White (Mature 18+)

"The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis." -Dante Alighieri

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Nicanora
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.
― Bob Marley

23 January 2016

Part One

The snow was piling quicker than people could shovel, accumulating on the streets and sidewalks to the point that the twenty minute wait time she had quoted to Will would soon be closer to the forty-five or hour that he had countered with. Nica really hated being wrong. She hated snow even more than that. At the very least she was kept warm by the lingering thought of grazing teeth on the sensitive flesh of where her jaw met her neck. The Grillenium Falcon was close to closing when she reached it and only by the grace of the Angel was she able to put in their last order of the night. With a bag around each wrist, wisps of steam rose up around her as she made the final leg of her journey to Will’s apartment.

“Worst snowstorm since Hannibal,” she muttered as she climbed to the third floor and turned down the hallway. Whatever Hannibal was, it hadn’t been pretty according to the two men working at the food truck. This one, they were calling Winter Storm Odin. Ominous. At least she had grilled cheese and tomato basil soup. That said, she nearly lost the latter when her momentum carried her right into Will’s locked front door. Her hand had grasped the handle, muscle memory expecting it to pop right open for her to flow through. Instead she was met by an unyielding door and silence on the other side.

“Loaf! Food’s gonna get cold, open up!” Nica called against the door’s crack. Shifting bags, she pounded the heel of her fist against the old door and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

“Mm, must’ve beat him here,” she said at last, sinking to sit in front of the door. No use in letting good grilled cheese go to waste while she waited. With an unwrapped sandwich in one hand, she pulled her phone out with her other and puttered out a short message.

Text to Will (0210): Beat you. Hurry up!

A third of the way through the sandwich, she sent another.

Text to Will (0214): Or I’m going to eat your grilled cheese

Two thirds saw one more message sent.

Text to Will (0219): Let me know you’re okay at least?

Her sandwich was gone and her soup halfway so when she took an alternative route. Dialing his number, she waited for him to pick up. Thirty seconds of ringing gave way to a short message and a long beep. Nica hung up and frowned.

The monotony of the silence was broken when her phone lit up and a saucy little flow of digitized flamenco buzzed through the speakers, a sudden alleviation of the static unknown. The Caller ID added to the mystery and little more besides that a fresh prickling of paranoia's shallow needs with a frustrating: Unknown Caller.

The voice on the line was distinctly unlike Silvano's refined and slightly accented tone, a raspy falsetto full of amused malevolence, witty but not necessarily educated. "It's two thirty-seven, Cinderella. Do you know where your Prince is? Midnight's come and gone. Your stallion's the mouse you knew he was and we're gonna carve him like a pumpkin with a broken glass slipper. He warned you. Now you get to watch."

No sooner had the last word fled, the line died. Barely a few minutes passed after before Nicanora's phone lit up again: You Have 1 New Video Message.

The snow was coming down hard and at an angle due to harsh winds whipping, spotting the camera lense with the occasional dot of moisture that the cameraman had to wipe away with a sleeve or the pad of a finger, leaving it streaked at times. The video cut in and out between the jostling and the weather, but there were six or seven distinct figures loitering in the alleyway, laughing over the inappropriate jokes told or ruminating in disjointed bits of conversation over what was coming.

It went on for about thirty seconds before another moving body appeared, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and the form hunched down against the biting chill. Each step was dogged and determined, purpose driving him, until a sudden cry for help broke the night and the head snapped up.

It was Will.

He was a dozen lengthening paces into a charge towards the call when a clotheslining arm took him from his feet and sent him sprawling into the snow. Words on both sides, calm and harsh, were exchanged in a mess that was broken up by the howl of the wind and the phone's poor ability to record through the ugliness of the elements. The assailants postured. Will calmly protested, ruined it with a facetious quip.

That was when the violence started. Punches were thrown and left unanswered. The paramedic turned the other cheek. A glass bottle ricocheted off of the nearby brick wall, peppering him with shards of frigid glass. Will did not back down. Did not beg.

But he did not fight.

The beating grew worse, punches and kicks graduating once more until something cylindrical was brandished like a bat and smashed sharply across his shoulders, driving him down to a knee. They told him to fight, to beg for his life. To smile for the camera and beg for his life.

Brutalized but not yet broken, Will winked for the camera.

The men moved in for the finish.

Then the whole world went white. White and then dark.

The video ended that way.

Nicanora had been on her way to her feet when the video came through. It was with no small amount of dread that she opened the message, a trembling thumb tapping the play button before her hand moved to cup the speaker. Frantically tapping at the volume button, she listened for anything that might tell her what was going to happen but the low quality of the sound matched well with the poor video feed and it ended up a garbled mess of back and forth banter. She wasn't sure what she was looking at until familiarity bled into the frame. Nica didn't have to see his face to know who it was. The posture, the outline of his shoulders, the bag, the jacket.

"No..." Never had she thought that merely ignoring Silvano's request would lead to this. He looked so oblivious to what was about to come and Nica was stuck watching, powerless. She left the remnants of their dinner sitting in the hallway as she took off for the stairwell, eyes wide with rapt horror as the video progressed. Will ran right into it. She shouldn't have expected anything different. With the first sharp crack of a fist meeting jaw, Nica found her breath sapped from her lungs. Scanning the video, she looked for something, anything that might help her figure out where they were. The half dozen men that assailed the paramedic wore varying dark shades, but as far as she could see, bore no Marks. It was a small relief that was short lived as Will dropped, the four inch screen of her phone shrinking his peril into a handheld horror movie for her private viewing. She reached the bottom of the stairs and burst through the exit and into the storm outside right as the video ended in a blaze of white followed by black.

"No, no, no..." She had been muttering it all the way down the stairs and outside. This wasn't his fight. He shouldn't pay the price for her follies. Her fingers slid the video's slider to rewind and fast forward, forcing her to relive Will's pain over and over. She flinched with each crack and snap but did her best to look for landmarks to guide her way. Already, Winter Storm Odin's snowfall had dropped another six inches over top of what was on the ground before, cloaking everything in white. Street signs, storefronts, all white.

Except.

Nica ticked the slider back to the point just before Will was blindsided and paused it. Across the street from the alley's mouth, the neon red glow of the sign was enough to permeate through several inches of accumulation. It was a pizzeria that she and Will went by every time they had walked back to his apartment from the inn. If she remembered correctly, it was all of fourteen blocks from where she was currently, almost exactly north. She needed to get to him and she needed to do it quickly. Exchanging her phone for her stele, she jerked up the bottom of her jacket and marked a couple new runes into her abdomen for good measure.

Fortis for strength.

Heightened speed.

An additional Stamina Mark for good measure.

Tucking her stele back into her jacket, she took off. Without the Angel's gifts, it would have been slow going, but she found her footing sure and her pace swift as she sprinted down the streets of Old Temple and through the looming shadows of grand cathedrals. Every sense felt heightened, tendrils of awareness extending outwards all around her. Freshly fallen snow has a way of absorbing sound, lowering ambient noise as it blankets the landscape by trapping air between flakes and muting sound vibrations. It lent an eerie stillness to the air and made her hyper-aware of the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the throbbing of her heart in her ears, the short and sharp breaths she took, laden with the exertion of maintaining the pace on such terrain. The first pangs of a stitch in her ribs as she felt the speed rune beginning to wane did little to slow her down. Nica hit the last stretch, the dim glow of the pizzeria's sign in the distance telling her she was almost there.

The snow was whipped around hard by the wind, turning random alleys into freezing tunnels that spit small, icy cyclones into streets that would have been more populated under better circumstances. It piled the snow higher where the drifts ended.

Barely a block from the pizzeria, the view of the way beyond had become obscured by a wall of fog; it was a roiling, rolling mist that ventured no farther forward, what lay beyond only picked out in small pockets of open air and shadows where those pockets failed. The snow had melted in large divets against the greater masses of accumulation. Great chunks of winter had gone missing, unfathomable clues that gave no logical hint as to what had taken place deeper and beyond.

