage sticks just there. At second glance some look a little used.

The back ‘counter’ isn’t even that. It’s a folding table with a frayed tablecloth unevenly distributed atop and an old and rusting register in the corner.

First Taylor sees the joint resting in an ash tray made out of a mason jar lid. Only when it’s picked up and placed between two pink lips does he realize the man sitting kiddie-corner to the till.

“Welcome, wayward souls, to another side of the witch you know,” he recites as if from a script; monotone — doing everything he can to dissuade those who might darken his doorstep, “everything you see is one hundred percent bona fide authentic to the craft. Don’t do the rhyme if you can’t do the wiccan time.”

Ryder stops abruptly. Arms folded and a raised eyebrow looking over the pile of scattered tarot cards strewn across the table. That which holds the proprietor’s attention more than customers.

Unbidden he reaches out and plucks a card at random. Turns it over to stare at glittering golden words ‘The Emperor’ upside-down.

There’s no way the shop owner should know what card was grabbed — not like he can see though the matte black backing — but he gives a low and throaty chuckle. Lets smoke billow in a thin stream around the same lips now curled in a smirk.

“You always picked predictably, Ryder.”

Ryder who frisbees the card back onto the table carelessly. “I’m not still unconvinced you don’t set me up every time, Luc.”

“For all the shit you see…”

“I’ll always be skeptical of some damn cards, yeah. What else is new?”

“Good question.”

Luc finally drags his gaze up and away from his reading. Gives Ryder an easy and lazy smile that might possibly be the friendliest greeting to the Nighthunter Taylor’s seen so far. Had he not joined Ivy in teasing Krom only a short while ago he might have run himself ragged trying to understand the electric connection he’s witness to.

There’s definitely a history here.

Ryder sighs; knows Luc isn’t going to answer him until he answers himself. “The usual, man. Another day another job. Not much changes for me.”

“That’s not what I hear. In fact — I hear quite the opposite.”

“Sure those aren’t just voices from a bad trip?”

Luc laughs and kicks himself up to balance on the back two legs of his chair. Teeters dangerously close to falling backwards. “Could be, brother, could be. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the spiritual radio this time. Everyone who’s anyone heard tell of a gutsy break-in among the city’s most elite. And all the chaos that followed.”

Ryder’s teeth grind together; his brow gives an almost imperceptible twitch.

“What did I tell you about listenin’ to the rumor mill, Luc?”

“Are they wrong?”

Not giving an answer is answer enough. Makes Luc give a haughty grin so wide Taylor likens him to a shark.

“I said what I said; another day, another job. It got me a rare ingredient I needed. I figured I could get the rest from your sorry ass if I could get you to look away from that damn deck long enough to ring me up.”

Luc makes everything look easy; from getting on Ryder’s bad side to letting his chair fall forward so he can stand. Like he’s not moving through air and gravity but dancing through deep watery depths.

But there’s a defensive edge to his voice — the first emotion beyond amusement — as he starts to gather up his cards.

“I’ll have you know I’m fond of this deck in particular. They were given to me as an apology from someone who never apologizes.”

“Oh yeah, what for?” Judging by Ryder’s tone, though, he already knows.

Still he lets Luc’s bright hazel eyes bore into his soul.

“Skippin’ out come dawn without so much as an adieu.”

Taylor laughs because, well, it’s funny? Only to quickly realize it’s not the right thing to be doing when he catches the strange look Ryder throws back at him; halfway and in profile — like he stops himself before he can make it a whole confrontation.

The teasing’s gone, now. “Yeah — listen, any chance I still have that standing credit here? I need frog warts and a few other things for a protection spell.”

“Ain’t like you to run around on an empty wallet.”

“Yeah, well… this job ain’t just another.”

And as ‘Another Job’ Taylor kind of takes offense to it.

Luc jerks his head towards a doorway shrouded with a curtain of thick wooden beads and the occasional bird feather. “You know where the stores are, cher. Just consider ya’self lucky Mardi Gras is a prosperous time for us all.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Luca. And if it makes you feel better the life you’re savin’ ain’t even mine.”

Taylor’s a step behind his heels when Ryder turns and keeps him at bay with a palm to his chest. His heartbeat stutters; spandex yielding to the firm press, but Ryder says nothing of it.

“Stay up here.”

Taylor scoffs. “Why? I’m not going to accidentally cast a spell or anything.”

“Maybe not, but the last thing I need is you gettin’ clumsy on the wrong object and fuckin’ us both even deeper.”

While he fumbles for a retort worthy of the witty comeback, though, Ryder makes his escape. Calls back; “don’t touch anything, don’t look at anything — and don’t let him suck you up in that damn deck!” before he’s gone in a clatter of beads.

They both know he’s not going to listen — he only says it so he can tell Taylor off when something inevitably happens. That seems to be how they function. Not that he plans on flailing his arms and messing with the first thing he hits, but…

“Since you ain’t dead I’m gonna assume Ryder’s not takin’ on the role’a teacher of the nighthunting arts.”

Snaps Taylor’s attention back to Luc; back in his chair and shuffling the deck in long and ring-adorned fingers.

“No.”

“Good. You might just stay alive then.”

“Apparently that’s a hard thing to do so, sure.”

Luc gestures to the chair across from him. It’s an offer, not a demand, but out of spite for Ryder’s twenty different moods — follow me, don’t follow me, around and around again — he takes it up. Watches Luc shuffle and reshuffle with naught but the soft collision of the cards as music.

When he realizes Ryder’s going to take his time, he figures the best way to start might be an introduction.

“I’m —”

“Pick a few cards for me, Taylor.”

He hadn’t even realized the man had started a spread; each card turned down and black as the void in a soft arc reaching out to him across the table.

Luc is courteous enough not to blow smoke in his face. Sits back slightly hunched and letting his focus flicker between Taylor and the cards. Like both are equally likely to speak to him in the silence.

“It’s probably useless asking how you knew my name, huh?”

“Smart boy. Sometimes they whisper an’ sometimes they scream, but I gotta say it’s been a good long while since I heard the cards call out the way they do to you, Taylor Hunter.

“So help me out here. Pick a few and let them show us why they’re so damn chatty.”

He wants to point out that the only chatty one around is Luca himself, but again that’s one of those useless things he’s finally starting to come to terms with. Knows another useless thing would be to ask why he can’t hear anything… but that’s because hearing is the only word he can think to describe it too.

They’re cards — just plain tarot cards. But like inky tendrils they’re reaching out to him across the table on another plane of reality. One where they have soft black fingers that wrap around his wrists and bring his hands to hover over them. Like safety.

Ryder said… “Well, Ryder said…”

The look Luc gives him cuts him off. Yeah, that was a bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?

He points at random; watches Luc pull a card out without flipping it over. Keeps going until a curt nod cuts him off and nine rectangles of shadow form a square across from him.

“This ain’t your average reading,” that much being obvious by the reverent way the shopkeep looks down at his selection, “and I ain’t your average reader. You’re not from around here.”

“Are you asking?”

“No. But I figure that means you did what all newcomers do — got yourself one of those back room phony shows at the House of Voodoo.”

He wants to say he hasn’t only for how ashamed Luc’s tone makes him feel about it. But yeah — yeah he had. Doesn’t remember much about the event itself but knows somewhere buried in the clutter of his desk back at his place there’s a piece of paper from whatever the alleged ‘psychic’ had him ask.

Luc nods slowly. “Mmhm. Sometimes — ‘bout as oft’n as pigs fly — the cards they play don’t listen and give out an ounce of truth. Nothing life-changing, but a slip enough to tempt the handler into believing.

“You won’t get none’a that here. Whatever’s shown when I flip these babies around has been, is, or will be whether you know it or not. But they only tell as much of a tale as you’re ready to hear.”

The unasked question: are you ready to hear it? And Taylor isn’t sure he knows how to answer.

He knows a lot about himself; inside and out. Has lived through too much and shoved too much inside for too long not to. It’s something he’s proud of. A lot of people spend their lives with no understanding of their inner self but he’s never had that problem.

But there’s a difference between knowing it and seeing… whatever these cards might show him.

What if what he knows isn’t what they say?

Life would be easier if Ryder took that opportune moment to reappear and save him the trouble of having to make the choice.

But life isn’t easy.

He nods — but before Luc can flip over the first card he reaches out and stops him.

“I’m not, like, sealing a deal with a demon or something, am I?” Judging by the look he gets he really shouldn’t have asked.

“Do I look like a demon?”

“I don’t know what demons look like.” He knows it’s a lie but says it anyway; can think only of that skeletal face sneering at him under the moonlight.

Luckily it’s not enough to deter the shopkeep who just bats Taylor’s hand away. “Judgin’ by your ghostly pallor I’m gonna call your fib on that one. But if it eases ya mind; no. No deals here. I get as much outta this as you do.”

Well that’s okay then, isn’t it?

Luc flips the first card over and has himself a little laugh. And why wouldn’t he — The Fool isn’t just an apt card but an apt description.

Taylor’s humor is, however, short-lived. “Seriously?”

“You drew the card. Only one to blame is you.”

“So I’m gonna be even more of a joke in my future or something?”

Luc shakes his head; spreads his fingers as far as they’ll go as the shadow of his palm casts over the center card. “This ain’t your future, but your self. This is you, Mister Hunter.”

“A fool.”

“A man of innocence,” comes the quick correction, “and oftentimes a free spirit. You do your own thing; march to your own drum. Ev’ry Sally and Joe likes to laugh at the Fool but he’s got his eyes set on the horizon and that’s worth admirin’. So don’t sell him — or ya’self — short.”

Innocent — not quite. But the rest Taylor doesn’t disagree with. Seems he knows himself as well as he thought.

Luc’s painted nail traces along a jagged line on the image. “But see here; the Fool stands at the cliff’s edge. He’s a card so it ain’t in his nature to look anywhere but where he’s told but you’re not a card, are ya?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you lookin’ forward at the horizon or down into that abyss,” — he flips over another card before Taylor can answer — “or maybe you see the Tower on the other side.”

The Tower card is actually at the Fool’s back but he’s learned enough now not to question the metaphors.

“All that love for life might come at a cost. An’ hey — maybe it’s one you’re willin’ to pay. I don’t judge.”

No matter how hard he looks he knows he isn’t going to see the same thing as his reader. But… “I’m gonna need you to be a little less cryptic and a little more straightforward.”

“This ain’t science. Everything’s up for interpretation when the cards are involved.”

“Okay so interpret what exactly you mean by a cost. What cost?”

His rings drum on the plastic surface slowly before Luc clicks his tongue. “Looks to me like you’ve been through some shit lately. Life-changin’ shit — shit that skips right over dippin’ a toe into destiny and pushes you right in the deep end tied to an anchor — or ten.”

Finally Luc looks back up but his gaze is guarded; carefully and excellently so. He can’t get a thing out of just a look.

“I could have told you that.” He mutters a defensive reply. “A couple of days ago everything was fine and then my best friend’s in a coma, I find out the shit I’ve been hallucinating my whole life is real, and on top of it some big scary Ugly wants my skinny ass for a meal.”

“That explains our friend Ryder, then.” Luc almost seems to peek at the row’s last hidden card. When he turns the Eight of Cups over the hum he hums reminds Taylor of endless weeks of therapists and their noncommittal noises failing to cover the scratching of pen on paper. “And it’s all a helluva lot, I bet.”

It’s a bit hard to play off the full-body adjustment to hide his discomfort but Taylor likes to think he pulls it off pretty well.

“Understatement of the century.”

“Makes a world ‘a sense. You’ve tried gettin’ away from it.”

“Actually I haven’t really had the time.”

Only Luc disagrees; shakes his head curtly and offers the Cups to Taylor like it’s written on the surface in plain sight. “The cards ain’t just talkin’ ‘round the physical. Sometimes we do all the runnin’ in our minds and we don’t even know it. It could be as simple as connecting new things in ya life to old ones and convincing ya’self they’re the same; whether they are or not.”

Oh, there it is — on the surface and in plain sight. Struggling for Cal and Donny. Taking blame for what happened (not that he’d tell Cal, he’s got enough to feel bad over). Jumping down Krom’s throat about the theater company.

“Don’t beat ya’self up too bad,” continues Luc in a way that makes him freeze in the sudden fear that he can read thoughts as well as tarot cards, “a little escapism is good for the soul. The hard part’s when you gotta come back to reality an’ doin’ it without a fight.”

Taylor offers the card back and watches it settle home beside the Fool. The same Fool he’s now a little reluctant to identify with so quickly. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Got it — now cut the ramblin’; you’re talkin’ over the cards.”

Only hasn’t he been the one doing all the talking? Arguing won’t help but that little nugget of petulance persists.

This time Luc reveals three cards one after the other. Makes sure to let each one rest face-up before moving on. Letting them breathe. Letting them speak.

Strength. The Hermit. The Two of Swords. The first two facing Taylor this time as if in judgment. No; they haven’t drawn that card just yet.

He realizes he’s waiting on bated breath when his lungs start to burn and beg for fresh air. Why is he so quiet all of a sudden?

“Tell me more about those hallucinations ya mentioned, Taylor.”

That’s not where he was expecting that to go at all; catches him off guard. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” but the other man sounds distant; lost in his thoughts, “jus’ tell me. Said you been seein’ things ‘your whole life’ right?”

“Yeah. But I’d really rather not, uh, go into…” Wasn’t his life story down on the cards? It was hard enough explaining everything to Kristin — and they knew things about one another bound to secrecy by the sanctity of roommate-dom. So he tries to keep it all in the realm of the reading; “I mean I know what they are now. I was seeing glamours. Like through them — without a charm or spell or whatever. I dunno, Nik can explain it better.”

When Luc doesn’t give the same shocked jaw-drop the trio at the Shift had he entertains the brief hope that the same talent runs through the psychic’s veins. But that’s dashed when he catches sight of the unconscious way Luc grabs onto one of the numerous stone pendants draped over his neck — the way he thumbs over the polished surface and tugs on the leather cord.

It’s not the same one Ryder has but pretty damn close; close enough to assume his glamour-charm used to have a home in this very shop.

“That kind-a inner sight’s awful rare.” He practically mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s been mentioned.”

“Not unheard of, mind you. Not in things that ain’t entirely mortal by blood and bone. When you draw Strength in reverse it’s not the opposite like you’d think; it ain’t sayin’ you lack strength.

“Think of it more like the meanin’ is just turned about. Upright’s outside and the other is inside.”

“So it’s inner strength.” He can get behind that.

“Or lack of it.”

I’m fucking sorry? “Who—what-now?”

“This row,” he gestures a little too grandly for the subject matter, “is your past, present, and future. I told you the cards were screamin’ — and they still are — but not this one,” — not Strength — “this’un’s more of a whisper. And it makes sense given that you called ‘em ‘hallucinations.’”

“And an explanation for us ‘card’-of-hearing?”

Luc bites his tongue — really and without metaphor; wince and all. Grabs a stray bit of crumpled receipt from god-knows when his last sale was and scribbles on it in blocky letters.

“‘Note to self,’” he enunciates his writing harshly, “‘add sign to shop: ‘Owner Has the Right to Refuse Service on Account of Shitty Fucking Puns.’”

The glare that follows tells Taylor it won’t be long before that sign has his name added to avoid confusion.

No regrets. None at all.

Puns aside, though? The level eye he gets across the cards takes a turn for the serious.

“I think it tells me a lot more than you’re ready to share. About ya life before this; about the things you done to make the pain go away. Some of us may be human but that don’t mean we ain’t still animals. And animals lash out when they’re scared.”

He’s right. It’s a lot more than Taylor’s ready to share. Makes him want to scramble the deck — flip the table on its end. And maybe the old version of him, the version in those cards, might have.

In his silence Luc gets the answer — “moving on…” he almost sing-songs — lets his fingertips dance on the card showing the present: the Hermit.

Which Taylor tries not to take personally. Who is there to be angry at other than himself?

“So since that one’s reversed too that means… what, that I’m a hermit on the inside?”

“I can see how you’d think that,” laughs Luc, “but not quite. How about we let the professional do his profession?”

Taylor gestures. The professional carries on. “It ain’t easy comin’ into this life so late. ‘Specially when you end up seein’ all the bad before a lick’a good comes your way. But you’re drownin’ in it — that’s what the Hermit’s tellin’ us. No time to ruminate?”

He scoffs. “Something like that.”

“Well make time. Lest it all starts crashin’ down and you get the proverbial water in ya lungs.”

“It’s not by choice. There’s things after me and —”

“And excuses ain’t gonna keep you afloat.” The man reaches over faster than Taylor can move back; actually flicks his forehead dead center.

“Ow!” He swats Luc’s hand away.

“It ain’t me sayin’ this, Hunter. It’s them,” he gestures to the cards, “and they know more about this world than either of us could learn in a hundred lifetimes. Take ya damn time and really work out how you feel. Else you won’t be able to face this here future with a clear head.”

Luckily Taylor doesn’t have to ask; isn’t certain he’d be able to as he looks at the Two of Swords card and feels sweat start to bead at his temples.

Playing with tarot cards is all fun and games when you don’t believe. Even when you do — a measure of healthy skepticism is good for the soul. But with everything he’s seen; been told?

Who would willingly ask for their future foretold after that?

“I think we can skip to the next cards.”

“Oho, this don’t work like that.”

“Why,” doing his best to keep his voice level, “it’s my reading, right? I don’t want to know.”

“Sucks to be you, then. You draw; you listen. That’s how all true readin’s go.” Luc leans back on the creaky chair and lets the Swords card flip and twirl between his fingers.

He could make it easy on them both; stop arguing and just get up and leave the reading unfinished. Find Ryder in the back and apologize for doing what he said not to do — again — and book it out of there right quick.

But he doesn’t.

“Now I get why Nik said not to do this.”

“Ha — well, hindsight ain’t much use in a house of foresight baby. So listen; an’ listen well.

“In proper tarot some cards are real close in meanin’. That’s where the spread comes in — the order, the intent; not to mention the cards all ‘round it. The Swords in your future point to some hard fuckin’ choices. And if ya keep on the path ya’re on you won’t be makin’ ‘em with all your marbles.

“I ain’t talkin’ about decisions that can be made for you, neither. When it comes down to it you’re likely to find ya’self alone — not only in the act a’ choosin’ but in dealin’ with the consequences.”

“So what kind of choices? What do the cards scream about that?”

“They don’t —” he tosses the card back down and it’s probably not a coincidence that it slides magically askew back in the reading’s place, “— on account of all the changes between now and when that time comes.

“The cards give truths where mortals lie; hope where the world pushes despair. But at the end’a everythin’ they’re just cards — bound by the same circumstances as you or I.”

It’s probably meant to be poignant; something that might be sold on a re-purposed wooden palette hand-painted and polished. In a shop similar to this — right between the mismatched crystal balls and Ryder’s coveted frog warts.

But all Taylor can think is; “Well that’s absolutely useless to me beyond freaking me out.”

Luc gives another one of his gap-toothed grins — “C’est la vie, mon petit,” — and doesn’t wait for permission or argument to reveal another card.

“If it makes ya feel any better —”

“Doubtful at this point.”

“— Fair. But they won’t leave ya hangin’. Unless the Hanged Man is drawn, a’course. Naw, rest easy knowin’ you won’t be goin’ the journey alone.”

He frowns; confused. “But you just said —”

“Hush. All the best journeys are made with friends. Though I… I ain’t sure I’d call the Nine a’Wands a friend…”

Curiosity replaced by twists and turns of his bewildered head; Luc bites down on his thumb nail and scrutinizes the seventh draw. “In fact, I’d call whomever this bad draw represents —”

“Ryder!”

The Nighthunter emerges in a wave of beads carrying a pearly sphere the size of his head tucked in the crook of his arm. At the same time Taylor jumps — a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and swears when his knee bangs under the table.

Luc doesn’t notice — or doesn’t care; still fixated on the black-and-gold design in front of him. Mutters “could be him, but…” under his breath so low that no one catches it.

Taylor fumbles for an explanation — which is a pretty stupid move seeing as he was ready to just come clean only a minute ago — but doesn’t get the chance. Though he would like to state that it probably would have been an extremely convincing and well-versed one had Ryder not just held up a hand and rolled his eyes.

“I figured you’d ignore me. Already took out my anger with a mortar and pestle in the back.”

Well he’s a little offended now. “I wasn’t blatantly disobeying you or anything,” then; “I’m a grown adult and can make my own choices.”

And doesn’t that karma come around to bite him in the ass pretty damn fast. He makes a great effort not to look at what is no doubt a haughty look of ‘I told you so.’

“Yeah yeah, cry me a river.”

He props the sphere on a large cushion nearby to keep it from rolling and drags the last free seat over into Taylor’s personal bubble. Already looking at the spread like he, too, can hear these alleged screams from the deck. “So, Luc? Any tell on whether or not I’m gonna get paid for this gig?”

“Wha — hey!”

Taylor knows he doesn’t hit Nik’s arm that hard but the offended look he gets back is more than enough.

“Ouch. That hurt.”

“If that hurt I need a new bodyguard.”

“Don’t tempt me to pawn you off.”

“Please do.”

A tinny click draws their focus away from each other and to Luc’s newly lighted blunt. No longer puzzled by the cards — his eyes are brighter; they shine with understanding.

“Nevermind. I get it, now.”

“Get what?” barks Nik a little too defensively.

“Didn’ I jus’ tell ya not to mind it?”

Taylor cuts Nik off before he can continue arguing. They’ve been here too long already. “If we can’t leave until this is finished — can you finish?”

Two cards remain to be revealed. The fortune teller takes his sweet time with a few puffs before agreeing, if reluctantly. Maybe he just doesn’t like an audience?

All sense of the mysterium is gone. Luc flips the cards one at a time with one hand while sucking in his joint with the other.

The Five of Swords. The Wheel of Fortune.

It’s totally the secondhand high that makes the golden wheel glitter and seem to turn before their eyes. Totally.

He braces himself for another round of cryptic semi-explanations. Only they don’t come. Luc’s eyelids droop heavy — almost closed. And judging by Nik’s frown that’s not a normal part of the reading.

“Luca? Hey —” — he snaps in front of the man’s face — “— Laveau!”

He doesn’t quite jerk out of his momentary trance; eyelids flutter as if awakening from a dream.

“Maybe you had a point, Hunter,” after a throaty cough, “maybe it’s best this go unfinished.”

“What seriously? After all that earlier shit?” He balks. Beside him Ryder grabs the Swords and looks it over back to front.

“You’ve never left a reading hanging. What gives?”

“He’s still new to the life. I think he’s had enough bad news for today.”

Taylor practically snatches the card from Nik. But it seems just as reluctant to give up its secrets to him, too. Makes him toss it back down in frustration.

“Just tell me,” even he can’t believe what he’s saying, “since I dunno if it’s worse to know or to guess.”

“Trust me. The worst one’s knowin’.”

“I’ll take that as you’ve never encountered crippling anxiety, then.”

In rare sympathetic form Ryder reaches out and rests a hand on Luc’s exposed forearm. They aren’t hiding behind quips or dancing words any longer; you could see the remnants of intimacy between them from space.

“Luc — come on. For my sake, too.”

The doubt doesn’t ease off from the fortune teller’s brow. In fact it looks deeper than ever before. Finally he yields. “All right — but don’t blame me or the cards. We’re jus’ messengers after all.”

No longer in need of a familiar touch Luc shakes the hand off. Mutters something unintelligible under his breath and takes another few puffs to calm himself down before he covers the Five of Swords like he can’t do the reading while looking at it.

“There’s more than difficult choices ahead for you — and for those what end up around you. A fight looms —” he turns the Swords card on its back atop the revealed Wheel of Fortune, “— on a bigger horizon than that’a the Vieux Carre. Might even be one bigger than this world of ours.

“Not so much a fight as a battle; a war. Turnin’ and churnin’ at the banks of the river and out into the ocean. Ready to flood the whole damn city — every corner of the earth. And it’ll keep ragin’ and screamin’ with every body what falls to it.”

Ryder goes still as stone beside him. Taylor finds himself revisiting the notion of it being better not knowing.

“What does any of that have to do with me?”

“You, Mister Hunter — you’re smack dab in the middle of it. More’n that… you belong there.”

Apologies. Sympathy. Condolences. Luc can’t seem to settle on one way to look at Taylor so instead he just focuses on packing his deck back up. He isn’t as careful this time around — like he’s angry at the cards and what they had to say; to scream. Two separate entities working off of one another but, at the very least, both unhappy with the outcome.

“I’ll get a box for that crystal ball — the warts are yours but I’ll need interest on that relic.” He can’t get away from the pair fast enough. Shuffles the tarot deck in his hands as he goes.

He wants to be surprised that Nik doesn’t follow; doesn’t go to check on someone he obviously has a past and present connection with. But in the goody bag of his emotions he just keeps pulling out resignation — even when he cheats and peeks inside.

That’s all there is. All he can feel.

Where’s that opportunity for escapism the cards had mentioned earlier? He could use a bit of that at the moment.

Doesn’t know when exactly Nik started trying to comfort him; hand on his upper back, the gentle back-and-forth of his thumb. Taylor’s not a big fan of touch but that seems to be how Ryder connects to the world; through the physical.

And oddly it’s working. The comfort thing.

“You okay?”

He’ll sass such a ridiculous question later. “Uh, honestly I don’t really know what I am right now.”

Ryder’s face is unusually close when Taylor looks his way. The barest flicker — a crack in the bravado. Nik is worried for him.

“That can happen after Luc’s readings. You think I warned ya away to keep you from somethin’ fun? Knowin’ his connection with the spirit world makes it all really…”

He struggles for the right word. Weird, coming from him.

“‘Real?’” offers Taylor, and gets him a nod.

“Yeah, really real.”

Noises of shuffled boxes and Luc’s grunts draw them out of Taylor’s personal space and back to the world around them. Up near the back curtain Luc gently eases the crystal ball into a wooden box.

“So, question.”

“Yeah Rook?”

“What do we do now?” Because if turning tail and running like a shameless coward away from this war is an option, he’s taking it.

“We keep on going,” Nik answers, “We get back to the Shift and finish up this blasted protection spell and then we dive into findin’ your attacker and punch a bunch’a holy light holes in it’s ugly-ass face.”

This time when he reaches into the bag of emotions, luck gives him a break and lets him pull out the barest ghost of a smile.

“Man, it is ugly. Like — fugly ugly.”

Ryder’s smile is just as small — but no less sincere — than his.

“It damn sure is.”

#nightbound #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #playchoices #choices fanfiction #cal lowell #garrus #krom #ivy #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 21: Come Hell and High Water

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Please, please let this work.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Even with what you now know you would bring them here — together.”

Catching the Elders by surprise wasn’t a part of the plan for good reason; thinking they could get one over on the people who have been planning this for who-knows-how-long would just be arrogant.

Doesn’t make the sharp cunning of Elder Daniels’ glare any less intimidating.

“Do you think it too much to hope they understand why this is necessary? What part they played in the inevitability of this?”

Elder Vion remains silent; his opaque gaze observing both everything and nothing — but where does it focus?

“You remain as blind to the present as ever, Millet.” chides Daniels.

Elder Millet’s shoulders slump. The only one to show any kind of remorse — genuine or otherwise. “A little optimism never hurt anyone…”

Elder Daniels doesn’t deem her worth a response. Focuses instead on looking out over the garden party with a forced disinterest; the mask of her neutrality firmly in place.

But Taylor can see through the gaps and cracks now. To the edges that curl around her real emotions. Contempt, disgust; as though the choice to gather despite knowing the Coven’s plans is a personal attack on her careful cultivation of the future.

He’s the first to address them properly. Down the steps to the decorative gravel the Lamrian decorators sprinkled with crushed gemstone.

“Thank you for coming, Coven Elders.” He’d step closer if Nik’s steady hand doesn’t stop on his shoulder — hold him at a distance. But they can’t seem hesitant if this is going to work. “It wouldn’t be a Council party without everyone on the Council attending.”

He still has no idea if this is going to work. Please, please let this work.

Elder Millet shuffles her tarot deck like a nervous habit. Daniels steeples her claw-like fingertips together in front of her and, like an unspoken signal, Vion’s grip on his staff grows pale-knuckled tight.

Power pushes out from them in an invisible wave. Just once; but once is all it takes. He feels it, Nik feels it — everyone feels how the pressure changes in the air; how something old like the mantle of the earth tastes at the backs of their throats.

Let the countdown begin.

“Explain this little… gathering,” demands Daniels with a sneer.

Only it’s Tonya who answers. She stands on shivering legs with Vera’s help but to call her feeble would be to call the wraith itself a minor inconvenience.

She may no longer have the Touch but Lady Smoke is far from powerless in their presence.

“You’re the one who ought to be explainin’ themselves, Ophelia Daniels.”

The women stare one another down. It’s obvious every second spent standing is agony but hell if Tonya Reimonenq is going to lose even in her current state.

Vion steps forward and stays his companion’s hand. That familiar tingle of empathy down his spine makes Taylor shudder; makes him see Cassiopeia’s blood stained up to leathery elbows — falling to the ground in a drip. drip. drip.

“If the Council has an accusation, let it be heard.”

Isadora hisses from across the garden, “The gall of you, traitors and murderers…”

“Such stinging words to your claims!”

“One of many!”

“Have you witness or evidence?”

“Aw hell,” the lumbering figure of Kristof breaks the growing threads of tension by stepping forward — strangely the calmest he’s been insofar, “cut the crap, will ya? We know you’re the ones tuggin’ that hellspawn’s leash.”

It’s instinct, he doesn’t mean to. Looking away from their very dangerous guests of honor Taylor catches Cadence’s eye for only a moment before snapping back forward. They can’t risk anything longer catching the Elders’ attentions.

“Do you now?” asks Daniels coolly, “I regret to inform you that knowledge will not give your sacrifices any amount of dignity.”

“There is more at risk within this city’s borders than the dignity of the few, Ophelia.”

It must be magic; how Elric speaks clearly and is undeniably heard despite the fireworks that crackle overhead; without even raising his voice.

The sharp curve of Daniels’ smirk is a malicious one. “I will not suffer a cowering outcast to speak to me of dignity. You still breathe only because your hidden city’s wards have protected you.”

“I am not cowering now, am I?”

“The night is young.”

Anger hangs thick and stifling on the edge of every word and Taylor — god — he can feel it all.

The Coven’s unwavering conviction, Isadora’s desire for revenge, Kristof’s refusal to die anywhere but on his hind paws. The strangely smug way Lady Smoke feels like she should have seen all of this coming and the fierce protectiveness Elric projects at him without shame.

But hidden in the woven tapestry of them all is a single thread, sour and ill at ease but no less recognizable. He’s no longer a stranger to what fear feels like.

“If you would, then — indulge us the most obvious of questions;” even with the distance between them Elric, towering at least a foot taller than Daniels and her power-stilettos, looks down his nose at her, “why?”

“You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” Kristof rages. “They’re playin’ us fer fools!” Yet his monstrous howl of rage is silenced by the elf lord’s pale hand raised; staying him.

“That may be, Jensen, but surely I am not the only one here who wishes to understand. Who wonders why the formerly reasonable Coven would change so abruptly. And why they would decide to act now—of all times—and with such vicious intent.”

“It’s not the Coven that’s changed.”

At first Elder Millet’s voice is lost, timid, on the wind. Like a spectre from the beyond there to bolster a claim. But no one misses when she stops shuffling her deck, flips over the top card to reveal a gruesome and bloodied tyrant.

The Emperor reversed.

“There have been signs more than what we witches witness. Signs in the earth and skies, in the lifeblood that runs through our city. But you — your Council — have been complacent; content to ignore them. Focused instead on your own gains and greed. We considered every option, please believe it.

“But this was the only way our city might stand a chance of surviving the coming darkness. A unified voice, when divided, would only serve to hasten our downfall.”

“If you had approached the Council — shown us the signs we so easily missed —”

“When did it become the duty of the Coven to play prophet to the willingly ignorant?!” Daniels interrupts loud and unashamed. “To the immortal and oh-so-wise faire folk, or the creatures of dark magic who should have felt the gathering storm in their bestial bones! Or to you, Lady Smoke, with ears in every room on every block.

“Admit your guilt — not that it will save you. Admit your hunger for power and wealth led you into the blind fog that the Council should have been beyond the reaches of. For the downfall of New Orleans would have been your burden to bear.”

“Had you not stepped forward and assumed some sort of divine control, you mean?” demands Isadora.

“Make no mistake — we chose this course of our own free will. Because we were the only ones left untainted; loyal to this our sanctuary city.”

Elric steps forward, not without caution. “There has been enough death, Ophelia. Stop, now, at the threshold of a fall you will not survive.”

“Every death has been and will be a necessary one.”

Something about the victory in her claim riles Taylor from the inside out. Makes the words throw themselves out of him unbidden—

“Even yours.”

It’s probably the closest Daniels has ever come — and will ever be again — to a look of surprise. A dozen thoughts half-formed on mute lips before she schools her expression complacent.

“An unseen complication indeed.”

But that doesn’t make Taylor recoil as it once did. In fact he’s kind of proud of it. “How about instead of demanding everyone else admit some imagined guilt because of your desire for power, you three do the admitting? Admit you know this isn’t the so-called only way and try to muster up a little bit of humanity— Try and feel even the tiniest bit of remorse for what you’ve done because deep down you know it was wrong.”

Nik tenses behind him. He can feel it where they’re connected; his guttural hissing thought of think about the plan, Rook.

And maybe it wasn’t how they originally hoped to get the final piece of the puzzle but maybe—just maybe—it might go in their favor.

For the first time the Coven Elders part; Daniels breaks away in even, purposeful strides to close the distance between them.

Taylor feels the way Nik tenses, readies himself for the inevitable attack.

But it doesn’t come. Not physically, anyway. Only the look the witch gives him that may very well will him out of existence.

“Your blind stumbling has gotten you far little halfling. But you’ve come far enough, I think.”

“You wanna know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think that’s not really your call. The same way I think deep down you know you’re just as greedy as you say everyone else is. You’re just pretending to think about the greater good.”

Then there’s a movement; so fast it’s a blur. A stinging pain on his cheek and a sensation akin to tears rolling down his face.

Everything that follows still comes as a surprise despite having been building in the tension on both sides. The night air harsh on his open wound and a crisp ache in his shoulder as he’s yanked backwards and behind Ryder; a leather-clad shield.

Movement in his periphery and Nik goes flying backwards. Hurled by a tornado of unseen power.

“Nik!”

“This ends tonight!” Daniels raises her outstretched arms high to the heavens. Draws clouds from nowhere and everywhere to blot out the moon and the stars. The darkness within consuming the world outside her soul.

“You’re damn right it does—!”

Katherine pulls out Nik’s crossbow from underneath a nearby folding chair; wields it weightlessly as she aims at the witch and pulls the trigger.

Daniels deflects it with little effort. Sends the bolt flying towards the outer brick wall.

Behind their companion the other Elders whisper curses into the very wind. Once-solid ground ripples like water and their influence takes hold.

The trees around them bend and twist; their natural states resisting the witches’ call with an eldritch orchestra of groans before they yield. Roots torn up and fallen leaves and broken branches coming together; an army.

“Ah hell, not again!” shouts Cal; voice distorted with the wolf already pushing against his skin.

There’s hands at his arms — Taylor looks up to see Cadence struggling to drag him backwards towards… what? Towards safety? There’s no such thing anymore.

Still he scrambles up and back. Ducks just as the windows at the back of the House shatter under Elder Millet’s will. Just as she sends the broken shards hurtling in a transparent flock coming directly for him.

Above him comes a barely-restrained cry of pain; Taylor looks up to see two pieces lodged deep in the vampire’s shoulder.

“Cade!”

“I’m fine!” Like he’s trying to prove a point he shoves Taylor backwards, stumbling; “Go check on Ryder! Keep to the plan!”

Wet tearing noises fill the clearing as Kristof the wolf pries free of his skin — Octavia right at his heels. Together they howl at the cloaked moon and take off on all fours towards Elder Vion.

But with a limber motion his withered body shouldn’t be capable of the witch fights back. Whips his staff out; sending roots from the nearest tree to his aid. They lash, sentient, at the wolves’ hind paws — one hits home and ropes around Octavia’s flank, squeezes and sends the Beta crashing snout-first into the gravel.

The Beau-Keyes Garden is in chaos but Cade is right. They should have expected this. He needs to find Nik.

Taylor takes off in a mad dash towards the hedges where the Nighthunter had been thrown. Catches the tail-end of Vera and Ivy pulling Tonya out of the fray and into the House.

A cluster of something dark scurries on the whipping wind towards them, right at Ivy’s back. “Ivy, watch it!” Voice catching in his lungs — but its enough.

Enough for Ivy to turn around with bright burning eyes at the incoming horde. Her peeled-back lips move in silent words and her hair lifts around her in a neon-tipped halo. The incoming swarm — Millet’s tarot deck — stop mid-flight; repelled by whatever curse the revenant has conjured.

The cards shudder, then begin to crumple and squeeze themselves into balls. One last flick of Ivy’s lace-laden wrists and they spontaneously burst into a dozen individual flames, hot-pink heat licking at the air and casting her ghoulish grin of glee in flickering light that burns bright before they are consumed — nothing but ash scattered at her platform-raised feet.

A hand closes tight around his wrist and pulls him back. Catches him in half a scream when he turns and sees the stern pull of Elric’s brow.

“What are you thinking; standing here exposed?! Get to cover!”

“Not without—incoming —” he pulls them both to the ground just in time for a large branch to soar overhead and crack against the trunk of another tree, “— Nik! I have a plan, remember?”

“If your life is the cost —”

“It’s not!”

“Then please, find safety!”

“I’m not leaving them behind!” He meets Elric’s eyes in a long look — ignores the cacophony around them and clasps their hands together. Can’t tell which of their palms is slick with sweat; maybe both. “I need you to trust me, Dad. I can do this.”

And they’re no longer in the midst of the fight but back in time; back to a mere hour ago when he asked Elric to trust him once; now again. “I can do this.”

The fae inhales; nods and rasps, “What do you need from me?”

Thank you. “Get the Elders on the defensive. They need to summon the bloodwraith.”

“What?!”

“You said you’d trust me!”

It’s a struggle, but Elric swallows down his protests and nods. “Very well. Find your Nighthunter; do whatever you need to prepare. Leave the rest to me.”

One last squeeze and they part. Taylor’s already halfway across the garden when he hears Elric shout strong and clear; “Garrus! Lend me your hand!” And it’s such a shock that he almost trips; almost.

Mustering up the last of his energy Taylor vaults over the farthest hedge; goes crashing into the lawn on the other side to find Nik lying limp and still.

No—no no nono…

He moves through the pain. Blinks through the tears piercing pain at his wounded cheek and pulls the hunter to lie on his back where he can check for injury—for a pulse—for anything.

“Nik wake up,” and fighting through the violent shaking in his hands is hard—near impossible—but he manages two fingers to the man’s pulse, “Nik—please please wake up. We can still do this — but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it without you.”

But he can’t tell what’s a possible sign of life and what’s his own blood pounding through every vessel in his body like his blood wants freedom. He tucks a hand under dark hair and can’t help the strangled noise he makes when he feels slick wetness matted at the crown of his head.

“Oh no—no no no…” Fuck now he’s scared to turn the man over; to make it worse. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…”

And he’s not being entirely truthful — not even with himself. The plan surely could work without Nik at his side but why would he want it like that? He doesn’t — he can’t even imagine it.

Taylor looks up and around. Wildly searches for someone who can help — someone who knows more, someone who can do something. But they’re all too far.

He isn’t sure he’d be able to call out to them even if they were.

It’s an actual effort to manage Nik’s limp head into his lap. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Slap his cheek, shake his shoulders like in the movies? Only those aren’t real head wounds on film — just actors with fake blood squirting in packs like ketchup and prosthetic makeup making them look battered and bruised.

Nik is battered and bruised. There’s nothing fake about it. This isn’t a movie; they aren’t on a set and his tears aren’t eye drops. They’re real. Everything about this is real.

