Sometimes, you come home for an extended Christmas vacation—thank god for two vacation days a month—and your father has turned a bunch of the local community college girls into swans. That’s just how life is. You try to be understanding, really; it’s not like you don’t have a couple shitty dates tucked away in your back garden. (They make an unholy noise whenever the wind is high, but they also eat the spider mites, so.)
During the day, you feed the swans-who-are-technically-girls whole wheat bread, because that’s what the internet told you was best for swans. (Cultivated grains, right?) At night, you lend them your high school sweatshirts and old pajama pants, and blow up every air mattress you can beg or borrow from friends. Your father glares at them whenever they try to sit on the sofa, snarling to be quiet during Late Night. One of them, the slender brunette, cries silently.
Afterwards, the girls whisper to one another, and your father retreats to the back patio to smoke a cigar. After the first night—after Odette, who goes by Etta, clutches your sleeve and whispers, can you get us out of here?—you go out to join him.
“What exactly was your plan here, dad?” you ask, and Rothbart, the poster child for single-father assholery, grunts and goes on smoking.
You get up at four the next morning, in order to make the swans a human breakfast while they’ll still appreciate it. “Thank you,” Etta says when you hand her a plate of runny eggs, almost-burnt toast. She’s pretty, in a small-town coed sort of way. In the hazy, artificial light of the kitchen, her eyelashes are fine and pale against her cheeks, and it makes you think of something grown in the dark, a flower that will never bloom.
“Yeah, well,” you say, giving Etta an extra slice of bacon. “Merry Christmas.”
.
You call your boss the twenty-sixth, and tell him that your father’s had some health issues, you’re going to need FMLA. He tells you not to worry about it, just make sure to let HR know.
Outside the window, the swans are huddled together on the half-frozen pond in your backyard, their heads bent together like lovers. You can’t help admiring the elegant curve of those long, white necks, how lovely they are, set against the grey slate of the sky and the shadows of the skeletal trees. They’re trembling—you didn’t even know swans could get cold.
You tell your boss you’ll keep him updated.
.
The missing posters are all over town, once you know to look. Pretty, white—Rothbart’s gotten stupid and started breaking his own rules—Midwestern girls. Cornsilk hair, braces-trained smiles. Some of their photographs show them in cheerleader outfits, band uniforms. Another stupid, sloppy detail.
“Isn’t it sad?” Mary Anne, who was your friend and hated you in the same breath, simpers. “All those girls, just up and vanished.”
“Sad,” you echo. “Do the police have any leads?”
They don’t, you know. No one has leads on girls that turn into swans, any more than they have leads on men who turn into toads, or wolves, or birds, or frogs, or ravens. It’s the only reason your family has lasted as long as it has—being careful, always careful, and making sure that when a curse stuck, it stuck. Every morning since you came home, you’ve found Kelly Loshanko standing in your front yard, her nostrils flaring; she’s starting to show her age, and you’re still surprised she’s managed to last this many deer hunting seasons. You’ve heard rumors there are still families in Grand Rapids suffering from the curse your great-grandmother laid down on their bloodline, because they offended her. Or because she wanted to, or simply because she could—your great-grandmother was never one for explaining herself.
(You sometimes think about having that much power, all the things you could use it for. It would be a new world.)
Mary Anne is talking about her husband, who’s been spending “too much time on the internet.” You make sympathetic noises, and think about how unlikely it is that Etta ever finds a man to love her who has never loved before.
“Odile?” Etta asks, when you stumble back to your father’s house at two am. They’re girls again, and Etta’s pale, pale as silver in the light from your phone. (It’s unnatural, unsettling, given how dark it is in the house—but you only glimpse her like this, in the almost-daylight, before she turns into a swan.) You’d hoped to sneak in and up to your room before anyone noticed, but it’s hard to avoid sixteen girls, all spread out across your father’s living room floor.
