2019-06-22 - Bloodlines and Sacrifices

With all the hoops that Alexander would have to jump through to reach his apartment, Byron enjoys himself a cup of coffee as he waits. After the events on Elm Street, you bet your ass he scrubbed himself down several times in scalding hot water and burned his insides with a lot of booze. And that was before he did the same once he got back home. With his schedule mostly clear due to the weekend, he's dressed casually in a gray sweater and a pair of jeans, his feet tucked into a comfortable pair of loafers.

When he's alerted that Clayton was on his way from the security downstairs, he leaves the front door unlocked, after having texted the investigator with a: Door's unlocked. Meet me in my office.

This is where Alexander can find Byron now, sipping at a cup of coffee as he catches up with whatever's printed in the WSJ from yesterday.

Alexander bears the hoops stoicly, since they almost certainly don't involve anyone patting him down. Not that there's much reason to - he's wearing a thin Seahawks t-shirt that's been washed so many times it's practically see-through, faded jeans, and those usual workboots. Once he's gotten through security, he heads up to the penthouse, and despite the text, knocks on the door before opening it. He enters with all the caution of a police officer clearing a room - eyes sweeping every corner before he commits. He moves carefully through the penthouse to the office, either like a burglar, or someone who's just afraid he's going to be accused of dirtying the place with his presence. At the office door, he says, "Mister Thorne."

His eyes still on the paper for a moment longer, Byron's attention is briefly pulled when Alexander makes his presence within his home. "Have a seat, Mister Clayton." He's then polite enough to rise in greeting as he gestures to one of the empty seats across from his own. "Care for some coffee?" It's just formalities.

"Have you heard from Faust yet?" A curious question and while it's not something that had been on Thorne's mind this whole time, Alexander's being here reminds him of Penny.

"No, thank you," Alexander says, tonelessly. If being second fiddle to the paper bothers him, it doesn't show on his face. He sits down, a small file folder held in his hands moving to his lap, his head bending. "No," he says again, more quietly. THAT bothers him. "I have not found her yet." His jaw tightens. "That's not why I'm here, Mister Thorne." He looks up, expression back to blank. "I wanted to share part of my research with you. If you have time."

If Alexander is in no mood for refreshments, Byron won't complain, resettling himself down into his chair and folding the paper in half to set aside for now. "Hmm. That's disturbing. I'd say that maybe you, or I, should contact the police. I mean," His posture relaxes, leaning back heavily within his seat, "I'm sure it's not too difficult to explain that we were sucked down into the sewer drain and that was the last place that we'd seen her." There's this dry humor when this is spoken.

That said, if Faust isn't what Alexander is here to speak about, nor is the topic of what had happened the night before, Byron's brow lifts, allowing his gaze to peer out at the folder in the other man's hand. "Go ahead. Enlighten me."

"Police won't investigate, or even file it as worth investigating, for forty-eight hours for an adult with no dependents," Alexander says, in tones that suggest he expected Byron to know that. "From either of us, they are even less likely to accept a report, as we have no notable connection to the victim. And it might cause problems at her job to have a report filed on her if it's not necessary. I will continue to look." He looks down at his file, opening it. "Would you like the historical or the personal first?"

Alexander just gets this mostly blank stare from Byron when the former explains this whole forty-eight hours bit. Though in truth, some of what else Clayton informs him of is something that he did not know, despite being the son of a police detective himself. Then again, he and his father were not close.

"Thank you for that. I feel incredibly informed." This next offer between being told of something historical or personal is rather bewildering to him. He doesn't shift from this relaxed state, eyes carefully studying the other in expression and body language, though he's not expecting to learn much from any of it. "Personal?" He repeats that. That could be /so/ many things. "Let's go with option B." It's only then that he finally moves, drawing himself in a more upright state as he corrects his posture, "Did you really think that when you put it that way, anyone would choose option A?"

"Sarcasm," Alexander mutters, with a shake of his head at the first. He rubs at his head as if it pains him, but reaches into the file folder to bring out a couple of neatly folded sheets. He pushes them across the desk. When opened, it will reveal a series of printouts from microfische - marriage and obituary notices that track the entrance of a Thorne into the Addington family. "The historical is more immediately relevant, I think. But people do tend to focus on the personal first. Congratulations - you're related to the Addingtons. Distantly."

Now that Byron is seated proper, he is better able to pour over some of the information that is physically passed onto him. The folder opened, one hand holding a piece of document or other, revealing other information beneath, he scans everything with a meticulous eyes. So the stories were true. Whatever mixed emotions that Thorne may be experiencing at this moment, all of that is hidden beneath this well-practiced facade, the mask that one wears. There's this calm, but interested look within his eyes, before he leans back, placing any paper in hand onto the stack.

"Not that such a relation helped out much when help was needed." Byron will start, perhaps hinting on his own thoughts, "But interesting still." Lifting his cup of coffee to his lips, he takes a casual sip, then musing, "My father used to mention something about it. But he was drunk at the time, so it's nothing that I really took to heart."

