Scene 1: l'eu de Nightmare
Friday. August 7, 2015.
New Orleans - Morning

Thin rays of sunlight crept across an old rug and an older bed through open windows and old white curtains, thin enough in design, but worn thinner with age. Bare feet, belonging to one Salvador Delahada, were planted upon the former. Sheets a wreck, tables and chairs upturned; the room was a mess. More than a mess, it was a testament to their glorious depravity. After watching the sunrise, as was his custom, he had turned to admire the destruction.

The sound of running water was the only thing breaking the otherwise silent morning?s crawl towards midday. It was time to consider moving forward with why they?d come here, to New Orleans. Using all the willpower he could muster, the Spaniard decided to pull on his pants instead of stepping into the shower behind the man already inside.

Skid, wrapped in skin and flesh and the body of a man without the monster spilt across its surface, called out from under the streaming water, cold enough to leave tongues of steam coiling towards the ceiling off the Daemon. ?I know we?re here to ruin something, but what exactly are we ruining? And, if I may be so bold, why are we ruining it??

?So Cane can come back home.? As was Salvador?s habit, he answered the second question first. He stepped into his boots to put a stop to the instant replay of last night?s festivities that was rolling around in his head thanks to the curse and blessing of his psychometry. While his head cleared away the yesterday to make room for the here and now, he moved into the bathroom to run his fingers through his hair and considered washing his face. Skid was busy crafting a bubble beard, which he proceeded to stroke while Salvador continued with his explanation. It was hard for the half-fae to keep a straight face.

?Long story short,? the Spaniard went on to say, after clearing his throat, ?he?s an exile. He comes here and the fuckers in charge of the place will put him down. Something about killing a bunch of innocent mor--? No. There was a different word Cane used. Never mind the preceding sneer. ?--mundanes.? That was the one. Salvador shook his head. ?They have funny words for things around here.? He watched Skid?s reflection in the mirror.

Leaning back into the water, the suds and bubbles washed away, leaving only a somewhat serious face, one eye just too red to be brown, and the other solid silver and eternally unfocused. ?I like places like this,? His fingers ran over his scalp, and he cranked a different knob on the wall. As he stepped from the shower, it began to bellow steam of its own accord. ?So we?re going to kill the fuckers in charge.? The smile that blossomed on his face was charming, and without so much as a trace of horrible in it, save the sheen to his eye.

?Most of them,? Salvador confirmed. There were a few on the Do Not Kill list in his head that he planned on dealing with more delicately, but he could sort those details out with the Daemon later.

Skid threw his arms around the Spaniard?s shoulders from behind, and set his chin on one. ?I like this plan. We?ll bring your Canaan home, Si'aishnak.? His eye settled on the smiling face in the mirror, and he smiled too. ?In Hell, this?d be the kind of vacation you?d tell your grandkids about.? A rough pat to the Spaniard?s chest, and the Daemon slithered off into the room proper. ?Take a shower, then we can get started. If you smell any more like me, we?re not gonna make it out the door.?

With a chuckle, Salvador reluctantly stepped out of his boots again. He didn?t take quite so much issue with shedding his pants, though he might have preferred following the Nightmare in man-skin into the bedroom instead of stepping into the shower like he?d been told.

?Not my grandkids,? the Spaniard stated with certainty. An undertone of ugh peppered his declaration. He grumbled further disgust about the very idea of spawning children, let alone grandchildren, while scrubbing Skid scent off his skin.

?I dunno.? Skid?s voice wafted back into the shower from the bedroom. ?If I could figure out how to make something out of the two of us, I think it?d probably be so cool we?d both die the moment it killed us because for fucking real think about tha-.?

?No.? Salvador adamantly interrupted the Daemon, shuddering. Just, firmly: ?No.?

?Fine,? followed by a final, muttered ?nobody lets me make monsters anymore..?

?Ning?n monstruo jam?s podr?a ser como t?, Peluche hermoso.?

___________________________
(Co-written with the ever-fabulous Necromesh.)

Scene 3: Death to Bella
Saturday. August 8, 2015
New Orleans
Across town; Early AM


Perhaps it was Nash?s way of telling him he?d overstayed his welcome. Surely the High Warlock of New Orleans knew a spell to silence the banging of the headboard against the shared wall of their two rooms. And how could any one man go on like that for so long? In any case, the ruckus had driven Adrien from the bedroom into the living room, where he?d taken up residence on the couch with a book.

In many ways, the vampire would be forever frozen in a time long past. He often longed for the life he?d lived as a human. He?d a wife and a child for several years, until they became victims of the war. As a soldier, Adrien did what he could to avenge their deaths and honor his country, but after what was done to La Pucelle d'Orl?ans, he left France altogether. While plotting the King?s death in England, he was discovered by a small coven of vampires who gave Adrien the best gift he could ask for: an immortal life to spend ruining the lives of the English.

Adrien le Boursier spent the next several hundred years entertaining himself by striking discord wherever he could. The poor Lady Jane Boleyn thought George favored his sister, the Queen, over her, when really it was Adrien who lured the Viscount of Rochford into his bed most nights. Oh, the books he could write with the secrets he?d kept for so long.

The content would be so much more thrilling than the trash he was currently reading.

