specter

"I.. I don't -" She swallows, closing her eyes tightly. The touch and being around him closely swarms her mind with images and thoughts in a cacophony in her mind. It takes some effort to push back the noise and she lets out a small breath."I think we're safe. I think we're good."

The image of the body in her mind's eye makes her wince - even if she hadn't seen it in person yet. "Fia was murdered -" She'd already heard whispers, "- with a ritual from 800 years ago?" The words are out of her mouth before she can beat them back - the knowledge pulled directly from the noise Declan brings with him.

Her mouth parts in a small 'o' when as she sifts through the rest of the information - "Oh. Yes, we should leave before it gets worse." She looks up, past him, and the magic has told her exactly who the culprit is and why. She gestures for him to lean down and whispers in his ear the facts that magic has given her - who did it, why, how magic will change. Neither of them need to be overloaded by the coming hours.

"We should go to the caverns to decompress, no?"

Not bad enough to back out, though. He had agreed, and that was all they needed. They could get the poor kid a clear path to the exit after they’d finished the job. “I need to slip something from his pocket without him noticing. The left one, if you can keep it from being damaged.”

So he goes with it. Maybe it isn't a crime, but instead a rescue. Declan wants to be helpful. He wants to stop being afraid.

"Okay. Stay away from the left pocket. Got it."

Declan rolls his shoulders lie a nervous actor walking into the wrong scene and forces his feet forward.

There's a drink on the tray of a server passing by. He plucks it clumsily, and once he's within reach, he stumbles towards the man in the velvet suit. The glass successfully tips towards the right side.

"Oh - oh my god, I'm so sorry. Sorry, let me just -- " He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, begins to pat the stain he's made.

He waits for some sort of indication Arc has gotten what they needed to get from the man's pocket. Once he's sure everything's clear, he excuses himself, stammering along the way, "I'm sure one of the waitresses here has something for this stain, I'll find someone and send them right over."

In the grand scheme of supernatural politics, Arc could see why werewolves might get discounted. Their lack of a vampire's immortality or the eternal nature of a powerful witch’s spells make their battle for recognition a never-ending one, every generation having to claw its way into being treated with the same respect as those who pretend to be their betters. Maybe that was why they liked them so much, why they turned right to Zhongshan when they asked for information. It was certainly a factor in why the pack was unwilling to trust a random witch with information, not without proving themself in some way. Steal a flash drive, with a nod across the room to a Wyrmwood man in the ridiculous pressed-velvet suit. 

He's been walking in circles since. Pacing, counting tiles. It all calls something back - olds pages in old grimoires. Witches books, archives, dust covered scrolls. He knows enough about murderous rituals from his own research to gather this is far from good.

As he paces, he's sent back to his own ritual in the woods the night prior. The copper tang, animal whimpers, and a blade held steady in his hand.

'You seem lost.'

The voice breaks into his thoughts, and he's suddenly aware of the room again. He looks up to the stranger, recognizes them as a new addition to the coven, then blinks at their offer.

"I uh - I don't need money. In fact, I'd rather not..." But he's here to support Augury, isn't he? If this helps the coven, then shouldn't he do his part? What if Nadia has sent her? Then he should definitely oblige, shouldn't he? "Sure." he says softly, and looks to the target. "I'll do it for free. But could I ask why first?"

Where: The Conclave

Thera was playing a game with herself. It wasn’t a very fun game. It was a game that involved squinting and unsquinting her eyes just enough to try and figure out if the nervous looking man across the room was the same man who had gotten into her murder during the Hurricane.

Widen. Squint. Unsquint. Peer slightly harder.

Yeah she could almost make out the cacophony of feathers that had stuck out of his hair as he had fled back into the storm.

At least Artio hadn’t made her follow him as well as the boy in the car.

But she was curious. She could just barely make out the purple haze in his thread. What had a witch been doing in her coup.

So she approached the man and extended a hand, “Thera Wendell. You won’t know me but you met my birds during the hurricane. I do hope you made it out of the storm ok, you seemed to be having quite a bad time?”

