bitter souls

I'll be good, I'll be good And I'll love the world, like I should Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good For all of the time That I never could

Louis doesn’t regret coming to New York, not in the slightest, especially considering he had met Azra along the way. He is thankful for two things from that night—the first, the fact that he had a beautiful woman on his arm who he actually liked, and secondly, that no one else was harmed. Sure, two people were bad enough for a body count, but it could have been worse. So much worse. He hasn’t even gotten a chance to tell Azra that he is happy they both got out safe, because now it means he can take her on a date—his choice, this time. He’s half busy planning out said date, half putting all his attention into hoping this cigarette will help calm his nerves when he hears a voice ask for a cigarette. He looks up at the woman and immediately pats at his inner suit pocket, trying to locate exactly where he put the pack. When he finds it, he holds it out to her and waits for her to take one before he takes hold of his lighter. He flicks it on, waiting for her to ignite her cigarette. 

He almost had completely forgotten about the card in his hand, and he looks down at it and sighs. “Theories? No, not particularly,” he admits, taking the cigarette from his own mouth and exhaling. “What do your instincts tell you? I’ve never seen anything like this before. The fact that no one else was even remotely hurt is what I find the most absurd. Whatever it is, there has to be something else to come, surely.” He brings the cigarette back up to his mouth, only noticing now that his hands are shaking. “I suppose it scares me, hm,” he remarks, trying to steady his fingertips but ultimately failing. He shoves his free arm into the pocket of his pants, doubting the woman will be able to give him any absolution for the fear that he feels. Still, it might be nice to talk to someone about it. 

She doesn’t bother with the lighter, ignites the tip of her finger to light up her cigarette and gives a nod - “Thanks.” The witch isn’t too concerned about her revealing identity as a magic user in that moment. She figures if he has a tarot card, there is a good chance he was at the Gala and thus was something more. If he wasn’t, if he suddenly flipped shit at the fact that fire had sprouted from her fingers - well, there was a neat little memory wiping spell for that. 

He didn’t flip shit in the end, or if he did, he was pretty good at hiding it. Mazel tov, Cait thinks. You get to keep your memories. 

“My instincts.” She repeats. As a witch, her instincts are all she has. As a private investigator, there is no way something like ‘instincts’ would hold up in a court of law. “My deductions,” She corrects, “lead me to believe it was a targeted attack. A message if I’ve ever seen one. Certainly supernatural and target to the community as a whole. And is it a coincidence that both incidents dealt with cards from the same suit and they came in a consecutive order? IX of Swords and X of Swords. Then there’s the bodies… one at the first scene, two ad the second...” 

She sighs, but it’s not because she’s over the conversation. In fact, it’s nice to talk to someone, for a moment, that doesn’t know her. With her husband ( or ex-husband ) every conversation is an emotional minefield. With Jameson, ever conversation is a shit-show. Jack is always a chess game. Nice, to have someone completely devoid of all that. A clean slate, if you will. Though it does little to rid her of her untrusting nature, it gives her the slightest peace of mind. 

I suppose it scares me. 

Cait is almost startled at this statement. She’d never been the kind of person to openly state her fears much less do so in front of people she’d just met - people who’d just asked her for a cigarette and nothing more. Is that a thing people did? Evidently. 

Does it scare her? She isn’t sure.

“Yeah… yeah. I’ll be honest, I’m probably the worst person to talk to you about this. I haven’t thought about what scares me in a very long time.” 

She sticks out her hand for a take-no-prisoners hand-shake. 

“Caitlin, by the way."

It had been three years since he left the Godfrey home.

Three years since he’d fully embraced what it meant to be alone and to be free of his tyrannical mother. Most, if not all, of his family had refused to speak to him after he’d left. He was perfectly happy to be free of them- except for Blaise. He missed his twin every day but to pursue dark magic with him in mind would be enough.

When Cait walked into the shop, Aries’ eyes narrowed on her. A cousin who had a habit of making bad choices, they were kindred spirits. 

“I think you could challenge me for that title.” He retorted with a smirk, glancing down at the books in front of him. He was thankful he’d left necromancy for the afternoon lest she learn why he changed in the first place or (god forbid) who his mentor was. “Just healing and teleporting today.”

“Probably, and  it certainly looks better on me.” Cait tossed back with no malicious intent. Cousins, arguing. It was easy to fall back into old patterns. She knew she didn’t need to tell him that everyone missed him. The witch understood the call of dark magic, had even answered it herself like some call of the wild for so much of her life. It’s what her own mother had left the Godfrey’s for all those years ago. But the thing was, in the last year (in the last MONTH) Cait had stared into the abyss and some part of her had realized that most people who saw true power at the bottom of that particularly dark well were usually suffering from little more than teen angst. Maybe the naiveté of youth told Aries he was better than the inevitable ‘crash and burn’... In which case she hoped he wouldn’t burn too bad... 

