2020-02-11 - Beneath a Sullen Winter Moon (Open Vignette)

The sullen winter moon was lost behind a screen of clouds when a cold, snowy rain began to trickle down his spine. But he didn't stop.

Mud filled his shoes, ground its way in under his fingernails, stained his clothes. But he didn't stop.

A flashlight beamed through the darkness, shimmying across the open hole, sweeping back across it. But he didn't stop.

The top of the hole disappeared from sight, and he felt the cold earth change to a warm, dark embrace that slowly began to slide into the hole, encasing him in a steamy grit. But he didn't stop.

The light left him. So he stopped.

Looking up, there were no stars, no more winter moonlight. No rain came down here to cool him. No breeze swept into the tomb he had dug for himself without ever knowing that had been his goal. There was only an impenetrable darkness, a darkness he could never have fathomed. It was as if light itself had never existed, as if he had been born, lived, and died in a state of perpetual blackness.

Before the last of him vanished… before his final memory died… before his one little light winked out of the darkness… he felt one last moment of sorrow for the loss of a friend that he had known for half a century. For how it had all gone so badly. For how he had been unable to do right by anyone.

By Margaret.

By Elizabeth.

By Susan.

By Robert and Isabel.

By Michael.

By Gregory. Dear God, by Gregory.

And by Billy.

All he had wanted was one last chance to make it right, to undo the grief that he had caused for want of enough strength to keep his friend from getting back to his old tricks. But he had failed, and his old friend had fled. In so doing, he had taken something with him, something irreplaceable, something that changed the world forever. If he could just find his friend, bring him back, bring that something back…

...maybe they would forgive him.

But the grave was empty. He dug and dug, deeper and deeper. Six feet. Eight feet. Ten feet. He stopped caring. He just kept digging. Deeper and deeper.

Until the empty grave was empty no more.

(Patrick, maybe you need to call Margaret.)

Sitting in his tiny office in Addington House, at the horrible desk that he'd gone through the entire house to find - it was ugly, made of metal, bought at some sort of salvage auction, had zero sentimental value to anyone ever - Patrick stared at his phone. The contact said 'Addington, Margaret' with no picture of the woman. Thinking about it, the only pictures he actually had access to of Margaret were hanging on the walls of this house, and technically not his.

(Wow, he was really trying hard not to make this call.)

Finally, he pushed the little telephone-shaped button next to her phone number. It rang once. It cut over to voicemail. This was oddly jarring to Patrick, this notion that he might leave a voicemail for Margaret.

(Or he could just reach out and communicate with her.)

"Margaret. It's Patrick. I've - call me when you have a moment, please. Something - just call me, please." He thumbed the end call button and threw the phone into the middle of the desk, sagging back into the chair - which had also been searched for high and low until he was confident that it had never meant anything to anyone. He couldn't know for sure, but he had the sinking feeling that he was never getting a return call.

(But she must know something.)

The phone buzzed, startling him. But it was just an email from the florist letting him know that his delivery was complete. He looked at the screen for a second, then flipped the phone over, resolving to put it all out of his thoughts and get some work done. There was no doubt in his mind that there were people already worrying about whatever had happened last night. He didn't need to add to the chaos by getting involved. He needed to do his work, go home, and eventually find some sort of middle-ground with Anne and the fucking dogs. Shoving out of his chair, he quit his tiny office and assigned himself busy-work. So much busy-work. All the busy-work. Anything to keep his mind occupied, to prevent it from sending out a little tickler Margaret's way, positive that she'd answer his thoughts the way she hadn't answered his call.

(Just a tiny one.)

Even if Margaret did know something, he reminded himself firmly, she was not the sort of woman that was inclined to share this knowledge. Even if she did know something and even if she did share it, other people were still going to do whatever they did. They were still going to want to know more, understand more, experiment more. So there was really no purpose in his trying to get in touch with Margaret.

(Coward.)

"Whoa."

That was Graham, halfway down the living room stairs when the living room stairs tried to slide out from under him. He caught himself with a hand on the wall, shook his head hard, and looked around to get his bearings. His inner ear felt off a little, like he wasn't quite so steady on his feet all of the sudden, but it passed quickly. A quick, furtive glance darted around the room, looking for anything especially shadowy.

Just his reflection in the mirror in the downstairs bathroom when he passed it. And that wasn't shadowy so much as shady. Feeling clever for that one, he smiled at himself in the mirror and ducked into the kitchen.

Elise had been dead to the world upstairs when he ditched the bed, eyeballing his watch blearily. Too much shit on his mind, too much shit. Vengeance, love, money, work, and his car was doing a thing he didn't like. He should get that looked at. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow, he decided, flipping the light on in the kitchen and heading out to the back door, he was gonna go do the thing in New London.

He lit a cigarette the second he was out the back door, shivering and stomping around in place against the cold. Fuck, it was miserable out tonight. He took a drag, starting a rehearsal in his head. New London was twenty minutes away, he could do it in fifteen - maybe ten, but then he was definitely risking getting pulled over…

The light went on in the bedroom window, directly over his head. He craned his neck up and back, peering confusedly at the sudden square of illumination. Quickly, he tossed the cigarette, waved away the smoke as much as he could, and ducked back into the house. He banged the heel of his hand against his ear as he went, still feeling like his equilibrium was tweaked or something.

He better not be getting sick. "El? You awake, baby? I think I'm getting sick."

For several months, the dreams at night were filled with warmth, a bright light, a glow that scoured away the anger, the sadness - that little glitter that illuminated the sense of self worth that was typically snowed over by the rest. He was used to feeling certain thoughts, when they were sent his way. Was used to sending back - sometimes when they slept. Waking enough to think and then drift back down.

Like little bubbles of warm light shared and reassuring.

He wasn't sure of it all, he rarely was, but he knew the dream was good. Part of his mind let him feel warmth against his chest, but something was suddenly wrong. Things were darker, colder, it felt as if a circle of predators were tightening the noose as the campfire guttered. Mouths open, charging - all around eyes gleaming red in the gloom. A voice began to screech. He hadn't heard it in so long it felt. Now she was screaming. Telling him what he did wrong, why he'd been wrong.

What he owed her.