“Oh fuck—fuckfuckfuck…”

When he pulls his hand back to the sight of red smeared on his fingers, he almost comes undone. Stays sane only because one fleeting thought, more of a background notion really, rattles in an echo around his skull in a voice that isn’t his own.

Those who seek to change destiny never understand how to bring it closer.

His rational mind is right: this isn’t a movie. Everything that’s happened has been real—from the smallest arguments to the biggest tragedies.

Nik is real. Cal is real—werewolves are real. Vampires, shapeshifters, revenants and spirits and even witches are real. Fae are real. Fae halflings — yup, real too.

And if there were times where Donny wasn’t saved, or the Council did fall to the Elders and their plan, or Taylor died in the cemetery that night, then didn’t that mean there were times that Nik didn’t survive this encounter, too?

But Donny was saved. The Council won’t fall to the Elders and Taylor didn’t die that night.

He refuses to let this be the one thing that can’t be changed.

“Breathe, Rookie, breathe…” Taylor whispers, forces his voice to keep calm and his hands that cradle Nik’s skull to go still. Because he knows how to change destiny this time; he’s done it before.

He doesn’t need to feel a pulse under the man’s skin because when he closes his eyes; reaches down inside his chest he can feel something there. Dim and flickering but so very present. A flame that wants to grow; it just needs to be fed first.

If there’s an incantation he doesn’t know it. But he knows how badly he wants Nik to heal; how bright he wants to feel the man’s soul inside.

There has to be a reason he is the way he is. Why can’t it be to save Nik Ryder?

There’s a flash against his closed eyelids; bright like someone turned on the sun in the middle of midnight. A switch flicking a lamp to life; or logs thrown on a campfire to keep him warm.

And when he opens them he has to squint through the burn of brightness but that’s not a bad thing. Not where that light filters through Nik’s hair askew and tingles at Taylor’s palms. Warms them in rays of daylight soft and flecked with dust motes, wipes them clean of dirt, clean of tears; clean of blood like it was never there to begin with.

Looking down at Nik’s slackened face; searching every scarred inch for some sign of life he knows is there; treading water just below the surface.

His heart skips a beat. Nik’s eyes flutter open; awake and alive. And the sight of color and life on his face is so fucking beautiful that it makes him start to cry all over again.

Around them fades to dim night but Nik still looks up at him with a strange wonderment. Reaches up and drags the calloused pad of his thumb across Taylor’s cheek to catch his tears before they fall.

“C’mon now,” comes that familiar throaty whisper; he doesn’t have to see the smirk to know it’s there like a kiss at the edge of the man’s lips, “sure as hell you ain’t sheddin’ those tears for me, Rook, are ya?”

“‘Course not.” Taylor teases back — bends himself practically in half as he leans down to take that offered kiss because he can.

Because Nik is alive.

They part — Nik holds himself up on a wobbly arm and reaches, feels around his head where even the ghost of his injury is a fading dream. And when his fingers pull back clean and without blood Taylor’s heart stutters back to life.

“Should I ask?”

But he doesn’t even know how to start explaining what happened — doesn’t quite understand it himself except for the fact it was instinct like he’s never known. “Maybe when this is over.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Make sure you do, he wants to say; instead touches the curve of Nik’s jaw because he’s there and he can.

Reality crashes back around them; suffocates what’s left of their bewilderment in the large form of a wolf.

It comes crashing through the hedges just shy of them. Taylor peers over the protective form of Nik’s shoulder just in time to see the shine of the werewolf’s yellow eyes before they roll backwards and Octavia slumps down; limp and unconscious.

“Why the hell ain’t they summoned the fuckin’ wraith yet?”growls Nik. He uses what’s left of their cover to survey the fight; locks his sights on Elder Daniels as she pulls at invisible strings and sends a fallen branch forth to sink home in Isadora’s belly.

The vampire hisses and collapses, catches herself just shy of impalement and desperately claws for her freedom.

“They’re trying to take out the Council on their own —” Taylor cuts himself off as he searches the fray in panic for any sign of Elric.

“That ain’t a part of the plan, Rook.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the hell’re we supposed to—holy hellfire!”

But it isn’t hellfire — not quite. Burns just as hot but Taylor’s pretty certain hellfire isn’t made of pitch black flame that shimmers iridescent as it races in tendrils towards the Elders; presses them against one another back to back in prowling circles that scorch the earth at their feet.

The mere sight of it captivates the entire Garden. Causes the witches to hold their combined magics out to defend their ranks against the fiery lashes.

Elric commands the stream of fae grimfire like a natural extension of himself. Raises his hand to send another wave in that raise the walls and keep the Elders pinned together.

“Accept your defeat, Elders of the Garden Coven, lest justice be swift and without mercy!”

But he isn’t alone. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow Garrus coaxes the grimfire at the witches’ heels. Sweeping movements of his arms drag the vestiges of it away from the rest of the Garden and tighter against their commanded foes.

This is it. This is their final chance.

“Where’s Vee?! It’s time!”

“Go —” Nik pushes him up and forward; makes Taylor stumble over a pulled-up root now rendered lifeless; the Elders’ magic contained in spectral fire, “— if they’re cornered, they’re desperate. They’ll call him forward soon.”

But Taylor can’t even comprehend the thought of leaving Nik’s side. Of not being there — not keeping him safe. “No way.”

“Now ain’t the time to argue!”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you again!”

“Rook.” And its just one word—one stupid little nickname he doesn’t even like—but he pushes so much meaning into it that Taylor’s feet move with a will of their own. Carry him out from safety’s cover with Nik hot on his heels until he veers into the Beau-Keyes House gone dark.

It takes literally everything in his churning gut not to follow.

Instead he breathes, stomps down the unease building inside — threatening to crest and consume him — and joins Elric in front of the Elders.

Every attempt the witches make against their ethereal prison is consumed and rendered powerless. If he didn’t know better — if he wasn’t hoping for this to be what forces their hand — Taylor might almost believe they’ve won.

“Enough fighting, Daniels. Please.”

The woman turns her head in a lash. Nothing but unbridled rage in empty eyes.

“Your persistence is no longer amusing, little pest.”

He knows his pleas are falling on deaf ears but… but doesn’t he owe it to everything they’ve lost to try?

“Look— you said part of the reason you decided to act was because the Council was so divided. But—but here everyone is! You brought them together. Can’t that be enough?”

It’s a useless question. He knows it, Elder Daniels knows it too. He can see it in her eyes.

“We are beyond the point of peace.”

“We don’t have to be.”

“Your ignorance will be your undoing.” She turns her back on him; on everyone. Joins Millet and Vion in clasped hands and bowed heads as though the grimfire is nothing more than an illusion.

This is what they wanted— what they’ve been waiting for ever since the Elders appeared tonight. But hearing the familiar incantation harmonized between them is no less haunting.

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

“They are summoning the abomination!” Isadora shouts. Her voice cracks as she gives one last violent pull; wrenches the branch free from her body and hurls it aside. “Stop them, burn them!”

But the plan isn’t to stop them. Still, Taylor understands. Feels it, too. The sickening wrongness in his gut only made worse by the familiar smell of foul and rot that seeps in like a putrid fog.

The effort it takes to hold the grimfire steady shows on Elric’s pallid face. “Are you sure about this?” he asks through gritted teeth. And he’s really not—can’t be sure of anything anymore—but that isn’t the answer he gives.

“Yes. Let them do it.”

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

Elric looks ahead to where the strain of their casting has Garrus ready to collapse. He gives the man a silent nod, and almost in relief and a perfect mirror they pull clenched fists apart to end the conjuring.

The grimfire eats itself from the bottom up. Dissipates at the edges of itself until the multicolored flames are only a remnant burned on the insides of Taylor’s eyelids. Beside him Elric begins to sag sideways as the exhaustion takes hold; he throws the man’s arm around his shoulder to keep him standing steady. He watches in relief as Krom refuses to let his fae collapse; catches him in strong stone arms and with unheard praises.

But the Elders continue their wicked chant; they either don’t notice or don’t care with victory within their reach.

“Arise hellbound soul! We beseech and command Fell our enemies with your cursed hand!”

Around them the wind begins to gather — pushes aside the cloud cover overhead and bathes the Garden in moonlight. Just like the last time they stood here gathered. Just like that night in the cemetery.

“Ryder!” Katherine calls; tosses the crossbow the short distance as he approaches with Vera on his heels. “We sure this is gonna work?”

Nik looks up at the sky with a grim resignation. “I think it’s a bit too late for doubts.”

As one the Coven Elders turn to face their accusers. The wind lashes Millet’s hair in tendrils and billows Vion’s robes; blows Daniels’ collar this way and that yet they remain rooted to the earth.

They stand with their convictions until the very end.

“Perhaps in number you can overpower us,” Daniels sneers, “but whatever scraps of this little front survive the wraith’s touch will be easy pickings.”

Over their heads a shadow passes over the moon. The telltale whip of burial wrappings hisses in their ears — followed by the unholy shriek they know all too well.

Daniels’ hands raise to the sky as the bloodwraith approaches.

“Come wretched creature; come accursed traitor! Pay your oath in the blood and bone of our enemies! Know no rest until our great work is done!”

The bloodwraith descends slow; places itself between the Elders and the rest as a shield grotesque. This time is no different than before — the very sight of it makes the hairs on the back of Taylor’s neck stand and scream to run, flee, there is no salvation here.

He used to think nothing could equal the void and despair where Death itself burns black in its eyes. But now that he sees them in the same space, he sees the same lifeless purpose like a stain over Daniels’ face.

But knowing what he knows now has Taylor looking at the wraith in a different way. Still with the same revulsion natural of the living to the violent dead — but he tries to imagine the face that once framed that skull as the same one from the photograph in Cadence’s office.

Familial features shared by both Tonya and Vera now twisted, warped by bloodlust and the unnatural.

And even worse — finds himself searching for some hint of the first victim to all of this madness. How could something so evil come from a soul like Cassiopeia? He didn’t even know the girl and yet those brief moments sharing a piece of her soul — her last moments — gave him a grief he felt tasked with bearing the burden of.

Behind him there’s a rustling; a bundle wrapped in cloth passing from Cade to Vera’s bare hands.

“What are you doing?”

Vion’s croaking voice breaks through the tense silence. Matching looks of wary apprehension barely restrained as they pass between each of the Elders.

Their confusion is understandable. Nothing has stopped the bloodwraith in its grisly pursuit before.

But this time is different. Whatever mangled bits are left of Derek Reimonenq’s soul feel it. Taylor feels it; behind him his companions feel it too. The Elders are just the last to notice.

“What are you waiting for?” but Elder Millet’s voice isn’t as strong as the others — her concern betrays her; “You are tasked by your summoners. Go forth!”

Hackles rise when the creature inches forward only just. But Taylor stands his ground.

“That’s not right though, is it?”

“Silence halfling!”

No, no more silence. “It wasn’t you that summoned it. Not the first time. That was Cassiopeia—you remember her?” — there’s no denying the recognition, the last bit of life that flickers and dies behind the Elders’ eye s— “The witch who you were supposed to protect and care for, who was so scared of what she could do… but cared more about thanking you for taking her in when no one else would.

“She was willing to do anything, even the thing that scared her the most. And you took advantage of that.”

“How dare you speak of such things—” says Millet. Elder Millet who she trusted, who she looked up to; who led her like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Who else is gonna speak for her? Certainly not you!”

“The girl’s sacrifice was a noble one, you will not diminish that!”

“She didn’t even know there was a sacrifice to make. Admit it,” and it’s awkward, ducking his head around the bloodwraith that hovers between them like a horrible marionette waiting for the puppet show to begin, but he has to look her murderers in the eyes because Cassiopeia never got the chance.

“You knew what you were doing was wrong. That’s why you dragged her out of her bed in the middle of the night, placated her like she was doing something good. Because it was the only way to get her to agree.”

The tiniest shame bubbles up from Millet’s direction. Makes it all the more important that he stares over that skeletal shoulder right into her eyes.

“She may not have known the extent of what we needed of her… but she did do good for the future of the Coven; for the future of this city.”

“She didn’t know because you didn’t tell her.”

A scoff drags his attention away to where Elder Daniels has rounded on her companion — a fist clenched in the barest show of restraint. “Do not lose your conviction now. At the accusations of this—this ignorant child!”

She rounds back on Taylor every inch a wraith in her own right—reaffirms what invisible tether ties Reimonenq the wraith and the Coven together with palms raised to the sky; “Enough of this! Kill the halfling first! I command you!”

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still must only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp.

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will not.”

#nightbound #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #cal lowell #playchoices fanfiction #vera reimonenq #katherine nightbound #oc: cadence smith #mc: taylor hunter #nightbound mc #garrus #ivy #krom #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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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 ⥽

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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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 24: Better the Devil You Don’t (Epilogue)

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Someone does right by Cadence.

note: And with that Bound by Circumstance is ended! I’ll start posting book 3, Bound by Choice, in a day or so! Book 3 is the only book in the series not based off of an existing Choices book, and follows the story of the Trinity in a series of flashback vignettes. Taylor and the Nightbound gang will return in book 4!

Also, Bound by Choice is currently in-progress, as opposed to books 1 & 2 which were completed at the time of posting. Once I catch up on the last chapters posted, my updating schedule will go to the weekly update my AO3 is on.

[READ IT ON AO3]

A few weeks later…

[TEXT]: hurry up [TEXT]: where r u??? [TEXT]: ur loss I’m not waiting [TEXT]: BUZZKILL!!! [TEXT]: pic.jpg

The picture does it — finally draws his attention away from his computer to where his phone screen changes from 01:07 to 01:08 as if to taunt him.

It takes Cadence a moment to realize the woman next to Kathy in her (blurry) self-taken photo is supposed to be Ivy. So used to seeing her true form in person — but glamours don’t fade on digital recording.

And who else do they know dresses like she’s always ready to attend a Victorian funeral?

In his friend’s defense Cade was supposed to be at the Shift over an hour ago.

She’ll hear his excuses and his apologies, pretend as though he’s committed the greatest sin in history — but come sunrise and sobriety he’ll be forgiven. The Nighthunter likes to make everyone think she’s the picture of cool nonchalance; the human equivalent of a cat.

But anyone who feeds strays knows just how affectionate cats can be when they so choose.

He shuts down his work, fighting the instinctual habit to leave most of it out and make his space look clean by pushing it to the sides of his desk — actually putting things back in their folders and boxes.

Tap-tap.

His head jerks up quick enough for his glasses to threaten flight. Working in this particular space for over a decade now, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t know about Odd Cadence and his odd hours; how he refuses to work in the daylight due to a debilitating allergy.

Even Gary from night maintenance wouldn’t bother.

Tap-tap.

He listens for a heartbeat. Can hear everything from the rush of water through old plumbing to the coo of pigeons scavenging on the outside Square.

Tap—

Isadora de la Rosa doesn’t get to finish her genteel knocking; pale hand hovering just shy of the taller vampire’s collarbone as he holds the door open.

She looks a little dumbfounded for him to have answered. That’s silly, though, since she was in his territory now.

The air is thick with a tension not felt since Mardi Gras those weeks ago. She looks ready to turn and leave without a word between them. He almost lets her.

“Izzy,” by way of greeting, and even though she now runs the dynasty her father built he struggles to call her anything but the petulant youthful human woman he first met her as, “I was just heading out.”

He gives her a chance; sees the opportunity for escape that flickers in her weathered eyes no longer young but no less defiant by nature.

Some people were just born ready to stand their ground. He always admired that about her.

“This won’t take long.”

One step forward, one step back. A familiar dance neither acknowledges as Isadora invites herself into his space. She’s not the oldest thing in the room by far, nor the most expensive. Still she commands the air around her to whisper softer, for the floorboards under her heels to wait until she passes to creak.

“Sure, come on in…”

She makes a point of trying to keep an arms’ length between her body and any clutter. He won’t apologize for it, not to her. She was half the reason he’s like this.

“I’m glad to see the Museum is treating you well.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s never met a de la Rosa good at small talk. He still hasn’t.

But she keeps trying. It’s hard not to cringe at every forced word, how she purposefully finds something to look at and mention; “New project, I see.”

Cadence doesn’t answer. She switches a black leather briefcase from one hand to the other; a poised woman’s version of shuffling her feet.

“You always were best kept —”

“I have somewhere to be.”

Her quirked brow says it all; how she definitely doesn’t believe him but calling him out on it is somehow counterproductive to why she’s here.

Why is she here?

Because the only reason he can conjure up has to do with the Coven, and the Council, and that’s why they’re enjoying nights like these at the Shift. To forget about everything that happened — to move on.

“Look, Izzy — if this is something that can wait, can it? I’ve got office hours tomorrow night—or hell, I’ll even come ‘round to the family house. But I do have somewhere to be, and I’m already late.”

When she takes stock of the room again he understands. It’s a tactic — and not a very good one — to allow her to think.

They’ve never been like this before. So why now?

It’s a brief flicker; blink-and-you-miss-it type. But Cadence doesn’t miss it — how Izzy stares at the chair claimed by Katherine in permanent marker.

“You’re going to meet her, the Nighthunter.”

“My friend Katherine, yes. Among others.”

“She treads dangerous waters in this town.”

It sounds a little too much like a threat for Cade’s comfort. Makes it a real effort to keep from letting it get to him.

“I think the same could be said for any hunter.” For Katherine, for Ryder.

“Yes, you would know,” she clasps the case handle with both hands over her front; a shield between them, “though this one — she’s different, isn’t she? She’s well-connected.”

Like he’s been fumbling around in the dark of his head — he finally finds the lamp chain and tugs. Lets the light flood through with an “Ah” of understanding.

So that’s what this is about.

“Contrary to what you may believe this isn’t the same world Carlo built his dynasty in. Humans — even Nighthunters and especially out-of-towners — they don’t whisper the rules to one another anymore.” Then, with firm conviction; “Katherine didn’t know she needed to ask your father for permission to bring Adrian Raines into town.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah, I did.”

If she’s here to enact some sort of delayed punishment, Cadence can’t promise he’ll stay civil. “I weighed the risks carefully,” he continues, “and decided it was best for everyone that no one knew who didn’t need to know.” Not that it had been a good choice. Maybe it could have saved Raines at his trial.

Sometimes he wonders why the two of them didn’t work out — especially when she was Turned. It wasn’t because of her perceived age, and obviously being his boss’ daughter hadn’t stopped them from getting involved in the first place.

He always remembers not a moment later. There’s a reason the term is ‘opposites attract.’ They were too similar — too hot in the head and both prone to speaking and acting without thinking ahead. Without considering the consequences.

So when she isn’t sneering an insult at him on the heels of Cade actually admitting to his wrongdoing… he knows something is very wrong.

“Izzy…?”

And the smile she offers is too forced, too fake. Sends shivers down his spine. “I’m glad you see things that way.”

“What way?”

She unclasps the briefcase with a flick of her little fingers. “That sometimes, in rare cases I think, withholding knowledge from someone is for the best; for all parties involved.

“I had prepared to give you this the night of the Minotaur’s championship fight…” The leather bound folder she pulls free is familiar only in that he’s seen the de la Rosa lawyers carry them like extensions of their hands. “And I have spent many hours since debating whether or not I made the right choice in keeping it close. Watching you in the cage — that made it easier.”

“Something’s happening, Kath—”

“Don’t fight it. Let it swallow you whole.”

Let it swallow you whole.

Katherine couldn’t possibly have known just how accurate she had been.

How it felt to stand at the edge of a yawning abyss no one else could see… and how it felt to have the ground fall out from under his feet the moment he decided to jump.

Memories of what happened after his meeting with Isadora still only came to him in clusters. It was less the act of remembering than feeling the same way — sensory triggers like the smell of blood or the tinny grate of a chain link fence.

Of course she had seen the fight. There were members of the underground community still who approached him on the street with praise for his ‘performance,’ or thanking him for standing up to the illegal deals Persephone covered with velvet and glitter.

But there’s a difference between knowing something and knowing it. Knowing the same hand he used to caress her cheek had also torn off the Minotaur’s horn. Knowing she was witness to it…

Isadora’s touch is solid, without the heat humans bring or the chill they feel. It simply is as she gives him the folder with no other choice. Whatever secrets rest inside they are his burden now.

“What you see here… I ask that you please not think less of me for keeping it from you. I was…” she doesn’t give an excuse — not a single one, “I was doing what I thought was right. But I cannot be the one to make that choice anymore. It’s too much Cadence; it’s far too much.”

He means to find comfort or some understanding in their hands. But there’s none to be found.

They pull away as intimate strangers. The space between them cavernous and echoing — and it only grows wider as he realizes she isn’t the one creating it.

He doesn’t need to ask what mystery he now holds.

What other mystery is there but the thing that has plagued him from their first “hello” to this their last “goodbye?”

Cadence’s voice is calm, even to his own ears. “Is this everything?”

“All that my daughter could find among his possessions.”

“And if I have any questions…”

“No,” she interrupts, “no you may not bring them to me. I would rather meet the sun than invite the conflict this will bring into my city, to my family’s doorstep.”

He wants to call her selfish but can’t say he wouldn’t be the same way were their roles reversed.

It’s a nice fantasy—altruism, kindness, doing the right thing so as not to hurt someone close—but it is a fantasy.

So what if he carried the ring she returned to him for a decade in mourning?

And intuition is a very separate thing from mind-reading; that he knows. In Isadora, though, the lines between them have always been a little smudged.

“In case you have any ideas of this meaning…” she breathes and tries again, “just know this has nothing to do with our past, Cadence. Consider this to be an act of release. Beyond what the Council will ask of us, I wash my hands of you.”

Isadora’s decision is as clear now as it was then. She will always choose her family over him. He can’t begrudge her that in the least.

“If only it were that simple.” But it’s probably for the best.

She leaves as abruptly as she arrived. Somehow with the ability to disrupt everything in his space without touching a single thing. As he looks around the office now it feels tainted with secrets and lies; all the things he still doesn’t know that now rest in his hand.

He need only look.

The chair is less than five steps away but he can’t muster the energy to move both his legs and arms; chooses the latter because what comparison is comfort to answers?

Cadence opens the folder and begins to read.

#nightbound #bloodbound #playchoices fanfiction #choices fanfiction #choices nb #oc: cadence smith #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 22: Cleansing Grimfire

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

The Coven Elders deal with the consequences of their actions. Taylor and Elric participate in a father-son activity. The Council takes some responsibility.

[READ IT ON AO3]

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still must only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp.

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will not.”

The entire Garden watches in bated awe as the wraith obeys. Hovers back far enough where Taylor can breathe without the scent of rancid flesh in his mouth.

Oh he’s still scared shitless — and rightly so. But just like he can feel the bad things hovering in an aura around them so too can he feel the good.

And the sudden rush of adrenaline, defiance, bravery in Vera is incredible.

The Elders are still together, still united, but their understanding is unmistakable. They know whose hand Vera wields. They realize what has changed with its discovery.

The only thing that hasn’t settled in to their collective hive mind is that it’s over.

“You killed Cassiopeia because she was the necromancer — she was the one in control of whatever creature she summoned and you needed that control to be yours and yours alone. You didn’t realize that you screwed yourselves.”

“‘Cause they were busy screwin’ everyone else,” huffs Nik behind him.

Millet has gone pale, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced against her almost skeletal pallor. “Her body became a totem.” Is that a hint of resignation in her tone? Or maybe just wishful thinking.

“Specifically her hand,” Cadence confirms with a nod, “like the trophies Reimonenq kept in his mortal life. If you had conjured up any random malevolent soul instead of going for sick, twisted irony maybe it would have been different but…”

“But she who holds the Hand holds the power.”

There was a lot about the plan that had been left up in the air. When, or if, the Coven Elders would even arrive. If they would summon the wraith immediately or attack in some other form. If there was even the smallest chance they could be convinced to stop the needless violence; their grab for power stayed in favor of the cooperation that should have happened in the first place.

But the one thing they had all been forced to agree upon was the one thing no one wanted to think about.

They had the totem, now what?

An eye for an eye was the most logical, solved the most problems. But then how were they any better than the Elders?

They may have been forced to agree but that didn’t mean it was without argument.

Cadence had been the last one to exit the underground tomb, his gruesome work finally done. Cassiopeia’s hand had been wrapped in Cal’s flannel and held out between them all as an unholy relic.

It made sense for Nik to take it — for a Nighthunter to be the one to make the final blow whatever that blow may entail.

Instead he held it out to Vera; insisted she take it. “You’re the one who’s suffered the most here. He’s your kin.” And polite Vera, kind Vera; Vera who had been tangled up in this out of fear and a desire to save Kristin and had resigned herself to suffering a curse she could never lift, took the bloodied bundle and made her peace with accepting the burden.

Never said what she planned on doing — it was just assumed she’d send the creature after the Elders; wield the totem the way a hero wields a sword to deal the dragon a final blow.

Maybe it was something Vera didn’t know herself. Couldn’t know until she was in the moment and had to make the choice before hesitation was their undoing.

Well they’re in that moment now. Taylor watches her square her shoulders, her bare hands grasping real flesh for only the second time in her entire life, and knows she’s chosen.

The wind rustles her curls silently as Vera holds out the severed hand in offering to the bloodwraith.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” The words come out of Daniels’ mouth but they don’t sound like her at all — there’s no restraint in her fear now.

Vera doesn’t deign the woman worth an answer. Just watches, waits for the creature to move. But even it doesn’t seem to understand what her intentions are.

Vion sneers — but even that wavers. “Foolish mortal child. If you wish to live you will keep that thing away from its totem.”

“I won’t do it —” —she whips around to Taylor behind her, tears stinging where they well at her eyes— “— I can’t do it, Tay. I can’t kill them.”

She can’t. If she does, she’s no better than they are. She’s the monster her mother is, the monster her ancestor is. Whether it’s true or not it’s how she feels so he feels it too.

“Baby girl if there was ever a time to grow a spine… now’s it.”

Vera stares over his shoulder to her mother’s wavering figure straining down the garden path.

They knew taking her out of the hospital was a necessary evil. She was the wraith’s last true victim. Her presence made some of the uncertainties of the plan less so because they knew it would come to finish what it started. But the fight, rushing her out of the fray; it’s proving to be too much. Ashen-faced and every muscle in her body screaming let me rest but she doesn’t.

Lady Smoke does not run from her enemies.

“Momma…”

Yet even with everything they’ve been through, despite her daughter refusing to leave her hospital bedside, there’s the furrow of command in her hardened face. She looks at Vera in the same way she had back at her club. Not a mother; a mob boss.

“Tonya, don’t —” Katherine tries to stay her advance but she’s shrugged off; hand batted away like a bothersome fly.

“Your whole life you’ve been runnin’ from who you are, Vera Claire. I shouldn’t have indulged it, that’s my sin to bear; lettin’ you make yourself weak. But now there’s lives at stake, includin’ your own. Maybe you still ain’t got the sense to use your gift for me but would you forgive yourself if your weakness killed everyone else?”

Vera can’t believe it. Frankly neither can anyone else. “What — Momma, stop. Why’re you doin’ this now of all times?”

“Because you’ve always been too stubborn to see what needs to be done!”

“No one else needs to die!”

“Then they’ll kill you first!”

“I won’t do it, goddammit —” if Smoke thought scolding her daughter would shame her into acting she has another thing coming, every word pulls Vera back from the murderous edge, “— I won’t be you! I refuse! I refused then and I refuse now!”

Vera’s voice cracks and the dam breaks; tears down her cheeks with the hovering shadow of pure evil behind her and a lifetime of rage and loathing coming out at the wrong moment but it wasn’t she who chose to rip open these old wounds now — so why should she have any mercy, any sympathy for the frail woman who did this to herself.

“We were both here that night. But it went after you — and if you weren’t so obsessed with gettin’ back your damn Touch you’d realize why that is. I won’t do it. I won’t take a life, even like this. I won’t be you — I won’t be a monster.”

And it’s final this time; when she turns away from her mother to face her decision right in the bloodstained face. “Derek Reimonenq was a monster too. I won’t use him and I won’t become him to get what I want. I know there’s another way.”

“You know nothing of the craft,” all of Daniels’ malice shoved into one last push; one last attempt. Her hands twitch at her side but the witch knows better than to act. Acting runs the risk of losing the totem holding the bloodwraith bound — or the wraith itself.

All her power and all the misery she’s orchestrated up to now and she’s reduced to nothing but words. Words that cause Vera to look up at her with pity. The ultimate insult.

Taylor sucks in a breath as she takes a step closer to the creature; can’t help himself even though he trusts her. Trusts she knows what she’s doing and believes in the path she’s taking.

So he has to believe in her, too. Their lives depend on it.

“I know the misery it’s brought. And I know I won’t have a hand in it anymore.” On silent command the bloodwraith opens its ghoulish talons held aloft. And with all of her fear and grief and anger put aside Vera lays the dead witch’s token upon them.

The skin fades sickly pale and bloodless veins spread black and ruinous. A horrific sight not unfamiliar — and Taylor knows in a part of him that’s still tied to the grief of Cassiopeia’s misplaced trust that the unknown magics preserving her body in the tomb lift and allow her to finally rest.

Even accepting the reality that there was a tortured soul powering the bloodwraith like Satan’s battery — he still couldn’t think of it as something with thoughts; something beyond a mindless killing entity. Which probably explains the weird feeling that comes with watching the creature as it looks down at the totem with a curiosity that could almost be called human.

Behind it the Elders close even tighter ranks. He’s not entirely certain they shouldn’t be doing the same.

Then, like all living things the wraith crosses, the hand begins to wither. Flesh pulled taut against skeletal fingers before eating away at itself the way maggots do; reveals the muscles underneath and the tissue between bones until those desiccate too. Until all that’s left are pale off-white bones that fall in little thunk-thunks to the dirt at its… levitating burial wrappings.

Uncertainty hangs over their heads crisp and icy, prickles like needles at Taylor’s skin and tries to choke him from the inside with every breath.

Now what?

The witches strike first. Try to get the jump on the bloodwraith while its back is still turned with three right hands extended and three burning spheres of fire brought together in Daniels’ power and sent hurtling forward.

Like that’ll make a difference.

The blaze collides against the creature’s spine and even manages to set a few tattered edges of it’s billowing wraps alight. But fire is like all things; needs oxygen to breathe and live. And nothing lives that close to the wraith’s existence. Cassiopeia’s hand proved that.

What would have happened if they’d done nothing; if they had fled, or held their breaths and stayed very still? Would they have been spared? Would Reimonenq’s soul take its newfound freedom and flee beyond the Veil?

It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Because they act — they lash out first. So technically there’s nothing against the retaliation coming.

Maybe if they’d kept Cassiopeia alive she could have banished it before the slaughter.

And it is.

The ghastly, gleeful grin Taylor swears he can see twisted back upon its lips will haunt him for some time; whether it’s really there or not.

The bloodwraith makes quick work of the ones who bound it to bone. It may have enjoyed the hunt every other time before but this — this it has been waiting for from the moment it was birthed in blackness and greed. Taking no time to savor their screams.

Not that the Elders go quietly — each new barrage of magic changes the air pressure and makes Taylor’s eyes swim dizzy and confused. They send spell after spell and chant after chant at the bloodwraith’s face, it’s torso, the space between it and the ground. They try to swallow it up with a tear in reality, send blood from their open veins to slake its thirst; things magic might not even be capable of but are made real in those desperate last moments.

As if the universe, the forces Beyond, the things that bind The Fate in rules against intervention give the witches all the power their mortal bodies can hold. In the same way a death row inmate is given a feast for his last meal.

The wraith’s tainted touch is too good for them. Keeps them whole, maybe even alive long enough to continue toying with. It can’t have that.

So it plunges through Millet’s abdomen bodily. Cleaves her in two uneven pieces and the rest of her splattered on the stone wall at her back. The viscera is dark, almost black against the bleach-white bones that emerge like a butterfly that could only come from the mind of H.G. Wells.

Vion’s cloudy eyes are plucked from his skull with veins and nerves snapping like taut strings. His mortal mouth isn’t wide enough to fit the wraith’s claw until it is — but only after flashing the onlookers with the bottom half of the smile he never learned how to give. Like scooping stew out of the pot with knives his organs come out mangled, misshapen.

The smell is awful and Taylor wants to look away but he doesn’t. Forces himself to watch each new torture and indignity those husks are subjected to. Because they are husks now. There’s no way anyone could be alive after that.

Even when he feels Nik’s tension closer than before and a hand inches its way up to the corner of his eye he brushes it aside. “You shouldn’ have to see this,” the Nighthunter whispers. And he’s right. He shouldn’t have to.

But the Coven Elders only have themselves to blame for that. They were the ones who pulled him into the dark and horrible. “I will anyway;” his equally voiceless reply.

And then there’s Elder Daniels. Made to watch the evisceration and mutilation of her kin. The last witches to fall to The Bloody Hand. That’s her fault, too.

It backs her into the Millet-strewn wall but she does not cower. It rakes talons through her throat her gut her four limbs but she does not scream. It hovers in the air over the pile of her it created but she does not look away — eyes brighter in death than they ever were in life.

The hardest part comes after. Waves of nausea and anguish and the taste of blood at the back of his throat that leave him shaking, crying even though he knows there was no other way — that someone had to die. It takes time but the feelings and all their overwhelming wrath do fade.

Belatedly he realizes — the last of the Coven Elders, those tiny wisps of purpose and ill, have left this world.

The fallout of them remains.

The bloodwraith hovers there among its finest work. Takes them in maw dripping blood and tissue stained red and reeking of death and righteous revenge — but still, silent as the grave.

Without tether or ruling hand there is nothing left inside its hollow ribs. Its great work is done.

Elric is the first to speak, voice cracked from exhaustion, and Taylor isn’t the only one who jumps slightly at the broken silence.

“We must destroy the creature before its nature overpowers the echoes of its former self.” Not that he has to tell anyone twice.

“Think it’ll sit still long enough fer us to put it through a woodchipper?” Kristof isn’t joking.

But Elric shakes his head; doesn’t humor even outlandish ideas. “I… do not know.”

Katherine favors her left side as she hobbles close enough for Ryder to prop her up. “We could pursue another necromancer — but the odds of one being close enough to get here in time…”

“An’ I definitely don’ have enough arrows to banish it to the Veil.”

“So we’re fucked?”

“Every passing moment deteriorates its complacency. It will go rabid.”

“If we had the totem —”

“— the Elders would still be alive, so stop lookin’ at me like that mother.”

Through the din of arguments and ideas tossed forward and debunked Taylor sees their guest again. Watches as The Fate holds his gaze then looks out, slow and with purpose. Over the grass and gravel stained black that now shines like glass under the revealing moonlight.

The stars shine much the same but the trails left by Elric and Garrus’ valiant effort in cornering the witches are a different beauty. Something ethereal and as bright as it is dark. Scorched trails of obsidian creating beauty in destruction.

With all the weird and cryptic help they keep giving, he’s gonna need to get The Fate a fruit basket delivered or something.

“Do you have enough strength to do it one more time?”

Elric looks at him with a furrowed confusion — takes a moment to understand before he withers further. “I worry not even Garrus’ aid will be enough to burn the beast. Not alone.”

Taylor’s heart sinks, but Nik catches it before it gets too low.

“So help ‘em out, Rook.”

“Me?”

“You did it before.”

“Yeah but not on purpose.”

“So get Elric to channel it to you again.”

Then his father is at his side with pale palm turned up in offering. “You are not the same person you were then. You may not need my help.”

Everyone’s stopped arguing now; listening intently. Talk about stage fright.

“Yeah I — I don’t think so. The other fae, the ones inside…”

“Not all of us have the touch to do such wonders.”

And isn’t that just great. “Obviously. Why would it ever be easy?”

He throws a look to Garrus, still half-caught in Krom’s arms though looking far less on the verge of unconsciousness. Not that Krom worries over him any less. They catch him looking and their smiles are matched; happy, relieved, sheepish. Makes Taylor have the just-barely resistible urge to shake his head and say “those crazy kids.”

What’s the use arguing at this point?

“Okay. I mean — however I can help.”

Of course the stone troll is reluctant to let Garrus go, takes more than a fair bit of coaxing from Ivy but he does. “I haven’t stretched these muscles in a century,” comes the anticipated complaint, “and now you have me conjuring twice in one evening?” But Garrus doesn’t hesitate as he takes his position back up.

Elric directs Taylor nearest Isadora; doesn’t argue when Nik follows like an extension of him.

“I’ll be okay.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate the support.

“I know —” then, after a beat, “— still. Don’t have to leave you, so I won’t.”

A hush falls with the fae men in their positions. The outcast, the Lord, and the halfling in a triangle around the dormant wraith.

He knows he shouldn’t but that’s never stopped Taylor before. Cautiously reaches out with that feeling inside and tries, more out of curiosity than anything, to search for anything that remains of Reimonenq within its cursed bones.

But he’s just met with a void. Blacker than black — no revenge, no vendetta to carry out; nothing at all.

So he pulls it back… and feels the faint whisper of death like velvet on his cheek.

It’s as ready as they are for all this to be done with.

Not that he was expecting a lesson on a chalkboard or anything — Conjuring Grimfire 101 — but there’s a distinct lack of any kind of instruction that leaves Taylor more than a little lacking. Has him looking back and forth to mirror the men in everything he can see.

One minute the uncertainty is there; building inside of him a threatening mass of the unknown — and then it isn’t.

It’s just gone.

Whatever takes its place—not confidence, not quite—is enough, somehow. He knows it’s enough.

Looking down Taylor isn’t surprised to see wisps of black flame licking at his palms. Both enveloped and not, but not a burn in sight and so so beautiful.

It doesn’t take much. Barely even a gesture but moreso the power to let the grimflames take to the world beyond him.

Taylor, Garrus, Elric — they aren’t three people and three flames anymore. They’re one in the same; send their combined will forward. Rushing, racing on still winds lapping and hissing at one another until they seek home in the only thing they can.

A column of midnight fire erupts towards the sky as the bloodwraith is consumed. The last of its flesh, the tendrils of cloth, the thrice-burned bones engulfed in a fire that bathes the entire garden in light.

Taylor prepares himself — muscle memory — for a stinging wave of heat that never comes. And the sight is as captivating as it is terrible, as magical as it is destructive. Colors without names taking the wraith’s shape within the black — aberrant and awe-some.

Higher and higher the grimfire clamors for the abyss; seeks home in a darkness just as endless. The colors within grow to a blinding brightness as, within, the creature is devoured.

The Council of New Orleans watches as one. Blooded and bruised and alive. Shadows of light in lashes across every face like a ritual of cleansing.

Cadence shoulders the combined weights of Kathy and Cal; holds them up with tears in his eyes.

As Kristof watches, jaw slack, Octavia lumbers up to him with blood-matted fur and noses at his palm, turns a golden gaze up to the place where the fire and the heavens meet. Even Isadora finds herself held captive by the sight.

Vera’s hands cup her elbows, the glowing shadows catching on her curls and every teardrop that collects at her chin. Behind her Tonya stands shrouded in the dark of her daughter’s figure. The only one focused on something else.

But it makes sense. Don’t ask him how but it does. It isn’t just the bloodwraith that is forced to make peace in the fae fire’s glow. It shines on all of them and chases away every shadow left in the chambers of their hearts. Leaves within Taylor a feeling of profound peace; of understanding.

From tip to temple the remnants of the bloodwraith scatter upwards, rainbow embers scattering to every corner of the city — further even.

Upturned palms slowly close with curled-in fingers; Garrus, then Elric. Elric who looks at his son with pride to which nothing can compare. Taylor almost doesn’t want to let it go. Wants to let it build and stay in this beautiful monument to everything… everything.

Instead he closes his hands and snuffs out the light.

The curtains close.

Cade pulls away gasping; covers his mouth with the back of his hand with something akin to shame burned into his red eyes. Katherine gives him time; lets the vampire come back to himself with her bare arm still offered; just in case.

It isn’t lost on Taylor — or anyone, really — that the huntress was content to push half a wine glass of her blood towards Isadora de la Rosa. That the vein was a luxury only Cadence was allowed.

