#cough cough EMILIO cough | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ironcladrhett · 4 months

Text

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Seven Peaks SUMMARY: Rhett finally makes it to his destination in the mountains after days and days of hiking. He's a little worse for wear. CONTENT WARNINGS: just a sad, angry dude.

—

It took ages to get there. The warden trudged through sleet and snow over uneven, unforgiving ground, stopping frequently for breaks at the protest of his leg. His stump was angry and inflamed, railing against the damn near constant march that had the metal prosthesis rubbing it raw through the denim.

The sun had risen and set many times on the lone figure worming his way through the wild, wintry landscape, rarely stopping to sleep or eat, but only long enough to muster the willpower to keep walking. He had a destination, and he was pissed that he didn't have his van to help get him most of the way there like last time, but there was no way he was going to Emilio to ask for the keys. He knew he'd be refused, or at the very least he'd have to suffer the look on his brother's face as he realized Rhett was serious about leaving… again. He couldn't do it again. So the hard way it was, god help him.

The area was unassuming, but familiar. Two trees angled toward one another, trunks crossing at the apex of a massive boulder that sat between them. If not for the snow, he might’ve seen the bloodstains from the last time he was here with that young slayer, Owen. When they killed that faun. Did they kill it? He couldn't recall anymore. Probably. But the important thing was that the faun had been a guardian of this place, tasked with leading anyone who wasn't supposed to be there astray. He was ready this time. It wouldn't go like before.

A stranger stepped out from behind a tree. Beautiful, calm, and wearing a smile as she regarded him. “A bit far from home, aren't we?” Rhett said nothing, coming to a slow stop and staring at her. Her smile drooped as realization seemed to settle in its place. He was familiar to her, if only by description. The agreeable mood quickly shifted, fear and anger taking up residence instead. “You,” she snapped, her dark eyes wide. “You're the one who—Rafe, they—”

“I know,” Rhett responded. “Ain't here about that.” The fae sneered, clenching her hands into fists at her sides as she took a few threatening steps forward.

“No, you're right. You're here to die. A life for a life.” The warden made no motion to defend himself or move away, remaining still as the fae rushed him, snatching his cane from his hand and kicking at his prosthesis, sending him down to his knee. Rhett kept his head down, allowing the faun to get a few decent hits in before interrupting, spitting blood onto the snow.

“Wait,” he croaked. “Mariela. I need to speak with Mariela.” The fae hesitated, huffing out clouds of warm breath that dissipated in the cold air. She seemed… confused, and still rightfully angry.

“What—why on this green earth do you think I'm going to bring you to her? So you can kill her?” Rhett coughed, holding up his hands.

“No. Just bring ‘er here. I don't gotta go inside. Check me… don't got no weapons.” The fae was dubious, but curious. Deeply curious. Mariela had shown up about a year ago and had never really said much about her past other than the warning of the warden on her tail. The warden that was now presenting himself as a defenseless old cripple. Skies above… fine. She produced her own blade, holding it to his throat as she patted him down.

“Hmm.. take off your fake leg. And your boot, old man. I know how you hunters love to hide knives in there.” Rhett glanced up at her, understanding the caution but annoyed all the same. Still, he complied, shifting himself around so he could remove them both and toss them toward her as she backed off, just in case.

“You want the sweater off, too?” he asked with bitter sarcasm. The fae smiled sweetly and nodded.

“Now that you mention it, yeah. That too. In fact, why don't you just take everything off, so I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Rhett balked at the suggestion, scoffing at her and giving his best, one-eyed stink eye. She didn't seem to mind, shifting her weight onto one leg and crossing her arms over her chest. “Go on then, warden. Don't be shy. We aren't the modest type, around here.” He stared for a moment longer before heaving a world-weary sigh.

“You'll go get ‘er after?”

“Sure thing. And I'll even have her bring you a blanket.” With no other option, Rhett pulled the sweater off over his head, realizing that he'd been so cold for so long that the removal of his outer layer didn't really… change much, in that regard. Next came the jeans, which took some finagling since he was sat on the frozen forest floor, then the socks, and lastly, the boxer briefs. All of it had seen much better days, exemplified in the frown of disgust that appeared on the fae’s face when she stepped forward to collect it. Opting to kick it into some underbrush rather than touch it, the fae seemed satisfied in the knowledge that he wasn't lying when he said he didn't have any weapons. That is, until she spoke again. “Now. Promise to me that you don't have any weapons on you. Fists aside, of course… won't make you cut those off.” She glanced at his tattoo covered stump. “Yet.”

Rhett glowered as best he could. “Seriously? I'm in the fuckin’ nude, woman. Just—”

“Then it should be an easy promise to make! So just do it, before I change my mind and slit your throat.”

“... I promise I ain't got no weapons on me that I weren't born with,” the warden growled angrily.

“Fantastic. Now, one more… promise me that you will remain exactly where you are until Mari arrives. No funny business, tough guy.” She was having too much damn fun with this. Still, there was nothing to be done about it.

“I promise I'll stay right here until her highness arrives to gift me with a blanket.”

“Mm… cute. All right. Be right back!” With that done, the fae dropped her glamour, revealing herself to be yet another faun as she wrinkled her nose at him and trotted right up to the boulder. There was no hesitation in her stride and, just as she was about to collide with the damn thing, she vanished.

With little else to do and a fae magic bind holding him in place anyway, Rhett hugged his knee to his chest, wrapping his arms around it and burying his head in the crook of his elbow. He apathetically noted that his fingers and toes were discolored, which made sense considering he couldn't feel anything in them. Oh well. If they were lost, they were lost.

The minutes stretched on for what felt like a lifetime, and Rhett wondered if he'd been duped. If that faun had said anything at all to anyone inside, if Mariela was even here… maybe it'd just been a ploy to get him to freeze to death outside the entrance of their aos sí. That would make sense. More sense than the faun actually doing as he asked, anyway. He was a known warden. A known threat. Or… he used to be. This was probably a game for them, watching him suffer in silence—

“Everett?” His breath caught in his throat at the familiar voice. He hadn't heard it in decades, but he could still tell by the way she spoke with apprehension, the same as she had when she'd been found adrift at sea by two young sailors who turned out to be wardens. There was a new hardness to her tone, though. One that he'd never had directed at him—he'd not given her time to be angry, only afraid.

The man lifted his head, regarding the hesperide with a faraway, sunken stare, and she stared right back. Her chin lifted, the pout on her lips reminding him of the times he'd told her to take it easy on Desmond—he wasn't as fond of her playful pranks as Rhett had been. More than that, though… god, she looked almost the same. Here he was, twenty-something years older than the last time he'd seen her and looking every second of it, but Mariela? As beautiful as the day he'd met her. More mature, but even approaching 50 years in age hadn't left a single crease on her face. She hovered in place for a moment, the blanket clutched in her hands like a shield. When she moved, it wasn't cautious, but abrupt. Rhett watched her approach, and found his emotions difficult to reconcile. The familiar rage was there, but so was a deep, inexplicable melancholy.

Mariela stopped in front of him, extending an arm to hold out the blanket. Rhett took it, unfurling it and draping it over his shoulders.

“Get up,” she commanded. He looked to his stump, then back up at her.

“Can't.” Glancing around them, Mariela spotted the cane in the snow. She moved to pick it up, turning it over in her hands for a moment before passing it to him.

“Get up,” she repeated, watching him with her piercing gaze. Rhett sighed, clutching the blanket corners together at his sternum and bracing the other on the cane, but it was too tall. His weak attempt had her huffing impatiently and she reached for him, grabbing his arm and hoisting him upward. He groaned, leaning into her as he fought to find his balance. The nymph recoiled at first, but feeling him slip again, she wrapped an arm about his middle to bolster him. “You've really fallen far, haven't you?” Rhett said nothing, head down as he switched hands with the cane and held the blanket haphazardly in place. “Everett… why are you here?”

“Like I told the goat, I… wanted to talk to ya.”

“Her name is Cricket, pendejo.” She scoffed. “And seriously? After all this time, talking is what you want to do? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Mari, look at me. I ain't a threat to no one no more,” Rhett argued. Mariela did not want to bring him into the aos sí, but speaking out here hardly seemed like a better option. He might just turn into a man-shaped popsicle before anything of value was communicated. She thought of Ophelia, of what her hopeful daughter would have wanted. The thought inspired a sigh, the nymph finding herself burdened with responsibilities she had no desire to see through. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to warm up, radiating the heat she'd collected from the sun over the course of the day.

Rhett was horrified by the soft sound that escaped him then, his body starving for the warmth she was providing in spite of his conflicting emotions. Mariela frowned at him, annoyed to feel her hatred of him melt away just a bit in that moment, her instinct to take care of people in need outweighing their sordid past. Just for a moment.

“Fine. You may enter, but you must promise me you will not bring harm to any of my neighbors. Understood?”

“Understood. I promise. That ain't what I'm here for.”

“Okay… okay. Let's go.” She shuffled herself around to get a better grip on the man and started walking him toward the boulder. The surface of it shimmered as they stepped into it, and Rhett grimaced as they moved through the illusion and into… into… His eye was wide as he took in the sight, leaning a bit more heavily into Mariela's side. He thought he'd never see the inside of this place, and he wasn’t sure what to expect, but this was… this was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

“Welcome to Hemlock Ridge, you stupid man,” Mariela huffed under her breath as they made their way past dozens of pairs of wide, staring eyes.

#. thread ;#. solo ;#. icarus ; pt. i

9 notes · View notes

mortemoppetere · 1 year

Text

TIMING: later tonight LOCATION: an alley outside a bar PARTIES: @rhythmicmeow & @mortemoppetere SUMMARY: after a night of drinking, emilio and leticia do what any pair of buddies would do: talk to the dead. CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol consumption

Drinking with Leticia had become a normal thing. He met her at the bar, they talked, she paid. It was a pretty good system, all things considered. Tonight, they’d stuck around until last call, had been practically shoved out the door by the tired bartender who’d come to know them well enough to know that they’d try to talk their way into staying until sunrise if he let them. The streets were dark and fairly empty as they stumbled down them, Emilio’s hand in his pocket gripping the hilt of his knife absently. Always better to be prepared, especially lately.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that had been bothering him these last few days. It was like… a tingle in the back of his mind, like the tickle you got in your throat when you needed to cough. He could have sworn he’d heard someone in his apartment before he’d left to meet Leticia, and there had been the odd voice in the bar he couldn’t quite place. But it was easy enough to push to the side, simple enough to ignore. If it was something worth worrying about, he’d figure it out later. For right now, he just wanted to get home and pour another drink.

But then, something caught his attention. Louder than anything else in his head had been all night, echoing. A scream, so sharp and present that he was sure it must have come from the nearby alley. “Did you hear that?” He grabbed Leticia by the arm without waiting for an answer, tugging her to the empty alley. “Someone — You heard, right?”

—

Leticia should have called it quits hours ago. Her mind was swimming, and she had turned into a drunk giggler. Everything was funnier at this hour, but even moreso when she could only remember the last few words of the story. But Emilio didn’t seem to mind. And she was too far gone to care about them staying past their welcome. Her mother would have been horrified, but even the image of her mother’s scowl pulled a small snicker from her.

