something wicked

location; ugly mug cafe with; @algomalvado​

coffee. theo needed coffee. desperately. the night before had been filled with movies of monsters in the dark which had left theo unable to close her eyes. she tossed and turned in bed all night with some mixture of imagination and memory of what can come out of the dark. if she was going to make it through work, a caffeine boost was necessary. theo didn’t even have to place her usual order, they had the drink ready with extra caramel when she got to the register to pay. just another perk of living in a town like blackrock. as she was on her way out, the sound of cards flipping caught her attention. they were far to large to be normal playing cards. “excuse me,” she said, approaching the table in the back corner where a man sat. “if you don’t mind my asking, what sort of cards are those?”

His nerves had long since been conditioned to ignoring the bell above the Ugly Mug’s door when it chimed. What he could not ignore, however, was the chill that crept into the room each time a new customer entered. Despite his doubling-up of socks within his secondhand boots, he pulled his feet up onto the chair he was sitting in to keep the cold from finding him. 

“They are Knowing Cards,” he said to the young woman without looking up. He moved the cards about the table, making three small piles, then shuffled each. “They are... conscious of the past, present, and future. All past, present, and future.”

Finally, he looked up. “Would you like to sit with me?”

It’d been simple enough to make it out to Black Trout on his own within the short hours of daylight. After hearing how others in town raved about the beauty of it, he needed to see such a thing for himself. However, getting back turned out to be more of an issue than he’d anticipated. 

If ever there had been a time to remove his shoes, this would be it, but the fear of the permafrost kept them on his aching feet as he walked back towards town. 

He finds himself in a neighborhood just as the sun is disappearing behind the mountains (taking any sense of calm he’d had with it). To be alone in the dark, with the chill creeping in and little sense of direction, would not be good. 

A stranger stands on the edge of a property not too far ahead. He approaches with caution.

“Hello,” he says, trying to mask his fear. “Will you be kind and tell me the direction to the Motel?” 

    Hey! Put that back!

Fuck. 

Had this been any other time, any other place, Santí would not have been so careless about his thievery; but with the winter chill creeping closer with each passing day---and the pain that its threat of transformation places along his spine---desperation overtakes him. He needs the energy but his pockets are empty, save for the small jar of peanut butter he just shoved into one of them. He hates the stuff, but it makes for an easy meal. 

Some acne-prone teenager with a name tag approaches, but they don’t get more than two steps before Santí bolts in the opposite direction down the aisle. 

A sharp corner taken around a tuna themed endcap has him colliding with someone else the moment he’s not paying attention, and the next thing he knows is he’s on the slick floor of the market beside the loaf of bread he’d had shoved up the front of his tattered sweater, looking up at Sola from the motel. 

It feels like magic, the way the bathroom door opens to reveal Kenny the moment the roar of the hand drier cuts out.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says; it’s a new combination of words he’s learned from the television, and this is the first opportunity he’s had to use it. He was crouched on the floor beneath the blower---a new method of finding warmth---but stands.  

Were it not for the fact that they are in a restroom, he’d think the other was following him. 

Getting kicked out of Toppings, and temporarily banned from Ugly Mug and Big Sky until he “came back as a customer” (whatever that meant) left him without too many places to go, and the Motel was becoming more dangerous by the day. So, Twilight it was. 

He dug through the rucksack on the counter beside the sink, then pointed a long red piece of candy in Kenny’s direction. “You would like a Twizzler?”

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth; pressed it further down towards the back of her teeth. It hurt to think about, she realized, that he was afraid. Growing up, she’d never been one to bring home strays – had never dared to, for fear of what might happen. As she got older, she became the stray; a hungry thing that held court near thresholds, insatiable for something far less tangible than a meal. Now, she kept finding mirror shards all over town, strange reflections peering back at her.

A thought began churning in her mind, a rogue notion. Kindness, it whispered. Safety. That’s what you wanted.

“… You’re still down at the motel?”

He pulled his eyes away from Birghid and Declan quick enough to catch the sad look in her eyes, and while he was still wet behind the ears to this new world beyond the desert, he knew enough to recognize when someone pitied him. It never felt very nice, despite the fact that in order for one to pity him, they also have had to care for him. Bittersweet. 

“Yes,” he replied softly and pulled his shoulder away from the wall to face her. “But not for long.” 

