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The full moon has just crested over the top of the tallest tree in the wood when the doors to the Academy seal shut and the boundary spell at the gate triggers; the howls of the wolves in the wood enough to chill the blood. When the school was first founded, every wolf had been made to turn in the transition chambers below the school but as the pack grew and every wolf became more and more anxious after every turn the Headmasters had decided on a new plan. They would seal the school and set up a boundary and cloak the woods from the humans and let the wolves run free during the full moon. They had taken to the new conditions with delight, though some of the students – vampires in particular – had been apprehensive. Wolf bites were lethal and even more so on the full moon when they submit to the predator in them. A predator that wouldn’t simply bite their prey but rip it to shreds – a prey that happened to be their classmates. But the truth was obvious; there was no threat, so long as you were inside the doors when they were sealed. The exception to that of course is Hope, who can be outside without fear and can stay indoors without issue. Except, looking at her now, Josie wonders if that is really true. Hope is in the commons with them, perched by the window reading and bathed in moonlight. She’s beautiful and her normally crystal blue eyes are practically electric, the honey tones of her hair more obvious in the moonlight. But what truly draws her attention is the way Hope looks up every few minutes, staring listlessly out the window into the night, her fingers tightening around her book enough to crimp the edges of the pages. They haven’t really had ample time to talk, though Josie had committed to the idea that day with the monster arachnid. But with things going a little haywire after that – Dorian going missing, the knife disappearing, Landon undergoing some kind of testing that had turned up nothing about him – they haven’t really had the chance. And honestly Hope has been kind of…distant. Which, okay, Hope is always distant – but Josie can tell that this is different. She still smiles at Josie but they’re just that smidge smaller, almost distracted looking. Her eyes are that bit dimmer and glazed over and Hope’s attention has been so gone even in their classes that they’d been evacuated from a Magical Theory class when her table had spontaneously combust. And she’s certain – beyond so, that as much as Hope is twitching now, her distance isn’t some weird moon-centric PMS symptom. It’s been way more than that and yet Josie can’t quite figure it out. Or maybe Josie’s making it all out to be something bigger than it is, and it really is about the full moon. Hope might be a werewolf but she’s not part of the pack. Hope had refused to submit to the pack Alpha, Jed, in part due to her own isolated nature after her parents’ death, but a large part of it, Josie knows, is Hope being an Alpha in her own right. There is a fragile respect between the two Alphas and Josie suspects it’s the reason Hope doesn’t go out on full-moons. She can wolf-out on a whim, where Jed and the others only have this one opportunity every month and to infringe on their space during that more primal time would break their tender peace. It’s a lot, Josie sighs, but it still doesn’t shake that feeling of…more. Hope’s restraint and respect for the wolves is only the tip of the ice-berg. Like she can hear Josie’s thoughts, Hope shifts again that second just as the clock chimes and the hour changes over; their curfew now hanging over them less than thirty minutes away. Lizzie stands up beside her as the other students still in the commons begin clearing out, quickly giving her goodnights before she heads down the hall towards their father’s office. Josie distractedly returns them, getting up to set her book back on the shelf and chances a glance at Hope only to see her still at the window. She’s seemingly given up all pretence of reading, her full attention on what lies beyond the glass, her entire body turned and leaning towards it. She looks completely unaware, like she’s trapped in some trance and Josie moves towards her hesitantly. “Hope?” The tribrid doesn’t respond, not even when she calls her name again, this time much closer. She goes to place her hand on Hope’s shoulder and flinches back when her head whips around just as Josie makes contact. Hope’s eyes are glowing, locked on hers, not even blinking. She doesn’t seem to have registered anything other than the touch and the infringement on her space; still stuck in that trance. “Hope?” She tries again. She takes a step closer, half-expecting Hope to start growling but she doesn’t move. Josie raises her hand, going to place it on Hope’s shoulder and shake her out of this but she grazes Hope’s cheek by accident and startles back at the electricity that cuts through her skin. Hope startles then too, her eyes flickering between blue and gold before they settle; the tribrid blinking furiously to try and regain herself. Her whole body pitches back into the couch, the movement seeming to jar her again, like she hadn’t realised she was moving at all. “Hope? Are you okay?” “Yeah?” she tries but Josie is pretty sure that’s a lie, watching her blink and hold it, her head swaying in a half-hearted shake, like the world is swimming around her. “Are you…are you sure?” “Yeah. Yeah – I’m – I’m fine. Sorry, I’ve just got to –” The tiny gasp Josie lets out seems to halt Hope in her tracks. She cuts herself off, her eyes a little fogged and wide as she realises their position. Concerned, Josie had been that little bit closer and in Hope’s haste to get up she hadn’t quite clocked it. They linger now, inches apart, Hope’s every breath a hot brush of air against Josie’s mouth; a whispered ghost of a kiss. She’s not sure why she’s not moving; maybe it’s shock, because she’s never been quite this close to Hope even holding hands and doing magic with her. The only other time she was this close to her, Josie was unconscious and Hope was carrying her back to her room so it doesn’t really count and really, maybe her brain is shutting down and that’s why she’s not moving. Maybe she’s dying. But that doesn’t explain why Hope isn’t moving away either. Hope’s eyes flicker again, the gold rushing in and out of them like a light turning on and off – there and then not and Josie’s breath escapes her in a gasp. She feels like she’s almost in a trance herself, seeing her hand raise to graze Hope’s cheek but yet not really connecting to it. The tingles that shoot up her arm don’t feel real and it doesn’t feel like her hand even though she knows, logically, that it is. Hope’s eyes flutter shut, her eyelashes a butterfly touch against her cheek, dark and enchanting against her pale skin and the slight flush of red that’s slowly leeching in. They open again and the gold is there, longer this time and Josie can’t help herself, the words escaping her quietly; a half-sentence like ice-water over the two of them. “Your eyes…” Said eyes widen dramatically, the gold flickering before it disappears entirely and Hope jumps back, her knees whacking into the back of the couch and stripping her balance entirely. Josie catches the front of her sweater to stop her falling and Hope tumbles into her, their whole bodies pressed against each other for a split second before they spring apart and Hope is dashing to the exit. “Hope!” The girl tosses up a hand in some weird, uncommunicative gesture, calling “Later” over her shoulder before she disappears in a burst of speed and Josie is alone. - Hope rushes into her room, the panic in her veins as real as the glow of her eyes and slams the door shut behind her. She engages all the locks and deadbolts it shut but even that doesn’t seem enough, and with waning strength she seals it with a boundary spell and hurries into her bathroom The shower is turned to the coldest possible setting before she throws herself into it, fully clothed. She doesn’t know what’s happening, but she can feel a change in her bones like when she first turned under the moon. It’s utter agony as her body stretches itself in her skin but it only gets worse as the bones creak and break; rearranging themselves slowly. It’s not natural for a hybrid to be forced to shift and Hope fights it every inch of the way, clinging to her mortal skin with a kind of desperation she’s never felt before. The cold water isn’t jarring enough a sensation to cling to as she’d hoped and, legs scrambling against the bottom of the shower, she stretches to reach for the switch. Her back bows, threatening to split and reform – and Hope cries out as she snaps forward under a wave of torrid heat. It’s as shocking as she hoped, stinging and blistering her skin in a tangible way and she clings to it desperately, as the change unwillingly recedes. It is not gone, she knows, but gone enough. She doesn’t know what’s happening other than that it should be impossible. It’s not a spell, she knows, can tell by the feel of her turn. It’s like her body is rebelling against her – surrendering to something it knows it can resist. Since her first turn, Hope has only felt similarly on one other occasion – when she’d first returned to school after staying with Kol and Davina, and had resisted turning on school grounds for weeks. She hadn’t needed to – but being human for so long when she was so much more was wearing on her soul and in one burst of emotion she’d nearly lost control; the change stirring in her bones. It was then that she’d learned the joy and necessity of running to destress. But this – while like that, is not the same. It’s not emotion compelling the turn, not a spell or even the moon. It’s like her body is being called to action, her wolf being summoned by something she can’t quite perceive and as much as the curiosity to turn and follow the urge overwhelms her, she resists. The school is sealed and Hope sealed within it, and if she turns, even in the safety of her room where she’s concealed, everyone will know. Though Hope is known to be a tribrid, all her school has ever seen of her is the witch. No one has ever seen her wolf – no one but her father – but more than that, Hope is the epitome of control. She doesn’t turn without wanting to. The mere flash of her eyes is only because she wills it. This is not natural – but it’s not happening to the other wolves, just to her. The only tribrid. She thinks back to Landon; how her trust in him had let him into this school and then turned him loose, that mystic knife in hand and knows it must be tied to that. There’s a list of rules in the information packet of attending the Salvatore Academy, she recalls. Rule One: if you make a mess, clean it up. There’s of course some additional content to that – something about scale and help and the difference between domestic and homicidal but Hope had only read so far before she’d ceased all caring and figured that if she broke a rule, someone would let her know. But if this is about the knife – well, there’s a bunch of information about it stockpiled in Alaric’s office. There must be something in it about the supernatural knife’s effects on supernatural people. And if there isn’t, well…she’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it. If she comes to it. Though, she admits, there are some issues with keeping this whole thing a secret. Josie had seen her eyes, she realises, her brain already scrambling for some way to deceive her before a rigid guilt runs through her at how she’d left the girl standing in the commons. She’d seen the real concern in Josie’s eyes before it had contorted itself into some other emotion she’s never quite encountered before, leaving her eyes dark and fascinated. The siphon hadn’t seemed at all frightened by Hope seemingly losing control – something that now concerned Hope because that was either brave, dumb or a serious lack of a preservation instinct, all things that were seriously worrying things to be as a siphon in a supernatural sea of sardines. But Hope now has to think up some ruse, a seriously inconvenient thing to do when her bones are busy breaking themselves in a serious test of her patience. Or, some small part of her whispers, you could tell her the truth. The silence that comes with the thought feels deafening. The roar of the shower, the creak of her bones, the agony tearing through every inch of her body – all of it seems to disappear. She could tell Josie the truth. It’s so simple and yet almost radical because Hope doesn’t have to lie. She doesn’t have to keep this to herself – not that she’s ever really had to but still, the point stands. If she tells Josie, Josie might help her. Or at the very least keep it a secret. She thinks back to the past few days; how little she’s seen of the brunette, and how much she’s almost missed her. Josie had been busy helping Rafael integrate into the school and Hope was near overwhelmingly pre-occupied, between administering supernatural tests to an unwilling – and particularly rude – Landon and helping a slightly testy Alaric with research and trying to track down a missing Dorian. It had kept them from doing much more than smiling at each other from across rooms and then tonight, the first free time they’d had, Josie had approached her and Hope had run and this had happened. Well, Hope had run because this was happening. But they still haven’t talked since the day with the Arachne and Hope really, really wants them to. Hope has long forgiven Josie of the things she said the day the gargoyle attacked and as much as she had wanted Josie to initiate the conversation, the longer it was drawn out and they were kept away from each other, the less she cared. To have their first chance to talk ruined by this – while it couldn’t be prevented and she wouldn’t have chanced it – is upsetting but the opportunity it presents… It almost feels too good to be true. Because as messy and tortuous as it is, it still is an opportunity. It’s a chance to have a full conversation with Josie – and even more than that; a chance to prove her trust and openness to her. It’s a chance for that half-formed friendship to fully take root and blossom and for them to grow from this together. All she has to do is ask. And in the morning, she thinks, bearing down against the change as it rattles through her bones again, she will. - Hope doesn’t show up for breakfast and the pit in Josie’s stomach grows deeper as the minutes drag on and she still doesn’t see her. She’d gone to bed after Hope had disappeared and spent hours tossing in her sheets, worried out of her mind and thinking of all the reasons Hope might’ve run. There weren’t a lot, but the most destructive ones had presented themselves and haunted Josie in her dreams, turning them to cruel nightmares. In some Hope had reverted to her isolated, distant self and rebuked all attempts at conversation with harsh and cutting remarks. In others, Josie was tortured by the sound of bones breaking and the howl of a wolf on the hunt, spending what felt like hours trapped in the woods, running from a wolf she couldn’t see but knew was Hope; following her. She’d woken from one such dream minutes before her alarm went off, Hope’s name on her lips and the tribrid’s glowing eyes a searing image in her mind, Lizzie’s concerned face hovering over hers. Her sister had been reluctant to leave her side after that but Josie had finally herded her off, knowing she was helping their dad out with checking the wards after Wolf-Night. And now here she is, alone at breakfast, her eyes darting to the entrance every other second; her food barely touched and cooling on her plate. The wolves had shown up a few minutes ago and were busily packing their plates. She can spot Rafael among them, smiling at the other members of his pack and she nearly flinches when he looks back and their eyes meet. They’ve talked about her kissing him to siphon and she’s explained herself but she could swear he’s seemed off ever since she mentioned it. She’s not ignorant to his more friendly inclinations towards her and how despite talking to Lizzie, he doesn’t act the same way towards Lizzie that he does to Josie. He’s interested, she can tell. But she isn’t. Or at least – not right now. As much as Lizzie might advise crushes to even out lingering feelings and as much as she might think he’s handsome, she isn’t looking for a boyfriend right now. She wants to work on her feelings after Penelope, on her relationship with her dad and, she thinks, on her relationship with Hope. The clocks chime, the fifteen minute warning for first period and with another quick glance around, Josie finally accepts that Hope just isn’t coming. But that doesn’t mean that Josie can’t go find her. With that little thought, Josie abandons all pretence and grabs her bag, struggling not to run and settling on a brisk walk towards the stairs; the worry swirling in her gut not abating in the slightest as she climbs them and heads up to their floor, still not glimpsing her. She’s just headed down the corridor from her room when Hope’s door opens and her stomach turns at the sight of her. Hope is beautiful, always is, but she seems less composed than normal in tight leggings, a long shirt, cardigan and convers. Her eyes are tired and glazed and red-rimmed like she’s been crying; her skin paler than normal and her face almost gaunt looking. She seems exhausted and all Josie can wonder is what happened to her between running away and arriving now. It’s something to do with what triggered her wolf eyes, it must be but whatever it was must’ve done more than trigger just them. Hope finally sees her and despite how tired she must be, her eyes still manage to light up and a smile just barely tugs at her lips. She looks relieved to see her, happy even, gently grabbing Josie’s arm when she’s in range and squeezing softly “Hope?” Josie wonders, stepping closer when Hope teeters and looping an arm around her to draw her against her side. Hope doesn’t even protest the contact, perhaps the more serious indicator of how she’s feeling, just leans against her and lets her head rest heavy on Josie’s shoulder. Her quiet “hi” is nearly lost even in the quiet of the hall and she sways unsteadily even with Josie holding her. She’s sick, maybe, Josie figures, brushing the back of her hand against Hope’s cheeks before she rests it on her forehead. Hope doesn’t respond to the contact except to lean towards it, her hand grasping around Josie’s wrist and the lightest hum escaping her. She doesn’t have a fever, but from the way she’s acting she’s probably delirious. Or seriously sleep-deprived, Josie figures, dragging the back of a knuckle against the dark edge of the skin beneath Hope’s eye gently, the weight of Hope’s hand around her wrist making the skin there tingle. “Hope?” “Josie? I broke my bones,” Hope whines, “all my bones.” “Hope – Hope, what do you mean?” There’s a voice coming towards them, one of the witches calling back to a friend about a missing notebook. Hope whines again, waving their arms in the direction of her door and Josie quickly leads them towards Hope’s room, corralling the tribrid with a tender grip of her waist. She moves sluggishly and when the door is closed and Josie stops moving, she curls back into her, nuzzling her nose against Josie’s skin and then resting there contentedly. Josie squeezes her waist softly, “I’m going to help you into bed, okay?” Hope just shakes her head, pulling away from Josie just barely, seeming torn between nestling against her again and trying to have an actual conversation. “No – I…no…I need – Josie, I need your help,” she grumbles, blinking her eyes slowly. She’s still teetering precariously, her whole body taking up an unconscious sway and Josie keeps her arm steady around Hope’s waist, guiding her to the bed and trying to think if this is a werewolf thing she’s heard of. All the other wolves had been present at breakfast and fine, if a bit late, but with a first timer like Rafael with them that wasn’t at all surprising. Hope sits down on the bed and her eyes automatically start to drift closed, the fight against sleep seeming to grow harder and harder by the second. Josie helps her swing her legs up and lie back and sits by her legs, gingerly removing her shoes before pulling the blankets over her. “I need your help,” Hope slurs again, clasping her hand around Josie’s and twining their fingers together when she tries to move, like holding her hand will stop her leaving. Her face is half-buried into her pillow, her eyes practically closed, and Hope pulls until their joined hands are against her cheek, Josie’s arm contorted strangely as she’s dragged to lean over Hope as she tries to both keep her arm and not hurt the tribrid with pulling away. “What do you need my help with?” she asks her, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Hope’s ear and thinking of how nice it is to see Hope so calm and vulnerable as unfortunate it is that it’s a side-effect of her exhaustion. “Stay,” Hope mutters at last, followed quickly by a tug on her captured hand, “Sleep.” “I don’t think you need my help with that,” Josie says softly, but Hope doesn’t reply, her eyes fully closed, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek and her breath a steady rhythm against Josie’s hand. It’s tricky to escape from without rousing her, but she manages, standing from the bed and looking down on the unconscious Mikaelson, her features slack and soft in a way Josie knows she’ll not see again for a long time. She knows Hope needs to sleep and yet she can’t quite bring herself to leave, her heart hammering at the idea of leaving the girl alone when she’d asked her not to. And then there’s the matter of what caused Hope’s exhaustion and what she actually needs help with, because Josie doesn’t doubt that though her sleep addled mind had confused its purpose, the request for help had been genuine. It warms her heart and chills her blood to know that Hope is asking her for help. A glass of water would be nice to wake up to, Josie decides, if only for a way to delay her departure that bit more. She heads into the bathroom, already moving towards the sink only to stop and stare down at the slick of the floor-tiles. The shower door is open and she can see the way the water collected in the basin at the bottom has leaked out onto the floor, creating the massive puddle she’s walking in. There’s blood in the shower, on the glass walls and on the temperature dial and though it’s turned off, Josie is near horrified at the temperature it was set to; can only imagine the blistering burns that it might cause. And yet the reason for it is obvious, if the claw marks in the glass are anything to go by. Hope’s eyes hadn’t just flared last night – she’d started to change. And headed to her room for safety and probably stayed the night cooped up in her shower, burning herself just to get a focus to supress the change. Josie traces a finger over one of the girl’s claw marks, her heart aching at the thought of Hope alone and in pain, suffering already and then injuring herself just to stop her wolf emerging. Hybrids have more control, she knows, but that wouldn’t stop the vampires from rioting at a wolf turning inside the school. In silence, Josie fills up a glass of water and carries it back; setting it on Hope’s bedside locker before heading to the bag she’d discarded at the door. She takes a book out of it before shucking off her shoes and settling herself against the headboard beside Hope. Hope has spent so long alone, with everyone leaving her. But not her, Josie decides there in that moment. The world could turn against Hope Mikaelson; forsake and abandon her time and time again. But not her. - Hope is so comfortable she almost thinks she must be dead. It’s the only reasonable option because the safety that inhabits her bones, the warmth against her skin and the soft touch through her hair that could only be a breeze is unnatural and heavenly. It’s the lightest she’s felt in ages. And yet, she’s not dead and it isn’t literal heaven or peace, like she knows exists after death. Instead it’s a strange contentment, a living peace, that when she opens her eyes makes all the sense in the world. Josie is beside her, a hand gently tangled in her hair as she reads; slumped back against the pillows enough to cushion Hope’s head where it rests on her stomach. She’s dozing lightly, her book resting against her chest but her eyes open the minute Hope stirs, and when Hope looks at her the smile on Josie’s face is as tender as she’s ever seen it. “Hi,” she mutters, the corner of her mouth twitching up like some Pavlovian response to Josie’s smile. “Hey,” Josie says softly in reply. She doesn’t make any effort to move, seeming content to run her fingers through Hope’s hair and so Hope remains for another moment, simply enjoying the touch before she sits up. Her whole body aches with strain and she can’t stop the groan that escapes her. Josie’s hand is a soft press against her back the moment it does, the girl sitting up beside her in concern. “Hey,” she says again, leaning into Hope’s body like her presence alone will take away all her agony, “You okay?” The press of Josie’s body against hers is honestly fogging her brain and that bud of truth she’s been ignoring sprouts new roots in her, even as she tries to deny it. She shakes her head lightly, feeling the ache of the turn still in her blood even though the moon is gone and knows that whatever happened last night is likely to happen again. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t – I didn’t want to rush off but –” Josie tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, letting her fingers follow it down, brushing against Hope’s ear and then her cheek and down her neck, “Hope. I saw the bathroom.” The bathroom. She’d meant to clean it up – to scrub the blood out of the shower and mop up the water on the floor and fix the cracks and scrapes along the glass but she’d been so tired – she’d barely had the energy to take down her boundary spell. The effort it had taken to get dressed and start down the corridor was already more than she’d had and it occurs to her now, she’s beyond lucky that Josie found her. But it doesn’t stop the embarrassment, knowing Josie saw the result of her struggling; that lack of control. Josie seems to read it on her face though because she cups her cheek, angling Hope’s face so their eyes meet and all Hope can see in those eyes is understanding and concern. She isn’t weirded out or frightened by Hope’s loss of control, just worried – worried for her, and something shifts again in her chest. She places a hand over Josie’s, pressing it against her skin that touch more firmly before they seem to mutually pull apart. “I think it’s the knife,” Hope starts, “When I fought the dragon –” “Dragon?” “I…yeah. The day we found Landon with the knife, there’d been a mass homicide on the bus – the one we saw, remember?” Josie nods. “It wasn’t him, like we thought. He said there was a girl chasing him and I thought maybe it was a pyromancer but surprise, that’d be too simple. It was a dragon – a dragon that could change into a fire-spitting person,” Hope cheers sardonically, raising a fist in salute in utter sarcasm that makes Josie smile. And then her own dims, because Josie doesn’t know what Hope did but in the interest of full honesty, of trust, she should tell her. But if Alaric’s reaction is anything to go by then Josie will be out that door in a split second and Hope will be alone again. Josie bumps their shoulders together when the pause draws out too long and Hope sighs. “…Rafael and I…we fought her and I used the knife against her fire and then he killed her with it. Or… we thought he did. But he hadn’t and she just turned back into a dragon. So I – I used a Death Spell on her. One that I shouldn’t have had with me – but I did. Because…” “Because you were going to kill Landon,” Josie finishes for her. Josie doesn’t say anything but Hope isn’t at all surprised by that. There’s a big difference between setting your abusive ex on fire and flat-out murdering someone. Honestly, Hope sometimes wonders if she’s not destined to be as bad as Esther or Dahlia. Her whole family – bar her grandmother and great-aunt – had gotten down and dirty with violence, their passion was their rage and their lust was for blood and bodies full of it. They’d torn people to shreds – but always with hands or fangs. They felt the blood wash over them and every action was personal; by their own hand. Hope’s every act is through magic. If triggering her curse had taught her anything, it was that it didn’t make things any different; death was death, but she can’t help but believe that the devil was truly in the details. That somehow killing people with magic is cowardice. If she didn’t break their neck with her own hands, tear out their beating hearts into her own palms, rip their throats out with her own fangs, then what does she truly know of the cost? The decision to kill people would always be easy if it was one made with magic – if it was one made with the knowledge that she would never feel their life fade and spill over her own skin. What does it say about her if she only ever kills with magic? Esther had done that and she had acted like her children – who did things by their own hands; who knew the fragility of a mortal body, the cost and weight of death – were beneath her. Hope doesn’t ever want to be like her grandmother but it’s times like this that she wonders if she’s not already on that path. Feeling sick, Hope stands from the bed and gathers a set of clean pyjamas to replace the leggings she’d slept in before ducking into the bathroom. She feels dirty suddenly, like her own thoughts have revealed a kind of cowardice soaked into her skin and the urge to scrub her skin to redness and blisters is overwhelming. The bathroom is still in total disarray but she casts a quick spell to clear the most of the mess from the floor and steps into the shower; her ears carefully focused on the water hammering into her skin. She expects Josie to leave, to slip out while she’s distracted – has purposefully removed herself so she can do just that – and yet when she returns, the siphon is back sitting against the headboard, book in hand, quietly expectant eyes watching Hope the minute the barrier between them opens. “You didn’t leave?” Hope wonders aloud; the hesitance and awe of the sentence calling Josie from her seat on her bed. The siphon crosses the space between them with a few long strides, her arms reaching out for Hope the second she’s in range and pulling her firmly into the cradle of Josie’s body. Her arms are tight around Hope; grounding and solid, unforgiving in their hold and Hope freezes in shock at the action as Josie leans her chin against her rigid shoulder and husks a hot breath against her ear, her voice sounding suspiciously thick. “I’m not leaving you,” Josie declares, an edge of anger to the words as if the very thought of it is unthinkable and infuriating, “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to be again.” She keeps the embrace even without Hope’s reciprocation, like she can feel that Hope needs this time to process. But as Hope’s arms loop around Josie’s waist in return, her grip near-desperate, her eyes wet with tears, Josie speaks again, her voice so much softer. “Please stop running,” she beseeches the tribrid, “Or if you’re going to run – take me with you. Just. Don’t shut me out, please. I want to be your friend, Hope, I want to be here with you – for you. I’m not going to judge you for things any more than you would me. So you almost killed a threat to our school – to our way of life, one who’s proven to be nothing more than a liar and – and a manipulator. So what? When I set Penelope on fire it certainly wasn’t for anything as noble as our protection.” Hope snorts lightly, hiding her mouth against Josie’s shoulder and edging further into the warmth the other girl provides. She doesn’t run as hot as Hope does, but her mere presence and their closeness is like a balm on her soul; a kind of warmth she’s never really encountered before, explicitly different from family and friends. She wonders absently if this is what Toni is to Cheryl before she shoves the thought to the back of her mind with all the rest. “You know,” Hope laughs, hoping in vain that it doesn’t come off as wet as it probably does, “if your dad heard you call murder noble, he’d have an aneurysm.” “If my dad heard that I helped you do black magic, he’d lose his mind. But what he doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt him,” Josie chides, before knocking their heads together lightly and pulling away from her, her expression stern, a silent I know what you just did that Hope can’t avoid. Hope chuckles breathily, swiping a tear off her cheek and glancing away from the probing depths of Josie’s eyes. “I can’t promise I won’t run,” she says at last, “But if I do…I won’t do it alone.” It’s a tentative offer, one she doesn’t expect Josie to quite understand even if she’s seemed to follow Hope’s every other thought but it’s all she can offer in the moment. An acceptance and an acknowledgement in one; I won’t run from you and I want you too in the same breath. Hope watches the words settle in the air, sees Josie’s mind whirring behind her eyes and feels her breath catch in her chest because, by God, the smile on Josie’s face could shame the stars into dying. - The bell rings for the end of the school day and it’s like a fog lifts from over them, the bubble they’ve immersed themselves in popping. Josie is sprawled across Hope’s bed, books stacked in front of her and a sheet of notes written out in concise cursive. Hope is curled in an armchair in what Josie has decided to call her ‘art corner’, her own book balanced on her knees, a sketchbook in hand that she’d taken to scrawling notes in. The books are all from Alaric’s collection, carefully pilfered by the siphon while Hope caused a raucous distraction in a senior Latin class. Josie isn’t quite sure what Hope had done – isn’t entirely sure if she wants to know, given the devious smile that had lit up her face and the positively mischievous gleam in her eyes as she’d high-fived a group of devil-eyed primary students in greeting before the group of them had scurried off with her – but it had been beyond effective and her father had practically sprinted out of his office, Lizzie and MG in tow, toting a collection of strange equipment from fire extinguishers to tweezers, a variety of buckets and a book she’s certain was about the life of geese. Josie was perhaps most concerned by the book; especially when not a few minutes after they’d left the panic had escalate and she’d started hearing chickens screaming and clucking from down the hall. The pair had reconvened upstairs, Hope practically shaking with laughter as she picked feathers out of her hair, and split the research papers and books between them, quickly getting to work reading and writing notes, occasionally noting something intriguing but otherwise working in a companionable silence. It’s been a slow-go of it though and although Josie has a solid page or so of notes about the knife, there’s not a lot she can really say about its potential effect on the supernatural. There’s even less she could say about its effect on Hope – the more important factor of all this, Josie had decreed. Because Rafael had touched the knife too, used it to kill someone even, but he had been out during the moon and come back fine – having been perfectly normal before and after Wolf-Night too. Landon – even though they still had no idea how he was supernatural, or if he even was – had also remained unaffected by the knife beyond his weird compulsion to steal it in the first place. So the only factor they could really consider was Hope. It wasn’t something about the knife that was inherently affecting the supernatural; it was something about the knife that was inherently affecting Hope. Josie blinks, stretching her arms out above her head, not noticing the way her shirt slowly drags up over her stomach or the way Hope is quietly observing her, the pencil in her hand twitching across the open page of her sketchbook. She only refocuses as Hope closes it, standing up to crack her neck; rubbing at it with that same tired expression from earlier. She’s been doing that for a while, Josie notes, moving and rubbing at her skin like it itches. It reminds her of last night, when Hope had been fidgeting before she’d sprinted to the safety of her room. She’d spent hours fighting the change in the shower, and Josie can only hope that that won’t be the case tonight. “Ready for dinner?” Hope just groans in response, shuffling over to where Josie is and flopping onto the bed beside her. Josie tries not to laugh, settling for rubbing the tribrid’s back to ease some of the tension there. “Is that a no?” “No,” Hope huffs but her stomach rumbles loud enough to wake the dead then; and Josie just snorts; shoving at her. “Yeah, right. Don’t think I don’t remember that you skipped breakfast and napped through lunch, wolf-girl,” she chides, poking at Hope’s shoulder again, “You need to eat something.” The tribrid just rolls over until she bumps against Josie’s arm and noses into her sweater, her whole body relaxing into the bed beneath her. “I’m tired.” “And hungry,” Josie pesters. “Is this going to be a thing?” “What? Me making sure you don’t starve?” “No – you poking,” Hope jests, pointedly jabbing her finger into Josie’s side and hiding a smile at how the siphon tenses up to fight the instinctive need to flinch away. “Most definitely. That’s what being friends with me is like, Hope, I thought you’d read the fine print before you signed your soul over to me.” “Oh I signed my soul away, did I?” Hope laughs, “I’m sorry – I didn’t know you were the Devil.” “Just the Satan-Spawn,” Josie declares, clearing up the books and setting them into stacks by Hope’s night-stand, the smile on her face starting to hurt her cheeks. The lightness of Hope’s tone is something she hasn’t heard before and the quick rapport between them is a wonderful surprise. Sure Hope has always been witty and sarcastic but Josie had always felt a large part of it was a bluff – that once people were let in, she’d tone it down so much it would feel like talking to another person entirely. She’s glad it’s not the case. “Eh, I’m pretty sure that’s me,” Hope interjects; a hand pressed against her chest like having her title stripped from her will wound her very soul. “No way, Hope, you’re way too sweet for that.” The strangled sound that escapes her makes Josie’s day as Hope shoots up, looking downright insulted. “I am not sweet,” “Says the girl who carried me to my dorm instead of waking me up.” “Says the girl who tucked me in!” Hope retorts. Josie merely smirks, leaning over the edge of the bed to slip her shoes back on before she shoots a look back at Hope, already victorious. “Says the girl who did me first.” The double entendre is too much for Hope and she flops back onto bed, her hands hiding her face as she groans exasperatedly; trying not to give away the sudden burst of images racing through her mind, thoughts unearthed and liberated from her fervent hold with only a few words and a flirty smile. Josie seems none the wiser, mercifully, and is instead dorkily fist-pumping to herself as she collects her things, like she isn’t in clear view of Hope. “I suppose it’s too late to back out of this friendship thing, then?” “But of course,” Josie announces, flouncing off the bed towards the door. Hope doesn’t make an effort to follow her, merely sitting up on her elbows to watch Josie as she pulls the door open. “Besides, you’d never back out. You like me too much,” The siphon says, before she departs with a wink and a quick, “Dining Hall in ten minutes.” The door swings closed with a click, a waft of Josie’s perfume jettisoned towards Hope in the draft it creates. A wave of citrus and rose breaks over her and Hope inhales it with a sigh, groaning in despair because Josie is right. She does like her too much. - Hope has lost her mind if she thinks Lizzie will give up Josie. It’s all that Lizzie can think, storming down the hall a while after dinner. She would’ve come sooner but she had gotten caught on her way out of the dining hall by her scratched-up father, who’d requested a research aid for a few hours. At first she hadn’t noticed, too distracted by a traumatised MG, who was clucking under his breath and her sister laughing at her and picking feathers and fluff out of her hair even after Lizzie had washed and scrubbed what she thought was the last of them out in the shower an hour ago. That had led to the terrifying thought that maybe she was turning into one of the chickens and she’d quickly had to swap dinners with Rafael – taking the onset of teasing with a proud tilt to her head. And then she’d seen Hope. With half the senior class missing for poultry-related reasons and half the staff corralling chickens – and one wild, insidious bastard of a goose – in a classroom, trying to figure out how to fix them, Hope Mikaelson was an easy spot, sitting alone on the only side of the room with no people on it. Well no, that’s a lie. There were absolutely people there. A curious group of primary students had strayed from their year and were huddled around her, all talking avidly, with Hope nodding along and looking riveted and totally engaged with them. For some reason, Lizzie could only picture her surrounded by small demons, but that might just be the chickens still tormenting her. Out of sight, she had learned, does not always mean out of mind. As if she could forget the trauma of fire-breathing chickens, shitting explosive eggs every five seconds. But small demon children aside, it was beyond weird. But from there it all grew weirder because Hope looked up, stared straight at her and didn’t look away – this weird, almost fond, glazed quality coming over her eyes. It honestly reminded Lizzie a bit of the way she looked at doughnuts when she was on a diet or the way MG stared at her and slowly, her eyes had widened and she’d frozen in her seat, somewhat horrified as the two thoughts collided and merged and – oh my God Hope Mikaelson likes her. Josie had looked up then, probably concerned about the drink her sister had just spat across the table and had reasonably followed her gaze passed a sputtering, spit covered Rafael to the staring Hope – Only Hope wasn’t looking anymore. She was talking to one of the eight year old kids, a little rosette haired boy named Ander, hiding a smile as he waved his hands behind his back and started rocking his head back and forth like he was pecking something, the other kids laughing and all of them reaching across the table to share high-fives with the older girl. Josie had given Lizzie a searching look before she patted her on the back, handed Rafael a few napkins and went back to her food. And Hope looked up again. And stared. And Lizzie’s stomach had started turning because it wasn’t about her at all. Hope didn’t like her. No, that would be ridiculous; a product of the chickens fucking with her mind, most likely. No, it was about Josie. Hope was eyeing her sister like Caleb would a cheerleader and that could honestly only mean one thing; That tribrid bitch was going to steal her sister! She wasn’t sure if Josie had noticed, maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t but it didn’t really matter because Lizzie had and she was certain she’d put a stop to this now. Hope may be hurting and Lizzie may get it a bit more now – might have a little bit of sympathy for the girl, not that she’d ever let anyone but Josie know – but that doesn’t mean she’s okay with her plotting to steal her twin, as if one member of her family wasn’t enough. Lizzie can’t even fathom the rage-out that would happen if Mope Mikaelson lured her sister away from her so soon after she just got her dad back from her. So she tears down the corridor from her room to Hope’s, fully intent on bursting through the door in the most dramatic show of aggression she can manage and is beyond offended when she collides with it instead, the knob twisting but the door not opening. She tries again and again and finally settles for slamming her fists against it and calling Hope’s name over and over again but nothing seems to change. She’s not there. The realisation makes her flustered and she growls in frustration, throwing her arms out exasperatedly before adjusting her shirt in an effort to regain her composure. It’s probably a testament to how normal this has become that not a single student or staff member has come looking for the disturbance and well, that just won’t do. She wants them to be worried they’ll have to tear her off of the tribrid – for Hope to know this is a genuine and legitimate threat. It’s not threatening if no one even takes her acts of aggression seriously. With a last glare at the door, Lizzie leaves and the sighs of relief from the neighbours in their hall have her grinding her teeth as she reminds herself that this is not surrender. Not defeat. She’ll just come back again later. - Hope can feel the change tearing through her the second the moon rises and knows, without a shadow of a doubt that she won’t make it back to her room before her bones start breaking. The only safe alternative are the werewolf transition cells, but she’s not sure she’ll make it there either. Regardless, she knows she has to try. If she can even get to the basement, someone can seal it shut and the rest of the school would still be safe. With a burst of speed she knows will only increase the risk, she manages to hurl herself through the basement door when the most terrible pain she’s ever felt rockets up her spine, bone and muscle shearing itself apart and healing almost as quickly, her back rippling as her spine rips apart and her body forces it back together. It’s agonising, enough to make her cry out and send her sprawling to the floor, her whole body shuddering with spasms. She clatters down the concrete steps and lies in a pile at the bottom, panting as she tries to fight the change long enough to crawl forward. Someone must have seen her. Someone needs to have seen her, because she’s not there – just out of reach of the thing that will protect the school from her, and not able to bridge the distance. Her fingers claw at the ground, trying desperately to muster the strength to pull herself forward but she can barely find the breath to cry out as the bones in her leg break and begin the process of reshaping themselves. She hurts – so much more than she’s ever hurt before and all she can think is that she needs someone to have seen her. She needs someone to have seen her and she needs that someone to get Alaric or a teacher to get Alaric or anyone to get Alaric because if they tell him, then Josie will know and what Hope really needs is Josie. She just needs Josie. - Someone does see Hope. - Josie grabs Rafael. She doesn’t want to bring him with her – knows with every ounce of her being that Hope will resent her for it later, but the minute Ander told her he saw Hope running to the basement with her eyes glowing, Josie had known it was serious. She knew that her every hope had been in vain and that Hope was fighting the change again and that it was overwhelming her. And if it was that bad, if Hope was going to the cells because she couldn’t keep herself in check then Josie had no doubt that she had done her best to get there, but if she hadn’t…if she hadn’t, then as much as she wishes she were, Josie isn’t strong enough to carry Hope to the cells – especially not during the change. The thought of Hope in pain is bad enough, but as they reach the door to the basement and the snap of breaking bones reaches her ears, Josie is already preparing herself for something so much worse. Nothing can really prepare her for this. Hope’s body is a mangled mess at the bottom of the stairs, her legs broken and starting to reshape themselves, the muscles an undulating mess under the surface of her skin, white fur already sprouting and tearing her out of her jeans. Her back has forced itself out of her shirt, misshapen and bruised from fighting the shift, Josie assumes and her fingers are bloodied, scrabbling for grip on the smooth floor beneath her. Her lower lip is shorn through, fangs gleaming with blood, golden eyes filled with tears and her mouth open in silent cries that she doesn’t have the energy to voice. Hope is so lost in her pain, she doesn’t seem to even realise anyone else is there, not even when Josie crouches on the floor beside her and tucks her hair behind her ear in that familiar way; the siphon’s heart breaking with every aborted sob, every choked breath. “It’s going to be okay,” she manages to tell her, cupping her cheek and smoothing the tears from her cheek with her thumb, as softly as she can manage, “I’m right here, Hope and everything’s gonna be okay.” She turns to Rafael, standing silent and horrified in the doorway, his eyes wide with pity and fear. “What’s wrong with her? Is this…is this how hybrid’s change?” “No – Raf, I need you to just not ask questions right now. I need you to help me get Hope into a cell, with the least amount of hurt possible,” she chokes out, knowing that they won’t be able to do much better than that – that no matter how they try or what they do, they’re going to hurt her. “A cell?” “A wolf cell – they’re for really bad shifts,” she fills in quickly, motioning to him to come closer and crouch on Hope’s other side, “I need you to help me get her to a cell and then I need you to go get my dad.” Hope’s back arches then, rippling and bowing until she snaps forward towards Josie, the crack of her bones sliding into place echoing around them. She doesn’t seem capable of sound anymore, just the agonised quake of her wounded shoulders as she sobs silently, even her body’s response to the pain only perpetuating a vicious cycle of agony. Any hesitance in Rafael disappears with the deformity in Hope’s spine, sympathy overcoming him instead as he gingerly slides his arms under her, lifting her with an ease that Josie bitterly envies and following after her as she leads them to a cell. He looks to her for direction, eyes widening slightly as Josie motions to set her on the floor, near the wall. She sits down first, resting herself against the wall like it’s Hope’s headboard and guides Rafael’s hands as he lays Hope down. The skin over Hope’s ribs swells and distends, rippling briefly before her lowest two give way with a pop. Hope shakes, claws just barely extending from her nail beds, digging into the meat of her palms and Josie coos, easing them out of the flesh she’s tortured for an anchor. With utmost tenderness, she lifts the quivering girl’s head to rest against her stomach, angling Hope’s head with care until the tribrid’s ear presses firmly against her. Pain is a masochistic and successful anchor but Josie knows if you swarm the senses of a wolf with something they’ve found comfort in before that it can work just as well. It’s almost narcissistic, she thinks, but she knows Hope could hear her heartbeat earlier, from the subconscious tap she’d taken to as she slowly came out of sleep. One, two, three, four…One, two, three, four…against Josie’s leg. She can only hope it works to help soothe her now. Rafael pauses then, looking between the two of them as Hope shivers, a massive spasm wracking her body. He’s probably recalling his first shift yesterday, and Josie quickly figures that nobody has gotten around to telling him the differences between werewolves and a hybrid wolf, the level of control that they retain. Hope turning will be nothing like that, even when she’s like this. “Go get my dad,” she instructs, keeping stern eye contact with him until he leaves, locking the cell door behind him. Hope’s hands clutch at Josie, desperately as the pain surges again and she catches one of them, twining their fingers together and leaning over her, to kiss at her shoulder, her free arm wrapping tightly around Hope to keep her ear tight against her. She’s burning up, her skin coated in a sheen of sweat, the spasms still wracking her muscles. She still doesn’t seem aware that she’s even been moved and Josie wonders if that’s one of the worse parts. Hope suffering is awful but Hope not even knowing that she’s not alone, that someone who cares about her is with her, is maybe just as bad. “I’m here,” Josie tells her, tears finally slipping down her cheeks, as the sheer helplessness of the situation settles into her bones, “I’m right here. You’re not alone, okay? You’re never alone.