*Edited: 1/5/16
solstice
the hanged man
.v
The sun was merciless. Hot, relentless and liberal with its heat, scorching everything its rays licked. It wasn't the humid, suffocating warmth they were used to, but rather soul-sucking, dry waves that made Abbie's skin itch the entire walk from school. Sweat gathered at her hairline and slicked her neck. Next to her, Jenny was drenched from head to toe; certainly a trait inherited from their late father.
Summer was making its presence well known in the troubled outskirts of Sleepy Hollow.
"Can we go home now?" Jenny moaned, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Abbie cut eyes at her for the nth time in the past half hour.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
Jenny pursed her mouth, tiny hands curled around the straps of her backpack. She had that sour expression on her face, the one where her nose wrinkled and her thick brows pinched together, but contained her contempt for a few seconds—a record for her.
"Mama's gonna' be mad at you."
Abbie scoffed and kicked a bit of gravel from the asphalt. She watched it roll into the withering sward.
"Mama's always mad at me."
She knew that eventually she'd have to return to the brick house with a full set of broken windows. That she was running out of longer routes to take home, and the excuse she'd "gotten lost" lost its worth early in spring.
She ground her lip until it was raw and dotted with blood; she ran her tongue over the specks.
"Fine," she bit out. Jenny brightened at this, a bounce in her step as they changed directions.
With their house only two streets over, it took less than five minutes to reach their lot. Mama's hoary, '78 Cadillac Brougham parked in the driveway. Even with its threadbare tires, drooping bumper and myriad of engine problems, the rust bucket managed—by the grace of God—to scoot the family to school and work every day. It was an inoperable hunk of metal, but her mother kept it around for sentimental value, like she did with the rest of her father's things.
Abbie slid her fingertips along the rusted paint, a few chips clinging to her skin. Usually she could tell how long her mother's been home by the temperature of the car, but the surrounding heat rendered that trick useless.
Her legs were sore and trembled as she trudged up the steps. Jenny didn't fare any better behind her, panting and carping when the sun peeked out behind a lone cloud. Safely underneath the house's awning, she fished in her uniform pockets for the key. When she couldn't find it, she moved to slide her bag off and continue the search there.
A pair of rusted hinges squealed before her. Her heart lodged in her throat.
She didn't need to look to know her mother's dark figure pried the door open; one hand wrapped around the knob, the other flat against the doorframe. But for some godforsaken reason—morbid curiosity, maybe—she spared a glance.
Abbie half expected the rash, neurotic anger she became familiar with; the sporadic bouts of wrath that made Mama yell and throw dishware across the house for hours. The blind rage spun every misfortune into an omen of damnation so she'd feverishly pray on her knees—breathless atonements for her sacrilege—until her voice grew hoarse. It was thunderous and disturbing, but predictable.
This soundless, inscrutable detachment was not.
Jenny snapped her mouth shut, the shift in atmosphere so sudden and violent even she—in all her naïve, juvenile glory—recognized it. She swallowed and dipped underneath Mama's arm.
Abbie breathed in shallow spurts. Her ribcage felt too small to hold her heart. She followed in Jenny's footsteps, bending underneath her mother's outstretched limb and into the dim foyer. The door clicked shut behind her. She kept her eyes trained on anything else than looming presence beside her.
She squinted at the single source of light in the house; the swinging bulb above the kitchen table. There, two plates of food rested on the table; cold mashed potatoes and even colder slabs of steak. Jenny took a seat behind one, prodding the beef dispassionately. Mama sat beside the other.
She didn't even touch it.
Abbie rooted herself between the two, forcing her hands still underneath the table. Minutes ticked by. The keening of forks scraping against porcelain was the only sound. Her stomach pinched and growled, but she didn't dare ask for the uneaten dish. She just bit her tender lip and waited for the vociferous outrage she knew how to cope with.
It never came.
Instead, in monotone, her mother said: "You were late coming home from school today."
She flinched, but quickly fired off an excuse. "I-I was hanging out with Sister Mary's boys from a block away. We l-lost track of time." It was a blatant, shoddy lie. Mama tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed into black slits.
"Mary's boys have basketball practice 'till seven tonight."
Shit.
She wanted to open her mouth and rectify her blunder. Wanted to rush out her seat and lock herself in her room until this passed. However, she couldn't do anything. Couldn't think. Couldn't move. If someone asked for her name, she probably couldn't even tell them that.
The old TV snapped on somewhere inside of the living room. The static occupied the silence.