“Go to sleep, Odette,” you whisper, and admire the way her chin comes up in defiance. Even in the dark, her eyes glitter.
“You’re drunk,” she says, and you laugh.
“Yes, I am. I’m going to sleep.”
Your skin shivers all over when she grabs your wrist and holds tight. Her hands are very warm, and you’re not sure why you expected otherwise. “Please,” Etta says. “Please help us. Please—I know you can.”
You swallow and look away. “I don’t know what you mean,” you say, and slip from the circle of her hands. Go on climbing the stairs until you’re there in your room, all of it exactly the way you left years before. A shrine to the memory of seventeen, all of it: the handmade poppets, the clumsily lettered invocations of the Old Goddess, a photograph of you and Rothbart at the ‘95 winter solstice taped to the vanity mirror.
You hate her, that girl in the photograph. Smiling and smiling and smiling forever.
(Even lying in bed, you can still feel Odette’s fingers clasped around your wrist. It’s hard to sleep, remembering that.)
.
There’s a boy, because of course there is.
Your father threatens him with a shotgun and still, he keeps coming back. You suspect he has a touch of the Gift, enough for him to know—to actually know—what’s going on, and what exactly happened to his pretty cheerleader girlfriend. Or at least suspect where all the fucking swans came from in the middle of December. Rothbart sleeps into the day most times, you can see the boy skulking in the windows, peering through dirty glass; other times, you can feel him watching as you go from the house to your car and back again.
“Stupid choice of curse, if you knew she had a boy chasing after her,” you tell your father. You’re both standing on the porch, watching the boy scramble over the fence and disappear into the trees. The swans are making sad, fluting noises from the edge of the lake.
“If he really loved her, he wouldn’t be feeding her that white bread,” Rothbart says. “It’s processed to shit.”
(You stand there on the porch for a while after, watching the swans-who-are-also-girls. No one’s ever come for anyone in your garden, because you’re not a reckless idiot who abducts the homecoming court—but still. No one’s ever come.)
“Oh,” Etta says quietly, when you tell her there’s a boy chasing after her, with pale eyebrows and a lovestruck look. “That’s Siggy. Siegfried.”
You are then, unfortunately, regaled with at least five minutes of the saga of Siggy, who truly means well, and definitely loves Etta—their love is meant to be, as long as you ignore the fact that they’re nineteen and one of them is currently a swan for twelve hours a day. “You don’t understand,” Etta whispers, as you scrape a dry helping of meatloaf onto her plate. Your father is smoking on the porch again, ignoring the whole world and especially the girls-who-are-also-swans sitting at his kitchen table.
“Siggy is my boyfriend,” Etta says, with the frenetic passion of a believer. “Siggy loves me, only me. Really me. He would—he would know who I am and what I want. Even as a swan. Haven’t you ever been in love?”
“Sure,” you say. “Of course.”
“You won’t tell?” she asks, and you smile. Maternally, if such a quality can be ascribed to you—but then, you’re currently serving terrible meatloaf to abducted girls on the twenty-second day of their stay in your father’s house. ‘Mother’ is the fucked up role you’ve fallen into.
“Of course not,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.”
.
“Okay, dad,” you say to him on the patio that night. “What the fuck was your plan.”
.
You are, whatever your father says, absolutely not seducing a teenager. You’ll do a lot of fucked up shit—you composed elaborate praise to the Devil when you were twelve, and since, you’ve signed perverts up for an eternity as slimy, crawling things in your garden—but seducing a nineteen year old to thwart his crush on a beautiful cheerleader is a couple bridges too far. You don’t care how many times your father insists it’s “just this one time.” You don’t care if his whole fucking coven is behind him, and they call at odd hours to lecture you on the sacred transference of knowledge to the receptive acolyte. That’s some seventies woo-woo Mother Earth revisionist bullshit, and you burned those books when you left for college. There’s still a blackened spot on the front lawn, it won’t grow back.