The silencing cradle of winter heavy fallen was broken in faint spells where one crunk in solid, frozen-over snow was followed by the muffled thump of something striking down in wet slush, creating a contrasting tandem that echoed in the fog at a frustratingly slow pace. A single shadow rose against the gray-white gloom, pressing onward despite a listing sway.

There were no sounds of violence, no great indication of what met the Nephilim's approach. Not until a battered and tattered figure, uniformed in a heavy navy blue, materialized where the shadow died, upright against impossible odds and sluggishly putting one foot in front of the other.

"By the Angel...," Nica murmured, her eyes widening as the fog came into view. The way it hung in a single area was unsettling, reminding her of the hellmist used by demons or even unsavory warlocks. Her sprint slowed to a jog and finally a halt, well back from the mist's edge. If it were anything like hellsmoke, it could easily render her Marks nearly powerless. But it couldn't have been...it was a rare occurrence that a demonic being could summon such a wall without impacting its own power. Not one to take chances, she freed a rounded cylinder from her inner jacket pocket. "Penemue," she called on the angel's name to give the seraph blade life, the brilliant glow illuminating her side of the street as she stood her ground. With the night's quiet broken by the thump and slide of only the Angel knew what, coming from the dark beyond. Never had she been afraid of the dark until now. Afraid of what she might find. Of what her carelessness may have cost her. She readied herself, steeling her calm against the worst of her thoughts.

Fight-or-flight response in full bloom, her heart rate and breathing both quickened. The glow of the seraph blade made her look preternaturally pale, her pupils blown wide until golden brown was a barely there sliver around black. Her mouth felt dry and her muscles coiled with tension. Tension that faltered when a familiar uniform loomed out of the dark. It couldn't have been possible, not with the beaten the video had shown him taking, but as sure as the day was long, it was him. Nica lifted the seraph blade outwards to let the light eat away at the shadows as she grappled with her wariness. "...Will?"

The combination of the shadows and the fog made the shaky red light of the pizzeria's sign appear sickly, splashing against Will's shambling form. It made him appear as something straight out of one of she cheesy horror movies that had played out as ambient background noise to one of their more recent sexual escapades. The left side of his face was a mess of battered flesh, little better than freshly pounded steak from the bottom of his jaw, all the way up to where his left eye was already swelling shut. The right side was smear red with blood from a shallow but jagged scalp wound. Ever step was slow and purposeful, one leg showing a faint drag through the thickening snow of the ground.

"I think I'm gonna file a complain with Rhy'din's Thugs-R-Us Union," he replied with softly slurred speech, slowed by a split lower lip. "For ruining my plans for a wild weekend of debaucherous cabin fever sex. And soup. I really like that soup..."

He drew up short of her about a dozen steps, squinting beneath the brighter light of the pizzeria's sign. In that light she could see his one good eye, burning bright with determination and something else that was harder to discern. A little more aware in the moment, his attention shifted to the blade.

Will frowned.

"I frustrated them into quitting. Hope it sends Whats-His-Face into fits." He didn't know the name, but figured out enough to know there was aHe and that the someone had quite the egotistical hard-on for Nicanora.

The light of the angel blade quivered with the shaking of her hand as she studied him. It was difficult to pinpoint the source of her hesitation, but she didn't move even when she saw finally who it was. In short, he looked awful. The smear of red looked like unnatural war paint when bathed in the light's neon glow and highlighted by Penemue's light. Head wounds were messy. It was no wonder he was covered in his own vitae. At last when he spoke, she exhaled a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding, the low whoosh clearing her lungs of the painful lack of surety.

"Wait, you're going to what? Mmf, nevermind that." She waved her free hand and pulled the seraph blade back in tandem with her step forward. Covering six of the dozen steps, she paused to look him over before urging herself forward to close the remaining gap. "Of all the things to worry about...and that's it? Seriously? You...you could have been...seriously hurt!"

Her annoyed admonishing came laced with an undertone of deep concern that still couldn't bring her to say out loud that this could have been much, much worse. It came as no surprise that he would joke through an assault like that but it still served to fluster her further in her already frazzled state. Adjusting course at the last moment, she moved to his left and slipped tight to his side, her shoulder ducking beneath his arm and her own arm rounding his torso. The angel blade remained in her left hand, its soft glow serving to light the way as she urged him to lean on her. It had only been a short time prior that they had been in a similar position when leaving the Inn, only this time his blood wasn't thick with liquor and her stomach wasn't aflutter with girlish giddiness.

"There's a clinic a few blocks from here, if I'm remembering right. Your head might need stitches," she said softly, glancing over his explanation of how he had made it through the onslaught of violence and just how it might impact the one who had sent the message to her. It physically hurt to think about but finally, she mumbled three words to acknowledge what he had said.

"I'm so sorry..."
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

Part Two

"I'd rather worry about the things I enjoy than the things I don't." It was a single ray of sunshine against the darkness of the night's events, a small flash of optimism to ward off the pain. Glittering blue stared at her across the distance between them, drinking her in with all the seriousness of a Catholic taking the sacrament as mass. He read her expression and toned down the sarcasm, his voice tepid when he gave her the final tally. "Scalp wound. A few dozen bruises. Bruised shoulder blade and four bruised ribs in the back. Six bruised ribs up front, two of them likely cracked. Left knee was dislocated but I popped it back into place. They were going to break my hands. I asked nicely so they didn't."

There was no masculine protest when she came to his aid finally and looked to prop him up. The help was accepted quietly, his weight leaned into hers. "Cool lightsaber."

That he was still upright was a testament to his will, perhaps lending greater credence to his nickname.

"You're ridiculous, you know that right?" Despite her terse tone, a threadbare smile threatened one corner of her mouth. Bowing her head against the cold, the wind whipped her hair into a fury, a gale of sun lightened chestnut that glittered like diamonds when the streetlights caught the snowflakes that had made her a crown as their final home. As he rattled off the laundry list of injuries, she loosened her grasp around him in favor of a lighter touch and a sturdier shoulder to lean on.

"It's cooler than a lightsaber," she protested. Of all the Mundane movies she had seen, Star Wars was most assuredly among them so the comparison brought a derisive snort from the Nephilim. Taking them away from the scene of the crime, she opted for a side street in hopes of getting away from any lingering prying eyes. "But I'm glad they didn't break your hands...I'm a fan of what they're capable of."

"Acting like an idiot is good for the soul." Smiling made him wince, but even when his mouth curved there was little mirth to it. It was a sad smile. "Keeps the demons at bay."

A soft grunt or sharp inhale punctuated the seriousness of the beating he'd taken during their slow progress away from the scene of the attack, but Will never complained. Instead he continued to ply her with small smiles as she spoke, until finally addressing the offer of going to the clinic. "No. Just take me home. With all this mess out there, they're gonna need their resources for other people who're needier and more precious than me. I just wanna lay down."

"Oh, is that the secret? Here we've been wasting time with runes and angel blades for over a thousand years," Nica said dryly, her own smile dim in comparison to the subtle curve of his own. She was caught somewhere between rage and her own sadness, so the less she said, likely the better for all parties involved. Instead, she focused on their trek through drifts that were reaching for their knees. At the very least, maybe the cold would sooth his damaged knee, she hoped. Had he been one of her people, patching him up would have been a matter of some well placed healing Marks and some time to rest. But she couldn't even fathom trying such a thing on him and the extent of her first aid knowledge came down to the bare basics. Will was just past the basics, that was for certain, and head wounds were nothing to write off.

"I think you might be a little concussed. I'm of a mind to drag you there whether you want me to or not." It was a bark that lacked bite. Casting a wary look over her shoulder, she tipped her gaze forward again and sighed into a wispy cloud of hot breath. "I'm staying with you then. Once the snow stops, we'll reassess and I'll probably drag your ass somewhere anyways."

That was a compromise.