That sent Mama over the edge. She stood so quickly the seat clattered to the ground behind her, scaring the fork out of Jenny's hand. In a heartbeat, the space between Abbie and her mother slimmed to nothing. The crippling grip on her elbow sent a tremor up her arm; she nearly tripped over her feet with the force she was yanked down the hall.
"Mama, please!" she begged raspingly. Tears sprang to life and slid down her cheeks in rivulets. Mama didn't stop for a second, though; jerking and dragging her daughter against the tile like a runt headed for slaughter. The grout bit into her skin. She kicked and thrashed. Searched for a ledge to grab, but the wall's finish was slick. Her fingers broke away within moments.
They stopped before the broom closet at the end of the hall. Abbie was granted measly seconds to recollect herself. To form a compelling plea before she was forced in Mama's makeshift confession room, furnished with every holy passage and icon known to man. With stiff figures who didn't bat an eye at what was done in their name.
"I won't lie to you again, I s-swear! Don—"
She threw the door open. Tossed Abbie inside with such vigor she skid against the ground and slammed her shoulder into a nail jutting from the floorboard. Her eyes flew open, jaw working soundlessly. Blood bloomed on the back of her shirt; it seeped down the length of the spike and made its home in the cracks.
"I didn't carry you for nine months only to give birth to a filthy sinner." She spat, eyes wide and harsh. "You stay there and pray for forgiveness, you hear me?"
The door creaked shut, followed by a metallic click. The room was encompassed in ink.
Dear father in heaven…
i.
Abbie sucked in air as if she'd been drowning for hours. Her eyes snapped open, back arching towards the sky. Her vision darted in the gloom for any indication she wasn't still there.
Abbie felt around in the dark, hands falling against the cool wooden headboard. The sheets were strewn around her legs, the dampness of her sweat-soaked comforter wetting her fingertips; she let out a shuddering exhale.
Her heart hammered in her chest like the angry fist of a god. Anxiety shaped a noose around her windpipe—fuck, she could scarcely breathe—that tautened with each moment. There was an indiscernible pain in her stomach. Not the telltale flip-flopping before vomiting, but rather a tense, quavering feeling; like a balloon with paper thin elastic brimming with water.
She shot up and crawled to the opposite side of her bed, flicking the lamp light on so quickly her wrist cracked.
Light flooded the room—her room; not whichever fucked up closet she thought she was trapped in when she came to. Rather than unsettling porcelains of Mary and Joseph perched on every shelf, rustic earthenware lined the countertops. There was a relieving absence of religious text, and an even more consoling insight that her mother was locked away in psych ward. One numerous miles away from Sleepy Hollow where she'd likely rot.
But that did fuck-all for the panic attack that raced through her.
Hot tears burned her face. Her entire body shook. She choked through her sobs and couldn't stop.
This was the fifth consecutive night she roused like this; lost and fruitless to stop the downwards spiral that's become her mental health. After so many goddamn years, she thought she was done with this. Done with the episodes and her mother and everything that had to do with her sorry excuse for a childhood.
She didn't even remember any of the "dreams" surging forth during her sleep. However, she knew with clarity they were memories dredged up from some dank corner of her brain; they were too explicit to be a fabricated experience her subconscious strung together.
And the nail that impaled her shoulder? She had a pin-sized scar on her back in the exact area; it wasn't a coincidence.
She can't hurt me anymore.
Those five words became her mantra for the next half-hour. Eventually the panic subsided, but the anguish never ebbed.
Abbie scooted to the edge of her bed and slid off. She sauntered to the bathroom, splashed her face with icy water before heading to the kitchen. Her legs shook as if she's never walked a day in her life. She held onto the wall for support.
She chewed her lip, staring into her glass of water. It was at times like this that she wished she'd sought the psychiatric help as she'd been advised, all those years ago. During her mother's trial, she dodged doctors, counselors and social workers like they were harbingers of death. Hell, maybe if she hadn't, she wouldn't have hit nadir mere weeks after Mama's incarceration.
LSD coupled with PTSD didn't make for the best trip.
Surely it was too late for her now. She's been repressing her illnesses for over fifteen years. She built this faux semblance of normalcy from the ground up and she couldn't exactly say, "Yeah, I'm having a psychological relapse about my abusive mother, undoubtedly triggered by the by the fact I think lycans are gonna' stick me the moment I step outside. Oh, and I also brought a dead guy back to life five days ago; that probably fucked me up too."
