#the British fucking everything up for us and then just returning to their bloody island

[thebisexualwreckoning]

Nononono the fact that being trans in India was like being a priest and the Hijras were called upon to bless babies and marriages and were so heavily ingrained in our society but then the fucking British decided to colonise and make being a Hijra fucking illegal so now people who fall under the trans flag like me and many of the people i know are being hate crimed against when back before the fucking British we were akin to deities???!!!! Like the British come here and ruin EVERYTHING

[jawritter]

When The Lights Go Out

Chapter 6

Summary: Life hasn’t been your best friend lately, you lost your job, and are on the verge of losing your apartment. Who knew when you decided to join a Sugar Daddy app that your best friend suggested ina last ditch effort to save your apartment, and not end up on the street, your first and only client would turn your whole world upside down.

Pairing: Mobster!Dean Winchester x Virgin! Reader

Word Count: 2203

Series Warnings: Mob level violence, injured Dean, description of injury, creepy Godfather John Winchester, John is pretty much a douche bag, escort services, virgin reader, lose of virginity and all the insecurities and fun stuff that come with it, age gap (23 year old reader; 40 year old Dean), angst, unrequited/requited love?, language, smut, unprotected smut.

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Fighting, Hurt!Dean, description of injury, blood, swearing, John is a dick, regret. I think that’s it. 

A/N: Beta’d by @deanwanddamons! Thanks so much love!! Please don’t copy my work!! Feedback is golden! Hope you all enjoy this one!! It’s gonna be a little bit of a slow burn y’all, but just hang in there!

(This fic is based on this request: Could you do a Dean x reader where she is 23 and lives alone in her apartment, she gets fired and can loose her house, her friend tells her about a sugar daddy app, she makes a profile and Dean 40, contacts her, she is virgin and don’t offers sex, Dean is billionaire business man and needs a girl for his business parties,the reader is really shy, blushes a lot, they fall in love, he takes her to a trip and makes love to her on a private island, could it be a series?)

Want more? Check out my masterlist!!

***MASTERLIST***

***SERIES MASTERLIST***

Sitting in the chair that was facing the window that looked out on the dark lawn below from Dean’s room, you shove the peppermint tea that Jess had brought up to you a little further away. She was just trying to make you better, and you knew that, but you didn’t think there was anything anyone could do to make you feel better. Especially when none of them knew what was really wrong with you. They all thought that you were just nervous about Dean’s job today, but that was so far from the truth.

Dean’s little revelation before he disappeared in the bathroom was the last thing he’d  said to you last night, and when you finally cried yourself to sleep, you were pretty sure he’d just chosen to sleep in the bathroom and not come out to talk to you. 

He was so angry that you were scared to go and try to talk to him, and when you woke up this morning, Dean and John were already long gone. 

A knock on the door and Jess’ entry pulled you from your thoughts as she made her way to sit down on the chair next to you. 

“Hey you. How are you holding up?”

You shook your head and tried to stop the stinging tears that threatened to spill over the surface from falling.

“I’m okay, just stressed.” you lied, pulling your blanket up to your neck like it could hide your shame. If something happened to Dean today, you’d never forgive yourself. He’d done and given so much to keep you safe, and you pretty much told him last night that you hoped he died. God how you wanted to take it all back, do it all different. 

“John and Dean will be just fine. High table meetings are always stressful and dangerous, because the Campbells will be there, and they like to cause problems with John.They still blame him for Dean and Sam’s mom’s death in that house fire, but this isn’t like it’s something they haven’t dealt with before, and by tonight he will be here, safe and sound.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat you nod your head. You hoped with everything in you that she was right, and that they would make it home. You didn't understand all of this stuff, but you knew that if you became John’s you were probably fucked in ever since of the word, if you even lived through the guilt of never giving Dean the chance he deserved. 

You made a promise to yourself, that if he lived through this, and everything worked out okay, you’d give him that chance. Let yourself fall for him like you were doing before you were forced to move in here. Maybe even get to be happy with him.

Jess put a comforting hand on our shoulder and stood from her seat. 

“Sam and I are about to have a Friends marathon in the living area. Want to join us?” she asked, and you forced a smile in return.

“Maybe in a little bit. I think I’m gonna try and take a shower, see if I can scald away some of this stress.” you tell her, and she gives you a warm smile before leaving you to your thoughts. 

Unwrapping yourself from your cocoon of blankets, you wander your way to the bathroom. You didn’t even have time to start the shower, when you heard a blood curdling  scream from the down stairs part of the house. 

Your heart stopped in your chest, and you ran towards the staircase, coming to the landing just in time to see John and Sam hauling a very bloody Dean through the front door, and towards what they called the medical area of the house. 

For just a moment you were rooted in your spot, unable to make your feet move, as absolute horror gripped you.

You don’t even know really what made feet move, but you numbly made your way towards the yelling, not even really paying attention to what they were saying or the man in a suit that ran past you toward him, though you did note that they were calling him Nick.

When you entered the room the horror that greeted you made the bile rise in your throat. 

They had Dean stretched out on a table, his shirt ripped open, blood pouring from his stomach in a way that you couldn’t really even see the injury, but you knew it was bad. Nick circled the table, yelling commands at Sam that you didn’t even hear over the ringing in your ears.

Nick's British accent was cut off by John’s deep voice, bringing you back to your senses.

“Y/N! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE, AND COMFORT MY SON! KEEP HIM CALM!”

Your attention snapped from the long, deep gash in Dean’s stomach, to the green eyes that were boring into yours. 

Violence isn't something you were accustomed to. You had never seen anyone hurt that bad in real life, but aside from the blood, and the gore of the cut, it was the hurt in his eyes that made your heart shatter. 

He was staring at you, his eyes almost as red as his stomach, the piercing green duller than normal, eyes wet as if he wanted to cry, but wouldn’t allow himself to. 

You staggered a step towards him, and Dean lifted his hand shakily in our direction. That just made it all hurt worse. 

Grabbing his hand in yours, you card your fingers through his hair, keep your eyes locked on his, as Nick and Sam move around behind you, keeping your back to the wound on Dean’s stomach, and focusing on his face, John standing over your shoulder, watching everything closely. 

“Dean, oh my God, I’m so, sorry.” you said in almost a whisper, shock evident in your voice. 

Dean didn’t answer, just gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes against the pain radiating through his body.

“Gonna have to stitch him up here John. He’s not going to make it to a hospital, but it doesn’t look like anything internal was damaged.” Nick said, and John just nodded above you. 

“You...You’re not going to put him to sleep?” you ask as Nick and Sam prepared needles full of brown liquid.

“Can’t do that. He’s lost too much blood, but don’t worry sweetheart, we’re gonna numb him up real good.” Nick said, Jess made her way to the other side of Dean’s head across the table. 

“Nick’s the family doctor of shorts. Everything’s gonna be fine.” she tries to assure you. 

You try and keep the horror and trembling under control. Focusing on Dean’s eyes, you see one large tear roll down his face as Nick and Sam move closer to his wound. His grip tightens on your hand, but he didn’t scream at what surely was the unbearable pain of the needles entering his wound before the numbing medicine could spread. Sam worked at putting an IV in his free arm next to Jess. 

Once the shots were done it seemed like it took them forever to stitch up him, and Dean’s eyes were getting heavy.  Nick assured you it was just the morphine, and not the blood loss. 

“What went wrong out there?” Sam asked, helping Nick wrap his brother’s wound once the stitching was done with thick antibiotic ointments, and gauze 

“Believe it or not, that didn’t happen at the meeting. We stopped to get gas at a station just outside of town, and some of Sammual’s boys jumped him. They weren't all that happy about the high tables approval of Y/N here, and they thought they’d take it out on Dean.”

Sam gritted his teeth and nodded his head. 

“Don’t worry son this isn’t over, they will pay for this.” John assured him, and Jess put her hand on his shoulder to calm him. 

“You on the other hand,” John said, leering at you as Nick finished up Dean’s wound, “clean up my son! Make sure he’s taken care of! He is your responsibility. If something happens to him, I swear to God your next.” 

John left the room his heavy footsteps echoing as Nick and Sam lifted Dean carefully in front of the table they’d been working on him on. Making their way up the stairs, and into your shared room they laid him down carefully on the bed, before Nick hooked up the bags of fluid and a bag of antibiotics to his IV.

Dean barely moved, or acknowledged what they were doing to him, which scared you, but no one else seemed concerned. 

“I’ll be back in four hours to give him another round of Morphine. I’ll go grab some Ambian to help him stay asleep. He needs the rest. Don’t worry sweetheart, he’s going to be just fine.” Nick said, giving you a pat on the back before disappearing to go and get the sleeping aid he’d referred to, returning only long enough to give it to him, and leave. 

Crawling carefully in the bed next to you, you carded your fingers through Dean’s tousled hair, his green eyes fluttering open to look at you. 

“I’m sorry Dean, this is all my fault, and I’ve treated you horribly. I wish I could take it all back.” you tell him, tears falling freely down your face as his hand reaches for you like a scared child that has been hurt, looking for comfort. 

“S’Okay, I shouldn’t have snapped at you last night. This hasn’t been easy for you, I know that. I’m just glad I didn’t die before I got to see you again.” he mumbled, his eyes heavy as he fought against the medication.

Carefully as possible, you slip your arm around his head, pulling him close to you as he loses the battle against consciousness. 

You had a second chance with Dean, and you were determined not to fuck it up this time, this time you would be everything he deserved. 

The sound of your bedroom door opening caught your attention as light flooded the dark room where Dean and yourself were laying. Sam’s overly tall figure slipped inside, and shut the door behind him before making his way to the bed with the small desk chair in tow, sitting it next to his brother's side of the bed, before flopping down in it. 

Dean was not a small man by any means, but next to his “little” brother, he looked so small, especially laying on the bed with his stomach sewn shut, and an IV leading from his arm. 

“Did you finish getting him undressed?” Sam asked, and you suddenly felt stupid. You didn't even think about his slacks and shoes that were still on his feet. 

“Oh God, I didn’t think about that.” You said, ripping the cover off of him as gently as you could, and working to take his shoes off as Sam stood and help you undo his slacks, slipping them down his long bowed legs, leaving him just in his tight, black boxers before the two of you covered him back up, and you settle back down next to him.

“You know, John catches you in here, it's my ass. You heard what he said.” you tell Sam in a hushed whisper, and Sam chuckled darkly. 

“Don’t worry about John. He better not tell me shit about coming to check on my brother.” Sam said darkly, and that for some reason was laced with a promise more lethal than anything John had said downstairs. 

“Why did they do this Sam, why do they hate him so much.” you ask, watching as Dean shifted closer to you in his sleep, unconsciously  seeking comfort from you, even through all the drugs they had him on. 

“Because Samual Cambell is a narcissistic dick who can’t let the past go.” Sam said darkly.

“He still blames your dad for your mom’s death?” you ask, settling Dean’s head back on your shoulder. 

“Yep, that’s some of it. Some of it is  he’s just a heartless dick, who wants to have all the power. He hated my dad even when my mom was alive from what I’m told. I don’t really remember as she died when I was just a baby. I can tell you this, no man in his right mind would put a death order on his own fucking grandson, much less the son of John Winchester. He will pay for this Y/N, I promise you. Just worry about getting Dean better. We will take care of the rest.” Sam said, standing up from his chair, and making his way towards the door, stopping just short of opening it.

“You know, Dean really does love you, I’ve never seen him like this before. I just feel like you needed to hear that.” Sam said, before disappearing into the hallway. 

God, you hoped he was telling the truth, because right now, you were pretty sure you had fallen from him the moment you climbed out of his SUV, and you were too big of a coward to admit it to yourself, until you almost lost him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[adoredontour]

all the fics i read and loved this month, in order from longest to shortest!

For As Long As I Can Remember (It’s Been December) by green_feelings @greenfeelings 128k

After recovering from a severe accident that causes Harry to lose his memory of three years, he moves to London to start his life over as a star chef. Little does he know that when he falls in love with Louis at first sight, it’s not the first time they meet.

Featuring an unintentional game of hot and cold, Harry chasing memories that won’t come back, Louis burying himself in work to try and forget what he can’t forget, Liam being torn between two of his best friends, Zayn as a moral compass and Niall saving the day with good music and brutal honesty.

got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove 124k

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

Tired Tired Sea by MediaWhore 113k

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

nothing worsens, nothing grows by soldouthaz @soldouthaz 102k

and he sits there quietly with harry’s headphones in his ears while his eyes begin to close, totally unaware that he’s listening to the soundtrack of harry falling in love with him.

or, another roadtrip au featuring harry as the misunderstood hipster, louis as the bitter psych major, liam as the one with the secret boyfriend, and niall as the one who just wants everyone to be happy.

& more under the cut!

Follow Your Arrow by bitter_leaf @bitter-leaf 78k

Harry was the golden child, blessed in every way; Niall was the charming miscreant, a bad boy; Liam was the future-son-in-law parents of daughters dreamt of, and Zayn was the kid parents wished was their son. But Louis, Harry thought, Louis was the special one.

It's senior year and everything is about to change.

somethin’ bout you by missandrogyny @missandrogyny 59k

Of all the government agents in the world, Louis had to go and land the most charming one.

The Recklessness in Water by LarryOn @larryonsimon 50k

Louis Tomlinson is miserable. He's stuck on a family vacation at a lake cabin in New Hampshire when all he wants to do is bemoan his sorry existence and wallow in his sweatpants. As if the humidity and mosquitos weren't bad enough, he becomes the singular target of an obnoxious lifeguard named Harry.

Missed Connection by littlelouishiccups @littlelouishiccups 39k

Soulmate AU where your soulmate’s first words to you are tattooed on your skin.

With a boring and generic soul mark like Hi, Harry is pessimistic he’ll ever find his soulmate or that he’ll realize it when he meets them. But he could always have it worse, like his new friend Louis who had a drunken one night stand with his soulmate a few years ago and woke up the next morning alone.

before we knew by falsegoodnight @risthebrave 39k

“C’mon Lou,” says Zayn after a moment, He sounds even more exasperated than before. Louis sort of has a knack for exasperating people, especially people like Zayn who aren’t usually bothered by his brattiness. “Can’t you give this guy a chance? Harry Styles? Aren’t you curious about him at all?”

Despite his best efforts, Louis still flinches at the name. He really shouldn’t be so affected after all these years. He’s seen the name printed down the curve of his waist in obnoxiously and uncommonly large loopy letters every single day since his sixteenth birthday eight years ago. He’s very familiar with the name Harry Styles.

It sounds pretentious and Louis hates it.

He hates everything about his supposed soulmate.

He hates his large handwriting that stands out like a claim on his skin whenever he’s walking around shirtless. He hates his pretentious name. And now he hates his supposed curls and green eyes and dimples.

-

Or Louis has been skeptical of soulmates for years so it seems like fate when he finally bumps into the owner of the obnoxiously large signature printed into his skin since age sixteen: Harry Styles, a human rights attorney who is firmly against soulmates.

what’s mine is yours to make your own by soldouthaz @soldouthaz 39k

sometimes, the closest harry ever feels to home is louis. it's their shared hotel rooms on tour, their shoes toed off in the doorway next to each other, jackets hung on the same post.

it's everything he doesn't notice until it's been taken away from him.

And Touch Me Like You Never by runaway_train @runaway-train-works 35k

“Lets move back a bit yeah?” Harry clutches at his waist with a free hand and tugs him to move through the crowd until they are almost at the back of the group and settles them both beside the far wall. “There. That better?”

Louis looks up at him, as if he’s a tad dazed. “Uh, yeah, thanks. Can’t really see much from back here either though.”

Harry lifts a shoulder and grins at him, placing a hand on the wall behind Louis to pen him in. “We’ll just have to create our own fireworks then, won’t we?” He says it jokingly with a wink, and Louis laughs but he seems nervous. He must know that Harry is harmlessly flirting. Harry flirts with everyone after all, including Louis.

“Do you think this is a good idea Haz?” Louis asks quietly, almost too quietly in the clamour of the room, his head bowed as he scuffs his shoe on the carpet.

“Stop over thinking it Lou, it’s one kiss. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Or

The one where Harry and Louis agree to be each other's New Year's kiss and it ends up being a lot more than they bargained for.

last blues for bloody knuckles by creamcoffeelou @2ofusmp4

Styles was a name everyone knew. It had evolved into something of a fairy tale, a far away problem that normal people didn’t have to deal with. Louis never thought he’d find himself falling in love with him. When he finds himself pregnant with Harry’s child, he knows he has to leave the life, and Harry, behind. For her sake.

He never expected Harry to show back up on his doorstep five years later.