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Her dad isn’t on campus. The thought practically assaults her when the body draped across her gags and seizes and she realises that nobody is coming to help. That she’s alone with this, as Hope surges up, gasping for breath as her ribs collapse; compacting her lungs with a sickening crack and Josie is left crying and clutching at her. It’s the most helpless she’s ever felt, watching Hope suffocate and knowing that any healing spell she might try could only worsen it; that the only thing she can do to comfort her is be there, that the only advice she can give is to beg her to stop fighting it. It feels like hours drag by, waiting for Hope to drop dead in her lap, her heart racing and tearing itself apart in her chest at the mere idea. She remembers when she was younger and had taken to befriending one of the youngest of the new wolves – a temporary student named Scott whose mom had only enrolled him for the few months it would take to move their whole lives across the country to a pack she’d left behind in California. He’d never shifted before and had spent the whole month fretting over it; the horror stories from the other students blocking out all the efforts of the school’s pack and even her parents to reassure him. He’d been so worried that when he’d asked Josie if she’d stay with him, Josie hadn’t even thought to say no. But her mother had. Her dad had backed her up, trying to cover up the truth by saying that Josie wasn’t allowed outside with the wolves and then saying she wasn’t old enough to stay up that late when Josie reminded him Scott was having his first transition in the cells. Her mother hadn’t tried anything like that, cutting no corners as she’d sat Josie down and told her that it wasn’t about her age or curfew or anything like that. It’s about you, she’d told her gently, and how much you care about your friend. No matter what you believe, or how strong you are, or how prepared you try to be – there is nothing easy about seeing someone you love like that. Josie hadn’t listened back then, had tried to sneak back down to the basement after her parents had put her to bed. Her mother had caught her and taken her upstairs and Josie hadn’t talked to her for two days; furious she’d been kept away after hearing how much pain Scott was in. She doesn’t feel angry now, just grateful. Watching Hope go through this hurts more than she could ever have imagined possible and Josie doesn’t think she could’ve handled it when she was younger – doesn’t think she can even handle it now, because every movement that Hope makes hurts her and Josie can feel a little piece of herself dying with every choked breath she takes. Every part of the change seems like it should kill her and every time something happens Josie is almost certain it will; that the last thing she’ll ever see of Hope is her suffering before everything just stops. They’re taught in class that wolves are born for this; every person that carries the gene is capable of enduring this, has it encoded into their very DNA but Josie doesn’t know how someone can say that unless they’ve never seen it for themselves. She doesn’t care about the history of wolves or their DNA; nobody should be born and told they’re meant for such suffering. Hope lets out a choked gasp then that sounds different from all the others and Josie’s heart lurches in her chest as the gold in her eyes seeming to flicker before it burns even brighter than before; her whole chest jumping up with the force of her ribs snapping back into place. She heaves in breaths, her red-rimmed and glassy eyes blinking closed before she looks up for the first time. The clarity that wells in her eyes as they lock with Josie’s sends relief flooding through her, the tears slipping softly down her cheeks as she tries to smile at the aching tribrid. “Josie,” Hope sighs, smiling at her with ease, her whole body slack for the first time all night. Her smile is everything Josie needs; a bright spark of light cutting through a terrible dark and she does her best to return it properly, the comfort it provides something she eagerly wishes to reciprocate. “Hope,” she breathes her name, squeezing their fingers together lightly and supressing the urge to bring them to her mouth to kiss. She wants to ask her if she’s alright, if the pain is going or healing, if the change is gone but she holds back as Hope’s eyes flutter shut in a long blink before she looks back up to Josie and locks their eyes again. “Josie,” she mutters again. “Hey,” she replies back, her tone light even as Josie’s whole world shudders and fear blooms in her chest. Her name doesn’t sound right coming from the tribrid. It feels heavy and slow, like she’s confused and Josie’s breath catches in her throat at the idea that Hope might just be saying her name in some pain-fuelled delirium. That she might not really know that Josie is there, with her; that Hope’s not alone. I found you, she wants to tell her, wants her to hear. I found you and I stayed and I’m here. “Josie,” Hope whispers again, a wistful edge to her tone. She blinks, in that slow drawn out way before turning weakly to curl against Josie and hide her face against her stomach and Josie bites her lip to catch the sobs threatening to escape. Her fingers tighten around Hope’s and she leans her head back against the wall, an unforgiving ache echoing in her chest even as she cards her fingers through Hope’s hair again, each movement slow and soothing, drawing small half-hums from the tribrid. The tears are a steady stream dripping down her cheeks but Josie doesn’t have the will to hold them back. She’s going to stay here, holding Hope because it’s all she can do. She can stay here and try to let her know that she’s there, and watch her suffer; watch her bones break and change, watch her hurt and know that there’s nothing else she can do – that even with all the magic in the world there’s nothing she could ever do to change this, to help. All she can do is be here. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough but it’s all she can do and the frustration that storms through her, the anger that rises like a tide within her, has her desperate to move, to act in some way. But she doesn’t. Instead Josie curls protectively around Hope, and tries not to sob, wishing not for the first time that her mom was here when she needed her. It’s a selfish thought, she thinks, especially when the girl she’s holding can never have that, but selfish or not, it’s true. She just needs her mom. - Josie is slouched against the wall, lightly dragging her fingers through Hope’s hair to ease a sudden bout of pained whining by the time someone finally shows up. It feels like it’s been days since Rafael left and Hope’s ribs had almost collapsed, though she knows it’s probably only been a few hours at most, but Josie can’t even find the energy to be angry about it, too exhausted to feel much more than the relief that came when Hope had finally passed out from the pain an hour ago. Josie’s cardigan had been stripped and draped gently over her, as the shredded pieces of her shirt started slipping off and Hope had somehow climbed between Josie’s legs to rest against her chest, her ear pressed over her heart and her finger tapping to the rhythm of it gently. She’d been lagging ever since her arm had dislocated and broken itself but she’d finally collapsed against Josie when a final, aggressive tremor had wracked her spine and made her eyes flare with the pain. She’s expecting her dad or maybe Emma, the counsellor, or even Lizzie; wondering where she was and finally arriving at the only place she might not have searched yet. It’s not any of them. Josie looks up and sees the last person she’d expect standing at the cell-door and tears prick at her eyes all over again in sheer relief. “Oh baby,” her mom sighs, giving her a compassionate smile as she quietly pulls the door open and walks in. Hope stirs just barely against her, like she can feel the intrusion into what has become their space and Josie hushes her, fearing the consequence of her waking up, wondering if the change has only stopped because she did. Her mom’s eyes glint with a curious gleam, but Josie doesn’t even question it, leaning in to the kiss she places in her hair before her mom looks over Hope. “I can’t leave you guys alone for five minutes, hm?” her mom teases, brushing at the fresh tears on Josie’s red cheeks. The joke doesn’t quite land but Josie laughs anyway, grateful for the safety her presence alone provides; the assurance that they can handle whatever is going on. It imbues her with fresh confidence, with new strength and Josie takes a steadying breath, gratefully. Her mom’s brow furrows looking Hope over, memories turning themselves over in her mind before she looks back at Josie. “Has she been out long?” “Yeah,” her voice croaks in disuse and she coughs, trying to clear it, “like an hour?” “Right – then we’d better get out of here.” Josie’s grip tightens on Hope unconsciously as she stares her mother down, not quite believing the words that have just come out of her mouth. She’d been expecting some kind of fix it or solution; like her mother might walk in and say she’s seen this before, that it’s a wolf thing and there’s every chance to help. That or for her to tell her there’s a way to keep Hope knocked out so the change wouldn’t start again and make her suffer anymore. She’d been expecting something that will help her as much as it will help Hope. The last thing she expects – the last thing she wants – is to be told to leave. “W-what?” she stammers, indignation raising her voice for her, careless of Hope’s slumbering state. Her mom just gives her a look, patient and expectant, quiet through the tides of Josie’s anger. “No! I’m not leaving her. I can’t – I promised I wouldn’t leave and she needs me here – she needs me,” Josie insists, looking down at Hope as she fists a hand into Josie’s shirt, nuzzling closer like she can sense her distress. It softens something in her at the same time that it breaks her chest wide open and she looks back to her mother, desperate for – for something, only to come across an almost sad understanding. Her mom has that look in her eye, the one she gets whenever she thinks about someone she’s lost – this one looks a lot like the one she gets about Uncle Stefan and Josie loses some of the steam that had gathered at the suggestion, surrendering to the sadness that’s been welling inside of her, instead. “She needs me,” she says again, certain that her mom can hear the truth of what she means – that Josie needs Hope – needs to be here with her, too scared of what might happen if she leaves her alone. “I know,” is what her mom offers, “I know that she needs you. And I know that you don’t want to leave her and that you don’t want her to be alone. But I also know…that as much as Hope would want you here, would appreciate you staying; she probably doesn’t want you to see her like this.” She brushes another tear from Josie’s cheek and Josie huffs, betrayed by them. “It’s already wearing on you, baby and it only gets worse from here on out. Hope isn’t reacting to this like a hybrid, she isn’t changing like one of them – she’s changing like a werewolf and that means she’s going to act like a werewolf. So pretty soon, she’s going to wake up and it’s going to overwhelm her and she’s not going to see you.” Her mom casts her eyes around when they mist up before she looks back at Josie, still unbearably sad. “It won’t change how much you mean to her or how important you are or how she feels…but it’ll be like she’s not even Hope anymore. You won’t be you to her, just – someone in her space and her territory; a threat to her when she’s vulnerable,” she explains gently, already moving to ease Hope away from Josie’s chest so she can crawl out from behind her before she can even begin to acquiesce. She sets Hope down on the ground, Josie’s sweater still blanketing her and takes her daughter’s hand, leading them towards the cell-door and closing it shut behind them as quietly as possible. She doesn’t make Josie leave the basement; even though Josie can tell her mother thinks it would be best for her. But she doesn’t want to be too far away from Hope so she settles herself in the supervising office just off the main corridor. There’s a desk crammed with computer screens all showing the different cells and a table littered with medical supplies; the fridge in the corner stocked with heavy duty medicines, vervain injections and dilutes and various wolfsbane solutions. It’s cramped but there’s room enough for a couch to one side and she perches herself on it, sinking into the cushions as her mother heads to the desk and flips through the security feed. There’s no sound from down the hall, nothing to indicate anything is happening or that Hope has woken up and noticed her absence. Being away from it is a relief as much as it’s frightening; she doesn’t know what will happen or what Hope will do; if she’s hurting or if she’s scared. At least being in the room with her, she could hold her, could try to give her whatever comfort she could. Here, Josie feels even more useless than before. Josie sits up a bit when she spots Hope’s body stirring in one video, as it flits across the screen, a camera at the cell-door capturing a moving foot before all of the cells disappear; her mom exiting the program and turning the screens off, one by one. Her mom casts a knowing look her way and Josie frowns down at her hands. “You don’t need to see any more of it than you already have,” she tells her, digging an electric kettle out from underneath the desk and setting it up before procuring two cups and some tea leaves from somewhere, looking for all the world like she’s done this before. She has, Josie knows, recalling that before the wolves were let out – and even after they were – her mom would camp down in the basement on Wolf-Night, watching over all the first-timers that wanted to stay there. She’d asked her dad about it once and he’d just sighed that it was something for the students, but Josie had always suspected it was more than that; that her mother felt responsible for the wolves the same way she felt responsible for all the unwillingly turned and traumatised baby vampires in the school – she’d been through it before, seen it first hand with someone she loved and wanted to help even if there was nothing that could be done. Her mother makes them both heavy cups full to the brim with camomile tea and perches on the couch beside her, letting Josie lean against her. “Lizzie will be annoyed she didn’t see you first,” she mutters, smiling half-heartedly when her mother kisses the top of her head. “Lizzie doesn’t need me as much as you right now,” her mom says in response and Josie takes a long draught from her mug, swallowing down the guilt and delight that spikes at the words. It warms her the whole way through, settling in her stomach and she cups her mug between her hands, not even realising she’s burning her palms until her mom takes it away, putting it on a little table she’d dragged to rest at their feet. She closes her eyes when the crying starts from down the hall; a metallic clanging slowly picking up like Hope is throwing herself into the bars of her cell. Josie flinches with every noise, her mind concocting horrible images to go with each one and the tears start welling in earnest when the screaming starts. Her mom’s arms wrap around her, pulling Josie’s head to rest against her shoulder, one hand placed purposefully over her ear and the other rubbing at her back. She talks to her about anything and everything for ages, about the cities she’d been to and the people she’d met, the students she’s recruited for the school, knowing that Josie can’t hear anything but the slow thump of her heart and the hum of her voice in her chest. It reminds Josie of Hope, her ear pressed to Josie’s skin and her fingers tapping out the rhythm of her pulse until she physically couldn’t anymore. She wonders if it was as comforting to Hope as it is to Josie – if anything Josie had done had helped her at all. A raw scream tears through the air and Josie flinches so harshly, her foot knocks the table her tea is on. It rocks precariously before tipping over the side, the cup crashing to the ground and smashing into smithereens with a crack eerily reminiscent of Hope’s breaking bones; the scent of camomile now nauseatingly thick in the air as the tea splashes over the floor. Her tears spill free involuntarily and her mom holds her that bit harder, kissing her hair with every sob that tears unwillingly out of her throat. The comfort is nice but it doesn’t detract from the pain in her chest or the knowledge that it’s barely been a day since she’s made it and yet she’s already broken her promise. She’s left Hope alone. - The door to their room creaks open, light seeping in and an unconscious Lizzie stirs, her worries pulling her to the surface from sleep quicker than normal. She expects her sister to walk in, maybe blushing and delighted like she’d been at the assembly, swept up in the magic of a new crush and stealing into their room at two in the morning from a drawn-out rendezvous. That’s not what happens. Any joy Lizzie could possibly feel seeing her mother open her dorm-door is overshadowed by the domineering worry that washes through her as Josie is escorted in, practically catatonic, her face slick with tears carving their way down her cheeks that she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s not wearing the cardigan she had on earlier, her clothes dishevelled and her eyes are so puffed up that Lizzie can only imagine she’s been crying for hours. It looks like her whole world has ended and Lizzie shoots up from her position on her bed, fear curdling in her stomach only to halt halfway off of it at her mother’s look. She shuffles Josie gently towards the bathroom, collecting a set of laid out pyjamas on her way and closing the door behind her before she turns to Lizzie. Her mouth sputters uncooperatively, Lizzie’s whole being torn between delight and concern but her mom seems to get the picture, smiling at her and drawing Lizzie against her in the most reassuring hug she’s had in months. It feels like she sucks away every single insecurity that’s popped up ever since she left; the comfort easing worries she hadn’t even realised she had. There’s a sad haze to her eyes when she pulls away and Lizzie frowns slightly, looking to the bathroom again and taking in how quiet it is. “Your sister has had a hard night,” her mom tells her gently, sitting them both on Lizzie’s bed and brushing Lizzie’s hair back when she curls up against her side, eager to keep contact after months apart. “What happened?” Her mom hovers for a second in hesitation, looking at Lizzie like she’s evaluating her before she hums thoughtfully. She looks back to the door and then her face contorts slightly the way it does when she’s listening for something and she winces, looking back at Lizzie. “…It’s nothing to worry about for now,” she says carefully, every word sounding deliberately chosen, “but just – Josie is okay. Nothing…bad happened to her specifically. She just – saw something that she wasn’t mean to. I still need to talk to your dad about it, first, when he gets back – and after that…we’ll let you know, okay? But right now…right now I need you to watch your sister.” It’s different, Lizzie thinks, hearing her mother tell her something she’s sure she’s only ever said to Josie. Lizzie is the one that rages, that lashes out and self-destructs with emotion. Josie is calmer, steadier and more level-headed. Her bouts of emotion are vibrant flashes that disappear and simmer beneath the surface, never rearing their heads. It’s that level-headedness, that careful obedience that means Josie is the more responsible one between them. That means Josie is always watching Lizzie. Hearing her mother tell her to watch Josie – her quiet sister – paired with the miserable state she’s in does nothing to soothe away any worries. It only escalates them, makes her wonder what could have hurt Josie so much. She’d looked for her after her dad had dismissed his research slaves to go meet the Sheriff, and searched for hours but no matter where she’d looked, Josie had been nowhere to be found. Rafael had seemingly disappeared too and MG had already gone back to his room, his eyes in the back of his skull with boredom born from hours of useless searching. She’d gone to their room and finished her nightly routine, perching herself in her bed with her phone and figuring that Josie would come in soon only to end up waiting up for her for hours and falling asleep in exhaustion. She’d figured Josie would come back and they’d wake up together in the morning and Lizzie could tease her for coming back so late to their room twice and maybe they’d talk about whoever it was that was keeping her away. She’d not anticipated her dead-eyed, weepy sister being carefully directed by their mother like she didn’t know how to move on her own anymore. She gives her mother her most deadpan look, an Of course I’ll look after her and embraces the kiss she levels against Lizzie’s forehead before she gets up from the bed and heads to the door. “I need to take care of something,” she says ambiguously, training her ears again as she opens the door, “but I’ll be back to see you in a few hours, okay?” “Does this mean we don’t have to go to class?” It’s meant to be a joke…sort of, but her mom doesn’t even seem to care; weighing her words with a contemplative expression before nodding. “But only the first few, okay? We’ll see about Josie getting the day off when I come check on you later. I love you.” “I love you too,” Lizzie returns and then her mother is gone, the swoosh of her vampire speed belying the emergency Josie seems to have been pulled out of. Her sister shuffles into the room, her face washed and cleaned and looks at Lizzie with the most desperate and heart-broken expression she’s ever seen, shuffling over to the blonde and collapsing into her arms when she opens them, the pair of them curling up together on Lizzie’s bed. She’s barely pulled the blankets over Josie when the sniffling starts, a warm spot seeping into her shirt as Josie surrenders to fresh tears. Lizzie holds her sister until they both fall asleep, the last thing she knows being the gentle tapping of Josie’s fingers, counting beats against her chest. - She doesn’t know anything beyond the feeling of fire in her veins and the need to escape. She’s in a room with bars, caged in like some mindless beast and everything in her riots with the need to run – something like a tether in her chest pulling at her, drawing her to accept the change coursing under her skin like a predator waiting to strike. It’s not here – nowhere near where she is and all she knows is the need to get to it, to escape and find it and protect it but she can’t do that – and the frustration, the rage has her slamming her fists into the floor as she drags herself against the wall. She needs to get out. She needs to find it. Something niggles at her consciousness, teases her nose and her eyes flash, roaming the room desperately only to whine in distress. She’s alone. But she wasn’t before – Josie was here. She can’t leave without Josie. She peels herself off of the ground, shuffling to clamber her way up against the wall and it’s all she can think of as her eyes rove over the bars and alight on the light creeping in, the doorway where the trail of red and rose disappears. It’s all her brain can focus on, the only light in the shadows of her pain, the only thing that makes her want to get through this instead of lying down and letting death or agony befall her; the fact that Josie is here but not with Hope and Hope needs to get to her. Her scent surrounds her, cocoons her in a trapping of her making and she buries her nose in the fabric that it pervades from but it’s not enough. Josie isn’t with her and Hope needs to get to her – she’s not safe without Hope and Hope isn’t safe without Josie. They need each other and if Hope is alone then that means someone must have taken her because Josie wouldn’t leave Hope like this – she’d promised and pack didn’t leave each other behind. - Caroline is sitting in the supervising room in the basement when Alaric finally comes back. He races into the basement and blows down the stairs, his eyes quickly taking in the blood stained on the steps with mounting horror as he recalls the message Rafael had relayed to him when he’d tracked him down at the sheriff’s station; how Hope and Josie were in trouble and Josie had asked him to get him – and only him. They’re in the basement, Rafael had panted, something’s wrong with Hope. He only slows at the sound of his name, finally stopping when he realises who called it, and wanders in to see her watching the security feed of Hope’s cell from the couch. “Caroline?” he wonders, as if he’s not seeing her clearly with his own eyes before he turns to the monitors, brows furrowing at the sight of the dark shadowed mass curled into a corner in the cell. It’s not the two bodies he’d expected, instead it looks like a wolf – and the only one it could be is Hope but that doesn’t explain anything. Hope can change at will – there’s nothing abnormal about her being a wolf and more than that, he doesn’t understand why Josie would send for him or why she’d be with Hope in the first place. “Is that –” “It’s Hope,” Caroline confirms, her tone flat and her face expressionless, eyes still locked on the monitor. There’s a dark lump at the wolf’s nose, her whole body curled around it protectively and the wolf’s massive head is burrowed into it, nose deeply entrenched in the scent-rich fabric. She’d come back down to the basement after leaving Josie with her sister and finally braved turning the security feed back on, too worried what her physical presence looking in on the wolf might to do her temperament. Hope had been rioting; throwing herself viciously against the bars of the cell – bars that had started to give, she’d noticed with horror – her white coat matted with blood and her bones breaking with the force, healing quicker than she’d ever seen just so the wolf could throw herself against the bars again. She’d been at it for hours, snapping and snarling until she’d decided to take a break to pace the perimeter of the cell, looking for weak spots. And then the most curious thing had happened. Hope had stepped onto a ball of fabric on the floor and Caroline had recognised Josie’s sweater and waited with mounting anticipation to see if it would throw her into a violent turn; half-expecting that Hope would renew her efforts to get out if only to find the invader who’d dared to leave proof of their presence in her territory. The wolf had gone back to ramming herself into the cell walls, differently than before; with something less like animalistic aggression and more like human desperation. Caroline almost thought that was worse, wondering if Hope somehow had claustrophobia as a wolf, if that was even possible. It had been after a particularly harsh head-on collision that had struck Hope dumb, that she’d finally stopped; slumping back to the ground in a heap, before she’d turned to look at the sweater. The wolf had taken the sweater gently into her massive jaws and Caroline half-expected her to shred it to pieces though there was a niggling thought that told her she wouldn’t. And she hadn’t. Instead Hope’s whole body had reluctantly relaxed, like she’d surrendered to the fruitlessness of her attempts and the wolf had wandered into the darkest corner of the cell, ears flat and tail tucked and contorted herself around the sweater, burying her nose in it and laid there, placid until she had drifted off to sleep. “It’s Hope?” Alaric asks, as if there’s some other person on campus who can shift at will. “Yes.” “But why is she – Where’s Josie? Why did Rafael say that something was wrong with Hope?” “Maybe because she didn’t choose to turn, Ric. It happened to her.” “What do you mean she didn’t choose to turn? Is Josie okay? Did she hurt her?” Something tells Caroline that the very idea of Hope ever hurting Josie is absurd, that something has radically changed between her daughter and Klaus’ and the outcome is far more than the friendship she’d always hoped to foster between them. If the way Hope is cuddled into Josie’s sweater is any indication, she’s sure the wolf would tear herself apart if there is ever the slightest chance she’d hurt Josie. But that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it. Hope didn’t choose to turn and with two of the most dangerous natures and one wicked disposition infused into one being there’s never a definite certainty that Hope won’t slip up and hurt her daughter no matter how good her intentions or how strong her control. But still, she reassures her girls’ father, “Josie’s upstairs with Lizzie.” Hope’s body shivers on the screen and Caroline gets up, checking the time in the corner before switching the monitor off and heading to the room they’d converted into closet-space, to pull out a spare set of clothes from one of the boxes stock-piled in the back of it, left there exactly for this reason. “Caroline – can you stop for two seconds? Caroline!” “No, Ric, I can’t stop. Because the moment I stop, is the moment I lose it. I left you alone for a month because you told me you could handle it. You told me you’d call me if there was an emergency and I believed you! And instead,” Caroline seethes, tearing open another box to pull out a pair of sweatpants to go with the sweatshirt she’s found, “instead I come home when someone who’s not you calls me to tell me that our sleepy little town has turned into freaking Camelot and you are playing King Arthur with a load of the kids that we’re responsible for – like facing a dragon might not get them killed - and Dorian is missing because of some stupid mystical knife!” Alaric stutters for a moment, before sighing, dragging his hands against his face as Caroline turns on him to jab a finger pointedly into his chest. “As if that wasn’t bad enough – I come home and find out from some scarred eight year old, that Hope has suddenly started turning and that Josie is locked in the basement with her alone and that you’re nowhere to be found!” “I wasn’t – I told Emma and the staff that I’d be at the sheriff station! They knew where I was – it’s not like I left the students unattended!” “No –” Caroline cuts herself off hearing Hope gasp as she wakes up, the last of her bones reformed and clicking into place. She doesn’t have the luxury of having it out with Alaric in the hallway, especially not when there’s a student in need and a problem of monumental proportions rearing its ugly head. She gives him a stern look, pointing a finger at him, “We’ll pick this up later. But I need to go check on Hope and you, Ric – maybe you should go see your daughters.” - She wants to see Josie, but doesn’t know if she should. She doesn’t remember much of what happened last night, but she knows that Josie was there at one point, that she found her and stayed with her and held her through all the agony; the breaking bones and split skin. She only left when it was too dangerous to stay, Caroline had told her, And even then, she almost didn’t. Hope doesn’t remember much of the shift outside of Josie and the gentle thump of her heart lulling her into peace and sleep, but she knows it wasn’t easy, can feel the tax and the strain on her body as she wearily climbs the stairs, clinging to the hand rail so she doesn’t fall. It’s how hard it was for her that worries Hope. If it was so painful that her brain has practically erased everything but her feelings, only allowing her to recall the least traumatising parts of it, then she can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been for Josie – who had to sit there and just watch her go through it. Who couldn’t have cast a healing spell in case her body fought it and she hurt herself even more; who couldn’t have done anything but try to comfort her. Caroline had told her that she’d taken Josie back to her room, that she was fine but her eyes were dark with worry that belied the truth. Josie was very much not fine and Hope couldn’t help but feel that it was her fault regardless of Josie choosing to stay for herself. She wants to see Josie but then she thinks back to what she told Caroline in the security room, her body curled around a mug of tea that seemed to warm every inch of her – slowly making her feel more and more like herself. She’d told her their theory – that her change was caused by the knife and backed herself up with the lasting impression that she was somewhere wrong, that she needed to escape and get somewhere else, find something – protect it. Caroline hadn’t asked the questions she’d expected; hadn’t wondered how Hope knew it was the knife, or if it even was. Instead all she’d done was look at her, her eyes glinting with steel and knowing, as she asked, “You needed to leave – so why did you stay?” Hope hadn’t replied, but Caroline hadn’t needed her to, presenting Josie’s worn cardigan to her before suggesting she head to bed, that she deserved the day off after the night she’d had. And there lay her true hesitation – the true crux of the matter. Hope didn’t just remember Josie and the sweet lull of her fingers in Hope’s hair and the gentle coax of her heart into sleep – she remembered the wolf, the way she’d thrown herself into the bars in desperation – not for the knife, but for Josie. For fear that her pack had been lost and that she’d failed her. The draw of a mystical knife wasn’t enough to overwhelm her need for Josie – even in that primal state – and it scared her. This girl who’d hated her for years, who Hope had antagonised for just as long, had in a matter of days become the most important person to her outside of her own family – or perhaps even above them. But if life had proven anything to Hope it was that the people she loves die – painful, horrible deaths like her mother’s, or slow, saddened ones like her father’s, but dead all the same. And if there’s anything Hope can do to spare her that or even just the pain that comes from being loved by Hope – if there’s some way to protect Josie from it, then she will; she decides. Even if that means staying away from her entirely. - Josie doesn’t give Hope the chance to dodge her, she discovers, standing frozen in her doorway at the sight of Josie sitting quietly on Hope’s bed, her pillow pulled into her lap, her eyes low and sleep-heavy. Hope’s entire body tenses, her heart lurching forward like it could peel its way out of her chest and present itself to her and the thought only makes her tense even more until the pain of her aching muscles has her teeth grinding. She’s almost annoyed, seeing Josie here – already foiling her plans meant to protect her and yet annoyance isn’t the main thing she feels. Instead it’s tender; like the mere sight of Josie has warped any wall she could erect between them and left it crumbling to dust, leaving Hope vulnerable and raw on the other side. She closes the door behind her and Josie catches her eyes, the coffee colour of her eyes somehow more entrancing the longer they’re locked with her own; like she’s falling into them with every breath that passes. “Josie,” her name escapes her lips thoughtlessly, unable to be contained. She draws Hope towards her like a magnet – eerily reminiscent of the draw the knife has, yet stronger; more potent than any summoning spell could ever be. Josie looks up at her, quietly despondent and fiercely stubborn, her eyes slick with tears yet burning with fire, “I know what you’re going to say.” Hope swallows. “No you don’t.” “Yes I do – We might not have been friends all these years but that doesn’t mean I don’t know you. I do – I know you, Hope, I know what you’re going to say. And you’re wrong.” She reaches for something beside her, depositing a picture frame in Hope’s hands and her fingers automatically trace familiar patterns over her parents’ faces, their features frozen in time; eyes crystal blue and liquid gold, peering down at a younger her – a golden moment where they were all together at last. “Loving you doesn’t kill people, Hope,” Josie whispers, “and being loved by you isn’t some curse.” But it is, she wants to say, finding the words caught in her throat instead. Her father had loved her and died for her. Her mother had loved her and been cursed for it and died to protect her and her father from a similar fate. Uncle Elijah had died to be with her mom – she knows that, but she also knows that as much as he said it was for her and her dad, who’d finally redeemed himself, she also knows that he saw it as recompense to Hope; for letting her mother get taken from her. And those that haven’t died for her in her family, are instead finding other ways to elude her; to leave Hope alone and immortal as they all should have been. Aunt Rebekah had been cursed and nearly died for loving Hope – and now, has escaped into the world with plans to forsake immortality for a human death. Aunt Freya is a witch and can slow her aging but Hope doubts she’ll ever want to stay on this earth for longer than she should, especially with Keelin living a mortal life. The only two people she’ll never truly lose are Davina and Kol – both too scared to die, too in love to ever want to do more than live and live together. But everyone else – everyone else is going to leave her. It’s not her fault, and she shouldn’t be angry at them or upset when they’re finally finding happiness after so long being tormented by things far out of their control. But she can’t help but feel abandoned; knowing what she knows about herself – that even with an unactivated vampire side she cannot die as others can, that her body will heal her faster than anything could kill her. She is already almost immortal and when she dies, if she ever does, she’ll simply be invincible. There is no tree that will kill her, no plant that will poison her, no sun that will scour her skin, no chain that will bind her. She had been born into a family of immortals, grown up surrounded by them – protected by them and told Always and Forever, and known it to be a fact, not some facsimile of truth but genuine in its entirety – Forever was not just a possibility but an inevitability and she would be immortal with them; never alone and always together. And yet, instead, everything has been torn apart and she will outlive everyone she’s known and loved in her life. How can that not be a curse? If not on them to die, then on her to live? Her tears slip down her cheeks and she sighs, realising them only as Josie rises into her space, taking the photograph from her before moving to wipe them away. Her every touch is kind, her eyes thoughtful and rich with compassion, their darkness doing nothing to mask the benign light that radiates from them as she soothes the tides of sadness in her. It reminds Hope of the reasons she’d stayed away from people after her parents’ death; not just to protect them from her but to protect herself from them. She’d not wanted to grow close to someone, haunted by the knowledge that she would outgrow them as a vampire, as a true tribrid and be left behind as they aged and fell, haunted by the deaths she couldn’t change. She feels selfish now, cowardly too, knowing that insipid loneliness had made her abandon her decisions. She hadn’t been strong enough to bear loneliness in a school she’d soon leave behind, to spare her the loneliness of an eternity lived haunted. “You’re not cursed either,” Josie chides like she can read her mind, stepping closer to Hope and brushing her hair behind her ear in that familiar way, trailing her hand down the edge of her jaw until she can lift her head from where it had dipped in thought. “Miracle baby, remember?” Josie probably means it to be uplifting – that miracles can’t be cursed but Hope only scoffs wetly, reminded of one of the last conversations she’d ever had with her Uncle. “Miracle mistake, maybe,” she retorts but Josie just frowns, shaking her head and cupping her face between her palms, leaning their foreheads together gently. Hope’s eyes flutter shut reflexively, but she forces them open, desperate to keep contact with Josie’s, to see that certainty, that unbending honesty as she replies, “You’re not a mistake, Hope. Not to anyone.” Not to me, hovers between them, unsaid and yet achingly loud. Josie presses a kiss firmly against the crinkle between Hope’s brows and Hope leans into it, unconsciously, her eyes closed again against an onslaught of thoughts; half-dreamt up ideas of Josie kissing her lips instead. They pull apart gently, and Josie’s lips quirk upward, the seriousness of the moment undercut as she grins, “Besides, there are no mistakes – just…happy accidents.” Hope can’t help the laugh that escapes her, amused more than upset, “Bob Ross? Really?” “What? Too good for Bob Ross, Hope Mikaelson?” “No, never, that man is an angel,” Hope laughs, rolling her eyes, “I just…didn’t expect you to say that…” “Well, I live to subvert all expectations,” Josie smiles. The moment is a much needed respite from the heaviness of before, but it comes to an end quickly enough when Hope yawns, exhaustedly, swaying into Josie’s space. Josie catches her gently, an arm around her waist and a hand cupping her elbow, Hope’s hands resting bracingly against her shoulders. They lock eyes again and Josie sighs quietly, a delicate furrow to her brow. “I know that you’re going to say…that you don’t want me there – because you think it was too hard for me,” she starts haltingly, her posture slipping like the weight of her memories is slowly pressing down against her shoulders, “And I won’t lie and say it wasn’t hard watching you go through that…because it was. And it broke my heart.” Josie sniffles quietly and Hope squeezes her shoulders, slipping one hand into the hair at the nape of her neck. “But it would be…so much harder being away from you and knowing you were going through that – that I had left you to go through that, alone.” Hope frowns, her own brow furrowing at the guilt-laden tone, shaking her head, “You wouldn’t be leaving me alone, Josie. You’d just be…protecting yourself.” “I don’t want to – there’s no –” she huffs, pausing to gather her thoughts before locking those burning eyes on Hope’s again, searingly hot and wading into the depths of her soul; her tone rife with passion as she boldly declares, “I don’t need to protect myself from you. And I think…the only person who really needs to be protected from you, is you, Hope. Not me – or anyone else…just you.” “That’s not true,” Hope denies, dropping her hands from Josie and stepping away, trying to put distance between them, “People do need to be protected from me – I mean, I’m one of the most dangerous creatures that exists and I’ve already tried to kill Landon – and honestly, I’m still not sure why I haven’t tried to kill Penelope but it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility –” “But you’re only saying those things to push me away. Because you still think you’re dangerous and that I’m going to get hurt and that the only way for anybody to be safe is for you to be alone. But that’s not true!” Josie interjects. She doesn’t