Cadence who holds her arm gingerly as he smears blood from his nicked thumb along the skin and lets it heal.

All around them the Mardi Gras decorations still shimmer with delight. Enticing them to forget their worries and relax; to enjoy themselves in a way they might finally be allowed, now. But the night isn’t done yet. Neither are they, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.

Two ashtrays pass between hands. Inside; a thin layer of blood shared among them like a church sacrament. The unspoken rule — take just enough to heal your wounds, because the likelihood that either vampire was willing to part with more than they could afford was slim.

And he cares about the rest of his friends — he does. He’s glad to see the bruises fading from Kathy’s ribs where her shirt is hitched up; to see Cal testing the motion of his arm where Octavia had helped relocate his shoulder. He’s glad — yet it doesn’t stop him from devoting the majority of his attention to Nik.

“No physical signs of a concussion,” mumbles Cade through his careful examination of the man’s pupils; flashes the mini-light from Taylor’s keys between them just in case, “and as any possible wounds would be internal there isn’t much my blood can do that it wouldn’t have done already.”

But Ryder will only humor them for so long. The frustration is already starting to tick in his brow. “Cool, then will you lay off?”

“Nik —”

“I’m fine Rook, see?” He gestures with arms spread wide and what is that supposed to prove? Can anyone blame him for worrying? Would anyone dare to try?

No, not like this. Not when the events of the night still hang over those gathered like an anvil on a very thin rope. Only when it drops it won’t be for comedic effect.

All they need is someone to cut the cord.

Good thing Nik Ryder has never been one to sugarcoat anything. Or hold his tongue for that matter.

“They weren’t wrong, you know, the Coven Elders.”

Which is so the wrong thing to say and gets a couple hundred pounds of angry sweaty werewolf in his face, growling; “The fuck’d you just say, Ryder?”

Even Isadora’s disapproval isn’t so easily contained. “Poor taste, Nighthunter.”

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Looks Kristof square in the eyes with a matching frown and a set jaw.

“You could ignore it before, but you sure can’t now. Things around here have gotten way outta hand. Each one’a you only cared about what was right under your noses. I ain’t sayin’ they went about it the right way but to walk outta here with nothing changed would be almost just as bad.”

That he doesn’t end up with a broken jaw is surprising on its own. When Kristof actually steps back as if to listen? Well Hell went straight from frozen over to a winter wonderland.

“Continue,” prompts Elric then, since no one else is willing to offer the floor to him. Why would they? Who wants to be told everything they’ve done wrong? Especially when it leads to… well.

“I didn’ think about the state of things until I saw what was goin’ on inside Persephone. Told myself it wasn’t any of my business —”

“— which it is not,” Tonya interrupts, and meets the glare Vera snaps at her with a hard set to her jaw. “Nighthunters have always been a complicated party. No allegiances, no code of conduct but their own. And now this one wishes to dictate to us all of the things we are at fault for as though he stands on some sort of higher ground?”

Vera just shakes her head, dislike rotting into distaste on her tongue.

“Unbelievable. You still don’t think you have any blame to take in any of this.”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve done to keep this city safe?”

“Oh I’m well aware, mother,” the words lash out on the tip of her tongue; make Tonya recoil however slight. “In fact — that, that right there — that’s half the problem here! That’s exactly what Ryder’s talking about. You stand there actin’ like a martyr when all you’ve done—all you’ve really done—is bully, bribe, and threaten your way into power. How long do you think it’ll keep now?”

She’s no longer the woman who went running at the smallest sign of danger. It’s a thing to behold, really.

And Vera isn’t the only one. Even with all of his huffing and puffing Cal steps up and looks Kristof square in the eyes. There’s a set to his jaw and his eye is still a little purple but hell if he’s backing down now.

“Now don’t you go makin’ trouble for yerself, pup,” his kin warns, but what else could he possibly lose that he hasn’t already?

“Anyone who disagrees with you makes trouble.”

“Yeah, and?”

The younger wolf’s joints pop and crack as he cranes his neck from side to side. Both of them rearing to go even after everything.

“That’s no way to lead a pack.”

Kristof snorts through a cherry-red face. “An’ I take it you’ve got a lotta thoughts you been holdin’ in.”

“You could say that.”

“Until you’re an Alpha I don’t think you’ve got much of a say.”

“He may not, but I’ve a few thoughts, cher.”

There’s a very Et tu, Brute? vibe in how Octavia places herself in the familiar space between the argument. Back then and here in the now Octavia remains a voice of reason to compensate for the one her Alpha just doesn’t seem to have been born with.

His nostrils flare. “Tavvy…”

“I ain’t sayin’ the pup’s right, but you an’ I both know he’s got a point. Things have been good for us, Kristof. Good for the pack.”

“Yeah, why the hell d’you think that is?!”

“I’m not sayin’ you ain’t sacrificed to keep us goin’. An’ I’ve backed you up on every single thing to date. But Kristof Jensen so help me if you raise your voice at me again I will whoop your furry behind to kingdom come and that’s a promise.”

The Alpha and his Beta square off, eye to eye. She commands the space around her despite behind several heads shorter than him. Being part of a pack means something deeper than most can understand and it radiates out from them in viscous tension.

He’s an Alpha; he can’t back down. But she’s his partner — so she won’t.

And Cal, who can’t tell if he has the other wolf on his side or just not on Kristof’s, refuses to let himself be pushed out of the conversation.

“Uncle,” one word that snaps all attention back to him, “you picked up the pack when we needed it most. You know they’re grateful — you know I’m grateful —” and there’s something hidden unspoken in Cal’s words, something from before all this but can’t be held back any longer, “— you were the Alpha they needed when I couldn’t be.

“But the pack can’t be more important than the community it’s part of. You can’t pull away from the rest of New Orleans and call it keeping everyone safe. Not when it leads to shit like this.”

There’s so many emotions and reactions twisting on the Alpha’s scarred face; Taylor doesn’t even attempt to reach out to feel them for fear of empathy whiplash.

So he’s just as surprised as everyone — Cal and Octavia included — when the wolf deflates; sags his shoulders and reaches out for the Beta to find a home crooked under the weight of his arm.

“Now ain’t the time to get into the nitty-gritty.”

Before Cal can object, Octavia squares him away with a single glance. Maybe not now, but soon. And that’s more than before, so he’ll take it.

To everyone’s surprise Isadora steps forward with a steely eye.

“My father was no saint. Since inheriting his seat and estate I have come upon a number of… gruesome things; things he was content to keep from me, and no doubt from the rest of the Council.”

If anyone notices the way her eyes flick to Cadence, they don’t mention it. “But I think that is the point Ryder makes; we, this Council, are supposed to be the ones making decisions for the betterment of this proud city. Instead we have burrowed our heads in the sand, contented ourselves with turning a blind eye to one another’s wrongdoings lest our own come to light.

“We cannot continue like this. The Council will not survive it. New Orleans will not survive it.”

Murmurs of agreement echo throughout the foyer; Elric stands.

“We are tired; we are battle-worn. Yet we have ignored our obligations to the city for long enough I think. If we are to be the ones to bring about a positive change then the time to act is now.”

“Now?” asks Tonya in protest, “don’t you think we should postpone this — at least until Mardi Gras has settled?”

Nik drags two stools forward. Taylor takes the hint and he isn’t the only one — Krom and Ivy join him in grabbing chairs and other seats until everyone has a place to get comfortable.

“No time like the present.”

#choices nb #playchoices fanfiction #nightbound #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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 18: Let Me Do You This Kindness

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

The Fate intervenes.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“You were there — you were watching us at Prytania Street.”

“In a way, yes and no.”

“It can’t be both. I saw you there.”

“Yes, I was witness to the events of which you speak. But no, I was not there as you were there; on the physical plane. I bear witness to all things. That is my purpose and my burden.”

“You could have done something.”

“You are mistaken, halfling child.”

“Bullshit. That’s—That’s bullshit. Its an excuse to justify doing nothing!”

“If that is what you choose to believe I cannot stop you, only try to sway your mind.”

“Well you won’t.”

“The world’s belief that I am capable of more than giving testimony is a false one. I cannot change the course of what is to be, no more than you can. I see every outcome, every possibility — every path from the moment it is built reaching out into oblivion.

“Who walks those paths — who has the ability to forge them new or break the chain — that is up to the individual. Certain roads will always be taken, yes. But the forces making those decisions were here long before me and will exist long after I am gone.”

He’s angry. And because he’s angry he’s indignant — he doesn’t want to believe them. Not when they speak in the voice of a forgotten child or a lost lover or someone whose time has come yet they find themselves filled with only bitter regret.

Always with the same golden eyes.

The weight of his breath sends Taylor’s body into tremors of emotion. Things he knows all too well — despair, guilt, self-blame — and things he has no name for; might never have a name for in any human language.

They overwhelm him until they don’t. Until he can look at each and every face of The Fate and speak.

“I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?”

It’s his voice, his tongue curling around the words formed on his lips. But they aren’t his. They’re just sort of pulled out of him like they were trapped deep in his belly on a string.

Words that come not from the mind but from some place deeper. Those dying embers he thinks may have once been called his soul.

The Fate turns their wrinkled face away.

He knows this emotion. Shame.

“Why don’t I remember?” he asks again.

Doesn’t know where he is, or how he got here, or what it all means. But like hell he’s going to move or be moved without an answer.

“I thought it would be kinder.”

Their new voice wavers. A new face looks back at Taylor — creases in a frown that will settle into lines of age eventually, but not quite yet; thinner lips, yet hands still youthful. They look so much like his mother it hurts.

Thought what would be kinder? What happened? Where is everyone? Where is Nik?

All very important questions. All answers he first wants, then craves, then needs in order to remember how to breathe.

Instead he just whispers a weary “please,” because they both know what it is he’s pleading for.

But The Fate is reluctant — that much is obvious. “I would rather you understand before I did.”

“Understand…?”

“That I am merely the storyteller. Not the book, not the author, just a voice reading from the pages.”

This again. Can they blame him for being skeptical? For thinking someone with a name like The Fate might have a say in the order of the universe, in who lives and who dies?

“If I tell you I believe you, will you give me back my memories?” Will you explain? Will it all make sense?

“Would you be lying to me, Taylor Hunter?”

“You’re The Fate — wouldn’t you know?” Then, met with only silence, he does the only thing that feels right. He just shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t, okay? I’ve been asked to believe in a lot of impossible things lately, but this… this is more than that, and that makes it harder.”

Because if The Fate really has no say in the way things have been then that means they have no say in the way things end.

The Coven Elders do.

His friends do.

He does.

But not someone who could make it all better.

And that’s terrifying.

“So I don’t know,” he repeats, “and that’s my final answer.” Not the right or wrong answer, but the final one.

He’s met with a chilling reality when The Fate reaches out their hand and he takes it and feels home. The Fate doesn’t just look like his mother; they are wearing her face.

It’s a useless epiphany though.

Because he remembers.

What’s an extra hour or two?

The difference between life and death.

By the time he notices the familiar figure of The Fate standing just off stage left it’s too late.

The screams, the crackle and POP of a spotlight sending sparks showering down onto the stage, the heat and flames and smoke choking the breath out of him — those all came later.

First came the explosive bang of double doors opening at the back of the theatre. If there was ever an apt time for an actor to fumble their lines it was then.

He still hated Antoni, the prick, but gave credit where credit was due — a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it beat in between stanzas and Oberon was right back in the depths of his monologue.

Second was the gust of wind that turned heads — Taylor’s included — to the draft coming through the gaping doorway. It reeked of revelry and jaegerbombs with just a hint of despair.

Taylor was convinced that last bit was his imagination having a last-ditch effort to try and ruin his happiness. Stupid, stupid boy he was; turning back to the stage like that.

Third came thunk. thunk. thunk.

He could recall, if only vaguely, the rehearsal where Daphne suggested imitating the Globe Theatre in London. She wanted to engage with the audience as Puck and the director loved it.

Her last big entrance was from the back of the theatre, right — he’d forgotten.

Thunk. thunk. thunk.

Daphne came barreling down the sloping path — collided with the stage with wet noise.

Or… her head did.

And it rolled in classic horror-movie gothic to stare lifelessly at the audience. Eyes milky white, veins blackened and bulging under tissue paper skin.

What came next doesn’t matter. If the curtain caught fire before or after Theseus fainted from terror didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was the wretchedly familiar grotesque hovering in the entryway — the shadow it cast stretching long, mangled limbs out towards them.

The bloodwraith let out a screeching howl that shattered glass, incited fire, sent the entire space into a pitch darkness only to glow and flicker with hungry flames.

I’m sorry. His first and only thought.

Nothing else The Fate gave back to him mattered.

“Holy shit — am I dead?!”

Taylor uses the thought to grapple back onto the present and pull himself together. Doesn’t even think about whether or not he should be using that kind of language in front of a very very old supernatural being but okay maybe he’d been a little premature in the ‘nothing else’ department.

If he was dead that definitely mattered. Because if he was dead Nik was going to kill him.

When The Fate readjusts themselves — a refined and more calm way of saying ‘recovers from whiplash’ — they reassure him with a small shake of the head, silvery wisps on a balding head shaking out to perfect and natural curls. “No, you are not dead.”

“Oh thank god,” he whistles low, but its the relief that catches him by surprise. And not just because he doesn’t have to worry about being chewed out by a surly Nighthunter.

He’s actually relieved to be alive. Or at least not dead. One of those things he wouldn’t normally perturb the semantics over but given everything that’s happened it only seems right.

“Am I alive?”

“In a way.”

“That’s a yes or no question. Please let that be a yes or no question.”

It takes Taylor a moment (his brain is catching up as quick as it can, yeesh) but when it becomes clear The Fate, powerful ethereal being witness to everything until the end of time, is amusing themselves with his reactions he tries his best not to give any.

He fails, of course, but he tried his best.

“Yes, halfling child, you are alive.”

“And —” Nik? Elric? Vera? Cal-Kathy-Cadence? Garrus-Krom-Ivy? “— everyone else?”

“Is there one for whom your concern is greatest?” It sounds almost clinical; doesn’t help that they now sound eerily similar to his hormone therapy physician.

Maybe they hoped Taylor would have to think about it. Maybe they wanted to see what makes him tick.

Too bad. “I’m not picking which of my friends I care about the most, if that’s what weird all-knowing trope you’re going for.”

“Not even your father is placed above them?”

“I barely know the guy. That answer it for you?”

The Fate gives a “hmm” and a nod. “Forgive me, I have never had such luxuries.”

“Family, friends?”

“Those as well. I see the bonds of the material made; thousands, millions in the spaces between heartbeats. But I do not feel them. I wish that I could.”

It rings wrong in his bones. Makes his blood curdle in his veins. “If you’re trying to justify preying on my fears to learn emotions, I’d say stop.”

“Is there a threat to be made?”

“No.” He’s not stupid — but he’s not just going to stand there and take it, either. “You didn’t answer my question. Are my friends — all of them — alive too?”

He can tell The Fate hesitates as one last test of wills. Still it doesn’t stop him from clapping a hand over his mouth when they finally nod.

“Thank god…”

They’d thought it would be safe. That they had time—however brief—to try and make the most of things; time together, the city in all her glory.

Taylor doesn’t realize they’ve been walking together, a simple man and Fate, until he stops and looks out of one of the large windows lining the hallway.

Outside is beautiful. It’s a lacking word but the only one that comes to mind. It’s the kind of sunset that people write entire poems and songs about because they can’t think of a simple one-word description either. So it’ll do.

He drinks it in — the vibrant sunset that reaches long tendril fingers of pinks and oranges across the sky and continues on and on and on into an endless horizon. Bright enough to illuminate dust motes hovering practically immobile in the still air around him. Even his heavy and awestruck breathing doesn’t disturb them.

Like he isn’t even there.

And it occurs to him like an afterthought that if he left this place to commune with that sherbet sky he’d never find the end. There’s a peace in that.

He could ask the obvious; where are we, how did we get here, what does it all mean, but instead he focuses on the things he does know rather than what he doesn’t. “You brought us here.”

“Yes.”

And he hadn’t planned it at all; the trap The Fate has so willingly fallen into. But there it is.

“That means you intervened.” He turns away from the world beyond only because he has to. Catches their ever-changing face in the sunset’s light. “I thought you couldn’t intervene.”

When they finally answer the words are chosen with care; careful not to reveal too much, careful not to make promises unable to be kept. “I did not change the course of what is to come; that is beyond me. But it is not beyond you, and so the lines blur. If you could be guided, or given more time, or protected from a death thought previously inevitable, then perhaps you could enact that change with your newfound advantages.”

His mouth twists ruefully. “You’re telling me you found a loophole in destiny?”

“Of a sort.”

“And you choose now to do it? That’s…” For once in his life Taylor thinks before he speaks; to his benefit. “Unless this isn’t the first time you’ve done it.”

The Fate looks at him with the eyes of a child again; a disturbingly profound wisdom looking him over as if in a new light. “There are very few places in the puzzle of time where I may fit.”

“So all that stuff you said about being an observer — what you’re saying is that’s a load of crap.”

“Would I have told you then what little I could do, would you have believed my interference so small?”

They’ve got a point. “No.”

“Then you see why these revelations take time.”

Maybe he does. That doesn’t change the truth, though. Doesn’t change the thoughts racing through his mind; thoughts of the dozens, hundreds of things that have happened that could have been changed in some little way. Changed had they had more time, or if they’d known more.

Or if he hadn’t been protected.

If Nik hadn’t been in the graveyard, Taylor would be dead. He was there, and at the bar, because…

“You hired Nik to protect me. You were the one on the other end of the phone line.”

“Yes.”

“Did it make a difference? No—No it couldn’t have. You said you couldn’t change it. You —”

“All that is meant to unfold still will. If not as swiftly as the witches had hoped.”

“So all you did was prolong the inevitable.”

“All I did?” his question played back to him in a voice rusted with time, incredulity on The Fate’s new leathery features, “You think so narrowly. What have you changed, what have you incited?”

“The Elders are still —”

“What. have. you. done.”

“I —” Is it any wonder he falters under the intensity of that stare; the weight of their words bearing down on him heavier than anything he’s tried to carry before?

Fine. What has he done?

He’s hurt Garrus by bringing Elric to the show.

He’s brought Garrus and Krom closer.

He’s put Vera in danger.

But given her a chance to reconcile with her mother.

He’s the reason Cal was cast out from his pack.

And the reason Donny is still alive.

Stop it, Taylor wants to say, because there’s no way that annoying voice in his head contradicting everything he’s thinking is him. It’s them — they’re in his mind.

But he’s heard dozens of voices from dozens of their lips; none of them have sounded like him.

And only his voice is ringing between his ears.

“If I’d died in the cemetery that night — would any of those things have happened? Be honest.”

“I see all outcomes; the realms in which they did happen and those where they did not.”

“Okay, so —”

“But because of you, Taylor Hunter, they did. And that cannot be undone.”

Taylor reels at the very thought of it. Talk about daring to disturb the universe. But all those things — they’re speaking of the past, of the present.

What about the future?

“Was it enough, though?” Was it enough to make a difference? Enough to save them? Enough to win?

Instead of answering with words The Fate reaches up, out. Doesn’t let up even though Taylor recoils (for good reason) at the weight of permanence that hangs around them in an unseen aura. According to The Fate themselves there are versions of this story where he dies; is already dead.

And knowing that doesn’t scare him nearly as much as being touched by someone who has seen it happen.

“Those who seek to change destiny always fail,” — something so morbid and hopeless shouldn’t sound so reassuring — “because it will always lie out of their reach. They never understand how to bring it closer. Now you do.”

The warmth of the sunset beyond prickles the back of Taylor’s neck. But even basking in the glow as they have been The Fate’s fingers are cold as ice.

Cold with the weight of the sorrows they’ve seen.

Wherever they are stretches out infinitely on either side of them. He hasn’t seen another soul this entire time. Knows somewhere deep inside himself that no matter how many halls he sees, no matter how many doors he opens, they reside here together. Alone.

So why then does he whisper? Who the hell knows.

“If you’ve seen all the terrible ways this could end… why do it? Why try?”

“Because,” they smile and suddenly Taylor sees why every other part of them is cold; to compensate, “I have hope.”

How, how can they have hope when they know what’s coming? “Hope for what?”

“Hope that you will prove me wrong.” You can change what is to come.

“Talk about your unrealistic expectations.” How?

“It has been done before — however rare.” You already know how.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

He —

He watches Cal with his arm over Vera’s shoulder — holding her close, pressing his mouth into her hair more a gesture of comfort than a kiss. To remind her the warmth of another body is close. That she isn’t alone.

A bright light flashes in front of his eyes, blinds him. Taylor tries to pull back but the EMT squeezes his shoulder and keeps him in place. “Not yet, bud, just try and follow the light okay?”

It doesn’t really make sense to keep staring at the thing that makes it harder to see but he does what he’s told. Follows the pen light left to right and up to down because that’s what they need of him right now.

“Your friends said you took a pretty hard hit.” He can feel the gloved hand on the back of his head feeling around for a lump, a cut, blood — anything.

Definitely more than the nothing he gets that’s for sure.

“Do you remember anything like that?”

No, he doesn’t. He only remembers silvery curls and an insistent understanding that he’s capable of more than he thinks. But those thoughts aren’t his.

It’s with reluctance that the EMT lets him jump from the back of the ambulance with the closest thing to a clear bill of health.

“Rook!”

Thank god he hears Nik only when there isn’t a stethoscope on his chest because surely his heart stops beating.

Taylor turns, doesn’t have the time to brace himself before he’s inhaling leather. Isn’t smothered by it at all — in fact it helps calm him more than expected.

Then Nik’s looking him over — touching the back of his head and holding up his arms; looking for cuts and bruises and any sign that he’s less than one hundred-percent okay. “Did you get checked out? Why the hell would they let you go? If they’d seen the way your head bounced off that concrete wall they’d be thinkin’ differently. Fuckin’ hell, they…” Just like the EMT he feels nothing, though. But this time Taylor isn’t let off the hook so easily.

“What the hell? There ain’t even a bump.”

“I hit my head?” he asks; realizes it’s the wrong thing to say when Nik’s eyes widen.

“You don’t remember? Shit — we’re gettin’ you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need a hospital.”

“I beg to differ!”

“If you’d —” Taylor actually has to smack the flurry of Nik’s concerned hands away, “— just stop for a sec’? Please!”

Even in the chaos of grief and seemingly fruitless attempts to restore order Taylor is loud. Manages to get more than a few heads turned his way — some that look between him and Nik in rising suspicion. He takes the man’s hand and pulls him off to the side before any of it becomes a thing.

They find the one police car without the overhead lights flashing. Away from the crowd swarming, from people who secretly wished they could be paid to learn what happened and grieve for it. Despite being entirely removed from the situation they are moths; the cruisers that bathe them in reds and blues are their flame.

Nik wastes no time. “You’re starting to scare me Taylor,” and he believes it with or without Nik using his name, “if somethin’ happened to you, somethin’ medical, we gotta —”

“Nik,” he insists again, “stop talking.” Cups his hands along a chiseled jaw and brings the man down to kiss him like that’ll explain everything. In a perfect world, maybe.

But even annoying as he’s being right now Taylor can’t hold it against him. He cares — in his own weird way sure — but he does.

They part for air but he allows strong hands to keep him close.

“I only just got back,” he mumbles almost breathlessly, “I don’t need you jumping down my throat.”

“Wait—what?”

“I —”

There’s a tickle on his forehead as Nik’s brow furrows. “No I heard ya. But you didn’ — we were here the whole —” Lucky for them both when, somewhere in the middle of those half-formed explanations and racing thoughts, he remembers that he’s Nik Ryder; Nighthunter.

“Got back from where?”

“Not here.”

“Yes, here.”

“Nik.”

Taylor would like to believe he relents because of trust, but knows the far more likely explanation is exhaustion. But he does and that’s what matters. “Okay Rook, okay. Your turn to call the shots.”

“First we need to get everyone together. I saw Vera and Cal, but…”

“Kathy an’ Cade were still givin’ statements last I checked. Iv’, Krom, and Garrus hightailed it before the cops showed up. Wait—you’re really sayin’ you don’t remember any of this?”

“Stay focused. Where’s Elric?”

“With them. He was out cold, hurt bad from the looks of it.”

Taylor’s heart straight-up stops beating. “Did the wraith —?”

“No Rook, no he, uh, he took a fallin’ rigging for you. Pushed you right outta the way and that’s how you hit your head. I really don’t like —”

“Later. We can’t go back to the Shift.”

“Well there we agree.”

“There’s my place, but —”

“No, nowhere connected to any of us. The Elders could’a hexed the place.”

“Suggestions, maybe?”

“Well damn Rook — not like I’ve got a map of secret warded places I can just pull outta my ass—actually…” Nik changes his tune so fast Taylor gets whiplash. But he knows the thoughtful look in those dark eyes well enough by now that he dares to have just a little bit of hope.

Why try?

Because I have hope.

By the time he’s pulled out of his brief recollection of The Fate, Nik is pulling him by the hand back into the crowd. They spot the beacon of Cadence’s towering head over everyone else and find the others still recuperating on the curb where he stands guard.

Cal spots Taylor and immediately tries to stand — but he’s leaning far too much to the right to be moving so fast. Katherine catches him, eases him back down with admonishing words.

“What did the EMT just say?”

“Yeah yeah, I ain’t a cub Kathy.”

“Then pay attention next time — to what they’re saying, not to their asses.”

Vera reaches for Taylor like a source of comfort. He takes her hand and squeezes; feels the warmth of her through blue medical latex in a way her usual silk doesn’t allow. Wordlessly she holds up a long scrap of familiar fabric as explanation.

Whatever Cadence had planned on saying, it catches on his tongue to be swallowed back down. Something makes his face turn away with a crinkle in his nose.

“No offense Taylor, but you smell like mold on vellum.”

“Huh?” Cal sniffs the air and comes to a similar conclusion. “Reminds me of the shed Kristof keeps his pelts in — like… dust and mothballs.”

“Uh…” what the hell does somebody say to that, “I’m sorry?”

“Just thought you ought to know.”

“Actually — speakin’ of all that research you do, Smith,” everyone looks at Nik like he’s grown a second head, but no one can match Cadence’s bewilderment; since that has less than nothing to do with the attack that’s left them reeling.

“What about it?”

“Any chance you know if the Saint Louis has still got that, uh, preservation sigil still in the stones?”

“Sure. That whole block of Chartres does.”

Katherine’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Ryder, what are you thinking?” But he ignores her carelessly.

“Includin’ your office?”

“Yes but — Oh.” Epiphany crosses his face and makes his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose.

And though it may be just as annoying to be on the outs of something Nik, Cadence, and even Katherine with her slow nod of understanding seem to know that the rest don’t — there’s a comfort to it. Like they’re all back in the Shift shotgunning ideas on a chalkboard and not scrambling for a place to hide.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” the way Katherine says it though — it’s like a self-directed insult, “why didn’t I think of that?”

“Think we’ll all fit?” asks Nik.

Cadence gives everyone a calculating look, seemingly taking measurements. “I don’t see why not, so long as you don’t mind a bit of clutter.”

Kathy doesn’t even bother covering her snort, the derisive “Ha!” that earns her something like the vampire version of a pout. She remains unfazed. “That’s putting it a little more than lightly…”

“It’s not that bad. You’re making me out to be a hoarder.”

“Let’s just hope no one’s claustrophobic.”

“Kathy!”

Admittedly Taylor doesn’t know a lot about vampires besides the basics; immortal, super fast, super strong, blood-is-life. But there’s more, isn’t there? There has to be.

For example — werewolves are pack animals. He can guess that vampires are less so. So what fills the void?

Because from what he’s seeing before him… they’re nesting creatures.

This is a nest, right? Please someone say this is a nest, that this is normal behavior. That somewhere else in the city Isadora de la Rosa is just chilling in a giant pile of stuff like some sultry dragoness and Cadence is just following some sort of undead instinct.

Otherwise this guy needs help. Like — Hoarders-level help.

Ryder’s reaction does nothing to ease his discomfort; giving an impressed nod as his eyes sweep the room; the piles… and piles… and piles…

“You’ve cleaned up,” he moves an old filing box with little ceremony to rustle himself up a place to sit; apparently its every butt for itself here, “and is that two walls I can see?”

There are two seats not actively serving as storage and Katherine beelines for it. Cal gets there first with some semblance of victory — though it’s short-lived.

“You’re in my spot.”

“Grow up. First come first serve.”

She repeats herself in an actual growl. “You’re in my spot, Lowell.”

Arms crossed over his chest, he snorts a derisive “I don’t see your name on it,” only to fumble for purchase when she grabs the chair-back with both hands and spins it around.

Her name actually is written on the back. And in very large, blocky permanent marker.

She doesn’t need to tell him a third time. Settles in like it didn’t even happen. Out of everyone gathered, Cadence included, she’s the only one who looks like she really belongs.

“Three guesses why that is.” She says to Nik. It doesn’t take the man long to connect the dots.

“I’d’ve given some money to catch a glimpse of spit-shined Raines in this disaster.”

“Enough!” The vampire groans; finishes clearing up the last of what appears to be an outdoor patio table for the rest of them to prop against. “Unless by some miracle my—admittedly disorganized—attempt at scouring centuries’ worth of documentation in my so-far fruitless pursuit of an identity is the key to vanquishing the threat at hand.

“If so then by all means, continue on!”

It doesn’t help that the awkward silence is broken only when a towering stack of loose papers slides passed the tipping point and collapses somewhere unseen.

“Fuck.”

He accepts his defeat and takes up the chair beside Kathy with a surprising amount of dignity.

But his tirade served more than just a single purpose. It reminds Taylor of why they had to find somewhere to regroup, why it had been necessary in the first place.

You already know how, The Fate had said. And with a surety that had blurred the boundaries of whatever reality they had been in while talking outside of time and space.

Cadence’s mess isn’t the answer.

But someone not-Taylor in the room just might be.

“Vera…”

You already know. And the first thing he sees when he comes back to himself is Vera crying on the curb. That’s not a coincidence. In fact he feels a sharp, almost icy clarity when his train of thought switches tracks.

When he remembers the last time she cried and knows — just knows — that everything going forward isn’t random chance. It’s all meant to be.

Wordlessly they clasp hands. If before they were only doing this together and for Kristin, the same can’t be said now.

Taylor begins with a soft “I’m sorry,” because what he’s going to ask her is hard but there’s no way around it; he tries to be kind because she deserves that much at the very least, “but I’m gonna need you to tell me… tell us, I guess… what exactly you meant when you said you, uh, recognized the bloodwraith.”

Where’s a falling stack of papers when you need one?

Directly following another attack isn’t the best time to ask something that heavy. Everyone’s thinking it, but either lacks the guts or has enough brains not to speak it aloud.

The longer they wait the less time they have. If their minutes in the hourglass aren’t borrowed already.

Taylor can’t imagine the amount of courage it takes for her to share. She’d already been one sneeze away from “no no never mind, I don’t wanna bother you with it, let it go please; for me” back in the apartment. He recalls a brief flash of relief when they were interrupted. Though that didn’t last long given the news.

He’s there, you know, if she wants a hand to hold. Hesitates that hand over her shoulder as he watches the woman close in on herself… and lets it fall.

By the time she’s ready Cadence has ducked out and returns with a tray of water glasses and steaming mugs of fragrant teas. Three sleeves of soda crackers once abandoned are now their equivalent of a replenishing snack after a long journey.

All of it a little too mundane for the conversation at hand.

Vera gives herself a few shaky breaths — and begins.

“You ever been to one’a those big family reunions; the kind where you don’t know more than half’a the people showin’ up but it’s a birthday or a funeral or the like and you don’t really have a say in the matter?”

Literal crickets.

Even when she looks at Cal for backup he shakes his head and offers a shrug as an apology. “The Pack may be big but we’re tight. It’s impossible not to know someone, even if it ain’t a face but a scent.”

“But we can imagine.” Katherine makes a ‘continue’ gesture without bothering to mask the haste. “Keep going.”

Vera does.

“You’re wrong there, Kathy. No’ne who ain’t born a Reimonenq can really get what happens when you get more than a dozen’a us in the same room. All with the same blood in our veins but any opportunity to marry out the family, to change the name with somethin’ more bindin’ than just a court order — they take it.

“Last one I went to was ma Mémé’s funeral. Nawlins funerals, you know how they are —” only this time Taylor’s the sole sore thumb but no one stops to explain, “— and since she ran the Reimonenq Clan everyone who once carried the name or could have done was bound by duty to attend.”

Wistful memory clouds her eyes for a long moment. Whatever memory it is can’t be a happy one, not by the tick in her brow. “Met my uncle for the first time there. I didn’ even know Momma had any siblings — and here come up walkin’ two. They could’a been any random strangers on the street but they were huggin’ me and tellin’ me about seein’ me as a baby and…”

Katherine makes a not-so-subtle noise and shifts in her chair until it squeaks loud enough for Cal to flinch. It’s her chair, bears her name. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Before she can say anything Cadence tactfully intervenes.

“So sorry about that; the chair drowned Kathy out. I could be wrong — but I think she was about to ask the relevance of this story and the wraith.”

Vera nods with a startling lack of apology. “If I could skirt around it I would. But every way I’ve thought about… about how I felt when I looked it in the eyes? This is the only way I can make it make sense.”

“It’s okay Vee,” says Taylor, “say what you have to.” And if he doesn’t mind her taking her time because it gets him a better chance of reading her inside, of understanding not just the words on her lips but the ones on her soul, he definitely isn’t going to mention it.

“I could see that they were my blood. Hell they were the spittin’ image of Ton—of Momma before she took over ma Mémé’s operations. The shady… smoky kind. But I didn’t know ‘em. I was five weeks away from my move to New York—I didn’t want to know ‘em.”

“Did they have the…?” She looks at Ryder sharply, watches him mime his hands without rhyme or reason. Her nostrils flare in anger.

“No. Turns out the Reimonenq Curse is a picky lit’le thing; picks the first born — or the only born, in my case. I got why she didn’t keep in contact when I found that out.

“I didn’ know why it bugged me s’a much until later. ‘Cause I just couldn’t give rhyme or reason to how I could see so much’a myself in stranger’s eyes.”

A hush falls over the group. Within it — an understanding. No longer with the need to ask Vera to tie her story together because she’s actually a lot more intuitive than even Taylor previously gave her credit for.

And now those tears of hers — always justified, always — they’re more than that. They’re understood.

Vera had looked into the eyes of the bloodwraith. What she had seen was far worse than simple familiarity.

She’d seen a part of herself in the rotting void of its skull. Recognized something hereditary in scraps of rotting flesh stuck in the gaps between its mouthful of fanged teeth.

And she’s still fucking standing, she’s still sane?

Not that there was any competition but Vera Reimonenq was definitely just crowned the strongest of them all in a landslide victory.

She gives them each individual looks. As if daring any of them to try and play Devil’s advocate. But why would they? You don’t fake something that soul-crushingly awful.

“There’s more.”

Cal kicks back on the floor with a groan. “Any chance there isn’t?” He’s the only one who could get away with it though.

“I wish that were the case. I’d been tryin’ to find the right time to bring it up — turns out it just needed to be brought up for me.”

I’m sorry, says way Taylor pulls her in for a one-armed hug.

It ain’t your fault, replies the last weary quirk of her lips.

“I ain’t the only one.”

“Tonya,” supplies Cadence, and Vera’s wobbling bottom lip breaks all their hearts in unison.

“Yeah—Yeah Momma she… she felt it too. I could see it in her eyes. She won’t spare it a thought but I don’ believe in coincidences anymore. She an’ I both feelin’ the way we did, then that thing’s touch takin’ away her Curse —”

“Mary Mother of Christ!”

The vampire stands so fast his chair goes flying into a stack of boxes — lucky for them all whatever contents are heavy enough to stay standing.

At first Katherine looks worried beside him, though it dulls quickly into exasperation. “Folks and faes I give you the Drama King…”

“Not the bloody time.” The look in those ruby eyes is almost manic — just like they had been when Cade had tried infodumping on them at the Shift. Only this might be slightly more relevant — hopefully.

“Care to share?” Cal drawls.

Cadence pays him no mind; focuses only on Vera and gets her attention in turn. There’s almost anticipation in the way he whispers, “You figured it out, didn’t you?”

“Well I wasn’t sure — not until now. You knew him?”

“I had the misfortune.”

“And you were… around when the Coven retaliated.”

“Like I said,” he wipes the lenses of his glasses with such convenient timing he could only be avoiding meeting her eyes, “I had the misfortune.”

It isn’t long after that they realize no one else is even close to catching up to them. A silent back and forth emerges Cadence as the lucky soul burdened with explanation.

“We’ve been so focused on the what of the bloodwraith,” there’s no possible way he knows what stack to dig through, it has to be a diversion to remove himself from the heart of the matter; doesn’t stop him from nudging Nik aside and rifling through an open filing cabinet, “what it is, what it seeks, what it can do.”

Nik grumbles at Taylor’s side. “And that ain’t important?”

“No no — it is. But it… it gave us tunnel vision. Made us docile; we stopped asking questions. Aha —”

Cadence pries free a packet; the contents of which Taylor can’t see even if he squints.

But the text must not matter because he focuses instead on a carefully cut newspaper article attached to the front. The same old paper as his news spread on the war — ink the same faded black.

He can barely look at it, though. Offers it to Kathy’s awaiting hand. “The fire was too great not to make the paper. Carlo personally ensured the cause of the blaze was covered up but no one could keep the deaths quiet. The city only knew three young women perished — not that they were the Garden Coven’s newest blooded witches. And because that fact needed to be concealed at all costs… there were no consequences for him to face.”

“For who to face?” Taylor’s afraid to ask but someone’s gotta do it.

Vera’s voice cracks when she answers.

“My ancestor — Derek Reimonenq. The Bloody Hand.”

“And the tortured soul the Coven used to bind the bloodwraith to this world.”

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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

Text

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 16: What Fools These Mortals Be!

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

In which everything changes incrementally; giving the illusion that nothing has changed at all.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Whatever arguments may have started to divide them earlier — the Coven Elders have been accused together and they wear that accusation like a badge of honor.

Taylor sees it now; understands. The blood at their feet serves not to drown them but to unite them in their act. In the pride it gives them.

“It all makes sense,” Katherine says low, almost breathlessly, “you ignored the Council because you’re the ones trying to destroy it. Of course there’s no threat to the Coven… the Coven is the threat.”

The presence of the beast ripples underneath Cal’s human skin. He bares his teeth as fangs, flexes nails that threaten to grow in size and strength.

“You’re worse than cowards — you’re murderers.”

The Elders don’t just take the accusations; its like they thrive on them. On the answer finally revealed; spoken to the air and given power because once heard it can’t be taken back.

But there’s a difference between pride and guilt. The proud own up to their actions. The guilty simply know when to stop feigning innocence.

And Katherine isn’t entirely right. It doesn’t all make sense; rather there are so many things that don’t make sense that they, too, start to pile down on the weight Taylor already feels on the verge of collapsing underneath.

They can pick at the details later. As far as he’s concerned nothing has changed except that leaving was just made so much harder.

“Nothing to say in your defense?!” Cal’s words threaten to slur together in a long growl. He’s just over the edge of the turning point; holding the wolf within back with the lightest grasp.

Unfortunately… its enough.

Enough to draw a sneer from Elder Daniels; to make them—quite literally—force their hand.

“Silence the mutt.”

Vion spreads his crooked fingers wide. The pressure of his magic makes Taylor’s ears ring; keeps him standing by helplessly and in pain as all around them the pots and their lilies begin to shake with new purpose.

CRACK.

The roots are larger than they should be; black and rotting yet strong enough to burst through the solid pots at their master’s command. They race outward and ensnare Cal like living rope. Smear soil over his flesh as they coil tight and bind him — bind the wolf within.

There’s no hesitation as Katherine draws her nearest blade — skidding to her knees as she grasps the nearest root and tries in vain to sever the connection.

As if it would be that simple.

And all this is happening with Nik still at his side — refusing to let him fall.