A mob au.

like it’s a game by soldouthaz @soldouthaz 32k

there is little harry hates more than truth or dare.

and louis.

gathered on wings by Brooklyn_Babylon @twopoppies 32k

As Harry lay by Louis’ side, covered in sweat and come, he knew he should feel ugly, messy, ruined, like the life he’d left behind. But something about the way Louis looked at him, the way his eyes stared at him with want and awe, made Harry wonder if he’d ever feel this beautiful again.

Harry rolled his eyes at himself for his momentary romantic dreaminess. As good as this was, he knew it was nothing more than sex. He literally couldn’t afford to fall for just anyone, no matter how fit they were.

-----

What Harry Styles wanted was to be taken seriously as an artist. What he needed was a new sugar daddy to pave the way. Louis Tomlinson is an artist who isn’t what Harry is looking for. Somehow he still manages to turn Harry's world upside down.

let’s make a thing of cream and stars by missandrogyny @missandrogyny 24k

It doesn't explain why he's lying on the floor, with Harry Styles, of all people, planking on top of him.

As in, seventeenth most influential person in London, pop-star-turned-rock-star Harry Styles. The same Harry Styles who has had countless model girlfriends, left, right and centre. Also the same Harry Styles who has been the subject of Louis' wet dreams since he was about eighteen.

(Or: Louis is a Radio 1 DJ and Harry is a pop-star he interviews.)

Strong Enough by jacaranda_bloom @jacaranda-bloom 21k

The biggest obstacle is still in place, firmly ensconced as a roadblock, cemented in their path and preventing them from moving forward. The thing is, it’s not actually Harry that’s the problem. Harry, for all his faults, for whatever decisions he’s made to lead to him to where he is in his life right now, would move heaven and earth and all that’s in between to help Liam, to support him. No. It’s Louis. He’s the one that has to reach out. He’s the one that has to let go and get the fuck over himself. It’s been five years for Christ's sake. It’s time to move on and suck it up.

“So…” Liam starts, and Louis instantly knows where this is going. He’s actually glad that it’s Liam that drags the subject out from the shadows and into the world. Louis turns to face him, mirroring his position on the couch and nods, ready for him to continue. “Have you spoken to Harry recently?”

Five years after Vertigo goes on hiatus, the band comes back together for a benefit concert. Can Louis and Harry work through their complicated past, or are some wounds too deep to be healed?

you flower, you feast by stylinsoncity @aliensingucci 18k

He's King of the Underworld, but don't assume Louis has it all. He could stand for some excitement in his monotonous, eternal life and maybe, even.....a soulmate.

(Despite not having a soul.)

And along came "Harry".

The Orchards of Jessop by jaerie @jaerie 15k

At age 40, there isn’t much excitement in widower Louis Tomlinson’s life, but wasn’t that the reason he’d moved to Jessop Island in the first place? Back then he hadn’t thought retiring before he reached 30 and moving to the countryside would mean that he’d be doing it alone. Now, just to fill the space, he welcomes lodgers into his home that pass through working as temporary labourers at the orchards just up the road. They’ve all been young adults eager to start lives of their own after one last summer of freedom.

All of them have been much the same, coming and going from Louis’ house with just enough social interaction to keep the house from feeling so empty. But when a global pandemic shuts down the world, being quarantined with a quiet twenty year old who keeps to himself might turn out to be an awkward arrangement. By the time the restrictions have been lifted, their relationship has developed into something Louis isn’t quite ready to give up. With their twenty year age difference, Louis has to be prepared for the inevitable outcome when the reality shatters the private world they’ve been living in. He’s not sure he’ll be able to let it go.

if i had the chance, the things i would do to you by missandrogyny @missandrogyny 14k

Niall sighs. He leans forward, pushing his mug of tea carefully to the side, before bracing his elbows on the table, chin in his hands. It makes him look like some sort of bottle-blonde cherub. "You have quite the fanbase, Harry. I'm not denying that. And you've done a good job of popping out every once in a while in the past two years, just to make sure you're still talked about. But that's all you've done, and I'm not satisfied. I want more." He blinks at Harry. "Don't you want more?"

(Or: AU where Harry and Louis compete in the Lip Sync Battle)

One Way Road To Something Better by femstyles @femstyles 12k

Four years ago when Louis and Harry moved in together, Louis promised Anne that he’d take care of Harry no matter what. But things don’t always go as planned, and sometimes risky choices have to be made.

Inspired by Don't Let It Break Your Heart

baby look what you’ve done to me by ballsdeepinjesus 9k

The next day kind of turns everything upside down, though. Louis gets another lingerie catalogue addressed to Harry. He’s about to toss it when he sees a personalized note stuck to the front; it thanks Harry for his previous purchases and offers him a complimentary six-month subscription to their magazine free of charge. It’s a unisex lingerie catalogue. Lingerie specifically designed to allow for the existence of penises, apparently, judging from the bulging cocks covered in lace that he sees as he flips through the pages. His breath catches in his throat at the thought of a faceless Harry -- mysterious, odd Harry -- dressed up in his purchases, whatever they may be.

He thinks he needs a lie down, to be honest.

[louis moves into harry's old flat. harry gets a lot of mail.]

golden hearts (light their way back down) by fairytalelights @lookslikefairytale 4k

“..So, top or bottom?” Louis asks when Harry tunes back in. And... what? Harry knew he should have been paying more attention but he has no idea how in the hell Louis explaining camp rules to him could have led to discussing sexual preferences this quickly. He must have smiled and nodded at the wrong place one too many times.

or, the one where Harry’s first day as a summer camp counsellor doesn’t go quite as planned.

Still, Somehow, You’re Perfect Now  by FallingLikeThis @fallinglikethis 3k

Harry Styles is Captain of the footie team and all-around popular dude-bro-pal to the entire senior class. He’s kind to everyone from what Louis Tomlinson can tell, and kinder still when he thinks no one is looking. Of course, Louis has been looking. Ever since he transferred schools at the beginning of the year and noticed Harry for the first time, it’s been hard to look away.

All My Friends Are Here by abrighteryellow 

He is about to decline, though. If he has to sit through forced merriment, the least he can do is avoid participation at all costs. He is about to, but then the guy with the microphone is looking out into the crowd. He’s saying things, too — about rules and prizes and team names. At least, Louis assumes so. He can’t really hear him over the ringing in his ears.

“Alright, mate. I’ll play.”

A pub quiz has invaded Louis’s favorite dive. Fortunately, it comes with a charming host.

Front porch and one more kiss by Femstyles @femstyles <1k

A goodnight kiss on a front porch

BONUS: (rereads)

Unbelievers by isthatyoularry @isthatyoularry 136k

It’s Louis’ senior year, and he’s dead set on doing it right. However, along with his pair of cleats, a healthy dose of sarcasm and his ridiculous best friend, he’s also got a complicated family, a terrifyingly uncertain future, and a mortal enemy making his life just that much worse. Mortal enemies “with benefits” was not exactly the plan.

Or: The one where Louis and Harry definitely aren’t friends, and football is everything.

Close to Nowhere by angelichl @angelichl 34k

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Louis threatened as he quickly stepped out of his jeans.

“I don’t think that would work very well baby, seeing as you talk to dead people all the time.”

“I’ll kill you in your sleep and ignore your ghost. And don’t call me that.”

Louis and Harry are psychics who kind of hate each other. They go to Tennessee to investigate a haunting.

led by your beating heart by missandrogyny @missandrogyny 24k

Nick leans over. "Oh," he says, his voice smug. "Who is that?"

Harry just blinks at his phone. "Um," he manages to stammer out.

"Who's that, Harry?" Nick asks again, but this time he raises his eyebrows and smirks. Harry knows Nick is just teasing, and that he's not really looking for new Harry Styles gossip, but, um. He might have found something. Accidentally.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is another 'um'. He really needs to work on translating his thoughts into words. But then it probably wouldn't be any helpful right now, would it? His mind is as blank as a newly erased etch-a-sketch.

"Oh," Nick says again, this time gleefully, seemingly having picked up on Harry's distress. "Looks like we've got a story here! Are you going to call or delete her number?"

Her number. So Nick thinks it's a girl. Well, Harry can't blame him: 'Lou' is kind of an androgynous nickname. His stylist's name is Lou.

But this Lou, well, Louis, he's kind of, really, really not a girl. He's really pretty though, which, is something.

(Or: AU where Harry's in One Direction, Louis isn't, and they reconnect over a game of 'Call or Delete'.)

[nanoland]

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave. 

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered. 

0 

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

0

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did. 

0

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark. 

0

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con… constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty. 

0

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out. 

0

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head. 

0 

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried. 

0

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering. 

0

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”  

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued) 

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Dangerous (Part 1/2)

Description: It was your best friend’s bachelorette party in one of London’s best clubs when two men had closed a bet if they would be able to seduce you. And in the end, the night ended up way better than you originally anticipated.

A/N: Oh, we're back. For this two-part one-shot, I approached both of the idiots very differently - I wanted Sam to have this sexual hotshot energy while Cutter had more of that mysterious daddy vibe. And I think that somehow, it really suits both the boys. Enjoy.

Pairing: Charlie Cutter x reader x Samuel Drake (We stan a threesome in this house)

Playlist: Idiot sandwich that stole my heart™

Tagging: @missdictatorme​

Part 2.

It was just another night in downtown. The sunlight was slowly fading away, ladies wore tight and short skirts, and gentlemen were sipping whiskey in the nearby bars. And London was no different. It was one of the most favorite tourist locations since it was mostly colder in there during summer and it was the crown jewel of England. Soho and Chinese street looked especially magnificent at that time of the year.

Yet the clubs were especially full of people as well. Swedish and European students, you gonna love this, mate, as Charlie said Samuel a million times. Cutter and Drake, formerly known as Morgan, were two gentlemen in their best years. They weren't some boys who would bend you over the nearest bed without knowing what to do. No. They both were quite tall, one of them would even say fairly handsome - and skilled in the first place.

Drake, the definition of a small bitch according to Cutter, was rather persistent with choosing some warmer locations like the Bahamas or the Canary Islands, let alone Cuba, for their summer vacation. But Cutter, who was born and lived his whole life in England, told him to go fuck himself and that this year, he’ll show Drake the European hospitality and girls. Samuel had to say that these young kittens looked magnificent, from both up close and from the distance.

Norwegian girls had the dirties eyes he had seen, French girls could whisper them some sweet nothings the whole night, Hungarian girls were fiery enough to show them who is the boss, Czech and Slovak girls knew well how to handle alcohol and Russian girls were both tough and sweet as candy at the same time. Yet Samuel didn't stop bitching about London being the color-less, boring city he always saw on the postcards. What did it matter that the Queen was living there when the only location which tingled Samuel’s senses was the Tower? Yet Cutter told him that Sam hadn't seen shit yet.

And bloody hell, as British men would say when they walked into the club, Samuel knew what was the boy talking about. That was the energy Sam needed to feel alive since he was rotting in hell for God knows how long. Alcohol being poured in gallons, tight pairs of jeans, and laughter all around. And this wasn’t some boring-ass club either, as Samuel would say. People were dancing, which he hasn't seen in ages. Cutter most took him to poker tournaments or to play darts.

"Bee’s knees, I love this bloody place." - Cutter sighed and took the bomber off, walking stairs down to walk to the bar of the place itself. - "Come on, you prick, don't just stand there!" - He called at Samuel with a raspy voice, laughing out loud. Sometimes, Sam looked like a small boy in a toystore. Especially when he was looking at so many lovely bottoms and tits.

"One Pimm’s Cup and a Sex on the Beach for this lady over here." - Cutter winked at the barmaid who smiled back at him, already holding the shaker to prepare some of the best drinks in London.

"What are we? Fucking ladies to drink cocktails?" - Sam asked back, leaning his back to the bar, looking around. His eyes were doing their best to see it all - the girl with afro trying to kiss the soul out of her partner's body, the boy who had his hand in his girl's panties and the twerking group in the middle of the dancefloor.

"Mate, you hadn't learned shit while you were in London. You need to start slowly before pouring down vodka and other shit." - Cutter told him, smiling at the barmaid who brought them the drinks. She was sweet - her blonde hair was in a high ponytail and her face was full of freckles. She was just the type of girl Cutter liked. Sweet, innocent, and pretty. - "Thank you, darling." - The bald man smiled at the barmaid before she ran off to serve another customer.

"And you still think that you're attractive enough to get under a young girl's panties. Who is dumber here? Cheers, mate." - Samuel answered with a dramatic British accent, toasting to Cutter before taking a sip through the straw. Yet Cutter's grin was making him sure that he had just bumped into an interesting topic.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Samuel. Both American and European chicks go crazy for a British accent. All you have to do in the bed is talk and they cum on their own." - Cutter looked around with a shit-eating grin. He knew very well that he's right. A good portion of women was into a thick British accent and his raspy voice. The voice alone could work wonders between girl’s thighs, so being tall, muscular, and having this bad boy vibe was just a bonus usually.

"I think you're lying, brother, but what can I know? I usually put my mouth to use too, but we ain't talkin’. And this mouth can show you the universe, I tell ya." - Samuel answered with a nasty grin as well, his Boston accent being fully put to use at that point. Cutter started to laugh out loud, having Samuel clueless.

"Nice to know, I will remember that, mate. You wanna show me or what?" - Cutter asked, sipping another sip of his ice-cold drink.

"You're such a douchebag." - Samuel laughed as well since Cutter knew how to turn every single situation into a stand-up.

"You see the chick at three o’clock?" - Cutter mumbled from sipping, still looking in front of himself. Samuel carefully checked her out. Not that she would notice a man staring in a club full of people, yet Samuel didn't want to come across as a creep. She was... Pretty. As a lot of women inside the club. She was yelling something at the barmaid so she would hear her, standing there in some old sneakers. Her clothes didn't reveal that much, it was just a normal white top and a pair of blue jeans. Yet something about that face made both the idiots grin when thinking about showing her the edge of paradise.

"Yeah, you bet your fucking British ass I do see that girl." - Samuel returned to the previous position, grinning into his straw just the way Cutter did. Both boys liked girls who had that little spark about them. You never could quite put the finger on it, yet it was there. You couldn't name or label it - it was the flame of the unknown, a promise of fun or... See? Neither of them knew what it is, but she had it.

"And since we’re in this bloody town for the last night, I wanna bet, mate. Since I know that British accent is a hit with the ladies and you keep telling me about some magical Boston mouth, whoever gets the girl, wins something." - Cutter put the empty glass on the bar, grinning at Samuel, having the man grinning back. Timber was yelling all over the club and it felt 2013-ish. The barmaid automatically brought both men a shot of their finest vodka since Cutter came to the club pretty frequently.

"What’s the somethin’ we talkin’ ’bout?" - Samuel bit his lower lip when the girl got her drinks and ventured back to the back of the club where the tables were. Both of them poured the vodka down their throats at the same time, both of them having that face.

"I don't know. Maybe some expansive liquor?" - Charlie asked, but after that, he started laughing. - "Oh, I know, when I get her down tonight, you owe me a ride on your motorbike baby and night with this beautiful lady." - He offered Samuel his palm, watching Sam slowly shaking it.

"When I win, your best bomber is mine. Who goes first?" - Samuel crunched the knuckles and to his surprise, Charlie motioned for him to go.

"Ladies first, mate, ladies always go first." - Charlie smiled, asking for two bottles of beer. When Samuel got his beer, he shook his head but started walking in the direction of your table.

***

It was your friend's bachelorette party and for a reason, she chose a club in London from all the destinations, like France or Italy, she could choose. You were not from there, but she wanted something big and fancy, so she decided to go for a weekend to London. You were more of staying put at home person, yet you didn't want to upset her just days from her wedding.  

"Your dinks, ladies." - You yelled, earning an excited yelling of your shit-faced friends back. You’ve been sticking to beer the whole four hours you've already spent in that God-forsaken place, you've been just fine at that moment, being on bottle number four by that time.

"You're my favorite maid of honor." - Your friend Amber hugged you, giving you a big fat kiss on your cheek. You giggled at that, taking another sip of the beer. - "These men here, ugh." - Amber moaned out loud before taking a big sip of her Mochito, watching the dancefloor with her eyes open wide. You chuckled at that, sipping from your bottle.

You weren't that interested in the men there. Like, yeah, they were nice and most of the men you've encountered in England so far were true British gentlemen, but... You weren't the type who would mingle for a one-night stand. You were taking the whole crazy trip as a widening of your horizons. When Amber didn't want to be in a club, you usually traveled around to see the sights England could give you. Stratford upon Avon was cute, Devon too, but London was a blast in your opinion.

"And you're getting married next week, Amber. Don't forget about that you nasty bitch." - Monica yelled from the other side of the table, giggling at Amber's sighs.