Jesus, maybe this why she was a terrible mother. 

But just like the Godfrey’s were there for her when she’d craved every unholy rune (always the long sleeves with her) onto her body and just like the Godfrey’s were there after she’d put something dark inside her (something that was certainly still there, making her magic green and foul ) - they’d find a path to forgiveness for Aries too. What was that if not strength?

Time. Time was what was needed. It’s what he needed too, in more ways than one. She looked down at the tomes, peering at them upside down. 

Healing and teleporting, huh? How specific. 

“You got something that needs fixing? Or what exactly are you trying to run away from?” She turned on her heel, and headed back tot he shelves - looking for certain books, but not quite ending the conversation. He should be looking into the physics of time if was planning on traveling through space. She’d seen it while she was in here the other day, now if she could just retrace her steps... 

he finds foolhardiness    a pointless exercise of dominance   —–  but it’s quite endearing on her.  how her tongue swiftly latches to the bait he’s dangling,  and swallows with a final bark.   he imagines,   this must feel as some type of surrender to her,   a bruise to the ego she so adamantly attempts to smother under all that cheap fabric.

but he has no intention of making any of this easier for her ;   without strife caitling an emptied woman ;     she is left to the judgement of her own voice,  a much harsher,  unforgiving devil,  than the one who stands before her.

“   clever.   ”     that conceited little lilt to his voice suggests otherwise,    &    just like that,   the snake bites back,   fangs dripping poison ;    as it does,  as it is its nature.      but he’s not quite ready to swallow her, then.      he’s not entirely sure when, if ever,  that day will be.

greedy fingers,   seldom exposed,   now lay bare   &   it is not resentment nor repudiation she witness at her blunt displays of hostility.   he looks thankful —    for they can freely roam across the road she’s so carefully paved,  trace the phantom imprints where her hands have lingered.     — he doesn’t crack it open,   yet.  

ah.    there.       

of course,    he’d never willingly sate her thirst with feeble admissions of guilt,   but he entertains her with shadows of smiles,   and the crinkles that form about his eyes.     CURIOUS analogy,   not that he’s opposed.      likely,   more accurate than she’d ever guess   —– it seems as though he’s rummaging through some thoughts,    recollecting an old memory before cracking open the file.

“     a love story…      ”      he points out,   eyes not moving from the dull pages.     “    —- how curious.    ”

he doesn’t say any more, than.  and he doesn’t expect her too,  either.

it is unfair to embarrass her with any further enticement    —– even if she so deserves for the comparison,   for that careless analogy that implicates her and dangerously provokes him.    how unlikely that she should inspire mercy in him.

to business, than    —— what he sees is ritualistic.    neediness.    ambitious.         wishful thinking, for the most part.   the butchering is sloppy,   the cuts are careless.   is it curiosity, or a hunger for knowledge that grows wilder with each slice?   there’s no sentimentalism ,   no remorse for the shambles left behind.   one might wrongly assume jack would approve of such methords    —–   but the gracelessness,  the lack of meaning into each random killing is terribly boorish to a man such as himself.

back to her,   his eyes are searching.     in a breath,   he could swallow whole that jaded body of weary limbs and spit the bones clean    ——–  not a scream would escape her throat.    he’d devour them too.     but to watch her blossom ,       to watch her peel the very skin that coats her bones and crumble before him would be infinitely more pleasurable. rewarding.   he’d sown her ,    and he’d reap her  —- when time was due.

“        what a waste…      ”

not bothering to elaborate,   when he stands,   the doctor has fallen silent.   what crawls closer,   all cat & canary like,  preserves the gap between them by mere inches.

“        i do have a simple favor to ask.  will you say yes?      ”

She gives him a genuine bit of herself, you can hear it in the scoff that tries to cover up a real laugh. Did he just call ‘Silence of the Lambs’ a love story? If that were the case - 

“What does that make us Jack?” 

then she and him were - 

“Star crossed lovers?” 

A cruel snicker. Maybe ‘Midsummer’ was his favorite. Or maybe he read ‘Titus Andronicus’ like it was a love song. But as cavalier as this exchange is, she is certainly attentive at the way he examines the file, looking for any of the tells of his face that she knows so well. She looks for literally anything that would give her her own start to figuring this out. Cait itches to solve this. ‘What a waste.’ Yes! She’d thought the same. “Right? Ritualistic instead of reverent.”   She can’t help and say - but any of the enthusiasm that comes with laying down the first piece of the puzzle dies cold in her throat as he slinks closer. 