Go help Cal, help Kathy, do something more than hold me up; Taylor wants to say. Would, too, if he didn’t see the burning fury barely restrained on Nik’s expression.

“WHY?!” he demands; shouts because he knows what happened the last time he pissed them off and he’s a man with a death wish; happy to do it again.

Elder Millet seems almost offended that he need ask. “As if the powerless could even hope to understand. Tiny, fragile minds corrupted with the Here and Now — unable to see what is to come; what it will cost us.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“Because you do not have the capacity to understand!”

Taylor breathes in through his nose, hard and burning. Fights down the continued waves of aberration that chip away at him like a chisel to stone to look Millet dead in the eye.

“What… do you think you saw…?”

She looks back unashamed. “An Evil the likes of which the world has never seen. Spreading a hand across the horizon and laying waste to all that falls within its shadow.”

“The bloodwraith.”

“No—insolent, ignorant halfling…” she snarls back, “the wraith was the cure to the disease. The lesser of the two Evils, but the only one allowed to come to pass.”

It is an answer, but that’s the only thing. It isn’t a reason, or a justification. Not to anyone but them.

“And this—this Evil—you’re trying to tell us the Council had something to do with starting it?” Nik takes the full weight of him, now.

Before Millet can speak Daniels raises a hand to stop her. Doesn’t deem them worth the explanation. “You are incapable of understanding.”

“Try me, witch.”

In Taylor’s eyes she’s wading through a lake of blood as she approaches. Leaves not one but hundreds of red-stained and smearing footprints in the wake of each step.

Instinct drives Nik to try and pull himself, Taylor back to some semblance of safety but instinct is no match for magic. It keeps them frozen in place; caught mid-turn. The tension of an agonizing step trapped within his muscles and threatening to tear his physical form in pieces when it snaps.

Daniels reaches for them — “Don’t touch me—back off!” growls the Nighthunter; but it’s futile — and shows a gentleness so uncharacteristic to what they’ve seen so far from her that it renews his nausea in the way she strokes Ryder’s chin.

“There is no such thing as unity under many. The divisions were clear… and the future all but made destiny. There was but one chance. One choice to be made in the hopes that this community — our city beloved — would not be swept up in the chaos.

“Only under the Coven, and the Coven alone, does New Orleans stand a chance of surviving the flood to come.”

Behind her the other Elders share the same resolution, the same acceptance of a still unspoken fate. Vion’s aged hand trembles with the strain of his magic but his voice is clear and strong.

“Come Hell and high waters.”

“Come Hell and high waters,” Millet parrots; and she need only hold out her open palm for the Wheel of Fortune to glide back to the safety of a completed deck.

With her jaw set Daniels completes the mantra; “Come Hell and high waters.”

No, not a mantra. A prophecy — a promise.

Whatever they have seen as a collective — they demand the rest of New Orleans accept that the evils they have wrought are the better alternative. What the actual fuck.

“But why him?”

He isn’t the only one caught by surprise. The way Nik’s fingertips dig into his shoulders; hold him tight in the face of whatever is to come now that they’re privy to the Big Bad Plan — he feels undeserving of it.

“An unfortunate circumstance to be sure,” though the way Daniels’ upper lip curls while looking him over Taylor feels less unfortunate and more meddlesome, like a smudge of dirt on her expensive shoes, “one that could have hindered us under the right conditions… especially when you were brought onto the board.

“But fear is a powerful thing, Nighthunter. The fear of the unknown — and the fear of being known.”

Millet shuffles her deck idly. “Inconsequential in the end.”

There was a time Taylor would have been relieved to hear of how inconsequential he was to all of this. Especially in the early days — when it seemed like his name had somehow ended up on the bloodwraith’s hit list by mistake.

Now it only leaves him feeling helpless. Mortal.

But when did that become not a good thing?

Each breath Taylor manages is shallower than the last. There’s not enough oxygen getting to his brain — not enough in the room to share. He’d give it all to Cal to keep him alive if he could. Can he?

He wants to ask Elder Daniels… but his tongue appears to be swollen too large for his throat.

The now-familiar figure of The Fate hovers over her shoulder. So close that if it was really there no doubt the witch would feel their breath wet on the nape of her neck.

The Fate closes their eyes. Bows their head of short—long—curly—straight—no hair down in mourning.

Nik tries to get Taylor to just take his coat for a fourth time — even has the right arm out of the sleeve which is farther than he’d gotten on previous attempts — but he continues to refuse it.

Maybe before attempt number five he’ll understand it isn’t the coat that he’s trying to crawl inside of. But the safety of something—someone—as solid as his bodyguard.

The base of Cal’s tumbler meets the bartop so hard he’s surprised nothing breaks.

“Another.”

Garrus already has the whiskey in hand but hesitates. He’s a good person like that. There are still a few good people left in the world.

“Maybe you should let what you’ve got settle first, my friend.”

The werewolf’s grip tightens on his glass. His skin is flushed red, knuckles pale. But he could be covered in Mardi Gras-themed body paint and the bruises from Elder Vion’s spell would still shine through.

“Another.” And Garrus pours — because good people just want to help.

At her back booth Ivy slams another dusty tome closed — another dead end and another very un-Ivy like hiss of rage pushing out of her like a monster’s cry.

She’s checked them over for bogies, hexes, and curses over and over again. Nothing to be found, yet every time she thinks of a new spell there she is attempting it at their backs.

As she’s whispered under her breath over a dozen times now she just can’t understand why the Elders had let them go. They let her continue because they can’t understand it either, and if anyone has a good chance of figuring it out its her.

But yeah — it’s starting to get a little annoying.

They walked out of 937 Prytania Street four hours ago. The last three hours have been the most trying of Taylor’s life.

Every time he thinks he wants a drink, wants to numb the pain the way he’s most familiar with and is very very good at, he moves just a little bit closer to Nik. They’re practically on the same stool.

What happens now?

His body answers because his head is still recovering. Pulls him up from where he sits — grip lingering on a leather cuff — before he pulls away entirely.

“I’m gonna…” Only he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence — where his feet will carry him is just as much a surprise to him as the rest of them.

He’s on the apartment landing by the time Nik catches up.

“Taylor — hold up a sec, will ya?”

He does the bare minimum in not opening the door. Now that he’s gotten some distance, though, its like his body is switching to autopilot. Finds he can’t look Nik in the face, or say anything beyond a grunt of affirmation.

Nik leans against the wall, ducks and weaves his head in an obvious attempt to catch Taylor’s eye that he doesn’t humor because he can’t. “I know you’re prob’ly still mad at me about — about the hospital. And you’ve got the right idea ‘bout restin’ up before we start plannin’ our next move, but maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Maybe I should stay with you is his unspoken offer. And he knows just how much courage he had to muster up to offer — to try and open up rather than hide away in his flask like he so desperately wants to.

Only Taylor doesn’t understand why he knows that. Why he’s suddenly in Nik’s head in the same way he was in Elder Daniels’ head, the same way he was in all the Elders’ heads.

The only reason he wishes he knew is so he could turn it off.

Taylor squeezes the doorknob and uses up the last of his mental and physical strength to keep from sobbing — because he swears the metal starts to yield under his touch.

“I’m not resting, but your choice.”

Leaving the door open behind him isn’t an invitation for Nik to join him but its not a rejection either. He doesn’t have to check if the man has followed behind.

“Maybe you should, though.”

“Where was that attitude when all this started?”

“Damn, Rook. The same place that lip was hidin’ I bet.”

“This isn’t something I can just sleep off. It —” he falters, doesn’t know how to go on, “— it doesn’t matter.” It doesn’t.

Inconsequential, remember?

And he almost makes it. Almost manages to have enough of a chip on his shoulder that Nik actually turns back towards the stairs.

Taylor’s starting to feel bad about hurting him. But if Kristin, Vera, Cal were any indication — Nik was just on a long but inevitable list.

He only almost makes it because Nik is, under all his armor, a decent man. Because he turns back ready to offer one final parting statement of comfort and sees Taylor take out his frustration on his phone charger. The way he rips it out of the wall so hard it lashes in a way his tongue can’t at the moment; shoves it in his front pocket like he hopes it breaks.

“You goin’ somewhere?”

He stands in the doorway; as immovable and solid as the door but somehow more. Arms crossed over his chest and its like a throwback to the Nik Ryder he met the other night. Like nothing of importance has happened in the spaces in between. Nothing important has happened, he supposes, nothing that really makes a difference — that can change the inevitable.

No fucking wonder the Coven Elders let them go. They aren’t a threat; not to the bloodwraith — proven twice over by now, and not to the Elders themselves. All that’s left now is to wait for it to come and take him the same way it took Carlo and Denna.

“Is that what’s botherin’ you,” Nik asks, though Taylor had no idea he’d been speaking aloud, “you think I’d let that thing anywhere near you?”

Then that’s it — they’re gonna do this and there’s no avoiding it. Fine. Makes Taylor pivot on his heel and it must have been a subconscious act on his part to avoid looking at Nik full-force because even facing him it feels like he’s collided face-first into a cement wall of Ryder-related emotions. None of them his but… that doesn’t matter.

The emotions don’t need to be his to be felt by him.

“What’s the point in pretending anymore, Nik?”

“Who’s pretending anythin’?”

“You! Standing there pretending that there’s still a chance. That—that this isn’t over; that they haven’t already won.” Wow does it feel good to say that out loud.

Across from him Nik looks stunned. He’d make a snapped comment about dropping whatever act of innocence he thinks he can manage but no — no Taylor can feel it. It’s not an act.

Some part of cynical asshole Nik Ryder thinks they still have a snowball’s chance in hell of weathering this storm.

“Rook… what’s gotten into you?”

“Stop.”

“Seriously — this doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Oh yeah, and how the fuck would you know?” The door is open and the Shift is empty save their friends and he’s shouting and he really couldn’t give less of a fuck because its like wave after wave of soothing relief washing over him. Leaves his voice hoarse, cracking in his throat but compared to all the other types of pain he’s been in recently its a cakewalk.

“Seriously, Ryder, how the fuck would you know what I’m like? Because to my knowledge you’ve only known me for—what—five days? Hell probably four when you take into account the fact I’ve blacked out cold twice. At least back when I was drinking I was having fun up until the unconsciousness thing.

“Oh and, you know, since I apparently need to make it very clear to you; none of this has been fucking fun.”

Taylor hates him. Hates his cool messy hair and his little scars that show how worldly he is; how much he knows about the real real world. And right now more than anything he hates how the man’s remaining so fucking calm.

“Is that right?” is Nik’s snarky reply — and he hates that too, “well you must be the only one not enjoyin’ it, since I know for a fact Lowell down there’s real-damn-eager to have a repeat performance.”

Taylor recoils because it stings. Words sting; that’s why they have power. But the memory of Cal bound… that brief instant when Daniels raised her hand and he thought strangled gasps would be the last thing he’d ever hear from the man…

It makes him shake in rage, in fear, in grief.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I said stop it.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Rook,” any other time it would be interesting, even fascinating to witness the way he sees the energy and intent build up in the man’s legs—sees in his mind’s eye like a reality folded over the one they’re standing in a different Nik take those steps forward and embrace a different Taylor who breaks down in his arms — any other time, “I’m only followin’ your lead.”

He shakes his head until it hurts. “You’re mocking me — riling me up. Stop it!”

“And how would I know how to do that, huh? How would I know which of your fuckin’ hundred-thousand complicated buttons to push to get you all riled up? ‘Cause you’re right — I am. Seems to me the only way I can get you to feel anything at all is by forcing you!”

“Oh my god—” but try as he might there really isn’t anything left in him to hold back the hurricane; the first tears starting to fall down his cheeks, “— you—fuck you, Nik. You’re the one who did this to me! Got me involved in all this shit and made me realize my whole life’s a fucking lie and—and changed me somehow so now all I do is feel!

“I can’t stop feeling, Nik, I can’t… I can’t stop… I can’t feel I — can’t stop…”

There’s that same building tension — only this time it’s solid; it’s real. It’s Taylor’s knees aching on the apartment floor and his body shaking so hard he’s actually medically worried about himself but Nik is there. Holding him — keeping him as still as he can in an embrace warmer than it should be and tighter than it should be and needed more than it should be.

“EE—Ever since Lamrian,” he struggles for air; is drowning in his tears, “ever since Elric—h-he did something to me. I felt it. Felt—felt him. What he was feeling. Knew what he knew and s-saw things from… from before I was even born like? That’s impossible.”

“No, actually it’s not.”

“I —”

“There’s this thing among fae folk; Living Memory. You heard ‘em mention it a few times,” he’s silent — takes Taylor longer than he’d admit to realize he’s waiting for acknowledgment and only continues when he gets it, “and it kinda is what it sounds like. They’re heavy spiritual beings, the fae. I guess they can literally put a piece of their soul in important memories so they’re never forgotten. I guess you could call it bookmarking them for later.”

“But —”

“Lemme finish.”

“I — yeah.”

Nik’s nod is approving. “You’ve always been able to see through glamours—we know that. But I’m guessin’ you weren’t runnin’ around the backyard throwin’ grimfire at your friends for tag.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Sure is — but it means you got that nifty little trick from when Elric helped you at the Beau-Keyes. If just bein’ near your own kind gave you that kinda power then it makes sense if you think about it. Lamrian’s a piece of the fae realm in ours. Living Memory is a shared fae soul. Honestly I was wonderin’ what kinda wacky mojo you’d end up chucking out.

“I’ll admit, though — I was really hopin’ it would be something to help us out when shit went down with the Coven.”

That’s all it takes — one little thing to fucking ruin it. To make him try to wrangle his way out of Nik’s arms, to try and hit him because who the fuck says something like that? If he could have done something doesn’t Nik think he would have?

“Fuck—fuck you, fuck y—”

But Nik’s a vice. Or a particularly stubborn stain. He’s got his claws in and won’t be letting go any time soon. “Hey — stop. You know what I meant.”

“There was just… there was so much blood, Nik.” When he closes his eyes the world is red with eyes of gold. “So much blood.”

Its enough for the man to pry them apart just enough — Taylor never thought he’d miss that stern businesslike twitch in his scarred brow but there’s a first time for everything.

Especially this week.

“Tell me what you saw.”

He spares most of the details — who he’s sparing though is a debate for another day. But it’s harder than he thought it would be — not describing the blood, that… that’s worryingly simple.

There are things he remembers that he doesn’t know he remembers until he speaks them aloud. In giving them a name, a description — it feels like he’s willing them into existence. The shadows that were once formless cloaks around the Elders’ bodies now taking on the shape of the bloodwraith, of many; scattered between them lurking like movement in a mirror out of the corner of the eye.

And fuck all if he knows just how he comes to this particular conclusion, but Taylor finds himself developing sympathy for the blighted beast.

“None of the Elders summoned it,” he says, and makes it true by doing so, “none of them hold its leash. They control where it goes and who it attacks, but there’s, like, a middle man or something.

“If it was set free the Elders would be the first ones to die. I’m… I’m certain of it.”

“I don’t doubt you Rook, not for a second.”

“But…” He looks up — doesn’t remember at what point they found themselves leaning under the kitchenette counter like it’s a lean-to on a deserted island but its low on the list of immediate concerns — and forgets words for a moment as he watches the cool calculation of the Nighthunter soften in… in Nik’s very being.

He would like to note that his previous outburst, while fueled by irrational rage at the unknown, is still completely valid. He knows next to nothing about Nik Ryder and apparent secret fae-slash-elven heritage aside Nik Ryder knows next to nothing about him.

And you totally need to know more than jack shit about someone to fall head-over-heels for them, right?

Right?

“Don’t leave me hangin’ now.” He teases down at Taylor.

Taylor who kinda-sorta falls in love with the genuine crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Too bad, though. Because if this were a movie or story like he’s been pretending then that love might be enough to save the day.

Too bad because it isn’t, and it won’t be.

“But nothing’s changed. We can’t stop the wraith or the Elders. One way or another it’ll come for me and it’ll kill me.”

Nik grabs his chin between two fingers. Rasps a very serious, very final “Over my dead body,” and ensures he has the last word with a kiss Taylor can now quite literally feel in his soul.

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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

Text

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 15: The House on Prytania Street

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

The gang heads to Prytania Street to meet with the last power left untouched in New Orleans; the Garden District Coven. Taylor starts to experience the side effects of being a fae halfling.

[READ IT ON AO3]

The sun’s heat is blistering on the back of his neck.

It feels unnatural in a way; conducting their business with the darker side of the world in the daylight. They’ve been running between the worlds that exist between sunset and sunrise for so long that he almost forgot what the sun even looks like.

He likes looking at the moon. But looking at the sun? Ouch.

Still it feels strange not to have Cadence’s towering presence hovering somewhere at his back. Looking over at Katherine — he can’t imagine what it must feel like to her.

“Hey — nope, eyes here.”

Taylor winces at the backhand to his arm but Ryder definitely isn’t in the mood. He’s been tense ever since they left the hospital with a time and place to address the Garden Coven. Like he didn’t know that was the plan, or something.

“I’m listening,” promises Taylor. But listening for Nik at that very moment requires eyes as well as ears.

“Really? Then what’d I just say?”

He blames his hesitation on the fact its taking forever for the coffee to hit his nervous system. Looks to Cal beside him for some kind of help but the werewolf gives him a look of you’re on your own.

“Uh —”

“Right, thought so.”

“I get the gist, Nik. Don’t be rude, don’t make eye contact, probably best just not to open my mouth.”

Cal snorts. “Actually that’s scarily close to verbatim.”

“Did I ask you?” snarks Ryder, but the bait remains abandoned in the cracks on the sidewalk.

The Upper Garden District is like most wealthy neighborhoods; nice to look at for a time but not much for entertainment value without a place to actually go. And sure Taylor has entertained the thought of owning one of the many million-dollar mansions lined with black iron gates and enough bedrooms to sleep in a different one every night for a week or more.

But its like the streets know. They know what Taylor and the rest have seen — what some of them have done. They know what creature hunts them and close their entrances off with hanging willow branches and high brick walls.

Claiming innocence, refusing to be witnesses like covering their eyes in cupped palms absolves them of the duty placed upon survivors to recount tragedy when it is over.

Because they might be the only ones left to do so.

Taylor drags his fingertips along the winding bars of an iron gate. Wonders if the prickling he feels under his touch is static, his imagination, or something more.

Nothing about 937 Prytania Street sets it apart from the houses on either side of it, or across the street for that matter. If Katherine hadn’t stopped in front of it he might not have even guessed it was their final destination.

Wasn’t a witches’ home supposed to be covered in sigils or guarded by spirits from another world? At least adhere to the aesthetic, people.

Thank god, though, he’s not the only one underwhelmed by the obviously-new shiny coat of eggshell-white or the lack of shutters creaking in the mid- morning breeze.

“You sure this is the place, Kathy?” asks Cal with his head slightly raised, nostrils flared to try and pick up whatever scent witches carry. “It smells pretty ordinary.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses the buzzer and waits patiently for the gate to open.

It does and without so much as an ominous creak.

Maybe its his paranoia kicking in but with every step they take towards the house the feeling of unease in Taylor’s stomach grows, and grows, until it sloshes around — doesn’t sit well with his coffee. Everything his eyes take in seems too normal. A lawn too well-manicured, a set of metal golden numbers too polished. Makes him want to grab a fistful of soil from a too vibrant pot of Easter lilies and throw it somewhere, anywhere to make the place a little less picturesque.

Lamrian was beautiful in its perfection.

The House on Prytania Street is perfect the way a staged corpse is perfect.

A stiff gentleman in a three-piece suit opens the door before Katherine can use the knocker. Looks the four of them over with a condescending air about him and there’s a half-second where it looks like he’s ready to close the door in their faces on principle.

He doesn’t, instead steps aside.

The problem with most of the houses in the area is that, beauty aside, most of them stand empty. Not on the material front — they are always filled with collections of things and with more places to sit than is realistically necessary. But whether its the shitty housing market or the fact that they’re just owned like another piece of a collection, rarely are they lived-in.

The Garden Coven house is no different.

While the Suit leads them to a parlor off the right of the house Taylor tries his best to try and find some evidence of life being lived; on the walls, the carpet, even in smudges in the dust that lines various and seemingly unrelated objects on display.

There are none. Not one single fingerprint.

Though the Suit gestures to a matching array of chaise lounges and high-backed chairs for them to wait in, they stay standing because Katherine stays standing.

“You will be collected shortly,” is all the Suit says before returning the way they had come; though this time he pulls the double doors closed behind him. Leaves them all feeling trapped despite the open windows and sunlight pouring through.

“Random question here,” Taylor breaks the silence because it might actually drive him up the wall, “but do we have a plan for if this goes badly?”

He looks to Ryder, who looks at Katherine, who has suddenly taken up an interest in the antique carpet underfoot.

Of course they don’t have a plan. Why would they have a plan for their last resort? The same wonder team that practically broke into Persephone without so much as an escape route on the brain.

Historically things have worked out in their favor, though. Is it wrong of him to hope this time, too, might not be so terrible?

The glowing yellow eyes that bore into his soul from across the room say yes, yes it is wrong of him. Say how dare he imagine that things might not turn out so bad. They blame him for bringing hellfire and brimstone down on this house, on this city.

“— ly shit, Taylor. You okay?”

Its like an out-of-body experience in reverse. Feeling too deep and too trapped within himself to answer the concern on Ryder’s face. Like he’s drowning inside his own mind — or inside someone else’s.

Nothing about her is stable — pinpointing what she looks like beyond the startling gaze with which she holds him captive is about as easy as finding a single raindrop in a stormy sea.

One moment there are wrinkles around her eyes. Lines at her mouth pursed with thin lips in a frown of disappointment. Then youthful candor in aching regret. Grey hair healthy and full then withered, curling like the rumors that hair and nails continue to grow long after you’re buried in the ground.

He doesn’t realize it until the tear burn at his eyes and make him choke, but he’s crying.

“Taylor — Taylor!”

It’s back-breaking to pull away from the vortex he’s been ensnared in. Both the sun and moon in each of her eyes. Glassy and knowing at the same time.

But he blinks. Feels those same tears run down his cheeks and tickle his chin. Looks at the concerned faces of his friends with utter confusion because how in the world could they be staring at him when he’s facing judgment at the metaphorical pearly gates, here?

Even he’s aware of how foolish he sounds when all he can let out is a dumb “What?”

Nik takes him by the shoulders; looks him up and down for any signs of physical harm like it all isn’t in his head. Remains the most tried and true validation of his experiences to this day.

“You — what the hell happened to you?”

Taylor looks to Cal’s frown of concern, to Katherine’s violet curls like whips lashing around her face as she tries to pinpoint what, where.

“You look like you jus’ saw a damn ghost,” Cal sees the confusion in his eyes and thinks he’s helping. He isn’t.

So he cranes his neck back, away from Nik, to the point where it feels like he might snap his own spine.

She’s still there — in the doorway to a shadowy corridor. Both young and old and there and not. Then she isn’t her at all and the elderly man standing in her place reminds him of his grandfather a bit — which does nothing but unsettle him further.

“You… you don’t see her — hi— it?”

No, of course they don’t. Why would they?

He’s used to this — defaults into the old habit of trying to pretend the thing he’s looking at doesn’t exist. Already with denial on the tip of his tongue burning like a sour candy left forgotten.

But this was supposed to have stopped. No more headaches, no more hallucinations. The things he’s seen and accepted… so why is this different? Why now of all the rotten times is he seeing something no one else can?

Sure Nik tries; Cal too. They look in the doorway where the figure hovers like a bad trip on acid. They try, but they don’t see.

“Rook,” — is this where he pulls a Hermione, tells Taylor that seeing things no one else can see isn’t normal even in their freaky lives? — “there’s no one there.”

Only he doesn’t sound his usual level of confidence. Sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself right alongside.

Katherine scoffs under her breath; shakes her head and sits because there’s nothing else to do with her arms folded so tightly across her chest its undeniably a measure of self-comfort. Of keeping herself grounded.

When Cal tries to sniff the air his nose crinkles. “There’s too many different scents. Ritual burnings, smudges — I can’t get a read on shit.”

“I swear,” mutters Nik so low Taylor wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t as close as he is, “if these bastards are messin’ with you —”

For a guy who spent the entire journey warning against this exact type of frustration, anger, Taylor’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter if the Coven — wherever they may be — can’t hear him.

“Stop, it’s fine.”

“It ain’t —”

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“Like I give a damn?!”

“Lower your voice!”

“A-hem.”

At some point the Suit had returned without their notice. Taylor would like to hope it was after his little freak-out but, time to face facts; he’s just not that lucky.

The way he looks them over — he might very well have some sort of magic-witchy x-ray vision. How the fuck someone can have a gaze that feels something like being scored at the top of his head and having his very being pulled back layer by layer is a mystery and, unlike the others, its one Taylor has no desire to solve.

“The Garden Elders will see you now.”

He wants to ask for a second to catch his breath; regain his composure. But why ask for it when he already knows the answer he’ll get?

Like before Suit doesn’t wait for them to speak an agreement. Just turns and begins walking deeper into the old house with purpose. Cal follows close behind — for all his bravado there’s unmistakable gooseflesh riddling his forearms.

Taylor reaches out to Katherine without a second thought; offering like he can help her up when they both know she could very well launch him over the chair and out the window like a rag doll.

Just another thing to distract him from the unrelenting stare digging knives into his back, probably.

Only Katherine takes his hand; surprises them both by doing so.

“You still see them, don’t you?”

The way Kathy’s eyes roam the space behind him, Taylor can tell she’s searching for the smallest speck of something to assuage his worries. But if you see something you don’t look for it.

So Taylor just nods. Follows with her at Nik’s back where he acts like a wall to keep their whispers private.

“Its not the Coven.” She says it so matter-of-factly.

The figure, now a young girl in the same pale grey shroud as the other faces had been, keeps staring even as they leave the parlor behind.

“Then what is it?” Nik throws back through gritted teeth.

“Something much more powerful.”

Taylor squeaks. “Not helping.”

“I recognize that look — I’ve seen it in the mirror,” and when they approach another set of double doors, stalled behind the Suit and his glower, her breath is hot in his ear.

“Keep an eye out. If The Fate is watching then there’s far more at stake than we assumed.”

His first thought is there have to be more witches in New Orleans than this, closely followed by please stop inviting trouble into your life, Taylor.

But even Katherine looks confused at the emptiness of the solarium they’re led into. How unassuming the three occupants look taking their tea with a pristine porcelain pot at a table out of Home and Garden magazine.

The same kinds of lilies, white petals large and curling under the sunlight, occupy every planter and pot in sight. Some of them are accompanied by flowers he’s only ever seen in books or movies — others look like they might be more at home in Lamrian taking root than here; to be appreciated but ultimately with a finite lifespan.

The solarium is a half-circle of heat and glass. Even the door leading out to a back garden path is see-through; the handle made of crystal. Everything catches on the sun and it makes Taylor quite literally hot under the collar.

He wipes a bit of sweat away from his chin uncomfortably.

They aren’t greeted when they enter. There are no chairs for them to take up. The Suit departs with the same wordless condescension with which he arrived and they’re just left there, taking up space on pristine marble, watching the so-called Garden Elders take their tea.

Only one of them actually looks the title ‘elder.’ The cotton on his robes looks scratchy, makes Taylor want to itch along his arms even at a distance. The locs that obscure his withered face fall back when he lifts his head up to the sun — casting shadows in the lines and creases of age he wears not just well but with a sort of pride.

With a delicate two-fingered touch he pushes his cup and saucer to the woman to his left. She refills his cup without looking away from the newspaper folded in front of her setting. The air around her seems to hold back as if afraid to touch — reverent of her existence but willing only to observe. The way the light illuminates her dark skin is practically golden. Makes her shine with some ethereal grace more at home with fae-kind than mortal witches, but the glow is undoubtedly hers.

The third Elder takes Taylor by surprise — he’s seen her before. Can still smell the sour cling of sweat to copper talismans and commercial incense on the ever-crowded floor of the House of Voodoo shop on Bourbon Street. Takes hiding in plain sight to a whole new level.

Would the Taylor from before all of this have felt the power that radiates around them? Would he have understood there was something to be feared about this particular trio; something he couldn’t possibly understand yet could feel in a place deeper than in the marrow of his bones?

I guess we’ll never know.

The polite thing to do would be to wait for them to finish their morning repast.

They don’t have time for politeness.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Elders.” Katherine gives a respectful nod of her head when she steps forward. Based on the look she throws at Ryder that’s what they should all be doing — but he doesn’t. And Taylor just doesn’t want to look like an idiot.

Something rattles hollow around the old man’s neck and when he turns Taylor really hopes those aren’t real bones strung together with twine. His eyes are a milky, clouded white but he looks at Katherine with no trouble.

“Despite what rumor may have you believe we care a great deal of our ties to the community.”

Kathy opens her mouth to speak but because Nik is Nik he scoffs “yeah, sure,” loud enough to drag the focus of all three Elders onto him.

“If you’ve something to say, boy, say it,” says the House of Voodoo employee, and Taylor will never hear a customer service voice the same way again with the shiver it sends running down his spine.

“Elder Millet —”

It isn’t politeness that cuts Kathy off when Millet raises her hand. Not with the purpling of her face or the way she seems to gasp around unspoken words.

“Excuses are as bad as lies, Miss Lopez,” she gives a flippant wave to her peers that breaks her unspoken spell; leaves Katherine on the verge of clawing at her throat for fragrant lily-scented air, “if Mister Ryder here has something to say who are we to force him into silence?” Ironic, much?

Now he’s done it — Nik can tell, too. If they want to continue he’s going to have to finish his thought and accept the consequences that come with it.

But he is Nik; so he squares his shoulders and stands his ground despite the unease that Taylor feels emanating from him.

“I mean no blatant disrespect Elder Millet,” —to the old man— “Elder Vion,” —and to the woman still yet to look up from the paper— “Elder Daniels; but if any of you three gave a damn about the community we wouldn’t’a needed to come get you in the first place. You’d have shown your faces at the Beau-Keyes with the rest of ‘em.”

“And look what happened to them,” drawls Elder Daniels as she flips the paper to the financial section, “almost killed due to reckless stupidity and an inability to see beyond the moment.”

The private laugh the three of them share isn’t lost on anyone. In fact it makes Cal bristle and go red in the face.

“You—You knew we’d be attacked? You knew and you did nothing?!”

Pack blood still runs deep.

Elder Vion adds a pink sugar cube to his tea. “‘Doing nothing’ was the ideal course of action.”

And his fellow Elders agree; “It followed the plan precisely.”

“And leaves us with an opening.”

“Though the guests will have to be taken care of first.”

“They won’t be here for long.”

“Hey—Hey! Now ain’t the time to dissolve into crazy!”

Nik’s clapping isn’t just loud — it makes the room tremble. Glass walls, the glass panels on the ceiling all somehow stunned by the weight of his audacity. That he would dare call attention to himself, this small, insignificant creature—

Taylor hastily shoves his palms into the front pockets of his jeans. Like that will somehow stop the feeling prickling at his palms like a thousand tiny needles. Different than anxiety; something borderline painful. Like if he thinks about it too much it will start to hurt, but pushing it out of the forefront of his mind will keep it at bay.

He recognizes the feeling easily enough — still doesn’t know what it means or what’s causing it but there’s one answer he didn’t have before. It has something to do with being a fae.

“So you all know what’s out… there.” Taylor jerks his chin to the garden, to the French Quarter beyond and the rest of New Orleans with it.

Given everything they’ve seen when it comes to the bloodwraith so far it’s almost laughable to think such a gruesome creature could exist—let alone appear—on a day like this.

Elder Millet looks Taylor over like she’s peeling back each and every layer of him with her eyes. Maybe she is — he wouldn’t put it past magic itself. Let alone past the magic that told the Coven Elders how terrible the attack at the Beau-Keyes would be and convinced them to do fuck-all about it.

“We do.”

But they knew that. “And you know what it’s after.”

“We’ve drawn our own conclusions.”

“Do those conclusions tell you how close you’re getting to the top of the list?” It sounds an awful lot like a threat. Good — he wants it to be.

“Do they tell you its only a matter of time until it comes after you — after the entire Coven?”

Nik agrees; “Whose to say it’ll stop with the Elders? Someone takes your place eventually — it can go after them, and the ones that follow, and the ones after that —”

Vion scoffs around his tea. “Preposterous!”

“Actually no; not in the slightest.” Wariness, distrust hangs over Katherine in an aura of thunderclouds. And its growing. “It’s logical.”

The word, the very implication of it makes Millet’s fingers twitch towards something partially obscured by the teapot. At first Taylor wrote them off as napkins but now the shape and size rings familiar.

Her deck of tarot cards doesn’t like being questioned.

“Logic is the predilection of the mundane.” When Elder Daniels finally looks up from her paper its to stare directly at Katherine. Hard and unyielding. Its a look of power; a silent demand for surrender.

And she almost does. Taylor knows without a doubt that she’d deny it with her last breath but words mean nothing when he can see the flash of her soul behind stormy skies — hear the rolling thunder not far behind.

“There are a thousand and one ways to interpret any given reading. And you chose the one that would keep you out of the crossfire.

“Even if it meant turning your backs on the Accords.”

Outside the walls of the sunroom nothing has changed. The clouds have continued to drift lazily by and the sun still beats down upon them. But when they entered the room felt as transparent as it looked.

Now they may as well be trapped in a dense fog. It threatens to block out the sun; to take pleasure in wringing out their last choking breaths.

“You overstep, insolent little Nighthunter.”

Elder Daniels stands and waves her hand. Probably takes a sick sense of satisfaction in the smallest flinch Katherine fails to hold back — but instead the witches’ spread vanishes as though it was never there.

There is no gaping absence of it — they could just as easily have been standing the entire time and had Taylor’s eyes not seen the table and chairs, had he not smelled the brewing tea or heard the clinking of cup against saucer, he would have a hard time explaining why he thought any of it was there in the first place.

Millet’s fingertips hover just above the surface of her tarot deck. The only physical thing to have remained. As much a member of the Elders as anything.

And the wrinkles on Vion’s leathery face have sunken deep like canyons. His movements are ancient and slow as he stands beside his fellow Elders in defiance of some unknown.

The sides are becoming glaringly obvious.

Small as it was Daniels’ display of power served its purpose; reminded them of who—what—they were dealing with. A power strong enough to entice the bloodwraith and prove its worth by remaining untouched.

The continued existence of them was a claim to power that the likes of Carlo de la Rosa and Denna the Shifter could never have dreamed of.

Taylor knows he’s not the only one of them having this fact hammered home inside him. Not solely because it takes some big and important shit to keep Ryder silent for this long but definitely highlighted by it.

“Perhaps,” Millet drags the word out solely to fuck with them, “we are the ones to be blamed. Blamed for our naivete in agreeing to this meeting disguised as an attempt to point fingers.”

And because its Katherine on the line — more than her name or reputation, but her life — she remains the sensible one. She tries to smooth-talk her way out. “With respect, Elder Millet, no one’s pointing fingers—”

“Save your arguments,” barks Vion, “though I’m sure they were well-rehearsed. Even blind to this physical plane as I am, I can see your true intentions for coming here.”

“Well there weren’t any, so —”

“We open our doors to you in this hour of need and yet you seek to accuse us of that which you cannot even begin to understand. Do you deny?”

It’s beginning to feel an awful lot like a trial and Taylor isn’t the only one who can feel it. He knows what the tension in Cal means — the way Nik shifts to the foot he favors standing his ground on.

But something just isn’t right. It’s echoing hollow in his bones; in the air around them. It fills him up, keeps filling him until he’s not sure he can stand it anymore. Until it wants to pour from his mouth or leak from his ears.

“Then why even agree to meet with us at all?” he blurts out to the surprise of the room; to himself.

And all that pressuring weight shifts from Katherine to him. Now he’s deep in it. Way to effing go.

Only its the first time the Elders don’t have a remark ready to be snapped at their heels. A fact that isn’t lost on them — and isn’t lost on his friends either.

And since its the only silence they might be getting any time soon he tries to roll with it in his usual word-vomit way.

“If you can see so much of the future in your cards or whatever — why agree to meet with us at all? Wouldn’t you know what we think of you? What everyone thinks of you? And you guys don’t seem like the type to entertain stupid people for the sake of a laugh.”

Nik gives him a very specific ‘Did you just call us stupid?’ look. Yeah, yeah he did.

But its rambling, and Taylor is good at rambling. Rambling is what he does best — rambling and improv monologues.

“You guys —” he drags an accusatory finger across the spread of them, “— are the ones accusing anyone, here. Which I get, you know, because there’s a lot going on. And everyone’s scared and everyone’s got their walls up because this is—like—ten thousand leagues away from normal even for your crazy world.

“But if we keep pointing fingers and we keep not helping everyone then what’s gonna happen? Right — the bloodwraith is gonna win. Because we’re gonna do its job for it!”

He drops his finger, then, because he’s making a point and leading by example. “Whatever reasons you may think we have for coming here are bullshit. No one wants to help, everyone’s just in it for themselves! And seeing as literally everyone in the city is a target right now that’s a really really stupid way of thinking!”

Like — he’s making sense, isn’t he? He feels almost compelled to look around not just at the Elders but at his friends, too. How many stories about good versus evil demand that everyone band together in spite of their differences for their own survival; for everyone’s survival?

They had been so close at the Beau-Keyes. If they’d all been given more time who knows what they could have accomplished. Maybe Kristof would be more willing to help. Maybe Lady Smoke wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

Maybe Elric would stop hiding behind his wards like a coward.

Taylor sighs and it comes out a ragged thing — takes every last bit of air in his lungs and tries to wring a choked noise from his lips but he’s just too tired.

“If you had already made up your minds about us — about helping everyone — then why bother letting us come here to ask?”

Over Elder Daniels’ shoulder, across the room and through the spotless glass wall he sees the same figure as before. Knows its them by the glint of their golden eyes. The young woman’s face is forlorn; almost weeping. Flickers like a heat mirage from young to old to young again.

The Fate, Katherine had called them.

Why here?

Why now?

Why won’t they do something?

“Such a rousing call to action…” says Millet with the vestiges of praise — yet it looks bitter on her tongue.

Daniels agrees; “And from the unseen complication, no less.”

“Perhaps we underestimated him.”

“What difference would it make? Everything has gone as predicted so far.”

“One wrong move can turn the tide.”

“Yes — but this…”

Again they fall into whispered confidences — as though the others aren’t even there.

Ryder almost growls. More unwilling to call them out on it than before but just as impatient. “This was useless…” he hisses through gritted teeth back in Kathy’s direction.

A small movement draws Taylor’s attention to Elder Vion. To the empty space beside him.

Where The Fate — as a child, making it all the more eerie — reaches up and takes the witch’s hand in theirs. Blood soaks through their grey sleeve; drips down onto the pristine white floor. One droplet becomes two, becomes three and more. A puddle forming at their feet and spreading out of its own will.

He knows it isn’t real — that none of it is really there. There is no child and no blood not only because no one else is freaking out about it but because of the way the blood moves. Spiraling tendrils seeking to consume but only at the Elders’ feet.

The meaning of the whole disturbing sight is clear.

There is blood on the Elders’ hands. They’re drowning in it.

“You didn’t answer his question.”

Katherine cuts Daniels and Millet off mid-word. All that cool calculation hidden behind her pretty face; the perfect mask to hide behind. “Why’d you agree to this? What do you gain?”

Daniels’ upper lip curls. “There is nothing you could offer worth our time.”

“Still doesn’t answer the question.”

“Do you forget you called upon us?”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “when I thought you’d be useful. But we’re just talking in circles here!”

They are. What more do they know now compared to before?

Nothing is making any freakin’ sense. Nothing except for the sickening feeling growing inside. The blood spreads — devours. Leaves the witches draped in a dark veil thicker than a fog at night and the solarium, once filled with the light breeze of lilies, reeking of rot and the sour tang of open wounds.

A scent he’s becoming all too familiar with — something Taylor never thought would ever cross his mind.

