#threads; with emilio

[letsbenditlikebennett]

TIMING: Pre-Goo Current-ish PARTIES: @mortemoppetere & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Alex wanders into an alley and finds herself stuck in a square... Emilio happens upon her and of course does not fuck off. The worst game of Get Along Or Else Candyland ensues. CONTENT: Domestic abuse, emotional abuse, parental death, child death, sibling death.

While Worm Row was considered the “bad” part of town, Alex always thought that was being way too generous to the rest of the town. You were just as likely to get eaten by a random monster on a block in Worm Row as you were over in Harborside. The only real difference was the tax bracket which meant the latter was decidedly not where one went to check out pawn shops for a potential new guitar. 

Mike's hadn't been the score she thought it would be based on their instagram posts from earlier, but she had gotten a pretty sweet hand mixer from the vending machine instead of the Hot Cheetos she'd wanted, so Alex would still call it a win even if she was still craving hot chips. 

It was that line of thinking that had her absentmindedly walking toward the smell of something sweet. Given how cooped up Alex had been in the cabin following her injury and the fact she could actually walk a little bit on it now without a lot of a pain, she was enjoying just wondering the streets even if the buildings were all run down. It was kind of more her style anyway. Lived in. 

Her nose led her straight to the edge of an alley that she almost wouldn't have noticed as she hummed to herself if it was for the fact the ground under her feet turned a bright shade of green. 

“What the,” Alex muttered as she stopped in her tracks and actually looked up. It was the same shitty buildings to the left and right of her with rusted signs hanging from the windows, but the alley looked like that one board game she always saw the normal kids in their neighborhood playing. 

Ahead was a curving path of colored squares lined with candy... which while it smelled delicious, seemed a little bit ominous. ”Not today, Satan, not today,” Alex said to hereself. She moved to leave the spot she stood in only to find she couldn't. She lifted her boot off the ground but when she tried to move it out of the barrier of the green square, it was like it hit an invisible wall.

”Greaaaaaaaat,” Alex grumbled to herself. She looked around for some kind of clue for how to get out of this weird game only to see a certain slayer approaching her. This really wasn't her day. “Don't you dare take another step closer,” she spat at Emilio. 

—

It was a detective night instead of a slayer night, and Emilio always liked those less. Detective nights tended to contain a lot less violence and a lot more sitting still, and he was so bad at that. His hands trembled, his leg bounced, his head spun. He could never manage to maintain the stakeout for as long as he could keep up a patrol, always came home feeling more restless and less at ease, somehow. Like the paranoia of being watched fit just as well into the head of the person doing the watching as it did the target of it. He was wired; he still wanted something to fight.

Usually, walking home in Worm Row would provide him with that. If you took the right route and moved slow enough, someone or something would show up sooner rather than later to give you something to hit. Emilio ached for it, longed for something to bruise his knuckles against the same way he longed for a swig of whiskey from the flask in his pocket. The latter was easy enough to obtain, but he’d had no luck with the former just yet. It only made the paranoia worse.

But maybe his luck was about to turn around. There was a noise from an alley as he passed it, something… strange. Like a bell dinging, but warped and unnatural. Not his usual fare, but Emilio was desperate enough for something that he was drawn to it with just as much eagerness as a man alone in the desert might have moved towards a cold glass of water.

As he entered the alley, he caught sight of a flash of red hair. For a moment, he thought it might have been Andy. She’d been in and out at his apartment for a while now, fixing things and crashing on his couch or using his shower occasionally, but not as much in recent days. His brow furrowed as he moved closer, only to see that it wasn’t Andy at all.

To Emilio, the alley still looked normal. Alex stood in place, seemingly unable to move in a way that looked almost comical from the outside looking in. Like some invisible force held her still. He might have thought she was messing with him, but he didn’t think Alex liked him enough to do that, especially not after their last conversation. 

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t listen to her order not to come closer. He took a lazy step towards her, then another, bad leg dragging behind him a little more than usual. “What exactly are you —” He cut off as he stepped down just next to the spot where she stood, and the alley transformed for him, too. The concrete beneath his feet became a board game, stretching further than should have been possible in the small alley. He stood on the same green square as Alex, and a step back found him hitting against the invisible barrier. 

Immediately, a surge of panic cut in. Emilio shoved his shoulder forward like he was trying to barge through a locked door, but whatever force was there didn’t budge. He kicked it hard, first with his bad leg in a way that elicited a long string of Spanish curses, then with his good leg in a way that delivered the same result, but with less pain. A fist slammed into the barrier, stopped by that same invisible force. Emilio was bad with tight spaces, and Emilio was bad with things he couldn’t see. This felt an awful lot like both.

“What — What the fuck is this?” He turned to Alex, trying to smooth his expression into something neutral. He wasn’t sure how successful he was.

Above their heads, that bell dinged again. Inside the game, it sounded less warped, but not pleasant. It was unsettling, to say the least.

A disembodied female voice rose up around them, robotic in its inflections: “Welcome, Player One. Welcome, Player Two. Prepare for the game to commence.” 

“I don’t want to play a game,” Emilio yelled back, looking up. 

“Prepare for the game to commence,” the voice repeated. Fucking great.

—

If it had been anyone else, they might have actually listened when Alex said to stay away. Of course, this wasn't anyone else, it was Emilio who she was pretty sure was actually physically incapable of fucking off. Hell, she didn't even give him the usual 'fuck off' in a different language greeting to really drive the point home. She was pretty sure that he actually just enjoyed being a pain in the ass. Not that she could fault anyone for enjoying that but she really wished she wasn't on the receiving end of it. The last person she wanted to be stuck in a small square of space with was Mr. Irish Spring himself. 

“No, stop,” she demanded desperately before he was beside her in the green square and equally as perplexed as she was. Alex crossed her arms over her chest in annoyance and watched him with a scowl on her face as he cursed in Spanish and kicked at the invisible barrier that was keeping them trapped in the square. If she wasn't stuck with him, she probably would have found the display hilarious. Seeing as she was stuck with him and already felt like the space was entirely too small, she was pissed. “I swear I could fucking stab you for not listening for once in your god damn life right now,” she spat. 

Almost immediately, the strange dinging in the air  put Alex on edge. The sound of bells was a little too high pitched for her when she wasn't agitated which meant at that moment it was practically grating against her ears. It was like nails against a chalkboard right on her ear drums and it made her want to punch Emilio or the barrier... or both. Definitely a little bit of both. 

Then there was some eerie sounding autonomous voice calling them Player 1 and Player 2 like this was one of those video games that Cass and Van talked about. Except, this looked like that one kid's game Alex had all but begged her mother to buy for her to no avail. It seemed almost cruel that this was the version of the game that she finally got and it wasn't even her choice... because god forbid anything in her life ever be some choice of her own. “Game,” she spat out, “This isn't funny.” 

Emilio expressed not wanting to play the game and the voice told them prepare to commence. Well, Alex did not like this one bit. In fact, she was pretty sure she hated it and she hated Emilio a tiny bit for not listening and getting sucked into this with her. Hell, she thought she might actually prefer to have Thea along for this ride than Emilio because at least Thea knew how to game. 

“Doesn't look like it's giving us a choice,” she grumbled, “You know, if you listened to me I could be stuck playing this with someone who's less of a pain in the ass.” 

Almost immediately, she felt an electric shock jolt her and she jumped in place, hitting the edge of the barrier as she moved. “Ow,” Alex shouted, “What the fuck was that? Who gave Private Asshat over here a taser?”

Another shock hit her and she was getting even angrier. What kind of game was this? It definitely wasn't the cool version of Candyland that Alex had begged her maman for, that much was clear. She turned to Emilio, arms still crossed over her chest and brows still knit together in annoyance. “Are you any good at games? Doesn't look like we have much of a choice.” 

—

Blood was rushing in his ears, half rage and half panic. Emilio had never been particularly good at accepting situations he couldn’t control, but he’d become so much worse at it since the massacre. Things slipped from his carefully curated command, and it felt like the world was on fire, like he was back in the midst of a massacre watching everyone he loved bleed out. Alex was speaking, but he barely heard her. He was six years old, locked in a shed with something that was both dead and alive. He was thirty-two, and his family’s blood was staining the soles of his shoes. 

Then, Alex jumped beside him, and Emilio flinched violently despite the fact that he wasn’t the one who’d been shocked. He turned to look at her with wild eyes, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. She was insulting him. That wasn’t entirely surprising. There was a strange comfort in the familiarity of it, and he let himself cling to that. He could ground himself through the familiar back and forth he’d accidentally built up with a kid who reminded him a little too much of himself and hated him just as much as he hated himself, too. 

“You think I want to be here? I would like to be trapped with someone who smells less like my dog when it rains,” he snapped. Immediately, a jolt went through him, sending him scrambling so quickly that his bad leg screamed in protest. He let out another long string of curses, kicking at the invisible barrier again. “¿Qué chingados está pasando? Did you do this? Is this — Is this your idea of a fucking joke?” 

He didn’t recognize the ‘game board’ stretched out in front of them, barely understood what a board game was at all. The Cortezes had done everything in their power to ensure that their children knew nothing of the world outside of hunting, had made a very active effort to raise weapons rather than children. They’d done a good job at it — Emilio had very little capability to function as a person in society, and this was proof of it. But while the specifics of a board game were unknown to him, he did know at least the basics of what games in general were. He knew that there were goals, that there were winners and losers.

He knew that there were rules.

He looked over at Alex with a scowl. “No,” he replied flatly. Then, feeling ridiculous, he looked up at the empty sky. “What are the fucking rules? What are we supposed to do? How do we win?” The questions were in quick succession, one after another. 

Another ding sounded. “Players 1 and 2 may only win the game together,” the voice said. “You will be presented with a number of riddles. Answer each riddle with an associated memory to move across the board. If both players offer a memory, you may move multiple spaces. If only one complies, you may only move one space forward. If neither complies, you must move back. The game is cooperation. You cannot win without giving something.” 

Emilio stared blankly at the sky, heart still pounding in his chest. He turned to Alex, expression deadpan. “We are going to die,” he said simply.

—

Okay, the whole electric shock thing was way more amusing when it was happening to Emilio and not to her. Alex only barely stifled a laugh as the slayer let out yet another string of Spanish curses. She was pretty sure they had to be breaking some kind of record for the most swear words said in the most languages in a 5 minutes timespan. It was really a trilingual trifecta of curse words going on in the green 5 by 5 square they found themselves trapped in. 

“I just need you to know that I have a really good comeback for that one,” Alex declared with an air of smugness, ”But clearly this shitty game is trying to Pavlov us into being nice to each other.” There was some satisfaction in knowing that Emilio would not know who the hell Pavlov was, which was maybe a little bit mean, but she doubted the game knew enough about science and their dynamic to know that. 

“No, I didn't do this,” she chided with an eyeroll, “If I was gonna trap myself in a small space with someone it'd be a pretty girl and not a stinky man.” Zap. She flinched as the shock hit her, but decided it was worth it. Emilio needed to know he was stinky and it probably pained her more physically to hold that in anyway. At least she'd say as much for dramatic effect anyway. 

At least Emilio had the smarts to ask for the rules of the game. Alex just assumed it was gonna be like Candyland... which she'd never gotten to play, but she imagined how it was supposed to go in her head. Actually, Ariadne probably would have been the perfect partner for IRL Candyland, but then the game announcer spoke and this wasn't that. 

They had to cooperate. That was already a tall order for Alex and Emilio. From the moment she'd met him, she'd been trying to irritate him into leaving her the fuck alone and he seemed to take joy in irritating her right back. Then sharing memories? Ok, yeah, he was right. They were doomed, but she wasn't going to tell him that. 

“Buck up, grandpa,” Alex said, giving him a sportly smack on the back, “I'm not dying in a 5 by 5 game square with a man. That goes against my entire brand as the gayest cousin.” 

The bravado was decidedly false. Alex was nervous as hell about going through some sort of bonding experience with the slayer. He already had an annoying habit of saving her life and she didn't know if the memories shared would exuberate or squash that feeling. A girl could hope for the latter, but that seemed like... the opposite of what the stupid game wanted. 

“Come on,” she gestured as she reached for the card that was now floating in front of them. Alex turned it over in her hands and looked over the words. Bubblegum goes in hard and comes out... Before she read them aloud, she knew the answer and felt her stomach lurch. No. Not that word and those memories. This game was a bitch, she decided, but read aloud all the same. “Bubblegum goes in hard and comes out....” 

She couldn't bring herself to say the last word. It always tasted like acid on her tongue much like the tone her father took when he spat the word in her face. Alex really didn't want to go there and not with another hunter at that. He'd already seen firsthand that she was too soft and couldn't fight for shit, why'd she have to tell him about it to get out of this hell loop. “You're the grownup, you go first,” she murmured with her shoulders already hunching in on themselves to protect her from the rejection that seemed inevitable. 

—

“What the fuck is a Pavlov,” Emilio raised his voice an octave at the word, mimicking Alex’s accent poorly. Apparently, it was enough of an insult to earn him another zap, which seemed incredibly unfair. She wasn’t zapped for the implications she’d been making in announcing that she had a ‘great comeback,’ even though that great comeback doubtlessly would have involved calling him stinky or something equally childish. Why did he get zapped just for changing the tone of his voice? He shot a glare back up at the empty sky to voice his displeasure, but he wasn’t sure how effective it was. If there was someone or something watching them, he couldn’t see it anywhere.

In any case, Alex got a zap of her own shortly after, and there was some childish satisfaction in that. Emilio didn’t dislike the kid. He didn’t want her hurt, didn’t want to see anything happen to her. If anything, the opposite was true. He wanted Alex to be safe because of what she represented to Andy, because of the way Andy had given her all for her the way Emilio would have given his to Flora if anyone had ever given him half a chance. But he wasn’t the type to take bickering sitting down, either. If someone picked at him, he tended to pick back. Even if it meant an electric shock.

Alex wasn’t responsible for this; he’d known that even as he’d asked it. Since they met, Alex had made it clear that she wanted to spend as little time with Emilio as possible, even if doing so meant risking death. There was no way she would have intentionally trapped herself in a tight spot with him, game or no game. Normally, he might have found some dull satisfaction in the fact that, at the very least, she wasn’t having any fun, either. As it was, though, he was far too on edge to find enjoyment in any of this. He wanted out. 

And it seemed there was only one way to do that.

The idea of sharing memories with anyone made bile rise up in the back of his throat. There were so few memories that Emilio was okay with other people knowing about, and he doubted that this ‘game’ intended to aim only for the easy ones. If it had, it probably wouldn’t have trapped them here, after all. Sharing with Alex seemed especially daunting. He knew she disliked him, and she knew that plenty of the memories in his head would prove her right for that.

But what other options did he have? He could stay here forever, until whoever was holding them in place either grew tired and freed them or until he doomed them both to starvation with his stubbornness, or he could play the stupid game. Alex would hate him by the end of it, but how was that different than how she felt about him now? 

Still, he felt sick. It was as if there were bugs crawling over his skin — or maybe beneath it. Emilio wasn’t much of a talker. There were so many things he’d never said aloud, and he had such little desire to change that. He scowled as Alex picked up the card, heart in his throat as she read it aloud. The answer was obvious, but he thought it was probably supposed to be. The riddles weren’t really what the game was about. It was the memories.

And it had started with a hardball. 

There were so many to choose from. The word had defined so much of his life growing up, had become a knife sharpened on the belt of everyone responsible for shaping him. He could have plucked a thousand different memories from the arsenal, but none were ones he wanted to share. Closing his eyes, Emilio inhaled a trembling breath, exhaled just as shakily. 

“I was twelve,” he said hoarsely, the words sticking to the back of his throat. “And there was — We didn’t do funerals. When someone died. Funerals are for people, and we weren’t meant to do that. But my… We lost someone. And I was fucking twelve, and stupid, so I buried his fucking knife in the yard. His favorite one, you know, the one he always kept with him. Stuck a stick in the ground. That’s how my mom found it. And when she was done… with the real — paliza, she said…” He trailed off, pushing his tongue against his teeth until he tasted blood in his mouth. “I was always too soft. That’s what she used to tell me. And the family would have been stronger if it were me instead of him, because he was better. I knew that, she knew that. Everybody knew that. I was soft. Guess I still am.” 

There was a ding from the sky above them, and the spot in front of them turned the same shade of green as the one they were standing on. Emilio scrambled forward, but the barrier wasn’t gone — it had only moved a few feet. He slammed into the new boundary, cursing again before turning back to Alex. “You — It said it’d go faster if we both say something. I want to get the fuck out of here. You want to get the fuck out of here. So it’s your fucking turn, kid. Answer the pinche riddle so I can go home.”

—

How painfully easy the riddle was almost seemed mocking. Alex was good at actual riddles, but it was evident the point of this game had little to do with the actual riddles. It was all about cooperation with a person she decidedly didn't like to cooperate with. What a weird and miserable turn of events. She wasn't sure if the word soft held the same acidity for Emilio as it did for her. It'd been spat in her direction more times she could count in the short time she had with her parents while they were alive. It was the word that repeated like a broken record in her mind every time she felt even a shred of inadqueacy. 

She'd seen Emilio fight. Even with his shitty knee, he still knew how to move and deliver the hard blows in a way that Alex never could. She couldn't imagine the word being spewed at him with the same vitrol. But then he spoke and her eyes widened in surprise. Even though he fought like the weapon he was born to be, the word had been hurled at him all the same. 

The memory made her frown. It was hard to imagine Emilio as a little kid, not that she had ever tried. Not surprisingly, it was easier to keep someone at a distance when you didn't know them too well because really, Alex knew she didn't actually dislike Emilio. He'd saved her friends on more than one occasion, he was there for Andy, he saved her— it wasn't as if she had some real grudge or sleight to cling to besides the fact he could bicker with the worst of them. Something in him seemed smaller as he spoke and she could imagine a sad kid just missing someone they loved and lost. Then there was something so familiar in the way he called it stupid. Fucking game. She didn't want to give the game the satisfaction of it actually working, but she did want out of the square. 

“It's not stupid,” she murmured quietly as she followed him into the square ahead. Alex knew what came next. It was either another riddle or she shared a memory too to get them the extra spot. Emilio was already prompting her to share her memory to make this whole game from hell experience move faster. 

Alex's eyes found the pink square below her feet. She really wished she was with someone who would get a Barbie reference so she could cut through the tension a little bit. She was pretty sure saying 'Hi Barbie!' would only warrant a very blank stare from Emilio which would be a lot funnier if they weren't essentially trapped. At least the space felt a little bigger now that they moved forward though that didn't stop the way sweat was pooling in the palm of her hands. It still felt like she had no space and he was rushing her to share her memory. 

“I didn't rush you,” Alex huffed as she snapped her eyelids closed. It was hard to think of a memory with her father that didn't have the word being thrown at her like it was an insult because it was. Knives and bullets weren't meant to be soft. They lived in a world of monsters and she was meant to be the blade. Turns out she was a pretty shitty knife. She chewed at her bottom lip and settled on the one she remembered best. 

“Elle est trop douce,” Alex finally said in barely a whisper. The words burned in her throat and made it feel impossibly tight, but the game was waiting. “I was 4 the first time I heard papa say that to maman. She's too soft. I guess Andy had been better at throwing knives by four years old than I had... Probably because she wasn't just human.” Now Alex found it hard not to wish that she was just human. “I kept cutting myself on the knives I was trying to throw... I was 4. It hurt, I cried.” 

She shrugged it off like it didn't matter, but Alex hated how the same still held true. The sight of blood was still enough to make her sick and pain did make tears well up in her eyes despite how hard she tried to fight it. She wasn't even human, she was a monster and she was still too soft. This game was really fucking rude for pointing it out like that. 

The square rudely did not light up again yet. “Really,” she pestered the sky, “That was the memory.” It didn't light up still. “Ugh, fine,” she spat, still refusing to look at Emilio, “He punished me after. Smacked me to get back up and I wasn't allowed to sit back down until I got a knife in the fucking bullseye. You happy?” 

The square lit up. “Yeah, fuck you too.” Zap. She cursed again. “Hey, I meant you the game, not you Emilio.“ 

The next card hovered in front of Emilio and she wasn't particularly keen on having him read it. If the rest of the riddles were this hard hitting, Alex really didn't want them, but like most things, what choice did she actually have? 

—

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not when he told his story, and not when she told hers. He didn’t want to see the way her expression shifted at the revelation that he was more of a failure than he let on, didn’t want to see her eyes soften with… pity for a kid who was never meant to be a kid at all. This, this tightness in his stomach and this sharp pain in his chest, this was exactly the kind of thing that had earned him the punishments his mother doled out to begin with. This feeling of being too small, it was why the word soft cut through him like the blade he was never much good at being.

So he was surprised, a little, when Alex said it wasn’t stupid. He’d known she wouldn’t judge him for it — he might not know her, but he knew the woman who’d raised her, and Andy wasn’t capable of bringing up someone who would judge a child for mourning the dead even when that child became a man who was still so much softer than he should have been. But he hadn’t expected… comfort, either. It felt wrong. She’d said it, hadn’t she? He was the grown up. He ought to be the one doing the comforting.

“You called me grandpa,” he mumbled, but there was no heat to it. She was right — she hadn’t rushed him, and it wasn’t fair for him to rush her even if his heart was pounding, even if he wanted so badly for this to be over. When she started speaking, he found he wished he hadn’t asked her to share at all.

Her story was as familiar to him as he suspected his might have been to her. He’d been four years old once, too, holding a knife too big for his hand and trying not to cry when it cut him. He tasted ashes on his tongue, thoughts moving inevitably to Flora, who’d died at four with hands that never held a knife at all, and he wondered if one option was better than the other. Had it been kinder for her to die just four short years into her life with no scars from nicks and cuts littering her fingers? Or should he have wrapped her small hands around the hilt of a blade, showing her how to thrust it forward just so?

In any case, he couldn’t imagine doing to his daughter what Alex was describing her father doing to her. He’d never been able to wrap his mind around the concept. And hadn’t that always been another mark against him? Another piece of evidence his mother could point to when saying how soft he was, how disappointing? Maybe he could have done it without cruelty. Maybe he could have shown those small hands a way to hold a knife that might have protected her without hurting her. He’d never know now.

He swallowed, unsure what to say. What was there to say? I’m sorry your father hit you. My mother hit me, too. I probably deserved it more than you did. Or I’m sorry it hurt. I tried to find a way to make it not hurt, and it ended bad anyway, so maybe there’s no answer that doesn’t end in blood. Or maybe there was a question he wanted to ask, an answer he was afraid to hear. Would you have loved your father more if he’d never put the knife in your hand? If you’d died for it, would you have forgiven him in the end? Have you forgiven him now? 

Alex wasn’t Flora, because no one was. Alex wasn’t Flora, because someone had loved her and had gotten her out, and Emilio hadn’t done that for his daughter. Alex wasn’t Flora, but for a moment, she was, and he wanted to ask her everything his daughter would never be able to tell him and pretend her answers meant something.

Another space lit up with a ding, and Emilio felt like a coward for finding relief in the fact that he didn’t have to say anything at all. He didn’t want another riddle, but he didn’t want to talk about the last one, either. He moved forward, picking up the new card and staring at it for a moment.

“It can not be seen whenever it's there. It fills up a room, it's much like the air. It can not be touched, there's nothing to hear. It is quite harmless, there's nothing to fear.” He read it carefully, slowly. His accent wrapped around each word, his brow furrowed. A little less straightforward than the last one, but still not particularly difficult. Looking up at Alex, he held out the card. “I went first,” he said quietly, “last time. You can go first this time. And then me.” There couldn’t be too many of these, could there? If they both answered each one, they’d be done in no time. He told himself this, repeated it like a mantra. He needed it to be true.

—

Nerves twisted in her stomach as she waited for Emilio to read what was on the card. He never said anything about her own story, but he didn't have to. Alex had the feeling these riddles weren't going to get any lighter as far as the memories they were linked to went. Almost as if to mock the very thought, the words that Emilio read aloud all pointed to 'darkness' being the answer. It felt as if the square they were standing on was somehow shrinking as he read the words and her throat felt impossibly dry. It felt too tight as the obvious memory tried to scratch its way to the surface. 

Alex didn't even feel her nails digging into her own palms until she drew blood that she did not dare look down at. Emilio was saying something again, but she couldn't hear it. The rush of pressure in her head made his voice sound distorted. 

The game dinged impatiently and she was back in that room with the yellow door that had grayed over from years of wear. The last rays of sunlight from the day flickered on the door from the small window above. It was the only source of light in the room and it was quickly fading. Her tiny hands desperately threw the knife towards the target only for it to clatter against the floor again. Clumsy fingers picked the blade back up and blood spilled from them in the process. She could still feel that desperation as the night fell and the room turned to black. 

Another ding. Alex was pretty sure she was going to be sick. ”There was a room,“ she finally said, her voice as hoarse and small as it was when she'd cry for her father to let her out. She didn't dare look up at Emilio. A harsh glare from an older man when she was thinking about her father was the last thing she needed, but even looking down at her own shaking hands didn't help her find the words. 

“It was where,” her voice trembled and she hated the sound of it— wished she could rip it from her own throat. The space felt even smaller and her breath couldn't seem to find her lungs. “I don't think— I'm sorry,“ she gasped. She slowly backed away only to hit the barrier which only made it more difficult to breathe. There were no walls, not in the physical sense, but she was trapped and the animal in her wanted to rip her way out. Not do... whatever this was. 

Alex had to fight the feeling of claws trying to break from her skin and push the memory back down. “I'm sorry, I don't think I can... We're gonna die in a fucking alley,“ she heaved. 

—

He could see it. The way she shifted, the way she squirmed. The discomfort there, the way it was similar to the one building in his own gut. Did this game know them, somehow? Was it designed, specifically, with the two of them in mind? Or was it all an impossible coincidence, the way each riddle seemed so pointed. Emilio looked down at the card so that he wouldn’t have to look at Alex, traced the curve of the letters with his eyes over and over again like maybe he could change the answer if only he tried hard enough. But it was what it was. There was no getting around it, and he doubted another card would appear until this one had been satisfied.

A room, Alex said. He didn’t know what kind, but he did. He could feel it tugging at the edge of his own memory, pulling him back in time. Time travel, he thought, was a useless thing when it operated like this. His mind had a way of pulling him back, sending him sprawling into events that had ended years ago without the ability to change them. He relived them a thousand times over. Awake, asleep, everything in between. Alex, he thought, must have been a time traveler, too. It was the only way to account for the quivering of her voice.

“It was a shed,” he said, so quiet that his voice could barely be heard at all. The dinging — which had grown insistent and impatient in Alex’s refusal to answer — stopped abruptly, as if the alley wanted to let him speak. “For me. I was… She’d stick us in there sometimes by ourselves, but I was six the first time she put something in there with me. A ghoul.” He didn’t say who she was. He didn’t think he had to. Based on the last memory he’d shared, Alex would probably be able to guess. “Locked it from the outside. Chain, padlock. Gave me the basics. Knife, stake, holy water. Left me in there overnight.”

The memory was more than a memory. He could see that ghoul, dead for almost thirty years now, lurking at the edge of his vision. He still thought about what his mother said to him, sometimes, just before she shut the door. When I open this in the morning, either the ghoul will be dead or you will. Either way, this family is stronger for it. Killing the ghoul proved he was allowed to keep living, just as dying to it would have proven he wasn’t. It was the same for Victor, for Rosa, for Edgar. It had been the same for Jaime, just a week before that massacre. Had the massacre never happened and had Emilio not made good on his plan to take her away, Flora would have been placed in the same shed this year. 

“Slayers see in the dark,” he said, glancing up to the sky as the riddle was ‘answered.’ “So that didn’t bother me much. But it was… small. The shed. Couldn’t take more than a few steps, even then. Ghoul was close, but it was clumsy. Still… took me hours to kill it. Nearly killed me before I did. Next day, she comes and she lets me out. And I’m — I’m bleeding, yeah. Barely on my feet. Pretty much fall into her when the door opens. Was leaning against it, you know, trying to put space there between me and the body. So she opens the door, and I fall. And it’s — She’s pissed.” 

It was funny — he didn’t notice the way he slipped when he spoke about it. The event was nearly thirty years past now, but his words fell into present tense as if he was six years old still, as if he was still leaning against that shed door. Maybe part of him was still in that shed the same way part of him died in that living room floor, the same way part of Alex was still in that room. Maybe they’d both left pieces of themselves behind every time they time traveled. Maybe that was a part of it.

Clearing his throat, Emilio continued, leaning against the invisible barrier now. “She’s pissed,” he said again. “Because I let it get as bad as it did or — or because I’m still there, and she doesn’t think I should be. So she tosses me back in the shed, and she shuts the door again. Sun goes down, comes up. It’s dark, it’s light, but it’s all the same, you know? Slayers see in the dark, so it’s all the same. I’m thirsty, I’m fucking dying for a drink of water, but I know I’m not allowed to say anything, so I’m quiet. By the time my uncle opens the door again, it’s been a day. Yeah. Maybe two. Nobody ever tells me. He opens the door, and I’m not leaning against it anymore. And he lets me out, and I think — I figure it’s because of that. Because I’m not leaning on the door, not falling out into the grass. So he lets me out. And it’s still dark, you know? Dark when I went in, dark when I come out. But I don’t know, I don’t know how long it was.” He paused for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek, biting down on it even though it hurt. “Next week,” he said quietly, “she puts me in there again. Guess I didn’t learn the lesson.”

—

It was hard to find relief in the fact that Emilio had taken over with sharing his memory, not when Alex still couldn't bring herself to look up at him. Something akin to guilt twisted in her gut as it became obvious that he was stepping in to save her yet again—- that she still couldn't save herself and relied on a hunter she was trying to keep at a distance. It wasn't murder this time. She had to remind herself of as much. Emilio was just sharing a memory, one he probably didn't want to share, but neither of them were given a choice in the matter. 

The same theme seemed to be present in his story. They'd both been kids without a choice once. While Alex couldn't look at him, couldn't bring herself to see the strain in the slayer's face as he tried to hide his own pain, but she felt his words as if they were her own. In a way, they practically were. Replace shed with small basement training room and ghoul with random small beast and it was her story. Lock a kid with a room with a monster or in a room until they get their movements right... his mom and her dad must have read the same parenting book. She wasn't so sure anymore that it was a good one. 

Because Emilio's voice was just as strained as hers had felt. 

Because it was so easy for his words to slip from past to present tense, as if Emilio was transported back to that moment like she always was. 

Because Emilio had what it took to fight but there was still something so broken in the way he recounted the memory. 

How could breaking your kid be good? There'd never been much hope for Alex to be the weapon her parents had wanted her to be, but Emilio had that. She'd watched him fight, watched him save her because she fell short in a fight... but he sounded just as broken as she was. He was still too soft by those standards... and Alex wasn't sure she thought being the opposite of that was better, not if it meant he'd hurt Ariadne or Mack without a second thought. 

Emilio shared the memory and it was like looking through a clouded mirror. She could see him, smaller almost—- small as she had been— and some part of her wanted to comfort the kid who never had a chance to just be a kid. Because even all these years later, the memory still had a hold on him and he still didn't know what the lesson was. 

And that was the root of it, wasn't it? How Alex found herself endlessly frustrated with the slayer despite the fact he saved her ass on more than one occasion— saved her friends' asses on more than one occasion even. Being around Emilio was like holding up a mirror and she didn't like herself... but she didn't hate Emilio and that was too big a contradiction for her to wrap her head around. 

She wasn't sure at what point during Emilio's story that her hands uncurled from the fists they'd been clenched in. Alex looked down at her fingernails and grimaced at the blood caked underneath them. She couldn't find anything to say as the next square, a sunny shade of yellow that was almost mocking, lit up so they could advance. 

”Thank you,“ she murmured, unable to find the usual vitriol she threw in the slayer's direction. 

He shared his memory. It was only fair she shared hers so they got to move forward two squares. Cooperation. Alex laughed bitterly at the thought. ”This game fucking sucks,“ she finally said, finding her voice again. It still sounded small, frustratingly so, but she wasn't going to fail this time. 

”It was a basement for me,“ she said after a moment, staring ahead at what looked like a face in a puddle of melted chocolate. Somehow the ridiculous aspect was something to hold onto and keep her grounded. She sure as hell wasn't about to cling to 5-in-1 soap guy for comfort. Even in her thoughts, the insult was starting to lose its zing. “It was small too,” she breathed out finally, ”Felt smaller the longer I was locked in there. Sometimes with small beasts like agropelters, sometimes just with my knifes and targets I wasn't very good at hitting.“  She looked down at her left index finger and the small chunk that was missing. It had scarred over a long time ago, but she still traced over it sometimes. 

“The only light was from a small window... and we lived in the sticks,” she explained, “Uh... English American talk for out in the middle of nowhere.” She wasn't sure why she felt the need to clarify. Confusing Emilio was usually more fun, but this wasn't random science terminology. It was something they shared that some part of her wished they didn't. 

“When the sun would go down, it'd get really dark in there,” she almost whispered, “I don't mind the dark, but in there it felt suffocating. Made the room feel smaller.“

She looked blankly at the purple square ahead, willing it to light up, but it simply wouldn't. ”I don't think I learned the lesson either... He'd come in and wouldn't even look at me. Like I—-“ 

Her voice cracked and caught in her throat. 

”It'd be like I wasn't even there. He'd walk into the room and look at the knives on the ground like they were a couch cushion out of place and I didn't even exist. I used to think he wished I didn't.“ 

Now Alex knew as much, especially considering she existed as a werewolf of all things. The square ahead of her glowed purple, but it didn't feel like a victory. She took the step ahead, still eager to feel like she had more space. She didn't and neither did Emilio, but she grabbed the card anyway. 

“If your uncle's sister is not your aunt, what relation is she to you,” Alex read aloud and then answered, “Your mother.” 

What was with this fucking game? Had it been curated specifically for those with family trauma or was this personal to them. Alex didn't like the answer either way. 

“Not sure if it wants us to talk about our mom or uncle... or dad and aunt,” she shrugged, “Pretty sure my aunt tried to kill me. Don't remember much on account of being 7 and my first full moon.” 

—

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to go. He’d said his piece, and they were another step closer to freedom, whatever that looked like. They didn’t have to take two steps every time, didn’t have to cover the most possible ground with each riddle. They could take one step, and it would be fine. He could fall on the sword, and it would be better. He wanted to tell Alex that she could be quiet, that she could just listen, but his throat was dry and his limbs felt heavy and the air in the alley felt like it was going to suffocate him with the way his words still clung to it, the way his story still seemed to echo long after he’d stopped telling it.

The truth was, Emilio wanted her to say something. He wanted her to add her words in with his, wanted something to cleanse his honesty from the air. And it was a selfish fucking desire, wasn’t it? He’d been raised as both sword and shield, designed to deliver blows just as well as he was meant to take them. His uncle told him once, not long after that first incident in the shed, that his job was to bleed. We bleed for others, he’d said, gripping the back of Emilio’s small neck in his hands. He still couldn’t decide, sometimes, if that grip was a threat or a comfort. Even now, he had trouble telling the difference between the two. We bleed so that they don’t have to. We fight, we die so that they live. 

But here, in this alley, Emilio wanted desperately not to be the only person bleeding. 

So it was a selfish, unforgivable relief when she spoke. She talked about her basement the same way he talked about his shed. And he understood what she meant by it, understood how it was to feel the space grow smaller the longer you spent trapped within it. The shed seemed to shrink with each hour he spent there. By the time Lucio freed him that first time, it had seemed as though the walls were so close that his chest couldn’t expand to take a full breath. Like it was crushing him, somehow, crumpling himself up like paper in its hand and tossing him into the mouth of a wastebasket. 

He hadn’t been good at it. At the shed, at whatever it was he was supposed to learn in between those walls that seemed so intent on swallowing him whole. Between Emilio and his siblings, he was doubtlessly the one who spent the most time there, was the one who was pushed inside most often. Victor grew out of the shed by the time he was ten, Edgar stopped being locked inside at twelve. Rosa was eight the last time their mother wrapped that chain around the door with her on the wrong side of it. There was never any fanfare to it — one day, Elena just stopped putting them inside.

But not Emilio. For Emilio, the shed was a constant. At six, at ten, at seventeen. At thirty-two, he’d still been afraid of it, still spent every day wondering when the next time he’d be locked away might be. He was as slow as he was soft, apparently.

He wondered if it would have been the same for Alex, had her life gone differently. If not for that night, with the werewolf’s bite and her parents’ deaths, would her father be putting her in that basement even now? He had to imagine that Andy would have stepped in regardless, would have saved her even without the wolf forcing her hand. And he didn’t have to wonder why no one had stepped in for him, because he knew. Some people were worth saving, but some people weren’t. Alex’s basement had been cruel, but Elena’s shed had been a lesson. Emilio just hadn’t been smart enough to learn it.

“I was always like that, too,” he offered, unsure why he was saying it without a riddle to force his hand. “The… decepción de la familia. I wasn’t what they wanted me to be. I think…” He trailed off, thinking back to the first memory he’d shared. “They all wished it was me. When I was twelve, when my… I think they thought it would have been better if it were me.” Saying I think felt like a lie, because in reality? He knew it. Rosa had said as much, just a week before the massacre. But saying that felt too heavy, and the alley felt cramped enough as it was. They didn’t need to go filling it with any more ghosts than necessary.

Especially not when the game seemed intent on opening up a seance full of them.

The words Alex read from the card seemed to echo, ringing in his ear. She didn’t know what the game wanted them to talk about here, but Emilio had a pretty good idea. “Everything it’s given us so far has been to make us talk about things we don’t — Things that we didn’t want to say. Maybe your aunt. Maybe…” He trailed off, swallowing. His heart was in his throat, and he didn’t want to say anything, but he had to, didn’t he? This game wouldn’t let them move forward until they’d ripped their fucking hearts out and laid them on the brightly colored sidewalk. 

“My uncle didn’t try to kill me,” he said quietly, “but I killed him. Stuck a knife in his gut and left him to bleed out in the streets. And I thought — I thought I would feel better. Or worse. You know? One or the other, I figured. It would either help, or it would hurt. But it just — It did nothing. I killed him, and it did nothing. I didn’t feel better, and I didn’t feel worse. I put a knife in the man who raised me and I left it there, and I felt nothing.” He thought of the cursed necklace that had nearly driven him mad, of the murderers’ choir in his head, the chorus of terrible voices all coming together. He thought of his voice among them, of the thought that echoed and the way he could have pinpointed the exact second he’d first thought it. I should have killed him sooner. 

“I never knew my dad. Died when I was a baby, you know, on a hunt nobody ever talked about. But I knew my uncle. He stepped up. Never had his own kids. Said he was too busy with us. Loved us like we were his, and we loved him back. And when I killed him, when I did that, all I could think was… I should have done it earlier. When it might have mattered more. That’s all I could think.” He looked at Alex for the first time in a while, though it was a fleeting thing. His eyes landed on her for a moment before darting away. “That’s why I helped Andy when she did what she did. Because when I did it, when I put that knife in my uncle’s gut, I was too late. But she wasn’t.”

The ding filled the alley again. To Emilio’s surprise, two spaces lit up. He eyed them suspiciously. “Maybe your story was good enough,” he offered. “Or… I don’t know. I don’t know the rules.”

—

Something about the way he spoke made the words feel all wrong. When it was Alex locked in that room or being the child her parents wished they never had, the pieces seemed to fit into place. After all, even if she had never been bitten, part of her had always known she never had what it took. It was why she hid the cuts and bruises that took too long to heal— she was a broken thing. Not a single part of her was what it was supposed to be and even now it felt so evident, but she couldn't imagine Emilio not fitting. The fact he'd survived to see his 30s was a testament enough to that, especially when she knew the slayer wasn't one to run from a fight. Maybe that wasn't always true when he was a literal child, but he had what it took in him without the shed, without anyone wishing he had been the one who died. 

It highlighted a certain cruelty that she couldn't see so clearly when it was only applied to her. Alex hated how clear it seemed now. Emilio's mother wasn't a good person. Emilio had been a kid who was born with what it took to fight and raised him into a shell of a person. She knew because wasn't that what she felt like? Couldn't she slip into the past just as easily and feel that same tightness in her throat that she could hear in his words? And if Emilio had never deserved to be treated that way somehow that made her father worse. Alex had never had heightened senses or strength to rely, she didn't heal quickly from the blows that seemed to be delivered day after day. She had been just human. No bells, no whistles— simply a kid. And weren't simple kids and humans who didn't know better the ones who were supposed to be protected? Isn't that what her family's code had stressed? At what point had legacy become more important than that? 

Alex decided in that moment that she hated both of them. His mother and her father weren't good people. It made her stomach turn to think ill of the dead, but she'd spent her whole life hating herself for everything she was and wasn't. The dead could deal with a little bit of hatred lobbied at them. 

“I don't think it would have been better if it was you,” Alex finally spoke, only barely managing to direct an understanding glance in his direction. It felt strange to admit when she'd spent so much time fighting the man at every turn, but it was true. 

He was there for Andy and something about that ate Alex because she hadn't been there for her sister. Maybe she didn't understand what either of them were supposed to be, but she knew Andy deserved better. She deserved friends who would look out for her and have her back like Emilio had. 

“Something tells me whoever it was that isn't here anymore.... wouldn't have been so quick to save a werewolf,” she murmured, “Or be a good friend to Andy. Or look out for Nora because god knows nothing is scaring her enough to not walk right towards it.” Nothing scared Nora... which was a little bit scary when you were someone that gave a shit about Nora's wellbeing. 

Her next memory had been easy to share, so Alex wasn't too sure it counted. Hell, she barely remembered it. She just remembered being far away from Lyon when she woke up, with Andy looking over her shoulder constantly. Even then, she'd been able to put the pieces together. Maybe even before when the bite never really healed like it was supposed to. 

Emilio's was decidedly not. It wasn't that his uncle tried to kill him, but that he had killed his uncle? Alex found her eyes trained on the candy cane ahead because the words made her feel sick. Not because she wasn't sure that Emilio had a good reason, but because there had been a reason in the first place. It was one thing to be a trained blade and know you were a weapon against evil--- but to have those lines blurred so intimately.

And he spoke of being too late. Andy hadn't been because they were both still alive. While Emilio didn't say as much, she couldn't help but wonder who wasn't there anymore because of his uncle. It had to have been someone Emilio really loved to have killed the man who raised him and the thought didn't sit well. 

Because Emilio had been soft once and maybe that wasn't a bad thing, but whatever led to him sticking a knife in his own uncle took that away from him. The candy cane was starting to look sickeningly sweet in contrast. The whole colorful and happy atmosphere seemed like some twisted joke as they were both forced to bear their souls to each other. It was mocking and Alex didn't like it one bit. 

But two squares lit up in front of them and it seemed generous to count her memory, so Alex took it for what it was. She wouldn't say anything about his story because she didn't know what to say. She wasn't going to press for more details, not when they had both been forced to share more than they ever would have. And maybe helping Andy hadn't been a bad thing even if some small part of Alex wished she'd been brave enough to fight for herself so that her sister never had to. 

“I don't either,” she shrugged, “But I'll take the two squares forward as win.” 

She stepped forward and took the next card in her hand. Alex found herself looking ahead--- they were so close to the end. Four more squares, two more memories if they both kept sharing like they had been. Pink, green, yellow, blue. They could do this. 

She turned the card over and read. “Some try to hide, some try to cheat; but time will show, we always will meet. What am I?“

She wanted to answer 'weirdly cryptic' but directing sarcasm at the game was starting to feel weaker as it went on anyway. 

”So it obviously wants us to talk about death,“ she huffed with a bitter snort, ”Really think this game needs to come with like a bottle of antidepressants or something.“ 

She wasn't sure if that was actually how antidepressants worked. It wasn't like she'd ever been to therapy and she avoided even the entry-level psychology courses. That would call for far more reflection on her past than Alex really wanted to give it... but that was kind of the name of this game. 

Real Candyland had to be better. 

”Gonna guess that the fact I killed a moose on the full moon doesn't count,“ she seemingly asked the sky. She didn't bother to look to see if Emilio found her joke amusing. He probably didn't... or maybe he did appreciate the deflection from how serious this whole exchange was. It was hard to tell.

“I guess it probably wants me to talk about my parents,” she finally breathed, looking down at her feet, ”We were on a camping trip. I think it was around my 7th birthday. It was supposed to be a survival excursion sort of thing.“ 

The one aspect of training she didn't fucking suck at. 

”Guess there was a local pack of werewolves my parents pissed off,“ she explained, finding it odd that she didn't feel the same anger towards the pack that she used to, ”I remember being in the tent. I'd gotten sent in there for time out for something I don't remember. I was crying... I wasn't supposed to cry.“ Then her father would yell like that did anything to get a child to stop crying. ”Andy snuck in there with me at one point... she'd do that sometimes when I was upset. I don't think he liked it.“ The he of course did not need to be specified at this point. Emilio knew. ”The next thing I remember is hearing snarls and growls... I think my own scream? I couldn't move. I just... watched as they got ripped apart, as they ran towards me.” 

Not being able to look up to meet Emilio's eyes seemed to be the theme of this stupid fucking game. “I don't remember at what point Andy grabbed me and got us the hell out of there... The next thing I remember is being on a plane and squeezing her hand tighter than I've ever held anything.” 

Alex found she wanted her sister's hand to squeeze right now more than anything else. If she was honest, she'd been wanting as much from the moment she pushed her sister away and this whole fucked up game of Overshare Candyland only seemed to highlight that absence. Listening to how closely Emilio's past mirrored her own despite the fact he wasn't defective... made it harder for her to grasp the frayed threads of memory that said she was the problem. 

She didn't bother telling Emilio it was his turn and instead simply whispered, ”That's all I got on death... unless the game really does want to hear about the moose. It was pretty tasty.“

—

Alex said it like it was easy. I don’t think it would have been better if it was you. The words seemed heavy and light at the same time, like their mere existence was some impossible contradiction, and Emilio found himself startling just a little as they settled. It wasn’t just because Alex had fought him tooth and nail at every opportunity since the first moment he found her facing off against that lapir on her own, though that did add to it. No, there was more to it than that — Alex was the first person who’d ever expressed this particular sentiment.

It had been an unspoken thing when he was a child that Emilio was wrong. Not in the same way he’d learned Alex had been considered wrong, of course; he had all the makings of a slayer, and that made it seem worse, somehow. He’d been born to do something, been made for it, and he still managed to fuck it up more often than he didn’t. He had eyes designed to help him see in the dark, but he still shivered when the sun went down sometimes. He had strength that made it easy to drive a stake through a chest and into an unbeating heart, but there were days where his hands shook where they gripped the wood. He was a weapon, but he’d never been a very good one.

He’d spent years of his life trying to figure out what it was that made him different, made him wrong. Was it the father who’d died before Emilio had ever known him? Edgar had had at least vague memories of Hendrik Visser, and Rosa and Victor had had entire stories of a man Emilio had never even seen a photograph of. From what Emilio knew of his father, he’d been of the same thinking as his mother, of the same school of hunter. Perhaps without two pairs of hands shaping him in those formative years, some development had been lost. Or maybe it was something else. Some broken thing within him, shattered when he was young in a way that forced him to grow around the pieces. Biological instead of situational, some defect that had been present in Santiago Cortez a century before Emilio was born, when he’d let Monty go and sealed his own fate. That thought scared him a little, made his palms sweat and his throat itch. 

He wondered if Alex felt the same. 

She’d been born broken, too, hadn’t she? In a family of hunters, but without the gene that made her one of them. Maybe there was another part to that gene, too — some inherited behavior that made it easier to abandon your humanity and allow yourself to be nothing more than a blade with a beating heart. Was that what Emilio was missing, he wondered? Was that the part of him that was wrong?

He shrugged, either in response to his own silent question or as an answer to Alex’s foreign statement. Even he wasn’t sure which. Both, maybe, because both seemed equally unknowable. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He didn’t know if it was better for him to have survived instead of Victor. He didn’t know why he didn’t know. And, as Alex went on, he realized he didn’t even know if she was right about Victor not being the type to save a werewolf.

It was funny — Victor had been dead longer than he’d been alive now. Alive for eighteen years, gone for twenty-two. He was more a ghost than he’d ever been a person. Emilio had idolized him as a kid, the way twelve year old boys always idolized their oldest brothers. He’d been larger than life, a superstar. And then he’d been dead, and no one wanted to talk about him much at all. He’d gone from a superhero to a monument in an instant, from a tangible person with thoughts and opinions to a story that was half cautionary tale and half a vision to aspire towards. 

Victor had never been much of a person the same way Emilio wasn’t much of a person, but he’d become less of one over time. When a person was dead for as long as he had been, so much of them was lost. They became clay, their memory shaped into whatever it needed to be in the moment. Victor did what he was supposed to do, his mother had said once when Emilio was trying not to show her his grief. Victor was foolish, and he got himself killed, she said on another occasion, when he tried to use his brother as an excuse to do things she didn’t want him doing. 

Victor had been a good blade in life, capable of slicing through whatever was put in front of him without thought or emotion, but he was a far more effective weapon in death. Nothing was sharper than memory. Nothing cut deeper than grief.

So would Victor have done what Emilio did? Would he have saved Alex, even after she’d confessed to being a werewolf? Would he have helped Andy bury that corpse? Would he have stepped up for Nora and had her back? Maybe he would have done a better job at saving Flora, or been smart enough to help Teddy in the mines, or been fast enough to keep the blood from spilling down Wynne’s throat. But Emilio realized with something of a jolt that he didn’t know. He’d mourned his brother longer than he’d known him and, for the first time, it had him wondering how well he’d ever truly known Victor at all. How much of who he was had been replaced by the memory of him? 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, even though it hurt. That was what this was about, wasn’t it? That was what this game wanted from them — to hurt. Emilio found himself wishing, with a hint of vitriol, that whoever had done this had chosen a more straightforward method of torture. Give him blades dragging across his skin, give him broken bones, give him his own guts resting in the palms of his dirty hands. He understood that so much better than he understood this. He would have been able to carry it so much easier. 

