When they pull up to the curb near Monroe's house, Captain Renard doesn't move. He doesn't leave the vehicle; doesn't even put it in park.
Understandable, honestly.
This is Monroe's territory, and Royal or not, it isn't a smart idea to anger a Blutbad. Reformed or otherwise.
Even if he's a little bit of a chicken, sometimes.
His easy-going nature won't stop his anger if he catches Renard's scent on his territory, without permission. Uninvited. He wouldn't start a fight with the Royal, but Monroe could be quite petty when he wanted to be.
"Thank you," She says, "for the ride."
He shoots her a slight smile, and she's momentarily starstruck. "Anytime."
Renard's gaze is intense, especially when focused. He looks at her, and she can see all the unasked questions in his eyes. She won't volunteer any answers, no matter how strongly the potential bond they could have urges her to.
If she hasn't told Nick; she sure as hell isn't telling him.
She won't be a whim to fate. She will remain steadfast and strong, because she is. No matter what, she will not be a victim to her ancestry.
He reaches into one of his suit pockets, "Here's my card. If you need anything, and can't get ahold of your brother."
The offer stuns her, for a moment. She wonders if she's let something of her true nature slip, but he'd do more than give her his card if he suspected something. No, this is just him.
She doesn't know how to compare the Renard her brother spoke of, to the one in front of her. She doesn't expect any sort of kindness from this man, but he has shown her nothing but.
Everly takes it from him with a curt nod, making sure not to touch his skin. Once was enough, "Drive safe. And be careful out there, Captain." She breathes.
Steeling herself, she opens the door and exits the vehicle. They weren't followed, from what she could tell. Everly doesn't even feel a hint of the power she was subjected to, earlier. She releases a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding.
That shower she was planning on taking, really sounds like heaven, right now.
As soon as she crosses the threshold of the house, Captain Renard drives away. He waited until she was safely inside, dark eyes glued to her form, before he felt comfortable leaving.
Everly drops her bag by the door, pulling her hoodie over her head and hanging it on the rack. She wiggles her feet enough to shake her boots off, placing them out of the way, next to the front door. Reaching up, she removes her hair-clip and lets her ebony locks cascade down her back in soft waves.
She rubs her scalp, letting out a soft moan as she trudges up the stairs. Everly scopes out the house, unable to stop herself from checking the perimeter. Once she's done canvasing each room, she grabs some clothes of Nick's before she heads for the bathroom. His scent comforts her, and she needs all the comfort she can get.
She sheds her clothing, placing everything in the laundry basket in the bathroom. It's overflowing, mainly full of Nick's dirty clothes. She'll put a load of laundry in the washer before she heads to bed for the night. She won't abuse Monroe's kindness by leaving his house a mess.
When she steps under the spray of the hot water, she shudders as her body begins to relax. It's the first time in four days, that she's able to release the tension she's been holding onto. She's sore, and bone tired.
While she's rinsing the shampoo from her hair, she can't help but imagine deep, dark green eyes. Like the depths of a forest—where the trees will hold your secrets if you whisper to them.
She snaps her eyes open, refusing to continue to allow her mind to wonder in that direction.
Everly was here to support Nick, that was it. She wanted their family back—wanted to create more memories, maybe even start a couple new traditions. Nothing more; nothing less.
She's tired of running.
Turning the water off, she's quick to dry herself with a towel and throw on the over-sized shirt she'd pilfered out of her brothers dresser, and a pair of boxers. Comfort over vanity, any day.
Barefoot, she pads downstairs to the living-room. Everly turns the TV on to give her some background noise as she went to see about dinner. It was the least she could do, really.
Eyeballing everything in the cabinets and the fridge, she decides on a vegetarian lasagna. All the ingredients were accounted for, and it would keep her busy while she waits for Nick and Monroe to come home. The busier she can keep herself, the less time she has to fantasize.
Stacking the ingredients on the counter, she's about to start layering them in the pan when her phone rings from the other room.
Scowling, Everly skips to her bag and pulls out her cell. "Hello?"
"Hey, we're gonna be pulling an all-nighter. I just wanted to give you a heads-up." Nick is apologetic, but this comes with the job. Both of them.
She doesn't question it—doesn't question him.
"Ah, okay." She shrugs, "That leaves more lasagna for me."
There's a choked-off complaint she can barely hear mumbled in the background—probably from Monroe—before Nick chuckles. "Try to save some for the rest of us, please."
She's smiling ear to ear, "Be safe, you guys. Call me if you need me."
Everly tosses the phone onto the couch before heading back to the kitchen. She starts layering all the ingredients in an oven-safe dish, humming to herself as some musical plays on the TV.
Once she places her concoction in the oven, she cleans up her mess and gets some Tupperware out for the boys. It'll be easier for them to reheat it, if she singles out portions. They'll be too exhausted for much more, when they get to come home.
She won't have them skipping meals just because they're too tired to work a microwave.
The sun has barely crested the horizon, casting the house in hues of reddish-gold, through the windows, when Everly's eyes snap open. She wakes abruptly, in that frozen sort of way where fear and awareness burns hot and cold across her skin.
