It feels strange sitting here on my parents’ patio. It doesn’t feel right to be here, visiting family and finishing up a barbeque when Henry’s out there. He’s synonymous with the word family, and this feels like a betrayal of some kind even though I know I shouldn’t think of it that way. Maybe I can think of it as doing him a favor, at least he doesn’t have to deal with my mom. Regardless, the drive down to New York was more or less uneventful. Traffic on the 95 is always expected, and the congestion in and around the city is enough to leave me feeling haggard as soon as I arrive at the family home. I’m saved from it being totally awkward by Camden and Dylan being here too. It was Camden who gave me the idea of putting in leave in the first place, having sent me a message recently about a family gathering for the weekend. Still, as distracted as I am about the prospect of going to the city, I can’t entirely ignore Mom.
“So…are you dating yet?” she asks. “It feels like a missed opportunity not to have a potential son-in-law here…or daughter-in-law if that’s the intention these days. I suppose that would be…okay.”
I look up from the admittedly delicious apple pie she baked earlier with a hard glare. It’s been like this all afternoon, these little questions peppered into conversation like they aren’t completely intrusive. My older brother Camden turns to his wife Caroline, clearly asking without words if they can take baby George and bail. Meanwhile, my younger brother Dylan looks at girlfriend 283,7284,723 with an I-told-you-so expression. I don’t want to know what that is about, but I won’t be surprised if he tells me he had some kind of bet on this before getting here. Dick. My father has developed an unnerving fascination with his pie crust, staying out of it as he traditionally does.
“What?” she asks like I’m being unreasonable. “I think it’s a fair question. I mean, you couldn’t do much better than Henry when it comes to men—”
“You constantly gave me shit about Henry when we were married!” I snap.
“Well, I just didn’t want you marrying someone who was only interested in money and he was…well…”
“Poor,” Dylan suggests pointedly.
“I didn’t want to say it,” Mom sighs. “But clearly he’s doing very well for himself these days. I read about him in the paper, buying that penthouse suite! How incredible!”
“Oh my God,” I seethe, trying not to reenact the ever-popular table flip in my growing anger.
“And what about children?” Mom continues, ignoring my mood. “You know I want plenty of grandkids.”
A sickly hot rage erupts in me, and I need to change this conversation’s trajectory before I do something I’ll really regret. “Dylan’s probably got a thousand bastards running around by now,” I reply, deciding that if he wants to make this a game, he’s going to have to play it too. He gives me a dirty look, deliberately ignoring the questioning one his girlfriend is giving him at the same time.
“Oh stop! That’s a terrible thing to say!” Mom exclaims.
“Do you fucking listen to yourself?”
“I just don’t understand!” she wails.
“Mom,” Camden sighs.
“I’m worried! Can’t a mother worry about her kids? You and Caroline have been married 15 years. Happily. Divorce is so final, all this…transition stuff is so final. What happens in 10 years…5 years…when you realize it was a mistake and you want to go back? What man is going to be interested after you’ve mutilated yourself?”
“Get it through your thick skull that this isn’t just a phase! Christ you’re just lucky Dad hasn’t figured out that Hell would literally be paradise compared to you. FYI, Dad, if you do divorce her, you’ll probably earn a right-hand place at God’s side for ridding yourself of evil. If not, well like I said, Hell would probably be a nice vacation.”
“Everyone, please,” Dad finally speaks up.
“Every. Time,” I hear Dylan whisper loudly to his girlfriend. I’m pretty sure she’s actually recording the scene on her phone and so loses any sympathy I had for her.
“I don’t know why I bother to show up,” I grumble, shoving the last of my pie into my mouth out of spite. I will get my dessert at the very least. “Let’s just bother Riley about his personal life and keep talking about his ex-husband and how stupid he is for letting him go. We’ll ignore the reason for the divorce while we’re at it.”
“Oh, Riley!” Mom is all contrite now.