Thewlis was up, eyes wide with a flop sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. Chest feeling like it was being crushed between two cars, a sob escaped him and he immediately looked around, expecting to have only woken up to find it was months ago. One of those dreams where you live a full life filled with its' own twists and turns. Memories are built, loves, losses... and then you awaken to find you'd been asleep only a couple hours. Was this all that? No theater. No good dreams. No first family Christmas. His heart sunk and as his eyes panned across the bedroom he expected to see the winter dawn peaking through the window. Another lonely day, filled with distractions. Distractions to get him to the next day. Then the next.

Maybe this would be the last day. Finally.

But then, a sweater tossed over his work chair. A set of leggings... Clothing for tomorrow. Not his. Encouraged to look to his side he sees her there. Mop of curls disheveled, the blanket pulled off her from his sitting up. He felt calm from her, the very base of what he could feel... he couldn't hear that whisper from time to time, couldn't feel his being received. Mouth in a grimace, Thewlis focused. Felt the glimmer around him, felt something thickened against what had been instinctual before, and he raged against it.

Laying back down, arm slipping around her middle - eyes closing tight, Thew focuses, teeth gritting until something slips and sparks... She stirs and presses back against him and he feels the message returned. Relaxing now, slowly, relaxing as he presses back down into the pillow.

Things were normal. Or as normal as things could be here. But he could feel that warmth again, and it was chasing away all else. So normal for this town.

This damn town.

The last few days have been hard on August, and accordingly, he sleeps hard, exhausted in every way a person can be. He dreams--not a nightmare, and not one of Their playgrounds. This time, he dreams of his aunt.

"What's next?"

He looks up from a circle of dogwood he's encouraged to grow in a lattice, their pink and butter yellow and white flowers forming a canopy to sit under. Beneath that, he's used the shaping art to cut a log into a comfortable bench. His Aunt is in a plaid flannel shirt (black and white) and worn denim jeans, her curly dark hair tamed into a herringbone braid. White and silver thread through it heavily.

They're at the cabin in Mt. Hood State Forest. Trudy's grandfather had built it; it sits down a gravel path behind them, dark brown with age, metal roof recently swept clean of moss and lichen. It's a gorgeous day, the sky deep blue and the clouds fat and fluffy, driven by a healthy breeze. Wildflowers and crabgrass growing knee high surround him; the treeline looms in the distance.

August is in his early thirties. So this can't be real; Aunt Rose had been long dead by the time he reached thirty. Still...

He considers the lattice structure and its bench. A place to sit and contemplate. In the winter it'll still be lovely, despite being barren. "Not sure," he admits. The Art trembles inside of him like water in a glass responding to a singer, thrumming with a strange resonance. "It's changing again." He can't help but sound terrified. The last time it had changed, he'd hurt someone. Badly. (And then fixed it. But that doesn't matter, it never matters. The pain is what matters.)

Rose shrugs. "Maybe that's just how it is." She leans over to pick a cosmos, turns it around in her hand. "Like anything else--hunting, cooking, sex, writing, science--anything you do, it's going to change throughout your life. Why wouldn't that? You're not the boy who went to war, you're not even the young man who came back, or the one who took shelter in the woods."

He shudders. He doesn't want her to be right. He needs it to stop changing so he can catch his breath. So he can make sure he doesn't hurt anyone, can't hurt anyone.

The wildflowers and grass around him begin to wither and die. Sparks of fire drift from one hand; small arcs of electricity dance between the fingers of the other.

"I never wanted this," he whispers, swallowing around the lump in his throat. The withering is reaching the dogwood. Rose steps in front of it before it can effect those trees, though, halting it. He takes a trembling breath, blinks back tears. Rose steps forward, sighing and pulling him into a hug.

"I know, AJ. But you've got it. Probably stuck with it. So, better to learn how to control it, than to be afraid of it, or worse, hate it."

He hugs her back. God, he's missed her; her and Tru, both lost while he was spending a few years in hell. He clears his throat, pulls back. She wipes the tears off his face with the cuff of a shirt sleeve.

"Hate it?"

Rose nods. "Oh, definitely. I'm sure there's some that hate it. Hate and fear, they walk hand in hand."

He sighs, ducks his head. Alexander had told him much the same; to not be afraid of his power. Fear wouldn't help him master it, and mastery was the only way he could be sure he wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Don't quote the Star Wars prequel at me," he says, narrowing his eyes. She grins.

"I liked those, why do you all hate them so much? They were fun." She claps him on the shoulder, heads back towards the old cabin in the distance.

August watches her as she goes back inside, probably to start dinner. What'll it be tonight? Rabbit stew? Elk chili? Dove poppers? He'll find out soon enough. The smell of fresh sourdough bread carries on the afternoon breeze.

August sighs, looks down at his hands, particularly the one flickering blue-white with threads of lightning. He flexes his fingers, watching the electricity flow and take shape.

What's next?

He reaches out to see if he can actually extend the lightning...

--and wakes up to Eleanor yelping, as he's shocked her awake.

What a way to begin the day.

It's 2:30 in the morning and Grant Baxter wakes up, alone covered in sweat and tasting blood in his mouth where he bit his cheek in his sleep. He's gasping for air as he sits bolt upright, his hand pressing to the ceiling above his loft. The world around him one disorienting hollow sound like there's the illusion of music inaudible and undefined and muted in such a way he can't hear himself screaming, but he can feel it. His head instead is an alarm of flashing colours and feelings so vivid he can taste them.

The color washes from Bax's face as he leans over the side, in case he's about to lose his lunch and is in that space where it would almost be much better if he did lose his lunch. Maybe he'd feel better. After a while of just nothing he collapses onto his side and pulls the covers back up and lies awake, shaking as his pillow and face stay damp with sweat and tears. The lack of exceptional insulation brings a chill back, skin cold.

After a half hour (or forever) of trying to face himself back to sleep he picks up his phone.
There's one number he's calling at 3:08 a.m.

FEBRUARY 11, 2020
FIREFLY FOREST
EARLY MORNING

Copies of her research were in her pack; along with a few other supplies, the strap tightened under the weight, and tugged on her shoulder as she moved. A gloved hand pushed through the thorns and brambles in her path, threads snagging along the way. Isabella didn't care, however - the morning started out too strangely. The run hadn't helped at all, and neither did the hot shower, or the disturbing dreams that woke her before dawn even broke, her skin bathed in cold sweat. It was something she could have easily dismissed, she had been revisiting what had happened to Anne over and over since their disastrous trip to the other side exploring the Carousel, and it was easy to think it was just her guilt playing with her subconscious, if it hadn't been for Alexander's texted query sent to her from the hospital about whether she found any more of his bones to crush.