follow after Hope to close the distance, watching her from the bed as she leans against a chair, her back to Josie and muscles gently trembling; her short fuse revealing her exhaustion more than anything else. “You know that Landon was a threat to everyone here and don’t even try and deny that if anything did happen to Penelope that you wouldn’t be doing it for me, because we both know that’s a lie. And yeah – you are dangerous, but you’re most dangerous to yourself. You faced down a dragon to protect my dad and you blew up a gargoyle and a spider to protect us and this school. But the most dangerous thing? Was you fighting the shift and hurting yourself because you thought you might not be in control if you turned. But guess what? The only person who got hurt in all that? Was you.” Hope’s whole body seems to shudder violently and Josie’s heart leaps to her throat, wondering if the change is suddenly on-set by their emotional states before it sinks, heavy in her chest when her shoulders start jumping; quiet sobs filling the air between them. The space is more than Josie can bear, more than she’d ever want between them; much preferring when Hope lingers by her side and her warmth is a tangible thing against her skin. But despite her eagerness she closes the distance between them slowly, cautiousness in every step, the way one might approach a frightened animal. Hope’s arms cross over her chest defensively but even then, she doesn’t reject Josie outright as she edges closer until she’s just on the periphery of Hope’s personal space, lingering like a vampire without permission to enter. She’d gotten so impassioned, so frustrated before that her voice had nearly rose. She realises it now, sees the tension in Hope’s jaw and wonders if her ears are as sensitive as the rest of her body. Regardless, she quietens, softens in every way when she speaks again. “Remember when you signed away your soul? We made a deal,” she tries, almost as upset by the tears forming as she is by Hope’s disdain for herself. Josie has always hated crying but after Penelope she’d loathed, more than anything, how weak and pathetic it made her feel. But she doesn’t feel pathetic crying in front of Hope, and seeing Hope cry doesn’t make her any less strong; just heart-breakingly brave. Hope sniffles quietly, angling towards her and peeking up at her from under those dark lashes. “I don’t run – and you don’t leave.” “I promised,” Josie croaks out, “Please don’t ask me to break that.” “I won’t…I just – I don’t want you to get hurt,” Hope explains, biting her lower lip to stop it trembling, her eyes on the ceiling for a moment as she tries to contain herself. “Then don’t push me away, Hope – just…stop running.” Hope’s smile is watery and sweet as she steps into Josie, catching one of her hands and palming her cheek with the other, her touch a breeze against Josie’s skin as she wipes away the persistent tears. “I can’t promise I won’t run…but if I do…” she pauses, her eyes skating over Josie’s face and settling somewhere below her eyes for a brief moment before they shoot up again, “I won’t do it alone.” The words are a perfect echo of her first promise and Josie nods, wrapping her arms around Hope’s waist and drawing her into a hug that’s easily reciprocated. The seriousness of the moment is undercut the moment Hope yawns again, the adrenaline that surged in the face of the argument slipping away and they laugh together, cheeks wet and smiles wide as they pull apart. “Can we go to bed now?” Hope proposes; eyes already lidded with sleep. Josie’s heart falters in her chest at the question but she doesn’t hesitate to nod, clambering in beside Hope when she pulls down the covers in invitation. They lay facing each other and Josie counts the flutters of Hope’s lashes against her cheeks as they drift softly into sleep. - “So…you’re going to change again…” Josie prompts, looking up from the book in her lap to the sleep-mussed Hope, again curled in her armchair, her sketchbook draped across her lap with pencil in hand. Hope’s anxious smile doesn’t escape her notice as she nods, looking resolutely down at the page she’s working on. The curve of Josie’s smile doesn’t feel right, the look in her eyes not reflecting it the way she wants either. “Yep,” she grumbles. They’ve already talked about it; the way it felt when Hope was a wolf, how different it was to the other times she’s shifted – driven by the urge to leave. She hasn’t told Josie that she didn’t want to go – that her wolf is better at holding up her promise to take Josie with her than Hope herself is; too worried that her feelings will be caught in the siphon’s intense focus and revealed. She’d lied instead, good-old fashioned self-preservation stamping out any competing desire to tell the truth for friendship’s sake and told Josie that she’d merely exhausted herself, bending the bars of her cell. She fidgets with the cardigan still wrapped around her, fiddling with one of the buttons, subtly inhaling Josie’s scent that’s still wafting from the fabric despite being breathed on for hours by a massive wolf. She hadn’t mentioned that this is what had calmed her down either. They haven’t heard from either of the Headmasters despite their assurances that they’d talk things out and come up with a plan but Josie is adamant that they’re trying, that they’ll find one in time while Hope knows that it’ll be too late. She’ll change before they come, she knows, and that’s if they even manage to find a solution. Or a facsimile of one, considering she’s certain there isn’t one. A solution does present itself though, when Lizzie bursts through her door, with a “Josie, Teen Wolf,” tossed their way before she slams it closed and throws them both the same expectant look. Hope’s seen it before and Josie is beyond familiar and sure enough, the first words out of Lizzie’s mouth are, “I’ve got a plan.” She catches the look they’ve exchanged and raises her hands, placatingly, “Okay, Mom told me about your werewolf PMS and like, sucks for you, but what can you do, y’know? Well I know. You’re being drawn by the knife with magical GPS or whatever so why don’t we just let you go get it? It’s not like we don’t need it back.” “What – Lizzie are you kidding me? No!” “It’s really not a bad idea, Jo, I mean – compared with what Mom and Dad are coming up with, it’s genius.” Hope’s whole stomach rolls in a sudden wave of anxiety mirrored in Josie’s expression and Lizzie looks between them, stewing in satisfaction – no doubt already anticipating their fervent agreement as she reveals her parents plan. “They’re not thinking about the knife,” she says, arching an eyebrow at them incredulously, “They’re thinking about how Hope is a tribrid being triggered into an unwilling transformation and how dangerous that might be, so they’re planning on locking you up all alone in the basement until they can figure out a proper solution. I said that wouldn’t work but apparently your wolf needs something before it can leave, so they’re just planning on keeping it away from you so you can’t go anywhere. But they’re not seeing my point; you’re obviously just going to keep changing and the only reason that it’s dangerous is because we’re in the way of Scooby’s main goal – getting the knife.” Lizzie looks at them with utter pride, probably waiting for applause or their immediate agreement, but all Hope can think of is the cold of the cell and the desperation she’d been locked in for hours, turned to restless misery and guilt at the idea that she’d lost Josie. She knows Caroline understands why she didn’t leave, that Hope couldn’t bear to leave Josie behind and she knows her headmistress is smart enough to put together the pieces considering how well-educated she is on wolf behaviour. The idea that she’d know all that – that she’d know how much Hope needs Josie, cares about her, and would use it against her leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. “Guys – c’mon, a little bit of a reaction would be nice.” “Well, it’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Hope sighs, ignoring the desire to spit out an immediate yes, and aiming for a more casual approach. It isn’t actually a bad idea at all – getting the knife back would be a major win, it might even help them find Dorian or figure out what’s up with all of the monsters. And it sure as hell beats being locked up away from Josie and being forced to endure hours of miserable shifting just to rinse and repeat the next day. “Um, what? Yes it is,” Josie shoots her a look but Hope pushes down the instinct to give-in to ease the distress apparent in her eyes. “Josie, I honestly can’t believe I’m saying this but no – no it isn’t,” Lizzie looks positively delighted as Hope perks up, gesturing at the tribrid and shooting her sister a look as if she can't believe she's not being more supportive as Hope closes her sketchbook, “I’m going to end up shifting anyway, this way it’ll actually be worth something.” “Ignoring the potential dangers of a werewolf on the run,” Josie frowns, “We don’t even know where the knife is. How far away that is. If there’s anything after it – or there already. And it’s not like anyone else can shift and go with you, you’d be alone.” Hope flinches subtly, recalling their earlier conversation and prays that the turmoil in her chest isn’t obvious in her expression. She doesn’t want to come between Lizzie and Josie, would even enjoy being friends with the acerbic blonde, but she knows that Lizzie isn’t up for that; can tell from dinner last night that she thinks Hope is up to something again and has retreated from her previous understanding and sympathy the night they compelled Sasha. She looks at Hope with the same kind of scathing look she’d been shooting her for years when she thought Hope was honestly looking to steal her dad from her. It had been easing off ever since she’d stopped training with Alaric but it’d been fresh in her eyes after dinner and she’d quickly come to realise that Lizzie thinks Josie is the goal. She can’t imagine the kind of cataclysmic rage-out Lizzie would have if it became obvious that Hope wasn’t trying to steal her sister, but that she was instead just trying to be her friend while being helplessly infatuated by her. It would be different than trying to steal her, she supposes, but the result would be similar; Lizzie being forced to share her twin with the girl she’s loathed for years. She assumes the lack of a glare at the moment is entirely based on Lizzie’s new-found hero complex; the girl probably already thinking of her parents' pride if they can find the knife on their own and come back unscathed and lacking a fluffy problem. Lizzie eyes her sister with sympathy, surprising Hope when it lingers in her eyes even when Hope is the subject of their stare, before she claps her hands with excitement. “I have a solution for that too! Nobody else can shift – well, without a full moon, obviously – but that doesn’t mean Hope will be going alone.” “What?” Lizzie holds up her hand, dangling a pair of keys from her finger and Hope face-palms as she practically sings the dreaded words; “Road-trip!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lizzie’s genius plan has some faults, admittedly; like the fact that the only one between the three of them that can drive is the one that’ll be Born Free most of the night. And that’s even assuming that it’s only tonight – which…is another issue. And then the fact that to access Super Sniffer, Hope needs to break all the bones in her body and they need to find a place built enough to hold her until that happens – And okay, so the plan isn’t perfect. But it’s the best one they’ve got and most of those issues are easily fixed. Lizzie and Josie can’t drive but MG can and if that doesn’t work so can Rafael and his Squib. Both of them would be easy enough to guilt into coming, they’re kind of the reason this whole shit-storm started, after all; hell, they might even volunteer themselves to help get the knife back once they hear Hope won’t be in the car. That way MG could run interference with her parents and they’d escape into the night, scot-free. The one-night plan isn’t something they can really know won’t work until it doesn’t and if it doesn’t, they’ll figure it out then. It’s a problem for future-Lizzie, really. The only real remaining issues, Lizzie figures, are distracting her parents long enough to get the hell out of dodge and finding some place for Hope to wolf-out safely. - They talk through Lizzie’s less than stellar plan and send her off reluctantly to go find the boys; the pair of them oblivious to the blonde’s thoughtful stare at the way they’d reacted to the idea of Rafael and Landon joining their adventure. Lizzie promises to get MG on side and disappears in a whirl of delinquent excitement, leaving them to sort out the finer details the siphon had missed. Like how to stop the school from tracking them. Or how to occupy the headmasters so they don’t try to check on Hope before they’re long gone. “Well,” Josie starts, her hesitance the only warning Hope has that Josie is going to bring up something she’d rather not, “How did they find you? Before…when you left with…?” Roman goes unsaid and so does the nausea that rocks into her chest at even the thought of him. Josie’s whole countenance is apologetic and regretful, looking very much like she’d like to crowd Hope on her armchair and comfort her but very much uncertain if she’d even accept it. She doesn’t; instead she gets up, nudging Josie over until she can sit beside her on the bed, a brief flash of a smile acting as reassurance long before she links their fingers together. “Your mom set a whole tracking class on it,” Hope sighs, “But that didn’t work…there was… a boundary spell and a cloaking spell, I assume…on the…on the house…” Her mom flashes through her mind; the pale pallor of her skin, the sweat that dripped down her face and the dark circles under her eyes; their half-lidded state barely hiding the anguish of her wolf being locked away inside of her. She can almost feel the cuffs locked back around her wrists; the strange throb of her magic chained inside her body; like a more sinister version of her bracelet – Josie’s fingers squeeze hers gently, her face compassionate and patient. “Yeah, so…we can do that – cloak the car you’re going in but – slight problem,” Hope picks up, “she tracked my phone.” Josie snorts, slouching until she can rest her head on Hope’s shoulder. “That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t try the tracking class again. We could seal our rooms with a boundary spell – between the three of us it should hold and with Lizzie and I gone, she can’t siphon the power out of the spell so they couldn’t track us that way.” Hope nods, murmuring her agreement as she drapes an arm around Josie, playing with the ends of her hair, her mind whirring away. She wonders if there even is a way to properly distract them, when with Caroline back they could divvy up tasks between them. They need to do something risky – but not something that could endanger the students or cause an evacuation, because then the twins and Hope become worry factors and they’ll never get away. It has to be limited to a group of people – small enough that nobody can think it capable of spreading but large enough to demand the attention of both Headmasters until it gets late enough that they only think of Hope when they see the moon rise. It’s going to need to be like last time – but with a fun variation like the tens of other times she’s cast similar versions of the same spell – each one constantly improved upon so they can’t be undone the same way. It means it’s time to gather her tiny crew of accomplices, Hope realises with barely contained glee. “But that still leaves distracting my parents…Any thoughts about that?” Josie asks, looking up at Hope expectantly who kisses Josie’s temple to hide the smile forming. “Plenty.” - Hope smiles, deviously, walking passed the Juniors’ building and the primary dorms; headed straight for the pool and the shrieks of delighted, childish laughter. She and Josie parted ways an hour ago with an almost tangible reluctance; Josie heading back to her room to pack bags for her and Lizzie in anticipation of however long this trip might actually last while Hope had simply pulled a backpack from under her bed and headed off to start planning their diversion. Josie had looked at her in disbelief, asking if she wasn’t even going to check it but relented when Hope told her it was a ready-go bag she’d made with Aunt Davina. Her Aunt had started insisting Hope keep one packed for emergencies; citing the Mikaelson dramatic tendencies and bad-luck as reason enough for all of them to have them and God knows that Hope’s aunt was nothing if not prepared. Hope had left her then, insisting that if Josie didn’t want to know what Hope had done to distract her dad last time, then she most certainly doesn’t this time. Josie had looked at her with dread before agreeing and heading off. Hope eyes her favourite squad of deviant minds, watching them splashing each other in the pool; Bevan and Ellia teaming up against Faye and Isadora and getting properly trounced. Ander is sitting on the edge of the pool on a deck-chair in his trunks, swinging his legs off the edge, watching them with a frown on his face. The group of five had started at the school shortly before Hope had come back from her self-imposed isolation with her aunt and uncle in Maine; being part of a wave of new students that Caroline had been recruiting. Hope had been dead-set on isolationism when she’d come back to school, ignoring all attempts to talk by the people she was casually friendly with and accepting the distance that her revealed identity had imposed between her and everyone else. But these five baby witches weren’t like anyone else; trouble-makers themselves, they’d latched onto Hope when she’d gotten grounded after she punched a Senior in the face for harassing the kids; ignoring all her attempts to maintain distance and swamping her with puppy-eyes and quiet affection at every opportunity until she’d simply surrendered. They’d heard the stories, knew as much about her father as anyone else and yet they’d only cared about Hope who’d helped them, who’d look out for them. It was the magic of children, she supposed, tiny paradoxes; they didn’t know enough and yet somehow knew more than anyone else. “Hey Cub,” she calls, watching his head snap up; a smile splitting his cheeks as Hope comes up beside him, scooting him over with a grin. He presses into her, hugging her as best he can with one arm. “Hope! You promised!” he whines but Hope can tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he isn’t at all bothered. Ander’s full name; Leander, meaning lion-man had sparked the nickname but it wasn’t the only factor. Though she’d never say it, caring equally for all of her child-delinquents, Hope can’t help but favour Ander the tiniest bit. He’s special among the kids, she can sense it; that her little witch isn’t just a witch at all – though she hopes her hunch is never proven true. “I wouldn’t say it if you didn’t answer to it,” she teases, waving at the others as they spot her. Ander doesn’t dignify it with a response, huffing and crossing his arms as he looks off into the distance, pretending to be annoyed with her. It only lasts a moment until he looks back; his expression more serious and sad than she’s ever seen him. “Hey – what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Ander doesn’t answer, just looking at her intensely for a moment before worming further into her side, wrapping his arms around her. “Are you okay?” he whispers. Hope cards a hand through his hair, cradling his head where it rests against her shoulder. She doesn’t want to lie to him but she also doesn’t want to scare him. Ander’s life may have been harder than the others, she knows, but it doesn’t mean he’s magically grown up. A little more mature maybe, but he’s still a kid – and every day that he spends here, he’s learning more and more that he can just be a kid. She doesn’t want to ruin that for him. “Well…why wouldn’t I be okay?” she proposes instead, smiling reassuringly at Izzy when she pops up from getting dunked, too busy looking at Ander curled against Hope. Izzy takes it at face value in a way the others wouldn’t, trusting that whatever is wrong is always something Hope can handle, and turns around; whacking an unsuspecting Bevan across the back of the head with a pool noodle. “I…I saw your eyes. They were glowing and I went to get Josie – ‘cause I saw how you were looking at her at dinner and she came to help…but you were in the basement and then I didn’t see you and your eyes never glow, Hope – never…and I –” “You were worried,” Hope finishes for him, her voice soft. If she’d known Ander had seen her she would have come sooner; would have found him and assured him that she was going to be fine, that it wasn’t something he should worry about. Because she can’t lie to Ander about things like this; can’t tell him she’s fine if she isn’t, like keeping him in the dark won’t hurt him, won’t betray their bond and the trust he has in her. It’ll only make him feel alone, remind him of the life he came from and Hope won’t do that to him. Ander sniffles in the lasting quiet and Hope gently nudges him away from her so she can look him in the eyes. His normally baby blue eyes are storm-grey and frightened, tears glistening like a glassy film that he stubbornly blinks back, tilting his head to keep their stare. “I’m really sorry that you saw that,” she starts, keeping her hand on his shoulder to ground him, “because you weren’t meant to. And I’m sorry that it’s made you worry and that it’s made you scared, because you shouldn’t have to be.” “But you’re not fine, are you?” “…No, Cub, I’m not. But I’m going to be – okay? The twins and I are on it and everything is going to be fine, alright? I promise.” “Can I help?” the question is tentative, like he’s half-expecting Hope to say no, but Hope just nods, grinning at him. Ander can read the mischievous of her smile and perks up, tilting his head like a puppy. “Yeah, Cub, yeah you can.” - Hope gives her little coven time to dry off and grab their things before she corrals them into an empty classroom, setting up the myriad of ingredients they need on the floor and getting them to settle in a circle around them. She gets up to cloak the door but stops as Lizzie pokes her head in and stares at them. “Hope?” Hope doesn’t respond, dragging Lizzie into the room and closing the door gingerly behind her, sealing and cloaking it, so that nobody can see them inside. “Lizzie – what the hell?” “What the – No, you – What are you doing in here? We’re supposed to be –” Lizzie cuts herself off, looking suspiciously at the kids watching them from the floor, “– making those cakes for the homeless, right Hope?” Izzy huffs, tucking a dark strand of curled hair behind her ear, narrowing her eyes. “There’s no homeless cake-bake.” “Yes there is, Seniors only, cupcakes,” Lizzie chimes back but Bevan just scoffs, rolling his eyes almost as aggressively as Hope as he grumbles, “We’re eight – not stupid.” Lizzie just bares her teeth at him in the most fake smile Hope has ever seen, grabbing Hope and turning their backs to them. “What the hell are you doing in here with the Stinkers?” “First of all – they’re not Stinkers. And secondly, they are helping me fix one of the massive holes in your plan; the one where your parents have nothing stopping them from noticing that we’re missing,” Hope hisses. Lizzie eyes her cautiously, “And how are they going to do that?” “They are helping me cause a little…distraction, right guys?” The kids all chime in with their agreement and Hope flashes Lizzie a saccharine smile, returning to her seat amongst them. She bumps her shoulder against Ander who grins back at her before Ellia clicks her tongue, gesturing at a retreating Lizzie with a scowl. “You can’t leave – we’ll get caught.” Lizzie looks back at them, abhorrence obvious, “Well I can’t just be a part of your delinquency!” “Then don’t be,” Hope says, barely managing to refrain from rolling her eyes. As if what they’re doing is worse than Lizzie’s specialty brand of trouble; like breaking out a werewolf to hunt down a mystical knife being chased down by a load of monsters. Please. What they’re doing isn’t half as dangerous or parent frown inducing as that. “Just sit down and don’t say anything.” Mercifully, Lizzie obliges and Hope begins setting up the spell; herbs in a bowl in the middle of their circle and a picture of the Track and Spell class in hand. The kids all hum in recognition when she breaks out a ceremonial knife, cutting her palm deep and squeezing the blood into the bowl, just before her hand heals over. There’s almost not enough in the bowl, but it’s easily rectified with a quiet spell; the blood clinging to the blade of the knife sliding off, dripping into the bowl, heavy and dark, over the herbs. Hope gives it an appraising look, before nodding and picking it up. “Whose turn is it to choose?” she asks, offering the bowl to them. She can feel Lizzie staring at her, probably wondering if Hope’s going to ask the kids to cut themselves and bleed into the bowl too. She’s not – the kids are here purely for the magic and the fun of it. Hope could probably manage the spell on her own, but it’s worked as a bonding experience between her and the young coven so she’s always included them. It also makes it harder to be caught; the blend of their magic making it more difficult to trace so that all that is left behind is the impression of the same group of people but no unique identifiers even with Hope there. It’s not the first time they’ve pulled this prank and every time they do it’s a different person’s turn to choose the effect it will take. She’s certain it’s one of the boys turns now though, and sure enough, Ander shakes his head as Bevan raises his hand, grinning. The chickens was one Faye was quite proud of and Hope was proud of her too, but equally so of Ellia who’d suggested the fire-breathing trick to make them more difficult to catch. It had become even more impressive when the rather interesting side-effect of explosives came into play and the two girls had spent a few minutes revelling in the eggy destruction that their genius had wrought. “Okay Bev, what’ve you got?” Lizzie can’t seem to hold her tongue as Bevan triumphantly pulls a pouch out of his pocket, waving it in the air, and practically bouncing in place with excitement; “What the hell are you even doing?” “We’re causing a distraction,” Hope says in the same instant that Bevan declares, “Bats!” Lizzie looks at Hope expectantly, her eyebrow arching at the way Hope cringes but dutifully empties the pouch of teeth, wings and fur into the bowl before she answers her. “Well…there’s this magic that I was taught about transmutation and funny story, you’ll never guess, but if you’ve got a kind of conduit – a focus – then you can transmute almost anything. My Aunt actually used to have this massive diamond that she used but I don’t need something quite that large with my little coven here to help me,” Hope explains, smiling gently at the way the kids puff up with pride, “Since transmutation is the action of changing or the state of being changed into another form, it can be said that I naturally transmute – but as a werewolf, that my transmutation is temporary; reversible. And so with a little spell and some of my natural ability in the form of my blood –” “And some animal bits!” Faye chimes in, looking delightedly into the bowl before high-fiving Bevan. “And some animal bits,” Hope concedes, “We can temporarily make people transmute into some…choice things…” The glare Lizzie shoots her is mildly terrifying in its intensity as she growls, “The Chickens.” Faye shimmies lightly in place, raising a hand and proudly declaring, “That was my idea!” and Hope very nearly face-palms but settles for smiling at the girl indulgently. Faye pouts as a blank-faced Izzy lowers her hand, but stays quiet when she sees the way Lizzie is staring at Hope like she’ll skin her alive. “In my defence,” Hope starts but Lizzie just inhales sharply through her nose, the breath rattling in her chest, rage seeping out of every pore. “Fire-breathing, explosive-shitting chickens! And a goose!” Lizzie honestly seems more upset about the goose than the chickens and all Hope can really say to that is that the spell isn’t perfect and neither are the kids when they throw in ingredients. Sure, they say it’s bats, but for all anyone knows, one of the teeth in there could be a snake’s and then boom, snake-person. And sometimes even that isn’t perfect. Yes, that goose was a proper goose, but that goose could have just as easily been the beginning of a new kind of turducken; chicken and goose at the same time. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Lizzie wants to hear though. “I really don’t know what you expect me to say to that – but in my defence – I really needed the books on the knife to help figure out my –” She spares a glance to her circle of listeners before looking pointedly back at Lizzie “– fluffy problem. It wasn’t meant to last as long as it did…” Or as long as this one will, Hope thinks, giving Lizzie some chance to stew and process and hopefully become a little more sympathetic to her plight as she looks at the kids for suggestions on what to add to give it some kick. Ellia again proposes something of the explosive and fire-breathing variety, Izzy suggesting acid-spit until Ander informs her that bats don’t spit although they do have saliva and Faye just sits there, humming, her eyes wide and smile misleadingly innocent. “It doesn’t need kick,” Bevan protests, “They’re vampire bats!” Lizzie audibly snorts and Hope spares her a glance, relieved to see the rage abating, “Yeah the witches are going to love that.” “See!” Bevan looks positively victorious, as if Lizzie’s amusement is all he needs to out-vote the others, “Somebody appreciates me!” Hope expects the desire to spice things up to rise up again amongst the girls but the trio only exchange a look before agreeing that what’s in the bowl doesn’t need any more kick to it. It makes Hope nervous and suspicious, but she relents, knowing she prepped it herself and there isn’t much else she can do. They join hands, carefully reciting the spell Hope crafted and wrote out for them, Lizzie watching them with barely concealed fascination as the bowl spins in place and then ignites, before the fire quenches itself. She pours it carefully over the photo of the Track and Spell students, all six of them still chanting away until the picture starts to steam and catches, quenching itself just like the bowl had. A riot of screaming starts up down the hall and Hope gathers all their belongings and shuffles everyone out the other door at the back of the classroom, the kids scattering in choreographed routine and Hope dragging Lizzie to the stairs to get a taste of the impending disaster. They can just see through the door to the Track and Spell class as it opens and both girls’ eyes widen, Hope filled with a sense of morbid amusement; the look shared between Izzy, Faye and Ellia suddenly making perfect sense. They didn’t need to add anything to the bowl when they’d already added it to Bevan’s bag beforehand. “Are they –” “Winged baboons?” “God – you and your demons,” Lizzie hisses but Hope can hear the laugh caught in her throat. “Just call me the Wicked Witch of the West,” Hope offers, choking the horrified laugh that rises up as a suspicious brown substance flies through the classroom door amid the screech of monkeys, heading straight into an amassing crowd of stunned onlookers. “Sure thing, Elphaba,” Lizzie snorts, the pair of them ducking behind the banister as a stream of teachers rush into the hallway. They linger for a moment more before booking it up the stairs as Alaric races towards the scene, Caroline soon to follow. Lizzie takes out her phone to text the boys; the pair replying that they’re already outside with the car and Hope heads to her room to grab her bag, barely getting a few steps before the blonde calls her back. “Hey Elphaba?” “Yes, Glinda?” Hope stifles a laugh at the withering look Lizzie tosses her way; like she can’t believe she has to put up with this. Hope can’t believe she’s putting up with it either, having been more than certain that Lizzie was going to be annoyed with her for the foreseeable future, over her and Josie’s sudden closeness. “We’re not even for the chickens,” she starts, a dark gleam of delight entering her eyes that only leaves Hope intrigued, “but you turn Penelope Park into one of your pretties for my birthday and we’ll be pretty damn close.” - They leave town amid a hurricane of screaming; monkey and student alike. The van is big enough that they could all sit separately and they’ve taken advantage of it; Josie and Hope in the very back with all the leg room per Lizzie’s instructions and Lizzie hoarding the middle seats to herself, Landon perched beside Rafael in the passenger’s seat. It’s quiet, like all of them know that the minute someone says something someone – Landon – will start sniping or asking questions. It barely lasts an hour until Lizzie starts back-seat driving, reading directions off of her phone. Landon starts complaining about it; irritated that everyone else had left theirs behind; setting Lizzie off on a tangent about all of this being Blandon’s fault anyway. In between indignation – what even is a Blandon, Barbie? – and fervent declarations of his innocence he looks to Rafael for support but Rafael ignores them, eyes locked on the road, hands twisting nervously around the steering wheel. It occurs to Lizzie that this might be the first time he’s driven since the car accident with his girlfriend but saying anything might put him off so she stays quiet, simply relaying her instructions as they slowly drift off of the paved roads and into the woods. Josie doesn’t even bother entertaining either of them, miserably saddled a seat away from Hope. Lizzie had basically shoved her into the back with Hope when they were leaving and Josie hadn’t been able to avoid falling into her lap when the car had lurched forward at speed. Her cheeks had burned at the feel of Hope’s arms latched around her and Hope’s breath warm on her neck and she’d scrambled for apologies, beyond flustered. Hope hadn’t seemed even slightly flustered much to her disappointment; the tribrid had just smiling at her and helping her into her seat. It was only when Josie looked back, mournful at the seat separating them even as she knew how essential the space might be if Hope started to turn, that she’d caught the gentle flush of Hope’s cheeks and the burn of her ears; her eyes relaying how glad she was that Josie was by her side. She’d started fidgeting almost as soon as they left the school and Josie’s sure she heard the nightmarish crack of a bone as they shot passed the boundary line in the woods; despite Hope’s quick reassurances that she was fine. The memories of the night before, of Hope’s screams and her silence, have been lingering at the edge of her thoughts ever since this whole absurd plan had been presented to them but as the sunlight slowly dies and Hope’s fidgeting takes up that almost familiar pattern, they drift closer. She’s dead-set on seeing this through with Hope, on supporting and comforting her while she goes through this but it doesn’t diminish the fear caused by the sick feeling of helplessness curdling her insides. It doesn’t shake the concern that curls in her stomach or the despair that comes with the knowledge that no matter how much she wishes it, Josie can’t siphon Hope’s pain away the way she could her magic. She just wants this whole thing to be over with so that Hope doesn’t have to suffer this anymore. The scenery whipping passed the window has become unrecognisable and she turns to stare at Hope instead, facing her just in time to catch her face contort in pain, her whole body flinching away from the side of the car. “Hope?” The crack that comes next echoes in the car, Hope bowing forward, her eyes suddenly flaring gold. There’s utter silence, Lizzie turning around in her seat to share horrified looks with her sister before she rockets forward against the two front seats, carefully blocking their view into the back and urging Rafael to go faster. Josie tears her seatbelt off, shuffling forward until she’s beside Hope, and is already unclipping the tribrid’s belt when a snap tears through the air and Hope shoves herself against her, hiding a whine against Josie’s neck. She rubs circles into Hope’s back, ignoring the feeling of Hope’s skin rippling under her hands. The car shudders to a halt outside a rocky outcropping, an opening riddled with shadows visible even in the dark; and Lizzie tears out of the car towards it, dragging Landon with her by the hood of his sweatshirt as she yells instructions over her shoulder at Rafael. He opens the sliding door for them, setting the middle seats forward until there’s space enough to climb out and waiting patiently for them to move; saying nothing about how entangled they are. Josie leads Hope out to him carefully, hopping out of the car after her and pulling Hope tight against her body, like her presence alone can fight off the agony. It can’t, she knows, but Hope doesn’t seem to mind, clinging to her just as tightly as Rafael ducks under her free arm and they drag her forward. Josie’s heard things about the caves from her mother; even read about them in her father’s book but they were barely more than a foot-note despite how much history was locked within them. The Original caves; part of a series of tunnels in Mystic Falls that the Viking settlers and the Original family had hidden in during the full moon more than a thousand years ago. Their names are carved into the wall in runes, the history and horrors of them scratched into stone alongside them. It’s almost poetic for Hope to turn here, with her family watching over her. They head deeper into the tunnels, finally coming out into the cavern of the Originals where a shaken Landon is carefully hugging a wall and a winded Lizzie is buzzing about, lighting lanterns with a wave of her hand. She must have siphoned the vampire boundary spell from the cavern entrance, Josie figures, hauling Hope over to the wall her family’s history is carved into and settling her against it. Hope arches her back away from the wall, baring her fangs to the air as her spine creaks and Josie settles herself quickly beside her, tugging Hope to lay across her lap in time for her vertebrae to start rearranging themselves. Her arm dislocates itself almost immediately afterward, the sick crunch of her bones breaking down making Lizzie pale slightly, watching Josie lean over the tribrid to whisper to her. Josie doesn’t even flinch at the noise, too focused on Hope and getting her comfortable, already working on shedding her sweater to lay over her. Landon looks sick, watching from the side-lines, his eyes roving between Hope and Rafael as if to ask if he’d had to do that too, like he hadn’t seen Rafael shift before and Lizzie rolls her eyes. “C’mon Up-Chuck,” she huffs, herding him and Rafael back to the car, “We don’t need you here for this.” “Then why did you bring us –” “Trust me, if there was some way to get Rafael on his own, we would’ve – but you’re like some weird limpet and he wouldn’t leave you behind,” Lizzie scoffs, “If I could drive I wouldn’t have needed either of you and you wouldn’t be here at all. Now you and Ruffael can go wait in the car – nuh-uh, now Kevin Jonas – now.” Rafael must be getting used to Lizzie and her mannerism because he just huffs, probably trying to contain the laugh bubbling in his chest and pats Landon consolingly on the back, heading towards the tunnel exit with Landon in tow. He shoots a last sympathetic look over his shoulder to where Hope is seized up in Josie’s lap, as he reassures Landon that they’ll be out of here sooner than they think when Hope is finished turning. Lizzie huffs, primping her clothes where they’ been ruffled in her haste and settles herself with a breath. She goes back to the bag of mystery goods she’d taken the lanterns from; checking that everything is to her satisfaction before she drags it over beside Josie. “Now, I know what you’re going to say, but it’s literally the perfect solution to our whole ‘how to keep up with Clifford’ problem,” is Lizzie’s preface statement as she digs into her bag, brandishing her prize when she finds it with a victorious smile. Josie’s expression is of absolute disapproval but nothing dampens her sister’s excitement as she shows her the app on her phone and the flashing blue dot on the map that pops up when she clicks on it. “See? This is us! Or, well, Hope actually,” Lizzie snorts but Josie doesn’t even blink, eyes locked on the black GPS dog-collar Lizzie is still proudly clinging to. “Lizzie…” “Jo, c’mon, it’s literally perfect.” “Lizzie, seriously, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she says in the same instant that Hope whines against her, hiding her face against Josie’s stomach, her legs tensing. Josie’s hand tangles in Hope’s hair, holding her against her, her other hand bracing on her back as Hope’s fists latch onto her shirt; the fabric straining against her grip but not tearing. The smile slips from Lizzie’s face as Hope’s whole body starts shivering; Josie humming softly as she adjusts the cardigan she’d draped over Hope. Lizzie watches them in silence, her laughter forgotten as she looks down at the trembling tribrid. “She’s so quiet,” Lizzie mutters, “The other wolves…they always scream…” It’s a testament to Hope’s strength that she can bear this in silence, but Josie can’t help but think that it’s almost worse. That Hope taught herself to bear pain and adversity in complete stillness, like she’s not allowed to be weak, to show real feeling even with something as agonising and tortuous as her whole body rebuilding itself. Lizzie glances at the time on her phone and sets the dog-collar down beside them. She gives Josie a supportive, bolstering look and shoots the same at Hope, resting her hand briefly on her shoulder. “You’ve got this, Elphie,” she tells her and Josie can hear the vibrations of Hope’s grumbled response against her stomach as Lizzie disappears to wait with the boys. - The pain radiating through her body is a river rushing against a dam, her will the only thing keeping it from truly washing over her and taking control. The change would come in an instant if she lets it, she knows, remembers the guiding presence of her father the night of her first turn telling her as much. Fighting it is the exact opposite of what she’s supposed to do, especially now, when their mission is dependent on her as a wolf. But she fights it nonetheless, the soft hands kindly adjusting the sweater draped over her being the sole reason why. Hope doesn’t know what will happen to Josie if she gives over to the wolf. Before, she fought the pull of the knife in sheer desperation to get to Josie, too worried about her to even care about it. It all became secondary to her when the idea took root that Josie had been taken from her. Now, with Josie in reach, she doesn’t know how her wolf will react. How will she manage the pull of the knife and the magnetism of Josie when she’s here? She wouldn’t run without Josie but she can’t run with her. Will her wolf even understand the plan? Remember it? Or will it curl up in this new den and stay with Josie? The only real way to test it is to let go and see what happens but it’s so uncertain. She hadn’t wanted to tell Josie about this before, worried about her reaction and the vulnerability of exposing herself like that, but it doesn’t seem like something she can avoid now. What would she say when she turns back if all her wolf had done was spend the night cosying up to Josie, snarling at anyone who might come near? The change retreats slowly with a sharp stab of pain through her hips, rattling up her spine through her ribcage until it groans. Hope can almost feel the tiny fractures forming along each rib, the intercostal muscles spreading apart in her exhale and tugging gently at the forming fissures. Hope embraces the pain, powering through and trying to force herself out of Josie’s lap and managing to get most of the way upright before it becomes too overwhelming; and she slumps against Josie’s shoulder instead. The siphon’s arm wraps around her immediately, her fussing obvious as she adjusts herself to make Hope more comfortable. Hope’s whole chest buzzes with the sweetness of it. “Hope, careful,” Josie scolds her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and letting her fingers follow it down to trace over the edge of Hope’s jaw. “You need to go,” she tries to explain but Josie frowns at her, her eyes darkening in sadness until Hope might as well be staring into the vastness of space itself. She realises how her words could be taken and shakes her head, leaning into Josie’s body and nosing against her shoulder for a moment, grabbing her hand tightly. “No – I…I’m not trying to push you away – I’m going to change soon,” she starts again. She knows Josie hesitated to leave her before without someone literally dragging her away. The siphon is so devoted to this promise she’s made, so unwilling to break it, that’s she’s willing to risk her safety for it. It doesn’t matter how Hope feels in the moment, just how the wolf reacts and she struggles for words, trying to figure out a way to phrase it and yet conceal the depths of her feelings still, but there doesn’t seem to be one. Josie doesn’t try to interject at her stammering, waiting patiently at her side, the darkness of her eyes slowly receding until they’re two cinnamon pools staring at her; sweet and warm and earthen; grounding and welcoming in equal measure. Hope doesn’t know what she’s so worried about, looking into those eyes. She’s already bared her soul to this girl so many times already and yet never been rebuffed, just accepted and comforted. Even now, in her weakest state, Josie isn’t judging her for anything, just supporting her – trying to make everything that Hope endures as easy as possible for her. Her fears seem suddenly sharper and hazier at once; unfounded and irrational. She is afraid of losing people, of them dying or leaving her, but Josie has already promised more than once that that isn’t something she’ll ever do. To still be afraid of that isn’t a reflection on who Hope believes Josie is; but on whom she is. She needs to step into this fear, she knows, be brave. “I care about you,” she tells her, keeping their gazes locked, “I don’t want to run from you, Josie and I don’t want to ask you to go – but I need you to. If you stay…I don’t know what will happen but I don’t want to hurt you.” Hope doesn’t think she could live with herself if she hurt Josie; knows deep down that even as a wolf it isn’t likely to happen. Josie is pack to her wolf – there’s not even the slightest doubt in her mind that she’d kill anyone that tried to come between Josie and her and that is, perhaps, the biggest problem. She doesn’t want to tear through the car to protect Josie from people who aren’t even a threat. She doesn’t want Josie to leave but she needs distance to focus; to remind herself that Josie is safe and they have a mission to complete. The only way to do that, to get that crucial distance – that space, is for Josie to care about her own safety. She won’t leave to protect herself, but she’ll leave for Hope. Because for the first time in her life, Hope has asked someone to go. “I wanted to leave the other night – but I didn’t…because I didn’t know where you were,” she confesses, a weight lifting from her chest, “I woke up and you were gone and I didn’t know where you were, just that I couldn’t get to you. And I didn’t…I didn’t want to go without you.”
You don’t leave and I don’t run.