They'd incarcerate her in an instant.
She finished off her water and placed the cup in the sink. It was ass o'clock in the morning, the sun hadn't even risen yet, but she sure as hell wasn't taking her chances in the sack again. She ambled mindlessly around her apartment, distracting herself through housework.
Her apartment wasn't as filthy as she thought it would be; just dusty. Stacks of books dominated several surfaces; used paper and empty pens splayed across her table. The usual perpetrators, empty pill and water bottles, riddled throughout the living room, but in minutes they were disposed.
Abbie hovered over a nondescript manila folder on her desk. She opened the flap and thumbed through the grotesque photos, papers from the ungodly plan Crane concocted poking out the pile. His calligraphy was neat and careful; its juxtaposition to the grisly print it was written on was unsettling.
Ichabod Crane, the world's greatest fucking enigma.
It wasn't that she didn't know Crane. In the short time they've spent together, his character was easy to read. He was impulsive, gallingly secretive and his presence demanded attention, although his nature didn't match the domineering undercurrent he brought to every conversation. His intelligence was mindboggling and she could imagine he'd talk for hours about nothing just to fill a silence.
Nevertheless, his personality didn't explain the manor entirely too big for one person, although it's evident he once wasn't alone. Or his drive to take on an entire army of supernatural horrors with or without her. Nor did it explain the lengths said army was willing to go to stop one man because he clearly—somehow—posed a threat.
Despite all that, Abbie trusted him; she hated that she did. This trust made her vulnerable, made her susceptible to getting hurt. It annulled the last bearings on her rules, and she was left muddled in some abstruse moral ground because of it.
Rule number one; survive.
She performed a spell that could've resuscitated hundreds of deceased, Night of the Living Dead style, or just flat-out killed her.
Rule number two; don't trust anyone.
She followed him through hell and high water. She didn't even know how old he was.
Rule number three; stay the fuck away from anything that dealt with the paranormal.
This was the most laughable in light of recent events. She vowed to avoid anything remotely religious, but here she was, evading hellhounds and demons and other bullshit.
It came full circle; back to this inexplicable reason she held faith in him. Even after he abandoned her for months with no premonition, she was ready to hop back to his side after what could've amounted to a pinky promise. Even then she had to trust him to keep his word.
And she did.
Was it the righteous air he carried? The poise? The British charm? The outdated chivalry? The fact he couldn't keep his hands to himself and every spectral touch lit her skin aflame?
Abbie rubbed circles into her temples. If she kept thinking so hard, she was going to bust a vein in her frontal lobe.
She had hours to burn before duty called her to the station. Seeing as sleep wasn't an option, she prepared black coffee. Abbie took the steaming mug and settled onto her sofa, plucking an old logbook from the mounting pile of books she'd rented, courtesy of Adaeze's Undead Emporium.
Initially, she was hesitant to delve headfirst into the warped cyphers of an estranged world. However, her naiveté was quickly becoming an obstacle. She couldn't hold Crane back with her inexperience. Lest she's caught without him, she couldn't sit around with her thumb up her ass until he miraculously appeared to save her? She was known for adapting to her circumstances; she wouldn't let this case be any different.
This particular chronicle focused on Lycanthropy. It was a worn, leather-bound journal dating to the late seventeenth century and written by a man under the pseudonym Guleilmus Raphe. He was a printer in York, England until he was murdered by a werewolf, only to resurrect the next day as one of them.
She picked up where she ended yesterday, bringing the mug to her lips as she read.
NOVEMBER 8TH, 1664
I know naught of what I am now, or what will become of me when I die. Or what will become this body once my soul moves on from this realm to the next. Do we met our ends together? Are we one? Two who inhabit the same body? Mind? Unluckily for I, answers are hard to come about.
— GR
NOVEMBER 9TH, 1664
Death frequents my thoughts daily; I am inexplicably drawn to it. Before I metamorphosed into this abomination, I was ghastly afraid of the concept. Horrified to think that in one instant you are sentient, but in the next there is oblivion.
Now? I frequented four funerals today; three young men, and one crone. Each one, I didn't know who was laid to rest—bless them—but I attended nonetheless. I just lingered under the wilting weeping willow, clad in black, observing from a distance away.
Anyone who saw me must've been stricken. Must've thought I was the Reaper himself, here to seize passing loved ones for their adultery.
However, I am just a man riveted by the aroma and taste of death, yet unable to die himself.