Something told him Alex would have agreed with the sentiment, too. If nothing else, the game was doing a good job at showing him how painfully similar they were. If Andy was what Emilio wanted to be — the hunter who had gotten out before it was too late, the person who’d saved the child in their care and spared her from the wrong end of someone else’s blade — then maybe Alex was a lot closer to what he actually was. A scared kid who couldn’t figure out how to carry the parts of herself that no one had ever liked. A child locked in a small space with the darkness closing in, someone’s angry voice ringing in her ears. She was soft the way he was soft. She was still in that basement the way he was still in that shed. Her aunt tried to kill her the way he’d killed his uncle. Two sides, one very pissed off coin.

So he found himself agreeing with her more than he normally would have. Two squares was a win, and he wouldn’t be looking any gift horses in the mouth when wins seemed hard to come by in this game. He thought it might be nearly over now — the end was in sight, even if he didn’t like the things they’d have to do and say in order to get there. Already, his chest felt tight. He’d said too much, revealed too much. But there was some selfish comfort in knowing that Alex had revealed just as many terrible secrets. Maybe she’d still judge him, but at least she’d have less room to do so. And she was like him — she didn’t like hanging out in places where she didn’t have a lot of room.

He followed her forward, letting her take the card again. He listened to the words as she said them, let them spin around for a moment before the answer popped out like a revelation he didn’t particularly want to have. Death. 

What a fucking doozy. 

There were so many he could have talked about, so few he wanted to say. Alex spoke about her parents, and Emilio listened. It was a story he’d heard before, but not from this point of view. It was funny — it was the same course of events, but Alex and Andy told it differently. They remembered different parts of it, different pieces. Age was probably a factor there — seven was still pretty young, and Alex’s memories were bound to be far hazier than Andy’s had been at fourteen — but Emilio suspected point of view had something to do with it, too. He thought Andy would be relieved that what Alex seemed to remember the most was being protected. Not just when the wolves came, but before, too. How much of a difference had it made, having someone in that tent with her? How much was it worth, having another hand in hers? Emilio thought the answer was something far larger than what anyone might have guessed.

He’d been alone, for most of his shit. Victor had been a dutiful soldier, playing his part as the eldest no matter what it meant. Rosa had taken over the role with just as much vigor when he’d died, adding in the desperation that must have come with being a daughter in a family full of sons. Edgar had been afraid, even if he never would have said so. None of them had ever stepped up for Emilio, but Emilio had never stepped up for any of them, either. He had just as many scars from his siblings as he had from his mother or the undead things he fought.

Even Rhett, when he’d come into the picture, had been a separate entity. Never cruel, not to Emilio, but not a savior, either. And why would he have been? The Cortezes did what every hunter family did, what hunters were supposed to do. Rhett would have seen no more reason to argue against it than Emilio had. 

But Andy had fought back. Andy had held Alex’s hand in that tent, had carried her away from danger. Andy had looked into the face of a monster that she’d been taught to hate her entire life, had looked into eyes and teeth that must have looked so much like the ones that had torn her parents to pieces, and she’d seen only her baby sister staring back at her. She’d seen someone to protect, and she’d done that. She’d kept holding that small hand. None of his siblings would have done it for him. He wasn’t even sure Rhett would have. But Andy did.

And Emilio thought that Alex deserved that, but with that thought came a question he’d never asked before. This cruel game had pointed out similarities between him and her, had unwoven threads he never would have picked at on his own. If Alex had deserved that… what was there to be said about him? If Alex had earned that protection just by being, was there a chance that, maybe, Emilio might have deserved something a little more as well? It seemed blasphemous to even think it, like the concept alone would be enough to pull his mother from her grave and send her dragging him back to that shed or carving his mistakes into his skin.

He huffed a quiet half-laugh at mention of the moose, though it was a hollow thing. Alex was done, and he knew the rules well enough to know that that meant it was his turn. Death was a thing Emilio had so much experience with — but what could he say? He’d made it this far without mentioning the massacre, and he didn’t particularly want to bring it up now. If he could finish the game without saying his daughter’s name, he wanted to do that. And it was cowardly and it was stupid and Flora deserved so much more, but he clung to the desire all the same. So he swallowed, fiddled absently with his ring, and went in another direction.

“It was my brother,” he said quietly. “Who died when I was twelve. He, uh… His name was Victor. There were four of us, but he was the oldest. He was… It was a hunt.” As if that needed saying. It was always a hunt, wasn’t it? When you lived the way they’d lived, there was only one event that would ever kill you. 

“He and my uncle went out together, some town near ours. Normally, we all would have gone, but… My sister had taken a bad hit on a hunt the night before, and I’d let her, so I was…” He shook his head, swallowing again. He was suffering the effects of his punishment, Edgar was tending to Rosa, his mother was doing the punishing. He’d always figured that made it his fault, just a little. “It was a small job. My tío was sure they could handle it alone. But they were gone too long. I think… We all knew, yeah. Before he came back, we all knew something was wrong. Should have been gone a few hours, didn’t come back for days. But I was…” He sighed. “I hoped.” He muttered it like a confession, like he was begging someone to tell him how many Hail Marys he needed to do to wash away the sin. “I hoped it was nothing. But when my uncle came back, he came back alone. There was no body, you know? Never found out what happened to it. Nobody wanted to talk about it at all. Victor died, and it was like he stopped existing. Like dead was the only thing left for him to be. Not even a thing to be buried, or a person to be remembered. Just… gone.” 

Another ding. Two squares lit up, and Emilio ducked his head as he crossed them robotically. He didn’t look at Alex, but he didn’t look away, either. They were here, they were miserable, but they were more a team than they had been when the barrier first closed around them. 

There was one card, and two spaces. If they both answered this one, and the rules didn’t change, they’d be free. There was a sense of relief as Emilio wrapped his hand around the paper, a sense of that same treacherous hope he’d just confessed to holding too tightly at twelve rising in his chest as he unfolded it. 

And, just like it had at twelve when his hope was crushed by news of Victor’s death, that foolish optimism strangled him now.

“I sleep all the time,” he whispered, “but keep everyone else awake.”

A baby. 

—

They were both able to take the crutch of humor for what it was. The hollow lilt in Emilio's laugh felt so similar to her own. It was harder to cling to the threads of hate for herself when she was looking at a man who held all the parts of herself that she hated, but Alex couldn't hate him. She could put on a good show, to be certain, but the vitriol she spewed never really had much behind it. It just felt safer to keep him at a distance. Emilio couldn't ever become someone he hated because of her if she never put him in that position. It was the same small fear she always held onto with Andy, too— one that had only been forced to the surface when Andy had killed someone, a human someone, to keep her safe. 

The hatred that Emilio clearly already possessed for himself contradicted that fear in a way Alex wasn't quite sure how to swallow. With or without doing anything to help her, Emilio was already someone he hated. It wasn't a comfort so much as a jolt, a reminder that she wasn't that big. She didn't have the power to make him hate himself... and something in that was freeing. 

She held onto the hollow crutch of a bitter chortle and the dose of clarity as Emilio readied himself to speak. Alex knew it'd be heavy. Did anyone really have a memory with death at the forefront that wasn't heavy? No matter how many years had passed, the memory of death could still wield a raw power that could bring someone to their knees. Both of them still stood, but she could see the slump in Emilio's shoulders become a little heavier as he spoke. 

The lit up rainbow path in the alley really was taunting, but somehow almost thematic. Something about crossing a rainbow bridge and all of that. It was a kind way to refer to death, one that had been unfamiliar to Alex until she'd begun volunteering at the community center and saw the way normal people spoke to children. As Emilio spoke of his brother, she knew no one used such kind words to describe Victor's death. She doubted anyone showed that kid back in Mexico any kindness at all and she felt a deep sadness for him. 

Because maybe their parents wanted them both to be unfeeling weapons, but they had just been kids. Emilio didn't need to say that he felt he was the one to blame because his voice was thick with that same guilt, that same disgust he seemed to carry for himself. Alex knew how it felt to hate everything you were, every shortcoming in training, but she had something he didn't. No matter how much she hated herself, Andy always found a way to hold her hand and soften that anger that threatened to consume. 

Nowhere in any of his stories was there anyone looking out for the kid that Emilio used to be. Alex wasn't sure if it made her more angry or sad. For all those moments she seemed to be sucked back into the past against her will, she almost wished she could go back. Not to her own past, but to that twelve year old kid who had the weight of the world thrusted onto him too young, to that kid who'd been blamed for things that were never his fault and carried burdens that should have never been his in the first place. She could tell him it wasn't his fault and that he'd grow up to be braver and kinder than any of them, but she wasn't a time traveler, not really. She couldn't go back in the past and be the Andy to someone else who had so desperately needed it. 

Emilio was still a broken man. Alex was still a broken monster in the sense that she wasn't one at all. If this fucked up game had highlighted anything, it was that. She was just as soft as she had always been in that room, but that felt less like some fatal flaw. 

If there was one thing Alex knew, it was that nothing she could say would necessarily change that guilt Emilio carried. This wasn't even something he wanted to share with her... and it wasn't as if she had been so keen on sharing her worst memories with him either, but there was a certain clarity that came with speaking them out loud. 

“It wasn't your fault,” Alex said simply. Because that part was simple. The rest... well, it wasn't like her parents had a grave either. She wasn't even sure she'd want to visit if they did, not anymore. But maybe his brother was different. She didn't know. “If you ever wanted to remember... I think planting something is nice. Wynne and I are planting something for their brother. My garden's got plenty of room.” 

It was an invitation that he would or wouldn't acknowledge, but it was there. Alex felt inclined to show him something of a kindness because maybe it hadn't been a bad thing he saved her life. Maybe she'd known that the whole time, but hadn't been able to let go of the idea she wasn't worth saving. 

They moved ahead their two squares and Alex felt something close to relief. They weren't quite out of this quite frankly homophobic rainbow alley... torturing the gays with rainbows was homophobic and no one was telling her otherwise. Emilio was reading the riddle and she could practically leap out of the square. Metaphorically anyway. She wasn't trying to bonk herself with a barrier again because that was decidedly really not fucking fun. Not that any part of this game had been. They weren't even being given actual candy to comfort them through this de facto heart-to-heart. Just vaguely mocking lollipops and candy canes staring at them from the sidelines. 

But this riddle was easy. Given this memory didn't exactly paint Alex in a positive light, none of the previous ones had either and this was like in the same vein as everything else. Her dad didn't love her so she stole a stuffed animal from a baby. Boohoo. 

She could probably even spin it as a joke and still have it count. Alex answered, “A baby... Weird, but I've got this one.” 

She staged her best dramatic deep breath and announced, “I stole a stuffed otter from a baby once because my dad didn't love me.” The deadpan delivery was practiced and nowhere near Nora's, but the lack of immediate ding sent Alex right back to her regularly scheduled rambling. “I mean, that's kind of the gist of it. I was like.... 5 I think and at the mall with my mom,” she explained nervously, “I needed new shoes, I think and we were waiting in line behind a dad with a baby in a stroller. And... he was just looking at his daughter with so much adoration and love and... I hated that baby a little bit because of it so when her dad was paying for their stuff, I stole the baby's stuffed otter.“ 

She shrugged, ”It was petty and like... only steal from rich connards or corporations now. Not babies. I guess in my kid brain that baby felt rich.“ There was probably some Hallmark card about love making you rich, but she usually got handmade cards. The markup on Hallmark cards was a little much for two broke kids on the road though she did steal Andy that ”over the hill“ card when she turned 21. 

”If you also stole from a baby I'm going to Walmart and burning every copy of Candyland. I can't be twinning with an old man, it's illegal.” The joke was just as hollow, but Emilio looked like he was about to have a complete mental break and Alex wasn't really sure what she was supposed to do here. She needed him to tell this story so they could get out of here, so that the barrier could stop feeling like it was somehow closing in on both of them. 

—

It wasn’t your fault. He hadn’t said it aloud but, somehow, Alex had known exactly who Emilio figured was to blame for what had happened. And he was less surprised by that than he would have been at the beginning of this little game. Through their shared stories, the similarities between the two of them had crept up to the surface. It didn’t matter if the things they’d shared had been exposed unwillingly, didn’t matter that they never would have said any of it if not for the strange happenings of Wicked’s Rest forcing their hands. Once their memories were out there, they were out there. The understanding came for free. Alex knew Emilio blamed himself for what happened to Victor the same way he knew she blamed herself for what happened to her parents. It didn’t matter if neither experience of guilt made any logical sense. It didn’t matter if no one in their right mind would blame a twelve year old for his brother dying a town away with a guardian who was responsible for protecting him or a seven year old for her parents dying at the hands of people they’d doubtlessly wronged. Grief rarely adhered to rules of logic, and those who were grieving were never in their right minds.

“Wasn’t yours, either,” he offered quietly, though in Alex’s case, he knew she’d likely heard it before. Andy wouldn’t sit by and let Alex blame herself for that attack without telling her, probably more than once, that none of the fault belonged on her shoulders. Alex probably didn’t believe it, because Emilio wouldn’t have, either. Even now, hearing it from her, he had a hard time accepting that what happened to Victor didn’t happen because of him. But it needed to be said, sometimes. And it was one of those things he suspected carried more weight when it came from someone who didn’t know you quite as well. Although… Emilio certainly knew her better now than he had a few hours ago.

He sucked in a trembling breath at her offer, glancing to the side like he half-expected someone to chastise him for considering it. Victor would never have a grave, but there was something nice about the idea of planting a flower for him. There was something nice about the idea of it growing next to a flower planted for Iwan, even though the two had died decades apart in different countries. There was no connection between them besides the fact that their siblings met one another after their deaths. But Emilio found he liked the idea all the same. Like Iwan and Victor could rest side by side, free from a world that had failed them both so completely.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly, offering her a small smile. “Thanks, Alex.” It wasn’t a word he said very often. Rhett had pretty much plucked it from his vocabulary not long after they’d met, removing it with great care and telling Emilio in no uncertain terms that he ought to forget the syllable altogether. But the letters fit easily in his mouth now, sounded less foreign than everything else in English, somehow. 

But any relief he might have felt, be it from the newfound understanding with Alex or the end that was now in sight, melted away quickly with the riddle on the page. He should have known it was coming. He should have known. This game, whatever it was, seemed to know enough about them to know exactly what existed within their pasts, seemed to understand precisely what they didn’t want to say. He’d been stupid to think there was any shot of him getting out of this without having to reveal the corpses in his past. It wasn’t enough to talk about Victor, whose ghost had haunted him for more than half his life now. The game wanted more. Everything always wanted more.

Alex was talking, but it was like Emilio was listening from somewhere underwater. Like he was sitting on the bottom of a lake, drowning or about to drown or already having drowned, while she spoke at the surface, unaware of the corpse floating beneath her. He felt guilty for not listening, somehow, but maybe the guilt was misplaced. Maybe he felt guilty for a thousand things at once and the shame was looking for a home, looking for something tangible and current. There was a weight on his chest, and he didn’t know how to get it off. It was going to suffocate him. There was no way around it.

Her story finished, and it was simple. Sad, still, because she’d been a kid who was unloved and angry about it, but not quite as heavy as the basement or the tent she’d shared about before. This riddle wasn’t for her, he realized. It was for him, but he couldn’t wrap his tongue around the words, couldn’t force them from his throat. They were stuck behind his teeth, heavy and acidic. 

A buzzer sounded, insistent. Emilio remained silent. The buzzer went again, and again, and again. The game wasn’t patient. His breathing picked up a notch, each inhale a quick gasp and each exhale a shudder. He scrambled towards the last square, shoving himself against the barrier like he’d done in the beginning, like an animal stuck in a trap preparing to chew through its own arm to find its freedom. The barrier was just as solid now as it had been before, and he sat down ungracefully with his back against it, pulling his knees to his chest. And the buzzer, in its unforgiving cruelty, continued to sound. There was no other riddle offered, no other escape. 

Emilio let his forehead drop against his knees, trying to calm himself down. Was it rage or grief that was swirling in his chest now? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. It always felt the same. The buzzer sounded again, and he let out an animalistic sound, half groan, half growl. “Okay,” he shouted, hoarse and broken. “I’m — Fine. Fucking fine, okay, I’ll go.”

The buzzer silenced immediately, and the world seemed to still as if the sky above him was holding its breath. Another trembling breath, a shudder shaking his frame. He didn’t lift his head; when he spoke, it was muffled by his position. He pretended it made it easier.

“She was born on a Friday. I still remember it, you know? She was — Fuck, she was tiny. They handed her to me, and I could’ve held her in one hand if I’d wanted to. But I was scared. Yeah. Never been so scared in my fucking life. Faced off against ghouls and spawns when I was a kid, already gone against a fucking elder vampire at that point, and none of them scared me half as much as holding her. She was… It felt like I’d already failed her, you know? First time I held her, I already felt like I was fucking up. Wasn’t ready for it, didn’t know what it meant. Almost missed the birth, I was so scared. My sister had to kick my ass to get me back in the room. She didn’t sleep much, first few months. Her mom said that was my fault. Slayers, you know, we don’t need much sleep. And that’s what she was, because that’s what I was. So she was up all the time. Cried a lot. That scared me, too. Worried I was doing something wrong. Holding her wrong, or something. Her mom, she was less of a mess than I was. Babies cry sometimes, that’s what she said. Doesn’t mean there’s a problem, just means she’s a baby. She was right. Yeah. She usually was. But I was so fucking scared.”

There was no pleasant ding, still. And Emilio knew. He knew what it wanted. It wouldn’t let either of them out of here with parts still hidden, wouldn’t let them keep anything for themselves. They didn’t get that. Not here, not anymore. They weren’t allowed. So he swallowed against that lump in his throat, thought about the whiskey waiting for him when he was finished here. They hadn’t made it this far to fail. It wouldn’t be fair to Alex for him to refuse now. And besides… she probably knew. It wasn’t hard to guess. He told a story about a baby, and it was clear that he didn’t have one in his life now. She probably already knew. All that was left was to say it.

“It was a Sunday, when she died. She wasn’t a baby anymore, but she still felt like one. Four years old, already acting like she was her own person. Whole personality, you know? Whole life, all wrapped up in those four years. But there — There’s days when it doesn’t feel like it. When everything gets… mixed up, yeah, in my head. On those days, it’s like… Like it was all at the same time. You know? Like the only thing between her being born and her dying was the weekend. I failed her in the beginning and I failed her in the end, so what’s it matter how many days were between them? She still felt like a baby. She just wasn’t crying anymore.”

He went quiet and, for a moment, a suffocating silence filled the alley. He wasn’t sure he was breathing, wasn’t sure Alex was. And then…

Ding ding ding! 

The colorful ground beneath them flashed. Confetti fell from nowhere. The barrier he was leaning against dropped, and he didn’t bother stopping himself from falling backwards into the alley. The same robotic voice from the beginning sounded again. “Congratulations, PLAYER 1 and PLAYER 2! You have completed the game!” 

It sounded far too celebratory to match the mood in the alley, too excited and cheery to go with the weight of what he’d just dropped on the concrete between them. His throat ached, his eyes burned. He didn’t move from where he’d fallen on the sidewalk. Everything felt so goddamn heavy, like just sitting up would take all the strength he had in him. He wanted to leave, but he didn’t think his legs would hold him even if he gave it all he had.

—

If you had told Alex only a few short hours ago that she would be inviting Emilio Cortez to her garden and that he'd be accepting the invitation, she would have scoffed and made some joke about how the fumes from his 5-in-1 Irish Spring would kill all her plants. Even before, there wouldn't have been any real hatred behind it except for herself, but the idea itself didn't seem so laughable now. All her broken parts were so clearly reflected in the slayer and it was sobering in a way. It made her want to hold onto Andy and Kaden just a little tighter despite the fact she had been trying so hard to push them away. 

“We'll pick something good out,” she said softly. It wasn't the first time she made the offer. Kaden and Wynne readily came to mind, but Alex thought maybe this would heal something in her too. Maybe that was a little bit selfish, but part of her knew Emilio would rather help her than himself. Her words of reassurance didn't magically take away the hatred she knew he held for himself just as his hadn't magically turned guilt and self-hatred into anything but anger. Because anger was easy. They both knew that. 

Her story fell mostly on deaf ears. Alex could pick up some hint of acknowledgement in his features, but no words followed. The cheerful music played like something out of one of those soda shoppes but somehow the silence felt so much louder. 

It was funny the way so much could be said by not saying anything at all. Even before Emilio spoke and the buzzer sounded insistently, Alex knew that whatever he had to say next was going to somehow be heavier than everything they'd covered before. The word 'baby' now left an acidic aftertaste on her tongue that seemed to coat her whole throat as realization hit her. There was only one reason the word would elicit such a physical reaction from the slayer and somehow it crushed her too. 

Alex found she didn't want him to say the words. She could already piece it together and she felt a part of herself break for Emilio. Because he had been a kid who never wanted this. Because he'd been too soft and if there was a baby, she knew he loved them. She knew he was the kind of man who would look at his baby the way that father at the mall did, the kind of man she'd always wished her own father knew how to be. 

Suddenly, the way all his broken pieces fit together made sense. His insistence at making sure Alex was safe despite her best efforts to sabotage his efforts at every turn, the way he softened when he saw the way she recoiled from his harsh words.

Emilio had a delicate heart and no amount of beating from his mother had ever beaten that out of him. Alex found she didn't think it should have been when she could so clearly see just how much he loved his own child in the way he was breaking down on the glowing yellow square they stood on. It seemed to illuminate every labored breath and she had to look away. 

When he spoke, Alex wanted so badly for his words to not confirm what she'd already pieced together. They didn't do that. Everything was as she thought and she wanted to tell him he didn't have to continue. She didn't know if it'd be selfish or kind. She didn't want to hear the memory that came out as more of a confession because it tore her apart, too, but she also didn't stop him because his grief made the barrier feel like it was closing in on both of them somehow, as if it could swallow them whole. 

So she let him continue to speak and for once didn't bother to hide the tears that pricked at the corner of her eyes. It wasn't fair. Alex knew life wasn't fair, but this was especially unfair. The love Emilio felt for his daughter was still so present even if she wasn't here to feel it. He loved his baby like he was supposed to. She could have grown up to be better than either of them. She could have loved herself but she never even got that chance. 

He'd held that little girl like she was the most precious thing in the world, worried over her, and he lost her. The word Sunday felt heavy and the confetti that rained on them didn't feel like a celebration. They'd both just ripped their hearts out in some warped, rainbow alley and the sounding of horns felt grating. She wished there was an actual trumpet player for her to kick or argue with... that'd feel more satisfying than unceremoniously stepping forward into the blue square and then out of the game altogether. 

Alex was still for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. She remembered the night in the kitchen with Kaden, when he spoke of Damien. How she'd reached out and hugged him... and despite how it seemed foreign to him initially, it seemed to help in a way, too. It was a small show of acceptance, a wordless way of saying I see you and what you're carrying and it changes nothing. Or maybe it changed everything. Did she not trust Kaden more after he told her about Damien? 

So before her own doubts could come back and steal her courage, Alex reached out to Emilio and wrapped her arms around him. She didn't both with the apologies, she knew they rang hollow because nothing really changed grief. Apologies rang hollow after a while. He flinched at first, which she had almost expected. The action didn't make her doubt her own standing, for once, because well... she knew more about the slayer than she ever wanted to. 

She stayed like that for a moment. It was easier to show support than speak it sometimes. Alex wasn't even sure what words could help heal a wound that was gaping. She wasn't sure the words existed. The gesture itself said more than she ever could. 

When she pulled away, everything still felt too raw. Everything Alex had spent so long trying to shove down was forced to the surface and right now, Emilio was probably the only person who really understood the confusing mess of emotions she found herself lost in. It all still felt too heavy though, she wanted to feel as light as the candy-coated trail had suggested. 

”I have an idea,“ she said with a smirk that didn't quite hold the same mischievous glint it normally did, ”I think you'll like it.“

Something told her Emilio was the kind of man who appreciated a little bit of arson... Or maybe it was more destruction of property. Alex was no lawyer even if Elle Woods had been her first childhood crush. Maybe part of her also wanted to buy the stupid game too. A nice little gesture of 'fuck you' to her parents for not letting her have any amount of joy as a kid. 

”I hope you like breaking the law and lighting things on fire,“ she gestured ahead, ”We're going to steal some board games and light them on fire... And buy one of them. I'm sure you can figure out who that one's a fuck you to.“ 

There was still a heaviness in the slayer's shoulders and in her own words, but Alex knew he'd take her up on the offer. They both had all of this shit dredged up that needed an outlet and Alex could think of no better form of catharsis than lighting some games of Candyland on fire and watching them turn to dust. 

—

The barrier was gone now, but the alley felt smaller than it had before. Like his story had filled it to the brim, like the force of those words was going to force the both of them out like a pot boiling over. He heard the trumpets and the confetti and the triumphant sounds that came with ‘winning’ the game, and he was so angry that it was hard to breathe. He was so furious that he thought it might smother him like a pillow shoved over his nose and mouth, like a wet cloth designed to drown him on dry land. He was angry. He was so fucking angry. 

But he wasn’t. Not really. And hadn’t that always been the problem?

Emilio looked for rage to warm him, clung to anger because it was a fire in the hearth in the middle of a blizzard, but it was never real. He called his grief by an alias and pretended that was its name, and sometimes, he was a good enough actor to fool himself. Sometimes, that anger felt like anger, and he let it hold him when nothing else did. He let it wrap itself around him, curl up beside him like a dog. But there were days when the disguise slipped, days when it was embarrassingly bad like a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a costume shop wig that wouldn’t fool anyone who looked at it for more than a moment. 

Today was one of those days. The rage burned, but it didn’t. The fury festered, but it didn’t. Emilio was angry, but he wasn’t. 

And he thought Alex probably knew. Because they were alike, weren’t they? Right up until the end, their stories lined up with one another. They were soft, they were shoved into too-small spaces, they carried death with them everywhere they went. And maybe, in a way, even those final memories stood side-by-side in a way that still made sense. Alex was unloved by a father she was better off without. Emilio carried too much love for a daughter he could no longer hold. They were both angry, but they weren’t. They both wished, more than anything, for the rage to be real. 

He heard her shuffling in the alley beside him, heard her coming in close. Nonsensically, he half-expected a blow. As if, after everything, she might make good on that promise to kick his good knee, as if she was the type of person who might literally kick him while he was down. She wasn’t. He knew she wasn’t, but she came close and he tensed anyway. When you spent all your life as a punching bag, even a supportive hand on your shoulder could look a little like a swinging fist at first. 

Her arms wrapped around him and, instinctively, Emilio flinched. His body was still trembling, still shaking, still so painfully his. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace, and it took him a moment. A heartbeat, maybe two, to recognize that it wasn’t an attack. When his mind caught up to his body, there seemed to be a second of hesitation before he allowed himself to relax.

How many times had someone hugged him? It had happened in Wicked’s Rest so much more than it had ever happened in Mexico, he knew. Before moving to this strange little town, he was sure he could have counted the number on a single hand and still had fingers left unused. Unsurprisingly, the Cortezes weren’t big on physical displays of affection. Even Emilio, who’d loved his daughter so much more than he’d ever loved anything else, had hugged her so rarely that he hated himself for it now. 

He took a deep breath, and then another. He tried to calm himself. Every stuttered beat of his heart sounded like an apology, like a plea for penance. He was sorry to Alex, who had deserved a love she’d never been shown by parents who should have been better. He was sorry to Andy, who’d given up her childhood in an attempt to make up for that. He was sorry to Flora, who died young and terrified just four years and a weekend after she was born. He was sorry to Victor, who was a memory instead of a person. 

And maybe, between all of them, he was finding another apology to carry, too. Maybe he could learn, somehow, to be sorry to that kid in the shed with a knife clutched in his trembling hand, leaning against a door he wanted so badly to open.

Alex spoke, and it took Emilio a moment to come back to himself. She was smirking, and it was less genuine than it normally would have been but he had neither the space nor the desire to call her out on it. There was no path forward that allowed them to recognize what had been said here and still breathe around it, he knew. There was no way to talk about what had been said without getting lost in it. It was still too raw. It would always be too raw, even if a century separated them from this alley and the things that had been said within it. Talk was cheap. Action was better.

And he really liked the sound of the action she had in mind.

Leaning back, the detective nodded. He brought a trembling hand up, shoved some of the wild curls away from his face. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice hoarse and foreign, even to him. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that. Let’s burn that shit to ashes. And… I’ve got a couple of bucks in my wallet. I’ll buy you one, too.” 

Neither of them could repair the damage done to them. There were things that couldn’t be fixed, no matter how much duct tape and chewing gum you used to stick the pieces back together. Glass, when shattered, would never slide back into place just the same. The cracks would always be there. The cold air would always creep in around them. But that didn’t mean you didn’t try, did it? That didn’t mean you didn’t do everything you could.

They were broken. And they probably always would be, despite anyone’s best efforts to change it. But there was something to be said, maybe, in being broken together instead of alone. 

And arson. There was something to be said for that, too.

“Come on,” he said, pushing himself to his feet in a way that creaked and ached. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” And on to whatever came next.

[dirtwatchman]

PARTIES: Caleb/Aesil (@dirtwatchman), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), Erin (@corpse-a-diem), Lil (@the-lil-exorcist) and Father Liam TIME: Current (July 7th) SUMMARY: Aesil wants to attempt the ritual again and thinks using Emilio is the best way to go. Erin, Lil, and Father Liam have other plans. WARNINGS: Surprisingly none.

A ritual was a finicky thing but Aesil had been so certain that they had what they needed the first time around. The words were said perfectly, everything was set up the way it should have been in Caleb’s janky basement of refrigerators, but when they’d performed it all with no results they realized that one of the ingredients hadn’t been quite right. The blood of the damned hadn’t been strong enough. The victim chosen must have been a better person then they’d thought but there was a quick fix to that. 

And it had to be quick now that the annoying sister was in the way. 

Looking back on it, the demon had chosen Caleb because they’d thought he was a loner. The few days they had spent following him around hadn’t been enough though, that was clear now. This man had more people in his life that cared about him than even the zombie realized and they’d met one of the fiercest after that failed ritual. Her love for Caleb could be Aesil’s downfall.

The quick fix was currently tied to a chair that Aesil had brought down with them, his head lulled while he slept off that blow to the head they had given him. They had to get him here somehow and they were sick and tired of things going wrong. Besides, the small conversation they’d had at the bizarre was enough to tell Aesil that this one had too much fight to not take precautions. It had also told them that he might just be damned enough for this to work. There was a certain look these people held, a certain glint in their eye. This man had it in folds.

“Wake up.” It might have been a weakness of theirs but Aesil did enjoy the games they could play with these people before they took what they needed. Their foot launched forward, kicking the man hard in the shin to rouse them even further. “I need you awake for this. Open your eyes.”

Most days, Emilio was a difficult man to catch off guard. He was beyond paranoid, always looking for trouble even when there was none to be found. In his mind, the idea of the world being out to get him was more certainty than it was fear, and he tended to be guarded as a result. But no one was impossible to surprise. That was an unfortunate fact that he’d learned time and time again, from many different teachers. Catch him after a bad night, when sleep was a distant thing and alcohol coursed through his veins, and you might just get lucky. Knock him on the back of the head before he had time to turn around, and there wasn’t much fighting back he could do.

His only real warning before the blow had come with that familiar twisting in his gut that signified something undead nearby. He’d assumed it was the spawn he was tracking — a stupid mistake, he realized now. He listened as someone moved around the room, feigning unconsciousness as he took stock of himself. His most obvious weapons had been removed, his more hidden ones impossible to reach with the binds holding him to the chair. It was rope he was tied with — no locks to pick. The knots were tight enough that simply dislocating a few fingers wouldn’t get him loose. The chair didn’t seem like one he could break without drawing attention to himself, especially not while whoever had grabbed him was in the room. And whoever had grabbed him was undead, meaning there was likely additional strength to account for on their end, too. The only stroke of luck seemed to be in the fact that his head was the only obvious injury, and it wasn’t bad. A dull ache was easy to ignore; he was used to that.

Emilio tried not to tense as he heard the footsteps approaching his chair, tried to pretend he was still out cold. Whatever this undead person wanted with him, they seemed to want him awake for it. If he could keep pretending he was out, he could buy himself more time. Unfortunately, there were certain responses that were… a little more involuntary than he’d like to admit. A foot made harsh contact with his leg, and the pain that shot through the limb forced a grunt from between his clenched teeth. He knew his captor wouldn’t miss it.

With the illusion shattered, he allowed his eyes to open slowly, darting around the room. Basement. Underground. His heart ticked up a beat at the thought, and he tried to ignore the feeling of the walls closing in by gathering more information. Residential, from the looks of it. Probably still in Wicked’s Rest. His eyes darted up to his captor’s, head tilting slightly in familiarity. “If this is about the jar from the market,” he said dryly, “I already threw it out. You can go through my garbage, if you want, but this seems like overkill to me.” 

His mind was spinning as he tried to work out the reason behind this particular brand of bullshit. Was it to do with that missing man in the graveyard, the one he was sure would lead back to the groundskeeper if he followed it closely enough? Or was it related more to the encounter in the market, when the stranger seemed an entirely different man than the one he’d met that first night? Usually, when someone went through all the trouble of tying Emilio to a chair, he at least had some idea about the reasoning behind it. In this particular situation, he felt a little lost. And he didn’t particularly like feeling lost.

They ignored the question, Aesil not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d gotten under their skin that day. Yes, the demon had ignored him for the most part since they had better things to do but he’d always been in the back of their mind lying in wait for an opportunity. They figured it wouldn’t come until Andras had made his way to the surface and taken over but this had been too good to pass up. A slow death, maybe not as painful as they’d been hoping, but one where the man could have time to think of everything they were leaving behind. They only wished they could have taken those things away from him before taking his life. They liked to think that Caleb would have wanted that too.

Crouching down in front of him, they tilted their head as they studied him. Gruff in appearance and personality, obviously a fighter able to take care of himself, but there was an undercurrent that flowed with those unfortunate personality traits of his. Aesil could see it, something that showed the teeniest soft side of desperation. They’d seen it in every person that they had killed since coming to this plane of existence making it so easily recognizable. It was in the eyes mostly. Yea, he had at least one person that would miss him. 

Good.

“You are not an easy man to take down.” Out of everyone they had encountered, even Caleb’s sister and her affinity for eyes, this man had been the hardest to get the better of. Sneak attacks weren’t usually their thing, they liked when people saw the face of who was coming after them, but this one would have been tough to defeat as much as they hated to admit it. “I’ll give you credit for that one. Most humans are easy but you…you have too much fight in you. I almost want to let you live.”

Still, the demon pulled out the sharpfinger knife they’d been relying on,pressing the tip of their finger to the sharp edge as they showed it off. “I need you for something much bigger than a jar of fur, though.” They gestured all around them with the knife. The work table to their side had been redecorated with all the collected ingredients, the new heart they’d acquired the night before placed in a tiny bowl in the middle. Candles were lit, wax spilling over the sides as they waited to do their jobs. The floor beneath had been decorated with new sigils with a makeshift drain that led all around it so that the blood they needed from this man could get to every nook and cranny of the drawn shapes. Last time they’d thought just having the blood near would be enough but this time they knew it needed closer contact. Everything was ready for this new chapter to start. “You get to be a part of something so big tonight. You should feel honored. I bet Andras would even agree to give you a dying wish for your sacrifice…like maybe keeping anyone you love safe?”

He hadn’t expected a response to the taunt, but he scowled at the lack of one, anyway. Reading people was a big part of what Emilio did, as both a hunter and a private investigator. It was a shared aspect of both ‘jobs,’ a thing they had in common. Getting under someone’s skin could pull down their defenses, trick them into saying more than they meant to say. You could get good information just by pissing someone off, even if that information was often punctuated by a punch to the face. This, though? This stony silence, this look on the groundskeeper’s face as he knelt down to study Emilio? This told him next to nothing.

His nostrils flared, his chin tilting up in some useless show of defiance. He knew he didn’t have the upper hand here. Given enough time, he could probably gain it — he’d been in plenty of tough scrapes, even woken up tied to chairs far more than once now — but he wasn’t sure he’d get the chance. Most of Emilio’s strategies involved being allowed to run his mouth in a way that encouraged enough anger to make a person sloppy, but the undead groundskeeper didn’t seem like he’d go for that. 

He might die here. It was an absent sort of thought, one only half-considered. He searched the groundskeeper’s eyes carefully, trying to determine the motive behind it. Was he getting too close in his investigation? Did the man know he was a hunter? Which of his jobs was getting him killed here? His eyes studied the other man’s face for answers, though there was no fear in his expression. Though… he felt a little more regret than he’d thought he would. 

And he was pissed off. That one was a little more expected, though.

“Tell you what,” he said, leaning forward as far as his binds would allow. “You cut me loose, I’ll go home, and we can pretend none of this happened.” It was a bluff; the groundskeeper would probably know that. Emilio wasn’t the type to let things go. But, hey, a guy had to try, didn’t he? Leaning back again, he added, “Or I’ll cut myself loose and take your head off. Both of these things are fine with me.” 

His eyes slid to the knife as the groundskeeper pulled it out, expression shifting to one that looked more like a mild interest than any real concern. Double-blade. Old style. Won’t feel great slicing you open, but what does? He glanced to the table, to the things spread out on it. Candles. Sigils. A human heart. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was some kind of a ritual. Emilio let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Christ. Teddy would get a real kick out of this one, wouldn’t they? 

Looking back to the groundskeeper, Emilio tilted his head. “Ah, tonight is not good for me. Got other plans. Maybe we pencil this in for next week.” At the mention of people he loved, the feigned amusement melted off his face, replaced with stormy rage. He leaned forward again, straining against the ropes. “If you think I will tell you anything about anyone I love,” he said lowly, “you’re a lot stupider than you look. And you already look pretty stupid. Seen plenty of people get big heads, think they can pull shit like this off. Most of them get eaten.”

If this had been any other day, Aesil might have lost their cool. They’d done it already. They’d let countless people slip through death’s fingertips because they weren’t thinking straight. Their excitement had gone to their head, their anger had blinded them to their own weaknesses. That night things were different though. The demon knew they’d already won. There was a quiet confidence buzzing through Caleb’s veins in place of the blood that should have been flowing. The zombie was gone, the ritual was ready, and this man was stuck. 

A slow smirk pulled at their lips as they used the knife to start ripping away useless fabric. The clothing would have only made the blood flow too slow and they needed all of it. Every last drop of the damned had to be spilled just in case Aesil was wrong again. They had a feeling they weren’t after kidnapping yet another spellcaster for information. “Actually, none of those work for me. I have a deal for you though.” Bright eyes met dark ones, that confidence the demon was feeling slipping through more and more. “Stop saying stupid shit and I won’t eat your lungs as you're desperately trying to breathe through them.” A deal they most likely wouldn’t keep. They still wanted to see this one suffer after all. 

They stopped tearing the clothes as soon the man’s act dropped, amusement joining Caleb’s features. “I hit a nerve with that one. Jeeze, you would think I had all of them locked down here with you.” They grinned up at him, now knowing something they hadn’t before. “Good to know you have more than one in your life. I couldn’t find a license but I’m sure circulating your picture around will get some bites online. You should have just taken the gratitude.” They reached up, patting the man’s face a few times, eyes blazing with more of the confidence. “I’m not most people. A foot soldier, maybe, but I know my master. They’ll be so grateful to get away from that plane of existence they’ll reward me.” 

The knife ripped at his clothes, the sound of tearing fabric seeming louder than it should have been in a basement that was otherwise far too quiet. Emilio could feel the coolness of the blade getting closer and closer to his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake as his body anticipated the all-too familiar feeling that would come with the knife ripping through more than just his clothes. “This was one of my nicest shirts,” he said, clinging to the dry humor as he kept searching for buttons to press, kept looking for a way under the groundskeeper’s skin. He was running out of time, and he knew it. If he didn’t find some way to pause this process soon, he’d have more than just rope preventing him from putting up a fight.

He raised his brow as the man who’d brought him here offered up his own ‘deal,’ unsurprised that it was just as undesirable to him as his deal had been to his captor. “Not sure you’d like the taste,” he replied. “Been smoking more than a decade now. Probably doesn’t do much for the flavor.” His fingers twitched, desperately searching for any kind of weakness in the binds with a quiet subtlety. Emilio wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of knowing just how badly he wanted out of this chair, wouldn’t risk letting him know that this wasn’t how he’d been hoping to spend his evening. The groundskeeper was looking for a reaction. Emilio was trying very hard not to give him one.

It was so much easier said than done.

The slip had been unintentional, and his jaw twitched at the realization that he’d offered up information not previously available. Most people had more than one person they gave a shit about, but Emilio had needed any upper hand he could get, and he’d just lost one of the last ones available to him. For once, his lack of any kind of legal identification served in his favor — no license meant there was no way for this man to know his address — but there were still ways for him to find out who Emilio gave a shit about. Would he really go after them, even after he finished carving Emilio up here? Based on his expression, the detective was inclined to think he would. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he said lowly, eyes dark. “I’m going to get out of this chair, and your reward is going to be your own goddamn blade taking your head off your body. I want you to know that.” It wasn’t much of a threat, coming from a man thoroughly bound to a chair, and Emilio knew it. Still, the storm brewing behind his eyes spoke to how much he believed what he was saying. He’d never been one to go down easy, after all.

“The act that you all put on is so tiring, is it not? I did it for a few weeks and it was so much worse than I imagined. Had to drop it halfway through.” They shook their head, Aesil tired of the pretenses. Nobody was real, nobody showed who they truly were, not even to who they were supposed to trust the most. They knew this whole journey wasn’t going to be easy but they’d never expected all the lies from humans. It slipped easily from their mouths like it was second nature. They didn’t even have to think about it.

And they called demons the bad ones.

That was one thing about where they were from that they would miss; there was no hiding who you were. Demons were mean but they were real. The more time that they spent around the fakeness that humans produced the more they realized how right their master was for hating them all. “You’re allowed to be scared in the face of death, you know? No need to hide it.” But, as always, they did appreciate the fight. 

Then they looked up into the eyes of a man who was no longer playing games. This. This was the real human lurking beneath the snarky comments. It was always when a loved one was threatened when they showed their true nature. Half the time they didn’t care about themselves but talk about hurting someone they loved and the true nature of who they were bled into their words. And this was a true fighter. It was just too bad that all that fight was wasted on a man who couldn’t break through a simple knot. “Sure thing, buddy.”

Something caught Aesil’s attention. After the incident with the sister they had placed something called a Ring on the front porch so they wouldn’t get any more surprises and it was going off in the corner of the room. Fuck whoever that was. They were so close to getting this done that they didn’t bother getting up to check. If they came to the basement they would just join this poor sap in his fate. “Time to die.”

The knife sliced through the man’s bound wrists, just above where the ropes were. One, two slashes to let the blood drain to the floor and start curling through the sigils. Aesil moved the blade to the back of his thighs and made two more cuts, one on each, hoping they had gotten a good vein or two. They watched the blood pouring down into the markings on the floor impatiently, willing it to move faster to fill in quicker so they could start the Latin that needed to be said. The last thing they needed was this interruption. 

“Mark it down as another thing you’re bad at,” Emilio replied, eyes narrowing. A few weeks. Had he been putting on an act when Emilio met him the first time, then? Was this the real man, and the bumbling, nervous one in that graveyard had been playing pretend? But what for, if he was so willing to kill, anyway? People who made ritualistic sacrifices to demons didn’t tend to bother trying to convince strangers in graveyards late at night of their innocence; it would have been far simpler for him to kill Emilio the first night and have no one be the wiser. 

There were still too many pieces missing for Emilio to solve the puzzle in its entirety. He could make guesses here and there, but there was nothing concrete to cling to. Emilio wasn’t sure how much it mattered, anyway. Understanding the man holding him captive wouldn’t get him out of this chair. He was beginning to think nothing would. And even still, he refused to give this man what he wanted. He refused to let even a sliver of fear grip his chest. He let his gaze burn through the groundskeeper, shaking his head. “I haven’t been afraid of death in a very long time. You’ll have to try much harder than this if fear is what you’re after.”

Threatening Emilio did little to upset him. Threatening the people he cared about had a far different effect. The slayer was all the more determined to break his binds now, unwilling to let any of the people he loved suffer because he’d pissed off the wrong person. There had been enough of that already, hadn’t there? Emilio yanked against the rope, no longer interested in a subtle escape attempt. If this was his last chance, he’d give it all the strength he had.

There was a sound from the corner — a proximity alarm, maybe? Emilio prepared to use it as a distraction, hoping he might be able to use brute strength to break through the binds and take the groundskeeper by surprise well enough to knock the blade from his hand. But the alarm seemed to spur his captor into action more than distract him. 

The knife sliced through his skin, eliciting a small grunt from the slayer. The process repeated, and he bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, clenching his teeth to keep any sound from escaping. Blood flowed down towards the floor, towards the sigils drawn there. It was slow-moving, but still quick enough to leave Emilio a little dizzy. He’d bleed out slow, this way… but he’d still bleed out. Sooner than he’d like, too. Straining, he tried to angle his bleeding wrists in a way that would allow the blood to soak through the ropes, a last-ditch effort to allow him to pull them free.

Distantly, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps above them. He resisted the urge to glance up, hoping that it was someone who meant well and not just someone come to watch the show.

Erin could still feel Caleb’s hands around her neck. She watched his house, safely hidden away in her car just a little bit down the road so that it was out of eyesight. She’d wanted to get here early. Alone. She needed time to reacclimate herself to the idea that Caleb’s face did not belong to Caleb right now. That the hands that bruised her skin weren’t the same ones that happily fixed every loose cabinet the funeral home had seen for the last decade. He was as instrumental to the place as she was. As any of them were. More importantly, he was family. 

The house was quiet. No one in or out for a while now. Erin couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Didn’t stop her stomach from incessantly folding in itself when she thought too hard about it. Made sense that he’d go back to the heart–and brains, apparently–of the home. When she saw Lilian and her acquaintance pulling up, she took one last look at the house–no face in the window, no sign that he knew anything yet–and stepped out. Her eyes went to the man with her. Taller than most priests she knew and with a stoic look that gave her more confidence than she had five minutes ago. 

“He’s here,” she greeted them, too anxious to be polite and too worried to care. Lil said this would work and the priest looked ready for a reckoning. This would be fine. Caleb would be fine. She glanced back at the house, resisting the urge to touch the knife hidden under her jacket for comfort. An old hunting knife her grandfather had left her father, abandoned in a drawer until last night. Just in case.“We go in, I distract, and you guys do your thing,” she summarized the already laid out plan. She just needed to say it outloud again. It helped somehow. There was a long pause as she looked between the both of them, her nervous gaze steeling slowly into a hard set stare. She swallowed hard. “We’re going to to get him back. I’m going to get him back.” That was the only outcome she could entertain in that moment.

Lil’s hand stung as she wrapped it up carefully moving quickly with what was the weirdest team she’d ever been a part of. When Erin had said something was happening to her friend - brother and that it felt off. It didn’t take too long to figure out what it might be. With the town the way it was, and the whispers of demons all around, Lil would have been a fool not to know. 

Perhaps Lil really did need to get out of this town one day. She was getting way to comfortable slicing her hand open and performing the one ritual that she knew. Still, unlike the last ritual there was no demon on their side - or whatever Levi had turned out to be. So she forced Jamie to call in a favor with a demonologist he knew. It was - tense Father Liam wasn’t at all fond of Lil - her name preceding her. If it mattered, Lil wasn’t at all fond of him either. Still, she had to hand it to the priest; he wasn't one to wait around and let things happen. He had readily accepted Lil’s stupid plan and she wondered idly if Jamie’s reputation had saved hers. 

Standing in front of the door with her hand prepared, Lil nodded looking at Erin and the Priest. “Right, Erin you distract us and we’ll bum rush him okay? Father, you got your sword or whatever?” 

It was perhaps the only cool thing Lil thought demonologists had - a physical weapon from their soul to use. She wondered idly what happened to it once they died - where her sister’s weapon was - before going back to present. “If you get him still enough I can make the barrier.” 

With a nod from the priest and him pulling out a sword that seemed obsidian black, Lil tried to relax the almost screaming worry in her soul. With a look to Erin she nodded holding the door handle ready to go in front of her if needed. 

Demonologists. Exorcisms. Swords. Erin’s eyes jumped to the priest again, wider this time. She’d never felt more out of her element, even with Lil’s game plan fresh in mind. This was her new normal, she realized suddenly. Whatever this was. It shouldn’t have felt sudden (things had been weird for a long time now) and it shouldn’t have been this moment, but preparing to barge in on her demon-possessed brother with a sword wielding priest and a fellow medium was it. Lil nodded and she looked at the door, the world a little different than it had been before. She’d figure out what that feeling meant later. She pulled out the knife, clutching it tightly. Just in case.  “You know, you could have brought a sword for everyone,” she teased flatly, trying to quell her nerves. But she’d heard the doorbell go off–that was new–and time felt like it snapped into overdrive. They’d lost their element of surprise. Caleb knew someone was here. 

Erin took one last glance back at the priest, then at Lil, a note of gratitude prominently featured amongst her fear. If she lived through this, she owed Lil and Liam more than she could truly explain. “Let’s get this fucker,” she spat bitterly and finally pressed into the dark house. 

That same smell hit her, worsened by time and hot summer heat. She could only charge forward, expecting Caleb to come at her from each and every corner leading to the basement. There was nothing but maybe what sounded like muffled voices. Alright. Well. She was the distraction. Time to distract. She didn’t think about it–just pulled open the basement door and ascended quickly, like this was a casual trip. She nearly gagged at the smell down here. “Do all demons live like pigs or is that just your speciality? Because–” she started, a taunt to get his attention on her, but there was a second figure in a chair. All the ropes and blood told her that he probably wasn’t here by choice. She stopped two-thirds of the way down, thrown briefly at the poor sight of him. Lil had mentioned some of the things that she’d likely see when they’d concocted this initial plan but–fuck. “You’re, uh… well, you’re not Caleb.”