Josie’s breath catches in her throat and Hope tries not to reveal the anxiety that spikes in her blood at the noise and the quiet surprise resonating in her expression. “I didn’t break the bars trying to get the knife – I was trying to get to you…and I just…I don’t know what will happen if I’m a wolf and you’re still here…but I’m…I don’t want to hurt you.” Josie doesn’t say anything, her eyes darting between Hope’s, like one will reveal a truth the other conceals before she sighs gently, her eyes fluttering shut and staying so. The dark of her eyelashes against her cheeks is an entrancing contrast; almost as enchanting as the soft pink of her cheeks and as captivating as the curve of her lips; the delicate breaths that fall from them butterfly kisses against Hope’s own mouth. The gap between them grows narrower and narrower as their foreheads gently bump against each other, their noses brushing. “You’d never hurt me,” Josie whispers confidently, the petal-soft ghost of her lips a hair’s breath away proving a tantalising temptation, just out of reach and yet already leaving phantasmal tastes on her tongue. I know, she wants to say; a lightness bubbling up as she admits the truth, even if it’s just to herself. “I don’t want to risk it,” Hope answers instead. It’s a statement as much about Josie’s safety as it is about the urge to kiss her. Josie’s perfume pervades her sense, sitting heavy on her tongue and settling sweetly in her lungs and Hope all but stops breathing as she tilts her head just so and the corner of their mouths meet; Josie pressing the most tender of kisses against her cheek. The edge of their mouths just align and Hope can feel the curve of Josie’s smile blooming against the skin of her cheek and is certain Josie can feel the trembling breath that heaves itself shakily out of her lungs. Josie leans back from Hope with obvious reluctance, staring into the liquid gold of her eyes. There’s an almost tangible heat rising on her skin, like Hope’s gaze has a physical weight to it, sunlight sinking into her flesh, soft and warm; palpable serenity. It only disappears for a fleeting moment as Hope’s eyes close against a still wash of pain, a warning of more to come. Josie follows Hope’s gaze, the reach of her hand falling short and her chest twinges in panic as their time together slowly winds down. “Are you sure?” she asks, cupping Hope’s cheek. A noise rumbles in Hope’s chest at the contact but she nods just the same, a despondent laugh leaving her as Josie then picks up the collar from the ground. It’s not too dissimilar from the metal collars they use in werewolf-emergencies, but the sight of it still makes something sour within her. She’s never been in a collar before – never had an emergency before this; the only time she was even restrained during her turn was during her very first and her father had freed her of that. She’s not meant to be confined; every turn is meant to be under the stars, freely running in the wilderness of night’s domain. She needs to wear it, she knows, because they can’t track her at speed, can’t keep up with her without the car and this will make things easier – make the mission successful. This is for her own good; to fix her mistakes, to protect the school and the humans, to stop this unnatural change. This is not meant to restrict her or to control her; it’s not a mark of ownership just a guide for direction. This is not confinement like those other collars but it is constriction enough to wound that wild place in her soul. Josie fastens it around her neck with light, rueful touches, her fingers ghosting over Hope’s thready pulse, her eyes locked on the dark band to keep from seeing the despondence that wells in Hope as it clicks shut. Lizzie wasn’t wrong about this being a good plan, but the dip of Hope’s chin to her chest makes her regret ever agreeing to it. The click of the collar is her cue to go, but Josie delays, anxiety tightening in her chest, a fist clenching tight around her lungs, making her lose her breath. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” she admits guiltily, knowing that her departure is imminent. She can’t in good conscience stay and risk herself, knowing that whatever confidence she has in Hope isn’t something that Hope has in herself. She can’t stay and get hurt, make Hope face that guilt, but she finds herself delaying anyway, as if hoping that Hope will change her mind. Hope’s hand in hers is a comfort, easing the sting of her words as she speaks. “I know,” Hope tells her, frankly, presenting her sweater to her, “But I need you to go.” Even knowing that the words were coming doesn’t quite prepare her for the sting of them; Josie’s mind reeling and her chest aching like a chasm has been rent open there. Hope’s eyes are sad and regretful, looking at her like she wishes she could take it back, but the tribrid stays firm in her resolve, not apologising for telling the truth. She wouldn’t be apologising for the words even if she did say sorry; truly meaning them. She’d be apologising solely for the effect they’ve had on Josie; the unconscious hurt that sulks in her gaze. The hurt that rises is unintentional and yet unavoidable, but she wills it away, steeling herself mutely and returning Hope’s tentative squeeze of her fingers. She shouldn’t get upset by Hope wanting to protect her; it’s not like earlier – not like when she was trying to scare Josie away, interested in protecting herself almost as much as protecting Josie. This is different. This is Hope accepting Josie’s presence in her life and wanting to protect it – to keep her safe. It’s done out of fear born of care, not guilt or grief. Hope isn’t doing this to hurt her, Josie reminds herself; she’s doing this because she couldn’t bear it if she did. “Josie –” Josie presses her lips back against Hope’s cheek, carelessly to quiet her; taking in the quiet gasp of her breath catching as Josie rests her forehead against Hope’s temple. “Don’t – I…I know it’s best,” Josie tells her, eyes a little damp like they have been for days, “but it hurts. And that’s okay. It’s okay…” “No it’s not – I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Hope tells her again, as if Josie can’t see it for herself. “I know – and you’re not hurting me, Hope. It’s just this situation…I can’t do anything to help you and I can’t be here for you – I can’t make this easier for you –I can’t siphon your pain away no matter how much I want to…and it just kind of sucks, so much.” “I’d never let you,” Hope confesses, the words shy and vulnerable. “I’d talk you down,” Josie teases, closing her eyes tight when Hope’s breath catches again, a whimper escaping her as the shift starts up again. “I’ll see you out there, wolf-girl,” she mumbles against her temple, pressing a lasting kiss there before she tearfully departs, slipping her sweater back on to fight the chill in the air; Hope’s scream following her out of the tunnels into the darkness. She gets into the car in silence, her cheeks flushed but tearless and curls up in Hope’s abandoned seat; her sister squeezing her shoulder but understanding that she doesn’t want to talk about it and letting her be. Her eyes are disbelieving at the sound of a throat clearing and she whips around like a snake, smacking Landon in the back of the head when he tries to talk and staring him down until he turns around. Rafael taps his fingers against the steering wheel, swatting Landon’s hand away from the radio and stares out the window, studiously ignoring the indignant expression that his friend shoots at him when Lizzie’s attempts to fiddle with the radio go on unencumbered. Rafael believes that Landon is a good person at heart but even he can’t deny that his foster-brother has stirred up trouble ever seen the day he came to the Salvatore School and has done very little to try and make friends. The way he’s acted towards everyone ever since Hope refused to forgive him for betraying and lying to her isn’t exactly conducive to friend-making and as much as Rafael loves Landon – and he does – he can’t say he’s not bothered by his attitude; by the way he stirs the pot and victimises himself; lashes out at people for not believing in him, trusting him and yet doesn’t try to do anything to change their minds. He looks back at Josie through the rear-view mirror and sees her snuggled into her sweater, her eyes on the cave entrance and sighs inaudibly. She’s the other reason he lets Lizzie be; knowing that Lizzie is just protecting her sister from Landon’s prodding. It’s sweet and familiar; something Rafael has done far too many times for the kids younger than him in the houses he lived in and even now, something he still does for Landon. It’s a better side to Lizzie than any of the others he’s seen so far. There’s a rustle in the bushes near the cave entrance and Josie’s head perks up, a sentry looking out only to sink back into her chair when nothing moves; disappointed. Lizzie looks reflexively back at her sister at the quiet noise she makes, full of sympathy and Josie smiles at her before catching Rafael’s eyes in the mirror and weakly extending it to him too. He smiles right back at her, trying to be as comforting and unobtrusive as possible and looks away, staring out the window again with a sigh. Josie…Rafael had really liked her – still kind of does, honestly – but the way she looks at Hope… He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Hope Mikaelson, hadn’t ever really thought he’d want to. She was a loner and a vengeful, angry witch who’d threatened his brother and acted with a strange kind of superiority and authority that he couldn’t help but bristle at. He’d heard her story – read the book in the library about her dad and thought that she was just like him, just as angry and conniving. Just as evil. But then he’d seen her in action; a powerful force of nature storming to their rescue against the Arachne; unstoppable but not unyielding. She’d offered up power to share without hesitation, clasping hands with the twins in a way he’d seen other people shy away from and he’d thought that maybe she isn’t as up herself as she’d seemed. He’d seen her vulnerable and hurt – collapsed at the bottom of the stairs and been reminded that she isn’t as different as she seems; she’s a wolf too, like he is. She’s capable of suffering even if she doesn’t have to endure it the same way he does. But the way Hope looks at Josie – the way she opens up like there’s nothing to be afraid of as long as Josie is there; smiles freely and has it reach her eyes… Hope is just a girl. Just a girl that’s been hurt and closed off to protect herself from it; like he has. She’s not evil or conniving. She’s not out to get anyone or hurt people. She’s just a girl trying to live in a world that fights against her; that makes life so much harder than it should be. He’d never thought he’d want to know Hope Mikaelson, but he does. He doesn’t want to know Hope Mikaelson; daughter of the great evil, or Hope Mikaelson; the tribrid myth, but he thinks he’d like to know her; the girl that she is when Josie is around. Just Hope Mikaelson; a girl in love. - The wait is just starting to get to all of them when Lizzie’s phone erupts with noise and a white shadow steps into the moonlight. The wolf barely holds still long enough to be seen before it takes off at speed into the night but Josie spots her. Tall and stream-lined, her coat is snow-white and silken, her eyes yellow and electric. She seems to stare back and peer into Josie’s soul, that white wolf dipping its head in acknowledgement before it disappears out of sight. Rafael guns the engine at Lizzie’s instruction and she flings a hand over Landon’s shoulder to slap a map into his chest, as she starts to call out directions from her phone. “What am I meant to do with this?” he sputters, fumbling it open. “Read it, duh,” Lizzie replies, as the car speeds out of the forest and onto paved roads. “I – I know that – but why?” “You wanted to be involved didn’t you?” “But you have –” “Didn’t you?” Josie snorts softly, watching as Landon shrinks into his seat, seeming to lament his decision to join them. Lizzie tosses a wink over her shoulder at her before she looks back at her phone, zooming out of the close focus of the map to get a better perspective. Hope is already miles ahead it seems, heading north out passed Charlottesville, the little blue dot zooming around the town and dipping off west of there but still heading north. It makes sense, Lizzie supposes, looking at the forests marked out on the map. There’s a route that follows Hope’s path almost exactly and Lizzie blinks, relaying the information to Rafael and wondering if Hope the wolf remembers the plan the same way Hope the person did and if she’s really trying to make it that much easier to follow her. She zooms out that bit more, scooting up the map on her phone and shuffling around a few familiar towns’ names before relenting, accepting that there’s no way she can guess where Hope is heading. “Alright people, I’m putting some music on,” she declares, waving her hand at the radio to turn it on, the energy she’d siphoned from the barrier spell still coursing through her veins, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” “Do we have to? Couldn’t we just enjoy the next however many hours stuck together in silence?” “Firstly, enjoy is a brave word choice. Secondly, no because I cannot bear being stuck in this car for who knows how long in silence – nobody here is emo enough for that other than you, Sir Squib. And thirdly, I am positively shocked that you’re against music, Darren Criss, shocked I tell you.” Josie and Rafael lock eyes in the rear-view mirror, their suffering sighs exhaled in quiet, miserable unison. This is going to be a long trip. - They drive non-stop for four hours before they finally start slowing down; crossing the state-line into Pennsylvania and heading North-East towards Conneticut, following Hope’s trail in a wild detour around New York. They’ve pulled over exactly twice; once in a quick pit-stop to fill up the tank and let everybody use the creepy gas-station bathroom; and the other time to let Rafael and Landon swap out, Rafael too drowsy to drive. Lizzie had climbed into the back with Josie, leaning against her to share her phone screen, the pair of them tracking Hope and providing directions to a mercifully acquiescent Landon until Josie had finally fallen asleep, warm and exhausted. She wakes up when the car begins to slow down and finds Lizzie half-awake beside her, grumbling at the lightening sky as they pull into a near-empty motel parking lot. It’s a huge U-shape, facing the highway; an unused pool in the centre and dense woods at the back where the parking lot is. Landon hops out at the reception while the car winds around to the back and returns to their side as they’re taking bags out of the back with two room keys; presenting one to the girls and keeping the other for himself and Rafael. They both look exhausted and putter off to their room with little more than a wave and an agreement to meet up outside in a solid eight hours to revise their plan. Lizzie has just opened their room door when she places her arm out to bar Josie access and turns a disgruntled eye to her phone, clicking away on it for a moment before thrusting it into Josie’s hands. She fumbles with it for a moment, biting back a snarl of exasperation when Lizzie shrieks at her not to drop it, and looks at the same map she’d spent hours staring at with confusion. She’s too tired to look at it for more than a moment, the image fuzzing slightly at the edges. “What?” Lizzie doesn’t answer, swinging a previously unseen second bag into Josie’s hands, followed by the room key, gesturing at the collection of items in Josie’s hands as if they’re self-explanatory before disappearing into the room with both the twins’ bags and slamming the door shut behind her. They are extremely self-explanatory, Josie discovers, tiredness abating as Lizzie’s phone makes beeps and the map refocuses itself, zooming in on a blue dot in the forest behind the motel. Josie almost slaps herself for her own obliviousness, turning around on the spot and heading fearlessly into the woods; following the app’s quick directions, until she comes across a clearing a ways in. There’s nothing in the clearing despite what the phone is clearly telling her and Josie’s heart slowly ramps up its pace, as she stands stock-still at the edge of it. She knows better than to turn and walk away just because there doesn’t appear to be anything there – knows that despite her faith in Hope that right now, she’s still a wolf – a predator; and that turning tail might instigate a hunt. So she stays, eyes roving the edges of the woods, the shadows cast amongst the trees until she sees her; a white shadow walking slowly towards her. The wolf is even more beautiful in the dawn-light; its fur an off-white colour more than the snow it had seemed like in the moonlight. The depth of the colour of its eyes has dulled a little – an effect of the setting moon – but the intensity of them burns all the same; glowing like braziers in their sconces. Hope stops a short distance away from her, her posture soft and unthreatened. It changes when Lizzie’s phone lets out a celebratory noise; informing Josie with the sound of a 90’s sitcom audience clapping that she has found her lost pet. Hope’s growls, bearing her teeth and Josie silences the shrill noise, dropping everything from her hands into the grass so she can raise them pacifyingly in front of her, kneeling in the grass to be at Hope’s level. Hope’s body relaxes, tension draining out of her the moment everything is out of Josie’s reach, the rumble of her chest easing away to a gentle purr as the wolf takes slow steps towards her; sparing the phone suspicious glances at every moment like it’s a predator waiting to pounce. It makes Josie smile, a laugh escaping her before she can stifle it and Hope looks up; the gold in her eyes still steadily leeching away, her ears perked before she closes the gap between them. She pushes Josie over with one butt of her head against her sternum until she’s sitting in the grass and nuzzles against her before the siphon can even ask if she can touch her. Hope contentedly sprawls herself over Josie’s lap, pressing against her and burying her snout in the fabric of her sweater; huffing and taking in the scent and Josie cards her fingers through Hope’s fur the way she would her hair, laughing at the purr that rockets through Hope’s chest. They sit there together until the sky bleeds red and pink, the few clouds hovering at the horizon taking on a soft lilac hue. Hope peels herself away from Josie with a whine and Josie dutifully turns her back when the wolf pounces on the backpack, collecting the dying phone and room key as she wanders off, carrying it into the trees. - Lizzie is passed out, snoring in her bed and Josie is pulling down the covers on the only free bed in their room when Hope comes out of the bathroom, a plume of steam announcing her presence. She looks up and time seems to crawl to a complete stop. Hope is beautiful – it’s not a secret, it’s actually ridiculously obvious. But it’s like Josie has never truly seen her before; watching her shuffle around the room to lay her towel over a chair to dry. Her hair is damp and curling, her ears red from her shower just like her cheeks and an enchanting flush colours her skin, disappearing down into her shirt. Her shoulders are slumped, her eyes electric and tired, and she’s wrapped in Josie’s missing cardigan, the sleeves pulled down over her hands, a sleepy smile on her face that sets her eyes aglow. It’s a perfectly ordinary moment and yet, it’s like everything changes, like something just clicks and Josie’s heart swells in her chest, overcome with a feeling of rightness at the sight. This is it, something in her sings, this is what you’ve been missing. Hope crawls into bed, settling into the pillows with a sigh of relief as Josie sets an alarm on Lizzie’s phone and hooks it up to her charger, following the tribrid into comfort a moment later. They don’t even bother pretending they’d rather be apart, Hope turning over to loop an arm around Josie’s waist the moment she’s comfortable, pulling them flush together, her nose nestled in the crook of Josie’s neck, soft breaths ghosting her skin and leaving goosebumps to rise. They fit together like puzzle pieces, Josie thinks, drifting off. It’s the best she’s ever slept.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Josie doesn’t remember much from when she was little but there are a few outstanding instances. She remembers a sweet babysitter who taught them magic; short visits to her mother’s work and her father’s strained smile whenever she was mentioned. She remembers meeting Damon Salvatore and his soon-to-be wife, Elena, and the supportive nurturing care of their witch-teacher and godmother; Bonnie Bennet before she went travelling the world. But she also remembers her mother’s smile; the way it was bright and pure and untouchable and the man who caused it – the patron name of their school; Stefan Salvatore. She remembers the way he hugged and how he smelled; like pine and Christmas – and the way her mother laughed when she was around him, like the world was brighter and better just because he was in it. Mostly she remembers how he looked at her; like there was nothing better in the whole world than her mother – like she was his whole world. He was a brooding, hurt man in the brief time she’d known him but he’d known her from the beginning of her life – had been there from the minute she was born, her mom had told her – and with the twins he had tried very hard to conceal such sadness. It seemed easier whenever her mom was there; he’d look at her and peace would seep out of him, the knowledge that whatever was troubling him, whatever he might face was never something he would have to face alone giving him an unparalleled comfort. Her mom was his partner and his friend long before she was his wife and even then, marriage was just furthering that friendship, adding to it in leaps and bounds – making vows out of the promises they’d already made to each other. The day her mother walked down the aisle isn’t one she’ll ever forget – the way Stefan had looked at her; a prince meeting his true love and getting his happy ending – no matter how long it might have lasted – still makes her feel warm. She thinks about it now; the way his eyes had glowed and wonders if that’s how she looks at Hope. If how she feels for her and thinks about her can be read in her eyes as easily as how much he loved her mother could be read in his. It’s an almost scary thought – comparing how she feels for Hope to the epic love of her mother and Stefan Salvatore – especially so soon after realising it – but it feels right. Perhaps that’s the scariest part; being so okay with it, with the idea that she and Hope are epic – this unyielding belief that whatever she’s feeling will be returned; now or otherwise and that they’ll end up together; no matter what. Josie’s never had that kind of certainty before, not with a sister like Lizzie; who had people flock to her like the only drop of water in an endless desert. But even without Lizzie and “dibs”, Josie’s never been the kind of person to believe in a relationship that way; to think “we’ll happen” and not doubt that belief – even the few times she knew the feelings were returned. The only person she’d had that kind of feeling about was Penelope and even then that was only after weeks of near relentless pursuit and teasing on the other girl’s behalf until Josie had succumbed to her charms. Of course any positive feeling towards the girl had been brutalised beyond repair when she’d realised she wasn’t the only one charmed. But Hope is different. Josie can feel it in her bones, in the flutter of her heart in her chest; Hope won’t hurt her – will protect her from it to the best of her ability the way Josie will for her because as much as she loves Hope, Hope loves her too. Whether they get together soon or whether it’s days or weeks from now – or even years down the line, she can feel it. She and Hope are endgame. - Day three of their perilous journey begins when Josie stirs into wakefulness in the evening; blushing and content. There’s weight on her waist and soft puffs of air against her cheeks and she opens her eyes, blinking into barren, withering daylight to the sight of Hope’s mouth inches away from her own; the tribrid’s cyan eyes hidden in sleep. They’re sharing breaths on the same pillow; Hope’s arm wrapped snugly around her, her hand hidden beneath the edge of Josie’s sleep-shirt, tucked against her back where her fingers flutter reflexively in sleep; the ghostly touches having stirred her awake. She lifts her head from their pillow to spare a glance at Lizzie’s half of the room, relieved to see the bed haphazardly made and her bag packed and waiting at the end; her phone charger loose and abandoned on top of it. They’ve taken to only renting out two rooms in whatever motel they’ve crashed in over the past few days – the boys sharing one and the twins and Hope expected to share the other. Josie’s pretty sure that wasn’t originally the case – that Landon had forgotten about Hope that first day and just booked two rooms for the four of them – but it’s the way things have panned out. Josie has almost expected Lizzie to say something – about the room or how Hope and Josie are sharing a bed…and a pillow…and air – but her sister has seemingly opted for the route of wilful obliviousness when it comes to Josie’s feelings for the tribrid. Lizzie’s sympathy and almost friendliness over the past few days has been a vast improvement over the way she used to treat Hope; her attitude coloured by Hope’s agony and usefulness and her own personal disdain for Landon – the new focus of Lizzie’s negative feelings – but there’s still a ways to go before things are okay between them. Josie can only imagine how quickly it could change if Lizzie realises exactly what Josie feels towards Hope and how deep it goes. While Hope has slowly been becoming more normalised and human to Lizzie, there’s still a part of her sister that doesn’t fully recognise the tribrid as a person – Lizzie can’t seem to acknowledge that Hope can like people – romantically or sexually or both. She doesn’t seem to register that Hope can be interested in people and, more pressingly, have them be interested in her. It’s lead to many frustrating moments – her sister tactlessly interrupting what Josie can only think to call moments between her and Hope. She wants – desperately, maddeningly so – to kiss her; to press more into Hope’s space and seal their mouths together – to tell Hope the depth of her feelings and show her how overwhelming they are; to pry the breath from her lungs the same way Hope’s sheer loveliness does to her. And yet – Every time she thinks she’s closing in; that their endgame moment is coming; the flutter of Hope’s eyelashes tickling her cheeks – in comes Lizzie. But not now, Josie sighs, settling back into the pillow; her cheeks still flushed from sleep and her eyes closing briefly in contentment as Hope’s fingers flex against her, the tribrid scooting closer in sleep. That’s the other thing that had bothered her – waking up with Hope so close and having to stop herself from lingering, from revelling in the closeness and Hope’s indomitable softness because Lizzie was there, watching her. She hasn’t been able to stay until Hope wakes up. The one time they managed to wake within moments of each other Josie hadn’t had the chance to stay long enough to get the full effect of Hope’s eyes first thing in the morning (evening); having to get out of bed with little more than a shared smile and a squeeze of her waist. It had been its own special kind of torture; leaving her shrouded with warmth that felt more stifling than comforting – the frustration of a half-fulfilled dream. It had felt like a djinn’s wish – where a cruel loophole had been found and she’d been given what she wanted – specific down to the last syllable and intonation she’d used, only to be cruelly tricked by how vague and deceiving words and sayings could be; the intricacies of language and culture and slang leaving her wish lacking. She’d felt cheated in the moment, but she looks back on it now, breath catching in her chest at the simple beauty of peace in Hope’s expression and feels the tiniest bit relieved; grateful even. Waking up to Hope has already left an impression – this sudden unwavering desire for an eternity of mornings with her. It’s a quiet hidden feeling that had crept up on her when Hope had taken to the woods again as a wolf; alone with her thoughts and Lizzie and Landon’s bickering, she’d been overwhelmed by its effects; a multitude of dangerously tempting day-dreams that leave her mind racing and heart aching. It’s cloying – clinging to every breath, lingering at the back of her mind, ready to rush forward at any moment. It’s dangerous and delightful – and not something she’d ever foreseen being a problem until it had happened. Waking up to her has been wonderful and perilous. But waking up with Hope? – It might very well ruin her. It probably already has. Hope’s breathing changes, a subtle difference but one that Josie can’t help but notice; a sound escaping her that raises a flush down the length of Josie’s chest, heat settling as a rippling current beneath her flesh. Her dream rushes forward from the depths of her unconscious mind where those thoughts of forever and endless mornings sleep, and she huffs to stifle the whimper that wants to run free, hiding her face against the pillow for a moment as Hope begins to stir. The fingers splayed across her back flex, nails digging into her skin with the lightest pressure, her senses zeroing in on the sensation. Her eyes lock on Hope’s mouth, tracing the tempting contours of her lips and fighting down the desire to kiss her – to feel those lips against her own, to trace those curves with her tongue, to sink her teeth into the edge of her smile. She exhales shakily, watching Hope’s nose scrunch up as her eyes slowly blink open: ocean blue and hazy. They’re as enchanting as ever; filled with light, glittering like diamonds of sunlight on water – exactly as they were in her dream. Josie fights down a shiver, licking her suddenly dry lips and returning Hope’s sleep-laden smile, silently begging the images running through her head to supress themselves. It’s not a dream, she reminds herself, unsure if it’s hurting or helping as Hope’s fingers stroke down her spine; her palm flattening against Josie’s waist to tug her closer. If this was her dream they wouldn’t be in bed. They’d be out roaming the woods, a girl and a wolf in a playful chase with the moon overhead and magic thick and intoxicating in the air; pervading every sense and gliding over her skin in gentle, teasing caresses. If this was her dream she’d tumble into a bed of leaves, guided by Hope’s sure hands, the confident touch becoming slower as every moment passes and they become more and more enchanted by each other and the way their skin glistens in the moonlight – white dresses long removed. If this was her dream Hope would be pressing down into her, every inch of their bodies entwined – skin against skin, smile against breathless smile and heart against heart: beauty resplendent smiling down with the blue eyes of eternity , framed by the canopy of stars overhead and yet outshining them all. If this was her dream, there’d be a bite, proud and aching, in the crook of her neck and a fullness in her chest – a claim offered and accepted, a bond sealed. But it’s not and there isn’t. It’s just a simple moment in time that won’t last in a series of ephemeral moments just like it on an unsanctioned road-trip. It’s nothing like the inexorable night she dreamt of in the woods. Yet somehow, it’s just as good. She nudges forward, grazing their noses together and Josie’s breath catches as Hope presses her lips against her cheek, their mouths just brushing at the corners; a hidden kiss for another moment, a quiet promise. This is how fire feels; flames dancing and intertwining; lit from the same ember, the same spark – parts of one iridescent thing in an infinite moment; dangerous and enchanting; living and breathing together. Hope’s eyes are so blue she could drown in them; the depths of the ocean are nothing in comparison to the complexities of her cerulean irises. They glitter and gleam and shine – enough to make bitter enemies of envious stars and Josie can feel herself slipping in the vastness of them; sinking into them and being consumed by their gentle intensity. Josie’s a little in love with her. (A lot – she’s a lot in love with her.) “Hi.” “Hey,” Hope’s voice is a whisper, anything louder feeling almost violent in the quiet. Josie hadn’t really given much thought to the way Hope would sound in the morning, but she’s husky and soft, her voice rich and textured with sleep and all Josie can really think now that she’s heard that is that she was right – Hope’s ruined her, but in the best way, because God, Josie could listen to her forever. It’s a little frightening how often that word has popped into her thoughts recently – forever is an awfully long time, after all. With Hope though, somehow, she doesn’t think forever will really be enough. “We need to get up soon,” Josie mutters regretfully, sparing a glance to the clock hung on the wall; the numbers just barely discernible and warning of the approaching night. Hope shakes her head softly, nudging forward again until she can press their foreheads lightly together and closes her eyes. She blinks them open to kiss the end of Josie’s nose; her eyes fond and amused at how the siphon goes cross-eyed briefly, trying to catch the movement. “Just another minute,” she suggests, trailing her fingers down Josie’s spine to curl possessively over her hip; “I don’t want to get up yet.” Josie acquiesces without any hesitation, going when Hope tugs at her and pressing herself into the hybrid, nosing against her neck with a contented smile; suddenly drowsy at her heady warmth and the smell of spring that pervades from her skin. “Mmm…okay. But I’m doing this under duress.” “Oh of course – being warm and comfortable must be so stressful. Really, I’m practically torturing you,” Hope drawls playfully, squeezing her hip. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” “Absolutely. Not like you could just like being with me. No – must be Stockholm Syndrome or something.” “Or something,” Josie teases, laughing when Hope scoffs quietly. Josie grazes her lips against her neck purposefully and squirms away at Hope’s chiding pinch – giggling as the tribrid tugs her back towards her; efficiently erasing the inches of space that had spawned between them. She wraps both arms tight around Josie and the siphon near purrs in content; slipping her hands under the back of Hope’s shirt in revenge. Josie laughs quietly at the shiver that wracks Hope’s spine at the first touch of her cool hands; Hope huffs but she lets Josie curl her fingers against her skin and pull herself closer; nudging up Hope’s chin to press a feather-soft kiss against her jaw. “Another five,” she tells her, “Because I like being with you.” Hope presses her smile against her temple and even when it evens out she leaves her lips there, pressed into Josie’s skin like a brand; a quiet, ecstatic reciprocation.
I like being with you too.
Nothing feels as frightening with Hope holding her like this; her lips pressed into her skin and her arms like anchors, tethering her to the ground – to her; like she’s the only thing that Hope needs to keep hold of in a world that so frequently tears things loose and sets them free. They’re inexorable, she thinks, infinite and she’s just so in love with her. - Josie’s woken up nearly an hour later by Hope’s angelic laughter and the flutter of her fingertips sliding against the inside of Josie’s wrist. She’s shifted out from her position as Josie’s pillow and somehow wormed her way to sit up despite Josie’s vice grip around her waist still. Her fingers tickle the soft skin of her wrists, trying to lure her gently into wakefulness and Josie’s heart stirs in her chest at the sweet gesture even as she squirms away from the ticklish sensation. “Josie. Jo – wake up,” Hope coos at her, carding a hand through her hair and laughing gently when Josie just nuzzles against her with a grumbled “no”; endearingly petulant. “Why do we have to get up?” she asks, as if she wasn’t the one insisting upon it before their drawn out nap. “Well, we’re supposed to meet up to plan out the next leg of this Scooby excursion so I need to shower – and you need to get out of that drool puddle before it drowns you.” Mortification floods Josie as she rips herself away from Hope’s side, violently drawing her hand over her mouth before she pats Hope’s shirt, looking for the dark indicative swatch of fabric. She tries not to get distracted by the flat feel of Hope’s stomach; the gentle ridges of muscle toned from years of extensive exercise and training to hone her wolf-side but she can feel the blush welling in her cheeks as she draws her hand away; flustered and embarrassed. There’s nothing there. Hope leaps from the bed, smug and crowing triumphantly as she stretches, “Free at last!” The betrayal that curls in Josie’s chest at the ploy is overshadowed by fondness at Hope’s playful cheer; the light that shines in Hope’s eyes enough to sway her anger at being deceived. She really does look free – weight she’s always carried suddenly relieving itself from her shoulders. Freedom is beautiful and enchanting; perfection; a howl in the wind and the delighted shimmy of Hope’s shoulders as she smiles carelessly back at a pouting Josie. Freedom is beautiful but it has never looked more beautiful than it does in Hope. Hope has never looked more herself than in this moment. “Josie,” Hope coos, her whole demeanour playful but cushioned in softness at the siphon’s protruding lip. She turns away pointedly, burrowing into the sheets to hide the smile that threatens to crack her façade. “Josie,” Hope whines, “It was a joke – though the fact that you’re so worried about it says a lot.” Hope kneels back on the bed, shuffling slowly over to her with a subdued grin at the little indignant sound the siphon makes into her pillow, shooting up to stare her down and looking as intimidating as a grumbly kitten with her lip curled back like that. “Not that I’m suggesting you drool,” Hope teases, leaning carefully over her, “But if you did – I don’t think it’d make you any less attractive.” Josie’s cheeks are hot with a vivid blush she knows Hope can see by the shine of her eyes and the charming curve of her grin; visibly delighted with herself and just erring on the adorable side of smug. She kind of hates her a little bit just for how attractive it is. “Alright there, Bashful?” “Really? Out of the two of us, I’m the dwarf?” “Well no, out of the two of us, you’d be Snow White; fairest of them all and all that,” Hope explains, tucking a strand of hair behind Josie’s ear and brushing her hand against the rose of her burning cheeks. “Well if we’re talking Disney Princesses, you’d be Sleeping Beauty,” Josie shoots back, heart hammering in her chest at the strange gleam in Hope’s eyes, a look she isn’t quite familiar with crossing her face. “Sleeping Beauty? Does that mean you’re kissing me awake?” “You’re not asleep,” Josie points out, catching Hope’s hand as it trails down her neck to rest against her shoulder and tangling their fingers together slowly; watching as they knot together and her whole body buzzes with electricity at the feeling. Hope’s not watching their hands, her gaze affixed on Josie’s mouth when she looks back at her; “I could be.” Josie’s stomach swoops like she’s taken a sudden death-defying turn on a roller coaster. It feels like her brain has suddenly shut off; like Hope’s killed her – broken her entirely and hell, maybe she has. Josie is no longer functioning, no longer computing or comprehending or breathing – She takes a shuddering, gasping breath in; letting it fill her lungs to capacity and ease the dizzy blackness that had started to set in. Hope looks nervous in the lasting silence but Josie can’t find the words to respond to that; very much certain that she’ll probably never have words again – her heart strangling itself in her throat as she scoots closer to Hope instead, assuring her with a squeeze of their joined hands in place of the words that just won’t come. “Josie,” Hope prods, an anxious furrow to her brow. There’s still nothing – but actions have supposedly always spoken louder than words, and Josie decides now is a perfect time to test that. She cups Hope’s cheek in her hand, leaning their foreheads together gently and breathing in the shaken breath Hope exhales in quiet relief. She purposefully trails her thumb along the edge of Hope’s jaw, biting her lip to stop the smug smile forming as Hope swallows, eyes darkening. “I’d much rather you be awake.” The words hang in the air between them, heavy and honest, somehow so revealing in their simplicity that the underlying tension between them is now undeniable – crackling in the air; a violent, passionate force urging them closer. The door rattles in its frame from someone’s heavy-handed knocks and the world spins on, the rug pulled out from under them – the moment ruined. Josie near whines in frustration, certain that it’s Lizzie on the other side of the door, key forgotten and that the universe is playing some sick joke; having her suddenly want to murder one of the only people she can’t kill. Hope seems more amused than anything, muttering something like “of course not” under her breath as she scoots away from Josie and off the bed, heading to the bathroom. She probably thinks the universe is fucking with them too – Josie’s not surprised. For all that she knows they’ll be together – and soon – she also knows that they’re in for a challenge. There are no two families with worse luck with women than the Saltzmans and the Mikaelsons, after all. With a groan, Josie heads for the door, opening it with one last longing glance to the bathroom and– - White. -
It was barely dusk when Lizzie had thrown open the door to their room, take-out in hand from a diner down the street in hand. She’d lectured them as she helped Josie pack up, informing them of the new plan like it was some sort of spy mission; phrases like “current trajectory”, “rendezvous point” and “ETA” being thrown around as she traced out their next potential pit stops seven hours away in any given direction from their current location.
Josie had been suitably impressed and Hope was too if her quiet acceptance was anything to go by. She’d showered and eaten, listening attentively and with minimal poking before packing up her things. It didn’t take more than an hour but by then the change was already setting in and Lizzie rushed off; leaving Josie to lead Hope out of the motel and into the woods, always conveniently located at its back.
She’d helped Hope deep into the trees where the tribrid had let the shift rip through her in a single wave; confident in her own ability to stay task-focused after three days. Josie had turned her back to her in respect, allowing the tribrid to go through it mostly alone, but with the knowledge that if she needed her, Josie was there.
The wolf had bowed to her, that strange half-nod of her head that Josie hadn’t ever encountered before and pressed her nose into her stomach, let Josie card a hand quickly through her fur before it took off into the dawning night.
Josie had gathered Hope’s shed clothes and headed back to the car, tucking most of them into Hope’s go-bag but keeping the sweater she’d slept in, still radiating heat. She’d curled up in it, half-asleep against the window, the scent of sun and rain rich in her lungs and the hushed hum of Lizzie’s Broadway playlist enveloping the car.
-
It’s been hours now since she last saw Hope and yet the haze of her hasn’t really dissipated; has persisted even as the storm sets in and the wind howls and the car chills. Josie feels almost unaffected by everything – like she’s in a bubble, separate from everyone – even as Landon gripes about it and drags the other two into his misery, she’s almost isolated from it. She’s alone in the back; mind miles away as she sits, still curled in Hope’s sweater, still surrounded by her perfume and warmed by the dream that courses through her; a fragile half-wish; a tentative wonder of what it would be like –
She doesn’t wonder about being loved by Hope – she already is; can feel it in the softness of her eyes and the gentle, lingering nature of her touch. But she wonders what it would be like – being together and open about how they feel; what it would be like to walk into a room and stand by Hope’s side and have everyone know they’re equals; partners. That Hope trusts her, loves her the way Josie loves Hope. That even with all that’s going on; they’ve still found each other.
But of course all dreams must end, and so does Josie’s as Lizzie’s whole body tenses suddenly.
“Whoa – whoa, shut up Average Andy,” Lizzie interjects, her brow furrowing as her phone beeps ominously in her hand.
Josie shoots forward against her seatbelt trying to see it but Lizzie waves her off, indicating for Rafael to slow down as she fiddles with her screen, trying to zoom in on the blue dot they’ve been following. Hope has slowed to a complete stop, Lizzie notices with some surprise, but according to the map she’s in the middle of nowhere. She might just be taking a break – she has been running for nearly seven hours non-stop by now. Lizzie tactfully ignores the little voice reminding her that this is day three of the same routine and that Hope hasn’t stopped before; choosing instead to focus on the fact that it’s close enough to sun rise that they should actually start heading for the nearest motel pretty soon.
Lizzie looks back at her sister, her body tense like a bowstring ready to fire, looking very much like she’d jump Lizzie just to get a peek at her phone and see what the problem is. She’s been so different recently and as much as Lizzie is afraid of losing her sister – especially to Hope – she can’t deny how lovely it is to see her smile so much. Hope makes Josie happy; they’re close now and as far as Lizzie can tell the trauma this stupid knife is causing has only made them closer. Hope is important to Josie and that means that Hope is important to Lizzie, whether she likes it or not.
They can’t go anywhere without following Hope; they’re headed in her direction regardless of Lizzie’s decision. But they’re a little under an hour away right now and the road they’re on goes nowhere near her – it’s a choice, she realises.
And yet, it’s not a choice at all.
“Hit the gas Raf and listen really closely, I’m gonna tell you when to turn to get off this road.”
“What – Off this road? What do you mean off this road? There’s nothing out here but this road! –”
“Look Mika, let’s relax and take it easy, okay? Great. Because you don’t have a say in this. Hope has stopped –”
“So? What’s the problem? Doesn’t that just mean she’s found the knife –”
“
I don’t know what it means, Mr Schue, that’s kind of the whole problem! It could be the knife or it could not be the knife but either way, we’re going to go get her. So keep your perm on and calm down.”
“She’s stopped? For how long?”
Lizzie meets Rafael’s eyes in the rear-view mirror as he slowly presses on the gas, the tension in his shoulders winding tighter. Landon looks at him, opening his mouth to say something before wisely closing it, choosing to be silent in his support instead of making the whole situation more anxiety inducing than it already is.
Josie scoots forward against her seat-belt, her hands clenching in the sleeves of her sweater.
Lizzie wonders if Josie even realises the way she sinks into it; like if she’s swallowed up by it she’ll be safer from everything. It makes her hurt a little bit, reminded of when they were younger and their parents had decided that their kids could handle how demanding their jobs were; the way Josie would curl up with a blanket draped over her shoulders as if it could fight the sadness of missing their mom and dad.
“Yeah, Jo – but just a few minutes maybe. The GPS is still working so we’re just gonna go get her,” Lizzie explains, reaching back to squeeze her sister’s hand briefly before turning her attention back to Rafael and the road.
Josie makes a noise, quietly distressed and disbelieving and curls back up against the window and Lizzie sighs, watching the blue dot slowly get closer, trying to ignore the twisting feeling of apprehension in her gut – the way it feels like everything is slowly spiralling out of control.
She’s sure Hope is fine.
She has to be.
- Her name comes to her like it’s said underwater and she can almost feel it – the slick draw of wetness around her; the way her limbs feel heavy and her head feels stuffed like she’s slowly losing oxygen.
“Josie?”
There’s pressure against her chest, dark and constricting and slowly being eaten away – a terrible fog setting in. Where is she? -- They speed passed a mile-marker; ---- Maya, 5 miles. ---- “You’re freaking me out here – what’s going on?” “We’re in the middle of nowhere –” ---- There’s a ringing in her ears; tyres screeching and sliding -- “Josie!” She blinks, clenching her hand around the door knob to their room and trying to fight the dizziness rushing through her. Her vision swims and her head aches but she takes a breath, keeping her eyes closed until the feeling fades a little and she feels a little steadier. Her skin crawls but she shrugs the unsettled, endangered feeling away as some vulnerability caused by her recent flu – everyone feels off-kilter when they’ve been sick. She’s at home –there’s literally nowhere safer for her. It’s a wonder it doesn’t feel that way though. “Josie?” “Lizzie?” She opens her eyes and her sister is there, concerned enough to frown; harsh creases forming in her brow. Josie can only imagine what she must look like – swaying almost drunkenly in the doorway, confused and a little sweaty and paler than she’s ever been. She’s been in the same pair of sweats all day and has been cuddled into her mom’s side on the couch in her office so she wasn’t alone all day while Lizzie was in class. “Yeah. Jo – you okay?” She considers lying to her or even just passing it off as her still being sick or just upset – it’s the day before their birthday after all and while Lizzie has been up here finalising her dress choices, Josie has been facing the reality that she might not be well enough to go to her own birthday party. But that’s not what’s bugging her and she doesn’t want to lie to make Lizzie feel better for once. She can’t quite explain what it is; what’s making her upset or any of the other things she’s feeling – doesn’t know anything beyond that she’d really like a hug. She shakes her head, letting her sister wrap an arm around her and lead her over to her bed. Lizzie eases herself down beside her, butterfly clips forgotten in her hair as she stares Josie down. Lizzie takes her hand, squeezing softly at first and then more strongly when Josie doesn’t react, staring down at her lap in distraction. Her head is pounding and she brushes her fingers over her temple, more surprised when there’s no bandage or blood to be found. There’s a cool pressure around her wrists but she’s not even wearing bracelets and she shakes her head again when Lizzie gently prods at her, unable to stop the tears as they well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. There’s something so wrong. Her tears spur Lizzie into immediate action, the blonde wrapping her in a panicked hug, rubbing her back and trying to figure out what’s wrong even as Josie dissolves into tears and sobs incoherently against her; suddenly overwhelmed. Her chest aches but differently than the pain in her head – deeper, like a wound on her heart but not one that anyone would be able to see. The ache in her chest is so sharp that Lizzie winces, flinching away from her briefly before she hugs her even tighter; humming when her words begin to fail her. “Jo – Josie what’s wrong?” She doesn’t know – all she knows is that there’s something. She’s lost something – is missing it and – The door creaks open. “Hey Glinda, your dad needs – Josie?” “Hope.” She can’t help herself; the girl’s name falling from her lips absentmindedly even as she blinks up at her; tears still slick on her blotchy cheeks. Her eyes are red and stinging and she’s still miserably upset but she locks gazes with those ocean blue eyes and everything feels that bit clearer – softer; safer. Her chest flares and soothes itself all at once, her heart fluttering beneath her ribs and Josie barely holds in the gasp – relief somehow surpassing her confusion and flooding her senses. It’s Hope – this thing in her chest – it’s her. But of course it is, some part of her sighs, as if it could be anyone else. Her pain and her feelings and the way the world feels blurred at the edges and out of focus; it all has everything to do with Hope and the certainty of it is so comforting that she can’t help but sob in pure relief. Hope strides further into the room at the noise, even as Lizzie glares at her, and before she can stop herself Josie is tearing free of her sister’s grip and hurling herself into Hope’s arms; nosing against her neck and clinging to her waist. It should make her feel better, some part of her asserts – being with Hope, in Hope’s arms, pressed up against her like there’s no such word as space – it should make her feel better. It should make the world sing with rightness and all uncertainty fade away. But it doesn’t. Hope’s arms hover uncertainly around her, her whole body twitching between relaxation and pure tension – like she can’t quite decide how she feels about Josie being so close. Lizzie is making some confused noise behind her and Josie’s chest pangs with wrongness at the whole thing. It should make her feel better because Hope makes her feel safe – they’ve got each other’s backs; they’ll protect each other and figure things out together. You don’t run and I don’t leave, she thinks. But it doesn’t feel safer either. She doesn’t smell right, some part of her whispers. She should be holding you, another part worries. It’s right but so wrong still – being close to Hope somehow helping and hurting her at the same time. She can’t stop the sobs from coming, tears fresh and thickly coating her cheeks and – Hope’s arms lock around her at her distressed noise, holding her tight; one hand rubbing her back, the other curling possessively around her hip. And everything is wrong – Wrong, wrong, wrong. - She falls asleep cocooned in Hope’s warmth and wakes up alone in her bed, her family sitting by her bedside on tenterhooks; her mother gently carding her hand through her hair and her sister leaned against the vampire’s side, holding Josie’s hand. Her dad is noticeably absent but she assumes someone still has to run the school and focuses instead on the soft conversation she can make out. “Is she going to be okay?” Lizzie whispers, “It was like she didn’t even know where she was or anything that happened and – mom, Hope –” “I know, sweetheart. I sent Rafael to check on her, he’ll probably sit with her for a bit and make sure everything’s alright. But Josie…she’s just sick right now and the fever isn’t helping anything. We just need to look after her and make sure it breaks and she’ll get better in her own time, okay?” Josie’s more confused now than she was before, her heart speeding up that bit in concern. Where’s Hope? Why does she need someone to check on her? Did something happen? Her mom looks down at her in concern, probably picking up the way her heart is racing; her hand slowing in Josie’s hair for a moment before she gently starts nudging her, smiling softly when Josie looks up at her in an effort to hide the worry in her eyes. “Josie-baby,” she coos, helping her when Josie tries to sit up and nearly falls. She feels warm suddenly and yet so cold at the same time and she dazedly raises a hand to her forehead and feels the sweat and the heat radiating from her. She has a fever. And – she palms her chest – the pains from earlier are gone. Well, almost gone. One is still persisting but Josie is intimately familiar with the feeling of heartache and is more concerned about the source; one auburn haired tribrid. “Hope,” she croaks, her throat dry and grated with the effort of speaking. Lizzie shoots her mom a look that she pointedly ignores before the siphon paints on a smile for Josie, reaching over for a glass of water with a straw in it on Josie’s nightstand. Her mother helps her take small sips, pulling it away when she thinks Josie has had enough and helping Josie relax against her side; Josie exhales in quiet relief at the same moment her mother coos at her in concern; her fever distinct against the cooler temperature of her skin. “Where’s Hope?” She croaks again. Lizzie looks at her, sad with sympathy and her mother cards a hand through her hair to settle her. “Oh baby,” she whispers softly. “Where’s Hope?” - They tell her eventually; recapping all of the awful things that have happened recently – the things leading up to her getting sick. Her fever is so high her dad nearly took her to the hospital, her mom tells her. “Until you magically started setting fire to things,” Lizzie adds on, “Mom didn’t think they’d buy that as a symptom and she couldn’t very well compel the entire hospital to forget if you torched it to the ground.” They’d called Dr Gilbert instead and made sure that Hope was as far away from her as possible for the duration of her visit. Dr Gilbert had provided supplies for an IV and fever-relievers and instructions for her care but she couldn’t do much beyond that. She’d left to go home – apparently having a rather uncomfortable interaction with Hope on her way out – but had made regular check-ins over the phone once Josie had slipped straight into a fevered delirium. It’s why she doesn’t remember any of the things that’ve happened, they tell her; but she will, once she’s better. Things like her being elected onto the Honour Council and kicking Landon out of school. Things like Jo coming back from the dead and spending their birthday with them and dad and mom. Things like being buried alive and being rescued and re-killing Jo. It doesn’t explain why Hope is gone or why she’s upset or why she apparently doesn’t want to see Josie but they don’t seem to think it’s important, hushing her when she tries to ask. Her mom holds her until Josie starts to fall asleep, and when she leaves Lizzie snuggles up beside her; the remains of a sympathy sweat still to shining on her forehead. Her sister curls an arm around her, letting Josie cushion her head on her shoulder and takes up their mother’s habit; slowly carding her hand through Josie’s hair and soothing her into sleep when she clings on. “Hope,” Josie slurs insistently. “Go to sleep, Jo.” -
They’re ten minutes out from where Hope is when her phone glitches and the blue dot she’s been watching flashes; once, twice and then disappears.
Lizzie freezes, breath catching as she panics, trying desperately to refresh the app, hoping that maybe it’s just crashed.
It hasn’t.
She’s been staring at the thing for the last thirty minutes, guiding Rafael off of the highway and down less beaten paths, worry growing incrementally with each moment that passed and Hope just didn’t move. But they’re within reach now and the last thing she expects is the dot to disappear. It can’t just disappear.