"Oh," he says, eyes flicking to the outstretched hand, then to her face, then back again. He wipes his own quickly on his jeans before taking hers. "Hi. Declan McCormick."

"I, um." He clears his throat. "I didn't know they were your birds. Or...that they were owned? Or...part of a coven? I mean, that makes sense now, in retrospect. But I thought hey were just taking shelter from the storm, same as me."

"I did make it out okay, yes. My brother found me." A beat. "I'm sorry if I was trespassing? Was I trespassing? Sorry, this is very embarrassing. ...I didn't offend any of your birds, did I?"

She hasn't been a part of the Augury coven for long, and though Nadia had welcomed her. Though there was trust there. Though she could help guide the young witch in whatever way she wanted. There was always going to be one glaring factor. Daniella wasn't a witch. Hell, Daniella wasn't even alive. She hadn't been in…well at least she knew it was centuries. Age and years were beyond her, her old life a mystery. All she remembers is dark, pain, and torture. That fucking castle on the hill and the dungeon she was reborn in.

But that was neither here nor there and no one wanted to hear her decrepit ass sob story. She was stronger now, that time had fortified a survivor. But it did remain that her nature, no matter how many times she may maintain her love and care for the most human of the supernatural community, there was a warranted distrust.

"Ah - Hi. Hello," he greets politely before he wipes his hand on his pants (habit) and then offers it to her.

"I'm Declan. And yeah, I don't have a plus one. I was just, I don't know, having a quiet moment is all." A much needed quiet moment to hone his sensing abilities in such a crowded room. Thankfully, he'd been working with Nadia on it, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered coming here.

"Are you -- I'm sorry, I'm not sure what the etiquette here is. Are you a witch, vampire...werewolf..? Human, perhaps? Is that rude to ask?" Of course it's rude.

Declan starts over. "Sorry, I should probably - right so, I'm Declan. I'm a new witch, here to support Augury." Or at least as best as he can. "And yourself?"

The closer he gets the worse it smells.

Cameron knows Declan is avoiding him for the simple fact that he tries to turn tail as he approaches. Except he's faster now, and in a blink, he's in front of his brother - staring down at him with a set jaw and frustration in his eyes.

Cameron seemingly apparates to the space right in front of him. "How did you..." get here so fast...?

"I...was just...uh," he starts, "headed somewhere. Else." Declan shifts his weight, glances over his brother's shoulder like maybe there's a door or a void or a divine intervention that'll appear if he stalls long enough.

No such luck. "Okay. So. A few explanations. I can do that. We can do that." Can he? Sure. Can he do it without sweating? Definitely not.

He's new in town, that much is true, but she's also not exactly going around and memorizing every single face in the city.

Still, he's a curiosity to her, and she wants to pluck that thread. If showing him her games is how to do it - then she'll do so. Plus it is nice to talk to someone who sees the value in the art styles of the games she plays. "Easy, tiger." A rumbled laugh, light and airy, bubbles up. "Good guesses - that is usually how is goes, isn't it?"

She taps through the screens to put up the character information and hands him the phone. "He's a good guy, ported over from a previous game this company did. The stories are a little overlapping, but not by much. He's a father figure to the people who live on the train."

And he's off. He spends a little while flipping through the characters, pausing now and then to ask something that he suspects probably has an obvious answer. He's humored anyway, graciously so, and is walked through the best ones, the ones with tragic backstories, and the ones who just look cool. He lingers the longest on the ones that seem to carry some kind of sorrow in them. He's always been a sucker for those.

Somewhere between admiring a character's animations and asking what the currency system is like, a voice calls out to the kind woman. It's time for her to go.

He glances to the time, a sheepish look immediately coloring his face red. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to monopolize your phone...or your time. Thank you, though. Really. Time really got away from me." An awkwardly laugh, then, because he's definitely still on the clock. Declan says his goodbyes and thanks the kind woman again.