Again there’s a prickling at his palms but this time he reaches for Ryder — a port in the gathering storm. Clasps their hands together tightly; desperately.

Nik who does a double-take when he catches the hollow light of fear in his eyes.

We need to leave.

What do you know?

Too much.

Too much. He knows too much. The Fate knows it and that’s why their figure has vanished but the blood seeping into the hems of the Elders’ clothes remains. The world knows it too, somehow. Keeps that damp and musty smell of molding decay stuck in his lungs and makes him choke on it. Makes his eyes water and an itching pain climb up from the inside of him begging to be let free.

He knows too much. Can’t even begin to understand the how or the why and maybe even a little bit of the what but he does.

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that the darkness that gathers around the Coven Elders and the one hanging as a fatal noose around the bloodwraith are one in the same.

We need to leave.

“It doesn’t matter Kathy,” Nik interrupts — keeps his eyes on Taylor like a grounding point; the only solid ground to stand on, “whether they answer or not it’s clear as day they don’t plan on helping anyone but themselves.

“We oughta get goin’.”

To their credit the Elders don’t deny it.

But the sudden change is a bit too much for Katherine. “Are you—Nik what the hell?”

“Kathy —” Taylor’s wavering voice almost breaks at just her name. Its enough; enough to drag her away from frustrating thoughts building to the fact that he’s white as a sheet and on the verge of unconsciousness. “Please.”

She doesn’t get the chance to argue. Not when the room turns to shadows upon shadows; very real and very not-in-his-head clouds blooming across the sun over their heads.

Even when Elder Vion lowers his hand the spell continues; grows and takes hold of the sky above until the sun is nothing but a distant memory, until the shadows are only a darkness unending.

He tuts and clicks his tongue — such a normal act in contrast to the way he leans on the gnarled handle of his cane. “Finally the consequences reveal themselves.” He bites out, though his scorn is quickly directed to the Elders at his side. “Had you not wished to speed the process this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Had we?” Millet snaps; gestures with her hands so wide that one of the cards slips from her deck and flutters to the ground face-up.

The Wheel of Fortune stares lifelessly upwards.

“You insisted the Council could not be allowed to congregate, Vion.”

“Indeed we acted on faith of your vision,” agrees Daniels.

Vion, though, is adamant; “The consequences outweighed the risk.”

“And what of that,” Daniels thrusts a finger at Taylor, “little consequence? Was it worth the knowledge he now possesses?”

The energy directed his way makes Taylor double over — from pain or pressure he doesn’t know. But Nik isn’t having it.

“What the hell are you crazy people talkin’ about?!”

“Silence!”

There’s a loud and resistant groan over their heads. They look up just in time to see the metal framework stop — now twisted, coiled like a spring ready to snap and send the ceiling panels hurtling down in what would surely be a painful death for all but the Elders.

“You dare interrupt your betters; dare demand of those who hold absolute power over your mortal lives?!” She’s practically shrieking now; and with each crack of her voice comes a crack in the glass surrounding them. “That you continue to live is a testament to our generosity despite your wretched meddling!

“But a Nighthunter never learns. Not until he is forced into submission!”

The bones around Elder Vion’s neck rattle on a nonexistent breeze. “To give this cur the same punishment would be my pleasure.”

“Why bother prolonging it?” adds Millet in a ravenous growl, “Kill him now and we have a second soul to cut from the veil. A second soldier to finish the task at hand.”

Cal goes rigid; taken by surprise. Now he knows. “Holy shit. It’s you.”

And now Katherine knows too; forces down the oncoming waves of revelation — keeps herself afloat with a strength well-hidden.

“You’re the ones controlling the bloodwraith.”

#nightbound #nik ryder #cal lowell #nik ryder x mc #vera reimonenq #katherine nightbound #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 2: Horror Film Clichés

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Taylor and the girls take on the town as festivities kick off in the French Quarter, only to suffer the hallucinations he thought he'd left behind. On the way home things take a turn for the cinematically terrifying.

[READ IT ON AO3]

They’re certainly a trio to be reckoned with. Not that anyone looks in the mood to try.

Vera and a different pair of silk gloves — still in color-coordination with her outfit, which is pretty impressive — gently nursing her second hurricane through a neon straw. Taylor and his version of fun with his own looping straw in a coke bottle. And Kristin completely hammered between them; beads from the night before swinging with the shimmy of her body towards anything that looks even remotely fruity and, more importantly, on a ‘2 for 1$’ Mardi Gras Week special.

Frankly Taylor’s a little surprised. Would have thought his finally coming clean about the only secret left between them might have curbed her alcoholic appetite. He must not be hiding it well either; since Vera comes up beside him while they watch her do that thing drunk girl strangers do where they suddenly find the other girl the most beautiful creature in the world and will die if they don’t tell her.

So, like, typical Kristin stuff.

“She’s been looking forward to this for months,” Vera says with fond exasperation, “had three countdowns; one on her desk calendar at work, one on her phone, and —”

“Let me guess, one on your phone?”

Vera grins. “Old habits, huh?”

“Her exams were on my alarm schedule.”

“Ooh, gotcha.”

“Mmhm.”

He’d thought it would be hard getting along with Vera — the friend of the friend — but it couldn’t have been more the opposite. Vera was witty and charming and had the distinct drawl of a native Southerner without any of the local judgment. She was definitely as fish-out-of-water in the throngs of party-goers as he was; something hard to come by and even harder not to feel ashamed about in the natural, glowing presence of Kristin’s extroversion.

The hard part comes when it turns out most of the local clubs and dives Vera had put on their agenda have adapted to the needs of the season in all the colors of the vodka rainbow.

Taylor keeps insisting he’s fine — “no offense to your keen sober coaching skills but I have lived in this town on my own for a bit now, Krissy” — but she won’t have it. Not until she’s had her shot, had a mysterious game card punched (where did that come from?), and pushes them back out the way they came.

There’s a thoughtful touch to his arm that makes Taylor look back. Vera glances at the streets and their lights with something like recognition.

“I think I know a great lil’ place nearby if y’all are into anything off the beaten path.”

She says y’all like she’s speaking to them both but Kristin’s whoop of delight as she trades beads with a man covered from head to toe in different shades of glitter for kisses on the cheek says she’s long gone.

Which may work in their favor, actually.

“How far?” asks Taylor. Vera gestures airily.

“Just on the other block. It’s nothing special — just a place some friends and I used to hang out in when I was younger. More a place for historical value than something to add to Cookie’s drink card over there.”

But it sounds great to him. “I’m in. You wanna play rodeo this time or should I?”

As Taylor tips an invisible cowboy hat her way Vera giggles open and unafraid; puts on what she probably thinks is a more Texan edge to her accent and pretends the glittering floral piece on her bodice is a belt buckle.

“I think this is a two-man job, pardner.”

He tries to take her seriously — really, he does. But nope, nope, it’s just too silly. He can’t not laugh. “Never — ah! ha! — never do that again!”

Together they successfully corral Kristin back into the safety of their immediate vicinity and head over to Vera’s suggestion. Which, as it turns out, is exactly the kind of place Taylor’s been hoping they’d find all night.

Small and the exact opposite of crowded; filled with wooden surfaces both glossy and in need of a little love. Frames on the walls of years gone by but uncluttered — they leave him with the feeling of wanting to make his own space not just on the wall but in the world outside.

Once Kristin’s safe and snug in a rounded booth Taylor joins Vera up at the bar to bring back drinks.

“Two cokes and a water, please!” Even she sounds cheerier. What happens when you send two introverts out to party at one of the most crowded events of the year, he supposes.

“This one’s on me.” Taylor insists; is already forking out the bills.

Vera sighs but doesn’t exactly decline, waves in thanks as she heads towards the back where a neon sign says ‘LADIES.’ “Lemme go powder my noise for a second, cher.”

One minute he’s examining the bottles decorated with beads and stuffed with themed string lights for the occasion and the next he’s pressed against the bar with a hot and heavy voice husking in his ear.

“Pssst!”

Taylor sighs and gently pushes Kristin off. “I thought we told you to stay put in the booth.”

“Well, yeahduh,” she rolls her eyes like she’s done exactly as asked, continues on; “but this is more important!”

He waits. And waits. Finally has to ask. “What is?”

With drunken subtlety Kristin jerks her head to the last booth in the row. “That.”

“What?”

“That!”

Admittedly the first time he’s only humoring her. The second — and only because if she gets any louder the party outside might hear her — he actually looks. And probably would have missed the stranger and the glass he nurses in the shadows if Kristin hadn’t directly pointed him out.

His eyes haven’t exactly adjusted to the bar’s dim lighting yet; makes him have to squint with all tact out the window. There’s no pretending he’s doing anything other than trying to map out the face of the lone stranger.

Though there’s no pretending the stranger isn’t staring directly at him, either.

A leather-clad arm grabs his dusky tumbler and brings it up; lets it melt into the shadows he wears well. There’s an angular jaw and dark hair that blends in around him. The heavy tap-tap of a workman’s boot like an afterthought.

Whoever he is he’s definitely not dressed up for the festivities. Looks more at home in the shadows than the shadows themselves. Besides the glint of his eyes in the yellow bottled lights he wears the shadows perfectly.

Or maybe they wear him instead.

As a rule Taylor’s never been one to believe in cliches — things like love at first sight only happen in the movies. And judging by the chill that runs down his spine it’s definitely not love he’s feeling as his world zones in on the stranger and his shadows.

No, he’s quite familiar with this particular feeling; the tension in his jaw and the cold sweat that presses spandex and cotton to his back, the way things go a bit fuzzy around the edges and he’d rather this not happen ever again but definitely not now — not with people he knows.

Only… it doesn’t. As if he’s willed it into reality. Even with a heated face and the surprising tickle of sweat creasing on the outside of his eye.

Taylor waits, and waits, and waits… but the shadows stay shadowy and the man stays, well, manly. No hidden face in the depths — no sharp teeth or pitch-black eyes or, hell, rock-looking mountain skin.

The man is just a man. And as suddenly as the feeling overtakes Taylor it’s gone.

“Now Cookie, stop it — Taylor, hon? Taylor.”

Like the air was made of molasses and suddenly starts being air again Taylor turns his head all-too-quickly. Snaps to attention at Vera snapping her fingers in vain in front of his face. Lucky he’s still leaning against the bartop because the vertigo that follows is not pleasant.

“I… wha..?”

The back of her glove is warm against his forehead. He’ll have to buy her a new pair if he damages that one with his perspiration.

“Sweetheart,” the fact that the worry isn’t letting up in her tone should be evidence enough, “you look like the whole Mardi Gras parade just passed over your grave.”

The situation has the doubled effect of sobering Kristin up. She offers him what was supposed to be her water with a frown. “Damn, Tay, you look like a shadow or something.”

A shadow.

While terror at first sight might not be one of the cliches for the books he’s pretty sure vanishing into thin air is. The only thing left in the corner booth is the now-empty tumbler and a crinkled bill.

And there’s this sinking pit in his stomach that should he ask “Hey, what happened to that man in the corner?” the only answer he’ll get is “What man?” and another thing to tell his therapist about.

With shaking hands he takes the glass and sips it at Kristin’s urging.

“I —” god his throat burns like he’s not had a drop to drink in years, “— I think it might be my bedtime.”

He tries to laugh it off. Can’t even convince himself. Isn’t sure he wants to.

Vera gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There’s something motherly about her smile. “I think it might be all’a our bedtimes.”

Kristin looks ready to argue — a look from her coworker stops her in her tracks; makes her silently agree.

Right now he couldn’t ask for better friends.

He could, however, ask for friends of a more sober variety.

“I don’t think this is the way to my place, guys. Why don’t we just call a car?”

“Relax worrywort,” Kristin tells him for the umpteenth time, “Vera grew up around here. She knows these streets like the back of her hand!”

She looks to Vera for confirmation but the look they get back is less than reassuring.

“It’s been a while since I’ve wandered these old roads, Cookie.” Vera looks apologetically at Taylor. He can’t blame her — he’s lived here more recently and still doesn’t know the back alleys and rues as well as he should.

“C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” whines Kristin. Taylor’s pretty sure he left it back at the bar in the stranger’s corner.

Wherever they are they’re well beyond the party now. He strains to hear even the most distant sounds of the Quarter but the chorus of silence and accompanying locust orchestra.

Vera’s phone screen illuminates her face in a gaunt digital glow; shows just how quickly it turns into a frown. “That’s funky…”

“What is?”

She shakes her head, extends a hand. “Can I borrow your phone? My carrier must be mad I left New York.”

He offers it without thought. She takes Kristin’s, too, both screens like spotlights.

Funky isn’t the word he’d use to describe the troubled crease in her brow. “Vera; what is it?”

She lifts the phones skywards — points them at the numerous strings of telephone wires criss-crossing over them like a net. “Must be in a dead zone or something.”

Kristin giggles and knocks into his side. “Oooh how spooooky~”

Only he doesn’t share her sentiments. Not spooky but certainly troubling — and immediately his anxiety goes against him and decides to remember what Tilly the tour guide had said the day before about things worse than ghosts that liked to hang around New Orleans at night.

“Well then let’s walk until we find signal.”

There isn’t any three blocks to the right. Or two blocks up and four over. Kristin stops complaining about how much her heels make her feet ache a little while on. The night air’s done wonders to clear her head but he almost wishes she still had the distraction of a buzz to keep her from worrying.

If he wasn’t so concerned with the surroundings getting less and less familiar by the minute he might make a quip about their reliance on unreliable technology.

“What was that?!”

Taylor hisses; pries Kristin’s nails out of his arm like shrapnel. Can still hear her high-pitched shriek ringing in his ears. She sounds like just another cicada.

She’s fixated on the empty street behind them. Nothing moves under the dim lamplight — not even a bit of grass in the wind. Had there been a breeze before? He doesn’t remember.

Vera takes on a little bit of the Kristin-duty — gently coaxes her over to hold her gloved hand tightly and shushes her nice and steady.

“What spooked ya, baby girl?”

“I could have sworn I saw…” She searches the darkness with a scrutiny that doesn’t ease Taylor in the slightest. “There was a movement and…”

“And,” Vera finishes for her, “it was probably just a bird over the moon. You’re only freakin’ yourself out. One foot in front of the other, you know how it goes.”

It’s enough to get them moving again. Taylor rubs his hands over his bare arms and looks up at the cloud-covered moon.

Two more blocks and Taylor’s finally had enough. If they didn’t have any signal closer to civilization then they certainly aren’t going to get any in the heart of shotgun houses and street lights every quarter mile.

“This is getting us nowhere. Maybe we should just double back to the Qu —”

Kristin interrupts him with another shriek and a jabbed finger.

“There it is again!”

But, again, there’s nothing but the night. Taylor sighs. “Okay, no more ghost watch for Kris —”

This her third scream almost breaks his eardrums. Makes Taylor wince and clap a hand over one ear as he glares between the girls in frustration. How the hell she managed it with her mouth closed he doesn’t know, but it’s getting to be too much.

Makes him gawk at Vera who gives a full-body shiver. “Seriously?”

Tears prickle at the edges of Kristin’s eyes and her lower lip wobbles the same as it does when she sees a movie with more than one dog.

“Taylor… that — that wasn’t Kristin.”

“Stop, Vera, yes it —”

“Cher I’m standin’ right next to her.”

He takes a step forward. Feels a sudden cold like the bite of winter on the back of his neck as he places his clammy palm over Kristin’s mouth.

And, as if triggered by touch, the cicadas stop their serenade at the unearthly screech so loud it thins the air around them. The kind of noise that makes blood turn over and go sour. Makes it stop pumping in your chest and, in the void left, lets your heart begin pumping liquid fear instead.

They’ve all seen how this goes down: separation means being picked off, running means there’s something to run from. Like there’s something bred deep into their mortal bones the three take hands and usher one another along with haste.

“What is it?” Kristin whispers thickly.

“I don’t know —”

“— and I don’t want to find out.” Vera finishes for him. Keeps looking back behind them even though the high-pitched howl echoes off the ramshackle homes in all directions.

Taylor knows the logical thing to do would be to pound on doors until some sleepy, confused soul dares to confront them. Knows they’ll somehow be safe surrounded by thin walls and the presence of a stranger. The monsters in horror movies never show up when there’s an unknowing witness, right?

But logic doesn’t exist in horror movies.

And his life just became one.

The housing alleys open up onto a main road — deserted, as per horror movie logic — with a large brick wall across.

He recognizes it immediately.

“Come —” —does the howl that drowns him out sound closer or is it just him?— “— come on! Over the wall!”

They’re in the middle of the street when Vera gets her bearings; stops them all with a surprisingly strong grip despite the slippery gloves.

“No way!”

But the cemetery is so close. “Well we don’t exactly have a ton of options!” He hisses.

“Trust me on this when I say whatever’s locked up in there at night is worse than what might be out here.”

He yanks back his hand as if burned.

“What-ever?”

Taylor doesn’t miss it. Wouldn’t give a slip of the tongue much thought given the circumstances only Vera seems genuinely fearful at the distinction between who and what.

“Whoever—whatever! Just — that’s a dumb idea. You’re gonna get us killed.” She argues.

Kristin looks between them and bites her lip white. “Guys…”

“Vera, do you know something?”

“What — I don’t —”

“Do you know something about this?!”

In the absence of screeching the silence is somehow worse.

Vera looks down and to the left.

“No.”

Fuck. They so don’t have time for this right now.

“Krissy — come on!” Thank god she doesn’t hesitate — looks back at Vera crestfallen before crossing the road to the cemetery with him.

He’ll feel bad about leaving her behind if and when he gets the chance to look back — not fondly, no fucking way — but every nerve and fiber of his being is screaming uncertain about even that.

With grunts and effort he hikes Kristin up enough for her to grab onto the top of the wall. Fights off the paranoia that comes with the suddenly restless shadows around them.

Kristin lays flat on her belly at the top; reaches down and helps Taylor scramble up before his shoes can resist the mossy surface.

Poised to leap down he throws a last look back. Vera’s nowhere to be seen.

“Taylooor!”

He vaults down into the safe entrapment of Lafayette Cemetery Number Two.

Before both feet even hit the ground Kristin’s on him; smacking him with open palms and tears down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you just left her you asshole!”

She left Vera, too, but something tells him that’s not the right thing to say.

“It was her choice.”

“Dude — nobody thinks clearly in shit like this! Oh my god — what did I do? We need to go back.”

He grabs her wrists. “No. Krissy, no. Look at me. Look at me!” Doesn’t mean to shout but it’s the only way to get through to her right now. If anyone was the blonde in the movie…

“Something’s not right, okay?”

“Yeah, leaving her wasn’t —”

“No — fuck — stop! I mean it felt like she… she knew something… someone…”

And here comes the headache again. Maybe just being near alcohol is the problem. Can’t do much about it now — even sober it oozes from Kristin’s pores.

But is it a hallucination if they’re seeing—hearing—it too?

He watches her face crumple and does the only thing he can. Pulls her into a bone-crushing hug both to stifle her sobs and feel the grounding presence of her fluttering heartbeat.

“W-WW-We’re the dumb white teens in-n the gg-gore flick, Tay.”

There’s nothing humorous in his laugh.

“Yeah, we are.” Pushes her back gently and points behind her — across the cemetery to the far wall beyond.

“I was here yesterday. There’s a twenty-four hour cafe on that side. We make it there and by movie logic: no more being chased, right? Right?” He waits until she nods; tries to muster up a smile but knows the twist of it is nowhere near reassuring. “Good. Then come on.”

Only Vera had their phones. And the dead don’t need night-lights.

They use the worn stone tombs to keep themselves steady. Make it all the way to the dividing path of the cemetery under the cover of almost pitch darkness when the moon decides to peek its ugly mug out from behind the clouds.

The wind stops mid-groan.

He’s just being cautious. Just keeping an eye on their surroundings. No matter the who or the what there can be a very real danger posed in cemeteries at night. It’s not just a ploy to scare tourists. So he’s just being cautious.

Only he could repeat that excuse until his tongue bleeds and Taylor would know it’s not the whole truth. Not that he’d admit to knowing he needed to look at the entrance gates at that exact time in that exact place.

No; nothing save torture would get him to admit that.

Long wisps of tattered cloth billow in the still air. Translucent, like mummy wrappings. Trailing outwards from the gaunt and yellowing skull in a burial halo.

No, not a skull. Skulls don’t have flesh but as his eyes adjust to the waning moonlight he can see the rotting, putrid remains of skin still clinging; holding on for dear life against hard cheekbones, sinew holding together a gaping jaw.

The decay makes it harder to tell the difference between organic and fabric the more of the creature he takes in. Could play a funky little samba tune on each protruding rib but can’t see through it to the spine. The bones deform down at the hands; the talons bearing rust-covered manacles ripped from the depths of some place that makes him question his spirituality.

And Taylor imagines the combination might have made the feet of the thing look comical — if it had any. But it ends, stunted, at skin pulled taut over the pelvic bone before it dissolves into writhing maggots and the remains of what might have once been an angelic-white burial shroud.

But he’s an actor — he’s seen what the film industry can do, the magic of stage blood and putty. He’s seen some pretty ugly realities made from fake props.

It’s the smell that isn’t a fake. That same curling, chemical smell bodies have at wakes. Formaldehyde. And under that a sour and metallic odor that literally — no, literally — makes anything living near it wilt, brown, and wither into spidery white fungi and black-spiked mold.

The world is quiet. Almost blissfully so. Like it wants Taylor to let the creature be just another figment of his imagination.

It raises a claw. Warped fingers curled. And points at his heart.

Behind him Kristin gives a shattering shriek. The creature’s jaw falls gaping and meets her at every decibel.

His cries of “Go — go go — GO!” are lost to the ringing in his ears as the skeleton—thing—whatever-it-is raises its arms and tears through the metal gate in one fell swoop. Cuts through it like fingers through a waterfall and with the touch of death that makes the iron curl and twist in on itself; age with rust and years it shouldn’t have been forced to see so soon.

Then it’s floating — actually floating — towards them. Really really fast.

They trip over themselves, one another in their haste to run. Taylor makes sure to push Kristin ahead of him. Doesn’t know if that’ll do anything in the long run to prolong her life or just stave off her inevitable suffering but he can’t not try.

“Keep running!” Don’t look back.

“I am!”

“Don’t look back!” Keep running.

“Wasn’t planning on it!”

In a startling move Kristin grabs the corner of a mausoleum and whips around it — has to grab Taylor by the hem of his shirt so he can follow because there’s absolutely no way they’re splitting up now.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygo —”

His turn to yank her along through the narrowing paths between the crypts. “Nope — no time for that shit. Move!”

But in the back of his mind Taylor’s screaming at himself; they’re only going further into a cage of their own making. Leaping over the other wall was a good idea when they had the time and the clarity of mind but now, being chased by Jacob-Marley-from-Hell, they were in short supply of both.

And losing more by the second.

Hide. It’s coming.

Common sense, right? So why does Common Sense suddenly have a voice that echoes in his head like a thousand different cries?

Hide!

He spots the gaping void of black like moon gives it a spotlight. Grabs Kristin’s hair — he’ll apologize later — to get her attention. Together they slip between the sliver of space in the open stone door.

“In here!”

“What the fu—”

Taylor clamps his sweating hand over her mouth as their creature gives another howl to the night. Drags its claws against stone because why wouldn’t it be absolutely fucking terrifying like that?

He blinks; lets his eyes adjust to the almost-too-darkness to fixate on Kristin’s trembling eyes. A knowing glance and he lets his hand slip down.

“What do we do?”

Yeah, Common Sense, what do we do? Taylor knows he’s not going to get an answer. There’s no script here — no director and no blocking. Just him and his dumb brain being clouded by panic.

“All right listen,” he whispers back, “whatever… whatever that is it tore right through the gates. If we can get there maybe…”

“Maybe it’ll chase us out there?”

“Krissy.”

“I know — I know. I just…” She gives him a look and he knows. Feels it, too. That cold sweat and the fear of the unknown. But one step at a time.

They wait until the creature’s cry sounds distant; maybe on the other side of the cemetery? Maybe not — not that they really have a choice.

Taylor goes first. Looks left, right, left again and has a fucking heart attack at tree branches looming overhead but it’s enough space to run so they run for it.

Fouled rot his them like a wall and he doesn’t have to look back to know it’s behind them in hot pursuit. He does anyway. What skin is left around its mouth tears and snaps to push out another bellowing scream.

Blood drips hotly from its teeth.

“KRISSY RUN!”

He doesn’t have to tell her twice.

The chase could be minutes, could be seconds. It could be an hour-long montage of weaving in and out of narrow escapes and almost-captureds or something out of Scooby Doo. Whatever it is it sucks the life out of them both but only gives that thing more energy the longer it goes on.

And then—then—he catches sight of a familiar path of dead grass and a molding bereavement bouquet.

“Come on! We’re almost there!” he cries; reaches back behind him flailing for Kristin’s hand in his.

They’re going to make it.

I’m so sorry.

Stop. No. He can see the gate.

I’m so, so sorry.

Kristin’s fingertips like butterfly kisses brush his wrist. Then nothing. And now he knows how awful silence is compared to the cry of the dead.

Taylor skids to a stop. Turns to see Kristin just standing there in rigor mortis — just letting it approach her in undulating rags and spectral death. Watches with open-mouthed horror as one of the skeletal hands reaches out to touch her.

It’s obscene how gentle the touch looks. Soft like a lover brushing from the tip of her forehead to her parted lips. The more it trails the paler she becomes and he’s not crazy when he can see the pulsing, pounding of her veins running black instead of blue underneath her sheet-white complexion.

The hardest part is not knowing whether she turns to him in a last, desperate act or if the creature compels her head to turn. But the milky whites of her eyes are branded into his memory for good.

Kristin crumples to the dirt; another dead thing at its feet.

And it fucking grins at him.

The last thing Taylor realizes is how much the thing is enjoying it; this — the chase. Makes him feel a warmth down his legs through his jeans and leaves him paralyzed.

He’s pretty sure the image of Kristin’s eyes reflected in the abyss of its rotting sockets isn’t a hallucination. But the figure that appears seemingly out of nowhere behind? Oh most definitely.

And the bright white light that shines, radiates, swallows the shadows in a bellyful that leaves him blind? Yeah, that too.

And the weightlessness? Well… now he’s probably just dreaming.

He can’t remember… do horror films get last-minute rescues?

#nightbound #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #vera reimonenq #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 23: Happily Ever After

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

For now.

[READ IT ON AO3]

They make sure the first thing Kristin sees when she opens her eyes is the pair of them on either side of her hospital bed. Both of her hands in theirs and they’re so close to being able to hold back the tears in their eyes.

But when she licks her dry lips and looks them both over with groggy delirium, only to say “I think I’m over Mardi Gras, guys,” they’re her first words in a week that’s felt like an entire year and how could they do anything but ugly cry as loud and messy and utterly ridiculous as they possibly can.

“Now don’t go marryin’ that idea, Cookie,” Vera blubbers; wipes her thumbs carefully to preserve her wing-tip, “‘specially when you see the place our friend’s got hooked up with.”

“Nope, I’m sticking to water.”

Taylor snorts with a fond roll of his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And even though they know for a fact she’ll make a full recovery she was found in a cemetery—at night—and her coma lasted several days; so Taylor and Vera don’t make much of a fuss when the doctor kicks them out. She makes them promise to come back as soon as they can, which of course they do.

They’re waiting to the elevator when a melodic humming catches Taylor’s ears; he knows that voice.

Sure enough Tilly strolls around the corner, pushing a cart with a squeaking back wheel in front of her without so much as a touch. Her hands have better things to do — like spoon a healthy heap of strawberry jello into her mouth.

The cart doesn’t even slow when their paths cross but the elf doesn’t let that stop her from grabbing two jiggling cups and plop-plopping them into Vera’s hands. A wink and twitch of her nose and she’s off around another corner as though she was never there.

Vera stares down at the jello in wordless confusion. Before she can say anything the lift arrives and doors slide open.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Taylor promises, plucks his gifted jello cup and presses the button for the ground floor.

They leave the hospital full of jello and laughter. Which was probably the elf’s intention.

Two blocks away from the Graveyard Shift Taylor stops them; puts a gentle hand on Vera’s upper arm and moving them out of the way of tourists still loitering around the Quarter in waves.

Judging by the fall of her face Vera’s been expecting this — and it’s not a conversation he’s excited about either but ignoring unseemly topics is something that hits a little too close to home these days.

“Have you decided what you’re gonna do?”

“Been a little busy, Tay.” Easygoing tone now clipped; curt. Almost cold but he knows it’s not her. “We shouldn’t keep everyone waitin’.”

“I think they’ll understand.”

“Okay — I tried t’be nice but I guess I just gotta be blunt. I don’t want to talk about it.”

His silence is long enough to wedge a bolt in her defense — has Vera peering up through her curls where he waits patiently. Which only frustrates her further. “You’re annoying sometimes, you know that Taylor Hunter?”

He shrugs — she’s not wrong. “Nik makes sure I don’t forget.”

Silence, and more silence, and a few attempts to weasel around him and continue down the sidewalk that end in a childish bout of fake-out standoffs; then she finally accepts defeat.

“I wanna stay, really I do. But I moved away to distance myself from this—this life. And if I stay then what have the past couple’a years of my life been for then, you know?”

He knows, and nods; she continues, “My biggest thing is… I don’t know who my momma is without the Touch; without bein’ Lady Smoke. Hell I’m not even sure she knows. You should see how she’s been actin’ Taylor; three whole days later and she’s back in her office actin’ like nothing has changed.

“But it has. And sooner or later word’ll get out what happened to her an’ that she doesn’t have the same leverage as she used to.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth; she’s been doing that a lot recently. “It’d be nice to think about her givin’ it all up but I know she won’t. What if she turns to somethin’ equally terrible or worse to keep people fearin’ her?”

There’s a light to her eyes that wasn’t there before; maybe even Vera didn’t know how much Vera needed to vent the things weighing her down. And Taylor? Well he empathizes; literally. Her worries are his worries. Her concern is his concern.

And because she knows in her heart of hearts that Tonya Reimonenq is not only capable but likely to try and regain any echo of the power the bloodwraith took from her — by any means necessary — he knows it too.

Taylor wishes he had certainties for her. That he can give her the definitive this is what will happen and this is how we’ll deal with it of the matter. But he can’t.

“No matter what she does, the New Accords will keep her in line.”

The look she gives him; will they though? isn't by any fault of hers. In fact it’s Vera’s healthy caution that’s helped them all this way so far so he trusts it as much as anything else.

“Don’t stay because you want to keep an eye on Tonya. You’ve got Nik and me for that.” He links their arms, doesn’t miss her little breath of relief when they continue walking.

“Stay because you want to. I’d sure love it if you did.”

“I’ll give it a real thought, okay?”

“I could ask for nothing more.”

They enter the Shift together and everything is the same — everyone is exactly as the pair left them. That isn’t a good thing.

“Raise your voice at me again, go on.”

“Kathy will you stop goadin’ the werewolf?”

“You’ve got one last chance Jensen.”

“Guys, please slow down. ‘Taking minutes’ was made for typing and I don’t have another pen.”

“Oh hon’, you don’t need to get the arguments in the minutes.”

Krom flashes a sheepish smile through his tusks at Garrus from across the booth. The bartender is content to keep his distance from the arguing going down in his establishment but he stays because that’s what he agreed to.

Though judging by the bottle of teal-tinted absinthe he’s nearly polished off that might be something of a regret on his part.

Cal leans back in the booth with both hands over his face — probably with the same frustration Nik doesn’t even try to cover up beside him.

“This is useless…”

Across from him Kristof smacks his lips, beer in hand, and nods to his nephew. “First thing we’ve agreed on all day, pup.” And when he makes like he’s about to pull himself away from the uncomfortable situation Katherine snatches at his wrist. Her grip looks practically dainty against the muscle of him but every single soul in the bar knows it to be anything but.

“Sit the fuck back down, Jensen.”

“Nah, I’m done with this shit fer th’day.”

Pull your weight and help me, says the look Katherine snaps at Ryder.

Who leans forward on his elbows with fingers steepled and a hard glare given to the Alpha at the other end of the table.

“If you leave now we just have to start from scratch tomorrow. Do you really want to drag this out?”

Cal groans and continues his useless attempt to become one with his leather seat. He’s just as frustrated as his fellow wolf but Krom’s got him walled in; no chance of escape.

But the thought of having to repeat the ordeal is, luckily(?), terrible enough that the wood of the seat creaks to accommodate the Alpha as he settles back in.

“Fine. But come sunset I’m outta here; I got shit t’do.”

Katherine agrees with a nod. “It won’t take that long.”

“The Lamrians didn’t take this long,” mutters Nik under his breath; and its only then that he looks up enough to see Taylor and Vera’s combined amusement where they’ve been watching everything unfold like a governmental pantomime.

“Gettin’ your kicks over there?”

“Absolutely.”

Vera gives a silent touch to his arm — had mentioned before they left that she’d need to make a few work calls at some point today for the sake of both her job and Kristin’s. While she heads up to the Shift’s apartments Taylor drags a stool over to join the fray of frustration.

Does Kristof still make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end? Yes. Does he look over at that bearded frown and think of the large jaw of canine teeth that could very easily tear him to shreds? Yes.

Does the way he has his arms crossed over his chest, red faced and muttering something under his breath, make him look like a kid angry at not getting his way?

Yes.

In fact the wolf actually seems to lean away from him when Taylor makes himself comfortable; beady eyes trained wary on his hands.

“Something to say?” Katherine only asks because she isn’t wholly unconvinced his attitude isn’t just another tactic for distraction.

“Just keep them flashy fae fingers to yer’self an’ we’re peachy.”

Can anyone blame him when he wiggles his perfectly normal (thank you very much) fingers in Kristof’s direction, then? No, no they cannot.

Krom offers up the long scroll of parchment for him to take — already half-full with the agreed-upon duties, limitations, and expectations of the Quarter’s new Council members.

Being the largest population in city limits by a wide margin, the Mayor’s neatly scrawled signature is the only one beside rules not of his own design. Sure it had been for the best that they not involve anyone who didn’t need to be (and in the Lady de la Rosa’s well-put words, it was smart “not to demand action over one with such influence over the innocent and ignorant”), but that didn’t mean they were met with open arms at City Hall.

In fact, Taylor ended up having to get Elric to come down and ‘lay down the law’ with the man. Perks of having an immortal father who had been to every Mayoral inauguration since the city’s founding.

Seeing as the Mayor (and the humans by default) had literally the least amount of things to worry about, too? He was kind of a dick about it.

Below that were the duties of the faire folk of Lamrian and their Lord Elric and Lady Thalissa.

Lady Thalissa who had not been happy to see Taylor again — but who had also been under the assumption that he had been the one to involve Elric in the events of Mardi Gras. Once they cleared that up (read: once Elric had confessed to leaving Lamrian of his own free will and sort of… falling into everything after) she was rather warm and friendly; even offered to help her (step?) son learn how to better control the magic within.

And of course there was a separate clause specifically for Garrus underneath; who was far too pleased to be considered his own separate sub-category.

The Jensen Pack is up next on the ‘Get Everyone to Agree’ List and following itinerary that had been drawn up by the weary survivors of the Beau-Keyes Garden. But getting Jensen himself and his nephew—who as it turns out is some kind of were-royalty on his mother’s side and if Cal thinks they aren’t going to be talking about that at the first opportunity he’s sorely mistaken—to agree on anything is about as difficult as… well anything else they’ve done so far.

So he has a little hope at least.

“So what’s the biggest argument so far?” He asks finally; gives the parchment back to Krom to roll up for safe-keeping. He’s fallen in love with his new unofficial title as Council Scribe. They’re gonna need to buy ballpoint pens in bulk though.

Nik’s smile drips saccharine and laden with spite. “Dividin’ of authority.”

“It just ain’t natural!” Kristof resumes like someone pressed ‘play,’ “The Alpha doesn’ answer to nobody, that’s jus’ how it is. Here or in any pack you’re gonna run foul of.”

To everyone’s surprise Cal actually agrees; “It’s more of a biological thing than a code or rule. You get more than one Alpha in a room and someone’s gonna come out on top; that’s just the animal kingdom.” Then, with an obvious reluctance; “And I’m no Alpha. It’s a born thing. That’s why Kristof took over pack duties in the first place.”

Taylor looks between them. “What about Octavia?”

“Beta’s beneath my authority, but if there’s any hint’a disagreement it can get ugly.”

“Well that sounds like bull. I’ve seen her disagree with you… pretty much every time you’ve been in the same room.”

The were scratches his chin; averts his eyes with a huff. “That ain’t a pack thing. That’s a… us thing.”

Subtlety wasn’t even an attempt on Nik’s part — his hand coming up in a suggestive and hard-to-misinterpret squeezing motion. Thankfully Kristof only growls, but Taylor sees the mischief in the hunter’s eyes and knows it could have been way worse. It could have been dog-related.

“Okay; well right there you have something that goes against the norm’, right? Why can’t other things? Start off small… build up to an equal foothold in the pack.”

“I’m not returnin’ to the pack, Taylor.”

Their reactions are telling; that Kristof is the only one unsurprised by Cal’s insistence means he knew (and yet he’s still being an ass?) about his nephew’s choice to stay a lone wolf.

Not that it does anything for privacy but Taylor can’t help lowering his voice when he asks; “Are you… are you sure?”

“Sure as salt.”

“But what about Donny?”

“Donny’ll be fine. We already talked it out —”

“‘We’ who, who is ‘we?’” And the simmering pot of Katherine starts to boil. “Not you two ‘we,’ because that — that would be crazy. That would mean you two came to an agreement on something.”

But Cal just shrugs and nods — doesn’t see the danger quite yet.

“Yeah, ‘us two,’ we. Kristof’s an asshole but he’s a brother, too. Always will be.” Which is a statement that goes undisputed; the opposite actually — judging by the noise of agreement. “I get t’see him whenever, an’ even talked him into letting me back home for important stuff; holidays, y’know?”

“And what do you get out of this?” Katherine can’t help but ask. Kristof shrugs it off.

“I can’t go ‘round backin’ up on my word — ‘specially not punishments an’ the like. Opens the pack up to weakness and loners who ain’t so kind comin’ ‘round sniffin’ fer trouble. Ain’t that right pup?”

“Exactly. So we both like the idea of me pullin’ a neutral-party sorta deal. Keepin’ an eye on the city and territory and, on the off-chance, helpin’ out any stray weres. If any packs come down this way they’ll be Kristof’s problem. It’s a good arrangement… I’ll be the Garrus of the wolves.”

Heads turn as there’s an odd noise from the direction of the bar — pink tickling at Garrus’ cheeks as he looks Cal over with amusement.

“You wish you could be me, little wolf. No one’s me but me, myself, and I.”

“I jus’ mean —”

“Relax, darling. I know exactly what you meant, I just had to say it.”

From her point on the U-bend of the booth Katherine gives a shaky exhale. Pinches the bridge of her nose and mouths her way up to seventeen in silence before she can breathe without yelling at someone.

“So what you’re telling me is that you can compromise and agree on things… you’re just actively choosing to argue about the official Council bullshit.”

“Yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”

“Can’t agree with th’pup too much — he’ll get an ego.”

A long silence. Then…

“I hate both of you.”

When Octavia comes around at sunset she isn’t alone. Donny runs into his brother’s arms, because by now everyone in town knows at least some version of the truth of what went down at the Beau-Keyes House that night, and he’s that distinct mixture of angry-happy that only comes with being family.

And being family to someone so chaotically dumb that it sometimes all works out in the end, at that.

Speaking of — Taylor needs to call his mom soon. He should write that down or something.

Cal’s so excited to see his little brother again that he forgets to say goodbye. Not that they’ll hold it against him. Who wouldn’t need a drink and greasy bar food to unwind after spending all day yelling and being yelled at?

Katherine tugs on her leather jacket; takes the poster tube acting as safehouse for the new Council Accords and slings the strap across her chest.

“You’re not staying?” asks Taylor in surprise; she’s just been so around the last couple of days that it’s weird to see her heading out.