"I envy you soooo much, Y/N. These men are everything. Just look at these damn asses." - Amber rolled her eyes, making you both laugh in sync. Suddenly, she got all serious. Her elbow bumped into your ribs making you squeal, her head motioning in a direction of some forty-something dude who was eyeing your table, slowly walking to it through the dancing crowd. - "I think he's coming for one of us, what should I do?" - Amber panicked, looking at her engagement ring.

"You won't do shit, Amber, you're the bride." - You calmed her down, making her lips from a little O in awe. She was like that when she was drunk. The man looked fine, that was true - tall with brown hair, a rough face, and a tall body. You couldn't see him clearly, you just watched him swaying his hips in black jeans and shoulders in a white t-shirt widening with every step he took.

It took him almost five minutes before he finally got there. That was mainly because of the way he was trying to sell that nasty smug. You’ve wondered how it came that he didn't wiggle his hips out. Just when he was about to tell you something, the DJ started playing some banger according to the screaming coming from the dancing crowd, which made you smile. So he leaned in without a problem. Well, at least you knew that he had some confidence inside of him.

"Night, ladies, the name’s Samuel." - He offered his palm to Monica, then to Amber and then to you, kissing your knuckles with a smile. - "How comes that three beautiful ladies end up in a place like this... Alone?" - He wondered, standing next to the empty spot long enough for Monica to scoop a bit further away. Naturally, Samuel sat next to her, giving her a rather nasty smile.

"It’s my bachelorette party!" - Amber yelled at him with a happy smile, making you smile as well when she shoved her ring right in front of that guy's face. At least the confident asshat knew that he won't make a single move at that table. Yet Samuel rose his eyebrows, smiled even wider, and gently caught her palm to look at the ring. Then he nodded and let her hand go. - "He is one of a hella happy fella, I tell you that." - And with that, his eyes hooked on your face. Monica was watching both of you with a vulgar smile on her lips.

"And what about you, doll, you're having a bachelorette party too?" - Samuel smiled, putting his bottle on the table. Before you could answer, shit-faced Amber already started telling him your story.

"She’s been single forever, I swear. It always works or spending time with her family, like, I know she's the most responsible and shit, but I am afraid that she’ll end up alone with twenty cats, and one day, she'll go nuts." - She told him seriously. The mysterious, confident and somehow sexy guy started laughing at her straightforwardness, looking you in the eyes after that.

"I will go nuts if you won't stop, bitch, this was unnecessary." - You sighed, taking a deep swing of your beer. You shook your head with an angry face. Although, Amber wasn’t stopping there, making you even more embarrassed. - "But you are a hell of a guy. Holy fuck, are those tattoos? I always wanted my fiance to get some." - She went for it and let her fingers grace his neck. Samuel had a pleased grin when she has done so.

"I've been living in Panama for some time, got ’em there." - He then proceeded to lift one of his sleeves, showing you another tattoo on his shoulder. These were poker aces. Amber but her lower bottom, looking at the tattoos, gently touching them, traveling down to feel the poor man's biceps at the very end of her exploration. To put it nicely, you were embarrassed. Yet to your surprise, the Samuel man ignored Amber drooling over him and practically climbing over the table to touch his skin. The man sat there and watched you with a small smile. - "And I have a few more on places that ain’t appropriate to show ’ere." - He mumbled and both of the ladies next to you instantly got the horny faces on.

Amber bumped her elbow into your ribs again, doing it way stealthier this time. Yeah, he was a good looking man if you'd have to be honest. He had your girls wrapped around his long finger five minutes after coming there - there was this... Testosterone or some shit like that coming out of him. Amber gave you one of these risen-eyebrows looks and bit her lower lip once again.

"Care for a dance?" - The man asked, standing up. At first, he was looking into the dancing crowd only giving you his palm as if he didn't even care. You sat there for quite a while before Samuel smiled in your direction, assuring you that he wants you to dance with him. Which, no matter how hard you'd try to deny this, it was something that made you smile too. In a gentle moment, you slipped your palm into his, hoping that at least Amber would stop hitting your ribs.

You honestly hadn't heard that song in years. Calabria felt real like a late 2010-ish song. Was this night sort of a retro party? You hadn't heard the majority of the songs in years, yet people danced to them like crazy. And let's be honest, you and Samuel weren't that much different, because as soon as you hit the dancefloor, he showed you some good moves and suddenly, it wasn't that weird or gross to be seduced by that man.

***

To be honest, Cutter was quite in the mood when he saw that Samuel and you dancing along with the other pairs. And more importantly, you two were having fun. Sam started with his most outdated moves, slowly getting to the more erotic ones when you seemed to agree with that. The man didn't want to be punched right into his nose. Yet soon, your pelvis was brought close to Samuels and Charlie could see his friend's lips whispering something in your ear. In the reaction to that, you were laughing and soon enough, you put one of your hands on his waist.

Charlie was quite familiar with the song playing. It had some good basses and the beat just invited you to dance. You were the sweetest when you let go of Samuel, rose your hands above your hand, yelling the upcoming lyrics, that went something like... - "Dangerous? Oh! That sounds good, yeah.

Talk to me baby, like I'm your dude." - It made Charlie chuckle.

He was also quite interested in the tactics Samuel used to relax you like that. The whole time Samuel was gone, Charlie stood next to the bar, thinking about what he should he do. He was choosing a tactic if you will. Every woman was different, so he better has some back-up plan if he wants to win the bet. Samuel undeniably had the charming personality chicks liked, whether he was aware of it or not. He was a forty-something-year-old dude with the mentality of a dude in his early twenties, which was attractive too.

Yet Charlie didn't have that trait. He was a man in his late forties and it could be seen as well. He was bald too. But that was something Samuel didn't quite have - the authority of something like a daddy figure if you will. He met girls who were into that sort of stuff and he hadn't got a single problem with delivering - it was quite fun actually. To say it quickly, he was a guy who was looking mysteriously with a good sense of humor, making the chicks both screaming in pleasure and very with laughter when they wanted that goofy-guy sorta stuff.

So he figured out that it would be best to figure out what you were into and work on that since the first second he introduces himself to you on the bar.

***

"You have good dance moves, Y/N!" - Sam exclaimed happily when he was leading you back to your table. You nodded, still laughing. You couldn't believe that you spend half an hour with a totally strange guy on the dancefloor. Yeah, it wasn't just dancing obviously. Sam proved to be quite handy with his palms, absorbing almost everything out of your body while his mouth was whispering funny stuff. Suddenly, you both stopped and he looked at you with a pretty bold smile. Again, he showed you how quick he could be when his left palm put some hair out of your face. - "This was fun. So... If you would like to have some more fun when you'll be leaving, call this number, deal?" - He asked and gave you a small card.

It was one of the most simple ones you've ever had seen. Samuel Drake - historian, archeologist, and an adventurer. His number was on the other side. After giving him the same nasty grin, you nodded and pushed the card into the back pocket of your jeans, letting him go.

Girls immediately noticed you coming back... All alone without that Sammy boy. But the smile was indicating that you hadn't empty hands. Amber asked you about what happened even before you sat your ass down. - "Well, we danced and lemme say, he's a good dancer and then... He gave me this business card to call him when ill be leaving. Which unfortunately won't happen since I have to lead both your drunk asses to the hotel." - You sighed, playing with the card between your fingers. Monica took it out, smiling at you.

"I'm more or less sober, so I can take Amber home while you'll find that prince charming and have a wonderful night." - She gave it back to you after reading the text under his name. - "I would love to have a cig, anyone going with me?" - Monica asked and mumbled a few curse words while she searched through her purse for a pack of cigarettes. Naturally, you got up and motioned for her to go first, telling amber to sit there on her damn ass until you come back.

It was nice to stand in some fresh air. The night was pretty cold and it was raining a bit, but you didn't care since you were already soaking wet. Monica gave you a cigarette as well and both lit it up at the same moment. She was giving you some nasty grin too, which made you chuckle. - "What?" - You mumbled, exhaling the smoke.

"He seemed to be into you big time. You sure you don't want to call the man?" - She asked and at that moment, she seemed to be pretty reasonable and sober. Your shoulders jolted unknowingly. There was something on that promise of spending a night by his side. Sam was genuinely fun, hot as far as you could say and pretty smart. Also, he wasn't drunk that much, neither were you - so it was maybe really the both-sided chemistry doing the work. A couple of times it seemed that he's going in for a kiss, yet he rather teased you and bit your earlobe gently.

"He seemed sweet and fun and all, but what about you two?" - You asked Monica silently, still smoking on the cigarette with a thoughtful face.

"Oh, shush. We'll take a cab and get to the hotel on our own. I'll look after Amber. She was right about you being all about work or family. He's a stranger and you don't have to see him ever again, and that has some magic into it. Live a bit, come on, sis." - She hugged and you, indeed, felt confident about what Monica has said.

Sam was nothing but a hot guy you met in a club. You can fuck the night away, have some fun, wait for him to fall asleep, and then drive to your hotel, sitting on a flight home tomorrow. You'll never have to see him again.

You were determined that once you'll be leaving, you'll call the man, accepting the offer. When you were inside, you walked to the bar to order some alcohol, because Amber got to drink both your and Sam's beer when you were dancing.

It took you a moment to notice that guy. He was holding a small glass of whiskey, eyeing you with a small grin. He wasn’t exactly your type of handsome, yet there was something about that face. You spotted small stable and very attentive blue eyes. This man was huge in the best meaning of the word. He wasn't fat, not at all, yet it could be seen that there are some muscles under the t-shirt he had on. He was at least twice your age, but you got nervous when you looked into his eyes.

The difference between him and the guy you met earlier was huge. While Sam appeared to be a fairly approachable, exciting, and funny person, this dude... He seemed mysterious and authoritative. Which had woken up things inside of you; things you didn't even know were there. After having your breath stuck for a while, you returned a smile to the man, which was a signal for him to move closer to you.

"Whatever the lady orders, it's my treat." - The bald man told the barmaid, having her smile. Slowly, the man put some pounds on the wooden countertop, still looking at the lady who was serving the alcohol. It was ridiculously more than what you were supposed to pay, yet the gentlemen made clear that he doesn't want a pound back. - "Sure thing, Mr. Cutter."

"And what about you, love?" - He asked, taking your palm to kiss your knuckles delicately. That accent settled inside of your ears, fully attacking your brain. It was hot only to listen to the raspy voice speaking with the fully-blown thick London accent. No matter what you did, that man’s gaze followed you around. You almost felt like you can't escape it. Why Sam was making you feel so good and that was what made you aroused, yet this man was coming across as someone who would bend you over his knee with pleasure and it made you interested as well. - "What about me?" - You asked back, smiling at the man.

"What are you doing here alone?" - Cutter said and leaned even closer, having a smile on his lips when he leaned closer enough to whisper things into your ear. He had a firm body, just like Sam did, yet these two couldn't come across differently. - "I can do something about that, sweetheart."

Was all of this a nice dream? Two attractive men approaching you on the same night, telling you to leave the place with them. Or were they serial murderers? Or did a car hit you and you were in a coma? No, your heartbeat reminded you that this is pretty much happening in front of your very eyes. What the fuck should you do? If you'll leave with Cutter, what about Sam? And if you'd leave with Sam, what about this man? Why couldn't you have them both?

Monica more or less made you swear that whatever happens, you'll leave with Sam at the end of the party. But you felt being in a tight corner at the moment. Both men had some spark in them, one of them promised you a whole night of fun and the other one felt like a total daddy.

"That's kind of you, sir." - You winked at him, not knowing what else to say. The club was slowly getting darker, changing the color scheme as it was getting closer to midnight, now playing some Russian rap songs. Cutter looked at the couples around you, seeing many of them kissing and touching far beyond the line of decency. That was before you felt tips of someone's fingers smoothing your upper arm, gently getting onto your sweaty neck and jaw.

You could turn away from that man, yet there was something that made you push your head even closer, so your lips could meet his halfway. He wasn’t shying away at all, coming in with full force - lip bite, not too long after that, he even used his tongue, holding you close by your jaw. And this man, dear lord, he had some skillful mouth. It even made you close your eyes with enjoyment, making you moan lightly into his kiss.

"So, what do you say, love? Me, you, my place here?" - He whispered once he was done with the kiss, his palm slowly traveling down on your waist and lower. Sam did touch these places, yes, but his approach was more natural than devoting straightaway. Which made you also a bit cautious and aware of the man.

"I need to go back, Mr. Cutter. But thank you for the... Ehm... Invitation anyway." - You took the drinks, hurrying up back to girls. Your heartbeat was off the charts, your whole damn body was sweaty and since there were two rather handsome men trying to win you over that night, you were aroused as well. You couldn't leave with Sam, because you'd think about Cutter and the other way around. But you were sure that you will at least masturbate that night.

"Are you okay?" - Amber yelled into your ear when you finally sat down, gulping down. You couldn't catch your breath ever since Cutter kissed you. Your gaze traveled to her and you shook your head almost frantically.

"Another guy tried to take me over to his place." - You mumbled, gulping down your whole drink at once. Monica smiled and leaned over to you.

"And was this one as handsome as that Samuel before?" - She asked, taking her cocktail out of your hand. You turned your hand to the dancefloor, imaging both the men inside of your head.

"It's hard to tell, Monica. This one was tall and well-built as well..." - You sighed, but Amber stopped you once again. - "How can you know that he was well-built?" - She wondered, taking the last ice-cold drink as well. It was a miracle that she hadn't fallen asleep until that point.

"Because I know he's a good kisser too." - You smiled and each of you started laughing like crazy. - "I mean, he wasn’t the most handsome man I've seen, yet, he had that something inside these eyes." - You shook your head, not believing the things that had happened inside that club. It was just one night you've spent there and two attractive men approached you. One of them was American, the other one was clearly British and you knew that both of them had something to offer. But you knew that you'll leave alone once again.

***

"How did it go?" - Samuel asked Cutter once he walked off the dancefloor again. Cutter was leaning his elbow to the bar, watching you and your girls chatting excitedly. After that, he turned back to Sam.

"I can't tell, mate. First, it appeared that I have her hooked, but she left after that. What about you?" - Charlie finished another glass of whiskey, moving to beer for the rest of the night. From Sam’s smirk, it was apparent that at least one of the men is feeling positive about the whole bet.

"She has my number and when I was on a smoke break, her friend told her that she should have some fun with me tonite if you know what I mean." - Samuel wiggled his eyebrows, making Cutter frown even more. Maybe he shouldn’t go for the kiss just like that, but your body was telling yes. You were attracted to him, so why shouldn't he test the waters? It was too late for these kinds of thoughts. He probably had scared you off.

The two friends were standing there for quite a while and waited for Sam's desired call, talking about nothing the whole time. Sam had to say that he had some fun time and Cutter’s most impressive bomber on top of that. But that was when both men felt someone's presence behind them.

"You two know each other?" - A voice asked them and when they turned around, it was none other than you. Your eyes were looking at both of them and it was clear that you don't know what to think of that. Sam looked at Cutter with panic, not knowing what to say.

"It's not how you think it is." - Cutter tried to calm you down, but you were visibly upset over the whole situation. Yeah, it was a bet, but Cutter meant what he said. He wanted to spend the night with you. This was just a fun way to raise the stakes. If you wouldn't get to know.

"Jesus, I should've known that you two are assholes." - You walked between the men, mumbling something about assholes, dickheads, and shits, preparing money to pay the last drinks of the night. - "How would two men like you saw something on an ugly duckling like me? Funny shit, I tell you." - You mumbled with disgust, ordering cocktails your girls asked for.

"You don't know what you're talking about, love. You're beautiful." - Cutter told you back with a small smile, looking Samuel in the eyes. The other man nodded when he realized, leaning into the bar as well. - "And intelligent as hell, which is a huge turn on. I don't know why someone as pretty as you are even let guys like us talk to you." - The American smiled at you from the other side, lust lingering inside his eyes.

Could that be? It maybe was just a bet, yet these two men seemed to be interested. It could be a game as well - but a perfect solution to your situation too. If these two knew each other, maybe you didn't have to leave the place alone because you couldn't choose between them. Maybe, you could leave with both of them at once. You’ve never done that, but the alcohol inside your veins made you courageous.

"So, you're friends, you know each other, right?" - You asked while a smile grew on your lips. Oh, Cutter knew what is about to come and... It was so nasty that it turned him on in some kind of way. Samuel was completely confused tho. - "That means you can meet me outside the club in ten, probably?" - You asked innocently, taking the drinks, smiling at Charlie. He smiled back, leaving Samuel in the dark for a little longer.

"Which one of us?" - The American demanded. He wanted to win the bet so badly because Cutter’s bombers were the best in the whole world. But when he saw your devilish grin with the shine in your eyes, his heart skipped a beat. Oh. OH. Holy fuck. You had that spark inside of you, but neither of them would ever say that you're a nasty girl as well. At least not this much.