Aesil leaned down closer to the man’s ear, that same shit eating grin that seemed permanently plastered to their face now that they were sure they had won pulling at Caleb’s lips. “I may be bad at acting like a walking shithole of depression and anxiety but you’re still the one tied to this chair…bleeding out, might I add.” Their eyes fixed to the blood running along the floor filling in the empty spaces as they stayed in that position behind the man. “I don’t need your fear, I have plenty of that coming to me. I just need your death to move along here. I know that bitch is probably back.” That was partially due to them if they thought about it. Taunting the woman online was a bad idea and only provoked her more but if she was here then Andras could have a little snack upon his arrival. 

As soon as the words were out of their mouth they heard the unmistakable sound of her throwing the basement door open and bounding down the steps. Aesil twirled the knife in hand before catching the hilt, pressing the blade to the hunter’s neck while they prepared to do what it took to keep her at a distance. She seemed like the type that wouldn’t let a man die just to bring Caleb back. She didn’t have to know that he was going to die anyway. “Erin! Nice of you to join us. I would have hated for you to miss this. I wouldn’t come too much closer though, you wouldn’t want this poor man’s death on your hands.” 

The sound of more footsteps threw them off, brows furrowing together. Shit, had she come more prepared this time? The demon couldn’t even blame her. They were more prepared this time as well and seeing as she’d narrowly escaped them during their last encounter it was smart of her to bring some friends. It didn't matter. None of them could stop this. “I’m always up for a party but it would have been nice if you’d let me know to expect more company. It’s alright, I’ll forgive you this time. But only because you’re not going to be around too much longer.” 

They pressed the blade further into the man’s skin, eyes flicking over to the floor. He wasn’t fully drained but all the etchings in the floor were full so this would have to be enough. A foreign language started to spill from their lips, one that the demon was sure had never been spoken on this plane of existence before, and they concentrated as hard as they could on their main goal. Andras would rise. He would take over this town and skin every person alive until it was time to move on to the next and Aesil would be right there by his side. 

It was strange, in a distant sort of way; Emilio could feel the presence of the groundskeeper behind him, but there was no breath in his ear as the demon spoke. Had they possessed an undead man on purpose, he wondered? He didn’t know enough about demons to know the answer. He might have made a mental note to ask Teddy if he weren’t reasonably sure he was going to die here. He grit his teeth against the thought, angry at the mere concept of giving this demon the satisfaction of killing him. “Been in worse spots,” he ground out, unsure if it was a lie. He’d been certain he was going to die before; it wasn’t a new feeling. But this? There was a helplessness to this that he didn’t enjoy. The blood rushing in his ears was a deafening thing, the pain in his extremities as he tried to keep the twisting of his wrists subtle enough not to be recognized nauseating. 

And then, the door opened.

He registered the feeling of the blade pressed against his neck, scowled at the coolness of it. Emilio disliked the idea of being a hostage almost as much as he disliked the idea of being a sacrifice. His eyes darted to the woman who’d just entered the room, making note of the shock on her face. She definitely wasn’t here for the show. She mentioned Caleb, and his eyes darted down quickly, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the hand holding the knife against his throat without moving his head enough to allow the metal to dig in deeper. “Guessing that’s not Caleb right now, either,” he replied flatly. The act of speaking moved his throat enough for the blade to nick the skin; privately, he thought it was worth it. Maybe he would die here, but he certainly wouldn’t die quietly. It wasn’t much, but it was all he really had right now.

The demon behind him was spitting threats, and Emilio made eye contact with the woman. “They’re going to kill me either way,” he told her. That had been the plan from the beginning. He knew that. “If you’ve got a way of ending this, you end it.” 

More footsteps joined the fray, and Emilio blinked as a pair of figures entered the room. One of them was familiar enough to bring some relief. Lil might not deal with demons often, but she knew a lot more about them than Emilio did. And, if he had to guess, the guy she’d brought trailing in behind her was some kind of an expert. If this woman, Caleb’s friend, Erin had known to call Lil, it meant she came prepared. 

The relief was a little short lived, the blade pressing harder against his throat as his blood continued to drip onto the floor. He was starting to get woozy; blood loss was always a bitch. Behind him, the demon started chanting, and — and chanting was bad. Emilio knew chanting was bad. Desperately, his eyes found Lil’s, darting between her, Erin, and the third figure they’d brought along. “Whatever you’re here to do,” he yelled over the chanting, “you do it quick. Don’t stop on my account.” 

Lil knew that hesitation was akin to stalling in life. As she rushed forward there was nothing in her movement that stopped her - moving to hold the man that she knew was influenced by a demon. Her hand screamed as she wrestled him still - part pure objective fury and part hope holding him still for the briefest of moments as she felt the Father move around him saying some sacred sacrament that didn’t register to her. 

“Hey man - I got you. Don’t worry, ” Lil said softly looking at Emilio in as she pinned a man that could have been called Caleb. In her determination Erin was at least a distraction as she kept on the other the salt laid. Father Liam pouring the salt that was necessary for her to do her job and without much fan fair she stuck her hand in the salt slowly saying the ritual that Jane had taught her. 

“Demon - I beseech Sancte Michael,defende nos in proeliout non pereamus

in tremendo iudicio. -” the words of the air  by Father Liam in the area as Lil muttered her own ritual putting down an area that would keep the demon contained. The father’s sword kept steady at the zombie, a focus that Lil couldn’t conceive of a continuation of Latin similar to any that she knew. It was more direct and harsh then anything she would have performed. 

It was taking everything in Erin’s concentration not to focus in on Caleb’s figure standing behind the profusely bleeding man. They had a job to do. And it seemed that the man bleeding out before their eyes knew the severity of this situation, even outside of his very dire one. This ritual could not be completed. And for all of Erin’s words earlier, it was becoming clear that getting Caleb out of this alive was going to be a mountain of a mission in itself. She nodded solemnly, understanding. 

She ignored the demon’s words, ignored the way they burned in Caleb’s voice and got to work. “You can party all you want when you get home, huh?” She murmured, moving further into the disgusting basement. Lil, to her surprise, was fiestier than she would have guessed and was already attacking the demon. The Father was laying down salt and Erin ran to the bleeding man’s side. Lil seemed to have Caleb distracted enough for right now. And if this man was important to the ritual, it was equally important to get him the hell out of here. 

The rope was tied impossibly tight and she was glad for the knife she’d brought and started to slice through his confines, though it was going to take a minute. “Hey–looking a little pale over here. Stay with me, okay?” She nudged the man gently, watching Lil struggle with Caleb still. “How are we doing Lil?” She called out a little over the Latin filling the room. 

The man bleeding out had served his purpose so the demon abandoned the knife that was to his throat when it became clear threatening him wouldn’t stop them. Someone was on them anyway, hands making an attempt to stop what was happening. It was cute the way this girl thought she could make any kind of difference. Sure, she was putting up a good fight but Aesil was well versed in struggle. Multitasking came easy, their words still slipping through Caleb’s lips as they brought their hand up to wrap around her neck to try and keep her at bay. Laughter started to lace their words when the man’s blood started to rise an inch off the ground, swirling in a circle, flickers of another world coming into view. 

Words faltered as the Latin mixed in with their voice, catching in their throat and causing droplets of the blood to fall back to the ground. Aesil’s eyes burned as they fell on The Father, realizing the circle wasn’t flickering into view as much anymore. The pain was barely noticeable but the more that both the priest and the girl uttered those wretched words the more they could feel themself being pulled away, feel Caleb rising back to the surface.

The bastard was fighting with them. 

It was just like the pathetic excuse of a man to give up until he thought he could win. But Caleb should have known better. He should have known that Aesil had a lot more fight left in them even as they faltered that much more. Whole sentences of their chant were now being dropped, each word the two of them muttered digging deeper into the pale skin of the zombie, fighting to dig out the shadow that had taken over. Their grip on the girl’s neck tightened, the demon trying to stop the flow of her words while they struggled to remember their own. “Fuck. You.”

The circle formed by the blood was still flickering, their words having been repeated enough to keep it struggling to fully form despite Aesil not being able to continue but their confidence in this was starting to plunge. They couldn’t fail again. Andras would not be happy if they had screwed up twice but how were they supposed to know that the fucking sister knew an exorcist? They started to sputter out the words again which only made The Father work harder, Aesil letting out a roar of anger. It was easy to hear the amplified pain they were starting to experience. That happened when an entity was literally being ripped away. Their knees were growing weak as tendrils of their shadow started to slowly seep out of the zombies skin, being pulled towards the blood circle. It wasn’t intended for this use but too much was against the demon now. It was then that they knew they weren’t getting out of this one. 

‘You’ve lost, you bastard. Stop fighting it.’

Caleb’s voice broke through, stronger than it had ever been in Aesil’s mind. He was taking over again but the fear that was in the zombie’s eyes belonged solely to the demon. The Father’s words intensified in meaning and in the next moment, all at once, that shadow of Aesil burst through the zombie’s skin. With the last flicking of the blood circle they disappeared back into their own world and the blood fell back to the floor.

Caleb was free.

The zombie blinked once, twice, swallowing the bile rising in his throat when he took in the whole scene before him. Eyes wide with horror, he wrenched his hand from Lil’s neck, the force of his quick retreat throwing him back into one of the freezers. 

It was nice of Lil to bring a priest with her, Emilio thought. He wondered if the guy could be convinced to take a break from exorcising long enough to give him his last rites… or if he was still Catholic enough to want that. There was something almost funny about the thought, eliciting an amused snort from the man as the knife at his throat disappeared and the presence of the groundskeeper — Caleb, or not-Caleb, or whoever the fuck — disappeared with it. With the immediate threat of the knife gone, Emilio went back to working the binds, the blood on his wrists doing him the favor of making his skin a little more slippery. It was the only favor it was doing him. He was pretty sure the half-hysterical laugh bubbling up in his chest at the sight of the priest mid-exorcism was a blood loss thing. 

The blood on the ground seemed to be moving, somehow, and Emilio wondered if that was real or if he was a little farther along in the stages of blood loss than he’d like to be. He paused for a moment to blink down at it, head tilting to the side. There were flashes of something else, something strange that reminded him a little too much of what he’d seen in Wynne’s compound when Levi went up against the demon Wynne’s family worshiped. Whatever the groundskeeper was summoning, Emilio knew it couldn’t succeed. Someone needed to stop it. And, despite his martyr complex screaming that it ought to be, he didn’t think that ‘someone’ was going to be him this time. 

A new presence joined him as he did so, and he tensed momentarily at the sight of a knife. But rather than add any new injuries to his body (which, in his humble opinion, would’ve been overkill, anyway), this knife began slicing through the ropes he was struggling to slip out of. He had enough sense to still in his efforts to avoid any accidental injury as the woman — Erin, the demon called her Erin — freed him from his binds.

“Doing the best I can,” he ground out, yanking his wrist to his chest the moment the rope dropped from around it. The second one joined it when it was free, and Emilio pressed his bleeding wrists against his bare chest in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He wished the demon had let him keep his clothes, at least. Fabric was a lot better for stopping the bleeding than skin. 

As Erin finished severing the binds, Emilio turned his attention towards the rest of the room. The blood on the ground — his blood, which he’d like to get back, actually — was still moving, though it seemed to be struggling against something now. It wasn’t the only thing struggling. The demon and the priest were locked in some kind of something, the former’s hand wrapped tightly around Lil’s throat. 

It was a new feeling of helplessness, sitting and watching. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which side was going to win, but… he probably should have known better. He might not have known the priest doing the chanting, but he knew Lil. He knew she knew her shit, knew she wouldn’t bring in anyone but the best to help with this kind of thing. The blood in the circle served a new purpose as shadowy tendrils were drawn from the groundskeeper to the ground. Then, all at once, it was over. The blood stilled. The groundskeeper came back to himself, releasing his grip on Lil’s throat and scrambling backwards. Emilio let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, slumping back into the chair and closing his eyes for a moment. No one was dead. It was a pleasant surprise. 

For a moment, he was silent. There was a buzzing in his ears, adrenaline thrumming as his body tried to catch up to his mind’s knowledge that the threat was over. He took a deep breath, trying to ease his addled mind. Then, opening his eyes, he glanced around the room. “Anybody have an extra shirt?”

Lil hadn’t quite expected the hand around her neck as the Priest did his thing, the blood on her hand was after all for a circle ritual to keep the demon in, but like most things in her life things rarely went to plan. Even so as she scrambled to keep his attention she could tell the Father was getting close to the end of the ritual, her own only working in as far as it kept her body as a barrier, her palm pressed to his back. It meant it was incredibly dangerous now. 

And stupid, but luckily only the Priest knew that and he didn’t seem to be complaining. Still,It was getting hard to mouth the words though as he choked her, her hands changing to finger signing the ritual behind his back until it was up. It meant that she couldn’t stop him from choking her.

Sometimes in life it’s just about outlasting and making a very stupid bet. Feeling the ritual about to end she could feel Father Liam’s power as she started to pass out. Oddly her thoughts went to her sister - had she done something like this when she started out? She never really knew how demonologist training started. Would she get to breathe again? It didn’t look good as she rapidly kept her concentration on the barrier. She wanted to respond to Erin at the very least. Tell her to get Emilio and run - but she couldn’t breathe. 

It would be ironic at least. Fighting so long to not deal with demons and ending up dying to one she didn’t even know the name of. She’d call it fate if Lil could believe in that. 

Father Liam didn’t go to Lil’s aid and focused on pushing the demon out before anything else his sword flashing with an indomitable soul finally slashing the circle dropping to a knee after a moment. “Lilian are you still alive?” He said not looking up. The girl should be fine after all, she had a lot of audacity. 

Dropping to the floor Lil gasped out loud for a moment coughing. “God damn - yeah Father I’m fine. Not the first time -” She coughed her voice a little raspy. “Also it’s fucking Lil you -” 

“Language,” The priest said getting up and pulling up the younger Exorcist who scrambled away looking to make sure her friends were okay going to grab her bag to start helping to stop Emilio from bleeding out. “I have extra shirts in my bag. Young man, I assume you aren’t possessed anymore?” Father Liam said his eyes went to Caleb. 

Lil instead put a hand on Erin’s shoulder. “We gotta get him patched up - and Emilio we gotta stop meeting like this.” 

It was all happening faster than Erin could comprehend. Lil was fighting a possessed Caleb. Caleb was squeezing the life out of Lil. There was a man bleeding out in a chair beside her and the flash of the priest's sword ominously swinging about was more than distracting in itself. She felt helpless watching it happen, though that’s why she’d brought along Lil to begin with. This was always bigger than she could reckon with herself. 

And then it stilled. Caleb’s eyes were no longer the hardened, empty spots they’d been even moments before when they’d charged in. They were afraid. They were full of remorse, of feelings other than hatred and violence. They were Caleb’s. Tentatively, Erin stood by Lil, nearly forgetting the man bleeding beside her–the Emilio she’d heard so much about from Van and Nora, apparently. The one with the 3-in-1 shampoo and the disgusting couch. Funny how worlds collided sometimes. She’d have to ask him how he got caught up in this mess some day. Right now didn’t seem like the time. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, Lil, who was by her side now. Thankfully still breathing. She sent a tentative glance Lil’s way, giving the hand on her shoulder a squeeze in return, before taking steps his way. The priest seemed confident and his eyes alone could almost convince her, but she’d been fooled long enough by the demon possessing him that she still questioned her judgment even now.

“Caleb?” Her voice felt loud now that a majority of the action had calmed down. She stepped closer–but stopped, eyes on the freezer that was behind him. A staunch reminder of what had been here before the demon ever took possession. Of the things he’d done without any help from outside forces, if the word of the demon was to be believed. Hesitance stiffened her muscles. This wasn’t how this was supposed to feel. She was supposed to feel overjoyed, relieved, that they’d come out of this relatively unscathed. But that wasn’t the case. She knew it in her bones. “Are you–is that you?” She asked, holding a hand out, then dropped it slowly to her side, eyes glued to him the whole time.

He could hear the distant voices of the others around him as they stirred back to life. He could smell the thick copper scent wafting through the room. He could feel the hard casing of the freezer as it dug into his hip, the zombie cowering into it. He could even taste the regret that was already starting to build in every inch of his being. But Caleb refused to look at any of them. He wouldn’t meet the eye of anyone in that room, his gaze stuck to the cement floor beneath him, because the memories of the last few months were playing out for him. His mind was gracious enough to bring on the images of every person he had terrified, maimed, and killed while Aesil was in control. Tears were brimming the edge of his vision, threatening to spill over at any moment, but none of those images would break the dam.

No…nothing broke him the way Erin’s voice did. As soon as his name slipped from her lips the horrific images started to fade into the back of his mind. With the relief she brought came those tears that had been threatening to fall, streaking down his cheeks. Caleb’s eyes lifted to hers, watching carefully as she stepped forward. The questions in that simple gesture were endless. Is it you? Are you really back? Are you going to threaten me again? Lay hands on me? Is everything that demon told me true? Are you what you are? He could hear them all so clearly echoing in his mind as she looked towards the freezer he was pressed against, and with those questions the fear, sadness, and anxiety returned. 

He imagined that this would be the new normal. Anyone who had been involved with Aesil’s actions would give him this look from now on. Why wouldn’t they? It was his face they saw, his hands that had hurt them, so seeing him would definitely bring out a wariness that he knew would be well deserved. It still hurt. Her fearful eyes gazing at him stung like nothing ever had and nothing ever will. He refused her outstretched hand just as she seemed to think better of it and lowered it to her side. That was good. She should be afraid of him no matter how much it killed him.

“It’s me.” The zombie finally tore his gaze away from her, pressing further into the metal to relish the sting of it digging into his hip, and looked at the other three. One bleeding man who might need a hospital, one priest who seemed to be no nonsense, and one very brave girl whose neck was starting to bruise just so. The five of them, all seemingly normal in their day to day (or maybe not in this town) now very much interconnected by the most horrific event that had ever happened in Caleb’s life. And he was so sorry that this is what had brought them all together. 

But at least he was back, right? It was him. Or…a version of himself. A new version, one that would never again be the same. He didn’t know or understand the impact that this would have on him, not yet, but he knew that the very fabric of who he was was now tattered and soiled. It was him, but at the same time it wasn’t.

And suddenly, he wondered why so many were desperate to be reborn.

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Outside the Keep PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere and Daiyu @bountyhaunter SUMMARY: Emilio bumps into Daiyu while investigating. CONTENT WARNINGS: Abuse (hunter), sibling death (past), lots of talk about inhumane imprisonment

If he was going to break into a facility full of supernatural prisoners and stage a prison break, he was going to make sure he didn’t get anyone who didn’t deserve to bleed out killed in the process. That was a fairly important aspect to this whole ordeal, the kind of thing that Emilio wanted to be sure of. He’d fucked up with this kind of thing before, had freed Joy’s supernatural captives without thinking, and it hadn’t ended particularly well for anyone involved. So… he was going to do it right this time. He was going to… research, or whatever. He was, at the very least, going to plan his way in before actually doing the breaking and entering part.

The blueprints the necromancer had given him were a good start, but Emilio knew he needed to see the place in person. He needed to observe the shift changes, needed to determine when the best time to stage a break-in might be. He was quiet as he strolled the perimeter, forcing himself to take strides that were uncomfortable with his bad leg but quieter than dragging it behind him the way he normally did. Four steps this way. Guard at the door, but he’s on his phone. Looks like he’s got a radio — need to take him down before he can use it. Nonlethal — he might not know what he’s doing. 

It was a quiet narration, an echo in his mind. He was into it, but not so much that he lost sight of the area around him. If anything, he was hyperaware of his surroundings when he was like this. Aware enough, it turned out, to recognize the strides of the person moving towards the building from just outside the shadow where he was standing.

He hesitated a moment. If he’d seen her a while ago, when all they did was bicker online without any real understanding, he would have just let her go in unbothered. But now, after their last interaction… He snaked out a hand to stop her. “Daiyu,” he whispered, trying to catch her attention without catching anyone else’s. “Hey.”

—

It had been a fair while since she’d moved up in the Good Neighbors and was now part of Winnifred’s inner circle. Daiyu did not try to think too much about what it meant, what it made of her. When she did think of it, she thought of it in terms of how those around – and still away – from her would think of it. Her father would think Winnifred a foolish woman with a heart that bled in a way he could exploit, and so would her sister. They’d think keeping the creatures alive just to lock them away a waste — would suggest further action. Experimentation. Selling parts. Selling whole things. Pitting them against each other.

They’d call her a bleeding heart, too. A stupid little girl, for falling in with something like the Good Neighbors. Enticed by that notion, by the idea of goodness. Hunters were born to protect, but the Volkovs knew better than that. You didn’t get rich through protection. And though Daiyu was making a buck off her work, it was nowhere near what she could be earning.

But she kept at it. There was always conflict to find in anything she did, so this was no different. She went out into town and the forest and took out the creatures, shifters and monsters that plagued the town. She tried to remember she was savings lives. Only taking out those that should be. That had earned it. She collected her money and didn’t worry about rent any more. She slept in a soft bed with a new duvet. She was fine. 

Sometimes, when she went to the Keep to do a shift there, she brought along a bit of brain or blood she’d gotten off a kill she’d done for another bounty. She slipped the gore to angry vampires or zombies and did not think about the implications. 

She was scheduled again today. Scheduled, as if she had a fucking job. And in a way, that was what it was, wasn’t it? Some people worked for mega corporations. She worked for Winnifred, who made really good hot chocolate and who was doing something good. Daiyu moved to the Keep with a backpack slung over one shoulder, her car abandoned a few miles back in the name of security. She was unsuspecting and not thinking about the implications of the ziplock bag with an aufhocker brain and so when someone’s hand appeared from a dark corner.

Daiyu responded as she was trained to, smacking the hand aside with a flat palm and getting ready to pounce. But it was just a whisper, and a familiar face. Emilio Cortez. A liar, a slayer, a dog owner, a saver of her life, but only on a technicality. “What. The. Fuck.” She pushed him back into the shadow. “What are you doing here?”

—

She slapped his hand aside, and he’d been expecting that. He pulled back before she could slap anything else, before she could do any kind of damage. He studied her carefully, tried to work out why she was here. At first, he thought she might have the same goal he did, but it was a notion he quickly pushed aside. Since his tenure in Wicked’s Rest, since his softening, he’d met only a handful of other hunters who thought the way he thought. Kaden, whose philosophy seemed close to Emilio’s even if they still disagreed on parts of it. Andy, who gave up hunting altogether and didn’t seem to regret it in the slightest. But other than that? Jade still thought of the undead in much the same way Emilio had prior to the massacre and his uncle’s hand in it, even if she was more open to supernatural creatures with beating hearts. Rhett probably would have ended up killing him if Ophelia hadn’t come along and shifted things just enough for him to make an exception for Emilio’s failures. Parker, Owen… every other hunter in this town seemed to be, at least on some level, what a hunter ought to be.

He didn’t know Daiyu well enough to think she was much different. He’d met her twice now, in two different scenarios, and he trusted her only a hair more than he might a complete stranger. But he knew she didn’t hunt indiscriminately. He knew she took bounties, and didn’t have much interest in things outside of them. He knew he’d never seen her hunting a sentient beast, never heard her talk about them in a way that sent up red flags. He knew that he didn’t have a lot of allies here, and that the information the necromancer gave him was good but not enough. He knew that Daiyu was walking towards the Keep with a purpose, and not being stealthy enough for that purpose to feasibly be the same as his. He knew that Daiyu could be swayed, too. She was stubborn — maybe even as stubborn as he was — but not immovable. If money was what she was after, Emilio could get that. He still had a fairly sizable chunk of the cash Levi had given him stuffed into his mattress, and it wasn’t like he was using it. He could buy Daiyu out, if it came down to it.

So… either he’d gain an ally here, or he’d get himself killed. It was a coin toss. But Emilio had never minded gambling so long as his own life was the thing on the table.

“Thought I’d go for a walk,” he replied dryly. “See the town, visit the prison for supernaturals. Real tourist destination, you know. On all the maps.” He kept his voice low and quiet, careful not to attract any attention from anyone else. Meeting her eye, he grimaced slightly. Heads or tails. Fifty fifty. Here we go. “Caught a case. Client has a friend who got grabbed outside her apartment. Tracked her here.” He nodded towards the building. “I looked into it. I didn’t like what I found.” He paused, tapping his finger against his knee. “I’m breaking it open. And I could use some help.”

— 

The Good Neighbors practiced in the shadows. This was a no-brainer that even Daiyu could get behind. It was how hunters operated too, after all. Flaunt your position as a human who chased and killed creatures with supernatural powers and you might as well paint a target on your back. (She was not very good at not doing this — though she understood the need for secrecy she was a very bad practitioner of it, in part because she was a horrible liar and in another part because she had little impulse control.) 

It was troubling that Emilio was here. That he was lurking in a shadow around the Keep when he was decidedly not involved with the organization it housed. She’d know if he was, right? Someone would have told her. Right? It wouldn’t be unprecedented that she was left in the dark about something, but in this case she would have been told, if another hunter had been added to the team. Yes. Certainly. Winnifred would have informed her of it. So then why was Emilio here, if he wasn’t part of the team? Her face was filled with suspicion that only got affirmed when the slayer spoke.

Daiyu wanted to knee him in the groin for a short moment and run away. It would be a good temporary solution to this problem he was throwing her way — the knowledge that he was planning on causing trouble for the Keep and the organization that kept it filled. The judgment he passed against the place he called a prison. It was the latter she grappled with most, the moral conundrum that Emilio was offering her by pointing out the flaws of the place. He was going to make her think about the implications with words like these and Daiyu didn’t want to. 

“Your client’s friend probably grabbed or bit or ate a few people herself,” she said coolly. Or at least, she tried to sound cool. Like she wasn’t going to have a long think about whatever was about to transpire. Like she never ever lost sleep over kills or kidnappings. “What, you don’t like dangerous supernatural individuals being separated from the people in our town so they can’t eat, drain or bite ‘em? Weird. I think I remember you killing a vampire not too long ago.” She moved her weight from one leg to the other. “Breaking … it … open … yes, sure, explain to me why that’s a good idea, wiseass.”

—

Emilio wasn’t much of a planner. For most of his life, he’d let other people do that. His mother called the shots when she was alive, pointing him in whatever direction she believed he needed to go. As they got older, Rosa did much of the same, primed to take over as head of the family when it was her turn. (It would never be her turn now.) The only planning Emilio had ever really attempted was his desperate hope to get Flora away from a life he didn’t want for her, and how had that ended? His only real attempt at a plan had ended with everyone he’d ever loved dead. Didn’t that say all that needed saying about his skills there? 

But… He wanted to be better. He wanted to plan something that worked, wanted to help people instead of hurting them. He didn’t always have to be a blade, did he? He could be something else, something better. For Nora, who needed that now more than ever. For Wynne, who’d always been given so much less than what they deserved. For Teddy, who was never as happy as they pretended to be. They all wanted him to be better for himself, and he knew that. But if he couldn’t manage it, if he still couldn’t quite see himself as a person instead of a thing, wasn’t it all right if he tried to be better for them instead? Wasn’t being better the thing that mattered more?

This could be a step, he thought. A step towards something that was more than a weapon, even if it was still something less than a man. He could help people here. He thought of Zane, who’d really only needed a steadying hand. He thought of Metzli, who’d been good the moment they had the choice to do so. Some of these people might belong here, but from what he could tell, Raisa’s friend didn’t. That had to mean there were others who didn’t, too.

“Come on, Daiyu,” he said lowly. “Even if she did, is this the way to deal with it? If someone’s a problem, you take them out. I support that. I do that. But sticking them in a cage…” The thought made his throat go dry, made his mind go back to that goddamn shed, made his palms sweat. “It’s fucked up. What’s the endgame here?” Human prisons were fucked enough, but at least they maintained the illusion of attempting to reintegrate prisoners into society, even if that wasn’t the reality. Emilio had a feeling this particular prison didn’t share the same views. Letting someone rot in a cage for the rest of their days was so much worse than just killing them. “Explain to me why it’s a good idea to keep them locked up. You really believe it’s right?” He paused for a moment, eyes darting to her duffel. “What’s in there?” There was no reason for her to bring a lot of supplies here. Emilio had a feeling whatever she had was for something she thought was important inside. He was going out on a limb here, but he hoped it’d pay off.

—

When she’d been ten, her father had taken her down the back of the estate, where spare and broken down cars were stored and there was a place like the Keep. Not as big, not as well-hidden (and yet just as protected), but made with a similar purpose. A holding place. Never for long, but it was the same. Barred rooms, locks that clicked and humanoid creatures that looked enraged, desperate, exhausted or all three at once. Daiyu did not remember a lot of her youth, but she remembered that day. His hand on her shoulder, almost paternal, and then in her neck as her eyes trailed away. Fingers digging in the soft skin behind her ears, palm pressing against the vertebrae in her neck. He’d reminded her: they are not human. He barely had to say it for her to remember that lesson. He’d filled her hands with buckets, had made her carry them down to the wild wolves. They had been heavy, but she’d been training for years by then. She managed. She placed the buckets down. Water. Raw meat. They are not human.

They called themselves hunters, her family, but they were more like poachers or smugglers at times. Cutting deals with researchers and magic users that lift on the fray of morality, selling them parts of if not full shifter corpses. There were the fights, the vicious displays of beast on beast violence. Not as organized as the fighting ring she’d visited – or so she guessed, at least – but similar. Similar enough to turn a profit.

She didn’t participate in it any more. She could not give up hunting — that was a step too far, but she could stop being part of that side of the family business. She could pretend she’d stopped feeling that hand in her neck. She could stop.

She had stopped — right?

She wasn’t a complete fool. She knew that the Good Neighbors were something sinister. She knew it because she collected spare bits of gore for the undead creatures in the Keep. She knew because she made some portions bigger. She knew because she felt her appetite dissipate after every visit of that place with bars. She knew every time she got her paycheck, every time she bought stuff with that paycheck, every time she was put on a job. She knew. Even if Winnifred made it hard, sometimes, because she seemed so sure they were doing the right thing. She was so passionate. She made fruitcake that tasted surprisingly good and organized community meetings and seemed so good. And it was nice, to not be stained with blood every time she fulfilled a hunt, but was it worth it? Was it worth those eyes behind bars?

Emilio was speaking and she grit her teeth, his words piercing through the paper thin haze with which she surrounded herself. She knew. She knew she was repeating patterns. She knew that it was best to make the kill quick and clean. Drawing out the suffering was what her father did (in cases like this, he’d grip her neck too and make her watch, or stick a silver knife in her hand and make her help). She looked away from the slayer but it didn’t matter if she stared into the distance, gaze hardening. He was pressing his thumbs on all her sore spots, knew where to find the bruises, knew what to look at. He’d said he was a detective and when he pointed out her duffel he proved his skill in sniffing things out.

Finally her gaze fell back onto him. “Food.” It was said curtly. “For.” She finished the sentence there. She wanted to punch something. Him, maybe. “It’s blood and brains, for your type of monster. Yeah? Locally sourced. From — beasts.” She grit her teeth. “I don’t know, man. I don’t make the plans. I just do … what they want me to.” What kind of bullshit excuse was that? When had Daiyu Volkova ever done what was asked of her? “I’m figuring it out, okay? It’s none of your business.” She glowered at him, feeling exposed. “You put ‘em in to the world again and this town’s going to shit.”

—

He could see the doubt dancing across her features. It was a slow thing, with swaying, uncertain steps and disjointed, harsh notes of music. What was she thinking, in this moment? Was it familiar? Emilio thought back to Mexico, to the way uncertainty had been a cold shadow that clung to his intestines and slithered up his throat. How soon after the first domino fell did the rest tumble to follow? 

Rosa told him once, only a few short months after Victor’s death, that you couldn’t be half a hunter. She’d seen Emilio’s uncertainty the same way he was seeing Daiyu’s now, had felt his doubt as if it were living in her gut, too. Everything after Victor’s death had been so unbalanced, and part of him had wondered, even then, what it was worth. He’d had a brother, and then he hadn’t. Victor had been a person, and then he’d been a name scarcely whispered, a lesson Emilio wasn’t sure how to learn. Victor had done what he was supposed to do, but why was he supposed to do it? For a little while, Emilio had let his anger ask questions that his mind knew were off limits, and only Rosa had known him well enough to recognize them.

You can’t be half a hunter, she’d told him, her eyes hard. You’re all in, or you’re useless. And there’s no reason to keep a useless thing around, Milio. I know you know that. And he had. He’d known that whatever his family gave him was a conditional thing, and it had made sense. You didn’t keep broken tools or dull blades around for sentiment. You threw them out or you sharpened them. And since Emilio didn’t want to be thrown out, he had allowed himself to be sharpened. He’d let himself strike against a whetstone over and over and over again, eating away at the parts of him that were dull, at the doubts. 

It wasn’t until years later when, looking down at his daughter’s sleeping face, he’d wondered whether some things shouldn’t be conditional. He’d have loved Flora if she were a hunter, and he’d have loved her if she wasn’t one. The doubt came back, it hollowed him out, it left him empty. It was easier, he thought, not to question things. It made life simpler, made it make more sense. Doubt crept in and left you breathless in the moments when you most needed to breathe, and wasn’t it cruel to knock the wind out of someone? Wasn’t it a cheap trick to use in a fight?

Still, he kept his eyes on Daiyu. He watched that doubt curl fingers around her throat, and he made no move to pry them off. What did it mean, to sit by and watch someone be strangled? Was it a kindness or a cruelty to force someone to face things they’d clearly been avoiding? He thought of Rosa again, and he thought that some questions were better left unanswered.

“Yeah.” He looked at the duffel bag again, pleased that his hunch had been correct. He hadn’t put the doubt there. Did that absolve him of the sin of feeding it? Did that make him better? He didn’t think so. He doubted Daiyu would, either. “It’s my business when people pay to make it my business. And that means it’s my business now.” He wondered what other kinds of people were locked away inside the walls of this building. Were there bugbears, like Nora? The thought of her getting caught up in something like this, after everything, made his chest ache. “This town’s already gone to shit. If we let these people out and they make it worse, I’ll take care of that. I like my chances. I’m not asking you to help with clean up. I just need you to get me in the door.”

—

The notion had crept into her head again when she’d first heard of the neighborhood initiative from another hunter. The idea that she could do something good. Winifred had seemed so driven, the humans she went on patrol with so dedicated to their neighbors, the targets she took out truly threats onto the people in town. Daiyu had felt it for a while, that foreign concept — goodness. She was helping to keep a town safe, offering her skills to make sure humans could live in continued ignorance without being turned into meals or victims of a ‘freak accident’.

But it had become twisted, hadn’t it? Not when she’d first heard of the Keep, but when she’d visited it that first time. When she’d seen the bars and the creatures behind them. The human sides of the creatures. The side she didn’t tend to see when she was out in the woods and hunting, the side that had human pleading eyes and a mouth that could tug at that heart she’d been condemned for since youth. Every time she came there she’d tried to remember all the people she had saved, that these were preventative measures to keep murderous creatures from wreaking more havoc. She’d tried to remember what Winifred had said about how many people would thank her if she knew. She forcefully remembered how her father looked at the concept of goodness. It was an empty thing, a performance, a soft pillow people created for themself so they could sleep at night. It was something that held you back while also being meaningless.

So maybe it didn’t matter, that this ‘goodness’ didn’t feel good. Maybe Daiyu could never know what goodness looked like, anyway. Maybe the concept was not for her or anyone, really. Maybe she just saw through the illusion, her gaze hardened through her training. It wasn’t like she was desensitized against the sight of creatures in cages – that was the whole fucking problem – but she had found ways to cope with the internal struggle. Maybe goodness didn’t exist, so why should she try?

At some point she’d started bringing in food though. Not human food – they did supply that themself, at the Keep – but the kind of food that fit into an unorthodox diet. Blood, brains. Daiyu hadn’t even thought too much about it when she’d done it. She’d just killed a smaller beast and noted bits of brain sticking out and she’d used her hunting knife to take parts of it. Later she’d added ziplock freezer bags to her arsenal, collecting stray bits of flesh and blood for the undead in the Keep. It was waste, anyway. 

Was that goodness? No, it couldn’t be. It was violence that benefited another. It was just another spoke on the wheel of that endless cycle of violence.

Emilio was somewhere on that wheel too. And maybe that was where they existed. Them, the hunters, as well as the creatures in the Keep. On that ever rolling wheel of violence so that ignorant humans could live in safety. (But they were not good either — they also wielded violence — they also —) 

“So what, you’re doing this for money?” She couldn’t really judge. She was doing this for money. And the distant notion of goodness that was slipping from her grasp with every visit to this prison. Daiyu pushed Emilio further into the shadows, her heart hammering in her chest. She felt the kind of confusion that often ended with her breaking something and storming off. This was not a situation where she could break a nose and get away, though. Even she recognized that. “Not here, okay? This chat, not fucking here.” 

Her head was spinning. She really did want to punch something, herself included. Daiyu bristled. She knew that as far as good things go, this was not one of them. Letting the people rot in jail cells, watching them starve on rations, taking them out of the equation but not definitively. Didn’t she try to be merciful in her kills? To not draw it out like she’d been taught? 

She had been looking for an out, but an out would mean putting on blinders and turning her back. An out meant the wheel would keep rolling and rolling and never stop. An out would mean the vampire called Johnny – she’d learned their names, which didn’t help – would not receive her snicker-snacker blood rations any more. An out would also not be doing something good. An out would mean running and the rock of shame in her stomach growing heavier. But this —

“You’re doing this, then?” He was. She didn’t know Emilio that well, but he seemed like a stubborn fuck. “I could help. I thought this — you have to –” She frowned, not sure why she was trying to convince Emilio that she wasn’t rotten. “I hate cages. I’ll get you … I can get you in. Not today.”

—

Was he doing this for money? Emilio wasn’t really sure. There were other cases, easier ways to get paid. Technically speaking, he’d already solved the case Raisa brought to him, already found the answers she’d asked for. He’d been hired to find her friend, not save her, and he’d done that. He could give her a location, could walk away without consequence, and it would be fine. He’d done his part, he’d fulfilled his promise. But the very thought of leaving things as they were felt so unfinished that it turned his stomach just a little. Were answers enough when you could give someone more than that?

Maybe it was an inevitable side effect of the way Axis’s cases usually ended. More often than not, someone hired him to find their friend or their family member or their lover and Emilio returned to them with a corpse or an ending they didn’t want to hear. In this town, it was so rare to find a missing person in one piece. Maybe his determination to break Raisa’s friend out of the prison she’d been put into was a way of coping with that, a way of convincing himself that he was still someone capable of helping people. After all, hadn’t his track record as of late been a long line of failures, one after another? He couldn’t save the people he loved, and he couldn’t save strangers, either. Would breaking free the prisoners in this facility absolve him of that? Would it make him a better person? He didn’t think anything could.

But it might make him feel better for a moment or two. There might be the briefest sense of accomplishment to be found with it, the quietest heartbeat of relief. Maybe Emilio was digging his heels in here for the same reason he spent most of the money he made on cheap whiskey to pour down his throat. Maybe everything he did was some desperate attempt at escape.

Did it matter? That was the question he focused on now. Did it matter why he was doing it? He was doing it. That was the important thing. With Daiyu’s help or without it, Emilio was going into that facility and opening those cages. He had the information the necromancer had given him, outdated and incomplete as it was. He was a lot less likely to survive the attempt without someone on the inside helping him out, but that didn’t matter. The result was more important than the risk. He knew that.

Daiyu pushed him back into the shadows, and Emilio let her. He didn’t think she’d rat him out, at least, even if she wouldn’t help him. She didn’t fully believe in what she was doing here. The question was whether or not she believed it little enough to help him dismantle what she’d helped build. 

“I’m doing this,” he confirmed. “One way or another.” 

The world seemed to stand still while he waited for her to speak again, only returning to spin on its axis when the words tumbled out. Uncertain, jumbled, but enough to know that it was what he’d wanted to hear. I could help. He had to bite back a sigh of relief. “Not today,” he confirmed, a little reluctant. “But soon. We need to move soon. Before they know we’re planning anything.” He didn’t trust the necromancer not to offer up a word of warning, even if they had been quick to turn on their partners.

—

These foreign concepts – to want to do good, to want to help – did not fit Daiyu. They were like a jacket she’d borrowed of a person better than her that she tried to wear convincingly even if she could not pull it off. But what kind of coat would fit her well? It seemed she always struggled with most identities that came with being a hunter. She could not be the sadistic type, like her father and sister. She could not be the heroic one, striving for a safer world for humanity and speaking of duty. She could not be the good neighbor, putting people in cages and thinking it goodness. She fell short every time.

That was why she enjoyed the simplicity of bounty hunting. It allowed her to not think of such things. She was a bounty hunter, like a character in an old western, someone motivated by posters and other people’s assignments. Moved by money, but only the amount she needed to make it through her days. 

She was not just a bounty hunter any more, though. She was a good neighbor, an inner circle member. And now she was talking to someone hoping to infiltrate the place that housed a wide range of supernatural creatures, wanting to do what exactly? If she were a more calculated person she’d be asking Emilio about his full intent, but at present Daiyu was just trying to control her urge to destroy something. 

Later, she’d said. Later, after she’d gathered her thoughts, after she’d driven off with her car with her music so loud her ears would ring all night, after she’d been able to hit her steering wheel a few times. Later, when she wasn’t so close to the Keep as she was now. 

But she knew that if this was going to happen – and it would, judging off Emilio’s expression – she’d be all in. Daiyu did hate cages. She did hate the looks on the faces of some the people in them. She did not feel right or good. She was already making tiny waves against Winifred and the other members, smuggling in things and smuggling out messages. Emilio offered allyship.

Also she’d really hate to see him get caught up in the fray. But that wasn’t something she was going to say to him.

“Alright,” she said. “Then … I should go in, to get my shift done. To get …” She gestured at her duffel. “This in. I’ll … I can get us an overview of what we’re dealing with, alright? So you know what you might be walking into.” Kirk, Johnny, all the other creatures with names and lethal abilities and dreams and body counts and loved ones. A werewolf who’d killed three people in one night, a vampire who’d left a trail of student bodies, a lamia who kept the bones of the people she ate, a zombie with a taste for blonde’s brains. What made a good person? Was it the person who locked monsters up or the one who killed them quickly and quietly? Was it the person who released them because it was right, but who would put a town at risk? 

Everything always confirmed the same thing to her. There was no goodness. There was just failed attempts at it. “Can’t be just us, either. We’re too few.” And though she was sure that Emilio and her could raise quite a lot of hell, she also knew what they were up against. “But fine. Soon.”

—

When he was a kid, things had been black and white. There were monsters and there were people and there was a clear line of humanity between the two. His mother made sure he understood it bit by bit, carved hints and cheat sheets into his skin so that he wouldn’t forget. She showed him how monstrous monstrous things could be, let them prove their danger to him with teeth and claws. And it made sense, back then. Everything seemed to fit together like a puzzle, pieces all perfectly aligned. 

And then he had a daughter. He had a little girl with hands too small to grip the hilt of a knife and eyes that looked like his. And he couldn’t fathom carving those hints into her skin, couldn’t bear the thought of sending her teeth and claws and letting monsters prove themselves to be monstrous. He had a daughter, and it was monsters who killed her but it was a hunter who had caused it. She had been so small, but her presence in the world was so monumental that its sudden absence turned the universe on its head.

The world wasn’t black and white anymore; Emilio knew now that it never really had been. There were monsters and there were people, but humanity didn’t separate them. Sometimes, the monsters had beating hearts and dull teeth. They stared at you from behind the mirror, or they carried your blood in their veins. And sometimes, the people looked like the things you’d been taught to hate. They had still chests and inhuman blood in their veins, but you still ached when you freed them from vans or offered them a drink. 

There were monsters in those cages. Emilio had no doubt of that. There were awful things who had caused irreversible damage thrashing against the bars and banging on the walls and he knew it. Emilio understood, better than anyone, that some monsters needed to be put down. But there were, inevitably, people in those cages, too. Some of the ones locked away might not deserve to be. Even the monsters, he thought, might not deserve to be locked away. Death was kinder. Some of them would probably agree with that.

So Emilio would do what needed doing, and maybe Daiyu would help him. Maybe he’d feel better about himself after, or maybe he’d feel worse. It was hard to know the difference, sometimes. It was hard to know what to strive for. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, nodded his head. “Get me more information,” he agreed, “and we’ll figure it out from there.”

She was right, too, that they’d need more manpower. Emilio hated the idea, but he knew it was an inevitable thing. “I have a friend who might help,” he said reluctantly. He felt bad already at the idea of pulling someone else into his mess, but… what else could he do here? If he went at it alone and got himself killed, that was one thing. But if he got Daiyu killed, too, and the people in those cages… wouldn’t that be worse? “And… someone else who might help. They told me where this place is. Don’t know how much I trust them, but might be useful.” The necromancer was someone he needed to keep a close eye on, whatever that looked like. “Get the plans, and we’ll all get together. Meet up, talk it out.” Someone had to be better at thinking ahead than Emilio… and Daiyu, he suspected. Hunters weren’t known for their strategizing. 

—

So they were coming to an agreement. Daiyu was going to go behind the Good Neighbor’s backs and offer Emilio inside information to conspire against them. She felt her stomach sink, felt a queasy kind of rush pass through her. She wasn’t sure if she was a loyal person by nature or not, but it was still strange to know she was bound to become a traitor now. Would this role fit her, if none of the others did?

Questions of morality were often discarded by her, as they were too intrusive even if they were thought alone and by herself. She could not start to think about goodness in a way that really mattered without starting to undo her foundations, without drowning in the guilt and shame that lingered within. So Daiyu kept moving as she did, chasing down monsters, beasts and shifters and undoing their heads from their bodies after (or sometimes during) killing them. She joined this neighborhood watch in the hope that she could keep humans safe, but in stead found herself smuggling blood so she could breathe easier. And now she was aiming to betray it all, which would lead to more bloodshed.

It was like being a child once more, refusing to give into the demand of violence and being pushed and pushed and pushed until she brandished her knife and committed the atrocities demanded of her bloodline. There was no escaping it, the violence. And so maybe this was better. To side with Emilio. To bring down this prison. To kill swiftly and mercifully. To return to just hunting bounties and not think about the rest of it.

She glared at the slayer, because she needed to glare at something. “Fine. Deal.” She was thinking about her other fellow members of this little inner circle and wasn’t sure if any of them would be possible to recruit. And she wasn’t made for this, was she? Infiltration, scheming, lying. It was fine when she was a lone wolf, but to find allies wasn’t her strength.

“Cool. I’ll think about whoever I can ask,” she said, knowing she’d come up short. Daiyu would try, though, so that was something. She was too caught up in her inner ruminations to wonder who had told Emilio where this place was, her hands still itching with the desire to punch something. She wasn’t sure how to tolerate this precipice they were standing on, now. She’d never been known for her patience. “I’ll text you my number. And we’ll recoup elsewhere. Best get running now, yeah?” She didn’t want him – even if he was annoying and a liar and much too tall – to get in trouble. 

[faustianbroker]

TIMING: Recent LOCATION: The Jones residence PARTIES: Leviathan (@faustianbroker) & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: Levi finally emerges from the basement, and runs into Emilio in the house. They have some things to discuss. CONTENT WARNINGS: none.

—

If it was the type to be dramatic, Leviathan would complain that it'd been down in that basement for what felt like an eternity… and actually, it was, so it had. Eventually though, the demon did conjure the strength to return itself to its human form, and not finding any remaining wounds that would threaten its life, it finally walked up those stairs on two legs instead of four. 

Opening the door, Levi squinted against the light. It was early evening and a warm golden glow filtered in through the large living room windows that faced the sea, and the sight brought a smile to its face. Unsure about who might be around in the home, Levi made its way toward its old bedroom to get some clothes, slowly climbing the steps to the second story of the home, pausing halfway to rest. 

As it crested the top of the staircase, it heard a sound. A lazy glance was thrown down the hall, away from the double doors to the master bedroom in front of which it now stood, hand sitting still on the handle. That blank stare turned into something more like a smirk as it saw a familiar silhouette moving out of Teddy’s room and into the hall, stopping when it was noticed. “Emilio,” it said in a friendly tone, pushing down on the handles and letting the doors swing wide as it stepped inside.

The room was just as it had been left nearly a year ago, and Levi moved to the dresser, pleased to find that its clothing still filled the drawers. Grabbing a few items to help make it a bit more decent, it was pulling the shirt on over its head when it heard that uneven gait come to a stop in front of the open doorway. It looked Emilio’s way again, wondering how much Teddy had talked to him about… everything. Would he still be as mad as he was when Leviathan had left? There was only one way to find out.

“Enjoying the fruits and comforts of my labor?” it asked him with another knowing smile, something dark flashing across its expression. It certainly wasn't ever going to be above giving someone a hard time, least of all the hunter that had threatened it several times. 

—

Since Teddy’s announcement that Levi was back, Emilio had felt a little like he existed upon the backdrop of a ticking clock. It wasn’t that he thought Teddy’s father was going to kill him — they might have had their disagreements when Levi had left, but at the end of the day, Emilio liked to think they both understood that those disagreements had come from a place of wanting what was best for Teddy — but he doubted that his life would remain as it had been for the last few months. 

Moving in with Teddy hadn’t been a plan so much as a quiet manipulation, with Teddy insisting upon its necessity while Emilio’s apartment was trapped beneath goo and both of them pretending not to understand that it was no longer necessary when the goo dispersed. From where he stood, it felt a natural thing. But from Levi’s point of view? It was probably a little jarring to come back to your kid living in your house with a guy they’d at least pretended to hate the last time you saw them. 