She found the chain link fence, running through the perimeter that once corded off this property away from the rest of the forest. Even from here, she could see the holes that had been ripped through it, by time, age, and squatters. The desiccated remains of the abandoned sawmill loomed over the snowy crest before her, skeletal and alone, an ominous warden over the barren, silent field.

1911 was a very good year for Gray Harbor, she had learned just yesterday. She probably wouldn't have realized what the dream she and Alexander had experienced meant to convey were it not for the research she was already doing, and the last incident with her friend, watching her get pulled towards the grinding gears and her blood staining the walls...

Even now, it felt strange. It wasn't anything she could quantify physically, but something else. An innate tingle, as if something had shifted inside of her; the sense of it persisted, and it set her teeth on edge. What else could happen today?

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Pulling it from her winter leggings, she looked through the texts within:

(TXT to Alexander) Isabella : And...I am. Okay, and happy. Are you?

(TXT to Isabella) Alexander : My head hurts, but I don't think I'm loopy anymore, so yes.

Despite her present surroundings, she couldn't help but smile as she texted back:

(TXT to Alexander) Isabella : I left you the aspirin bottle I pestered the nurses for next to your bedside table.

(TXT to Isabella) Alexander : I saw. Thank you 🙂

(TXT to Alexander) Isabella : Take a few and get some rest, okay? I'll see you soon.

(TXT to Alexander) Isabella : I love you.

(TXT to Isabella) Alexander : I love you too.

Stowing the device away, she took a deep breath and felt the chill burn into her lungs upon entry. Lips pressing together in a determined fashion, she reached out to shove through the nearest hole in the fence, and stepped into the shadow of the abandoned sawmill.

Kip was on the plane, heading to Seattle. It had been a very, very long and dull flight. The only saving grace was that on this last leg of the journey no one had claimed the middle seat in her row so there was a little breathing room on the mostly full flight. She was trying and failing to read up on a book about some of the most haunted places in the PNW. Partly because she was still brushing up on her written English, partly because she was so-so tired.

Kip had been in a light doze when something startled her awake with a gasp. Her book fell with a light thud on to the floor at her feet. Her row mate looked over at her with a quirked brow, "You alright?"

The brunette nodded quickly, "Yes, yes. Am fine." Half mumbled as she retrieved her book. What had woken her up? She leaned her head against the window - looking out, inwardly trying to contemplate it. And then...Kip realized what happened. She wasn't sure how, or why, or specifically what had changed but she could feel something inside was different.

The woman spared a look at her hands then making a thoughtful noise before digging in her carry on for her notebook with attached pen.

February 11, 2020 @ 2:30 AM

Something has happened. I am not sure of the specifics, but it may be related to the strange abilities I possess. Further experimentation is required once I am settled.

Isabella hadn't answered the text.

Alexander told himself that it was nothing. She was running around, doing a lot, finishing up her research. He'd just sent a text that he was out of the hospital as a courtesy, and he didn't really expect her or anyone to interrupt their day to pick him up. But she wasn't the sort to just not answer. He couldn't help but remember the last time she'd not answered, and a cold fear settled in the pit of his belly. Don't overreact. He sent another text. Twenty minutes passed, and there was no response. Not even an indication that she'd read it. She's just busy, Alexander. Don't make this weird. So he sent another text, this time just telling her that he would see her at home.

And then he walked. The winter hadn't released its grip on Gray Harbor, so there was ice and slush and even a bit of real snow, and it was painfully cold. By the time he reached the house, his head was pounding and there was an ache that reached through his whole body. Fuck me, I'm getting old. He shed his coat, went and checked on Bennie. For once, it was his turn to pretend to be cheerful and confident and unconcerned, and he couldn't resist using just a trickle of his power to calm the withdrawal symptoms and ensure she'd sleep well.

It felt...odd. But everything had felt odd since the chair had crashed over his cranium. And he was very, very cold. On auto-pilot, he grabbed some soup from the cabinet, poured it into a pot and waited for it to heat. I just wish I could warm up. He looked forward to the hot soup with something very like yearning and his eyes were fixed on the reddish surface of the liquid. C'mon, c'mon. It heated surprisingly quickly; his stove, like all his other appliances, was crap. He poured it into a bowl, noticing that it'd gotten not just to steaming, but very nearly to boiling, and reached to turn off the eye.

That's when he realized the knob had never been turned on. His hand fell, with unthinking instinct, to rest on the eye itself. It was cold. He looked at the steaming bowl of soup. The cold eye. The hot soup. "...fuck it. I'm too concussed to think about this right now," he muttered. He took the soup to the living room, sat on the couch, and tried not to worry.

He failed. But the soup was tasty.

It was late now, but Anne can't sleep. Then again, they haven't even tried to go to bed. The bottle of gin is empty and her face feels heavy, cheeks flushed from the liquor but it seems like there wasn't enough drink to make this feeling go away.

They weren't talking about what happened anymore, but then again they weren't talking about much at all. She came home from work, he came home from work, and they opened that bottle of gin and had themselves a liquid dinner. There'd been no arguments, no petty squabbles about houses or dogs or the problems that weren't the real problems at all. It was just drinks and a whole lot of effort to stay blissfully ignorant of things that were not blissful and impossible to be ignorant of.

She just keeps her cheek on his shoulder and her eyes on the television; the people are doubled up and blurry and she can't remember what movie they put on. It didn't matter. There was nothing else on her mind but what had happened to him that morning, what she learned happened to Isabella and Alexander, too. There was nothing on her mind except the questions of what the hell had happened. What had changed? Why?

There was nothing on her mind except promises made, promises meant. Promises that would have to be bent. But just how far could she go before bent becomes broken? And what was she willing to lose to figure all of this out?

Her hand tightens on Patrick's knee suddenly. He looks down and she looks up, drunkenly apologetic and utterly in love. "Sorry," she murmurs. "Just a scary part," of the movie. Of her thoughts. Then she nuzzles her cheek a little firmer against him, closes her eyes, and tries to think of anything else than what happened in Gray Harbor this morning.

The headache is strong enough to permeate the nothingness of deep slumber, to wake Meredith Hartwell up. She sits for a few moments, looking at her bedside clock disbelievingly: 4:13am.