She tries to zoom in on Hope’s last location but there’s nothing there – literally nothing. There isn’t an indication of a tree or a house or a gas station anywhere near Hope. She’s been sitting in the middle of nowhere for an hour and now she’s disappeared and yet that’s where they’re heading – straight into the middle of nowhere.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“It’s Hope –”
“What? What about her?” Landon spins around in his seat and is promptly strangled by his seat-belt and Lizzie allows the brief spark of amusement it causes to steady her.
She glances over her shoulder at Josie, who’d finally slipped into a restless sleep out of pure exhaustion ten minutes ago; her sister looks so worried even in slumber that Lizzie’s stomach rolls with nausea. What can Lizzie possibly say to her if they get there – assuming there even is a there – and Hope is gone? After she talked them into this whole thing – after she told Josie that the collar was safe, that the GPS was fool-proof.
What if she’s gotten Hope killed? Or kidnapped?
“She’s gone – the GPS is gone.”
She shoots forward, tearing the map from the centre console and thrusting it at Landon, who obediently props it open, already searching for their location as she tells Rafael to hit the gas.
“Where are we?”
“I – I don’t –”
“Swap,” Lizzie growls, thrusting her phone at him and ripping the map from his hands. She can barely see it and she grasps agitatedly for the flashlight she’d forced on Landon two days ago when he wouldn’t shut up about wanting to help but not being able to see.
It isn’t the same as the GPS map, but perhaps that’s the most concerning thing. On the GPS the road they’re on is a dirt path, clearly marked out even if it’s not named but on this there’s just tree markers and a faded park name that extends for miles.
The road they’re on doesn’t exist according to this.
Lizzie swallows thickly, peering out the window as they speed passed a mile-marker;
Maya, 5 miles.
She looks at the map again but there’s no indication of Maya being anywhere on it. She takes her phone back from Landon, aggressive in her panic but even before she looks at the map she knows it’s not there either.
“Lizzie,” Rafael interjects, the corner of his mouth turned down sternly, “You’re freaking me out here – what’s going on?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere –”
“No kidding, we’ve been in the –”
“Can it, Eeyore! We’re in the middle of nowhere. Like according to a map this road doesn’t exist and neither does that town sign we just passed and Hope’s GPS is gone! –”
“What? Lizzie?” Josie stirs in the back and Lizzie’s whole world fades out for a second as she looks back at her. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to face her after this. After losing Hope. God, what if something really awful happened to her and –
Her phone glitches and the radio cuts in and out; the heavy pounding of the rain mixed with the screech of white noise until Landon quickly turns it off. Lizzie’s stomach turns with something like anticipation just as the car rocks.
There’s a thump like they’ve hit something and Rafael cries out – the wheel turning sharply and the car spinning out of control.
There’s a thud – a crash –
And darkness.
- Her fever breaks eventually and over days she slowly starts getting better; becoming less and less fatigued until she’s back to herself. She starts going back to class and catching up on the homework she’s missed out on, slowly getting back into routine and yet – Hope won’t see her. She won’t talk to her. It hurts like nothing she’s ever imagined – like her very soul is wilting inside of her, withering into nothing at this distance between them. Hope will walk into a room and stop if she sees Josie there; hovering like she’s contemplating leaving and then stubbornly tilting her head – standing strong and strutting through in a way that makes it very clear she’s doing everything to spite her. She’s hurting, Josie knows, but it all feels so pointless – so petty. Being dragged to parties in the woods and dinner with their friends by Lizzie is soured by Hope’s normally vibrant presence – now embittered and angry; feverish and aggrieved; like a pulse of blood in an open wound. It coats her every interaction; hidden in the way she stays and sits straight-backed beside Rafael; the way she laughs and smiles – with subtle tightness; all cutting edges and cool stares any time she so much as inclines her head slightly more towards Josie than she wants to. I won’t be weak in front of you, it all screams and Josie’s chest screams with it. It’s like they’re back before talking was a thing between them – before smiles were soft and eyes even softer – cerulean pools of blue have frosted over in that upsettingly familiar way. They’re back to poking and ignoring each other and Josie’s never felt so distressed before. She doesn’t understand why it has to be this way; why even Lizzie quietly discourages her attempts to seek her out and solve things but she knows that even if she doesn’t remember it’s her fault. In truth, that’s what hurts the most. Not Hope’s absence or even her presence – but the knowledge that she’s the cause of it all. That she hurt her to the point where all of this has become necessary to Hope – a way to cope and endure her so she can still have the comfort of their shared friends. It makes her chest ache and her eyes sting near constantly – the threat of tears often entreating her to leave – Hope’s disdainful and curious eyes following her, rich with hollow victory. There’s no true victory in whatever they’re playing at – in Hope’s quiet aim to inflict suffering on her; to measure how she cares, if she cares, by how much she can take. If she wasn’t constantly being fended off by their friends, by her sad-eyed sister, then she’d take her by the hand and tell her – fix things and show her even; there’s no measure to how much she cares about Hope and it certainly isn’t in pain. But she can’t – isn’t allowed near her and doesn’t think Hope wants her to. She only hopes she doesn’t let her down in this test Hope’s constructed because no matter how much she’d like to prove she cares, there’s only so much Josie can take and sooner or later it’ll all fall to pieces. She can only hope it’s enough – that she’s enough – before it does. - The world is a whirl of colour, Lizzie’s ears still ringing with the echo of a gunshot and her hands immediately shoot to her stomach as she shoots up from her position splayed out on the floor with a gasp. Her arms wrap around her stomach instinctively, trying desperately stop the blood from gushing out – brain already spinning out in desperation, every part of her desperate to live. She presses down hard enough to hurt herself, to feel her pulse pounding against her skin and she gasps, eyes wide and focus coming slowly. There is no wound, she reminds herself, it’s not real. Her chest is heaving, blood rushing in her ears and she clenches her fists, digging her nails into her palms and curling her legs to her chest to try and centre herself. She’s not dead and she’s not dying – and honestly, though that itself deserves a fucking award, she’s not stupid enough to think that she couldn’t kill herself by going into shock if she doesn’t get a handle on herself right now. The dream world is slowly slipping out of focus; reality seeping in, facts and memories asserting themselves again but she can’t quite escape it – can feel the blood sticking her clothes to her skin even if it’s not real. Well, there is blood sticking her clothes to her skin she realises; patting dazedly at the drying mess on her shoulder, a sluggish flow leaking from a gash in her forehead. It takes a moment to recall where it came from; her stomach still rife with phantom aches but when she finally does place it everything comes rushing back. The GPS failing. The radio cutting out. The car crashing. The feeling of her magic – her connection to it being tucked away… A boundary, she figures, standing up slowly to not jar her head. It gets fuzzier after that but she remembers hearing voices; the pressure of hands around her wrists and vicious, barking growls. Lizzie remembers one of them mentioning werewolves and siphons – that and the boundary, can only mean one thing. Witches. She looks around, noticing for the first time that she’s in some kind of abandoned wine cellar; rickety shelves half-empty, stretching from floor to ceiling along all the walls bar the one behind her; dust and cobwebs coating every inch. There’s broken glass and empty bottles littered all over the floor and stacked around the concrete stairs behind her, leading up to the cellar-doors. It all smells like damp and dirt and she stands with stilted gait in the centre of it all; examining the chaos. She’s alone but all the pains she can feel seem to be her own – or she hopes so. If they’re not then Josie’s suffered similarly enough that she can’t tell them apart and the idea that her sister is out there with these abductors, injured and unconscious and probably trapped in a dream-world like Lizzie was is concerning. She doesn’t know what Josie’s world could be but maybe it’ll be more convincing than Lizzie’s. Maybe Josie will over-look the oddities or the spell will adapt to accommodate them in a way Lizzie had resisted but Lizzie doesn’t care. She had no real connection to the dream-world she was accosted by and she’s still shaken by it – can feel the horrors – one horror in particular by the name of Penelope Park – clinging to her still. And worse than the horror of experiencing it – though she doesn’t know what else could be worse than having Satan incarnate mooning at you and acting like her presence isn’t enough to make Lizzie want to Wicked Witch it and melt just to escape her – is the nightmarish way she’d had to escape. There had been a class on dreamscapes and spells once; Dorian had taught it as a special elective that their mom – all too familiar with the way things in the mind can be twisted – had insisted they take, demanding that they know how to fight against it. It’s days like today that Lizzie’s grateful for her mother’s paranoia as much as she’s upset by the turn her life has taken – things she’d always thought ridiculous and unnecessary are now life-saving skills. There are only two ways to break a dream-spell, Dorian had informed them after days of learning the lore and the skills necessary to weave them. The first, most obvious one, is once you realise you are in a dream-world – if you realise you’re in a dream-world – is to counter-spell. Even if the dream you’re in doesn’t have magic, once you start deconstructing the dream for yourself, your connection to your physical-self – your magical self – becomes stronger and the spell will work. The second way, is much, much harder. It leaves lasting affects – a bleed-over of the dream into reality, so you’ll feel parts of the dream as if they’re real still even though you know they’re not. Your brain is immersed in the dream and even with that fraying of it – that connection to your physical-self, your mind is in the dream. So what it perceives there is real. If you get injured in your dream-world, your brain will think you’re injured in real-life. This second way to wake up – it’s much more dangerous because of that. Lizzie remembers the way he’d looked at them all; the way a pin could be heard dropping in that room – every student holding their breath, anticipating and yet somehow knowing where he was going.
If you are desperate – if you have no magic – the best way to get yourself out of that dreamscape…is to kill yourself. This is not a quick fix. It’s not like turning a switch – where you wake up and you’re awake. Like in a nightmare, the feeling of dying jump-starts the brain – frightens you awake. But it doesn’t just go away.
You will bleed over. You will be confused. You risk going into shock or having a panic-attack. This is dangerous. And if you haven’t deconstructed the dreamscape enough that you have a physical connection to your body – you risk the chance of actually killing yourself, of your body having a physical reaction to the trauma. You asphyxiate yourself in the dream? Drown? You start choking in real life – can’t breathe. Stop breathing. Dead. I am not telling you this because I want you to do it. This is not some fix-it. This is a last resort – a survival tactic for dire situations. If you use this technique – and I say technique because it requires skill – then it better be a life or death situation. Because you may very well die. She’d never imagined actually needing to follow through on that. Dorian hadn’t even let them consider it, insisting during the next few lessons where he had them construct, deconstruct and escape dream-worlds that he would plug the fool that tries full of vampire blood and expel them if they didn’t end up immortal. And even if she’d thought about it, she’s certainly never imagined shooting herself to be the go-to solution but, you work with what you got and what Lizzie got was a slow death. It occurs to her then that Rafael and Landon might also be here somewhere – trapped in dreamscapes but without this essential knowledge. Theirs might be nightmare worlds with the things they’ve experience – especially recently. Rafael might live in a world where his girlfriend is dead – and him the cause, no less – but he might be sucked into a world where she’s there, smiling at him and the pair of them are happy. A perfect dream that she’ll have to pull him out of. Real-life will become the nightmare world then and Rafael will be forced to relive the guilt that’s only just started healing. She can’t begin to imagine what Josie’s dream might be but such is the magic of dreams – of nightmares – they can be anything. But without magic, there is only one solution to those dreams if Josie even realises that’s what they are. Lizzie was lucky getting out successfully, but Josie might not be and Lizzie will be damned before she lets something happen to her sister. She doesn’t even want to consider that Hope might be here too. She might not always like the tribrid but the things that Hope might be subjected to are too awful to even consider; happiness there and then ripped away again. No. Lizzie eyes a broken bottle; the neck mostly intact and the body cracked, large shards jutting out in a way that looks delightfully menacing. The consequences of using it are purposefully ignored as she picks it up, testing its weight in her hand and eyeing the doors for shadows and movement in the dim light. If it comes to it, it comes to it, she tells herself.
Me or them.
Mine or theirs.
She opens the door. - She lasts a week. The world thunders on around her the entire time - preparations made for another ball; her mother and Lizzie's eager hands guiding the preparations; matching clip-boards annotated and the psychotic gleam of control happily burning in their eyes. Hope is there and not there just as much as Josie is – watching and not, curious and quietly infuriated with herself, the tribrid diligently ignores anything outside of her classes and coursework; making clear her intent to abstain from the ball entirely. She’s been slightly more aggressive in her disdain recently, watching with dark, apathetic eyes as the cracks start to form; Josie’s heart slowly crumbling in her chest. Hope wants Josie to hurt because she’s hurting, Josie knows; reminding herself over and over that it’s just a test – that she did this and she can buck up and take this if it helps – if it proves something to Hope but – It’s too much. She’s holed away in the library, curled into a chair, away from the happy faces inside at the dance; trying to stave off tears rather fruitlessly. She can still hear Penelope’s taunting as she’d sauntered up to Josie, offering her a hand and gesturing at the crowd on the dance floor. Josie had refuted her on the spot, very much against even looking in the girl’s direction but Penelope wouldn’t leave it be. “Why not, Saltzman? You’re at a dance – you should dance. Besides,” she’d smirked, “Not like anyone else is going to ask you, right?” She wasn’t wrong; Josie was invisible to most of the population unless there was a crisis and Lizzie had slunk off the moment they’d arrived; MG in tow while Rafael was bro-ing it up with the wolves in a corner. But it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt – the idea that the only person who’d even offer to spend time with her being the person who’d broken her heart once was salt in an open wound. She hadn’t stayed after that – couldn’t bear it and figured that the library was as good a place as any to hide away. She shouldn’t have even gone really; it was all going to end in disaster anyway but she’d thought… Hope had said she wasn’t going to her birthday and yet… It was stupid to expect Hope to show up. And even if she had – what was Josie going to do? Corner her at the dance? Cause a scene? Demand to know what was going on – why she wouldn’t talk to her or look at her – She sniffles, wiping at her cheek and looking disdainfully down at her dress. A floorboard creaks. Josie looks up and feels her heart flutter in her chest; her eyes meeting Hope’s. They’re not cold like they’ve been for weeks; just soft and concerned – like in this moment, with no one around, she’s forgotten her anger at the sight of Josie upset. She cares, Josie thinks. She wouldn’t have been like this if she didn’t, she chides herself, glancing away embarrassed and hurrying to wipe the tears from her cheeks. There’s the ruffle of a skirt and then Hope’s sitting softly at her side; their dress skirts layered over each other; light and dark in wonderful contrast. Hope doesn’t reach out for her, doesn’t offer any comfort beyond her presence; allowing them to sit in silence while she collects herself and Josie near hates herself for how loud her sniffling sounds in the quiet. “You’re not at the dance,” Hope says leadingly. “No, I – I got sick of being on my own.” “So you decided to be on your own in the library?” There’s a teasing sparkle in Hope’s eyes. They glimmer in that wonderful way Josie had grown so used to and she can’t help the thoughtless smile that forms at the sight; one quietly reciprocated by Hope instantaneously. It’s such a change from the last few weeks though that she almost thinks she’s dreaming. Hope’s meant to be testing her; meant to be angry and hurt and lashing out. She’s not meant to be...this. Gentle. Warm. Teasing. Forgiving. She doesn’t want to ruin it – but she’s so confused. Hope being angry with her might almost be worth it if she only knows why she’s so angry. “…Not that this isn’t nice or anything,” she prefaces, “but you’ve been really angry with me recently…” Hope heaves a sigh, looking down at her hands and then where their dresses lay over each other; studying the contrast intently. “What’s the point of kicking someone when they’re down?” “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this whole time?” Josie shoots back, all the hurt and anger she’s been struggling with raising its head suddenly. Hope looks up at Josie’s tone, eyes narrowed before she shakes her head. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Well, clearly you are so…” She stands suddenly, turning away and Josie reaches for her, following even as Hope pulls her hand out of Josie’s reach. “Hope –” “No, I’m not doing this with you –” “Doing what? Talking? Like we should’ve been this whole time? I –” Josie chokes on the words, chest tight and aching, sobs half-formed and tears shimmering in her eyes again, “I don’t even know what’s going on, Hope. You just – It’ll kill me if you are but... Be angry with me, hate me…just tell me why. Please.” “You don’t know why –” “No,” Josie asserts, “I know it was something I did but just, please –” “I didn’t know why, Josie – why one day you were perfectly happy and the next day you just –” Hope huffs, running a hand through her hair, heedless of how it screws with the style. She’s rigid with tension, near glaring at Josie but the siphon can see how put-on it is. Hope is clinging to her anger with desperate hands but it slowly seeps away; raw hurt revealed. “Is it because of your fever?” Hope mutters tersely, looking away pointedly. Josie nods, explaining quickly how little she can actually remember of before her fever and Hope nods blinking, the whole atmosphere of the room changing as her shoulders fall; posture softened. It’s sombre – sad, like a great unravelling; a painting peeled back to reveal the underdrawing; the messy foundation of it all. Their bones are bared in this moment, Josie knows. “…Do you… remember the concert?” Her eyes are shining; hopeful and wet and Josie’s own mirror them, heart twisted in her chest at the way Hope winces minutely, a tear slipping free when Josie shakes her head. “It was our first date,” Hope offers tentatively, hands fisted in her dress skirts; a sad smile brightening her eyes. “You said you wanted to do something new…something that I liked…so I took you to this, um, this jazz concert in a pavilion after we got dinner and… there was dancing and ice-cream and we went for a cliché moonlit walk…And you – you looked so happy and just so – lovely that I couldn’t quite help myself and I –…I kissed you.” Her voice cracks and Josie aches to take her hands into her own, to fold herself around Hope and hold her and never let her go. She’s envious and sad because it sounds amazing – like the perfect first date for them and yet she doesn’t remember any of it. She doesn’t remember their first date or their first kiss. She doesn’t remember holding hands on that walk; the tentative way they’d reached for each other and slowly wound their fingers around each other’s. She doesn’t remember what Hope looks like in the glow of the moon or the way it felt to hold her while they danced. She doesn’t remember Hope’s smile that night or the softness of her mouth. Her tears slick her cheeks and she closes her eyes against them, trying helplessly not to get too upset as Hope takes a miserable, hesitant step closer. “What about Wolf-Night?” “No,” Josie mutters. “The beach?” She shakes her head. “That time you met my family? At my – my Aunt and Uncle’s wedding anniversary?” “Nothing.” “You really don’t remember?” Hope prods again, her voice warbling slightly, “Not even – not even the talisman I gave you?” Josie’s hand reflexively closes around the talisman around her neck; the silver warm against her palm. She’d found it in her dresser this week and the feeling of safety it brought out in her was enough reason to put it on. It was a shield when she was hurt; a crutch she’d relentlessly clutched at when Hope’s distance was too much. Hope’s fervent abrasiveness this week made a lot more sense if Hope was the one that gave it to her. “What does it...” “Make quiet things heard,” Hope says, a bitter twist to her smile. “I didn’t know,” Josie mutters, “It just…made me feel safe.” Hope doesn’t say anything in response, letting the moment lie and Josie clings to the silver talisman, clenching it in her fist as they look away from each other, a light tension seeping into the room at what they both know comes next. “…Why are we…” “Fighting? We can’t really fight if we’re not talking, can we?” “Then why aren’t we talking?” Josie asks instead. “Because,” Hope pauses, “because you told me you didn’t want to anymore.” “Didn’t want to what?” Josie knows where this is going, can almost anticipate what Hope is going to say but can’t quite believe it simply because it’s so unbelievable. The very idea that she’d turn her back on Hope is absurd and yet – “Anything. To fight. To date. To talk. You didn’t want it anymore…didn’t want me anymore.” Hope’s eyes narrow at the way Josie scoffs, her cheeks reddening with frustration and anger. “That’s ridiculous.” “That’s what you said,” Hope huffs, striding closer. “That’s bullshit! There’s no way that I could ever say that – that I could ever hurt you like that, Hope – I wouldn’t do it!” “But you did! You said all that to me! You told me that!” Hope spits, “You didn’t want to date anymore! Didn’t want to see me! Didn’t want to talk! You didn’t want me!” I always want you! Josie wants to shout at her. I want to be near you and talk to you and hold you and kiss you and just – I just want you. Always. All the time. There isn’t a world where we exist where I don’t want you – where you and I don’t end up together because I love you. Only you. Always you. She doesn’t. She wants to but she won’t – or, not yet at least. Because regardless of this moment; of how much she loves Hope – of how intensely it burns in her; she did say those things. Whether she remembers it or not, Hope remembers it – was hurt by it and that’s not something she can just ignore. “I still think that’s crazy,” she offers, quieter than all their shouting; meeting Hope’s curious, angry eyes with a level stare, “I don’t think there’s a world where I would ever say anything like that. Where I would ever say something to hurt you like that. But apparently there is…and it’s this world.” Hope looks away from her, crossing her arms in front of her and looking very much like she’s trying to hold herself together instead of protect herself. It makes Josie’s heart twinge. “I’m sorry,” she says, because she needs to, “I don’t remember saying that – I don’t remember any of this but that doesn’t change it and it doesn’t make things okay. Because you had to deal with that and then you had to deal with me afterwards and I’m so, so sorry. I never – I never want to hurt you, Hope, and I can’t believe that I ever would or that I did. But whether I believe it or not doesn’t matter – because I did that. I hurt you. And whether you ever forgive me or not , I’ll never forgive myself for it.” Hope clears her throat, sniffling. “You didn’t want to talk to me,” she says. “I love talking to you,” Josie refutes, stepping closer. “You didn’t want to see me.” “Seeing you is the best part of my day.” Step. “You didn’t want to date me.” “I’d love to date you.” Step. “You didn’t want me,” Hope mutters. “I always want you,” she dismisses, standing close enough to see the dark of Hope’s eyes and the twinkle of starlight in them. “I’m really tired of being angry at you,” Hope tells her, looking up at Josie from under her lashes before ducking her gaze down; eyeing the distance between their hands. “It’s okay if you still are,” Josie grazes her knuckles along the back of Hope’s, closing her eyes briefly in relief when Hope’s fingers catch hers, slowly winding together. “I forgive you.” “You don’t have to.” Hope’s fingers squeeze hers; “I want to…I won’t forget it any time soon but…I don’t want to hold a grudge about this – about something that you don’t even remember doing. That’s not fair to you.” “It’s not about me, Hope,” Josie chides, catching Hope’s eyes and feeling her breath come easier at how warm they are. “To me, then. Holding grudges isn’t easy.” Hope pauses, looking at her hesitantly, uncertainty in every word as she continues; “At least…not against someone I love.” It’s not an ‘I love you’ exactly – but the sentiment is there regardless of the phrasing and Josie can feel her heart take flight; a hummingbird fluttering in her chest – like if it stops for even a second she’ll wither away into nothing without its wings and the rush of this feeling pulsing through her. Hope loves her. Hope loves her. Hope loves her. Giddiness doesn’t describe the feeling slowly encompassing her being. She’s in awe – softened by it and easily bowled over, elated and moved. It’s like time has slowed down to give her this one moment; to allow her the privilege of revelling in Hope’s quiet confession and Josie does; revels in the bravery and the vulnerability and the sincerity of it. The love. It takes everything in her not to just kiss her to try and explain the sentiment in this moment of speechlessness but she manages, somehow, instead just staring awestruck at the girl she loves – who loves her back. “You’re amazing,” she breathes, catching the quirk of Hope’s eyebrow; the way her eyes shine a little brighter, hesitance fading away; “And beautiful and wonderful and so, so brave and I just…It’s sucked – this whole time. You being mad at me because I hurt you and I didn’t know what to do or what I had done but I just wanted you to talk to me again because I missed your voice – and your smile and your laugh and how blue and expressive your eyes are.” Josie pauses, willing herself not to get swept away by those blue eyes; shimmering stars twinkling at her. “But I would take all of that – missing every inch of you if it meant that you were okay – even if it meant you hating me or never forgiving me. Because I love you.” She’s practically at Hope’s side, whispering in the space between them and when Hope laughs wetly, softly, turning away like she’s embarrassed, Josie’s hand is there, cupping her cheek; her thumb brushing away the tears that slip free. Hope fists a hand in Josie’s dress, breathing for a moment like she can’t believe it’s real in her grasp before she slides her hand along the curve of Josie’s hip and pulls Josie against her. “What?” Josie asks. “Nothing it’s just…That’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me,” Hope explains, her eyes fluttering shut gently as Josie edges closer, their foreheads resting lightly against each other. “That I love you?” This close, she can hear as Hope’s breath catches in her chest and she smiles for what feels like the first time in forever as Hope hums her agreement. There’s no questioning if she means it, like Hope can feel her sincerity for herself; see it in her eyes and feel it in the way she breathes; there’s no questioning what is so clearly a fact. The sky is blue, fire is hot, water is wet and Josie loves Hope. “I’d say it forever if you’d let me,” Josie mutters, “As many times as you like.” “I don’t need forever,” Hope dismisses, though the gleam in her eyes at the words betrays her. Josie laughs breathily, letting her know she’s caught as she brushes their noses together, enchanted by the way she can feel Hope’s breath against her skin and on her lips; like she’s breathing life itself into Josie’s lungs. Josie shrugs, “I do.” Hope kisses the quiet with you from Josie’s lips, ensnaring her in a perfect moment; her breath catching in her lungs, her heart racing and all thoughts gone – seeping out of her into the night. It feels like everything has been building towards this moment; like Josie has only ever been a river flowing home; carving out a path to get there. No matter how winding or long-winded it was – she was always coming here; right back to the ocean where all rivers lead. Back to home. To Hope. It’s here; in the softness of Hope’s eyes and the safety of her grasping hands and the heat of her mouth. It’s here. - They kiss and kiss and kiss – each one lingering longer; lips meeting and parting and teeth biting and nipping; mouths learning and relearning each other. Each gentle meeting is a hello, each hot breath a promise and each tender touch a dream shared between them. They kiss ‘I love you’s’ and ‘forevers’ into each other’s skin, carve out their futures into each other’s backs and paint tender galaxies into existence along each other’s flesh. They are one being, moving and living and breathing together, curled and curved around each other. Always and Forever, they think. Only you, they promise.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Dorian takes a lap around the front of the room, stopping at the whiteboard and scribbling out a word and underlining it; TETHER in all capitals. He looks at them, skating his eyes over the small crowd and Josie diligently scrawls the heading on the next page of her notebook.
“What is a tether?” Dorian asks.
The class exchanges glances, unwilling to speak up just yet and he chuckles.
“Hector? How about you?”
Hector, some poor student in the year below flushes with embarrassment; Lizzie smirking beside her as she subtly angles herself forward again.
Josie nudges her but Lizzie just shrugs, shamelessly tossing the blushing boy a wink over her shoulder and Josie watches as he scoots down in his seat, melting in mortification.
Dorian abandons the venture entirely, sighing as if he’s given up though Josie can see him smirking as he turns back to the board; his mission accomplished.
“A tether… is the subject of your dream-world. Sometimes that’s another person; sometimes it’s an object, but whatever it is, it’s something that keeps you tethered to the dream; makes you happy to be there – makes you complacent and oblivious to the point that really obvious signs are things you can’t help but write off.”
He scrawls a few words beneath ‘TETHER’, a list of things that Josie supposes are examples of the attachment to the tether – the things that make it so important to the individual. Josie scrawls a few of them down in her notebook, adding the last three as Dorian does and emphasising them; ‘LOSS’, ‘DEATH’ and ‘LOVE’.
“These are the most potent factors for what a tether might be. Something you love. Or something you’ve lost. Please be aware, that that doesn’t have to mean that they’ve died and you’ve lost them. It could be that they died and you lost something because they did. Maybe you killed them – and the loss isn’t their life, but your innocence; your identity and sense of self. It doesn’t have to be someone you love either. Maybe your parents got divorced or separated – and you lost something in that; a belief in love. A support system. A family. For that reason – Loss is the most important factor.”
Josie can’t help but glance over at Hope, the girl sitting quietly a few seats away, her note-book firmly shut and pen laid down beside it. She’s carefully sat in her seat, angled away from the other students, her shoulders slumping discretely so that no one notices; like a Queen afraid to let the plebeians know she’s human too; as if they’ll think less of her for it.
She obviously doesn’t want to be here; probably doesn’t need to be here either – her family have helped cultivate and invent these kinds of magic, after all – they could teach her more than Dorian ever could.
She sees the way Hope blinks as Dorian talks about loss, looking discretely away at the clock like she’s bored and only glancing back at the board when he begins to move on.
Josie turns back around.
“Now, what would be a sign, I can see you wondering. Well, it can be anything. It’s a dream, after all. But the most obvious sign is an inconsistency – something the spell can’t explain, so it works around. If a spell is especially strong, then sometimes the way that’s accomplished is to make you feel at fault for that inconsistency. Does anyone want to suggest a way to do that?”
There’s a pause, Dorian’s eyes roving around the room and Josie can practically see the moment he spots Hope, poised and disaffected at her desk, now twiddling with her pen; sketching loosely on a page.
She doesn’t even look up when he calls on her, answering brusquely; “Longing.”
There’s some mumbling, people not quite grasping what she means but Dorian nods, seemingly satisfied with her participation and turns back to the class as a whole.
“What Hope is suggesting, is right on the money. Longing. Wanting what you can’t have, or that you’ve lost. That you miss. In the dream-world, that would mean taking away the subject of your dream – that thing you want so badly – so that the longing is there.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the dream-world?” Lizzie drawls.
Dorian doesn’t seem at all phased by her interruption, shaking his head as he scrawls the word on the board, connecting it in long lines to the others.
“Surprisingly? No. It enhances the effectiveness of it. Imagine being told that you had your dreams made real; that you had everything you wanted – and that you let it go. It sounds ridiculous, right?” he asks, perching himself on a desk. “And it is. But I want you to picture it. You get what you’ve always wanted and you give it up.”
“But that’s stupid!” someone calls out.
“That makes no sense!”
“How does that even work?”
“Hope?” Dorian asks.
She’s shading something in, her page getting progressively darker, blue ink smearing onto her hand. A strand of hair falls into her face and she pushes it delicately behind her ear as she looks up at Dorian.
“You don’t remember. There’s no details, nothing to say that it’s true but everything in the dream tells you it’s real, that it happened. So eventually you’ll just have to accept it.”
Hope’s fist clenches suddenly, her pen nigh exploding in her hand and she rises gracefully from her seat, picking up her notebook and swinging her bag loosely over her shoulder. She gestures at her hand, muttering “Bathroom” as she turns on her heel away from Dorian and disappears down the aisle.
Lizzie scoffs beside her as Dorian clears his throat, all of them knowing she could’ve cleaned up with a simple spell and all of them knowing she has no intention of coming back.
“Well, anyway…inkterruptions aside…That is the most effective way the spell can act. Where you basically get gas-lit until you’re convinced that you’re at fault; and then you’ll listen to anything. The idea of losing your dream is so unbelievable that you’ll accept anything you’re told just to have things make sense to you. It feels like it gives you a chance to get the dream back again, so you take it. And you do the spell’s work for it.”
He clears his throat, turning to the board again and clearing space. The marker squeaks as it drags across in broad strokes.
‘DREAM-DEATH AND ESCAPE’
“Why am I telling you this? Because it’s important – both in understanding the dream-world and in knowing how to escape it.”
-
She doesn’t know how – but she knows where she is; hears the name like a whisper echoing in the back of her mind. It’s a chant, violent and primal in her bones and she sniffs at the air, scenting it and finding nothing to explain the strange familiarity; only the reek of death and mysticism – the acrid stench of burning clogging her nose and raising her hackles. It smells like the bus – like the dragon – and she knows, instantly what it means. It’s here. It’s here; she knows it is – can feel the pull of it in her blood, calling to her; the urge to run slipping away the further into the still night that she treads. Maya. The word is an echo in her mind; a summons as she walks the barren streets, golden eyes searching and roving and then – The call stops. Her ears perk up as if they might hear it; her head turning on a swivel; a white shadow standing in the middle of the emptiness, listening to the ghosts. There is nothing as far as she can hear – everything in every direction is quiet. There’s no wind, no birds, no insects or animals or people. There is only the silence. She stalks the main street; looking up at the lampposts; the ancient twists to the metal, the heavy set of the light-box. They’re old; meant for gas and flame instead of bulbs and the feelings of unease stirring in her blood rises. She strains her ears, listening for that subtle buzz; the hum of electricity and finds nothing. Every storefront looks the same; their wears dusted over in the darkened windows, oil-lamps propped up in door-ways and bells hanging beside doors; Victorian font proclaiming names and purpose. It’s the bells that truly disturb her. There’s no wind that she can feel; not even the slightest breeze and yet they sway gently. They sway in nothingness and nothing comes from them; no chime or toll; no noise at all. The only sound in all of this eeriness comes from Hope herself; her shuddering wolf’s breath a steam in the air, heavy pants fogging and diffusing at the end of her snout. There’s a tingling sensation in her legs; numbness slowly seeping through it as the muscle twitches and spasms and Hope casts her gaze around urgently, feeling the change begin to sweep through her. She eyes a boutique nearby, trying to make out the words on the window and rears back slightly, stunned as the letters seem to shift before her very eyes; simple English twisting into something she only vaguely recognises. Στρύχνος it declares and something in Hope’s chest twists even as she struggles to make it out. She thinks it’s Greek – if only because she’s pretty sure the first letter is one she’s seen in a maths book but other than that she can’t be sure. The shop’s windows are dark and empty except for the writing on the glass and she steps towards it hesitantly, everything in her torn between wanting to run towards it and wanting to run away. A soft blue light hums beyond the darkness, peering out the window at her and she bristles, deeply uncomfortable – recalling the feeling of that blue clawing through her veins as she tore into her Uncle; the pulse of the Hollow in her blood. It’s different, she can tell; there are no dark whispers, no voices but the whisper of the night as it urges her closer. Alpha, it calls to her, Night-Born. Come inside. And she does. She breaks down the door and prances inside, hypnotised by the words as they repeat themselves to her, a shadow passing in her periphery as she crosses the boundary into the store and finds herself a wolf among boundless dummies; all of them propped up in various positions like corpses cut loose in a moment of motion. Their dress is strangely at odds with the Victorian era of the town; the mannequins donning Greek chitons and weapons. The curiosity she feels is vicious as she counts the mannequins; some sort of realisation settling just out of reach, like a forgotten word lying heavy on the tip of her tongue but she barely has a chance to reach for it before she’s snarling. Sudden agony rockets through her, a horribly familiar stifling feeling filling her chest and stealing her breath as she bows to the floor – impuissant as her human skin emerges. The kindly whispers have disappeared as the feeling sinks in – her magic sealed in her skin as her wolf slowly deserts her and Hope muffles her screams; terrified and vulnerable as she slumps to the ground, out of view of the window. There must be a spell – some kind of magic, a boundary somewhere that she must’ve crossed and she reaches for her neck, feels for the GPS still hanging there and unlatches it, fumbling desperately for some way to warn them before they get here. There’s a button on the collar, a reset for if it malfunctions and she wonders, haltingly, if it will do anything before deciding that anything is enough. She can’t touch the collar as a wolf and they know that. At the very least, they’ll come to get her knowing that something is wrong. That there’s danger. Her hands shake and tremble viciously as she tries to apply enough pressure but finds herself weak-limbed and numb, her bones still adjusting under her skin, the pain from the change and the sudden chains on her magic proving too overwhelming. The GPS clatters to the floor, sliding out of reach. She slips against the floor, breath heavy as she struggles to pull a tunic loose from a mannequin; ripping the pins holding it to the dummy out as she curls it around herself, her eyes closing without permission. Don’t come, she wants to tell them, reaching blindly for the collar, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the floor. The knife is here. But the monsters are too. - “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Lizzie chants breathlessly, lugging a dazed Rafael with her, his arm thrown over her shoulder and hers wrapped supportively around his waist. She can hear the thud of heavy work boots following them through the tunnels; steps rhythmic, like there’s no reason to rush. It makes her chest tight with fear – the idea that there’s no escaping them no matter how fast they go but she pushes it down, sampling some blind optimism instead. They’re going to get out of here, she tells herself, they’re going to get out of here and they’re going to go home and everyone will be safe. Assuming they find everyone. God, Lizzie doesn’t even know where they are. It’s pure luck that led her to Rafael and she’s worried how her imagination will spiral if she thinks about it too much – the way he’d been chained to a wall, unconscious and surrounded by wolf’s bane, mouth red and blistered and breath reeking of it – The footsteps following them are louder now. Lizzie rushes them around a corner, muscles burning from dragging Rafael with her and nearly cries in relief. The tunnel crumbles ahead of them, wind churning passed them from the dark woods; crisp and cold; the night calling them to freedom. She jostles Rafael lightly, encouraging him as he slowly rouses on her shoulders, his fumbling steps making their progress easier. They’re going to make it. She almost can’t believe it. Then the footsteps come again, slow and methodical and she really can’t. Desperation urges her on, Rafael rousing more and more with every passing second; the pair of them picking up speed even as he mutters her name confusedly, head lolling and voice crackling with the effects of the wolf’s bane still burning in his throat. A hand reaches out of seemingly nowhere, pulling Rafael out of her grasp and Lizzie turns on a dime; grabbing for the man’s arm only to be shoved into the wall. Her head hits it with force, her vision blurring for a moment and a shadow moves over her. A hand reaches out and, filled with vicious determination, Lizzie reaches back. She holds tight to it, clasping it in a vice grip between her palms and hears the shadow scream as she pulls from him; his magic rushing uselessly through her veins. He tries to push her off; swinging a fist at her but she grabs that too, the red glow of her palm clenched tight on his skin. His struggles are futile. Lizzie is relentless and so is the pain from her siphoning. He collapses to the ground, red-faced and bleeding; agonised expression seemingly frozen on his face and Lizzie steps over him, grabbing a dazed Rafael and swinging his arm over her shoulder again. “Lizzie,” he mutters, his head turning slightly to look behind them, “What –?” “Just because I can’t use magic, doesn’t mean I can’t take it,” she replies tersely. “Did that kill him?” he asks. Mine or theirs, she reminds herself, trying to hide her flinch at the way Rafael’s eyes burn into the side of her head; incredulous. She remembers the way the kids at school looked at her when she was younger; when she was still learning how to control her siphoning when she touched people. She’d taken from a girl once when she was asked to during class and the teacher had torn Lizzie away from her when barely a second later, she’d started crying. Everyone had looked at her – stared at her, as if she’d done it on purpose. By lunch, the entire school knew and all of them looked at her and Josie differently; the wolves, the vampires, the witches. Especially the witches. They were afraid of her. Freaked out. But no one would say it to her face. ‘She’ll hurt you if you do,’ was the lie, ‘Rachel called Lizzie mean so Lizzie hurt her’. The way Rafael is looking at her reminds her of it. But just like then, she refuses to be cowed by it. Mine or theirs. “Maybe,” she says coolly. She doesn’t look back and she doesn’t look at Rafael, just adjusts her grip on him and moves on, pretending that she can’t still hear his screams ringing in her ears even over the howl of the wind. This whole road-trip has been more eye-opening than she’d ever imagined possible. At most, she’d thought it’d be a bit of a bonding trip where they might finally put aside their issues and be friends and at the very least, she’d thought they’d tough out a few days in the car together and come back victorious, knife in hand and her parents’ praise ready and waiting for them. Instead they’ve gotten kidnapped, she’s missing half of her group, Hope and Josie have been acting weird and Rafael has now gotten an eyeful of what it is to be magical in the presence of a siphon – everyone is a possible battery. Rafael stumbles and Lizzie reels, jerking him back as he topples them both over towards the wall. He mumbles under his breath, words that sound like apologies and Lizzie takes them in stride, reminded that he’s only really coming around now; that she has no idea what happened to him only that she’d barely jogged him enough to get him to stand up before she’d disappeared into the halls with him and promptly been pursued. Maybe he isn’t questioning her or weirded out; maybe he’s just confused still. “Where’re we?” he slurs, “Where’s Landon? ‘n Josie? ‘n Alpha girl?” “Don’t know yet.” “Wolf girl’s crazy, Lizzie – she’s like – she’s like barking mad. Get it?” Lizzie huffs amusedly, too short of breath to really laugh and urges Rafael along; listening to his quiet dizzied wolf jokes and letting them power her along. She’s so focused that she almost doesn’t hear them – the footsteps. They rise like a crescendo; a walk turning into a heavy-footed run – a sprint towards them and Lizzie presses onwards desperately, not daring to look over her shoulder as they reach the end. The wind is biting on her cheeks; a stiff breeze buffeting passed her. The outdoors are just in reach. A man shouts behind her – a voice hollering almost indiscernibly in the wind and the footsteps get closer; echoing in the tunnel and making it nigh impossible to determine how many of them there are. Rafael disappears from her grasp; a breathless gasp behind her as he’s thrown to the floor and Lizzie turns – thrusting her hands out and latching onto their pursuer; pressing them viciously against his face until he screams – his skin violently reddening under her glowing touch. She reaches for Rafael and is shoved away – the goons seemingly multiplying. They’re all brute force and violent hands and Lizzie feels fear steal into her heart when not one of them uses magic; all of them as powerless within this barrier as she and Josie are. It’s a terrifying thought – the idea that they’d willingly forego magic just to cripple Lizzie and her friends. One of them pins Rafael to the ground, needle in hand and Rafael comes to life; eyes glowing brightly, fists flying. Lizzie drains the magic out of the henchman approaching her; watching him crumble with some level of detachment and moves on to the next. She throws her fist into a man’s face, kicking another between the legs and is dizzily making her way to Rafael – siphoning as little as possible as her vision slowly blurs – when she’s finally stopped. A woman appears from behind the masses; a shadow among shadows slinking up behind her. She grabs Lizzie around the waist and when Lizzie claws at her, the woman catches Lizzie’s hand with her gloved one. She whispers something as she plunges a needle into Lizzie’s neck; the sound almost soothing over the noise of Rafael crying out – the smell of his burning skin and the rot of wolf’s bane making Lizzie sick. “Oh sweetling; you came so close. But you never quite escape, do you Lakhesis?” - Josie blinks into the morning daylight, head aching dully and mind fogged. She’s curled around a pillow, sheets tangled around her legs and back bared to the cold of the air – great streaks of fire stinging the length of her spine, curling around her shoulder blades and dragging downwards. There’s the flush of satisfaction warm in her belly; her mouth already tugging into a smile that she buries against her pillow. It’s almost perfect – the only thing that could make it perfect is Hope herself still being sprawled next to her. Josie doesn’t need to look for her though; she can hear her puttering around in the bathroom, probably still half-asleep. She’s too content to get up just yet and instead she just breathes, revelling in the moment and how good she feels. There’s tender spots all along her skin; and she brushes her fingers lightly across the ones on her neck, dusting over them in a gentle touch and grins as electricity runs up her spine. She remembers the way Hope had lingered in all these places; sucking and biting and kissing with purpose, with this purpose – to leave these perfect reminders on her skin. Josie remembers doing much the same to Hope; going over them again and again when they healed, delighting in the way Hope’s breath hitched every time. It feels like all her heartache is suddenly changed; the pains that have lingered in her chest quietly alleviated – not gone, but not such a persistent hurt anymore. Healing, she thinks. She’s healing. - The world is a spinning hurricane of shadows; muddled and blurred – swimming in and out of view as Lizzie slowly comes to; her neck throbbing where that bitch had jammed a needle into her skin. She feels a little drunk – or maybe just hungover; whatever cocktail they’d injected her with slowly making its way out of her system and leaving her cotton-mouthed and achy. Her mom had talked to her and Josie about some of her Scooby Gang’s wackiest adventures – including the innumerable amount of times Elena Gilbert had been kidnapped and she thinks about it now as she takes stock of herself; trying to focus in on the finer points of all those stories – awareness. Lizzie’s upright; sitting in a chair with her hands behind her back. Her head hurts, as does her injection site and her wrists are itching where they’re bound, a slow trickle on her skin suggesting she’s either sweating or bleeding into her binds. She peeks an eye open and barely manages a glimpse of the room before she’s recoiling at how bright everything seems; adding a possible concussion to her wonderful list of problems. The air in the room changes the moment she moves; the voices she hadn’t been aware of murmuring in the background disappearing – footsteps striding towards her. “Lakhesis,” a man coos hoarsely as a hand grips her chin, angling her face until her neck is strained and her injection site exposed. He thumbs at the bruise and Lizzie groans, jerking painfully away from him. He barks an order and she can tell the light in the room is different; sighing in relief when she opens her eyes to find that most of the lights in the room are off bar one. He turns back to face her, gesturing as if to gauge her approval and Lizzie swallows thickly, getting her first clear view of him. The change in the light casts harsh shadows over her captor’s face; but Lizzie can feel the shock filter in as she looks him over; his one dark eye looking positively demonic in the darkness. His cheeks are scarred by thick gouging wounds like claw marks cutting into his face; his neck bisected by five cutting lines and one eye is milk-white and glistening – but even with all the scars, Lizzie still recognises him; his name escaping her in shock. “Dorian?” He grins at her; scars stretching cruelly. His demon eye glints like polished obsidian. “Elizabeth.” “So, that’s a no then,” she smiles bitingly, “Well hello Mr Magpie.” “Mr Magpie?” “Well, no. I think it’s supposed to be The Wire, but it doesn’t have the same quippy-ness, y’know? It’s from that show MG likes – the one about the weird alien guy in a magic police box in Britain. TADRIS or – or TADRIT or something. But you probably don’t know MG either.” He looks curious now, angling his head in the same way Dorian does as he asks, “And why wouldn’t I?” “Because you’re not Dorian,” she states matter-of-factly, “So that means you’re obviously some kind of face-stealing freak and that normally means that you have butkus in the memory department.” A hinge creaks behind her, a door opening. Not-Dorian looks over her shoulder at the person there, nodding before he looks back at her. “Sorry to disappoint you, then. I’m sure you’d love to be right, but uh – I know all this.” “You’re not Dorian,” she asserts again. “And what makes you so sure –” “– I’ve known Dorian literally since I was like five. He’s never called me Elizabeth. And he’d never hurt me or Josie. So either you’re a face-stealing sideshow or I never really knew him.” She ignores the way her throat feels like it’s closing up; ignores the rising tide of memories – of Dorian helping her with homework when her parents were busy, of him spending the holidays with them, of him making hot chocolate for her and Josie when they were little and getting used to sharing their house with all of these strangers. She knows Dorian. Dorian is like an uncle to her – her father’s friend and one of the few adults in her life that her mother trusts with them and that Lizzie can trust too. She can’t be wrong about him and that simply leaves one option – this isn’t him. It’s not Dorian. It can’t be. Not-Dorian shrugs. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I can’t exactly do anything to change it. But I am Dorian, Lizzie,” he says pointedly. “And I know who you all are – what you’re meant for.” The door swings open behind her, a draft hitting her back and making the skin of her wrists burn. Lizzie cranes her head over her shoulder and watches in horror as Josie is toted in, and settled into a chair in front of her, her hands shackled together at the wrist are slung uncomfortably over the back of the chair; the loose chain hanging limp like a snake between them. Josie doesn’t even react. She’s completely unconscious, her head lolling lifelessly on her shoulder; a dark stain sullying her shirt where the blood leaking from her temple has soaked into the fabric. “What did you do to her?” Lizzie hisses, tugging at her wrists and barely feeling the burn as the ropes tear more aggressively into her skin. Dorian is looking at Josie thoughtfully, his eyes glazed over for a moment before he blinks and looks at Lizzie struggling. “Nothing that we didn’t do to you,” he supplies, instructing the guard that’d accompanied Josie to stay and watch them before he turns to the door. He’s barely passed Lizzie when he stops, laying a hand sympathetically on her shoulder. Lizzie violently shrugs it off, not deigning to even turn her glare on him and instead looking pointedly away. “It’s not about you,” he says at last, “Not really.” He leaves quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. The goon settles himself in a corner of the room where he can see Lizzie, Josie and the door and folds his arms over his chest. He’s bulky and uncomfortable looking in the small space he’s chosen; sandwiched into the corner in his all-black outfit, his jacket tight around his arms when he folds them over his chest. A tattoo half-peeks out from the collar of his shirt; the curl of thread around a knife handle. Lizzie strains in her seat, reaching deep within herself for the warmth of their bond but she can’t feel anything from Josie and she won’t, she realises – because Josie can’t project what she’s not feeling. Her sister is in her dream-world still. Her connection to her physical-self is tenuous at best. Anything she’s feeling can’t be sent over the twin-bond when all she’s experiencing isn’t actually happening. A curious thought forms the longer she stares at her sister; slowly blossoming – it’s genius working through her. Josie just needs to feel hurt – and just because Lizzie can’t feel hers doesn’t mean Josie can’t feel Lizzie’s. All she needs is a good dose of twin-pain and Josie will be able to get out of her dream-world all on her own. “Hey! Peaches!” Peaches pops his head up, looking around the room for a moment as if there’s someone else she could be talking to and Lizzie lets out a steadying breath, already regretting this plan when his muscles flex intimidatingly. She can almost picture some voice from on high asking her if she really thinks this is a good idea. It sounds suspiciously like Hope and Lizzie grits her teeth when Peaches takes a step towards her. No backing out now. “Yeah, you Peaches, I’m talking to you. I mean who else would I be talking to? My unconscious sister? Your invisible friends? The wall? God, are you always this stupid or are you making a special effort today? Maybe I should talk to the wall. Seems to be about the same as talking to you, except that it apparently knows what colour is. I mean, what are you? A Bond villain? Is this something you learned at HenchCo? That wearing all black makes you look stoic and intimidating and not like a wanna-be Greaser or a hopped-up goth?” Peaches doesn’t say anything, just straightens up, his fist clenching at his side as he steps closer to Lizzie and straight into her trap. “Sorry Peaches. Is this a strong and silent thing or did I hurt your feelings?” “I suggest you stop now,” Peaches growls, at last; thunderous and deep, “They said I had to watch you and you had to be alive. They didn’t say I couldn’t hurt you.” This is for you, sis. “Oh Batfleck; you really shouldn’t talk like that – it’s bad for your voice. But honestly, I’m so sorry that I’m not making your job of watching two tied up girls any easier. Really – it must be so hard. I mean – what if my nose itches? Whatever will you do?” she drawls, scrunching it up in a taunt before looking at him dryly; planting her feet in a useless brace, “Tell you what – I’ll try being nicer, if you try being smarter.”