So, he figured it was only a matter of time before Levi sent him packing. It was lucky he’d kept the apartment in Worm Row; he wouldn’t mind going back there, even if it was saddled with memories of things he’d probably be better off forgetting. He hoped Teddy wouldn’t feel the need to move with him; they’d be better off staying with their father in the nice, big house. He really hoped they wouldn’t try to convince him to move onto their boat with them. Emilio loved Teddy, but living on that damn boat certainly sounded like a level of Hell he wasn’t ready for just yet.

In any case, it was probably easier to rip off the bandage quickly rather than dragging it out. When he heard Levi moving around out of the basement (which he’d largely been avoiding under the illusion of giving the demon space), he made his way dutifully towards the noise. Levi called his name and he hesitated, hanging in the doorway as it made its way into its room. He watched it pull a shirt over its head, made note of its movements. It was clearly in some amount of pain. He wasn’t entirely sure on the details of its return, but the fact that it had spent the time since in the basement instead of bothering everyone in the main house probably spoke of some physical damage there. 

In spite of everything, he raised a brow as it addressed him. “What labor? I don’t think much work went into all this.” His tone was flat, though there was the slightest hint of amusement to it. He was trying, in any case. Even if Levi evicting him was unavoidable, he’d like to keep things as civil as they could be for Teddy’s sake. 

—

It really wanted nothing more than to go out the back of the house and down to the edge of the sea. While changing its form again was going to be off the table for a while until it had fully recovered, it could still enjoy the waves and salty breeze that came off of them. But in due time, because there were more pressing matters standing in its doorway right now. Turning to face Emilio fully, Leviathan held a hand over its chest in feigned offense. 

“Excuse me, I’ll have you know it’s very tiring work talking people out of all their worldly possessions,” the demon answered with a grin, allowing the humor to shine through whatever antagonistic reflex had been there before. “But it’s a burden I’m happy to bear. Only the best for my darling Teddy,” it added with a hint of challenge in its tone, its dark gaze raking over Emilio like it was sizing him up and determining if he was best for the spellcaster. It stepped toward him, still very obviously casting some unknown, silent judgment in its head. 

“I asked you to take care of them for me… I see you took your duty very seriously.” It narrowed its eyes at the hunter, but there wasn’t any malice in that gaze. Quiet curiosity, maybe… trying to figure out what had changed their relationship from barely tolerating one another to… whatever it was they liked to call themselves these days. To the hunter moving in with Teddy. To Teddy confessing their intent to marry him. While Leviathan was loath to deny Teddy anything that they wanted, it did want to make sure that Emilio was earnest and honest about this relationship. After all, the hunter had been a bit more loose the last time they’d crossed paths… and even though it’d been over a year ago, Levi hadn’t forgotten that night at the bar, or how the two of them had ended up here that night, in this very bed. As much as it might want to, now that Emilio was sharing a bed with its child. 

—

Levi seemed to take to the humor well enough, and Emilio wondered if he ought to be relieved. He didn’t particularly want to make an enemy out of a demon — the still-healing scars on his arms and legs left by Aesil itched at the thought — but he certainly didn’t want to make an enemy out of Teddy’s father. It was clear, in every word Teddy spoke about their father, that they both loved and respected Levi. What would they say if it disapproved of Emilio’s presence in their life? They loved him, he knew that. But their father’s displeasure would weigh on them, and Emilio couldn’t imagine that he was capable of outweighing a thing like that. 

Levi’s mention of Teddy now sewed more tension between Emilio’s shoulderblades, uncertainty clinging to him in a way that felt utterly unfamiliar. He’d never been in a situation where he needed to impress a significant other’s parents. The only real committed relationship he’d had before Teddy was Juliana, and her father had been mostly indifferent. Emilio had had a last name that carried enough of a reputation to satisfy him. But if anything, that same name worked against him where Levi was concerned. He had no idea if his family’s reputation was a thing the demon was aware of at all but if it was, it probably wasn’t something it viewed positively. Only the best probably wasn’t the kind of thing that Emilio fell into. He knew that.

He shifted his weight, defensiveness crawling up his back as he tried to force it down. Snapping at Levi probably wasn’t his best bet here. “Wouldn’t have let anything happen to them either way,” he said carefully, and he meant it. Even if Teddy had never returned his feelings, even if they decided to end what was between them now, Emilio would do everything he could do to keep them safe. That wasn’t because of any promise he’d made to Levi, though he thought it might be better not to reveal that part. “I know this probably isn’t what you wanted for them.” Flora had never gotten old enough for Emilio to even consider worrying about who she might one day decide to date, but he imagined he’d have wanted the best for her, anyway. Someone better than him, in any case. But… “I think they’re happy. With me. For… whatever that’s worth.”

—

Levi only hummed at Emilio’s insistence that he’d still have protected Teddy either way, not fully believing him, but deciding it wasn’t worth bringing into question. Hypothetical situations served no purpose here, and Emilio had taken care of Teddy, which was all Leviathan had asked of him. 

It moved around Emilio, very much like a shark circling its prey in the water, brows rising when the hunter admitted that he knew he might not be what Leviathan had envisioned for its ward. The demon clicked its tongue, coming to a stop in front of Emilio again. “That remains to be seen,” it offered, cocking its head to one side and listening as the other tried to explain that it felt like Teddy was happy. 

“It could be worth a lot,” Levi responded, turning its back on Emilio to move to the dresser again, snatching up an elastic from the top of it and pulling back its long hair. “Are you happy with them? Do you feel content to be the keeper of their heart? Only their heart?” It sighed. “I know it’s a long-standing human cliche for the parent that still needs convincing to threaten violence, and while I don’t like being predictable, I think we’re both already well aware of… situations that could arise.” It looked at him hard, expression stoic for only a few seconds before it smiled again. “But I don’t want to get caught up in hypotheticals. Just tell me how you feel.”

–

It was hard not to tense as Levi circled him. Emilio turned his head, following it with his eyes as best he could to avoid having his back turned on it. He wasn’t sure whether or not he genuinely thought Levi was an active threat. Paranoia played up every look the demon gave him, reminded him how easily it could get rid of him if it wanted to… but logic dictated that it probably didn’t want to. He had done what it asked, after all, and it wasn’t as if Teddy didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. They loved him; no part of him doubted that. 

The question, of course, was about what Levi felt. It seemed willing to at least give Emilio a chance, which felt like some relief. There was still the matter of the living situation — the slayer found it doubtful that Levi wouldn’t kick him out of the house, even if just for fun — but that was less important than the rest of it. 

The fact that it turned its back on him offered some relief, too, some quiet idea that it must at least not distrust him enough to assume he’d make a physical attack against it. Emilio relaxed a little, though it was impossible for him to relax entirely. He considered Levi’s question, weighing it in his mind. Happy was a big word. Over all, he wasn’t sure it was one he could apply to himself. But where Teddy was concerned… “There’s nobody else for me.” Teddy was it, as far as Emilio was concerned. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, nodding. “I won’t bullshit you,” he offered. “Never been one for that. Can’t say I’ll never do anything to upset them. We both know who I am. What I am. We both know I’ll be the one going out before they do, and we both know it’s better that way. But… I’d never break their heart on purpose. That’s a promise I can make. When it’s something I can control, I want to give them what they need.”

—

It was a good answer, as far as these things went. Clearly honest, as it didn’t paint Emilio as a glowing beacon of light when they both knew there were shadows that enshrined him (and his ilk) that would never be shaken off. But Leviathan was nothing if not used to the shadows, and by extension, Teddy was too. It was one thing to have to impress a guardian that was lawful and good, but a greater demon? Honestly, Emilio had a better shot with Levi than he might have with anyone else. It was just that the stakes were higher, if he were to fuck up. Instead of angry phone calls, it would be annihilation. You win some, you lose some. 

The demon nodded. “I believe you,” it said in a low, even tone. “And I want you to remember that I am what they need. They said it themself, down in that basement.” It lowered its chin. “I am the paterfamilias. I had to leave to protect them, and now I have come back to protect them.” From what, it would not — could not — say. But the sentiment was what mattered: Leviathan would not be separated from Teddy again, come hell or high water. And Emilio, though the demon had no reason to believe he would attempt to separate them, would suffer the same fate as anyone else inserting themselves where they did not belong. That was the message, and it hoped that it was conveyed clearly. 

With that out of the way, Levi slipped into a familiar role, one that was easier for all those around it to engage with. It cleared its throat and clapped Emilio roughly on the shoulder, letting out a short, barking laugh. “Well then, Cortez—welcome to the family. You know, I half expected to have to kick the both of you out of my room,” it added, gesturing at the bedroom they were standing in. “But I see Teddy was far too sentimental for that. That’s good. It could have been awkward.” It raised a brow, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man still expected to be removed from the household. And it would let him continue to think that for as long as the charade amused it.

—

He watched the demon’s face, trying to determine if his statement had been well received. It was difficult to tell, with Levi. It had had centuries upon centuries to perfect its poker face, after all, and while Teddy might have known it well enough to see through the smooth, careful expression it wore, Emilio didn’t. All he could do was guess at the thoughts that might be going through the demon’s mind, and he’d never enjoyed guessing. Emilio liked to have clear, concise answers. Anything less made his palms itch.

So it was a relief, the way Levi stated its belief in his claim as a simple matter of fact. He wasn’t sure he liked the follow up — Levi being something Teddy needed around wasn’t a thing he could argue with, but he didn’t like the idea of needing to trust the demon to stick around when Teddy needed it. He kept that uncertainty to himself, though. If Levi was telling the truth, if both leaving and returning had been designed to keep Teddy safe, then it had proven it would do what was best for Teddy. Emilio was reckless, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the demon and risk his death in this hallway, even if only because he knew Teddy would feel guilty for it.

Then, Levi seemed to relax. It cleared its throat, it clapped his shoulder, it laughed, and Emilio surmised that the ‘threat’ part of the conversation was over. He still didn’t relax entirely, but then, he rarely did. He raised a brow at Levi’s statement, eyes darting to glance to the room behind it. “Yeah,” he said flatly, “I wasn’t really looking to move in there.” He had no desire to share a bed with Teddy in their father’s room, for… many reasons, really. Looking back to Levi, he sighed. It was probably time to bite the bullet, in any case. “Look, you give me to the end of the day, I can be back in Worm Row. Not like I’ve got much shit to pack.”

—

He was jumping right to it then. Not leaving much room for vague interpretation, confusion, or worry. How dull. How practical. Still… maybe the demon’s fun could be salvaged. “Kept the old place, did we? Hm… lots of ways to interpret the fact that you’re living here, but still paying rent there… fear of commitment? Difficulty letting go of that bachelor lifestyle? A backup plan, in case things go wrong? In case I ever came back?” Leviathan smiled knowingly — these were all shots in the dark, all things that it was more or less certain were untrue, given what Emilio had said and done thus far. All but the last one. That could still very well be true. It let the accusations hang in the air for a moment before speaking again, interrupting Emilio as he no doubt went to defend himself. “Never you mind, never you mind! You can stay…” It raised a brow, clearly enjoying itself in this new dynamic they shared. “For now.” 

Moving back into the room to pluck a pair of sunglasses off of the dresser, the demon gestured broadly with its hands after situating them on its face. “Well! Now that’s settled, I am going to go park my ass on the beach out back. Please tell Teddy where to find me if you see them first, hm? There’s much pondering to be done and work to consider…” It ought to check in with Ichabod and see how things were operating in its absence. Like a well-oiled machine, it suspected, but nevertheless… confirmation would go a long way in helping it relax. 

It moved toward Emilio again, that satisfied grin never leaving its face as it stepped past him and called down the stairs. “Oh Gabagool!” It looked over its shoulder toward the slayer as it walked over to the top of the staircase. “Have you seen the little gremlin? I missed him something fierce.”

—

Of course Levi would question the reason behind Emilio keeping his old apartment. The detective scowled, crossing his arms over his chest as the demon cycled through different excuses, focusing only on the ones that made Emilio look bad. Well… except the last one. Maybe, subconsciously, some part of Emilio had considered Levi’s return a possibility but mostly? He’d held onto the apartment for Teddy’s sake. So that if Teddy ever wanted him gone, they wouldn’t have to grapple with the idea of kicking him out on the streets, wouldn’t let him stay out of guilt or obligation. There was a little more to it, of course; with an apartment in his name, anyone who was looking for him would likely go there before they showed up at Teddy’s, giving an added layer of safety to the house. But before Emilio could say any of this, Levi was barrelling forward, clearly not concerned with the possibility of interrupting Emilio’s explanations. And, surprisingly… not kicking him out. Emilio’s mouth, which had been open in preparation of defending himself, snapped shut in surprise. The for now was a clear threat, but it was still a step above being kicked out entirely, he supposed. “All right,” he said cautiously, eyeing Levi carefully. There would be a catch. He was sure of it. He wasn’t looking forward to learning what it might be.

He watched Levi saunter back into its room, grabbing a pair of what he’d often described to Teddy as asshole sunglasses and rambling on about the beach. If that was where it planned to spend most of its time, Emilio thought, it at least lowered the risk of the two of them running into one another often. The slayer wasn’t much of a fan of the sand or the sea. “Sure,” he replied good naturedly. “I’ll let them know.” 

Relaxing a little, he moved back towards the bedroom he shared with Teddy, only to falter when Levi asked after Gabagool. Shit. There was no way that little asshole wouldn’t do everything in his power to sully Emilio’s good name here. “Ah, haven’t seen him,” he lied smoothly. The little shit had been napping in the living room with Perro when Emilio walked by. He’d have to get to him first, find a way to bribe or threaten him into keeping himself from spreading shit with Levi. “Probably off doing whatever he does.”

—

“No? Hm, right… must be out gathering gossip for me. Such an eager little beaver, always looking to please papá.” Leviathan smirked, having little reason to not believe Emilio, though it did recall that he and Gabs were perhaps not the best of friends. Ah well. Maybe Levi could convince the badalisc to be nicer, now that it was home. Perhaps he was just feeling sad in the absence of his father figure, and was lashing out. It served Emilio right, anyway. He hadn’t given the poor thing any of the lamb he’d been promised while being babysat. 

With a nonchalant wave of its hand, Levi drifted down the stairs to the main level of the house, moving past the large, open living room and toward the wide glass doors that led out to the patio, and beyond, to the beach. It spotted Gabagool quite quickly, but the fuzzy ne'er do well was napping happily with that scruffy mutt that’d been clicking around Emilio’s shitty apartment when it last visited, so the greater demon went on quietly so as not to disturb them. It unlocked the door slowly, pulling it open and slipping outside, sucking in a deep lungful of salty sea air. Its gaze was drawn to the horizon, settling on a distant point where storm clouds seemed to perpetually hang over the ocean. Those dark eyes narrowed for a moment, the whisper of an eldritch curse on its tongue before it pushed away the negative thoughts and forced itself to smile again. No. Not right now. Focus on the warmth of the sun, the coarse sand underfoot, the feeling of home. Focus. Just for today.

[loftylockjaw]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: World's End Isle PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw), Winter (@longislandcharm), & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: Wyatt is mad about Winter blasting him on social media after his arrest. He decides to put the fear in her, but Emilio intervenes. CONTENT WARNINGS: none!

—

Her car was still outside of Mack’s house as Winter made her way down the street, her eyes glued to the spirit that had been trying to get her to follow the moment she’d arrived. Ignoring it hadn’t worked, especially when the woman realized she could be seen, so the medium started walking behind her with Henry hot on their tail in the hopes that she could get the ghost to leave her alone. Trees were thickening around her the farther she went, dark eyes pulled up and around as Winter followed onto an overgrown trail into the woods. There was an eerie air to this whole situation. She should be used to this by now but something about today had been setting her on edge even before she’d arrived at her best friends. The feeling of being watched came to mind but she shrugged it off the moment the spirit had appeared in front of her, thinking that that could have been the reason.

It was still there, though, even as she pushed the branches of trees aside to keep up with the woman leading her astray. This wasn’t smart, was it? Letting a ghost lead her into what felt like a trap wasn’t her brightest moment and Winter felt her movements slow with the realization of it all. “Excuse me? Why are you leading me out here?” But the woman continued forward without even a glance back at Winter. Her eyes found Henry’s, the ghost reflecting her own confusion back at her. She considered turning around until the woman stopped and looked back at them expectantly. “Lady, I’m not following you anymore unless you tell me what’s going on.” 

The ghost didn’t speak, only huffed and vanished away causing Winter to roll her eyes. “Must not have wanted to talk too much then.” She muttered the words before realizing the hairs on the back of her neck were still standing. Henry’s proximity didn’t do that much anymore and this time it felt…different. Did the ghost really lead her into a trap? Was there something else out there that not even the ghost was aware of? “Hello?” Her voice rang out through the trees as she squinted, trying to see through the slight fog that was rolling on the ground. Something large darted through her vision, disappearing not long after, and it made her blood run cold. What had she just gotten herself into?

—

Finding out who she was hadn’t been a difficult task. Finding out where she lived had been harder, but once that was determined, Wyatt had kept a close eye. He was pissed, and in the face of all the other bullshit going on in his life, he wanted to cling to one tiny scrap of control, he wanted to do one tiny little thing that would scare this girl into hopefully being less of a bitch to people she didn’t know, who’s stories she didn’t understand. She’d publicly dragged him for getting arrested, but she couldn’t have known why he was flipping out on that woman. No one could unless Wyatt told them, and he wasn’t about to go blabbing about his nightmares to anyone who would listen. Truth be told, he didn’t have a good reason to be here. He was being petty, reactionary, and downright stupid. But his world was falling apart anyway, so what the fuck did it matter?

Following the girl from her home was simple enough, and he was patient in his pursuit to see where she’d stop. Some mansion on World’s End Isle, turned out, because of course she’d know someone who lived in a place like that. He waited patiently outside the home at a respectable distance, and upon seeing the girl exit the house and wander into the woods he himself was already hiding in, he smiled at his good fortune. Or… well, he smiled as best an alligator could, having already disrobed and shifted in preparation for her eventual departure. 

Laying in wait, the lamia watched the girl pass him by, unaware. She was… talking to herself. That was weird. He followed quietly, giving her a wide berth as she came to a stop again and getting in front of her. The underbrush provided ample cover as long as he stayed on all fours, but she seemed to suspect something, calling out into the darkness like the first to die in a horror film. 

He nearly laughed. 

Moving quickly from one tree to the next, the lamia rose up off the ground, standing at his full nine foot height as he lumbered toward her. A growl started in his belly, rolling up his throat and over his flat tongue, sounding very much like something you’d imagine would come from a dinosaur. Yellow eyes glinted in the dim light of the moon as the creature stepped forward and into sight. “Hello?” he mocked her, but there was no innocence in his tone. Those long jaws parted and the shifter let out a loud, angry bellow, snapping them shut again dangerously close to her fragile human body. 

—

Following Wyatt around had started as a joke, mostly. As much as Emilio hated to admit it, the guy really had saved his ass in those underground tunnels. Without the gator dragging him away, he probably would have died trying to get that corpse out in one piece, desperately trying to save something that was lost long before he arrived. The idea of owing someone his life made him feel uncomfortable, like he was waiting and waiting and waiting for some other shoe to drop directly onto his head. When Wyatt implied that he found plenty of trouble on his own, an idea had formed in the hunter’s head. If he could catch Wyatt in need of help and provide an assist, they’d be even. And, as an added bonus, he might get to see Wyatt in a vulnerable position, which would make him feel a little better about the way the gator had seen him in those tunnels.

He figured it was a no brainer. After all, it wasn’t as if he was doing anything bad. He was trying to help the guy. If anything, Wyatt ought to be grateful when he figured it out. Emilio was a model goddamn citizen here. (Minus the ‘citizen’ part, technically. But he was a model something, for sure.)

Trailing people was… a little boring, when you got down to it, though. The movies Teddy made him watch always made it out to be some great and exciting thing, full of shootouts and danger, but the reality was always a little more dull. There was a lot of standing around and waiting and being quiet, and those were three things that Emilio wasn’t particularly great at. But he could manage it, when he put his mind to it. He could stand unseen behind the lamia in the underbrush, could watch carefully to see what he might do next.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, really. His introduction to the guy had seen him taking a bite out of someone, and most of their interaction that followed had involved Emilio filled with an overwhelming certainty that he, too, would wind up between the gator’s teeth. Still, there was something a little jarring about seeing the lamia accost a woman in the woods, mocking and snapping at her. Standing and waiting and being quiet fell off the table all at once, and Emilio found himself rushing forward without thinking, looking to get between the lamia and the woman before he could go in for a snack.

—

Why was it that when Winter was scared she could never get her feet to move? The fight or flight in her was broken, the medium decided, as every single time she just stood there waiting for what was to come instead of doing something about it. It might have stemmed from her not knowing how to fight but the least she could do was try to run from a gigantic growling monster standing before her. Sure, she would still die, but she wouldn’t have handed herself over on a silver platter. A shrill scream filled the silence of the woods as the thing that had been following her moved forward, the full picture of an alligator on its hind legs towering over her finally kicking that response mode into gear. 

Only for her to fall back on her ass. Instead of the graceful departure she had been expecting she’d tripped her own feet while trying to take a step back from the beast. So much for ice skating and the grace she was supposed to gain from it. She would bet money that she would have been halfway home by then if the ground was covered in the sheets of frozen water but give her regular dirt and she was a goner. 

Was this asshole reptile talking? Her eyes widened at its mocking tone, something familiar about the voice grating in the back of her mind but she was too busy trying not to let those sharp teeth pierce her skin to really think about it. She jerked her head back as those jaws snapped in front of her, vaguely aware of Henry shouting for her to get up and run but all she could focus on were those sharp teeth ready to slice through her. Until she saw another figure running towards them, this one very much human, and her eyes started to dart between the two. She should try to keep the attention on her, right? To give this guy an opportunity to surprise it? Her specialty was always going to be pissing people and things off, wasn’t it? Her contribution to society was A plus. Fuck, she was doing this.

“Alright, you ugly bitch, who the hell taught you how to speak?” Because really, what crazy person was out there teaching gigantic alligators to talk? Much less mock girls alone in the woods? Must have been a man. “I’d choose a bear over you any day.” Despite the bravado of her words, she felt her hands digging into the earth, desperate to clutch something to keep her grounded. 

—

Now Wyatt did laugh, lowering himself onto his hands and crouching there in front of her. “My mother,” he ground out between the laughs, though they still managed to sound threatening, in their way. He took a step toward the girl that’d fallen on her ass in fear, relishing the terror in her gaze that she couldn’t hide as she tried to act brave. He was so singularly focused on drinking in the image that he barely noticed the sound of irregular footfalls as someone came running at them, swiveling his head just in time to get smacked in the face with—fuck, what was that?! Wyatt snarled and reared back, bringing his hands to his maw to rub it soothingly. 

“What in the shit,” he complained, blinking once or twice before his gaze focused on the man now standing between him and his fun—Emilio. The lamia let out an annoyed huff, dropping back onto all fours and pressing himself into the hunter’s personal space, the tip of his snout poking the man’s chest. “Get outta here, hunter,” he warned his acquaintance, “this don’t concern you.”

—

There was something a little admirable about the way she talked back to the lamia. Emilio had been raised to view his life as a disposable thing, trained to throw it away the moment it was more convenient to others for him to die than it was for him to live. For him, tossing insults at something large and dangerous that wanted to make a meal of him was nothing. It was expected behavior, it was a thing he was meant to do. But for her? For a woman who, from the looks of her, had no idea what it was she was even facing? It was impressive that she managed it, even if her hands trembled in the dirt. 

It worked in his favor, too. It allowed him a moment to scoop up a fallen branch, brandishing it like a baseball bat as he surged forward. He wasn’t looking to kill the lamia — not if he didn’t have to, at least. He liked Wyatt, but he wasn’t about to let the guy eat a civilian. He didn’t put his full strength behind the blow; it was more of a warning than an attack. It was enough to draw Wyatt’s attention away, though, and Emilio didn’t drop the branch. He stood over the woman, facing the lamia, and held the branch like a warning even if he knew it wasn’t a suitable weapon now that the element of surprise was gone. He’d be better off going for a knife, but… if he could resolve this bloodlessly, he’d prefer it. That was a new feeling.

“I’m making it concern me,” he said flatly. “You seriously attacking women alone in the woods now?” He didn’t flinch back from the snout against his chest, demeanor remaining calm despite the clear threat. He was… about sixty percent sure Wyatt wasn’t going to kill him. Maybe fifty-five. “Fuck off. No reason for this.”

—

Fuck. She’d actually whimpered when the mutated gator answered her. A fucking whimper that she hated more than anything that had showed her fear so far. Winter hated that it would give this thing the satisfaction, give it whatever it wanted from her. He was playing with her, she knew that now, whether he wanted her as a meal or not. And she was giving him exactly what he wanted from her. It was infuriating.

But she must have bought enough time because soon the gator’s focus was on her savior after a satisfying wack to the face. She didn’t know what it said about her that she was relieved the monster had his sights set on someone else entirely but hell she didn’t care at the moment. Especially because he wasn’t attacking the man brandishing a stick. She had been expecting some all out brawl where the man would be torn apart as she ran away but the two were only squaring up to each other, having a conversation. “Um, not to interrupt your moment or whatever, but do you know this alligator?” The indignation in her tone was clear, the fear having subsided in lieu of confusion and annoyance. It was perfectly clear that they knew each other so the question was redundant but Winter wanted it known how utterly ridiculous she thought this was. Tilting her head back, she saw Henry in an upside down view and it was also clear that the ghost mirrored her thoughts. 

By the looks of it, she wasn’t in much danger anymore, an assumption that would most likely get her killed if she were wrong. But Winter got to her feet anyway, brushing the dirt away from her backside while she glared at the two of them, that underlying fear only visible in the way her hands still shook. “Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on? Are you the one who taught him how to talk? Might want to put a leash on your monster, he’s a bit volatile if you haven’t noticed.”

—

“I ain’t his pet,” Wyatt snarled, gaze darting from Emilio to Winter, then back again. “And there’s plenty of reason for it, couyon. Don’t expect you to keep up.” He looked at the girl again, eyes narrowed into slits, his muzzle dragging across Emilio’s chest as he nudged him slightly to the side. His movements were slow but deliberate—he didn’t want Emilio to think he was worth suddenly attacking worse than he already had, but he also didn’t like how comfortable Winter was getting. “This one needs to be taught a lesson, is all. I ain’t gonna kill her.” He pressed himself forward a little more, a growl rumbling in his throat as he tried to angle his head around the hunter that stood in his way. “Just chew her up a little. Give her a few nice scars to remember me by.” 

That was when he lunged, bowling Emilio over as he scooped the girl up in his jaws, standing upright again to lift her very high off the ground. He held her by her midsection, gently enough that any damage he did wouldn’t be permanent (probably), but tight enough to make a fucking point to her that she had shit-talked the wrong shifter. Who cared if she didn’t realize the man she’d publicly shamed for getting arrested was this very alligator? Fear was fear, and that usually lent itself to a more humble attitude. Usually. The bridge of logic might not have been present, but Wyatt didn’t care. Wyatt was just pissed. He stepped away from Emilio, carrying the girl with him to the base of a large tree. With a twinkle in his eye, the shifter scaled the trunk and perched on the lowest branch, out of reach of his acquaintance.

—

“My pets are much better than this,” Emilio agreed flatly, shooting Wyatt an unimpressed look. “What’s the reason, then? Because way I see it, you’re going after someone who’s just out for a damn walk. Think we both know I’m not going to stand by for that, cabrón.” If he’d thought Wyatt had a decent reason, maybe he’d have let it happen. Emilio was fine with people getting vengeance where it was deserved. But… it was clear that this woman didn’t even know what a shifter was. However she’d slighted Wyatt, he doubted it was anything intense enough to earn her the scars he was threatening to give her for it. The fear ought to have been enough.

Before he could say anything further, though, the shifter surged forward. Years ago, before the injury to his leg and the shit that left his head so messy that he was only half present on his best days, Emilio’s reaction time might have been quick enough to get another swing in with the stick and stop Wyatt in his tracks. But now? He was on his ass by the time his mind caught up with the situation at all, watching the shifter scurry up the tree with the woman in his mouth. Gritting his teeth, Emilio traded the branch for a blade. “I got good aim with this,” he warned. “I’ll throw it into your fucking ass if you don’t cut the shit.”

—

Again, her great talent would be pissing things off. The thought ran through her mind when the gator snarled at her and continued to talk about her slighting it. She couldn’t think of what she had done to this thing but that was mostly due to her having so many different instances to look back on. Sifting through them all would only cause more confusion. Winter blanched when the gator mentioned scars, not really believing that it would come after her even with the threats. If it wanted to hurt her it would have already.

Or so she thought. Suddenly it was lunging at her, the girl’s shriek coated the silence of the forest around them, so loud that rustles started in the trees from animals that had been disturbed. There was no time for her to even attempt to run with the thing moving so quickly and soon she was up in a tree feeling all kinds of uncomfortable by the pressure those sharp teeth were causing. At least he hadn’t pierced her skin yet. “Holy fuck, let me down you crazy bastard!” Winter wiggled as much as she could in his clamped jaws but it wasn’t a good idea. His teeth started to scratch her skin, the faint smell of copper hitting her nose telling her that she was only causing damage to herself. She stopped but her body refused, shaking inside the giant gator’s mouth while she clamped her eyes shut. 

“His ass?” That wasn’t good enough. No, this thing needed to be taken out. If it didn’t kill her today she was sure it was going to kill someone down the line. “Throw it into his fucking neck!” As she screeched out the words she was trying to pry it’s mouth open with her fingers. Winter didn’t care if she fell out of the tree, breaking an arm would be preferable to being inside this thing’s mouth. The fight mode came in too late but it was all too present now. 

—

He could swallow her whole if he wanted. She was small enough, she’d go down easy, shoes and all. That wasn’t why he was here, he wasn’t even hungry, but the thought was a tempting one. She was trying to pry his jaws open (that was cute) and Emilio was threatening to throw a knife at him (also cute). The lamia was terribly amused, laying down on the tree branch like a cat stretching out for a nap, tail dangling well within Emilio’s reach. He kept the girl firmly in his strong grip, squeezing down a little harder just for the fun of it. The taste of blood on his tongue was a welcome one, the muscle moving beneath Winter’s body to push what might as well have been an aperitif to the back of his gullet. 

Hm. Maybe he ought to put her down before things got out of hand. Meaning that the taste of her blood was inspiring a bit of an appetite after all. Wyatt turned his head to the side to deposit her onto her feet on the branch, giving a final warning bite before releasing his grip on her middle. He angled his head up and swung his jaws over her head, snapping them shut with immense force just an inch or so above her head. 

“Well? Go on then, cher. Git,” he snarled happily. His gaze jumped to Emilio and he gave the hunter a curt nod. “You want ‘er so bad? Fuckin’ catch ‘er.” And with that, the lamia shoved Winter rather unceremoniously from the tree, watching with a toothy grin as she tumbled back toward the earth. 

—

He didn’t think the woman was helping her case much, but… he also figured he was just about the last person who could comment on another person’s habit of yapping in the mouth of danger. Fuck knew Emilio did plenty of that himself, after all. Still, he shot the stranger a look of warning, still gripping the knife in his hand as he weighed his options. He didn’t want to kill Wyatt, in spite of the situation. The guy had saved his ass once before, and it felt a little impolite to off a guy after that, especially when he knew damn well that if the shifter had intended on killing this woman, he’d have done it by now. He remembered how quickly the gator had gobbled down the body he’d found him with upon their first meeting. Whatever Wyatt was doing here, his intention really didn’t seem to be to kill the woman.

That didn’t make it all right. The woman was clearly afraid, in spite of her running mouth, and Emilio couldn’t blame her. In her shoes, with her seemingly limited knowledge of the supernatural (she thought Wyatt was a pet, after all), he could only imagine how terrifying the situation must have been. He eyed the gator’s tail, shifting the knife in his hand. If he shoved it in, would it work in his favor? 

He was about to test the theory when Wyatt seemed to decide enough was enough. He released his jaws from around the woman, and Emilio knew well enough to know that he wouldn’t let her climb down from the tree peacefully. He had just enough time to toss the knife on the ground before she was falling, and he struggled to get beneath her. This is probably going to fucking suck, he thought before the tangle of limbs knocked the wind out of him.

—

As much as she refused in her mind to show any more fear to this thing, the glare she was trying to send  obvious proof, Winter’s body kept betraying that request. Tears pooled in her eyes as the gator squeezed down even harder, the uncomfortable feeling giving way to a dull pain. ‘I’m going to die.’ How many times had that thought run through her mind in the past year? Each time she had truly believed it as well. It was hard to think anything else was a possible ending to being clamped between the jaws of a psychotic talking alligator that could walk on its hind legs, right? She whimpered again as the thing started to move her, wondering if this was when she would finally perish for the crime of being human in a supernatural world.

But then she was placed upright on the branch, her legs wobbling beneath her while she did her best to stay standing. Once again, she had evaded death. Wide eyes looked the gator over when its voice reached her ears, all bravado finally lost to the overwhelming mix of fear and relief. If the point of this was ‘don’t piss off random mutants in the woods’ this thing had been successful in its endeavor.

The racing of her heart was just starting to calm when the gator rumbled their next words, Winter’s head shooting to the side for her to watch a limb shove her backward. She was tired of screaming yet a raw screech fell from her lips in the split second before she was hurtling towards the ground, silent prayers tearing through her thoughts for the hunter to reach her in time. The impact hurt, she knew it had to hurt him too, but it was softer than her crashing to the forest floor and for that she would always be grateful. She didn’t even know this man’s name but in that moment he was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She made a mental note to thank him the best way she knew how; showering him with gifts.

The wind had been knocked out of her and her chest heaved while she tried to take in as much air as her lungs would allow. Despite this, she rolled onto her back off of the man she had crashed into and looked back up to the gator still sitting in the tree, not wanting to take her eyes off of it in case it decided to come after her again. She brought a hand up to her bad shoulder that was now aching from the impact, her fingers brushing the scar that had been left after being stabbed. “What the hell did I ever do to you?” She croaked the words out, Winter knowing deep down that she had done plenty to deserve this fate. That didn’t mean she was going to admit to it.

—

“Mind yer fuckin’ business!” he bellowed at them both, leaping down from the tree with a tremendous thud. His gaze was fixed on Winter, and while he didn’t love making a habit of outing himself to strangers, he figured this one wasn’t about to be any kind of threat. “You need to learn when to leave well enough alone, ya little shit. Makin’ a mockery of one of the worst days of my fuckin’ life—I should eat ya, ya know. I should, but I’m a nice guy, so I won’t. But that woman you wanted to buy a drink for? She’s the fuckin’ devil and you’d do well to stay the fuck away from her.” His emotions were getting away from him now, and he wheeled around on Emilio. “And you! Why the fuck are you followin’ me, couyon?! Lemme live my damn life without a mopey ol’ raincloud hoverin’ over me at every fuckin’ second.” He huffed out an irritated breath, then turned on his heel and bounded off into the trees and back toward the coast. This island sucked.

—

There was no fear in his chest as the gator leaped from the tree, though perhaps there would have been had he had even an ounce of self preservation lurking within him. Emilio shifted the woman’s weight off him as gently as he could manage, retrieving his knife and holding it idly at his side as Wyatt yelled about something that made little sense to him. His grip tightened on the hilt momentarily when the shifter claimed he should eat the woman, though it loosened when he added that he wouldn’t. Whatever point Wyatt had wanted to make, it was clear that he believed he’d made it. So long as he didn’t actually kill the woman, Emilio figured it was fine. 

He tilted his head as the gator turned to him, anger burning dully in his chest. “Was trying to make sure you’d have someone watching your back when you ran into trouble,” he replied flatly. “Didn’t know the kind of ‘trouble’ you run into is the kind where you try to eat women for pissing you off.” He continued glaring at Wyatt as he turned to leave, not looking away until he’d disappeared into the treeline. Then, with a sigh, he looked to the woman. “You good?”

—

She knew that voice had sounded familiar. Winter gaped at the alligator, man, whatever he classified himself as (even though psycho should have been the only classification here) when she realized just who he was. Running her mouth about him online must have pissed him off more than she’d realized but she didn’t give any fucks about his hurt feelings, especially after this. “You’re only proving my point, you dumb bastard!” She called after his retreating form, the irony of her calling him dumb while she was screaming at someone who could, and most likely would, kill her not lost on her. 

She sighed out the frustration filling her chest, looking down at the small cuts littering her arms while Henry slowly lowered himself next to her. “You really should shut your mouth.” Her glare turned to the ghost, just about to retort when she heard the other man ask her a question. Remembering herself, she only nodded her head at him. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a few cuts. He could have done worse.” She got the feeling that he wanted to. She made sure the other was okay as well, aware that even with her tiny stature that didn’t mean she couldn’t do damage after falling onto him from that height. He’d tried to slip away after but Winter insisted on getting his name at least before they parted ways. 

As she walked back to her car she realized her fear had settled, morphing into agitation as so many things rolled through her mind. Winter had someone to talk to about their supposed friend and just because the man thought he could scare her away that didn’t mean he actually could. She was born to escalate, to ruin, and the gator would soon find that out.

[morendodifame]

" hey, " emilio made his way through the open dorm room, not bothering to knock or even announce himself. he studied the person on the other side, he was just looking for some fresh blood at their parties. " we're throwing a party this weekend, wanna come? " he smiled, tilting his head to the side, " rarely see you at them. "

[ohwynne]

TIMING: Early April PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere & Kaden @chasseurdeloup & Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: Worm Row SUMMARY: Kaden helps Emilio and Wynne get a passport. They half-succeed. WARNINGS: None.

Kaden didn’t know the details of why the hell Emilio needed to convince Nora to come home from another country but those didn’t matter too much. Despite the issues Monty may have with the guy, Emilio was another hunter – one who seemed to have similar enough values to his own which was rare to say the least. He was going to help out. It’s what hunters did for one another, that was how you survived. And however annoying he might find Nora, the connection Emilio had with her was clear. If the situations were reversed, if it had been Alex, he knew the slayer would do whatever he could to help him. It was an easy choice to connect him and Wynne to Buzzy to get whatever papers they might need fast, no matter what that meant he might owe the guy this time.

The office in question wasn’t too far from Axis, funny enough. Kaden waited a few doors down from the entrance for the others, he knew Buzzy liked to keep it discreet. “This way,” he said when he saw the pair of them. He’d seen Wynne in and out of the cabin a few times and knew they were a good kid. If they were willing to put themselves out there for Nora, too, he had to believe Nora was worth going out on a limb for after all. Kaden approached the door of Marcelli & Associates Ltd. and rapped on the door in a pattern that was probably morse code for something that he never bothered learning. Two hard knocks back and he knew they were cleared and everyone was on the same page of what kind of business they were here for. 

Once they were all shuffled inside, Kaden shut the door and addressed the man at the desk. “Long time no see, Buzzy,” he said with a nod. “Got a favor to ask you.”

“And you brought the whole gang with you to do it,” the man replied. Buzzy looked up from whatever notes he was scrawling and got a good look at all of them for the first time, his face souring in a way that Kaden didn’t get a good feeling about. “You know I don’t hand out favors, Langley. Even to you. And especially not to him.” His eyes narrowed as he stared down Emilio and it was clear that this wasn’t the first time they’d met. Putain de merde, what the fuck had the slayer done to piss this guy off already? Besides being himself. “Anyway, you,” he said to Wynne. “Who are you, kid? You a hunter, too? You must be some kind of special if Langley’s daring to drag you in to see me. What do you need?”

—

Citizenship had never been a particularly big concern for Emilio. It was the last thing most hunters worried about. When your ‘life plans’ included dying a violent death before you were forty, entering into a long, drawn out process for the grand prize of paperwork wasn’t really high on your to do list. He never thought it would bite him in the ass like this, though. Nora, in another country, in a community he had more than just a bad feeling about, and Emilio trapped an ocean away with no way to get to her… It wasn’t something he wanted to experience. So, when Langley mentioned knowing a guy who could get him papers good enough to land him on an airplane, Emilio hadn’t hesitated. It would cut the time involved in the process for Wynne in half, too.

But… the closer they got to the guy’s ‘office,’ the less confident Emilio felt. The streets were familiar, obviously — this was close to his apartment, after all. But the building Kaden led them to was familiar, too. “What did you say this guy’s name was again?” Emilio asked lowly as Kaden knocked on the door. Before the ranger could answer, said door was swinging open to reveal an unfortunately familiar face. Emilio tensed, jaw tightening. Right. 

Of course Kaden’s contact was someone Axis had once screwed over. He could still remember the case — some trembling twenty-something who’d had her identity stolen, begging for a solution in a way Emilio was never going to be able to say no to. He wasn’t sure what the end result had been for Buzzy’s business, but he knew it had taken a hell of a hit. And, given the look the other man was giving Emilio, he hadn’t exactly forgotten about it. Maybe if Emilio stayed quiet enough, he could still get what he needed out of this. He glanced to Wynne, figuring their odds were better here if he let them do the talking.

—

They wondered if there was such a thing as a chronically nervous person in the field of psychology. If there was, they probably were one. Wynne walked into Marcelli & Associates Ltd. with a tightness in their stomach, even if they were with two strong and capable hunters. At least, they assumed that Kaden was strong and capable. It seemed like a fair assessment, up until now, especially considering his willingness to help with this very illegal thing.

That was one of the sources of their discomfort. Though they didn’t always agree with the law and especially not the government, they didn’t enjoy breaking rules. But no longer were they as passive as they had once been and it was simple, really. They needed to help their friend in need, who would do the same for them. So they tried to stand straight and tried to make polite eye contact with the man called Buzzy. (Was that his real name?) Buzzy did not like Emilio, which was a red flag, even if Emilio was very good at making enemies. Wynne tried not to jump to his defense.

They were asked a question, after all, and they were good at answering questions. “I’m Wynne and I need a passport. It’s not — it won’t have to be a favor,” they clarified, “We will pay for it, of course.” That was something they had grown more used to, over this past year. The power of money. How it could make many things happen, even if they hadn’t quite figured out how to do that. “And oh, no. I’m not a hunter. I’m just –” They weren’t sure. “I’m Wynne.” They remembered themself. “Please.”

Buzzy’s sour expression had a hint of confusion to it as he took stock of the stranger in the room, looking up at Langley for an explanation. “The fuck.” It was half-question, half-statement. A finger pointed at Cortez without addressing him. “And I reckon he’s in need of one too? Don’t have a falsified document growing tree in my backyard.” Heaven knew it wouldn’t grow in Worm Row, anyway.

—

Kaden raised a brow and looked at Emilio. How the fuck had he screwed this up before he walked in the goddamn door? He waited for some kind of explanation from the slayer, but none came. Putain de merde. 

“Cut the crap,” Kaden said to the guy. “I know you can get a passport or two in your sleep. It’s not like I’m asking for a social security number or five.” As much as he hated leveraging his last name in this town, there were some times that it came in handy. It was risky running around in hunter circles, considering half the people he cared about weren’t exactly human, but sometimes the risk was worth taking. 

“Oh, do you?” Buzzy said, shaking his head. “You know how this works, Langley, but let me explain to yous two.” The man leaned back in his seat as he addressed Emilio and Wynne in turn. “Money is great. Love it. Big fan. But if you ask me for special favors, I ask special prices, got it?” Kaden was hoping he wasn’t going to say that but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected it. “Frankly, Cortez, I don’t think you can afford my prices. Not after the mess you and your little detective agency got me into. I have to applaud your audacity, though, I’l give you that. Try and shut me down for identity theft then waltz on in here for forged papers.” He burst out a laugh to punctuate his point. “So for now, let’s talk about the kid. You need a passport? And you need it quick, ey?” Kaden shifted nervously. He didn’t know if his “good” name was going to be enough to swing this deal, but it was worth a shot. 

“Now, pardon my French.” There was a moment’s hesitation as his eyes darted to Kaden. “No offense, Langley, but what are you, then? If you’re not a hunter, I’m assuming there’s some other kind of reason you’re coming to me and not the good ol’ US government. So what is it? You some kind of supernatural? That it? Or some kinda criminal?” Buzzy held up his hands in a mock surrender. “No judgment here, kid, none at all. Just need to know the truth of things so I can get the fakes right.” He laughed at his own joke. “You know I’m a little less inclined to help on account of you being with him,” he said pointing to Emilio, “but a gig’s a gig. And I have a few favors I could use taken care of so depending on the complexity, I’ll entertain it.” 

—

He was practically biting his tongue at this point, just trying to keep the smart remarks from slipping out. Axis’s policy tended to be more or less the same as the one Buzzy boasted here — a job was a job, and money was money. There’d been nothing personal about the job Emilio had done that had landed Buzzy in hot water but, roles reversed, Emilio doubted he’d have been bending over backwards to help Buzzy, either. And it wasn’t like he could afford a lot here; Buzzy was right about that. When it came to cash, Emilio was always scrambling. And with Teddy out of town and Nora having made off with their credit card to Ireland… Emilio was cut off from his usual cash flow. 

It had been a long shot, anyway. There’d been a moment of hope when Kaden said he might have a way to get Emilio and Wynne to Ireland, but hope wasn’t the kind of thing Emilio banked on. He’d been prepared already for it to be just Wynne and Regan’s friend, even if he hated the idea now just as much as he had when it had been introduced. It was far better than Wynne making the journey alone… even if the loss of control over the situation had Emilio’s skin crawling.

“Fine,” he ground out, exhaling shakily. “Just them, then. If we do the favors, will you get them what they need to fly somewhere?” He resisted the urge to add that he was more than happy to beat the necessary documents out of Buzzy’s vault; something told him that wasn’t the most effective strategy here.

—

Some of the talk went over their head and Wynne wasn’t sure what to say, so they kept quiet when it came to transactions and special favors. They didn’t have a lot of favors they could offer besides making meals and maybe fixing a leaky faucet, but they doubted the other wanted that kind of favor, or the one people at gas stations had asked for when on the road. They tried not to shiver at the thought. 

They nodded. “Yes, I need it quick,” they said. “I’m – human. And not a criminal.” Not convicted, anyway. They had condemned a man to death, which was probably not great. “But I …” Wynne swallowed. Maybe they should use the word they hated. “I escaped my commune that’s like a cult, so I don’t have much paperwork. And it will take a long time to do it officially, probably longer considering …” Well, the aforementioned not-a-cult. “Because of the nature of the place I left. They’ll want … answers and questions and everything, right? It will be a whole thing that’s best avoided.” They weren’t sure if that was true, but it seemed about right. “And I just —” They grit their teeth. “Don’t have the time.” Or the energy. Maybe the government would want to see their parents for this. Maybe it would lead to more and more things spiraling out of control now that the demon was no longer capable of protecting the Protherians. They needed to go get Nora, not bring bureaucracy to their former community. “I have a birth certificate, if that helps.”

They were looking at Emilio, wondering what the favors could be, but tried to focus on Buzzy. The idea that Emilio might not get a passport was concerning, but it was better to get one than none. It was also not their place to argue right now. “We will do it.”

—

Kaden was practically screaming his mind for Emilio to not fuck this up and to just keep his fucking mouth shut. Not that he had any delusions otherwise, but it was clear that neither of them were telepathic since the slayer just had to fucking chime in. Kaden gave his leg a small kick, hoping it wasn’t the one with the busted knee, to tell him to cut it out since the telepathy clearly wasn’t coming anytime soon.

“A cult, you say?” Buzzy asked, raising a brow. “I feel like I should be asking yous which one so I don’t accidentally ruin a business opportunity or two.” He waved his hand like he was swatting the notion away. “Actually don’t tell me, then I’m not lying when I say I don’t know shit. But sure, if you do the favors and if you don’t interfere with my business again, I get them a passport in a few days. Kapeesh?” Buzzy looked directly at Emilio as he answered the question. “Anyway, birth certificate helps plenty. Makes my job easier, one less thing to forge and a few more things to use for inspiration. Now, I’ll let yous g—

Kaden held up his hands to cut the guy off. “Before we agree, what kind of prices are we paying, Buzzy?” He was more than willing to pay them but he wanted to know what kind of shit he was getting into before they jumped off that particular cliff. 

“Langley,” Buzzy replied, putting a hand to his heart as if it were wounded, “do you really not trust me after all this?” The look Kaden shot him seemed to be enough of an answer for him. “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you. See I know you’re a ranger and I’ve got a siren that could use a shake down. Figured like something that would be up your alley. Hell, I bet that’s your typical Tuesday night, am I right?” Kaden’s face remained hardened, not as amused by the joke as Buzzy. “You hunters, are you all this sullen all the time? Geeze. I’d hate to go to one of your parties.” He said, shaking his head. “Anyway, got a few odd jobs like that for the two of yous. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Kaden nodded, it was about what he expected. He didn’t love it but it would be worth it. At least, it better be. Buzzy shoved a contract to them to sign and the ranger had no intention of reading it all line by line but he skimmed it. Looked pretty similar to the one he signed last time for his own papers so he went ahead and signed, handing the pen to Wynne and Emilio in turn. 

“Perfect,” Buzzy said with a grin. “There’s one more thing, though.” With that, he reached down to pull out another piece of paper. This one was also full of legalese that Kaden couldn’t and wouldn’t parse through.

“The hell is that?” Kaden asked, brows furrowed. “If this is some kind of—”

This time it was Buzzy who held up his hands to silence Kaden. “Not a trick but you want a rush job, I need a little extra.” His eyes fell back to Emilio. “I’ve got a feeling Cortez in particular could be useful. What with that little detective business you got there. I’ve got some people I could use off my back.” He shoved the paper and pen towards the slayer. “What do you say?”