He'll work extra off the clock to make up for it, he decides.

Later that night, he downloads all the games he remembers. Tells himself he'll just play a little, get a feel for it.

Somewhere around 5 a.m, he's still up. Tangled in stats, character banners, and a million side quests.

He moves, though, to sit down -- maybe it's grounding. She gives him a moment, before going to sit down next to him - bringing her knees to her chest, too. Just two anxious people in a cave,not knowing how to navigate the hand that this otherworldy life has dealt them.

She knows she can help, it's just a matter of trying to. For both of them.

"The aura reading, mainly." She chews on her lower lip, red blooming forth to accompany the strawberry taste of her chapstick. "Our coven is -- we specialize in divination. Reading futures, reading people. Some of us are particularly.. scary about it. Haruspicy, dreams and visions, we have fate weavers -- It's.. there's a lot. I read playing cards. Or I did, at first."

A beat, then, she holds her hand out to him - palm up. "Knowing what people feel is useful on it's own, but I think with practice and growth, you can help them, too."

She sits beside him, and the nearness is oddly reassuring. Grounding, too.

Declan turns over her words. Help them. He isn't sure if that's something he can do. But he wants to, he does. She offers her help, offers him a glimpse into a future where he isn't overwhelmed with the abilities that have taken root in him, and only asks for his best in return.

It lands hollow. Not because she means it that way, but because Declan's best has never been good, no matter how hard he tries. But if that's what's being asked of him....he decides he'll try. He'll give it his all.

After some discussion on what training might look like, he begins to wonder...he's seen Charmed, way back in his previous life. Magic is pooled, no? Declan grows apprehensive, he'd hate to taint their pool with whatever resides in him. Nadia patiently clarifies. Their power doesn't merge in that manner, instead they pool knowledge.

Declan nods slowly, reassured that he won't poison the well just by being near it.

"Who else is there?" he asks.

Nadia rattles off a few names with quiet fondness, even the ones she says less about. There's no way Declan memorizes all of this, but there's several names and descriptions he picks out.

His eyes drift up, finally, to the statue in the distance—the one he clocked earlier, gleaming in pale hues like something sacred. He squints toward it. “That statue,” he asks, “who sculpted it?”

Once again, a patient clarification.

Their previous leader, Apsara, crystallized herself. Voluntarily, to see all futures and all possibilities. The coven can draw from her when they need to.

Declan's a little shocked, a lot scared, but ultimately saves further questioning for later. They sit for some time, the way coven leader and coven member do. It becomes clear to him that she's just as new to leadership as he is to magic, and he hasn't got a clue how to help that, but he knows he'll try his hardest not to be a headache for her, at least.

Briar leans in, pitches the knife, planing the athame's edge along his jugular. "You mock, thieving little magpie. You make merry at my expense?" She reaches across the cabin of the car, hand laying on his throat, and with a thrumming pulse of his hear the deathroot and the eerie red glow of her eyes flare and then diminish and a white hot blade cuts through her mind and, for a moment, she sees herself as though looking into a mirror, and then there is a flash of white and then a sinking red glow, and then; dark.

Her boot then digs into his side, and her head tilts. "Up, you cretin."

She steps back, feet crunching in foot-thick snow. "What devilry've you wrought with your thievin' ways? Wake thee!"

When he doesn't stir, she snuffs a curl of steam out of her nose, rolls her eyes and bends down to shove a handful of snow down the back of his shirt. "Up or I'll wallop you!"

She turns scanning the wooded clearing. She sees her old home, sinking its timbers under the weight of snow that will never melt. It had almost been panic inducing, being her again, but she recognizes a vision; despite the cool, she is not cold. Declan might be, once he rouses, but he is not so experienced as she is, or he'd certainly have made it known by defending himself.

Something is wrong. Deeply, innately wrong. It isn't just the fact that he’s been dropped into some ghostland. It’s in the air. The way his heartbeat echoes too loudly in his chest.

