#plot: ensouled

The number itself was pretty innocuous. Harsh had never seen it before. Just a string of digits like any other, but something about it gave him pause. There was a feeling, an itch. He got a lot of weird calls. How so many people got his number, he’d never know. Probably better to ignore it, just let it go voicemail. He should just hit decline. Just let it go. If he didn’t pick up, it wouldn’t happen... whatever it was.

Harsh accepted the call. 

“Hello, Harsh here, who’s calling?” His voice was light, jovial even. No reason the weird feeling in his gut should creep into his very practiced phone voice. It was probably nothing. Nothing at all.

The laugh on the other side was low, husky. “Wow, you’re really going for it, aren’t you?”

Harsh’s brow furrowed. The bad feeling turned over and started growing. There was something... not quite familiar about the voice. But there should have been. “Excuse me? Sorry, who is this?”

“You don’t have to play nice with me, vampire. Actually, you don’t have to play nice at all anymore,” the voice said, sounding almost amused and almost angry.

If the blood in Harsh’s veins could have gone any colder, it would have. He gripped the phone tighter. No. “What are you talking about? Is this--are you with he coven? Where’s the old bat? C’mon, I haven’t been that bad, she doesn’t get to just drop this--”

“She does. She’s dead. Pretty hard not to drop things when you kick it. Well, I guess you wouldn’t know about that actually.” The phone crackled with a slow sigh. “Look, she’s gone, deal’s off. Congratulations.”

Harsh was shaking. His free hand clenched and unclenched. No, it couldn’t be... it couldn’t be over. Not like that. It had been years. So many good fucking deeds all going down the drain. He had worked. Not always perfectly, not a spotless record, but he had been trying damn it. More than he had in two hundred years. This wasn’t right.

“This isn’t fair.” He spat out the words, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t do this. I’ve been keeping my end--”

“We both know that isn’t true. Well, not all true.” There was a horrible hesitation, then another breath. “Look, I tried, alright? But we voted and you’re out of luck. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no, c’mon, there has to be something--” Harsh was pacing now, hair standing at all angles as he dragged his hand through it again and again. This couldn’t be it, not now. Not here. He was in the perfect place to do some fucking good. He was doing good. He was swimming upstream and finally getting somewhere. “I can come back there, I can show them that I’m doing better. There’s gotta be something I can do, please--”

“There isn’t. The vote’s final. You’re up in White Crest right? That place has to be crawling with magic. You’ll figure it out.” 

The line went dead. Harsh screamed. He shouted and cursed and pleaded with the dial tone. It didn’t care. There might have been words in the anguished noise that left him as his phone impacted with the wall, but it didn’t matter. This had to be a mistake. There had to be a way to fix it. If he could just get in touch with them, if he could just prove he was doing better, then maybe... maybe...

His steps backed him up against the wall. He sank down slowly, head falling to his knees. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. He would call them back and it would all be a big joke. It would be fine. He just had to pick up the scattered pieces of his phone and force them back together. Just get there and force those witches to give it back. Make them fix him.