Since the arrival of the giants, he’d been reconsidering his presence within Blackrock. The urge to run had not left his legs and feet for a single moment, and he was growing tired of fighting natural instinct---with the intense chill threatening his muscles and bones, the fight had grown more difficult, and there was no telling how long this winter would last. 

Milo chuckled; the man wasn’t wrong, but few people would outright say that Blackrock wasn’t the most entertaining. “What…exactly are you looking for?” he asked, honestly curious. The man was acting strange, wasn’t he? He usually wasn’t one to judge, but everything about the stranger seemed off. “Maybe I can help, yeah? Been here my whole life, after all.”

The lights went dim and the screen at the front of the theater came alive. Santi leaned forward again. What was he looking for? That was the bug secret, wasn’t it? One that he could not speak about to carelessly in the outside world where he was no longer surrounded by his pack, nor the comfort of knowing who was who, and who was what. The young man has made a living off of monsters and the unusual, enough to claim that they were his own thing. Milo’s Monsters.

Perhaps he could be trusted. 

“What do you know of werewolves?” he whispers in the dark. 

His smile is unsettling, but Sara chooses to assuage the request anyway, pulling her lighter and yet another cigarette out of the pack in her pocket. She holds them both out at arm’s length for him to take. 

Normally, she wouldn’t give up control of her lighter so easily– too often do they disappear into the pockets of others– but she doesn’t want to get too close to him. She seems to suddenly realize that they’re alone out here, in the dark. She’d be more fearful of the situation if he didn’t look so weak; he has a few inches on her, yes, but he looks like he could topple over with one punch. This small comfort, and Sara’s curiosity, is why she doesn’t leave.

Sara watches him light the cigarette. 

“What’s your name?”

”Santiago Zevallos,” he answers, but the name sounds strange coming from behind the rows of teeth that hold the cigarette between them. Fingers that were more adept with matches handled the lighter carefully, but the motion of lighting the cigarette seems unnatural in the way that a practiced movement (after hours of studying the way strong men in movies would do such a thing) could be. Nevertheless, a red ember glows just beneath his nose, and he hands the lighter back, matching her arms length.  

“But you may call me Santi, as most people do. It is my,” he searches his brain for the word and fights the urge to cough the smoke from his lungs, “nickname.” 

It is clear in his expression as he brings the cigarette to his lips again just how little he wants it to be there, but he breathes in nonetheless, hoping that the motion of doing so will create a commonality between them. 

“Pack?” Seriously? Like… huh? Raine figured they couldn’t get any more confused, but alas: they fucking did.

“Thank you?” would not be a first that someone blamed him for smoking something. They took the joint back and inhaled with a new intensity, as if hoping the smoke would take their confusion away. “Raine,” they said, one eyebrow cocked as they studied the strange young person called Santi. “What’s a desert hippie doing in Blackrock?” 

“I am not hippie,” he replies, watching the joint between Raine’s fingers carefully and wondering when it would be returning to him, if at all. “I am looking for something.” His free hand idly plucks a few blades of grass from the earth. “But I have had no luck so far.” 

In looking at Raine, he wonders how blunt he should be about his suspicions that they are more like him than they realize. Their general unkempt nature leads Santi to believe that he is safe to assume the other is a wolf, too, like the many he was told about before being given a map with Blackrock circled in red. Then again, one can never be sure...

“Where is your pack?” he asks. If right, he gets closer to the answers he seeks. If not, well, maybe he could blame it on an imaginary language barrier.

“Cubano,” she said, lips quirking into yet another smile. They came so easy, while talking to him; teased forth happy memories that made her more fond of him by simple association. “Did you move to Guajira from El Salvador? –– Or did your parents?” 

Dutifully, she let her hand hover over the cards yet again: 

“One.” Two cards over from the first one–

“Two.” Right down the middle.

“No, I was born in Guajira. In the desert. I do not have parents like you do here, I am the son of a collective. Many mothers.” He says the words with great casualty as he scoops her final choices up in one hand, and compiles the remainder of the cards in a pile to his side with the other.

One, two, three, he flips the cards before her. The Fool and The Devil, both reversed, and Six of Pentacles: he stares at them, lips pursed in thought as he quietly asks Ora to help him find the thread between them.

“Love is not easy for you,” he thinks out loud. “It is either holding you back, or you are allowing it to hold you back, but either way--- you feel trapped. The path back to your true self and better things can be found through kindness. Generosity, even. The good thing is that they believe this comes natural for you.” He sighs, leaning forward to place his elbows onto the table. “Though... they know that there is something hurting you that you are holding onto.”