"No concussion," he told her pointedly. "I'm not dizzy or ringing in the ears. No nausea. My speech isn't slurred." Well, not so much as the split lip would allow. "And haven't been delayed in my responses." Will was very lucid.

It would have been disturbing enough to anyone normal that he knew exactly what was wrong with him post-attack. Frequent looks her way notwithstanding, he kept his attention on the path ahead, a slow, ponderous trek that carried them back towards his apartment. "I'll talk you through stitching my head and playing nurse. It'll be fine. I'll be back on my feet by Monday for work."

He didn't argue with her, per se. Compromise!

"Shh. Not what I meant. I was implying you're a prat to argue with me for wanting you to get looked at." That and she had seen with her own eyes the beating he had taken. Anyone normal wouldn't have walked away from that on their own volition and even if they did, it wouldn't be without lasting damage. Perhaps she took it for granted that he was able to rattle off a comprehensive compendium of his issues. Maybe due to his medical training. That's likely what she wrote it off as, if she was thinking about it at all. Seldom did she lift her head from its bow against the cold to look his way, instead leaving her eyes on her boots to assure their footing, broken by intermittent sweeps of their surroundings.

"Head wounds are messy. And I don't have one of those little nurse outfits to wear," she mumbled, weaving them wide around a patch of sidewalk that would have been precarious terrain even on a clear day. Cursing the fact that she hadn't layered multiple Thermis runes before setting out, the cold wriggled its way into her extremities, making her grip stiff and her nose numb. She sniffed and finally glanced up at him as they turned the corner for the final leg of their journey. "I thought...hm...I thought that I wasn't going to make it in time. So...once we get you cleaned up, tell me more about what happened?"

"Head wounds are messy," Will agreed. "And I'm only arguing because I know what an ER nurse and doc would tell me. No point in wasting their time and my limited resour--." His shoulder hunched beneath a sudden bout of coughing, a grating thing that made his chest heave painfully before a single, small spatter of crimson hit the snow. A disgusted sound followed.

"Can I offer to buy you a nurse outfit," he asked her moments later, a little hoarse but seemingly no worse for the wear. Tone and expression both softened when she sniffer and her voice lowered. His hand found the flare of her hip and squeezed lightly, a gesture meant to reassure. "I'm still here. You're here. Come stand under some hot water with me for a while and we'll figure some stuff out. Deal?"

"Your limited resources?" She narrowed an intent look up at him that softened when he was racked by a fit of coughing that sounded less than pleasant. The arm around his torso tightened just slightly, as if she could hold him together through the red that sullied the white, an artist's brush mistakenly tapped over a new canvas to paint it before it was ready. Dimming Penemue's blade, she stashed the seraph blade inside her jacket with her stele when they met the door to his building.

"I doubt we're going to be able to find a nurse outfit in this weather. Regretfully, you may have to settle," she said through a feigned grimace. Nica let him go to catch the door, drawing it open to bath them in a wedge of light and warmth before gesturing him inside. "I think we can make that work."

"Doctors aren't free, Nicanora." It was a gentle admonishment, a reminder that despite all of the eating out and the modestly decent apartment, Will's finances were finite. Her blade was given one last considering look before the door to his building was pushed open and they were enveloped by the dry warmth of the apartment building's lobby. He drew away from her with a brush of his hand along her arm before reaching limping to the first set of stairs and taking the first step of his ascent. Progress was slow, but there was nary a complaint as he climbed, slowing once to glance back over his shoulder at her.

"Stop staring at my ass."

"Don't worry about that." She brushed off his concerns with ease. After all, she had got him into this mess, certainly it was her place to see it through to the end. Nica tapped her boots free of excess snow at the door's threshold and stepped through, letting the door shut slowly behind her. With her hands free finally, she ruffled through her hair until most of the snow there was gone. Anything lingering would be melted momentarily. Progress was mind numbingly lacking so when he stopped, she used the opportunity to take up her position at his side again.

"I wasn't staring at your ass for once. I was watching your knee," she said with a roll of her eyes, fingers sliding through a belt loop for a better grip. In the close confines of the stairwell, it put them hip to hip almost awkwardly but not enough so to prevent their climb. "Lead with the good, take it one at a time. I'm your nurse now, so you're obligated to listen."

"I know how to do this, you know." He stared at her sidelong when she took up position next to him again, one hand steady on the rail as he all put hauled himself. They passed the second floor and eventually crested the final stairs that brought them to the third, an extra push of pace putting him past her to grab the door that led to hallway beyond.

"And what would you be doing now had they cut off one of my ass cheeks? What would you admire then." It was meant to throw her off balance, to keep her focused on the ridiculous and distract her from the increasingly sluggish movements that dogged him the last few dozen feet to his apartment door. He fumbled with the key before it was turning in the lock and admitting them to the modest apartment beyond. It was until he was three steps within that Will stumbled and nearly went down.

"You won't let me take you to see a doctor, just let me have this so I don't feel so worthless." Though she tried to curve her tone into the realm of good natured self-deprecation, it couldn't quite free itself from the drudges of legitimate despair. She realized it immediately and inhaled half of a breath. "Sorry. That came out a little sharper than intended."

Her scowl chased him through the fire door. "Then I'd be obligated to hunt each of them down and do far worse. It's a crime to ruin such a work of posterior art." As if she weren't already considering doing that regardless. He had done plenty to throw her off but it still did little to mute her concern for his condition. Watchful, her brows furrowed as she turned to close the door behind them. Nica turned back just in time for him to stumble and she lurched forward, intent on grabbing the back of his jacket in hopes of keeping him upright. "See, if you'd quit showing off, you wouldn't have to kiss the floor either."

"Worthless?" Held up by his good leg and steadied by her renewed hold on him, Will turned his head until his good eye could pierce her with a pointed look. "I didn't see anyone else braving a snow storm to come for my sorry ass."

She chided him but Will gave in and leaned into her, wincing but tightening his grip on her as he directed them towards the raggedy old couch.

There was a less than subtle line of tension through her jaw and the pinch of her shoulders when she nodded without meeting his look. Instead she threw her focus into helping him hobble over to the couch, relinquishing her hold once she got there. "Yeah, well, they wouldn't have known and it's my fault anyways. It was the least I could do."

What she didn't say is that she wholly expected to arrive there to find his body cooling in the snow. The thought made her shudder slightly and she turned away to take a look around the apartment. "How're we putting your head back together? After all, it'd be tragic if your brain fell out."

"Stop." It was a simple word. One syllable. He delivered it quiet, but it still had power. She found him looking up at her from where he'd sagged down on the couch's arm. "Stop. Stuff happens and if it isn't one thing, it's another. I'm still here." Will reached for her, grunting as he stretched out an arm and caught her by the front of her coat. She was drawing in slowly until their noses nearly touched and she was given no recourse but to meet his one good eye. "I'm still here."

"I have a back-up medical bag in my bedroom. Grab it. I'll show you how to make neat stitches." The last was a gentler murmur.

He had a way of delivering a shock to her system that stunned her into silence. Weary eyes met his with reluctance but thankfully failed in betraying the full depth of her concern. With a little bit more maneuvering, she might even be able to tuck it away neatly behind door number one for safe keeping.

"You're still here," she repeated clearly, though she lacked his his conviction. Things changed all too easily, she couldn't get her hopes up otherwise. Forgoing the urge to kiss his split lip, she bit at her own and drew back, backpedaling toward the apartment's sole bedroom. She spun a quick one-eighty and militarily precise steps hurried her away from him before he could distract her further. The sooner he was put back together, the better she would feel.

-----
(Thank you to Will for the collaboration!))
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Nicanora
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

”There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.”
― Niccolo Machiavelli

23 January 2015

After knitting Will’s head back together and a long conversation under the stream of a hot shower, she finally got him into bed to rest, leaving her alone to her thoughts and the slow boil of her anger. Wonderland had been invaded, the fight had come through the rabbit hole and the white roses had been painted blood red. Some time around half past five, gently slipping her hands underneath Will’s head as she freed the leg he had been using for a pillow, she replaced it with a proper pillow and crawled from his bed, snatching up her phone along the way. It had been mercifully silent in the wake of the video she had received though she was about to ruin that.