- Josie can hear water running; the shower in Hope’s bathroom turning on and sits up slowly, a sly grin curling on her face as the sheets slip down over her skin. Goosebumps raise at the sensation and Josie bites her lip at an ache over her ribs, looking down at it in confusion. It’s a bruise; a dark motley of blues and purples quickly spiralling across her ribs like she’s been sucker-punched and she hums, wondering where it could’ve come from. She presses lightly, probing the edges of it and gasps as the world seems to shift on its axis; the room around her disappearing in a surge of colour.
-
Hope is hurting, her mother is saying, her eyes glistening no matter how much she tries to blink the sadness away. Her world is falling apart and being here won’t really help her right now.
Josie tries to imagine what it would be like – losing her mother and then having her dad die for her and her uncle go with him, finished with living. She imagines having a family she so rarely got to spend time with and then losing half of them – losing her only constant and the person she’s always wanted to know.
She doesn’t think she’d be able to bear it and is worried, suddenly, if Hope is able to.
Her mother holds her when she clings to her, hiding tears against Josie’s cardigan and focusing herself on cradling her daughter. Lizzie is feigning disinterest in the subject but she remains quiet, seeing the way her mom is reacting and reserving the deflective snark for once. She hugs their mom too, curling against her other side and letting her draw the strength she needs from them.
They pretend not to hear her sniffle.
Their dad only makes it worse.
His phone buzzes in his hands and he mutters about Doctor Gilbert, excusing himself with a thoughtless “Just going to tell them the good news,” before he disappears out of view, ignorant of her mother’s choked breath.
Josie thinks she must be counting how many people’s she’s loved and lost now; can see the numbers in her eyes when they all pull apart; the flex of her fingers.
One.
Two.
Three.
-
“Josie?” Hope appears out of the bathroom, rushing towards her as Josie staggers upright, nausea making her cautious. She grabs Josie’s hand in hers, helping her stand and a strange chill runs over her skin where they’re touching. She can’t help herself as she shrugs free of Hope’s grip; stumbling towards the bathroom with careless reassurances falling freely. She barely makes it a few steps before she folds over; pain exploding into life in her stomach – the wind well and truly knocked out of her.
-
Penelope Park tears her heart out of her chest and practically forces it through a cheese grater and Josie doesn’t leave her room for two days. Lizzie stays by her side the entire time; offering snark and comfort as only she can, bouncing psychotically between viciously tearing apart Penelope and consoling Josie as her sister’s feelings whirl through her. Her mother calls from France and for every cutting remark that she barely restrains out of professionalism, there is a piece of wisdom quietly offered on the relationship she’d lost – the connection, this fragile ‘almost’.
When she finally goes back to class, it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Every time she sees Penelope her heart aches as much as it burns and she feels it – dark insidious anger bubbling up in the place of a paling grief.
Everyone is on tenterhooks around her, unsure how to deal with a bitter, angry Josie. They’re unnerved and careful with her – unsure if she’ll blow up or if she’ll shatter and even Lizzie is affected; still vengeful and protective, but calmer – like she’s switched polarity to balance out Josie’s mood.
Hope doesn’t seem at all affected – barely acknowledging anyone unless she has to and poking at Josie when they’re assigned to each other in class; part of her dad’s attempts to socialise Hope she’s sure. But Josie can tell she’s acting differently too.
She’s softer with Josie even while maintaining her usual distance; like she can tell that the anger is really just hurt in disguise; like she knows the sadness is still there no matter how brave she’s acting about it. Hope doesn’t poke as much as she could or even as hard as she might sometimes; showing an unusual amount of restraint for someone so snarky.
There are no low blows with Hope; no biting remarks about Penelope cutting her loose even after betraying her like she did – no barbs outside of the regular variety. It’s like Hope is entirely unaffected by Josie’s heart-break; like her explosive relationship hasn’t even really registered to her and it’s almost nice. She feels like she’s broken down and yet to Hope she isn’t any different. She’s not broken, just bruised – the same person she was before, just a little more tender; and a little more wary because of it.
They part ways as they always do; never together long enough for a moment to last, for anything meaningful to come of their forced engagements and Josie disappears to her room shortly after; unwilling to stay with her peers among the flood of soft petal pinks and voluminous reds.
She goes to her room and the tenderness changes; no longer from a bruise but from the soft fondness that floods her chest at the sight of thirteen lavender roses sitting unassumingly on her desk before her window; sweet and unassuming in the fading sunlight; pastel petals against a pastel sky.
She thumbs the note attached to them and marvels at the quiet kindness of a girl who so readily rejects it; tracing the lines of clumsy curling letters scrawled across it.
I see you, it seems to say; I hear you, I’m listening.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” it reads.
-
Hope’s curled up in a ball in her lap, whimpering and miserable. There’s the crack of bones and the slick, disturbed sound of flesh and tendons pulling and snapping. Hope doesn’t scream – she’s far passed it but Josie can’t help but wish she would.
She shivers and shudders and gasps, back arching and curling – her spine rippling in terrible foreshadowing of what’s to come.
She’s built for this, Josie tells herself.
She’s built for this.
She’s built for this.
She’s okay.
But none of this feels okay. It’s not okay that Hope is suffering or that Josie can’t help her. It’s not okay that Hope is going through this – is in so much pain that she can’t even make a sound.
Or maybe she physically can’t make a sound, Josie realises, breath catching and heart clenching painfully in her chest as Hope coughs wetly; a glob of blood coming out over her lip.
Hope keeps coughing and Josie makes sure she’s on her side, crying in earnest now as blood spatters over her legs and onto the floor; fire on concrete.
She says her name, asks her to stay with her, to be strong through this and feels selfish; feels horribly cruel for all of it. Hope squeezes the hand she’s holding, manages a shaky nod like she hears Josie and the feeling worsens but Josie tries feebly to ignore it. She’s not selfish for wanting Hope to stay. She’s not selfish for asking her to be strong – it’s not cruel to ask her to try.
But it feels that way.
She feels awful but she couldn’t bear it if she didn’t try something and really this is all she has.
It feels like they stay that way for hours; Hope curled and coughing and Josie crying over her, brushing her fingers through Hope’s hair and whispering to her, praying that it helps somehow. Eventually it stops. Hope keels over in her lap again, panting and exhausted and Josie sobs at the way her red-stained fingers cling to Josie’s, squeezing rhythmically in reassurance.
“I think I’m dying,” Hope wheezes, a teasing smile barely curling her lips.
Josie sobs.
She thinks she’s right.
-
Hope torches a classroom by proxy of igniting a student but the flames licking at the walls are nothing compared to the rage, the immolating sadness radiating from her eyes. She’s a tormented whirlwind of anguish, dark and foreboding and everyone should know by now that there is nothing like a Mikaelson in mourning.
Everyone should know.
But not everybody does.
Josie isn’t there when it happens but she’s there in the aftermath, standing outside her father’s office and listening to the torrent as he thunders at Hope about the rules and abusing her powers.
He wants her to be better than her nature, he says.
He wants her to be better than a Mikaelson, he means.
He talks about the whole thing like somehow Hope’s reaction is out of control, isn’t entirely expected when someone bad-mouths her parents; her species, in front of her. Josie wonders if he even knows what they’d said to Hope or if he’s just passing this off as a tantrum – as if those are somehow a regular occurrence when Hope is the epitome of control.
(Josie wonders if he even knows Hope at all.)
It’s a good thing there’s only one monster left, a vampire had hissed at her in class, She’s already gotten the rest of them killed – if we’re lucky, she’ll kill herself too.
Josie has only just heard what happened from MG and if Hope hadn’t already done it, she’d be sorely tempted to set the bastard on fire herself.
She’s tempted to kill him regardless of what Hope’s done to him.
Setting him on fire doesn’t seem like an extreme reaction at all. On the contrary, it doesn’t feel extreme enough.
The problem is that there’s no real bar for comparison. Josie is a siphon and might as well be an entirely different breed for all that she’s still a witch, but she doesn’t have trauma the way Hope does; doesn’t have the same level of guilt and hate and pain related to who she is, as a person and as a supernatural being. She can say that if anyone spoke to her or Lizzie like that that she’d flash-fry them, that she’d find an inventive way to flay them alive – but it’s not the same. Having that purist bullshit spat at her isn’t the same as having it said to Hope.
Hope – who is one of the only hybrids left in the world, and is the only tribrid.
Hope – who struggles under the guilt that her father died for her, to save her.
Hope – whose mother was killed by vampire Nazis; who died as a cursed hybrid – as a vampire to save Hope from being condemned to it too.
Hope – who fought and killed those Nazis and who triggered her curse because of it.
Hope – who was betrayed by a Nazi vampire; a vampire that she met in their school.
Hope – who has been struggling, all day to hold onto herself and go to her classes, despite how much Josie knows she must be dying to be in New Orleans, or in Maine, surrounded by her family on this god-awful fucking day. The anniversary of her mother’s death.
Her father says something indiscernible and Josie wonders why Hope is in there in the first place. Yes, she’d had an outburst – but it was more than understandable. Yes, she’d injured a student – but it was nothing that he hadn’t deserved. He’d told Hope he wanted her dead, hoped she did it to herself and had insulted the people she loved, the people she lost. Yet, where was he for all of this?
Surely, if nothing else, her dad could cut her enough slack to leave this whole discussion until tomorrow?
There’s a cracking sound and Josie moves away from the door as it rockets open and Hope appears, a contradiction of calm and angry; a slow-simmering fury that’s slowly building as she disappears down the hall, nails embedded so deeply in her fists that she leaves a trail of blood as she goes.
Her father appears, calling after her and the few students nearby shoot him looks.
“Dad.”
“Not now, Josie. Hope!”
“Dad.”
“In a minute, sweetheart. Hope! Come back here!”
Josie rolls her eyes, heading into his office to wait him out as he heads down the hall after the girl. He won’t catch her, Josie knows, but he’ll try regardless of whether it’s a good idea or not. She just wants to be alone. Or better yet, not here. She needs support and her family, not whatever her dad is pulling now.
Josie eyes the filing cabinet in the room and can practically feel the lightbulb click on over her head. She meanders over, closing the door on her way and tugs it open, flicking through them until she discovers Hope’s rather bulky file and humming as she peruses the primary contact information inside the cover.
Three Mikaelsons show up a few hours later; a posse of powerful figures at the boundary of the gate and within minutes, Hope is packed and shuffled in amongst them. The tension leaves her shoulders for the first time all day the moment she’s within arms’ reach of them, Freya folding her into a hug first and Josie smiles; watching from the door as Hope slowly relaxes; safe and secure in the presence of her family.
She’s still watching as they clamber into a car together, waving hesitantly when she catches first Kol’s and then Davina’s gaze.
Kol is a Mikaelson through and through, staring her down in chilling curiosity until he’s called to the car but Davina is different; there’s a knowing edge to the way she nods at Josie, smiling sad and soft at her before she disappears into the car, starting the engine and whisking Hope away.
Josie waits there, watching the car disappear out of view and wonders if Hope will come back again or if she’ll stay; wait it out until after her father’s anniversary too.
Her dad will probably corner her the moment she’s inside, wondering if she expects him to believe the phone called them itself but Josie isn’t worried.
It’s more than worth it.
-
Lizzie is there, holding Josie’s hand as their dad tugs them away; Mr Mikaelson barely a few feet behind them when the yelling starts. It’s him and his brother; a show-down of pleading and desperation and then –
Then there’s Hope.
It’s barely a second that she can hear her before they’re dragged clear of the ensuing mess; their dad herding them back to the school and setting them in their beds but it’s enough.
The moment the door to their room is closed they’re curled together; Lizzie ostensibly unaffected, cuddling Josie for the comfort of her twin and not herself. Josie knows better. She can feel the depth – the unwavering pressure in her chest and the heaviness in her heart and knows that Lizzie feels the guilt too – what they’ve done slowly sinking in.
She thinks about Hope; what her eyes might have looked like, if they’d betray her hurt the way her voice did when it cracked. She thinks about the little girl that showed up to their school one day with her mom, as different as day and night but uniquely beautiful and remembers the way her hand had fluttered in the air when her mom stepped away; longingly, like she was awaiting another goodbye.
She remembers that little girl and imagines her now, standing in front of her dad on the day he’ll die. She imagines how clear that longing would be, that hurt and that little girl, even all guarded and grown up at fifteen and can see her perfectly – the way she’d stand and how she’d look, heart-breakingly innocent – still just a little girl waiting for daddy to come home.
Josie wonders if it’s over yet – if Hope’s dad is gone and she found him like that or if he’d done it even with her watching and feels her throat close up at the thought; Lizzie’s grip vice-like in hers as the thought is shared – the image of Hope alone in the woods, crying over her father’s corpse.
She wonders if helping Klaus Mikaelson kill himself makes them bad people. She wonders if the answer changes depending on whether it’s Klaus Mikaelson or Hope’s dad.
She wonders if there’s a difference.
Lizzie squeezes her hand and Josie knows she wonders too.
- Her ribs ache. Her ribs ache and she feels sluggish like the world is passing her by but she’s moving at a tenth of the speed; like the world around her is on fast-forward. She blinks and she’s in Hope’s room, keeled over and reeling in agony. She blinks and she’s in the dining hall, laughing with her friends; careless to anything that’s not the sweet kisses Hope lays against her cheek every other second, like Josie is something she can’t get enough of. She blinks and she’s in the commons and the world is slowly settling; her mind catching up and horror sinking slowly into her bones – a revelation just out of reach and moving quickly towards her. Josie looks around, gasping and sees Lizzie smiling, MG hanging on her every word. Hope is nearby, rolling her eyes with Penelope leaning casually on her shoulder, the pair of them engaged with Caleb and Rafael in some hearty debate. Hope looks over at Josie, probably hearing her gasp and the whole world – shudders. Everything clicks into place. Hope looks at her and it’s like she changes before Josie’s eyes, like someone new and unrecognisable has taken her place even if she looks the same. Josie’s head is still spinning, reality still settling in her bones when Hope mouths “I love you” from across the room and she runs, bursting into the nearest bathroom as her stomach drops, ice chilling her veins. She throws up – heaves violently into the toilet at the memory – the dream – the lingering feeling of Hope’s hands on her bare skin; trailing up her thighs, clawing her back, breezing along her stomach, tracing her lips. She can feel the way Hope kissed her – the way her teeth felt on her skin, the press of her tongue into Josie’s mouth and the hickeys that have bloomed under the cover of her clothes. She can feel it and her stomach turns again and again and again – She did those things with Hope. With Not-Hope. With Not-Hope in a dream-world, she tries to rationalise, hiccupping a sob as the rug is pulled out from underneath her.
In a dream-world.
None of this is real – her happiness is fake; manufactured – her memories manipulated by a spell and details teased loose from her subconscious to keep her placated; to stop her seeing the flaws in its making; the places where the dream can’t match reality – where the details are missing and explained away. It’s what the fever was, she realises now, wondering how she could be so stupid as to just dismiss it – as to just believe whatever she was told to keep her here when all this time there’ve been signs. She’s in love with Hope – feels it so deeply that she wonders if it’s not always been a part of her; if Hope hasn’t somehow always been a part of her – like a soul split between two bodies and connected with this tenuous link; bound together but separated all the same. There’s nothing on earth that could ever convince Josie to hurt her – to break Hope’s heart if it was given to her. She knows that. And yet, Josie had just accepted the alternative the dream-world gave her; had listened to the ridiculous idea that she just couldn’t remember breaking Hope’s heart, but that she had, because as senseless as it was, it didn’t matter when the context was there. When Hope was standing there, telling her she’d done that and hurting because of it – because of Josie. She feels sick. Her feelings for Hope are wonderful and bright; like a beacon of light – of all the good things in life rolled into one and yet they’ve been used and she’s been manipulated by them and she feels it in her soul; a dark spot forming at the roots where all of this love has grown. She feels tainted – like the purity of her feelings has been marred by the experience; by sharing these feelings, by acting on them with someone who is ultimately a stranger – who isn’t even real. And all of it under the compulsion of some psycho who spelled her. She looks like Hope but she’s not. It feels real but it’s not. The hurt is, though. The way it feels like her heart-strings have been plucked loose and her heart has been eaten in the night; chewed up and spat out by some monster; made meaningless by their treatment of it. She feels like her chest has been carved out methodically, bit by bit; leaving her desolate and trying desperately to protect something that no longer exists. She feels violated and angry – and aching. It rages through her as Not-Hope calls her ‘babe’ through the door – something Hope would never do – patient and sympathetic and concerned, asking if Josie’s alright and promising proper care and cuddles when she comes out. It simmers in her skin when Not-Hope walks her back to her room, setting Josie up in her bed absentmindedly; every action she takes followed by soft touches that feel less caring and more possessive – that feel less reassuring and more manipulative, even though Josie knows the way she does things hasn’t changed at all. It burns in her blood when Hope wraps her in her arms in that familiar way, curling around Josie protectively and humming softly to ease her into sleep until Hope passes out before her, breath falling like flames to her skin. It’s the only thing the dream-world has right and yet it’s horribly wrong; Hope’s comforting presence – the way she nuzzles against the back of Josie’s neck thoughtlessly – turning despairing and her arms clinging like shackles around Josie’s waist. Not-Hope, she reminds herself, tears seeping into her pillow. Not-Hope and not real. Not real not real not realrealnotrealnotrealnotreal -
They’re sitting out in a clearing, waiting for the sun to set and for the change to settle in; Josie leaning against Hope in pursuit of warmth and Hope smiling into her hair at the way they’re pressed together; tangled together like they’ll never be close enough.
They never will.
The sky is bleached and the air is chilled; clouds spartanly seen over the golden-tipped trees, awash with dimming sunlight and looking like they’ve been caught in the path of the golden chariot that draws the sun; the branches tipped in an ephemeral glow.
Hope hums against her temple and Josie looks up to see her eyes the same colour as the sun; a warm, molten gold so different than their normal crystalline blue, and yet not belying the same softness they usually possess.
“It’ll be time soon,” Hope tells her.
Josie hums back at her, curling further into Hope’s embrace, “But not yet.”
Hope agrees quietly, kissing her temple, eyes fond and full of something Josie doesn’t want to name; her touch a gentle whisper against Josie’s cheek as it skates down to cling to her hand.
“No,” she mutters, smiling, “Not yet.”
-
She wakes up, disoriented to the sound of Lizzie shouting;
“Can it, Eeyore! We’re literally in the middle of nowhere. Like according to a map this road doesn’t exist and neither does that town sign we just passed and Hope’s GPS is gone! –”
It takes a moment for the sleepiness to clear; for the words to fully sink in but when they do she can hardly believe them. She swears her heart freezes in her chest when her sister turns those desperate eyes on her; full of contritious apologies.
The moment doesn’t last – Josie looking away to hide the glassiness of her eyes, doing her best to keep herself present and focused on her surroundings instead of the constricted feeling rising in her throat. She thinks she’s going to be sick.
The radio cuts out then and Lizzie stabs desperately at her phone; Josie watching her anxiously. There’s a cloud moving over them; a shared feeling of anticipation and worry – a penny in the air – a shoe waiting to drop.
She grips tenuously at the back of Lizzie’s seat, leaning towards her sister – and is brutally jerked back by her seat-belt as the car spins out of control.
Rafael jerks desperately at the wheel and Josie yelps, crushed into her seat.
Lizzie cries out; phantom pain spiralling in Josie’s chest over her own – lights flash – her head thuds against the window and –
Darkness.
- Her pillow is perfumed by sun and rain; that familiar, delighting scent that she knows is Hope’s but it isn’t right. It’s not the scent of a new day – the air crisp and warm; nor is it the earth after first rain – life itself tangible and renewed in the showers – instead it is a frozen dawn; a midnight storm – familiar and yet strange. Wrong. She remembers it then – feels her night’s revelations seep back into her skin at the dry feeling of her eyes and the stickiness of her cheeks; itchy with a night’s worth of tears. Her head is spinning and for a moment she wonders at the pain. It’s not the throbbing of a hangover, or sleeplessness. It’s almost muffled, like she’s been struck and stuffed full of Advil and she sits up, clutching the sheets to her chest as she presses her hand tentatively to her temple, flinching lightly at the phantom force lunging for her. It shifts slowly; becoming more real as the minutes pass and when she tries again her fingers come back bloodied; her skin itchy and tight with dried blood. Some part of her had hoped she was wrong, but this is proof; the nail in the proverbial coffin. Her ribs ache where her seat-belt had cut across her chest and she hedges around the bruising; barely brushing the edges of it as she breathes deeply; relief warm in her chest when no debilitating pain immediately follows. Hope makes a noise beside her, rolling over onto her side to face Josie; brow lightly furrowed as she sprawls her hand over the cooling sheets. Not-Hope, she reminds herself; watching her frown deepen, distress evident in her sleeping form as she slowly tenses up the longer she’s left searching. Josie watches her silently, willing herself to be unmoved by it, reminding herself of the pain she feels, the betrayal. None of this is real – it’s fake; a manufactured dream, a cobbled-together feeling of happiness that preys on her own feelings for Hope. She doesn’t have to sympathise with her. She doesn’t have to comfort her. She’s not Hope. Or at least…not her Hope, she amends with a sigh. For all that losing the dream has been painful, living it has not. Josie’s been given a sneak-peek at what things could be like; all these blissful snapshots of what it might mean to be with Hope. And it’s everything she’s ever wanted. The effusive warmth of Hope’s touch, rich with loving affection; the consuming way Hope kisses her like her salvation lies in Josie’s mouth, or the way Hope pours her soul out through her eyes so that even when she’s not saying anything, Josie can hear the words; the ‘I love you’ in the silence. It’s a beautiful preview of what they could be; of a Hope that loves her and is as consumed by it as Josie is by her own feelings for Hope – and though the disillusionment is raw, the desire is too. Josie wants this – wants to be happy and in love, and to be those things with Hope and experiencing even a glimmer of that – even for a minute, even in a dream – leaves her changed; a lightness settling into the very fabric of her being. None of that has been bad. This Hope loves her to the point of breaking from trying to hold it all in. She’d never try to hurt her. And though she is a product of a dream-world, a spell to create a place to keep Josie’s mind captive – it’s not like it’s her fault. Or Josie’s. And even if it’s not part of her reality; on some level, it is real. Like an alternate world; both hers and not. This Hope is not immune to pain – and definitely not immune to Josie causing it. Josie can be angry. She can be hurt. But that doesn’t mean she has to be cruel. She leans down, smoothing her thumb along Hope’s cheek and presses her lips against the furrow of her brow; a lingering kiss, a sweet goodbye. Hope sighs sleepily, relaxing and leaning into her, a disjointed mumble of “love” and Josie’s name tumbling free and making her chest tight with wistfulness. It’s not real, but she wishes it were. She mutters a counter-spell under her breath, drawing gently on reserves; eyes closed and fists clenched in preparedness. She waits for her stomach to flip and the world to churn around her and spit her out; dazed and confused in her own body – but it doesn’t work. Josie huffs, reaching for her magic – feeling it out and squirms as the sensation comes to her; pins-and-needles rocketing up and down her body, like she’s trying to bring circulation back after numbness. She abandons that avenue entirely; thinking back on Dorian’s lectures on the subject. Why am I telling you this? Josie can hear him say, Because it’s important – both in understanding the dream-world and in knowing how to escape it. Because if you do realise what’s happened and you are desperate, you have no magic…the best way to get yourself out of that dreamscape…is to kill the subject of the dream. Is to kill your tether – the dream itself. On the other hand; something more rare, but that happens sometimes is that there is no tether. Some people think that an event, or a better outcome, is a tether. That’s not true. The focus of that even, is a subject though. More often than not, that focus, that subject…is you. If there’s not a physical tether – then you are the subject of the dream – and the best way to get out of that dreamscape is to kill yourself.
A word of warning…Even if you are not the subject of your dream; even if you have a tether…sometimes it’s…sometimes it’s still easier to kill yourself than to kill the things you’ve always wanted.
The words feel like a slap in the face as she recalls them and the miserable way Dorian had said them and she can feel it, the sinking in her chest as she considers them; as they tie themselves down to her. Because Hope is her tether. Josie takes a glance at Hope, the soft lines of her face, her features slack with sleep; mouth open and letting out soft puffs of air and dismisses the notion entirely. She can’t kill Hope. Josie doesn’t even contemplate it, the very idea of it making her uncomfortable. She looks like Hope – she is Hope as much as she isn’t and Josie can’t quite stomach the idea of being so cruel to this version of her – to any version of her, no matter how much she might be hurting or how helpful it would be. She slips out of Hope’s bed, looking around the room for a weapon to bring a quick end to her dream-scape and finds herself truly taking in the differences; the changes between her reality and the dream-world. Hope’s room is different. Canvases and art supplies still littered around the room like they normally are; books and grimoires on every inch of spare space from her desk to her nightstand but it’s – changed. Perhaps not in a way she can immediately discern, but in a way she can feel. Hope’s space has always felt calm, quiet and sad in a perfectly understandable way. Her room has always been steeped in tranquillity and sadness – the two feelings going hand in hand with the silence Hope cultivates for herself. But now; that edge of sadness is gone. The curtains are opened, the window cracked and the sunlight pouring in and there’s only lightness – like Hope is not a girl who grieved – who is grieving, like this is not the place that she has claimed for it. She knows Hope will carry her loss with her always even when she’s accepted it; when the guilt no longer cripples her and she finds peace with herself for the things she did; for being a girl and a daughter and a teenager – for being human, even when she never sees herself that way. She knows Hope’s trauma has shaped her and will continue to shape her; a part of her she will never escape but can triumph over – it makes her wizened as much as it makes her jaded. But that time is a ways off – a time where Hope is no longer actively grieving, but living and living with it; carrying it but no longer shackled to its holding place. She looks around Hope’s room and wonders how she ever missed it – that this Hope is not a girl in grieving. There are pictures. All of them are splayed across the desk in their many ornate frames; photographs of Hope through her life, of her family always around her and the blue-eyed girl ensconced between her smiling – smirking in her dad’s case – parents. It’s no different than before – Hope has always clung to the reminders of her family; has displayed them around her room not in pride but in remembrance; in mourning, so she might never think of one she’s lost and not know their face, the exact colour of their eyes, the way their mouth crooked when they smiled. But this, Josie sees, is not mourning – simply because there is nothing to mourn. They don’t stop with Hope at fifteen and freshly orphaned – unwilling to break a smile – they continue on: Hope and her parents reunited; Hope at Elijah and Hayley’s wedding; Hope holding a baby and curled between Freya and her wife; Hope with Kol and Davina outside of town-hall with a grinning Ander, Hope and Rebekah outside a picket-fenced house, the Mikaelson family crowded around a bonfire in a polaroid selfie. Perhaps most lovely though, a simple photograph of three wolves, Hope guarded on either side by her parents – a pack of three in the woods. Her breath catches in her chest at Hope’s smile; at how happy she looks; like the world could never touch her, safe and at home in her parents’ arms. They crowd around her in one picture, pride warm in their eyes and fifteen-year-old Hope’s arms slung around their necks, held carefully between them – all of them smiling, even Klaus. They look at Hope like she’s a miracle: the absolute centre of their universe and Hope beams in all of those photos; radiant and delighted. It’s a smile Josie’s never seen on Hope before. It’s a smile she never will see. Josie almost wants to capture the moment; keep it and bring it back for her Hope to see; to let her know they’re proud of her, that if they’d lived they’d love her more than anything – the same way Hope loves them. But it’s a cruelty she’d never commit. They’re not her Hope’s parents and they’re not real. And to even imagine it, bringing back a picture as if it were possible feels like a vicious betrayal. It would be a taunt, a heartless tease – letting Hope have a glimpse of all she’s lost; a reminder of what could have been if only – If Only. Hope huffs cutely behind her and Josie regains herself; remembers what she’s doing – who she’s trying to get back to. The gentle furrow in Hope’s brow is back but it eases itself away as she shuffles across the bed to wrap herself around Josie’s pillow. She buries her nose in it, sighing contently and that’s when Josie glimpses it; a flash of silver in the brightening sun revealing the knife tucked unassumingly amongst bunches of papers on the nightstand. A dark pain echoes in her chest; sympathy aches spiralling across her already bruised ribs and Josie jostles; palming at them and remembering the bruise that started all of this. It’s twin-pain at its most brutal and she hurries to the nightstand, tearing the knife free and raising it with shaking hands to her chest; trying not to flinch away at the way the metal shimmers red, like a siphon glow – ready to drain the life from her chest. You will bleed over. You will be confused. You risk going into shock or having a panic-attack. This is dangerous. And if you haven’t deconstructed the dreamscape enough that you have a physical connection to your body – you risk the chance of actually killing yourself, of your body having a physical reaction to the trauma. You asphyxiate yourself in the dream? Drown? You start choking in real life – can’t breathe. Stop breathing. Dead. She considers the quickest way to get this over with – whether to sever her carotid artery or to just take the plunge and go straight to the root of the problem – for only a moment as her eyes land on Hope. Josie wonders, jaw aching suddenly, if Hope’ll wake up as it happens – if she’ll try and save Josie with her vampire blood. She wonders what happens if it works – if Hope saves her or gets enough of it into her that she dies in the dream and turns – and decides to circumvent all of it. Hope snuffles, lashes fluttering gently as a strand of hair tickles her nose and through the wash of fondness, Josie wishes she could be a bit more delicate about things but there’s really no time. Pain explodes into life in her stomach, motivating as ever and Josie folds over briefly, agonised before raising the knife determinedly and plunging it down. It rests bitterly in her chest – perforating her heart and Josie stumbles; hands freezing around the handle before they numb, slipping free of the handle as she falls to the floor. There’s a commotion – things clattering around her as she crashes into the nightstand and then the bed-frame; blood welling quickly – spilling out of her in a flood, climbing up her throat until it spatters free over her lips. It swells beneath her skin, in the cavity of her chest and the wet, unnatural feel of it is sickening; her body slowly slipping into shock as her mind reels; torn between acceptance and the desperate, human urge to survive. There’s a whimper, a quiet mutter of her name in confusion and then Hope is in front of her; eyes wide and lit with panic; staring horrified at the handle jutting up from Josie’s chest. “No, no, no, no – Josie, no – Josie please no,” Hope begs, tears fresh in her eyes and quickly slipping down her cheeks; the finality of the moment set even if she refuses to accept it. It’s not real, Josie reminds herself, trying not to shiver at how empty she feels suddenly watching Hope wilt; her voice breaking the same way it did the day she found her dad. It’s not real, she reminds herself, watching the desperation crashing into Hope as she fastens her own hand around the blade, too frightened to remove it but needing it to open her hand and press the bleeding flesh to Josie’s mouth. It’s not real, she reminds herself, the room fading slowly as Hope curls protectively around her, bloodied hand applying pressure futilely even as she clutches Josie desperately close to her; tears warm and wet in Josie’s hair and Hope’s chest jumping with bitter sobs. Her voice is hoarse and Josie realises sluggishly that Hope’s been screaming this whole time. She can’t move her arms, but she kisses Hope’s chest where she can reach, slurring an apology as Hope clings to her. “Help,” Hope whimpers, her lips barely moving as realisation dawns. “Help!” No one does. Her eyes are the last thing Josie sees, tears slipping from them and making them bluer than she’s ever seen. She’s beautiful, like an angel, she thinks as Hope presses a bitter kiss against her forehead. “Josie –” Hope sobs, her voice barely piercing the fog, “Don’t leave me. Please. I love you.”