The night isn’t a celebration so much as it is a mission--- for him, at least. Upon hearing of the celebration (and remembering how frutul Thanksgiving had been for his food stash) he’d come prepared with a tote bag and the plans to hide it in a tree. Throughout the night he has been sneaking food outside and hiding it away for safekeeping. 

He’s on his third trip to the buffet table and back with rolls in his pockets when he spots the lithe woman close to his treasure. 

“What are you doing here, in this spot?” he says, loud enough to display annoyance, yet still quiet so as not to lure any more eyes to his spoils. “Do not go closer to that tree.”

“Hutchings. Booth. Baker.” The name is recited like a grocery list from where he sits in the dark corner of the barn. Since having the bullet removed from his shoulder by the kind man, he’d practiced to make sure he knew it right. It was also very fun to say, as the words seemed to roll over his tongue. 

He has been watching the other, carefully. Studied his downturn lips and distant expression with curiosity. Finally, the desire to know what was on their mind becomes too much not to say something. 

“You have come here alone, yes?” 

when: December 7th, 2019 where: Whitegrass Barn, ‘A December to Remember’ with: @algomalvado

It hadn’t slipped her notice that all three of them were in attendance: Santí, as well as the tall man and woman he’d been hiding from during Friendsgiving. The latter two were busy playing a set on the makeshift stage, and so she snuck towards the last place she’d seen Santí – near the very back, out of sight from the two of them.

“Hey,” she said, voice appropriately quiet as she approached him.

“You alright?”

The woman who carried the sun beneath her skin appeared beside him as quietly as she spoke; Were he not so on edge, he wouldn’t have noticed her at all until her little voice broke through, and had the giants not been in his peripheral, he would have smiled at the sight of her. 

“Hello.” He leans against a post, easing the posture that ached from being so stiff with nerves. 

The question is one that he has been asked more times since arriving in the North than he had prior in his life. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a double greeting, but the way in which she asked had him digging for the honesty within his debilitated little frame. 

“No,” he replied, matching the volume of her question. “I am frightened, but life moves, still.” 

TIMESTAMP: Saturday, December 7th, pre-party DIRECTED TO: Anyone!

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝. For any party, or funeral, or event, she is the first to put her name down for the potluck. She does not plan, and she does not decorate. She does not volunteer to set up decorations, and she most certainly does not stay after to clean up. Frankly, she didn’t want to volunteer at all, but she ultimately decided that to not do so would look more suspicious than anything. Everyone was going to be here. She made her pack promise to wear triple layers and heartily encouraged them to go back home after the temperature dropped, but she couldn’t shake the fear in her gut that one of them would change tonight. 

Will parked her truck outside of the barn, noting and deciding to ignore the eyes the thundering of her engine received. Her truck was a piece of crap but she loved it and they would pry the keys out of her cold, dead hands. She hopped out, slid her keys into her pocket, and popped open the back. She stared at her equipment; food pans, chafing dishes, heat lamps, etc. She bit her lip, and glanced around. “Hey!” She called, waving her arm, a warm smile on her lips. “Can I borrow you? To help carry some of these stuff in?”

With eyes that fixated on the open barn doors, wondering if he should enter. The people of Blackrock held too many events for his liking, but if it was going to be anything like the Thanksgiving festivities, the night would end with his stomach full to the point of bursting and plenty of stolen trinkets to turn in for pocket money down the line. 

It took him a moment to realize he was being spoken to by the waving woman. Santí looked around to confirm it to be true. 

“What do you want with me?” He asks after limping over to her truck. In the dim light coming from the barn, he recognizes her as a friendly face he’d seen at the bar in town a few times---sometimes within the bar, and other times through the crack between the dumpster and its lid behind the small establishment. 

The smell of the food drew him closer. “This is for the party?” 

“No,” Raine said as an answer, shaking their head and narrowing their eyes. They had some more questions, but right now confusion was that which settled over them. Confusion and just the general disinterest in asking questions. They were far too tired and chill for that shit. “Are you a hippie? Raised by hippies?” they asked, not really noting what was coming out of their mouth.

 Sure looked like a hippie. Or a goth? Really, not Raine’s strong suit. They took a quick drag before extending the joint to the newcomer in an automatic gesture - certainly not out of kindness.