—

Kaden kicked his leg (the good one, thankfully), and Emilio shot him a glare that was far more half-hearted than what he might usually deliver. He’d been on edge since the moment Nora made her big announcement that she’d snuck along to Ireland to hang out with a community of banshees, and the fact that Wynne would soon be joining her, that Emilio would be an ocean away with no control over the situation… It only made things worse. Already, he could feel the shadows swirling in his mind, shrouding him in a darkness he didn’t quite know how to get out of. He kept going back to Mexico, to all the things that could happen when you were only a street away. How much worse could it be with an ocean blocking your path? 

Buzzy was speaking again, and it wasn’t politeness or self preservation or Kaden’s hard glare that kept Emilio from interrupting. He could barely hear the guy at all, could barely make out the sound of his voice over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. By the time he unpacked and translated Buzzy’s words, it was too late to make any dry comments, anyway. Any other day, he would have hopped in to help Wynne, or made a remark about how hunters didn’t really have parties, or told some bad joke at Kaden’s expense that no one but him would find funny. But not today. Today, Emilio was more of a shell than usual. And wasn’t that saying something?

A paper was put in front of him, and he signed it. There was no time to read it — it would have taken ages, anyway. Then, there was another paper, and Buzzy was looking at him. Emilio forced himself up to the surface enough to look back, to actually listen. This is important. His mother’s voice was a harsh echo in his mind. How can I expect you to learn when you don’t listen? When you can’t sit still, when you won’t pay attention? I expect better from you. He swallowed, setting his jaw in a hard line. Buzzy didn’t know him well enough to notice anything off about the expression. He wasn’t even sure if Wynne or Kaden did. Maybe there was no one left alive who knew Emilio with any kind of clarity.

The request was vague and fuzzy and not something Emilio would have said yes to in any other situation. He didn’t get into things with people like Buzzy without knowing exactly what he was signing up for. Any other day, he’d have told Buzzy to give him more information or fuck all the way off. But this was for Nora. This was to get Nora home safe. There was nothing Emilio wouldn’t do to achieve that goal. If it cost him his soul, that was fine. It wasn’t like he got much use out of it. “Fine,” he agreed, holding out a hand for the paper. “Whatever.”

—

They winced as Buzzy called their former commune a cult, even if they’d described it as one. “It’s just kind of like one. And it’s not close. It’s far from here.” Wynne said the lie with relative ease, as it felt like Moosehead was lightyears away, even if sometimes it felt like it was in their backyard. They felt around in their bag, took out a slip of printer paper. “Here is the copy of my birth certificate.” 

It was dizzying, what was transpiring before them. The man named Buzzy spoke to Kaden and Emilio about prizes, hardly paying them any mind. Wynne would prefer to also pay, but they also figured they weren’t very good at what it was Buzzy was asking for — shaking down a siren sounded like something they’d not be able to do convincingly. Or at all. They glanced nervously between the two hunters and the strange man and hoped they wouldn’t hold it against them. 

Emilio and Kaden both signed the contract without much thought and so they did too, following them and their expertise blindly. Wynne hadn’t signed many contracts before and so far most of them had done well for them, as they’d been for jobs and their former apartment. They didn’t fully understand their concept, though. As if signing your name was going to make you properly indebted to someone. For that you should ask demons for help, they figured. Not just a pen.

There was another one, signed by just Emilio. Their stomach felt tight. At least Emilio was part of this more than Kaden was, even if it seemed like he wasn’t going to get a passport. They swallowed and remembered what the slayer had told them. Their eyes were big and their voice a little meek. It didn’t require a whole lot of acting. “Are you sure you can’t get one for him too? He’s …” They glanced at Emilio, whose face was set. “Sorry.” He did not look sorry.

—

Kaden glanced over, watching Emilio as Buzzy pulled out the second contract. He couldn’t tell if the distant look he had was to keep himself from punching the guy sitting at the desk or if he was actually failing to pay attention. When Cortez realized it was his turn to sign his own paper, the ranger tensed, worried that the man was going to grab the thing and rip it in two. Not that he would blame him — Buzzy was a pain in the ass. 

A cackling pain in the ass, too. He threw his head back and chortled at Wynne’s remark. “Is that so, kid?” He had to contain more laughter. “That bastard ain’t sorry about nothing. Are ya?” he goaded. Kaden was ready to step in between the two men, worried that someone (Emilio) was about to lunge across the desk and strangle their forgery guy before he could get the passport needed. 

“Come on, Buzzy,” Kaden said, rolling his eyes. “You survived and you have him on the hook. At least consider it.”

The man sighed as he sorted his stack of newly signed contracts. “I’ll consider it.” There was a spark of hope that lit in Kaden’s chest, stupid as that was. “But it’ll take me a while to consider. And I’ll need that favor first. Then I start considering if I’ve changed my mind.” Right, should have remembered it was foolish to hope around these sorts of folks. 

“It’s fine. We just need the one for the kid right away. Right?” Kaden looked over to the other hunter, hoping he wouldn’t fucking argue. For once.

“And you’ve got it,” Buzzy said with a smug smile. “Come back in a day or two and I’ll have something for the kid and marching orders for yous twos.” Kaden knew he wasn’t going to enjoy whatever those fucking marching orders were but at least he didn’t have to do this shit alone this time. “See, was that so hard?”

—

Wynne was trying, that much was clear. And if Emilio were smarter or better, he’d try, too. He’d pretend to be something he wasn’t, he’d put on an apologetic mask. But there was no real point to it, was there? Buzzy made up his mind the moment they walked through the door. They were lucky he was helping Wynne — there was no way in hell he’d help Emilio. This would end the same way everything always did, and Emilio knew it. He wondered if explaining the situation more would help matters, if admitting that him not getting a passport could mean the difference between life and death for Wynne and Nora and Elias and maybe Regan, too, would change Buzzy’s mind. But, deep down, Emilio knew the answer. He always had. 

“I’m not sorry for doing my fucking job,” he ground out, doing his best not to take a swing at the guy standing in front of him now. “I’m sorry you don’t want to do yours.” It wasn’t the right thing to say, but was that a surprise? Emilio never said the right thing, never made the moves that needed making. He was a goddamn mess on his best days, and today was one of his worst. There was never any chance of him swallowing his anger well enough to grovel. Everyone in this room knew it. 

Maybe Buzzy would get him the passport someday, after he’d held it over Emilio’s head long enough to satisfy. But it would be too late then, and everyone in the room knew it. What was the point in getting a passport when he no longer needed one? Who did it serve? It wasn’t as if Emilio was the sort to take a vacation.

His jaw was tight as Kaden turned to look at him, blood rushing in his ears as the anger warmed his chest. Kaden needed him to agree, but he didn’t trust his voice. He nodded his head instead, curt and tense. 

It took everything he had not to take a swing at Buzzy. If they hadn’t been doing this for Nora, to help Nora, he probably would have. Even now, knowing the stakes, he felt like he was physically holding himself back to the point of aching muscles. The moment Buzzy agreed, Emilio turned on his heel, shoving by Kaden and moving a little more gently past Wynne towards the door.

—

Emilio didn’t look sorry, and even worse, he confirmed that he was not sorry. Wynne felt a rush of frustration that made them feel ashamed of even feeling it. They worked their jaw, averting their gaze from the three men in the room. They were afraid they’d cry if one of them looked at them wrong. Emilio not getting a passport was bad news, after all.

They remained quiet as the conversation fizzled out, save for their, “Appreciate it,” to Buzzy. It was accompanied with a respectful nod, even if they thought him a very bothersome man. Sometimes you had to deal with bothersome people to get what you wanted, that was something they knew by now. It was a frustrating and hard lesson to learn, but it was one that stuck.

And so they all went out, Kaden at the front and Wynne at the rear. They closed the door behind them with a softness that the others would probably not have afforded Buzzy. Their eyes moved between Kaden and Emilio now, big and still teetering on the edge of crying. “You could have —,” they began at Emilio, but they shook their head and left their sentence unfinished. Then, at Kaden: “Thank you. And … if I can ever do something for you to make it up to you …” They didn’t have a lot of skills. Maybe they’d just bake him some bread, they could do that. Kaden was good at cooking himself, they recalled, so maybe he’d appreciate that.

The trio moved down the street, back to where they’d met before the fiasco of a meeting. A strange feeling took hold of Wynne as they considered the strangeness of life and these two hunters, willing to do an ugly job on their behalf. Despite the strangeness, they decided they didn’t mind the feeling. 

[scorched-sunrise]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Jones Household PARTIES: Ophelia (@scorched-sunrise) & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: By chance, Emilio sees the letter left to Ophelia by the fae that abducted her father. This results in some very heartbreaking news for the young nymph. CONTENT WARNINGS: Parental death (mentions), child death (past, mentions)

—

Reluctant as she was to involve her surrogate uncle in the search for her father in any meaningful capacity, Ophelia recognized at length that she was making no actual progress and that her hope was wearing thin. She had nothing new or helpful to offer to him, and wondered what the purpose of this visit would even be, other than to say “I’m scared and upset”, because what else could he do to help outside of searching the mountains himself? It would amount to nothing, she knew, so she didn’t present the visit to the home he was staying in (his home, then?) on the Isle as a matter concerning her father, though it sat heavy in the back of her mind. 

She’d been there an hour before her fingers dug into her pocket to retrieve the familiar piece of paper. It was the one that had been left on her mother’s bedside table, the one that detailed the fae plot to kidnap her father and the hardly regretful admission that they’d slain Mariela for attempting to stop them. She rubbed the corner between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes raking over the message for the millionth time. It always managed to light a fire in her belly, to reignite the embers that turned cold after days of no news and no discoveries. 

The writing was a messy scrawl, distinct in its way. She wondered often who had been the one to write it—Barley, perhaps? He’d always eyed Rhett suspiciously, and had not even been overly fond of Mariela and her daughter when Solomon brought them to the aos sí. Outsiders, he’d called them for a while, before finally relenting after seven months. She wouldn’t put it past old Barley to do such a monstrous thing, not now. Not having seen the true brutality that her kind were capable of. She imagined his hand scribbling out the note she gripped tight, imagined the smile on his face as he did so… perhaps even the blood on his hands, creating the curious stains that dotted the paper here and there. 

Emilio came back into the room after having stepped out a moment, and Ophelia looked up at him. Her gaze was hard and soft at the same time, bitter but glad to see him, glad to be near him, even though it hurt. She sighed, setting the paper on the coffee table in front of her and pulling her socked feet up onto the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. Again she stared at the thing, shaking her head. “I’m never going to find him, am I?” 

—

Family was a difficult thing to navigate. Emilio used to think himself good at it, arrogant enough to consider himself a professional. Every scar carved into his skin by someone he loved was a lesson, clusters of them forming classes worth of lectures and things learned. How many years did people go to school to achieve elaborate titles? Didn’t Emilio, with his thirty-two years worth of lessons in family, have them all beat? He used to think so, used to believe he was an expert. He’d been wrong.

It hadn’t been Lucio’s revelation that revealed this. It hadn’t even been his betrayal years before. No, the thing that made Emilio understand just how little he knew about family had been holding his daughter in his arms for the first time. She was such a tiny, fragile thing, and he’d felt so helpless. Nothing in his life had prepared him for it. Even helping his sister raise her son felt like poor practice compared to what was expected of him with Flora. There was no way to adequately ready yourself for parenthood, he thought. No amount of lessons in the world could make you ready for that.

He felt a similar cluelessness with Ophelia. It had grown since her mother’s death, since she showed up in town to tell him that Rhett was gone. She had so much hope, and Emilio had no idea how to approach it. He didn’t know if it was kinder to let her hold on to that desperate belief that they’d find Rhett alive or to rip the bandage off and tell her that he was certain they wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure either was the better answer. There seemed to be no approach that would spare her, no way to keep her from aching. And he hated that.

There was a heavy feeling hanging over the living room today. He got up to get a drink, but it was more of an excuse to escape that suffocation than it was anything else. He lingered in the kitchen, and he wished Teddy was there. They’d know what to do better than he did, he thought; they were better at being a person, even if they’d spent most of their life as something else. He gripped the counter for just a moment before nodding to himself, sucking his teeth to return to the living room. He would have been more comfortable walking into a battlefield; at least in a fight, things were simple.

Ophelia looked up as he reentered the room, setting something down on the coffee table. He moved to sit beside her, stiff and uncertain but trying all the same. She asked the question he didn’t want to answer, and he tried to find the best way to reply. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t want to hurt her, either. It was an impossible thing. 

“What happened on that mountain…” He trailed off. “Rhett knew his odds going up there weren’t great. He must have known that.” He chose to go anyway. And Emilio couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t have made that decision if not for the fight they’d had just before it, couldn’t help but wonder, as he always did, how much of this was his fault. He cleared his throat, trying to distract himself by letting his gaze wander to the paper she’d been clutching before he came in. He nodded to it. “What’s that?”

—

She closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow for a moment, unwilling to let Emilio see the way pain flashed across her face. “I just don’t get it,” she said finally, lifting her chin again to instead prop it on her knee. “Why come to us if he knew it was so dangerous? Why not stay here?” She knew of the fight, of course. And that was probably it, wasn’t it? He’d felt abandoned, even though Emilio had begged him to stay, and he saw no other course. Such a fool. Ophelia heaved another sigh, knowing that Emilio would not and could not answer the question, knowing that they both had the same idea in their minds, though one inspired guilt where the other inspired anger. So instead she turned her attention to the letter that he was pointing out now, biting down on her lower lip for a moment before answering. 

“The letter they left behind after—the one they left for someone to find. For me to find.” She glanced away again, feeling suddenly embarrassed for having carried it around all this time. “I should probably toss it out. There’s no reason to keep it, it just makes me angry and scared all over again. But I…” She didn’t know. “... maybe that’s why I keep it. To keep me motivated to find him.” Her gaze raked across the room as she turned her head to look at him, her eyes gleaming with the heartache of it all. “You… can read it, if you want. I don’t imagine it’ll help any, it’s just an account of what happened and why. Bullshit it may be.”

—

Guilt sliced through him like a knife, and the silence that followed on its heels was heavy and poignant. He could try to explain it to Ophelia, try to make sense of the tangled web of shit that had led to Rhett storming out of that apartment and marching off towards his doom without so much as a glance back in his brother’s direction, but what good would it do? There were things that couldn’t be held in words, explanations that would never quite fit the way they were meant to. To properly explain why Rhett left, Emilio would have to go back to the very beginning — to an angry teenager who didn’t know how to grieve properly and the angry man who slid into his family by feeling just the same. No words could fully encapsulate what it felt like for the both of them to love Flora, or what it felt like to lose her. Anything he said would come up woefully short. 

So, he focused on the piece of paper instead. It had always felt like an odd piece of the puzzle, from the moment she’d told him about it. He’d chalked it up to not fully understanding fae customs, though there was still something undeniably strange about leaving a written confession when the perpetrators could have just as easily let Ophelia assume that her father was the culprit and avoid any retribution. He’d never pushed on it; it had seemed cruel to ask. But now, with it sitting in front of him, curiosity tugged at his chest. “Might give us some kind of clue,” he offered, leaning forward to pick it up but hesitating, looking to her for one last nod of permission.

—

For her own part, Ophelia had never considered it odd that the fae had left behind an explanation. Maybe they feared retribution upon their return, she thought—which was wise of them, because that had been her intention all along, but… they hadn’t returned. Or maybe it was more a matter of gloating. Barley, the assumed author of the note now sitting perilously between them, was one that would surely love to do this. I told you so, she could hear him saying. I told you that stray and her pup were nothing but trouble! Sun above, she should like to carve him open from sternum to pelvis, she thought, and then recoiled. That was a violent desire, even for her. Up to now, they’d all been nameless, descriptionless things. She didn’t spend the day imagining how she’d kill Barley and his company, only that she would, sun help them, if she ever found them. 

“Might,” she muttered, watching his hand reach for it. At the pause, she met his gaze again and nodded, hugging the pillow closer to her. 

She knew there was nothing helpful to be gleaned from that message, and yet her heart sped up as Emilio picked it up from the table, watching him intently as he read it, searching his expression for any kind of sign that he’d discovered some truth she’d overlooked. He was a detective, after all. She hugged the pillow even tighter still, realizing she was holding her breath when the look on his face changed. But it wasn’t to something that she’d hoped to see: the revelation, whatever it was, did not brighten him. No, instead it seemed to drag him down, and the young nymph felt fear rising from her gut. “What?” she barked impatiently. “What is it?”

—

He would have liked to have claimed he knew the moment he picked up the paper, like some invisible jolt went through him and revealed the truth all at once. He would have liked to have claimed he knew before then, even, and maybe a part of him had. After all, his mind had jumped to certain conclusions the moment Ophelia told him her mother was dead, even if he’d chased those conclusions away the best he knew how. He’d come to accept the version of events she placed before him regardless of the inconsistencies or puzzling questions, because it was easier. It was easier to live in a world where things were simple, where you could tell yourself that the heroes were the people you loved and the villains were the people you hated and there was no complexity beyond that.

But the world was not a simple place.

Emilio didn’t know the moment his hand touched the paper, but he knew the moment his eyes found the words. What was written didn’t matter. The letters on the page might as well have been hieroglyphics for all the difference they made. It was the handwriting that sent his heart plummeting down to his stomach, made his mouth go dry. 

Rhett would never let Emilio claim that they’d lived together in Mexico. He’d had his van, and if he’d parked it outside Emilio and Juliana’s house so he could use their shower or eat whatever Juliana made in the kitchen that night, it wasn’t the same as living there. Emilio would roll his eyes, even if he’d known better to argue. And when Juliana noticed Rhett at her table more and more, she’d done things like demand he write down his favorite meals so she could make them from time to time. (Only when he deserved them, she’d say, pointing at him with a sly grin.) Those notes were always scattered around the house, Emilio laughing every time he found one. How the fuck is she even going to read this, man? This looks like you’ve never seen a pen before. 

There had been others, too. Secret notes to Flora, left in the hollow space behind a brick on the porch. Emilio used to read them to her, pointed at the lettering on the page in hopes that she’d learn to read better than her father had, in hopes that she’d be more than barely literate the way most Cortezes were. Letters when he was away for long periods of time, little reassurances to his family that he wasn’t dead yet. Responses to the crude jokes Emilio scrawled by hand into the dust coating the outside of the van. 

Suffice to say, Emilio knew his brother’s handwriting, knew it as surely as he knew his own.

He knew when he recognized it staring up at him from a page.

Ophelia was talking, was asking him what he saw, and he clearly wasn’t as good at schooling his features as he used to be. His hands trembled a little and he thought, with a bitter jolt, that Rhett would have made fun of him for that once. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to his niece. The room felt tight around him. Her world had ended, and she didn’t know it. How did you inform someone of such an apocalypse?

“Who… Who did you say wrote this?” Maybe he was wrong. He clung to the idea, though he knew it wasn’t true. There was no mistaking this.

—

She wished she could decipher what it was in his expression that had him asking that question. Her gaze jumped from his face to the note and back again, trying and failing to make sense of his reaction. He was on the precipice of something, but she knew not what. He shook as whatever it was that he now understood settled in his mind, almost imperceptibly, but not for someone who was looking as frantically as Ophelia was. She searched, and he gave nothing. Nothing but dread, which she couldn’t understand. What was more dreadful in the note than what she already knew? The death of her mother and disappearance of her father, who she was feeling less and less certain would turn up alive with each day that passed? What could be worse than that? What?

“Barley,” the nymph answered slowly, terror constricting her throat. She was afraid to know what he knew. She didn’t want to share in whatever it was that had him questioning what he was seeing, but she also needed to. She couldn’t go another moment without knowing, and yet it seemed to be the worst thing she could ever hope for. “I… think. He never liked Rhett. Never liked us, either. Not really. He was a bastard, and he went missing that night.” She swallowed thickly, realizing that she was trembling just like her uncle. “Why? Why does it matter who wrote it? What does it mean?”

—

He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for in her response. Some piece of the puzzle that would make the picture it created into something less harrowing, some explanation that would make sense in a way that didn’t leave him gasping. But her answer wasn’t some magical key that unlocked a kinder truth. It was a guess at something she didn’t know, something she couldn’t know. How could she? Ophelia had never received letters from her father the way Emilio had in his absence in years past, had gotten no secret notes like the ones left for Flora or dinner requests like Juliana demanded. Ophelia knew her father, but only on the surface. She knew the parts of himself he chose to present to her, and it seemed that those parts weren’t as true as he’d let himself hope they might be.

It was funny, in a way; part of him could understand what she would feel when he answered her question. The part of him that still lived on those bloody streets in Mexico with his uncle murmuring useless apologies in front of him, the part of him whose hand still held the hilt of a blade that disappeared into the gut of the only father he’d ever known, that part of him knew exactly what it was to find a betrayal like this waiting for you at the end of an already harrowing experience. It wasn’t something he would have ever wished upon his niece; it wasn’t something he would have wished on anyone.

He struggled with how he could answer her question, tried to find words that would make sense. Would it be easier for her in Spanish, where his tongue better understood the syllables bouncing off of it? He sometimes thought that bad news should be delivered in a language you had a poorer grasp on. It made him sick, sometimes, the way the people who’d killed his daughter had done so screaming the same language he’d once used to read her the silly notes her uncle left in their secret hiding spot.

Would she even believe him if he said it? Ophelia trusted him, but Rhett was still her father. He was the only biological family she had left in the world, and now Emilio had to tell her that he was also the reason why. Deciding, as he usually did, that action was a thing he understood better than words, he set the note aside and reached into his pocket. He retrieved his wallet, fingers still trembling as he opened one of the folds. 

He hadn’t always carried sentimental items like this. It was something he’d started after Flora’s birth, though he’d always been sure to keep it a hidden habit. His mother would have found some way to punish him for it, for daring to make some attempt to be something he wasn’t, something he couldn’t be. Even now, years after her death, it would have been difficult for someone who didn’t know what to look for to find the small cut in the worn leather of the wallet, to know to open it and slip their fingers inside. There was more there than there used to be, more than just the photo of Flora that sometimes felt like the only proof she’d ever existed at all. Things like notes from Wynne, Teddy, and Nora had joined it over the last year. There were a few other scaps — momentos from Xó and Jade and even one from Zane that he’d deny if pressed. 

But the scrap of paper he pulled out now was older than those. Worn and faded, creased in a way that spoke of how many times it had been folded and unfolded. He unfolded it now, setting it down beside the one Ophelia had brought with her. It was one of those secret notes to Flora, her name scrawled out carefully at the top of the page. But, like the note Emilio had just finished reading, the content of it didn’t matter. It was the handwriting that was important. It was the way it sloped and sprawled in letters identical to the ones detailing the ‘truth’ of Ophelia’s mother’s death.

Emilio let the two pages lay side by side, damning Rhett and Ophelia and himself, too. He didn’t know what to say, how to add to it. No language seemed correct for something like this.

—

Confusion laced itself into her anxious expression as she watched Emilio take out his wallet. Her gaze jumped to see what he was digging for, but staring didn’t make it make any more sense. Eventually he pulled it free, and her dark eyes followed his hand movements as he unfolded it carefully, then leaned forward to set it beside the letter. He said nothing, and she squinted at the second piece of paper for a second before looking back at him. 

“What…” Ophelia began, turning to the letter once more. She unfolded her legs, setting aside the pillow and leaning forward to get a better look. She jumped between the two of them, startled to find that the writing was the same. 

No. 

She read the second letter, the note left to Flora, Emilio’s dead daughter. Something Barley couldn’t have written, obviously. That made sense to her brain, but the rest didn’t. Then who? Who wrote the letter she herself had discovered in her mother’s bedroom? The answer was clear, of course. It was staring her in the face and she was squinting her eyes tightly shut, turning away, refusing to see it. But now it grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her to attention and forcing her to make the connection. 

“No,” she breathed, drawing herself up from the couch, snatching both pieces of paper in her hands and comparing them a final time. Tears sprang to her eyes. “No! He can’t—he wouldn’t—” He would. She knew he would. He was a warden who did not let grudges go, and he’d been crossed by her mother. Apparently, in all that time he’d been chasing her, he’d become an excellent actor too. Good enough to fool both of them into thinking he had changed. And Mariela, sun above, she’d been right to be wary. For all Ophelia’s desperate insistence that he’d changed, that he was different from the man that had run her off decades ago… she’d been wrong. She’d been deadly wrong, and it had cost her both of her parents. 

Barley would not be returning to the aos sí. None of the missing fae would. Her father, be he dead or alive, had seen to that. All this time she’d been harboring a hatred for the victims, and defending the man she’d called her father when he was the one who—the one who—

Ophelia wailed, dropping the papers to the floor and letting her hands fly to her face. All that anger was gone, replaced in a flash by a bottomless sorrow. She fidgeted on the spot, panicking and needing to flee. She didn’t want to desert Emilio like this, but how could she stay? How could she not be reminded of everything she’d lost and the lies she’d been fed any time she looked at him? 

She looked at him. It hurt just as much as she expected. “I have to go,” she squeaked out, hurrying to gather her things. “I-I can’t stay here. I have to go.” She didn’t know where, she just knew away from this town. Away from this state. To some place her father had not touched, where his far reaching influence could haunt her no longer. “I’m sorry.” She was speaking quickly, throwing on her jacket and shouldering her bag. “I won’t bother you anymore. I’m sorry.” 

—

He’d heard that when people witnessed tragedies, they later described it as feeling as though the events happened in slow motion. For the most part, that hadn’t been Emilio’s experience. The massacre in Mexico had happened in flashes, in blinks of an eye. His sister was screaming, and then he blinked and she was dead. His brother was running, and then he blinked and he was laying motionless on the ground. Lucio was apologizing, and then he blinked and there was a knife gripped in his hand and more blood under his nails. Tragedies that happened after that were always sprinkled with moments of bitter time travel. In the basement of the barn where Zane’s clan nearly killed Wynne and their roommates, Emilio had traveled from 2023 to 2021 with a brutal effortlessness. In the factory where Rhett lost his leg, Mexico and Wicked’s Rest existed in the same space. To Emilio, tragedy was a quick and savage thing. There was never even any time to flinch.

This one seemed slower. For the first time, he understood what people were talking about when they described car crashes as a thing that happened at half speed while you tried to look away. Her eyes darted between the two pages as metal grinded against metal, her eyes widened as airbags deployed. The realization that slammed into her seemed a physical force, a thing she couldn’t get away from. Emilio longed to pull her from the wreckage, to turn back the clock, but there was no use, was there? A factory, a barn basement, a living room. He was useless against every tragedy that struck, no matter how hard he tried not to be. He’d never been particularly good at rescues.

The thing he hated most, he thought, was that he should have known. He should have realized it from the very beginning, should have understood it right away. This story was one that had been written long before he’d even met Rhett. It was always going to end the same way. No hunter Emilio had ever known could let something like that go, no matter the circumstances. A tragedy was a tragedy was a tragedy, even when you dressed it up in something else’s clothes. A hunter was a hunter, even when he let you hold his hand.

“I — I’m sorry.” For what, he wondered? For telling her this, for not knowing how to make it easier? For loving the man who’d killed her mother, even now that the proof was on the table? For loving her, too, even when that only ever ended one way? She fell and she wailed and he didn’t know how to comfort her, didn’t know how to make things better. There was no recovery from a thing like this. There was no moving on. There was falling and there was wailing and that was it. That was all.

She looked at him, and he flinched as if her gaze was a fist swinging towards him. He thought he would have preferred a fist, would have been more comfortable with a physical blow over to look on her face. What was he to her now, he wondered? An uncle, still, even if the person who’d created that connection between them had likely relinquished his right to be called her father? Or a stranger who’d delivered to her the worst news of her life, the way he was to so many of his clients? 

“You — You don’t have to…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. How could he tell her she could stay when he knew how badly she wanted to leave? He wouldn’t have stayed in Mexico for anything, even if it had been safe for him there. No one could thrive in a ghost town, and wasn’t that all this could ever be to her now? “It’s not — You don’t bother me. I want…” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t figure out how the sentence ought to end. He wanted something, maybe, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t know how to ask for it. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Opie, I’m sorry.” 

—

Pinning her wrist over one of her eyes, Ophelia overflowed with agony that she tried in vain to shove back down into the pit. She suddenly hated everyone that had ever told her how much she reminded them of her father—they were mostly other hunters, anyway. Others who saw her as a curiosity more than a person, she realized now. Others who… who probably knew, somewhere deep down, what was to come.

Others like Emilio. 

He was speaking to her, apologizing and telling her she didn’t have to leave, and she couldn’t decide if she felt angry or heartbroken. Both, probably. Deciding to lean into the latter, knowing that the former would only burn another bridge that didn’t deserve burning, she stopped in her frantic hurry to leave and walked over to him. “I know,” she said, misty-eyed as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “It’s—” It wasn’t okay, but… “It’s not your fault. It isn’t.” Her lower lip trembled and she sniffed, closing the distance to pull him into a tight hug. “You’re a good person. I know that. You are, no matter what you think.” Not like his brother. Not capable of such monstrous things. A good heart. A steady hand. A troubled but functional mind. He was fair, and kind when he chose to be, when it was the people that deserved it. Rhett’s kindness had been a mask. He was a faker, a fraud, a liar. Emilio might have guessed what had happened, might have worried about it after having met her, but he couldn’t have known. Rhett had fooled all of them into thinking he wanted to change, that he just wanted to have family again.

“I just… need space. From this town, from… anywhere he’s been. I’m sorry.” She moved back again, wanting to be able to smile for him and tell him she was okay, that everything was going to be all right, but she couldn’t. That would be a lie. She wasn’t a liar. She had no idea how she was going to make it through this, but she knew she couldn’t do it here. “Te amo. I wish… I was stronger.” But she wasn’t, and she needed to run. The girl stepped back, letting her arms fall from his shoulders. “I’ll… write you, okay? Once I find somewhere else to… be.” Running the back of her hand across her eyes, she kept her gaze turned down toward the floor. She had this address at least, so she could send a letter here, should she ever gather the courage to write one. 

“Take care of yourself, tío.” There was nothing more to say and she couldn’t bear to stand there and give him more time to protest, so she just turned and headed for the front door, feeling her shoulders start to heave again the closer she got to it. Would the hurting ever stop?

—

She moved towards him, and Emilio stiffened the way he always did, froze like the only way anyone had ever touched him had been with the intention of making something hurt. But that hadn’t been true in a while now, and never with Ophelia. She wrapped her arms around him and it wasn’t a blow, but he ached, anyway. He thought of the world they lived in, of the shitty place where they all existed with no place else to go. He thought of his mother, who would have killed him no matter how much he told himself she’d cared. He thought of Ophelia’s father, who’d done something unforgivable and lied about it. He thought of his daughter, who would never be anything more than a ghost. How were any of them expected to live like this? Was this all there was? He wondered if everyone ached the way he did, or if he was just doing something wrong.

His throat felt tight as she spoke, like someone’s hand was closed around it and tightening more and more with each word. He didn’t believe her words, though he thought he might want to. He thought he might want to think that he was a decent man, even if he knew he wasn’t one. He thought he might wish the things she said sounded true, even if they felt as fantastical as a storybook. Rhett had lied to Ophelia, had done everything he could do to make her think he was something he wasn’t. And Emilio, without meaning to at all, had somehow done the same.

Maybe some things still ran in families, even if those families weren’t connected by blood.

“I understand.” He wished he didn’t. He wished neither of them knew this ache, but that wasn’t an option on the table. Other people made choices — people like Rhett, like Lucio — and they were the ones left to deal with the fallout. Emilio was still in that living room in Mexico. Ophelia was still in that house on the mountain. They could, both of them, travel nations and worlds away, but it wouldn’t matter. There were rooms you never left. There were moments you never forgot. He knew that.

He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. He wondered if she ever would send that letter, or if he was something that would be easier to forget, too. He wouldn’t blame her for it. “You take care of yourself, too. Okay, kid? You… You stay safe.” 

And then, she was leaving. And Emilio hated himself for how much it felt like watching Rhett walk out of his apartment those months prior, hated the fact that, even now, he couldn’t help but think how much she looked like her father. He watched her go, watched the door shut, stared at it for a moment longer. The house was empty. Everything was silent. And he was alone. 

Wasn’t that how this was always going to end?

[visceralprayers]

" I didn't know what you'd want, so I just grabbed a little of everything, " emilio explained for no good reason, his friends weren't exactly the type of people that protested to food of any kind. he layed everything out and offered a cup of lemonade to the person closest to him, " for you. "

[longislandcharm]

PARTIES: @longislandcharm and @mortemoppetere TIMING: Current SUMMARY: Winter wants to enjoy a day at the beach. Emilio is trying to clear his head. Disaster strikes. WARNINGS: Very brief mention of medical blood tw

It was one of the hottest days that Winter had experienced in Maine so far. It reminded her a little of days back in LA when the warm weather was enough to push her towards the beaches, nostalgia pulling at her tiny heartstrings. Luckily, Wicked’s Rest had beaches too and she intended on taking full advantage of it. The sand between her toes, the sun kissing her skin, all of it brought a smile to her lips while she looked out over the water…only for the smile to fade when she thought back to her conversation with Mack. Nobody could enjoy anything around here, could they? All of it brought out memories that weren’t pleasant, or thoughts that she didn’t want to have like Mack floating in the sea for a few days after being thrown over the cliffs. She wasn’t even there but a chill still went up her spine at the thought of what she had to go through.

But Winter was never one to dwell on the bad when she didn’t have to. She shook the thoughts from her mind, wiggling her toes in the sand, and continued her walk along the shoreline. There weren’t too many people around, the heat most likely driving them to stay home, so peace was easy to come by until a shriek filled the air stopping her in her tracks. She whipped her head around in search of where the sound came from only to see people running towards their cars. Blood had seeped into the sand that seemed to be dipping inwards, little flecks of red graininess flying out and through the air. “What the hell? God, what else could go wrong?”

It was the wrong question to ask. She knew it as soon as it was out of her mouth, especially when the sand near the red clumps started to move. Something was underneath, causing the ground to rise as it moved like some gigantic groundhog, and it was moving straight towards her. That wasn’t even the weirdest part of it all.  No, the weirdest thing was the fin that was rising up, Winter’s eyes widending when she realized what it resembled. Land Jaws was coming straight for her. “Oh, hell no.” 

Her feet slipped a little when she turned to take off. Some Scooby Doo commercial came to mind with the movement but she dug her toes in and took off towards the parking lot as fast as she could. ‘Don’t look back.’ She kept telling herself that same thing over and over, knowing it would only slow her down if she took the time to turn her head and see if the thing was still following her. The sounds of the sand moving started creeping closer though, it was hot on her tail, and she was pretty sure she was about to die despite her best efforts.

He preferred weather like this. The cold of Maine’s winter left him with an ache in his bones, but the heat was familiar. It still wasn’t quite as hot as he was used to things getting in Mexico, but it was warm enough to set his mind at ease, to make him feel a little more comfortable in his own skin. Lately, this was a hard feeling to come by; Emilio would chase it as far as he was able, would cling to it for however long he could. He’d lost some of his confidence lately, left it in various places that became unreachable the moment he walked away. He didn’t know how to get it back; he didn’t really know if he could. 

It seemed he’d had more failures than victories in recent months, and it had always been hard for him not to internalize those. He knew he was… a shadow hanging over Teddy’s house some days, knew that the darkness that lurked in the corners of his mind sometimes seeped through without him really meaning for it to. Teddy would never call it out, though they would try to ask him if he was okay when it surrounded him. Emilio knew they didn’t mind it in a sense that meant anything more than caring for his well-being, but he still didn’t feel that it was fair to drag it around the house, to fill their space with shadows. So, when it got especially bad, he’d go out. He’d take a walk, or go for a hunt.

He wasn’t really sure which he was doing now. He had various weapons on his person, because he always did. There were knives lining his pockets, stakes shoved alongside them. A cross hung from around his neck, clanging against Juliana’s ring and the stake charm Teddy had given him a thousand years ago. There was holy water tucked in the fold of his sleeve, but there was no intention to the way he walked. He didn’t think he was looking for trouble.

It wasn’t particularly surprising that he found it anyway.

People were running away from something, which meant Emilio moved towards it. Someone nearly barreled into him in their attempt to get away, shouting a well-intentioned warning over their shoulder at him as they escaped. Emilio ignored it, still moving towards the chaos. What he saw was… unexpected. A shark on land, all sharp teeth and powerful jaws. He thought Teddy might have liked it, though any thoughts beyond that were interrupted by the face of a familiar woman running away. This was the same woman Wyatt had gone after in the woods, wasn’t it? Emilio’s brow furrowed. She was good at finding trouble, too. 

“I got this,” he told her, pulling a knife from his pocket. He didn’t know what this thing was, but he was assuming something sharp could dispatch it. “You hurt?”

Was this man trailing her now or something? The thought popped into her head as soon as Emilio came into view only clouded by the relief that pooled inside of her. Winter was pretty sure if anyone ‘had’ this it was going to be him. Still, this was the second time he had come to her rescue and she couldn’t help but think maybe he was taking pity on her and making sure the poor human stayed alive a little bit longer even if she knew he had been trialing Wyatt first. The thought was a slap to the face, her confidence shot by all the weird shit that had a hold on this place. She didn’t know why she stopped a few feet behind him. Maybe to answer his question or maybe because she felt safe in his presence or possibly because she wanted to watch this thing meet its fate, either way she did stop. And she would come to regret it.

The shark was gone. The fin had disappeared while the sand went immobile and Winter had a bad feeling about it all as she stood with her toes wiggling. Her feet were begging to move again but with the animal gone she couldn’t be sure if that was a good idea or not. “I’m not hurt.” 

As soon as the words were out of her mouth the sand beneath her started to fall away. She moved as quickly as she could but cried out in pain as sharp teeth dug into her left thigh. A row of them had dug into her flesh but thankfully she’d been quick enough that the shark hadn’t been able to bite down before her leg was wrenched away. Blood covered the sand around her limb, pooling beneath. Her blood. Winter stared at it and then terrified eyes looked up at Emilio as if asking what she should do, unwanted tears pooling in the corners of them. “Spoke too soon…”

He figured she’d make a break for it the moment he was between her and the shark. She’d been brave enough in the woods with Wyatt, even though it was clear she was terrified, but running hadn’t really been an option when the shifter was targeting her directly. Now, though? She could have disappeared with the rest of the crowd, vanished to leave Emilio to face off against the thing on his own. He wasn’t sure if the fact that she didn’t impressed him or pissed him off. 

Probably both. It was usually both.

She said she wasn’t hurt, and he nodded. He was about to tell her to get the hell out of there when the shark vanished, disappearing into the sand. Some people might have been relieved by this; Emilio wasn’t. He was immediately put on edge instead, heart pounding in his chest as he scanned the area, trying to figure out where his opponent had disappeared to. Winter was speaking behind him, answering a question he’d already forgotten asking; he couldn’t offer her any of his attention. His mind was overcome with the paranoia of an enemy he knew was there, but couldn’t see. 

It made itself known all at once, bursting out of the sand to wrap its massive jaws around Winter’s leg. Emilio cursed, diving for it knife first. His blade found the creature’s flesh, but it disappeared beneath the sand again and took the knife with it. Emilio’s chest heaved, eyes scanning the sand for any sign of it. He looked back to Winter, gritting his teeth at the sight of the blood. “Need to get that taken care of before you lose too much blood,” he acknowledged, almost hesitantly. Teddy’s house wasn’t far from here, but he hated the idea of leaving the beach before the creature was taken care of. “We have to get off the sand first. Then, I patch you up.” He had… materials on him. Given his ability to find trouble, he tended to carry something to patch himself up in his pocket. Unfortunately, most people didn’t agree with his medical prowess, but he didn’t think Winter was in any position to be choosey. “Can you walk?”

Fuck fuck fuck, she was in a lot of pain. It was hard to concentrate on his words as she stared down at her thigh, tears finally spilling over. How the hell was a land shark real? How the hell was any of this real? Winter wondered if she would ever get to a point where she wasn’t asking herself that question but it seemed unlikely now. New and more terrifying things kept popping up. It could be worse though. She could be missing an entire leg. The thought brought her mind to Henry and she winced, her wide eyes searching for the ghost that couldn’t be found. He wasn’t around for once and now he’d never leave her alone to go wherever ghosts went when they weren’t on Earth again. 

‘Too much blood’ caught her attention and she looked down at her thigh again. It was bleeding pretty profusely. “Oh my god…I’m going to lose my leg.” It was a whispered panic, the medium reaching out and gripping Emilio’s arm tightly as if she were afraid he was going to leave her there. “Tell me I’m not going to lose my leg, I need it. Tell me it’s staying where it is.” They didn’t need this. Not when there was a fucking land shark hiding in the sand just ready for another taste. This was not the time for her to freak out. Winter had survived being stabbed. She’d survived a poltergeist trying to kill her. She’d survived a crazy alligator with foul breath. She could survive this, right?

Her skin was losing color, the paleness of it once again sending her mind towards a tale spin but she bit hard into her bottom lip to stop those thoughts, leading them back to what she had survived, and did her best to climb to her feet (with Emilio’s help). She couldn’t put too much pressure on it but if he could help her she could get to where they needed to be. “Get me the hell out of here….please.” God, she was going to owe this man so much whiskey. 

She was panicking, talking about losing her leg, and for a moment, Emilio thought about Rhett. His brother wasn’t someone he particularly enjoyed thinking about these days, especially not in this context, but there was blood dripping from her mangled limb and, for a moment, the sand flickered into concrete and the open beach shifted into that abandoned factory. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pull his gaze away from her leg to look Winter in the eye instead, finding that the easier thing to focus on. Usually, it was the opposite. Blood made more sense to him than emotion, but in this context… well. He was no use to her if he couldn’t keep his head in the present, was he?

“You’re not going to lose your leg,” he snapped. “Shut up so I can think.” He wasn’t good at comforting, even when he knew someone well. Winter’s panic mixed with the chaos around them, and Emilio tried to keep a grip. He shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, yanking out the roll of duct tape he’d taken to carrying with him half because it was useful in a pinch, and half because he enjoyed being petty enough to come home with hastily constructed duct tape bandages just to piss people off. “Hold still,” he told her. “Gotta stop the bleeding before we move you. Keep an eye out for the shark. If it looks like it’s about to hop out and take a bite out of me, just… yell or something, I don’t know.”

Looking back to her leg, he set the tape aside to rip away the torn fabric of her pant leg around the wound. It was deep enough and wide enough that it would probably need stitches later — she wasn’t a hunter who healed quickly enough for such things to be overkill, after all — but they had neither the time nor the supplies for that here. Once he’d opened up the area a little more, he picked the tape back up and yanked at it, pressing the torn fabric from her pants against her leg and wrapping it tightly in tape. When the wound was sufficiently covered in the makeshift bandage, he ripped the tape with his teeth and sealed it off. “There,” he announced. “Good as new, no? Now we need to get off the sand.”

“Excuse you?” She knew Emilio was trying to help her but telling her to shut up was the last thing someone needed to do in her presence, especially when she was in panic mode. Winter’s face started to heat with her frustration but that started to make her lightheaded. Apparently it wasn’t the time for her temper either. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself but then the man brought out a thing of duct tape and the panic started up again. “What the fuck is that?” He couldn’t seriously be thinking of using tape to stop her profuse bleeding, could he? 

Oh, he was. “This isn’t going to work, Emilio.” She gritted the words through her teeth but still kept her eyes on the sand as the hunter got to work. It was a good time to reflect on what her life had become and how idiotic she felt as the tape started to get wrapped around her skin like the faux bandage that it was. But she soon started to focus more on the beach, knowing that was more important than contemplating hopping on a plane to follow after Mack. Every little movement she thought she saw in the sand had her head jerking in different directions even though she knew that if this thing wanted to come after them there probably wouldn’t be much warning. 

Wincing at the tightness in her legs as the tape bandage was finished, Winter looked down at it, her mouth dropping open slightly. How the hell had that worked? It was ugly and she looked like an idiot but the blood wasn’t seeping through the way she thought it would have. “...Why do I get the feeling you have experience with this type of thing? I bet you never go to a doctor, right?” She could tell that even if he wasn’t a hunter he’d probably still refuse healthcare unless he was dying…maybe even then. He just had that air about him. Why did she even care? The medium must have been slightly delusional from the blood loss. They did have to get off the sand though, something that was abundantly clear as that fin rose and started to cut through the ground heading straight for them. “Emilio!” 

He wished she were more agreeable, or that he was better with people. She was yelling at him, and that wasn’t really helping with his whole ‘trying to think of solutions without getting eaten’ dilemma. And, sure, maybe he shouldn’t have told her to shut up, but it wasn’t like her panic was helping anything, was it? “It’s duct tape,” he snapped as she questioned his first aid skills, “and it’s kind of all we fucking have right now. Sorry I don’t carry a full fucking first aid kit with me everywhere I fucking go.” If not for the memory of Rhett in the factory shoving itself repeatedly to the forefront of his mind regardless of how hard he tried to combat it, he would have found this less stressful and more irritating. After all, this sort of thing was close to the norm for Emilio, as commonplace as a flat tire or running out of coffee. But the blood on her leg kept yanking his mind back in time, and he found it harder and harder to focus. 

“It’ll work,” he insisted, wrapping another layer of tape around the wound just to be safe. “I use this shit all the time. It’ll hold you over until you can get to a fucking doctor, or whatever.” Winter was human, as far as he knew. That meant she was probably fine to walk into the hospital with this wound and have a professional stitch her up without worry of exposure or unanswerable questions that might have arisen had she been a little more supernatural. Of course, they had to get off this fucking beach before they could worry about any of that, and that was the kind of thing that was far easier said than done, wasn’t it? 

She seemed surprised that the bleeding was staunched, and Emilio tried not to be offended by her obvious lack of faith in him. “I told you,” he said gruffly, rolling his eyes. At her question, he snorted. “I look like the kind of guy who goes to the doctor?” The closest experience he had to a doctor’s visit was Masami, and he only ever showed up there if someone dragged him in. Strictly speaking, hunters could see human doctors if their injuries were bad enough. Rhett had done a few stints in the hospital at Wicked’s Rest, after all, and Daiyu had had a visit of her own, too. The quicker-than-normal healing was the kind of thing that could be easily explained away to people who didn’t want to acknowledge the existence of the supernatural. But… Emilio didn’t like doctors. Hospitals made his fingers twitch, made him feel like he was trapped in a too-small shed or a stranger’s basement. Even just visiting Rhett when he’d been forced to stay a few days after losing his leg had seen Emilio sweaty and uncomfortable. 

Which was why he’d really like to avoid being eaten by a sand shark.

“I see it,” he murmured through gritted teeth as Winter warned him of the approaching fin. “Come on, get up and lean on me. We need to get to the sidewalk as quick as we can.”

“Yea, yea, this is not the time to gloat.” Winter rolled her eyes at his words but there was an underlying nervousness lacing her own. It probably wasn’t the time for her own mouth either. He was right, they needed to get off this sand before the shark decided it was going to finish its job. “Maybe you should go to the doctor. You could probably pick up better methods.” 

She should have panicked more earlier. Her heart was racing as she did her best to get to her feet again, the tape wrapped tightly enough around her leg that it was hard to move without the edges digging into her bloodied skin. She inhaled swiftly when she tried to put weight on her leg, Winter finally leaning into the hunter when she realized she couldn’t do this one on her own this time. The ground around them was starting to shake softly, the sand moving in between her toes with each step they took towards the parking lot. People were standing around watching in horror, some screaming (especially one ghost who wasn’t tearing his eyes away from the two of them), but none of them made a move to come onto the sand themselves to help. She couldn’t blame them. She couldn’t even be sure she would do something like that with this crazy sand thing on the loose.

It wasn’t until her foot hit the pavement that she realized just how close the thing was to them. It shot up out of the sand intending to bite one of them again but they’d thankfully made it off just in time and the shark went back empty handed. Winter was panting and ready to pass out but she kept her focus on just staying conscious even as she sank back to the ground to lay back against it. “Tell me you’re good and the shark is picking its teeth off the pavement.” 

Emilio disagreed with her assessment. Now was a great time to gloat. Gloating kept him grounded, kept him in the present day, and he figured she’d prefer him here to somewhere else when she needed a hand to get to safety. But, of course, he couldn’t admit to that without admitting to the sorry state of his own head, couldn’t say what gloating was doing for him without copping to why it was necessary, and Emilio wasn’t much of a talker. He had no real interest in letting anyone in on the way his head sometimes dragged him backwards in time, especially not to someone he only really knew in passing. The gloating would continue, but he wouldn’t tell her why. “My methods are saving your ass right now, aren’t they? I’d like to see a doctor do that.”

She managed to get to her feet, and while Emilio’s own bum leg didn’t love the way she leaned her weight against him, it was easy enough to push the pain to the very back of his mind. He’d deal with it later, he was sure — his knee would probably lock up on the walk home, and he’d have to drag himself through the front door and hope no one noticed — but there was no use in bending to it at the moment. He couldn’t save Winter and spare himself a little extra leg pain, so the pain was acceptable. It wasn’t like anyone else was jumping in to help, after all.

He dragged Winter towards the pavement, hyperaware of the sand moving behind them. Shifting his grip on the woman, he fished a knife out of his pocket and waited until a snout came out of the sand to toss it, grinning when he heard it hit but not risking a glance behind him to see where it had landed. Instead, he focused on dragging Winter to the concrete. When they got to it, he lowered her down as carefully as he could with the adrenaline still flowing through him, eyes wild as he glanced around. “In one piece,” he replied. And the shark is…” He looked back to the sand. “Gone.” There was blood staining the sand, though, and he knew not all of it was Winter’s. “Made off with one of my knives. Not sure where I hit it, but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Probably going to need time to lick its wounds, if they don’t kill it.” He sighed, glancing back to her. “You, uh… You good?”