It’s not real.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Josie wakes up gasping for breath with Hope’s name on her lips, tears slick on her cheeks and a phantom pain in her chest. She’s sitting in a chair in a darkened, damp room like a cellar; her hands secured behind her back with chains and her head throbbing; the tang of iron thick and sickening in the back of her mouth. Her breaths are harsh and aching; every one jarring her chest and the knife she feels there even if it isn’t. The impression of it lingers on her skin, in her flesh, the memory of the pain almost as bad as the pain itself. She can still see Hope’s eyes, still feel her tears on her skin like they’re her own, can still hear the desperate pleas for her to stay, the horrified whispers of her name, the unsaid ‘why’ that hung in every sob. It wasn’t real. But it feels like it was. She’s almost grateful for the chains, the way they bite at the skin of her wrists is grounding; forcing her out of her own head and into reality. It’s then that the situation sets in. Lizzie is slumped in a chair across from her in this tiny room they’re in; her hands are tied harshly behind her back and she looks half-dead, covered in bruises and blood-spatter and breathing shallowly. Josie is suitably horrified. She takes stock of herself, noting that although she’s in a chair and chains, she isn’t tied to it – can stand up and leave it and have her arms hang heavy and loose behind her back. It’s likely that they didn’t expect her to escape the dream-world they’d put her in, she rationalises, hissing Lizzie’s name across the short distance between them. Her sister looks up at her from under her long hair; lip split, face bruised and a slow stream of blood leaking from her nose that – thankfully, doesn’t appear broken. There’s a nasty bruise on her forehead like she’s head-butted someone and Josie marvels at how she didn’t feel that as Lizzie glares at her. “Well you took your damn time.” “What happened?” Josie asks. Her voice is croaky and hoarse from lack of use and she spares a glance around the room for indicators but can’t find anything to say how long they’ve been here. There’s no clocks and no windows. Somehow, she thinks, even if there were they probably wouldn’t help much. Being a siphon means being attuned to power – knowing where it is, like some built in survival instinct. She can feel it sit heavy in the air here and isn’t sure if it’s from the boundary spell. “What hasn’t happened?” Lizzie shoots back, tilting her head to achieve the full sardonic effect and immediately regretting it if her grimace is anything to go by. Her bruised cheeks pale with a wave of nausea even Josie feels. “Where’s everyone else? Where’s Hope?” There’s a strange look on Lizzie’s face for a moment when Josie says her name; an expression she’s not quite familiar with crossing Lizzie’s face before she straightens, adjusting herself in her chair to lessen the strain on her ribs. The pain seems to sober her some; Lizzie levelling her with a flat stare laden with seriousness. “I don’t know where anyone is. We’ve been abducted by what I can only assume is either a cult or the escaped patients of a psych-ward because they’re insane. Raf is somewhere here probably being treated to a lovely bane brew, I haven’t a clue where Spudnick is and if I’m completely honest, I totally forgot about Corpse Bride until about thirty seconds ago but if he isn’t dead then he’s probably here too,” Lizzie recaps, hissing as she bites her lip and blood wells in the split. “Spudnick?” Josie wonders. Lizzie doesn’t answer, staring her down silently. Waiting. “…He does look kind of Tim-Burton-esque,” Josie concedes, Lizzie expressively announcing her vindication, commenting how it’s the shape of his eyes and the fact he looks like he’s never slept in his life before Josie urges them back on track. “Lizzie. What happened to you?” There’s a twist of anxiety in her chest that isn’t her own; apprehension slowly building as Lizzie glances away hesitantly, wincing when the movement jars a pain in her head. “Shouldn’t we focus on getting out of here?” “Elizabeth.” “Josette,” Lizzie says just as pointedly. She tries to stare Josie down, cow her into averting her gaze first but if there’s one thing that motivates Josie it’s when her twin is in pain. Lizzie looks like she’s been beaten within an inch of her life and Josie’s not going to let her ignore it. It feels like hours pass; the space between breaths infinite until Lizzie blinks her drying eyes in surrender, cursing quietly. “I hate when you do that. You look like some wide-eyed bambi doll and it’s really creepy.” “I’m not dad, Lizzie, I don’t fall for that. Stop deflecting and ‘fess up.” “Fine. You wouldn’t wake up…” Lizzie fidgets as much as she can in her seat. Josie feels her wrists chaffing under the chains and a bead of sweat slicks the skin; mirroring the blood pooling on Lizzie’s. “There was a guard in here with me. I goaded him into hitting me –” “To wake me up,” Josie fills in, horrified. “You used Twin-Pain to break my connection to my dream.” There’s a guilt that suddenly springs to life; sitting in her chest like a stone pressing down on her lungs. She looks over her sister and all she can hear is Lizzie laughing gently, smiling. She sees the bruises, the cuts, the blood and remembers when they were younger and Lizzie had an outburst in the kitchen. She remembers finding her amid the destruction; sobbing and distraught, glass strewn around her and cuts on her palms and her cheeks from the shards. Lizzie had begged for their mom; asked her to come back, begged her to be there – begged Josie to get her. Their dad was busy with a meeting for potential benefactors and their mom was away – off recruiting in Italy or France or some other European country. Josie was all there was and all she’d wanted was to be enough for her; to be able to take care of her sister and protect her. She’d promised her that she would – that above everything, Lizzie would come first. That even if the whole world turned their backs on her, Josie never would. She’s kept her word for years. When she’s surrounded by people, Lizzie always has Josie by her side. When everyone leaves, Lizzie always has Josie by her side. And yet now… Josie sees the blood and can only think about how badly she’s failed her. Lizzie watches the tears come and calls to her, desperately; “No. Josie – no. It’s not your fault. I swear it’s not your fault.” “You shouldn’t –” “Yes I should have. So I did. Josie – Josie listen to me – listen to me! Would you have done that for me?” God, her chest feels so tight she can’t breathe; little hiccups and sobs escaping; her cheeks slick with her tears. Lizzie is still talking to her, voice a frantic murmur in the background that Josie can’t make out. Josie’s promise rings in her ears like a taunt. “Josie! Please – please. Would you have done that for me?” It’s ridiculous to even ask the question. Josie would do all that and more for her sister if it would keep her safe. Incredulity at its redundancy presses in on her, the tightness in her chest easing off slightly as she stares Lizzie down; wondering if it’s a moment of idiocy or if she genuinely doubts how much Josie cares about her. Josie doesn’t know how she could. Lizzie is her twin; her other half. There isn’t a Josie without Lizzie or a Lizzie without Josie. Lizzie looks at her emphatically, seeing the disbelief and nodding despite how much it hurts. “Yeah. Dumb question right? Of course you would. You’d kill for me. You’d die for me. I know that,” Lizzie assures her, “So why do you think it’s any different for me?” “It’s – it’s not – I just…I promised –” “I know. But so did I. We’re sisters, Josie. Twins. It’s not just a one-way thing, okay? You promise to be there for me – then I’m going to be there for you. And I know,” Lizzie huffs, her eyes watering as she looks away shamefully; the vicious voices of her classmates and her insecurities blending together in her mind, “I know that I’m not always as good at it as you are – and I’m sorry. But don’t you ever think – not for one moment – that I wouldn’t sooner die than let anything happen to you. Okay?” For someone who so typically shies away from the emotions she’s often overwhelmed by Lizzie certainly has a way of expressing them. It’s about as sappy as she’s ever heard Lizzie and yet it’s exactly what she needs. Josie knows that she and Lizzie are constant, but she also knows herself – how much she cares for people, invests herself in them even when they sometimes don’t deserve it. Lizzie isn’t her clone any more than Josie is hers; they’re different people and they express themselves differently; handle themselves differently and yet some part of Josie has needed this moment; this validation because some part of her has wondered. Has worried that Lizzie might mean more to her than Josie does to Lizzie – has worried that their so-called dependency is Josie’s fault. They lock eyes and the voiceless doubt begins to lessen; fading into obscurity; into a mindless, insignificant afterthought. Lizzie sniffs loudly, looking away awkwardly and Josie laughs to herself at the way Lizzie shrugs like she might try wiping her nose on her shoulder before she shudders with quiet disgust. “Yeah, no, that hurts” Lizzie sighs, “Remind me to drain Hope of a few drops when we get out of here.” Josie can’t hide the way she flinches at the name; her heart skipping in her chest, accelerating alarmingly fast. She thinks of blue eyes wet with tears as she bleeds out and shakes herself to try something more pleasant. Hope in the morning, she thinks, when she’s soft and cuddly and sleepy. Hope when she says what’s on her mind and her eyes are blistering suns; vibrant and rich with determination. Hope when she reads and she’s all quiet-focus, her lips moving softly to mouth the words she follows. Hope when she hugs Josie; protective and affectionate; her grip tight like she never wants to let go. Josie could really use one of those hugs right now. “Josie? Are you –?” “–How are we getting out of here?” Josie deflects. Lizzie smiles at her as much as she can with a split-lip and Josie shakes her head, immediately on guard against the familiar gleam in Lizzie’s eyes. “I’ve got a plan.” - Hope wakes up to the chill of frost over her skin; the shop slowly enveloped in a creeping fog of ice, the delicate crystals shimmering like frozen starlight on her skin. They glimmer in the darkness; the whole shop shrouded in shadow and mystery – the broken door giving way to a never-ending night, ink-black and impenetrable. Hope sits up slowly, curious at the lack of cold she feels even as the ice lingers on her – perfectly preserved – and reaches for the GPS as she spots it. It’s relatively obvious, a black lump under a heavy frost and she plucks it loose largely unsurprised when it doesn’t work but unable to quite register it; her attention focused instead on what lies beneath it. Flowers spring up beneath the frost. They sprout curiously from a little plant, all of them dull-purple and bell-shaped, edged in tinges of green and fragrantly sweet. She’d mistake them for blue-bells if not for the fact that the entire plant is spotted in dark berries, shining enticingly with ripeness. Something whispers to her in the cold and Hope looks up to see a shadow skate passed the doorway. Immediately her hackles rise; the bewitching effect of the plant dissipating and she looks instead around the little shop, realising for the first time that all but three of the mannequins have disappeared. The blue-light, too, is gone although the strange presence of its magic hangs heavy in the air; lining her every breath until it feels like a part of her, calling her into action. Hope obeys; carefully observing the pins holding the chitons up on the dummies and following suit; pinning her own in place and fighting the strange feeling welling in her chest; a warmth that rings of rightness, of satisfaction and familiarity. It reminds her of the way she feels with Josie – and at the mere thought of the siphon, the feeling intensifies, sizzling like electricity trapped beneath her sternum. A bell chimes. Hope’s head snaps up in time to see the shadow holding space in the doorway; a wolf. Its looks as normal as any other wolf she’s seen, but it’s the size that truly gives it away; taller and stockier than other wolves, the werewolf is an imposing figure – regal and commanding; an alpha looming on the edge of night. It meets her eyes in the darkness, molten gold on burnished sun, and bows its head low to her – and tears spring to life in her eyes, hope blossoming tentatively in her chest. It looks like him. But it couldn’t be… Hope takes a step forward; her hand raised hesitantly and her father’s name a question on her lips. She barely moves an inch before it looks at her, knowing and sad as it disappears into the night. Hope barely wastes a second tearing out of the store after it. - The streets are still and empty but with every turn she takes, the noises come to her; like she’s free-running through history, chasing the wolf into their ancient past. Voices barter and whisper in foreign tongues; children laugh and soldiers scream and the chant comes – three voices calling to the night, silken and bewitching as they cast. Slowly – the visions follow. A plague of soldiers descends on a beautiful city; setting it ablaze, dousing its Temple in blood, great Grecian columns made markers for the broken bodies buried at their base. There is magic and vengeance and the rage of a broken people. There is war. And there are the women. Throughout all of it, two ghostly maidens circle; a blonde and a brunette in Grecian dress, gilded in silver and gold with bitter pain ornamenting their weeping eyes. They look at her, pleading, beseeching and yet – understanding. Phantom hands reach desperately out to her and Hope finds herself paused among the trees, reaching back and feeling their blood-slick palms in her own. There is a tug in her gut and she looks, sees the wolf in the shadows waiting for her, golden eyes glowing still, before her eyes turn back to the shapeless figures hovering around her. The flames do not burn, but they glow in the darkness; familiar and haunting – the image of a pyre surfacing instantly in her mind. They are mournful and dark, like the people they devour and Hope aches quietly with the need to do something. The women stand steady among the chaos; unbothered by the grasping hands and bloodshed, people passing harmlessly through them as if it’s they and not Hope who are out of time. Go, their eyes seem to say – though the screams beg her to stay.
Go, but come back.
The wolf howls shortly in the night, its head reared back – an alpha’s call to the pack and Hope turns hesitantly towards it; unwilling to go for a reason she can’t quite explain. She doesn’t have to. The wolf stares her down, eyes flashing from gold to blue and all hesitation is gone; the call to follow a fever beneath her skin; a fragile flower of hope blooming in the adversity of her doubts. Dad, she thinks – and turns to follow. - The wolf lopes through the trees; weaving between them in long, graceful strides – following an invisible trail that Hope can’t see. It doesn’t stop or look back to check on her, confident that she’s close behind and instead seems to speed up until it’s a blur ahead of her; shapeless among the shadows. Hope pushes herself to run faster; bounding after it, lungs burning but knows deep down that she won’t catch it, just as much as she knows that the wolf is not her father – if it were, it would not simply be an ‘it’ to her. Still, she feels the loss – the disappointment sitting low in her chest, her heart a stone slowly sinking down as it gets further and further away; her hopes dashed and longing returned. The soft padding of its running disappears as the two phantoms return to her side; new guides leading her on with the tinkling of the bells; walking where she runs and yet somehow keeping pace with her; their hands stretched to brush against her shoulders, gentle nudges urging her onwards though they needn’t bother. A call – like a howl in the night, tugging deep in her chest – pulls her forward. It leads her to a lake; the water riddled with ripples and small waves lapping gently at a sandy bank, a current moving mysteriously beneath the surface. A word comes to her – the same word she’s had on the tip of her tongue all this time, and finally its presence makes sense to her.
Maya.
The word for water. A red haze taints the colour of the water and Hope feels that same haze descend upon her, calling her forward as her guides watch passively from the shore. Hope takes no notice of the body on the banks; the fish-skinned demon that sizzles and steams still – half-submerged at the edge of the lake. She doesn’t see the way the waters have cooked and killed it; the way they still do, trapping its monstrous form in the shallows so that even in death this monster will not escape. She doesn’t see anything but the knife; the glow of its call emerging in the middle of the lake – like sunlight underwater. She wades into the waters in single-minded focus, oblivious to it all; from the gentle steam that rises from the surface; to the way she’s walking completely level – as if the water has no real depth to it at all despite its darkness. The moon glistens overhead, a perfectly rounded orb reflecting in the centre of the lake where the knife looms below but not even the wrongness of a second moon this month sets her off. There is only the knife – lurking, calling, waiting… The ground gives way beneath her, the bed of the lake sinking out of reach and Hope is submerged beneath the waters before she can take breath. - Watching it all go down, it’s not at all how Lizzie had envisioned the scene when she’d planned it out with Josie beforehand. Peaches had been standing outside the door all this time, having been led out there by an aggravated cultist when he’d been caught hitting her, told to stay where he couldn’t possibly be provoked by her. It would really only give her more chances to provoke him and it was all part of her plan. She’d thoroughly disprove their remark and, her pride restored, Lizzie would lure the brute into the room, where Josie would be waiting patiently, hands chained in her lap now, head angled down in deceptive innocence; looking as unconscious as she’d been when he’d left. Lizzie was supposed to have some quippy exchange, something hero-esque – like a brilliant one-liner or a clever segue and Peaches would play the typical henchman as he’d been doing all along and in his moment of confusion at her sheer wittiness, Josie was supposed to pick up the pipe near her chair and knock him out with it.
(“I really should start calling you Flynn Rider instead of Peaches, y’know. Get in the mood.”
“And why would you call me that?”
“Because, Eugene, you’re about to get hit by the pan.”)
That’s not even close to it. Apparently Lizzie is better at provoking people than even she knows because all goes according to plan until he immediately goes to beat her up again. Josie’s eyes are locked on him the second he steps into the room but when he turns his back to her, Josie changes; her eyes going dark and her fingers paling in her lap as she clenches her fists hard. There’s bitter confusion stirring in Lizzie as she watches her sister narrow her eyes at something Lizzie can’t see. Peaches pays no mind to whatever has caught her attention though; spitting on the floor at Lizzie’s feet and cracking his knuckles in that sickeningly familiar way. A rush of apprehension seems to sparks something in Josie; her sister’s hands flex around the chain in her lap. The moment Peaches steps into a swing, Josie is on him; slinging her wrists over his head and pulling the chain taught around his throat as she kicks his knees out to make it easier to choke him. There’s an efficiency to the movement; a callousness Lizzie’s never seen before. It’s almost frightening; how quickly everything Lizzie knows about her sister seems to disappear; like a stranger has taken her place between one breath and the next. Josie is the one who cares about people as they are, who everyone adores for her genuineness, for her sweetness, her empathy; the way they know she’s never out to hurt anyone and yet that’s not the Josie Lizzie can see now. This Josie is angry – furious, in a way Lizzie has never known; not even after Penelope cheated on her or broke up with her. Josie was loud and upset then but deep down Lizzie could feel the hurt that she was always trying to hide. It was a different type of anger then. Now, Josie’s anger is determined; is sharp – edged in steel and forged in desperation – it’s fear that fuels her sister. Lizzie can almost taste it, can see the thick pulse of adrenaline fluttering under Josie’s skin and is sincerely worried even as she kicks Peaches between the legs; the man garrotting himself on the chain as he reflexively bows forward. Peaches crumbles in Josie’s unrelenting hold and when she finally releases him he falls to the floor and Josie stands, triumphant and distraught over him. Her eyes are wet, lashes dark like ink and fluttering against her cheeks with each futile attempt to blink away her tears. Her skin is flushing with exertion; chest heaving and breaths getting closer together as Josie works to stave off her sobs. She goes to drive her hands through her hair and stops halfway as her shackles jingle; throwing her hands down in frustration. “Josie,” Lizzie tries but Josie ignores her, searching Peaches’ pockets and coming up with a key and a butterfly-knife. She sheds her shackles and cuts Lizzie free of her binds before going back to Peaches; rooting through his pocket. Lizzie gasps, skin stinging and shoulders aching as she finally moves her arms. Her wrists are rubbed raw and bleeding; a thick congealed mess coating her skin and she tentatively rolls her shoulders forward, only stopping when her ribs flare up with the pain of her exaltation. She feels like she hasn’t moved in days and the thought comes to her that it might not even be an exaggeration. There’s no real way to measure the passage of time in a room with no clocks and no windows and Lizzie isn’t entirely sure that it would matter. The air in the tunnels had felt different and she can feel it here; the presence of magic. Josie fumbles slightly, her breathing picking up and Lizzie glances over concernedly as she stands gingerly; testing her balance as her head picks up its rhythmic pounding in protest of moving. Josie’s holding a black band in her hand and Lizzie watches as she secures it to her wrist; pulling her hand against her chest when it’s done, like the little strap is all that’s keeping her together. Her chest is rattling with each short-winded breath but Lizzie’s so hesitant to touch her in case it makes things worse. Lizzie reaches for the emotions instead, feels them seated deep in their bond and is surprised at the volatile anger that surfaces first – before pain, before anxiety or worry or fear – and how vindictive it is; how protective. Josie is scared – Lizzie’s known this the whole time – but it’s different, she thinks, knowing that she’s scared for someone else. Peaches groans lightly on the floor; not quite unconscious and Lizzie growls at him, all set to properly knock him out herself, only to find she doesn’t have to. There’s no hesitation as Josie kicks him into silence, casual in her brutality like it means nothing to her; still obviously distraught; her eyes jet-black with some quiet agony. “Little heavy handed there, huh Jos?” she asks quietly. Josie frowns, fidgeting with the band on her wrist. “…They kidnapped us, Lizzie. And he beat you,” Josie mutters angrily, but Lizzie’s stare is unchanged; entirely impassive even with the prick of Twin Pain in her chest keeping her on edge. Josie crouches down to pick up the pipe off the floor, handing Peaches’ knife to Lizzie. Lizzie accepts it automatically, her mind on auto-pilot as she looks down at the body on the floor, catching the shallow breaths of the man and feeling relieved at the knowledge that Josie hasn’t killed anyone yet; no matter how intense the anger she’s feeling is. The silence lingers; Josie fidgeting with the band on her wrist; carefully avoiding Lizzie’s eyes. “We still need to find the boys,” Lizzie offers, letting the subject drop. She’s about to mention their lone wolf, recalling how close they were when they crashed and assuming they must’ve been taken to the same town that Hope was in when Josie nods dismissively, her eyes locked on the chains that she secures around Peaches’ wrists. “Yeah, you do.” “What do you mean you? – Josie, no,” Lizzie protests, easily following Josie’s line of thought and immediately opposed to it given how suicidal it seems. “Lizzie – yes. This is part two of your plan; find our friends. You literally said this place is like a maze – if we want to find them then we need to split up.” “Josie – seriously, you’ve picked the worst time to have subjective hearing. I said we look for them together. Do you know why? Because in the real life horror movie that was the life of legit everyone in Mystic Falls,” she emphasises, “the person who’s dumb enough to go off on their own literally always bites the dust like two seconds later. So no – no splitting up. We are in this together. Wildcats and all that jazz.” Lizzie can see Josie trying not to roll her eyes, probably a little frustrated at how reasonable Lizzie sounds. Lizzie’s just impressed with herself. It’s honestly the most sound and sensible thing about all the plans she’s made recently. Still, she can tell Josie isn’t sold just as much as she can tell what her hang up is. Lizzie stumbled across Rafael by chance and neither Hope nor Landon were anywhere near him. They’ve all been split up and if their own experiences are anything to go by, they could be trapped in dream-worlds of their own. The longer they’re in them, the more painful everything will be when they get out. Rafael might have to relive his girlfriend’s death and Hope – Hope will have to lose everything all over again. Josie says as much and Lizzie can tell that she expects the sympathy it stirs to be enough to get her to agree. She doesn’t imagine Josie’s all that surprised when it’s not. “I don’t want that for Rafael. And I don’t want that for Hope,” Lizzie explains, “but I also don’t want to lose you because you’re rushing off alone like an idiot trying to save her. How will she feel if you die because you go off on your own? It’ll be like she killed you herself –” “I’m not going to die –” “But if you do,” Lizzie growls, her eyes glassy and frustration apparent, “– that’s what she’ll think. And no matter how much I might try and be the bigger person, we all know that’s not exactly my strong suit, Josette so that’s what I’ll think – that she killed my sister. My twin. So just…Don’t do that to us, Josie. Just don’t.” Josie’s hand is tight, gripping onto the black band like it’s the only thing keeping her together and Lizzie sighs as realisation dawns. Josie exhales shakily, ducking her head to try and stop the welling tears from slipping free and Lizzie grabs her wrist gently, purposefully; her hand over the black band of Hope’s GPS. Josie just wants to find her before it’s too late – before everything goes to shit and Hope is hurt again and back at stage one and Lizzie understands. She remembers hearing Hope screaming the day she found out her mother was dead. She remembers how dead her eyes were when she came back six months after losing her father. As much as she sometimes doesn’t like her, there’s no way that she’d ever wish that on Hope again. Their relationship is antagonistic; not cruel. And while Lizzie certainly appreciates a little bit of destruction; she quite enjoys having a world to live in – something she’s sure wouldn’t be true if Hope were ever forced to experience that sort of loss again. But there’s the matter of how Peaches got the collar in the first place – and Lizzie hates to be realistic, but she can’t quite hold back on it this time. Everything they’re saying – it all implies that Hope is okay; that they can find her and yet… Josie needs to be prepared. She’s already thinking it; they both are but as much as it hurts, Lizzie knows one of them has to say it; that she has to say it. “…We need to think about the fact that…that they got the GPS off of a werewolf,” she starts tentatively, seeing defiance spring to life in Josie’s eyes immediately. “Hope –” “Is a tribrid; yeah. But we don’t know if she can heal if she’s supressed. Because they knew we were coming here, Josie – they prepared. And she doesn’t have magic here just like we don’t; just like they don’t. Yet…they still got her GPS, Josie. We don’t know if she shifted back – or even if she could. It was still night out when I got caught again and I’m pretty sure time here is super fucked,” Lizzie laughs bitterly, “So there’s a possibility that…” Guilt curdles her stomach; nausea rising quickly and Lizzie cuts herself off; unable to say it no matter how much she tries.
Hope might be dead.
Josie locks eyes with her and Lizzie’s heart throbs ashamedly at the tears slipping down her cheeks. She reaches out for Lizzie and Lizzie wraps her in a hug; heedless of her aching ribs as Josie leans against her shoulder, sniffling. A warm patch is forming on Lizzie’s shoulder and Lizzie can’t help the little sob that escapes her; biting down into her split lip with a vengeance as her ribs are jarred. There’s something frightened and dark in Josie’s gaze; like she’s endured something she never wants to again; something Lizzie is forcing her to face and Lizzie squeezes her as tight as she can, wondering what the hell happened in Josie’s dream-world – for surely it must be related to that. They stay there until Josie shakes her head in reassurance, taking a heavy breath and slowly pulls away; both of them trying to steady themselves before Josie tightens her grip on the pipe; resolve slowly forming. “We can’t just leave her here, even if she is…She’s not – I don’t…” Josie stutters, eyes closing like she’s trying to shut out the visuals her mind is conjuring. Lizzie nods swiftly, squeezing Josie’s arms and waiting for her to meet her gaze. “I don’t think she is either. I mean, she’s Hope fucking Mikaelson,” Lizzie jests, taking in Josie’s sputtered wet laugh, “But no matter what – we’re going to find her, okay? Together.” Josie nods gratefully, a little smile tugging feebly at her lips and Lizzie’s heart soars in pride at the hope glistening in Josie’s eyes; the trust and faith she has in her. “Let’s go find them,” she croaks and Lizzie nods, following after Josie to the door. - The world is a wash of indiscernible colours. They’re a tsunami whirling around her, destruction and creation; life and death; all passions twisting and turning but not touching her. She is alone in the centre, a part of them just as much as she is different than them; they are her storm, her power and she is their Eye. She focuses it, controls it, wields it. And it is not all she wields. Hope can see it; beyond the twisting of colours the blade gleams in the water, its edge gleaming with rusted carmines and violent cardinals. She presses forward through the colours and emerges from them into a world of blue; the knife a swathe of steel and red at the bottom of the lake. She swims towards it and feels like time slows down; images slowly passing her by as she slips deeper and deeper down. There’s a woman – the blonde in the ancient dress, her pretty blonde hair twisted delicately; she holds the knife to her chest, looking miserably out onto a war torn world; the earth soaked with blood and littered with the bodies of fallen soldiers. There is guilt and shame and misery eternal in her eyes; her cutting glare set on a man as he bats her away from the window; looking out at the willowy figure haunting the battleground; awash with the blood owed to her. Righteousness lifts the woman from her fall and justice delivers her blade into his chest; piercing his heart in a vicious blaze of red. The world shifts then; in a shimmer, like a ripple underwater; and she appears again. Her cloak pulled back from her face, bearing blonde hair and ocean eyes to the moonlight. She’s huddled at the shore of a lake, her hands resting gently on the wounded torso of a goddess in white; her hair splayed out around her like a russet halo; her eyes closed in sleep and skin swathed in darkening fabric. She kisses her goddess’ forehead and with a push, the boat passes through the waters on a slow moving current; an arrow setting it alight. The knife is in her hand and she cuts along her palm, brushing the blood over her forehead in solemn vow as she turns her back to her loss. Hope reaches for the knife and a new vision overtakes them; magic rushing towards her in a pulse from its blade; cutting through her. It’s Josie. She’s kneeling in a mess of dirt and blood; the knife clutched in her palms and tears slipping down her cheeks as her skin begins to glow; a red light radiating out from her hands and slowly spinning up her arms until she shines like a red sun. The knife glows with her and Josie is screaming – agonised as magic bleeds into her from the dimming blade. The light slowly fades; the knife paling as Josie sways. Her blood is slick and dark on the edges of the knife, pooling in her seared palms and slipping down her wrists in rivulets; the same blood slowly leaking out of every orifice until Josie is weeping bloodied tears. She looks up and it’s like she can see Hope – her eyes piercing into her soul, gouging out a place there. Josie opens her mouth, a word hovering on the tip of her tongue and Hope screams as the knife is tugged free of her hands and plunged violently into her chest. Thunder rumbles in the heavens; light erupting behind her in a swirl of vile greens and Hope watches; paralysed as Josie slumps backwards into the clutch of her killer; too weak to stay upright on her own. She struggles to lift her arm, the limb falling limply against her chest as blood begins to spill over her lip. Josie’s eyes flit briefly to the wound and then shoot back to Hope; locking on hers, so warm and loving still, even as the life slowly fades from them. The magic of the knife swirls around her, taunting, calling to her; This is the future, it tells her, How will you fight it? Hope can’t even reply; is too horrified watching the body supporting Josie disappear; her killer dropping her in the dirt and moving towards the portal. Hope can’t move; can’t breathe as she watches Josie choke; suffocating as blood pools in her chest and compacts her lungs. Each breath gets visibly harder, Josie gasping hoarsely for air until she can’t anymore. There’s a squeak of effort; her body desperate for air and Hope feels her heart shredding itself in her chest at the way she struggles; fighting even when she knows there’s no chance. Josie’s chest shudders once, her heart giving one last slow stuttered beat that Hope can barely make out and then she crumbles; unmoving; dead as the first monster emerges. The image changes; Dorian appearing, with Josie and Lizzie bowed before a stone altar in the woods. Rafael is at the edge of a salt boundary, struggling against a small gathering of brutes as he tries valiantly to reach them and Hope can feel her chest tighten at how futile it feels. He’ll never make it even if he does defeat them all. The boundary will keep him out. This is the present, the knife tells her, How will you fight it? Hope thinks of the women; the blonde and her brunette counterpart; how their hands touched the knife and the blade came to life. She thinks of the way they held it, wielded it – death delivered mercilessly and her own hand reaches out through the water and the magic and clasps around the hilt. With you, she tells it, drawing it roughly across her palm until a fog of red breathes to life in the water around her.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
-
The world around her is a blur of soft blues and waning moonlight. The ground beneath her is firm and even lying in the middle of the woods, shadowed trees tall and looming over her, she feels no discomfort. The grief that sits heavy in her chest is lighter, the crawl of the Hollow beneath her skin is gone and she rises slowly, confused.
Her dad is nowhere to be seen but she’s certain she was just with him. She expects to be afraid – to be worried, but nothing comes.
There’s nothing – just quiet – just…peace.
The air changes behind her and she turns at the breathless whisper of her name, sitting heavy and horrified in the space between them.
“Hope…”
“Mom.”
- She comes to on the banks of the lake, sputtering – acrid water burning as it’s coughed out of her lungs. She rolls sideways, gasping desperately and rolls with the movement of her stomach, vomiting up so much water that she’s amazed she hasn’t somehow drained the place dry. Her hand stings where she leans on it and Hope looks down, curious only to see the red split of her skin, blood welling and pooling among the dirt on her palm. She’s struck dumb for a moment, wiping her hand on the damp fabric of her dress and watching in fascination as blood wells again, seeping from the slit in her skin sluggishly. It shouldn’t prove as interesting as it is – Hope knows she’s more than capable of being hurt – all the species are. But Hope’s hurts have never really lasted. She thinks back to Aunt Freya trying to trick her in the Mill, telling her to fill a goblet with her blood and her frustration when the wound barely stayed open long enough to spill a few drops. Unless she gores herself Hope heals in seconds – and even then, she’s faster than everyone else. Her wounds never last. And yet – this one… She scrambles in the dirt, searching and her hand throbs as she finds it jutting up in the ground nearby, the blade shimmering as she clasps her hand around the handle. The blade sparks, glowing red in a short burst of light. Her hand throbs violently in time with her head, heart picking up speed as watery visions float to the surface of her thoughts. Panic rushes through her; her chest tight with despair as she takes in the slick feeling of her skin and the weight of her chiton – damp but not soaked, like she’s been sprawled slowly drying out in the cool night. She pushes herself up from the ground, grateful her shaking limbs hold strong beneath her. The knife is a comforting weight in her hand, tugging at something in her chest; quietly instructing. A branch cracks, purposefully broken and Hope looks up, relaxed at the knife’s direction as a shadow emerges from the woods, voices hollering in the distance. The wolf appears before her, different than before; its intelligent eyes sparking with something nuanced and uncertain – indecipherable. It settles on its haunches before her, just steps away, watching her watch it warily; the betrayed part of her prompting caution even as the knife whispers to her; voices urging her to relax. It’s not here to hurt her. It never would, something tells her and she kneels in the dirt to be level with it, keeping its stare as she takes in the shine of its fur – still laden with moisture. Hope looks over her shoulder to the stillness of the lake and feels the curl of warmth build within, like a fire gently stoked into burning; kinship strong in her blood. “You saved me…” It bows its head in concession, nuzzling at the hand she stretches towards it – pressing up briefly into her touch before it backs away. The visions come again amid hisses of danger; a blood-soaked earth and her friends’ throats torn free; their blood the rivers that wash over the dirt. Lizzie’s eyes are fear-stricken and desperate, turned on her sister as Josie stares back unseeingly – the last of her tears slipping free down her ashen cheeks. The image fills her with desperation – with rage and darkness and fear. She’s known these girls her entire life; even when they weren’t friends, somehow they were still hers. Her to protect; to care about; to hate or to love just as much as Hope is theirs in that way. They’re constants – more so than even her family and she can’t – she won’t lose them. “Will you help me?” She asks the wolf, clenching her fists tight; the knife handle not even splintering in her grip. The wolf stares her down, silent and unmoving. It eyes her – weighs her will, the vitriol in her blood; it takes her measure and stays still – finds her lacking. “Please,” Hope hisses through gritted teeth; clawing the dirt to reign herself in. The wolf barely budges at the motion but it does move; shifts at the venom on her tongue; at the barely concealed rage that lurks shapeless beneath the surface. “I’ll do anything,” she tries, but the wolf merely sits back on its haunches, impassive. No, you won’t, she can almost hear it say and she slumps into the ground on her knees, furious and frustrated. She wants to tell it she doesn’t understand but she does; remembers all of the lectures at school, the pages upon pages written about her family – about the monsters they were. Be better, everyone told her, and Hope had tried – is still trying – so hard to do that. She’s trying to be good – to be forgiving and compassionate, to be kind and accepting and open-minded and helpful. She’s trying to be everything she’s taught – everything everyone wants the hero to be. But Hope’s not a hero and what she’s being taught isn’t enough – it’s not everything she should know and doesn’t teach her everything she needs to learn. So much of what she knows doesn’t come from what her school teaches her and yet here she is, letting her school dictate this. Dictate her. Who she is. She’s not a hero – and she’s not a villain. She’s Hope Mikaelson and everything she is is everything they are; their loyalty; her loyalty – their devotion; her devotion – their strength; her strength. She is all of their best qualities and just as complex and unwavering as they are. “I’ll do anything,” she says again and knows it to be true. The wolf’s eyes glimmer; something like pride, like acceptance rising in their depths as they begin to glow. Hope meets its gaze, her resolve strengthened by its presence and bares her teeth, her eyes and the knife flashing in unison.
Mine or theirs.
“Take me to them.” -
The Night calls out to her; beckons her into its embrace and she pulls away, resists, crawling back into the swathes of blood that pool around her. She is careless and reckless, pushing bodies aside with none of the respect they so deserve – these people her servants, her friends; these people who raised her, who gave her the life she’s pursued. But there is no time for respect, no time for mourning, for the grief that swells inside of her; dark and consuming. If she surrenders to it, she will never escape it. She will become part of it; be ruled by it.
She will die here with them, and she can’t.
She can’t wait with them, can’t weep over them, can’t avenge them – not yet.
She needs to find her.
-
There is no sign of her; no blood that’s hers, no magic crackling in the air that breathes the same way hers does. She’s not anywhere in the temple or the village.
But she’s not dead; just gone.
Taken – by them.
She searches; scours every inch of the temple and among the spray of blood and the tides of frozen bodies – amid the massacred forms of women and their children ashen and red in sleep, she finds him. He is a watcher, silent and proud in the jut of his chin, meeting her eyes with curtained shades of fear, bolstered by the duty placed upon him.
He thinks she won’t kill him; as he prattles on about their fury rained down upon her. As he tells her they will raze her temple. As he tells her they will come for more than just the worshippers; as if the people they’ve slaughtered had no other purpose in her temple than to pray; as if they did not come in search of safety, in search of comfort that she’d offered them.
He think she won’t kill him as he taunts her with her failures – with the innocent blood that still pools around her feet and scars her soul; that will follow her into Hades when she descends – footsteps dark and heart weighed down.
He thinks she won’t kill him because he is a messenger.
He is delightfully mistaken.
They send her a messenger, proud and arrogant and she relishes the warning as the blood gushes from his eyes in bitter tears; laughing at the commanding nature of their demands as she sinks her hands into his flesh and listens to him beg for a mercy that will never come; for a swift death that will never follow.
They think themselves better than her; above her, as if they have power that she doesn’t; as if they could ever defeat her if she did not surrender. It’s why they’ve plundered her home; why they’ve murdered her wards and desecrated her temple. It’s why the blood pools around her and stains the floors and climbs, drop by drop, up the columns, reaching heavenward as if in search of divine intervention.
It’s why they took her.
And it’s why they’ll die.