?Oh, Bella,? Adrien crooned at the book cradled in his hands. ?Were I in Edward?s shoes, I would show no restraint.? Suddenly, the jokes from the whelps about sparkling in the sunlight made sense. He decided then and there to forbid his children from siring new vampires until the name ?Bella? was no longer synonymous with vampirism.

A frantic knock at the door saved Adrien the horror of having to finish reading the travesty of a book he?d had the misfortune of starting. Additionally, with any luck he?d have the opportunity to interrupt Carson?s romp with the effervescent Katarina Lane. He cast the book aside with little care, lamenting on his way to the door that the warlock?s penthouse lacked a fireplace with which to burn the poor attempt at storytelling.

Upon opening the front door, Adrien was forced to lower his imperious gaze due to the height of the midnight caller.

?My, but aren?t you a little young to be calling on the High Warlock of New Orleans at this hour??

?I need to speak with Nash!? Came the girl?s breathless reply.

Adrien took one look at her distraught expression and thought better of teasing her outright. He opened the door further, inviting her in with a sweep of a pale hand.

The girl could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old, the puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks of a distressed child juxtaposed with the carriage and attire of an adult. White-blonde hair was pulled back in a tight plait, more than likely concealing some sort of weapon (possibly two) in addition to the many others sheathed in various places on her small frame. She was dressed in black from neck to toe, all breathable material and supple leather. A sliver of a rune peeked out over her stiff collar and the fading scar of another decorated the side of her neck.

Adrien closed the door without a word and pushed a hand through his now shortened ebony hair. Where just moments ago he had wished he?d left the warlock?s home long ago so as to never have come across that abomination of a book (and why Carson even owned the book in the first place would forever haunt him), Adrien was delighted to now have the opportunity to witness whatever drama was about to unfold with this Child of the Nephilim.

?Nash is...? Adrien?s eyes cut away from the girl toward the hallway that led to the bedroom and the noises that still somehow managed to wind their way through the spacious apartment. No doubt the warlock was using some sort of spell to amplify the garish soundtrack of their union. ?Well, he?s indisposed at the moment.?

?It?s an emergency,? the girl insisted, moving forward as though she intended to barge into the warlock?s room.

Adrien slipped effortlessly into her path, bringing the girl to a halt without so much as a word. He ignored the look of disgust she gave him, having grown accustomed to the Nephilim?s distaste for Downworlders like himself. It took far more than the judgement of a child to get under his skin.

?Allow me, child, please. I?d rather you not sully your precious, angelic mind with the no doubt barbaric, debaucherous acts currently taking place in that room.?

The vampire knocked lightly on Nash?s door before letting himself in and clearing his throat. ?A little less noise, please. A little less noise.?

Across the room, on a giant four-poster bed, beneath an enormous feather quilt, Carson Nash let out a frustrated groan. The bed ceased to move and Katarina sat up. The quilt spilled off her back to pool around her waist, effectively obstructing Adrien?s view of her naked rear. She looked over one shoulder at him and smiled a most dazzling smile.

?If you?ve come in here just to quote Peter Pan, I assure you I?ll be chaining you to the roof. We can watch the sun rise together, Adrien.? Nash had yet to lift his head, seemingly intent on pulling Katarina back down so they could continue.

The vampire?s expression waned, but he ignored this jibe to offer one of his own. ?It is far better literature than the drivel I discovered on your shelf, Carson. But no, that is not why I have interrupted your mellifluous love-making. There is a Child of the Nephilim crying in your foyer. She would have interrupted you herself, but I spared her the indignity.?

?Send her away,? Nash said through gritted teeth.

?Nash,? Katarina chided, clucking her tongue disapprovingly.

?What, you really want to stop??

?She?s crying. Go see what she wants. We can start over when you come back.?

Nash finally sat up, simultaneously rolling Katarina onto her back. The lilac-colored warlock giggled while Carson took his time slithering over her body before getting out of bed. He pulled on a pair of silk pajama bottoms and strode through the door without looking at Adrien at all.

Adrien curled a secretive smile at Katarina, who fanned a wave at him in response, before following after Nash. He arrived in the great room just in time to see the young Nephilim child throw herself at Carson and was horrified with himself to liken it to the way that wretched girl from the book had metaphorically cast herself upon Edward. The story would be forever burned into his psyche.

?They?re all dead! You need to come now!?

Nash seemed to have softened considerably, pliable in the wake of the girl?s plight. Or perhaps he knew her more personally than Adrien thought. The vampire tucked himself in a corner to watch in silence.

The High Warlock masked his alarm skillfully while cradling the girl in a tight hug. ?Who?s dead?? The girl began to cry in earnest now and Nash shook her gently for an answer. ?Emily, who?s dead??

?I was supposed to meet Piers at Snake & Jake?s, but he wasn?t there. And while I waited for him, I felt--I? I felt it break. Our bond. I feel as if a part of me is dead, Nash.? Emily gripped the warlock?s arms tightly and sobbed into his neck. Her moment of unraveling was just that, a moment, before the girl drew herself up and sucked down a steadying breath. ?I went back to the Institute for help, but--? Her voice cracked.