The laughter abruptly stopped when Emilio broke the silent night air. She flinched, jumping as she was grabbed by the arm. “What the fuck?” She blinked a few times, letting the tight control she had on the balam loosen just enough to heighten her senses. Her senses were quickly overwhelmed. The chill in the night air felt stronger now, sobering.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she whispered, her hand coming up to his on her arm, gripping his wrist tightly. Whatever Emilio had heard, Leticia hadn’t. But in the alley, there was an apparition. Swallowing hard, Leticia tried to pull the balam back in, but the figure looked at her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Wherever there was a ghost, there was sure to be someone armed with salt around the corner — and that was a dance that Leticia would prefer to avoid.

But if she left this ghost here, she would be leaving them to that same fate. A forced exit from this world. Unable to look away from the ghost, Leticia cleared her throat before whispering again: “What did you hear?”

—

She didn’t hear anything? How did she miss it? Maybe it was the alcohol; Leticia had certainly had plenty to drink in her ever-present quest to ‘keep up’ with Emilio, and he had her beat in both size and hunter physiology. Maybe she hadn’t heard the sound over the rush of blood in her ears, or her jumbled thoughts, or her drunken giggles.

Or maybe he was just fucking losing it.

It had been loud, after all, and no one else had come running. And the alley it had come from was empty, looking as though it’d been empty all night. There wasn’t any sign that someone had been there in hours, much less seconds. Emilio furrowed his brow, taking a quiet step into the alley to investigate.

As Leticia spoke, he turned towards her, confusion still etched into his face. “There was… Someone was screaming.” He sounded lost, like he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and was trying to puzzle out where he’d ended up. There was something itching at the back of his mind, a quiet murmuring growing louder. A voice, he realized. It didn’t belong to him or Leticia, but there was no one else here. Emilio took a step back, peering into the dumpster only to find it empty, too. And yet…

“How much blood should I drain? Until he’s dry? We won’t need all of it, but that’s okay. Some is just for me.”

It sent a shiver down his spine, and he whipped his head around towards the noise only to find the alley just as empty as it had been when they’d first stepped into it. “Something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “Leti, something — I keep hearing someone.”

—

Her eyes flickered to Emilio’s face. The confusion was clear, and the fear was creeping up Leticia’s spine. He hadn’t heard the ghost. Whatever he was hearing was something else entirely. But what? And why did he lead them into this alley if he couldn’t sense ghosts? Did people stumble into abilities like this at their age? Or had he been suppressing it and they had just had too much to drink and caused him to lose control?

And another question crawled its way to the forefront of her mind: did he know what she was?

Emilio took a few steps away from her, searching for the source. It hadn’t been the ghost; it couldn’t have been. He was standing there in silence, staring at Leticia. “What did they say, Emilio?” She forced herself to look away from the ghostly man and focused on Emilio. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his back. “I — I don’t hear them. They’re not speaking to me. But I can see them.” The confession felt heavy on her shoulders. Of all the people she had known, as close as she’d let herself appear to them, she had always kept her true nature to herself.

“I… The person I can see is dead. They’re not speaking. I’d hear that too.” Tomorrow, he’d hopefully forget all of this. She could blame it on the alcohol and laugh it off. Whatever Emilio was experiencing was real. Emilio wasn’t the kind of person to fake this encounter to extend what had been a fun night — and what were the chances that he stumbled into a haunted alley completely by chance while claiming to hear someone screaming?

She had no reason to doubt him. The only hesitating that clung to her was revealing her true self to him — would he believe her? Would he think her a monster? Would he betray her?

“What are they saying to you?”

—

For a moment, he thought he was well and truly losing his mind. He’d always figured it would happen eventually, if he was being honest. After Mexico, he’d started slipping down a slope so steep that there was no real hope of climbing back up again. If Rhett hadn’t found him in the days after the massacre, he doubted he would have made it out of Oaxaca without losing his mind alongside his life. Maybe he’d been living on borrowed time since, mind bending a little more each day until breaking was inevitable. It was a terrifying thought. What did you do with a hunter whose mind had left him? The same thing you did with a rusted, broken knife, Emilio suspected. Get rid of it. Replace it with one that worked.

But then Leticia spoke, and the relief of it was overwhelming. She didn’t hear what he was hearing, but she saw something. Maybe this was some Wicked’s Rest trick — an alley that made one person hear and the other person see? Only Leticia didn’t seem surprised by whatever it was she was seeing, didn’t seem to feel it was unusual. And what’s more, she seemed to understand more about it than Emilio did. The person she saw was dead, and she said it with enough confidence that he understood that seeing the dead wasn’t unusual for her. Was she a medium, then? An exorcist? She’d never mentioned it, but he’d never told her what he was, either.

He swallowed as she questioned him, shaking his head. “They’re not speaking to me,” he admitted. “I hear — I think I’m hearing what they’re doing. What they’re thinking, or what they’re saying to someone else? Not to me. They’re…” He felt a little sick in a way he tried to convince himself was just the alcohol. “I think they’re hurting someone. Draining their blood. Jesus.”

—

The more control she passed over to the balam, the less Leticia felt like herself. It was like a fog was covering her mind, thicker than anything the booze could have done to her. The more control she handed over, the more the ghost felt real. He looked at her, and for a brief moment, she thought she was staring at her father. Her nails lengthened and she curled her hands into fists.

Blood? What blood? There’s no blood.

But on the ghosts neck there were two clear holes. The bite of a vampire. “They’re draining their blood?” Leticia’s gaze never left the ghost, her head turned away from Emilio while still keeping a hand on his back. Keeping them both anchored in the alley. The ghost shook his head before holding his neck.

Why can no one hear me? What happened? I’m cold.

“You’re dead,” she whispered. “We can’t help you, you’re dead—“

No. I can’t be. I’m not dead, I just finished my shift! I always take this way! Why are you lying to me?

She took a step closer to Emilio, as if he could protect her from the spirit. When she was younger, she had seen her first ghost in her hometown. Her mother had told her to show them respect, but to not engage. Balam were not the shepards of the dead. But the distance taught her nothing about the nature of spirits — what made them haunt their former homes? What made them malicious? Would her words make things worse?

“They’re here,” Leticia finally whispered to Emilio. “They… they don’t know they’re dead. But on their neck—“ her voice hitched. “A vampire.”

—

Emilio’s brow furrowed as he listened closely to the distant voices despite every instinct screaming at him not to. He knew that acknowledging a spirit might make it stick to you, but if someone was hurting people, wasn’t it his job to stop that? Wasn’t that what he was for, wasn’t that the only purpose he’d ever been given? To die so that other people, more important people wouldn’t have to. To take the hit himself so that no one else had to feel that pain. Someone had died here, and he couldn’t save them, but maybe he could still find a way to help them.

“Drink till you’re full, then drink some more. Who’s going to stop us? We’re the dominant species here, the head of the food chain. People like this are just dinner.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed hoarsely, nodding his head. He’d heard a lot worse than this, of course, but there was something deeply unsettling about the one-sided conversation happening inside his mind. Like they were his thoughts, his opinions, his feelings. It made him feel nauseous and uncomfortable, but he could persevere. If it meant he could help whoever it was Leticia was looking at, if it meant he could do what he was supposed to do, he could handle a little discomfort.

Leticia’s one-sided conversation with the spirit was nowhere near as unsettling as the one in his head, and he didn’t move away as she stepped close to him, let her put her hand on his shoulder. She was doing it for herself, but it was helping him, too. Reminding him what was here, what was real. There was no one else physically in this alley. The confirmation was good to have.

On their neck… Part of him had already guessed as much, though there was some surprise that Leticia knew enough to jump to vampires. Maybe there shouldn’t have been, though. She was talking to a ghost in a tone that said it might not be the first time she’d done so, so why wouldn’t she know about the undead, too? Emilio swallowed, nodding his head. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Sounds like…” He paused, listening again.

“Tomorrow, I do it again. How many can I take? Same place, same time. Will they learn better?”

“The alley. It’s their… Fuck. It’s their goddamn buffet table.”

—

He was all but gone, and Leticia feared she wasn’t going to be much help in pulling him out of his own mind. She had never done this before, not in this capacity at least. Seeing ghosts was one thing, hearing them another, but they had never been drawn to her and she, in turn, had never been drawn to them. This was… new. And she had never heard of anyone hearing the past as if it was unfolding in the present.

Then again, she had never known the power the words thank you had held until she was in Wicked’s Rest. This town was a truly twisted place.

“You—“ The question died in her throat. Emilio had agreed with her assessment without hesitation. Like he believed in vampires. No, like he knew they existed. Leticia’s mind swam with a new found confusion, mixed with the pressure of the ghost standing so close to them, she wasn’t sure which direction she should turn. Toward Emilio? Toward the ghost? The exit?

“Buffet table?” She looked toward the nearby roof and then the ends of the alley. No one was there, but the chill in the air reminded her that nothing was what it seemed here.

I’m cold.

“You’re dead,” Leticia repeated. “It was a vampire. You weren’t the only one they murdered. I’m sorry.”

A vampire… I remember teeth. I remember… The ghost put a hand over the wound that had killed them. Agonizing silence filled the alley as it put together its thoughts. How many others?

“None.” Leticia wasn't sure if she could claim that no one had been killed since this man had died, but she looked at Emilio and nodded her head. “We know this place exists now. They won’t be able to use it again. Not without having to face us.” Letting out a slow breath, she tipped her head toward the ghost, knowing Emilio couldn’t see him. “He can hear you. One way message?”

—

Did it matter if he outed himself here? Leticia knew about vampires and ghosts, so it stood to reason that she must have known about more than that, too. She wasn’t undead, so it was unlikely that she’d have a specific issue with slayers. Hell, he’d outed himself to Teddy already. If they hadn’t taken a shot at him, he doubted Leticia would.

Still, he offered no explanation beyond the fact that he, too, knew of the existence of vampires. Maybe he’d tell her more later, and maybe he wouldn’t. But first? They needed to figure this out. There was a ghost in this alley, someone who’d died when they shouldn’t have. A vampire had been the one to do it, and that made it Emilio’s job to fix it. Even if he couldn’t hear the past unfolding like an auditory map, he’d still want to solve this one. It was his job, it was what he was for. It was the only thing he’d ever been good at.

Leticia was talking to the ghost again, and Emilio felt a nausea creeping up from his stomach that had little to do with the killer’s voice in his head. Did the dead know they were dead? Was Leticia having to remind him over and over again because he was unaware of it? He thought of Juliana, of Flora. Of his mother and his siblings. Were they like this now? Ghosts who didn’t know they were ghosts, dead things that still thought they were alive?