“What? Where are we? How did I get here? WE? How did WE get here?”

His breath fogs the air. His hands shake. He stumbles back a step and realizes—he can’t feel the snow on his palms. His limbs don’t ache like they should. No, no, no, no. He wants out. He wants to get back. He wants to go home.

Declan runs. He slips on a patch of ice, hits the ground hard, but he gets back up. Doesn’t stop. The crunch of snow beneath his boots keeps pace with the panic climbing his throat. His magic prickles uselessly beneath his skin, like it knows something’s wrong but can’t do a thing about it.

He bolts through trees, but the cabin behind him hasn’t gotten any smaller when he shoots a glance back. His feet keep moving until the forest breaks open and a playground appears. Old. Rusting. Crooked. A memory Declan doesn’t entirely recognize, but feels down to his marrow, and he skids to a stop.

There’s someone on the ground, his breath sticks in his throat. It’s him. Just smaller. Younger. Curled in the mulch, knees scraped. Another kid’s just pushed him, but the culprit is already retreating, just a shadow without a face.

A memory inside a memory, broken and replaying on a look as if he’s feverish and delirious. Declan staggers back, disoriented. The air shifts, Briar appears like a fault line cracking open the sky. Then she’s behind him.

She catches him by the collar, yanks him back like a dog that strayed too far. Her eyes flare.

“You walk in a dream, witch-boy,” she spits it like venom, “find your own way out or rot in your sleep forever.”

And then she’s gone.

He breathes. Once. Twice. Tries to think. Tries to will himself awake. What feels like hours passes by. His magic itches under his skin like it wants out, like it's sensing something. He reaches for it the way he always does, which is poorly. But this time, something tugs back.

The snow around him begins to fade. The trees are the last to go. And then, just like that, he wakes. A groan leaves him, and ohp, yup, there’s that ache he knows so well.

The movie screen has gone dark. The lot is empty. Rain pecks softly at the windshield. The passenger door is wide open. The drink in the cup holder is still mostly full, but lukewarm.

The woman is gone.

Oddly enough, so is all the popcorn.

The Cliffsides is the last place he thinks of, and he doesn't even have a chance to make it there because he sees Declan. Without thinking, he swerves to park and rushes up to him before he can fall or get stuck or hurt.

What are you doing?!

It’s always Declan, the burden. The baby. Sick, coward, pathetic. A fake grown-up. An endless laundry list of failures, where someone else has to clean up after him. And when he looks into Cameron’s face, all he sees is the ghost of a memory - their baby sister, standing on a step-stool in their kitchen, doling out meds with tiny hands and very serious eyes. He’d try to help himself, but Devon would insist, sometimes before Declan even has the chance to stumble. Declan would sit there, ashamed.

Similarly, Declan looks at Cameron with shame and guilt because once again, someone has to rescue him. The feeling compounds with the false call of his magic from earlier.

Declan lashes out, petulant and prickly, cornered by his emotions. And Cameron, as always, takes it in stride. Calm, immovable. Cameron’s steadiness softens the edges of Declan’s frustration.

Eventually, he falls into the passenger seat. Cameron focuses on getting them to safety, slotting everything into the appropriate priority. Declan’s upset - that’s fine, they can worry about it once they’re safe.

There’s nothing but the sound of windshield wipers and the occasional crack of lightning. Declan’s body begins to register safety, and with it, pain. Every shift of movement sends jolts of pain and ache through his knees, wrists, back. He attempts to curl his fists, but his joints there hurt too, and he can’t seem to complete the motion. His teeth grit. Hates this body. Hates this magic, whatever it is that has cursed him. Hates feeling like a passenger in his own life.

The roads flood fast. Cameron drives as far as he can, eyes locked on the rising water, downed power lines, abandoned cars half-submerged. They’ve hit the edge of viability. The stadium isn’t far, but it might as well be on the other side of the goddamn world with how hard the wind’s blowing. Too much time spent on Declan’s tantrums.