Nash extricated himself from from Emily?s grasp before she could go on, holding her at arm?s length so he could look her in the eye. ?Was there anyone left?? The girl shook her head and Nash grit his teeth together. He looked to one side, deliberating in silence before taking a deep breath.

?Stay here,? he finally said. Nash let Emily go and snapped his fingers. Instead of silk pajamas, he now wore the proper attire for leaving the house.

Adrien stepped away from the wall, nodding at Emily. ?I can stay here with the girl, if you?d like, Carson.?

Affronted, Emily grimaced at Adrien and frowned at Nash. ?I don?t need a babysitter. I?m coming with you!?

?It?s safer for you here,? Nash pointed out.

?I don?t care! You can?t stop me from going along.?

It was the stubborn jut of her jaw, Adrien knew, that had Carson folding without a fight. The warlock had countless spells at his disposal to keep the girl imprisoned here in the apartment, but rather than employ any of them, he sighed and let her follow him toward the stairs that led to the roof.

?We?ll go by portal,? he told her. At the bottom of the stairs, Nash turned to Adrien, affecting an air of casualty. ?Keep an eye on Katrina, will you? Find something entertaining to do.?

Adrien perpetuated the pretense with a wry smile. ?A good, old-fashioned book burning is what I have in mind, Carson. Run along, now.?

August 14

?

?

?

?

?

"Salome."

Exhale.

?

?

"Where the fuck have you been? Do you know how long I've been calling you? You never fail this hard at getting back to me. Do you have, any idea just how--- Whatever. Just---tell me where you are."

"Home. I'm at home, why?"

"What about Canaan? Where's he?"

"I've no idea. Why would I know that?"

?

?

?

"Cris, listen to me. Take Leena, and get out of town. Take a vacation. Get a tan, do something fun. Gods know you need to."

?

"What's happened?"

?

?

?

Sigh. "A few days ago, I talked to Nash. The New Orleans Institute was raided. It was---more occupied than it's been lately, and that should've meant at least someone got out of it alive, but there weren't any survivors. Bodies, desecrated. Evidence of torture. Most of them were just kids."

?

?

?

"How?? That is supposed to be impossible, the---"

"The Clave's already over that. They don't know how. No one does. The Wards were up, the town was quiet. It shouldn't have happened."

?

?

"But it did. Are there any other leads? Culprits, perhaps."

"Nash has a pretty good idea."

?

?

?

?

?

"Canaan wouldn't kill Nephilim."

"You don't know that, Cris. People tend to get kinda violent when they're about to lose their lives."

"Canaan's been here. Even the Nephilim here do not assault him, and he does not assault them."

?

"You're just about a soldier. You've never launched a preemptive strike before? Get them before they get you?"

"They are not after him."

"Oh, wake up, Cris. He broke the shit out of your Law. He's murdered people. He's threatened the exposure of the Shadow World all on his own. The only reason why the Clave hasn't been after him before is because Nash did his job and took care of it, and cleaned up his damned mess.

"You know, I remember telling you how much of a flight risk he was, but saying "I told you so" doesn't feel as good right now as it used to.

"Canaan wasn't all of Nash's theory."

"What was the rest of it?"

"The boyfriend."

?

?

?

"Salvador?"

?

?

"Do you know where he goes all the time?"

?

?

?

"Cris, the Clave is going to go after them. They're the only lead your people have. But you know how they are. If they have someone to blame, they're going to blame them. Nash knows I know you, and he knows you know Canaan and the boyfriend. I've been trying to give you as much of a head start as I can.

"If you're serious about living in that city and doing it anonymously, and if you're serious about keeping the Clave away from your Angel Girl, you need to get the fuck out and lay low for a while. If they don't think you're involved in hiding them, they're gonna try to recruit you to help them. Nash is willing to cooperate with them. I'm pretty sure you're not going to be."

?

?

?

?

?

"We don't know if they did this or not."

"Then find out. Whatever. But that's not going to change the fact that they're coming anyway. Just---Cris."

"What?"

"Prepare to be disappointed. I hear it in your voice, you want to believe that they didn't do this, and there's got to be some sort of mistake, but there might not be."

?

?

?

?

"Fine. Thank you."

"Be careful, Cris."

?

?

?

Sigh.

CLICK

Scene 7: Retour dans la d?pression
Tuesday. September 1, 2015.
Rhydin - Evening


Alone in Teas, Cane sat at a table with the remnants of what looked like a light dinner spread out on the table's surface before him. He was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed with ankle to knee and held a worn leather book in his lap. Every time the chime rang at the shop?s entrance, he looked up from his book to the door and every time that patron was not Crispin Ashwood, his attention returned to the pages of the book.

A little after seven-thirty, the Shadowhunter strode through the front door. When he arrived it was with relief to be out of the sun and to breathe something that did not taste like salt. He put a hand through his hair and swept the back of his neck. It came back damp and he dried it on his jeans, frowning as he swept the interior with a narrowed gaze.

The bell drew Cane?s eyes once more, just a flicker of a glance at first. It wasn't until his attention landed on the book again that he realized the newest occupant was the person he?d been waiting on. The Cajun's jaw tightened before he looked back up.