Sam honestly never seen cutter without clothes and he didn't know if he's ready for that, but... Life was about adventure, right? And this way something Sam knew he will say yes to. There was something on having a girl helpless, being taken care of by two men. He loved to worship women, he indeed loved everything about that, but this was exciting as well. And Charlie? He knew how to approach to a threesome. There were occasions where he had joined in and in some, he was only there to watch. He especially loved when two ladies invited him to a bad. But he hadn't a single issue with giving you what you wanted.

"Both of you, silly." - You smiled sweetly before disappearing into the crowd.

[withastolenlantern]

The sun set slowly over the western horizon towards the Mexican coast as the helicopter carried them across the swells, a bright orange glow in the distance that caused the waves to glisten and sparkle in a hypnotic rhythm in time with the whirring of the rotors above. Chatham sat dejected, her feet dangling out the side port where a machine-gun position had once existed. They’d chased the hovercraft as far as they could, but the copter had been built for transport, not speed, even when it was new, and they'd of course removed all the weaponry. The old bird kept them close for nearly forty kilometers, the autopilot bobbing and weaving around sporadic small-arms fire, but the large turbofans powering the hovercraft eventually outpaced them as the helicopter’s low fuel alarm had chimed. 

Whoever they were, they disappeared into the Caribbean twilight like so many pirates before them. The sea that spanned before them had formed the early foundation of the old British Empire, its islands once abustle with privateers and naval frigates alike. Thousands of ships had sailed these waters trading in sugar and gold and slaves, bringing untold wealth to the nascent imperium; the  sloops and galleons had long-ago been replaced by drone barges and the slaves with autofabs. Things had come full circle, now, and it seemed fitting that the reincarnated royal union might begin its decline here as well. 

She instructed the autopilot to turn and head for the Jamaican coast, where they landed at a joint Union and US naval air station. The obsolete helo purred like an enormous kitten as the rotors spun down and she dismounted the deck of the aircraft onto still-hot tarmac in the fading light of the equatorial sun. Santomas followed, his head ducked low under the slowing whine of the helicopter, as if unsure of a safe distance from the blades. Davis’s mobile rang as they crossed the air field, and he walked a distance to take the call outside the din of the aircraft. 

Across the landing pad she watched what appeared to be American Marines in exosuits running in PT formation; the base supported both Commonwealth and US operations in the Caribbean, but since the formation of the Union, the "Special Relationship" had become strained, especially since the Canadians had rejected a US-led proposal for a greater North American Congress of Nations. The Canadian parliament cited their status as a former Crown Dominion as a major factor in rejecting the invitation, but the influence of the US and it's defacto Mexican puppet-state's continued adherence to a "might makes right" socio-economic policy was evident. She passed several of the Union infantry garrison standing to the west end of the airfield, stoically but obviously observing their American counterparts' exercises with derision. 

Among the gawkers was the young flight leader who’d lent Chatham the Merlin. She stopped beside him and handed over the authenticator fob.

“Yanks are up to something again,” he remarked. “They’ve been drilling like this for days, full recon gear.” 

“Drugs, you think?” she responded idly. With the Americans and Mexicans it was always either drugs or immigrants. It wasn’t entirely surprising, she’d always thought. Central and South America had always been somewhat under-developed, and the shifting climate and rising seas had only exacerbated the situation. The US land border with its southern neighbor was enormous, and largely desert, which made securing it incredibly difficult. Her native South Africa had a similar geographic disadvantage, but while they still embraced the Rainbow Nation ethos, the Americans had responded to their modern economic challenges by ignoring their largely immigrant history and doubling-down on nationalist sentiments and geographic isolationism.  

“Most likely,” the young man said with a shrug. “What’s your deal, then? Command just said to expect some civvies and to have the helo fueled when you arrived. Never got to ask.”

“HeRMES,” the detective said, flashing her credentials from her mobile.

“Didn’t think they gave coppers flying lessons.”

“No, but the SBS does,” she replied with a wry smile.

“Curiouser and curiouser. And what’s with the nerd?” he asked, pointing toward Santomas who she now saw was now sprinting toward them across the tarmac.

“Technical consultant,” Chatham said, doing a poor job of hiding a smirk. She could only imagine her own reaction, back then, to such a scene: an obvious civilian running across the airbase, caked in sweat, with such reckless abandon. 

Santomas skidded to a halt next to her, his face red and drenched in perspiration from the heat and his recent exertion. He tried to speak, then thought better of it and swallowed several heavy gulps of air. “That was the boss,” he panted. “He was pissed.” 

“I’d assume so,” she said with a snort.

“He’s in Singapore until next week but he wants a full report when he gets back. Wants me back in the lab figuring out how the hell somebody’s getting execution access to the fabs. ‘Right bloody now’ I believe were the exact words,” Davis explained.

“Never a dull moment I suppose,” she said, turning to the officer. She offered a crisp salute in thanks. “Squadron Leader.”

“Don’t I know it, mum,” he said, returning the gesture.

They left the cadre of servicemen and walked across the airfield to one of the distant hangars. One of the Consortium’s commercial aircraft was parked under a rusting corrugated aluminum roof; it had ferried them down to the Caribbean and would carry them back up to Wales. How the Earl had gotten permission to park a private jet on an active Commonwealth military installation was beyond the detective, but she presumed that it had something to do with wealth and its privileges.

They boarded the jet without fanfare, and Davis keyed in his credentials and submitted the flight plan. Chatham settled into one of the plush chairs midway through the cabin and opened a terminal to begin her situation report. Before she knew it the autopilot had spooled up the turbines and they were aloft into the rapidly darkening sky, chasing the sunset as it crawled its way east. She looked out through one of the windows and saw Jamaica, still green and verdant even in the twilight, quickly disappear, just another speck amidst the breakers, swallowed by the massive sea. 

They flew in silence most of the way, Chatham working on her report and Davis just sitting quietly across the cabin. He nursed a small glass of whiskey from the Earl’s bar in the rear, mainly swirling it against the sides of the frosted crystal, staring off into space.

“You’ve been atypically quiet, Mister Santomas,” she said looking up from the terminal.

“I’ve, uh… I’ve never been shot at before. Never killed anybody either. I think that’s catching up with me a little bit,” he said, continuing to stare at the floor.

“Best not to make a habit of either, I’ve found,” Chatham responded. 

“Puts things in perspective a little,” the engineer confessed. “What if it had been me, falling lifeless through that hatch?”

The detective put down the terminal and leaned forward toward him. She’d been through this existential crisis before, many years ago in a bivouac in some coastal Indian city she couldn’t remember. Earlier that day she’d fired her weapon for the first time in anger, shooting a suicide bomber out of mid-air as he leaped over rubble and sprinted toward her squad. Afterward, she stood over the body, silent, staring at the hole in the insurgent’s chest. It was bigger than she had expected, somehow, and when she’d closed her eyes that night it was all she could see; a gaping, oozing portal where a person used to be, and it threatened to pull her in and consume her whole.

“But it wasn’t you,” she said.

“Tell me one thing I’ve done that matters,” he challenged.

“I mean, I’m...” she started to argue.

“Its fine,” he said, waving the detective off. “It’s not you. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve heard it all. I’m reliable. I get things done. I’m ‘good at my function’.” He made finger quotes as he listed off descriptors. “But those are the qualities you look for in a washing machine, not a person.”

Chatham tried to interrupt, but he continued. “When I’m gone, it won’t matter. In the course of human history, I don’t even rate a footnote. Fuck, the shareholders won’t even notice, and I’ve done nothing but make them money. No… no they’ll probably be happy because they can replace me with someone cheaper,” he scoffed, turning his eyes to the floor. “I haven’t accomplished anything with my miserable existence that’s worth a damn.”

The detective sat quietly, unsure of what to say. She knew from her own experience that whatever arguments she might present to the contrary would fall on deaf ears. When one fell in to these depths, no rhetorical ropes could pull you out until you’d resolved to make the climb. Her companion continued to fume, obviously if quietly. “You’re probably not… wrong,” she hazarded. “In the grand scheme of things, I don’t know that any of us really matter. Not as individuals, anyway. I mean, I have a Military Cross and I keep it in a fucking sock drawer. When I’m dead, they’ll etch a fancy symbol on my tombstone, and that’ll be the last anyone thinks of me.”

He looked up at her, his gaze deep and penitent. “This is all a fucking show, you know,” he said, gesturing around the laboratory. “It’s a sham, like me. HenRI is more than capable of running everything in here, at least to the Board’s liking. They put a body down here because it ‘humanizes’ the Consortium, makes the investors feel like they’re doing business with a human enterprise, and not just a machine. When Diaz passed away, they thought about letting HenRI run all of Operations. It’s not like we really do any meaningful R&D anymore; there’s no point when they’re shutting down most of the fabs. But the Earl knew better, and he was nervous about giving a virtual intelligence that much control. He wanted someone… pliable. Someone he could trot out to glad-hand and speak the customers’ language, but wouldn’t make waves. I’m no more than HenRI’s secretarial functions in flesh and bone.”

“I don’t believe that, even if you do,” she replied.

“Diaz killed himself, you know.”

“What?” Chatam said, taken aback.

Santomas shook his head in the affirmative, pantomiming a finger gun. “Forty-five to the temple, a no-doubter. Two floors up from here, in his office. He printed the gun himself, in one of the dev lab fabs that were off the network. I found the code on the server a couple days later.”

“Christ,” the detective swore.

“Janitorial drone found him one night, 3 AM, slumped over his desk. Only threw up the flag because of all the blood. HenRI notified me, and I had to break the news to Jaime, his partner. The Consortium bought his silence, of course; he took the payout and their kid and moved to some island in the Caribbean, or whatever’s left of it. Haven’t heard from him since,” he explained.

“Did he leave a note?” she asked.

“Not as such. It’s… it’s probably my fault, if anything,” Santomas said, starting to choke up. “I know Jaime hated it here in Wales and they were drifting apart at the end; looking back, I think I was the closest thing Yangervis had left resembling a friend. His parents fled cartel violence in Colombia when he was five, and they landed in Texas. They had trouble making ends meet in the US. His dad was killed robbing a convenience store; his mother sued the state and the settlement was how he was able to afford his initial studies at A&M. He started the autofabs, in my opinion anyway, as a way to relieve some of that economic anxiety for other families so they didn’t have go through what he did. We were so successful at first, but then Black Tuesday happened, and I think he blamed himself for all the layoffs that followed.

Looking back, I keep wondering if there weren’t signs I should have recognized. He used to gripe all the time about expanding capabilities and finding ways to streamline distributions to do more for the growing poor. I just… I never realized how far down that particular rabbit hole he’d gone. We had a memorial here, and then a week later the Earl offered me his job. I should’ve said no, but I’m too much of a coward.” The engineer wiped a single tear from his cheek with his shirt-sleeve.

Chatham leaned forward and patted his leg gently.“You saved my life today,” the detective replied. “That’s what you did that matters. There was no cowardice in that.”

[qqueenofhades]

The Dark Horizon: Chapter XXXVII

summary:  AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXVI

The hangings started soon after nine o’clock. From their vantage in the trees, Jack, Anne, and Emma could see the line of prisoners marched out into the square, fettered at wrist and ankle, and up onto the gallows by redcoats with muskets, four at a time. A periwigged lawyer read the indictment, a further few soldiers pulled down the heavy hemp nooses and placed them around the necks of the condemned, and to the accompaniment of a long tattoo of drums, the captain pulled the lever. Four pairs of feet dropped through the trapdoor, four ropes jerked, and four men, if they were lucky, died more or less instantly. Of the three sets already accomplished, at least two of them had strangled slowly, jerking and kicking, until boys from the crowd darted forward and hung onto their legs, in hopes of breaking their necks faster and earning a few pennies for the service. Once they were finally dead by one means or another, they were cut down and piled into a cart, the ropes were restrung, and the process began again. Clearly, the intent was not to leave the corpses up to rot, but rather to impress the efficiency and extent of the operation. That the British army and Governor Woodes Rogers could hang all the pirates they wanted, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. That they were very much going to wish that they had not decided to throw the offer of clemency back in his face. That now, regrettably, they had made him angry. Very angry.

It could not have escaped anyone, whether the soldiers or the men being hanged, that they had simply had the spectacular bad luck to be caught on the wrong side of events outside their control: they had turned themselves in as pirates in due course, expecting pardons like everyone else, but today that meant a noose around the neck, rather than a parchment in hand. If it was intended to stoke resentment against the diehards who kept fighting and resisting English authority, that their brash and ill-advised actions were forcing their fellows to suffer in retribution, it might have done that very well. Twelve – no, make that sixteen – men had died by the time the executions were temporarily called to a halt at noon, and Anne was pacing relentlessly, white and sick with rage. “Can’t believe I missed the shot on Rogers. Two inches lower, I kill the fucking bastard, not just scalp ‘im. Then none of this would be happening.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rackham said, running a distracted hand through his hair. “They’re punishing us for rescuing Hook, and Charles’ fiery destruction of their blockade, not just Rogers’ injury – though I don’t doubt that’s part of it. This is the catch in the bargain. Either we all should have taken the pardons when we had the chance, or they’ll grind us into dust.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to risk yourselves.” Emma swallowed heavily, trying to look away; even at a distance, the scene was grisly, as the last of the sixteen men had all had lingering, painful ends. She tried to stop her ears to the sound of chopping as they were cut down for the gravedigger’s cart. “If I could have gotten Killian out any other way – ”

“No,” Killian said hoarsely, eyes closed, from where he had been settled in a makeshift hammock between two palms. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to propose we treat with Rogers. But I thought – he was my acquaintance from Bristol, I didn’t realize. . .”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Rackham said, after a moment. “We had to distract him somehow, and at least we got the gold dug up and moved aboard the Jolie Rouge. If you’re able to make it back across the island, we can. . .” He hesitated. Clearly, sailing away with Vane’s treasure aboard their uneasily shared vessel would result in Vane being very angry when he got back from Charlestown (if he got back from Charlestown), and there was nowhere for them to go that was certain, or even very likely, to be safe. They could find some remote island and hope to hide out until the English got bored and went away, but that was signally unlikely. Besides, with such provocation as this, the whiff of decay starting to reek ripe in the hot wind, nobody felt in any mood for running like cowards. It had been intended to frighten or guilt them into surrendering, but it was having decidedly the opposite effect.

“Still, though,” Rackham went on, voicing their dilemma. “Charles has helpfully smashed up half their fleet, yes, but they have at least six ships still in fighting order, and while the Jolie could most likely take out a few more, we’d eventually be overcome. They could hang all of Nassau while we were brawling it out in the harbor, and finish up with us. We need more help.”

“We need Flint and Sam back here.” Emma sat down on the log next to Killian. “Vane might retrieve Flint, and if Sam finds David Nolan – ”

“We’d still need more men,” Rackham completed. “Even if Blackbeard finished up in Antigua and returned as well, we have no army, and no obvious place to acquire one.”

“There might be, though.” Killian sat up slowly, grimacing and wiping his mouth, as Emma regarded him anxiously. “Remember when we were crossing the interior of the island and needed to avoid the plantations? There must be a few hundred – or more – slaves on those. Slaves who have no reason to love their brutal English masters any more than the pirates do, and we already have someone who could talk to them. Lancelot and his men are still on the Jolie. If we send them to approach the slaves, sniff out the possibility of an uprising – ”

Anne, Jack, and Emma all stared at him. “That’s your plan?” It was clear that Rackham couldn’t decide whether to be more impressed or incredulous. “Provoke all of New Providence’s slaves into throwing off their chains and joining forces with us?”

“Do you have any other ideas about where we could find a force of similar size and motivation, in the very short time we have?” Killian’s eyes were fierce. Emma knew that this was personal for him, the former slave, the man so deeply scarred by the experience that it still informed everything he was and did and felt, the boy held in indenture and captivity and the price that Liam had paid to free them. “I realize that I myself am not the most popular individual among them right now, for what I. . . what I did to Ursula, but Lancelot – ”

“That’s a dangerous favor you’re asking,” Rackham said, frowning. “He’s a good quartermaster, I don’t want to hang him out like a hog for slaughter – ”

“He and his men left the Maroons’ island because they wanted to fight their tormentors. Not just hide away in safety.” Killian let out a long sigh. “It was in the bargain we struck. And the alternative is sitting here and continuing to watch the hangings, doing nothing, hoping Flint or Sam or Vane or someone gets back in time to pull our arses out of the fire. I don’t know about you, but after what I went through yesterday thanks to bloody Rogers and Jennings, I’m not inclined to do that. We need to try.”

“Can you make it across the island to the Jolie again?” Emma asked worriedly. They had patched him up as best they could, but he was still in no shape for extended travail, or really much travail at all. “If someone saw us, if the redcoats caught up. . .”