— GR
NOVEMBER 10TH, 1664
I've been trapped like this for an entire fortnight. I am not a pious man—I refuse to partake in the violent affairs of Protestants and Catholics—but I've found myself praying to God every night since. I pray that he either take this illness away, or kill me.
The fickle loiter-sack has done neither.
— GR
NOVEMBER 11TH, 1664
I know what death tastes like. It is orgasmic.
— GR
NOVEMBER 12TH, 1664
The Black Death is a tempting thing. It devastates villages like a tempest, leaving empty homes and mountains of bodies too plentiful for customary entombments. So they dig into the earth for weeks, constructing a crude burial site for hundreds. Mass graves, where rot becomes the alluring scent akin to a siren's song.
Yesternight was a lapse in judgement. The sickly old man was half-dead, thrown into the streets by his own kinfolk. He was delirious and blubbering. I would've been wrong to let him suffer until the plague took him. I made his demise as painless as possible. Then in a fit of sudden, ravenous hunger, I consumed him.
Today was nearly the same, though all fifteen people thrown into the pit were already dead. I would've been wrong to let them be disrespected like so. I rectified the issue in the same manner as the last. There were six young ladies, seven young men and three children; I didn't leave a ligament behind for the rats.
I want to say I am disgusted with myself, but how could I when I am so satisfied? The other part of me—the parasite—is content. He makes it hard to distinguish our emotions from one another, even harder to tell wrong from right.
— GR
Abbie stilled, mind racing. The whole "I devour the dead" bit wasn't new—she knew firsthand from Crane—but Raphe's entries added a degree of distorted intimacy with the horrors of Lycanthropy. While she never took pointers from Twilight folklore, the glorification of werewolf lifestyles was misleading. The dichotomy between wolf and man sharing the same vessel seemed exhausting. The entire transformation processes was bloody and gruesome—rather than morphing into a wolf, said creature grew inside of the host until it burst through the human body, and vice versa—and nothing short of traumatizing.
ii.
Soon enough, the sky melded from stark blackness to the gentle cerulean and golden hues of daybreak. She swept through her morning routine, stopping only to adjust the badge on her uniform. She slapped her hair into a ponytail halfway out the door, bounded down the complex's staircase and hopped into her truck.
The station swarmed with media. News vans parked outside the property. A few desperate reporters and starving journalists wandered around the precinct's door, waiting for any egressing officials to badger answers from. Although Westchester County's police station became the depraved media's favorite hangout spot, today's crowd was larger and antsier than the others. After a hefty wait and much debates amongst the higher-ups, the entire Westchester District of New York received heavy National Guard involvement and a strict curfew, which would take place today. Schools' reopening date postponed until next week and parents were troubled of what this spelled for the town.
Bypassing the loitering press, Abbie pushed the heavy door open and began her arduous day of work. The precinct was busy per usual. The telephones pealed incessantly—her office walls weren't thick enough, damn it—while subordinates scuttled to each end of the building, delivering reports like mailmen. She settled into her cushioned swivel-chair, performing the thankless job of micromanaging and preparing staff reports.
It's halfway through the third robbery account from Kwick-Mart when the distending pressure made itself known again. Her foot rapped under her desk. She chalked it up as anxiety, or at least tried to. As each second—stretching for hours at a time—passed, it augmented. Spread from her stomach to her entire torso like a virus.
The hand holding her pen quivered violently. Her skin felt tight, as if it was no longer pliant enough to keep her insides inside.
She rued the day she did that stupid fucking spell, the likely genesis of this sensation. Perhaps there were ramifications for first-time magic users? Maybe screwing with voodoo tacked some fiend or satanic illness to her? She doubted Crane would leave her in the dark about something as critical as that, but she was scraping for answers.
Just the thought of the morgue sent a convulsion through her stiff body. When she returned to the station the morning after, there was nothing. The slate had been wiped clean; the atrocities they committed seemingly never existed. She scoured every recorded phone call in case she overlooked anything, but she was met with the same results.
The mortician and his colleagues surely would've phoned the police. Her DNA coated the crime scene and she had an extensive record; there weren't any logical reasons she wasn't in jail right now, waiting on the guilty verdict for body defacement.
She craned her neck and stretched her arms above her head, hoping to ease the wracking tension. There was a knock then a squeak as the door pried open. A stout woman poked her head in the room.
"You have a visitor waiting for you in the lobby, Lieutenant." She spoke briskly, disappearing as quickly as she came. Abbie frowned, took a sip of the water bottle on her desk, and exited her quarters.