“I’m not explaining this well,” you say, grinding the heels of your hands against your eyes. You’re tired, you’re so tired—it is, after all, just past midnight when you finish explaining it to the girls who are also swans. They look…mostly confused, but you mind is a soft fog of exhaustion. It’s hard to separate that out.
“Look, you need to take Siggy and hide him,” you tell Etta, holding the front door of your father’s house as wide as it will go.
Her dark eyes are wide, and she stands very still, even as the other—are they girls or swans? you’re not sure—rush past her with a noise like the beating of wings, out into the night. You don’t look away from her, not once, even as they jostle past you. “You’re…” Etta breathes, and then her breath hitches. “You’re letting us go.”
You swallow. With a step toward her, and another, you gently take her chin in your hand. When she doesn’t pull away, you press your mouth to the corner of her lips.
“There. The curse is broken,” you say. Under your touch, Etta trembles.
“I has to be—someone who has never—”
Her eyes are very dark, even in the silver of the moonlight. You smile. “Someone who has never loved before, I know.” You lick your lower lip, and it tastes like something artificial; cherry lip balm, maybe. “You should go.”
She opens her mouth, and then shuts it again. And then Odette Richards, called Etta, is gone into the night. You watch her go, and do not move from where you stand—not even when she turns down the next street and disappears out view.
.
The next morning, you stand on that same porch and watch your father taken into custody on sixteen counts of kidnapping and conspiracy to commit…something. You’re busy with your coffee, plans for the drive back, and not paying attention. In the next few hours, you leisurely pack up whatever’s left of your clothes and some of his. Afternoon finds you there again, sitting on the front step when he comes limping back.
“Hey there, dad,” you say, and offer him up the handle of his beat-up suitcase. It’s followed him through two centuries and almost as ten times that many states; you grew up listening to those stories. Rothschild in New York, Roth in South Carolina; Rot in Minnesota and Rotolo in Chicago…it was a little dizzying, all the selves your father had gone through, like changing shirts. But whatever his name, you can’t imagine the battered case not close at hand.
He touches your cheek with two fingers. “My daughter,” he says. “How I love you.”
His voice is dry as paper, cruel as a curse, and your lips twist in a smirk in response. “And I you, father,” you say in that same voice. Rothbart chuckles. He takes the yew handle of his suitcase, and offers you the other hand.
The house on the lake is still burning at midnight, as the old year dies and the new one is born. A strange green fire that the firemen can’t put out, and brings the neighbors out of their houses to stare and mutter among themselves. Only a girl called Etta is quiet, watching from the seat of her bike, her eyes wide and full of green fire as the house burns down, down to ash.
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can you give me one random fact about all of ur tw ocs?
ABSOLUTELY, thank you, bby! 🥺
BECCA CARLYLE
She is the queen of my heart and I am sooo excited for her to like rip Jackson a new one akjghjhg 😂
Becca is actually a lot more insecure that she lets on but she’s very good at putting on a steely facade. Being in charge of the other four is actually something that she’s fairly good at (which is why she’s the Alpha). However, Becca has a tendency to worry about the effects of her actions on others, generally after the fact since she and Tess are both very impulsive. They can definitely egg each other on and don’t always encourage the best qualities in each other but they are ride and die for each other.
SIMON PLAYFAIR
He and Tess are mlm/wlw solidarity soulmates. They are both physically affectionate especially with each other to the point that Jackson mistakes them for dating early on. He is the middle of the road compared to brash Becca and Tess and gentle Andrew and Lia. Simon is gay. He loves to play card games and carries both a lighter and a deck of cards on him at all times. Simon plays rugby when he’s not busy with supernatural on-goings.
TESS DOUGLAS
She is a werecoyote to everyone else’s werewolf. Becca and Simon are both her best friends but those express themselves differently. She and Simon are very yin-yang and complementary whereas she and Becca are very similar. Tess is very blunt and will not hesitate to tell you what she thinks of you. Tess is a lesbian. She has a bunch of tattoos. Tess loves sweets, the more artificial tasting the better. I’ve been thinking of giving her a siren gf, inspired by Remy!