If she doesn't take something for this headache soon, then sleep just won't find her again. She needs her rest because she has her little ones coming by tomorrow morning, and she needs to be aware and happy for them. But this has not happened before.

Merry rarely gets headaches, and it's her blessed ability to sleep deeply and well on most nights. But now as she slides her legs out of the warm cocoon of her blankets and gives her bedroom a barely-seeing glance, the young woman realizes that this headache has been joined by an inexplicable state of low fear. Merry does not recall the last time that she has felt such a way in her house.

Throb. Right. Ibuprofen.

Both of her hands lift so that she may slide her fingers into the pillow-tousled piles of hair at her temples, shoving the mess of it back. She pads down the stairwell to the main level of the house. THis safe, comfortable, sweet space with it's sun-catchers in the windows and her kids' artwork on the walls and fridge.

The cool floor of the kitchen beneath her bare feet, nightdress skirt swishing as she walks, a couple of LED night lights lending to the tidy space a soft butane blue glow. Merry reaches up into a cabinet just above a counter and grabs a glass; she turns and moves in a daze toward the bathroom to seek out the medicine cabinet.

Something is so incredibly different, she feels it deep inside. Little does Merry know as she pops the pills that this house, so sweet and silent since her moving in years ago, has found a voice. And not just this house.

Meredith Hartwell will find out soon enough, once her headache clears and the morning finds her. Things have changed.

Easton stood staring at the door of his bar, recently slammed behind a furious De La Vegas. The encounter was strange and painful and ugly in ways that Easton never expected and now standing there behind the bar he tries to think why even in his drunken state he ever thought texting him would have helped in the first place. He couldn't have texted Bennie, not while she's trying to go clean and he's in the midst of failing spectacularly. He could have texted Geoff or August or Isabella or a thousand other people but they wouldn't have gotten it. He was sure Gunny would understand.

And now, staring at the door he wasn't sure of anything. He wasn't sure why the hell Tom and Jenny came up. He wasn't sure why Ruiz was such an asshole. He wasn't sure why he was such an asshole back. He wasn't sure he could put his finger on why he started drinking tonight. He wasn't even sure if that encounter even happened or if it were just another "trick of the light" peculiar to this town.

He was sure of one thing: he wasn't going to be able to stop now.

The bottle is nearly gone and just as he pours the last remaining drops into the glass something in his core shifts. Like the inner mechanisms of a lock sliding into place Easton can feel a change moving through him. There are no words for it, he doesn't know what it was, only that now, something is different. And as he reaches for the glass of whiskey and lifts it, it turns into a canteen in his hand. The reverse of a miracle occurring just as he pours warm, filthy water into his mouth instead of the whiskey he doesn't want to need.

And gone is the bar, Gray Harbor and all the life that he's just starting to consider as a real possibility, and back once again is the life of a Marine Lieutenant this time out on patrol, leaning in a doorway for cover. The squad is small and his pointman is back and he realizes giving him the update he asked for about the position of the target. The sounds of gunfire that is distant enough to not be a threat but close enough to care about fills the air. Nodding as he finally grasps what the lance corporal is telling him Easton clicks back into the zone. The thought that he would never be drunk on a patrol tries to assert itself but he brushes it off with another truth: I'm a drunk, might as well admit it.

And as they search each building, Easton tripping over stairs and clumsily swinging his weapon to slow or too wide, he can feel the eyes of his men on him. Each time he has to rub at his eyes or blink and try to see if a pile of rubble is a threat or not he can feel the doubt and concern of his men growing. How did he let it get this bad? How could he put his men at risk like this?

Shouts of "Lieutenant!" bring him back into the moment though and he rushes down the crumbling stairs into the rare dug basement and tries to peer through the darkness to make sense of what he's seeing. The smell of blood and piss is easy to identify, the mix clearly marking that this is where someone was being held. Two of his men are working at something on the wall, a shape that Easton's blurred vision can't quite make out. As he gets closer he can tell that it's the figure of a man, chained up against the wall, in terrible shape. Finally close enough to reach out a hand and lift the head. The hair being too caked with dirt and blood to even tell what color it out to be, in fact the whole figure has taken on a macabre camouflage of dust and blood splatter as if trying to blend into the terrible surroundings.

But in his heart Easton knows before he lifts the head up what he's going to find.

"You.. gave me... to him"

The voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away as the split dirty lips barely move on a face that would be difficult for anyone else to recognize as Tom "Banks" Richmond. But Easton knows immediately.

His gun drops and he falls down to his knees, clutching Tom's body, supporting him, holding him up instead of the chains.

And then Easton wakes up behind the bar laying in a pile of vomit, his arms wrapped around a trashcan.

In the back of an old Grand Prix, long legs stretched from the back up to the front, between the bucket seats. With his face illuminated by his smartphone, Everett scrolls down with his thumb, slowly. The engine still on, heat going, his other arm stretches around the backbench seats and in his hand, a metallic Beretta dangles. With his usual brooding expression, he skims through the pictures, pausing at one to look at it in closer detail, pinching his fingers on the screen with a lack of manual dexterity that's frustrating and requires him to put the phone down on his lap, just to zoom in before picking the phone up again.

Still too cold for him, the engine's left purring, just for the heat. So much so that, even with one cracked, the windows have all long since fogged over. Even when the condensation collects and causes a chaotic streak to snake its way down, the sparse woods around his vehicle is difficult to make out save the sounds of the Pacific Northwest nocturnal creatures, now used to the metal structure, making their calls for territory, for food.
For love.

Continuing to glance through, the long-haired giant shakes his head softly. Picture after picture they scroll by, not one measure up. Not one will do. Leaving the smartphone on his lap again, he studies her features; how she smiled in the picture. Not even for him, but still bright. Brilliant. His consideration brought attention to the weight in his hand. With both, he holds the heavy pistol pointing it away. Pulls the well-lubricated hammer back, then eases trigger and hammer to rest. Again, with accompanying metallic sounds, thumbing the gun before resetting it.