From her peripheral vision, she spotted Luke. He strolled in the opposite direction, files of paper tucked in his underarm. It's been radio silence between them since he stormed out her home weeks ago. This was their longest dispute yet.
She felt his eyes burning holes through her back.
Abbie bent the corner to see Crane settled in a plastic chair too small for him, sporting a displeased countenance as he perused a magazine. Instead of his normal ponytail, his hair rested on his shoulders, the rest tumbling down his back. He wore his iconic, timeworn coat over colonial garb, legs crossed like a proper Englishman.
Upon her arrival, he flipped US Weekly closed and stood.
"Good day, Miss Mills," he said, once again doing that thing where he invaded her space, leaving scant inches between them. His warmth—did werewolves produce excessive heat?—enveloped her, swathing her body like a duvet in midwinter.
She smiled. It was weak and tired.
"I'm assuming you didn't come all the way to my job for doughnuts and coffee." she said, planting her hands on her hips.
Crane peered down at her, dark lashes fanning his pale cheeks.
"I'm afraid not. Perhaps one day soon, we should." He cleared his throat, eyeing the people milling to-and-fro around them. He leaned closer so only she could hear. Crane's soft, tawny beard tickled her cheek; the lulling scent of sandalwood and earth filled her nose. Her breath hitched. "May we…speak in private?" his mirthful tone dissipated, falling into a serious, low timbre that reverberated in chest.
Mouth dry, she nodded.
The sound of papers crashing behind her seized her attention; she glimpsed back. It was Luke, fumbling with the files in his arms. He snatched each off the ground with enough force to crumple it. Shoved documents haphazardly into random folders—crass, even for him.
Crane drew back, but not far enough so she didn't feel swallowed by his gripping presence. Tempestuous eyes locked on Luke's rigid form, his jaw squared in either irritation or curiosity.
Luke had that lasting effect on people.
She pressed her hand against Crane's chest.
"Let's go." She breathed, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. He didn't look back. If anything, he doggedly avoided her gaze. She swallowed the sticky lump in her throat, exiting the door Crane held open.
"So what's the deal today?" They found a secluded area near the back of the precinct, next to Crane's car. She's only seen it once before, but it was storming then and she was preoccupied with an existential crisis. It was a sleek beauty, a classic. Exorbitant whenever it first issued, surely a priceless antique now.
"There's a few startling, recent developments."
"That's news?" she interrupted, a single eyebrow shooting to her hairline.
"In most circumstances, no; however, this is slightly more alarming than usual." She stared into his eyes, urging him to continue. He worked his jaw a few times. Curled and splayed his fingers before artlessly blurting: "I'm being hunted."
She could almost applaud him for his frankness, a great feat for Crane.
"By who? The usual squad of big-bads tearing this town to pieces?"
"Not quite." He proceeded to look more miffed than apprehensive. He bore a pissy expression—lips curled in dissatisfaction, brows furrowed—like this was a mere inconvenience than an actual death threat. "Apparently I have a hefty bounty on my shoulders for any entity willing to go toe-to-toe with me and return with my head. Which, of course, was dearly sent out by none other than the ringleader of this ploy."
Abbie chewed her lip. She figured she was right about a head honcho; people—or entities, she should say—didn't execute organized crime flawlessly without someone running the operation.
"How much money are we talking about here? A couple hundred thousand? A million?" Even without vital information from Crane's past, Abbie could deduce he held great importance at one time. Regular Joe's weren't equipped with decadent manors and presumably enough money for her great-grand kids to retire at twenty.
"Likely more," he sighed, leaning against his slick, black car. He folded his arms. "In addition, there's a promise of status and power in this 'New World' I've heard about."
There was a break to let the words soak, but she'd never fully grasp the weight of supernatural affairs.
"So you've pissed the guy off, and now he wants you dead." She abridged. She was silent for a beat. "What the hell did you do?"
Crane grinned, a lopsided, arrogant tilt of his lips she'd never seen before. Completely unsuitable for the grim tone of the conversation, but arresting nevertheless.
"We were right about the church; it's important to him, to this plan. He must've been affronted by something I did while mind-walking. Perhaps just our discovery of the base threatened him enough to seek action immediately."
"So what's next? How are we supposed to get back to the church if it doesn't exist here?" She flashbacked to the debacle at the morgue; the thought made her heart hammer loud enough for both to hear.