Taking care to close the door behind her to provide a buffer between Will and the conversation she was about to have, she went to the furthest reaches of the apartment to double the gap. The kitchen was in need of some updating, the wash of yellow toned fluorescent light serving only to glaringly highlight this fact rather than minimize it, but it was tidy and more than enough for a single man living alone. Nicanora took a deep breath to dampen her rage and keyed in Silvano’s phone number. He answered just before it rolled over to voicemail.

“Admittedly I’m quite surprised to be hearing from you at such an hour, but hello Nicanora,” he said, immediately setting Nica’s nerves on edge.

“You’ve gone too far,” she retorted without elaboration.

“And you should have been polite enough to respond to my request,” he said haughtily.

“Excuse me for not bending to your demands, because that sure as Hell wasn’t a request,” she bit back and leaned against the counter, her eyes on the hallway that led to Will’s bedroom.

“You’re excused. This time. I’m sorry the boys got a little...overzealous with your man candy. Now let’s talk meeting times, yes?” There was a shuffling on the other end as Silvano shifted his phone.

“They were going to kill him, Silvano. First the werewolves, then our own blood, and now you want to add a Mundane to the tally, really?” Nica’s words were acerbic in the way they rolled from her tongue, a disgusted admonishment that mixed with disbelief. Silvano chuckled dryly.

“I wouldn’t really call him that,” he murmured in a tone befitting pillow spoken secrets.

“Yeah, well, close enough,” she shot back at him. While she knew that Will was by no means normal, hearing Silvano acknowledge the same made her insides squirm.

“Not close enough but I’m not interested in debating the boy’s bloodlines. I assume you’ve called to give me your answer finally?” Silvano’s tone had bled back into the realm of bored disinterest.

“I’ve called to tell you that the fight doesn’t come to Rhydin. The people here have nothing to do with it and if you try to involve any of them again, there will be Hell to pay and not even the Clave will be able to save your ass. If you’ll abide by that, I’ll agree to meet you,” Nica said, her calm tone contrasting with the weight of her words. The thought that he might try to go after any of her friends again was almost enough to upset said calm. Will had barely made it through and while she knew that there was more to Taneth than met the eye, she couldn’t bring herself to think about something befalling the blonde. Her list of friends thinned from there, but even to have any of her acquaintances threatened was too much. Silvano was quiet as he considered her terms.

“I am willing to take you at your word on this and offer you that concession as a token of my good faith. See, now was that so difficult?” He clucked his tongue chidingly.

“You’re making it incredibly difficult to not want to rip your tongue out right now, Silvano. Nightingale Park in Miami Springs. Monday night at eleven. Alone,” she said with finality.

“So inconvenient, especially in this snow, but very well. Monday at eleven. Come with an open mind.” Without saying goodbye, Silvano hung up. Nica’s shoulders sagged as she lowered her phone from her ear. As much as she wanted to go crawl into Will’s bed and wait for the storm to blow over, there were preparations that needed to be made. Three messages sent out in quick succession set them in motion.

Text to Daniel Blackwater: Got Silvano to agree to meet me. Monday in Miami Springs. We need minimal presence and he needs to think I’m alone. I’ll call you tonight or tomorrow with more details.

Text to Niamh Kilcannon: Coming back to Miami, have a meeting set with you know who on Monday. May need backup if you’re willing to get dirty.

Text to Gregorio Truecross: Papa, I’m coming home but I need some financial assistance to arrange transpo. Can you help? Daniel knows how to get it to me. Te quiero siempre. XX, Anora

Nicanora turned the kitchen light off and trudged back toward the bedroom.
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Nicanora
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

There's a natural law of karma that vindictive people, who go out of their way to hurt others, will end up broke and alone.
― Sylvester Stallone

25 January 2016

Part One

Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war.

In nothing but her underthings, Nicanora looked over her arsenal one last time, certain she was missing something. No, she had gone over it six, seven, eight times now and nothing was out of line. She had been judicious in the excessive number of Marks she had applied, fresh runes covering all the flesh she could reach, and in the number of blades she was taking with her. Those she couldn’t carry easily were left in her room at Taneth’s Little Cottage. With a shake of her head, she began the lengthy process of dressing and arming herself. The first harness of three was slid on over her bra and wiggled until it was comfortable. A flat, handless blade was slid horizontally into either side of the harness, tight against her ribs. They were the insurance policy. The third blade she picked up was a new addition to the collection, one of two gifted to her by Will. For what must have been the thirtieth time since receiving it, she tested its balance, deemed it perfect, and finally slipped it into an unconventional and seemingly inconvenient holster between her breasts. Never underestimate the power of cleavage.

Next came the gear. Heavy leather pants, tight fitting enough to provide no extra material at which hostile sorts could grasp but still loose enough to permit fluid movement, were tugged on, buttoned, and zipped. A sleeveless zip up vest of the same processed material was drawn over her torso and zipped as well, drawing the neckline to a V where the zipper wasn’t pulled all of the way up. Nica lifted the second harness up and over her head and shoulders then buckled it into place. It took quite a bit longer to load this one up, blades slipped into the numerous leather loops. When they met, they sang songs of tempered steel until they were muted with the slide of a hooded jacket over the whole ensemble. Before the third harness, she stepped into her boots, lacing them tightly enough to hold the quartet of daggers that circled each of her lower legs. A cursory check of spring loaded toe knives proved sound so she moved on to the final piece. The back sheath was angled cross body and positioned just right so that when she slipped the falcata into it that it would be easily accessible over her right shoulder. Finally she slipped her hands through the muted gleam of the electrum bracers and tugged them into place. On the middle finger of each hand, she wore a single silver ring. Truecross on the left, Altatorre on the right. The finishing touch came in the form of a thin garrote wire wrapped around the high bun of her hair, easily pulled free but still well concealed from prying eyes.

In short, she looked like she was going to war.

For all she knew, she was.

Her phone hummed a discrete notification alarm, pulling her away from her messenger bag just as she was about to open it up and triple check its contents again. It was time to go. She pushed the falcata into the back sheath then picked up her bag by the strap and lifted it over her head to settle it on the opposite shoulder. The drive from Old Temple to New Haven was a quiet one without even the radio to break the near silent monotony of snow being packed beneath the Jeep’s tires. Nica and Will arrived at the empty fountain at exactly five minutes until seven in the evening. It was no longer snowing and the city was in the process of digging out, so the area was void of the passersby that typically frequented the high end shops and boutiques of the city’s northeastern most district.

The pair had said their goodbyes in the hours leading up to her departure, repeated in each stolen moment and each bit of drawn out affection. Words were no longer necessary. The arctic winds swept circles around the fountain, kicking up twisters of powdery snow that danced around them and died just as quickly as they were born. Their hands were laced together, his right with her left, his thick, woolen gloves with her leather fingerless ones that had been substituted for the charcoal grey mittens she had bought ahead of the storm. At ten until eight, on the other side of the fountain, an emerald light flared to life. Nica’s hand tensed around Will’s then careful unlocked.

“I am reminded exactly why I left locales like Moscow and Chicago in favor of Miami. This is dreadful,” Angelo Vice’s musical voice met them before he came into view. He was dressed in a royal purple smoking jacket reminiscent of Hugh Hefner, the crushed velvet catching errant snowflakes and melting their glitter within moments of contact. Beneath the jacket, black on black reigned from the low V of his shirt to the polished dress shoes. He had no winter wear but his electric green eyes sparkled with mirth just the same. Doffing a non-existent hat to them both, he gave a short bow and straightened. “Shadowhunter Truecross and company, I presume.”

“Thank you for your assistance, your...uh...High Warlock-iness,” Nica said awkwardly. Angelo laughed, clapping his bare hands together twice.