He opens his mouth to apologize. Cameron doesn’t give him a chance, using the speed his tattoos afford him to blink to Declan’s side of the car. Cameron steadies him without a word, and they press forward to shelter.

At one point, Declan has to stop, digging through his satchel with shaking fingers for something of Kiri’s. He knows what’s coming—vomiting, blood, the creeping decay that starts on his chest. He considers the herbs, thinks better of it, goes for a potion instead. It tastes like bile and pine and bitter root, but it works. Cameron gives him a look and Declan realizes he hasn't told him about this, the sick that remains in his body.

There’s a few stops on the way to the stadium and a few moments where they need to duck into a building for safety, but eventually they make it. Declan falls asleep as soon as he's able, and Cameron watches over him.

His blood, sweat, tears and magic went into bringing Declan back. Eventually, Jameson did. 

Magic giveth, but magic taketh away too. Declan’s on borrowed time, a life force fueled by magic. He needs something to keep him going and magic finds its way to be replenished through the innocent woodland creatures of Port Leiry’s forests. 

Jameson keeps an eye on what is his, especially his own little Frankenstein’s monster. Jameson's monster. He leaves him in the care of Zane and Harley out of convenience. He doesn’t have the space in his studio apartment, nor the patience in his heart to deal the frightful man. Perhaps he ought to have a little sympathy for the creature. Declan was hand plucked out of a heaven and brought back to what many would call hell on earth.

For the record, Jameson doesn't carry one drop of sympathy for Declan. Flip the story how you want, but this is the truth: he gave long dead Declan a second chance. All he has to do is a little hunting.  Rip out the guts of the rabbit and smile while you do it. Say thank you when it’s done.  Be grateful this is all magic asks of you to do to repay your debt.

He’s not though, he’s too captivated by fear to be anything else really. This is what irks Jameson the most. He’d been given new life on a silver platter and instead of diving into it, teeth first like a hungry wolf, Declan only stares at it and shakes, like a fearful, tea cup chihuahua.

Tonight, Jameson has decided to study his subject. He finds Declan easily, tracking magic does the heavy lifting. As he watches, he can tell Declan is a soft hearted man. Guilt oozes in the way he slices into the rabbit. It would be sort of heart warming if it wasn’t so pathetic.  

Shuffling of leaves beneath his feet gives away his presence. Jameson steps out of the darkness of the forrest and into the moonlight. He wants to get a better look of his experiment and what it has done. 

“Good evening, Declan,” Jameson greets, his voice as smooth and light as if they were two colleagues meeting up over a cup of coffee and not over a bloodied rabbit's corpse. He walks to get a closer look at it. Declan’s being a good witch. He’s methodical about what he does.

“It seems like you’re getting the hang of this,” he muses, lifting his head up so he can get a look at his precious project. “Let’s see if next time you get through it without crying.” Venomous words covered in playfulness.

“Or at the very least,” Jameson continues, “without you apologizing to it. Seriously dude, it’s a rabbit. If it wasn’t you that ripped into the thing, it would have been a hawk or a snake.” His eyes flicker back to the dead rabbit. “The little guy got the easy way out… at least his death meant something…” Eyes back on Declan. “Not everyone is so lucky.”

Of all the things to come out of Jameson's mouth, it is perhaps that that bothers him the most.

The words dig in under his ribs. Not because they seem to be tinged with a cruel sort of fascination, but because they might be true. That's the part that haunts him, that keeps him up at night, and settles in the back of his throat like sick. Declan doesn't want to get better at this. The idea of improving at death -- of making it cleaner, faster, efficient, a proper ritual and routine -- it sours in his stomach and makes it turn.

The nausea hits him like a truck, and he stumbles over to behind a nearby tree to let up the contents of his lunch. It's over quick, his body doesn't hold much these days, but he stays there hunched and chest heaving, knuckles white where he's gripped the bark to keep himself from toppling over. He's already embarrassed himself enough in front of Jameson. He doesn't want to add more to the pile, especially since he still isn't sure what he wants with him. Who he is to Jameson. What he is, rather.