She nodded, his explanation of what happened with the shark satisfactory. Winter was vaguely aware of Emilio’s words towards his lost knife, her brain passing over the rest of his words entirely as her head started to spin and her vision started to go black around the edges. The adrenaline that had been funneling through her was fading fast and she was fading along with it. Even with the tape on her leg she had lost a lot of blood before he’d patched her up making it hard to breathe properly as her body worked overtime to pump what she had left through her veins. She closed her eyes, bringing an arm up to cover them and block out the sun while still fighting off the abyss that was trying to overtake her.

“Hey Emilio?” Her voice was soft, vulnerable in a rare moment when she allowed herself to be taken down by whatever was trying to wipe her out. It was the most embarrassing thing to happen to her that day but she couldn’t fully focus on the tone she was giving off anymore. Later she would chastise herself for the weakness that was displayed, tell herself that next time she needed to work harder to keep up her image, but for now she was content with giving Emilio that weakness as if she had any choice in the matter. “I think someone should call an ambulance.” 

That was an answer, right? He’d maybe asked if she was okay, his voice having long distorted by that point, but Winter was sure that was enough. Sleep was calling to her, a call that she so desperately wanted to answer despite a voice in the back of her mind telling her to resist. Or maybe that was Henry? It did sound deeper than her usual inner monologue. “I’m okay.” The ghost didn’t need to worry. 

Emilio saved her with duct tape.

[honeysmokedham]

@mortemoppetere

Is Rhett your alter-ego? You keep talking about him, but I'm over at yours a lot and I've never seen a Rhett.

[letsbenditlikebennett]

TIMING: Before Emilio decided he was jealous of Kaden's French heritage and became a mime. LOCATION: The Common PARTIES: @mortemoppetere @letsbenditlikebennett and a cute friend! SUMMARY: While studying under a tree in the Common, a cool looking worm comes up to Alex. She is immediately charmed by the worm and goes to follow it up a tree before Emilio stops her, much to her chagrin. CONTENT: Child death, domestic abuse, parental death.

With the nice weather, Alex had taken to studying under a tree in the Common. Something about the quiet ambient noise and the smell of grass made it easier for her to relax into her studying and lose herself in different Chemistry problems. As the weeks wore on, she had started getting a little nicer in her setup, bringing along a shabby old blanket to sit on so she didn’t leave with grass stains all over her legs and shorts. She had a thermos with cold brew from her stop by A Latte to Love to see Wynne and her stolen hydro flask was filled with cold water. Even her bag was packed with peanut butter and pickle sandwiches that Andy had made her. By all counts, she was set up to have a perfectly content afternoon studying Chemistry under the shade of her favorite tree, a tall white pine tree that smelled something like home to her. 

She had been writing down notes on magnetism and electronegativity when a small, fuzzy worm crawled onto her blanket. Alex had only been looking up from her books to grab a sip of her coffee when she spotted it. She scooched a little bit closer, trying to get a better look at it. The species wasn’t one she recognized, but it sure was adorable.  It was a bright green with… a happy little face? 

Almost immediately, any sense of caution that Alex possessed flew away with the summer breeze. She had to be closer to the worm, it needed her. Why? She didn’t know, but she knew for a fact that it did. So when it started crawling away toward the tree she was sitting under, she followed. That was… interesting. Typically, worms preferred to burrow back into the comfort of dense soil rather than climb up a tree. Not that she recognized this particular species of worm. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She half wanted to grab her sketchbook— get a good sketch of the species and observe its behavior to take notes on it to bring back to Dr. Nieves. Worms didn’t technically fall within the field of entomology, but given some of the shared habitats, she confidently believed that if anyone knew what kind of worm it was, it’d be her professor. The thought was fleeting as she felt compelled to continue following it up the tree. 

Alex gazed up at the tall tree and wondered how far up it would crawl. It didn’t really matter. She would follow. She carefully grabbed onto one of the grooves in the tree and hoisted herself up to begin her ascent. The rough bark dug into her hands as she made it about a couple of feet up the tree and she found herself falling to the ground. “Putain,” she grumbled under her breath as she dusted some of the dirt off her clothes. As she attempted to steady herself to get up, she heard someone behind her. But it didn’t matter, she had to get up that tree, so she moved toward it again.

He hated walking through the Common. There were so many people around, and it was hard to see everything at once. It was one of those things that always made Emilio feel as if he was just waiting for someone to come up behind him and stick a knife in his back, one of those things that made his palms sweat and his breathing shallow. It was also one of those things that couldn’t always be avoided. 

Take today, for example; one of his clients had a sister who’d gone missing in the area, disappeared from under a tree with no trace. There one moment, gone the next. Emilio wasn’t sure if it was a supernatural thing or if the sister had just gotten up and walked off somewhere, but the client was worried and worried families always got to him more than they ought to. The kid who’d hired him was nothing like his brother, and the girl who’d disappeared was nothing like his sister, but it was hard not to think of them anyway. It was hard not to think of them most of the time, even when he was trying not to. Or especially when he was trying not to.

So he was here. He was in the fucking Commons, he was walking towards the tree. And he was catching sight of movement beneath said tree. Someone’s legs kicking as they climbed, then tumbling as they fell. For a moment, he hoped he might get lucky and that this was the missing girl, just climbing a goddamn tree. It was a ridiculous notion, of course; if the case were something so simple, it wouldn’t have needed a PI to solve it. He should have known better than to think it at all — Emilio never got lucky.

The mystery climber revealing herself to be Alex, Andy’s sister and Kaden’s cousin, was definitely anything but luck. He’d built up a decent enough rapport with both Andy and Kaden, trusted the former entirely and had determined that the latter would at least watch his back in a fight, but he hadn’t had the same connection with Alex. At best, he thought he probably annoyed her. At worst, he figured she wanted him gone. Either way, he had no intention of bothering her. Except… A girl had gone missing here, and her brother was worried. And Alex was under the same damn tree, acting strange. No matter how she felt about him, Emilio refused to let anything happen to the kid. For Andy’s sake, for Kaden’s, for Alex’s. For Flora’s memory, too. 

So he walked up to the tree, stopped underneath it, watched her until she fell again and landed in front of his feet. He gave her a moment to collect herself before speaking, eloquent as ever: “The hell are you doing?”

Yet again, gravity decided it wasn’t on her side. Alex huffed as she pulled herself up, eyes still locked on the worm that was looking down at her as if it was waiting. There was something validating in being chosen by a wild animal, like it trusted her to observe it in its natural habitat because it knew she’d keep it safe. She wanted to prove its faith was well placed, but a familiar voice cut through her thoughts and quickly found herself growing frustrated. She turned back to look at him with a haughty glare, “Science.” 

If this was gonna be anything like the first time they met, Alex doubted telling him to fuck off would make him actually leave her alone. Which had probably been a good thing since she would have ended up lapir-chow, but this was fine. It was just a worm and she just wanted to study it. She didn’t need some pain in the ass slayer’s help to do that. “Casse-toi,” she grumbled. Probably wasn’t going to work, but hey, telling him to fuck off was at least worth a shot if only for her own small slice of satisfaction. 

Her head turned back toward the tree where the worm watched her from one of the branches. Alex had to get up there. She could climb, it wasn’t like she didn’t work out. Still, it felt a lot harder to do successfully while being watched. It felt like something was tugging her back toward the tree and she was growing more impatient with her lack of progress. “Did you need something or can I get back to what I was doing,” she asked as she placed an annoyed hand on her hip. 

Science? What the hell was that supposed to mean? There didn't seem to be anything particularly scientific about what she was doing, but then, she’d already called Emilio out once on his very limited knowledge of what science actually was. It certainly hadn’t been a part of his curriculum. Maybe this qualified, somehow. But he wasn’t sure how safe it was, either, and that was where the dilemma lay. 

“I still don’t speak French,” he told her dryly, “and I’m not really looking to learn.” He figured she was probably telling him to fuck off, which he had no plan of doing. After hearing the way Andy spoke about Alex, after feeling that ache in his chest at the way she recalled how adamantly she’d protected her sister, how lovingly she’d raised her, there was no part of him that felt capable of leaving Alex to her own devices when said devices might get her into trouble. She’d proven with the lapir that she had a bad habit of biting off more than she could chew and refusing to accept help after the fact. He liked the kid just fine, but he didn’t trust her to ask for help when she needed it. She’d probably tell him to fuck off if she was bleeding out and he was holding a bandage. 

Whatever she was doing, she was single-mindedly focused on it. She barely even looked at him in favor of whatever it was up that tree, and something made Emilio feel a little uneasy. “Yeah, I needed something. Needed to know why you’re climbing up a tree. What’s up there?”

Where had she gone wrong in giving this man the impression that she gave a fuck whether or not he spoke French. If anything, this was her study spot. There was a blanket and books and sure, Alex was trying to climb a tree, but that wasn’t anybody’s business. “I still don’t give a fuck,” she countered, “I’m pretty sure fuck off is recognizable in every language, connard.” The dramatic eye roll was maybe a little too hostile and maybe she would have cared if he weren’t interrupting something that felt so massively important. A beautiful little part of nature had chosen her and she needed to follow it. Right now, it didn’t matter that Emilio was a friend of Andy’s and a hunter. The worm was more important. She didn’t have time to contemplate the complicated web of feelings that the slayer brought up for her. This was research and damn it, that worm was the best damn thing she’d ever seen. 

“None of your business,” Alex scowled, slowly backing toward the tree, “Unless you’re suddenly interested in the field of nematology, not even sure why you give a shit.” Her eyes flitted between Emilio and the worm in the tree. Part of her didn’t trust the hunter to not kill the worm, just because it looked a little different. It wasn’t like she could explain why she had to follow it. Outside of scientific curiosity, she didn’t really have a reason for it. She doubted Emilio of all people really cared about scientific curiosity. This wasn’t like the lapir, it was a worm. If it was dangerous or something, she could just stomp it with her boot. 

Something in the look he was giving her and how stubborn he was last time told Alex he wasn’t just going to drop this and leave her to own devices. So she glared just a little bit harder, squared her shoulders in some show of ferocity. She was a monster after all. He wouldn’t be so hellbent on protecting her from falling out of a tree if he knew. “Since I doubt you’re channeling your inner Nathan Augustus Cobb,” she condescended, knowing damn well he’d have no clue who that was, “That leaves it at none of your damn business. If a werewolf falls out of a tree and breaks her neck, that’s one less monster for you to worry about.” 

Alex took another, bigger step back toward the tree. She was just in reach of sprinting up it. Something in her felt like she really could climb it this time. “So unless you’re going to stab me in the middle of the Common,” she spat, “Kindly fuck off. Casse-toi. Vete a la mierda, if you will.” 

Emilio rolled his eyes. Yeah, there she was. Just as stubborn as ever. If not for about a thousand different details coming together here, he might have done as she asked and fucked off. If she weren’t Andy’s sister and if Andy’s story about getting her out of the life of hunting they’d all grown up in hadn’t sounded a little too much like what he’d tried and failed to do for his own daughter. If he weren’t working a case where someone’s sister had gone missing under this very tree, there one minute and gone the next. If Alex weren’t twenty and stubborn, if he hadn’t watched her insist she could take on something that often took several slayers to handle with little more than a can-do attitude and unhoned ranger skills. If, if, if. 

But all of those things were true, and Emilio remained rooted in place so stubbornly that he might as well have been the tree she was trying to scale. Neither of them was going anywhere anytime soon. “I think you know I don’t know what that means.” There was no shame in it, no embarrassment. Alex might not have been raised in a hunter’s world for long, but she’d spent enough time around Kaden and Andy to likely know just how little someone who had would know about things like scientific fields and studies. “I’m interested because I’m working. Someone went missing just here not long ago. I want to know why.” There was more to it, of course, but he got the feeling that if he admitted to being concerned about Alex, she’d take offense. Probably tell him to fuck off again, in the language of her choosing. 

What he wasn’t expecting was what she said next, though. A werewolf… Was she talking about herself? She knew he knew she was a ranger, didn’t she? The claim made next to no sense at all.

Except… it kind of did. Everything he knew about Alex, Andy, and Kaden came rushing at him at once. The werewolf attack that had killed Alex and Andy’s parents, the way Andy seemed to almost sympathize with the wolves who’d done it. Kaden’s willingness to talk to Gael instead of killing him, even knowing that he might very well have been the werewolf who’d nearly taken Kaden’s life. Andy’s reaction to the qutrub, the way she’d almost seemed to mourn it when it died. The way she’d recounted running away from their family, choosing to raise Alex on her own at fourteen years old. Her fear in response to the ranger who knew her name. Alex’s confession, soaked in anger and self hate, was like the final piece of the puzzle that brought the whole damn picture together. 

It struck him like a goddamn bolt of lightning. By the time he recovered from it, Alex was already preparing to run towards the tree again, accusing him of feeling some desire to stab her. He understood where the accusation came from; a few years ago, it might have even been an accurate one, though he liked to think otherwise. But now? Emilio reached out a hand, grabbing her by the shoulder in an attempt to hold her in place. “The hell is the matter with you?” He hissed quietly, glancing around the Commons. No one else in earshot. Good. “You don’t go around telling people that. Christ, your sister would stick a knife in me just for letting you say it.” As if he could have stopped her, as if he’d known that was a thing he needed to worry about her confessing to at all. He was sure Andy had drilled it into her that she shouldn’t tell anyone, especially a hunter, what she was. So if she was saying it…

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. Whatever was in that tree, whatever she was climbing towards, it had some kind of hold on her. Some way of lowering her inhibitions, some way of making her do and say things that she wouldn’t have done or said otherwise. (Not telling him to fuck off. He was confident she would have done that either way.) It might be related to Emilio’s case and it might not. That didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was Alex.

“Tell me what the hell is in that tree,” he said, “and tell me why it’s got you acting this way.” The second question was… probably a little unfair. He doubted she’d be able to answer it. But the first? She must have at least known what she was chasing. “I’m not about to let you be my next missing person case. I don’t give a shit if you hate me.”

At this point, Alex was pretty sure that Emilio was actually physically incapable of fucking off. As much was evident by the firm hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks and igniting an anger in her at the same time. She was a werewolf, why could he not just leave her be? Whether or not she came back down from that tree shouldn’t matter to him even if he did have a case. Then he was reprimanding her for saying it so publicly? Which again begged the question of why he even cared. She was a monster, plain and simple, but she looked human right now. Unless he wanted to go to jail for killing a college kid, it was in his best interest to go the fuck away. 

If the worm hadn’t had her so utterly charmed, Alex might have been touched that Emilio gave enough of a fuck about her secret that he wanted her to keep it. She might have even softened her glare in the face of the protective way he acted despite her status as a monster if the need to climb after the worm didn’t feel like it was physically trying to move her. Instead, the acidity remained because he was keeping her from what was most important and that was the little green worm that was beckoning her. “A lot,” she spat, “But right now you not going away is what’s the matter with me.”

She tested her luck trying to move in his grip, but Alex felt the hand on her shoulder tighten as she tried it. Fucking pain in the ass slayer. Couldn’t he just let a werewolf climb a tree in peace? Something about a case faintly registered in her mind, but the worm was moving around in an antsy way that made her own feet shuffle in place. “Isn’t it better for you if I go missing anyway,” she grumbled, “I’m just trying to study a worm. I’m not one of your stupid cases or whatever.” She tested moving her shoulder again. “Would you kindly let go of me now?” 

Something tightened in his chest at the way she spoke, at how lost she seemed. How had he been so stupid? He may not have been a ranger, but he knew them. He’d slept next to one every night for years, memorized the way she moved, the way she carried herself. When Alex had moved differently, he’d let himself buy Andy’s claim that it was because she hadn’t been raised in the life. He’d thought it was love that made her different, but it was something else. So much of what they were was ingrained in their DNA, wasn’t it? Hunters were born with a kind of tragedy that no amount of love could ever scrub out; Flora had been proof enough of that. And Alex? Alex was proof that, even without that hunter gene, the tragedy existed.

He thought of Ren, of the way she’d been raised to hate herself. Alex would be the same, wouldn’t she? Spending her entire life hearing that werewolves were monsters only to become one. If Emilio had to guess, he’d say she’d become one the same day her parents were killed. That had to have been why Andy took her and left, had to have been what drove her to do the same thing Emilio had wanted to do before that massacre. There was always a catalyst. A bite twisting someone into something new. A child whose hands gripped your finger a little too tightly for you to ever imagine replacing that finger with a blade. Andy did what she could, but you couldn’t undo those years of being taught to think a certain way. You couldn’t force someone to accept themselves, to like themselves. Emilio would know.

“Well, then, it’s going to keep being the matter with you. I’m not going anywhere, kid. And I’m not letting you climb into that fucking tree and disappear. You want to try to take me out to do it, you feel free, but I think I can take you.” He’d drag her back to Andy if he had to. At this point, he was positive that there was something messing with her head. And in this town, things that messed with your head only ever did so with ill intent. And even on the impossible chance that whatever she was chasing did have pure intentions, it was still going to get her killed if it had her running around telling people what she was. Emilio couldn’t let that happen.

A worm? He remembered hearing about a ‘new species’ of worm in the area recently, though he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. What the hell did worms mean to him? He realized now that he should have listened a little more closely. Whatever this worm was, it had to be the culprit. “No,” he snapped at Alex. “Christ, it’s not better for me. Sure as hell isn’t better for Andy. Or for Kaden. You think either of them wants that? You know what it does to somebody, losing something like —” He cut himself off. This wasn’t the right way to approach that. He knew that much. “Fine. Okay. Tell you what. Why don’t we shake the tree and get your worm down here? Easier for you to study it that way. Climbing the tree seems to be giving you trouble.” And he could get a better look at the worm, determine the best way to get rid of it.

The longer Alex was kept from following the worm, the more appealing the option of taking Emilio seemed. Feasibly, she knew it wasn’t going to happen. He was right when he said he could take her. Unless he somehow spooked the wolf out, the odds were stacked in his favor. She could probably outrun him though, if she could just get him to let go of her damn shoulder. Stubborn as ever, he continued to refuse to leave. She wasn’t sure what he was so worried about. She was a budding scientist. She knew how to safely study a worm and sure climbing a tree with no safety equipment wasn’t necessarily recommended, that was her own damn business. Something Emilio clearly didn’t get. 

“I’m not gonna disappear,” she rolled her eyes, “I’ve climbed trees before, without supervision and everything! But taking you out is starting to sound more appealing by the second.” The grip on her shoulder was just as firm, any move she made would be easy for him to counteract. Unless… She had noticed his movements when they’d first met and how one leg seemed to be compensating. 

Alex had been all but ready to kick the knee she calculated to be his bad knee, but then Emilio was going on how of course it wasn’t better for him if she disappeared. Even though it wasn’t as important as getting to the worm, it still felt important. A hunter who wasn’t obligated to think she was worth saving. Maybe she would have been touched, but any inkling of that notion was washed away by the growing unease she felt the longer she was separated from the worm. So his words only made her angrier. “It’d be better for them, too,” she spat, “Which isn’t even a problem because I’m just studying a worm and you’re being all dramatic about it, fart.” 

She didn’t make sense, even to herself, but she felt desperate. Everything in her felt like a magnet being pulled toward the worm and Emilio holding her in place almost felt physically painful. Alex couldn’t lose the worm or hurt it as the plan Emilio was hatching suggested. “Shake it,” she pretended to contemplate before she kicked her foot back into his knee and leapt toward the tree. She surprised even herself when she got a solid grip a couple of feet off the ground and the worm was looking down at her with a pleased smile. All was good. 

He snorted as she commented that the idea of ‘taking him’ was getting more and more tempting. “Yeah,” he commented dryly, “I get that a lot.” He’d always inspired an intense desire to punch him in the people around him. He knew that. It had been true even when he was a damn kid, when arguments with his siblings or lessons from his mother always tended to end in Emilio sporting a bloody nose and a smug grin. He had no real desire to fight Alex here, of course — she was a fucking kid — but he’d pin her to the ground if he had to. If that was what it took to keep her from chasing after something that was looking to hurt her.

Especially considering the fact that she seemed to think she needed to hurt. 

He thought of Ren again, of the similarities between these two kids and how the hunter lifestyle he’d always been raised to see as necessary became poisonous when applied to anyone who wasn’t born the right way. He’d told Ren, time and time again, that his story was different from hers. The way Emilio had been raised made sense for a slayer. He had to be broken down so he could be built back up into something worth being, had no innate worth of his own. A hunter’s purpose was to bleed. If you couldn’t stomach that, you were useless. But Ren wasn’t a hunter, and neither was Alex. And while neither of them fell into the category he’d always been taught was his to protect, that protective streak extended to them, anyway. Whether they wanted it or not.

“It wouldn’t,” he snapped again. “It wouldn’t be better for them. You can trust me, kid, if anything happened to you, neither of them would ever be able to live with themselves. They’d take it with them everywhere they go. And that shit’s heavy to lug around.” His back ached with the weight of it, made it impossible to get out of bed some days. He wouldn’t wish that on Andy, on Kaden. Even if he didn’t want to help Alex because of his fondness for her, he still would have stepped in for them. The latter, he figured, was probably what was more likely to make the kid see reason.

Or… maybe not. For a moment, he thought his plan might work. She seemed to consider his suggestion. But he saw the flash of deception in her eyes just a heartbeat before her foot found his bad knee, and he grunted as his body hit the ground with a thud. His whole leg felt fingerslike it was on fire, and he sat on the ground for a moment sputtering as he tried to regain his senses. Push it down. Ignore it. Get the kid. 

He was unsteady when he got to his feet, his leg folding underneath him and sending him stumbling forward, barely able to keep upright. Yeah. That one was going to hurt for a while. But there was no real time to think on it, because Alex was making real progress up the tree this time, and Emilio —-

Goddammit. Emilio was going to have to make a jump for it, wasn’t he? Fucking kids. Fucking worms. Fucking Wicked’s Rest.

His running leap was more of a… stumbling bound. He was working almost exclusively with one leg now, but Alex hadn’t made it terribly far up the tree and Emilio had a height advantage over her, anyway, so he had less distance to cover. He managed to grab her ankle and yank, shaking the tree in the process.

If her determination hadn’t been focused elsewhere, Alex would have noticed the way he spoke of loss and how her family would carry it like he knew. As it was, that flew over her radar as she bolted toward the worm. There was no time to feel bad for kicking Emilio if she wanted to get away from him and get back to following the worm that had found her. It had chosen her and clearly welcomed her into its home. That was an honor and Emilio was ruining it. It was difficult to see him as anything but an obstacle as he chased after her instead of leaving her to her own devices. The hand that gripped her ankle was an obstacle she had to overcome. “Let go of me,” she shouted petulantly. 

Some feral mix between a growl and a shout escaped from her lips The tree was unsteady under her hands as the force shook it. Alex scraped her nails into the bark uselessly to try and keep her grip on the tree but ultimately came tumbling down with bloodied fingers. Her legs buckled under her as she hit the grassy ground and she found herself essentially sitting on her now likely bruised ass. In the fall, hair had fallen from her ponytail and her eyes turned glassy with tears she wouldn’t shed because it hurt. She was supposed to be better at handling pain and she was embarrassed that of all people it was Emilio who was yet again getting a shining example of why she was a shit ranger. 

And now the climb to follow the worm seemed like a near impossible feat as her entire body began to throb. Yet Alex couldn’t give up and only seconds later it became clear that she didn’t have to as she saw the worm moving just beside where Emilio had landed. Her face lit up and without thinking, she began to move toward the worm again despite the slayer that was essentially a barricade. 

Whatever it was drawing her towards the tree, it was strong. She was yelling and growling and, for a moment, he was a little afraid that the sheer force of the emotion this thing was forcing into her might force a transformation. God, after all the bickering back and forth they’d done on the subject, Kaden would be fucking insufferable if Emilio got himself killed by a werewolf. Luckily, though, Alex remained human. Unluckily, she also remained entranced by whatever worm had a hold of her.

It was harder than it should have been to yank her away from the tree; he caught sight of her bloody fingernails and had to squash a sense of guilt before it could make him lose focus. Bloody fingernails would be the least of her problems if he actually let her do what she was trying to do, he figured. Nothing that sunk its claws this deep into a person did so with good intentions, and the fact that his client’s missing sister was still missing, days after she’d last been seen under this tree told Emilio that the worm’s intentions probably weren’t great. 

He caught sight of the worm, fallen from the tree in the scuffle. It had a… face. A visible face. A smiling one. That wasn’t something worms usually tended to have in Emilio’s experience. The second Alex caught sight of it, she was already scampering towards it, and Emilio still didn’t know what it wanted with her, but he knew he didn’t trust it. It was a gamble. Killing it could either break its control or really set Alex off. But either way… a dead worm wouldn’t be able to hurt the kid, would it? 

Scrambling to his feet, Emilio slammed his heel down on the worm hard, feeling it crunch beneath his shoe. When he lifted his foot, there was a tiny splatter of worm guts in the grass. He turned to Alex, bracing himself for a reaction. 

As she was lunging toward the worm, Alex could see the look of realization on the slayer’s face. Her whole body hurt and she couldn’t move fast enough. It was like she could see the thought right on his face and the sudden shift in his stance as he lifted his foot. No. Why would he want to hurt a cute little worm who had done nothing wrong? Why was he so convinced that she was in some sort of danger here? “No,” she cried out. She leapt forward only to fall flat on her stomach just inches away from the worm as it was squashed under the heel of Emilio’s boot. 

Almost instantly, sense seemed to wash over her and the whole encounter felt a little hazy. Instead of pushing herself up, Alex just laid there in defeat on the ground. Without whatever pull that worm had on her mind, the pain in her legs, hands, and now torso wasn’t so easy to ignore. The embarrassment also crept in. Had she really just told a hunter what she was? What the fuck was wrong with her? And he’d watched her fall out of a tree… multiple times. Fucking humiliating. She didn’t look up, she couldn’t bring herself to when her lip was quivering in a way that would have earned more than a shove from her father. The glassy sheen to her eyes only made her look more like some pitiful kid. 

“Think your business is settled now,” she murmured at the ground, “Unless putting the werewolf down’s on your agenda now.” She hoped he would just leave so she could metaphorically lick her wounds and pretend like the blood didn’t make her feel sick. At least then she could not be seen in… whatever post worm-manced state she was in. 

There was a moment where time seemed to stand still. Alex lay on her stomach in front of the squashed worm, suspended in time as she seemed to process its demise. Emilio stood just as still, waiting to see if she was about to come at him for killing her new best friend. It was a strange standoff and, thankfully, a temporary one.

Alex didn’t leap to her feet the way he might have expected her to, and concern ebbed in Emilio’s chest, an unwelcome present. Had he yanked her down from the tree a little too hard? Hurt her somehow? He shifted, shuffling his feet a little. He tried to subtly check her for any obvious injury, not wanting her to see his concern. He knew she wouldn’t like it. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t fond of him and, knowing what he knew now, Emilio could hardly blame her. He was a hunter, even if he wasn’t a ranger. That made him the enemy in plenty of people’s minds.

“It’s not,” he said flatly. He paused for a moment. And then: “You all right?”

The grass below her felt like the edge of a cliff as she waited for what should have been inevitable disgust. Alex felt like she was in a state of suspension, simply waiting for the other shoe to drop and when it didn’t, she didn’t know how to back away from that ledge. Acceptance from Andy and Kaden was one thing, they were family, but Emilio had likely grown up similar to them. Sure, his focus was the undead, but anything not human was a monster. That’s just what it was. There wasn’t some gray area where she existed as anything but the most vicious parts of herself. The small girl with blades of grass in her fists and tears in her eyes was just as much the monster as the werewolf who left her bunker looking like a warzone by the end of the night. A hunter was supposed to know that better than anyone and one day, Emilio would see it and not be blinded by some sense of family loyalty. 

But at that moment, he was asking if she was all right and it felt as if he might actually be concerned about her. Alex wanted to believe that was genuine. She wanted to be good enough that another hunter could actually see her as worth saving, as good, but that was too far-fetched. If she let herself believe it, it’d hurt that much more when Emilio came back to his senses. So instead of truthfully answering that no, she wasn’t all right— she’d just had a worm toying with her brain and got yanked out of a tree and everything hurt, she lied through her teeth, still unable to meet Emilio’s eyes. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, “I just wanna go home.” 

She pushed herself up from the ground and haphazardly collected her things. Her eyes still couldn’t quite meet the slayer’s as she gave him a nod before making her way back to her scooter and hoped Andy or Kaden would be home to help patch up some of the scrapes she got from… whatever the hell that whole situation was. She couldn’t help but wish she could perform first aid on that whole conversation and take back the truth she never meant to tell, but it was too late for that. She could only hope that whatever way the chips fell didn’t lead to Emilio changing his mind. 

[dirtwatchman]

PARTIES: Caleb Aesil (@dirtwatchman) and Emilio (@mortemoppetere) TIME: Current (May 27th) SUMMARY: After getting information from their last kill and her ex, Aesil heads to the bizarre in town. They run into Emilio, someone they thought had been friends with Caleb but clearly wasn't. WARNINGS: None

This meat suit was getting on his nerves. Aesil was ready to get rid of it and move on but there was an underlying voice underneath all of Caleb’s whining that was keeping the demon there. Despite the protests, the occasional moments when his host would break through and effectively scream at him in his own head, the feelings that came through didn’t always match up with the disgust or whatever it was Caleb was trying to convey. Some part of this weirdo liked something about all of this. It sometimes made him more content when Aesil added another body to their collection as if the person who had lost all control was feeling relieved of some sort of frustration he had been holding on to for years.

Or something like that. Aesil didn’t know what the fuck his feelings were supposed to portray and after being so confused everytime they broke through to the surface the demon had decided that Caleb could keep them. Still, knowing that it wasn’t all tears and anger and blah blah blah kept them inside of the dead guy because there was something intriguing about that. They wanted to know more.

But for now they were stuck at a supernatural bizarre that the stupid ass humans of Wicked’s Rest were oblivious to. They’d ended up finding the ex-boyfriend of their latest victim, realized he was a spellcaster, and tortured the information for the bizarre out of him. Now the man was chained to a chair in Caleb’s basement just in case the demon needed more information from him later. Now, though, it was time to spend all of the money this loser had stashed away…if the vendors took money, that is. 

They were browsing some of the rarer ingredients at a booth towards the back when they noticed one of those humans in the know looking over at them. God, was this another lover? Another weirdo living in this man’s house? Why did he know so many people? He was supposed to be a loner and yet half the town wanted to talk to him on any given day. Trying their best Caleb impression, Aesil lifted a brow at the man with a half smile. “Uh, hey…man. How’s it going?” Or was it ‘what’s up’? That was the stupidest phrase he’d ever heard. People knew the sky was what was up, birds, clouds, all of that shit. Why did they ask every time they saw someone? “You looking for something in particular?”

Emilio didn’t spend a lot of time at markets like this one. They only ever served to make him uncomfortable, like he was doing something he shouldn’t be. They were open to everyone, he knew, but there were times he felt his status as a hunter was reflected like a neon sign above his head, a quiet plea for someone to take him out because of it. If not for a case bringing him here, he doubted he’d have come at all. But… his client’s missing friend spent a lot of time here, so Emilio was here, too. Investigating. Snooping. Ignoring the churning of his gut warning him of something undead nearby.

His eyes scanned the crowd, stopping on a familiar face — and the source of that churning. It was the groundskeeper, the squirrely one from the cemetery who almost certainly knew more than he was letting on. Emilio wondered if his presence here was enough to make him a suspect in this case, too. Paranoia insisted that it very well could be, but logic leaned more on the side of it being a coincidence. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t a huge town, after all, and he was pretty sure you could buy… zombie food at places like this, if you knew who to ask. The groundskeeper might just be trying to avoid being the subject of one of Axis’s cases.

There was some surprise when the man turned to him, more when he spoke. He greeted Emilio like they were friends, like they knew one another. It certainly didn’t feel reflective of their last – and only – interaction. The slayer’s brow furrowed a little in response, fingers twitching at his side as if longing to wrap themselves around the hilt of a knife. He thumbed at his wedding ring to calm them, an absent, unconscious thing.

“Fine,” he replied gruffly, shooting the groundskeeper a confused look. “The fuck are you doing?” Blunt, sure, but Emilio didn’t know another way to be. He’d never learned tact, and it tended to show in situations like this one.

Well, they definitely weren’t friends. It was almost amusing as Aesil watched the confusion flicker onto the man’s face. They’d seen it happen enough throughout this experience that they knew what that furrowed brow meant. Their enjoyment of that was drowned out by the annoyance that was bleeding through them at more suspicion being tossed their way. Being Caleb wasn’t as easy as they’d thought it would be. He’d seemed so simple minded, so standoffish to people, so…alone. But he wasn’t alone and that was making this journey so fucking difficult as they tried to navigate the complexities that came with human life.

It was exhausting.

“Browsing….the fuck are you doing?” They gave the man the same tone back, mocking him, while the look sent his way was challenging as if they were daring him to cause any sort of scene. The day had been boring so far, maybe it was time to spice it up a bit and Aesil could most certainly get behind a little hate spat. Maybe it could be fun to hear why these two didn’t seem to get along. Maybe they could learn something in the process. 

They lifted the corner of Caleb’s lips into a smirk before looking back down at the table before them, not worrying about keeping an eye out. The man he possessed was dead, there wasn’t much the other could do and they doubted very much he would try to physically harm Caleb in such a public setting. It wasn’t often Aesil underestimated people like this but they felt comfortable in doing so with this one. “Looking for a nice sand chomper tooth. The last one I saw was cracked.” They made a point to eye the vendor who scowled their way.

Something was wildly different about the undead groundskeeper here. When Emilio had confronted him in the graveyard, he’d seemed uncertain. Polite in a way that alluded to discomfort, uneasy with the detective’s line of questioning but unwilling to bluntly tell him where to shove it. This certainly wasn’t the case here, and Emilio found his interest piqued. Was this a telltale sign that, in catching him off guard in that graveyard, he’d spooked the groundskeeper into revealing something after all? If this was his default demeanor, that uncertain politeness might serve as proof to Emilio’s suspicion that he’d known more about the case Emilio was investigating than he’d let on. 

He had the upper hand here, he realized. He knew very little about the groundskeeper, but he still knew more about him than the man knew about Emilio. For example, Emilio knew the man was undead. He was fairly certain he was a zombie, specifically, but he wasn’t sure he’d put money down on that assumption just yet. The other man had no idea that Emilio knew this, and he certainly had no way of knowing that Emilio was anything more than a particularly nosy private investigator, and Emilio intended to keep it that way.

He also intended to learn more. 

You could never have too much information. That was something Emilio believed wholeheartedly. He knew plenty about the zombie, but he could stand to know more, could learn enough to solve his case and decide what to do with the guy after. “Yeah? What do you need it for?” He didn’t know much about things sold here or what they were used for; he thought, with some irritation, that he probably should have listened a little closer to Teddy’s rants on places like this instead of spending the conversation staring at their lips. He’d ask them about it later, see if their response lined up with what the zombie told him.

Straight to the point, not giving anything even after Aesil had given him something. Rude. But they kind of liked him for it even if they didn’t plan on giving much more. The demon picked up a live gremlin in a jar poked with holes, the little monster of a fae ramming into the glass trying to get out. They needed something to do while they made the man sweat out a wait and the creature was entertaining enough. Their nail tapped against the glass while the gremlin gnashed its teeth at the taunting gesture and Caleb’s laugh rang out through the market.

“Gee mister, I just think they’re neat.” They finally answered as they lowered the jar back onto the table, eyes flickering back to the grump next to them. They were pretty sure Caleb would never be so difficult, even to an enemy, but they couldn’t help goading him a little. “What makes you think I need it for anything? Sand chompers are kind of rare. It might be cool to own one of their teeth.” 

Hands going into the pocket of their jacket, Aesil turned to give the man their full attention. “But really, what are you looking for? The eye of tenome? Tentacle of a yeth hound?” They looked over and picked up another jar, holding it out to him. “Fur of a santauff? You seem like the kind of guy who likes the cute factor. You can admit it.” The demon gave a shit eating grin as if that were the worst insult in the world. For all they knew, to this guy it was. “No?”

Something was definitely different about the man, and Emilio felt some irritation in the fact that he didn’t know enough about him to know which version of him was the normal one. He needed a ‘control’ group, so to speak — a third encounter to determine whether the bumbling, nervous politeness or the haughty, irritating arrogance was closer to the groundskeeper’s daily attitude. Either something had been different in that graveyard, or something was different now, but without a third piece to the puzzle, it would be hard to solve. Not impossible — no case was impossible to solve — but more difficult than Emilio liked.

He tilted his head slightly, not believing for an instant that the groundskeeper wanted something like this ‘just to have it.’ There were collectors, sure — Parker came to mind in a way that made his stomach churn — but the groundskeeper didn’t strike Emilio as one of them. There was almost certainly something deeper going on here, and Emilio intended to find out what. It wasn’t even really about the case anymore. He’d always had this unquenchable curiosity in his gut, the kind of thing his mother had despised and discouraged that had taken on a new life after her death. Emilio liked to know things. And he wanted to know more about this.

The way he listed off items, too, seemed… off. Their conversation in the graveyard hadn’t gotten too deep into things, but Emilio had gotten the idea that the groundskeeper was fairly new to the world of the undead back then. He’d spoken of things that went bump in the night, but he hadn’t seemed to know about many of the things he ought to be afraid of. Laymen didn’t know what to call a yeth hound or a santauff, much less which parts of them might be of interest to a buyer. “Window shopping,” he replied flatly, unbothered by the rest of the sentence. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as an insult or not but, given the guy’s demeanor, it seemed safe to assume it had been. “Pretty expensive thing to buy for no reason. Are you lying, or are you just stupid?” No need to play nice — he was pretty sure it was clear that he wasn’t that. 

Was Aesil not trying here? Did they not try to be friendly in the beginning and only match the attitude of whoever this guy was after he showed his true colors? In fact, they still tried to make the conversation go in a nice direction, right? So, why did this man want to make things so difficult for them? If he hated Caleb so much maybe he should have walked away instead of starting an interrogation that the demon was pretty sure he wouldn’t enjoy giving because it wasn’t going to go his way. It was too soon to reveal plans. They had none of what they needed and most likely weeks to go before they did. This man was getting nothing.

The sarcastic smile dropped slowly, irritation now flashing in those pretty blue eyes they had taken control of as they lowered the jar in their hands. “Has anyone ever told you how rude you are? It’s not very appreciated. Especially when I’m trying to help you….window shop.” They knew that the two of them both had ulterior motives for being there, there was no use in thinking otherwise, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t play along with each other's games. 

The jar was placed back on the table and Aesil looked over at the merchant who was staring at the both of them. “My good man, why don't you put an item of his choosing on my tab. I think he could use something to cheer him up.” Their smile faltered once more as they turned to fully face the other man, moving closer as they lowered their voice. “I suggest you choose your item and go. I get the feeling that we’re not going to be friends so even if I were up to something, which I’m not, I would feel less than inclined to tell you what that something is. I think that means our conversation is over.”

He saw the irritation. It was the kind of thing he’d learned you couldn’t afford to miss when you were standing face to face with someone. Anger was an important thing to recognize, a prelude to something dangerous. If you were luring an undead enemy into a false sense of security, if you were getting ready to charge a client for a completed job, you needed to know if they were going to try to kill you. (You needed to know it at ten years old, when you slipped up and made a mistake while training with your mother, too. Emilio pushed the thought firmly from his mind, disliking the notion of the comparison.) So he saw the irritation in the gravedigger’s expression, and he thought it might have been the most honest thing he’d seen from the man yet.

He plastered on a grin far less honest than that irritation marring the groundskeeper’s face, shrugging a shoulder. “Believe it or not,” he said, “I get that all the time.” Rude was hardly the worst thing Emilio had ever been called. He doubted it was the worst thing this guy wanted to call him, now. So why not go for a more cutting insult? Would he have in that graveyard, or would that strange jumpiness have won out? And which was real? The irritation seemed genuine, but so had the fear. It was hard to decipher how the same person could be so different now.

Emilio glanced to the merchant with a calculating gaze, trying to determine the best course of action. He could stay. He could keep pressing, could inevitably cause trouble and pick a fight, but it would likely end in him being removed from the market in one way or another and he doubted it would get him anywhere. Investigations weren’t solved by antagonizing suspects, even if it was Emilio’s idea of fun. Reaching a hand out, he swiped the same jar the groundskeeper had been holding, careful to let it touch his skin as little as possible. Maybe there was something to be found by taking something the guy had held onto, or maybe it would just irritate the man. Either way, it felt like a win. Holding it up for the merchant to see, he nodded before turning back to the undead man. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Very much believed.” They murmured the words, head tilting as they took in someone who clearly had something against Caleb. From everything Aesil had seen they never thought they would meet a foe. Caleb was a gentle, anxious little thing that backed down from confrontation. Another reason Aesil had chosen him. The less enemies someone had the less resistance they would face. This man was a reminder of why they’d made the choices they had made despite their hate for the body they were stuck in. Perhaps Aesil should have been grateful for that but as the jackass raised the glass jar they had just been holding in the air all they felt was a burning hatred. This human could be one that died. 

They couldn’t attack him so publicly though. They had to bide their time and Aesil, for the greater purpose, could be patient. A slow smile spread over their lips while their eyes burned into the man’s back. “I’m sure you will see me around.”

The merchant cleared their throat and Aesil’s eyes landed on him. He was clearly waiting for something, his eyes going down to the empty space on the table and then back to who he thought was going to pay him for the missing merchandise. “Seems you have a thief on your hands.” They shrugged a shoulder. “Consider it payback for the damaged tooth.” The man huffed, his head whipping in the direction of the retreating form and then back to them. Aesil was still gazing at him, heat in their eyes daring the merchant to do something. It must have been so unsettling that he gave up on the demon and started running towards the man with the glass jar in hand.

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Daiyu's house PARTIES: Alistair @deathsplaything, Emilio @mortemoppetere, Vic @natusvincere, Zane & Daiyu @bountyhaunter SUMMARY: A conspiracy meets to plan an ambush. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

She had never had this many people in her house. Scratch that: Daiyu had never had people in her house, ever. Not this one, anyway, this small cabin that she’d been able to rent through hunter connections and had been living in for about half a year. It was kind of overwhelming, if she was honest, but she never was to herself and so she didn’t pay it any mind. 

She returned to the living room with a stack of mismatched cups and a bottle of soda, placing them on the table where a few other key ingredients for a strategy meeting already resided. A package of grocery store chocolate chip cookies and a bowl of potato chips, for one, and then all the bits and bobs of paper like the blueprints and guard schedules Alistair had provided. She looked around the strange combination of people — from Emilio to Vic (who she’d just thought a very sweet suburban mom up until recently) to a guy named Zane (whoever that was) to Alistair. Brutus and Nugget were hopefully entertaining each other in corner. She’d be very sad if they didn’t get on.

“Alright,” she said, ignoring the cups and soda now that she’d placed them on the table. These people were capable of pouring themselves a drink and she wasn’t very good at hosting, anyway. To the dismay of her father — but well, that wouldn’t be the main thing that’d bother him about this ordeal. “Where were we? Us …” She gestured at Alistair and herself. “On the inside. We’ll make sure there’s not a lot of peeps on schedule.” Daiyu tucked her legs underneath herself as she got comfortable on the floor. She didn’t have enough chairs. She barely had enough forks for one person. “Whatever. Getting in’s not the issue.” She was down to brush over those details, because something else was nagging at her. Daiyu wasn’t very good at boring planning details. She pulled a messy list of captives toward her. She’d worked on that over the past week. “What do we do about the people?”

—

Tension turned his body into a coiled spring, ready to leap up at the slightest irritation. Emilio stood in the kitchen with his back against the wall, eyes darting periodically between Alistair and the woman he didn’t know with the occasional uncertain glance towards Daiyu. The only person in this room he trusted fully was the one he’d brought himself, and he was already feeling a little guilty for dragging Zane along. 

He looked to the table, to the blueprints and papers and things he probably wouldn’t understand. This level of planning was new to Emilio. Most of the time, his plans consisted of ‘go in, kill what needs killing, try not to die.’ (Except for the ones that omitted the last point — he tried not to let himself think of those for the moment.) This kind of strategizing was foreign to him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here. Part of him wanted to protest, wanted to point out that it wasn’t necessary for the blade to know what the hand was planning. Point him in the direction where he needed to slice, and he’d do it. Everything else seemed wasted on him. 

But… he wasn’t sure he trusted any of them, even Daiyu, enough not to know the plan. If he was going to put Zane’s stupid life on the line, he was going to make sure the plan was a decent one. He owed the vampire that, at least. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a flask and took a swig, ignoring the soda and snacks Daiyu had set out. This was more his style. “Case by case, I think,” he piped in, glancing at the list Daiyu had provided. “Some of them might not be the kind we want to put back into the world.” But Emilio wouldn’t leave anyone locked up. A quick death was kinder, he thought; he’d give them that. It was what he’d want for himself, when the time came. “Okay. So, we need to… look into this. Right? See why they were brought in, decide what to do with who. We don’t want to send serial killers loose on the town.”

—

It had taken a lot from Alistair to leave Tommy at the apartment to come to this meeting. The two had become dependent on each other since the loss of Melody and both of their worlds crumbled from under them. The only thing that propelled Alistair forward on this mission was that his life was on the line, and there was no way they would leave Tommy alone. They owed everything they could to make this out alive. And if that meant going against The Good Neighbors and Winnifred herself? Then so be it. Brutus had been playing with Nugget in the corner, but Alistair gave the command, and Brutus ceased his playtime and made his way over to his owner, eager to work. 

A case-by-case basis was necessary. Alistair remembered a lot of the names that went into those cages and remembered the atrocities that were committed. “Winnifred has a better-kept log that has names, dates of imprisonment, and reasoning,” Alistair spoke up, arms crossed over their chest as they stared blankly forward. “Daiyu and I could call her to the keep to discuss overcrowding,” Alistair suggested, knowing that the keep was getting seriously overcrowded. It was something they’d have to talk about eventually, whether Winnifred wanted to or not. “She’d bring her book with her and make decisions for ‘the good of the town.’ or whatever she tells herself.” 

“Listen, this mission is not going to be easy,” Alistair warned, hand gripping around the hold of Brutus’s harness. “People are going to get hurt, people are going to die. Not everyone you release will be happy to see you.” Alistair knew from experience how wily they could be. They knew they had to prepare for the worst, a spell that they’d already begun to prepare for. Alistair was going to die there, they knew they were. But they didn’t want anyone else to get killed along with them. If they could warn them of the dangers, they’d at least have done their part.

__

Vic had turned back home three times before she finally convinced herself to join this meeting.  This was why she’d joined the Good Neighbors in the first place, right?  To protect the vampires she’d suspected were being targeted and start the path toward righting the wrongs of her past.  Sure, she may have gotten a little distracted by the delicious little taste of neighborhood power joining the group had provided her (she’d made more citizen’s arrests in the last month than probably her entire time in Wicked’s Rest, but littering was down a good 10%). But after finally overhearing the truth from Alistair and Daiyu a few days ago, it felt like something substantial was finally about to happen.

As she sat straight-backed in the chair that had been offered to her, pursing her lips at the menu offered to them, a punch of guilt invaded her stomach, scolding her for even thinking of freeing monsters from their cages.  She had known for nearly 300 years that they deserved to die, and if she were in this meeting three years earlier, she would have elected to kill them all on sight.  What kind of world was she leaving for Rosie-... for humanity… if she let monsters like herself walk free?  But then her mind flipped again, to all the work she’d done to be better, to all the ‘monsters’ that had proved her wrong… Why couldn’t this have been easier?

“Why do we get to decide which of them deserves death?” Vic chirped from her corner, the first thing she’d uttered the whole meeting.  “Is that not just as reprehensible as what Winnifred is doing?  Who’s deciding morality here?”

__

Zane had rarely felt as out of place as he did here, working very hard to piece together the bits of information Emilio had provided with the people in the room and the words they were exchanging. It probably didn’t help that he’d chosen to stand, wanting to fade into the background with his ill-defined role here but realizing it probably made him look like Emilio’s bodyguard or something equally silly. How the slayer would have seethed at that notion. Moving to sit now seemed worse but he did uncross his arms, trying to match names and what they were to the faces in the room. 

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn grim - who gets to live. He’d had this conversation with Emilio, about how locking up things like Zane wasn’t a viable option. Not humane, either, especially for something that would practically live forever. It still made his skin crawl but the naivety he’d possessed last year existed no more, gone up in flames when that barn did. “Someone has to do it,” he found himself speaking up, not sure how much of it was his own opinion and how much was simply support for Emilio, which seemed his only true role here. “At least this way it’s… informed.” Was he even supposed to take part in the conversation? Well, too late now. 

—

This was why she shouldn’t get caught up in affairs. Not human affairs, not supernatural affairs — none. Daiyu functioned best on her own. If she had never joined up, she would have never known about this and she would have been able to spend this night watching Buffy. But here she was. Hosting the revolution for a place that should perhaps not be overthrown, hearing people talk about what she preferred to avoid. Morals. She tended to let herself be led by the bounty board, not by what felt good.

She started stuffing a cookie into her mouth so she had an excuse not to talk (which was nonsensical, considering she talked with a full mouth all the time) and felt herself grow agitated. “Yeah, we could totally get the book off her, no doubt,” she said, “Whatever, but — even those are — you know.” Vic was making good points. All of them were. She wanted to slam her head into the table.

“Way I see it, Winnifred isn’t … she’s just a human. Trying to do what she reckons is best, but she doesn’t … she’s clueless, yeah?” She glanced at Emilio. “Cortez and I, we’re hunters. We know this shit. We’ve been raised for this. We know what’s a risk, what’s not.  What beast to take out in the woods and which to let run its course, ya know? So it’s the same as that. Just … more …” She wiped a crumb off the table. “Premeditated. Whatever. Most important is that it ends here. And yeah, for many that’s gonna mean it ends-ends.” Daiyu’s job was to figure out who in town should be targeted, hadn’t it? She knew in some cases why some of the prisoners had been put there. She’d made that judgment. None of them were innocent. (None of them at this table were either. Well, maybe Zane and Vic, she wasn’t sure.) “I’ll make sure there’s plenty of weapons around for when push comes to shove.”

