terror

This town is already stifling and she’s been here all of three days. Brighid never did well in small towns. Not where everyone knows everyone and no ones’ secrets are really their own. It makes her job easier, but it makes her feel claustrophobic and trapped. If the hunting wasn’t so damn good, she would never step foot in another forgotten memory of a town. Declan would let her. She knows he would. All she’d have to do is ask.

She may hate Blackrock. But oh, how she loves how the people talk. She hears their name more often than not. With hushed whispers and gentle questions, she starts to get a fuller picture of just who they might be. There is talk of nasty habits, of ruined names and half-true stories.  Brighid has always liked those kinds of people. But something more, something that sticks. How a park ranger has killed more wolves than she had any right too.

She finally puts a face to the name when she pushes the door open of their shitty little diner – Buckshot, was it? She’s there, parked in a booth that looks like it definitely should seat more than the one person it currently does. But Sloan looks too comfortable, and too disinterested that she doubts anyone has tried to move her. Brighid ignores the server desperately trying to get her attention – asking again and again how many people in her party.  Instead, she slips elegantly into the other side of the booth, a smile sharp as a knife glints across her face.

“I’ve heard about you.”

She doesn’t smoke often, not anymore. The smell lingers, and she’s much invested in her appearance to put up with the yellowing of teeth and darkening of fingernails. But when the circumstances call for it, she’s not too big of a person. The cigarette between her fingers is vile, but she makes it look good. Elegant drag after elegant drag.

If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe it’s not nicotine and tar she’s inhaling but one of Declan’s own creations. Something stronger, more eye-opening. A mixture that made her feel bigger than she was. Something more, something powerful.

The conversation has long since lost its appeal and her mind was drifting. Bringing the offending object to her lips she moved to inhale. But in stark contrast to as slowly as she moved, the thing was wretched from her fingers. Her eyes flashed open, a dangerous look making its way across her features. Very few invaded her personal space without consent and lived to tell the tale. But the woman in front of her has a glint in her eyes that Brighid is interested in. She looks pale, sickly almost. As if she’s struggling from a fever. But even though she looks close to sweating, she’s bundled up tight in a coat underneath the heaters of the outdoor bar. One eyebrow arches into a question, but Brighid lets the woman take a long drag from her cigarette.

Allegra felt the cold start to steep into their bones, make a home inside their body. They knew winter was coming, knew that their time in this body was limited and that they’d be back to what was far more familiar sooner rather than later, but they still felt a bit unbalanced. They turned human to look for safety, to beg shelter from someone they had once known and trusted, but that wasn’t quite how it played out. Allegra wasn’t sure that they were ready to return to the woods, despite missing the simplicity their life had had during their years in that body.

An unfamiliar voice had Allegra looking up, attention turned away from their thoughts and their brain suddenly on high alert. There was something they recognized in the face staring back at them, but they couldn’t place it. She wasn’t one of the wolves, not anyone they had seen hang around the pack either. Hesitantly, guarded,  they cleared their throat. “I’m sorry-have we met?” they spoke haltingly, words oddly formal and polite as they kept a careful distance between them and the unknown girl.

The confusion is not something she is expecting from them. Brighid cannot stop the frown that crosses over her face. She remembers the Fitzgerald’s well. They were no nonsense people, strict and serve. They had reminded a younger Brighid of an Seanreacht, of how she had grown up too. There would have been consequences for the inability to place a face with a name. Brighid pulled her jacket a little tighter around her shoulders, straightening her spine through the discomfort.

“Yes.” It’s fact, and so she speaks it like one. Matter of fact and succinct. It helps her ignore the part of her that is still hurt and not being remembered. Because that emotion has no place here. This is a conversation between hunter and hunter, a trade of information. Feelings should not be involved. “Years ago, your parents asked us for help.” It’s a prompt, one that shouldn’t be necessary, but Brighid offers it anyway.

@brighidnolan

Date: Saturday, December 7th Status: Closed @brighidnolan @algomalvado @theofawn @hutchingsb

It hurts. All of it hurts. The shift has been pushed back for weeks. Their body hasn't’ forgotten that betrayal. It burns. In all that pain, a bullet grazing their flank is lost, just one awful feeling among many.  