His Imp's claws cut into the leather of his jacket while it climbs from between him and the bucket seat while he eyes the gun. It would be so easy, it says, the easiest thing in the world. What would it even feel like? Would it feel like anything? The Perverse demon grins a toothy grin while Everett considers the object in his hands, and then turns it. The barrel is black. Cloaked in the darkness of the backseat, the only source of illumination, his phone with a pretty smile. He's seen this view before, the endless tunnel into the void of the pistol, just maybe not in his own hand. What would it taste like, wonders a small voice. His mandible slowly opens while the heavy object in his hand is lifted up.

A distant hiss scatters the imp from his shoulder. For how long had the forest noises stopped, he asked himself, throwing his gaze towards his opaque window. The gun in his hand all but forgotten, he listened. Listened to the woods being eerily quiet. There! A snapped twig. An unearthly bellow far in the distance. Despite the sense of malcontent, Everett scrambles into motion. The phone is snatched from his lap, the picture switched in favor of flashlight mode before being transferred into his right hand. Opening his back door and inviting the cold air to war with his heat, the clash causes the Floridian to pause, but only for a tick, kicking empty beer cans from the footwell and onto the bed of fallen leaves and snow as he stumbles but keeps himself from falling with his hold on the door.

Grousing, the gorilla with a gun slams the running car's door closed and looks around for a second longer, waiting for a path to walk, cold and alone in the woods. The supernatural yowl answers his patience, and he runs in a direction, maybe even the correct one, using his phone to light his path. Alone. Cold. Chasing something. His breath comes in puffs as he jumps over a fallen tree and pauses, waiting to see if he'll be guided again.

Then, something feels off. Unusual. Well, more so than the usual unusual. Like a wave of nausea. Composite toed boots take a couple more steps, but slowed, from running to a jog, then walk. And then he's stopped. Confusion. Heavy panting. He's not the only one that felt it; his quarry makes no further noise, nothing more to alert the thug where it might be. Turning his torso, he highlights his own footprints where there's snow, the only way he'll find his car. Giving it a small eternity, Everett waits, for the feeling of the other shoe to drop. And when it doesn't. When his toes begin to get as numb as his nose, he mutters a single expletive and follows his tracks, not two steps before wondering if he left beer in the truck or if he drank that too.

The Uber from the airport had been largely uneventful. The driver was one of those who liked to chat, even when his solitary passenger looked outside the rear passenger window for the first five minutes, and grunted answers back when a lull in the background ruckus, for it couldn't be called a conversation, seemed to call for it. It even took the driver a little longer to realize the conversation was over when his fare pulled out his phone and started concentrating on it intently. So intently he stopped replying. The rest of the drive was long. Long and tedious, but held in silence. At least until the driver asked if it was all right if the stereo was turned on. There wasn't an answer, of course.

Three stars.

Malcolm dropped his suitcases just inside the door and kicked it closed behind him. Only then did he let his shoulders sag and breath a sigh of relief. Leather gloved fingers loosened his tie, even before slipping his long coat off his shoulders to hang it up. The coat alcove door slid silently back, slowly. Its mirror equally slowly revealing Malcolm's reflection. Brows gently knitted, suspect his hazel eyes turned to peer further into the apartment while he slowly closed the closet.

Waiting an instant, he reached inside his suit jacket and extracted his pistol, "Love?" Asked with distrust, he began to creep from room to room on the balls of his shoes, occasionally holding the handgun with both hands when he didn't need to open a door, or pull drapes to the side, or open a closet.

He only now felt something was off. And after a thorough search of his home, finding nothing, he holstered his gun again and shook his head. "Peculiar," he said aloud.

Finally all moved in to the new apartment, Esme was laying on the couch. Unsolved Mysteries was playing but she wasn't really watching it. Her thoughts kept going back to the meeting at Seraphim. These abilities she now possessed, maybe? Would it be important to...at least know what she could do? Esme sat up some, looking down at her coffee table. Maybe she could do what Thewlis had done? Controlling that flame to make words? Though he had conjured a flame. Could she do that?

Curiosity would likely kill Esme one day, but, hopefully that day wasn't today. She cleared the table of the few things on it and then tried to focus. She could feel the energy building within and well her hand did feel a little warmer didn't it? A little yelp escaped her, involuntarily. So much for trying to control it - as the corner of the table now had a nice scorch mark on it that didn't look like anything except, well, a scorch mark.

"Ah, shit." She exhaled slowly. Was that supposed to happen? Yule said you could heal things too, and she had watched Thewlis fix the table. Maybe she should try that instead.

The last few days before Valentine's are remarkably busy ones for a pâtisserie, let alone for a chocolaterie. Vyv's been working particularly long hours -- all the kitchen staff have, really, but him perhaps most -- and he ought to have been asleep for ages now. Ought to have been out well before midnight; ought to be getting plenty of rest before heading back to the shop well before dawn. Instead it's nearing two a.m. -- two a.m.! -- and his mind Won't. Shut. Up.

He lies on his back with his eyes determinedly closed and arms crossed defiantly, as though possibly he could just give insomnia the cut direct and force it to slink shamefacedly away. It has not worked yet. It is probably not about to do so. The tumult of recalcitrant thoughts is unending, and eventually even his stubbornness gives way. Eyelids flutter open, gaze focused on the dim plane of the ceiling for several moments before his eyes skew sidelong toward the nightstand. Yes. One-forty-five a.m. He sighs irritably, stopping his hand as it starts to reach for his phone. No. We are neither drunk nor desperate; we are not sending any two a.m. texts. Not to anyone nearby; certainly not to anyone on the other side of the country. The ceiling gets a sharp glare, despite it being entirely innocent in this whole situation, and Vyv firmly closes his eyes again, dismissing every upstart thought with a flat mental 'No,' the moment it raises its head, and slowly, gradually, he finally begins to drift off.

And then something... changes.

He sits up abruptly, looking around in the gloom. It looks the same. It sounds the same. It feels... different? Very slightly different. Off. Or he imagines it does. He thinks he recognizes that feeling, or-- something close kin. Yes, not quite the same. Similar. But how, and why, and... what, exactly? He closes his eyes and opens his mind, mapping the apartment around him, feeling for the edges of his range. That, at least, feels unchanged from when he tried it last.

A moment of consideration, and he reaches for the phone again, two a.m. be damned.

Another late night call. Some Dollar Store manager up in Humptulips (Yes, an actual place) broke their key off in the front door. Easy stuff, just an inconvenient time. Leon was leaving in a little over a day, flying out.