They seemed to have the same impression of what they were both about to do. Cris? frown had darkened a touch more than was customary, but he turned toward the Cajun's table and laid his fingertips against the empty chair across from him. "May I?"

After the initial reaction, Cane erased anything from his face that might be telling. He nodded at the chair and closed his book, setting it on the table next to his empty plate. The cover was void of script but bore a gold filigree crest embossed on the leather. Didn't seem to have any trouble looking at Cris, but finding the ability to speak was another matter.

He took a seat facing the other man, and loosely folded his hands. He tended to find all of his words when others could not. "Why did you ask me here, Canaan?"

Body language spoke volumes. Cane glanced down at the Nephilim's folded hands and then at his own lap while gathering his thoughts. Swallowing audibly, he looked back up. "I don' know, I..." What could he say that wouldn't make himself sound pathetic? "So dat's jes' it? You don' want nothin' ta do wit' us anymore?"

"What about that is so hard to understand? Both of you seemed to think I already had one foot over that threshold. I am simply bringing my other foot along."

"Both of--what? What're you talkin' about?"

Cris closed his eyes. "Nevermind. My point still remains. Why does this concern you so much?"

A response did not come immediately. Cane stared at Cris for five whole seconds before blinking and then he exhaled slowly through his nose, eyebrows and mouth in a relaxed set in his blank expression. When he opened his mouth, he was careful to keep the tongue piercing from making any noise against this teeth. "Yer right. Nevermind. Sorry I wasted yer time."

"For the Angel's ****ing sake, Canaan...." he rolled his eyes. "You asked me to come and speak to you about this, and you are giving up after only fifteen minutes. Had we been better friends, I would be offended." He sat forward. "Let me ask you this, then, instead. How else did you expect me to respond? Or was this something I was merely never meant to hear of?"

The Cajun's mouth split into a sharp, caustic smile and he shook his head minutely. "I did ask you to come. But yer de one who walked away, so don' hand me a bull**** line about 'giving up'. I didn't do ****, but I bet if I hadn' contacted you, ya never would'a talked to me again." 'Why does this concern you so much?' That had stung more than he cared to admit. "An' maybe I'm still tryin' ta wrap my head aroun' t'ings myself, so I'm sorry ya didn' get a chance ta hear it from me. I've been a little busy waitin' fer de folk who wanna put me in de ground for some'n I ain' done."

"What I can't -fathom-, exactly, is why threats such as those bother you as much as they do either. You know the Accords, as well as I do. Shakey though our relationship with Downworlders is, making that worse could be a criminal offense enough. You could have simply gone home, kept a low profile, and extricated yourself afterward with ease. No one needed to be slaughtered for that. Children, did not need to be slaughtered for that. For a man who was so concerned about how his friends would take impulsive murder, you're accepting this rather easily."

Cane sat forward abruptly, placing a fist on the table's edge. "I had no idea dey was even dere, let alone what it is dey was doin'. Sal didn' tell me **** until a few days after dey came home. What was I supposed to do? It ain' like he asked me what I wanted, Cris.

?De friends an' family dat I've love fer de past 20 years was all taken away from me. I can never have 'em back. I got sent here wit' nobody an' nothin'. He's... he's jes' tryin' ta give me a piece 'a my life back. I'm sorry. I know you don' understand it."

"You preach to a choir. One of the only, in fact the only now, thing that connected you and I together was that loss. You misunderstand in thinking that I -blame- you. I do not blame you. Tactically, I do not even blame Salvador and Skid. I can't. From a battle standpoint---they made a wise decision." He looked at Cane's fist and where it came to rest. "But you are correct. I do not understand it any more than that. I do not want to. They are my people, Canaan. They did not even have a chance. And when they come here to find you? They will have even less."

"What both you an' Sal both fail ta understand is dat I ain' worried about de goddamn Clave. It's--" Canaan sucked in a sharp breath and looked away. "Dem comin' here don' concern me in de least."

"Then what is it?" Crossing his arms, Cris sat back in his chair and waited.

Cane sighed. "It's my fault, d'oh. I always talked about de Clave when we discussed why I couldn' go back. It ain' Sal's fault fer not knowin' it's Nash who don' want me dere."

"I thought that it was rather farfetched. The Clave has bigger problems than one Warlock who broke the Law some years ago,? Cris said.

A short, mirthless, exhaled laugh followed quickly in the wake of those words. "Nash believes in de Law. He's a big supporter. He'd have been a hypocrite ta let what I did go." Cane paused to lick his lips and arrange his words carefully. "It ain' dat he would'a handed me over... Nash would'a kep' me from bein' able ta fight back or get away.

"I killed a lot 'a people, Cris. Clave's got bigger problems den me, but dat don' mean I wasn' on dere **** list. I'm a nuisance. Both ta dem an' ta Nash."

"Is there a reason why he's put such a great deal of interest in you? As a High Warlock, believing in the Law as he does, letting the Clave handle that would seem the most obvious decision." He shook his head, and swept his hand through the air. "No amount of comprehension can balance what has been done. If what you say is true, Salvador should have taken on Nash alone." Lowering his hand, "And not children."