Later, Grey will wonder if this is what the shift is always like for human-born wolves, their body turning against them. Right now, Grey thinks of nothing but running. Their mind is unmoored, lost in the foggy space between human and animal. They can’t quite remember what they’re supposed to be running from, only that they must run. There is something dark and consuming behind them and the moment they slow down or turn to see it they’re certain they will die. 

The world opens up around them, vivid and bright in a way it could never be to a human. The forest is a riot of scents and sounds. They can smell their own blood as it leaks from their side and mats in their fur. They know it will leave a trail. They hear the rush of water ahead and they know just from the sound of it that it’s slow enough for them to cross but too deep for a human to do the same. There is some last analytical part of their brain that knows their body will fail them very soon. They need to be rid of the human before that happens. They veer towards the closest bend in the river, running and running until they’re through the trees, on the shore, and the dark water is rising up to meet them.

There is so much anger coursing through her, it takes more than a couple of breathes to bring her back to herself. Without Declan by her side, she’s far too tempted to take to the woods in pursuit. In high heels, and lacking the tools she’d need, some part of her knows she would likely end up the hunted in that situation. But it’s so fucking hard to see through the red rage the bleeds through her vision.

She has to remind herself, she was in control. She shot to hurt, not to kill. She made the decision to let the thing live, let the hunt continue.

Every time she repeats it in her mind, it becomes less and less true. And she realizes just how much of an idiot she truly was. How she was blinded by the ease of the situation. How she didn’t take all the factors into account.

        he doesn’t feel that he’s in over his head with her       it takes more than a leggy blonde with a wicked gleam in her eyes to do that to him        but there’s something else there. something that tells him she’ll give him a run for whatever money he’s got. he’s not bothered by it , not bothered by her , not bothered by her attention. 

“  brighid? that’s a name you don’t hear everyday ,  ”     he says , sips lightly at his beer. she covered it well , but he caught the way her eyes lit up at the first compliment. it remains at the back of his mind as he offers another to her.     “  fits a woman you don’t see everyday , too.  ”     flirting       or something almost there       to make this whole thing go by faster , aided by a little booze? reminds him of the half dozen or so weddings he’s been to. the bigger ones , where good behavior was a necessity versus the smaller ones where he didn’t feel so scrutinized. that’s how he feels here. andrew straightens , ignores the loose tendril of blonde hair framing the one side of his face. the familiar weight of the pistol at his side remains hidden beneath his flannel and coat.      “  what’re you drinking?  ”

Long ago she stoped making her presence seem smaller than it was for the sake of others. It was too dangerous a game, too easy to loose herself in the desires of others. But it made it much harder to draw in the attentions of those who might not be ready for the true extent of her personality. She half-heartedly wondered where he might land. Going toe to toe with her, or falling behind just as quickly as he had caught her eye? One eyebrow raised slowly at the compliment. This one she lets stir her ego, but the pleasant smile doesn’t shift from her face.

Please. It snaps something awake inside of her. It’s a simple echo of her own words, but they turn it sour and wrong. She can feel the want in her gut, but she can feel it higher up too. Closer to her heart, and damnit she’s scared. She bites down on his hand. For once she is not strong enough to be courageous in the face of her fear. She presses a soothing kiss to the red of the bite on his hand, but it’s all the softness she can manage. Her tongue snakes out to circle his fingers, coaxing them into her mouth. Her eyes bore into his still, but this time it’s a threat. Goading him into more. Wanting more, taking more. Wanting her more.

( That’s a foolish thing to ask of him, and that’s what hits her too hard. She knows how much he wants her. Knows how much he’s loyal to her. How many times has he chosen her over the right thing to do?

It sits heavy in her soul.

All of that, and she still can’t bring herself to love him the right way.)