“Your High Warlock-iness, I like that. I’m going to use that, I think. May I?” He grinned. Nica noticed that his teeth came to minute points instead of blending into an even row. Angelo looked Will over, scrutinizing him intently. “And you. Are you coming as well?”

“Feel free to use it. But no, he just came to see me off,” she answered with a sidelong glance toward the paramedic. While he was healing remarkably quickly, he definitely wasn’t in any condition to take his first Portal trip right into a likely fight.

“Hm. Shame,” Angelo clicked his tongue and turned back toward the glow of the Portal, gesturing for her to follow. “Time to go then. Half payment upon arrival, of course.”

Nica took the first couple of steps after Angelo before faltering. She lingered on her leading foot for a solid three count before turning around. Angelo paused at the Portal, its light haloing him as he watched her rush back to Will. She slid on the icy cobblestones but caught herself with her hands to his shoulders. His right hand slipped to the small of her back while the left gripped tightly to the balance given by the gaudy cane that compensated for his injuries. Before he could protest, she cupped both sides of his neck and rocked up to crush her lips to his, the smoldering kiss fervent with its burst of need. She let it linger for a few moments longer than she should have, considering the time, then slowly leaned back. Behind her, Angelo was slow clapping.

“I will see you later,” she said with such conviction that it was impossible not to believe her. With reluctance, she slipped his grasp and hurried after the Warlock, pausing only in the final three steps to turn around to get one last look at Will. Even after the toe curling kiss, his expression was still unreadable, but as she gave him a parting smile, she caught its return just as she stepped backwards into the Portal.
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

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Part Two

Compared to Rhydin’s unbearable cold, Miami was sweltering. Just above seventy degrees and quite humid, it was a shock to the system to say the least. Nicanora sucked in a tight breath when she and Angelo emerged in a warehouse somewhere in Hialeah. The air was thicker than she remembered. Angelo gave her little time to adjust, immediately closing the Portal behind them and starting for the warehouse’s exit.

“Tick tock, Shadowhunter. Your chariot awaits,” Angelo said, catching the door and holding it open to let a spill of moonlight cut a wedge out of the warehouse’s shadows. While Nica was still curious as to why the High Warlock of Miami would have any interest in a squabble like this, she didn’t ask, instead sliding through the doorway and outside. With a clang, the door shut behind them. Fifty feet from where they stood, a black sedan with heavily tinted windows sat idling. The Warlock gestured toward it. “Chariot. And half payment now, yes?”

“And half on the return,” Nica said softly, flipping the flap on her messenger back. Daniel had sent ahead to Nica an undisclosed amount of money from her father and she had stashed it at the bottom of her bag for less than easy access. Plunging her hand into its depths, her fingers curled into fabric, vaguely soft and completely unfamiliar. Closing her hand, she pulled free…

Boxer briefs... Dark grey with a black band, they bore a single eye and a toothy mouth over the crotch along with the words “Unleash my beast… if you dare” along the leg. Nicanora stood there grasping the men’s underwear, utterly confused. Angelo barked out a laugh, pulling her from her perplexed puzzling over their origins.

“I accept cash, check, and credit cards. We stopped accepting undergarments in the 1980’s,” the Warlock said, more than amused at the creeping red that had suffused the Shadowhunter’s pretty features. Nica cleared her throat and stuffed the boxers back into her bag while muttering about payback and angels. When she pulled her hand free, she had a rubber band bound bundle of bills. Angelo looked pleased, his tail swishing side to side like a cat. “Ah, there we go.”

“If,” a heavy word, “things do not pan out for me, Daniel Blackwater will arrange the remainder of your payment, at the very least for the inconvenience. Thank you for your assistance, Mister Vice,” she said, bowing her head gratefully.

“Sometimes things are bigger than what we are able to see when we are close to the matter. I wish you well in bringing Marcaluz in. He isn’t good for the state of things, not with as unstable as they could get,” he said in a low tone. A blonde capped head leaned out of the sedan’s driver side window.

“We going or what?” Niamh called, banging her hand on the roof of the car. It jarred Nica out of her study of the peculiar Downworlder.

“I’m coming!” She hollered back, stuffing the money into Angelo’s outstretched hand and hurrying over to the car. The Warlock stood stock still as he watched her leave, his neon green eyes pinned on her path until she reached the passenger side. Nica lifted a hand to wave then got in.

“Been awhile since I heard you yell that,” Niamh said when Nica got in. For all of her anxiety over the impending meeting with Silvano, the Nephilim sputtered a laugh. In the backseat, there was an unamused snort. Nica twisted in her seat, the cross back sheath digging uncomfortably into her kidney. Daniel sat in the middle of the back bench seat, a long, thin object sitting across his lap.

“Daniel. Hi,” Nica said, her amusement waning in favor of a thin smile.

“Nicanora. I was worried you were going to be late,” he answered, the flat line of his mouth failing to match her upward curve.

“Angelo showed up late. I was at the meeting place on time. But we’ve got time still, right?” She straightened out and looked to the car’s clock. Digital green against black read 9:45 PM. They had an hour and fifteen minutes still.

“We do. I’m simply glad that we do not have to see what happens if we’re late,” Daniel said softly. Nica visibly tensed.

“I already found that one out the hard way,” she murmured. Niamh glanced over at her, one brow inching up. As the lycanthrope drove, Nica regaled them with the story of what had happened to Will. Bits and pieces were withheld but otherwise, it was all laid out for Daniel and Niamh. The latter took the car through a tall, wrought iron gate, hung a left around the corner, and pulled into a waiting garage. The gate closed behind them, as did the garage’s door. Nica recognized it as the chop shop that Niamh and a few of her wolvish brethren worked in.

“This’ll be where we leave from and where we return to. Ash offered backup but they’ll be hanging well back from the park just so nobody gets suspicious. He said come alone but I don’t trust him as far as I can kick him so we’ll keep an ear out for any trouble if you need it.” Though the brogue had faded some, Niamh’s accent was still unmistakably Irish, especially when particularly impassioned. “Any questions?”

“No. Daniel will be on Dia duty and I’ll take Silvano. Dead or alive, he’s mine. If there’s anything left after that point, we’ll let the wolves have him.” Nica looked between Niamh and Daniel, who exchanged a short look and finally nodded in tandem. From there they set off for Nightingale Park in the neighboring Miami Springs division. Though it was called a park, it was more of an industrial subdivision, a row of derelict warehouses and empty factories. It had been abandoned some time ago and was slated for demolition so that more housing could be put in. In short, it was empty and nobody would likely notice a little bit of damage if worse came to worse. The closer they got, the more their pack thinned. Ash’s wolves lingered furthest back. Niamh’s were next to fall back, leaving Daniel and Nicanora to make the final leg of the journey on their own.

“Alright. Here’s your stop,” she said, freeing her phone from her pocket. Per their plan, she dialed his number and waited for him to answer the call. From there, the phone was dropped back into her jacket. It would be muffled, but it should do enough to give Daniel an ear on the situation. “I still think the cue word should have been french toast.”

“And how, pray tell, would you work “french toast” into a regular conversation without it being terribly obvious?” Daniel asked, keeping the connected phone in his hand.

“Easy. French toast works in every conversation,” she said with a cocky grin. It barely covered the pang of regret at the thought of peanut butter french toast and sunny side up eggs, the breakfast she had enjoyed during what she could only think may be her last Rhydinian sunrise.

“Sure it does. Be careful in there,” he said with a quiet sigh. Never one for physical affection, he offered a hand out for a shake. Nica curled her fingers into a fist until Daniel did the same, then tapped her knuckles against his.

“I will be. I made someone a promise,” Nica answered and started off toward the dark warehouses. At the end of the row, the last building had a single window lit with witchlight. It was obvious as to where she needed to go. She made a slight adjustment to her messenger bag, tucking herself tight against the cover offered by the buildings.