When he straightens, eyes watering, Jameson is still talking. Voice threading through the trees, needling at Declan. And as loud as Declan's heartbeat seems to be, it's not loud enough to deafen that.

His hand is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes again, sprawled against the bark of the tree, crusted blood beneath his fingertips and stained along his skin. Oh god. He pulls it away like he's been stung. Turns. Presses his back to the tree, hands to his side at first, a fidget for half a second. Then they fold across his chest, not defensive, but in an attempt to hold himself together.

"A death is still a death. They all matter." And that's the crux of Declan's issue, the constant battle in his head. Who is he to say their deaths should serve his life? "I know how the world works. But pretending this is clean or totally justified just isn't for me." He tries to justify it, he does. But he can't see himself ever not feeling sick over it. "I can't do it."

He keeps his gaze low, settling on Jameson's boots rather than his face. Rather than his aura. Magic-soaked. Hungry. Proprietary. If Declan focuses too long on Jameson, the aura begins to seep into his skin, gets in his lungs. It sits there, a weight on the back of his skull. Watching. Judging. Expecting. Chilling.

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Once. Twice. Reminds himself that a ragged breath is still a breath, it counts. Three. Four. He's okay.

There's a shaky sigh. "Sorry, what- what are you doing here? I realize I'm out very late but this is the only time I can do this. I'm not running away. I promise." He wouldn't. Running away from this town means running away from his siblings, from his job, from the friends he's made along the way. He wouldn't.

Declan still doesn't know what to make of Jameson. At times, there's a flicker of...anger? It's an unfamiliar feeling, but it sits hot on his skin. And as quickly as he's able to identify it, it's snuffed out because at the end of the day, he's indebted to the man. His family, his job, his friends -- he wouldn't have them if it weren't for Jameson.

A few beats of silence surround them, where Cameron fights the uncertainty in front of him, where he tries to reconcile the feeling in his chest: grief, relief? What is he feeling? He'd never been.. good at naming the sensations that accompany emotion, and that is no different now.

He glances up, notices the glassy look in Declan's eyes, and his chest heaves with a sudden weight. His arms lift again, drop, lift - And he steps forward once more to slowly bring his brother's form close into a tight hug. "Sorry." It feels foreign on his tongue, and he's sure it sounds foreign to his brother's ears. He takes a breath and tightens the grip even further around him before finally letting him go -- but his hands linger on his shoulders.

"How?"

But when the embrace registers, Declan melts into it with a shuddering breath that shakes him all the way down to his knees. His arms come up around Cameron, and he clutches hard, as if his own body might vanish from this plane of existence. He tucks his face into his shoulder and breathes in, starving for air, and just cries. There's no tears like there were with Devon. They're all dried up now. But his ribs tremble the same way, there's still the rapid breaths in-out-in-out rushing through his lips while his body tries to catch up with the avalanche of complete and utter relief.

Cameron squeezes before he lets go, but Declan still clings for a few seconds longer. The weight of his brother's hands on his shoulders feels more real than anything else has in days. He stands there, tethered.

Then: How?

Where does he begin? How neatly does he want to present it? How much to divulge here? He's not a good liar. He's a terrible one, in fact. But he wants it to sound clean. Easy. Unlike the previous iteration of his life. "There's...a person. He brought me back." Nevermind the hunger that's rooted itself through his insides, that begs for a hand in the cycle of life and death. Nevermind the fact that his sickness still seems to be here. Just..different. Amplified. Hungry. Loud and needy and crawling. "It sounds crazy but magic...? Magic is real. Apparently. It's -- real." His omissions crawl upwards from his gut, they begin to choke him. "I don't know h-how, exactly. But I'm here. I'm here for good." A hard swallow, then, because he knows what it'll take for him to stay here, in this realm, with his people, with this second chance he isn't so sure he'll deserve after it's all said and done.