Curled up on the couch, she frowns as she glances around while still trying to conceal the fact that she's awake. She can't see anything from her position on the sofa. The livingroom looked like it did, when she was finally able to go to sleep, last night.
Her ears ring in the silence that suffocates her—It's too quiet.
There's something in the house with her—in this very room. She knows—can feel it. Her skin crawls, like she's waiting for something to tear into her with teeth and claws.
She inhales, slowly, continuing to feign sleep as she tries to gather her bearings while attempting to pinpoint what—or who—woke her.
Sitting up, she pushes the quilt she'd used to the end of the couch. Bare feet touch the floor and her senses alight, warning her of the coming danger. Heeding her instincts, she ducks and rolls to her feet on the other side of the room. Her hands come up to fend off an attacker, but the darkly swathed figure that hovered over the couch just continues to stand there.
Dark, beady eyes rake over her. It's a cursory glance, taking her measure and observing any weapons she may have on her person.
A scythe is grasped loosely in one of its hands, "You're not the Grimm."
Everly frowns, "What do you want with the Grimm?" She growls.
Nick had told her about the other Reaper's that had come after him, before. He'd taken care of them, and sent back a message of his own. They hadn't returned, after that, so why now?
His weapon twitches—his grip tightening on it. She can see the calculations going through his mind, trying to figure out what would be the best way to subdue her. She's doing the same—wondering how to get to the nearest dagger before he reaches her. He won't leave her alive, that's not what a Reaper does.
She won't have Nick come home to a decapitated body—she won't do that to him.
"Who sent you?" She hisses.
It's a pointless question, one she knows he won't answer. Reapers are employed by the Royals, everyone knows this. She just wanted to know which Royal was after her brother, especially after all this time.
The Crown Prince, Eric, was dead—Renard had all but tattooed his claim on her brother with that one. Although, someone within the family would've already taken up the mantle, she just doesn't know who. Everly tried to stay out of politics, barely scraping the surface so she can make sure they never catch wind of her.
That's it.
King Frederick, himself, was smarter than this, and employed better contracts than a Reaper who couldn't even manage to get the drop on her. Especially when she was asleep.
The Reaper's weight shifted, and she threw herself to her right just as he lunged at her. They've switched positions now, Everly behind the couch, and the Reaper by the foot of the stairs.
He's clumsy—new.
It's in the way he holds his scythe; slow and awkward. He's chasing after speed, which any experienced sword fighter knows is like trying to catch smoke. When trying to pursue speed, all one accomplishes is haste.
Haste is the enemy of all sword fighters.
Speed is a lie the untrained mind will tell itself when it sees an action it cannot follow. The truth is a combination of control, timing, and fluidity. Years of practice can improve each, but it takes awhile to get there.
It took awhile for her to get there, and she still isn't where she'd like to be.
Fluid motion, even done slowly, will always arrive before a hasty strike. Timing eliminates the need to move fast almost entirely. There is no need to rush, so long as one is able to get there at exactly the right time.
Ideally, she'd have a weapon by now, but because Monroe is a Blutbad, he feels no need in having hidden weapons laying around his house. When one has fangs and claws that can shred through most things, knives and swords just don't compare.
It's a shame—she's going to have to aim for grabbing a kitchen knife. If she can make it that far.
The Reaper doesn't immediately lunge for her, again. He takes stock of her, once more, and she feels bare. Her skin is littered with scars—a living tapestry of near-misses and fights she couldn't talk her way out of. It's why she prefers pants and long-sleeved tops wherever she goes.
He adjusts his stance, "Who are you?"
In that moment, she knows she can't let him live. He'll report back to whoever holds his contract, and Everly can't have that. She'll regret putting herself on their radar, later. Right now—this is her home—she'll carve her name into any and everyone the Royals send after her brother if it gets the point across.
Nick isn't the one they need to concern themselves with. Portland is now under her protection—he is under her protection.
The Reaper glances above her left shoulder for a split second—had she not been staring him down, she would've missed it.
"You should've left when you had the chance."
Without skipping a beat, she spins around and slams the palm of her right hand up into the jaw of her second would-be assailant. His head slams back into the wall, and she uses his distraction to rip the scythe from his hands.
Reaper's don't quit—they don't give up. That's why she cuts him down before giving him the opportunity of striking back at her. His body hits the floor in two thumps, blood seeping out of him to coat the wood floor.
Monroe isn't going to be happy about that—the scent of blood is notoriously difficult to remove so that wesen can't smell it.
Bracing herself, she turns back to the newbie. "That all you got?"
She's pushing him, unable to help herself. Everly isn't kind, like Nick. And, she doesn't appreciate people coming after her family. She doesn't care about the blood on her hands, as long as they're safe.
Her eyes were hard and narrowed, the blood staining her visage only adding to the intensity of her gaze.
Her normally crystal blue eyes have been taken over by a never-ending chasm of black. They are pools of ink, devouring light in their intensity—obsidian and jet in their depths. The universe is captured in black eyes.
Everly's restraint is threadbare. The Grimm inside her bares its teeth and wants to rip out his throat.
They're not much different than their wesen counterparts when it came down to it.
His eyes go wide, and he knows death is at hand. He came looking for a Grimm, and he found one.
The wrong one.