"Sal doesn'--" A frustrated exhale was pushed through gritted teeth. His skin was starting to flush. "Nash is family. It's complicated an' I--." He sighed again and pulled in another breath. "He didn' know, okay? It's my fault. All of it. You're right to walk away." Cane finally sat back, lowering his crossed leg to the floor and folded his hands in his lap. He stared across the table at Cris and said very matter-of-factly, "I'd have ruined you, too."

"Fine," conceding. The less he knew of the situation, of Cane, of Nash---the better. Cris tilted his head. "But you do not get to do that. This is my choice to make, and I have no trouble making it. I do not need to watch the bloodbath that will inevitably ensue. I do not need to be put in a position where I must choose between my people and my friends. But least of all, I do not need your validation, or to hear the arrogance that fuels such a remark. This is your bed, Canaan, and you know well enough that you must lie in it. You've a wealth of support behind you. Mine will not be missed.

"So," he pushed back his chair, and got to his feet, "to answer your earlier question---yes." He tucked the chair neatly under the table, with subtle shifts left and right for proper alignment. Had he stayed any longer it would have been called stalling. He left Canaan as he'd left Salvador. Silently and with one last look meant to linger.

Cane was not looking to be corrected, coddled, or told otherwise. Nor was he manipulating or gas-lighting the other man. He believed the words. The Cajun's eyes followed Cris as he stood and made his choice, whether he knew it was one or not. It wouldn't be held against him. The Nephilim was tracked until it was no longer possible to do so without turning his head, something Cane would not do. He'd let Cris go without anything further and wait for the bell to reach for his book.

The Cajun?s gut reaction was to run. Find someplace with a loud enough bass to drown out any and all thought from his mind. Someplace with enough bodies to buffet him about and booze to sufficiently sink the proverbial ship.

Gripping the leather book tightly, he flipped it open to the page where he was reading last and stared down at the page while willing himself to remain still and read.

Scene 9: La Derni?re Paille
Tuesday, January 12th, 2016
New Orleans - 5:48 AM


?You?re being an idiot.? Katrina sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, elbows to knees, with both hands clasped tightly together. She watched Nash pace the room and pressed her folded hands against her mouth.

?I?m being an idiot? Me?? Nash glanced at the lilac-skinned warlock perched beside the sink and scowled. ?He goes on a murder spree again and I?m the one you call an idiot??

?He might not have.?

Nash rolled his eyes, sighing. ?How do you know? More Shadowhunters are dead! Specifically the ones I had tailing him. That?s not a coincidence.?

?No,? Katrina said, shaking her head. ?But you?re in over your head; I don?t think you?re aware of all the pieces on the board. I can see inside that mind of yours. Don?t do something you?re going to regret.?

?I have turned a blind eye to that boy?s chaos for decades, Kat. He?s had a terrible knack for stirring up trouble wherever he goes. I did all I could to help him, covered up countless crimes, provided distraction after distraction and still I stood by him through everything. Even during his ridiculous attempt to play mundane, I was never far from him.

?I regret ever helping him in the first place.? Soft, colorful hands slipped over his forearm. Nash huffed in frustration, but drew to a halt before the other warlock.

Katrina unfolded her legs to wrap them around Nash?s waist and her arms loosely around his shoulders. ?You love him and that is why you?re hurt.?

Nash bristled. ?Sometimes love isn?t enough. I failed him somewhere along the way and now I?m paying for it. He and that lover of his just couldn?t leave well enough alone; they?ve got it in their heads that they can do whatever the hell they please and without consequence. And for what? Because some miscreant man of the cloth killed people he loved? I lost someone that day, too. You don?t see me burning down buildings. He got his revenge, for better or for worse. That should have been the end of it.?

?I?m not saying he?s justified, Carson. I?m saying? that we don?t know all the facts yet. ?

?He can?t keep murdering people for the hell of it! Not here.?

?So let the Nephilim handle it,? Katrina pleaded. ?He hasn?t done anything to any of the Downworlders. Whatever his problem is is with them. Not you.?

The high warlock drew back his head to search Katrina?s face. His brows furrowed a moment later. ?You?re afraid of him.? Nash saw something in the way her eyes flickered away from his and he shook his head. ?You?re afraid for me.?

Katrina?s eyes snapped back to Nash?s and a furious scowl wrote itself onto her face, though it was a poor mask to hide her fear. ?He?s met everything that was sent after him. They took out an entire institute, Nash! And that poison -- you said it would take care of things. They?ve slaughtered countless people. I don?t want your name added to the list when you could very well just leave him alone to dig his own grave.?

?I will not cow to his surfeit of violence. This is my city. He?s caused enough unrest.? Nash broke away from her to continue stalking the length of the kitchen, eyes darting over to the addition of Adrien?s cool, almost torpid drift into their company.

?Tell him he?s being an idiot,? Katrina demanded of the vampire.

?You?re being an idiot,? he responded tediously.

Nash ignored this and rounded on Adrien. ?Well??

?Patience, Carson. Katrina has yet to share with me why you are an idiot this evening. I would wager a guess, though I?d rather hear it from her own lips.?

?What did they say?? Nash all but snarled.

Adrien?s eyebrows inched higher and higher toward raven?s wing hair. ?My, my, but are tensions high.? He shifted his attention to Katrina, who still sat motionless on the counter. She wouldn?t look at him, but neither was she looking at Nash, staring instead at some fixed point in the distance with her jaw set.