At eight minutes until eleven, she came to a stop at the last warehouse’s side door. The witchlight had died down a few moments before she did and the door was opened before she ever got the chance to knock. It appeared there was no one on the other side, which Nicanora found suspect at best.

“I’ve seen enough horror movies to know you don’t go through doors that open themselves,” Nica called through the door doorway. Her voice echoed in the emptiness and was met by a low chuckle.

“Merely a charm. I assure you that I am alone. Please come in,” Silvano’s voice drifted out to meet her.

“I am alone but I’m not unarmed. No funny business, Silvano. I mean it,” she shouted, teetering at the threshold.

“No funny business. You’ve my word,” he said in return. Nica stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her. Scooping her witchlight stone from the pocket that didn’t contain her phone, she let the soft glow guide the way. On the warehouse’s main floor, Silvano stood with his hands clasped in front of him in a pool of moonlight that flooded through the skylights. He was wearing Shadowhunter gear just as she was, bearing black from throat to toe. He had a sheathed sword on his left hip while on the opposite hip, hung a trio of chakram that matched the pair of chakri around his left wrist.

“Marcaluz,” Nica said formally, stopping twenty steps from him.

“Nicanora,” Silvano responded in a tone that bordered on taunting.

“I’m here. Say what you’ve got to say,” she growled, her patience already wearing thin with the man.

“Come sit. Have a drink while you hear me out,” he said, gesturing to a battered card table that had been set up just at the edge of where the skylight’s moonlight lapped at the shadows. There were four chairs, all unoccupied, and a dark stain over the table’s top. A single bottle sat in the center. Giving Silvano a wide berth, she started for the table. He did the same and when they came to a stop, they found themselves at opposite sides. Nica sat first, Silvano joined her soon after.

“So,” he began, taking the bottle and removing the cap. The label said something about tequila though she couldn’t tell the brand as he took it up for a swig straight from the bottle. “I’d like to start by clearing the air about everything that has happened so far. It’s most regrettable that there was any loss of life, in particular Nephilim blood. That said, I’ve called you hear to make you a proposition.”

“Always knew you were the sort to sell yourself out. Sorry, hermoso, I’m not the sort to play john,” Nica retorted dryly. Silvano stared at her across the table and slowly sat the bottle down.

“While I’m certainly glad you find this humorous, I think you’ll find soon that it’s no laughing matter. The winds of change are upon us, Truecross, Before long, the Nephilim will need all of the help they can get and with the plan I am going to bring them, you would be well advised to declare your allegiance sooner rather than later. Besides, surely a warrior of your caliber would be interested in helping to lead the winning side.” The more Silvano spoke, the worse Nicanora felt about what this plan entailed.

“The Clave is more than capable of handling any issues that may come up. I seriously doubt that whatever you’ve got up your sleeve is anywhere near the realm of reasonable for their consideration.” Under the guise of diplomacy, she reached for the tequila bottle and drew it to her lips. Though she pursed them around the bottle’s mouth, the tip back served only to splash tequila against her closed lips. She didn’t trust him enough to properly drink.

“That is where you are mistaken. The Clave is too concerned with pandering to the very half breeds that should be well under our rule. We coddle them and bend to their whims when they should be the ones obeying us. They threaten our very existence and have the audacity to question it when we stymy the threat they pose. It is time they are put back in their rightful place.” Silvano’s gaze burned with the conviction of a zealot, washing a cold chill down Nica’s spine.

“You realize you sound absolutely insane, right? You were alive for the Mortal War and all of its fallout. Have you forgotten all we lost? How much more we would have lost if it weren’t for the Downworlders who joined our fight?” She was staring at him like he had gone crazy. Really, he may have.

“And ever since, they have acted as if we owed them the world. We owe them nothing and they need to be shown this. That we wield the power here,” he said, stubbornly slamming his fist against the table top. The tequila bottle wobbled but remained upright.

“So that’s why you had no issue slaughtering the Moon’s Children for the sake of getting back at Christopher? Because it is our right to do so?” Nica chose her words carefully, hoping she didn’t incite him further before she could get more information. This was, in fact, bigger than she had realized, just like Angelo had said.

“It was convenient at best. It will, however, make for good fodder once I show them the extent of what we can do. Besides, he was a mediocre excuse for a Shadowhunter at best. His was no true loss,” Silvano said with a certain amount of calculated cruelty. It was just enough to jab Nicanora beneath the fragile facade she had constructed. She stood up quickly enough to send her chair tipping over backwards.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” She snarled each word with such ferocity that if words were daggers, they would have run him through.

“You, though,” he continued calmly, as if she weren’t looming over him from across the table, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “You have always been the better half. As such, I hope you’ll appreciate this demonstration. Perhaps once you see it with your own eyes, you’ll find yourself more agreeable.”

“Don’t do this, Silvano…” The pleading voice came from on high. Nica and Silvano both looked up to see Lidia looking down on them. She was gaunt and pale, the contrasting shadows cutting angular lines into her face in the moonlight. The young woman looked like a ghost in her white nightgown, like she had risen from sleep just to beg him not to proceed with whatever it was he was about to show Nicanora. “Please?”

“Ah, Dia, darling. You’re just in time for the show. Stay there, you may enjoy the view,” Silvano rose from his seat and loosed a shrill whistle. As it pierced the air, a rumbling at Nica’s flank had her whirling around. From the aether came a spill of shadows, writhing and as black as night, reeking of the stench of death and decay. They began to advance on Nicanora and she sidestepped the table with an incredulous look for the man.

“Demons? You didn’t seriously summon demons, Marcaluz,” she said, frantically pulling one of two seraph blades on her person. Just as she was about to lunge at the nearest shape emerging from the black, Silvano whistled again. They came to a halt, pulsing as a single entity though as her eyes adjusted, she could see individual sets of eyes peered out at her from the darkness.

“Beautiful, aren’t they. They’ve been raised on half-breed blood and oh, how they hunger. With just a word, they will help us rein in the scourge that threatens the very Shadow World itself.” He sounded all too proud, if completely insane.

“Silv. Listen to me, please. This is crazy. It isn’t revolutionary. People have tried this in the past and it has only resulted in death. A whole...lot...of death,” Nica said, backing up from the squirming throng of demons that were just itching to get at her.

“Where they have failed, I will succeed. So will you stand with us, Nicanora?” Silvano canted his head and stared at her. There was a wild gleam in his eye, visible even in the dim light of the warehouse’s floor.

“Nica! Just do it so he’ll make them go away! It’ll be better that way, I promise!” Lidia shouted. Nica looked up at Dia then back down to Silvano. It would have been a really good time for backup but in the moment, she couldn’t remember the silly Latin phrase that Daniel had insisted upon for the cue word.

Sometimes it’s better to resort to Plan B.

“No, but I’d really kill for some french toast right now instead. Think you can help me out?” She put on her best poker face and waited for Silvano’s reaction. Before he could react though, her backup arrived. Crashing through windows, barrelling through doors, spilling through every discernible entrance, the wave of werewolves descended upon them. Nica grinned. “Oh, I guess that’s a yes.”
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

Part Three

Shortly after the cavalry arrived, Silvano’s mess of demons exploded into a whirlwind of chaos, the individual beings that made up the whole aiming to engage the attacking wolves. In the calamity, Silvano begun a retreat for the warehouse’s back door, however Nicanora wasn’t going to let him get that far. Stepping just right, she disengaged her right boot’s toe knife, sending it shooting from the tip of her shoe and for the back of Silvano’s knee. It caught him but the thick gear worn lessened the damage that would have otherwise been inflicted. Still he faltered, giving Nica enough time to vault over a pair of werewolves that were ripping a single demon apart from opposite ends. Ichor gushed across the warehouse floor, staining the lycanthropes’ paws black. Somewhere in the midst, she spotted Daniel scaling a staircase while fending off three writhing demons at once. He hacked and slashed through them, the glow of his seraph blades cleaving through in a blaze of holy fire. True to the plan, he had pinpointed Lidia’s location and was climbing to meet her.