“Fuck off,” I snap. “You don’t get to pretend your comment wasn’t completely inappropriate. I’m done, I’m out of here.”
“We were supposed to have a nice weekend together!” she cries.
“Yeah well, next time think before you speak and maybe I’ll want to be around you longer than 10 minutes. Dad, Camden, Caroline, always a pleasure. Dylan, what’s-your-face? Use protection.” I get up, ignoring the huffing and hawing Mom is performing now and head inside to the kitchen. I stand at the sink, turning the faucet all the way on so I can drown out the sound of their voices chattering away out on the patio, probably talking about me, and finding some way to twist it into me being an asshole.
Coming to New York really wasn’t about visiting family here in Brookville on Long Island, but right now it’s consuming all my mental bandwidth. The location itself is still nice. It’s not as extravagantly lavish as Castillo’s, but it’s got more space since it’s not crammed in a busy city neighborhood. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, almost 4,000 square feet and sitting on over 2 acres of land. Tall trees serve as a natural fence line and there’s an Olympic size swimming pool glistening in the light of the afternoon sun. I hate everything about it right now, but I remind myself that it got me closer to my goal. Once I calm down, I’ll take off for the city and find out what the fuck is going on with Erra, and more importantly with Henry.
The backdoor opens and Camden comes in. “You okay?” he asks.
“I’m over it,” I lie. “I kind of expect it by now.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Yeah, no shit, doesn’t change that I’m sorry you’re going through it,” Camden sighs.
“Then don’t make me feel like worse shit just to put yourself on a pedestal,” I snap. We glower at each other, but I know he does mean well so I eventually sigh, shutting off the faucet. “I just need to learn not to come up here anymore for visits. I’ll see you, Carrie, and George, but no more of these.”
“You're welcome at our place anytime,” Camden says. “I told you that a million times already.”
I respond with a noncommittal grunt. He has invited me a lot, it’s just such a tiring affair trying to plan an actual trip to his place in Upstate New York. I have work, and since he can’t know about what I do it means coming up with stories and lies about my fake career in private security for a bland crypto company, add to that I have even less time these days than I used to, and frankly the idea of it all just makes me exhausted. He’s a good guy, but that doesn’t change the sense of fatigue I get when I think of making the trip. It’s the main reason I can’t claim to be a good brother, because it’s always been this way.
“Try not to brood on the Henry comments either,” Camden continues. “Mom’s an ass for bringing him up at all.”
“She’s a lot more than an ass,” I grumble. “Besides, that’s not Henry.”
I say it before I can stop myself, but Camden just shakes his head. By now he’s used to me making ‘off the wall’ comments, and I assume that he assumes I’m just dealing with the situation however I can. Regardless, I’m glad he doesn’t ask me to explain what I mean and instead, steps closer to pull me into a one-armed hug that I don’t even try to push away from.
“You sure you aren’t going to stay?” Camden asks. “Because if you bail, me and Carrie can’t.”
“I love you, bro, but not that much,” I tease.
He sighs loudly. “All right, all right. We’ll suffer through it together and come out stronger.”
“That’s the spirit. Give her and Georgie a hug for me, okay?”
“You got it. Now get out of here before Mom tries to convince you to stay, I see her looking towards the door.”
“Shit, yeah, that’s my cue. See you!”
While Camden goes to head our mother off, I depart swiftly through the front entrance. The stuff I brought for the weekend is still in the rental car, I had a feeling I wouldn’t make it longer than a night and didn’t bother unpacking, so I don’t have to worry about coming back around to pick anything up. The weapons and defenses I brought from the Order’s armory are tucked safely next to the duffel bag containing my extra clothes. I feel better the moment I’m out of the driveway, although now that I’m away from familial tension, I feel a different kind brewing. I have no idea what to really expect with what’s coming.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
New York City traffic leaves me stressed out and pissed by the time I find parking at 40 East 89th Street. There are closer options, but I really don’t want to dish out nearly $100 to park. Instead, I join the hustle and bustle of fellow pedestrians, surrounded by car horns, drilling, hammering, and the ceaseless hum of conversation. It takes me about 15 minutes to walk to Central Park Tower, and I feel dizzy as I look up at the far distant point that marks the top of the building. I know next to nothing about architecture, but even I’m impressed at the design. It’s a momentary relief from the twisting in my guts and the sweaty palms as I get closer and closer to my goal. Hopefully, my ill-advised visit won’t end with me dead.