The vampire opened his hands, palm up. ?My contacts in Baton Rouge have informed me the Nephilim there have quietly vacated the city as they have done here. Similar reports have trickled in from Monroe and Alexandria. I dare say your wayward child has driven them from the state entirely.? Adrien actually sounded amused. ?Agnes speculates they have washed their hands of us heathen Downworlders. Time will tell how widespread the evacuation will reach.?

?He starts a war and you?re suddenly amused?? Nash questioned, incredulous.

?A little premature to be throwing that word around, isn?t it, Carson?? Adrien scoffed. ?I?d liken the Nephilim?s withdrawal more to retreat than to war.?

?No. I?ve had enough of his blatant disregard for my authority. He lives in a world where there is none to speak of and believes his reach extends back here.? He turned to retrieve his Stetson from the coat rack by the door. ?Time for a reality check.?

Scene 11: D?nouement
Thursday. January 21, 2016
1:30 AM


Moonlight shone like silver ribbons through the breaks in the fat, grey clouds that hung low in the sky. They were heavy with the threat of snowfall, and the moon?s effort did little to illuminate the streets as Cane and Sal made their way home from tournament grounds. They laughingly stumbled along, a tangle of limbs and sloppy kisses. Adrenaline and excitement from the night?s activities had them acting like a pair of drunken lovers--ones who simply couldn?t wait for the privacy of their own home, and the promise everything leading up to it made.

Sal pulled Cane to a stop beneath the light of a flickering lamp and shoved him bodily against the post. The light flickered and continued to struggle, as did Cane. He carried Sal?s Captain of the Year trophy in one hand, currently pressed firmly into the man?s back, while in the other he?d taken a handful of hoodie and pulled it taut. The Spaniard pressed his face against Cane?s throat and wound a hand into his sandy blond hair, holding him still while he left his mark on the man?s skin.

When he was finished, Sal raised his head to admire his handiwork and released his grip on Cane?s hair. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the purple bruise he?d left behind on the man?s throat and, at the same time, shoved a hand between their bodies to grope blindly between them. His grin turned wild at the slight hitch in Cane?s breathing, delighting in the panicky thrill that sent his lover?s eyes darting all around, all too wary of being watched.

?I should **** you right here,? Sal threatened. His hand traced its way down Cane?s chest, fingers finally curling to hook into the waistband of the Cajun?s jeans. While fiddling with the button, he leaned back in to whisper something against his ear.

Cane responded with an unchecked moan, and his hands fell to Sal?s waist. The one not filled with a trophy hooked around, fingers digging into the swell of his backside as he dragged their hips together. ?Someone?s gonna see,? he complained, breathing already heavy with anticipation.

?That?s never stopped us before.?

?****,? Cane breathed, leaning forward and kissing the Spaniard in a crush of lips and heat. He leaned hard against him, using his weight to force him back. ?Not out here.? He rumbled suggestively while shoving Sal out of the flickering lamplight. After catching his hand, he spun around to walk backward and tugged the Spaniard into the mouth of the alley just a few feet away.

Their laughter echoed as they moved far enough in that they?d be relatively safe from the odd passer-by accidentally finding them mid-****. It had happened before, much to Cane?s utter chagrin. Still, the threat of being caught could not completely quash his thrill-seeking tendencies. There was no greater high than this, right here and right now.

Sobriety was thrust upon them far too quickly.

Salvador sensed it first. A hand lifted with the intention of cupping the Cajun?s jaw was pressed instead to his chest, and Sal shoved him away from him and out of the path of a spell that had been aimed directly at his face.

A streak of azure static rippled past Cane?s nose with only inches to spare.

?I never thought it would to come to this.?

Nash?s voice echoed more loudly in Cane?s head than the thunder of steel and stone from the trash cans Sal had shoved him into. The atmosphere of the alley grew cold, colder than Winter, and Cane knew he had to act; there was no time to be stunned.

?No, stop!? Cane scrambled up from the gelid ground to throw himself between Nash, who stood at the mouth of the alley, and Salvado--rusty eyes lit with menace. He knew all too well these opposing forces. The high warlock was no slouch, and that was putting it lightly; that Nash was still around after so many years, and several wars, meant he?d never lost. Cane was also familiar with the ancient energies that flowed in his lover?s veins, and he?d seen the devastation caused by his capable hands.

This was not a fight he cared to see play out before him.

The Cajun set his hand over Sal?s upturned one, gently closing his freezing-cold, curled fingers into the palm of his hand.

?Calma, mi vida.? Salvador blinked slowly, snuffing the lambent fire of his eyes, and lowered his hand. The temperature didn?t change by much, but the lack of frost filled Cane?s exhalation with relief. Then he turned his eyes toward the other warlock and gave his decision, ?Dis is my fight.?

Nash didn?t wait. He raised his chin and, as their eyes, met sent another spell hurtling at Cane with flawless precision. The blue light burst like a firework against the shield it hit just a foot from its target. A second rapid-fire spell was rebuffed in a similar fashion.

?Don?t hide from me,? Nash snarled, stepping further into the alley. His eyes flickered over Cane?s shoulder towards Salvador, then back to the Cajun.