“Then you’ll give me a gun and I’ll die fighting.” Killian continued to hold her gaze. “I’m not in the mood for peaceable surrender, Swan. I doubt you are either.”

“I can try to find us horses,” Anne said. “Riding back’d be faster n’ walking.”

Rackham shot her an anxious glance, as he was clearly not sure that this was the time to risk horse thievery on top of every other outrage they had committed recently, but also forced to admit that likewise, one more thumb of their noses at English authority could hardly make much difference. They were destined to hang one way or the other, so they might as well be sure that they had thoroughly earned it. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Be careful, won’t you?”

Anne gave him a look as if to say that she was offended that he thought she would be anything but, and disappeared without delay into the underbrush. Left to wait until she returned, Jack and Emma did their best to ensure that Killian was ready to travel, which was mostly an academic exercise; either he would or he wouldn’t. They sat tensely, ready to spring up at any sign of trouble, until the sound of clip-clopping presaged the reappearance of Anne, riding one dusty-looking horse and leading another on a short rein. She swung down with a look of grim satisfaction as Rackham, spotting the fresh bloodstains on her coat, rushed over. “You’re not – ?”

“Not mine. Took these off a pair of redcoat messengers. Figured wherever they was going, best they didn’t get there.” Anne smiled sourly. “Cut their throats, so they won’t bring their news one way or the other. There’s this, though.” She thrust a crumpled parchment at Emma, clearly filched from the saddlebags. “What’s it say?”

Emma broke the seal and scanned the slanted, hasty scrawl. “It’s from Rogers,” she said, mouth dry. “A notice that the pirates have broken the king’s peace and nullified the offer of pardons, and that he will be applying appropriate disciplinary measures until Charles Vane’s outrageous actions are fully recompensed. Bloody hell, it’s addressed to Gold. Lord Robert Gold. He says that he has been wounded in the discharge of his duty, but not life-threateningly, and is asking for more reinforcements to be sent from Antigua at once.”

They glanced at each other sidelong as the implications of the letter sank in, and the fact that indeed, on no account could it be allowed to reach its destination. It was clear that Rogers regarded the events of yesterday as tantamount to a declaration of open war by the pirates on the Crown, and as such, would not scruple in doing this the hard way, no matter if he might be personally inclined to a quick and bloodless takeover. Especially since Vane was the main culprit, and as Eleanor was now sleeping with and siding with Rogers and her love-hate relationship with Vane had turned entirely to hate, that added a personal kick in the teeth to the whole thing. In his audience with Killian and Emma, Rogers had told them that he was not necessarily bound to follow Gold’s dictates without question, but obviously there would be tighter cooperation between the two English governors in the wake of one attempted uprising. Trying a second, to rouse the slaves of New Providence to fire and fury, would mean still harsher penalties. If they failed, even the very memory of their existence might be eradicated.

There was another pause as they considered this. Then Killian said, “Well? Are we going?”

“I didn’t steal the horses to look at ‘em.” Anne crossed the clearing and gave him a hand to his feet, a small but significant gesture given the fact that she even as recently as a few days ago had still not trusted him, and from the look on Killian’s face, it was clear that he recognized it. He nodded briefly in thanks, steadying himself on the nearer of the horses, as Emma came to mount it. She then hauled him up behind her, as Jack clambered up behind Anne on the other one. With a final glance around to ensure that their exit was not observed, they cantered off.

Even with horses, the trip back was still a delicate prospect, as they could not be sure how far the English had proceeded in expanding their presence beyond their tenuous foothold in Nassau Town. The colonists in the interior might well be on heightened alert, guarding against any such potential slave revolt as the news of Vane’s memorable exit trickled in, and as Lancelot and the Maroons could not visit all of the plantations at once, garnering their support would by no means be an easy or immediate process. If that did not work, well. . . Emma supposed that they wouldn’t have much choice but to sail away in the Jolie, God knew where, with the Spanish treasure in the hold. In that scenario, Vane’s wrath would be literally the least of their problems.

It was not much less of a chore than last time, but they finally came into sight of the Jolie, anchored where they had left her on the far side of the island, and picked a cautious course down to the beach. They picketed the horses in the mangroves and hailed the ship, which sent the launch out to retrieve them, and there were noticeable murmurs of concern as Killian had to be helped onto the deck. No matter their new career and command under Rackham, these were, after all, largely still his old men who had followed him into piracy to avenge his mistreatment at the hands of Gold and Jennings. They were thus, to say the least, not at all impressed to hear that Jennings (and Rogers) had had the chance for a second extensive go-round. “Jesus. Isn’t that vile bastard ever going to have the fucking good sense to die?”

“Doubtful,” Killian said grimly. “The Devil Himself was never going to be easy to kill.”

Someone muttered that they weren’t sure even the Devil was as bad as Jennings – which, all things considered, Emma was inclined to agree with. News of the ongoing imbroglio in Nassau was likewise not well received. The Jolie’s crew wanted to know what was going to be done. Surely they weren’t just intended to sit and twiddle their thumbs, and as former Navy sailors themselves, they wanted a crack at their own revenge. Emma had wondered if any of them might have second thoughts, consider going back over to their old employers as things were going from bad to worse for the pirates, but as all the men who wanted to return to the Navy had already mutinied and been killed or imprisoned, the only ones left were the diehards who were  determined to cling to their new lives at any cost. Even if they were outnumbered, they had sixty guns. They could assuredly cause a great deal of further trouble in Nassau Harbor, still reeling from Vane’s inaugural volley. Their vote was to proceed to a second attack at once.

Given this atmosphere of heated bloodlust, it was therefore a bit of a finicky matter for Killian to suggest that Lancelot and the Maroons try to recruit help from the interior plantations. There were hisses of disapproval – surely they weren’t just going to wait and see whether a bunch of slaves decided to fight for them? Pirates were dying right now, likely more if the executions had recommenced after their midday lull. Nobody else was around to handle it. Why not them?

“We’ll think about it.” Killian was clearly aware that trying to keep a lid on this for too long would be dangerous, and he glanced at Lancelot. “Do you think there’s any chance?”

“Of persuading the slaves to join us?” The Maroon quartermaster weighed his words carefully. “Some of them might want to fight, yes. But farmhands with threshing knives and pitchforks are no match for trained redcoats with muskets and bayonets. Can you protect them from the wrath of their overseers and the British army together?”

“No,” Killian said simply. “Not if we lose. Then again, we’ll all die if we lose, and what’s the alternative? Dying in bondage?”

“They’ll have family members on other plantations,” Lancelot warned. “The owners do that for exactly this reason: dissuading them from starting revolts. If one plantation rises up, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, sons, daughters on the others will be punished. Hating the same masters isn’t enough on its own for them to fight with the pirates. There’s only one captain that we know and trust as a consistent friend to us, and that, Hook, is not you.”

“Who?” Emma asked, having more than an inkling.

“Sam Bellamy,” Lancelot confirmed. “If I approached the slaves in his name, could swear by what he has done for the Maroons and that he would be a wise choice to ally with. . . well, as I said, it would still be no sure thing, but there might at least be a chance. The obvious difficulty being, of course, that he is not here on Nassau, and we have no idea when he might be again, if at all. And I can hardly ask them to risk their lives for the possibility of his return.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled look. Their odds, already slim, seemed to be whittled thinner at every turn, and since Killian was still not the captain of the Jolie, he did not possess the authority to order and enforce any course of action anyway. As he turned aside to cough, with an unpleasant squelching sound, Emma could see splatters of blood on his sleeve where he pressed it to his mouth. He was bearing up well, because that was Killian for you; his own suffering was unimportant when there was so much else to worry about, and because he had grown so used to squashing it down and foraging bravely onward. It was clear, however, that his working-over by Rogers and Jennings had been dishearteningly thorough, and just as Emma was not entirely repaired from childbirth, Killian was not in much state to be leading any skirmish parties. They could be reasonably certain that Sam would decide to rejoin them once he made contact with David, or even if he didn’t, but as he did not know that the place was occupied by the British, he could sail in with too little caution and wind up as a fat prize for Rogers. Given that Sam had already just escaped hanging by the very skin of his teeth, nobody was in any hurry for him then to be trapped in a similar situation for the second time.

Nonetheless, they could not sit here and do nothing, they could not approach the slaves without Sam, they could not let any of their friends arrive unprepared, they could not stray too far from Nassau, and nor could they permit Rogers’ request for reinforcements, and information in the situation to reach Gold. Therefore, after a rather rancorous caucus, the vote was taken to strike out and try to intercept any of the surviving Navy ships that might be setting sail to Antigua. Anne had killed the messengers, but that alone was no certainty of stopping the news from traveling, and in fact might have provoked another round of retaliatory hangings, if their bodies had been discovered. So the Jolie weighed anchor and moved out from the lee of the island, into the lengthening shadows of evening. They would have to do this carefully, if they did not want to tip off the British as to their presence. Moved into the sea lane south of Nassau, and waited.

A few uneasy hours passed. There was nothing but dark, empty water and the moon rising brilliant overhead. Then someone shouted, a pinprick of lanterns appeared on the horizon, and through the spyglass, they spotted an oncoming frigate, flying full canvas and clearly in a tearing hurry. This, then, would be the target. Had to catch it up and take it down.

The Jolie had snuffed all her own lanterns, so the other ship would have no warning or advance notice of their presence, unless they were watching very hard. Rackham and Killian ordered the guns loaded, as quietly as possible, and directed the men to their stations. Holding, holding, until the frigate was so close that it seemed impossible for them to remain a secret an instant longer. Then, and only then, did they raise their voices to bellow the command in unison. “FIRE!”

The night lit up like an inferno as the full might of the Jolie’s broadside spoke their piece, screaming and hailing into the Navy frigate at nearly point-blank range. There were howls of rage and shock from the other ship, crashes and splinters as they struggled to get to their own guns; they had, of course, had no idea that there was any other pirate vessel remotely nearby now that Vane had buggered off so dramatically. By that time, the Jolie had a second volley prepared, and one of the heavy thirty two-pounders struck a direct hit on the mast. Five minutes later, the ludicrously one-sided battle was over, the frigate slewed and shattered, smoking and gutted, the Union Jack ripped clean through with chain shot and sprawled on the deck. It, however, was not about to be left to peaceably sink. The Jolie drew up directly alongside, and the men threw ropes and grapnels, binding the damaged ship to them. Then they slid down and landed on the deck with whoops and hollers, brandishing pistols and cutlasses, as the stunned Navy sailors did their best to mount any kind of defense. This, likewise, did not last long.

Killian and Emma, neither in much fit state to fight themselves, watched from the deck of the Jolie as the officer who looked to be in command (or else had been abruptly promoted) was forced to his knees at the point of a gun. “What’s your name? What ship is this?”

“Go to hell, pirate scum.”

This answer earned him the crack of a musket butt across the face. “Try again.”

The young officer watched them mutinously, blood trickling into his eyes, as the rest of the Jolie’s crew continued to round up survivors. Finally he spoke with coldly correct decorum. “My name is Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, of HMS Halifax. You brigands have assaulted and destroyed a ship of the Royal Navy and deepened your already unforgivable crimes against – ”

“How many men did that shit Woodes Rogers hang?”

Lieutenant Geoffrey hesitated briefly, but apparently saw no need to hold back with this particular piece of intelligence. “Twenty-four all told,” he spat. “Sixteen in the morning, and eight more before evening. And when he hears of this immensity, I don’t doubt he’ll hang at least as many again.”

“I don’t doubt you’re right.” The Jolie’s men appeared to be enjoying this, even as a faint shiver went through Emma. Lieutenant Geoffrey looked almost hauntingly like Killian had, down to the dark ponytail and searing blue eyes, now standing among the wreck of his ship and life – a man who, if he lived, might choose the same method of revenging himself, from the other side of the coin. Does this ever end, or only go in circles, devouring itself and reborn from the ashes? “Which is why we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t. First, though. We’re going to hang twenty-four of your men, and you get to watch.”

At Emma’s side, Killian made a convulsive movement. He started to say something, then stopped. The similarity could not have escaped him, or the fact that he had no authority, real or imagined, to stop this. His hand tightened white on the railing, as Emma reached over to take automatic hold of his hook. They could not do much more than watch as the ringleader of the Jolie men ordered the others to fashion nooses out of the torn rigging and shrouds of the Halifax, force the Navy sailors into them, and string them up to dangle grotesquely among the hellish glow of the smoldering ship. “We’re Captain Hook’s men,” one of them happily informed the sailor he was in the business of vigorously strangling. “We did Antigua and Jamaica before, you know. Murdered the whole fucking lot of the Navy out here, so the fucking Admiralty had to send you cunts in replacement, and now we’ve done for you too. Funny, eh?”

At that, Killian could no longer hold back. He had of course wanted the loyalty of the Jolie’s crew again, jealously and reflexively tried to pull it back from Rackham, but was clearly being starkly reminded of why he had traded it away in the first place, how he could not go on in this life while building anything remotely real and true and good with Emma. For this, he wanted no part of the credit. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “Bloody hell, you bastards, stop! We don’t need to do it like this!”

Heads turned to look at him still up on the Jolie’s deck, white-faced and furious. There was a brief and evident confusion, as the men clearly saw no good reason why Hook himself would stop them from doing terrible things to the Navy, especially when that had been his raison d’être in the heat and madness of his fall. Rogers had hanged twenty-four pirates; they should be, at the least, perfectly entitled to hang twenty-four Navy sailors in return, as well as repaying Killian’s torture at the hands of Rogers and Jennings. But Emma felt, as deeply as Killian must, how sorely he did not want this to go on, the sordid exchange of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, blood and vengeance and violence on either side until it no longer was clear which of them was in the right, or if there was any call to pride themselves on being better than Jennings in any way. Killian remained where he was, staring down at them, as his gaze locked with Lieutenant Geoffrey’s. “I am Captain Hook,” he said. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.”

“I have, sir.” The lieutenant spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And indeed, what you and your mongrels feel justified in doing to the king’s men, especially since you so foully turned your coat and joined the king’s enemies.”

Killian did not rise to the bait or appear inclined to fight with the young man. “I apologize,” he said, not loudly, but his voice still carrying on the night wind, “for what we’ve done to you.”

“Queer hour for it.” Half the lieutenant’s face was starting to turn black and blue from where he had been clubbed with the musket, but he was still holding onto his dignity for all he was worth.

“So it is, at that.” Killian inclined his head fractionally, then turned to regard the Jolie’s men still on the deck, interrupted from the business of hanging the Halifax’s. Again he said, “Enough.”

“We can’t leave them alive, Captain. Can’t let them tell Gold or Rogers or anyone what we – ”

“Their ship’s destroyed, they’re not going anywhere anyway. It’s a bloody long swim back to Nassau from here, but I suppose they might try. Still, though.” Killian shrugged. “If you do want to cross me, you’re welcome to do it, if you really think that’s wise. Otherwise, you’ll get back on the Jolie now, and await further orders from myself and Captain Rackham.”

More glances were exchanged. The moment hung from a tenuous thread. Killian had already been disastrously mutinied upon once before, after all, and he could well be inviting it again. But after a very long moment, slowly, his men – if grudgingly – did as ordered. They left off from their grisly work, climbed the ropes from the Halifax back onto the Jolie, and cut the lines loose, backing water. Without the Jolie’s support, the smaller ship quickly began to list and veer, too damaged to sail but not quite ravaged enough to sink. It was there that it was left, as if for the fates to decide how to play with it. The Jolie put up her canvas again, taking the wind a few leagues south and east until they were well out of sight, and the night was dark and calm again.

Killian blew out a long, ragged breath, as Emma could feel both Jack and Anne watching them. She was unsure whether they concurred with the decision or not. Rackham was not innately bloodthirsty, preferring to talk his way out of tight corners rather than fight, and while Anne had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary, she was not of a temperament for the unnecessary. All she said, however, was, “You sure of that? They tell someone, and we’ll – ”

“Their ship isn’t going anywhere, and we’re far enough away from Nassau that Rogers and his ilk will assume they’re on their way to Antigua to warn Gold.” Killian looked at her calmly. “I was not interested in being the justification for another massacre. The war does not hang on whether or not we killed them.”

Anne considered this for a moment, still inscrutable. Then she jerked her head once and turned away, heading for the cabin, as Jack paused, then followed her. Killian and Emma themselves made their way down to a berth below, crawling in together with a mutual sigh of pain and devoutly grateful to stop moving. Fearful of hurting him further, but still wanting to be close to him, Emma nestled her head onto his chest, and he moved his hand up to stroke her hair. Into the quiet, she said, “You did the right thing.”

“I did what was before me. No more. No less.” He shifted with a sigh, looking up at the low ceiling. “I don’t know if there’s anything that’s right any more.”