"You won't have to do that again," he replied quietly, reading her like an open book with illustrations. Abbie didn't respond, just shifted her weight from one foot to another and studied the coverts behind his head.
"Lieutenant?" the same woman from earlier called, looking around the side of the building.
"I have to go." She huffed, rubbing the discoloration on her neck. "Just swing by my apartment after seven and we can finish this conversation there, m'kay?"
She strode a couple feet away before turning on her heel, catching him as he ducked into his car.
"Oh, and Crane," he paused. "For the love of fuck, please get a phone."
He shot her a half smile—did he wink at her?—disappearing into his dark vehicle and peeling out the lot as if auditioning for the Daytona 500. He was lucky he's the deciding factor of the world, otherwise she would've slapped him with a pricey ticket; not that it would dent his wallet anyway.
She joined her subordinate, who hastily wiped the saliva from the corner of her mouth. She led Abbie into the building and to Irving's office. Abbie dismissed her with a curt nod, opening the captain's door and stepping inside.
Irving was the worse for wear. Bags shaded his eyes. A previously full head of black hair speckled with silver along his hairline. Wrinkles grooved into his face, his age finally catching him in the foulest way. He examined her from head-to-toe also.
After several moments, he eventually spoke.
"You look like shit." he deadpanned.
"Same for you, Captain."
He cracked a grin, waving for her to take the seat in front of his desk.
Such uncouth comments between a Captain and his Lieutenant weren't sanctioned in a dour environment. However, their bond transcended the rules and regulations of their careers.
Their connection began with August Corbin. The late Captain dragged her out a toxic, druggy rut in her life when everyone deemed her a lost cause. He spent years with Abbie, coaching morals in a teen that'd rather waste her evening taking X and shooting heroin. She was stubborn, but he was more so than her; it's probably why they squandered months quarrelling, usually spurred by her, before making any progress.
Still, Corbin was the father she wished had lived long enough to know. The wholesome love she lacked with her mother. The stability and devotion Aunt Mae and Uncle Phil no longer had the will to provide her.
When cancer took him, it was understandable when she crumbled in two.
She almost relapsed several times. Irving, being a distant friend of Corbin's before he passed, picked up where the older man left off. He wasn't fostering and gentle like the ex-Captain; he was blunt and didn't take her self-pity as excuses. But he was what she needed.
"I need to cash in a favor." He said, reaching the point straightaway. She threw him a look, stunned. Frank wasn't a "favor" kind of guy. He slept, ate and shit by the proverb "if you want something done right, do it yourself." And even then, if he went out-of-the-way to help with something, he didn't expect rewards; he only did what he wanted.
"Yeah sure, anything." She meant it.
"Macey needs to be babysat over the weekend. Reyes and the rest of the FBI have been on my ass about regulating the curfew. The National Guard sure as shit hasn't been any better, either." With his fingers, he smoothened the lines across his forehead. "I don't have time to watch over her, but I need to make sure she's safe."
It was his way of admitting he was afraid. That he knew aside from a shiny badge, nothing separated him from the hundreds of parents whose children went missing in the night.
Abbie reached over the desk and put her hand over his. She stared into his weary depths with resolve.
"I'll be there, Irving." She tightened her grasp. "I'll protect Macey."
iii.
When she told Crane he needed a phone, she didn't expect him actually getonethat exact day. Neither did she predict he'd get swindled into buying one of those fancy phones too big for practical use. He stood outside her apartment door, tapping the blank screen uselessly.
The light mounted on the wall cast a golden halo on the crown of Crane's head. Insects bumbled and chirped in the thickets, creating a low drone. The sun sunk below the horizon, the ethers dyed in dark hues and stippled with white.
Hearing Abbie's ascending footsteps; Crane promptly looked up, entirely infuriated with his purchase. He faced the phone to her like she was supposed to pinpoint the glaring defect.
"There's only one button, Miss Mills." He carped, exasperated. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with one button?"
She tried to hold in the laugh. Made a valiant effort before a snicker resonated low in her throat.
"I'll show you later, I promise." She snorted, opening her apartment door and stepping inside.
Various molding tomes on witchcraft and Lycanthropy scattered her table. The notes she scrawled onto notebook paper were tucked between various pages. If she was walking anyone else into her apartment, they'd be dogging her with questions about what kind of quarter-life crisis she was going through. Luckily, Crane wasn't this hypothetical person, and he didn't pester her with prying questions she wouldn't answer anyhow.