Almost everyone I notice going inside is heading into the mammoth Nordstroms building, and part of me nearly follows them in the pretense of gathering my nerves while doing some shopping. It won’t help, I’m just building it up even larger in my head and I know well enough that it’s a sure ticket for me to abandon this altogether and retreat. I won’t be able to live with myself if I actually do that though. I need to stick to my proverbial and actual guns, for Henry’s sake.
I go to the residential lobby, instantly reminded of an upscale hotel. The floors are a pristine marble, the walls rich wood. The sitting area here hosts sectional couches in black leather, and there’s an unlit fireplace nearby. I approach the receptionist desk that’s manned by two people, going over to the woman when she looks up and acknowledges me with a smile that is so well practiced it looks genuine.
“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m actually here to visit someone,” I reply, realizing that I look entirely out of place with my nondescript clothes. “Can you call them to let them know I’m here?”
“Certainly. Who are you looking for?”
“Henry Stone.”
“Oh, yes, our new resident. And you are?”
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“Riley Averline.”
She nods and picks up a landline, dialing in the number to Henry’s new, ridiculously priced home. She smiles at me again as the line rings, and I feel my heart sink as I’m suddenly certain he won’t pick up. I’m about to tell her it’s all right and awkwardly shuffle out of the building when she greets Henry…or rather, Erra, with a courteous ‘good afternoon, sir.’
I keep my shoulders from tensing, going for nonchalant as she gives my name. Now I feel clammy all over, as I half expect to be dismissed outright. Instead, the woman wraps up the conversation and hangs up the phone.
“Take the elevator to the 100th floor, Mr. Stone will meet you there to bring you to the penthouse.”
“Thanks,” I reply, going to the set of elevators she indicates. I hit the button, waiting for it to collect me, and trying not to let the raucous tsunami of thoughts get me dizzy.
The elevator is a lot faster than the one in Order HQ, and it stops at the 100th floor before I really have time to settle myself. The 100th floor turns out to be part of the Central Park Club, where all the rich residents get to enjoy amenities I can only dream of. I see signs for a private restaurant, private cigar lounges, private pools, private everything as if the people here need the constant reassurance that no plebians will wander into their scenic vistas. Standing nearby is Erra, and I frown as I see him again face to face for the first time since the night in Margadh Sióg. At first glance, I’m looking at Henry. But the longer I look at him, the less like Henry he appears. His hair is shorter, no longer the mussed pompadour style Henry was sporting, and cropped closer to his head now. He’s wearing a suit that looks tailor-made and expensive, and he’s clean shaven. As I step off the elevator, his eyes find me and he smiles.
There’s something inherently malevolent about that smile, despite a lack of hostility in his gaze.
“I assume you aren’t here at the behest of your Order,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“That’s good, then I shan’t have to dismiss you immediately. Follow me,” he takes off and I fall into step, staring at his back as if I’ll somehow see Henry in there. I say nothing as we walk through the lavish environment, the lighting warm and inviting, the music that plays soothing and unassuming. We head down a hallway that leads to several private elevators, and Erra gestures me inside one before stepping in and hitting the button for the 129th floor.
We say nothing on the ride up. I glance at him now and then, quickly so he won’t notice. It’s hard to imagine him being responsible for everything the Council talked about, but then…I’m obviously biased.
“Here we are,” he says pleasantly as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the entry hall.