Her hands drop and immediately, her fingers move to fiddle with the sleeves of her flannel. Her magic jumps up like an instinct. Cait’s unconsciously going for that dark well that sits in her and she gets that feeling, the same one that struck her in the library at the Gala, as if she is nothing more than a marionette. It’s hard not to, when he’s so close, just hex him with a little bit of magic. It’s like reaching for a phantom limb and Cait winds up crossing her arms, just so there’s one more barrier between them. This stance also lets her surreptitiously thumb the spot where the rune for ‘destruction’ sits carved into her skin, under her shirt. How many times did Will have to catch her by the elbow when she was in uniform to keep her from doing something reckless? Would he do the same now, as she was mere inches from Jack? Without William, the force that is (former) detective Caitlin Godfrey is left unattended and unhindered.

A simple favor. She searches his face, finds nothing. This is crazy. This whole thing. She loves that. Has Jack ever been in a working partnership before? He doesn’t really strike her as a team player. She wants to take a guess at what he’s going to ask fo her. Wants to tap two fingers to her jugular or maybe take out her little pocket athame and slit her palm to tease him with the possibility of paying with blood. What could he even possibly want that was SIMPLE? Going back to her fantasies for a second, the ones she listed off earlier were absolutely taunting bullshit. But here’s one that’s true: She wishes she had his case file in front of her right now; the one she’s constructed over these last five years. She’d read it back to him and remind herself of all the things that made Jack get up each morning. Maybe if she had it right here, she’d know what he was about to ask for instead of drawing a complete blank. 

Even after all this time he still has the ability to surprise her. 

“I’m not really in the habit of writing blank checks, Jack.” 

It’s the dance all over again. ‘But would you do it for me?’ Of course, she accepts.  

Something he could finally channel all his aggression into. The legacy his father tried so hard to secure. Lukas had to get away from the city and drove outwards further away from civilization. Perhaps he would hunt something that was different and he would be able to give his father a piece of it. Proof that he knew what he was, but he still felt a quiet turn in his stomach. He could never shoot Winter, he could never harm her. However, neither could anyone in his family since she was safe under the Founding Family Law. The only thing unsafe was their rekindled old friendship. 

After he parked he hiked his way through the forest with his guns, a couple of grenades, the knives of course. He wasn’t sure what he was going to encounter. He walked back over to stock up on holy water vials just in case. Nothing could prepare him properly for what exactly had been there. Lukas walked intently in the direction semi-automatic rifle already loaded. 

A shadow keyed him to a beast and he lowered himself down placing the AR gun in position. Once he looked through the target lens he paused a second. A fucking dragon? Well, couldn’t get anymore supernatural in thought. Without a word he fired the first shot aimed for the beast’s wing. It would be easier to execute if it couldn’t fly. 

What - 

Zip! The bullet rushed past him, clipping Melchior’s flank. Great. Great. GREAT. He was being shot at. Not his first time mind you, but it had been a few years. Most of his time traveling Europe had been pretty tame - 

Fuck, that was a semi-auto. It would be a terrible idea to shift back now, his scales were armor, without ‘em there was a good chance he’d catch a stray bullet and that would be the end of him. He launched up and tried to get a better glimpse at the poor bloke. Had he just, unwittingly, unveiled the existence of DRAGONS to some poor human? No, this had to be someone already in the know. Most people’s first impulse, when confronted with a dragon for the first time, was not to immediately shoot it out of the sky. 

Hunter. 

Mel could hear himself and the other Dragons snickering in the back of his mind. They used to make a game of this, you know? Play a little chicken with danger. But those were the days when he was a mess of limbs, a gangly youth that was still getting used to his wings and his talons. Now the whole thing was just a pain. Why couldn’t this dick just leave him alone?  Let him enjoy a little wind beneath his wings. 

And to be clear - Melchior was no killer. Had been, also back then, but never again. He had no intention of killing this hunter in retaliation...but he also knew he could not let himself get shot out of the fucking sky. Everything he’d been taught, to what? Go down like some common pigeon? Absolutely not. 

He zig-zagged - that was an easy tactic to remember - and let out another short jet of flame as a warning. ‘Don’t fuck with my fire bro.’ Another shot - Jesus! - and so Melchior dove, with no other plan, straight for the man. A large claw swiped out. He latched on to the hunter and lifted him up. Tried the shake the gun right out of his hand. 

( text ↬ zatanna p.i. ) len: business must be booming for you recently huh ( text ↬ zatanna p.i. ) len: i don’t know what you do all day but i’m picturing your face on columbo

( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: you know

( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: im really not opposed to breaking and entering

( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: but i’ll bite

( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: address?

( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: kind of hoping you do 

( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: don’t make promises unless you plan on keeping ‘em