ANDREW SAYER
He loves fashion and nearly always carries around at least a pen for doodling. Andrew draws most frequently in his sketchbook, on scraps of paper, and post-its. In a pinch, he’ll draw on himself or on Simon. Lia is his go-to human model for clothes he’s making (and his best friend) but all of them have sported his creations at some point in time. Andrew’s family disowned him when he came out as trans and he hasn’t had contact with them since. He loves Jane Austen.
LIA HAKIM
Lia is babie. Her full name is actually Nazli. Lia’s dad is Turkish, her mom is Iranian, and they’re both Muslim. She is the youngest of the five. Lia is sweet and sensitive and the others are all very protective of her. They have all made her cry before and maaaybe it’s a bit of projection that makes them get so furious at Jackson for doing it. Lia doesn’t hold grudges but she is the type of person that makes you want to hold them for her. She loves books and plants and baking. Andrew is her best friend in the whole world, which is notable given Lia’s superpower is the ability to inspire friendship in others. They often have an informal two-person bookclub going on and love to debate the various merits and weaknesses of literature.
If I was sorting them into the Five-Man Band, they’d be as follows:
The Leader - Becca
The Lancer - Simon
The Big Guy - Tess
The Smart Guy - Andrew
The Heart - Lia
and Jackson would be the Sixth Ranger. (Not a completely perfect fit, Simon and Tess kind of alternate between their slots but yeah.)
Connections: Tess Douglas (packmate, best friend, beta), Simon Playfair (packmate, friend), Andrew Sayer (packmate, friend), Lia Hakim (packmate, friend), Jackson Whittemore (packmate)
Love Interest(s): Jackson Whittemore
Biography Stub: As the alpha of the London Pack (okay, well one of several packs in the London area), it’s Becca who ultimately makes the decision to issue an invitation to Jackson to join their pack. (He absolutely makes her regret that decision multiple times.) She is impulsive
———————————————————————
Simon Playfair
Full Name: Simon Joseph Playfair
Face Claim: Evan Peters
Fic Title: Bet on It, Bet on It (Bet on Me)
Connections: Becca Carlyle (alpha, packmate, friend), Tess Douglas (packmate, best friend), Andrew Sayer (packmate, friend), Lia Hakim (packmate, friend), Jackson Whittemore (packmate)
Love Interest(s): TBD
Biography Stub: If Becca and Tess are the and Andrew and Lia are , Simon is the middle of the roader.
———————————————————————
Tess Douglas
Full Name: Temperance Elizabeth Douglas
Nickname(s): Tess, Temperamental, Patience
Face Claim: TBD
Fic Title: Bet on It, Bet on It (Bet on Me)
Connections: Becca Carlyle (alpha, best friend, packmate), Simon Playfair (packmate, best friend), Andrew Sayer (packmate, friend), Lia Hakim (packmate, friend), Jackson Whittemore (packmate)
Love Interest(s): TBD
Biography Stub:
———————————————————————
Andrew Sayer
Full Name: Andrew David Sayer
Face Claim: TBD
Fic Title: Bet on It, Bet on It (Bet on Me)
Connections: Becca Carlyle (alpha, packmate, friend), Tess Douglas (packmate, friend), Simon Playfair (packmate, friend), Lia Hakim (packmate, best friend), Jackson Whittemore (packmate)
Love Interest(s): TBD
Biography Stub:
———————————————————————
Lia Hakim
Full Name: Nazli Hakim
Nickname(s): Li, Lia
Face Claim: TBD
Fic Title: Bet on It, Bet on It (Bet on Me)
Connections: Becca Carlyle (alpha, packmate, friend), Tess Douglas (packmate, friend), Simon Playfair (packmate, friend), Andrew Sayer (packmate, best friend), Jackson Whittemore (packmate)