—

Zane had his back, though Emilio wondered how much of what he was saying was what he really believed and how much came from his perception that he still owed Emilio for what happened in that barn a year ago now. He didn’t bring Zane along to have a yes man in his corner, didn’t want someone who would agree with everything he said. He needed Zane for the same reason he needed Teddy, or Wynne, or Xó: because sometimes, Emilio led with something that wasn’t his head. Sometimes, the past got muddled in with the present, and nothing was quite right. If he was making the wrong choice here, he needed someone to tell him that. He needed it to be someone he trusted, someone who understood him. He had to hope that Zane was speaking his mind and not saying what he thought Emilio wanted to hear. He spared the vampire a quick glance, hoping to communicate all of this in a simple look. It was a lot of pressure to put on an expression that really wasn’t much different than his usual.

He glanced to the necromancer, scoffing quietly. “I don’t think anyone here walked in that door thinking this would be easy,” he replied flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “If it were easy, we wouldn’t need this meeting.” This was going to be rough. It was going to be hard and it was going to be dangerous and people were probably going to die. People at this table were probably going to die. Emilio felt a surge of guilt for the fact that he hadn’t shared his plan to participate in this with any of the important people in his life. If he died doing this, none of them would know until after. They’d probably be upset about that. 

He nodded as Daiyu spoke, glancing around the table. “Look, I think… These people got into this shit thinking they were doing something good.” He let his eyes go from Daiyu to the clean-cut looking woman beside her to the necromancer. Maybe all of them had gotten into the Good Neighbors with good intentions, and maybe they hadn’t. Emilio wasn’t sure it mattered. What mattered more was their intentions now. “Some of the people locked up there are bad. There’s no denying that. But some of them aren’t. Some of them are just people who have made mistakes, maybe, and they can learn from this. And the ones who can’t…” He trailed off, clenching his jaw. “I would rather die,” he said simply. “If I had to choose between being locked away for as long as these people live or dying for what I’ve done, I would rather die. It’s better. It’s faster for them. It’s safer for everyone else. It’s better. So this is what I’m doing. If someone has a problem with it, you can try to stop me, but something tells me we’re all here because we’re on the same page, yes? So we figure out who gets what, and we figure out how to give it to them. That’s what we do. Anyone who wants to leave can leave, but I’m all in.”

—

When it came to killing, Alistair was no saint. They’d done it before, they’d probably do it again. They’d done it for the sake of saving Tommy, they’d done it to save countless others. But they’d never killed someone without someone else benefitting from it. They’d never killed on a scale such as this. And that’s what they were doing, wasn’t it? All those people who couldn’t be set free were going to die. It caused Alistair to shift their weight from foot to foot, head downcast as they thought about the implications of taking more lives. They wanted no part of it anymore. Still, if it had to be done to keep people safe, then the benefits outweighed the costs in their minds. 

“There are alarms.” Alistair piped up, looking through Brutus’s eyes to point in the correct placements. “Once when the front gate is breached, once when the button on the cages is hit.” Alistair pointed to the center control panel with a frown. “If you want to set them all free, that’s where you want to go.” He tapped his finger against the paper before removing it.

Alistair pulled out a set of keys that Daiyu had. “This one opens cages.” They explained, pulling out a rather large key and laying it on the table, then pulling out a passkey. “That’ll get you in the building without detection. We’ve made sure that security is lighter that day by putting ourselves on duty.” Alistair put the pass key down on the table alongside the large ring of keys. “Daiyu and I will stick together, so we don’t need both of us to have this on us.” 

“As for who lives and who dies, we’ll deal with that when the time comes when we have that book from Winnifred. What are we going to do about her?” They implored, knowing that Winnifred would go down kicking and screaming if it came to it. “She’s a human, but she’s a human that thinks what she’s doing is justified and within reason.” 

__

Vic had known some of them were hunters before she arrived.  Of course there’d be hunters in a situation like this.  For years, hunters were probably the people she felt most comfortable with, as long as her bracelet was functioning properly.  She was practically surrounded by them, whether at her old bartending job where they frequented or her more nefarious meetings where she was trading information about vampires for cash.  But now, with everything between Rosie and her change of heart, she found herself actively avoiding them.  She felt herself toying with the cloaking bracelet as they argued.  

As Emilio spoke, Vic couldn’t deny the familiar feeling that fluttered through her stomach, the one she felt after she was presumably betrayed by her first love, and again after she was sired.  “I’m still not comfortable with us being so egotistical as to think we get to be the deciding factor, but…”  People were still important.  Humanity was still important, as much as it sucked.  There had to be a nuance between the belief that all vampires were monsters and all vampires were saints.  Her sire was no saint.  Neither was she.  She sighed before she continued.  “It seems with the time crunch, it’s our only option.”  She wasn’t happy with it, because morality in general felt so gray these days, but she couldn’t sit by and watch them all be prisoners.  Not with everything she knew now.

The group that they had gathered seemed valuable, and willing to work together, and for a moment, she doubted her place amongst them.  Would she be much help?  “There won’t be much use in us trying to get through to her”, Vic said.  She was the newest member of the group, the one who knew Winnifred the least, but she knew more than her fair share about having the wrong idea about supernaturals and using it to try to rid them of the world.  “Perhaps she needs a taste of her own medicine.  At least until we figure out what to do with the others.”

__

It would be even more difficult when the time came. This discussion was one thing, even looking over names on paper might be easy but when the time came… Zane wondered briefly if rehabilitation was an option. Where was the line? For humans, those who would eventually perish during a life sentence, there were cases of atrocities bad enough that redemption wasn’t in the cards, would never be on the cards. Was this scenario that much different? They did lack a judge and jury but if murder, especially repeat offenses, meant a life sentence, wasn’t that what they were executing in a way? At least for the ones like him, hadn’t they already used up all their allotted time and simply cheated death? The brief ethics course in nursing school hadn’t exactly prepared him for this. 

Emilio was staring him down, face unreadable as always. Did he not want him to talk? Or maybe not agree? Who knew, honestly. At least it seemed settled that not everyone would be released into the wild from their prison, the older man with the dog moving on to plans that made Zane feel eerily like this was a heist movie. The odds for an end scene showing how they pulled everything off smoothly with no casualties didn’t feel great, though. “What are we dealing with in terms of the people… running this? Are they all… human?” Zane found himself asking as they discussed the fate of the ring leader - it was hypocritical in some ways but the idea of harming humans didn’t sit well with him at all. It had been over a year but he still felt more of a kinship with them than his fellow undead. 

—

All of this went against all Daiyu had made herself know for the past years. She was a bounty hunter, plain and simple. The Good Neighbors had been a gig, a lucrative one at that — but she’d joined with that stupid notion of doing something good and it seemed she hadn’t given up on that. “We don’t touch that button, then. The one that opens everything at once. That’s disaster.” She looked at the keys, then at the would-be intruders. “Just get in with those, don’t raise any fucking alarms, and the first bit should be smooth. It’s when start opening the cages that we should be more alert.”

She took her list back. It had names, species, some transgressions on it. It wasn’t Winnifred’s color coded book, but it was something. “Let’s get through some, at fucking least. We’re here now.” She didn’t want many more of these meetings. Daiyu splayed it on the table, pointed at the name Mack Ross. “Like, I can tell you now what and how. She killed a buncha people, isn’t in control, which is …” She made a motion. “Ludacris, ‘cause it’s Mack fucking Ross. Then, Johnny no surname, he’s a vampire. You know, I think he’s alright, he loves Snicker Snackers, he could totally do an animal based diet, maybe.” She pointed to another name, “Svetlana, serial student killer. Stake.” Daiyu motioned staking a vampire, wooshing sound and all. She pointed at another name. “Chang, dunno his first name. Kept the bones of all his kills after he ate ‘em whole. Probs best to not release him into the world again.”

To speak about killing undead and shapeshifters was something she did with an eerie ease, as it was who she was brought up to be. Later that night, she’d reflect on her lackadaisical attitude with distaste, but for now it was something to hold onto. She felt something stir in her stomach at the mention of Winnifred, though, and her eyes moved to Emilio. Hunters were supposed to protect humans. Winnifred had tried to do the same, foolishly and cruelly, but she had. “We destroy the keep. We make sure they don’t make one again. And yeah, all human. Or like, human with some zest, like Al and I.” She wasn’t going to kill them. “So yeah. We destroy their means and that’s that.”

—

“Agreed,” Emilio said, nodding towards Daiyu. “Setting everyone free at once would be a bloodbath.” The more violent offenders would kill each other, the ones offended by the time they’d lost behind bars would kill anyone who got close. And that was to say nothing of the ones who might just be hungry. That wasn’t the sort of chaos any of them could afford. They needed to do it slowly. It would be risky, sure, but… less risky than setting loose a whole slew of problems. “Whose cage gets opened first, then?” The ones with the best shot of actually getting out would be the ones freed in the very beginning. But beyond that… “Any prisoners who might help us out? Without killing any of us, ideally.” His eyes darted towards Alistair and Daiyu, who’d both had some kind of a hand in the… acquisitions. 

Daiyu, at least, seemed to be on the same page. She was already pointing to her book, and Emilio felt a little uneasy at the first name she pointed out. Mack Ross. Kaden and Monty were both fond of her, weren’t they? “We should spring her early on.” He pointed to Mack’s name. “At the beginning.” He offered no explanation as to why. “Johnny no-name, too. Get the ones out who we think will need the… least amount of help staying honest. The ones we know we’re going to kill, we should get to last. That way if something happens and we can’t get to everyone…” At least they could free the ones who needed freeing before going out in a blaze of glory. He let the thought hang unfinished. Looking at the list, he pointed at another name. “That’s my client’s friend. We free her early, too.” After all, that was why he’d gotten dragged into this whole mess to begin with.

Winnifred, though… That was more complicated. He met Daiyu’s eye, then glanced to Zane. Did it matter if a human didn’t think they were doing harm, as long as harm was done? How much did good intentions matter, in a case like this? Emilio had to believe they meant something. After all the bad shit he’d done with good intentions, he wasn’t sure he was the best one to judge. “We don’t have to kill any of them.” But would he stop any of the prisoners, if they tried? He wasn’t sure. “We destroy the place,” he agreed. “How… detailed are their records? We should destroy those, too. Make it impossible for them to start up again next week or something.”

—

Staying silent as the others deliberated who lived and who died, it was like he was healing people all over again. The wellbeing and life for one, was the only way to help another. Some of the people who were locked up in those cages were less monsters than Alistair was, and they knew it. They stayed silent as they deliberated, then perked up at the name of Mack Ross. “Yes, definitely free Mack,” Alistair spoke up finally, knowing that she was a sweet girl who had already been through enough. What she did to land her in the Good Neighbor’s in the first place be damned. They, like Emilio, also offered no further comment. 

“I’m all for destroying the place.” They muttered, knowing that their opinion on matters held little sway. “Winnifred will fight for this place, it’s her baby, it’s been her sole purpose for so long,” Alistair explained, tapping a finger against their other arm as they thought. “The records are kept here,” Alistair spoke, tapping the map to a back room. “It’s got fireproofing, so you’ll need to go in there first.” Alistair frowned, realizing the problem with that. “Only Winnifred has access to that room, not even I can get in there.” 

Winnifred had good intentions, but she didn’t know what the real world was really like. She saw what she wanted to see, and turned a blind eye to all the rest that made the rosy picture anything else. They’d learned that after being close to her after all these years. “There will be after-effects of this we should think about as well. Just because the keep is gone doesn’t mean they won’t try to reform somehow. People will always find a way. The top hitters are the ones you’ll want to keep an eye on, like Winnifred if you decide to leave her in the ruins of her keep.”

__

Vic shifted in her seat, uncomfortable as the names down the list were being read.  None of them sounded familiar, even the first one that Daiyu seemed to imply would be well known, but the talk surrounding them didn’t make her any less uncomfortable.  What had kept her from the same fate as these vampires?  What if they were freshly sired, or hadn’t had a chance to learn yet?  What if an old, grumpy bitch of a vampire had betrayed her own kind and caused them on a path of destruction, somehow?  She stood up from her chair suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest.  “You don’t have to speak of this so crassly.  It’s almost as if you’ll enjoy killing them.  If that’s the case, you’re no better than them.”

She was no better than her old self, if she was allowing this to happen.  Perhaps she could find a way to rescue those they were intending to harm.  She could buy a property in the outskirts of town, far away from Rosie, and teach them to be less monstrous, somehow.  It felt wholly cruel to take someone’s second chance away.  What would these people say about her if she had found herself in the keep? Their words sounded muffled around her as she concocted it. Victoria Larsson, reformed vampire hater and only feeds from what she calls ‘ethically sourced’.  Currently brainwashing a slayer child.  Monster. Stake. 

She sat back down with a huff.  “So our moral code includes deciding that some prisoners die for their crimes, but all of the people who locked them up just get to roam free with some property damage?  Alistair is right.  They’re just going to find a way to do this again.  Maybe with more permanent consequences, as a backlash to our success.  Letting them walk without consequence would be as foolish as not doing anything at all.

__

The one with the notes, Daiyu, started moving down the list in a way that so clearly established her as a hunter. It was crass but not necessarily… wrong. There seemed to be a distinction made between pure malevolence and mistakes, a lack of control. Zane felt relief, realized that if his own transgressions were being judged, he would have stood a chance at this proposed reform. “Is it safe to assume no one’s been… feeding them?” he wondered as Emilio suggested letting the previously captive help. “Because I can… provide blood.” He didn’t offer any explanation as to how - skimming from the hospital seemed like a necessary evil in this scenario. 

—--

Daiyu felt her stomach sink as Vic chastised her, eyes blazing as she looked at her, “You don’t know shit about shit, lady,” she bit, before trying to turn to other matters. A headache was forming behind her eyes and she looked at the list before pulling it towards her again. With a pen she found somewhere on the table she added some asterisks next to names they’d discussed and X’s next to others. “This isn’t about being better or worse than ‘em, it’s about ending it. So. What the fuck do you suggest we do about the rest of the good neighbors? Should we punish ‘em all? Hang ‘em from their thumbs or something? What about you? Me? Alistair? Should we throw ourselves under the rubble to repent?” She was mostly talking to Vic now, even if she spoke to all of them. They were humans. Daiyu might not really keep to a code, but hurting humans? You didn’t do that. That was the main hunter rule. 

She tried to refocus. “The cages are split in different rooms. We can make a plan, an order of operations. I can … Alistair and I can list who seem aggressive.” Daiyu considered suggesting they just kill them all, but that was too crass, even for her. “We just light all the shit on fire. Getting a flamethrower shouldn’t be hard.” She would like to have one on hand, anyway, for totally legal reasons. 

She glanced at Zane. “Sometimes. When there’s stuff. I give them some of the … leftovers from my regular hunts sometimes. But if you’ve got proper shit, sure. Smuggling stuff in isn’t too hard.” Getting it out was what was harder. “Might be better if the vamps aren’t starved. Can you get brains too?”

—

“I don’t think trying to keep serial killers off the streets makes us shitty people,” Emilio added, nostrils flaring with brief irritation. “We’re not talking about killing the people who were tossed in cages for fucking up. We’re talking about the ones who carve people’s fucking hearts out for fun. You really want people like that running around this town?” The thing was, he understood where the Good Neighbors must have been coming from, in the beginning. Their philosophy wasn’t that far off his own. The only real difference was that Emilio killed the people he deemed worthy of his judgment, while the Good Neighbors locked theirs away. In Emilio’s opinion, killing was kinder. In the opinion of others… Well. There were different schools of thought.

He glanced to Daiyu, nodding his head. “Good idea,” he agreed. “Go in with a plan for the order, get it done as quick as possible. And destroy everything we can. Maybe they try to pick up again later,” he looked to Vic, acknowledging her concern, “but it won’t be easy. We take away their base. We show them that their plans can go wrong. We put the fear in them. If they’re smart, they go underground, try to put distance between themselves and the people they locked up. If they’re not smart…” He trailed off, letting it hang. Odds were, they wouldn’t have to kill any of the people involved with the Good Neighbors. If they didn’t disappear… someone else would take care of that part. Emilio found he didn’t have any real desire to stop that. He wondered if he ought to feel guilty.

He nodded at Zane’s question, looking at Daiyu again. Her smuggling shit in was part of what had clued him in that she might be willing to join his side of this shit. “They’re probably not well fed,” he replied, “so more blood is better. I… might know someone who can get us brains.” He grimaced, unsure he wanted to ask Monty for a favor. But if the zombie was really as into peace as he claimed, he’d probably be on board. And Emilio figured he owed it to him to let him know what was going on with Mack, anyway. He’d want someone to tell him, if it were Nora or Wynne. 

—

For a while, Alistair stayed silent, listening as people listed off what to do, about what they would do with what. For a moment, they found themselves completely detaching from the conversation, dissociating as they thought about the very real possibility of dying here. Some people were locked up who wanted them dead, they’d been too close to Winnifred for too long. They were responsible for their cellmates disappearing and never returning. If anything, Alistair was just as much a monster as those who were locked behind those cell doors. It’s something they’d been wrestling with for quite some time, but now? Now they had to finally address it. 

They couldn’t let themselves simply die, they had to continue preparing for the worst-case scenario. While everyone else planned who to set free and what to do, Alistair was making a mental checklist of what they needed to gather for a spell. “There’s no world where Winnifred wouldn’t come after us if she was allowed to walk away unscathed.” They finally spoke up after some time, still distant, still somewhere else in their mind. 

“I say we let the prisoners deal with her.” It was harsh, it was crass, but it’s what they thought. “I’m sure the prisoners will take care of Daiyu and me if we’re not careful,” Alistair added, crossing their arms over their chest. “We’ve been to the keep countless times, they know our faces.” They spoke to Daiyu, though they didn’t look over to her. “It’s something to keep in mind, that’s all.” They nervously scratched at the side of their nose, knowing that they were opening a can of worms with their words.

__

Vic felt her grip tighten around the arm of the chair, staring Daiyu in the eyes as her sharp words echoed around the room.  For her part, her expression remained stoic and still, but inside, she was seething.  “Those who wish to take down positions of power inherently have to be better.  It’s the whole goddamn point of what we’re doing.”  This was a bad idea, she should have never agreed to join this overtaking- never eavesdropped on Daiyu and Alistair in the first place.  “I suggest that we do anything other than stick our thumbs up our asses and hope for the best.”  Perhaps she should be one of the ones to be punished.  Not for crimes involving the Good Neighbors, but for all she’d done to vampires for centuries.   

But Emilio had a point.  Some of the people in the cages were bad.  That was the long and short of it.  The problem, to her, came with who got to decide what bad was.  “No”, she said quietly, and she stood up again, walking to the other side of the room in a huff.  She wasn’t used to having to work with people, or having to compromise on her beliefs to make  someone else’s plan work for someone else.  But she wasn’t naive to the fact that she was the newbie in all of this, and that everyone here thought they were doing the right thing.  No matter how ignorant some of them sounded.

She glanced at Emilio, then at Daiyu, and then at the others, feeling calmer than she had a moment ago.  “Then I think it’s worth discussing continuing to meet up after everything.  Periodically, to make sure she doesn’t try this again.”

She raised her eyebrows at Alistair’s suggestion, not hating it in the slightest.  It would be the truest justice to let those that were scorned by Winnifred be the ones to decide her fate.  Even if it were just the supposed ‘good’ ones.  She looked between the rest of the group, eager to hear their thoughts.

__

All of the arguing wasn’t exactly inspiring hope. This was a group of people clearly not accustomed to working in a team, basically a bunch of Emilios struggling to find ways to make this collaboration work. Zane wondered if he was the only one in here with actual experience of working in a team - granted, a team focused on saving lives and not… whatever this was. “We’re not gonna get far if the four of you tear each other’s heads off, first,” he muttered, finally moving from the perceived safety of his position backed against the wall. “It’s a shit situation and there’s obviously not going to be a conclusion everyone is comfortable with. So we’re all going to be uncomfortable and really morally compromised and we either deal with it or actual, good people are going to continue to rot away in cells.” It had come out a bit more… scolding than intended and he backed down again, arms once more crossing over his chest. “Up to you, I guess,” he added, withdrawn and hoping he hadn’t overstepped any boundaries as the ‘random fifth addition’. 

Maybe all of this would work. Maybe it wouldn’t. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t and something would go wrong. Zane thought about the last ‘jail break’ he’d been a part of. It had definitely gone wrong but… overall, it had been worth it. All he could hope was that this would be worth it, too. And he needed to remember to ask Emilio later where in the world he was procuring brains from.

—

It was easy to keep looking at Vic. To stare her down and take her words and consider throwing the soda bottle at her head. “Then you can fuck off if you want. There’s no better. There’s just ending it. And we are better, for ending their suffering, rather than keeping them there to rot.” Daiyu’s eyes glared darkly at Zane, another person she barely knew who was suddenly mounting a moral high horse as if there was any morality to be found here. Violence begot violence. This would ripple out. It was just another punch thrown in a never ending brawl. “Fine.”

Speaking of brawls, she’d prefer one of those rather than planning this. “M’fine with meeting up after this.” Then, to Alistair: “She can try to come after me. I wish her a ton of luck fighting her hired muscle.” Daiyu didn’t think herself above harm, but there was no way that Winnifred would win in a fight against her. “Best to keep her away from the Keep when we destroy it, if you ask me. Not alert her and all that shit. Just more trouble.” She rubbed her forehead. “And yeah, people will be pissed. I can deal. I’ve dealt with pissed off supernaturals before.” Kind of part of the job description. “Will watch your back though.” 

She wanted to beckon Nugget over and bury her face in his fur before rushing out and going for a run (where she punched trees). In stead she exhaled. “Alright. Emilio and Zane, blood and brains duty. Alistair, spells. Me? Weapons.” She glared at Vic. “Explosives?” 

—

“If the people she’s fucked over want to go after her, that’s between her and them. I’m not risking my ass to save her from shit she brought onto herself,” Emilio added, crossing his arms over his chest. He wouldn’t kill Winnifred, but he wouldn’t stop anyone she’d wronged from doing so if they chose to. After all, he’d hope that anyone who came across him on his never ending quest for vengeance would offer the same courtesy. People got what they deserved, sometimes; Emilio had no intention of standing in the way of that. “If you two want to get out before we start freeing the ones who might be a little angrier at you than others, that’s fine, too,” he added, looking to Alistair and Daiyu. The latter, he figured, would turn down the offer. The former was more likely to take it.

Zane spoke up, and Emilio was reminded why he brought him in the first place. Having someone he knew he could trust was good, but having someone he knew he could trust who could also wrangle people in a way Emilio himself was incapable of? It was a good thing. It made Zane kind of perfect for this shit. He offered the vampire a curt nod. To the rest of the group, he said, “We shouldn’t wait long. They’re likely to figure out someone’s planning something soon. We need to act before then. Catch them off guard. If everyone knows what they’re doing… I say we move in sooner than later. Good with everyone?”

—

The slayer was giving Alistair an out, an out that they very well thought about taking before frowning and shaking their head. “I’m seeing this through.” They spoke, voice harsh and determined. There was so much that they still had to get done, and now was the time to expedite everything they’d worked so hard to accomplish. They were going to do this. They were doing it for Tommy, no one else. Not even themselves.  The plan was set into motion, and there was nothing to do but go ahead with it. From helping to create the Keep and the Good Neighbors to taking it down, Alistair knew they were nothing more than a hypocrite and a traitor. But if this is what it took to keep themselves alive, then so be it. They gripped Brutus’s lead tightly, then nodded their head. “Then so be it. As soon as we’re ready to go, we go. Not a moment later.” Alistair waved a hand, and the papers in the middle of the table began to move around until they were in a neat pile. “Then next we meet, we burn it all to the ground.”

[ironcladrhett]

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Still an abandoned soap factory

PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist), Siobhan (@banisheed), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), & Rhett (@ironcladrhett)

SUMMARY: On the night that Rhett is to lose his second foot and probably his life, Emilio makes a daring entrance and tries to bargain with his captors for his freedom.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Suicidal ideation (of the life exchange variety)

—

It wasn’t really like Inge was short on nutrition at the moment, with Rhett providing a steady supply of snacks, but there were still those human cravings. Besides, Siobhan presumably did require human sustenance (or did Banshees sustain themselves on screams?) and so a grocery store run seemed fitting. The mundanity of overhead lights and inflation were a stark contrast to the blood that had just coated Siobhan’s fingers, but it came with important rewards. Lollipops. 

As the pair walked to Siobhan’s non-conspicuous car, Inge was sure to continue the point she’d been trying to make. “I think you’ve– we’ve had our fun. The longer go on like this, the riskier it gets.” She pulled open the passenger side door, tossing the groceries in before taking a seat. “Someone’s bound to look for even such a sorry sod at some point.” She pulled the door close, muffling any other words from any sharp ears, looking at Siobhan sharply. “I want him dead before sunrise. Can you settle with that?”

—  

Torturing Rhett had given Siobhan an emotional and creative fulfillment that she’d never felt before. It had also—though she would never admit it—given her a friend. A friend she hated and a friend that was an abomination and a friend that, perhaps, didn’t see her as a friend at all but a friend nonetheless. It would be embarrassing to admit that she had prolonged Rhett’s torture not just because it was fun but because she was having fun with Ingeborg. She thought they were really bonding. Violence was what made true friends; so it had been in her aos sí, so it was in that soap factory. 

“Oh.” Siobhan leaned against the driver’s side door; one arm spread on top of the hearse, which she rested her chin upon. “What risks? He’s hardly a danger. Risks of having too much fun?” Following Ingeborg—could she just call her Inge now? They were friends, after all—lead, Siobhan ducked into the car. “You’re such a bore. I wish someone would come for him. That’d really make it interesting. I could use one of the other saws on them. I was thinking about the circular one; it’s brand-new.” Siobhan turned to her accomplice and noted the lack of amusement. “Fine.” The car sputtered to life, wheezing and coughing up black exhaust. “Dead tonight, meanie. Give me one of the candies.” 

—

Ever since he’d found Rhett’s cane abandoned on the street, Emilio had been a flurry of activity and nervous energy. No time had been taken to pause for stupid things like sleep or meals, and any responses to texts or messages from friends had been brief and curt. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this was likely to end, knew he was probably looking for a corpse more than he was looking for a man, but even so, he searched tirelessly. If a corpse was all that was left of his brother, he’d still bring it home. He’d still do for Rhett what Rhett had done for Juliana and Flora in Mexico two years ago, even if he was the only one who’d care enough to visit the patch of dirt he planted him in. 

And he’d still make sure whoever was responsible paid for it.

That anticipatory grief in his chest was matched only by the anger, the rage that warmed him like a furnace in the dead of winter. On some level, he knew it was a stupid thing to feel. Rhett had been reckless since coming to town, had gone after too many people and let too many go. The fact that most of them were people who didn’t deserve it ached in a different sort of way, but it wasn’t relevant to the point. This town was probably full of people who’d like to hurt Rhett, and Emilio shouldn’t have been surprised that one of them took a shot. But the grief was there anyway. The rage was there anyway. So he did the only thing he’d ever really been good at — he followed the trail. 

Javier heard from Lara who heard from Beto that a professor at the college hadn’t been in in a few days. The professor was one with a familiar name — if anyone would go after Rhett, Emilio thought, it would be the mare he’d locked in his bunker. But wherever she was hiding, she was hard to find. In a way, that gave him hope; it meant Rhett might still be alive, though it promised he’d be in bad shape. Still, Emilio did his best to douse the feeling. Hope would do nothing but get him killed here.

It was funny; when he finally found her, it wasn’t even intentional. He stopped by the store to pick up a protein bar when his stomach finally began to cramp in protest of its emptiness, and there she was. It was something of a surprise to see her with Siobhan; maybe it shouldn’t have been. He hadn’t heard anything about Rhett going after the banshee, but a fae would have every reason to want a warden dead regardless. Neither of them spotted him. He wasn’t sure either of them would know to look for him. It was easy enough to fall into step behind them, far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to keep from losing them. Inge’s presence helped with that; all he had to do was follow that pull in his gut towards the undead thing ahead of him, ignore the way it mingled with the dread there.

One way or another, he’d get his brother back tonight.

—

Siobhan’s complete apathy to the risks was something that made Inge feel inferior. She was not overreacting, was she, in assuming that this could lead to more trouble? Violence begot violence. That was why they were here now. That was why she tended to run rather than face the people who chased her tail. She dug around for a lollipop of a flavor she liked and unwrapped it with a note of frustration, telling herself she was wary and that was good and that it wasn’t really that Siobhan was better than her, she was just … unhinged. Yes. That was a good term. 

She popped the lollipop in her mouth and got a cola-flavored one for the banshee (this was, in her opinion, the worst flavor), undoing the wrapping for her as well before holding it out. “The best hunter is a dead one,” she said sagely, wondering if Siobhan would simply bite down on the lollipop or if she’d reach for it with her hand. Inge kicked up her legs, licking her own candy merrily. “We can have our fun another way.” 

The drive was quickly over and done with, the hearse pulling up to the abandoned factory with fitting noise. The place had grown familiar, but the sight that was Rhett the Warden hadn’t. Inge’s torments and her horrors existed somewhere else, on a plane not bound by earthly harm. Or so, at least, she had told herself. So Sanne had told her, eons ago. It was different. It was more sophisticated. It was a gift. Her eyes flicked over the sight of him before tossing the bag of groceries on the ground. This was hardly a gift. The only thing left was to kill him in a poetic manner and move on. “Told you we’d be back soon,” she said to Rhett, wondering if he’d want a lollipop. “Do you like artificial sweeteners?”

—

The best hunter is a dead one. Inge’s simple statement rattled in Siobhan’s head; bouncing around with each rumble of her hearse and each jump over cracked concrete. The clever retort that she felt obligated to have didn’t leave her mouth—it hadn’t even been formed. Instead, Siobhan watched the shifting landscape as they approached the factory. There was a time where she believed in the practical minimizing of harm; a time when Fate’s course seemed linear. Life existed in a tangle: webs and threads interwoven, pulled through space-time, woven again, transported into unknowable, unthinkable dimensions. When she’d tried to minimize harm, when she’d tried to be kind, she cost her people seven other lives. The best hunter was a living one, until Fate came. And Fate had not yet called for Rhett. 

Lost in her thoughts, Siobhan hadn’t realized that she’d entered the factory at all. Had she remembered to turn the hearse off? Park it in the overgrown bushes where it couldn’t be seen from the road? She shook her head. She tried to bring back the face of the woman who adored violence, who only knew it, but instead a woman who mourned controlled her features. She saw Rhett as he was: bloody, broken, miserable. She wondered if he’d ever forgive her one day—then she castigated herself for thinking that. And, anyway, he would be dead soon. But she hadn’t screamed for him yet, and until then, she wondered if he would forgive her and if he’d think it was silly that she cared about that at all. 

Siobhan knelt to the bag, crinkling plastic cutting through the air thick with the acrid scent of old blood. Off to the side, the bits of Rhett’s lost leg buzzed with a swarm of happy flies. “What flavour do you want, Rhett?” She smiled for him; dead men deserved kindnesses, sometimes. “We got everything because I said—well, it won’t be funny now if I retell it—but I wanted all of them. And there’s jellybeans…” Siobhan held up the little bag full of them—a plastic bag inside of another plastic bag. Did humans hate the world this much? “I don’t know anyone that likes jelly beans. They’re an abomination.” She pointed to Inge. “Worse than her, actually.” 

—

He couldn’t be absent for everything, unfortunately. While his tendency to slip into altered states of consciousness had done him some favors over the last few days, sending the two creatures off in the wee hours of the morning to resume their activities the next day, he always came back out of it. The first time they’d decided to take a break, they’d left him secured to a pole that ran from floor to ceiling so he didn’t excuse himself without their consent. He’d been stuck there since, sitting with head bowed and long hair framing his face, silent until he heard the sound of them returning. 

Rhett drew a long, shaky breath as their footsteps grew louder. They’d taken his leg, cut it off just above the knee and cauterized it about as well as you’d expect, and he was pretty sure he had an infection on top of the constant, agonizing pain of nerve endings being ripped to shreds by less than surgically precise methods. He stared down at it, down at the bloodstain where his limb should have been, at the frayed edges of pants hurriedly cut away, stained a blackish-brown. His right leg, while still attached to him, wouldn’t be for long. Siobhan had started in on the toenails of that foot last night, which meant that tonight, if she was working in a pattern... It was a miracle he hadn’t died from blood loss already, but maybe that’s what the breaks were really for. And maybe, he thought as his captors questioned him about sucker flavors, that was the only reason they were giving him any kind of sustenance.

Rather than answer on the subject of his liking of artificial sweeteners or his preferred synthetic flavor, he just lifted his chin and stared. If you didn’t count all the tormented hollering, he hadn’t spoken a word to them in two days. He just shivered, underdressed for the frigid weather, and blinked blearily at them.

“You ain’t screamed,” he finally said pointedly and in a hoarse voice. That meant he wasn’t going to die… yet. He knew the amount of time that could pass before the banshee let one rip was highly variable—it could happen days before he departed from this mortal coil, or it could happen seconds before what remained of the light in his eyes was snuffed out. It would happen, but there wasn’t much comfort in that unless he was on his way to someplace safe. This was not someplace safe. This was… hell. 

His gaze jumped to Inge.

“Why am I here? This about you? This about revenge?” he growled, lowering his chin again. His hands, now more loosely tied behind his back and keeping him from wandering far from the pole, twisted against each other at the wrist. His frustration was building, unexpectedly, since he’d more or less been floating through the last few days in a quiet haze or full dissociative state. He was frozen half to death, he was starved, exhausted from lack of sleep and blood loss, and everything hurt. How long were they going to drag this out? Even he didn’t torture fae for this long. Once they told him what he wanted to know, he killed them. 

“What d’you want?” the warden snarled before giving them time to actually respond. “Just fucking—get it over with. Just fucking get it over with.” He wasn’t begging. Rhett would never beg for his own life. But maybe that was only because he tried to mask the desperation with anger. He snapped his head up to look at Siobhan, looking furious. “Scream, already!” he commanded, like that would help anything.

—

It was agony, following them. Keeping back, suffocating that rage in his chest to something that had him acting tactical instead of lashing out… it wasn’t in his nature. Emilio had always been a flurry of fury, with a style of fighting that could only really be described as animalistic. His advantage always came in the way he kept fighting until consciousness left him, not in anything resembling planning. He knew he was no good at that. He’d proven it time and time and time again. And, right now, everything he had wanted to launch himself at these women who’d taken his brother from him, wanted to rip them into pieces, wanted to tear their throats out with his fucking teeth. 

But then, he stopped to listen. 

He eavesdropped, he let their conversation wash over him. They spoke about Rhett like he was still alive, and Emilio knew he’d never get his brother back before it was too late if he killed his captors now. The way they spoke implied that Rhett was in bad shape; there would be no time to look for him, especially not when he knew he’d have to do it alone. He couldn’t ask anyone to help him with this. Not Wynne, who had good reason to hate him. Not Teddy, who he’d seen having pleasant conversations with Siobhan online. Not Jade, who was so interconnected with Regan that going after the other banshee in any way was bound to cause complications. The only person he could realistically expect assistance from was Parker, and he was pretty sure his rage at him matched his rage towards Rhett’s tormentors at this point. He’d never be able to trust the other warden in a fight.

And so, Emilio was on his own. It was hardly a rarity, hardly an experience he was unfamiliar with. He’d spent two years on his own after he and Rhett parted ways in Mexico, would have kept at it if not for Wicked’s Rest and its citizens’ strange habit of giving a shit about people they shouldn’t. Emilio was fine on his own, could handle himself in a fight just fine. He’d get his brother back or he’d die trying, but either way, at least he’d be saved the grief of losing him.

So, he followed. To the parking lot, watching what car they slipped into. It was recognizable, hard to mistake for anything else on the road. Not many hearses driving around. That was good. He slipped into the driver’s seat of the car he’d once again ‘borrowed’ from Teddy, maintaining a slight distance behind the hearse as he drove with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. His heart stuttered uncomfortably. Left turn. Nausea tugged at his gut. Right turn. He saw a flash of Edgar’s body on the road, crumpled and bloody. Stoplight. Victor sat beside him in the passengers’ seat, sporting every injury his mind could imagine since he’d been spared the knowledge of knowing what killed him. Accelerate. Edgar’s corpse again, but his hair was longer now. Gray. His head tilted, and it was Rhett’s face there instead. Victor, in the seat beside him, morphed in a similar manner. 

The hearse pulled off the road, and Emilio did the same. Into a parking lot, with no one else around. He switched off the headlights, parked a ways away. He watched them enter, and he waited. One heartbeat. Two. He couldn’t stomach the thought of a third, moved from the driver’s seat and onto the concrete. The ache in his bad leg was a long-forgotten thing, his mind forcibly pushing it aside. Pain is a message, his mother told him once. Messages can be ignored. He was getting better at it with practice. 

He unpacked the trunk. Iron blades, weapons borrowed from Teddy’s basement. He grabbed a knife Rhett had gifted him years ago, the handle worn but the blade kept sharp. He thought it might be poetic to kill one of them with it. Both of them, maybe. Everything in the damn factory, if Rhett was dead inside of it. 

The closer he got to the door, the clearer he could hear the murmurs. The sensation of the dead thing inside made his stomach turn just as much as the smell of blood did. The two of them combined had his mind reeling, skipping back and forth between here and there. The factory was a living room was a street. Long dead corpses rotted scentlessly in the corner. His daughter’s body was crumpled in the center of the room. Rhett was missing a leg. Juliana was screaming. Siobhan was silent.

For a moment, he thought he was too late. He thought he’d gotten here just to collect a corpse, just to give himself something else to bury. But then, Rhett shifted. He spoke. He sounded rough, sounded more pained than Emilio had ever heard him, and the world fell apart and fell back together at the same time. It was strange, seeing his brother this way. For so long, he’d thought of Rhett as invincible by necessity. Victor was dead. Edgar was dead. So Rhett couldn’t be. His other brothers died screaming, too young or too old, so he made Rhett a monument to them in their absence, created an immortal thing out of a husk. He’d been proven wrong before, of course; Rhett was already down an eye, had needed a cane even before the monsters in the shadows had taken his fucking leg. But even so, Emilio had never seen him like this. 

He looked small. Emilio wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

There was no time to waste, he knew. The first thing he needed to do was take care of the mare. Prevent her from using the astral to her advantage, keep her from slipping into the shadows to attack him from behind. If she got one hand on him, put him to sleep, this whole thing would be over. The banshee’s scream was a concern, too, but the mare needed to be grounded first. Fighting deaf would still be easier than fighting unconscious. 

Slipping the sword off his back, he tested its weight momentarily. Balanced. High quality. If he survived this, he’d have to thank Teddy for letting him borrow it. He waited until Inge moved a little, waited until she was lined up the way he needed her to be with the wall. And then, in a flurry of rage, he went in for the strike.

He made no sound as he stormed into the room, offered none of his usual dry humor as he shoved the blade through the mare’s stomach and into the wall behind her with all the strength he had. It went in deep, stuck hard. It would take enhanced strength to pull it out again. Otherwise, she’d have to peel herself off it by slicing through herself, sliding to the side. It would hurt either way. Emilio was glad for that.

—

She never stuck around to see the results of her actions when it came to her sleepers. She visited them on a schedule, slowly pushing further and further into their minds to make it her own playground. Sometimes she witnessed them wake, but that was it — Inge always disappeared until they could fully react. And here was Rhett, tied like a stray, wounded dog with blood sticking to him and the surface below him. He was reduced in a multitude of ways. 

It was a strange thing, to be so confronted with her actions. To have the harm done by her collaborator (not her — for all her assistance, Inge remained convinced it was Siobhan responsible for that missing leg) so clearly on display. It wasn’t that it gave her pause, but it was a sensation she wasn’t sure she’d intend to experience again. Even if she’d gained material for new works. She turned the lollipop around in her mouth while considering the sight, distantly glad that it would be done before dawn. It was not a feeling she had any interest in investigating. 

So she simply stared back at him, popping the lollipop from her mouth to answer his growled questions. Questions. He had barely spoken these past days, an impressive feat that Inge would not have achieved had the places been reversed. They had been, once, though not for as long. Humans were easier to trap. “Well, the idea started when you hurt a mutual …” She thought for a moment, “Student of ours. I’m not generally one for vengeance like this, but Siobhan is an inspiring woman and well, I really would like to see you and your experimental ways out of this world.” It would be bad praxis to reveal that Siobhan and her hadn’t really agreed on what had occurred, but Inge wasn’t tactical, nor was Rhett long for this world. “So we agreed to put our differences aside to kill you. We’ll get there.”

She had judged him, hadn’t she? For locking her in that bunker. For putting Ariadne in that van for a week. For the cruelty of it — not just a quick axe to the head, but something drawn out. But this was different. This was retribution. “I don’t like to limit my fellow creatives, though.” With the way he was asking for it, for that inevitable end, Inge almost felt inclined to let Siobhan follow her whims and let this draw out. Even if she was growing antsy from this space, her mind bending in strange ways, leaving her giddy and nervous and wondering if she should start packing, wondering if she should try to help Siobhan with the next toe and whether she could even handle such a thing. Whether she was weaker, for not being able to fight or maim in such a way, or whether it just made her more sophisticated. Whether she was worse than the hunters for this. Whether it mattered. 

She’d blame that spiraling mind for not noticing what came next until it was too late.

The blade reached her only a few seconds after she’d caught sight of Cortez, eyes widening and mind preparing to reach for her beloved astral — but she couldn’t. The sword ran through the full depth of her and a sound fell from her lips, somewhere between a scream and a roar. Her fingers let go from the lollipop, which shattered like glass onto the ground. Eyes dropped to what had been slid through her insides, wide and frightened and furious. She tried to focus, not entirely convinced that this should lock her in place but it wasn’t there, her connection to her favored place of existence. 

Panic was an emotion spread easily, especially when it went hand in hand with adrenaline, and Inge reached forward to try and claw at the now-free hilt, but she only cut herself deeper. Another wail of pain, eyes dancing through the room, “Do it, Siobhan.” Surely the banshee knew what she meant by that.

—

It was interesting being told what to do. Siobhan had spent so much of her life listening, obeying, deferring. She was, by her very nature, a vehicle for choices that weren’t hers. Rhett wanted her to scream, as though his death was up to her—well, it was up to her but it wasn’t up to her. Another banshee would understand (but not Regan, Regan understood nothing). Inge also wanted her to scream and that one tickled in the back of her throat; she almost did it reflexively, just because some woman told her to. She thought it was all a little funny. 

Emilio burst in like a rabid dog—remarkably silent—and honed on Inge as though she had personally eaten the kibble from his bowl. Siobhan watched it all in slow motion: Inge’s expression, the sword, the wall. The sword was a nice touch, Inge obviously trying to blink away from the scene wasn’t. Did she plan on leaving her here? With the hunters? And she was telling her what to do? Yes, do it. She ought to do it. It was always about her and needing to do it; all her life, a series of things to do. All it would take was one scream, in a matter of seconds, to rid the world of Emilio, Rhett and Ingeborg. Did they understand that? Did they ever once think about her generosity? Or, perhaps, why was it that she just didn’t go around screaming? Was any intelligent thought spared for her? Considering the people surrounding her, probably not. It was embarrassing that she’d considered Ingeborg a friend for a moment; she’d be blocking that memory out. 

Siobhan knelt to Rhett’s level, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Any of you move and I scream,” she said. “Except you, Ingeborg, feel free to squirm.” She looked along the bloody factory ground to Emilio, and the pinned mare; he was bundled up, she was oozing glitter. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, Emilio, that all it takes is one breath for Rhett to turn into pudding. Rhett, you tell him.” With her free hand, she rummaged around the grocery bag, freeing a lollipop. Ripping the plastic with her teeth, she slid the treat against her tongue. “Ugh.” She frowned. “Grape.” The plastic stick danced from one end of her mouth to the other as she thought about their situation. 

Ingeborg probably felt very good about herself, impalement aside; she should have listened to her and killed Rhett on that first night. Emilio seemed very upset. Rhett seemed….pale and sticky; torture had that effect. Was he relieved? Scared? He still hasn’t told her what flavour he liked best; she guessed lemon. “I think we should relax.” Siobhan smiled sweetly. “Get acquainted. Emilio, this is Rhett, maybe you know him: he’s a child torturer. That’s a Ingeborg, you can kill her if you want but keep in mind that you will be robbing the world of her attractiveness—she has material value. In addition, she does smell strangely nice.” Siobhan turned to look at Rhett. “Are you sure you don’t want candy, darling?” 

—

A mutual student? The girl, then. The blonde with the flower. He frowned, his gaze dancing between the two of them as that momentary spike of adrenaline seeped away again, leaving him hollowed and hurting. They wanted him dead, but they wanted it done slow—maybe for each day he’d held that young mare in his van. Maybe more. For as long as it was interesting to them. Well, he could try to keep it uninteresting by being mute again, taking their abuse without complaint. They’d get bored eventually. 

He was just about to slump back against the pole when there was a sudden explosion of movement, and the warden jerked away from it on reflex before realizing it wasn’t Siobhan. In fact, she was crouched in front of him now, hand on his shoulder, and—

His one-eyed gaze fell on Emilio and was fixed there as the banshee voiced her threats. She was right, he knew—Emilio probably didn’t. Why was he here? He should have been home, he—

“No,” Rhett moaned woefully. Tears sprang unbidden to his eye and he shook his head, staring at his brother. “Get out of here. You shouldn’t be here.” He could hardly speak above a whisper, throat raw from all the screaming he’d been doing, worsened by his outburst only moments before. He sucked in a gasping breath, glancing away from the other hunter to meet Siobhan’s gaze. “Let him go, he’s not—he ain’t like me. He’s good. He’s a good person, please, let him go, he made a mistake—” He looked back at Emilio sharply with that final word, teeth bared in a grimace. “A mistake,” he repeated. “Go home.” 

He would never beg for his own life, but he'd be the first to beg for Emilio’s. 

Logic and reasoning was not something he’d ever had a strong grasp on, but that was even farther from the truth now. In some desperate attempt to appeal to Siobhan’s chaotic nature and hopefully get his brother out of there in one piece, Rhett gave her a stoic nod. “I like lemon,” he confirmed unknowingly. He spared one last quick glance at his last remaining family, feeling sick to his stomach. “We’re fine here, hua. Havin’ a great time.”

—

It was hard to focus. His mind was still bouncing, still half in the present and half in the past. Flora’s body was still in the corner, crumpled and bloodless and so small. Juliana’s was a few feet away. Edgar was there, too; Rosa, his mother. Even Lucio’s ghost haunted the scene, staring on with the same stricken expression he’d worn when Emilio buried his knife in his gut. None of it was right, he knew; everyone he loved was two years gone, rotting in holes someone else had dug for them.

Everyone but Rhett.

His eyes darted to his brother, who was clearly far more out of it than Emilio himself and with far better reason. It was hard not to focus on the place where his leg ended, on the too-long pant leg and the bloodied concrete beneath it. He wanted to think, what kind of a monster does that to a person? He wanted to condemn it, wanted to think that it was an unforgivable thing. But Rhett had locked a kid in a van for days just to see what would happen. Emilio had tortured so many vampires that he’d lost count now, had done worse than this to them for days and days on end until even their already-dead bodies couldn’t hold on a moment longer and gave out under his hands. There were monsters in this room; there were nothing but monsters in this room. 

In the far corner, his daughter’s body continued to rot.

The mare was screaming. Her — Its blood touched the edge of the sword, sparkling in the dim light of the factory. In a way, it grounded him a little. The screams, the glittery substance. He tried to focus on it instead of Rhett’s blood, tried to ground himself in the present as best he could. Edgar was dead. Victor was dead. Rhett wasn’t. Rhett wouldn’t be. Not as long as there was breath left in Emilio’s lungs. 

His chest heaved as he glared at the banshee. The mare was forgotten now, an afterthought; no longer a threat, and therefore no longer worth looking at. He gripped Rhett’s iron knife in his hand, tight enough to stop it shaking. He wanted to slice the banshee open, wanted its guts to spill on the floor as if that might somehow cover up his brother’s blood that stained it, as if the presence of one would chase away the presence of the other. 

The banshee put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It made threats. Emilio continued to glare. “Si haces eso te mataré,” he growled. Juliana laughed, a harsh and unnatural sound. He blinked once, hard, trying to remind himself of where he was. When he was. He pushed his tongue against the bottom of his canine, tasting blood in his mouth. Opening it, he tried again. “If you do that, I will kill you,” he said, the words slow and heavily accented as he forced them out in the language that still felt unnatural behind his teeth. “I promise, I’ll kill you if you do that.” Rhett would hate that. You weren’t supposed to make promises to fae; Emilio knew that. But this promise was one he intended to keep, anyway. It didn’t matter if Rhett was a monster; Emilio loved him all the same. He’d do anything for him. He’d tear the world apart with only his teeth. 

His eyes darted back to his brother as he spoke, surprised to see him aware. Not quite himself — Emilio was fairly sure he’d only seen Rhett with tears in his eyes once, in the woods just outside Etla — but here all the same. His chest ached as Rhett ordered him to leave, and he wondered if this was what his brother had felt in those woods when Emilio begged him to let him die. He’d give the same answer to Rhett as Rhett had given him back then: “Fuck off with that shit.” There was nothing in the goddamn world that would convince him to leave Rhett here. If Rhett died here, Emilio would either kill the things responsible or die trying. His glare made that much pretty clear.

Said glare returned to the banshee now, eating its candy like none of it mattered, like it hadn’t mutilated his brother in the floor of an old factory, like all of this was a joke. Like Rhett wasn’t the only family Emilio had, like he wasn’t the last piece of a unit that was otherwise irreparably broken. “I’m not leaving here without him. Whether you’re alive or not when I go is up to you.” 