Looking back as she addressed him, he nodded. “You want to stake it out?” It wouldn’t be hard. Based on what he was hearing in his mind, the vampire or vampires who had done this came back at least every other night, if not every single night. Finding them wouldn’t be hard. Glancing to the alley that still looked empty, he nodded again and cleared his throat, stepping forward to address the ghost. “I, uh… I’m sorry this happened to you.” His chest ached with the words. Maybe it wasn’t just this ghost he was talking to. “We might not know exactly who did it, but we’re going to find them. We’re going to make sure they never do it to anyone else. Tú será vengado, ¿vale? Whatever happens, I promise you this. I won’t stop until they’re dead.”

—

Leticia nodded her head at the question, not wanting to say anything in front of the other man. She didn’t know how long this man had been dead or when they had last used this alley for their meals, but the worst that would happen is that they found it had been long abandoned. The best? Maybe they find the killer and spare anyone else from this same fate.

The ghost wandered closer to the dumpster and then back to where they had been originally standing, looking at the ground as if they had dropped something. His hand was still on his neck, covering the holes that had been left behind by the vampire. His gaze remained turned downward when Emilio started talking, doubling down on her offer to stake this place out. The promise itself didn’t feel so strange, Leticia had led with that same offer — but the way he said it?

You’ll be avenged.

Emilio might have been a private investigator, but he wasn’t an avenger. That kind of promise was personal and came from a place of hurt… of anger. “Avenged?” The word was just a whisper, but it had been enough to pull the ghost closer to them. The sluggish movements came to a stop a few feet in front of Emilio. Blinking a few times, Leticia could have sworn he was fading. He reached for Emilio and she gripped his shoulder as the hand went through him.

“You don’t have to stay here.” Leticia’s voice was gentle, careful not to push too hard and turn the ghost toward anger. Had she been anywhere else, she might have laughed. She had never been at a loss for words, anyone who had ever spent a moment around her would have known that — but here? She doubted each syllable. Scared to say the wrong thing and turn the victim into a monster.

He can’t hear me, can he? The ghost sounded sad at the prospect, looking at Emilio, trying to reach him physically and verbally. Tell him thank you. For finding me. Vengeance could have turned to anger, turned to hatred — it could have burned someone from the inside out. No one else?

“No one else,” Letitia repeated with a nod. The air around them felt thinner a moment later. It only took a blink of an eye, and the man was gone. Inhaling deeply, she took a step back from Emilio. “He’s gone. He said thank you for finding him.” Fumbling her words, she pulled back her control, opening her palms to assess the damage from the claws, her blood dripping from her hands.

—

Leticia seemed thrown by his words, repeating them quietly enough that he could pretend he hadn’t heard even though he had. He supposed her confusion made sense. They were friends, Leti and him, but there were so many things she didn’t know about him still, so many things he wasn’t sure she’d ever know. He didn’t know how to say them, didn’t know how to put a voice to the things that had made him this way. He’d avenge this unnamed ghost in the same way he’d avenge his family, because that was what he did. That was all he knew how to do. He couldn’t promise to save someone who was already dead, but he could offer retribution. Justice, maybe, even if his definition of it didn’t always fit what everyone else thought it should be.

A shiver went down his spine and, given where Leticia was looking now, he figured the ghost was probably close to him. Were they happy with what he’d promised, or did they want more? Was vengeance enough for the dead in a way it never could be for the living? Emilio had killed so many of the vampires responsible for the massacre in Mexico, and he still felt empty. Was it stupid to think that the ghost in this alley might feel different?

Leticia was speaking again, and it didn’t seem as if she was talking the ghost down. Emilio took it as a good sign. Maybe his promise had done something. Maybe, for once, he could help the dead in a way that mattered.

And then, it was over. The ghost was gone, Leticia said, but the voice in his head didn’t quiet. Emilio’s brow furrowed. The ghost thanked him, the ghost moved on. So why was he still hearing the killer’s awful thoughts? “I still hear it,” he mumbled uncertainly, tilting his head to the side. “Just repeating the same things.” Had he been less distracted, he wouldn’t have missed the blood on Leticia’s hands, would have wondered where it came from. As it was, he found it harder and harder to focus. “I think I want to leave here. They won’t be back tonight. We can come back tomorrow, see if they’re here. If they’re not, I’ll find them on my own. I meant what I told him. I’m going to make sure they pay for what they did here.” And maybe then, the voice in his head would go away. Maybe that was how he got rid of it.

—

She had hoped, despite herself, that when the ghost vanished that whatever had pulled Emilio into this alley would also resolve itself, but instead, she was left wanting. Chewing the inside of her lip, Leticia shook her head. “I still don’t hear it.” A silent apology lingering in her tone. They wound on the ghost, the things that he had heard, all of it added up to a thousand more questions that left Leticia unsettled. This town, her mother had told her, was a place where supernatural beings gathered. A community in which she could be safe and instead… this was their reality. If you were strong, you were safe. If you killed the other person — or thing — first, you were safe.

Rubbing her palms on her dark pants, she tried to remove the leftover evidence of her partial transformation. “Yeah,” she mumbled in agreement. “I… I didn’t want to say it in front of him, but are you sure this place is still active?” How often do you hear these voices? Is what she really wanted to ask, but considering his state, Leticia doubted he was in a position to answer in a way that wouldn’t make both their heads spin. Too much alcohol and one too many ghosts.

Her heart was pounding, she knew the balam spirit she shared her body with wouldn't be so easily convinced to leave this realm of existence, but talking a spirit out of staying was enough to jumble her mind and turn her stomach. The buzz of alcohol no longer relaxed her muscles and made her dizzy with happy thoughts, instead, it fed the underlying anxiety of her current existence. All the secrets that she kept. All the things she knew she couldn’t share.

“I meant it too. No one deserves to die like that.” Suddenly. And without remorse. Both here parents would have told her to keep her head down and to stay out of it. Survival was most important. But with one dead and her mother in the wind, Leticia found it impossible to divorce herself from this. “I want to see this through.” She faced him, shaking her head and waving at the empty alley. “I — I don’t know if I can kill anyone, but if I can help you lure them out or find out who they are, I’m with you. I don’t want to walk away from this.”

—

Leticia didn’t hear it, and Emilio wasn’t surprised but he was a little disappointed all the same. It was lonely, he realized, being the only one aware of this strangeness, being the only one who could hear it. He wouldn’t wish it on her — it was unsettling in a nauseating kind of way — but it might be nice to feel a little less lonesome in it, to feel like he wasn’t carrying this burden on his own. “That’s all right,” he said, a spoken response to her unspoken apology. Whatever was happening, he doubted it was Leticia’s fault. It was the town, probably. Like most things, it’d probably fix itself sooner or later. Or it wouldn’t. He tried not to think about that option.

Hesitating, he shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know how… how long ago any of it happened. Or if it’s happening now, or if it isn’t. But if the vampire who did this is still out there, I’ll find them. I know what their voice sounds like, at least. And I know they like to… drain people. That’s not the kind of thing that goes without somebody noticing.” He’d check the papers for any deaths that fit the MO, maybe ask Arden if she knew anything. He was a decent enough detective to crack this case, even if he was cracking it too late to save anyone.

The experience had been sobering in the worst kind of way. That comfortably familiar numbness that came with a night of too much drinking seemed to have left him entirely, replaced by the old paranoia that always lurked beneath everything else in his head. The new addition of a stranger’s voice was doing him no favors there; the fact that, if he listened closely enough, he could hear more voices beneath the one tied to this alley was worrying, too.

But… Wouldn’t it be worth it if they helped someone? His mother told him once when he was young that hunters were blessed with their mission to save people. It’s what we’re for, she’d told him. To be the ones who fall so others can stand. To die so others can live. Self sacrifice was etched into Emilio’s DNA, driven by his father’s death and intensified by his oldest brother’s death years later. He hadn’t needed the extra push of the massacre to know what he was meant for, but it had certainly taken away any reason he might have had to fight it. Whatever he had to sacrifice to take this vampire down, it would be worth it. He could handle a few voices in his head.

Turning to Leticia, he regarded her hesitantly for a moment before offering a slight nod. “Okay,” he agreed. “You don’t have to kill anyone, but you can help if you want to.” She was just as invested in this as he was now.

—

The last words that Emilio spoke were harrowing. She didn’t have to kill anyone, like this was a done deal — a simple fact of the agreement they had made. Someone was going to die. What else did she think would happen if she was involved in stopping them from hurting anyone else? Ask them nicely to stop? The implications were clear in her own words, and yet hearing it put so plainly made her stomach turn.

And now Leticia was looking at Emilio like he was the one who would be the person to fulfill the promise she had made. But he didn’t push her to accept what was about to happen, didn’t even demand that she participate. He was looking at her and maybe he understood that she wanted to have some kind of closure.

There were other questions that lingered under what had just happened, but Leticia didn’t think pushing Emilio to talk about how he knew about vampires or why he was so… comfortable with the idea of killing one, murderer or not, was a good idea. Maybe if she didn’t ask any questions, he wouldn’t ask any either.

Maybe she could pretend a little longer.

“Tomorrow, then,” she confirmed, telling herself that if her father had been in her shoes, he wouldn’t have walked away either. He had always been kind, always put others first, always done his best to leave something good behind. And if she could hunt down his killer the same way she was helping this man now, would she be hesitating? Leticia knew the answer, but she still pretended like she would err on the side of mercy.

That was always easier with a degree of distance.

“Let’s get you home,” Leticia said, refocusing herself on what she could do and the people she could help. Even if Emilio didn’t need someone holding him up until he was back at his home, Leticia needed this. To make sure he was safe. To know she had done something outside of feeling entirely useless.

The rest of it would be a problem for tomorrow.

#rhythmicmeow #leticia: time for peace #wickedswriting #alcohol tw #s1 writing #season 1

7 notes · View notes

ironcladrhett · 5 months

Text

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Still an abandoned soap factory

PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist), Siobhan (@banisheed), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), & Rhett (@ironcladrhett)

SUMMARY: On the night that Rhett is to lose his second foot and probably his life, Emilio makes a daring entrance and tries to bargain with his captors for his freedom.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Suicidal ideation (of the life exchange variety)

—

It wasn’t really like Inge was short on nutrition at the moment, with Rhett providing a steady supply of snacks, but there were still those human cravings. Besides, Siobhan presumably did require human sustenance (or did Banshees sustain themselves on screams?) and so a grocery store run seemed fitting. The mundanity of overhead lights and inflation were a stark contrast to the blood that had just coated Siobhan’s fingers, but it came with important rewards. Lollipops.

As the pair walked to Siobhan’s non-conspicuous car, Inge was sure to continue the point she’d been trying to make. “I think you’ve– we’ve had our fun. The longer go on like this, the riskier it gets.” She pulled open the passenger side door, tossing the groceries in before taking a seat. “Someone’s bound to look for even such a sorry sod at some point.” She pulled the door close, muffling any other words from any sharp ears, looking at Siobhan sharply. “I want him dead before sunrise. Can you settle with that?”

—

Torturing Rhett had given Siobhan an emotional and creative fulfillment that she’d never felt before. It had also—though she would never admit it—given her a friend. A friend she hated and a friend that was an abomination and a friend that, perhaps, didn’t see her as a friend at all but a friend nonetheless. It would be embarrassing to admit that she had prolonged Rhett’s torture not just because it was fun but because she was having fun with Ingeborg. She thought they were really bonding. Violence was what made true friends; so it had been in her aos sí, so it was in that soap factory.

