Stable.
Stable.
Stable.
Dying.
Stable.
Dying.
Life and death seemed to alternate now.
Kathain was alive, for now. Solomon had found her before she could finish the deed. Actually, Zaizen himself had come for one of their daily appointments and stumbled across the girl, quite literally, in the dark of her "apartment." It was Zaizen who called for help, just as Brett would have on any of her darker nights. He "saved" her.
Stabilized was really the better term.
Even the doctors spoke around the girl in hushed tones, as if over a deathbed. In truth, if Kathain had the breathe to speak, the precognitive would probably have whispered, too. The room held that somber, oppressively solemn atmosphere that begged for quiet, like the New York Library, or the formerly impressive St. Peters, even St. Patrick's Cathedral. It stifled any words, smothering the even the natural human need to breech the silence.
Speak with dead, Kathain.
Yes, stable really was the best term for the situation. The girl drifted in and out of consciousness, fading in and out of reality. Clarity fell away. Kathain didn't feel alive, or dead, really.
And the dreams, they came faster, harder.
It was as though the mirror held her fast, forcing the girl to see such brutal and violent things. And, yet, Kathain knew it was not really her gift's fault exactly. It was the drugs. So many chemicals injected into her body to keep the girl alive. They destroyed any semblance of control in regards to the girl's strange sight. They kept her from being able to avoid the terrible things her gift made the girl see. Kathain now saw it all, saw everything that would ever happen.
But it all came so fast, that she just didn't seem strong enough to keep hold of one, singular vision.
Death is coming.
Kathain had always known that. The question was really, who?
xxxx
"So, how has your little journey been?"
Markus sang the words with a demented sort of glee as the witches slid into their places in the booths, taking up a grand deal of space. Robin felt sick, but Sakaki just sat beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder, as if trying to still her thumping heart.
This new stranger, Markus, seemed all too delighted at the return of the witches to America. In his vaguely Hispanic features, and dark, chocolate brown eyes, Markus held nothing but intrigue and amusement at the sights of these bedraggled few. The man seemed all too pleased and keen to their plight, smoothing his mustache and curly, dark hair mock coyly. Immediately, Robin hated the way Markus could fix his gaze upon you, as if seeing deep into the soul, to your innermost, darkest secrets, and expose them all at once. The man was unsettling and downright creepy to say the least. Especially that smile, a Cheshire Cat grin that spread almost demonically from ear to ear.
Markus was a dangerous element, no question.
Even Amon regarded the newcomer as such, keeping his distance. Robin liked that, but, as the girl recalled, her former partner kept distance between himself and everyone.
"Do you go and find yourselves off wherever you went?" Markus chirped, feeling light.
Robin didn't like the sounds of that.
Brett shook his head. "No. But we did find them." He gave a gesture to Robin, Amon, and Sakaki. "Fellow refugees."
Markus rested a darkly knowing gaze on Amon. "Interesting. Thirteen."
"Yes…" Amon whispered.
The man nodded slowly. "I know." Markus pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat and lit one, taking a long drag from it. "I'm abandoned, not stupid, for crying out loud."
Nycole felt disquieted. There was something behind the man's tone of voice that the empath didn't like at all. A hungering lingering within Markus, dark desires of power and greed. It was that same lusting that had driven the band from the familiar shores of America to half away around the world. Actually, no, it was how Markus had acted upon those baser instincts of his that sent them fleeing their once friend.
The empath didn't like where this was heading already; she grabbed Robin's arm and went to drag her from the booth. "Come with me."
Amon watched curious as the two girls left, but Markus addressed the man again.
"Welcome to America."
xxxx
It was a bad day when Nycole smoked even one cigarette.
It was an even worse day when the girl went out to go and actually buy her own pack of cigarettes. It was damn near the apocalypse when the empath wanted to buy a pack of Djarum Blacks. There was a reason the group affectionately called them "black sticks of death."
Today was one of those days.
Nycole hoped desperately that Robin wouldn't figure that out.
The girl walked uneasily beside her companion as they crossed the IHOP parking lot for a small, local tobacco shop. It had been ages since the empath had gone there in search of a pack of cloves, but the shop hadn't changed a bit. The telepath had often wondered what divine hand placed coffee and cigarettes so close together.
"Who is that?"
Nycole shook her head, not really wanting to answer. "An old friend, sorta." The girl wandered through the store, perusing the shelves with Robin in tow. "He's… important to the Thirteen."
"What?" the Craft user inquired.
Nycole shook her head. "It's nothing."
xxxx
"Did you get what we needed?"
Markus gave a shrug, mild and capricious. "Maybe."
Geoff glared. "Quit fucking around."
"Yes, I got the things you asked for," the man admitted, giving a flick of his cigarette into an old, long forgotten cup, ashing it quickly. "You don't think I'd leave you hanging, do you? Not my old family."
Brett kept his eyes on the window, clearly casing the place. He kept a sharp lookout for any police or Solomon agents, in addition to just anything suspicious. With Nycole and Robin next door in the tobacco shop, Brett tried to keep an eye on that store, too, peering out the windows with keen interest. His entire body, each and every muscle and instinct was on edge. If the fire elemental could, he would have paced up and down the long length of the diner, primed for action.
But, no. First, they had to play nice with Markus.
"My children have returned to me," the man said sweetly, too sweetly.
"No," Brett corrected him harshly, feeling bitterness rise at Markus's arrogance. "We came back for Kathain."
"Not in the long run."
Xxxx
Sierra was a patient person. She had been for many years. She would be for many more.
The girl studied the bow in grave detail, careful to handle it as gently as possible. If it did belong to the other Thirteen, Sierra wanted to leave as little of an impression upon the old, ebony thing as possible. But, still, she wanted, craved, thirsted for every bit of knowledge that went along with those old myths and those ancient days.
Her fingertips connected with ancient horn.
"Tell me a story."
xxxx
Minutes.
Yes. Minutes.
The more Kathain focused, the more she could feel time. It coursed in and out of her, flowing like a river. No. Like a tide. Each passing wave carried more of time and space through the girl, showing the precognitive another vision.
It slowed.
The drugs had to be wearing off.
Kathain focused, pooling around her every last shred of energy she had, trying to concentrate. If the medications were starting to wear off as much as they seemed to be, Kathain figured on another round of injections shortly. She had a tiny window of time to do what needed to be done and see what the girl needed to see. The more Kathain worked against the chemical blur, the more in focus things became, the more concrete and real the world seemed. Existence congealed into reality. He strength rose, calling upon the mirror and every scrap of her gift.
"Show me…."
The words were but the breaths of a young woman, a sad, haunting call to the strange mirror within. It shimmered, vaguely shifting and dancing behind her eyes.
Then, clarity came to her.
The feel of the hospital bed beneath her became real. The texture of the blankets seemed soft and warm against her flesh. The slight chill peppered her skin.
And the visions solidified into one, cohesive image.
"The Queen has returned."
xxxx
Intrigue!