Now Nica only had to execute her job. She flung another knife at Silvano, swung her blade bearing hand to cut through an advancing demon, and without missing a beat, followed up with another throwing knife. The first missed him by inches but the second stuck him in the back of the neck, just above the collar of his jacket. He turned and with a wide arcing twist of his arm, spun one of the chakram at her. She had to divert her course or else run the risk of taking the full brunt of the sharp disc, so she dove over a stack of empty pallets, rolled and sprung to her feet again. Just as she emerged to seek Silvano again, one of the smaller chakri caught her in the shoulder, it’s edges embedding it in her jacket. She stumbled back a step, let out an annoyed growl, and dove for the man.

Nicanora had trained with Silvano a number of times. Not nearly as many as she had with Christopher or the Blackwaters, but she knew the way his body moved. On the other hand, it meant he also knew how she worked as well and so their close range battle proved, for the most part, to end in a stalemate. It was reminiscent of watching Christopher fight him. The same tense determination dictated the efficient defense and counter of Nicanora’s posturing even as they ended up in a rolling heap on the ground. Silvano was stronger but she was quicker, and around them, the battle raged on.

She felt the bite of a blade tear through her oblique, caught beneath the lifted edge of her jacket. In turn, Silvano was subjected to a knee to the groin, enough to stun him. It was a cheap shot, but all was fair in love and war, and this sure as Hell wasn’t love. She seized the opportunity to roll them so she was on top, her knee against his throat as she pummeled his face with her fists. Eventually, she could have sworn that the right handed jabs had left a telltale impression of a blockset letter “A” in the crest of Silvano’s cheek. He groaned with each impact as his head bounced against the cement floor. Before she could do further damage, a heavy mass hit her from her right side and sent her to the ground. The demon bore down on her, pinning her to the floor in a prone position. As she twisted to buck it off, a suction cup like mouth lined with rows of serrated teeth chomped down on her shoulder, its acidic bite injecting only the Angel knew what into her system. She freed a blade from her sleeve and jammed it back toward the demon’s upper body. It squealed and reared back, readying another bite. Before it could capitalize, a swish of displaced air was followed by a squishy sounding thunk as an arrow fired from above hit its mark. The demon burst into flames and disintegrated in a spray of ichor and venom. It hissed against her gear and burned the flesh it touched.

Nica pressed herself up on her hands, her head swimming. While in reality, it wasn’t, the ground felt like it was melting under her fingertips. It came as no surprise that she couldn’t get up in time to avoid Silvano, who had recovered from the beating she had given him. She felt him before she saw him, the hard sole of his boot connecting with one of her supporting elbows. There was a wet snap of cartilage and tendons pulling free from a joint broken by the kick, followed by a pained yelp as Nicanora dropped back to the ground. A knee against her back pinned her down, her injured arm splayed out wide while the other hand ended up stuck between her and the cold, wet floor. She curled her fingers against her chest, feeling around for whatever purchase she could get.

“See,” Silvano said as he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her spinning head up until her neck arched painfully.

“Had you quit being so damned stubborn,” he continued, slamming her face down to meet the pavement and pulling her back up again.

“We could have avoided all of this,” he finished with another smash. Between the two, her face was a mess of blood and split flesh and all she could taste was metal. Time seemed to slow down for her, which helped little when added to the worsening hallucinations brought on by the demon poison in her veins. He pulled her up by the hair one more time and she could have sworn that the sky had swallowed the ceiling, bathing them all in the light of two moons. Two moons? She wasn’t in Rhydin anymore. Two moons blanketed the now snow covered warehouse in a neon glow that steadily turned orange and then blazed red. Bluebirds seemed to swoop from the heavens, dodging and diving around the slowing brawl.

Unbeknownst to Silvano and Nicanora, the werewolves seemed to be gaining the upper hand over the demons. Nica let out a low groan, trying to shove the images out of her head before they truly distorted her perception of reality. Instead, all she saw was fog. Fog and a figure in the snow. Wrapping the two shades of red, one was artificial while the other organic, one was light while the other was the darkness of fading life. She saw Will sprawled over a bed of white painted crimson, his arms wide and his eyes lifeless.

What could have been, she told herself. Will was okay. Will was safe and sound in a realm far, far away. He wasn’t here and he wasn’t dead. So why could she see his face so clearly? Each step she took toward him was a hammer’s blow to the head, her brain screaming with each sudden jar. The next moment, she hovered over him, trying to shake him back into existence. Cold in her hands, she could do nothing to keep him alive.

“Why didn’t you fight?” She mumbled, her mouth thick with her own blood. It was bitter but she couldn’t catch her breath long enough to spit. It was also then that she remembered where she was. She wasn’t standing overtop of Will’s dead body but rather pinned beneath Silvano as he sought to bash her face in against cement sticky with ichor and Nephilim blood alike. Before the hallucination was thrust from her mind, the paramedic offered her a single wink of a dull blue eye then faded away.

It was the moment of clarity that she needed. Throughout Silvano’s relentless assault, her fingers had caught the zipper of her vest, tugging it down enough that the combat knife’s handle was easily accessible. Her hand closed around it and the next time the larger Nephilim lifted her by the hair, she slashed backwards with the knife. While her shoulder bent uncomfortably, to the point it was near dislocation, she still felt the resistance of flesh cleaved by steel. Silvano let out a startled gurgle and toppled off of her. Nicanora felt the momentary lucidity beginning to fade just as quickly as it had come over her and she knew she was running out of time to capitalize on it. Rolling over, she sat up and tumbled after Silvano, who had fallen onto his back and was clutching his neck. Red seeped between his fingers and he looked up at her as she crawled over top of him.

Like a moment out of a horror movie, she was a vision in red, a sheet of scarlet having stained her face from hairline to chin. Her arm hung loosely at her side, her elbow broken to a painful angle. The grin she wore was crazed, her lips quivering as if she were on the verge of laughing at a joke only she could hear. It was almost intimate the way that she climbed over him, straddling his hips with a wide splay of her shaking legs. Even in the way she leaned down toward his ear, her own blood dripping against the side of his bruised and broken face. Her lips hovered just beside his earlobe, her breath hot against his skin.

“He was always my better half,” she murmured as she stuck the combat knife through his trachea and pulled to one side. The jerk of the blade coated them both in his blood but at the very least, his death was a merciful one. The light faded from his eyes and Nica rolled off of him, pulling Will’s knife from Silvano’s throat. As the world tipped over, she found herself at peace with whatever may happen. The remaining demons didn’t seem to know what to do with their summoner dead. Some fled, others doubled their efforts. Nica lay on the floor, looking up at the moon as it smiled down on her while she felt around in her bag. She smiled back until the moon was blotted out by three figures standing over her.

“You guysssss,” she slurred through a giggle. “look what I found.” Her hand was wrapped around a flash bang grenade that she had definitely not been the one to pack. Niamh was the first to get to her, carefully rending it from her grasp. Daniel turned away to dispatch a looming demon then looked back to the small gathering.

“I’ve no clue what that does but we should be getting out of here while we still can,” Daniel said in a hushed tone. He slipped his electrum tipped trident through a loop on his back and bent down to scoop the fallen Nephilim up. The nearest exit wasn’t exactly clear but Niamh looked at the flash grenade considerately.

“Get ready to run and cover your ears if you can. It’s going to be loud,” she said with a hint of a grin. Lidia took point with her crossbow, leading so that Daniel could carry Nica, who was fading in and out of consciousness. Niamh took up the rear, gave Daniel an urging nudge forward and pulled the pin on the stun grenade. She let out a piercing whistle to signal the remaining werewolves then tossed it into the thickest throng of demons. Before anyone could count to two, the warehouse lit up with a brilliant explosion of light with an accompanying bang that gave the weapon its name. Daniel stumbled but made it through the exit while those within the warehouse tried to contend with the temporary blindness and deafness that came from such a thing. Nica wondered if the red and blue lights she saw in the distance were actually there or not.