“Oh.” Siobhan leaned against the driver’s side door; one arm spread on top of the hearse, which she rested her chin upon. “What risks? He’s hardly a danger. Risks of having too much fun?” Following Ingeborg—could she just call her Inge now? They were friends, after all—lead, Siobhan ducked into the car. “You’re such a bore. I wish someone would come for him. That’d really make it interesting. I could use one of the other saws on them. I was thinking about the circular one; it’s brand-new.” Siobhan turned to her accomplice and noted the lack of amusement. “Fine.” The car sputtered to life, wheezing and coughing up black exhaust. “Dead tonight, meanie. Give me one of the candies.”

—

Ever since he’d found Rhett’s cane abandoned on the street, Emilio had been a flurry of activity and nervous energy. No time had been taken to pause for stupid things like sleep or meals, and any responses to texts or messages from friends had been brief and curt. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this was likely to end, knew he was probably looking for a corpse more than he was looking for a man, but even so, he searched tirelessly. If a corpse was all that was left of his brother, he’d still bring it home. He’d still do for Rhett what Rhett had done for Juliana and Flora in Mexico two years ago, even if he was the only one who’d care enough to visit the patch of dirt he planted him in.

And he’d still make sure whoever was responsible paid for it.

That anticipatory grief in his chest was matched only by the anger, the rage that warmed him like a furnace in the dead of winter. On some level, he knew it was a stupid thing to feel. Rhett had been reckless since coming to town, had gone after too many people and let too many go. The fact that most of them were people who didn’t deserve it ached in a different sort of way, but it wasn’t relevant to the point. This town was probably full of people who’d like to hurt Rhett, and Emilio shouldn’t have been surprised that one of them took a shot. But the grief was there anyway. The rage was there anyway. So he did the only thing he’d ever really been good at — he followed the trail.

Javier heard from Lara who heard from Beto that a professor at the college hadn’t been in in a few days. The professor was one with a familiar name — if anyone would go after Rhett, Emilio thought, it would be the mare he’d locked in his bunker. But wherever she was hiding, she was hard to find. In a way, that gave him hope; it meant Rhett might still be alive, though it promised he’d be in bad shape. Still, Emilio did his best to douse the feeling. Hope would do nothing but get him killed here.

It was funny; when he finally found her, it wasn’t even intentional. He stopped by the store to pick up a protein bar when his stomach finally began to cramp in protest of its emptiness, and there she was. It was something of a surprise to see her with Siobhan; maybe it shouldn’t have been. He hadn’t heard anything about Rhett going after the banshee, but a fae would have every reason to want a warden dead regardless. Neither of them spotted him. He wasn’t sure either of them would know to look for him. It was easy enough to fall into step behind them, far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to keep from losing them. Inge’s presence helped with that; all he had to do was follow that pull in his gut towards the undead thing ahead of him, ignore the way it mingled with the dread there.

One way or another, he’d get his brother back tonight.

—

Siobhan’s complete apathy to the risks was something that made Inge feel inferior. She was not overreacting, was she, in assuming that this could lead to more trouble? Violence begot violence. That was why they were here now. That was why she tended to run rather than face the people who chased her tail. She dug around for a lollipop of a flavor she liked and unwrapped it with a note of frustration, telling herself she was wary and that was good and that it wasn’t really that Siobhan was better than her, she was just … unhinged. Yes. That was a good term.

She popped the lollipop in her mouth and got a cola-flavored one for the banshee (this was, in her opinion, the worst flavor), undoing the wrapping for her as well before holding it out. “The best hunter is a dead one,” she said sagely, wondering if Siobhan would simply bite down on the lollipop or if she’d reach for it with her hand. Inge kicked up her legs, licking her own candy merrily. “We can have our fun another way.”

The drive was quickly over and done with, the hearse pulling up to the abandoned factory with fitting noise. The place had grown familiar, but the sight that was Rhett the Warden hadn’t. Inge’s torments and her horrors existed somewhere else, on a plane not bound by earthly harm. Or so, at least, she had told herself. So Sanne had told her, eons ago. It was different. It was more sophisticated. It was a gift. Her eyes flicked over the sight of him before tossing the bag of groceries on the ground. This was hardly a gift. The only thing left was to kill him in a poetic manner and move on. “Told you we’d be back soon,” she said to Rhett, wondering if he’d want a lollipop. “Do you like artificial sweeteners?”

—

The best hunter is a dead one. Inge’s simple statement rattled in Siobhan’s head; bouncing around with each rumble of her hearse and each jump over cracked concrete. The clever retort that she felt obligated to have didn’t leave her mouth—it hadn’t even been formed. Instead, Siobhan watched the shifting landscape as they approached the factory. There was a time where she believed in the practical minimizing of harm; a time when Fate’s course seemed linear. Life existed in a tangle: webs and threads interwoven, pulled through space-time, woven again, transported into unknowable, unthinkable dimensions. When she’d tried to minimize harm, when she’d tried to be kind, she cost her people seven other lives. The best hunter was a living one, until Fate came. And Fate had not yet called for Rhett.

Lost in her thoughts, Siobhan hadn’t realized that she’d entered the factory at all. Had she remembered to turn the hearse off? Park it in the overgrown bushes where it couldn’t be seen from the road? She shook her head. She tried to bring back the face of the woman who adored violence, who only knew it, but instead a woman who mourned controlled her features. She saw Rhett as he was: bloody, broken, miserable. She wondered if he’d ever forgive her one day—then she castigated herself for thinking that. And, anyway, he would be dead soon. But she hadn’t screamed for him yet, and until then, she wondered if he would forgive her and if he’d think it was silly that she cared about that at all.

Siobhan knelt to the bag, crinkling plastic cutting through the air thick with the acrid scent of old blood. Off to the side, the bits of Rhett’s lost leg buzzed with a swarm of happy flies. “What flavour do you want, Rhett?” She smiled for him; dead men deserved kindnesses, sometimes. “We got everything because I said—well, it won’t be funny now if I retell it—but I wanted all of them. And there’s jellybeans…” Siobhan held up the little bag full of them—a plastic bag inside of another plastic bag. Did humans hate the world this much? “I don’t know anyone that likes jelly beans. They’re an abomination.” She pointed to Inge. “Worse than her, actually.”

—

He couldn’t be absent for everything, unfortunately. While his tendency to slip into altered states of consciousness had done him some favors over the last few days, sending the two creatures off in the wee hours of the morning to resume their activities the next day, he always came back out of it. The first time they’d decided to take a break, they’d left him secured to a pole that ran from floor to ceiling so he didn’t excuse himself without their consent. He’d been stuck there since, sitting with head bowed and long hair framing his face, silent until he heard the sound of them returning.

Rhett drew a long, shaky breath as their footsteps grew louder. They’d taken his leg, cut it off just above the knee and cauterized it about as well as you’d expect, and he was pretty sure he had an infection on top of the constant, agonizing pain of nerve endings being ripped to shreds by less than surgically precise methods. He stared down at it, down at the bloodstain where his limb should have been, at the frayed edges of pants hurriedly cut away, stained a blackish-brown. His right leg, while still attached to him, wouldn’t be for long. Siobhan had started in on the toenails of that foot last night, which meant that tonight, if she was working in a pattern... It was a miracle he hadn’t died from blood loss already, but maybe that’s what the breaks were really for. And maybe, he thought as his captors questioned him about sucker flavors, that was the only reason they were giving him any kind of sustenance.

Rather than answer on the subject of his liking of artificial sweeteners or his preferred synthetic flavor, he just lifted his chin and stared. If you didn’t count all the tormented hollering, he hadn’t spoken a word to them in two days. He just shivered, underdressed for the frigid weather, and blinked blearily at them.

“You ain’t screamed,” he finally said pointedly and in a hoarse voice. That meant he wasn’t going to die… yet. He knew the amount of time that could pass before the banshee let one rip was highly variable—it could happen days before he departed from this mortal coil, or it could happen seconds before what remained of the light in his eyes was snuffed out. It would happen, but there wasn’t much comfort in that unless he was on his way to someplace safe. This was not someplace safe. This was… hell.

His gaze jumped to Inge.

“Why am I here? This about you? This about revenge?” he growled, lowering his chin again. His hands, now more loosely tied behind his back and keeping him from wandering far from the pole, twisted against each other at the wrist. His frustration was building, unexpectedly, since he’d more or less been floating through the last few days in a quiet haze or full dissociative state. He was frozen half to death, he was starved, exhausted from lack of sleep and blood loss, and everything hurt. How long were they going to drag this out? Even he didn’t torture fae for this long. Once they told him what he wanted to know, he killed them.

“What d’you want?” the warden snarled before giving them time to actually respond. “Just fucking—get it over with. Just fucking get it over with.” He wasn’t begging. Rhett would never beg for his own life. But maybe that was only because he tried to mask the desperation with anger. He snapped his head up to look at Siobhan, looking furious. “Scream, already!” he commanded, like that would help anything.

—

It was agony, following them. Keeping back, suffocating that rage in his chest to something that had him acting tactical instead of lashing out… it wasn’t in his nature. Emilio had always been a flurry of fury, with a style of fighting that could only really be described as animalistic. His advantage always came in the way he kept fighting until consciousness left him, not in anything resembling planning. He knew he was no good at that. He’d proven it time and time and time again. And, right now, everything he had wanted to launch himself at these women who’d taken his brother from him, wanted to rip them into pieces, wanted to tear their throats out with his fucking teeth.

But then, he stopped to listen.

He eavesdropped, he let their conversation wash over him. They spoke about Rhett like he was still alive, and Emilio knew he’d never get his brother back before it was too late if he killed his captors now. The way they spoke implied that Rhett was in bad shape; there would be no time to look for him, especially not when he knew he’d have to do it alone. He couldn’t ask anyone to help him with this. Not Wynne, who had good reason to hate him. Not Teddy, who he’d seen having pleasant conversations with Siobhan online. Not Jade, who was so interconnected with Regan that going after the other banshee in any way was bound to cause complications. The only person he could realistically expect assistance from was Parker, and he was pretty sure his rage at him matched his rage towards Rhett’s tormentors at this point. He’d never be able to trust the other warden in a fight.

And so, Emilio was on his own. It was hardly a rarity, hardly an experience he was unfamiliar with. He’d spent two years on his own after he and Rhett parted ways in Mexico, would have kept at it if not for Wicked’s Rest and its citizens’ strange habit of giving a shit about people they shouldn’t. Emilio was fine on his own, could handle himself in a fight just fine. He’d get his brother back or he’d die trying, but either way, at least he’d be saved the grief of losing him.