Maggi agreed to go to Vegas with him. Romantic getaway. She'd told him she loved him, then took it back with the next text. It was ok, she was drunk. If she felt that way, she could tell him when she wanted to. He knew how he felt. It still bothered him she hadn't fully moved her things in. Always living, sharing a space, with a person that somehow felt like they wanted to keep one foot out the door want the greatest for self doubt.

But it still felt good in the mornings.

He was still quietly contemplating this as he drove, as a green hue shifted yellow in the distance. He gently hit the brake, bringing his little NV200 in to a slow stop as yellow became red. Lights like these late at night were only a minor bother. Trying to make up extra minutes in weather a miserable as this winter was only lead to more headaches.

He peered out the window, able to see the reflection of the green numbers from his dash. He could read then backwards. It was about 2 in the morning.

Then something changed.

The light turned green.

He was briefly drawn back to reality as he gently gassed the engine and headed back off toward a warm home, with a soft bed, filled with a golden-haired collection of the best things to happen to him in this town since he was born here. Weirdness aside, the future was looking up for the locksmith, at least in his mind.

It felt quieter.

Gina stopped paying attention to hours a very long time ago.

Calendar apps and reminders told her when important things were happening: otherwise day and night, especially here in Gray Harbor, was only a matter of degrees of danger and enjoyment. So it was entirely normal, honestly, that she'd gone to sleep at three in the afternoon, when she was sleepy, and woke up at ten that evening.

Breakfast was a salted fish soup, toast with grated tomato, a selection of olives, turkish tea and ambrosian chant music while checking her email and the daily news. By the time midnight rolled around, she'd switched to french hip hop while she tidied up, changed the tarot cards in their frames, played with her cats, and decided to spend her day in the Hobby Room. She'd found two new dolls in need of repair, one composition with severe crazing and cracked eyes, and the other a bisque with smeared, uncertain painted features and ripped leather body.

Hours later, as she hummed along to big band songs and carefully placed the new eyes carefully within the doll's head with tweezers, she felt it. Like a voice breaking, or the elongated, swishing scratching sound of a waterproof coat. She felt it in her chest the way cracking ice sounded, pressurized and tense in her chest, uncomfortable in her veins for the fraction of time it froze her in place. She closed her eyes, breathing in and holding it, before she let out a shuddering exhale and turned back to her task.

When the dolls were repaired, redressed and placed on the shelves with their peers, Gina made herself another cup of coffee, silently reading, then deleting the messages on her phone. Precious few received responses. Finally, she dialed a number, leaning against the windowsill as she watched the fog shift along the greyish snow. "Zdravstvuj, Carmen." A pause, as she let the other woman speak.

"Fuck you. You know it's like four AM here, right?" The question avoided, redirected, Gina's expression not changing as she sipped her coffee. More words, from the other end of the phone.

"Virginia. London. Australia. You, now." Gina confirmed. On the other end, there was more talking, curious, concerned. Gina silently cut the call and set the phone to silent. With a flick of her hand, a strum of power, she sent it back to its charger, leaning her head against the doorframe, unamused eyes staring at the outside world.

"I hate this shit."

Waffles. Carby goodness smothered in sugar in all forms, stuffed with chocolate. Bacon cooked floppy. Sausage gravy over biscuits. Rekani was systematically eliminating all the challenges to his appetite he had ordered. Earbuds in, he was listening to a couple new tracks an old buddy in Miami had sent him, head bobbing, foot occasionally tapping.

The only thing ruining a perfectly good mid-morning chow was a single black speck. It flitted in and out of his vision, sung its high pitched shine near his ear, tickled his hand if it landed.

Fruit fly. He didn't blame the place, they were hard to prevent with all the sugar and fat that were slung around the Waffle shop, and it was only a single little bug. These things happen. But he couldn't manage to kill the thing, or deter it with waves or swats. It was driving him nuts.

Then, the inevitable, but unthinkable happened. It tried landing on his food. That was the last straw. Rekani tried swatting it again, to no avail. It buzzed in little circular orbits in front of his face, oblivious to the latino's growing rage.

Then, when Rekani was mentally releasing a string of bilingual epithets, ready to literally pop with anger, there was the tiniest spark.

The fruit fly plummeted to the table, dead, just missing his plate.

"Huh..." Rekani grunted, confused.

She felt the weird shift during the night, but she didn't think much of it. This is Gray Harbor. Weird is the norm. Finch is out in the field the next morning, working on some tree trimming for Out on a Limb. The client wants a big old spruce cut down and removed, because it's too close to their home and leaning. They're gone for the day, and it's just the young woman on solo crew. She moves to the big tree, which has probably been here a hell of a lot longer than the stupid McMansion it sits beside.

She sets a hand on the trunk and sighs. "I can't do that to you, big guy, You deserve better. How about we move you off their property to somewhere you can live in peace?" She steps back and stretches out her arms, moving her fingers as if weaving something in the air. Tendrils of Spirit essence, only she can see, flow from her fingertips and into the tree.

The spruce shudders and comes to life, bending a bit as if to look down at the tiny woman who has animated it. Finch smiles up at it and she jerks a thumb towards the wood line off the property. "Come on, big guy, let's get you over there." She trods in that direction as the tree uproots itself, leaving a hole in it's wake that will accurately look like they cut him down and removed the stump too. If they could do this every time it'd save so much time and money for the company, but usually the homeowners are there, watching them like hawks.

She strolls beside the tree, talking to it animatedly, telling it what a lovely new home it will have and how it will not need to be leaning in the better area. They cross into the treeline and go a few steps in, and Finch picks a spot that looks promising. The soil is rich, there is sunlight filtering through the canopy there, and there are other spruce growing nearby. She directs the tree to root into the earth, and once done, she smiles, and releases it from animation.

And then comes the horror.

The tree, which should just go back to normal, if un-moving, begins to wither and die instead. Needles rain down on Finch like a maelstrom of death, branches crack and fall, and the entire trunk seems to shrivel and desiccate like it has been drained of all moisture. Dead. The tree is dead. Completely and totally dead. And nothing she attempts to do to revive it works.

"No! No no no no no," she rambles, hands on the trunk as tears stream down her face. She's done this several times. It always worked just fine. She brought several bush and tree friends all the way back to Mallard House to live there happily, and they are fine! Wait, are they fine?