All she wanted was for the throbbing in her head to go away. Or some hot chocolate. It was her last thought before she lost consciousness just before they met Angelo Vice for the return Portal, as promised.
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Nicanora
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

“However cozy things seemed, the facts of life were the same. You couldn't escape death: It would get us all in the end.”
―Rachel Ward, Numbers

26 January 2016

Only twelve hours after Nicanora had first stepped through the Portal to Miami, a spill of Shadowhunters accompanied by one werewolf and one warlock emerged on the exact point that she had disappeared. Angelo Vice had led them to a less than reputable inn just on the south side of the wall that split New Haven from Dragon’s Gate. The inn keeper had asked no questions about the limp and bloodied girl being carried by the large man, nor about the strange marks that three of the five (the unconscious girl included) wore all over their skin. It was normal for a Tuesday morning. All he cared about was that they paid their bill. Angelo had lingered to do exactly that, taking from the stack of bills that Nicanora had given him in order to prepay for two rooms for two nights accommodations. Beyond that, the kids would be on their own. The second of the two rooms was left abandoned while they tended to the fallen Nephilim.

Niamh reset the numerous broken bones as best as she could while Daniel followed after with a stele to etch deep healing runes to help repair the remaining damage. While they did, Angelo examined Nica’s shoulder at Daniel’s urging, a troubled frown worn where a smile normally was. Of all the injuries she had sustained, the bite was most concerning since the angelic runes that the Nephilim bore could only do so much to stop the spread of the venom. On the upside, Nica had passed out so at the very least she didn’t have to be conscious for all of it. At one point, the Warlock left to gather a few things, returning while bitching about the cold. It took a little work, but eventually Angelo was able to counter the demon venom and stop its spread.

“Her fever should continue to drop to a more manageable level, I imagine she’ll come out of it in the next day or two. Keep up with your intermittent healing doodles and she’ll be fine in no time,” Angelo assured them as Daniel counted out a whole new payment for the warlock, some to account for the money spent on the rooms, and the rest for the the Portals and his assistance in the wake of their siege on Silvano and his demons.

“No lingering effects?” Niamh asked, pushing a few sweat dampened strands from Nica’s forehead. She was resting peacefully or so it seemed, which was a far cry from the restless tossing and turning before.

“Maybe a little scarring, but I’m told you sorts like that kind of thing. Her little lover boy should be pleased,” Angelo answered, counting through the bills and tucking them into his smoking jacket. They had already made arrangements for their return to Miami at which point Angelo would inevitably require further payment.

“Lover boy?” Daniel snorted, arching a brow.

“Either that or he was her pimp, though I don’t think any self-respecting pimp would wield such a gaudy cane,” the green eyed Warlock laughed, as if he should be one to talk about gaudy. Niamh and Daniel exchanged a look but before either of them could ask further since Angelo was already halfway out the door.

“I guess we’ll figure out once she wakes up?” Niamh suggested with a shrug. Daniel rose, intent on passing through the door that adjoined the two rooms.

“I guess so. I’ll keep the door open in case you or her need anything,” he answered gruffly.

“So what do we do until then?” The werewolf posed a follow up as Daniel reached the door’s threshold. He looked back at her, his mouth grim.

“We wait. Nothing else we can do.”
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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Nicanora
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Re: White (Mature 18+)

Post by Nicanora »

”Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life.”
―Suzanne Collins-Mockingjay

30 January 2016

“A day or two” turned into three.







“Nic, baby girl. It’s about time ye be waking up.”







“Think she can hear us?”

“Perhaps. It’s hard to say.”

“She looks just like she’s sleeping…”









“Gregorio called again.”

“Wha’d ye tell ‘im?”

“Didn’t answer it.”

“Oh…”







Three long days of that.





And then the fourth.

Four days spent fretting, four days fighting a fever that didn’t want to quit, four days spent wondering if Angelo was wrong. Daniel, Niamh, and Lidia had traded off shifts of watching over Nicanora as she slumbered, each spending four hours at a time at her bedside in the event she awoke. Saturday morning arrived, stretching sleepy and tentative fingers of rose gold through shades too old and battered to properly fend them off, cutting long slats of light and even longer rectangular shadows over the ceiling and the room’s occupants.

Nicanora was certain it was another hallucination, the weight against her leg and pitchy cartoonish voices ringing in her ears. A broken moan slipped past dry lips from a dryer tongue, making her head throb painfully. Sitting up wasn’t an option but the pressure on her leg lifted with a squealing of chair legs being scraped backwards over warped wood.

“Nicanora?” Daniel’s voice was hoarse but familiar, slowly dragging her out of the fog that seemed to fill her head. She made a noise in the back of her throat that was equal parts whine and grunt.

“Stop yelling…,” she groaned, grudgingly opening her eyes. Just to narrow slits though. Even the morning light felt like daggers to her optic nerves. Someone had seemingly filled her limbs with sand, moving was a chore. As she tried, she felt the weight on her thigh again, persuading her to open her eyes further.

“Sorry. No need to move, you’re safe. You’re safe and you’re okay,” Daniel whispered, his hand resting over the heavy comforter that covered her from chest to toe. The bed beside her shifted and soon a grinning face slid into view.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya lass,” Niamh said cheerily, laying the accent on thick. It always made Nica laugh when she did that but oh how laughing hurt right now. She held at her left shoulder to keep it from jarring with the giggles.

“How’re you feeling?” Daniel murmured, reaching to touch the back of his broad hand to her forehead and then her cheeks. Nica tried to lean back from what felt like cold skin and bumped her head against the headboard.

“Like I got ran over by a pack of Hellhounds and then let them use me as their chew toy. Ugh, where are we?” Again she tried to sit up, her head whirling and forcing her back once more. Things were coming into focus finally, little by little. The room was small but cozy without feeling cramped. Two full sized beds were separated by a nightstand with a single lamp. A tube television on a short, squatty dresser was blaring cartoons and a nearby desk was laden with less than neatly stacked takeout containers.

“Angelo Vice Portaled us back to that place you were staying,” Daniel answered, offering her a hand to help her sit up.

“We’re back in Rhydin? Where’s Silvano? Where’s Dia? Where’s my phone?” The questions came rapid fire as she tried to push the numerous blankets off of her so she could swing her legs over the side of the bed. In tandem, Daniel and Niamh both grabbed for opposite arms to slow her down. With good reason too. The flurry of movement sent the world tilting and Nicanora slumped back again. “Actually, first, where’s my stele?”

“Marcaluz is dead. Lidia is here. Your phone is wherever Niamh put it after playing with it. Here is your stele.” Daniel answered her questions in order, patient as he offered over the slender piece of ornately decorated adamas. Her left hand felt stiff as she tried to curl her fingers around it. After a few tries, Nica settled on a rough and unrefined grip, peeled up the edge of her sweat-stuck shirt and let her unsteady hand burn another iratze into her skin. It flared gold then sank into her flesh. She found herself wishing Christopher were here. Their bond would have made it such an easier process.

“How long was I asleep?” Nica asked, rolling her shirt’s hemline down and trying again to sit up. Taking it slower this time, she managed to get upright.

“Awhile. But you’re okay now, that’s what matters.” He was reassuring at the very least, scooting back as she wiggled her legs over the side of the bed at touched her bare feet to the floor. It was cold. She wanted to retract back into the warmth of the bed, stay there for a few more hours.

“Yeah, I guess. I need a shower, I smell awful.” Nicanora got to her feet, steadying herself with a hand to Daniel’s shoulder. He looked up at her, his brows tugging with concern. She gave his shoulder two heavy pats then let go, shuffling for the suite’s bathroom. “So…it’s done? It’s over?”

“It’s done, Nic.” Niamh reassured her. Nica sighed, nodded, and shut the bathroom door behind her. Daniel sighed as well, waiting for the door to latch before he muttered.

“For now.”
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus?
Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?
--Virgil
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