So, he followed. To the parking lot, watching what car they slipped into. It was recognizable, hard to mistake for anything else on the road. Not many hearses driving around. That was good. He slipped into the driver’s seat of the car he’d once again ‘borrowed’ from Teddy, maintaining a slight distance behind the hearse as he drove with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. His heart stuttered uncomfortably. Left turn. Nausea tugged at his gut. Right turn. He saw a flash of Edgar’s body on the road, crumpled and bloody. Stoplight. Victor sat beside him in the passengers’ seat, sporting every injury his mind could imagine since he’d been spared the knowledge of knowing what killed him. Accelerate. Edgar’s corpse again, but his hair was longer now. Gray. His head tilted, and it was Rhett’s face there instead. Victor, in the seat beside him, morphed in a similar manner.

The hearse pulled off the road, and Emilio did the same. Into a parking lot, with no one else around. He switched off the headlights, parked a ways away. He watched them enter, and he waited. One heartbeat. Two. He couldn’t stomach the thought of a third, moved from the driver’s seat and onto the concrete. The ache in his bad leg was a long-forgotten thing, his mind forcibly pushing it aside. Pain is a message, his mother told him once. Messages can be ignored. He was getting better at it with practice.

He unpacked the trunk. Iron blades, weapons borrowed from Teddy’s basement. He grabbed a knife Rhett had gifted him years ago, the handle worn but the blade kept sharp. He thought it might be poetic to kill one of them with it. Both of them, maybe. Everything in the damn factory, if Rhett was dead inside of it.

The closer he got to the door, the clearer he could hear the murmurs. The sensation of the dead thing inside made his stomach turn just as much as the smell of blood did. The two of them combined had his mind reeling, skipping back and forth between here and there. The factory was a living room was a street. Long dead corpses rotted scentlessly in the corner. His daughter’s body was crumpled in the center of the room. Rhett was missing a leg. Juliana was screaming. Siobhan was silent.

For a moment, he thought he was too late. He thought he’d gotten here just to collect a corpse, just to give himself something else to bury. But then, Rhett shifted. He spoke. He sounded rough, sounded more pained than Emilio had ever heard him, and the world fell apart and fell back together at the same time. It was strange, seeing his brother this way. For so long, he’d thought of Rhett as invincible by necessity. Victor was dead. Edgar was dead. So Rhett couldn’t be. His other brothers died screaming, too young or too old, so he made Rhett a monument to them in their absence, created an immortal thing out of a husk. He’d been proven wrong before, of course; Rhett was already down an eye, had needed a cane even before the monsters in the shadows had taken his fucking leg. But even so, Emilio had never seen him like this.

He looked small. Emilio wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

There was no time to waste, he knew. The first thing he needed to do was take care of the mare. Prevent her from using the astral to her advantage, keep her from slipping into the shadows to attack him from behind. If she got one hand on him, put him to sleep, this whole thing would be over. The banshee’s scream was a concern, too, but the mare needed to be grounded first. Fighting deaf would still be easier than fighting unconscious.

Slipping the sword off his back, he tested its weight momentarily. Balanced. High quality. If he survived this, he’d have to thank Teddy for letting him borrow it. He waited until Inge moved a little, waited until she was lined up the way he needed her to be with the wall. And then, in a flurry of rage, he went in for the strike.

He made no sound as he stormed into the room, offered none of his usual dry humor as he shoved the blade through the mare’s stomach and into the wall behind her with all the strength he had. It went in deep, stuck hard. It would take enhanced strength to pull it out again. Otherwise, she’d have to peel herself off it by slicing through herself, sliding to the side. It would hurt either way. Emilio was glad for that.

—

She never stuck around to see the results of her actions when it came to her sleepers. She visited them on a schedule, slowly pushing further and further into their minds to make it her own playground. Sometimes she witnessed them wake, but that was it — Inge always disappeared until they could fully react. And here was Rhett, tied like a stray, wounded dog with blood sticking to him and the surface below him. He was reduced in a multitude of ways.

It was a strange thing, to be so confronted with her actions. To have the harm done by her collaborator (not her — for all her assistance, Inge remained convinced it was Siobhan responsible for that missing leg) so clearly on display. It wasn’t that it gave her pause, but it was a sensation she wasn’t sure she’d intend to experience again. Even if she’d gained material for new works. She turned the lollipop around in her mouth while considering the sight, distantly glad that it would be done before dawn. It was not a feeling she had any interest in investigating.

So she simply stared back at him, popping the lollipop from her mouth to answer his growled questions. Questions. He had barely spoken these past days, an impressive feat that Inge would not have achieved had the places been reversed. They had been, once, though not for as long. Humans were easier to trap. “Well, the idea started when you hurt a mutual …” She thought for a moment, “Student of ours. I’m not generally one for vengeance like this, but Siobhan is an inspiring woman and well, I really would like to see you and your experimental ways out of this world.” It would be bad praxis to reveal that Siobhan and her hadn’t really agreed on what had occurred, but Inge wasn’t tactical, nor was Rhett long for this world. “So we agreed to put our differences aside to kill you. We’ll get there.”

She had judged him, hadn’t she? For locking her in that bunker. For putting Ariadne in that van for a week. For the cruelty of it — not just a quick axe to the head, but something drawn out. But this was different. This was retribution. “I don’t like to limit my fellow creatives, though.” With the way he was asking for it, for that inevitable end, Inge almost felt inclined to let Siobhan follow her whims and let this draw out. Even if she was growing antsy from this space, her mind bending in strange ways, leaving her giddy and nervous and wondering if she should start packing, wondering if she should try to help Siobhan with the next toe and whether she could even handle such a thing. Whether she was weaker, for not being able to fight or maim in such a way, or whether it just made her more sophisticated. Whether she was worse than the hunters for this. Whether it mattered.

She’d blame that spiraling mind for not noticing what came next until it was too late.

The blade reached her only a few seconds after she’d caught sight of Cortez, eyes widening and mind preparing to reach for her beloved astral — but she couldn’t. The sword ran through the full depth of her and a sound fell from her lips, somewhere between a scream and a roar. Her fingers let go from the lollipop, which shattered like glass onto the ground. Eyes dropped to what had been slid through her insides, wide and frightened and furious. She tried to focus, not entirely convinced that this should lock her in place but it wasn’t there, her connection to her favored place of existence.

Panic was an emotion spread easily, especially when it went hand in hand with adrenaline, and Inge reached forward to try and claw at the now-free hilt, but she only cut herself deeper. Another wail of pain, eyes dancing through the room, “Do it, Siobhan.” Surely the banshee knew what she meant by that.

—

It was interesting being told what to do. Siobhan had spent so much of her life listening, obeying, deferring. She was, by her very nature, a vehicle for choices that weren’t hers. Rhett wanted her to scream, as though his death was up to her—well, it was up to her but it wasn’t up to her. Another banshee would understand (but not Regan, Regan understood nothing). Inge also wanted her to scream and that one tickled in the back of her throat; she almost did it reflexively, just because some woman told her to. She thought it was all a little funny.

Emilio burst in like a rabid dog—remarkably silent—and honed on Inge as though she had personally eaten the kibble from his bowl. Siobhan watched it all in slow motion: Inge’s expression, the sword, the wall. The sword was a nice touch, Inge obviously trying to blink away from the scene wasn’t. Did she plan on leaving her here? With the hunters? And she was telling her what to do? Yes, do it. She ought to do it. It was always about her and needing to do it; all her life, a series of things to do. All it would take was one scream, in a matter of seconds, to rid the world of Emilio, Rhett and Ingeborg. Did they understand that? Did they ever once think about her generosity? Or, perhaps, why was it that she just didn’t go around screaming? Was any intelligent thought spared for her? Considering the people surrounding her, probably not. It was embarrassing that she’d considered Ingeborg a friend for a moment; she’d be blocking that memory out.

Siobhan knelt to Rhett’s level, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Any of you move and I scream,” she said. “Except you, Ingeborg, feel free to squirm.” She looked along the bloody factory ground to Emilio, and the pinned mare; he was bundled up, she was oozing glitter. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, Emilio, that all it takes is one breath for Rhett to turn into pudding. Rhett, you tell him.” With her free hand, she rummaged around the grocery bag, freeing a lollipop. Ripping the plastic with her teeth, she slid the treat against her tongue. “Ugh.” She frowned. “Grape.” The plastic stick danced from one end of her mouth to the other as she thought about their situation.

Ingeborg probably felt very good about herself, impalement aside; she should have listened to her and killed Rhett on that first night. Emilio seemed very upset. Rhett seemed….pale and sticky; torture had that effect. Was he relieved? Scared? He still hasn’t told her what flavour he liked best; she guessed lemon. “I think we should relax.” Siobhan smiled sweetly. “Get acquainted. Emilio, this is Rhett, maybe you know him: he’s a child torturer. That’s a Ingeborg, you can kill her if you want but keep in mind that you will be robbing the world of her attractiveness—she has material value. In addition, she does smell strangely nice.” Siobhan turned to look at Rhett. “Are you sure you don’t want candy, darling?”

—

A mutual student? The girl, then. The blonde with the flower. He frowned, his gaze dancing between the two of them as that momentary spike of adrenaline seeped away again, leaving him hollowed and hurting. They wanted him dead, but they wanted it done slow—maybe for each day he’d held that young mare in his van. Maybe more. For as long as it was interesting to them. Well, he could try to keep it uninteresting by being mute again, taking their abuse without complaint. They’d get bored eventually.

He was just about to slump back against the pole when there was a sudden explosion of movement, and the warden jerked away from it on reflex before realizing it wasn’t Siobhan. In fact, she was crouched in front of him now, hand on his shoulder, and—

His one-eyed gaze fell on Emilio and was fixed there as the banshee voiced her threats. She was right, he knew—Emilio probably didn’t. Why was he here? He should have been home, he—

“No,” Rhett moaned woefully. Tears sprang unbidden to his eye and he shook his head, staring at his brother. “Get out of here. You shouldn’t be here.” He could hardly speak above a whisper, throat raw from all the screaming he’d been doing, worsened by his outburst only moments before. He sucked in a gasping breath, glancing away from the other hunter to meet Siobhan’s gaze. “Let him go, he’s not—he ain’t like me. He’s good. He’s a good person, please, let him go, he made a mistake—” He looked back at Emilio sharply with that final word, teeth bared in a grimace. “A mistake,” he repeated. “Go home.”

He would never beg for his own life, but he'd be the first to beg for Emilio’s.

Logic and reasoning was not something he’d ever had a strong grasp on, but that was even farther from the truth now. In some desperate attempt to appeal to Siobhan’s chaotic nature and hopefully get his brother out of there in one piece, Rhett gave her a stoic nod. “I like lemon,” he confirmed unknowingly. He spared one last quick glance at his last remaining family, feeling sick to his stomach. “We’re fine here, hua. Havin’ a great time.”

—

It was hard to focus. His mind was still bouncing, still half in the present and half in the past. Flora’s body was still in the corner, crumpled and bloodless and so small. Juliana’s was a few feet away. Edgar was there, too; Rosa, his mother. Even Lucio’s ghost haunted the scene, staring on with the same stricken expression he’d worn when Emilio buried his knife in his gut. None of it was right, he knew; everyone he loved was two years gone, rotting in holes someone else had dug for them.