Instead, he shucked off his coat and laid it over the table. From hidden pockets, he pulled out several oddments. She recognized a vial of muddy liquid, a leaden pouch, an assortment of brittle bones and lastly, but certainly not least, a surgical scalpel. He drew a rolled parchment from his trousers, unraveling the ribbon that bound it closed. The ends unfurled and she caught a peek of its contents.
Abbie narrowed her eyes at the spread, taking a seat.
"What's all this?"
He didn't pause the preparations, entirely too busy crushing the bones into a fine powder.
"Fortification."
"For what?"
"Do you recall the hellhounds from a couple nights afore?" How could she forget? "The entities are tracking me in the same fashion; by scent. In the lamest term, our scents are…indiscernible."
She didn't like the way he said "indiscernible" in a baritone rasp, like there were entire cryptic sentences laced in each syllable.
"The same incident is bound to happen again," he continued. "They'll recognize we're not the same person, but obviously won't hesitate to kill an ally of mine. So, I'd like to ensure your wellbeing when I'm not present."
"That's where this witchy ju-ju comes into play, I'm guessing."
"I can lend you a fraction of my regenerative abilities. If you're harmed, you'll heal."
He took the blade and slit his wrist, letting a stream of red pour into the mortar. She watched his skin seam together, leaving a swelled line that faded each second. He dabbed the trail of blood.
"Do I have to drink that?" she asked, nose scrunched in distaste. She's had enough of drinking the skeevy potions Crane concocted. Once was ample.
Crane grew bashful. His pale eyes flicked from the surgical instrument to her, and she honestly didn't want to know what the expression meant.
"The sigil can only be carried out effectively through lacerations onto your person."
So basically he had to carve the goddamn thing into her flesh. Abbie loathed this paranormal world and its shit laws. It was all macabre and agony, like the sadistic sons of bitches who wrote the rules to magic sought the most excruciating, complicated ways to do it. She'd much rather bibbidi-bobbidi-boo this power transfer, or even take that bloody slop to the head.
"I should've warned you ahead of time—we don't have to do this today," he backpedaled.
"No, it's fine," it wasn't; not in the slightest. "Let's just get this over with."
She didn't want to be a damsel in distress. The incubus debacle was enough of that.
"Where would you prefer me to do it?"
It was like getting her first tattoo again, except this time it wasn't a shitty star on her ankle, though both were equally impulsive. Engraving an occult symbol onto conspicuous places like her arms or legs would raise questions. Plus, she imagined the sigil would be wide, considering the ones she's seen so far seemed the size of a football field.
"My back," she answered. Crane stiffened. Abbie pinched the bridge of her nose between her pads.
The shirt had to go.
Crane promptly turned around—always the gentleman—ears and neck rosy. Abbie worked the buttons on her uniform and shrugged it off her shoulders. She gripped the undershirt, heaving it above her head until it joined her uniform. She blew air through her mouth. It was just Crane. He wouldn't try anything perverse.
"You can turn around now." she called. He strode over and dipped the scalpel into the solution, coating it in layers. He crouched behind her. His warm breath skittered across her back, eliciting gooseflesh.
His knuckled brushed her in a ghost of a touch. She jumped, mumbling an apology for her restlessness. If he heard her, he didn't acknowledge it.
Crane cleared his throat. Dread settled like a rock in her stomach.
"Miss Mills, your, uh—"
She instantly understood his dilemma. Goddamn military bras with their thick straps and mile-wide wings. She reached behind to unlatch it, but bumped into Crane's palms. The slurry slipped between her fingers, lukewarm and sticky.
"Do you want me to—"
"Yes, please." She interrupted. Apparently her motor and social skills were bundled somewhere underneath her top on the floor.
His fingers pressed into her skin. A quiet snap followed. The bands fell to either side, tickling her. She held her bra from the front, just in case this day bore more gifts.
He carefully pushed the icy scalpel to her shoulder blade. His other hand held her still at the soft slope of her waist.
"Stop me whenever the pain in unbearable."
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded numbly.
The blade tore through her skin, provoking a sharp inhale; a pang shot up her spine. The scalpel was so thin she felt her flesh parting in two. Felt each excruciating detail Crane carved into her with precise incisions. Straight lines were unbearable, but worse than that were the minuscule details where the tip struck her nerves directly. Or when the gouge wasn't deep enough, so he'd realign the scalpel and restart the incision.