“No rest for the wicked,” though he doesn’t miss the little quirk of her smile as she says it, “but really — sun’s down so the vamps are out, and we still need de la Rosa’s terms and agreements.”

“Will Cade be there?” Though he feels stupid for asking and already knows the answer.

She humors him though. “Yeah. From the looks of it we’ll need to work in the same exception clauses for him that we have for Cal and Garrus, if not something like it.”

“Seems like we’re making a lot of those.”

“Seems like maybe we need them.”

Katherine throws an expectant look over his shoulder; Taylor turns to see Krom holding up an apologetic stone in the midst of being dragged to the back by a very eager Garrus. “You’ve got ten minutes!” She calls, and means it.

With Nik upstairs and the curtain closing behind the eager new couple that leaves Taylor and her alone for what might very well be the first time.

He’s not talked to Katherine much — not one-on-one. Makes an awkwardness hang weird between them, tilted too far to one side and sending the whole room just slightly off.

But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped for at least a small opportunity to talk to her without nosy interruption.

“Hey, if you have a sec —”

“Have you seen them since?” Apparently he wasn’t the only one eager to take advantage of their free moment.

Maybe it’s a trick of the dim bar lighting but Katherine almost looks disappointed when he shakes his head. “The last time was on Mardi Gras. They were watching the whole time, though.”

“The Fate is always watching. They’re bound to witness.”

Yeah, I remember. “You never explained… how you knew. Back at the Coven house.”

Which was on purpose if the look she gives is anything to go by. Has her ruffling her fingers through long plum waves — working out little knots like a nervous habit.

“You’re right.”

“You don’t have to — I mean yeah I’ve been dying to ask but you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Kathy.”

The nickname draws her attention, makes her look him in the eye with a weight of importance. “It’s just complicated, that’s all.”

And he wants to push the issue, literally feels it crawling up his throat itchy and large enough to choke on. But he also understands how hard it is to talk about something before you’re ready. Like, more than most.

How many minutes has it been now? A question she’s gotta be wondering too; she keeps looking behind him hoping for a large stone interruption.

“You know Ryder’s from around here?”

Taylor blinks. “I mean, I figured… he sounds pretty local.”

“And I don’t.”

“No.”

“Because I’m not,” a beat, “but this isn’t my first time in town. No that… that was a couple of years back. I came here for one reason—one person.”

Ah, got it. “The Fate.”

“Usually they don’t get themselves tangled up in stuff like this, you know? They just watch. So when you need to get in touch with them, there are certain rites and rituals to follow.” Katherine’s eyes grow wistful, she snorts; “Be glad we didn’t have to get involved in that nasty business. I’m in no rush to jump those hoops again.”

Again? “So… what did they say?” What he really wants to ask is what did you see them for but he doesn’t, they don’t know one another well enough for that. Maybe some day.

“We never spoke. I backed out right at the edge. I mean I don’t regret it; that night I ended up finding this place, getting in on the hunter crowd, meeting Ryder — actually maybe I regret that bit.”

She doesn’t, not at all. He can tell. “That night, too, was the card game I won Cadence’s job in.”

“Which worked out for you.”

“Ha, depends on who you ask.” She hikes the strap higher on her shoulder, continues tugging at her hair. “That’s not — there’s a point to this I promise. Because The Fate doesn’t exist in this world. They can’t, physically; they’re beyond us. So in order to get to them you have to…”

“You have to leave this world.”

It dawns on him then, what she’s getting at. And she knows he knows because there’s the barest hint of pity behind her guarded gaze. Knows it’s not a vulnerability she allows herself often.

Maybe this whole time he knew. Somewhere deep down, anyway. In the same place where The Fate had hidden the attack at the theatre.

Let me do you this kindness.

“I… I died that night, then.”

“I think so, yes.”

The surprising part is how not painfully difficult that is to process as a fact; a statement instead of a question instead of an ultimatum of martyrdom. He’s finding it more difficult to imagine what to say to Nik because no doubt the hunter would find a way to try and blame himself about it.

Then again… Nik very well could have died in the Garden that night. But surely even the fae couldn’t bring people back from the dead. Surely only someone with power like The Fate had that capability.

Surely.

Taylor doesn’t quite know where he went but when he comes back the look Katherine gives him isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Like she’s ready for him to collapse, shaking, the existential crisis delayed up until right at this very moment with only a half-stranger to comfort him.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Which isn’t a hard question to answer in the least. “Yeah. I mean if something was gonna happen it probably would have by now, right?”

“Jeez, way to jinx yourself.”

“Hey I never said I was the brightest bulb in the pack.”

“Ain’t that right.”

Whatever time they had been allotted by the universe to bring those revelations to light is up. Ryder rounds the staircase down, heavy boots with heavier steps on the creaking metal. And he’s one foot on the floor when the back curtain draws back to reveal Garrus buttoning his waistcoat back up whole Krom hastily tugs on his tee.

Tactless Ryder whistles at the pair; makes Kathy roll her eyes and mutter an insult under her breath, along with; “Pretty sure that’s a couple dozen health code violations, Gar.’”

“I have my own health code.”

“Pretty sure something was violated back there.”

Which is such a terrible innuendo and so terribly typical of Nik that when he goes to pull Taylor into his space by the hip he makes a show of active resistance — a protest statement that says that kind of terrible pun-making is simply not allowed.

Though it’s not as bad as the one that comes to mind at Krom’s stony expression.

The troll looks like he wants to crawl under a rock.

Taylor surrenders eventually. Allows himself to be pulled in close where he can rest his chin on the man’s duster.

“You two crazy kids sticking around?”

Back behind the bar Garrus is already back at work with bottles in hand. Easily recognizable now as the ingredients for Ivy’s favorite bubbly brew; and she should be back soon, shouldn’t she? How long can an exorcism take, even on a house as large as 937 Prytania Street?

Taylor shrugs. “I guess. Midsummer is canceled while the theatre is being fixed back up so I’m…” Gonna be broke soon, is what he is. Something to worry about at a later date.

But the look Nik gives him — there’s something else on the Nighthunter’s mind.

“Up for a little adventure?” Which is a proposition that Taylor should very much turn down were he any kind of sane person, especially given everything they’ve been through this week.

But… What the hell, sanity’s overrated.

The cemetery was supposed to be roped off or something. Reasonably it should have been. But god forbid the city take down one of their biggest tourist attractions; all the dead bodies.

“You know, I thought you meant—like—apps and sodas at a bar or something.”

Because sure, there are people who might find walking hand-in-hand in a supposedly haunted cemetery in the last waning streaks of the sherbet evening to be romantic.

Taylor just isn’t one of them.

There’s that familiar tick in the man’s scarred brow looking down at him. Not that it makes everything better… but it definitely doesn’t hurt.

“All the weird shit we’ve done by now and you thought ‘adventure’ was code for— what, a vanilla dinner date?”

“Oh, so this is a date huh?”

“I would’a thought that was obvious.”

“Nik Ryder — nothing about you is obvious.”

And that fact isn’t contested — isn’t worth being contested because they both know better. But for some reason Taylor’s chest feels a little bit lighter when he breathes again. Purely metaphorically, though, as he has to borrow his hand back for a second to adjust where his binder rides up uncomfortably in the humidity.

It’s kind of weirdly beautiful the way Nik’s hand is still held out a little from his side — waiting to be taken back up. He doesn’t let it wait long.

Okay, maybe he’s a little wrong. Maybe there’s one thing about the Nighthunter that’s obvious; but he has a sneaking suspicion it’s only that way because Nik lets it be.

Obviously this thing, them — without words or long discussion over candles and spaghetti or passionate clinging kisses in the rain or anything else years of rom-com consumption have said define a relationship — isn’t going away.

It’s like everything else they do; an impulse, a behavior felt in the gut. No filter, no holding back.

They walk the paths and rows of Lafayette and talk. A comment or question here and there; half the time they’re so focused on trying not to interrupt one another they end up walking around and around in silence. Normally for him silence is an awkward thing; silence has almost always meant something that has been said or needs to be said hangs a heavy burden. Not this time. And, if he dares to believe it, maybe not for a long time coming.

On their fifth (or is it sixth?) go-around they come to a natural stop. Nik’s head tilted up to watch the night clear over their heads — and Taylor just watches him with awe; with joy.

“Hey, Taylor?”

His name, so it must be important. “Yeah Nik?”

“Thanks for savin’ my life.”

“Any time.”

Two words that make the man stop; turn to look at him fully. Something swimming in his eyes all weird and misty but still, somehow, kinda beautiful.

“You mean that, don’t you.” The way Nik says it — it definitely isn’t a question more than it is a fact he’s always known but never been able to put into words. Like knowing the sky is blue, or that there’s more to the world around them than anyone could possibly imagine.

Taylor nods. “Of course.” Obviously, how could you ever think I’d do anything less? That I wouldn’t do more?

Then clammy hands are on his cheeks and Taylor lets himself be pulled into the kiss. Lets it come to them both as naturally as breathing and just as necessary.

Just like the last time — though under vastly different circumstances — he’s shaking tip to toe when they break. Surely there’s gotta be some supernatural way to make it so they need to kiss more than they need air. He should get on that.

He’d been asked on ‘a little adventure’ but it makes sense now that in true Ryder-fashion he had been vague on purpose. One of those ‘the adventure was inside us all along’ sorta deals. Which would have been preferable to nearly dying numerous times, apparently actually dying once, dealing with shady goblins and supernatural mobsters and finding out he wasn’t entirely human at all… right? Right. Totally right. Even if he ended up finding the father he never knew and piecing together a ragtag ‘found family’ trope and—if he was reading all of the signs correctly—getting a smokin’ hot boyfriend out of it all.

At some point probably they’ll be pulled apart. A patrol officer could catch them, here out in the open as they are, and threaten to remove them from cemetery grounds. A ghoul could arise from the ground between them intent on wreaking havoc in their now peaceful (however temporary) city. Or maybe some long-slumbering kraken will awake from the depths of the Mississippi and start eating hungover tourists.

Yeah, at some point they’ll probably be pulled apart.

But that’s okay.

They’ve faced worse.

#nightbound #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #choices nb #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #katherine nightbound #cal lowell #vera reimonenq #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #garrus #ivy #krom #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 20: The Guests of Honor

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Locals, tourists, and travelers around the world over take to the streets of New Orleans for the biggest celebration of the year. The Council comes together at the Beau-Keyes House for their annual Mardi Gras party.

[READ IT ON AO3]

March 5th. Mardi Gras.

Behind him Nik announces himself with a loud and pointed cough. Taylor doesn’t acknowledge it but he enters anyway, keeps his distance.

Kristin’s vitals beep softly on the monitors beside the bed. Both fill the space between them and somehow make it that much wider.

“Don’t go sayin’ goodbyes.” Advice from a man who sounds like he’s said far too many — or maybe too few.

But he appreciates the gesture anyway. “I’m not. Actually I was just promising to make it up to her; missing Mardi Gras I mean.”

“I swear some people treat this party like a whole damn religion.”

Taylor throws a little grin back Nik’s way.

“We’ve been planning this for years. When she wakes up she’s gonna be so mad she missed it.”

When there’s no answer he fully turns and catches the look on Nik’s face; the sharp cuts of him softer, the crinkles in his eyes smoothed away.

There are people wait their whole lives for someone to look at them like that. Walls down and gates open and any other locked barrier metaphor he can think of. Honest and unguarded and…

And the sheer fact that it doesn’t vanish the moment Nik realizes he’s been caught means a lot of things that neither of them can talk about right now because it’ll feel too much like the goodbyes they just agreed not to say.

“What?” he asks; doesn’t miss the tiniest spark in the man’s eyes at how breathless he sounds. “What?”

“You realize you said ‘when?’”

Yeah, he did.

“Sorry, I —” shaking his head, Taylor stands, “— are they all finished up downstairs?”

“They’re finishin’ the papers now, but yeah they wanted me to get ya.”

“Probably shouldn’t keep them waiting then.”

“Yeah, prob’ly.”

He said he wasn’t going to say goodbye so he doesn’t — not out loud. Hopefully that thing about coma patients hearing the world around them applies for sensations, too, because squeezing her hand before they take off is the next best thing.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Vera and Tonya are already in an argument when they arrive.

Even without the powers her Curse granted her, Lady Smoke smooths out a fresh pair of gloves along her upper arm. Must be wearing a spare of Vera’s since they probably didn’t plan on matching.

“I will not be looked down upon, Vera.”

“You’re takin’ it too seriously. Dr. Ramsey barely let you sign yourself out and that’s sayin’ something. Just stay in the damn chair Momma!”

Maybe at her full strength Tonya could have fought off the one-handed grip her daughter uses to keep her seated in the hospital wheelchair, but she certainly can’t looking like she’s a hop and a skip from unconsciousness.

But she’s a fighter. She tries.

Vera throws them a pleading look on approach. Probably why Ryder doesn’t shy away from hard heavy pats to the shoulder of the most powerful mobster in the city.

Former most powerful? He doesn’t know anymore — is sure that same uncertainty is the reason Momma Reimonenq is so adamant to leave on her own two feet.

But Ryder wants to savor it for just a little longer. “We all signed and ready to get movin’? Heard from Kathy on the way down — they’re almost there.”

Vera nods. Literally goes over Tonya’s head with the conclusion that ignoring her is better for everyone.

“The car is pullin’ around,” and with a twinge of worry in her brow, “anybody heard from Cal?”

No answer is an answer. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“We should’a went with him, swung by the hospital after.”

If Tonya takes offense to sounding less important than the werewolf she doesn’t say it. She does fall quiet, though.

“He’s a big wolf, he’ll be fine.”

Getting a firm grasp on the handles of the chair Ryder swings Tonya around — with no lack of glee at her shouted protest — and starts pushing her out to the hospital curb.

But Taylor shares the same concern. Doesn’t write Vera off as she tucks herself against his side while they follow behind.

“He’s not wrong, but Cal isn’t alone, remember?”

She snorts. “Nothin’ against him personally but I don’t think sendin’ Cadence counts. I dunno if you noticed, Tay, but the wolves and vampires don’t exactly get along.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Don’t you gimme that lip. What if we just made it worse on him?”

And he feels for her, he does. Knows her concern is coming from a place of care and, if Taylor’s reading the vibes she’s putting out right, empathy for an ‘odd one out’ like herself.

So he reminds her, “You came here for your mom and lived to tell the tale. Don’t sell Cal so short.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“We need Kristof for this to work.”

“An’ I know that! Just wonderin’ if it wouldn’t’ve been easier to tackle demons who weren’t our own.”

“Hey,” he wipes away a nonexistent tear in mock-offense, “speak for yourself. I gave mine the cliffnotes of Shakespeare.”

They’re both pretty sure the hospital wheelchairs aren’t things to be rented out, but neither of them have the guts to argue with Nik as he gives a shout of frustrated victory at maneuvering the folded frame into the trunk of their ride.

He slams the lid closed with more force than necessary; muttering to himself as they pile into the sleek black SUV.

“Here’s the address.” Ryder grunts, offers the driver a scrap of paper once part of Cade’s notes. The man doesn’t take it without shooting Lady Smoke query for approval first.

Her focus is ardent on something—maybe nothing, maybe anything but the indignity she feels—out the window but with the barest nod the engine rumbles to life, begins the agonizing process of navigating through the police-issued barricades for the forthcoming parade.

If this works, holy shit.

If it doesn’t…

He takes Nik’s hand in his and squeezes tight.

You’d think after living there for a few centuries the supernatural community — the immortal lives of the fair folk specifically — would have had some kind of effect on the culture of New Orleans.

On the contrary; the vibrant blend of ancestry that made the Big Easy so prominent had come out stronger, taken what was apparently a rather somber tradition-bred people and made them savor the beauty of a life that was not guaranteed to be forever.

Which helps give a little bit of contextual understanding to just how amazing the Beauregard-Keyes House looks?

In the entryway he catches glimpse of more than a few fae, the same citizens of Lamrian he saw carrying candle-lanterns and humming a solemn hymn of mourning mere days ago, flitting this way and that for final touches.

Lights without flame or fuel dance in soft orbs across the ceilings; colliding into one another with bright flashes of the traditional Mardi Gras purple, gold, and green. Beads hang on decorated furniture and lay spread out on tables for the taking.

There’s an entire wall of face masks ahead; ranging from just the eyes to full-on faces painted by delicate and skilled hands. No two masks are exactly the same, so bursting with personality they’re practically alive.

They pass a doorway where a young fae waves their hands exuberantly only for bright violet ivy to grow and flourish around the molding; still sparkling of morning dew that shouldn’t be there for hours let alone indoors.

If they weren’t setting an elaborate trap for a skeletal hellspawn by literally handing it everyone it wants to kill on a decorative golden platter it would be the kind of party to bring up every time someone mentions a good time.

Taylor catches a familiar laugh off to the right of the front parlor and, after a tug to Ryder’s arm and a jerk of the head, leaves him and Vera to finish explaining the machinations of said elaborate plan to Lady Smoke. Delves further and through a doorway that dusts golden glitter like falling snow. Before he can brush it off his shoulders it fades into nothing, because apparently even elves know glitter is an infectious disease.

Garrus is accustomed to working his magic at a larger bar top and it shows — doesn’t mean the magical mixologist isn’t working some serious moves on the antique bar hosting a freshly-stocked wall of selections behind him.

Ivy continues to laugh unabashedly at Krom and now Taylor can see why. His stony face lips and eyes squeezed shut and puckered up in some form of resistance.

And if that wasn’t a silly enough sight on its own the flurry of tiny fizzing dragonflies that erupt from his tusked maw when he burps definitely is.

They lift up into the air as little bubbles, popping and crackling like the top of a freshly poured cola. Collide with one another in midair to make miniature fireworks that leaves Krom staring in in horror and Ivy clapping exuberantly with cheers of “Encore, encore~!” while Garrus bows.

“Thank you, thank you,” and more sincerely to Krom, “Your never-ending patience is something I will never be worthy of, darling.”

Krom who gulps down a nearby glass of water, voice wavering. “I’m happy to—to try things out. Just nothing that flies out of me next time, please?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

And they all know what that’s code for. Of course he promises. He cares too much about the softest Stone Troll to do anything else. But points for keeping up the bravado.

Taylor doesn’t get the chance to speak before he catches Katherine’s eye where she sits with a tumbler of something honey-colored and smelling strongly of the last vestiges of a bonfire at dawn. The huntress downs her liquor like a shot and slides off her stool.

“Ryder?”

He nods to the doorway through which he’d come and gets a passing pat on the back as his only thanks. Better than nothing.

By the time he takes up her place Garrus already has a replacement soda with a speared cherry resting on the rim sliding his way.

And Taylor’s happy to take the offer; only he stops just shy of bubbling carbonation touching his lips.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Excusez-moi?” Garrus clasps a pale hand to his chest. “Are you implying I’ve somehow tampered with your beverage, sir?”

“Obviously.”

The elven man wilts dramatically and with a number of expressive hand gestures. Braces himself first against the bar then the shelves behind him while lamenting over the pain of accusation like his neck is on the line.

He’s just the usual Garrus, silly with a touch of sass. And judging by some of the looks his kindred throw in their direction they ought to try and be a bit more serious given the circumstances but no—no they won’t.

Everyone could use a genuine laugh right now. Garrus is doing more for them all than he knows.

The soft “ah-hem” of a cleared throat drags Taylor’s focus off and aside — where a familiar wave of gossamer hair lingers inside a doorway.

He may not be in a wheelchair or sport stitches or wrappings but Elric is still recovering from the attack at the theatre. Each step a little less graceful and fluid, his eyes alight only because he’s looking at Taylor.

Krom stops Garrus mid-word with an outstretched hand.

The fae lord reaches out a touch that Taylor doesn’t shy away from. The hairs on his arms stand up but that’s only because Elric exudes an aura of power even when weakened.

“May I borrow my son, Garrus?”

And though there’s considerably less mirth in the bartender’s voice when he answers— “that’s something you should be asking him” —it isn’t the same cold dismissal as before.

Elric clearly means to, but Taylor nods before he can.

The only place they can find to be alone is a closed-off office space. Deemed not worth the decoration the doors are drawn closed but remain unlocked.

A wave of Elric’s hand brings a pale pink fire whispering to life in the hearth across the room. Fills the room with a warmth Taylor can’t quite put his finger on and casts both their faces in undulating shadows.

“Thanks for pulling this off so quickly,” Taylor goes first only because he’s had it on the brain ever since the end of their call. “Guess some stereotypes aren’t just myth huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Elves and parties.”

“I do not understand.”

A sigh. Of course he doesn’t. “Nevermind — just… thanks.”

He reaches out a hand for Elric to grasp, or shake, or whatever odd greeting the fae may have he’s yet to learn.

And Elric accepts — goes one step further. Before Taylor knows what’s happening he’s in a crushing embrace, can feel the man’s sharp features on the top of his head with arms pinned at his sides.

Hugging has never been his forte. Purely a body dysphoria thing — he can’t not be conscious of the way his body feels against another.

Then he feels the way Elric is shaking like a leaf. Just this once, then.

When they part pale hands cup his cheeks. A critical eye surveying him for the smallest cut or remnants of a bruise. The relief when he finds nothing flows from Elric in waves.

“Had I the strength left to conjure a glamour I would not have abandoned you.”

Oh, he hadn’t even thought about it. “You got flattened by a giant heap of metal for me. I’d hardly call that abandonment.”

“Even with the creature gone, I should have stayed.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” and when the man recoils, “it gave you a chance to recover. To get all this going.”

He gestures to the decorated house beyond.

Elric quickly accepts that his guilt doesn’t need an excuse; good, too, because they don’t have a lot of time to spend on heart-to-hearts.

“You have dedicated yourself to this plan, then.”

It catches Taylor by surprise. “If you mean this is what we’re going with? Then yes. We all agreed it’s worth the risk.”

Well, not all. Not Tonya — she had no choice. Not Isadora or Kristof or even Elric. But Isadora had come.

Elric was here, in front of him. And he’s giving his son a look of scrutiny that feels a little too judgmental for their current predicament.

“Something has changed about you.”

“I mean, I could use a shower.”

“Not about you,” like that’s not what he just said, “but about you. A change clings to your soul.

“It says…” his eyes widen with realization, “you truly believe this can work?”

He’s not questioning Taylor’s resolve. That he somehow knows unspoken. But it makes sense… up until now (and really still, only with a little more coffee and a lot more planning) he’s been Mister Negativity, Mister Ready-to-Die.

Why wouldn’t he be? No clue, no hope, no faith — no power. And not much is situationally different, yet still.

He chooses his words carefully. “I think we have a better chance this time around.”

“Time to plan, perhaps. Yet these same numbers you gather here could do nothing to it before. Unless you’ve found the creature’s weakness.”

“Jeez, Dad, can you just trust me on this?”

The words come out of him at an unnatural angle. The way they feel habitual but definitely aren’t — that first time you fuck up and call a teacher ‘Mom’ in kindergarten.

They’ve got the same dumb look on their face, haven’t they?

Catching scaffolding with his back isn’t enough to suddenly make Taylor want to look into every other weekend and major holidays with the man but it’s certainly not nothing.

Nor is his exclamation, not kind or pleading by any means but filled with frustration sometimes only a parent can bring bursting forth.

He steps out of arms’ reach just in case.

Because Elric looks like he’s about to start weeping.

“I do. And I am sorry for not… for conveying that improperly.”

“Apology accepted.”

But the deed is done; their dynamic forever changed. For some reason the first thing Taylor thinks of is Elric taking him to sit in the nosebleeds at a football game — in full Lamrian splendor but with a Saints hat covering his ears.

And the only protest his dumb brain can come up with? That he hates football. Like nothing else is wrong with that mental image.

Focus, Taylor, focus.

“We know things now that we didn’t before. We’ll be expecting an attack this time.”

“You are certain it will come?”

“I’d stake my life on it.” Poor choice of words.

“You will do no such thing.” His expression going dark, Elric’s jaw clenches firm. “I do not regret my attempts to stay out of this battle for my people, or those to try and keep you safe by whatever means kept you from the fight.

“But I watched my son turn his back on me — a braver soul than I and in so few years. For the past I will do whatever can be done in the present.”

“Yeah yeah, heard it all before.”

But it isn’t dismissal for dismissal’s sake — says that enough in the long look they exchange.

In Lamrian he remembers with clarity; had seen standing before him a coward.

And that may very well have been true. But Taylor isn’t the only one who has a change about him, clinging to him like a thin film.

He’s trying. And that’s all any of them can do.

You know who’s not so keen on trying?

Three guesses. Go on.

“Go over it just one more time for me.”

“There’s nothing more to add, Ryder.”

“I mean I ain’t questionin’ your memory but…”

“For once I’m inclined to agree. But that’s really all there was to it.”

Beside them Cal adjusts the thawing T-Bone higher on his face. “Speak for yourself.”

Taylor snatches a peek of the swollen, purpled eye beneath it and cringes. “Are you sure there’s nothing Ivy can do?”

“Nah,” the wolf’s sigh is a little too heavy, “was my damn fault for thinkin’ I could call an Alpha’s honor into question anyway. I jus’ got caught up thinkin’ about the stakes, and seein’ Donny, and all that energy he was puttin’ out…”

Vera shushes him, manages to get a more sanitary solution to the wounds with small dabs of antibacterial paste. “This — men don’t do this, Cal. Animals do this.” And even with only one good eye the look he gives her says it all. “You know what I mean.”

“There’re some things that just gotta be settled with the wolf.”

Cadence makes a conscious effort to keep his pat to Cal’s back on the gentler side but the man still winces, sore. “Well I had every confidence in you. It was rather fascinating to watch, actually.”

“Wait wait —” all eyes on the vampire who blinks owlish; innocent, and Taylor can’t believe what he’s hearing; “— you just stood and watched?”

And though the blond splutters a number of protests, the group’s collective sympathy is lacking.

“The same man who broke a Minotaur’s spine in six diff’rent places for that same pack of wolves.”

Only maybe because he’s a vampire his face can’t blush red — no, no he’s seen it. So why then does Cadence go pale all the way to the lips?

“That was a… unique situation.”

“Relax, guys, there was nothin’ he could’a done anyway.” There’s an unspoken irony in Cal being the one to call off the dogs, but it works.

But it’s not like their group vampire hasn’t been strange from the beginning. Taylor’s still not convinced it wasn’t someone else, like an evil double, who threatened his way into Persephone’s cage to fight on Donny’s behalf. He certainly can’t imagine the man in front of him doing it — plaid sweater aside.

When Taylor catches Cade catching him stare he fumbles, doesn’t really have an excuse but thankfully doesn’t need one. Not when the entire House can hear Kristof shouting somewhere unseen, something about “Who do I gotta see about gettin’ a six pack around here?!”

By process of eliminating who Kristof wouldn’t immediately attack it’s Vera who sighs and pushes onward. Taylor would go himself but he hangs back instead — gently grabs for Cal’s arm and attention.

So much of their plan rests on every single person the Coven Elders are targeting being in one place tonight. They can’t risk Kristof leaving in a wild stampede.

But he never meant for this — for every grunted effort as Cal’s body actually puts conscious effort into healing in time.

Because it isn’t a matter of if Reimonenq the Wraith will come — but when.

“I know that look Taylor, you’re overthinkin’,” the smile Cal gives him isn’t betrayed by his pain — or maybe just stronger than it, “I knew what I was doin’ and I’d do it again if need be.”

“You mean for that to be reassuring but it’s not reassuring Cal, it’s not.”

“We all played our part.”

“Yeah, but we all didn’t have a dick of a guy play Whack-a-Mole with our faces.”

Cal throws his head back and laughs until it physically hurts. He insists he’ll be fine after a few drinks and some rest. Taylor just hopes they can afford to give him that time.

When they finally move to join the others he offers his shoulder for the wolf to prop himself up on. The pride in his eyes says no but the arm that seeps lava-like warmth through Taylor’s clothes acts otherwise.

“I wasn’t so keen on the beating,” Cal mumbles just before they reach the garden doors, “but I’d take a lot worse to go back there for longer.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. They both know. “Donny holding up okay?”

“He’s a Lowell — he’ll be just fine.”

He will be, though, that’s the implication and it makes his heart sink.

Remember what The Fate said. He’s alive — that matters.

There’s only one ward this time — the point already proven that it’s more for decoration than any real use. But trying to keep something out is the exact opposite of the point.

The noise from the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter fills in in lieu of music. Gives a boisterous abandon to the air where otherwise it hangs like a noose around their precariously balancing necks.

It’s a party worthy of dozens; crowds of people from all walks of life — Pack or gang or family it didn’t matter with the celebration at hand. Or it would if there were more than the bare essentials; than Taylor and the rest, those left making up the Council that aren’t actively trying to kill them all or, in the Mayor’s case, woefully oblivious.

Then Ryder is at his side, flask in familiar hand. He tries—and fails—to cover up when he reaches for Taylor like holding on to any part of him will get them through this unscathed.

Mostly because in the process of faking a yawn he just swallows a mouthful of liquor.

“You look like you’re overthinkin’ this.”

Of course he is. Aren’t they all? “Actually, I was just admiring how much they were able to get done. This place looks like an actual celebration.”

Because it doesn’t matter how many attendees the party is worthy of. All that matters is the one they need to show up.

Nik’s eyes sweep the garden with a satisfied nod. “Definitely the most gussied-up trap I’ve ever taken part in. You’ve got a real eye for this, Rook.”

“Does that mean if I decide to go into the oddly specific party-slash-hellspawn-trap planning business you’ll join me?”

“There’s prob’ly better money in it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They laugh. They lock eyes.

They both know it would be the perfect moment if absolutely everything about it was different.

Taylor inhales to keep from smelling the whiskey on his breath as Nik leans forward — places a firm kiss right at his hairline.

Okay… maybe not everything needs to be different.

“Last chance to veto the plan.”

He murmurs it into the sweat and dirt on the man’s skin; knows that with all they’ve rushed to put together in the final hours of the final days he can’t possibly smell any better.

It takes Nik a pause to respond; to keep his tone steady and certain and rock-solid. One of them has to be.

“Do you want me to?”

“Only if you have a better one.”

And they both know this plan is it. The last chance, the only thing they have left up their collective sleeves. If it doesn’t work…

If it doesn’t work then at least Taylor knows he did his best, and that his last moments were ones like this.

“We could always make a run for it,” but before he can pull back, before he can tell Nik it isn’t a funny joke, he’s held closer; almost painfully so, “jus’ you an’ me on the open road. Doubt they’d come after us once we’re clear of here… An’ yeah, means we could never come back but I ain’t exactly Mister ‘Community Ties.’”

“You’d really leave our friends behind?”

“Fine, they can come too.”

“Are we all piled on top of your motorcycle in this scenario?”

“Nah… maybe a trailer or somethin’. I know a couple of lifers who live at RV outposts off the beaten path.”

It isn’t the idea of leaving New Orleans—the Council—the whole shadow community to their fates that’s the appeal. The appeal is a happier time; a better way. Even if it’s rough and a little uncomfortable and quickly pushing aside thoughts of Wolfman Cal and an RV that never doesn’t smell like wet dog… it would be their life. One they carved for themselves.

No intervention (or lack thereof) from higher powers to speak of.

“All right—you’ve convinced me. Let’s scram.” Taylor teases. Neither of them moves an inch.

Not even when they start to squeeze one another so hard it hurts.

“Should leave before anyone notices.”

“Probably.”

The two men part. Because he’s not meant to notice the single wet streak down Nik’s cheek, he doesn’t.

Calloused fingertips tickle the barely-there hair on his chin; coax Taylor to lift his head where he catches the last light in the Nighthunter’s eyes before a single bottle rocket goes off behind him and showers his dark head in a halo.

“This is a good plan, Rook. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“That’s because you’re not used to having a plan.”

“You… well you ain’t wrong.”

Eventually the fireworks begin to go off near the Mississippi — sparkling showers a brighter white than the moon itself, dazzling configurations in spirals and spheres and one memorable golden fleur de lis — and there’s a shift to the air within the garden walls.

It’s nearly midnight.

It’s time.

“Is everyone gathered?” asks Elric of his son, suddenly at his side — joining him in looking to the sky to admire human handiwork.

He knows the answer but quadruple-checks anyway. His heart picks up a few beats with every familiar face taken in.

Bring everyone together. Draw the Elders out of hiding.

Kristof. Elric. Isadora. The Coven’s final obstacles.

Do whatever it takes to force their hands; to bring the bloodwraith Derek Reimonenq down on them like a final reckoning.

Cadence. Tonya. The bloodwraith’s personal vendetta.

And hope this works.

Just there, behind Vera’s forced smile under the glowing apples of light on a garden tree — a face half-hidden in shadow. A young man, probably around Taylor’s age; burdened with the knowledge of how this will end and only able to stand witness.

He looks away from The Fate and finds a little bit of that hope he needs so desperately in the way Elric looks at him with pride.

“Take it down.”

This time Lord Elric takes the duty on his own shoulders rather than those of his subjects. Raises his hands high to the dark sky and begins to unravel the threads of his strongest wards.

Fresh night air prickles gooseflesh down his arms. They are coming.

Then the earth is warm beneath his shoes. The smell of fresh blossoms and fae-ripened fruits replaced with the embers of an all-consuming inferno.

They’re here.

Across the garden Taylor and Elder Daniels lock eyes and are held, bound, by something more than magic. Something that permeates the material world around them and isn’t easily defined.

But if he had to pick he would only need one word: conviction.

He thrusts his soda can out at her in toast. Gathers up all of his voice and shouts with a face-splitting grin.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 17: The Show Must Go On

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Because tomorrow is no longer guaranteed the gang decides to spend a night at the theatre. In which Cal despises Shakespeare, Garrus and Krom go on an unofficial first date, and Taylor confronts his father.

[READ IT ON AO3]

He’s honestly surprised the director even bothers reaching out to him.

“Given everything your cousin has told me about the problems you have going on right now, I’m sure this isn’t really a surprise. I’ve taken the liberty of filing a personal leave of absence for you.” And Taylor just knows that was the happiest day of Antoni’s life…

“Even though you can’t be in the show, though, you’re still welcome to come Sunday. Hoping that, obviously, things have cleared up on your end by then. Just text me your head count before noon day-of, okay?”

It’s the first real and true good thing to happen without immediate consequence so far. And of course he tries to blow it off, tries to tell everyone he has absolutely no plans to put anyone else at risk just for the selfish sake of seeing a play he’s worked on for months and doesn’t even get to be in.

Not that anyone lets him finish before they straight-up tell him he’s wrong, he’s going, and if all hell breaks loose then they’ll deal with it when it happens.

“But the wards —”

“The wards have proven themselves useless,” Garrus interrupts with no small level of frustration; accepting the vulnerability of his sanctuary hasn’t been easy on the man, “we’re just as exposed here as you would be there. And I refuse to cower in fear. If they were going to attack they would have by now — don’t stop living your life because of what might happen.”

Surprisingly, too, Katherine makes a good point; “We might actually be safer surrounded by all those mundanes. A high fatality rate isn’t what the Elders are after, that much is certain.”

It’s about the only thing any of them are certain of.

So there’s really no way around it.

Sunday morning he tries to take a head count. Doesn’t argue when Vera, despite the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes, insists that of course she wants to come. She doesn’t say it but its obvious she could use time away from the hospital and her mother’s bedside.

Nik’s phone vibrates on the table and Taylor glances just because he’s nearby. On really good timing the man chooses then to wander out from the bedroom — rubbing his hair vigorously with his towel.

“Kathy said she and Cade are down if we don’t mind.” One look and Taylor regrets it so bad. He’s not certain, but there’s absolutely no way all of his shirts have miraculously shrunk, right?

He totally has to buy them just shy of too tight.

Not that Taylor’s complaining. Nope. No complaining here.

Ryder gives a noncommittal grunt and shrug as he passes. “Your shindig, your choice.”

“I mean they’re our friends, so…”

There’s a pause; a lag in the matrix if you will, between when Nik stops in front of the fridge and actually opens it. Keeps his back turned as he replies, “Then the more the merrier.”

He doesn’t need to be part fae to know what that’s about — but it doesn’t hurt.

The concept of friends is plural and consistent. And just as weird for him as it is for the loner Nik is accustomed to being.

Yesterday was hard and heavy.

Today is no better from a cosmic point of view.

But its softer around the edges; the difference between being stabbed with a wicked sharp dagger and being punched in the face.

Nik all but flops down on the couch beside him; pushes the open guide on reading and interpreting tarot that Taylor’s been pouring over away with a socked foot.

“I was reading that.”

“Oops.” The only unapologetic apology he’s getting, too, so he takes it.

Its been nearly twenty-four hours since his emotional breakdown and in that time he’s learned more about Ryder — and vice versa — than would have been shared on five, six dates tops. Things that wouldn’t come up without specific and out-of-left-field context, too.

Like the fact that Nik is a cheap-ass (this he knew) who has a serious case of the moonlight munchies — two things that mix about as well as oil and water. So it makes sense now why half of the fridge’s sparse contents are signature drink and cocktail add-ons.

Does it justify the fact that a fully grown man is sitting very close to him popping green olives like pieces of candy? Not in the fucking slightest.

But he knows what’s going to happen the second Nik sees his disgust — tries his best to turn away before he’s caught. Only he’s not quick enough and its too late.

“Want one?” Nik asks even though he knows the answer.

He doesn’t have time to deflect because the man picks one up and tosses it — doubles over in laughter when it bounces off Taylor’s cheek, falls to the floor, and rolls under the nearest chair to die alone.

“What are you,” he fake-gags and wipes his cheek angrily, “twelve years old?”

His glare very nearly breaks under the sheer audacity of Ryder’s pouting face. Only nearly because there’s no fucking way he’s kissing that offensive mouth no matter how closely the man leans in. “Aw c’mon Rook — jus’ one kiss!”

“Get away from me! Ew!”

“You know you like me~”

“Wrong! Incorrect! You disgust me!”

And of course they’re joking but he’s maybe a little too loud in his protests. Earns himself a haughty snort and a glare directed at his feet of all things.

“You walk around barefoot and I’m the disgusting one.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do — so I win.”

Despite the fact that they had spent the previous hours getting to know not only (truly repulsive) snacking habits but also (much less repulsive, like the opposite of repulsive actually) one another’s mouths, Nik follows the same pattern each time. Roams his eyes over every inch of Taylor’s face like he’s gung-ho on taking the test in his sleep — drags a fingernail feather-light over the scruff on his jawline.

Their first time hadn’t been enough to ward him away and for that Taylor’s pretty fucking grateful. But it left a mark on him. No doubt its the reason why he always takes five whole agonizing seconds between the start and the follow-through.

Like he’s giving Taylor time to pull back; to reject him without consequence.

Maybe one day they’ll laugh about it. A silly habit no longer necessary. Because there’s always a breath hidden in the meeting of mouths that tastes of bitter relief.

Nik is relieved — not once, or twice, but every single time.

Which is more than a little tragic when he gives it a deep thought. He tries not to — really, he does.

Its easy not to think about anything at all when they’re kissing.

So that’s something.

Taylor knows that glamours serve a specific purpose; to disguise the average not-human supernatural person among the average yes-human person.

He’s even come to terms with how easily they fade into the background now. How he can scan a crowd and catch a glimpse of hooves in place of boots or a tail whipping its way behind someone trying to pass by. He considers his largest achievement to be not jumping ten feet in the air at the difficult-to-describe sight of ghosts possessing glamoured bodies.

But he can know and process all of these things and still be almost alarmingly paranoid about the trio of Krom, Garrus, and Ivy waiting in line behind them, right?

Nik grabs his head before he can look back for the umpteenth time; turns it back forward with a grunt. “The only one looking weird here is you, Rook. Everyone else sees regular folk.”

And he knows that, he does. But… “Do you ever stop worrying about it, like, slipping or something?”

“Not my problem if it does.”

“Well yeah, but…” The line shuffles forward and he trails off. Probably better not to give those particular anxieties a life of their own by voicing them aloud.