It’s beautiful. The floors are warm hardwood in chevron patterns, the walls a rich olive that complements the floors. I hear a piano being expertly played, but I don’t recognize the melody at all; it’s haunting and oddly foreign in a way I can’t exactly describe. Erra beckons me further inside, to a grand salon that nearly has my jaw drop. The ceiling is way above my head, probably 30ft or so, and the walls are glass. Endless windows that look out over New York City. Central Park looks so small from here. The salon is large enough to have two seating areas, one is set on a lush gray rug. Ivory sofas and chairs set tastefully around a stone coffee table. The other has ivory sectional couches and a massive coffee table in black. From those windows, I can see Billionaires’ Row. Between the two seating areas is the grand piano, and a sour note fills my mouth when I realize the player is the same Fae who was with Erra in the black market. Muir. He has no Glamor over his features, his golden green skin radiant in the warm glow of the chandelier above him. He waves at me, but I don’t return the motion.
Erra gestures to the seating with the better view of Central Park, and I sit in one of the armchairs. It looks really nice, but its too firm to be comfortable.
“What do you need, Mr. Averline?”
Nothing. There’s nothing of Henry here. No hint or glimmer, no small plea or sense of familiarity. I’m sitting in front of a stranger wearing Henry’s face, and my heart feels like it shrivels in the sudden despair clenching it. I chase that away, I haven’t even tried yet, and I owe Henry at least that much.
“I’m here about Henry…”
“Hm, I expected this would happen eventually,” he sighs, while Muir resumes playing the piano quietly in the background. I see a slight smirk on the Fae’s lips and I swallow the waspish comment that threatens to burst out of me. Meanwhile, Erra goes towards the left of the room, where a liquor cabinet is and fixes himself a drink. “What, exactly, are you hoping to get?”
“I want him back,” I say in a rush. “Sheldon has been warning us of how dangerous you are, and I don’t doubt that, but you haven’t been…I don’t know, ransacking the world or anything so I thought maybe there’s some mercy in you and you could release Henry.”
He regards me, studying me, and I feel suddenly small in his presence. “You would have me take someone else?” he asks.
“Yes,” because I don’t see the point in lying. Henry would hate that I made such a bargain, but I can’t bring myself to reconsider.
“No,” he hums.
“What? Why not?”
“I like this body, it’s quite hardy thanks to the vampirism thing. I’ll have to thank Charlemagne for that if the fool isn’t dead. Besides, this is the one that was primed for me and Muir is very fond of it.”
“So much so that I’m waiting for this to wrap up so I can show you how much again,” Muir chimes in with a sultry chuckle.
Erra grins. “Don’t be rude, my darling.”
The easy intimacy between the pair makes my gut clench in sudden envy. Erra must catch it, because that grin becomes sharper. “Ohh, there was still something between you and Henry, wasn’t there?”
I try to shake the memory of us lying in bed together after hearing Henry’s story. I try not to scream at myself for having told him I couldn’t promise anything, when I knew then that I did want to try again. That I was only scared of hurting him like I did before, and wanted to give myself time to process so I could be sure I was ready.
“No wonder sweet Henry wouldn’t go farther,” Muir says. “He must have still been pining for you too, how romantic.”
I try not to let that comment rankle me too visibly, but it leads to too many questions that I’m not sure I really want the answer to. I know Muir was involved in Henry’s escape from the Order, but apart from that his tidings in Henry’s tragic mission are a mystery to me. I feel like my lungs are being pierced by these two sharp smiles, compressed and unwilling to take in air. I stand up, not sure if I’m about to leave and call this whole trip a failure. Erra steps in front of me, blocking the direct route to escape.
“Hold a moment, you came all the way here…I’ll tell you what,” he continues. “You still have a working cunt? I’m virile, we can go again and again until you leave with a little piece of me to nurture and grow…or call it a piece of him, if that makes you feel better. Trust me, this one won’t come into the world already gone.”
