Macon
Macon could not sleep.
This was far from uncommon.
He'd always suffered from a bit of insomnia.
His mind too hyper vigilant to let go enough for his body to just, relax.
It wasn't unusual for him to go days, weeks, without sleeping. Taxing himself far past what a human constitution could handle. Or even a Caster.
He, of course, was neither of those things.
Not human.
Even nature — it would seem — could not let him forget that fact.
The noises in his room were particularly loud tonight. The rain beating down on the roof of Ravenwood was an incessant pounding in his head.
Storms like this usual reminded him of Izabel, or as he'd called her since before she could walk "Ibbie".
The nickname was something she used to find endearing but now took any and every opportunity to remind him that she was — in fact — not five years old anymore.
His sister could cause the heavens to open up when she was in a foul mood.
When he was younger, during particularly bad storms in hurricane season, he'd sometimes joke with Hunting that, "Little sister must be having a tantrum somewhere."
Tonight the rain did not make him think of Izabel.
It did not make him think of anything, except how unbelievably loud and distracting it was, forcing his beyond fatigued mind to stay alert.
He could hear the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock down the hallway, the steady cadence of Hunting's footsteps in the rooms below.
His brother would have never walked the halls so brazenly if their father were there.
It'd been nearly four months since Silas Ravenwood had left on one of his, increasingly, frequent 'business' trips with their Grandfather; leaving Ravenwood Manor temporarily in Macon's care.
The rooms of the Manor were far less suffocating in his father's absence, but no less restricting.
He felt like some kind of abused animal that had been placed back in its cage, finally free of its tormentor, only to realize the bars of its prison were wrapped in electrical wire.
Ravenwood is a Dark place of power, Melchizedek.
It didn't matter that his father had been gone for months, Silas lived in every room, every wall, every crack and crevice in this house.
He lived in the lining of Macon's skin.
We are dark creatures. Some day you will understand what that means.
Macon clenched his eyes shut tightly and concentrated on controlling his breathing. It was a technique Emmaline had taught him when his abilities as an Incubus had started to become…overwhelming.
"Breathe. Center yourself. Control it." She would have said.
A soft wining sound had him opening his eyes suddenly and glancing to the right, Boo stood beside his bed, the dogs warm brown eyes watching Macon intently.
Again, Boo made the same quiet wine, stepping forward slightly and resting his large head atop Macon's dark comforter.
He reached a hand out from under the blankets to scratch behind Boo's ears, "It is alright, Old boy." He couldn't help smiling a little at the dogs, seemingly, disbelieving huff.
"Just a bit overtired is all."
He felt, as he always did, a silent understanding pass between them, and allowed himself to take comfort in his old friend's steady presence.
The sound of Boo's quiet breathing was soothing.
It was a sharp contrast to the unpleasant, repetitive noises that had been making his mind race before.
He rolled onto his side, resettling himself against the mattress, his left foot sliding from beneath the blankets to hang off the edge of his bed.
It was pointless.
He felt like he was somehow both freezing and on fire, simultaneously. His skin was itching with the sensation to move — get up.
He growled in frustration and threw the blankets off of him, his hand groping blindly for one of the many books haphazardly piled on his bedside table.
He heard the clinking sound of Boo's claws against the floorboards as the dog retreated to the other side of the room. Macon knew without looking that Boo was settling himself on the floor in front of the bedroom door.
Boo would stay there all night.
He always did.
Macon looked down to the novel he held in his hand — Great Expectations.
He made no motion to turn on the lights. There was no need.
He saw much better with them off, to be honest. He could see every detail of the room clearly.
Turning back the worn book cover he flipped to the first page,
My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
Sleep would not come tonight.