?I don? want dis, Nash.?

?It?s too late for what you want. You should?ve thought about that before you started a war.? Again he looked past Cane to where Salvador stood, watching and waiting.

Canaan shifted himself into the warlock?s line of sight and stepped forward. ?He ain? in dis. It?s only you an? me talkin? here.?

?We?re not talking.? The next spell he aimed at Cane split, but the younger warlock thrust his will into another shield that absorbed half of the spell and sent the rest to carom off the wall and into a nearby dumpster. The diverted spell struck with such force that the dumpster spun halfway ?round, forcing Nash to move out of its way.

Rather, it would have had the high warlock not simply become a shade of himself, body oozing into liquid smoke that spread and roiled along the ground. He reappeared a dozen feet away, out of a swirling, voluminous plume of jet-black shadow that splashed down from above.

?I?m not gonna fight you!? Cane?s voice echoed down the length of the alley, still rough from the multiple throat shots he?d received during the tournament earlier. When Nash flung yet another spell his way, he negated it with a burst of flame that poured from his outstretched palm.

The high warlock was beginning to grow frustrated with the constant deflection.

?But you?ll attack Nephilim??

Cane?s eyes flashed as anger welled up inside him.

?I defended myself. Dey came ta kill me--?

?Because you slaughtered an entire Institute!? Nash fired a concussive blast at Cane?s shield. It shattered the Cajun?s defenses and sent him soaring, only to find himself on the ground. He tried to hit Cane while he was down, but his next spell was consumed by another, feebler, tongue of flame.

Canaan rolled quickly to one side of the alley and hid himself from view behind a stack of discarded crates. His body shook from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He balled his hands into fists, eyes closing briefly as he argued with himself over the situation.

Fighting Nash was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn?t let this continue. Cane turned around, still crouched behind his cover, and forced a pulse of superheated energy out and away from himself. The crates caught fire as they were propelled away from Cane toward the other warlock.

?Jes? go,? Cane yelled, rising from his crouched position to stalk toward Nash. ?We don? have ta do dis. I only want ta come home.?

?So you can ruin that, too?? Carson sagged against the brick, surrounded by flaming shards of wood. He pulled his hat back into place, glaring at Cane.

?You are every bit your Father?s son. You only ever leave desolation in your wake. What do you even have left there that you want so badly?? The alley was alight with another spell, deflected and detonated in a shower of flame. It dropped the high warlock?s remorseless expression into one of relief.

?Your only mark on this world has been death. You destroy every person you come into contact with, including your own family! At least your sister was smart enough to get her child away from you before you could?ve ruined that, too.? His tone and tongue had sharpened, cutting deeper than any knife.

?If she?d stayed here, it would only be a matter of time before they went the way of your brother. You?re responsible for that as much as the preacher.?

Nash?s terrible expression smoothed into a cruel smile as Cane blanched. ?Oh, that?s right! Congratulations are in order. You?re an uncle! Or didn?t they tell you?? He flung another spell at Cane, half-hearted, who turned it aside without retaliation. ?I didn?t think so. I wouldn?t be surprised if she never wanted to see you again after all you?ve done to the people you supposedly love.? The high warlock?s eyes looked past Cane again to Salvador.

?I?d be careful if I were you. The people he claims to care for most end up dead, it?s only a matter of time. Just ask his last lover.?

Canaan snarled, equal parts pained and infuriated. The temperature in the alley, which had been so cold before, rose steadily as the snow began to melt around them. Tendrils of steam licked Cane?s skin before coiling into the night air.

The Spaniard was not at all as easy to rile as Cane. Salvador?s expression hadn?t changed from the cold and calculating stoicism he?d shown from the start. Now, though, he moved for the first time since Canaan had essentially told him to butt out.

When the Cajun?s heat started to hiss in contention against the arctic temperatures he radiated himself, Salvador took three precise, long steps backward to give the warlocks more room for their battle.

The high warlock?s eyes lingered on Salvador despite the Cajun?s growing outrage.

?Get. Out.? Cane demanded, his voice low and menacing. ?Jes? leave! I ain? gonna fight?cha no matter what?cha say. We don? have ta let it come ta dis.?

?Then you force my hand, and you?ve only yourself to blame. I warned him, after all.? Nash called upon the shadows and took to a knee, driving his fist into the cobblestone on which they stood. At the same time, the shadows around the fire escape over Salvador?s head drove the iron ladder down on top of him, with enough force to shower them all in sparks.

?Nooo!? Canaan?s scream smothered out the sound of Salvador?s pained expletive as he was smashed into the cobbles.

Nash hadn?t counted on Canaan to advance. Rather than turn to help his lover, Cane surged forward with a guttural snarl. There was an almost palpable aura of evil enshrouding his body as the Cajun rushed in, swathed in the epithets of his demonic ancestry. Rage. Blood-thirst. Malignancy. The heat of his fury radiated from him in visible waves.

Caught by his surprise, Nash had only time enough to throw up a poorly-constructed shield of will between himself and Canaan.

The force of Cane?s power struck the shield like a sledgehammer. Nash lost his hat as he stumbled back into the wall, just barely able to maintain their divide.