—

She felt like a fly that someone had swatted and left to die stuck to the wall. Not fully dead but incapacitated in a way where there was little to do for her but watch in growing agitation and continued pain what played out before her. Inge wanted to scream, but only if the scream could have the impact that a banshee’s would have. In stead she followed Siobhan’s instruction (when she should be following hers!) and squirmed, fingers trying to grasp at the blade but getting nothing out of it.

The warden was crying. Putting up a show of emotion, cracking the way he’d not been cracked before despite the horrors Siobhan and her had put him through. This could be perfect. This could be perfect. If the banshee only used her head and did what needed to be done, this could be two birds with one stone — or rather one scream.

But the banshee was impossible to understand, a strange combination of motivations that Inge didn’t get. (Not that she got her own.) They were all talking as if there was something to talk about. Why wasn’t she doing it? She grasped the blade once more, the metal cutting into the palm of her hand as she tried to gain purchase. But to get to the hilt she’d have to bend over and to bend over was to slice into herself deeper. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what kind of organs remained inside her and if they had any function. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out today, here.

She was shrieking, though not with any intention. Just out of instinct. Her hands were covered in that useless glittery solid now and she was useless. A fly on the wall, left to observe the inaction of a banshee who had once proclaimed to love murder. “Siobhan!” It was a bellow more than a scream, lower than the previous expressions of panic and pain. “Get it over with!” 

—

Amusement fluttered inside Siobhan’s chest: this was the sort of situation that reminded her of her greatest hobby. Emilio’s anger delighted her—his gaze could become so sharp, his words could drip with such acid, he could promise her silly things just to keep himself from charging at her (he was like a dog right now, but with just enough sense to keep himself alive). Ingeborg squirmed on the sword—how wonderful it was to watch her expressions dance, flickering with rage (was that fear under the red glow of her eyes or more anger?). And Rhett—as silly as it was, she’d come to like the man. Over the last two nights she studied his expressions: anguish, sadness, fatigue, acceptance. Her greatest hobby was to watch the ways life existed. What made torture fun was seeing how far she could push an emotion, seeing how she could twist a feeling. And here was something she coveted, something she hardly understood: affection, the most curious of human conditions. 

She waved Emilio’s words away. “I don’t accept your promise. You’ll end up hurting yourself with that one: it’s too vague.” Siobhan’s gaze then flicked to Ingeborg. “That sword looks really cute on you, it brings out your eyes. You should consider it as a permanent look.” 

Siobhan smiled, rummaging through the plastic grocery bag: orange, cherry (her favorite), cola, watermelon, peach, something neon green. “I knew you were a lemon man.” Eventually, she found a bright yellow lollipop and tongued hers into the other side of her mouth so she could rip the plastic wrapping open with her teeth. She held the piece of candy out by Rhett’s mouth. “You are a very astute man. I like this awareness: you’ve always understood how pitiful you are, haven’t you?” She looked at Emilio. “But that’s not a ‘good man’, that’s a selfish one. He holds more compassion for you than he does for poor Ingeborg on the nice sword. Who, for all my knowledge, has never tortured any anxiety ridden blonde children. Emilio’s selective, isn’t he? You don’t charge in here, promise to kill someone to save someone else, unless you’re selectively compassionate. Of course, most humans are like this, but it hardly makes him ‘good’ does it?” 

Her grip tightened on Rhett’s shoulder. “I don’t like selfish men, Rhett.” And Siobhan knew she was cruel enough to kill Rhett only to anger Emilio. Then she’d tie him up and…well, maybe she’d go for the arms this time. And who would come to save him? Would this be a never ending cycle of interrupted torture? The idea exhausted her. “Emilio, are you aware this is a terrible man? Objectively terrible. He won’t argue—tell him, Rhett. Why don’t you? Tell him all the terrible things you’ve done…or does he already know?” She looked at him, wondering if he was the sort of man to share his secrets or if he had any shame for his duty. Did Emilio want to save him regardless? Why? Why? 

Why would anyone want to save this wretched man? 

“Emilio.” In her curiosity, Siobhan’s head cocked to the side. “Why should I let you go? Why should I let Rhett go?” She blinked. “Don’t try to threaten me again, or threaten Ingeborg, it’s juvenile. If I cared about staying alive, I wouldn’t be here. If I cared about Ingeborg staying alive, I would have screamed already. Use your brain, I know you have one.”

—

Wincing beneath her tightened grip, Rhett stared at the lollipop still held aloft in front of him as he spoke. “Emilio. Shut up,” he ordered his little brother, knowing that the man’s temper would not do them any favors in this situation. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head in Siobhan’s direction, he began speaking to her, answering her questions slowly, making sure he didn’t miss anything. If he missed something, she might think he was trying to ignore it, and she might do something rash. Something unhinged, like she was. He had to be careful about what he said for once in his stupid life.

“Pitiful, aye. N’ he knows all ‘bout all the things that make me like that.” Most of them, anyway. “He is bein’ selfish, right now. He should’ve let me go days ago. But he’s family, n’ he don’t let family go easy.” His head was swimming, vision blurred. He felt like passing out, but he had to keep going. “He’s the one that got her out. The blonde girl, the mare. He’s the one that let her out of the van, the one that made me promise… not to go after her again. No one else woulda been able to convince me, so… if ya… care about ‘er, ya got Emilio to thank. Ya should… let him go ‘cuz he’s got more green than red on his ledger. Does more good than bad. Only does bad when… when it involves me, or the people that took away our family.” It was surprisingly introspective for Rhett, but he’d had a lot of time to think about it. The warden sucked in a wavering breath, squinting his eye closed. “I don’t wanna leave here.” He’d tried to run once, back before it had gotten really bad, but now… “But that don’t matter, ‘cuz ‘Milio ain’t gonna leave this place without me.” He finally brought his gaze up to look at Siobhan, and for all the world, he looked genuinely apologetic. 

“I get why ya did what ya did. But don’t make my brother pay for the wrong shit I done. I know he’s bein’ selfish right now, but he is a good man. I promise he is. I promise.” That’s how sure he felt, despite what Emilio might say, what he might think. He knew the last living Cortez was a better person than he himself believed. “I’ll be dead next year anyway. He just wants a few more months.” With that, Rhett deflated from the effort of remaining coherent, bending forward to bite the sucker from Siobhan’s grip and then lean back against the pole, closing his eye like he was relaxing into a nap. He should’ve still been worried for Emilio, and he was, but he was too damn tired to do much more about it. As it was, his grip on consciousness felt weak—held only by one pinkie finger. He hoped that he’d still have a pinkie finger as he slipped away from them, his mind carrying him elsewhere just in case things went wrong and they all had their guts liquified by a pissed off banshee. 

—

The mare was screaming; Emilio ignored it. With the threat of its escape through the astral plane eliminated, it would be simple enough to take its head off when he finished with the banshee. Or he’d leave it here to starve, focus more on getting Rhett to safety instead. He needed some kind of medical care, though Emilio wasn’t sure how to provide it. (If he took his brother to the hospital, what questions would he have to field? Would Zane help him out, understand that Emilio’s presence would need to be an under the radar thing?) Either way, the mare wasn’t important at the moment. Its screeching, its pleas for the banshee to act and its fear disguised as rage. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered at all was sitting in the floor with a goddamn lollipop stuck in front of his face.

The banshee spoke, and Emilio kept his steely gaze on it, body tense and ready to strike at any moment. It would do him no good, he knew. The iron knife in his hand could be thrown with accuracy, but it wouldn’t be faster than a scream if the banshee chose to release one. The most he could hope for was for the blade to find the banshee’s throat just a moment after its scream obliterated him. Maybe if the sound was focused on him, Rhett would survive with only his eardrums ruptured. Maybe someone would come looking, would find him before infection took him. Or maybe they’d both turn to mist with the echo of the banshee’s cry. Maybe they all would. It still felt better than the thought of walking out of here alone.

There were insults, there were implications. This was about the other mare, the kid. Wynne’s girlfriend, the one who hadn’t deserved what Rhett had done to her. But the kid hadn’t even wanted to speak poorly about Rhett; Emilio doubted she would approve of someone being tortured in her name, of someone being killed. He thought of Flora, of the blood he’d spilled and the dust he’d stirred up because she was gone and he was here and things like that needed retribution. Maybe she wouldn’t have approved, either. Maybe she’d never gotten to be old enough to understand the idea of approval. Either way, the blood on his hands remained just as present as his brother’s blood on the floor. His eyes flickered briefly to the corner. She was rotting. She was always rotting.

The banshee kept saying his name, and he wished it would stop. The syllables exiting its tongue felt wrong, felt different. Even when Rhett said it — that fond, shortened version, the one only Rhett was still alive to use — it didn’t feel right. The name reminded him that he was a person, and he didn’t feel like one now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be one. People ached. People struggled with the things Emilio needed to do. People hurt when you hit them, and he thought something was probably going to hit him soon. He stayed quiet as the banshee spoke, eyes darting to Rhett as his brother joined in. I’ll be dead next year anyway, he said, like it didn’t matter. Like there weren’t little girls rotting in corners and long-dead wives screaming in the distance, like he wasn’t the only family Emilio had who hadn’t decayed long past the point of recognition. Emilio wanted him to shut up, but he was afraid of what might happen when he stopped talking. He was afraid that if Rhett stopped speaking now, he’d never hear his brother’s voice again. The thought made him nauseous. 

He let the silence stretch, periodically looking from the banshee to his brother to the empty corner where his mind conjured up long buried corpses and long silenced screams. He knew he should say something. He was supposed to. He knew that.

“I’m not good,” he confirmed, looking at Rhett as he said it. “Neither is he. Neither are you. Or that.” He gestured to the mare like an afterthought, like he’d almost forgotten it was there at all. (Would Teddy want the sword back? He should leave it in place until he’d killed the thing, at least, but he probably ought to clean it after. The thought felt laughably mundane, even as his mind clung to it.) “But he’s my brother. And I’m not the only one who needs him. He’s got a kid who wants him around, who wants to know him. She’s good, and she deserves to keep him. To get to know him, to decide for herself if she wants him in her life. You can —” He looked to Rhett, to the empty gap on the floor where his leg should have been. “You can do what you want with me. Let me call an ambulance for him, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Take my lungs, my liver, my heart, take whatever, but not him. You can take me apart like a goddamn puzzle, but let my brother go. Please. Just let him live, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

—

Siobhan was accosting her with a compliment that made Inge just shout an expletive her way, “Kutwijf!” Her mother tongue, because maybe that would shield the truth of her frustration. The truth of her dread, her — well, her fear, really. It was an ugly thing to admit, but as she was stuck on the wall and her ally in all this seemed to be negotiating with the two hunters rather than killing them, she was afraid. She tried to lean into her anger more. Even as Siobhan revealed her hand. She cared not about what might happen to either of them, had no intention as of yet to commit the murders that seemed to Inge as the only logical next step.

Why were they here? Why had Rhett put her in that basement, Ariadne in that van? What was the point? Inge had thought that perhaps this all could lead to one less hunter, that a proactive stance against a monster like Rhett would lead to the erasure of him — but here she was, pinned to that wall, waves of cold pain radiating from that wound. She and Siobhan had done what she condemned all hunters for. Played with their food and not pulled through.

And then there was the revelation that Emilio had been the one to save Ariadne. The man with the murderous eyes of his mother had saved a girl better than them all. It didn’t add up. There was an angle to it. There was some motive she didn’t understand. 

What was the point? Emilio may have saved Ariadne and Rhett may not have killed her, but there was still blood on all their hands. Emilio had a point — none of them were good. But Inge didn’t want to die, whereas these hunters seemed all to ready to lay themselves down to rest out of some kind of sentiment that she’d perhaps never felt. Her siblings were like strangers. Her late partner she had let die so she could get out. (A price deserved, considering she’d killed her once.) And even now, she had no interest in dying for another. “Well, I guess that makes it simple, doesn’t it?” Her voice was shrill and ugly, directed at Siobhan only. She would be damned if she would stop trying to make her demands. “They’re both down to die for the other, so why not do them that favor?” She wasn’t quiet after she stopped speaking, another shriek of pain accompanying her words from the strain her words had put on her abdomen. She wanted this to end.

—

Siobhan wasn’t sure it made anything simple. The word ‘family’ caught in her head, stuck in a warped loop. The bloody factory floor morphed into long, soft blades of green—the fields of Ireland. Muffled cries echoed behind her ears—smothered, she knew, by biting down into the flesh of her palm, sweet blood filling her mouth. Mother hated it when she cried. She turned to Rhett and waited for the pain that would follow his broken promise—Emilio wasn’t a good man—but there was nothing but fatigue and honesty. He believed it and that was enough. She looked at Emilio, listened to his plea. He really would have given her anything, just like that. And why? Why? Siobhan’s hand trembled against Rhett’s shoulder; under her gloves, under the myriad of scars on her palm, was the half-moon carved by her small teeth and it throbbed. “I don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to an almost whisper. “I don’t understand.” And then her grip tightened all at once, and she crushed Rhett’s tired body under her fingers. “What does family matter? You knew! This is a bad man!” Her voice rushed over itself, vibrating through her. “Family isn’t above punishment!” 

The scars down her back throbbed as her body trembled. The grass and the crying withered away and instead it was her own screams, her own blood and her mother’s heel between her shoulder blades. Siobhan still remembered what the dirt tasted like the day she lost her wings: sulfur, wet clay and saliva. It was a temporary loss, she reminded herself. The same essence of family that Rhett and Emilio were on about was the one that meant her mother was waiting for her, keeping her wings safe, eager to reattach them and be with her daughter again. Yet, even as Siobhan told herself this, her face continued to twist. Her back was on fire; her mother had insisted on pulling them out like a weed, roots and all. “You knew… You knew and you let him live. You know and you come here demanding his life? This man?” She jostled him. “This putrid man?” She heard one of her own bones pop in her hand as she squeezed his shoulder. “What does it mean that he’s family? What does that mean?” How could he be saved? How could he be loved? How could he be forgiven? 

Siobhan’s watery gaze snapped to Rhett. “What does it mean? How can he want to save you? How can he give himself away to save you? You, who are not worth saving. How can he? Why? What is—what is that? I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked at Inge, still stuck on her wall, and blinked rapidly at her, trying to ask without words. Inge was a mother, so she must understand better than these men. If Inge child’s betrayed their family, she would rip their wings out, ruin their beauty, cast them out and strip them of familial title—no longer a daughter. She would. She had to. Good mothers did that. Family would watch it happen too: grandmothers, cousins, aunts. Family was just. “I don’t understand, Inge.” 

—

He was only marginally aware of what was happening in the room after he’d stopped speaking. He could hear Emilio talking, probably refuting everything he’d said in some stupid attempt to swap their positions—they didn’t want Emilio, they wanted Rhett, for the shit he’d done to that girl. For the shit he’d done to the one pinned to the wall, still screaming her threats and pleas. But of course, just because a plan was stupid didn’t mean that would stop Emilio from trying it. He knew that much about his little brother.

That is, until the banshee’s grip on his shoulder threatened to break his collarbone and he snapped back into the moment, groaning and weakly trying to tug himself away from her as her words caught up to his addled mind. She shook him, sparking the anger that had fizzled out to little more than embers. She was demanding to know what they meant, to know how someone like Rhett could still have someone like Emilio who cared for him, in spite of everything. 

He was annoyed. He spit out the lollipop to better speak.

“Rack off,” he barked angrily, sinking lower to try and relieve the pain that was her fierce grip on him. Something snapped, and he roared the next words in response. “This ain’t a fuckin’ therapy session, you stupid bitch. It ain’t a negotiation, neither! Fuck, all’ah you, just—” His  words caught in his throat as Desmond crouched beside him, a large hunting knife protruding from his back. In his arms was little Flora, eyes vacant as the day he’d buried her. The warden stammered, gasping for breath as his fury was diluted by fear and sorrow. “Ya choose family, ya dense slag. Yer mama ain’t got no skin in the game. Fuck’s sake, let go.” Of his shoulder, of her fucked up relationship with her mother… or both. He didn’t really care. He just wanted this over.

—

The banshee was angry. Yelling (but still not screaming), tightening its grip. And it was hurting him, hurting Rhett. Emilio could see it in his brother’s eyes, in the way he came back to himself. He wished he’d stay in his head, stay out of the conversation. It would be easier to convince the banshee that Emilio was the better toy to play with if Rhett went silent. He doubted a hunter who was already broken would be nearly as much fun to pick apart as one still standing, and that was what the banshee was after here, wasn’t it? Fun. The thought of it — that his brother was a game they’d played for days now, that everything he’d gone through had been for the entertainment of the creatures in this room — made him a little sick. The thought that Wynne’s girlfriend in that van had been the victim of a similar game with Rhett as the creature entertained didn’t help.

The banshee was still talking and Rhett was yelling and Emilio couldn’t make out any of it, couldn’t pick apart the words over the rush of blood in his head. Flora was dead and here and rotting. Juliana was glaring and decaying and gone. Rhett was on the living room floor with blood all around him. The banshee had sharp teeth. The mare was shedding dust. Victor had been dead for twenty years now, and Emilio still heard him laughing.

“Stop.” He didn’t know who — what he was talking to. To Rhett, who was going to make things worse for himself in some misguided attempt to make things better for Emilio? To the banshee, whose grip was too tight? To the mare, whose voice was too shrill? To the ghosts that existed only in the confines of his own mind, or to his mind and itself and its awful method of time travel that he’d never consented to? He took a step forward, and it was a risky move. The banshee only needed to scream. But it had Rhett locked in its grip, and if it was going to kill him, Emilio thought it might as well kill him, too. If Rhett was going to die, he wasn’t going to die alone. 

Another step, and then another. His feet made a sickening squelching sound as they moved through the blood, his brother’s blood, that soaked the ground. He kept walking anyway, until he was right in front of them, until he was reaching out and grabbing the banshee’s wrist where its hand held his brother’s shoulder, until he was squeezing it to loosen that grip in any way he could. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” he said hoarsely. “It — there is no why. He’s my brother. He’s my brother, and I love him. Let him go, and I’ll do anything you want. I promise, I will. I’ll stay here with you. Or I’ll go with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone anymore. I’ll make whatever fucking promise you want me to make, just let him go. Please. He’s my brother. He’s the only family I have. You don’t have to understand. I don’t know how to make you understand. But that doesn’t matter. I’m — Christ, I’m fucking begging here. Anything you want, I swear. Just let him go.”

—

They were talking of family and punishment and Inge squirmed on her sword with no stakes in the game. Her parents had been distant and quiet in their love. Her siblings had been companions of silence, each of them haunted by the dead sibling most of them had never met and none of them spoke of. She must have loved them, once, when they were kids. She never really stopped loving them, maybe — but there was no liking them. No sacrifice. No grand gestures. They were not parts to hold over her, they were just abandoned limbs from a past life she didn’t think of much. They weren’t to her like Rhett was to Emilio. So she didn’t understand, either.

And the ones that mattered, the truly familial – chosen and blood – that had once existed had already been severed. She’d watched both her daughter and partner die. For Vera she would have done what Emilio was doing, but there was no comparing Rhett and her child. There was no common ground, besides perhaps the love that existed. And Inge didn’t much care for such sentiments as a sword throbbed in her belly. She didn’t much care for it because love was a wound that could not be tended to. It remained bleeding and raw much like her abdomen. 

And above all, there had been no space for heroics in the face of the disease that had taken her daughter. There had been no space for morals or punishments, no use for them. They’d made up and they’d waited it out, the spread of disease. There had been no people to plead with, unless you accosted the doctors who were already on your side. Did Emilio understand how lucky he was, that he got to at least try? That there was at least something to do? That he could drive a sword through an antagonistic body and carry his weapons and make an attempt to sway a woman who could not understand the love he wielded? He was so lucky. He was so undeserving of it. 

“I don’t care,” she retorted, mostly to Siobhan, “You don’t have to understand. It doesn’t matter. The love doesn’t matter. The punishment doesn’t matter unless you do what you gotta. Just end it. It doesn’t fucking matter, Siobhan.” 

—

“Bitch? Slag?” Siobhan shook Rhett violently, rattling his body against the rusted pipe, ringing it like a gong. “A slag? I hold your life in my hands and you’re calling me a slag? Where’s the respect? I’m twice your age!” She leaned to the side and spat out her grape lollipop, which had been mostly crushed under her hurried conversation. “A promise?” She perked up, then, self conscious about how typical of her species she was being—it was just like a fae to lunge at the first chance for promised favors—and in front of a warden, she cleared her throat. The tendrils of the Gaes, warmed up her stomach. She exhaled on the memory of Emilio’s words—I promise. He would do anything she wanted, he promised. She snapped her jaw shut, clamping down on his words. “I accept your promise.” She had claimed something more valuable than a leg and yet, where she expected and waited for glee, ice knocked through her body. 

In her head, her tearful words still cried out for answers: I don’t understand. Siobhan’s gaze fluttered between the bodies: Emilio, so certain and sacrificing in his love; Ingeborg, who understood something that she wasn’t sharing; Rhett, who had given up on himself but not once on his brother. Hollowed out, she was observing something beyond her; each of them spoke an unknowable language. Rhett said family was chosen—Siobhan didn’t understand. Emilio and Ingeborg said it didn’t matter if she understood, but their idea of what did matter was opposed—Emilio wanted Rhett free, Inge wanted them both dead. How could both opinions exist in the same space? How could someone be loved this much? To be begged for? What was love? How did it relate to being a family? What did these words mean other than nonsense? Emilio and Ingeborg were right, what did it matter to her? Why did she care? She ought to kill them; all three. 

She stared at her accomplice, still stuck on the damned wall. If she found herself missing a leg, tied to a pole, would Ingeborg beg for her life? Of course not, they were hardly friends on a good day and after this, she was certain that would have many, many bad days. And if Ingeborg happened to be stuck on a wall, what would she do? “I want promises from you both,” Siobhan said, rising from the floor to grab nearby bolt cutters—she’d been hoping to use it to chomp through Rhett’s toes. “Neither of you will personally end or help to end Ingeborg’s undead existence. You may hurt her, I don’t care, but you will not kill her; give me promises.” This was a kindness and she hoped to feel something; a sudden invitation into their secret language. With this act of what she assumed to be love, she waited for the sudden clarity of family and affection. Instead, her arms trembled holding the bolt cutter to Rhett’s ropes. “And promises not to disclose the identities of Rhett’s torturers with anyone—you will not tell anyone about Ingeborg or myself. I want this too.” 

—

All he could do was stare up at Emilio miserably as his brother made promises he shouldn’t have, but all the fight had left him with those final insults in Siobhan’s direction. He dropped his head, resigning himself to whatever was to come. 

The mare stuck to the wall was doing her best to get them both killed, and Rhett couldn't blame her. But as blind luck would have it, the banshee wasn't interested. He didn't move as she requested promises from them, feeling himself start to slip away again. And as tempting as it was to give in to the out of body experience, he couldn't bear the thought of Emilio suffering for his inability to remain in the present moment. He didn't want to promise the banshee anything, that went against everything he'd ever stood for since Mariela had used it against him, but… this wasn't about him. He knew that. It was about making sure Emilio got out of here safely, and if he had to abandon his principles to do that, he would. He always would. 

“I promise I won't kill Ingeborg,” he muttered without looking up, his voice raw. There was no emotion in it, nothing snide nor sad, just a statement of fact. “N’ I promise I won't tell no one who so generously hacked off half my bad leg for me.” Okay, there was a bit of sarcasm in that one, but it couldn't be helped. Finally, the warden angled his chin up at Siobhan again, realizing that he couldn't see her at all — she was nothing more than a silhouette against a dim background in his limited field of view.

He smirked, letting his gaze wander uselessly. He knew Emilio wouldn't have any issue promising these things; he'd already given the fucking thing a freebie, after all. Idiot. 

—

It took the promise; he figured it would. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was the man trapped in the banshee’s grip, the only family Emilio had left. Emilio kept his eyes locked on Rhett’s, expression still and icy as the banshee took the promise. He wondered, almost distantly, if Rhett was disappointed in him. If he still thought Emilio was worth it, even now, or if whatever remained of the respect he held for him vanished the moment he started to beg. 

The banshee would use the promise, he knew, but only if it allowed him to survive the experience. He thought that might still be in question, thought it was the kind of thing he ought to be worried about. He wasn’t. He didn’t care what happened to him, meant every word of his stupid pleading. If the banshee let Rhett go, he’d do whatever it asked. He’d pull his heart out of his chest and hand it over. He’d put the saw it had used to hack off his brother’s leg to his own throat. He’d do anything, anything if it meant Rhett got to leave here, if it meant he could go home. Rhett, after all, had a daughter waiting for his return. Emilio had nothing.

Another promise was asked of him, and his eyes darted over to the mare stuck to the wall. He’d almost forgotten about it there; it wasn’t a threat anymore, and it had been written off as a result. An afterthought, a concept not worth his attention. Distantly, he thought it was interesting that the banshee cared enough to request such a promise. There was no request that they not kill the banshee, after all; only that the mare’s head stay on its worthless corpse. Emilio regarded it for a moment but, in truth, he knew it didn’t matter. He said he’d give anything, and he’d meant it. This was included in that.

“I promise I won’t kill your mare,” he replied, letting his eyes move back to the banshee, “or tell anyone who did this, just as long as neither of you hurts him again.” Tacked on the end, a condition of his own. He wouldn’t make a promise only for them to track Rhett down as soon as he was gone to slit his throat. It was a fair enough trade, he thought, especially since he didn’t bother including himself in the conditional. Something like that might have threatened the other promise the banshee had taken; he doubted it would go for that. But Rhett… They’d had their fun there. Emilio wouldn’t risk the chance of them having any more.

—

“She’s not my…oh whatever.” Siobhan sighed, taking her promises from Emilio and Rhett with a forced smile. “Yes, I agree to your deal: I will not physically harm Rhett again.” She waited for Ingeborg’s voice, confirming, before she pulled the final thread of magic and bound them all together; for better or for worse, though usually, it was worse. 

The bolt cutter went through the rope, sawing and snapping at the threads; there was something to be said about her insistence on using the wrong tools for every job. Eventually, Rhett was free. Siobhan stepped back, leaned up against her table of supplies and watched them. Love was no more clear to her seeing Emilio take Rhett away. Something, however, sparked watching Rhett’s blanket drop from his shoulder and Emilio’s rough hands pull the fabric over him again. In seeing the man’s arm steadied so carefully on his brother’s shoulder; their steps done in time together, Emilio’s limp and Rhett’s tired hops. Emilio’s body angled towards them, using his body—his life—as a shield. Their soft voices—or was it just Emilios?—too quiet for her to understand. Despite the bloody floor, Rhett’s haphazardly bandaged stump and the pieces of his leg, buzzing with flies, there was a strange peace; a delicate pace. Until the edges of the factory stole the family from her view, she considered if that was love: if it was those two broken men, tethered, going on to live another day knowing they’d both be in it. If it was Rhett’s weight on Emilio, Emilio’s arms around him. If it was knowing that they both would have given their bodies—limbs, ligaments, organs—just to be certain the other would breathe for one more night. Love seemed to be violent in its sacrifices and selfish in its stubbornness. 

She didn’t understand it, but she knew they did.

Siobhan looked at Ingeborg, still on the wall. She wondered if anyone loved her—maybe they were the same, in that sense. Silently, she gripped the saw beside her, painted with Rhett’s dried blood, and approached the mare. Her strides were long and deliberate, the blade knocking against her thigh. She made it halfway across the factory floor before she dissolved into laughter. “You should look at yourself; it’s hilarious.” Siobhan bent down and picked up Rhett’s rotten foot. “This one’s for me….” And his rotted calf. “And this…” She pointed at the pile of bloody toenails. “You can have those.” Blowing Ingeborg a kiss, she was gone, not feeling much of anything: not remorse, not confusion, and certainly not love.

—  

She was puzzled by these developments, confusion washing over her face as Siobhan made the moves to keep the two hunters from killing her down the line. Inge wondered why she wasn’t throwing her own life into the promise — did she care so little for it? Or did she think herself so invincible? Though she had gotten to know Siobhan a little more intimately over the past few days, this shed another light on the banshee. She squirmed on her sword. Three promises were made and she spoke in a quieter tone as she too, agreed, “I promise not to harm him again.” It was hard to hide the defeat in her voice.

So the banshee, the harbinger of death, was letting them all go. Was keeping them from killing one another in revenge, even. What a miserable turn of events. What a worthless twist. Inge had expected this to end with a corpse to get rid of, but in stead there was the stains of blood that Rhett left as he and his brother moved away. She watched them for a moment, then looked at the blood and flesh, then at Siobhan. Her cruel ally. Her protector, in a way. But also her traitor. She’d wanted a corpse. She’d made that abundantly clear. All she had was her ripped open gut.

She watched her near closer, toying with her saw like a child holding scissors. Not rushing over to come to her rescue, to peel her off the sword. Menacing. “You —” Inge’s face grew furious. “What was – why are you not – you …” She was laughing. The high ceiling made the sounds echo, round and round and round. Was a banshee’s cackle also magical? It had to be, with how miserable it made her feel.

It dawned on her when the kiss was blown that Siobhan was not just pulling her leg and Inge inched forward, eliciting a scream of pain as she hurled words at the other, “Get me off here, you can’t just leave me here, you absolute — SIOBHAN!” The name was repeated a few more times, losing volume every time and Inge remained. Like a fly stuck on the wall, with no purpose and no accomplishments, made witness to a scene that had already ended.

[necrosemancy]

Location: The Wormhole Timing: Evening of August 12th Parties: Emilio( @mortemoppetere ) & Rosemary( @necrosemancy ) Summary: Rosemary's looking for a missing friend. Emilio knows exactly what happened to them. The two talk over drinks to gain different kinds of information. Content Warnings: alcoholism tw

Rosemary had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. 

She’d not stepped foot in the wormhole since she’d first come to Wicked’s Rest. Sitting at the bar waiting, she now understood why. It was without a doubt, a dive bar. But desperate times called for desperate measures. 

She sipped absentmindedly on the shitty tequila as she waited. Meeting up with a stranger from the internet wasn’t one of Rosemary’s better ideas, but Aleksander Nowak’s complete disappearance from the face of the earth left her with no teacher and no plan. She either had to find him, or cut her losses and leave to find a new teacher. 

Long manicured nails drummed anxiously against the lip of her glass as she waited. She looked up from the bottom of her glass when she heard someone settle onto the stool next to hers. “Is it always this loud in here?” She asked the newcomer over the din. 

——-

He’d known the moment Alistair mentioned Aleksander’s apprentice that things were going to get complicated. Alistair hadn’t seemed nearly concerned enough, claiming that they’d take over training the student instead as if that might fix everything, but Emilio doubted any solution could be so simple. Most people weren’t particularly thrilled with the murder of someone they had daily interactions with. Even if the student didn’t swear revenge, Emilio wasn’t sure she’d be interested in learning from the person who’d not only been a part of the group responsible for the death of her former teacher, but also hitched a ride in his corpse after the fact. It’d be one hell of a surprise, Emilio thought, if Aleksander’s apprentice didn’t cause them any kind of trouble. 

The question, then, became in what kind of trouble she’d cause — and how much of it. Online, she’d seemed eager to find her teacher. Was it a personal connection, or a more self-serving thing? Was she worried about Aleksander, or did she only want to continue her training? It was hard to tell through a few public posts and a brief interaction with her. Emilio thought the better way to figure out the truth was to meet with her in person to discern it.

He picked a familiar setting. He knew the Wormhole well, had spent more than a few drunken nights within its walls. The bartenders were all familiar with him, and he knew that you could have a great range of conversation in the bar without having to worry about being overheard. It was a good space for things like this. Emilio found the woman he was looking for rather quickly, sliding into the stool next to hers and nodding to Javi behind the bar. “Sometimes louder,” he replied. “You’re Rosemary, right? Emilio. We spoke online.” 

—

A spark of recognition flickered momentarily in the woman’s eyes. “Right,” Portland guy. At least it wasn’t the person who was insistent that Aleksander had packed his most hideous floral tie for a tropical vacation without so much as a word. “Nice to meet you, Emilio.”

Rosemary looked the man over, trying to see if she could remember seeing him anywhere. She didn’t recall hearing the name in conversation with Aleks before. Admittedly, she didn’t always pay attention when he’d been talking, not unless it was something purely instructional or some sort of compliment (backhanded or otherwise). 

“Thanks for replying- I’ve gotten a lot of mixed messages for where he’s at.” The ones that insisted he’d left town had burned the most. Despite the fact that he was a jerk, Aleks knew how badly she wanted to learn. He understood her desire to accomplish great things, her need to prove the ones who had doubted her wrong. He wouldn’t just leave… he wouldn’t lie… or she hoped he wouldn’t. The thought that he’d lie ate at her. “How do you know Aleks?” Rosemary asked, forcing the thought away. 

—

He offered her a nod, noting the recognition. If she remembered him specifically, it probably meant she hadn’t gotten a lot of information on Aleksander’s whereabouts. If she’d received an abundance, she was less likely to remember individuals. That was a good thing, even if her knowing who he was might not be. “You too,” he replied. 

He could feel her studying him as Javi came back with his usual order, placing the glass in front of him with a tilt of his chin before sauntering off to bother someone else for a while. The bartender knew to leave Emilio alone when he was ‘working,’ even when he had no idea what he was working on. Tonight, he was glad for it. He didn’t want any distractions as he tried to figure out how much trouble they were in here.

“Ah, sure. Everybody wants to help, I think, but no one’s ever sure how. Rumors go quick, in a town this size.” With any luck, he could convince this woman that Aleksander was gone without implicating himself in the process, but Alistair’s highjacking of the dead man’s corpse meant he’d also need to find a way to get her out of town. After all, if she ran into Alistair, shit would only get more complicated. Emilio didn’t care about Alistair as a general rule, but they had a fucking kid to look out for, so Emilio figured it was better to make sure they didn’t die. Again. “Don’t really know him,” he admitted. “Only ever met him in passing. But I’m a private detective, and I’m good at finding people. If you tell me everything you’ve got, I can help you put the pieces together.” 

—

Rosemary’s eyes went wide at those two magic words. Private detective. She wasn’t sure good she’d put out into the universe to deserve this strike of luck, but she’d be sure to keep doing it. Maybe she’d buy donuts for the night nurses at Mother Morta’s as an added incentive for the universe to pay back her good karma. 

“Oh my god that’s perfect!” She exclaimed, swiveling on her stool to face him fully. She supposed now that she looked at him, that he had a PI vibe about him. Not in a film noire sort of way, no nothing like that. More of a haggard and sleep deprived but damn good at his job sort of way. Or maybe she was just projecting her need for him to be able to find Aleks onto Emilio. 

“How much do you charge?” She asked. “What kind of things do you need to know from me? I’ll tell you everything I know. I really need him to turn up.” Alive or otherwise… she wondered how much begging or bribery it would take on her part to get her father to raise a dead Aleksander Nowak from the grave. The thought of her fathers smug face leering at her over her dead teachers body made her blood simmer. She could almost hear him asking why she couldn’t just raise him herself, if she was so gifted. Rosemary bit down a growl at her own thoughts, and did her best to look worried. 

—

She looked so relieved at the revelation of his career that Emilio almost felt guilty. Almost. But at the memory of all the people Aleksander had helped lock away in cages, at the thought of how fucking afraid some of the ones he’d freed had looked or how much trouble the ones who should have been killed outright instead of stuck on ice for a few years had caused… it was hard to hold onto the guilt for long. Aleksander hadn’t been a good man, and there was no sense mourning people who’d gotten what was coming to them. 

He nodded at her excitement. If nothing else, at least it would make things easier. It would probably be better to work with Alistair and Daiyu on this one, get together to formulate some kind of a story to get rid of the woman before she figured out the truth behind what had happened. After all, if things went south, it wasn’t just them who could be in trouble. There was Mack, too, and Zane and Vic. There were the prisoners they’d sprung. The only thing Emilio knew about this woman was that she’d hung out with Aleksander; it didn’t do much to allow him to form a particularly high opinion of her. 

“Depends on what I find. If I come up empty, I’ll give you a discount.” He probably shouldn’t charge her at all, given the fact that his plan was to chase her out of town and all, but his whiskey habit was getting expensive and it was partially Aleksander’s fault, in a way. He wouldn’t have to drink as much if the shit that went down in the Keep weren’t still hanging at the forefront of his mind, after all. “I need whatever you can give me. Everything about your relationship with him, who he hangs around, if he’s got family, where he spends his time outside of Wicked’s Rest…” The more they learned about Aleksander, the more prepared they’d be if someone else came sniffing around.

—

She cringed internally at the ‘details’ bit. How to describe a man who played god professionally? Wicked’s Rest was a strange little town though, so Rosemary could only hope that some vaguely necromantic descriptions wouldn’t send the man running for the hills. 

“How to describe Aleks,” she hummed against the lip of her glass. She took a sip of liquid courage. “About five-eight, in his forties. He’s my,” Rosemary took a long sip to buy herself a moment to think. You can’t say ‘he teaches me to raise the dead!’ You dumbass! “We have a complicated relationship I guess? I approached him a few years back looking for career counseling,” she hoped that sounded convincing. She never really bothered to ask what his ‘day job’ was. She just knew he didn’t work at the nursing home with her. “I was looking to make a career switch and I’ve been exploring my options. I work as a receptionist at a nursing home- Mother Morta’s? It’s nice but I don’t love it.” She rambled. She hoped the more she talked, the more it would distract from her lack of details on the matter. 

“We aren’t like, having deep emotional conversations or anything. I’m not taking him home to meet my dad, but we spend a lot of time together professionally and socially. He’s not really my type anyway, I’d probably strangle him if we ever actually dated. Other than me, I don’t really know if he had many friends.” The sadness of that statement startled her. Did she have many friends in town that would be worried if she disappeared? God that was pathetic. She needed to get out more. 

“I know he talked about some neighborhood watch thing?” He’d spoken about it a few times, but never in much detail. Just that it was to protect the community from the supernatural goings on about town, and that she was nowhere near being a good enough necromancer to even consider lending a hand with the group. Not that she had time for community watch meetings anyway, with the amount of night shifts she pulled for a little extra spending money. “I don’t know much about it though. I think it was called like friendly neighbors or good folks or something campy like that. Have you heard of it? Maybe someone there knows something.”

—

Thanks to what he knew of Aleksander and what Alistair had told him already, Emilio was able to put together the pieces of what she was telling him, even with the things she left unsaid. She was Aleksander’s student; he’d known that already. There was something interesting in the fact that she’d been the one to approach him for training, and Emilio tucked it away for later. It meant she was motivated, that she was the one looking to learn necromancy. Maybe that told him a thing or two about what sort of person she was.

He’d known necromancers who weren’t terrible, of course. Aleksander was ten kinds of fucked up, but Alistair wasn’t the worst person Emilio had ever met, even if he disliked the spellcaster’s methods, morals, and general personality. Javi, who tended bar here and used to occasionally offer Emilio distractions beyond cheap whiskey, was a fairly talented necromancer himself, and Emilio trusted him more than most people in town. But necromancy as a whole was an uncomfortable concept, particularly for a man who’d spent most of his life being told about the unnaturalness of things that didn’t stay dead when they were meant to. The idea of someone seeking it out so adamantly made him wary, to say the least.

The fact that she immediately disregarded a romantic relationship without it being brought up first was also something Emilio noted. That was probably just as well, he thought; even someone like Emilio, with little understanding of social norms, found the idea of Aleksander sleeping with his student distasteful. It certainly wasn’t something he would have put past the man, of course, but it was probably for the best that it hadn’t come to pass. Everything else aside, it would have made his job all the more complicated here. It was also unsurprising to learn that Aleksander had few friends, though it came as a relief. That meant less people to throw off the trail, after all. “What about family? Do you know anything about that?”

It was thanks to a childhood of knowing that showing emotion was a thing that brought punishment alongside it that Emilio was able to maintain a neutral expression as the topic of the Good Neighbors came up. It seemed Aleksander’s student wasn’t involved in the organization, and that was a good thing, too. If most of Aleksander’s connections had been within the Good Neighbors, there would be less of a headache in covering things up. Those people probably wanted him dead regardless of Aleksander’s death. He wouldn’t be adding new enemies to the pile there, at least. “I’m not familiar with it,” he lied smoothly, “but I can look into it. Got any names?” He could get that information from Alistair, of course, but this was more about gauging how much this woman knew than it was about getting information.

—

She let out a long sigh, trilling her lips as she thought. “Family,” She echoed, as though repeating the word would summon conversations Rosemary had never had with Aleksander into existence. “No, he isn’t exactly what you would call an open book. I couldn’t even tell you who his emergency contact is. God, come to think of it, it might be me. I hope I’m not his emergency contact, I almost never answer my phone if it’s an unknown number. I should probably check my voicemails and make sure there isn’t a hospital trying to track me down…” She kept talking as she snatched her phone from her purse, scrolling through the transcribed voice messages to double check the answer to her problem hadn’t been hiding on her phone all along.

“I think he maybe mentioned a sister once? Or was that a cousin… Or maybe he was talking about a rerun of The Munsters…” Rosemary dropped her phone back in her purse with a frustrated huff. “Nope. No hospital messages… Sorry, what were you saying?” Her head tilted to the side as she went back through the conversation. “Oh! Yeah the nice neighbors thing. I think there was some lady called… Oh what the hell was her name? Whitney? Wynona? Winnie? I think it was Winnie.” The woman groaned, rubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “I’m sorry, I realize I’m not being very helpful. Whatever information you can turn up with the shitty leads I’m giving you, I’d really appreciate it.”

—

Was it a good thing or a bad one that she had no idea if Aleksander had family to speak of? It probably meant she wasn’t particularly close to him, which could work in their favor if Alistair had to feign at being a dead man to fool her into leaving town, but it also meant they couldn’t get any useful information from her. A student showing up was bad, but a sibling or cousin could be disastrous. Emilio knew firsthand how familial grief could drive a person to vengeance, after all, and even men like Aleksander, who probably hadn’t been a particularly good person, had people who loved them. Killing someone was never really a simple thing. Things might be easier if it were. 

He waited as she checked her phone, feigning interest despite the fact that he knew she’d find no answers there. He was far more interested in what she had to say than what she was listening for, of course. She either didn’t know about the Good Neighbors or she was hiding her involvement with them, but Emilio was more inclined to believe the former. As with her lack of knowledge regarding Aleksander’s family, this was both a blessing and a curse. It meant there was less of a chance that they had to worry about her being a problem, but no new information, either. This was quickly becoming a useless endeavor. 

“It’s fine,” he said, though it wasn’t. “Anything you can tell me about him at all may be useful. What do you know about him, beyond the obvious? We’ve got his name, his appearance, how you met… What else can you tell me?” It was better to have too much information than not enough and, right now, Emilio had very little to go off of at all.

—

A thread of suspicion curled in Rosemary’s mind. It shouldn’t have, obviously. He was a private investigator. It was quite literally his job to ask questions and look for the answers to those questions. Answering his questions meant finding Aleksander faster. She should want to answer his questions. So why, she wondered, had she begun to feel as though she were the subject of his investigation?

She twisted her hair around her finger to dispel the nervous energy. Why would he investigate you, Rosemary, unless he thinks that you’re a murderer. And she wasn’t. A murderer, that was. She waited for people to be good and dead on their own accord before she even contemplated toying with them. 

She huffed out another sigh as she thought. “I don’t know? I mean he talked about how the neighbor thing was important and protected people from goings on.” Rosemary wasn’t going to tell this utter stranger that Aleks had shared that the purpose of the group was to protect the town's citizens from what went bump in the night. If he did suspect her of murder, she didn’t want to add ‘complete and total crazy person’ to his list of suspicions. “Like I said, I don't know much about it. I wasn’t involved. I’m too busy teaching ninety year old women that they don’t need to have their phone an inch from their nose to face time the great grandkids, or dealing with someone’s cranky ass son on the phone because he thinks I’m the billing department.”

—

“He never mentioned anyone specifically?” Emilio prodded, interested in knowing more. “No one he was worried about, no one he disliked? If something happened to him, the people he’s around most often are usually the main suspects. Friends, family. Shit like this happens close to home.” It was the truth, which was why it was a good thing to fall back on here. The last thing he needed was to make a necromancy student suspicious of him, after all. This wasn’t much different than what he might have done in a real investigation. Knowing what kind of people someone was close to was always the first step in knowing what had happened to them. It was just that, in this case, Emilio already knew what had happened. He just needed to know what blowback he might face for it.

It didn’t seem like he’d be getting those answers from her, though. The way she told it, she’d barely known Aleksander at all. It seemed her teacher had been more of a means to an end than a friend. That was a good thing. People didn’t seek to avenge someone they hadn’t even known very well, after all. It was far too much of a hassle. This woman’s apparent indifference about Aleksander’s personal life meant there was one less thing for Emilio to worry about.

He relaxed a little, nodding as she spoke about her day job. It wasn’t information he strictly needed, but he liked knowing more than he needed to. “Sounds like shit,” he offered. “Dealing with people’s the worst part of any job. You need somebody to get dirt on someone’s cranky son to shut him up, I come cheap.” It would be good to get her to think of him as an asset she could fall back on; then, if more information came up, he could coax it out of her.

—

“Look, I don’t know if you ever met Aleksander Nowak, but he’s not exactly the ‘sharing emotions and information about his personal life’ type. I have full trauma dumped on that man and received ‘okay’ as the only response.” The more she sat there and told this man about Aleks, the more Rosemary had to consider why she was even bothering to look for him. She knew the answer was become a better necromancer than her family thought she could be, but she didn’t want to think too hard about that being her motivation. 

She blanched. “Oh shit you don’t think I’m a suspect do you? Look, I wouldn’t consider hiring you to uncover that I’d murdered him. I’m not that crazy.” Maybe she was. She hadn’t decided yet. But she definitely had not murdered Aleks. No matter how much she may have wished she could. 

Rosemary managed a laugh and a smile finally started to tug at her lips, replacing the very stressed out grimace that had been permanently etched on her features for the past several days. “Good to know. Next time someone yells at me for something that isn’t my job, you’re hired.” 

—

“Only met him once,” Emilio replied, which was true. He had technically only met Aleksander the one time; it just happened to have been the time Aleksander got himself killed with his own idiocy. “Sounds like you might be better off with him gone, between you and me. Doesn’t sound like you liked him much.” Was that risky? Maybe. But her deciding that she didn’t give a shit if Aleksander was gone was just as useful to him as her leaving town herself. So long as it didn’t blow back on him, he didn’t care what she did. (It wasn’t as true as it should have been, and he knew it. He didn’t want things to blow back on Zane, either, or Daiyu, if he was being honest. He didn’t particularly want Vic to get into trouble, even if he didn’t know her well, and maybe some part of him would even be vaguely irritated if Alistair got killed a second time.)

He huffed a short laugh at her surprise, shaking his head. “Had to rule it out,” he replied. “People do stupid shit when they’re not thinking right. Hiring someone to solve a murder they did to clear themselves of it isn’t unheard of. Don’t think you killed him, though.” Maybe he would have suspected it if he hadn’t known the truth, but that was mostly just because Emilio suspected everyone of everything. Paranoia was a bitch, and he had a lot of it.

He didn’t hate her, which was a little annoying. Shit would have been a lot easier if he’d hated her. But she didn’t seem terrible, and Emilio couldn’t help but find her at least a little amusing. “Great. As long as you pay me, I’ll get you whatever dirt’s there to find.”

—

She bit back the urge to say ‘lucky you’. It wasn’t that she hated Aleks. Far from it. Rosemary wouldn’t have bothered going through the trouble of trying to track him down if she didn’t care about the man at least a little. But deep down she wasn’t sure if it was that she cared for him, or what he could do for her that she was concerned for. A fleeting question of whether or not that realization made her a horrible person passed through her mind like a shooting star before it faded back into the background. “He’s an acquired taste.” And she couldn’t deny her taste in companionship, platonic or otherwise, was frequently questionable at best. 

At least he didn’t suspect her of being a murderer. She’d have hated to have been forced to find a way to dispose of the man. She wasn’t sure if she could have even if she’d needed to. What could she have done? Reanimated a tiny troupe of critters to attack him? She doubted he’d have had any trouble fending off an attack of that nature. 

“You have a deal,” she laughed. Rosemary waved at the bartender before pointing at the man beside her and sliding money across the counter. “Consider this an upfront thank you for your troubles. Plus I’ll pay whatever you usually charge when you have any updates.” The bartender set another drink down in front of Emilio. 

—

“Guess he is.” And Emilio couldn’t say much about that, could he? He was an acquired taste himself, the kind of person most people didn’t like the first time they met him. He liked to think he was still a better man than Aleksander had been, but maybe he was kidding himself with that. Maybe locking bad people in prisons where they wasted away into nothing was still kinder than killing them outright the way Emilio did. Maybe the fact that he didn’t feel much remorse for the bad people he killed put him on the same level as guys like Aleksander after all. Maybe he was fine with that. Being a bad man only hurt if you were trying to be a good one, didn’t it? If you knew what you were, it became so much harder for people to use it against you.

He wondered how much of who Aleksander was this woman was aware of. She didn’t know about the Good Keep — that gained her a few points in his books. But the Good Keep wasn’t the only thing that made Aleksander a shitty person, was it? There must have been more to it, even if Emilio didn’t do much in way of investigating after Alistair agreed to get him what he needed for free. What was the woman in front of him involved in? Necromancy, for certain, but to what extent? He knew the basics, knew that sacrifices had to be made to bring someone back to life. Had she done that? Did she want to? He might have to find out more, if she was to become a long term fixture of this town.

For now, though, he was content to enjoy his drink. He picked up the glass set in front of him, raised it in her direction. “Cheers,” he replied with a nod. “I’ll keep you posted.” Only as long as it served him.