Emma didn’t answer, keeping her head on his chest, resting her hand on his stomach as if to be sure that he was still solid, had not been broken or dissolved in the ether. There was not much more either of them could manage in their respective enfeebled states, but they nuzzled together nonetheless, arms around each other, and fell asleep.

They were woken early the next morning by the sound of thumps and shouts and general industrious clamor from above, which briefly led them to fear that they had been boarded or ambushed unawares in the night, until they glanced out the porthole, saw the familiar shape of another ship, and then practically fell out of the berth in their haste to jump out and sprint topside. They emerged into a warm, salty summer morning, and thus saw possibly the most wonderful sight of their whole lives: the Whydah anchored alongside, and Sam Bellamy, deeply sun-browned and salt-lashed black hair spilling out of its untidy ponytail, leaning against the railing of the Jolie in intent conversation with Jack. At Killian and Emma’s entrance, he looked up, then grinned. “Miss me, eh?”

Both of them rushed as fast as was physically possible across the boards, and he hugged them each with one arm, holding tightly. He kissed Emma’s head, then Killian’s, and stepped them back to have a proper look. “I heard what that bastard did to you, Killian. Are you – ?”

“Aye. Better now. Fine.” Killian hugged him again. “Did you find Nolan? What’s going on? Did Jack tell you about the idea with Lancelot and the others, that you could – ”

“One thing at a time. Aye, I managed to cross paths with the Windsor, and – well.” Sam pulled a wrinkled parchment out of his pocket, sealed with the golden wax and signet of Lord Robert Gold’s personal correspondence. “David gave me this. Something he was supposed to carry for Gold, but. . .well. He was persuaded that I could make better use of it. He also apparently refused the posting to Nassau with the rest of the fleet, said he should most properly return to Boston and resume his station there. I don’t know if he’ll fight for us, but he won’t fight against us.”

Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as this was at least better news than the worst. The Windsor matched the Jolie in guns, after all, and could have given them considerable difficulty if David Nolan decided that no matter what, he was honor-bound to follow the Navy’s orders. “What’s the letter?” Killian said instead. “Have you had a look?”

“Aye. It makes no bloody sense – it’s in some kind of cipher. Not surprising, since Gold knows his mail might be intercepted and read by anyone before it makes it to its destination. Have a crack, though, if you think you might be able to make some sense of it.”

“I will at that,” Killian said distractedly, taking the parchment as Sam handed it over. “Did you hear of what’s. . . going on in Nassau? Aside from my misfortunes, that is?”

Sam’s lips tightened. “Aye,” he said again. “And that Vane gutted half of the Navy’s power there, but there’s still far too much left for comfort, and that Woodes Rogers has made himself a most dangerous enemy. As for the plan you mentioned with Lancelot, well, I’ll need to speak with him. Could be we can pull something together, but it’ll be dangerous.”

“Not surprising, surely. On your sailing, have you. . . had any news of Charlestown?”

Sam hesitated. “Nothing definite,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “There was a packet boat, though, we caught it up late last night, shortly before we ran across you. Said that Lord Peter Ashe had some pirate lord or other in his custody, and he meant to make an. . . example.”

“Flint?” Emma said urgently. “Vane left just a few days ago, he can’t have made it all the way to the Carolinas yet, unless he had a truly legendary wind at his back. Do they have Flint?”

“Christ, I hope not. But I was having a hard time thinking of who else it might be, and – wait. Did you say that Vane was going to Charlestown too? To save Flint, or kill him himself?”

“The former. I hope. We told him that the pirates had to join together, put aside old rivalries, that he needed to get to Flint and he was the only chance we had.” Emma’s stomach did an unpleasant somersault. “Did they say anything about a woman? Anything about Miranda?”

“No,” Sam said. “Nothing.”

“So they could still be alive, or they could both be dead.” Killian’s face was grim. “Or she’s dead, and they’re saving Flint for a spectacle. Jesus.”

“Vane might be able to get to him in time,” Emma said, more as an attempt to convince herself than anything. “But if Miranda – ”

She stopped. She did not want to think about a world without Miranda, the one blow that she had always known that neither she nor Flint would be able to bear. That so soon after giving up her daughter, losing her mother as well was utterly, unthinkably, unfathomably cruel. “Miranda has to be all right,” she said, in a sheer and simple statement that she rejected any circumstance whatsoever in which she wasn’t. “She has to be.”

Sam and Killian glanced at each other silently, as if trying to gird themselves, and her, for the fact that Miranda might well not be. Killian said, “Love – ”

Emma shook her head, as if to say that she did not want to hear otherwise, and he stopped. A heavy silence hung over the three of them, until Killian cleared his throat. “I’ll. . . have a look at this, then. Gold’s letter.”

They nodded distractedly, and he headed toward the cabin, limping, as Sam’s eyes followed him with concern. “It was worse than he’s letting on, wasn’t it?”

“I – don’t know exactly, Rogers and Jennings had him to themselves for most of the day, they threw me out.” Emma swallowed, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of guilt that she should have done more, done better. “I don’t think it was pleasant, though, no.”

Sam crunched a fist and hit the deck railing. “So it’s just trading off which one of us gets to be hurt the most by those bastards? Me, you, Killian, his brother, now Flint and Miranda? Bloody hell. I’m sorry you two had to go through that alone.”

Emma put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it would have made much difference,” she said quietly. “Killian didn’t talk to protect you and the others. If you’d been there, they would just have hurt you too, and you’ve had enough, Sam. You’ve had enough.”

He managed a lopsided smile. “I’d prefer to be hurt myself,” he said. “Rather than letting it happen to either of you. That’s easier to bear.”

They stood there in silence for several moments, looking back toward the Whydah. Then Emma said, “How’s Charlie?”

“Taking to the whole thing like a duck to water.” Sam raised a dark eyebrow. “Natural, really. Still, I can’t help but feel, doubtless like you, that a lad like him should have a better future than piracy – especially if Rogers is now hanging them by the wagonload. I tried to tell him he should go back to Virginia and resume his studies, but he doesn’t want to hear it now. He’s had a taste of this life, and he doesn’t want to give it up.”

Emma doubted that Charles Swan, invigorated by the thrilling experience of the very vocation he had once blamed her for partaking in, would be in any sort of temper to listen to his elder sister on this – the same paradox that Killian had faced in trying to call off the Jolie’s men from butchering the Halifax, the seeming inevitability of stopping the turn of the wheel and the repetition of the cycle. Still, though, Killian had tried, so she supposed she could not do any less with Charlie, as soon as she got a chance. She started to say something else, then stopped.

“How are you?” Sam asked, softer. “After – everything?”

“I’m. . . I’m fine.” Emma knew it sounded trite the instant it was out of her mouth, but even now, she didn’t think she could face up to admitting the weight of everything. Of the small, dull, impossible pain of missing Henry and Geneva, sometimes ignored but never vanquished, and the way her body seemed to feel the lingering wound, slow to heal or bounce back or be like it was before, knowing it couldn’t be. It was her turn to do her best brave smile for Sam. “Promise.”

He raised the other eyebrow, but knew her too well to press for anything more. Instead, he put a hand over hers on the railing, squeezed hard, and they stood there like that, not speaking, until they were at length interrupted by the reemergence of a flustered-looking Killian. “Here,” he said. “I might have found something.”

Emma and Sam turned around to bend over the parchment with him. As promised, most of it was an elaborate, crabbed cipher that they had little chance of decoding without the key, but the part that had attracted Killian’s interest was the small seal that Gold had inked at the bottom. It was a five-pointed star in a circle, with the Latin words camera stellata squeezed in tiny script around the boundary. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to a Mr Plouton, which sent a jolt like a lightning bolt through Emma. “Plouton – isn’t that the man who – ”

“Yes.” Killian’s lips were thin. “Gold’s friend, the crooked assurance agent from Bristol. The one that Liam made that infernal bargain with for our freedom. Sink the Benjamin Gunn for him, and he’d pay off our bonds and commissions. He was there at Gold’s mansion the night Liam and I were accused, when Jennings cut off my hand. So they’re more than business partners profiting off the misery and desperation of others. They’re fellow members in – this. Camera stellata. Star Chamber.”

“Star Chamber?” Sam blinked. “As in the Court of Star Chamber? Can’t be. It was disbanded. Over fifty years ago.”

“Wasn’t that the court started exactly in order to convict the rich and powerful of the crimes that a lower judiciary couldn’t hold them to account for?” Emma was not well versed on English law, but that name was sufficiently infamous that it did not take an expert to recognize. “Isn’t that an ironic organization for him to be a member of?”

“No,” Sam said. “Given that the Star Chamber became, especially under the Stuarts, an entity unto itself that could arbitrarily destroy anyone it pleased, a vessel for the personal tyranny of the monarch. King Charles the First used it in the eleven years he ruled without Parliament, a good deal of the reason they chopped the bastard’s head off and stuck Cromwell in there instead. As I said, though, it was disestablished by the Commonwealth – or it should have been. If Gold and Plouton have started it again, I doubt it answers either to King George or to the tattered, defeated remnants of the Jacobite cause.”

“So this would be it, then.” Killian looked almost feverish. “The answer to the question of who Gold is truly loyal to, and what he’s doing all this for. It’s not England, it’s not the Jacobites, it’s not Rogers and the army, it’s not the Navy, or even the Spanish. It’s none of that. It’s a shadowy secret society that thought it had the power and the right to overthrow even the mightiest people in the world, and answer to nobody in doing it.”

“Fitting,” Sam muttered.

“Aye.” Killian smoothed the parchment. “This is high treason. As Sam said, the Star Chamber was outlawed over half a century ago, and was well hated before it was. So we – what? Hand this over to Rogers as proof that he should be fighting Gold instead, order him deposed and dragged back to England in chains? I’m bloody well not going near him again.”

“I could, then,” Sam suggested. “If someone had to.”

“No,” Killian and Emma said together. “Absolutely not.”

“Very well. I can’t say I was terribly enthused by the idea either. I could give it back to David Nolan, though he might have set out for Boston already, but by the sound of things, I’m needed here to help Lancelot with rousing the slaves. Still. David is the only Navy captain with enough standing to make this accusation, the proven desire to listen to us, the power to arrest Gold, and get him back to London for trial. We need to tell him, not Rogers.”

“Emma and I could go,” Killian said slowly. “You stay here, Sam, with the Jolie, and we take the Whydah after David. If you’d agree, of course, but you’d need the firepower of the Jolie, and the Whydah’s considerably faster. Where’s Lord Archibald Hamilton, by the way?”

“He stayed on the Windsor. Found it a more congenial atmosphere than a pirate ship, even mine.” Sam looked wry. “David isn’t in a hurry to hand him in for being a Jacobite, so I suppose he sees it as his best option of winning back his position if this should all happen to blow over. I’d be willing to lend you the Whydah, aye, if that’s what you want to do. But are you sure we shouldn’t better stay here together, rather than splitting up again? Yes, if we can topple Gold, that’s the head of the snake, but the battle here on Nassau – ”

“If we don’t topple Gold now, we might never have the chance again.” Killian tightened his grip on the railing. “I hear you about not parting ways again so soon, believe me, but nothing is going to come of sitting on this, especially if David is still nearby. It can’t be that long of a voyage to catch him up and give this back. Any news of what Blackbeard might have done to Antigua?”

“No. I caught the Windsor at sea, we didn’t get near Antigua.” Sam glanced at him. “Meaning that if Blackbeard managed to sack it after all, Gold might be dead anyway, without us having to run this risk? Could be, but I doubt it. There were several ships left behind to guard it – the Navy is going to take absolutely no chances with a second incident like yours. If anything, Blackbeard could have sailed into a trap, expecting easy pickings, and met them all waiting for him.”

“Shit.” Killian ran a hand through his hair. “So that’s it, then? A quick voyage to overtake Nolan, hand this off, and then we return here. If Flint and Miranda don’ t – ” He stopped. “Well. We’ll have to fight with the two of us, then. It’s all we can do.”

“I suppose.” Sam didn’t look particularly more enthused, but also couldn’t demur. “All right. I’ll take you over to the Whydah and inform them of the arrangement. No sense, I suppose, in wasting time.”

That part, at least, was more or less straightforward. Killian and Emma boarded the Whydah, checked the charts against the last position where Sam said he and David had crossed paths, and determined they could most likely make it, assuming the wind cooperated, in a day or two. Sam, meanwhile, would stay with Jack and Anne on the Jolie, and confer with Lancelot as to whether there was any possibility of making contact with the slaves in the interior. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was the best they had, and now that it was decided on, they did not want to waste time dithering. With a final warning to the other to be careful, as if that would make any real difference, they raised canvas and set out.

The Whydah’s crew knew their business, and did not need Killian and Emma breathing down their necks, so they gracefully retired. Emma went to talk to Charlie and Killian went into the cabin, more thankful than he wanted to admit to lie down on the bed and not move. He ached all over, pummeled and bruised and raw, and as much as he had done his best not to make Emma and Sam worry, he still felt as if he might abruptly fly apart if a single thread snapped. It hurt to breathe too deeply, it hurt to close his eyes. He couldn’t pay undue heed to his own suffering when so much else was at stake, not yet, and he was still not convinced that he did not deserve it. The offenses on his account remained well outstanding, and what he had done last night was not, to his mind, terribly efficacious in settling the debt. There was still too much. Too much.

Killian dozed uneasily, too uncomfortable to slip under into real sleep, as the day whiled interminably away. They sailed hard, making up time on a strong nor’western, and as the Whydah was also faster than the Windsor, it seemed reasonably likely that they could overtake her soon if she was still bound for Boston. At some point he heard Emma come in, and wondered if he should wake up to talk to her, but that likewise seemed a considerable difficulty. She lay down next to him, quietly so as not to disturb him, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he should ask her to marry him. There was, as Blackbeard had asked him once, no chance he would meet someone he liked better, they already had a daughter, and perhaps Emma would want that, that promise, for whatever it could be worth. But they had watched Flint and Miranda married a few weeks ago, then promptly thrown into the maelstrom of Peter Ashe’s betrayal, and there was no surety that either of them were still alive. Asking Emma, with that as a precedent, and Killian’s own sense that he was nowhere near through atoning for his crimes and could not presume to have such happiness until he was, seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Eventually, sheer exhaustion must have dragged him under like a boulder around his ankle, because he woke in darkness with someone knocking on the door. “Captains? We think  we’ve sighted the Windsor. You’ll be needed.”

Gritty-eyed and sore to the bone, but at least devoutly grateful that something had bloody worked right for once, Killian pried himself upright with a tremendous effort of will. Emma sat up beside him, yawning and tousled, and he smiled at her quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before they made themselves more or less presentable and trudged out onto the deck. The night was clear, calm, and lucent with stars, and when he peered through the spyglass and agreed that it was indeed the Windsor, the crew moved to hail her. Killian thought of his last encounter with a Navy vessel, the sight of the burning Halifax and the men dangling in the rigging, and grimaced, pushing it away. He’d better bloody hope David Nolan did not know about that, or he might lose whatever slender tether of loyalty was binding him to assist, or at least not openly hinder, the pirates’ cause. Most of it must be because of Sam, anyway.

In either case, it was time for the moment of truth. As David appeared on the Windsor’s deck, somewhat confused to see the Whydah again and clearly expecting Sam, Killian stepped forward instead. “Captain Nolan?”

David blinked. “Killian Jones?”

“Aye. We’ve come to return something to you. You gave it to Sam the other day, and I, well, I had a look at it. If you can put off going back to Boston, there’s something for you to do.” Killian dug in his coat and produced Gold’s letter. He was aware that this was a fairly thin piece of evidence on its own, but David could swear that Gold had handed it to him personally, and given the Star Chamber’s notorious association with the Stuarts, and flagrant despotism and abuse of power, the Hanover regime would not require much more proof of duplicity. “This?”

“I gave that to Sam, yes.” David looked wary. “Did you get anything out of it?”

“I did. That’s this.” Killian removed a second piece of folded parchment, in which he had written out as much of an indictment and explanation of Gold’s crimes as he could. The English authorities would care more about the possibility of association with the Jacobites, but even as venal and corrupt as the system might be, it would not stand for everything Gold (and Plouton)had done in the name of seizing power, wealth, and absolute authority for themselves. If David could just get this to Antigua, it meant the end of Lord Robert Gold at long bloody last, and Killian could do nothing more than pray that he would, at this final juncture, be willing.

David considered him for a moment. Then he said, “We picked up a ship’s boat earlier. Survivors from a frigate attacked last night, so they said, by pirates. HMS Halifax. Do you know of them?”

Killian hesitated only briefly. “Yes. The Jolie Rouge attacked – we attacked them. The men. . . treated the captured Halifax sailors dishonorably, and in my name. I have no excuses.”