The Cajun erupted into flames and drove his red hot, molten arms through the invisible barrier and wrapped his hands around Nash?s throat. The rest of the shield disintegrated when Cane raised the high warlock?s temperature so much that he couldn?t even concentrate.

?I warned you,? Cane growled, grip tightening. He pressed Nash into the wall by his throat, watching as the man grew flush with fever. The other warlock clawed in vain at Cane?s wrists, burning his own hands in the effort to break free.

But it was too hot to think. Too hot to conjure any magic. Too hot even to breathe.

As Nash?s survival instinct petered out, his hands fell away to hang limply at his sides. The man sagged in Cane?s arms and his eyes rolled back into his head as his clothes caught fire.

I loved you, even when I hated you.

Canaan hated Nash for punishing him with exile. He hated Nash for leaving him with nothing. He hated Nash for keeping him from getting his revenge. He hated Nash for trying to kill him. He hated Nash for going after Sal. He hated Nash for forcing this outcome.

He choked on an angry sob as he let go the charred body of his mentor. Nash?s body slumped to the ground to smolder beside his untouched stetson. Cane took a step back as the full weight of what he?d done settled like a millstone around his neck.

But there was no time to dwell.

Fear wound itself into a tight knot deep in his belly. He abandoned Nash?s remains to run toward Salvador where he lay pinned beneath the rebar of the ladder. One of the feet had caught the Spaniard on his right side and punched through his chest below the clavicle, near the shoulder. It had him pinned to the ground. Something seemed to be burning, but it wasn?t Sal?s clothes.

?Oh ****.? Cane dropped to his knees beside Salvador and gripped the ladder?s lowest rung. Iron. He cursed again, tipping his head back to look up the length of the ladder. Getting back to his feet, Canaan gave the ladder a pull. It didn?t budge.

Salvador?s pained moan emphasized that forcing it wasn?t his best option. Assuming the retractor was jammed, he severed the bottom half of the ladder from the rest of the fire escape by melting through the metal and was then able to carefully pull the lower portion from where it was speared through Sal?s chest.

Salvador?s caustic blood was, in effect, rendered inert by the iron. It poured out of the veritable hole in his chest, which Cane tried desperately to cover with his palm.

?Hang on. I can--? He could what? Cane looked up from Salvador to the motionless slump of the corpse a few yards away. The knot of fear in his stomach turned to an ember of distress that was slowly eating away at his insides.

He couldn?t think straight -- no -- all he could think in that moment was that Nash was right. The people he loved ended up dead. He couldn?t just leave Nash?s body to lie in the street, no matter how much he hated the man in this moment. But Salvador couldn?t stay here. He needed help that Canaan couldn?t provide.

While struggling against the overwhelming feeling of helplessness, he went over his options. Aoife could help. Unfortunately, the odds of that woman actually answering her phone were slim to none and he didn?t have any time to waste. Wasting time on the phone at all was a bad idea. The only course left to him that did not involve leaving Nash behind was the one he should have thought of to begin with.

The Cajun shut his eyes, forcing himself to focus enough to pull a platinum coin into existence. The Nightmare had given it to him a year earlier in case Cane ever needed him. Well, Cane needed him now and he focused on this while clutching the coin in his blood soaked fist.

The wall immediately behind him crackled, radiating heat as the bricks and mortar split and stretched, almost seeming to turn molten as something was forced out of it. A set of black claws, quickly followed by a horrifying amalgamation of limbs, horns, and a tail, stepped forth, leaving the wall a slightly melted mess. A sharp inhalation preceded Skid?s eye settling on both Cane and Sal.

?What has happened??

?Iron,? Cane answered immediately. Now that Skid was present, he slipped the coin back into its safe place and gestured above them with a bloody finger at the fire escape. ?It came down on ?im. Nash--? The Cajun?s already hoarse voice cracked. ?Nash showed up an? he-- It was only s?posed ta be me an? him! But he went after Sal.?

?We are, none of us, willing to offer up a fair fight when everything is on the line. Not when desperation is bearing down.? Skid took a knee at Salvador?s side, and took the Spaniard up in his arms. ?Take your Nash, Canaan. Salvador is safe.?

The Cajun tipped back from where he knelt to sit on his behind, ironically feeling a little lost as the burden of Salvador?s safe-keeping was taken out of his hands. He could feel the dark, creeping loneliness of depression coming in like the tide. Dazed, he slowly got up from the ground and wiped Sal?s blood on the front of his shirt.

?Thanks, I--? Cane pulled in a ragged breath, steeling himself against the flood of despair that surrounded him. ?I?ll--?

?Take him somewhere safe.? The Nightmare slid from the ground to a stand, Salvador held dutifully to his chest. ?Then contact me if you wish. If you find it difficult, my friend, I shall help you bury yours.? He turned then, without warning, and slipped from the alley. The nearly-forgotten trophy hung from his tail.

Canaan followed numbly after Skid to the place where Nash lay crumpled against the wall. He scooped the man?s body into his arms and placed the stetson on his chest, then stood up and disappeared through a veil.

The war ended, its cost far too high.


Tried to keep you close to me
But life got in between
Tried to square not being there
But think that I should have been
Now we're caught against the tide
Those distant days all flashing by