“I do not know what this is,” Santí replied. “My family lives in a pack in the desert.” He spoke as nonchalantly as if they were talking about the weather. Finally, they did the one thing he had been waiting for since he walked over by handing him the joint. Santí took it with a smile and placed it between his lips. 

“This is better than it smells. I do not blame you for smoking.” He handed the thing back to the other. 

Since they shared the smoke, and he figured they could be considered something like a friend, he offered the other his name. “My name is Santí, what is yours?”

The man is turning red in a way Grey has really only ever seen happen from fever or sun exposure. They look up at the overcast sky where the sun is nothing more but a bleary impression in the clouds. Then they look back down, or rather just lower than they were looking before, at the man. He does look very weak. It’s not impossible that he’s also sick.  “You look hot,” Grey observes aloud. “You look even more like a flower now that you’re pink,” they add, and then, with slightly more concern, “are you alright?” They’re not expecting his next question but they rarely know what to expect when speaking to a human or…anyone really, so they take it in stride. “Yes,” they confess a little shyly, shrugging. “I’m small so it’s easier to hide. Do you like being seen because your hair is blue?”

He does not enjoy the way the little person is speaking to him. It reminds him too much of when the packmates would poke and bring parts of his appearance into a conversation that was uncomfortable for him, but very funny for them. ‘Sensitive as yucca blossom,’ they would say the more annoyed he became.

“Stop this. Yes, I’m fine,” he says quickly and takes a step back. He lurches as he does so, in a way that would suggest otherwise, but he hold onto his pride like its his lifeblood. 

“You are very lucky.” Despite his annoyance, he almost smiles at the way they shrug. “I am not so good at hiding.” Not like this, his mind continues. He almost wishes they could see him in his other form, when he is not so frail. 

He considers the question for a moment. “Yes. In some ways. It helps me meet friends. Some people do not like the color, but I think it keeps them far away.” 

The ‘fine’ doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like pulling teeth and Hutch hates himself a little bit for it. For demanding it. He did what he felt he needed to feel comfortable with the situation. But in the process had he not completely by-passed the man’s own needs? Guilt seeps into him, this was meant to be a safe space. It had come to be a safe space, Charlie had helped him get there. What did it matter that one more wolf came to see him? Came to seek out his help?

Despite knowing they’re coming, the words themself make him cringe. He looks away, can’t stomach looking at the man already so weak, so frail. How long had he lived with a bullet in his shoulder? It had been a long time since Hutch had thought about the prospect of hunters. Those set on killing because of what the man in front of him was. But he could not stop himself from remembering Grey in a similar situation all those months ago. Hutch’s features softened.

They are more alike, Grey and the man before him, then he cares to think about.

“I can help you.” He nodded his head to indicate the man’s shoulder. It’s not the end of his questions. The who, the what, the why. The pieces still don’t add up fully, but Hutch thinks to have gotten this much out of the man who still hasn’t told him his name is something short of a miracle. He is not of the Blackrock pack, but maybe that shouldn’t matter to him. That’s a hard and shockingly new line to walk in this already crazy aspect to his life. “Do you have a name?” His words were soft.

Despite being given the freedom to leave, he moved like any trapped animal would, but he sat on the soft chair in the corner of the office nevertheless. 

“Santí,” he replied. The creature did not often think of his full name. It was rare that he ever used it. However, in that room with the strong-but-soft man asking for his name, he wondered if he should have given him its entirety. No, his nerves seemed to say. No, I don’t believe I will.

He was careful not to ease back in the chair and stress his bullet-holding shoulder. The man couldn’t help sooner. For the past however many days, he had been living with two stressed shoulders, as he’d spent his nights leaning on the good one, which despite being good was still a sore, popping thing when it moved, hardly able to hold the weight.

And then it hit him: the intense pain of physically letting his guard down by relaxing when he sat, dropping the shoulder and shifting the bullet. Santí leaned forward a moment, letting loose a cringing exhale through the pain and resisting the urge to curse his ancestors with the same breath. 

The wolf within him pressed against his spine, all of his frustration threatened to burst out at the feeling. For just a moment, he was the snarling, feral thing he was meant to be, but Santí was strong in ways he didn’t always realize. He corrected himself. Just in case the man had any more of the typical questions he received, he quickly ran the gamut as water collected behind closed eyelids.