“It was a Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey who had command.” David was still looking at him closely. “He said that you ordered them to stop.”

“I. . .” Killian wasn’t sure if this was a trap or not, but nor could he lie. “I did, yes.”

“Even though there had been pirates hanged on Nassau by Governor Rogers?”

“When we were in Antigua, and you approached us to offer a bargain in saving Sam,” Killian said. “You requested that we not destroy St. John’s, and so we – Sam, Flint, and I – prevented Vane and Blackbeard from it. I have not changed my mind so much, between then and now, that I am any more eager to return to my old habits. I do not ask for praise, believe me. I know it is barely sufficient. But please. Take the letter to Antigua. Whether or not you care for me.”

“Lieutenant Geoffrey was surprised, in fact. That you would.” David continued to look at him. “He had been assured that Captain Hook was a monster, and indeed when his vessel fell under the Jolie Rouge’s attack, saw every reason to believe it so. So to hear this is. . . not what we expected, admittedly. Sam trusts you, as well. I admit I am not entirely sure why, but he does.”

“I know it’s a good deal I’m asking of you,” Killian admitted. “But Gold’s a traitor no matter what creed either of us believe in, and I know you’re not afraid of standing up to defy the Admiralty, to do what is right no matter what the law says. You did it to save Sam from Hume, and you did it again on Antigua to help us save him. I know you’re a good man. I don’t know what I am, but if you don’t help us, no one else can.”

“For a. . . for a pirate.” David smiled wanly. “You’ve grown on me a bit, I suppose.” He hesitated an instant longer, then said, “Fine. I’ll take the letter.”

Killian let out a barely-muffled heave of relief. “Thank you.”

David nodded. It seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say, however, and after a moment he finally said, half in a rush, “Your cause. Your. . . I suppose they must be your friends. That was the other news we had. About Charlestown.”

Killian distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. “What? What about Charlestown?”

“I’m sorry.” David, at last, could no longer quite hold his gaze. “They had Captain Flint prisoner. They – well, I don’t know what happened exactly, but it’s so. He and his wife are dead.”

------------------

Liam Jones had not intended to sail for Charlestown. Indeed, it was the last place he had ever planned to go anywhere near, well aware of what was about to befall it and not wanting any delay in reaching Paris, and safety. He also saw no reason to test the veracity of his pardon while they were still anywhere close to someone who could dispute it, and wanted to be far away from the Caribbean, and the Americas in general, before the hammer fell. And indeed, they had made it several days out, doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, before the wind had abruptly turned contrary, stalled or slacked, and left them in the doldrums for several more. Liam was edgy, as he did not want Geneva fed from the nanny-goat longer than she had to be. The best thing to do, after all, was to engage a human wet nurse for her as soon as possible, and if the goat stopped giving milk before then, it would be, clearly, a dangerous situation. At least the weather had more or less held up, but they needed bloody wind.

Still. Charlestown had not figured in any way in his calculations, and likely never would, if it was not for the tender ship that had crossed their path the other evening. They were not far off from Bermuda, which lay almost directly due east of the Carolinas in the Atlantic, when they spotted it. Tenders were supply ships usually found close to harbors and ports, not intended for sustained open-sea travel, and that was why this one caught Liam’s attention. He frowned, ordered her to be hailed, and when they had drawn near enough for conversation, noted that the ship looked as if it had been driven pell-mell away from – well, something terrible, as fast as humanely possible. The captain likewise only insisted that he had no choice, he had to get away. “Pirates. Pirates burned it. Killed Lord Peter Ashe, sacked it, would have done God knows what other horrible things to me and my men if we hadn’t fled! Madness. Madness!”

“Charlestown was sacked?” Liam was certain he could not be hearing correctly. “By who?”

“There was one Ashe had prisoner – Flint, I think – and then another turned up. Some bleeding madman called Vane. They took the city to pieces, between them. Not sure which of them killed Ashe, but one of them did. Sailed away only once the lot of it was on fire.”

“Charlestown.” Liam knew he sounded foolish repeating it, but he was staggered. He hadn’t precisely expected Flint to sail in and make fond reparations with his old friend Ashe, magnanimously forgive him for the betrayal, but something on this scale suggested that the calamity was far greater than anyone had planned for. “Did you hear anything about a woman? Miranda Barlow? She would have been with Flint.”

The captain gave him a very strange look, as clearly the proper response was not to ask about whichever harlot the pirate had with him, but to commiserate about the ordeal they had suffered and agree that the outrage was indefensible. “No idea. Heard there was a woman shot in the Governor’s house, aye, but couldn’t say who. We weren’t interested in waiting about for details, not when the bloody place was burning to the ground.”

Liam and Regina exchanged a long and troubled look. Neither of them were certain how to ask for more details, which the captain clearly did not possess, without giving away their position on the whole thing. Once the two ships had drawn apart, Regina said, low-voiced, “He could be mistaken. About her.”

“He could be.” Liam grimaced. “I don’t know that we should wager that he is.”

Regina’s lips went thin. She would never admit out loud to caring about anyone, but Liam could see well enough that she was worried about Miranda. He felt the same, as the two of them had not survived Jamaica, Jennings, storm, shipwreck, and being set adrift with her only to feel that this was any sort of just ending for her. If she was already dead, there was of course nothing they could do, but Liam was not altogether sure that they could simply sail away without knowing for certain. He knew as well that Miranda and Emma were very close, and that as this was Geneva’s grandmother for all intents and purposes, they still had a duty to their family. He looked at Regina again. “Is there any way it would be worth it?”

She glanced down. “Geneva isn’t feeding well from the goat’s milk,” she said after a moment. “It’s keeping her alive, but she isn’t gaining weight or growing, and she cries half the time. She still could get to Paris if the wind cooperated, but. . . if nothing else, there would be a wet nurse in Charlestown. It wouldn’t be that long of a voyage from here.”

“Aye.” Liam had certainly noticed the baby’s inconsolable crying, as had most of the ship; it was not that large, after all, and it was hard to shut the noise out. “But if it’s been sacked, it can’t be terribly safe. Or – ”

“If it already has been sacked,” Regina pointed out, with a certain acerbic edge in her voice, “there’s hardly very much that anyone can do to it again, can they? You could pull off one of your usual heroic actions and rescue some poor woman who needs to get away from the city and can provide milk for a newborn as payment. And at least know what happened for certain, instead of relying on whatever he’s telling us. Or if not.” She shrugged. “By all means.”

Liam gave her a cold look. The two of them had grown decidedly fond of each other in a way that went much deeper than mere sex, but he knew that meant that if for any reason he decided against it, Regina would bash him over the head, tie him in the hold, and ensure they went anyway. This seemed an easier way for all concerned, and he was not sure any of them wanted to risk a crossing without being sure of Geneva’s welfare. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll go.”

That was how, therefore, he found himself making bearings for Charlestown, against all odds. The Jolly Roger was fast and light, and the wind, as if in a sign that they were indeed supposed to be going in one direction and not the other, strong at their backs, which sped the journey. It was clear as well that Geneva had all but stopped taking the goat’s milk, which sharpened the urgency to make it in haste, and Liam worried himself to distraction about what he could remotely tell Killian and Emma if their daughter died in his care. It was, therefore, with something perversely close to relief that he finally breathed the first distinct whiff of soot and smoke and char in the wind, drew around the headland, and beheld the scorched and scarred waterfront of Charlestown. It was as comprehensively destroyed as Kingston had been, when he and Regina had arrived there on their search for Killian the first time.

“Jesus,” Liam muttered reflexively. Flint and Vane had undoubtedly been very thorough and very angry, and after a brief discussion, he, Regina, and Will decided to risk rowing ashore. Will would find a wet nurse and bring her back to the ship with all dispatch, while Liam and Regina would do their best to sort truth from rumor. The sun was going down as they launched the boat, made it across the harbor inlet, and dragged it up on the sand. It was heaped with broken planks, fallen stone, and rotting bodies. The smell was like a punch in the face.

Will, gagging slightly, pulled his shirt up to breathe through the fabric, not that that did much to help, and hurried up toward the city, while Liam and Regina did their best to start combing through the wreckage. They didn’t want to find Miranda here, or anywhere in this abattoir, but now that they were here, they could not leave without knowing for certain. It was quickly getting dark, so they lit a torch and Regina held it overhead while Liam dug through the mess. It looked as if this was where the Charlestown citizens had dragged out the snapped debris and detritus from the burned streets, and whatever corpses had not been claimed for proper Christian burial. Liam’s gorge rose in his throat as he kept working. Hopefully Will had had better luck than they had, would be back by now, would have found –

Oh, bloody hell.

He shifted aside a shattered heap of rubble, and his breath shriveled in his throat.

Miranda had been shot glancingly along the skull, as if someone had been aiming for the middle of her forehead, but she had been shoved aside in just the nick of time. The blood was crusted and red-brown down her face and shoulder, and her dress was filthy, stained with rubbish and offal, as if people had thrown things at her. Perhaps her body had been carried out for triumphant display, to prove that this was what became of pirates and those who fraternized with them, and both Liam and Regina uttered small, choked sounds at the sight of her. She certainly looked quite dead, but on some mad whim, Liam held the buckle of his sword close to her lips, hoping to see a mist. Nothing.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing Miranda’s hair aside to inspect the wound. It was serious, but he couldn’t conclude decisively that it had been fatal. She hadn’t started to rot either, so there had to be some tiny spark left, somewhere. Maybe. Maybe. He found himself whirling on Regina. “Your vodou medicines, your potions. Whatever the Maroons did to me – they saved me, I was as good as dead too, and they did some ritual to bring me back, when Killian went down and pulled me out. You have something, you can do that. Can’t you?”

“I don’t – ” Regina looked shaken. “I’m not sure.”

“Miranda survived being shot once before, when it should have killed her. Asleep, but alive, for weeks.” Liam was, as well-attested, extremely stubborn. “Didn’t she?”

“As far as I know, yes, but – ”

“We have to try. We have to try.” Liam shouldered aside the wreckage and lifted Miranda carefully in his arms; she was as light and insubstantial as a wraith. “Come on.”

They made it back out to the Jolly, whereupon they reconnoitered with Will, who had in fact just returned with a wet nurse. Geneva was suckling vigorously, since the poor child had after all been more or less slowly starving, and with a hearty sigh of relief, Liam kicked open the cabin door and carried Miranda inside. Regina fetched her potions and drugs, which he had been extremely dubious of when she thought she could control Jennings with them, but were the only hope they presently had. She burned something in a bowl, which filled the cabin with soporific, stupefying smoke and made Liam think he heard bells, then muttered something under her breath, concentrating intensely. He wasn’t quite sure that this was how Merlin and the Maroons had done it, but then, he had been unconscious for most of that, so he wasn’t exactly in a place to judge. And he wouldn’t quibble with bloody anything, if it worked.

This went on well into the night. Regina had tried everything she could think of, in some cases twice, and still nothing. At last she sat back on her heels, flushed and upset, hair falling in her face. “I can’t do anything else. I – I’m sorry, Liam. I think she’s gone.”

Liam passed a hand over his face, telling himself that he could at least comfort himself, however coldly, with the knowledge that they had done everything they could. But he still did not want, could not simply take this as an answer. “Killian saved me! It’s possible!”

“It might be,” Regina said. “But I’m not Merlin. I don’t know everything he does. I doubt she’s make it on a return voyage to the Maroons’ island, or that they would necessarily agree to another full vodou ritual. It’s difficult, and it’s dangerous. Or – ”

At that moment, a slight wind passed through the cabin, though the windows were closed, making the candles flicker and gutter. It was cool and sourceless and strange, and it made Liam think, briefly and incongruously, of drums. He blinked as if only just waking up, had to check to see if he was still standing and not lying down, not sleeping. He glanced at Regina to see if she had felt it, and found her looking just as unsettled. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Regina swept her tangled hair out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this place is swarming with ghosts. Or worse things.”

Liam wasn’t sure how to respond to that, as the practical, logical, rational side of him wanted to insist that there was no such thing as ghosts, but given that he had some experience with vodou magic and indeed owed his life to it, he supposed he shouldn’t be too hasty in throwing those particular stones. He opened his mouth, but didn’t remember what he was going to say. He was interrupted instead by a harried knock on the door. “Captain. Captain!”

He turned with a start. “Aye?”

One of the crewmen ducked inside. “Captain. We’ve spotted a ship.”

“Flint? Vane?” Liam hoped they weren’t returning with the intention of making another pass over the flattened city, though if it was Flint, he could at least – well, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem particularly well-omened in any case. “Or no, not a pirate. Someone sent to examine the damage? See how bad it is, report back?”

“Aye. Imagine so.”

“Who?”

Instead of answering, the man simply stared at him, with an utterly foreboding expression.

“Oh,” Liam Jones said. “Fucking hell.”

[grittyxsurvivor]

The Cursed Amulet(Drabble)

A famous explorer once said that the extraordinary is in what we do, not who we are. That’s what I always hear in my head. I seek out adventure each day. To find a purpose. But instead it always finds me. Ever since that time at Yamatai, I haven't been the same. I've become much different. I dealt with survivor's guilt. I mean, I killed so many people on that island, the ones who threatened us. We lost good people. Alex, Roth, Grim…….I couldn’t bear it. I still face it everyday. Telling Alex's mother about his sacrifice was hard for me.

The ones who survived were me, Reyes, Sam, and Jonah. We managed to leave the island after stopping Himiko the sun queen and also a few others. Mathias was the cult leader. May he rot in hell. I killed him though with two guns. It wasn’t easy, but I got him. He won't cause any pain to my friend. Sam is very special to me. My best friend.

After that ordeal, I began going on so many adventures around the world. I gathered many artifacts and brought them back to London to study them. They were magnificent. But some made of gold even. I show d some to many researchers too but didn’t take them. But ho did a privileged British girl become so good at killing? Good question. I developed a lot while on Yamatai. It was the survive It. I had to.

But survival is the key. If you want to live through it, you might need to kill to survive. Especially if the ones who harm your friends. I make those bastards pay. The only way to stay alive is kill or be killed. But ever since then, I had people come for me for revenge, but I always make them run after or wounded. I never let my friends down.

I have also come face to face with a cult known as Trinity. Or was it Solarii? Either those two. They weren't happy that I killed their leader Mathias. But he was reborn in another person's body after a ritual when Sam accidentally spilled the blood. Said something about me being a guardian. The last one. I didn’t believe it at first, but it was true. Now I don’t worry about it. But if he returns, Ill be ready.

I remember being around the world searching for clues and other things. With being in archaeology I was very experienced. My jade necklace was my very first find and I did it in penguin pajamas. Yes it's funny to wear but hey I was a kid at the time. I never took it off either since. It's special to me.

But visiting ruins of places was very awesome in a way. I recorded them in a journal as I went on with it. I started writing them down during my travels.

As I went on traveling to another country, I noticed there were beautiful towns and those speaking another language. But I was told to look into an old castle. This was in west of Germany. There was artifacts in the fortress and said to be full of it. I arrived there and took a flashlight out to look inside. It looked centuries old and looked like it aged a couple hundred years. Even more. But it felt bloody cold a bit in there so I wore a coat to stay warm. When nightfall came, I lit the fireplace and sat in one of the chairs and pulled out food from my pack.

I cooked it over the fire and ate it after. I took my sleeping bag out and rested on the floor. It was rock hard. Very uncomfortable. I soon rested my eyes and began to dream. I found myself lost in a ruin somewhere in Eastern Europe. But there were demon like beings in there and I fought them off. But I had no arrows and my weapons were dented. I took off running and fired my gun, but nothing came out.

When it got me, I woke up in a sweat and saw my fire had burned out. Then I heard a loud noise from somewhere in the castle. I don’t know if it's haunted or not. Ignoring the sound I turn over and fall back asleep. Then I heard the noise again two hours later and I got up and went to look around with my flashlight. I took my gun with me incase and I looked around the whole place. The noise got louder as I was closer. Then, I heard weeping. I went closer to see a woman. She sounded young. Like closer to my age.

"Excuse me? Are you all right?"

The woman got up and turned towards me. Her hair covering her whole face and she looks at me.

Woman: GET………OUT!!!!!!!

She disappeared after giving me a warning and wind knocked me out as I dropped the flashlight and everything went black.

Morning came as I heard birds chirping and I got up holding my head and my flashlight was still on. I turned it off and I went ahead to look for those artifacts and get out. I'm an archaeologist and I get scared over the silly things. I think that was a ghost I met last night.

After spending a whole day searching, I found bedrooms and sat on the bed and laying down on it. I rested my eyes and I began to dream again. This time it was around South America. I had good functioning weapons this time. I felt warm air touch my skin and I saw a waterfall pouring down near me. As I walked towards it, I touched the water but my hands didn’t get wet. I heard a roar nearby and I took off running from it. I turn around and it's just an elephant.