Finch dashes back to the company trunk, scribbles the required info on the bill for the homeowner, and slaps it on their door, then drives home at dangerous speeds, to check on Bruce, Albus, Puff, and Gertrude.

It was a weird night. Somewhere in the middle of it, it felt like she'd stuck her tongue in a light socket. She had jolted awake, all her nerves jangling and on fire, limbs twitching, and her hair all frizzy. It had to have been a weird dream right? Then came the call from Alexander.

While August was getting showered, she went downstairs to make some coffee. The very idea Gohl's grave might be tampered with has made her even twitchier than the overnight zapping. She grumbles as she pours the water into the reservoir, measures grounds out into the filter, and slaps the top closed. As she approaches the machine and thinks about pushing the on button, crackling blue-white electricity shootss out of her fingertips and arcs over the machine, which suddenly sparks, and smokes and dies a horrible death from a massive power surge.

Eleanor lets out a loud yelp that August will probably even hear over the shower running. She unplugs the coffee maker and uses a spray bottle of water to put out any smoking, burning bits. "What in the hell?" she asks no one in particular. She hasn't been able to zap anything without directly touching it before. "Something has definitely changed," she mumbles, mourning her morning coffee, and waits for August to come downstairs so she can tell him what happened.

The sound of heavy soled boots crunch against gravel. Heavy breathing creates a vapor cloud that feels like air is being pulled out of burning lungs. The labyrinth of the outskirts of the city aren't that daunting for someone who knows the area better than they realize. Frank is running like hell. Frank owes Felix money. And Frank? Frank doesn't want to pay it.

Frank also made the mistake of running from Joey Kelly thinking this is the first time that the boxer's had to chase someone down. He can feel it though: the movement of the duffelbag through the city. A snatch and grab gone wrong. Going through the trailer park he leaps up and jumps: Foot to fence, off to the dumpster, knees pulled up and he lands in motion on the roof and then off the edge and onto the neighbor's roof. GROUNDED!

Somethow this felt easier to do being able to track the environment. Likely hallucinating that from the adrenaline pushing through his veins like diesel. He knows where that bag is headed though. Closing on Frankie something tells him to stop. There's someone stepping out on their porch nearby. Fucking bystanders, man.

He can see Frankie turn with his piece in hand drawing on him. In a last ditch effort his hand makes its usual gesture of GET BACK! like he does a hundred times or more. It feels different though and that bullet that whizzes by the thug finds easy purchase in the shoulder of the lookie loo behind him.

Fuck a donkey! That should not have done that. It didn't even slow the damn thing down. Footsteps pick up away from him again and stop. Hearing the car driving through Joey turns, looks and uses the bag to suddenly shove Frank into the path of the truck doing thirty. The man spins like a top overhead. He lays there sprawled, unmoving. The truck doesn't even stop but is focused on GTFO before someone can plate the hit and run. Holding his hand out the bag pulls out of Frank's grasp and starts to whip toward the boxer standing there; fast hands grabbing it out of the air and slinging it over his shoulder a little harder and faster than intended.

It bugged him. Not Frank. Frank's an asshole.
That the bullet didn't veer off like it usually does when Joey tells the world 'not this guy'?
That was weird.

What's that going to mean for babysitting later?
Fuuuuuuck.

"No, Mom, I'm perfectly safe." Abitha stated in frustration, seemingly to the air, though the little wired buds tucked into her ears betrayed her remark as a phone conversation. "They literally just convicted the dude. How would it even make sense that this place is dangerous? I'd already be dead."

She was lying, of course. There were plenty of dangers in this town, known or not, but her aging mother didn't need to know that, even if it would stick, given her location being not far to the east of Seattle.

"Yes, I love you, too." She answers the inevitable call-ending well-wishes from her mother, killing the line with a button and continuing her stroll down the street. It had been short, as always. There had been a rift in their relationship since the accident. Mostly Abitha's fault, really. Her parents had no idea why she'd packed up and moved so quick to get away from them, and she had thought it was to keep them safe, isolate whatever monstrous thing she was.

All perception, she'd found out recently. Being a monster. There were real monsters out there, likely the same things that had even helped that rift to begin with. Them. Abitha shakes her head as she realizes the dark train of thought, a mental change of subject needed.

Where was she walking?

A good damn question as she comes to a stop in front of an alleyway. She was sure she had been on the way back to her shop, having taken a walk to have the conversation with her mother somewhere away from her employees and her current houseguest.

Abitha was now solidly downtown, and felt... Off. Like she needed to go further, but not just further... Else-er, if that was even something she could describe. Great, she realized, she had been subconsciously following her other senses. When had she turned them on? She mentally schools herself, closing that cracked door in her mind, the mental image she had given it.

It was still really curious though, she felt like she could just... Open a door step through...

That was new.

"I swear to God, Graham, if you get out of this bed again, I will kick your ass from here to New London!" Elise has a splitting headache but it's not going to stop her from threatening Graham. He whined his way upstairs the second she got out of bed and spilled out into the bathroom, but at least he had the decency to hold her hair back from her face while he complained and she puked. Couple goals, that's what the two of them were.

Now, an hour later, she's fussed him under the covers. "Don't make me break out the handcuffs," she threatens, and it's clear she doesn't mean in the sexy way. She doesn't have two fucks to give about his 'thing' in New London - if he is sick, he stays. New London will be there when he gets better. At least worrying about him makes her forget about how sick she feels, how weird she feels, this uncomfortable sensation that's pounding in her head and making her stomach do flips. She should probably lay down. But Graham needs water and Advil and she should probably go down to the pharmacy and get one of those tests 'cause this didn't feel like the flu, this was definitely not the flu.

Fuck.

Nothing wakes Rhys in the wee hours of the morning.

Nothing feels strange when he does wake -- well, okay, his arm's partly asleep, but not for the first time, and the pins and needles are gone and forgotten by the time he's polishing off the last of some scrambled eggs and toast and eyeing up an orange.

Nothing's the slightest bit odd about the morning he spends at the club, arranging the next week's schedule, ordering supplies, and accepting, counting, and recording a couple successfully collected debts when they're dropped by. Perfectly normal coffee and conversations. Perfectly normal lunch on the way back home. Okay, the cancelled evening plan is a little unusual, and maybe he's not invited for early-afternoon naps every day of the week, but it's nothing to pin the day in history.