Everyone but Rhett.

His eyes darted to his brother, who was clearly far more out of it than Emilio himself and with far better reason. It was hard not to focus on the place where his leg ended, on the too-long pant leg and the bloodied concrete beneath it. He wanted to think, what kind of a monster does that to a person? He wanted to condemn it, wanted to think that it was an unforgivable thing. But Rhett had locked a kid in a van for days just to see what would happen. Emilio had tortured so many vampires that he’d lost count now, had done worse than this to them for days and days on end until even their already-dead bodies couldn’t hold on a moment longer and gave out under his hands. There were monsters in this room; there were nothing but monsters in this room.

In the far corner, his daughter’s body continued to rot.

The mare was screaming. Her — Its blood touched the edge of the sword, sparkling in the dim light of the factory. In a way, it grounded him a little. The screams, the glittery substance. He tried to focus on it instead of Rhett’s blood, tried to ground himself in the present as best he could. Edgar was dead. Victor was dead. Rhett wasn’t. Rhett wouldn’t be. Not as long as there was breath left in Emilio’s lungs.

His chest heaved as he glared at the banshee. The mare was forgotten now, an afterthought; no longer a threat, and therefore no longer worth looking at. He gripped Rhett’s iron knife in his hand, tight enough to stop it shaking. He wanted to slice the banshee open, wanted its guts to spill on the floor as if that might somehow cover up his brother’s blood that stained it, as if the presence of one would chase away the presence of the other.

The banshee put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It made threats. Emilio continued to glare. “Si haces eso te mataré,” he growled. Juliana laughed, a harsh and unnatural sound. He blinked once, hard, trying to remind himself of where he was. When he was. He pushed his tongue against the bottom of his canine, tasting blood in his mouth. Opening it, he tried again. “If you do that, I will kill you,” he said, the words slow and heavily accented as he forced them out in the language that still felt unnatural behind his teeth. “I promise, I’ll kill you if you do that.” Rhett would hate that. You weren’t supposed to make promises to fae; Emilio knew that. But this promise was one he intended to keep, anyway. It didn’t matter if Rhett was a monster; Emilio loved him all the same. He’d do anything for him. He’d tear the world apart with only his teeth.

His eyes darted back to his brother as he spoke, surprised to see him aware. Not quite himself — Emilio was fairly sure he’d only seen Rhett with tears in his eyes once, in the woods just outside Etla — but here all the same. His chest ached as Rhett ordered him to leave, and he wondered if this was what his brother had felt in those woods when Emilio begged him to let him die. He’d give the same answer to Rhett as Rhett had given him back then: “Fuck off with that shit.” There was nothing in the goddamn world that would convince him to leave Rhett here. If Rhett died here, Emilio would either kill the things responsible or die trying. His glare made that much pretty clear.

Said glare returned to the banshee now, eating its candy like none of it mattered, like it hadn’t mutilated his brother in the floor of an old factory, like all of this was a joke. Like Rhett wasn’t the only family Emilio had, like he wasn’t the last piece of a unit that was otherwise irreparably broken. “I’m not leaving here without him. Whether you’re alive or not when I go is up to you.”

—

She felt like a fly that someone had swatted and left to die stuck to the wall. Not fully dead but incapacitated in a way where there was little to do for her but watch in growing agitation and continued pain what played out before her. Inge wanted to scream, but only if the scream could have the impact that a banshee’s would have. In stead she followed Siobhan’s instruction (when she should be following hers!) and squirmed, fingers trying to grasp at the blade but getting nothing out of it.

The warden was crying. Putting up a show of emotion, cracking the way he’d not been cracked before despite the horrors Siobhan and her had put him through. This could be perfect. This could be perfect. If the banshee only used her head and did what needed to be done, this could be two birds with one stone — or rather one scream.

But the banshee was impossible to understand, a strange combination of motivations that Inge didn’t get. (Not that she got her own.) They were all talking as if there was something to talk about. Why wasn’t she doing it? She grasped the blade once more, the metal cutting into the palm of her hand as she tried to gain purchase. But to get to the hilt she’d have to bend over and to bend over was to slice into herself deeper. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what kind of organs remained inside her and if they had any function. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out today, here.

She was shrieking, though not with any intention. Just out of instinct. Her hands were covered in that useless glittery solid now and she was useless. A fly on the wall, left to observe the inaction of a banshee who had once proclaimed to love murder. “Siobhan!” It was a bellow more than a scream, lower than the previous expressions of panic and pain. “Get it over with!”

—

Amusement fluttered inside Siobhan’s chest: this was the sort of situation that reminded her of her greatest hobby. Emilio’s anger delighted her—his gaze could become so sharp, his words could drip with such acid, he could promise her silly things just to keep himself from charging at her (he was like a dog right now, but with just enough sense to keep himself alive). Ingeborg squirmed on the sword—how wonderful it was to watch her expressions dance, flickering with rage (was that fear under the red glow of her eyes or more anger?). And Rhett—as silly as it was, she’d come to like the man. Over the last two nights she studied his expressions: anguish, sadness, fatigue, acceptance. Her greatest hobby was to watch the ways life existed. What made torture fun was seeing how far she could push an emotion, seeing how she could twist a feeling. And here was something she coveted, something she hardly understood: affection, the most curious of human conditions.

She waved Emilio’s words away. “I don’t accept your promise. You’ll end up hurting yourself with that one: it’s too vague.” Siobhan’s gaze then flicked to Ingeborg. “That sword looks really cute on you, it brings out your eyes. You should consider it as a permanent look.”

Siobhan smiled, rummaging through the plastic grocery bag: orange, cherry (her favorite), cola, watermelon, peach, something neon green. “I knew you were a lemon man.” Eventually, she found a bright yellow lollipop and tongued hers into the other side of her mouth so she could rip the plastic wrapping open with her teeth. She held the piece of candy out by Rhett’s mouth. “You are a very astute man. I like this awareness: you’ve always understood how pitiful you are, haven’t you?” She looked at Emilio. “But that’s not a ‘good man’, that’s a selfish one. He holds more compassion for you than he does for poor Ingeborg on the nice sword. Who, for all my knowledge, has never tortured any anxiety ridden blonde children. Emilio’s selective, isn’t he? You don’t charge in here, promise to kill someone to save someone else, unless you’re selectively compassionate. Of course, most humans are like this, but it hardly makes him ‘good’ does it?”

Her grip tightened on Rhett’s shoulder. “I don’t like selfish men, Rhett.” And Siobhan knew she was cruel enough to kill Rhett only to anger Emilio. Then she’d tie him up and…well, maybe she’d go for the arms this time. And who would come to save him? Would this be a never ending cycle of interrupted torture? The idea exhausted her. “Emilio, are you aware this is a terrible man? Objectively terrible. He won’t argue—tell him, Rhett. Why don’t you? Tell him all the terrible things you’ve done…or does he already know?” She looked at him, wondering if he was the sort of man to share his secrets or if he had any shame for his duty. Did Emilio want to save him regardless? Why? Why?

Why would anyone want to save this wretched man?

“Emilio.” In her curiosity, Siobhan’s head cocked to the side. “Why should I let you go? Why should I let Rhett go?” She blinked. “Don’t try to threaten me again, or threaten Ingeborg, it’s juvenile. If I cared about staying alive, I wouldn’t be here. If I cared about Ingeborg staying alive, I would have screamed already. Use your brain, I know you have one.”

—

Wincing beneath her tightened grip, Rhett stared at the lollipop still held aloft in front of him as he spoke. “Emilio. Shut up,” he ordered his little brother, knowing that the man’s temper would not do them any favors in this situation. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head in Siobhan’s direction, he began speaking to her, answering her questions slowly, making sure he didn’t miss anything. If he missed something, she might think he was trying to ignore it, and she might do something rash. Something unhinged, like she was. He had to be careful about what he said for once in his stupid life.

“Pitiful, aye. N’ he knows all ‘bout all the things that make me like that.” Most of them, anyway. “He is bein’ selfish, right now. He should’ve let me go days ago. But he’s family, n’ he don’t let family go easy.” His head was swimming, vision blurred. He felt like passing out, but he had to keep going. “He’s the one that got her out. The blonde girl, the mare. He’s the one that let her out of the van, the one that made me promise… not to go after her again. No one else woulda been able to convince me, so… if ya… care about ‘er, ya got Emilio to thank. Ya should… let him go ‘cuz he’s got more green than red on his ledger. Does more good than bad. Only does bad when… when it involves me, or the people that took away our family.” It was surprisingly introspective for Rhett, but he’d had a lot of time to think about it. The warden sucked in a wavering breath, squinting his eye closed. “I don’t wanna leave here.” He’d tried to run once, back before it had gotten really bad, but now… “But that don’t matter, ‘cuz ‘Milio ain’t gonna leave this place without me.” He finally brought his gaze up to look at Siobhan, and for all the world, he looked genuinely apologetic.

“I get why ya did what ya did. But don’t make my brother pay for the wrong shit I done. I know he’s bein’ selfish right now, but he is a good man. I promise he is. I promise.” That’s how sure he felt, despite what Emilio might say, what he might think. He knew the last living Cortez was a better person than he himself believed. “I’ll be dead next year anyway. He just wants a few more months.” With that, Rhett deflated from the effort of remaining coherent, bending forward to bite the sucker from Siobhan’s grip and then lean back against the pole, closing his eye like he was relaxing into a nap. He should’ve still been worried for Emilio, and he was, but he was too damn tired to do much more about it. As it was, his grip on consciousness felt weak—held only by one pinkie finger. He hoped that he’d still have a pinkie finger as he slipped away from them, his mind carrying him elsewhere just in case things went wrong and they all had their guts liquified by a pissed off banshee.

—

The mare was screaming; Emilio ignored it. With the threat of its escape through the astral plane eliminated, it would be simple enough to take its head off when he finished with the banshee. Or he’d leave it here to starve, focus more on getting Rhett to safety instead. He needed some kind of medical care, though Emilio wasn’t sure how to provide it. (If he took his brother to the hospital, what questions would he have to field? Would Zane help him out, understand that Emilio’s presence would need to be an under the radar thing?) Either way, the mare wasn’t important at the moment. Its screeching, its pleas for the banshee to act and its fear disguised as rage. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered at all was sitting in the floor with a goddamn lollipop stuck in front of his face.

The banshee spoke, and Emilio kept his steely gaze on it, body tense and ready to strike at any moment. It would do him no good, he knew. The iron knife in his hand could be thrown with accuracy, but it wouldn’t be faster than a scream if the banshee chose to release one. The most he could hope for was for the blade to find the banshee’s throat just a moment after its scream obliterated him. Maybe if the sound was focused on him, Rhett would survive with only his eardrums ruptured. Maybe someone would come looking, would find him before infection took him. Or maybe they’d both turn to mist with the echo of the banshee’s cry. Maybe they all would. It still felt better than the thought of walking out of here alone.