I opened my eyes as I heard a noise again. I got up and ran toward the sound and carried my flashlight and aimed my gun.

"Hello? Is someone there??"

I kept walking and I came across a room with the artifacts. I went over to pick it up and I felt a cold wind grip me. Something prevented me from taking it. I turn my head to see the woman again. She showed her face this time. It looked disfigured. Half burned. What did she want? I put it down and the wind let go of me. She shook her head at me as I held it still. It was an amulet that was here. Was this the artifact? Then I heard something click behind me.

Man: You're easy to fool, Croft.

"Why didn’t you tell me this was haunted?"

Man: Because I know that you'd fall for it. Now, give me the artifact and I'll let you live.

My hand shook holding the artifact. The woman grabbed my arm and kept shaking her head at me. As If she didn’t want me to give it to him. This was like a horror movie except it was reality. I watched her place the amulet in my hands to cover them. Then she whispered "run". I grabbed the flashlight and took off running out of there and the man fired his gun at me. I fired back at him and one got me in the leg and I fell over. One bloody shot got me. Damn it.

The man that sent me on this suicide mission finally caught up and grabbed the amulet from me. I was wounded, but not badly wounded. I grabbed my gun and pointed at him as he was about to leave.

"I can't let you leave."

Man: Or else what? You'll shoot me? Face it Croft, you're nothing but a killer. I known about what you did. I can make money from this trinket. You won't try to stop me.

"I can fucking try."

I aimed for his feet and fired a shot at his foot. He drops the amulet after falling and it soon felt heavy to lift. The woman that haunted the place must've lived here. She lifted the amulet and handed it to me.

Woman: Keep…….it…….safe.

I nodded and I took it and I limped our the door. The man came after me trying to pry the amulet from me. I kicked him in between his legs and knee him In the leg. Then I saw police show up and I turn to them as I held my side. I pointed at him.

"I believe he's the one you're looking for?"

Police: Yes. And how did you solve the mystery of this castle? It's been cursed.

I looked down at the amulet and saw the man get arrested.

"I don’t know. But I think it can now be at peace."

I walked out to get medical attention and stitched up. I had a prize at least.

[shatteredskies042]

NaNo Day 10-11: The Past

“You going to introduce me, Haghn?” he asked, walking towards the younger pair.

Michael laughed, looking at Ally, “Ally, this is Kyle Oxley, the man who taught me how to keep up in hand to hand with you,” he introduced, then reversed. “Ox, this is Ally, my girlfriend who pushes me harder than you ever did,” he teased his old friend lightly.

“You must be a hell of a gal, then,” he said, offering his hand to the blonde. She accepted, shaking firmly, impressing the former operator. “So, from the demeanor of your girlfriend, and you, you’re still in the game?”

“The game has changed,” Michael told him. “Some of the old, and a lot of new,” he stated. “I only got into it recently, Ally would be able to better explain it.”

The angel looked to him, then closed her eyes. Michael even looked to her curiously, wondering what she was doing. Slowly, her lush golden-black wings came into view, and she opened her eyes to look at Ox.

“Bloody fucking hell,” the Brit responded, looking over the blonde. “What is it you mean to tell me, Miss Allyson?”

“Humans aren’t the only ones roaming this world,” she said quietly, dismissing her wings and watching him: “a whole host of things exist, almost everything you’ve read about in fantasy walks this planet somewhere.”

“I know about lycans,” Ox blurted, looking down. “It’s extremely classified, but there’s a bunch of them around here. I almost lost my whole team to a pack of them in Northern Ireland.”

“Irish werewolves,” Ally snorted, shaking her head as it reminded her of someone in her past. She idly wondered about that redhead, but dismissed the thought quickly.

“Aye. So, why is it you’re here, then? I have a feeling it’s more than just a visit to a dear old friend now,” Ox asked, looking to Michael.

“A war is coming, Ox,” he told his teacher. “And if we win it, I’m bringing BLACK back.”

“What are you going up against?” he asked.

Michael and Ally shared a look before the angel responded, “Heaven. I’ll spare you the politics and the why, but they’ve got us on their bad side, and they want us gone.”

“I’m better off not knowing that, anyway,” the Brit stated. “What do you need then?”

“Troops,” was all Michael responded with. “For now. If we win-”

“Can that ‘if we win’ crap,” Oxley cut Michael off. “I know you better than most, Michael. You’re going to win this.”

“Nice to see someone has some optimism,” Ally observed. “When we finish that, we’re going to equip teams and have them return to their home countries. If we have a situation, we can mobilize regional teams to deploy quickly,” she stated, echoing her partner’s talking points.

“I won’t ask about logistics, either,” Ox stated. “I assume this is a private affair, no official involvement?”

“Seeing as how I’m officially dead,” Michael stated, “and a war criminal. And Ally doesn’t exist, we’re talking darker than BLACK was.”

“Oversight?”

“Is provided by those who supply our assets,” he responded. “Regional ops, unless it is an extremis, emergency affair, will be approved by the leader of that region.”

Oxley nodded, walking to his desk and sitting on the front of it, looking to the pair, “I’m afraid most of the people I know who would be up for this are retirees of one nature or another,” he explained. “But we can still move and shoot.”

“It’s a personal choice, Ox,” Michael told him. “I only want volunteers.”

“I understand,” the Brit shrugged, then reached for a card on his desk. “There is someone else I could point you to: Have you heard of Shatter Point Solutions?”

“Sounds like a private security outfit,” Michael observed. “Ox, I don’t want mercs-”

“They’re not mercenaries,” he replied. “They are guns for hire, yes, but only because they need monetary support to fund their activities,” he admitted. “My brother, Victor, founded them. They’re thrill seekers, and for some of them that thrill is battle. They’re well trained and enthusiastic, some more altruistic than others.”

“Can I trust them with our secrets?” Michael asked.

“I think so,” Ox confirmed. “I can give you dossiers of some of their operations. They had a few bad apples, but any outfit does,” he said, moving around his desk and opening a drawer, starting to thumb through the files. “Like I said, they’re thrill seekers, and not all of their operations are perfectly legal.”

“Which means?” Ally wondered. A file was tossed up onto the desk, which Michael gingerly took and opened for both to read. “A bank robbery?”

“Read further,” Ox urged, “they incapacitated the guards, kept the civilians in check, cracked open the vault, and just left it there.”

“Wait,” Michael looked up. “They robbed a bank but didn’t take any money?”

“Don’t worry, it confused everyone,” the Brit said as he set a few more files on his desk. “The police finally decided to charge them with unlawful imprisonment, but nobody could ID them and they’ve been under the radar since then.”

“They knocked over the bank just to see if they could, like a challenge,” Ally stated. “I like these guys.”

“We’ll see,” Michael said, closing the folder and returning it to the desk. Michael picked up a pen and grabbed a notepad, writing down the city nearest to Goddess Island, and the time he wanted everyone to be there by. “Whatever troops you rally, that’s where to meet. On that day, we’ll be going to the location where we’ll be making our stand.”

“I assume we won’t be defending that day?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Ally stated. “I know Murphy’s Law too, but I have an intelligence source,” Ally said, “I know when they’ll move.”

“Do we even have maps of the island?” Michael asked.

“Somewhere, not very well quality,” the blonde admitted. “Actual mapmakers haven’t set foot there, but I have a few ideas on how we can stop them.”

“I do too,” he added, looking to Ox. “Let’s change the subject for a bit, shall we?”

“Head downstairs and join my wife for tea and football?” Ox offered with a smile, securing the files he had withdrawn together, offering them to Michael.

“I’ll run these to the car and join you,” he promised. As he went to pull away, Ally caught him by the edge of his jacket and pulled him back to kiss him quickly, before letting him go.

“The kid’s had a shitty hand dealt to him,” Oxley said softly, once Michael was gone as the two headed down the stairs. “But he looks happy, and he needs it.”

“We’re a good fit for each other,” the blonde said softly, reminiscing with a soft smile. “I’d do anything for him, and I know he would do anything for me.”

“Good,” he said quietly.

“I assume you know about everything that happened, back when he ran with us,” Ox said as they entered the kitchen.

“I do, and it’s not going to happen again,” the blonde promised as she spotted his wife and changed the subject. “It’s been quite a while since I was last here,” she admitted, standing out of the way in the living area around a TV, playing the pregame for a soccer match.

“Really? When was the last time?” Missus Oxley asked.

“Well, I’m not counting the times I was searching for property and moving into them,” she stated, “I’ve got a handful of places around this beautiful country.”

“Is that where the car comes from, Miss Bond?” Kyle joked, as Michael entered the house again and joined the group.

“I will admit I have worked with British Intelligence on a few occasions,” Ally admitted, looking to Michael as he stood beside her.

“I haven’t heard those stories,” he stated, as Kyle brought out a large tray with a teapot and cups.  

You were a part of some of them, Ally thought, remembering her encounter with a past version of him. The world had been at war then, and they had met too early. “Maybe I’ll tell you at some point,” she offered quietly, before she settled into a chair. Michael sat at her left on a couch, joined by Marie Oxley with Kyle Oxley sitting in a chair opposite Allyson. Tea was poured and doled out, with Michael stirring in some sugar as Ally heavily flavored hers with milk and sugar. “Been forever since I watched soccer too,” she mused.

“It’s football,” Kyle groused, shooting a glare at her. “You enjoy the sport?”

“I played it a little when I was younger, I wasn’t too bad,” she admitted, sipping her tea. “I’ve coached a few teams back home, nothing big, just kids who needed somewhere to be and something to do.”

“Really?” Michael asked, learning about her more, always a learning experience when he was around her.

“It was a long time ago,” she stated. “But I don’t think I’ve lost it,” the blonde smirked.

“Maybe she’ll make a civilized man out of you, Haghn,” Oxley smirked, “you still take your tea with just sugar.”

“Better than the joke we had running with Buck, back when,” Michael stated, slowly sipping his steaming tea. “Besides, this is more refined than my coffee.”

“Black?”

“It’s absolutely barbaric,” Ally teased, looking over the brim of her cup at him with a smirk.

Michael laughed and shook his head, before looking at the table, his eyes unfocusing. “We had a guy on our team, SAS, liked his tea straight, always drank it steaming hot. He was a tough guy, too,” he remembered. “Always getting hurt, but he soldiered on like nothing happened,” Michael stated, “anyway, the running joke was he’d eat a teabag, then drink boiling water and swish it around in his mouth.”

This drew laughter, Kyle Oxley shaking his head, “you kids,” he lamented. “So, embarrassing stories about your boyfriend?” he asked, looking to Allyson.

“Oh, I’m all ears,” she promised with a cheshire smile as she cast a quick look at Michael.

“I have one,” Marie said, setting her tea down and clasping her hands together. “I think it was shortly after you came to Hereford, Michael,” she remembered. “A group of the guys, my husband included, brought him to our pub one night after training.”

“Oh no,” Michael said darkly, looking up at the ceiling.

“He’d never had British cuisine before, so the boys thought they’d introduce him to our fine food. So we got him a pint of bitter, and started running him through the gauntlet of our food. He got through most of it just fine, he was actually going through it fairly nicely.”

“I’m tasting it again,” he remarked, closing his eyes.

“Until we got to jellied eels.”

“I can’t stand the taste of them,” Kyle stated, and even Allyson wrinkled her nose.

“He looks at it, looked at us and shook his head, but we egged him on,” Marie said fondly. “He got one bite down and bolted for the bathroom. Fastest run to the bathroom I’d ever seen,” she smirked. “Ran into the wrong one and vomited. So, a minute or two later, you’ve got this fit special operator shambling out of the women’s bathroom with such a sour look on his face you could instantly brine a pickle.”

“He scared the hell out of a lady who was in there touching up her makeup, too,” Kyle stated, a smirk shot at his former student.

“I apologized to her later,” Michael noted, “but that has to be the worst thing I’ve eaten in my life.”

Ally laughed, looking at him, “I’m not surprised, it sounds pretty bad.”

“Okay, one more story, I don’t want my girlfriend to think lower of me than she already does,” he told them, trying to cut the least of the embarrassment away.

“Let’s see, during training, we occasionally used sim-munitions with live actors, paint rounds,” Kyle explained. “It was helpful for urban clearing exercises. Anyway, Michael was Red Team for one, whose task was holding the building from the Blue Team.”

“Wait, was this the ship killhouse?” Michael asked, just to clarify the memory.

“Yeah, it was,” Ox confirmed. “Anyway, the Red Team was supposed to do everything to protect it’s objective. Obviously, not go too crazy with the combatives, but give the Blue Team a good fight. I don’t remember exactly where Michael was, but he was lying in wait for the Blue Team as they cleared the interior. I was watching from a catwalk above as the team moved, until they came to the room Michael was holding. He took early shots at the guys about to breach, they threw a flash in, and Michael kicked it into the hallway. After it went off, it blinded the Blue Team, and Michael rushed out shooting. I think he got two guys before a Blue Team member got into combatives with him. In the struggle, Michael’s weapon went off and shot up into the catwalk where me and the other instructors were watching, laughing our asses off. The paint bullet hit one of the visiting dignitaries from the DoD in the heel, and she went down. We called a halt to the exercise, and at the final tally, he’d killed three guys but died of his injuries.”

“Hey, I want credit for ruining two hundred buck’s worth of a pair of four hundred dollar heels,” Michael piped up with a smile.

“She never came back,” Kyle said with a grin. “In the Red Team briefings, we had a serious and lively discussion on them kicking grenades back at the Blue Team.”

“Hey, the baddies will do it to us if we don’t cook them long enough,” the soldier replied, parroting his argument from years ago.

“That’s the conclusion we came to,” Ox promised, “but your boyfriend was barred from playing Red Team again,” he told Allyson.

“The attitude and those moves have served him well,” the blonde noted, smiling at Michael.

“I don’t even want to hear about the adventures you guys have been on,” Kyle Oxley said, shaking his head. They hadn’t watched much soccer in the time they had been telling stories, but it was all fine. The peaceful talks were broken when Ally’s phone buzzed. She politely excused herself, and Michael looked to the Oxleys.

“Thank you guys for having us here,” he told them. “It means a lot to talk to you guys again.”

“We were deeply saddened when we heard the news about your unit,” Marie stated, “it’s just good to have a familiar face back from the dead.”

“Well, it feels good to not have to hide from all my old friends,” he said as Ally returned to the room. She crossed over behind him, leaning down to whisper in his ear:

“We’ve got a lead on the alpha that set us up at the meeting back home,” she whispered. “But we have to move now.”  

Michael looked to Kyle, “do you have room in your garage?” he asked.

“Of course, we sold our car a while ago,” he said.

“Mind if we keep our car there?”

“Only if I get to take her for a spin,” Oxley grinned.

“Take care of her, sir,” Michael wished, tossing the keys to him before standing. Michael joined the blonde, and they headed for the door. Outside, Ally led him out to a covered area, then created a portal. The two stepped through, and were in their most-used armory in the Institute. Michael went for the locker containing the dragonscale vests and shed his jacket. “Who did you get the tip from?” he asked her, starting to get ready.

“The second in command at the pack,” she told him, watching him dress and prepare.

“So what’s the play?” he asked, securing and tightening the vest, before moving to grab a pre-filled mag carrier.

“The beta is willing to take charge and help us, most of the pack disagrees with the move,” she promised as she picked up one of his rifles. The blonde made sure the weapon was in battery, then cradled it as she waited for Michael to finish adjusting his pistol and finish arming up. “We’re going to take the alpha out of the picture. But we have to do it in a way where we can claim self defense,” she said.

“Some laws they have?” Michael asked, moving his pistol to his hip and then stepping to the blonde to accept his rifle. He slung it over his body and shifted to make sure everything fit well.

“Something like that,” the blonde told him. “I’ll go in, aggrevate him, and kill him when he attacks.” She stepped away, then returned with a sword she had given him. Something small enough to strap to his leg, but still a deadly weapon.

“And I’m here, why?” the soldier wondered. He accepted the blade and harness, securing it and walking around for a few steps to make sure nothing rubbed wrong.

“Because he’s got a pair of angel bodyguards, and I assume more will come when I show up. They won’t play by the pack’s rules for a challenge, so you get to remove them from the battlefield,” she smiled.

“Seems easy enough, stop them from interfering with your fight as much as possible,” Michael observed, rolling his neck to loosen the muscles there.

Ally leaned forward, placing her hands on his cheeks and holding him still. The blonde pressed her lips to his and kissed him gently, closing her eyes and savoring the quiet moment, “after this, do you want to cook together?” she asked.

“It is getting late,” he agreed, his internal clock scrambled from his midnight trip to Moscow, then portaling back and forth between the States and the UK. “It’ll be good to help us unwind.”

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