Nothing weird about the pizza he orders for dinner, nor about the LFR he hops into in the unexpected bit of free time, except maybe that there's only one real idiot the group has to kick.

Nothing keeping him awake when he decides it's time to fall into bed.

Something to be said for not having glimmer in this town.

It's one of those days when things just feel... off. It's not quite the usual kind of 'off', if it can ever be said to be usual, but Aidan can't quite put his finger on what's not right.

It doesn't feel like his meds are slipping, or not exactly. It doesn't feel like he's forgotten something. It doesn't feel like the weather's changing or he's getting a cold or he needs more iron in his diet. It just feels... off.

The feeling eats at him for most of the day, through breakfast and shovelling a few walks for a few bucks and poking at the thrift store for any new and interesting arrivals. Through lunch and the library book he tries to read but can't keep focus on. It eats at him until the voices in his head are near-deafening, and he heads out to the porch for the one thing he knows will quiet them down.

It's a weird time of year for a barbecue, but he's only really brought the marshmallows as an excuse. A quick flick of a glance around to check whether anyone's watching, and his focus flits to the coals, running lovingly across them as they jump to life, one after another, heat and light spilling from the cheap metal drum as the fire leaps up. He smiles, with a deep exhalation verging on a sigh of relief, and perches nearby on the railing to watch, leaning against a thin pillar. The world still feels off, but not quite so far anymore. A minute or two of soaking-in the warmth and life of it, and his mind reaches out to the fire again, to tease and coax the flame.

Nothing happens.

Aidan straightens up where he leans, brow furrowing as he stares into the fire, and tries again. Then again, wordless panic rising as that feeling of off-ness grows again; as it settles in his stomach and turns further and further, it and his world both thrown off their axes and tumbling.

It's gone silent in his head, but for one voice, whispering.

They won't dance for you anymore, now.

They don't love you anymore.

He leans over the edge of the porch, but nothing comes up, the knots in his stomach seemingly keeping everything in place. "I'm sorry," he whispers, setting the cover on the drum to starve it of air, and heads back inside, to curl up small in the dark cave of the bedcovers and cry until he runs out of tears, like a child suddenly alone in the world.

Again.

She's in the hospital, she knows this. She recognizes the machines, the sterile environment, the sounds of beeping monitors, the IV in her arm. And she realizes that for the first time, she is a patient. She has never even so much as broken a bone or ruptured her appendix as a child so this experience is odd to her.

As Stephanie sits up, she realizes two things, that her brain feels like it's throbbing like mad, and that it just so happens to be somewhere around 3am. What the hell just happened? Something feels odd, something feels different. And it's not just because she'd spent the last 12 hours recovering from hypothermia...

She reaches for her phone and she starts sending text messages. Someone has to know what's going on.

While his work sometimes keeps him busy in these late hours due to international business dealings, on February 11th, Byron finds himself stirred awake at almost two in the morning. He has a mind to simply fall back asleep, feeling Lilith's warmth pressed up against him, one of his arms draped over her in their nestled spooning. In fact, he can feel her shift within his hold as well. It's a brief movement. Maybe she'd sensed his own stirring, but after a moment, she seemingly slips back into a peaceful slumber.

Byron would love to do that as well, but turning slightly to look over his shoulder, something was troubling him even if he couldn't tell anyone why. Confronted by those bright red numbers, the last two digits shifting from a fifty seven to a fifty eight, he actually returns back to his original position, letting his eyes close in the hopes that like Lilith, he, too, can simply return back to bed. He had a scant few hours more before his usual wake-up hour.

Yet something continues to bother him and while he tries his hardest to push this feeling out of his system, his active mind wins out and very carefully, he makes his way off the bed as to not disturb the sleeping princess. Reaching for a pair of sweatpants, he pulls those on, before gathering up his laptop from the office and setting up a little space in a corner chair of the bedroom. If he'd stayed at his home office, he might never get back to bed.

Checking his email, he'd received a confirmation from Branch & Bole regarding his Valentine's Day order of flowers. He actually went all out in that department, also adding a shit ton of candles to go with the arrangements. They were to be delivered earlier in the day on the fourteenth, so he makes sure to clear out his calendar to accept the delivery. He'd need time to set the stage anyway before Lilith's arrival.

As he exports the delivery time to his phone as a reminder, he can't help but be bothered by who knows what reasons. The last time he felt this way was after Gohl's funeral when the world became smaller. Or that's how it felt like. This was different. It didn't feel like just another limitation, but he can't put a finger on exactly what is different.

Looking back at his screen, there's another confirmation mail. This time from a personal chef friend of his from L.A. who he hired to assist with Valentine's Dinner. He paid for the airfare, of course, and set the guy up in one of his vacant suites. He'll be arriving on the twelfth to give him time to hit up the farmer's market and butcher before the big day. Quietly tapping out a response, his dark eyes flicker across the room, being enticed by just watching Lilith laying there beneath the warm comforter. That's when he decides enough is enough, rising from his seat to close the laptop cover altogether and set it down onto the chair.

He regretted not throwing on a robe because the chill of the winter air, no matter how insulated the apartment was, was finally getting to him. And they enjoyed sleeping together when the temperature was cold. Making his way on quiet steps back towards the bed, he very carefully tries to climb aboard without waking her. In truth, he was pretty proud of himself, knowing that Lilith would be so surprised on realizing that they weren't going out to some crowded fancy restaurant. Everything was going to be perfect.

It was almost ten after two and he had about three more hours of sleep before waking up for his morning routine. And if anything, he wasn't going to spend any more time wasting any of that. As he prepares to settle back in, draping the thick blanket over the both of them, he notices the light on his phone flashing on. It's on silent, currently, as to not wake them. Did someone just get back to him at this hour? The calendar that is his mind, flips through the various other tasks that he'd need to do come morning. One of them was to speak out to the representative dealing with GHPD confiscations. The ball was already rolling and quickly at that.

Leaning over to make a grab for his phone, believing that it could be any number of contacts, despite the late hour, what he does see leaves him feeling cold.

On his phone is the old phone number that they used to have, the land line for the house on Oak. It wasn't a cell phone of any sort, yet this was no missed call. It was a text message.

(TXT to Byron ) Thorne : We hoPe you hAve a WondErful VaLenTine's DaY.
(TXT to Byron ) Thorne : WE MISS YOU

Someone's probably going to have a difficult time clearing his mind to fall back asleep again.