He doesn’t have to anyway, apparently. Since Taylor finds himself pulled against Nik’s side, feels warm breath tickle in his ear.

“Don’t worry. You still look completely human.”

“For now.”

The performer playing Puck stands in half-costume at the front of the line with a clipboard in hand. He has a whole two-point-five seconds to remember her name — Dana? Debbie? D-something. D-something… fuck there are too many D-something names! — before its their turn to enter the theatre.

Daphne! It comes to him like a holy revelation as she starts to go through the motions — only to notice the name and double-take in surprise.

“Hey Hunter, how’s it going?” Her small-talk is strained but polite. They’ve run lines together and he can vaguely recall being educated on her literal herd of mini dachshunds once, but whatever his ‘cousins’ gave by way of excuse for him pulling out of the show is enough to make her sheepish.

He makes a mental note to corner Garrus for the full story after the show. Especially since ‘cousin’ is a more-or-less accurate term these days.

“Uh, you know,” a one-shouldered shrug, “hanging in there. You excited?”

To her credit as an actress she checks off each body accompanying him, all eight of them, without batting an eye.

“Totally. I’m just glad the actual opening night ain’t until Mardi Gras is over, you know?”

“Director didn’t let you work the beads into your improv then I take it?”

They share a laugh. She waves them inside.

Only when they’re around a corner does Taylor let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Vera gives him a nudge. “You okay?”

“Yeah — was it just me or was that…”

Cal pokes his head in between them. “Awkward as hell? No—it wasn’t just you.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

In less than a week he’s forgotten how to, well, be human. Socialize with humans, talk casually with humans. Its unnerving — not only that but it serves to remind him by the way the Coven and their pet skeleton assassin are still out there.

None of this is even close to being over and he’s already forgotten small talk?

What else might be lost along the way?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ too much about something.”

Taylor’s smile is strained and not enough to ease Nik’s doubts. What did he expect though; that one soulful look from those fathomless eyes, or a touch that sends shivers down his spine, or one of those disarmingly sincere smiles is all it would take to make him forget his worries completely?

If only it were that simple. Not that he’s turning any of those things down — no no, he’s free to keep trying as many times as he’d like.

Its a half-full house on purpose; one full run in front of a crowd before a week of changes to make the final thing as smooth as possible.

And it was supposed to be Taylor’s time to shine; a performance of understudies. He’s told himself there will be other opportunities, that this is for the best given what’s going on. He wanted to come to support his fellow actors — to celebrate in all the work they’ve done over the last few months.

He didn’t think it would be that hard to watch. Then the space goes dark and silence falls in a warm velveteen hush.

The trio of Theseus, Hippolyta, and Philostrate take the stage — a different blocking than what they used at his last rehearsal.

The heels of his palms are pressed hard to stop his tears before Theseus even opens his mouth.

To his left Vera lets out a soft noise; both sad and comforting as her tentative hand on his shoulder turns into slow circular motions on his back. And he knows the heat-leeching palm behind him is Cal. Cal didn’t even want to come — had made it very clear there was once a school play, a bad batch of cafeteria vegetables, and a lifelong aversion to Shakespeare whose details would never again see the light of day. But there he is giving comfort where he can. He’s probably glad for something else to focus on than the stage but he knows Cal by now — knows he does nothing without meaning to do it.

Just when Taylor’s sure he’s going to have to make a mad dash for the doors, however, a familiar hand slides into his. Nik’s focus is still intent on the scene unfolding but he squeezes his fingers and doesn’t seem to care about the tears between their palms.

He’s supposed to be up on that stage. He’s supposed to be sweating under the heat of the lights and praying to the thespian gods that the tape on his mic holds fast. He’s supposed to be giving the performance of his life to an audience of friends and loved ones knowing Kristin was back in New York, that his mother couldn’t make it, and that there was no one watching that was there just for him.

Instead he’s here in the crowd. Instead he’s surrounded by friendship’s concern and holding the hand of the guy who seems to be making it a habit of standing in between him and certain death.

Instead he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

When the lights slide back on for intermission Cadence whirls around in his seat, arm thrown over the back, to practically barrage Krom with questions about artistic representation, choices made and things changed.

It feels a little bit like being back in a college classroom. Not the first time Cade has that effect on people.

“I — I really only helped with small stuff,” the stone troll stammers his protests, “heavy lifting or working on things normal people couldn’t reach.”

“But you’re a writer are you not?”

“An amateur at best…”

But the vampire isn’t having it. “Nonsense, I’ve caught snippets of your work. I only mean —”

“Ugh, just humor the man will you?” Katherine groans, rolls her head back on her own seat with a lighthearted glare between the two.

Nik pulls Taylor’s attention away from their talk with an arm around his shoulder. “How’s it so far? On the other side of the stage.”

“They changed a few things —” — more than a few, and more to do with Oberon than any other character so three guesses who made that call — “— but I honestly just keep counting their steps for the blocking.”

“Nerd,” scoffs the man, and Taylor isn’t exactly going to deny it.

Actually, since they have a second…

Last he knew, being borderline psychic was his thing, not Ryder’s. But Nik’s moved his legs before Taylor even stands and makes him backtrack real quick on that.

“I figured you’d wanna go say hey to them, or whatever,” and though that’s the spoken explanation Taylor can’t stop himself from feeling the real intention behind it.

He just cares.

He ducks his head to hide a flushed smile; murmurs “thanks” and lets his lips linger at the corner of Nik’s mouth as he shimmies into the aisle.

Only when he’s at the door does it occur to him that this thing between them is a recent one, and they’ve not mentioned things like public affection. But judging by the look he throws over his shoulder — catches Ivy hitting the man on the arm repeatedly and the bewildered grin on her undead face?

Its just another thing to tease him over.

Its standard stuff; the small lines by the bathrooms, crew members in their all-black ensembles bustling this and that around. All things he’s familiar with — that he doesn’t bat an eye at.

Then he spares a glance — less than that, actually, calling it a glance is somehow generous — down one of the hallways leading to further seating. The lights are off, the doors no doubt locked. Makes sense for an audience this size.

He doesn’t know why he does. Only knows both suddenly and all at once who he’ll see in the shadows beyond.

Taylor wants so badly to just ignore it. To reach out and knock on the doors to the maze of back rooms and do exactly what he planned on; congratulating his fellow performers.

But he doesn’t.

By now Taylor’s helped Garrus enough in the bottomless pit he calls a storage room to know that fae folk don’t ‘glow.’ They just always look like they do.

Elric, too, looks like he snatched a few moonbeams for himself on his way inside.

The shadows don’t retreat from him but they are withered by his presence; by the aura of him. Had he looked like that in Lamrian, as natural as light itself? Or was he witnessing yet another new facet to his senses brought on by interference of the man who really shouldn’t be here.

When Taylor opens his mouth to speak nothing comes out; a dozen questions all fighting to leap from the tip of his tongue and giving him pause.

Finally he settles on something more akin to an accusation.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t mean to wound the fae Lord — but also won’t deny that the recoil of remorse he gets in response isn’t a teeny bit satisfying.

“No, I should not.”

“Glad we agree.” Of course he wants to ask why are you here but he shouldn’t have to.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t. “I caught whispers of this event within your mind. Lines from a script, a dedication — a pride. I wished to see what it truly was. Living Memories are shaped by the person to whom the memories belong.”

And here he had thought he’d be spared of a headache tonight, of all nights.

“I — what I — there’s so much to unpack there,” and nothing amused in his dry laugh either, “so we’ll start with the fact that I didn’t do a—a Living Memory-thing. I don’t even know how.”

“To accept Memories is to offer up your own.”

“Gee, that would have been nice to know.”

“Do not blame yourself —”

“Oh, I’m not. No worries there.”

“I should have explained it to you. Not then; not in such dire times.”

“Then when?”

“Long before now.” Elric’s eyes are like diamonds; diamonds twisted into sharp, construction-grade drills trying to puncture holes straight through him. The intensity is unnerving if he’s being honest.

About as unnerving as getting what he’s pretty sure is a ‘More Proactive Parent’ apology from this guy he literally just met the other night. Not even a guy — a fae.

Elric reaches out as if to touch his hand. The movement is enough — breaks Taylor from his little trance so he can pull back. Pale fingers instead close around air and grieve their mistake.

“I did not like the way things were left in Lamrian, Taylor.”

Taylor — like he has any right to say the name he chose all on his own.

“That’s your problem. But yeah, I can see how refusing to help your own son to save yourself might leave a bad taste in your mouth.”

It’s a very nice burn, high five kind of moment right up until the shadows creep up onto the fae’s expression. “I have the safety of an entire community to put first. Forgive me for prioritizing my life’s work and the many lives under my care over the child who only seems to acknowledge our connection when it suits his insults.”

Damn… nice burn… high five…

“Are you, Taylor?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Am I what?”

“Are you acknowledging me as your…?” He leaves it hanging there, juicy bait in murky waters. And Taylor isn’t starving — not quite yet — but he’s definitely not full either.

He glances back to the theatre atrium.

The background noise is quieter down here but soon enough everyone will be heading back to their seats. No doubt the curtain won’t even be fully opened before Nik is bounding out the doors to find him.

“Look, Lord Elric…”

Who acts like the title brings him pain; “Please, call me —”

“— I’m not calling you Dad; or Pop, Father, or any variation thereof —”

“If you would listen as often as you speak. I would ask you to call me Elric.”

Even that feels like a boundary they shouldn’t cross. What good is to come of being friendly, getting to know one another — especially when he’s facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?

On the other hand, whispers a voice in the back of his head, what’s the harm in getting to know your actual father — especially facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?

First, how rude can you be? Second, nobody asked you, rude little voice.

But after several dragging moments of internal arguing the voice ends up winning. Still rude though.

“What do you want out of this, Elric? What did you hope to gain from coming here?”

He looks almost affronted. “I wished to… connect with you. You are… my child. A miracle I had not even believed let alone known of.”

My child. Two simple words that ring in his ears unpleasantly.

“My plate’s full enough. I don’t know if I have room for ‘connecting.’”

“Would it not be worth trying?”

Taylor throws his hands up in exasperation. “Maybe! Fuck — maybe… maybe if I wasn’t so scared of dying. Or if I thought I had the time. But whatever the Coven Elders are planning it’s —”

Elric’s eyes widen, but that isn’t what cuts him off. Every hair on his body stands up at the same time. Without a chill, without a touch. It’s a feeling; powerful and consuming and coming from the fae Lord.

“Oh right,” because Elric refused to help and they’d gone to the Elders and that was that, “you don’t know. Yeah, the Coven’s the one who summoned the wraith. It’s a whole thing — I don’t have the time to go into it and I kinda don’t even want to because tonight was supposed to be one last attempt at normal but joke’s on me I guess.”

“You will make the time.”

He’d consider going at him for trying to use what he probably thinks is a tone of fatherly authority on Taylor — if it wasn’t so strikingly familiar. Commanding the wisdom and strength of his years both gone and yet to come. It demands respect, to be heard and the weight of every word understood.

Its the Elric he’d met for the first time in the Beau-Keyes Garden, and its kind of a relief.

Would have been useful yesterday, though.

He sums the encounter up as best he can; keeps throwing looks back over his shoulder as a sort of passive-aggressive-meets-non-confrontational way of saying he’s being held up.

And yes, logically he should be happy Elric is changing his tune no matter the reason. But he’s petty and spiteful and hey, nobody’s perfect.

By the time Taylor finishes Elric is already deep in thought — strings of thought becoming ropes, knots; an intricate web displayed across his entire person with just a look.

Another one of those looks he’s seen in the mirror, actually.

But they’re just thoughts. Not actions. He doesn’t need to be a little psychic to know that.

“No doubt my breath would be a wasted one were I to ask you to return to Lamrian with me.”

Elric means well — but that doesn’t make it any better.

“What, like — leave my friends behind to die and abandon the entire community that doesn’t even know what’s coming for it?”

He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t have to. “And—And what would I do,” continues Taylor, “just hang out with you and your wife, maybe do something productive like learn the pan flute or whatever?”

“This is not a matter to make light of.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t!” Fuck it, he’s shouting and doesn’t care who hears now. “I can’t believe you. Cowering in safety alone is one thing but to try and drag me down with you? That’s messed up; you’re messed up.”

“You do not know of what you speak — of the centuries our kind spend trying to conceive.”

“I’m not one of you.”

“You are, denying it hurts only yourself. By all accounts you are a miracle, Taylor. But children among the fair folk are few and far between. So for you to stand there — to twist my words as though they mean nothing…”

It’s a little hard to keep his composure when Elric’s voice cracks. It doesn’t make any of it okay — not by a long shot — but there’s a wrongness to that tone normally even and cultured sounding choked with emotion.

He even tries to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. “I have seen the cost of bravery. And to see you so passionate — so determined to fight this battle that I am certain was never meant to be yours. It ensnares me in a way you cannot yet understand. Pride overtakes me, yet I am made immobile.

“I have seen enough in my life to know when fighting is parallel to dying. No matter how brief the battle or noble the purpose there are some forces that cannot be overcome.”

He takes Taylor’s hand. Clammy and cold and he tries to hide it but Taylor knows the effects of a panic attack from personal experience that no matter how refined the otherworldly creature is you can’t always hide the tremors in your fingertips.

Like before he feels a tug in his gut. Something hooking into his center of gravity and puling him, or his essence, closer.

Hears the fae clear in his mind; terrified, heartbroken, too much.

I could not bear the sight of you among the casualties. Do not ask it of me. I beg of you.

Over-thinking about the heartbreak in every word, about the things he can’t possibly understand that allow Elric to feel so much and so hard for a person he doesn’t know — it’s not a luxury Taylor can afford right now. And not just because the emotional depth it requires might very well bring him to tears again.

So he squeezes that pale grip tight, the only solidarity he allows himself to muster, then lets go.

“I can’t.”

“Taylor —”

“No, really Elric, I can’t.” He steps back; creates distance between them both physically and on a deeper level. “I wasn’t supposed to be a part of this — I wasn’t. I’m only being targeted because of you; because I’m your son. You know what the Elders called me? They called me an ‘unseen complication.’ And up until right now it’s really bugged me. By all accounts I’ve not made anything complicated except for the lives of my friends.

“But maybe I’m not done yet, you know? Maybe there’s more for me to do. Probably not, let’s be real, but I have to try. Nik— Nik is trying, and he’s never done that before. Kathy and Cade don’t have any stake in this but they keep trying because they’re good people. Cal wants to make this city safer for his brother and Vera… she could have run back to New York at any time but she hasn’t.

“I’m not gonna stand here and say I fully understand what’s going on. But that doesn’t mean I should cut and run. I think its because I don’t know jack-shit that I can do the most good. Or, you know, at least try to.”

He falters at the end; never one to finish strongly in situations like these. Would he like for Elric to stay, to try like the rest and do some good — of course.

But any part of him left hesitant about his involvement is gone now. So he can thank the fae for that at the very least.

Wow, is this what emotional growth feels like? That warm feeling in his chest spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes, the pride in his actions, the sense of accomplishment however small?

Kristin is going to be so proud of him when she wakes up.

He doesn’t realize he’s waiting for Elric to respond until he inhales deeply. Looks Taylor over with those same eyes somehow changed. Like he’s really seeing him for the first time.

“You are brave — braver than most.”

“No I’m really not. But I’m scared enough to want to do something about it.”

“Very well. Whatever you wish to call it… the quality is an admirable one.”

“You should try it out sometime.”

“Perhaps you can show me how, one day.” But not this day.

That’s it then. The arguing, the impassioned speeches, all of it and Elric still plans on hiding.

Fine. He’s done trying to make the man see reason.

“I’m gonna get back to the show — my company’s worked hard for this and even though I’m not up there, I deserve the chance to see it through.”

Just as resigned as he had been in Lamrian, Elric closes himself off when he tucks his clasped hands in his sleeves. Beautiful embroidery becoming his wall against the world.

Against the terrible things about to happen.

“You will find no time has passed,” he says to Taylor’s surprise, “I had hoped you would return with me. The chance to say farewell to your companions was the least I could offer.”

Implications aside… “Thanks, I guess. I’ll see you around, Elric.”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy.”

He’s halfway down the hall when a definite something comes over him. Is there such a thing as too much emotional growth? It tastes a little bit like he’s downed a shot of vinegar.

It makes him turn back; it knows the other man is still there — watching.

“You risked your life coming here — in person.”

Elric nods. “Yes.”

“All the things you’re staying out of the fight for; your people, Thalissa — if the bloodwraith showed up…”

“I knew the risk.”

“But it’s temporary, so that makes it okay.”

“What it does it make it a risk worth taking.”

“There it is then…” and Taylor almost can’t believe he’s saying this, but — “Come on, there’s a few empty seats in front of us. You can take one of those.”

Maybe he’s spent enough time in the fae’s presence now to understand and see every emotion he expresses. Small flickers and ticks in facial features — and that’s being generous.

Confusion. Contemplation. Understanding. Surprise.

And more than a little heartbreak.

“The longer I stay here the greater the chance of discovery by the creature.”

“Yeah, well you’ve been here a pretty long time already. What’s an extra hour or two?”

“The difference between life and death.”

“A fair point. Counter— you wanted to spend time together, Pop.” He pops his lips on the word. And funnily enough that seems to be what does the job.

There was no reason to doubt Elric’s truthfulness but he’s still relieved when they walk back into the theatre and the curtains are still drawn.

It would be helpful if someone turned around to see them; if they warned the others. But unfortunately (for Garrus) it’s a complete surprise when they greet his return… with company.

“Look who I found at the concession stand.” Taylor throws his arm around Elric’s shoulder and squeezes for the humor of it. Shit he probably should have asked if the man had a glamour.

Well, no one’s staring or screaming yet, so probably a good sign.

The general aura of confusion is broken by Garrus who, impossibly enough, looks more pale than usual. Beside him Krom is halfway reaching out; as if to shield his unspoken crush from Elric’s unseen wrath.

“Hey there, Rook,” Nik’s look of ‘what the literal?’ doesn’t stray from the fae’s ethereal glow, “thought you were goin’ backstage.”

Because this was his fault? “Oh, I was. But then I got to thinking — it’s a friends and family viewing so, you know, why not call my estranged father Elrond?”

“Elric.”

Sigh. “I know. It’s a joke.”

Elric nods. “Ah, I see.” No he doesn’t, but that’s not the point. Actually that he doesn’t is what makes it a little bit funnier.

But Taylor realizes quickly that he’s made a mistake in just assuming this would be okay. Garrus has never been quiet for this long and it makes everyone a little on edge. What happens when the man who always has something to say falls silent?

“You look well, Gallus.”

Garrus flinches violently at the name; at Elric’s attempt to cut through the tension. “That isn’t my name and you know it.”

“It was once.”

“Not anymore.” Garrus looks to Krom in surprise. Its the most intimidating the gentle giant has ever sounded. Though rage literally flickers as flames in Ivy’s cursed eyes she manages to look at him with pride.

It seems Taylor isn’t the only one who’s grown as a person tonight, though. As the discomfort rises to an almost stifling level the Lord bows his head, speaks somber and its enough to make everyone take a breath.

“I wish not to intrude on your time, Garrus,” Garrus who reaches absently for something to ground him and finds it in Krom’s hand clasping his, “only to take what precious moments my child allows me to possess.”

Way to push the blame on Taylor.

Taylor who struggles for something to say; an apology, a get out of here, anything. “I didn’t — I mean I — Garrus if —”

He raises a hand and Taylor’s glad for the opportunity to bite his tongue. Finds relief in the fact that Garrus still manages a smile his way.

“You couldn’t know. And it doesn’t bother me, honestly —” — especially not when he has Krom’s hand to squeeze where the seats separate their thighs — “— as long as my old landlord respects his boundaries, and doesn’t have an ulterior motive.”

“I do not.”

“Pinky swear?”

Elric doesn’t understand and it shows; some kind of power move Garrus relishes in by grinning at the laughter that ripples through them and breaks the tension.

The room grows dark as the company prepares to resume. Taylor awkwardly (and if he’s honest, uncomfortably) ushers Elric into the seat parallel to his a row forward. Close enough to count as ‘spending time together’ while also glad to be a buffer between his fae father and Garrus.

Velvet curtains pull apart with a flourish. Just before the cast begins Taylor manages to lean back and give a real apology to his friend.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked first.” He whispers.

Garrus places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Really, darling, no big deal here.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky.”

He can’t remember the last time he made any promises so important as pinky promises. But he and Garrus link little fingers and exchange small smiles just in time for Titania to begin her lines.

With a deep breath of courage and only after finding Nik’s hand in the dark he leans again, forward this time, and directs Elric’s attention to the performance.

“Okay, so quick recap. There are four lovers, right, Helena who loves Demetrius, who loves Hermia, who loves Lysander, but the thing is…”

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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 13: What Was Given Can Be Taken Away

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

After her encounter with the bloodwraith leaves Lady Smoke without her cursed touch, Katherine sets out to organize a meeting with the only power in the city left uninterrogated: the Garden Coven. Taylor takes advantage of their time left hanging to finally visit Kristin’s hospital bed. There he finds a familiar face and finally gets an outsider’s perspective on the weirdness his life has become.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“No wonder you’re a dead name in this town, Ryder. Can’t even follow simple orders. Didn’t I tell you to keep Vera away from here?”

“Harsh, Tonya — harsh.”

Vera shoves the Nighthunter aside and almost falls on her knees at her mother’s bedside. Apparently the bad blood that parted them ran a little thinner than the blood they shared.

He recognizes that face — remembers a similar look in his mother’s eyes when she was watching him from his own hospital bedside. Kind of understands the way Tonya Reimonenq tries to look at anything but her daughter.

“As if I wasn’t gonna come see you?” Vera can’t help but sound a little frustrated; a little broken. Takes in the thin black spiderwebbing of her veins they’ve all become a little too familiar with at this point. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“There’s nothin’ lucky about this, Vera.”

Her voice is thick with anger. It’s enough to pull her daughter out of her familial grief. Where she reaches up and Taylor helps her back to standing. Still she holds on to the railing of Tonya’s bed with a hard grip.

She looks her mother over head to toe. Flinches as she takes in the burn unit casts on her hands and forearms. The way her hair is no longer coiffed with a salt-and-pepper streak of refinement but now, instead, lays in disarray over the thin hospital pillows.

Just as her ID band says, the woman lying in bed is Tonya Reimonenq, nothing more and nothing less. Lady Smoke is no more than what her name implies — smoke on the wind.

Vera swallows down something else, maybe some fondness or affectionate word. Instead just lets her hand hover over the nearest cast-bound hand with hesitation.

“Kathy said you…” but the words get lost somewhere between her head and her mouth and she has to try again, “that the… the thing, it…”

Even when Tonya physically turns her head away there’s no hiding it. Not in the monitors that start to beep louder on the other side of her, not in the numbers that jump erratically. Not in the lights overhead — unflattering things to everyone, really — that illuminate the shame in her dark eyes.

“I can’t feel it anymore.”

“Feel what?”

“The connection, baby girl,” and there’s something a little manic in the way she looks at her daughter then, the way she reaches out but can’t touch, “the connection to our birthright. Always there and then…”

The words come out of Taylor unbidden; “Then gone like smoke.”

A tear falls down Tonya’s cheek. Dampens the pillowcase where it lands. Her vitals have slowed down now but the damage is done.

Expensive footsteps stop in the doorway brisk enough to turn their heads. To where a crisp and starched man fusses with a dark trench coat, practically wrenches it off of his shoulders and into the arms of an attendant passing in the hall.

His icy eyes land first on Tonya in bed and then sweep her guests — nothing short of critical, dismissive; borderline angry.

“Money can buy you a good room and unlimited care, Reimonenq, but it won’t buy you out of hospital rules.” He snaps, takes the white doctor’s coat from a different attendant as its given to him.

Along with it a laminated badge: DIAGNOSTIC STAFF, TULANE MEDICAL CENTER. With AUTHORIZED VISITOR on a bright red sticker beneath it.

The doctor pushes through them carelessly — is already fixated on the clipboard of Tonya’s information when he growls out “Anyone who isn’t family get the hell out of my sight before I call security,” and he definitely isn’t kidding.

“Good to see you again, Doctor Ramsey.”

He only looks up at his patient to see the condition of her arms and their bandages. “It isn’t a sentiment shared.”

Because they have no desire to stay and see what the doctor’s wrath looks like, since it sounds violent enough, Taylor and Nik make their way out. Stop only when Vera turns hot on their heels.

“You should stay with her — you know, never know what could happen.” Nik mutters under his breath. He’s so unaccustomed to showing concern that it sounds almost sarcastic for a moment. “I just mean —”

“I know what you mean. But I ain’t doin’ any good standin’ here.”

Taylor reaches and their hands meet between one another. He squeezes her gloves with the same concern and support as he had at the Shift.

“Nik’s right.”

But Vera is, at least on the surface, adamant. “No, Tay’. I’m useless in here. Out there I can—I mean we could—”

Neither of them miss the half-glance she nearly throws over her shoulder.

“Stay,” Taylor tries again; feels her resolve crumble just a little — it’s enough, “we’re not even going far. And if anything changes you’re the first call. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Taylor knows he has no right to try and mend the holes in the Reimonenq family tapestry. That’s not even what he’s trying to do if he’s honest. But underneath all that anger he can feel the threads of regret Vera is trying desperately to hide.

If something did happen she wouldn’t forgive herself. And that’s worse than feeling helpless.

When they finally find their way back to the front lobby (two wrong turns, five angry nurses, and a mentally scarring view of an old man’s ass later) Cal is sitting alone in one of the uncomfortable half-bench chairs. He’s pretending to be focused intently on the muted play of college football on the nearby mounted television — badly. Keeps looking over to where a father distracts his son from the noise and bustle around them with one of those outdated planks with colorful metal wires criss-crossing each other for simple beads to travel on.

Makes sense, though. The kid’s mop of messy dark hair could place him for a younger version of Cal’s brother, Donny.

“Hey, Kujo!” Ryder snaps to get the wolf’s attention — gets more than that when Cal’s upper lip curls like he’s baring fangs.

“You call me that one more time, Ryder, and I swear to god I’ll —”

“Enough, guys.” Taylor forces his way between them.

Ryder, however, is either entirely too used to threats by now or doesn’t find the werewolf to be much of a threat. Both aren’t very healthy reasons.

“Where’s Katherine?”

And yeah, where is Katherine? She’d been so insistent at the Shift to see Tonya’s condition for herself yet had been more than willing to hang back and make a call while Vera reunited with her mother.

Cal jerks his head towards the automated doors. “She dipped out.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” luckily all it takes is a glare from Taylor to tone down his dangerous levels of sass, “you find out where she was goin’?”

“Naw, she —”

“She’s making arrangements for us to meet with the Garden Coven — ideally as soon as possible.”

Cadence arrives bearing the holy grail of all holy grails; hospital coffee. Makes balancing the three cups sans lids while swerving his way through a minefield of professionals, patients, and problematic persons downright easy. He hands each of them their caffeinated prizes while continuing; “Time is of the essence after all.”

A grim silence settles over the group. Just another time when, once again, there’s more going on than what’s being said and Taylor is left out of the loop. But he won’t fall into the trap this time — he simply won’t ask.

No matter how burning the compulsion is, how desperately he wants to know? Nope. Not asking.

Ryder practically gags on his first sip of coffee — funny, thinks Taylor, since he chugs down alcohol strong enough to burn off his tastebuds any other time — before he speaks.

“And there’s no one else suspect?”

Cadence shrugs. “The Mayor wasn’t at the garden, but even if it is him by some miracle or another he’d need a witch to summon that level of power.”

“All roads lead to the Garden.”

“Worst case scenario they agree.”

“You should’ve gone with her,” hard to tell which one is sharper; the look Nik throws at the vampire or the edge of his words, “no one has it in good with those crones. She could use the protection.”

“On the contrary I might be second to, well, you in how I stand with them.”

Context — context is good. And judging by said context this Garden Coven is rather the opposite. He pipes up; “They don’t know me yet, that’s a positive, right?”

Three pairs of eyes in a deadpan stare that tells him no, no that isn’t a positive at all.

“Well,” Cal smacks his open palms on his jeans and resumes his seat — the kid and his dad are gone now, the toy left abandoned and on its side, “nothin’ to do but wait. Least here I don’t gotta move Garrus’ inventory.”

So that’s it, they’re just going to sit on their thumbs and wait?

Well — Cal’s going to sit. The vampire shrugs and hands his number off to Ryder with a mention to call him if there’s news; takes off back the way he had come towards the hospital cafeteria.

Then Nik’s leaning in close, voice low and breath a tickle in his ear that Taylor wasn’t prepared for and can’t exactly contain his reaction to. But luckily the front doors slide open at the same time and his shudder could easily be taken as a shiver against the chillier evening air.

“Listen, Rook, about —”

It makes him step back and gape. “You really think now is the time to talk about that?” Because, uh, no.

Then Nik’s rolling his eyes with an arm thrown over his shoulder. “No, I’m not — shut up.” And he may very well be trying to get Taylor alone to talk about… about what happened in the apartment, but his dumb legs follow anyway. Like they’re conditioned by now to know safety lies at the hells of that dumb leather duster.

He stops them just shy of an unmanned desk. Keeps his voice low; “There’s a lot goin’ on right now.”

“Gee, really?”

“I mean —” Taylor takes a little pride in forcing Nik to pinch the bridge of his nose, just a little, “— between Tonya in there, and I don’t even know how to begin tellin’ you all the things not to do in front’a the Garden Coven, and yeah sure at some point maybe… talkin’ about earlier would be good —”

“Not. right. now.”

“I ain’t sayin’ right now!” A rare grunt of genuine frustration. Maybe Taylor’s toed the line a little too far… makes him back off at the very least. He can let the man get his words out, sure.

An opportunity Nik’s grateful for. “I figure you wouldn’t wanna do this without Vera but you weren’t wrong when you said she oughta stay with Tonya. But I dunno the next time we’ll be in this part of town. And I never intended not to keep this promise.”

Oh.

Nik notices the epiphany in his eyes and gives a curt nod. Stands with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, which hunches his shoulders, which makes him seem more sincere than the hunter’s normal bravado allows for.

“She’s two floors up. You… you up for this?”

No — he isn’t. But as ever Nik is (begrudgingly) right. Who knows the next time they’re not going to be kidnapped, or attacked, or potentially fatally worse?

So he just nods and follows the safety of Nik’s heels towards the elevator.

It should be a good thing that the Intensive Care Unit doesn’t have many long-term patients. But Taylor already has a thing with hospitals. A nearly empty floor with all the blinds drawn and only one cantankerous-looking old guy manning the nurse’s station?

Welcome back to your own personal horror movie, Taylor.

The floor’s only occupants are side-by-side. So focused on getting to her after all this time, Taylor barely gives the man a passing glance. Catches sight of a smaller, frail-looking body in the bed over where his back is hunched and shaking with silent sobs.

The air is stale with the salty taste of grief.

The first thing he notices is how dull her room looks. Makes sense; she’s in a different city in a different state than where she grew up and even if there were volunteers about they’re probably all assigned to the patients who will appreciate and take advantage of a stranger’s generosity.

“I should’ve brought flowers,” mutters Taylor absently.

She would have brought him flowers. That’s just the kind of friend Kristin is.

Only the chart at the foot of her bed says ‘Jane Doe.’ Lists extensive injuries Taylor catches only a glimpse of before he forces his gaze elsewhere. But because he’s back in the Hunter Horror Flick each new thing he sees is leagues worse than the last.

Tonya had magic on her side. Even if it was gone now, even if it hadn’t worked — it was more than the negative defenses Kristin had had against their attacker.

She looks like someone poured a gallon of ink over a kiddie pool of milk. Weird analogy but not a wrong one. The machine keeping track of her vitals beeps slow and rhythmic. Says good things about the state of her pulse and her heart… only that he’s pretty sure it should be a little more upbeat.

He would have thought the tube down her throat would make him gag but somehow knowing it’s helping keep her alive is enough to stay his weak stomach. The in-process transfusion between a healthy, red bag on her right and the barbecue sauce-looking contents of the left bag, though… well he has to look away some time.

He’d hoped—no, thought—Nik was still in the doorway; a reassuring presence giving him an inch of space. Instead the Nighthunter is given a mile and is nowhere to be found.

He shoves the ‘Why I’m Uncomfortable With That’ essay back inside — there’s room to spare in the little mental box he’s assigned to process pretty much everything regarding Nik Ryder at a later and less perilous date.

Only when he’s taken in every part of her — no matter how frail or beaten — does Taylor pull up a chair from near the open doorway. Reaches out and covers Kristin’s hand with both of his own.

Because its easier than accepting the truth Taylor just tells himself he’s getting a fever, and that alone is the reason why she’s as cold as ice.

The alternative is there, screaming in his face, but he’s willfully denied the existence of something before, right? He’s pretty much a pro at this point.

“Christ, Krissy… I’m — I’m so sorry.”

Sorry he’s only just coming to see her now. Sorry he let this happen to her in the first place. Sorry he had such a stupid idea as he had.

Only barely registers the trembling in his hand when he reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair aside. He wants to rip the tube out of her mouth — it looks alien; wrong.

Can she hear him? He’s heard different stories of coma patients being aware of what’s around them but — but this isn’t an ordinary coma. This is supernatural, this is painful.

This is all his fault.

“‘Bout time Miss Jane got herself a visitor. I told — oh, hey, don’t I know you?”

He doesn’t place the voice nor the face it belongs to at first. How could he — in such a short amount of time Taylor’s met so many different people, different creatures. To see someone from before all this began is jarring in a way he didn’t expect.

That the badge tacked onto her olive green blazer says VOLUNTEER rather than a name doesn’t help either. Not until her features waver in front of his face — a heat mirage on a distant desert road.

The cemetery tour guide is the literal last person he expected to see now. He tries to be discreet wracking his mind for her name but must not do a very good job; “Tilly, not that I’d expect ya to remember.”

“No no, I — I do. I just… it’s been a weird couple of days.”

Her gaze, bright and with that cat-like intensity Garrus has helped him get accustomed to, look through him to Kristin’s bed. “I bet.”

Right — she had invited him back to the city with a free ride; traded stories about their plans for Mardi Gras and Taylor had gushed about seeing Kristin for the first time in ages.

And something tells him Tilly lives up to that look in her eyes.

“Might I be right in guessin’ this unlucky lady is that friend’a yours?”

Hesitantly he nods — checks behind her to make sure that grumpy nurse isn’t listening in on them. “But don’t — don’t say anything, okay? I —” Nik would kill him if he was suddenly pulled in for questioning.

She taps her plush lips — how is everything about her just shy of perfect? — with a single finger.

“Secret’s safe with me. I’m just glad she’s finally got some company. I make my rounds when I can, but this ain’t my day job.”

Though that begs the question doesn’t it? “Why do I have a feeling this meeting isn’t coincidence?”

“‘Cause ya’ve got a keen sense about you. I can’t quite see what it is, lit’le human, but it’s awful strong.”

Human, she says. “So you know.”

“Know what, cher?”

“I can see through your glamour.”

“Had a hunch —” she takes the opportunity to step into the room properly, closes the curtain behind her for a barrier however thin, “— ‘specially when you kept starin’ at my ears when first we met. Talk about makin’ a girl self-conscious.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.” At least he’s sheepish about it. But the fae woman waves it off with ease.

“You didn’t go tryin’ ta out me to all the humans in my guide group, so there’s no reason for ‘sorries.’ Most mortals don’t got that kind’a sense about them.”

“You run into this kind of thing often?”

“Oh—well no,” and Tilly goes a little red at the tips of her elven ears, “but I’ve been ‘round for quite some time. In a town like Nawlins you can’t even imagine what can be seen in one immortal lifetime.”

Actually, he can? Seeing Kristin and Tilly again reminds him just how little time has actually passed since his biggest concern was making sure he had all of the ingredients for his former roommate’s ‘tried and true’ hangover cure.

It feels like he’s been through the ordeal of several lifetimes in a matter of days.

His silence speaks volumes, has Tilly pulling up a rolling computer chair from outside the curtain to join him in his solitude. She surprises Taylor by reaching out and tilting his head up with a finger crooked under his chin.

He’s quick to notice that unlike Cadence, whose years echo deep in the weaving colors of his irises, there isn’t a hint of her age to be found.

“Though maybe you can imagine…” Its a prompt — an opening.

And maybe its because she’s caught him still raw from taking in Kristin’s current state or just because he needs to get it all out to someone before he literally explodes — but its an opening that Taylor takes. A little too gladly, maybe.

The levee holding in thoughts and words breaks somewhere on his tongue and just pours out. Keeps going and going and going until she feels compelled to stop him with a gesture, grabs an untouched cup of water from Kristin’s bedside, and practically forces him to drink before he’s allowed to, well, keep going.

Lucky for him though she doesn’t seem bothered by it. In fact she’s best described as enraptured in his tale. Gives nods of understanding; gasps of surprise.

Only when he’s exhausted himself of story to tell, catching up at the literal present with— “and now we’re just waiting, but shit I don’t know where he went, actually, I should go look for him…” —does he stop and breathe.

When Tilly finally decides what to say he just knows, somehow, that she’s chosen every word with care. “That’s certainly a story for the ages, Taylor.”

“Not one I would’ve picked for myself if I had the choice.”

“We don’t always get to choose our path in this life, or the next for that matter. You should count ya’self among the lucky to be a part of the makin’ of the world; of the future.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“No,” the smile she gives him is coy and full of secrets, “I don’t suspect you would.”

He expects her to continue — she doesn’t. And now being left hanging is just shy of uncomfortable. Again, where the hell is Nik…?

“It strikes me, Taylor, that you might not know jus’ what you are. Ain’t you ever wondered?”

Tilly stands and kicks her chair back, makes a point of looking at the closed curtain when the chair collides with the wall loudly but when nothing happens it only encourages her further.

Gets her to grab either side of Taylor’s chair and start pulling him closer to Kristin’s bedside.

“Oi—hey, what’re you doing?” What is she talking about, what he is?

Tilly’s words drip with mischief, “Maybe that bodyguard a’yours is to blame. All this happenin’ at once but no one’s stopped to look at the big picture.”

Taylor recoils just on instinct when she goes to grab his hand but the fae isn’t having it. She wraps her spidery fingers around his wrist and the contact isn’t just warm its like a volcano — scorching hot, bubbling lava, something rising inside of him and swelling to a previously unheard sound.

But he can hear it now. Like its a part of her. Some distant lilting tune that brings to his mind’s eye towering bonfires of majestic purple flames, of waters thousands of miles deep but so clear you can see right to the bottom, of wings the size of an airplane beating heavy and true against a sky riddled with a dozen moons and infinite stars.

He jerks them apart with wide eyes. Finds the smile she’s shining down upon him unnerving in that he can see all of her teeth at once. People who smile like that are always undoubtedly up to something.

The hospital lights flicker, then return to their usual brightness.

He hadn’t even noticed them go dim.

It makes him look around wildly. “Wh—What happened? What did you do to me?” And its only occurred to him what might be considered too late that this Tilly woman might be less a friend than a foe.

“I didn’t do nothin’, cher. Just showed you a teensy bit’a what you’re capable of. Since I bet no one else has bothered to try.”

Before he can protest or even question her there’s a finger to his lips. That same spark only hinted at — the melody stuck on the tip of his tongue. “All these miracles — the good and the bad — and n’one ever stopped to wonder why they keep happenin’ to you?

“Why you can see through the fog, or why ya’ve got literal hell on ya heels?”

“Very bad luck?” He tries through a smushed mouth. Tilly’s laugh is like wind-chimes of ethereal glass.

“Luck ain’t got a side to choose. But luck — luck is a streak of random chance. This is more. After all… what’s our reunitin’ but somethin’ that ought to’ve happened to bring us in the here and now?”

Fabric rustles behind him, enough to distract the fae woman and give him the chance to get her out of his personal bubble.

He’s never been so goddamn happy to see Nik in his life. Even if he plans on hitting the man for abandoning him when this is over with.