There were insults, there were implications. This was about the other mare, the kid. Wynne’s girlfriend, the one who hadn’t deserved what Rhett had done to her. But the kid hadn’t even wanted to speak poorly about Rhett; Emilio doubted she would approve of someone being tortured in her name, of someone being killed. He thought of Flora, of the blood he’d spilled and the dust he’d stirred up because she was gone and he was here and things like that needed retribution. Maybe she wouldn’t have approved, either. Maybe she’d never gotten to be old enough to understand the idea of approval. Either way, the blood on his hands remained just as present as his brother’s blood on the floor. His eyes flickered briefly to the corner. She was rotting. She was always rotting.

The banshee kept saying his name, and he wished it would stop. The syllables exiting its tongue felt wrong, felt different. Even when Rhett said it — that fond, shortened version, the one only Rhett was still alive to use — it didn’t feel right. The name reminded him that he was a person, and he didn’t feel like one now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be one. People ached. People struggled with the things Emilio needed to do. People hurt when you hit them, and he thought something was probably going to hit him soon. He stayed quiet as the banshee spoke, eyes darting to Rhett as his brother joined in. I’ll be dead next year anyway, he said, like it didn’t matter. Like there weren’t little girls rotting in corners and long-dead wives screaming in the distance, like he wasn’t the only family Emilio had who hadn’t decayed long past the point of recognition. Emilio wanted him to shut up, but he was afraid of what might happen when he stopped talking. He was afraid that if Rhett stopped speaking now, he’d never hear his brother’s voice again. The thought made him nauseous.

He let the silence stretch, periodically looking from the banshee to his brother to the empty corner where his mind conjured up long buried corpses and long silenced screams. He knew he should say something. He was supposed to. He knew that.

“I’m not good,” he confirmed, looking at Rhett as he said it. “Neither is he. Neither are you. Or that.” He gestured to the mare like an afterthought, like he’d almost forgotten it was there at all. (Would Teddy want the sword back? He should leave it in place until he’d killed the thing, at least, but he probably ought to clean it after. The thought felt laughably mundane, even as his mind clung to it.) “But he’s my brother. And I’m not the only one who needs him. He’s got a kid who wants him around, who wants to know him. She’s good, and she deserves to keep him. To get to know him, to decide for herself if she wants him in her life. You can —” He looked to Rhett, to the empty gap on the floor where his leg should have been. “You can do what you want with me. Let me call an ambulance for him, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Take my lungs, my liver, my heart, take whatever, but not him. You can take me apart like a goddamn puzzle, but let my brother go. Please. Just let him live, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

—

Siobhan was accosting her with a compliment that made Inge just shout an expletive her way, “Kutwijf!” Her mother tongue, because maybe that would shield the truth of her frustration. The truth of her dread, her — well, her fear, really. It was an ugly thing to admit, but as she was stuck on the wall and her ally in all this seemed to be negotiating with the two hunters rather than killing them, she was afraid. She tried to lean into her anger more. Even as Siobhan revealed her hand. She cared not about what might happen to either of them, had no intention as of yet to commit the murders that seemed to Inge as the only logical next step.

Why were they here? Why had Rhett put her in that basement, Ariadne in that van? What was the point? Inge had thought that perhaps this all could lead to one less hunter, that a proactive stance against a monster like Rhett would lead to the erasure of him — but here she was, pinned to that wall, waves of cold pain radiating from that wound. She and Siobhan had done what she condemned all hunters for. Played with their food and not pulled through.

And then there was the revelation that Emilio had been the one to save Ariadne. The man with the murderous eyes of his mother had saved a girl better than them all. It didn’t add up. There was an angle to it. There was some motive she didn’t understand.

What was the point? Emilio may have saved Ariadne and Rhett may not have killed her, but there was still blood on all their hands. Emilio had a point — none of them were good. But Inge didn’t want to die, whereas these hunters seemed all to ready to lay themselves down to rest out of some kind of sentiment that she’d perhaps never felt. Her siblings were like strangers. Her late partner she had let die so she could get out. (A price deserved, considering she’d killed her once.) And even now, she had no interest in dying for another. “Well, I guess that makes it simple, doesn’t it?” Her voice was shrill and ugly, directed at Siobhan only. She would be damned if she would stop trying to make her demands. “They’re both down to die for the other, so why not do them that favor?” She wasn’t quiet after she stopped speaking, another shriek of pain accompanying her words from the strain her words had put on her abdomen. She wanted this to end.

—

Siobhan wasn’t sure it made anything simple. The word ‘family’ caught in her head, stuck in a warped loop. The bloody factory floor morphed into long, soft blades of green—the fields of Ireland. Muffled cries echoed behind her ears—smothered, she knew, by biting down into the flesh of her palm, sweet blood filling her mouth. Mother hated it when she cried. She turned to Rhett and waited for the pain that would follow his broken promise—Emilio wasn’t a good man—but there was nothing but fatigue and honesty. He believed it and that was enough. She looked at Emilio, listened to his plea. He really would have given her anything, just like that. And why? Why? Siobhan’s hand trembled against Rhett’s shoulder; under her gloves, under the myriad of scars on her palm, was the half-moon carved by her small teeth and it throbbed. “I don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to an almost whisper. “I don’t understand.” And then her grip tightened all at once, and she crushed Rhett’s tired body under her fingers. “What does family matter? You knew! This is a bad man!” Her voice rushed over itself, vibrating through her. “Family isn’t above punishment!”

The scars down her back throbbed as her body trembled. The grass and the crying withered away and instead it was her own screams, her own blood and her mother’s heel between her shoulder blades. Siobhan still remembered what the dirt tasted like the day she lost her wings: sulfur, wet clay and saliva. It was a temporary loss, she reminded herself. The same essence of family that Rhett and Emilio were on about was the one that meant her mother was waiting for her, keeping her wings safe, eager to reattach them and be with her daughter again. Yet, even as Siobhan told herself this, her face continued to twist. Her back was on fire; her mother had insisted on pulling them out like a weed, roots and all. “You knew… You knew and you let him live. You know and you come here demanding his life? This man?” She jostled him. “This putrid man?” She heard one of her own bones pop in her hand as she squeezed his shoulder. “What does it mean that he’s family? What does that mean?” How could he be saved? How could he be loved? How could he be forgiven?

Siobhan’s watery gaze snapped to Rhett. “What does it mean? How can he want to save you? How can he give himself away to save you? You, who are not worth saving. How can he? Why? What is—what is that? I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked at Inge, still stuck on her wall, and blinked rapidly at her, trying to ask without words. Inge was a mother, so she must understand better than these men. If Inge child’s betrayed their family, she would rip their wings out, ruin their beauty, cast them out and strip them of familial title—no longer a daughter. She would. She had to. Good mothers did that. Family would watch it happen too: grandmothers, cousins, aunts. Family was just. “I don’t understand, Inge.”

—

He was only marginally aware of what was happening in the room after he’d stopped speaking. He could hear Emilio talking, probably refuting everything he’d said in some stupid attempt to swap their positions—they didn’t want Emilio, they wanted Rhett, for the shit he’d done to that girl. For the shit he’d done to the one pinned to the wall, still screaming her threats and pleas. But of course, just because a plan was stupid didn’t mean that would stop Emilio from trying it. He knew that much about his little brother.

That is, until the banshee’s grip on his shoulder threatened to break his collarbone and he snapped back into the moment, groaning and weakly trying to tug himself away from her as her words caught up to his addled mind. She shook him, sparking the anger that had fizzled out to little more than embers. She was demanding to know what they meant, to know how someone like Rhett could still have someone like Emilio who cared for him, in spite of everything.

He was annoyed. He spit out the lollipop to better speak.

“Rack off,” he barked angrily, sinking lower to try and relieve the pain that was her fierce grip on him. Something snapped, and he roared the next words in response. “This ain’t a fuckin’ therapy session, you stupid bitch. It ain’t a negotiation, neither! Fuck, all’ah you, just—” His words caught in his throat as Desmond crouched beside him, a large hunting knife protruding from his back. In his arms was little Flora, eyes vacant as the day he’d buried her. The warden stammered, gasping for breath as his fury was diluted by fear and sorrow. “Ya choose family, ya dense slag. Yer mama ain’t got no skin in the game. Fuck’s sake, let go.” Of his shoulder, of her fucked up relationship with her mother… or both. He didn’t really care. He just wanted this over.

—

The banshee was angry. Yelling (but still not screaming), tightening its grip. And it was hurting him, hurting Rhett. Emilio could see it in his brother’s eyes, in the way he came back to himself. He wished he’d stay in his head, stay out of the conversation. It would be easier to convince the banshee that Emilio was the better toy to play with if Rhett went silent. He doubted a hunter who was already broken would be nearly as much fun to pick apart as one still standing, and that was what the banshee was after here, wasn’t it? Fun. The thought of it — that his brother was a game they’d played for days now, that everything he’d gone through had been for the entertainment of the creatures in this room — made him a little sick. The thought that Wynne’s girlfriend in that van had been the victim of a similar game with Rhett as the creature entertained didn’t help.

The banshee was still talking and Rhett was yelling and Emilio couldn’t make out any of it, couldn’t pick apart the words over the rush of blood in his head. Flora was dead and here and rotting. Juliana was glaring and decaying and gone. Rhett was on the living room floor with blood all around him. The banshee had sharp teeth. The mare was shedding dust. Victor had been dead for twenty years now, and Emilio still heard him laughing.

“Stop.” He didn’t know who — what he was talking to. To Rhett, who was going to make things worse for himself in some misguided attempt to make things better for Emilio? To the banshee, whose grip was too tight? To the mare, whose voice was too shrill? To the ghosts that existed only in the confines of his own mind, or to his mind and itself and its awful method of time travel that he’d never consented to? He took a step forward, and it was a risky move. The banshee only needed to scream. But it had Rhett locked in its grip, and if it was going to kill him, Emilio thought it might as well kill him, too. If Rhett was going to die, he wasn’t going to die alone.

Another step, and then another. His feet made a sickening squelching sound as they moved through the blood, his brother’s blood, that soaked the ground. He kept walking anyway, until he was right in front of them, until he was reaching out and grabbing the banshee’s wrist where its hand held his brother’s shoulder, until he was squeezing it to loosen that grip in any way he could.

“It doesn’t matter why,” he said hoarsely. “It — there is no why. He’s my brother. He’s my brother, and I love him. Let him go, and I’ll do anything you want. I promise, I will. I’ll stay here with you. Or I’ll go with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone anymore. I’ll make whatever fucking promise you want me to make, just let him go. Please. He’s my brother. He’s the only family I have. You don’t have to understand. I don’t know how to make you understand. But that doesn’t matter. I’m — Christ, I’m fucking begging here. Anything you want, I swear. Just let him go.”

—

They were talking of family and punishment and Inge squirmed on her sword with no stakes in the game. Her parents had been distant and quiet in their love. Her siblings had been companions of silence, each of them haunted by the dead sibling most of them had never met and none of them spoke of. She must have loved them, once, when they were kids. She never really stopped loving them, maybe — but there was no liking them. No sacrifice. No grand gestures. They were not parts to hold over her, they were just abandoned limbs from a past life she didn’t think of much. They weren’t to her like Rhett was to Emilio. So she didn’t understand, either.