“You…you son of a bitch!”
He has access to Henry’s memories, and while I could count that as something good – a sign that Henry’s still in there maybe, right now I just want to put my hands around his throat. Especially with the innocent smile he’s suddenly feigning, juxtaposed by the obvious, malignant delight in his orangey eyes at my dismay. I don’t put my hands around his neck, but I do lash out to punch him in the face in the hopes of erasing that smile altogether.
His hand darts out suddenly, seizing my wrist so harshly it separates and interrupting my would-be attack. I let out a pained yelp as the skin that his hand covers immediately begins to blister and I try to yank my hand back, but I can’t escape his grip.
“Fool,” he sneers.
This is it. He’s going to kill me. I can’t break away from him, and I doubt anything I can do would hurt him. His eyes are cold, they suck my breath out of me and I feel my legs tremble under the weight of that ancient stare. But then…he’s letting go of my wrist. I stagger backwards, nearly losing my footing but managing to catch myself at the last moment and avoid falling on my ass.
“Erra?” Muir asks, but Erra raises a hand to silence him.
“You’d think you would be the least bit prepared,” he says to me. “Count your blessings, Mr. Averline, and get out of my sight. Oh, be sure to tell ‘Sheldon’ hello from me.”
My head is throbbing, and I’m nauseous as I totter away from him and back towards the pair of elevators that will bring me to safety. My weapons remain untouched, I don’t have the willpower to even attempt testing them now. I step into the elevator, unable to define what I’m feeling. Even as I turn back to look in the penthouse and see Muir sliding an arm around Erra I can’t discern if I feel anything at all. I breathe heavily as the elevator makes its prompt way down to the 100th floor, wincing as I look at my wrist. There are blisters forming, the skin is a bright red tinged with green and it hurts so much that I’m dizzy as the lift chimes when it reaches its destination. I know I’m earning strange looks as I lurch through the private club space, but I avoid everyone’s gaze and march resolutely to the other set of elevators that will bring me to the lobby and out to New York City.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
I feel like shit, on so many different levels, but I force myself to get in the rental and drive it to Penn Station to return it. I’ll take the Amtrak back to Boston, because no way am I going to be capable of driving that far now. I should go to the hospital, but I think they won’t really be able to treat this the way an Incantator could at headquarters. I have half a mind to try and find New York’s Cerberus headquarters, but I don’t want to be slapped with a number of violations for working outside my jurisdiction without prior consent and written approval. So, I make do with buying a grossly overpriced first aid kit at the train station, retreat to one of the restrooms and hide in a stall to clean up the injury and wrap it as best as I can.
Carrying my light duffel bag and pack of equipment feels like way more of a burden than it should be, and I can’t tell if it’s because my physical condition or my mental one. I just want to crawl in a hole somewhere for a while, block out the world by laying in the dark and hoping that my confrontation with Erra was a nightmare, and that there’s still hope for saving Henry. There is, I tell myself savagely, but I don’t feel it in my heart as strongly as I did before.
When my train gets in, I push my way towards my seat and shove my luggage into the storage above it. I flop down with a huff and tug my headphones out of my jacket pocket, plugging them into my phone and putting on a playlist of Nine Inch Nails that will be on repeat for the 4-hour duration of the trip. I close my eyes for good measure, doing everything I can to show other passengers I’m not to be disturbed. I’m in no mood to chat, I’m in no mood for anything. I spend those hours on the train in a state of semi-dozing, shivering for a little and then feeling like I’m burning up again the next. I just need to get home and sleep. I’m sure I’ll feel better then. I have to feel better then, so I can determine my next step.
