FEEL LIKE MAKING A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL?

𝖆 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖒𝖚𝖒𝖚 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖘𝖆𝖒.

location: charity gala

They had almost not been invited– the Dahl name was not one of history, nor of grand significance in a city with hot breath and a heart that ached: but the twins had twisted every connection that they had around their greedy fingers until their palms were full, and two shiny invitations had arrived under the door. Kels wasted little time in finding a dress, something black– something stately. These things were important, and to misstep here was to be thrown backwards in their desperate grasp for relevance and progress. She was nervous, it was a thrum in the pit of her belly, but the drink in her hand helped: something crimson and slanted against the side of the glass that she held. "All things considered," Kels voiced, tipping her head to one side to let flaxen hair tumble down her neck. "It is a very pretty party." What was unspoken hung between her and the being that materialized beside her. It was bound to become something beastly soon.

–𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖜𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖚𝖙 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖔𝖙,

          those desires that were starved, stunted, thrust into a dark closet— what happened to them?

He could feel her presence in the next room— his magic seeped through the house, ebbing into each fissure in the walls, every pit in the floorboards. Annoyance, like the flicked tail of a cat grown furious for being told off, filtered back from the parlour and Saint smiled. She knew he was there as well. He stepped inside the room, ducking beneath the doorframe that had always been too short for the Grimm boys, greeting Daphne with the silencing of his magic. “Now don’t get any ideas,” the fire witch warned, knowing all too well that she had a tendency to douse him in water— “This shirt is silk.” A teapot sat in the table and it benefitted from the touch of his fingertips to the side of the ceramic, the contents grown cold began to steam again before he poured two cups. “I was looking for Zephyr,” he voiced, as there was little reason for him to step into the Grimm home these days. “What brings you over?”

He’d made the effort to have the trinket wrapped— the wolf carved of black stone had been embedded with a charm: something of childlike simplicity but it would please his brother regardless. A simple touch to the object brought a flicker of warm feeling to the intended, a hallmark of Saint’s own ability to toy with emotions. For most, he inflicted the worst of the spectrum of aches and heartpains, but this gift was for Dakota, who rounded the corner to find his older half brother splayed languidly over an armchair. “Took you long enough, I thought I’d have to find a blanket to settle in for a nap for how long I’ve waited.” He tipped his chin towards the parcel on the table. “I brought you something.”

“I’ll take this as well,” Saint noted aloud, skimming his fingertip along the top of the counter— near enough to a particularly sinister looking gilded vase that Saf would know which one it was that had piqued his interest. It was always the things that required gloves to package up: the ones whose histories boasted a line up of horror to mirror his own. He’d already selected a few artifacts and curiosities today, but his smile curved like that of a pleased feline when he saw an onyx carving of a wolf. No magical aura emitted from it, but he liked the expression in the face. “And that.” He turned to Safiye, “Anything else and you’ll have to slap my wrist for being greedy.” The witch was in a rare mood: being that he was delighted. “Should we start a tab, I’d say we’re friends enough now that you know I’m good for it.”

She shouldn’t have been there— but one thing ( drink ) had lead to another, and Arielle felt as though a gentle breeze could have sent her anywhere. Tonight it had taken her to Bushwick, but it just as easily could have send her twirling off to Pittsburgh. It was snowing outside, she could tell by the way that the cold clung to the cheeks of those who stomped in, with their wind burned cheeks and snowy boots that left wet trails on the asphalt. It was an impractical event for the wintertime, and thick puffer jackets were strewn over forearms or abandoned on tables. The witch could feel the cold that hung in the air, pushing people closer together, making them huddle in while they talked, or drawing them to the thick of things to dance the chill away. Her friends had long abandoned her, splitting off one by one as they had found more interesting avenues for the evening at each bar along the way, leaving her now to zip up her jacket and make her way for the door. Ari had barely curved her fingers around the handle when someone reached around her to yank it open, gesturing for her to go through. “That’s very polite,” she remarked, cutting her gaze up through dark lashes before grinning wider at Devin’s features. “Hey, I know you.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Ari paused, her mile-a-minute speech halting as she reached for her best friend’s shoulders, planting her palms there as anchors. “I’m just saying that if we don’t go out tonight, we’ll have wasted the first Saturday of a new year by not taking advantage of the freshest and most immaculate energy that the universe has to give us.” She canted her head, letting her curls fall to one side of her neck. “Do you want to be responsible for the karmic imbalance that ignoring these cosmic signs will bring upon us? Because I won’t.” The witch grinned, the expression hinging brightly. “I’ve got new boots I need to wear.”

It was a wicked thing— to look upon one’s own flesh and wish them every ill intent. Saint simmered over his coffee cup ( inky, furious ) while verdant eyes skimmed over to his half brother, perched over a similar mug of his own. There existed a flicker of cruel satisfaction in the witch; to know that of the gods of the Grimm family, only one of them was truly made in His image. It was a fleeting thought, after all, it had been Saint’s own funeral home that had buried Vincent Sr. He had hardly any reason to be in the Grimm home anymore, but he enjoyed haunting it, leaving soot and scowls in his wake. He was the reflection of their father’s sins, his half mother’s greatest source of fury. “Did you need another sugar cube?” He remarked idly, looking over at Zephyr’s cup. This was one of their strangest traditions, to play house in a home that neither of them resided in anymore, feigning politeness for the sake of ghosts. “You’re hardly sweet enough.”