Pain vibrated through her sweaty, humming body. Expletives flew from her mouth.
He hesitated several times, but she never told him to stop. After eternity, he finished and gingerly drew a wet rag over her back. She unfolded her stiff hands from the chair, grooves embedded in the wood.
"Is it done?" she hissed, voice raw.
"Yes."
Abbie achingly rose and wobbled to the bathroom. She flipped the lights on, its glare burning holes through her pupils. She slammed her eyes shut until it passed. Her muscles screamed and shivered in the aftershocks of being cleaved with a medical instrument.
She felt no different than before. She wasn't surging with newfound vitality or startlingly acute senses. If anything, the opposite occurred.
Abbie spun around, peeking over the hill of her shoulder to see her reflection. Her back was bruised and engorged, but upon further inspection, she could see the changes. Her skin stitched back together before her eyes. The deep lacerations became shallow, then sealed, a dark seam left in its place. The inflammation lowered—not completely gone, but nearly nonexistent—and the lumpy flesh leveled to its usual, smooth planes. Soon, the only remnants of the pseudo-operation were the fine burgundy lines and rings of the sigil.
If she were in to the whole mutilation thing, she'd have guessed it looked kinda' cool.
Clasping her bra together, Abbie headed out to the living room. She tossed her undershirt on, wriggling it down her torso. She took a different seat—who the fuck knew how she was gonna' deal with the blood-stained chair—and faced Crane.
"Thanks." It was all she could manage; she wasn't socially experienced for these anomalous situations.
He firmed his lips.
"We're partners," he said, being the first to label their dynamic. She expected him to elaborate, go into some fervent spiel about the significance of friendship, but he shockingly left it there.
"Now about the Lycans," she segued. Crane came alive at the prospect of talking her ears to smithereens.
Two hours later, their attempt to form a workaround was vain. Even between Crane's extensive knowledge and Abbie's innovative mind, they couldn't detect any loopholes. At least ones that didn't require more necromancy and mind-walking.
"Let's say we do get in the church, what're we gonna' do?" In the off chance they breached that impenetrable hellhole; a plan beyond "break in" would be nice.
"Take and learn what we can, and then destroy it."
Abbie raised her eyebrows.
"I know gun control is slack here in the U.S, but I don't think we can get our hands on that many explosives." Based off Crane's drawing nigh a week ago, the church was colossal. It was something straight out of a cult classic horror.
"Human weapons are obsolete faced to witchcraft. We need to…" he searched for a word. "Fight fire with fire."
"I'm playing the town witch again?"
"Werewolves are only capable of so much magic." he said with a shrug and a half smile.
The promise of performing witchcraft strummed a note within her, resonating throughout her form in a flood of wired nerves. Her throat grew arid, vision distorting.
Shit.
The ballooning resurfaced with a vengeance. It seized all senses, degenerated her perception until everything was either buzzing, white or somewhere in between. Wraithlike hands wrapped around her lungs and squeezed. A third one wrung her throat, talons biting through muscles.
She thrashed and clawed her neck. Tried to eradicate a figment of her imagination. Tried to peel away incorporeal digits crushing her windpipe by whittling her flesh with her nails.
Her hands forcibly retracted from her body. Everything stopped. She no longer felt she was going to implode, but in its place was a gaping vacuum. The sightlessness and buzzing ended immediately, colors and cognizance coming home from war.
"Good God, Abigail!"
She glanced at the hands Crane held away from her. They were coated in blood.
She worked her jaw, but words were difficult then. "W-what…Crane…I don't understand—something was choking me I-I—"
"There was nothing there Abigail; you and I are the only people here."
She dropped her head. Her shoulders sagged. This was it—she was deranged; completely fucking bonkers because she almost scratched through her jugular veins fighting off an elusive fiend. Her eyes stung and she blinked to dry the tears.
There was a moment of deafening silence. If listened carefully, she could hear his heartbeat.
Crane pulled Abbie in by her wrists, enveloping her with his arms. Her cheeks pressed flush against his warmed coat, she once thought irreversibly tatty, but now fleecy, and her eyes fluttered closed, lashes wet.
It was bittersweet. The validation. The coddling scent. His hand rubbing circles into her back. He didn't seem to care his shirt was soaked, nor did he mind her bloodied fingers curled into the dark fabric, surely to leave stains. He didn't gripe about how she clung to him until she was drowsy and incoherent, instead lifting her and carrying her to her room.
He wasn't bothered by her faith in him, but maybe he should.