Her cheeks hollow around his fingers as she sucks. Her newly freed hand goes to dig into the muscle she finds at his shoulders. A startled out moan is muffled by the obstruction in her mouth. He moves inside of her steady, and overwhelming. How can she demand more when she already feels this much? Or perhaps it is because she feels so fully that she presses for more.  A distraction to the feelings and thoughts that betray here even now.

         it’s rare that someone , that anyone , can spot andrew in a crowd without him wanting to. he mastered the art of disappearing in plain sight a long time ago ; occasions such as this , where the flow of alcohol is startling and overwhelming , only make it easier. he can make himself as big or as small as he needs , can sift and wind through the crowd of people gathered tonight to ensure people forget his presence. he’s done it a handful of times thus far tonight , escaping to the cold outdoors when necessary.

no one’s eyes , however , have been quite so laser-focused as hers. 

he stays where he is , feeling something akin to a mouse beneath the watchful eyes of a cat. not quite as helpless though. more jerry than victim. waits for her to approach , listens to the chatter around him and watches the way the bartender lingers on a certain figure out of andrew’s sight. sipping from his beer , he turns when spoken to       a blonde eyebrow arching above blue eyes.     “  can’t say we have. i think i’d remember a woman as striking as you.  ”      he’s got half a mind to hide the thick deep south drawl with which he speaks , but doesn’t. straightens from his leaned position against the bartop.     “  name’s shane , if that helps any , ma’am.  ”

With him, still, underneath her gaze, she feels a rush of power. She knows he can feel her gaze set upon him, knows how he feels stuck underneath it. It’s an intoxicating feeling, something she’s known herself under Delcan’s gaze. The rush that thrums through her veins sets her alight, more than any stage could. She tries her best not to stalk forwards, truly she tries.

Her smirk becomes harder, darker. Somehow she doesn’t think he’ll mind.

where: whitegrass’ barn party when: dec 7, post brig/declan set open to: @brighidnolan·

It’s a little too folksy for Sara’s liking, but she enjoys the set regardless. The Whitegrass’ sure know how to throw a hell of a party: between the alcohol and the decor and the music, that lie she kept telling herself earlier has nearly made itself true. She’s enjoying herself. 

Sara spends the first half of their set wondering why the man looks so familiar, and the second half ( after she finally places their meeting at Toppings & Co. ) staring, rather unabashedly, at the woman. Whether it’s the wine or her conversation with Will earlier or the fact that Hutch keeps nudging her in the ribs, a knowing eyebrow raised, she can’t discern, but when they wrap up their set and the woman heads to the bar, Sara follows her. It’s an uncharacteristically bold move, motivated by alcohol and the height of her spirits.

“I really liked it,” Sara says, setting her empty glass of wine on the bar. “Your set, I mean,” she adds as the glass is refilled. She certainly doesn’t need another at this point, but she picks it up anyway, and takes a sip. “Last year we just got whatever was on Milo’s iPhone.” Sara laughs, without really knowing if she’ll get the joke– if she even knows who Milo is. “This was better.”

She’s not unaccustomed to being hit on at bars, but this feels different. This feels like an act of defiance. Like she’s being used as something to prove. Brighid doesn't shame her for it, she can’t when she so often falls into that trap herself. It feels good to be needed, she knows that more than anyone. So she lets her smile grow wide.

Brig makes a show of looking the woman up and down. She’s attractive, Brig knows that, but she wonders if the other woman does. There is an air to her, something small and self-conscious. She almost feels it her duty to change that. In her hand is a new glass, a double shot this time, and she takes a long drink. When she pulls away, her tongue travels over her lips and she lets her smile shift into a grin.

“Thank you,” she gushes as if it’s the first time she’s been complimented on her voice. “They said something about their son, said he was a hit.” It’s a lie, but believable enough. The Whitegrass’s had said little of their son. Brighid had assumed it was a tactic to protect their reputation. “I’m glad you liked it.” She lets her gaze flick to the stranger's lips, makes more of a show of it then she needs to. “I’m Brighid, by the way.”

There’s a spike of adrenaline that comes with being on stage, no matter how small the venue or short the set. Her body still thrums with it even now, an hour past their final song. It feels not too different from the rush that follows a good hunt. It is likely that similarity that pulls her to performing. A poor substitute by all means, but as close as she could get during the offseason. Certainly, there are many, more discrete, covers she and Declan could have picked. But then, Brighid had never been a particularly discrete person.

She drifts back to the bar, her glass is unsurprisingly empty again. The figure leaning against the bar makes her pause. She cannot place a name to the face, but there is an air of familiarity in his features. Brig does not hide the way she stares, does not know if it’s the booze or the adrenaline. Truthfully, she doesn’t find she cares. Her approach to the bar is slower, more considerate. When she asks for another drink (“whiskey, neat”) she tracks his movements out of the corner of her eye.