And the ones that mattered, the truly familial – chosen and blood – that had once existed had already been severed. She’d watched both her daughter and partner die. For Vera she would have done what Emilio was doing, but there was no comparing Rhett and her child. There was no common ground, besides perhaps the love that existed. And Inge didn’t much care for such sentiments as a sword throbbed in her belly. She didn’t much care for it because love was a wound that could not be tended to. It remained bleeding and raw much like her abdomen.

And above all, there had been no space for heroics in the face of the disease that had taken her daughter. There had been no space for morals or punishments, no use for them. They’d made up and they’d waited it out, the spread of disease. There had been no people to plead with, unless you accosted the doctors who were already on your side. Did Emilio understand how lucky he was, that he got to at least try? That there was at least something to do? That he could drive a sword through an antagonistic body and carry his weapons and make an attempt to sway a woman who could not understand the love he wielded? He was so lucky. He was so undeserving of it.

“I don’t care,” she retorted, mostly to Siobhan, “You don’t have to understand. It doesn’t matter. The love doesn’t matter. The punishment doesn’t matter unless you do what you gotta. Just end it. It doesn’t fucking matter, Siobhan.”

—

“Bitch? Slag?” Siobhan shook Rhett violently, rattling his body against the rusted pipe, ringing it like a gong. “A slag? I hold your life in my hands and you’re calling me a slag? Where’s the respect? I’m twice your age!” She leaned to the side and spat out her grape lollipop, which had been mostly crushed under her hurried conversation. “A promise?” She perked up, then, self conscious about how typical of her species she was being—it was just like a fae to lunge at the first chance for promised favors—and in front of a warden, she cleared her throat. The tendrils of the Gaes, warmed up her stomach. She exhaled on the memory of Emilio’s words—I promise. He would do anything she wanted, he promised. She snapped her jaw shut, clamping down on his words. “I accept your promise.” She had claimed something more valuable than a leg and yet, where she expected and waited for glee, ice knocked through her body.

In her head, her tearful words still cried out for answers: I don’t understand. Siobhan’s gaze fluttered between the bodies: Emilio, so certain and sacrificing in his love; Ingeborg, who understood something that she wasn’t sharing; Rhett, who had given up on himself but not once on his brother. Hollowed out, she was observing something beyond her; each of them spoke an unknowable language. Rhett said family was chosen—Siobhan didn’t understand. Emilio and Ingeborg said it didn’t matter if she understood, but their idea of what did matter was opposed—Emilio wanted Rhett free, Inge wanted them both dead. How could both opinions exist in the same space? How could someone be loved this much? To be begged for? What was love? How did it relate to being a family? What did these words mean other than nonsense? Emilio and Ingeborg were right, what did it matter to her? Why did she care? She ought to kill them; all three.

She stared at her accomplice, still stuck on the damned wall. If she found herself missing a leg, tied to a pole, would Ingeborg beg for her life? Of course not, they were hardly friends on a good day and after this, she was certain that would have many, many bad days. And if Ingeborg happened to be stuck on a wall, what would she do? “I want promises from you both,” Siobhan said, rising from the floor to grab nearby bolt cutters—she’d been hoping to use it to chomp through Rhett’s toes. “Neither of you will personally end or help to end Ingeborg’s undead existence. You may hurt her, I don’t care, but you will not kill her; give me promises.” This was a kindness and she hoped to feel something; a sudden invitation into their secret language. With this act of what she assumed to be love, she waited for the sudden clarity of family and affection. Instead, her arms trembled holding the bolt cutter to Rhett’s ropes. “And promises not to disclose the identities of Rhett’s torturers with anyone—you will not tell anyone about Ingeborg or myself. I want this too.”

—

All he could do was stare up at Emilio miserably as his brother made promises he shouldn’t have, but all the fight had left him with those final insults in Siobhan’s direction. He dropped his head, resigning himself to whatever was to come.

The mare stuck to the wall was doing her best to get them both killed, and Rhett couldn't blame her. But as blind luck would have it, the banshee wasn't interested. He didn't move as she requested promises from them, feeling himself start to slip away again. And as tempting as it was to give in to the out of body experience, he couldn't bear the thought of Emilio suffering for his inability to remain in the present moment. He didn't want to promise the banshee anything, that went against everything he'd ever stood for since Mariela had used it against him, but… this wasn't about him. He knew that. It was about making sure Emilio got out of here safely, and if he had to abandon his principles to do that, he would. He always would.

“I promise I won't kill Ingeborg,” he muttered without looking up, his voice raw. There was no emotion in it, nothing snide nor sad, just a statement of fact. “N’ I promise I won't tell no one who so generously hacked off half my bad leg for me.” Okay, there was a bit of sarcasm in that one, but it couldn't be helped. Finally, the warden angled his chin up at Siobhan again, realizing that he couldn't see her at all — she was nothing more than a silhouette against a dim background in his limited field of view.

He smirked, letting his gaze wander uselessly. He knew Emilio wouldn't have any issue promising these things; he'd already given the fucking thing a freebie, after all. Idiot.

—

It took the promise; he figured it would. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was the man trapped in the banshee’s grip, the only family Emilio had left. Emilio kept his eyes locked on Rhett’s, expression still and icy as the banshee took the promise. He wondered, almost distantly, if Rhett was disappointed in him. If he still thought Emilio was worth it, even now, or if whatever remained of the respect he held for him vanished the moment he started to beg.

The banshee would use the promise, he knew, but only if it allowed him to survive the experience. He thought that might still be in question, thought it was the kind of thing he ought to be worried about. He wasn’t. He didn’t care what happened to him, meant every word of his stupid pleading. If the banshee let Rhett go, he’d do whatever it asked. He’d pull his heart out of his chest and hand it over. He’d put the saw it had used to hack off his brother’s leg to his own throat. He’d do anything, anything if it meant Rhett got to leave here, if it meant he could go home. Rhett, after all, had a daughter waiting for his return. Emilio had nothing.

Another promise was asked of him, and his eyes darted over to the mare stuck to the wall. He’d almost forgotten about it there; it wasn’t a threat anymore, and it had been written off as a result. An afterthought, a concept not worth his attention. Distantly, he thought it was interesting that the banshee cared enough to request such a promise. There was no request that they not kill the banshee, after all; only that the mare’s head stay on its worthless corpse. Emilio regarded it for a moment but, in truth, he knew it didn’t matter. He said he’d give anything, and he’d meant it. This was included in that.

“I promise I won’t kill your mare,” he replied, letting his eyes move back to the banshee, “or tell anyone who did this, just as long as neither of you hurts him again.” Tacked on the end, a condition of his own. He wouldn’t make a promise only for them to track Rhett down as soon as he was gone to slit his throat. It was a fair enough trade, he thought, especially since he didn’t bother including himself in the conditional. Something like that might have threatened the other promise the banshee had taken; he doubted it would go for that. But Rhett… They’d had their fun there. Emilio wouldn’t risk the chance of them having any more.

—

“She’s not my…oh whatever.” Siobhan sighed, taking her promises from Emilio and Rhett with a forced smile. “Yes, I agree to your deal: I will not physically harm Rhett again.” She waited for Ingeborg’s voice, confirming, before she pulled the final thread of magic and bound them all together; for better or for worse, though usually, it was worse.

The bolt cutter went through the rope, sawing and snapping at the threads; there was something to be said about her insistence on using the wrong tools for every job. Eventually, Rhett was free. Siobhan stepped back, leaned up against her table of supplies and watched them. Love was no more clear to her seeing Emilio take Rhett away. Something, however, sparked watching Rhett’s blanket drop from his shoulder and Emilio’s rough hands pull the fabric over him again. In seeing the man’s arm steadied so carefully on his brother’s shoulder; their steps done in time together, Emilio’s limp and Rhett’s tired hops. Emilio’s body angled towards them, using his body—his life—as a shield. Their soft voices—or was it just Emilios?—too quiet for her to understand. Despite the bloody floor, Rhett’s haphazardly bandaged stump and the pieces of his leg, buzzing with flies, there was a strange peace; a delicate pace. Until the edges of the factory stole the family from her view, she considered if that was love: if it was those two broken men, tethered, going on to live another day knowing they’d both be in it. If it was Rhett’s weight on Emilio, Emilio’s arms around him. If it was knowing that they both would have given their bodies—limbs, ligaments, organs—just to be certain the other would breathe for one more night. Love seemed to be violent in its sacrifices and selfish in its stubbornness.

She didn’t understand it, but she knew they did.

Siobhan looked at Ingeborg, still on the wall. She wondered if anyone loved her—maybe they were the same, in that sense. Silently, she gripped the saw beside her, painted with Rhett’s dried blood, and approached the mare. Her strides were long and deliberate, the blade knocking against her thigh. She made it halfway across the factory floor before she dissolved into laughter. “You should look at yourself; it’s hilarious.” Siobhan bent down and picked up Rhett’s rotten foot. “This one’s for me….” And his rotted calf. “And this…” She pointed at the pile of bloody toenails. “You can have those.” Blowing Ingeborg a kiss, she was gone, not feeling much of anything: not remorse, not confusion, and certainly not love.

—

She was puzzled by these developments, confusion washing over her face as Siobhan made the moves to keep the two hunters from killing her down the line. Inge wondered why she wasn’t throwing her own life into the promise — did she care so little for it? Or did she think herself so invincible? Though she had gotten to know Siobhan a little more intimately over the past few days, this shed another light on the banshee. She squirmed on her sword. Three promises were made and she spoke in a quieter tone as she too, agreed, “I promise not to harm him again.” It was hard to hide the defeat in her voice.

So the banshee, the harbinger of death, was letting them all go. Was keeping them from killing one another in revenge, even. What a miserable turn of events. What a worthless twist. Inge had expected this to end with a corpse to get rid of, but in stead there was the stains of blood that Rhett left as he and his brother moved away. She watched them for a moment, then looked at the blood and flesh, then at Siobhan. Her cruel ally. Her protector, in a way. But also her traitor. She’d wanted a corpse. She’d made that abundantly clear. All she had was her ripped open gut.

She watched her near closer, toying with her saw like a child holding scissors. Not rushing over to come to her rescue, to peel her off the sword. Menacing. “You —” Inge’s face grew furious. “What was – why are you not – you …” She was laughing. The high ceiling made the sounds echo, round and round and round. Was a banshee’s cackle also magical? It had to be, with how miserable it made her feel.

It dawned on her when the kiss was blown that Siobhan was not just pulling her leg and Inge inched forward, eliciting a scream of pain as she hurled words at the other, “Get me off here, you can’t just leave me here, you absolute — SIOBHAN!” The name was repeated a few more times, losing volume every time and Inge remained. Like a fly stuck on the wall, with no purpose and no accomplishments, made witness to a scene that had already ended.

#. thread ;#. with ; emilio cortez #. with ; siobhan dolan #. with ; ingeborg endeman #. the rhescue mission ;#suicidal ideation tw

9 notes · View notes