The train pulls into South Station a little after 10pm and while a part of me wants to just say fuck it and sleep in my seat because moving seems awful, I force myself to my feet and try to pretend I’m not as dizzy as I feel. I make it off the train without incident, but I have to make a beeline for the nearest restroom where I only just make it to a toilet before I vomit. My wrist throbs more painfully, but I don’t unwrap the bandages to check it. I think it’ll wipe me out completely to see the injury. So, I force myself to keep going while insisting inwardly that I’ve faced worse before. It’s only a quick walk to the nearest bus station to get to Fields Corner, and from there…just another 15 minutes to walk home. I can handle that. I got this.
I almost don’t. I almost get sick on the bus again, grimacing as I have to swallow it down at one point since there’s no bathroom on this transit line. There’s no time to even reach a bathroom when it stops at Fields Corner either, and I have to lose whatever’s left in my stomach in a nearby trashcan, earning groans and comments from those walking past. Why am I feeling so rotten? I can explain the desire to disappear into a black hole, I can’t explain why I feel like I’ve come down with a wicked flu out of nowhere. Surprisingly, the walk to Everdean Street helps clear up some of that sensation, where I was assuming it’d be nearly impossible for me to make it back to the house. I could sob when I reach home, staring up at the narrow structure as if its opening arms to embrace me.
I’m doing the usual fumble of my keys, my hands even less cooperative than usual, and I’m shocked and on edge when someone opens it from the inside! I’m in no state to fight, but I drop my duffel bag and I’m scrambling to open the bag with my weapons when a familiar voice curtly tells me, “just get inside, Averline.”
I look up and wonder if I’m hallucinating now, because Betty Carver has been off the map ever since she was fired from the Order for the Elena Silvyn incident. I didn’t think she’d ever bother remembering where I live. Still, I have to admit I’m glad it’s her and not Sheldon, and I stumble into the house, shutting the door loudly behind me. “What are you doing here?” I mumble. She looks prepared to answer me, but then I slump back against the door and slide down to my ass, my legs deciding they’ve had enough for one day.
“I feared as much,” she sighs. “Let me see, Averline,” her voice is gentle, something I’m not used to, and probably the reason I hold my arm out to her without complaint. She unwraps the cheap bandage and I feel another churning in my stomach looking at my wrist. There’s a black band around it, mottled with the blisters and burns. It reminds me of the skin of a banana that’s way past ripeness. “Necrosis,” Carver diagnoses with all the bluntness of the worst bedside mannered doctor ever.
“The fuck do you mean, necrosis?” I all but squeak. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so panicked. “What do I do about this?”
“There’s not much you can do about it, Averline, I caught you too late. I tried to get to you before you inevitably rushed into things. Again.”
“Don’t fucking chastise me,” I growl. “Last time I ‘rushed into things’ I handed you Elena on a platter, and you waited until South Boston was destroyed to do shit about it!”
She glares at me, and even though she’s no longer my boss, or has any sort of authority over me anymore, I still wince under the harshness of that look.
“He is a blight,” she says after a minute of scowling, echoing what was said in the Council. “And he’s touched you with it, it’s a death sentence, Averline. There are ways we can slow its spread, but I do not know of any way to heal you.”
I laugh weakly, bringing a hand to my forehead like I can massage the tension headache away so easily. “Oh, is that all? So, I’m fucking dead? Dead man walking? The walking dead? How long do I got, doc? Should I start putting my affairs in fucking order?!”
“William can answer that question better than I can,” Carver says.
Now I know I must be delirious, which is good news, it means I can ignore what she said about the blight inside of me. Clearly, I just imagined her saying that because my brain sucks and likes those catastrophic thinking patterns. That’s what Dr. Franklin told me on more than one occasion, anyway. Minus the part about my brain sucking.
“Billy’s dead,” I remind her.
“I know that, Averline,” she says. “But he’s not gone.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the entire day. “Are we going to hold a séance? Should I go buy a Ouija board?”
“No need, he’s at his apartment. Or, my apartment I should say,” Carver says. “Get up, Averline. You’ll do no one any favors with the self-pity routine.”