There’s a small bouquet of tulips hanging at his side; still with the tag from the hospital gift shop downstairs.

Okay, maybe he’ll save that for another well-deserving time. Because that’s just sweet.

Only there’s nothing sweet about the glower on his face. The way it makes the dark circles under his eyes look harder, the set in his jaw more prominent. He bypasses Taylor to glare right at Tilly. An unreadable expression hidden beneath his well-placed mask.

“What exactly are you implying?” He asks; joins in on the conversation like he’s always been there. Maybe he was — lurking just out of sight.

She cocks her head playfully. “Oh, you know.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He knows Nik well enough by now — when he doesn’t answer its because he’s still waiting for an answer to his first question.

Then they both look to Taylor — like they’re in each other’s heads. Its unnerving enough already and that just sends goosebumps down his spine.

Tilly with that same hidden knowing. And Nik…

Nik’s scaring him, to be honest, with the unfamiliar expression. An actual expression is rare enough but this… like he’s seeing Taylor for the first time. When he couldn’t have even managed it after being on top of him, being in his most intimate space?

The hunter rubs a hand over his mouth. “I had a hunch, just didn’t have the chance to figure out if it was even possible.”

“How much’a this world is born on impossible, Nik Ryder?” she asks. Earns her a sharp look.

“How can you prove it?”

She wiggles her fingers. “I jus’ did.”

“That ain’t enough to go on.”

“Not for certain — but it’s enough to get y’all in the door.”

“How quickly —”

“Say the word.”

“If he won’t listen —”

“He will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Easy-peasy,” she presses the tips of her fingers together and Taylor swears he catches sight of sparks where they meet, “it all makes too much sense t’a be just circumstance.”

When Tilly pries her fingertips apart an unnatural breeze, warm and somehow ringed with sunlight, wafts over the room. Rustles the tips of Kristin’s hair and the thin hospital blanket resting atop her. Flutters the drawn curtain and the hem of Nik’s coat.

A single pink petal falls from one of the tulips in his hand — dances practically alive along the tile floor only to be swept out of the room.

Somehow, though, deep in his chest Taylor knows it isn’t the lobby they’ll find on the other side.

In the same way he knows that’s where they need to go next.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay. Not with everything going on; the danger he’d be putting her back in. They were still waiting for word on when to join the others for their confrontation with the Garden Coven.

But looking down at Kristin — frail and so so cold… can Nik blame him for finding it hard to leave her side?

“Don’t worry — she’s safe here.”

He doesn’t take the hand the fae offers and thankfully she seems to understand. “And you won’t tell the hospital who she is?”

“A fae’s word is bond.”

“Thank you.” For watching over her, for letting him vent, for whatever she seems to know that Nik hasn’t yet brought to light.

When Taylor turns its to Nik’s bouquet held out in offering. He’s seen those hands; what they’re capable of. Strangling goblins and firing crossbows and the way they cradled his jaw with yearning. Yet now they’re trembling — the fear of rejection silent but there.

“You said you should’a gotten her flowers.” Explains the Nighthunter absently.

Taylor takes them for the gift — and wayward apology — that they are. Lays them across Kristin’s lap and presses a chaste kiss to her clammy forehead.

“I’ll be back, Krissy. Get well soon.”

Nik waits until they can cross the curtain’s threshold together. Must be feeling some kind of sappy because he doesn’t even try to move away when Taylor finds reassurance in his hand.

There’s a light that shouldn’t be there glowing through the gap where it brushes the floor.

“Are you gonna explain what’s happening before we go, or —”

“I don’t wanna be wrong — you deserve better than that,” small blessings in the fact that Nik seems just as apprehensive about the first foot forward, “but if I’m not… you need to be ready for everything to change from here on out.”

He probably doesn’t mean to be funny. Taylor laughs anyway. “Like it hasn’t already?” — then, because the humor is fleeting — “You’ll stay with me, right?”

“The whole way.”

Those three words — and not even the three most important words in someone’s life — are enough to give him the courage to do what Nik won’t.

He puts his first foot forward and pulls back the curtain.

#nightbound #choices fanfiction #choices nb #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

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 10: Smoke and Mirrors

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

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 ⥽

Taylor and Vera reunite just in time for a stand-off between hands, guns, and a little too much screaming. He’s really starting to think he’s not cut out for this ‘main character’ gig.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Taylor recognizes the restaurant when a waiter exits the kitchen with a large silver cart laden with all the materials for their specialty flaming bananas foster. Peeks as best he can, standing on the tips of his toes, to see the bustling front of the gilded establishment before one of Smoke’s henchmen catches him looking and shoves him forward with a grunt of warning.

As if he wasn’t seriously dejected at the fact that he’s already having to miss out on the promised onion rings.

“What — is Smoke gonna make us clean dishes as punishment?” Cal sneers. The comment earns him a smack to the back of the head but even with a werewolf growling in his face the other suited guard doesn’t even blink.

Four men in mobster-movie suits ushering five unusual-looking characters around the back walls of the five star restaurant should raise more than a few alarms but you wouldn’t know it based on the staff’s reactions.

How they purposefully look away and give their entourage a wide berth; some even moving aside to take the long way around to where they need to go.

If they were actually being held captive and against their will it wouldn’t be any use to try and beg for help. Every waiter, cook, and busser knows to keep their attentions on their jobs. Whether they’re bribed or threatened into silence is the only question but ends in the same answer.

They’re on their own.

The journey ends in a large chrome door. One of the guards reaches out but jumps back as a broad-shouldered woman exits with a wooden crate of vegetables.

Not a word passes between them. Part of the deal no doubt.

He holds the industrial freezer door open and jerks his head. “In.”

“Yeah… not gonna happen.” Ryder gives them a look of ‘really, like we’re that stupid’ but then again they did all agree to join Cadence for his not-so-friendly meeting with Lady Smoke… so they very well may be.

Well; no. Cadence agreed — which automatically implied Katherine would join him. And the startling revelation of Lady Smoke’s real name meant that Taylor was either going to go at their side or find a way to sneak in on his own — this was just easier and less likely to cause injury.

And where Taylor goes Ryder is never far behind. Cal, too, apparently.

Not that the Shift trio didn’t try to tag along — but they already looked like an ambush waiting to happen. Probably best not to actually be one.

“Funny you think you still got a choice.” But before Ryder can call his cocky bluff one of the armed men whips out his gun and smashes it into the Nighthunter’s shoulder without warning or hesitation.

Taylor throws away any consideration that those around them might be getting paid off. Only fear would keep any decent person from helping the way Ryder cries out and buckles to his knees.

His assailant stows away his gun almost too slowly — like he’s ready to use it again; but just ready but eager. “Get in the fuckin’ freezer. Or else.”

If he felt useless before Taylor’s glad he’s suddenly too cold to dwell on how he feels now.

He blindly grabs for the nearest thing — a potato of all things — and holds it against Nik’s throbbing injury while helping him up.

“Are you okay?”

“Aw, Rook, I didn’t know you cared.” teases Ryder; probably to hide the wince in his smile.

“Not funny.”

“Admit it; a little funny.”

The three mortals are already shivering when two of the guards step inside with them. The click of the freezer door locking them inside definitely doesn’t help matters.

“Step back —” says the apparent leader, actually shoves Katherine into Cadence who holds her close and looks ready to add ‘asshole bodyguard’ to the restaurant specials for the night, “— I said back!”

So they press themselves against the shelving on the walls and watch — with some interest, but mostly spite and murderous intent — as he reaches behind hanging garlands of herbs and grabs for something blindly.

With a metallic thunk the back wall — no, the back hidden fucking door — loosens enough to be pushed forward and open. Revealing a set of rickety and definitely code-violating wooden steps that lead down into a no-less frigid abyss.

Before the guard has the chance to bark another order Cadence steps forward with hands raised. “Let me guess; in?”

The guard’s upper lip curls. But all it takes is a flash of the vampire’s true face for him to back off and mutter under his frosty breath.

Down, down they go one at a time with their new friends at their backs. The only consolation being, what, that it’s slightly less cold? Sure he can’t see his breath anymore but that doesn’t mean he’s not already a Taylor-sicle.

Cal arrives at the bottom first; opens the door to some kind of back office. Like a security room, only… underground.

A similarly-suited woman looks up from a row of fuzzy monitors as they start to crowd inside. It’s not a space meant for this many bodies especially when one of them is a broad-shouldered wolf and the other is a vampire too-damn tall. Judging by the abandoned snack wrappers and the digital solitaire game on her screen this isn’t a post that ends up with many guests.

She leaps to her feet; chair rocketing backwards on rickety wheels to collide with a small space heater loudly. But after catching sight of their captors before she can reach for her holstered weapon — she relaxes.

“The hell, man,” she yanks her chair away from Cal’s mere vicinity. Might be in the wrong business if that’s how she reacts to a wolf, but it’s not his place to comment. “You were only supposed to bring the fighter.”

He pushes between Ryder and Taylor — and Taylor swears he hears something like “you try arguing with these crazy bastards” under the man’s breath — to the only other door at the far end of the post.

“Fuck off.”

“Hope for your sake she’s in a mood for company.”

“I said fuck off.”

Good to know witty workplace banter applies to all occupations; even those of the hired henchman variety.

“Now listen here,” it takes him a second to realize he’s talking to them, now; and beyond monosyllabic orders — it’s a Mardi Gras miracle, “none of you are guests here. So don’t touch nothin’, don’t even look at nothin’. One toe outta line and it won’t end pretty for you.”

He looks pointedly at Cadence then. “No wards to protect you now, bloodsucker.”

But if he hoped to instill some kind of fear he’ll have to try a bit harder. Afraid seems to be the last thing he is — especially when he casually, almost coyly tucks his hair behind his ears and looks at the mortal man over the top of his glasses.

“None to protect you, either.”

And hopefully those threats won’t really be held up because the moment the door opens to a luxurious — and warm, thank the heavens warm — casino floor Taylor looks at every single thing he can. Blatant disregard; living life on the edge.

But who could blame him?

It’s not the same glitz and glamor of Persephone’s main atrium but that doesn’t make the underground treasure any less glittering. Lady Smoke’s Den is swathed in rich violet velvets and polished golden trim; every gemstone in inky black bright enough to catch the reflection of whatever passes nearby.

From the black iron of the gambling tables to the uniform designs on the back of each deck of cards in play there’s no denying the wealth it takes to wind up down here. Where the underbelly of Persephone was filled with rusted metal and bloodstained concrete this place undoubtedly hosts the cream of the crop.

Whether that specific crop is of the poisonous variety, though? Well Ryder is still using a semi-frozen potato as an ice pack so that pretty much says all that needs to be said.

He came here to meet Lady Smoke — without a doubt in his mind she must be some relative of Vera; even in New Orleans their family name is too unique; too ethereal.

But by some twisted hand of fate he doesn’t even have to go that far. Not when he recognizes a sleek pair of black satin gloves nursing a cocktail at the black diamond-encrusted bar across the room.

Two steps forward but someone yanks him still by the back of his collar. Turns to see Cal’s eyebrows raised in incredulity.

“Just ‘cause this place doesn’t look as dangerous as the fights doesn’t mean it ain’t, Taylor,” but his hard, stern tone quickly melts into just plain concern, “come on — you know better than to wander ‘round a place like this.”

“I — I’m not.” Taylor keeps looking back to the bar; keeps his eyes on Vera’s turned back. Refuses to have a repeat of last night at Persephone’s — refuses to let her slip through his fingers again like… like smoke.

“Then what the hell’re you doin’ Rook?” Ryder joins in but it’s hard to take him seriously with his spud pack. Even he looks at it like it offends him — makes quick work of disposing it on a passing silver tray of empty champagne flutes. “You asked me to follow ya on blind faith but the more I’m doin’ that the closer an’ closer I’m gettin’ to taking an injury I ain’t comin’ back from.

“So no more wandering off — not until you come clean about what you and Lady Smoke have in common.”

It’s been fifteen whole seconds and he’s terrified he’s lost her. Or maybe that she was never there to begin with. But even with Ryder snapping his fingers in Taylor’s face to draw back his attention he risks a look — exhales in audible relief when he catches her face in profile as she smiles and makes casual, inaudible conversation with the bartender.

“Her.”

In a reversal of fortune — and while Nik looks up to find just who he’s talking about — Taylor pulls at the side of the leather coat and digs around for the Nighthunter’s phone. “Hey — what — watch the coat!” But he steps just out of arms’ reach protests aside.

Luckily Cal’s on his side; stops Ryder from yanking back what’s his as Taylor quickly dials and holds the phone up to his ear; turns to watch intently as the metallic dialing starts chiming.

Across the floor decked in a rug more expensive than his theater company’s entire yearly budget the tiny digital first keys of the AME theme begin playing. Loud enough to draw an unimpressed frown from the bartender and a look of horrible realization from Vera.

The three men watch as she fumbles around; digs through the inside pockets of her black leather blazer. She procures Taylor’s phone from the left side and looks at the screen of dancing lights like she’s never seen such a miraculous and terrible device before.

Taylor ends the call by flipping the phone closed with a little too much force. At the bartop, Vera’s relief is short lived as the music ends and the screen goes dark. But the shudder that rolls down her spine is large and all-consuming. Makes her look around practically petrified when her gaze finds home on Taylor and his definitely not impressed frown.

“So that’s the girl who has your phone, huh.” Ryder doesn’t have to say it; they both know. She was there. She was there that night, and she ran away, and whether or not the Vera he saw in Persephone’s betting crowd was real she’s very much real here and now.

“What’re the odds?” Cal gives a surprised little laugh. But it’s not his fault; he doesn’t know the whole story.

Taylor, though — he’s starting to think nothing in this town is ever by chance anymore.

“Really, really likely.”

And it’s good to feel like he has support as he marches straight the-fuck up with a werewolf and a Nighthunter at his back.

Where were Cade and Katherine? Okay — okay — one problem at a time.

Only now what’s he supposed to do? Because he kind of wants to slap her — but that isn’t happening. One of those things that’s supposed to stay in the back of the mind and no further.

He could shout; make a scene. But that would make all their pushing and shoving and freezer-standing for nothing. And eventually they will find Cadence and help him out. So… no to that, too.

And it’s all so complicated and hard and makes his stomach twist and turn so finally Taylor just thinks fuck it and says the first thing that comes to mind. Turns out to be something a little more heavy than he’d anticipated but no less important.

“You knew about all this,” he jabs his finger into her shoulder, “about… about everything —”

“Tay, I didn’t —”

“And even if you didn’t know exactly what was happening you had some frickin’ idea.” Now that Vera doesn’t argue against — though she’s only barely biting her tongue and he can see it.

“You did; you had more pieces of the puzzle than us. And knowing that you… you let Krissy and I jump over that wall and to our own damn deaths.”

There’s a startled noise from Cal but that’s all. Taylor can’t quite care in the presence of all the frustration building up; bubbling over.

There’s been a nagging voice in his subconscious threatening him not to cry but Vera’s choked out words make that impossible.

“Is — Is Cookie dead, then?”

Taylor finds himself torn between wiping the tears before they can fall down her cheeks and telling her every. gruesome. detail just to make her cry harder.

“No —” — Vera claps her silken palms over her mouth to stifle a soft sob — “— no she’s not dead. Not yet.”

But she is in a coma; or probably worse. She’s in a strange hospital room in a strange city and she’s suffering untold horrors from that awful grotesque creature’s wicked touch and her two best friends in the entire world are in the same city and still haven’t gone to see her.

They are officially the worst people in this world and the other, preternatural world that borders theirs on the head of a pin.

“I’ll take my phone back now.”

She offers it like an olive branch; maybe he gets a little satisfaction from yanking it from her and shoving it in his jeans.

Then, because he’s mad but he’s not cruel; “I’m glad you’re safe Vera, really.” He opens his arms slightly but waits for her permission for an embrace — remembers what Kristin had said about Vera liking her personal space.

Now though he’s not so certain it’s that simple. He knows a lot more than he did when they first met.

“A-hem.”

They pull apart. Ryder stands with his arms crossed and an expectant tap to his boot. “Are we mad at her or not?”

“We’re…” Taylor and Vera exchange looks and there’s no doubt in his mind that her remorse is genuine. “We’re getting over it.” We, he thinks with a laugh. But doesn’t dare mention it lest Ryder close up more than he already is in this place.

Like he is right now.

“Good. Then maybe you can give us a proper introduction.” He’s zeroed in on her gloves; Cal too, he notices. Whatever has them on edge its more than a simple case of being protective of him. As if they didn’t have enough problems — and enemies — already.

Taylor clears his throat awkwardly; gestures between the meeting of two worlds who seem not to want to meet. “Uhm, okay. Vera, this is Ryder, my, uh, my bodyguard — don’t ask,” thank god she doesn’t, “and this is Cal; he’s a friend. Cal, Ryder; this is —”

“Vera, yeah, we got that,” interrupts the hunter lowly, “though how you came to be so buddy-buddy with Lady Smoke’s kid is my problem at the moment.”

And while Taylor’s brain is still turning rusted gears and starting to smoke with the sheer what the fuckery of Ryder’s accusation — Cal pipes up; “Smoke’s runaway kid, if I’m gettin’ my stories straight.”

Is he getting his stories straight, the look Taylor gives Vera — eyes so wide the whites go all the way around and jaw on a broken repeated hinge of not-quite-open and not-quite-closed — asks.

But that’s nothing compared to the look of utter shame that darkens Vera’s expression; to the way she looks around for listening ears and prying eyes.

“Keep your voices down.”

Ryder sees her buttons and, in classic Ryder fashion, pushes. “Yeah you ain’t gettin’ outta talkin’ that easy.”

She looks around with worry etched into her forehead. Finally lands her eyes on an empty poker table about as far out of the way as possible in the intimate space; half-obscured by a black-tile fountain where water the color of lavender fields bubbles and streams in arcs around an indiscriminate figure. “Fine, fine. Just — not here.”

And the Vera he sees now is definitely not the same young woman he’d met previously. She takes charge easier — less of a babysitting role and more of a… a woman who knows what she wants and asks for it unabashedly. At her call the bartender summons an attendant with bright, catlike yellow eyes that narrow into slits when she’s told to set them up a game at Vera’s preferred table.

Just like at Persephone they stick out like sore thumbs — but unlike at Persephone it doesn’t seem to matter. The attendants are ready to turn their noses up and away but the sight of Vera — the sight of her gloves like some status symbol — has them smiling, crooning; offering hors d'oeuvres more expensive than Taylor’s rent and drinks of all kinds. Even ones Taylor can partake in much to his surprise.

So they may look like they’re engrossed in a game of poker but one would be surprised to discover naught but a clever ruse.

Or at least a ruse on his end. Taylor’s got no living clue what he’s doing. But the cards are nice.

"Was it really you I saw at Persephone last night, Tay?” asks Vera. His nod earns a low whistle. “I figured I was just seeing… well, that you were a spectre of some kind; a manifestation of my guilt in leavin’ you and Cookie high and dry. And you really knew nothing about the supernatural world before y’all were attacked?”

“Since Twilight doesn’t count, yeah — er, no. I didn’t know a thing.”

“When you go in, you go all in, huh?”

If she means it as a joke it doesn’t really come off that way. Just makes him look down at his fancy deck and shrug. “Not exactly by choice.”

“Right. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“For what, though,” pipes up Ryder after downing a long gulp of his beer, “are you sorry for bringin’ it up like a joke or for leavin’ him utterly defenseless?”

“Christ, Nik.”

“Am I wrong, Miss Reimonenq?”

Something tells him the glare exchanged across the cards isn’t the first, nor would it be the last between them.

But Vera takes him by surprise when she shakes her head dejectedly. “No, no you’re not.”

Like a nervous habit Vera tugs at the edges of her gloves; hikes them up higher over her elbows. Cal physically shifts his chair over as she does — like she’s hiding knives and guns in the skin-tight fabric.

“Okay,” Taylor tosses his cards — it was probably a shitty hand anyway — and looks between the locals one by one by one, “usually this is the part where something weird or coincidental happens and I don’t end up having to be the one to ask the stupid questions. But apparently not this time.

“So either someone starts telling me what the heck is up or I start doing dumb shit until my answers come to me freely. And Nik — you know I can do some dumb shit.”

Taylor only adds emphasis because of the hesitation clear in Nik’s frown. The way he looks at Vera as if to get her to do it instead of his usual bravado-riding explanation train.

But neither of them say anything. So Cal leans back and nurses his whiskey with his words.

“Lady Smoke ain’t your average mafia boss, Taylor.”

“Yeah, yeah I got that part. Your brother was in a cell, there were death fights. The guns aimed at us at the Shift. I was there.”

The wolf gives him a little smirk. “Thanks for the reminder. But it ain’t just guns and suits and shady deals with Smoke.”

“Underground casino notwithstanding?”

“Let him finish, Tay.” mumbles Vera; the look she gives Cal is a grateful one. Taylor holds his hands up — mimes zipping his lips.

“The Reimonenqs are an old Quarter family. Y’all’ve even got Laveau on your tree, right?” He nods to Vera. “Certainly been ‘round as long as the Pack, and the only ones older than that are the Lamrian folk.”

“— Local fae colony,” interrupts Nik lowly, “we’ll talk about it later. Just know it was here before the city was even settled.”

“So you’ve got roots here, is that a big thing?” Taylor asks — would rather hear it from her than yet another secondhand account of something else. He’s getting far too many of those.

When Vera finally answers her hands are folded in her lap. The picture of politeness if not for the shining fear in her eyes.

“What you need to understand, Tay, is that the Reimonenq name used’ta belong to all who practiced under the coven. Eventually the coven became jus’ family so it didn’t really matter, but you won’t find anyone born and bred here who doesn’t know the name — and fear it.

“And she’s used that her whole life — my whole life — to build this awful, cruel mockery of an empire.”

“‘She’ being Lady Smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Lady Smoke being your mother.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom; Lady Smoke. The big bad everyone talks about like she’s a boogieman story — the woman who sent what basically amounted to hitmen to kidnap our friend for standing up to her and keeping Cal’s brother from getting mauled.”

He’s not saying it to be cruel, though Vera winces at every injustice like she personally signed off on it. Taylor’s just… a little out of his element. More so than usual.

“How many times does the girl gotta tell you, Rook? Yes.” Ryder’s knee knocks against his under the table. It’s enough to draw him from his factual-overload stupor; only just.

“So she’s — what — a witch? Wait — does that make you a witch?”

Witches, werewolves, and vampires; oh my.

Before Vera can open her mouth to answer their game is brought to a halt by the arrival of a familiar suit-clad asshole. And he’s got friends. This time Taylor pays close attention and watches the pain Vera stomachs in order to put on a brave, almost commanding atmosphere.

“We’re a little busy here. And we’d like some privacy.”

The henchman’s upper lip curls at the sight of Ryder — a grimace he only barely tosses aside as he answers Vera; “You can finish up your game of Go-Fish later. Lady Smoke requests your presence, Miss Reimonenq. And the presence of your… guests.”

“She can’t just summon me. I’m not one of her lackeys.”

“That may be — but you are under Lady Smoke’s protection. Or did you forget what you agreed to when you broke onto the floor last night?”

Taylor’s teeth grit painfully. “Back off, you soggy cockwaffle.”

“Tay —” her touch on his arm is gentle; appreciative, if concerned, “— hon’… he’s not wrong, okay? No matter how much I wish he were.”

“So much for bein’ the runaway…” Cal mutters under his breath.

“Lady Smoke doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

And he probably can’t pull his bully-type shit with Vera, not without some serious consequences whether there’s family tension or not, so there’s no missing the sick sense of satisfaction he gets in yanking Taylor’s chair practically out from under him.

Lucky him that Taylor isn’t unfamiliar with childish bullying tactics. He just expected people to grow out of them once they left high school.

Unlike before their goon leads the way rather than corralling them at the back. Gives them the chance to talk in hushed and hurried whispers because they’re being led fast.

“Magic — real magic — is something we’re born with; a gift we can’t give back no matter how badly we want to.” Vera continues hastily; “Yes, I’m a witch. And I ain’t proud of it, not like my mother is. I’ve spent my whole life tryin’ to get away from her and our curse.”

“And that meant running away to New York.”

“I could have run farther but… I refused to let her dictate where I was going to be. How I was going to live my life.”

That’s something he can definitely understand — but Vera’s actions are singing a different tune than her words. “If you hate her so much then why are you here? Why’d you go to her?”

“Because —”

“Because whatever was huntin’ you guys that night scared ya enough to look to the most powerful woman in the city for help.”

Nik doesn’t interrupt with a question — sounds so sure of himself. But Taylor’s ready to hear Vera out, really he is, until she suddenly can’t look him in the eyes.

It had been a whole other side of her; but Taylor had chocked it up to fear. Fear could make people do crazy things — like hide in walled-off cemeteries.

Finally Vera chokes out wetly; “Yes.”

The suit stops them in front of a closed door.

Nik reaches out and grabs Vera — holds fast despite how she jerks away. Leans in to whisper something so quiet Taylor has to step in himself in order to hear it.

“You know what it was, don’t you?”

“I-I —” stammers Vera.

“What was it?”

“I don’t…”

“This ain’t just about you anymore. Now quick, before they —”

“In.”

It’s too late. Judging by Cal’s look of apology he tried his best to give them as much time as they could but the door’s open and they’re out of time.

“We’re not done.” Ryder growls into Vera’s ear; lets her go before the suit decides he doesn’t want to ask a second time. The touch he lands on Taylor’s middle back is far kinder, coaxes him forward and through the awaiting doorway.

He doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow. Still throws a look back to Vera as she wipes away the smallest tear and puts up all the walls she needs to follow them inside.

“You didn’t need to be so harsh.” Taylor hisses at him.

“Sometimes there ain’t much of a choice.”

There was this time, Taylor’s about to say, when the literal fog obscuring the room beyond clears as though it’s been waiting for their arrival to part. Lady Smoke’s a witch, he remembers.

So maybe it was.

The ambiance of the back room is the same as the front — the only difference being the smoke that clings to their ankles and obscures the rug at their feet.

Off to one side a large couch curves in a wide semi-circle. Relief washes over him at the sight of Cadence and Katherine sitting close together with drinks in their hands; the honey-amber of Katherine’s bourbon catches the light in a way the contents of Cadence’s tumbler doesn’t. He’s content not to think too hard about what’s inside.

But for all their supposed relaxation the pair are stiff — tense. Their ease and touching outer thighs more about keeping close for safety rather than enjoyment. Katherine’s smile isn’t her usual teasing; instead rather strained. A grimace wearing an ill-fitting mask.

At the other end of the room rests a large desk — the kind Taylor might imagine a CEO would buy never to use and only to show off. But the papers and folders spread in a kind of organized chaos across the finished wood tell a different story; one of a business that never stops working.

The woman in the high-backed leather chair behind it is Lady Smoke without a doubt. Not just because he can see the resemblance to Vera — a family chin, the creases in her forehead decades ahead of her daughter’s; a living vision of what’s to come — either.

She emanates power in the way Kristof did. Control, dominance by birthright without mistake. The aura of someone who was meant for powerful things from the moment they entered the world; where the only thing left up to choice was how they planned on using it.

The gloves are pretty much a dead giveaway, too. Black lacework on golden fabric. She matches the den outside the way the sun matches the solar system; she sits at its heart and lets the rest revolve around her because it has no choice.

An unnervingly familiar wheeze of a voice catches him off-guard; probably for the best with the way he was staring.

“Well well well, justice for Meerl!”

Meerl cuts a scrawny figure between them and Lady Smoke. Tap-tapping his long claw-like nails together with the same smarmy grin as last night — only this time with a harsh red line of purpling pressure around his skinny throat.

Beside Taylor, Ryder’s laugh is nothing short of utterly shameless. “Nice choker you got there, Meerl. It’s a great look on you, really.”

His laughter incites a bloated face of rage in the con-goblin. “You mock Meerl?!”

“Was I not bein’ obvious about it?”

“Pissy—pissface—pissant Nighthunter! Meerl will—!”

“He will do nothing until he is told.”

There’s a touch of gravel to Lady Smoke’s voice. She doesn’t shout because she doesn’t have to — because the moment her lips part the only thing that matters is what she has to say.

Especially to Meerl given the way he backs off, cowers like his nightmares are coming to life.

It must be a reputation thing, Taylor concludes. Because she’s definitely the more-badass-and-less-fictional version of Don Corleone — no doubt. But for nothing but a sentence to get that kind of reaction? It’s almost satirical.

“Meerl apologizes, Lady Smoke,” the urchin cowers with every word, “the Lady knows Meerl does nothing Meerl is not told to do.”

But he might as well be talking to thin air the way she addresses him. Not at all. Because he’s no longer important to her — for the moment at least. Not now that Vera steps up from behind Taylor while the door closes behind them.

Immediately Smoke’s face softens; a shine in her eye, what she probably thinks is tender warmth in her half-smile. What people who can’t love must think love looks like as an expression.

“Vera, baby girl, you —”

The nickname makes Vera cringe. “I told you not to call me that.” She’s probably the only person who could get away with interrupting the mob boss and leave alive.

“Vee —”

“No, mother; no names but my own.”

Smoke’s brow twitches but her frustration is well-corralled. “Very well, Vera.”

“Where do you get off on demandin’ to see me like this? Or makin’ your wardens bully my friends into coming with?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with the troublemakers at Persephone?”

There’s nothing familial about their exchange but Smoke still manages to make Vera feel like a scolded child. Ducked head and eyes searching for a spot on the carpet — but hindered by the fog.

“You know I don’t like non-answers, Vera.” Smoke presses, but Vera doesn’t yield. Earns them all a heavy sigh while Smoke leans forward and folds her hands together atop an open date book. “Lucky for you, girl, I know all I need to on account of how helpful our friend Meerl has been.

“See, he knew I’d take care of everything — but I can’t fix what I don’t know is broke. And would you believe he was the only one to tell me about the unfortunate situation of the fights before morning?”

The goblin practically preens — likely taking her words as praise.

“The Lady knows Meerl only wants what is best for the Lady’s business, of course.”

“Especially if it keeps his ugly hide from getting flayed alive?”

The haughtiness of Ryder’s tone doesn’t have an ounce of remorse. Not even when it drags the almost golden-yellow of Lady Smoke’s eyes to him. Resting with the full weight of her frustration just below the poised surface.

“You never cease to surprise, do you Mister Ryder?” she croons.

“‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about; predictable’s my middle name.”

“If that were the case you wouldn’t have been waist-deep in my affairs at Persephone.”

“And here I thought I was building a reputation for stickin’ my nose in other peoples business.”

“This ain’t just anyone’s business, though, is it?”

It hasn’t occurred to Taylor until just now that Kristof and the Jensen Pack may not be the only big-wigs in New Orleans that Ryder has crossed. Luckily it seems like a distant familiarity though. A mutual respect; and an unspoken threat on both sides to stay out of one another’s way.

And now Ryder’s gone and drawn first blood — er, well, metaphorically speaking.

Oh this could be bad. This could be very very bad.

Only the ice in her tone seems to have the opposite of the intended effect. Makes Ryder stand up straighter with his jaw clenched tight, his words a snarl that makes even Cal blink in surprise.

“If I’d a’known you were in the business of pimpin’ out kids for your cash fights, Smoke, I would’ve gotten involved a lot sooner. You can bet on that.”

The color drains out of Vera’s cheeks. Catches her torn between looking at her mother for any kind of denial and, finding none, unable to face the truth without feeling like she’s about to wretch.

“Momma, you didn’t…”

“Don’t you start that now, Vera.”

“But a kid?”

Smoke stands with her fingertips spread and pressed into her desk. Her sigh carries a visible weight in her shoulders. It’s heavy for sure but if it isn’t the burden of guilt then whatever she’s feeling means fuck-all to him.

“The Lowell boy was betting with money that wasn’t his. On top of that — he thought he could swindle my hard-earning regulars without consequence. Sometimes they have to learn young.

“You’d know that, baby girl, if you hadn’t left.”

Tears well up, misting over Vera’s eyes. But its an incredible feat of willpower that keeps her from shedding them — that lets her choke them down. Certainly not the first, and likely not the last.

“Don’t you dare play it off like you were trying to parent my kid brother.” Only then does Lady Smoke actually notice Cal. Cal with his face flush with fury and canines bared; Cal with his eyes as yellow as the gold the mob boss wraps herself in.

“Mister Ryder; I suggest you rein your feral friend in a tad.”

Nik throws his hands up. “No way.”

There’s a very well in the roll of her eyes. Has her walking around her desk with a lush black velvet cape trailing at her modest heels.

“You must be Cal.”

“What the hell gave you that idea?”

“Then I will tell you the same thing I told your fledgling con artist brother. It’s an old saying — perhaps you’ve heard of it. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

Smoke stands there, haughty and higher than them all — even as Cal roars “You callous bitch!” and makes for her ready to draw blood. And a lot of it.

Whatever witchy-mojo she has must be fucking powerful even if Taylor can’t feel it. All it takes is Smoke’s raised hand and even Nik holds his breath.

“You had posters,” the wolf seethes, “locked him in a cage like he was an animal!”

“Your brother had racked up quite a debt.”

“He’s just a boy!”

“Enough!”

When the gloves come off — literally in Lady Smoke’s case — all hell breaks loose.

Taylor looks around wildly, feels himself being pulled back on two sides — catches the first and likely only time Vera and Nik are of the same mind. Backing him up against a wall-length bookshelf so hard he knocks a few volumes on their sides.

For the first time since they arrived Cadence is sprung to action. Holds Cal back with a firm hand but keeps his distance from the witch and her exposed skin. The same look of cautious fear in his eyes as he had in the cage.

And at the couch, their drinks forgotten and seeping into the rich upholstery, Katherine aims a familiar-looking gun dead between Smoke’s eyes. Completely disregarding the also-familiar sister weapons now aimed at her from across the room.

Now would be the opportune moment for the main character to leap out in the middle of the fray and convince everyone to calm down; to shout “Nobody needs to get hurt tonight — we’re all on the same side!” or some other amount of crap that would be the bare minimum in getting everyone to see the bigger picture.

Ha — no thanks. No way is he getting mixed in with a vampire who tore a Minotaur to shreds, more guns than should legally be allowed in the same room, and whatever danger Smoke’s manicure ignites.

Nope. See, the best he can figure is there’s a reason Vera and Nik were so hasty to pull his only-a-threat-after-a-ton-of-spicy-food ass out of the crossfire. And that’s good enough for him.

Only when everyone’s stayed statuesque-still for the better part of a minute does Cadence pull back — away from Lady Smoke, eying her palms with the same look Vera’s giving the guns.

“Enough,” he repeats and is no less forceful, “enough of this, Tonya. You force me here, you force others — innocents — here, all for this flagrant abuse of your power? I settled the Lowell pup’s debt. You and I are even and he’s out of your cross-hairs.”

“So you’ve been saying, Smith,” — so why doesn’t she sound like she’s content to agree? — “but I don’t recall agreeing to your commerce de dettes. As it is not the place of they who owe to decide what is suitable payment.”

“You may be speaking of Dominic Lowell, but the same could be said for you.”

Smoke curls her fingers in the air; reminds Taylor of spider legs.

But Cadence has to be right or she’d have thrown back a snide retort instead of the silent treatment given.

Finally she speaks but her answer is strained. “We never outlined the terms and conditions of that particular contract.”

“Because I know better than to get something in writing with you. I may not know much but I certainly know that.”

“I cannot let this abide, Smith. Actions must be made; consequences for those who would publicly challenge the safety I provide this town —”

Maybe there’s more for her to say but she doesn’t get the chance. Not at the disgusted noise that comes off to Taylor’s right — nor the bewildered look Lady Smoke throws their way. Only when she throws up her pointed finger like a gun instead of a stern mother’s tool does Vera make the noise again.

“‘Safety,’” now she actually sounds the part of the witch, too, with her curled upper lip and fists trembling at her sides, “you’re gonna dare stand there in front’a me and call New Orleans safe? After what I told you was after me?!”

Taylor’s glad he’s between them when Ryder turns a murderous flush of violet.

“Now is not the time to air our family grievances, Vera.”

“You did know.” Taylor whispers. Loud enough for Vera to hear, to flinch and hug her arms around herself. Looking the same measure of scared and young and vulnerable as she did that night. “You—you do. Know; what it is. You know.”

She nods.

“Why didn’t you say?” When Ryder asked, when we locked eyes under Persephone, before Kristin and I jumped over the wall and to our deaths. “Why didn’t you help?”

“I didn’t wanna be right.”

Tonya raises her voice, tries to speak over her daughter. “Vera, this is not the way.”

“How the hell would you know, mom?!” she lashes out a sob, “You’re content to hide here and pretend everyone’s safe when they aren’t?!”

“You’re safe, baby girl, that’s all I care about.”

“Well I ain’t that selfish.”

It’s taking everything in her to not choke; lose her nerve. “If I’d known you spent all this time thinking it was after you, Taylor, I’d’ve told you sooner. I swear I didn’t mean for Cookie to get hurt — you neither. I thought when I split that you’d be safe.”

“Wait — back up. You think this thing is after you?” Nik interrupts, surprised.

“Not another word Vera Claire Reimonenq, so help me God.”

Ice-cold demeanor finally melted, some version of the real Tonya Reimonenq shines through in the crack in her voice. In the way she bites her bottom lip so hard it might burst like the vein in her temple might burst.

Taylor just doesn’t get why everyone is suddenly so freaked out about the way her hand is held aloft at Cadence’s neck. One deep bob of his Adam’s Apple away from choking the life out of the undead.

Katherine the opportunist takes the stunned pause to aim instead at Vera. Passes the barrel of the gun over Taylor’s chest and this is now officially too many times in the same week his life has flashed before his eyes and been less-than satisfying.

“Back. off. Smoke.” The huntress orders.

Cadence resists swallowing — painfully so.

Time to finally take the hint and get as scared as the rest of them it seems.

“You even think about pulling that trigger — you know what I’ll do to him.”

Katherine’s laugh is an unfeeling thing. Like a whole different woman stands before them — someone used to carrying the gun, to doing what needs to be done.

“And the payday of a lifetime goes down the drain, sure,” but her finger doesn’t stop caressing just shy of the pressure point, “but I’ll always find another. Don’t think the same can be said about a daughter, though.”

“Katherine —”

“Shut up, Nik. I let you do your stupid shit. My turn.”

Taylor’s one stupid heroically-inclined thought from stepping in front of Vera when she speaks up; “Stop it, momma. Just — stop it. Too many people been hurt already.

“Too many more’ll be, too, if we don’t try to get help.”

“You think they’ll help us? The whole city will turn their backs on us — make sure we’re the ones who suffer instead of them!”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know them!”

“Stop being so damn naive!”

Voices, tensions rising. Arms wavering with the weight of their weapons and sweat beading like the first of so many bullets down everyone’s backs; their brows.

It’s not the heroic, main character thing to say but that doesn’t stop Taylor from feeling really good about it when he finally shouts —

“Will someone please just say what the literal flippity fuck is out there?!”

“A bloodwraith!”

The way Vera covers her mouth he half expects to see blood dripping down her chin to stain her blouse. Her tongue bit off as divine — or supernatural — retribution for her admission.

Not that that’s the case. In fact he’s left feeling a little bit like he was denied some grand climax.

So he does what he always does — because this other, darker world seems to exist to make him look absolutely ridiculous in how little he knows — he looks to Nik for the textbook entry he’s missing.

“And a ‘bloodwraith’ would be…?”

“Trouble, Rook…”

Lady Smoke’s pulling her gloves back on. The gun hangs limp at Kathy’s side. Even the biggest bully of the henchmen looks ready to wet himself. There’s nothing reassuring about Cadence’s slow nod of realization — the way the natural enemies vampire and werewolf share a look of ‘well hell.’

Sometimes it’s not a rallying cry that gets opposing forces to work together. Sometimes fear is more than enough.

And the way Nik pulls him in close, hugs him with one strong arm like he’s already a dead man walking? That’s… uh… that’s pretty damn fearful.

“— It’s really, really big trouble.”

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

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