"I have trouble imagining Margaret Addington aiding anyone who did not serve a specific cause for her, or who was not tax-deductible," Alexander says, tonelessly. He studies Byron, thoughtfully; the mention of his father doesn't change much in his expression. He had no illusions about the detective, after all. "It is something to keep in mind, though, considering the historical information I wished to share - even though you are not a direct line descendant."

He pulls out another print out, this time of a photograph - a much older photograph. Black and white and stained all over, it's outside of what is now Saint Mary's Church. A man in preacher's robes stands, looking solemn, beside eight pyres built tall. Eight women stand in front of the pyres, heads down, wearing nothing more than potato sacks.

It's not hard to guess what happens next to those women, but thankfully there doesn't seem to be a photo of it. But, if Byron's other senses are working well at this moment, he may begin to see something like shadowy tendrils radiating out from the preacher.

"No. You're right." Byron isn't afraid to admit, "I, personally, have no Addington blood flowing in my veins, but it's amusing to know that Margaret Addington has a bit of Thorne in her." This next statement comes out dismissively and rushed, "Something which, I'm sure, she'd like everyone to forget. Then again, I might be thinking far too highly about my own family. To think that she'd remember us at all." It's self-deprecating humor. He expects Alexander to know more about his family than most people, he was a nosy kid, after all! So he does little to keep up this perfect picture of family life when dealing with the man.

One last look is given some of the information regarding Margaret Addington's lineage, before that is set aside in favor for the images that's presented to him next. Thankfully, there is no photo of what happens next, but Thorne's curiosity is terribly and morbidly piqued now, that he wishes that there were more to see. Without more to go on, his gaze returns to the faces of the man and the women present in those images. And yes, there's this forboding feeling that he c an sense... or is it see. The darkness surrounding the preacher. This figure he points at. "Who is he?"

"There's nothing wrong with being a Thorne, or having Thorne blood in your veins, that I know of," Alexander says, looking down at the folder in his hand. "I'm not sure Addington blood is a good thing. The preacher's last name is Baxter. No first name that was found. The victims of his sudden urge to burn women came from three Gray Harbor families - the Baxters and the Addingtons among them." His lips twist. "If I had to guess, I'd suspect that the preacher was like the actors. In league with the Shadows. We never got a picture of them. Maybe it would look similar. That's just a working hypothesis, though. This was eighteen eighty four, and not a lot of definitive information is available." As always, something like life and warmth floods into his features when talking about crime, his expression becomes animated and lively.

"If you're Margaret Addington, you might not think the same w--" Byron murmurs in response to Alexander's semi-defense of his own bloodline, but he drops the explanation altogether. It wasn't important.

Then the name Baxter is mentioned and the first reaction that Alexander gets is an 'I should have guessed' ahhh sound. "You mentioned three Gray Harbor families, but only listed the Baxters and Addingtons. Do you have any idea who the third family is?" There's this lift of his brow again when Byron spies the twist of Clayton's lips, already sensing the man's excitement regarding all of this. "You're probably right about him," the preacher, "Being similar to the actors. But his victims? Are they like what we were supposed to be, as we did not comply? Were we far more difficult to wrangle up than these women were back in the day?"

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "Is there something that you want to tell me about the relationship between the Thornes and the Addingtons?" There's a thoughtful pause. "And when I say 'want', I should probably make it clear that I mean within the context of my having shared research of my own with you, and a desire for that to continue." His voice is just a touch dry. But the photograph is a diversion easily taken, and he looks down at it. "I would suspect they all stand out. But I don't know that the preacher was playing the same game as the actors, even if they served the same master. A good, old-fashioned witch burning causes a lot of misery and fear, among those like us, or those who aren't. Having one turn on the others, or all turn on one, isn't necessary. Either way, he turned on his own family." A pause. "I'd rather not say the third family, until I have had a chance to inform the local descendant. It feels unfair."

"I just meant," Byron is about to start, as if he needs to explain himself further, but this elicits a roll of his eyes. "If you were in Margaret Addington's position and you realized that the once finely established family that your mother hailed from, if we were as finely established," Byron doesn't know! "were mere shadows of the greatness they once were, you'd do best to separate yourselves from that as well."

Rather than needing a drink of coffee, Byron thinks he could use some Scotch. But he partakes in that coffee still. He's polite enough to not press Clayton for further information on this third family, but he does ask, "If there were Baxter-blooded in town. Those Baxters, not any other, what would you do if you found out?"

"People don't like to associate with failure. Failure makes them uncomfortable, because it reminds them that anyone is vulnerable to it," Alexander agrees, after a moment. Sort of agrees. His eyes remain steady on Byron. "And I would investigate more. A lot of Baxter-blooded people die in Gray Harbor, Mister Thorne. I want to know why. I want to stop it. When these things happen to them, they also tend to kill or hurt a lot of unconnected people. Which means whoever - or whatever - is the cause, it doesn't give a damn who it hurts to achieve its goal. That bothers me."