There is a chill just outside the big barn doors that is almost forgotten with the heat of the bodies inside, but Brighid still remembers. She remembers clearly, the way her breath turned to fog in the evening air. The cold sent thrills down her spine, she had spent the extra moment outside just before entering. Shrugging off her coat so that she could feel the true weight of the cold. She was so damn close. The hunt was almost upon them.

Blackrock, the giving town that it was, had offered her one last chance to observe, to prepare. And while she certainly had her hands full playing, things didn’t go unnoticed. She spotted them, huddled in the back. One of the complimentary blankets the Whitegrass family had left out wrapped tightly across their shoulders. Brighid almost felt bad, for how obvious that might look. Downing the rest of her drink, she approached slowly. 

Charlie watches as Brighid’s features change from satisfaction to confusion, and now it’s her turn to be pleased– though the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. The hunter’s line of questioning is sincere enough for Charlie to believe her: Addison’s death and Jacob’s disappearance are not Brighid’s, nor her clan’s, doing. She is not that good an actress, and even if she were, Charlie wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

She smiles, quiet and small to herself, until the next realization hits and wipes it away: she still doesn’t know who is responsible. She is no closer to the truth than when she entered this bar, and will likely not be any closer when she leaves. The situation begs a new question, too: why is Brighid here at all?

Charlie opens her mouth to ask, but Brighid speaks first. She takes a drink instead, holds the whiskey on her tongue. When she sets the glass back down on the bar, she’s smiling again. Brighid thinks she’s discovered something, but she hasn’t: see, Charlie has no pack, and Addison Tarry is much more than a wolf. 

“Oh, that’s hardly a realization, Brighid,” Charlie replies, taunting the smile right off her face, “don’t go patting yourself on the back about it. It’s ugly.” She takes another drink, prolonging the pause before she continues.

“No,” she says finally, replacing the glass to its coaster, “She is not one of mine. She’s a student at Blackrock High. Has family, like you, although it’s a damn shame that hers aren’t as prone to murder.” Truthfully, Charlie isn’t sure whose benefit this is for. She’s not so foolish as to think Brighid will be swayed by a few humanizing words, but it feels good to say them to her regardless. It feels a bit like revenge.

Charlie turns to face Brighid once more, leaning her face close. “You think you have a purpose, is that it? Because somebody told you so, because they handed you a secret and a knife on a silver platter?” Charlie smiles. She’s gaining confidence now; it’s a dangerous thing. “We’ve existed far longer than you have, and we will exist long after. You play a one-sided game because someone was stupid enough to tell you you’re special. We’ve been surviving for thousands of years.” She leans back, picks up her drink again. 

“What makes you think you’re going to win?”

It should feel like a victory, this information she’s wrung out of this women. A woman who clearly prides herself on being tightlipped and in control. She is too much alike Brighid herself. But that is not a route Brig wishes to travel down.

There is nothing similar between a human and a wolf, not at the core.

Charlie’s smile is goading. It feels more like a challenge, and Brighid cannot help the flash of concern. Is this a mistake? There is something sickly that tugs at her gut. Makes her stomach roll, and the back of her neck flush. It takes her a minute, but the realization clicks into place and she feels dread in every aspect of her being. It’s humiliation she feels. Charlie has embarrassed her. Brig feels too hot all of a sudden, packed between bodies of drunkards and fools.  She is not ugly. Brighid’s spine straightens. 

“But there are more of your kind,” she will wrench this conversation from the jaws of defeat. She will make this woman feel small and useless like the wolf she is. Because wolves fear her. She is the monster that hunts monsters. She is the thing that goes bump in the night.

“You know nothing of the family I have.” It should come out meaner, a vile thing. But it is simply a fact. This woman thinks she knows so much about her. Brighid wonders if she knows how wrong she is. “Are you finished?” The boredom in her tone carries carefully.

She lets the word murder hang in the air. It does not cause her pain. She is not a murder. 

“The things we say,” a finger runs around the rim of her glass, “to help us sleep at night.” Her smile is larger than before. “Does it feel good to know there is a family grieving that your kind took? Does it help you sleep that there are humans out there that you have betrayed?”

The roll of her eyes is unnecessary. She has heard these words before. The desperation that comes from being backed into a corner. The wolves are all the same, at the heart of it. They only wish to save their skin and will do so with whatever tools they can manage.

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