Thorne keeps his eyes on Alexander, assessing the other man, as he leans forward to set his cup of coffee down. It's almost something akin to Alexander's staring, but not as blatantly obvious. Licking idly at his lips, he considers on whether to bring something up or not. Alas, his attempts to get even a mere glimpse of Clayton's true intentions or how much truth he put in his words are not for Byron to know.

He then comes out to say, "I know of a Baxter-blooded, somewhat new in town. Strange, really, that she'd reveal that much to me in our brief and initial conversation. Her Baxter side was her mother's side. She said that her mother was from here."

Alexander doesn't react to being stared at; maybe he's used to it. He just bears it as impassively as he bears most things when he's not actively freaking out. After a moment, he reaches for the printout of his photograph and puts it back in the file folder. The obits and marriage notices, he leaves for Byron. "If she's new in town, she may not realize the situation. If there is a situation." His brow furrows. "I'm still working on conjecture and coincidence. I'm aware it's not evidence." A longer pause. "May I have her name?"

"I'm almost hesitant to tell you." Byron says, coming off more as a tease, having dangled this bit of information before Alexander. "The last thing that I need is for you to interfere with her work, which in turn, interferes with mine. However, seeing as I'm not the one doing this research," He gestures towards the information that Alexander had supplied about his own blood-ties, "She is my Events Coordinator and Promoter, helping me with Carnival." There's only the briefest hint of hesitation here, but then he soon reveals just as he settles back deeply within his seat, "Her name is Melisande Clancy."

"Melisande Clancy. I'll remember that." It is, very clearly, filed away in what weird rolodex Alexander has inside his head for the names he remembers. "Would you rather I not contact her until your event is finished?" This is offered quietly, his voice dropping just a bit as he continues to study Byron. And then, after, "May I ask you something?"

Having been asked whether Byron would prefer him to wait before bothering this Melisande has Thorne considering this for a scant moment, looking thoughtful. "You do what you need to do. I've got to be honest now, I don't know why I care so much about what you do. But you had a curiosity about the Baxter family and oddly, one falls into my lap." With that weight lifted off of his shoulders, washing his hands of any trouble that might come of this, unless it directly affects him, Byron responds to the second question posed, "I'm not going to stop you if you do."

There's a curt nod, at the first response. Then a buzz from his pocket. Alexander takes out his phone, checks it. A brief but sunny smile completely transforms his face, takes off ten years and approximately twenty traumas. And then it's gone, but his voice still thrums with warmth and relief as he says, "Miss Faust is alive." He slides the phone back in his pocket, and turns his attention back to Byron, grave once more. "I am wondering what I did. To you. You don't like me - which isn't surprising. Most people don't. And yet you have become involved in my research. It feels a lot like working with your father. I know why he needed me, and why he did not like me. I don't know what I did to you."

"Good! I'm glad to hear." Byron says, somewhat relieved himself of this news, though he hardly knows Faust. "Give her my regards and my apologies for not helping her find /you/." There's an odd added emphasis there, but he looks somewhat cheery with that quiet smile.

The second part to this does have Byron taken aback. And he doesn't really care for this comparison to his father, that much is clear with that very brief flicker of intensity within his eyes. But he smiles still, that ghost of one anyway. "I should probably let you figure that out for yourself." A pause, "If you really think that I'm angry with you. Let's hope that you're not wasting your time over nothing if you do decide on that path."

His gaze then looks down at the obituary among other information regarding the Thorne-Addington tie, "I thank you for confirming what I'd thought was a lie or fabrication of sorts. While this does nothing to help me, It's interesting to know still."

"It would have been foolish to break from the group to find me," Alexander points out. "It was foolish. I'm glad you didn't."

The second reaction just causes a flicker in the dark eyes, something like hurt there for a moment, before Alexander stands up. "I didn't say angry. And you're welcome. I'll let you know if I find anything else you might find worth your time, Mister Thorne." One corner of his mouth turns up, but there's no humor in the expression.

"And I still had a piece of shrapnel stuck in my leg. On top of that, I had to climb a ladder." Byron will come out to say, more matter-of-fact than complaining. Alexander's pointing out that he'd never said the word 'angry' has the edge's of Byron's own lips lifting slightly. Just before he rises in time with the other. "It's always a pleasure, Mister Clayton." Obviously, this is spoken in subtle sarcasm, despite knowing full well that Alexander is a font of obscure creepy town knowledge. "I'll inform the gatekeeper that you're on your way down."

"Sarcasm," Alexander says, softly. Just doggedly pointing it out, as if Byron doesn't KNOW the tone he's using. Then he turns and goes, head down and shoulders hunched, file folder held neatly in his hands. No goodbyes, of course.