-
Josie’s never felt betrayed before – not the way she does now. She’s been betrayed before – felt the crushing weight of it sit heavy in her chest and curl around her lungs, squeezing until she felt like a balloon about to burst. She remembers finding out Penelope had been cheating on her, realizing that whatever Josie gave her – everything that she could give her – wasn’t enough for her; the way the tender blossoms of affection that had bloomed to life in her chest over months and months with Penelope had wilted and withered; roots torched and petals plucked until only ashen memories remained. This isn’t the same. This feels like a slow chill; like ice creeping into her veins – so cold that it burns, so harsh that it cuts, and so thick that it numbs instantly. Her thoughts are a droll whisper; her mind sifting through an endless stream of memories, quietly trying to decipher the turning point – some small shift that might tell her where all of this is coming from; why this is happening. Nothing comes – but she persists because there must be something. She must have missed something. Maybe he wasn’t really that happy to spend Thanksgiving with them. Maybe he’d hated the gifts she’d given him for Christmas. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to teach her to swim, no matter what he might have assured her in the moment. There must have been something – some indication somewhere that she’s missed, because Josie can’t make sense of the idea that he’s just…changed. That the person who watched her grow up – who was so constant throughout her life and so influential – one of the few people she’s always known she could trust, is just…gone. He can’t be gone. This can’t be all that’s left – this man holding them hostage, chained to the floor before an altar like lambs for waiting for their slaughtering. This can’t be Dorian. Her tears are steady drops slipping down her cheeks and onto the floor; her hands ache behind her back and her knees hurt from the rough flooring under her but Josie doesn’t really feel it. It’s all an after-thought; something she knows is happening to her and yet feels almost like it’s happening to someone else – like she’s distanced from it. She wonders if this is what shock feels like – if her body is slowly shutting down because she can’t compute everything. She wonders if it’ll kill her before Dorian does. She wonders which one of them he’ll kill first and the pauses, looking at Lizzie, miserable and mercifully silent beside her; her glare speaking volumes for her. Josie can feel her sister’s wounds, the ache of a split lip as if it were her own and her thoughts turn; maudlin and morose. Josie wonders, with a sort of apathetic fascination, if Lizzie dying will kill her too. If the feeling of her sister – her twin, her other half – being murdered will bleed over into her until she’s caught in the tide of it; pulled in sick unison into the darkness into whatever afterlife remains for them. Lizzie catches her eyes like she can hear the thoughts as they spur to life in her mind; eyes fierce and dark but gleaming – glittering with something Josie can’t pinpoint. Dorian strolls down the centre aisle towards the doors, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he saunters halfway down before turning back towards them; pacing. His gait is different than before; probably another injury he’s picked up since they last saw him and Josie finds herself cataloguing it with some modicum of intrigue. He seems…anxious. Josie’s known this whole time that they’ve been waiting for something – they could’ve easily been killed the second he’d caught them – and yet for the first time, she finds herself wondering what they’re waiting for. It’s not the leader of this cult – she’d shown up within minutes of them meeting Dorian again, and she sits, pretty and patient and psychotic, draped over one of the rotting wooden pews like it’s the most comfortable thing in all the world. Her fingers fidget, her hands loosely dancing through the air like they’re caught in a strange breeze – her expression dazed and eyes unwieldy, but nothing about her screams impatient the way Dorian does. Nothing about her is as anticipatory as he is. If Dorian hadn’t announced her to be the leader, Josie’s not sure she could’ve guessed. Other than her flawless command of all her followers, there isn’t much more to indicate she’s in charge. She seems so…unbothered…untethered – as if nothing that takes place can really affect her. Dorian is the invested one – and Josie still doesn’t know what they’re invested in. “Oh Josette,” Dorian sighs, and Josie realises at Lizzie’s sharp look that she’d spoken aloud. Her sister’s freshly split lip is a testament to what a good idea that is. They brace themselves discretely. “Now, now, I’m not going to hurt you,” Dorian tutts. “No, you’ll just let everyone else hurt us,” Lizzie grumbles in response. “Elizabeth. That’s not very nice now, is it? We’re family –” “We’re not family,” Josie snarls, “And you’re not Dorian.” Dorian sighs, touching his forehead in that familiar exasperated way. He doesn’t say anything but they can read the set of his shoulders, the way he shakes his head, the quiet, ‘not you too’ that sits in the air between them. “I suppose that after all this you should at least know what you’ll die for.” There’s a manic gleam that slowly comes to life in his eyes. They dart back to the cult leader sprawled out on the bench but she merely waves a hand – dismissive and casual as she pleases – and the shine in his eyes grows until he looks just like Dorian used to: warm and excited – ready to teach. “Do you know where they come from? The monsters?” he starts, walking towards them slowly. The moment he’s within touching distance of them Rafael snarls from his chains behind them. There’s a splash and a desperate hiss of pain as he’s doused with wolfsbane. Dorian doesn’t even blink – seemingly unaffected by anything more than his forced pause before he quickly resumes himself. “They come from Malivore,” he breathes reverently into the air, “but of course, it wasn’t always called that. It is now, though. Malivore. It’s a Latin name, interestingly enough – has a very interesting meaning too, but that’s not quite as important. What’s important is what’s hidden there; the person.” “The power,” Cult-Lady corrects, finally sitting up. She looks over them with dark, intelligent eyes and Josie swears she feels colder just meeting them. “You see kiddos, this whole venture – our whole mission – is to open Malivore to get to her; to her power. She’s a very special person, you see, thousands of years old – forgotten – and yet so very, very important. Her power when it existed was unimaginable. Destructive, enchanting. Dark and light. Almost overwhelming.” She sounds like she could drool as she stares off into the distance. Her eyes glaze over; hungry and enchanted by the mere idea of all that power and Josie feels something in her recoil. The idea of someone that strong is terrifying. The idea of someone like this woman getting her hands on them is even more so. “So she’s powerful. Big whoop. She can’t be all that great if she got stuck wherever the hell Malivore is,” Lizzie drawls beside her. Cult-Lady shoots up, furious and indignant before it sputters out in a single moment and she’s calm again. That same crazed gleam sits patiently in her gaze regardless of her composure. It’s unsettling. “Malivore is hell. Well, a hell-dimension, at least,” Cult-Lady coos, “One that she created.” There’s a blanket of silence that falls over the church; all three of them struck with some level of shock. Rafael stops fidgeting in his chains behind them; dumbstruck. Josie understands being unable to comprehend the magnitude of the achievement. There’s entire chapters of her father’s history books about witches of immense power; people like Qetsiyah, like Emily Bennet, like Freya Mikaelson and Davina Claire; people like her godmother, Bonnie. Witches whose power was so immense that they could seal tombs for decades; could preserve themselves for centuries; could destroy a millennia of spiritual connection and become a conduit – a lone gate-keeper to their ancestors. Witches whose power was so great they could create the after-life for the supernatural; only for their bloodline to destroy it. It’s a heady kind of idea – a thought that doesn’t quite compute; the sheer magnitude of their power; of their will and their strength, of their determination. It’s something to marvel at when Josie struggles with her homework; the great feats of these powerful women. And yet somehow, creating a hell-dimension seems different. It doesn’t weigh the same as destroying the Other Side or even creating it – that purgatory where all the dead supernatural had been sealed away to wander by themselves, tethered to their earthly connections – to their friends, their family, their sires and their sired; to their victims and their murderers. Hell is different than purgatory – it’s darker. It’s meant to punish and to torture – it’s meant to be unbearable and to make the unbearable last. The idea that someone could create a hell-dimension; something for people to suffer in unendingly is…terrifying. Lizzie recovers before she does; all dry-wit and biting sarcasm as she stares Cult-Lady down. “You want to go to hell? Let me out of these chains then, bitch – I’ll send you right there.” Cult-Lady does nothing more than laugh; sounding genuinely amused as she pulls herself up and begins walking over; leaning against Dorian when she’s close enough. “Cute,” she breathes, crouching down in front of Lizzie and dragging a perfectly primped nail over her cheek. Josie feels the ghost of it on her own. “If we didn’t need you…mmm, I’d really enjoy hurting you.” They need them. That’s news. They need them. Just Josie and Lizzie? Or all three of them? Maybe it is just them – they’re the ones in the salt-circle after all, tied down before the altar steps. Maybe Rafael isn’t part of this, he’s just insurance, just leverage to use against them and make sure they behave. Dorian shoots Cult-Lady a look as she goes back to leaning on his shoulder. It’s one Josie recognises from school; that edge of annoyed and frustrated – like he can’t believe someone isn’t getting the bigger picture of how important things are. It’s protective in a way but not of them – of his plan, whatever that is. Josie’s certain he must have one – but she’s not certain Cult-Lady is involved in his the same way he is in hers. There’s a distant thud outside. The wind picks up; howling through the shattered stain-glass windows. A candle flickers out nearby and one of the guards moves quickly to light it again. Cult-Lady drones on. “The problem is that she’s trapped there and the only way to get her out is to control the knife. The problem with that is that Malivore has a Keeper and that Keeper has put quite a few safe-guards in place so that not just anybody can use the knife. I mean, how irresponsible would that be?” she asks rhetorically. Cult-Lady wanders over to a candle; playing with the flame and hovering her hand as close to it as she can get before she starts running her fingers through the flame. Josie watches her skin blister but she remains blank-faced except for the tug of a smirk at her lips. “Now, why don’t you just kill the Keeper, I hear you ask. Excellent question. Really, top marks. Dorian would give you an A, I’m sure. The answer, sweetlings, is that we’re going to. It’s what we’re here for. But we couldn’t just outright kill her. No, we needed her to get the knife for us first. You see – the knife sunk to the bottom of the lake out there,” she gestures wildly behind her towards the woods beyond the church. Josie remembers the gentle lapping of water out there – they’d followed a bunch of cultists out towards the water, thinking they’d lead them to Hope before they’d realised it was a trap and gotten caught. She’s still angry about it – angry and distraught. They still don’t know where Hope is. Or if she is… “And the water – it started steaming. Boiling anything that touched it; leeching the magic out of them, slowly cooking them from the inside out. The little monster that drove the knife in there tried to get it out and he’s doing a nice leather-bag impression at the lakeside with a friend of ours. We tried fishing it out with equipment but it had a horrible tendency to electrocute the people using it and just catch fire, so we wondered…how do we get it out? And we figured that we don’t. The Keeper will. And then we’ll kill the Keeper and the knife will be ours for the taking. That’s why we’re here,” she gestures around them glibly, “In an anti-magic boundary. The knife chooses based on the power of the people available. No power: no Keeper. Simple as that.” Lizzie starts up some tirade against them; questioning and indignant but Josie can’t hear her – her mind too busy spinning as relief – as hope starts to bubble up inside of her. She’d said her. The Keeper is a her – a girl – and the only one of them not here, the only one of them drawn to the knife – pulled to it… It’s Hope. It has to be Hope. It must be Hope. “Hope’s alive,” Josie breathes in relief, catching Lizzie’s confusion but unable to explain herself; too caught up in the swell of emotion rolling through her. Cult-Lady tilts her head at her, curious, “Is that her name? Your friend? Hope? Dorian, why’d you never think to tell me that? It makes the whole thing so…perfect. Little Hope, responsible for putting all the horrors back into their box.” It doesn’t take long for Lizzie to catch on; her sister sharing that burst of relief, though a quieter version than Josie’s own euphoric one. It’s nice; feeling the reverb of it beneath her breast-bone – knowing how much Lizzie cares. Dorian just smiles benignly; glancing behind him to one of the guards against the walls of the church before he looks back at them. “Didn’t seem important,” he mutters, a kind of thoughtlessness to the tone that Josie can tell he’s putting on. It bothers her, the little abnormalities to the situation – like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit. Why wouldn’t Hope’s name be important if they’re laying a trap for her? Hope’s name is a defining feature of her – it’s a warning, a promise of power, a caution against anyone who might cross her. It’s its own legend – the tale of Hope Mikaelson, the girl, the tribrid. The power that cannot truly be contained. It’s one of the few things that makes no sense for Dorian to leave out. Almost as much as it makes no sense for Dorian to trap them in dream-worlds – things he knew they’d escape from because he’d taught them to. It just…doesn’t make any sense… There’s another thud; and then the sound of something colliding with the church doors with enough force to rock them against their locks. Several goons adjust themselves, levelling weapons at the doors as Cult-Lady gestures for them to investigate; a sick smile twisting her lips as she turns to watch them leave. There’s something like delight lifting her shoulders up; making her fidget in place as they all listen to the screaming that takes up outside – hidden among a hail of gunfire. It drifts away slowly in a crescendo over several long minutes– dispersing until there’s only the grotesque sound of liquid spilling, and even that slowly settles into silence. It weighs on them, presses down and Josie is so focused on the doors; anticipation warming her with a nervous sweat, that she doesn’t see Dorian move until the deed is already done. A knife is shoved ruthlessly into Cult-Lady’s back and she jerks in Dorian’s callous hold; looking at him in betrayal over her shoulder. Lizzie chokes quietly in horror beside her and Josie shuffles slightly closer – as much as her chains allow until their shoulders brush; unable to look away. The blood pools and drips at her feet; a puddle slowly forming as Dorian pulls his knife loose, wiping it casually on her shirt before he lets her drop to the floor. The blood gleams like fire in the candle-light; spreading out in a slow moving wave that Josie can’t stop watching. “It’s not quite so simple,” Dorian chides the dying woman, careless as he turns his back to various cult-members. It’s a testament to his position over them that none of them shoot him down; all of them still in their positions throughout the church, stoic as statues even as their former leader chokes out her last breaths before them. “What the hell,” Lizzie panics breathlessly beside her, “what the hell…” “We’re not here to take her,” he tells the body on the floor and Josie can just imagine the wide whites of her eyes – confused and betrayed. “We’re here to help her…to feed her…to wake her up.” Dorian turns to his cult-members; gesturing towards the church doors with a deranged smile. He’s breathless himself; seemingly so euphoric that he can’t quite catch himself; his scars tugged strangely across his face as he beams. “She’s coming…” he delights, “but she needs your assistance. Your service. May you know no fear in your journey.” At once, all the remaining guards cock their guns and turn, uniform, towards the doors. There’s a steady march – each step taken without hesitation – as they line up to be slaughtered; disappearing out the door one by one until it clicks shut behind them. Dorian turns to watch; a glib smile still warming his features. The screaming starts anew. -
The fires in the temple rise, breathing and reaching for the stars themselves; their celestial forms peering back at the gathered; winking in the cloak of night as they stand watch over the proceedings.
They gather before the altar in reverence; in deference, all of them in wide-eyed gaping awe as She rises before them. Her cheeks are flushed, blood swept in dazzling shapes over her brow, a crown of bone and flowers woven intricately into her hair. They cower before the image of her; mighty and beautiful; power personified, towering over them in the dark, her shadowed form looming over them, cast out by the fires; a girl, a warrior, with two arching antlers protruding from the back of her head, the cloak of night draped from them.
Her blood soaked visage is seared into the minds of all present; the daughter, the Destroyer, rising to power, to righteous vengeance, her devil-knife in hand.
- Hope follows the voices with a kind of mindlessness she’s never experienced before; her every sense is sharp and carefully attuned, her lungs thick with the chill of the wind and the tang of their sweat-slick skin. The shadows shift under the scared light of flashing torches and she is among them – one with them, a predator on the prowl; a wolf on the hunt. Her wolf moves at her side, silent in the shadows, a guide leading her deeper and deeper into the woods; further and further among the flock – these sheep who’ve so stupidly obeyed their masters – who’ve captured them while having no idea what they’ve caught – what they’ve let into their home. She snaps a branch purposefully, watching them startle, and shares a teeth-baring grin with her guide. She’ll soon show them the depths of their mistakes. -
She hunts them in the woods; in their temples; in their villages and cities – she appears before them, a shadow, a reaper and cuts them down, one by one. She bathes in their blood, in their fear – tantalising and thick as it is – lets it mar her very being until she is one of them; the night-born, the darkness. Until she is a destroyer just as they are.
She does not find her – but there is no shortage of places she may yet be hidden, and she will raze them all.
Her name will be the last word to struggle free of their mouths; a prayer, a desperate unanswered plea – a beg of mercy that she will never give them.
Her name will be a dreaded whisper of the wind; a nightmare, a disease; a plague.
Her name will be death; will be destruction.
And their ends will be hers.
- Hope circles them, slowly moving closer and closer until she’s just beyond the scopes of their lights’ reach, able to see the rush of blood beneath their flesh; the panicked whites of their eyes gleaming wetly. Their fear is addictive, heavy on her tongue, thick in her lungs – spreading through her body like a cancer – this sadistic euphoria. They’re drones, followers, sheep but it doesn’t make them exempt from what they’ve done, the crime they’ve committed. They’ve taken what’s hers – her friends, her pack and stripped them bare; left them vulnerable. They’re a threat and she can’t allow them to persist. Mine or theirs, she thinks and knows the answer without question. -
Her hand plunges through muscle, pushes aside bone and reaches the heady source of the drumming echoing in her ears; a heartbeat clenched, fluttering, in her fist.
“Mercy,” they beg of her; all of them, desperate, frightened at last.
She does not answer.
Her fist clenches ever tighter and blood splatters like a star-burst over her face.
The body slips from her grasp; lifeless as her flashing eyes rove the fleeing crowd before her; hunting, always hunting, for the next.
-
Her wolf moves away, rustling bushes and drawing their attention to the far side of the clearing and she moves – a ghost, a blur – descending upon them. There is no room for mercy – no thought spared for it; for how easy it would be to simply incapacitate them, leave them conscious but alive. Instead her hand cuts a cruel arc through the air – the knife plunging through muscle and bone, pushing vertebrae aside to emerge, bloodied and pulsing from one man’s throat. She tugs it free as his companion turns and ducks behind the corpse at the flash of light – a muzzle flare – her ears ringing with the loudness of a gunshot as the body jerks. Hope pushes forward until she’s nearly on top of him, dropping the body onto him and waiting for him to dodge around it. She can almost feel the flutter of his pulse in the air – the rabbit paced thumping and her mind drifts; images of her father in a villa in France coming forward; a heart in each hand and blood smeared across his face in bitter victory. It’s the same blood that encompasses her own hand: the blood of the enemy – of the threat to their blood, to their family. It rolls down her wrist and spills over her hand: thick and dark and tempting. It slicks her skin; the metallic tang heavy in her nose and she stares into the eyes of sheep unmoved – beyond relishing in the fear, beyond savouring the agony that glimmers in his anguished tears. Indifferent. She feels cold but for the blood warm around her hand and the heat of the knife buried deep in his gut. He crumbles, goring himself as he slides to his knees and Hope remains unaffected above him; the knife carving its way up his torso – through him – as he sputters breathlessly. A crimson fountain gushes from his mouth, splatters across her skin and dress with his every gasping breath and Hope stares down at it in quiet fascination. It looks just like paint – an odd, perfect shade she’s never seen before except for in her dad’s paintings. The thoughts spurs a kernel of fondness in her chest; palpating beneath her breast-bone like a hummingbird in flight, each flap of its wings filled with the will to live, to survive – desperate and persevering. It flutters on the longer she stares; imagining the shade in its many forms across all of his paintings – her thoughts on them all changing, more informed now than she’d ever hoped they could be. Each painting was a testament to his survival – to his victories and the fall of his enemies. It was a permanent reminder of the passion of violence, of the darkness of rage – of the frailty of life and the dark, twisted beauty of death. She thinks of a red sky and a glimmering, perfect moon – full and whole among the darkness and knows that was a testament to her: to the people he’d killed for turning on him, for risking her. It was a marker of the kingdom he was building for her – the safety he was promising; the home he wanted for her. Hope wonders if she’ll pick up the habit. The poeticism dissipates; the warmth leaving her as she stares down at her victim, one of the many coming. There’s nothing satisfying about his death; nothing passionate or emotive to be found. Hope doesn’t care and can’t even muster the energy to be frightened of that fact. “…he’ll…win…” the man chokes out, staring at her with some level of defiance; clinging futilely to life. It’s almost admirable, Hope thinks watching him continue to try and talk, twisting the knife a little as she pulls it out before she pushes him to the ground. She’s almost impressed. Hope considers slitting his throat, if only to speed things up a bit. Mercy she’d call it. Weakness, something hisses back and Hope concedes, turning away; tuning her ears for voices as her wolf emerges from the trees. They’re closer now; the gun-fire drawing them in and she slips back into the shadows to wait for them; eyes darting about in vigilance but always, always drawn back down to her dress; to her skin and her hand and her knife. To the blood. She doesn’t remember the last time someone bled on her and she wonders, something in her curling up in curiosity – urging her on –…Her wolf growls and Hope lashes out on instinct; the knife launched from her hand; spiralling through the air. It catches with a thud – jutting up from some unsuspecting woman’s chest imbedded to the hilt in her heart. The sheep flock to her in panic: deceitful shepherds popping up amongst them – trying to lead them in spite of their own cowardly, woollen natures. It’s desperation – fear – and it warms her from the inside out. Hope stands, dragging her hand over her mouth when something wet slides against her skin and pauses – drunk and addicted to the familiar scent of metal. Her tongue darts over her lip reflexively as she glances down at the hand she’d used to wipe her face; feels the blood congealing on her skin and tastes – tastes it; dark and deep, like chocolate – like sweetness – like…nothing she’s ever had before. Her wolf nudges her and Hope’s hand snaps up; catching a bolt as it flies towards her, hearing the twang of the crossbow as it slips free and the hiss as it cuts through the air. Lights turn on her, bright and glaring and she meets the gazes of their wielders; watches the fear cut swathes through their loyalty; through their faith. They tremble at the image of her blood-soaked. They steel at the call of her vulnerability – magic-less, as if magic and power are the same and Hope laughs; because they’ve truly no idea who she is. Hope moves among a hail of gunfire; her wolf at her side and her hand extended to catch the knife as it whirls through the air towards her. It glows in her grip; vicious and red – sizzling and hot, casting its demonic light on her skin and the power that rolls through her is incredible. More than her own, more than anything she’s ever felt before; its intensity is almost overwhelming. It curls into her skin, coils around her bones and beckons at her – coos at her, consoles her. Take. It tells her. And she does. - Kill. It tells her. And she does. - Drink. It tells her. - And she does. -
She finds them in their temple; their home – twelve arrogant men poised around an altar, pretending to be Gods. They don’t move at her entrance, don’t deign to even look in her direction, purposefully ignoring her as if her presence means nothing.
They carry on as they were and though fury burns through her she does not let it rule her; pushing it aside with her own impatience and seating herself; dragging one of their guards with her by the throat. She lounges, dragging his wilting body alongside hers and prodding at the wound she’s cleaved into his chest; tracing its path, the tracks of her nails, from his chest all the way back to his throat.
She laves at the ruby droplets dripping from her fingers; tonguing at them as they spill into her mouth like one might suck grapes free from a hanging vine.
They wait so she waits.
They breathe so she breathes.
They move – so she moves.
They turn on her at once, twelve angry men playing at statues. They are stoic and composed; soldiers lined up before her, unflinching in the face of danger.
And yet their eyes betray them to her.
They fear her.
And so they should. She has come for them finally; after months of hunting, after weeks of patience; their fate has come upon them at last.
“You have done much,” one of them notes; the purple of his clothes singling him out even among his laurel wearing brethren. His tone is so casual – so dismissive of the pain she’s wrought and she stands, quiet as cracks creep out from beneath her feet; her blade burning molten hot in her hand; the red reflecting in her eyes.
There are no words shared as she moves amongst them; only screams; only fear; only confusion in a chaotic whirl of magic as she pierces their hearts and their throats; as she drinks and bleeds; as she feasts and fades. She cleaves limbs free of their bodies, slits and slashes open flesh; sinks teeth and claw into their fatty bodies and drinks the rich, poisonous blood from their dripping veins. She mutilates and disembowels and destroys – ending every effort with her knife in their hearts, their names spoken for the last time by her mouth.
They are forgotten in an instant; their numbers dwindling as each is erased until only she remains; until only she remembers.
Their magic floods her body; pulses through her knife and her own heart; hums and breathes and hisses as she seals it away.
They have taken and taken and taken from her – family and friends and her - they have killed her people; murdered innocents and cast their bodies out before her feet, left her responsible for their pointless death - and throughout all of it, she has heard their messages; their words. She hasn’t spoken; speechless in the wake of her own rage; her grief, and anguish, as all hope for her love was extinguished, body by bloodless body. She couldn’t find the words.
She finds them now.
“You have done much,” they told her.
“You have made me,” she answers.
-
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It comes across the tides to them on the whispers of the spirits. The tales strike fear into the hearts of mothers and vicious anger into their men; leaves them clinging to their children as if the moment they are out of hand, is the moment they will be lost too. It’s unthinkable – the horrors that are told – and yet, even as details and deceit are added; the stories growing with each nuance of fiction and fragile half-truth, all who hear it know the core of it to be real.
It sows disquiet into their town; leaves the streets barren at night and warriors twitching at the sight of strangers. And as it always does, the fear it fosters becomes a game to naïve children; a test of the brave among those innocent to the true darkness that feeds their play.
The temple is overrun within days as the anxiety grows and when at last she is told the stories, when the moon is full and the spirits are awake; when the flames chase the chill of the listening dead from the walls, this is what she learns:
There is a coven on a mount; twelve ancient and powerful men with dark magic that draws and corrupts the earth. They are terrifying; muddying the laws of nature and taking from it with no thought to how nature might take from them.
The talk of their abuse – of their power, of their world and its gifts; of their people – leaves her sickened but none so much as the tales of their leader.
His name is Cronos. And he is a monster.
A Titan of a man, he is motivated and cruel and power-hungry. He acts like he’s been starved; like his coven didn’t choose him for his strength – like his power has not grown since he took leadership of them; like it won’t continue to grow over the long summers of his life. He acts like he is weak, ailing – and all that will heal him is the power he hungers for.
He is a monster driven to madness so deep that all he sees of people is their magic; their strength.
But greed is not the making of this monster. It’s not the reason the village has trembled with vindictive rage and passionate sorrow.
It is not why the spirits quail and demand their intervention.
If it was, she would be unmoved by their speeches. She would dote on her people, comfort and console their worries like they do their eager-eyed children but she would not share them. Her coven may be only three but they are strong; sister-witches, her and the twins.
They have dealt with monsters as easily as they have dealt with men and all are of no consequence to them. Their strength is the thing of legends; elusive and enchanting in equal measure; a warning to do right by magic and the people or find your lot in life cut short.
No, her people do not fuel her worries.
The source of her concern comes stumbling into the temple as the fires burn low and dawn looms on the horizon, colour bleeding into the receding night.
He carries himself like a broken man; a wilting flower, the sunlight far out of reach and its roots dried out and useless. He folds in on himself; a landslide of grief wearing him down like Atlas crumbling under the might of the sky he holds.
He sits at the foot of the temple stairs, eyes cast out to the lightening dawn; the fading twinkle of the stars, the emerging hirsute tones of the clouds and the soft ambers of the sun.
The twins emerge behind her, touching her shoulders gently and she goes to him; her crowd of worriers parting to let her to his side.
She sees it the moment she is within reach of him; the gaping, oozing wound on his chest. The ashen colour of bone catches her eye among the mess of red and rotting flesh. His eyes are sunken and dark, his skin pallid and sweat-slick. She can almost make out the beats of his withering heart, trundling away within the bracket of his ribs – viciously fighting on.
She sends for a healer and her love rushes down the steps to his side, offering him her healing hands.
He shakes his head softly.
“I beg your aid,” he says, “but I fear for your life. The life of you and your young love and your coven-mate. For if you go to see him, to face Cronos, he will not see women or witches or people. He will see power. And he will hunger for it.”
Many have hungered for their power and many have sought to take it from them; to conquer them. Many have failed and many have fallen; their hubris, their own undoing.
Cronos will prove no different.
“Cronos is different,” he promises.
He takes her hands and lays them on his skin, nudging the seams of his wound, where the blood has already begun to dry and spill over itself in a gross cycle.
“Feel this; my flesh? It’s his flesh – his blood. He is my father and yet he would have gored out the heart of his last son for the power it holds.”
“What power?”
“My magic. I am the last of his children. He has done this to all the rest, even before I was born. And if he should have more children, he will do the same to them. He will take their heart; their magic – and he will devour it.”
-
When she appears, Dorian is ecstatic. Every moment he spent searching for this accursed knife – every moment he spent plunged into the depths of this coven, this cult of naïve, uninformed worshippers – every tortuous second spent listening to their power-hungry dictator and her clumsy whims; it’s all lead to this. Here she is; powerful and ancient; the secret to his peace, to his rest. And she’s so young. So new. Like a fawn finding her legs; fumbling and delicate; traipsing through the world in clumsy, careless steps. Her guide is by her side, fierce and familiar, her hand twined through its spotless fur; the blood dripping in sheets down her skin matting the fur around her fingers; dyeing it the colour of wine and rust. It’s a noble creature; familiar to her and the spirit of her – but it’s only one guide; only capable of so much. There’s so much she doesn’t know; that it can’t tell her – but how fortunate for her, for him, that he’s here – that he’s found her. She will be his student and he, her teacher. The flames flare high and mighty on their candle wicks, billowing dangerously in a light wind that seeps into the church; a hidden chill curling within the walls and leaving his bones rattled and his soul quivering in his chest, fear-ridden. The light makes her glow – her frozen irises now electric, her rust-heavy skin now ruby-slick. The few untouched spots of her person look foreign and strange; cleanliness seeming almost abhorrent, like some great mark detracting from her wondrous violence – from the beautiful cascade of blood, of life and mortality, dripping from her fingertips. She’s meant to be bathed in blood; a warrior; a God – and those few glimpses of paleness make his stomach turn in disquiet; ruining her for him. Still, he reminds himself, no one is perfect. This is her first outing; her awakening. She’ll learn. He peers beyond her, glimpses the bodies strewn across the woods behind her; piled carelessly – bodies and limbs and heads – like some child had broken their dolls down and left their pieces to lie piteously wherever they were thrown. Tendons and ligaments drape over their tortured bodies like crudely cut puppet-strings; tongues hang out of open throats, jaws missing or grotesquely wrenched free. There are arms and legs – hands and heads – all flung distances away from their bodies; bones protruding and marrow visible in the vicious fractures. There are organs – so many vital pieces, hanging loose from their corpse’s chests or muddled and mutilated in piles nearby; a feast for scavengers, raising steam into the air, still warm in the cool night. Hearts litter the ground like shimmering gems, their wet flesh catching the moon’s dimming light and glistening; eyes caught wide and terror-stricken in their skulls shining like pearls, clammy, sweat-soaked skin hanging loose and open to reveal them. Necks have been mauled and throats torn out; by her teeth, Dorian assumes, looking at the thick mess rotting and congealing on her chin, the dark sumptuous red marbling her skin and clinging to her mouth. It’s a field of horrors; of blood and sacrifice; of complete and utter destruction. It’s a field of death – and Dorian couldn’t be more proud of it. Though, he is curious to note, he remembers them still. There, splayed out headless is Theresa – and there, limbless and gutted is Johnathon – and there, impaled on a tree is Rupert – He knows them still; their names, their pasts. As brutal as their deaths have been, their sacrifices – the true sacrifice hasn’t been made. There is not a single heart that it is pierced by anything other than a branch; nails; a set of fangs – There are no marks from the knife, besides the long slits, the deep stabs into torsos and throats and chests, yes, but never hearts. “Not hungry, then?” he wonders. She cocks her head at him just-so and the wolf at her side growls lowly. Its eyes are sharp and intelligent; glimmering gold like a werewolf’s – though he knows better than to think it that – and staring him down as it licks its chops threateningly. There’s an answering growl from Rafael and Dorian catches it as her lip curls up before she can stop herself; her power flaring out around her like a bubble, imposing and dominant in the air. The growls fade; wolf and boy falling silent at once. Dorian rocks back on his heels. “I’m sorry about taking your friends. I hope you know it’s nothing personal – I wasn’t even really a part of it, but I suppose I’m complicit in it simply for not stopping it, aren’t I?” He looks fleetingly behind him and the altar seems miles away; so distant from their conversation. Lizzie and Josie are shoulder to shoulder, fidgeting in their chains but their eyes are laser-focused on her. Even from a distance, Dorian can see the yearning in Josie’s expression; the relief the pair of them share that she’s unharmed even if they’re horrified at her blood-soaked complexion. Their wolf is sizzling lightly in a wash of wolfsbane; his eyes glowing furiously in agitation at the presence of the wolves. Dorian smiles at them, watches Rafael jolt in his chains as the girls glare bitterly at him and turns back around. His smile eases; one of comradery rather than condescension as he meets her gaze. She doesn’t even look their way; her eyes locked solely on him. “They’re fine, I promise. Well…Elizabeth is a little banged up but you’re not interested in her…or are you?” he wonders. Her eyes shimmer with an ethereal wildness; a primal, unruliness just barely quelled, satiated by her hunt. They glint, watching him, like a ray of light has raced over them. Her fangs glimmer, pearlescent in a cavern of dark and rot as she smiles shortly; knowingly. She doesn’t answer him. But she doesn’t have to. “Does that change if I call her Lakhesis?” There’s a low hiss that agitates the beast at her side; its teeth bared in a mirror response. He inclines his head towards her in silent apology, eyes on her wolf before he ducks away in deference but it changes little; the hackles of her guide still raised in vivid fury. He shifts focus. “I’ve been waiting for you. For many, many weeks. For forever, it feels like,” he laughs, feeling the elation creep back in. He’s so close. “And now that you’re here – I almost can’t believe it.” He barely takes a step closer before the wolf at her side growls gutturally. Her fingers tighten in its fur, her posture loose and calm still and it curls back to her side, rubbing its flank against her with quiet affection. He finds it rather curious that her wolf is so expressive and yet she’s so blank. She’s passive, almost, as if nothing is truly phasing her and he’d believe her if not for her wolf and her name. Still, he steps back obligingly, knowing who truly demands it. “Do you know what you’re here for?” he asks. The answer comes in the hiss of hot metal in the air; the knife a crimson incandescence in her white-knuckled grip. It sings in the air; radiates power and the glow of it climbs; surges inside her veins and disappears into her skin to spring to virtuous life in her eyes. Her irises red and blue and lilac; swirling into and around each other; a magical mess of rich power and richer will, ebbing and flowing until it settles into blossoming, glowing lavender. Quiet panic sinks into his skin, then. He is the last one here; the puppet-leader dead, the cult dead and he’s not foolish enough to believe she’d ever turn her eyes to the children. She came here to save them; they’re hers. “Come now, that’s not right. I haven’t hurt them. I didn’t take them from you. Why, I even killed the woman who’d use them against you,” he tries, stepping back slowly. “I’ve fed you and brought you to life! I’m an ally. A friend. A teacher, even. You can’t kill me.” Her head cocks, eyes radiating amusement and curiosity. Why ever not? she seems to ask. “That’s not your mission – that’s not your task. I hope you know that, but if you don’t, then all the more reason to spare me; I can teach you that. Show you your purpose. You’re meant to kill monsters. You’re meant to take them – to send them to Malivore. You can’t kill a man.” She smiles, radiant and angelic, a softness in the look she levels him that stops him on the spot. “I have killed men before, Teacher. I have killed your men,” she mocks him, “but you are not a man.” She closes the distance between them in what feels like a second, her hand heavy on his shoulder, freezing him with the thrill of fear coursing through his blood. Reflexively he shrugs away from the pressure but she only grips harder. He reaches for her wrist and she slaps him harshly away. Another breath and the knife is there; and it’s like a spell falls over him, sucks the will to move out of his body and leaves him paralyzed. He could break her grip; it wouldn’t be hard, their position is awkward and not the least bit tactical or strategic. It’s not even a hold; all that keeps him still is her hand on his shoulder and the spell of her knife; tantalisingly close. But, though his body knows the motions to escape, it lacks the will to fight and he hovers, tense and relaxed in the same moment; a landslide of adrenaline coursing through his veins with nowhere to go. She angles the blade; her eyes tracking the point as it presses hauntingly against him through his shirt, hovers over his heart for one, two, three heartbeats and slowly climbs upwards. It’s insulting, being so dismissed as a threat that she won’t even watch him and yet he can’t blame her; feels the thrall of the knife, even if not as intensely as she does. The tip of the knife scratches a thin searing line of blood over his skin; a slow crawl across the thick band of scars marring his neck before resting almost teasingly against the skin that masks his jugular. She looks up at him at last, something playful and dark and knowing in her eyes as she adds the slightest hint of pressure just to watch him reflexively bow away from the contact. One move and she could kill him; slip her knife into his jugular and the carotid artery just beside it and watch him bleed out within minutes. Or maybe she’d cleave his throat open; make him sputter and cling to it with a useless hand, trying to hold himself together as if there was ever any hope. Maybe he’d fall down at her feet and she could tower over him like a God as the life drains from his eyes. Maybe that’s what she wants. But it’s not. Dorian can read her better this close; can see the truth he couldn’t quite discern before; figure out the knowing edge of all her looks. Knowing because she does know; she can see it in him somehow. It wasn’t wondering before, wasn’t asking why it wouldn’t be him – it was coy admittance. You, but not exactly. You, but him. Her palm is warm, bordering hot, leeching into his skin and some part of him aches at the simplicity of it; of life so near to him and yet so far from his grasp. The longing wars within him; twin sensations of desire pulling at him; Dorian’s want for life, and his want for her, for her power. He can feel the shift of his eyes; the otherness visibly overcoming him, swarming into his sight from one eye to both, revealing itself to her as words that aren’t his spew out of his mouth. A name – her name – is cursed, as she stares into their milky depths. “You’ll never find me,” he spits. “I won’t be sent back there – not condemned like everyone else. I’ll be free – and even if I were to go back there; to those pits you carved, to that hell you claimed, I’d never stay. They’re coming back; rising and you’ll not defeat them this time. They’ve had millennia to wait for you; centuries to build and grow and plot your death! He’ll win – he’ll end you! I swear it to you.” “He can’t,” she says, “And you cannot hide from me, Necromancer.” The other in him balks. Dorian finds his jaw hung slightly agape and she laughs, like bell-chimes and faerie-delight, crystal clear and musical. “You’d raise a man before me and expect me not to know?” There is no reply. Dorian feels his own fragile hope well within him, realising the true strength of her at once. Of course she would know; he was given his lot and time has run out. Of course, she would see that. “Well, what a way to ruin all the fun,” the Necromancer comes again, his composure recovered, “– and I’d hoped to have so much more. I wanted to bring back the others; your sweet love and your coven-mate. Although I suppose it was just the one in the end, wasn’t it?” Lakhesis, the name hangs in the air but unlike before he doesn’t dare to speak it. There is a well of anger in her eyes, dark as the chilling night behind her and Dorian’s soul quakes at the depth of it. But it’s not only anger – it’s that familiar torment he’s often glimpsed in them when those eyes were blue; a swirling, tumult of grief and death. A sorrowful wailing in a quiet soul. “Did you forget what happened the last time you challenged Cronos? The cost of your arrogance?” It’s a dangerous, stupid ploy; the Necromancer seeking only to agitate her, to crawl under her skin and settle there like some flesh-worm; some parasitic pest. It’s petty and reckless; begging her to anger, to cut a bloody swathe through the world in search of him and leave him an ashen stain on the face of the world, forgotten to history again. It’s not the cunning strategy he must perceive it as; it’s a plea for death. She doesn’t rise to anger, though she snarls, so close to him that spit and blood flecks onto his skin and he can smell it; the death that lurks in the cavern of her mouth; the rot that’s lavished her palette and sated her thirst. Dorian imagines those teeth ripping through his throat instead of the knife and wonders at it; murdered by a vampire, by a ripper – for she must be one, there isn’t a whole body in sight – just like his family. But, he’s forgetting, he’s already dead. It’s not death – not really. Or perhaps, it’s a more permanent end than death has proven to be. “And you forget what I did to him – to him and all of his. You forget that I avenged her. That I avenged them both. I won,” she says. “Yes, I suppose you did. In the end, at least. And yet here you are, back where you started and all alone again,” he mocks, and can only marvel at how the Necromancer must look, how melodramatic and emphatic he must be that Dorian can hear the face he must be pulling replicated in his own voice; mocking and condescending and yet gloating all at once. There’s a lull – both of them feeling the build of their conversation has reached its peak; that it’s time for cards to be shown and the match to be called. The Necromancer speaks: “Or are you?” And the silence reigns. Her hand doesn’t waiver and she doesn’t recoil. There isn’t the slightest hint in her body or her face that the words have landed with her at all. There is no jubilation; no spark of optimistic delight, of hope or even the cutting bitterness of pessimism and its certain scepticism. There is nothing – just those same eyes, whirling with immense power and terrible sadness. “Yes. I am.” “So certain,” he taunts, “but how sure can you truly be, hmm? Not sure at all, I’d say. I mean – look at you; your own host has been thought dead before.” “Is this your grand plan, Necromancer? You want to kill me with hope,” she smiles, knife-sharp and just as cutting. Her head bows forward, voice a whisper as if sharing a secret, as she tells him, “ you can’t kill me. I am Hope. I do not die.” “You’re not your Keeper, Night-Born,” the Necromancer dismisses, but Dorian can feel the intrigue her words have sparked just as he feels the tips of her nails sink into his skin through his shirt. “I am Hope,” she asserts again, the knife casting a sharp edge of light onto her features. It hisses just out of Dorian’s sight, heat travelling tortuously into the vulnerable skin of his neck. The Necromancer continues: “Well then, I am Dorian. Just as I am Johnathon, Theresa, Rupert. Just as I am any body that I might raise. Anyone you cut down is just another body I can use. My power is endless; my might is endless. All the dead are at my whim and fancy, my mercy. What can you possibly have equal to that?” “I have no need for mercy. I am Hope. I am Fate. I am Inevitable. You cannot end Fate, any more than you can outrun it,” she declares, cutting to the heart of the matter at last, “I will find you, always. And always, I will bring you back to Malivore.” The honesty cuts through him to his puppeteer; slices deep into festering wounds and leaves them weeping and open again. Fear crawls like maggots over his flesh. She’s right, of course. There is no end to Fate; not to her. What shakes him most is her manner. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t speak with anything but a quiet confidence. She’s certain; unwavering and the other in him recoils, unsettled. She came with anger before, and he knows it lives in her still; it breathes and lusts for the carnage she causes – but yet it’s not here, now. She isn’t angry. She is…kind, he thinks, meeting her lightening gaze with his own milky one; Dorian and the other truly seeing her, together. “I’ll take your monster home, Dorian Williams, he won’t use you anymore.” Her promise is a catalyst for action; breaking the spell the knife weaves over him. He feels his hand grope for the gun at the small of his back and tear it free, levelling it at her. It presses between them against her stomach, and though he fights it back when it goes to slide upwards, angling for her heart nestled behind her ribs, he can’t turn it away. She doesn’t move, her eyes on his – her gaze on the other behind his gaze, the creature pulling his strings. His fingers shake but his hand steadies and he pulls the trigger against her; once, twice, three times. There’s a scream from behind him; shouting and crying and the vicious jangling of chains but neither of them pay it any mind. Blood sprays between them and she doesn’t even blink; her body barely jerking as the bullets tear through her. The recoil pushes back, the gun knocking heavily into his ribs and he feels them fracturing under the pressure. He barely gasps; a sharp exhale is all his body is allowed as he’s forced to breathe through it. She slips the knife into his neck, the glowing blade piercing the flesh and painlessly he withers on the spot, aided gently to the ground by her steady hands. The other disappears in an instant; and he forgets him, eyes cast to the vaulted ceiling of the church hanging overhead. He wishes they were stars; or an endless night. He thinks it would be better; an infinity of stars spread out over him, winking like virtuous souls welcoming him in among them. He wonders if his sister and father are there; if they’re waiting for him. He hopes they are. Her wolf wanders to her side, eyeing her with something like curiosity, like admiration. It nudges his fingers, nuzzling his palm with its wet nose before dithering back to her loyally. “Have your peace,” she tells him, her eyes still that soft purple. She stays over him, watching, an avenging angel hovering as she takes the knife from his throat. He wants to say something, thank her for her kindness, thank her for her promise. Maybe even thank her for who she chose; for the girl wielding the knife, dressed up in a wet blanket of sad mortality and ancient power. He disappears into nothingness as the colour in her eyes fades, blue slowly stealing back to prominence. The knife sings in her grasp as the magic disappears and he with it. - The world starts spinning in an instant. Her breath comes in a rattling gasp and Hope wavers at once, dizzy and confused as she presses her hand against her side, raking her nails through the mess of blood to find the searing heat of her own torn flesh. She stumbles, her wolf pressing itself eagerly against her side and she knots her fingers in its fur as it helps her slide bonelessly to the ground. Her eyes flutter against a soul-tugging tiredness; silver spots dotting her vision and with a whine of desperation – of fear – at the fuzziness overcoming her, she tugs on her wolf and finds leaving her. There’s a whisper of affection – a ghostly touch of a wet muzzle pressed to her forehead and a rough tongue on her cheek – but when she reaches for it, it pulls away; disappearing in a hush of certainty into the solemn night. Hope fumbles at the ground, arms weak and heavy; her will slowly draining away as she reaches out for it. “…come back…” Her head falls to the side, her eyes half-closed and her breath shallowing; gaze cast unseeingly at the doors and the rot of bodies outside them. “…don’t leave…” She reaches out, barely managing to lift her hand – And someone reaches back. A hand tightens around hers; catches it and holds fast; their palm warm and fingers sure and soft on her skin. She can’t muster the strength to look at them; moaning as pressure piles itself on her stomach; the weight of it aggravating her injuries. But she knows their touch; knows she knows it even if the name won’t come to her. A voice whispers to her as her eyes flutter determinedly; tiredness fought and stubbornly blinked back, breath by breath; a husk of comfort creeping over her as lips press softly to a patch of unmarred skin near her temple. “I’m not leaving you, Hope. Never leaving you. That’s our deal, remember? You don’t run and I don’t leave.” Josie. Josie has her. Josie will keep her safe, Hope thinks, pressing gently into the touch of her mouth at Hope’s temple. Josie kisses her again; firm and fleeting. There’s a wet sound; a sobbing noise, a sniffle and she breathes against Hope’s hair, leans against her like she can’t get close enough but is so afraid to hurt her. Hope doesn’t want Josie to be afraid – wants to keep her safe, keep her happy and so she moves; gathers her strength and squeezes hard on the fingers knotted into hers. Josie squeezes back; raises their joined hands to her mouth and kisses Hope’s knuckles and her palm and leans their foreheads together. “I’ve got you, okay?” she whispers, “You can close your eyes; everything’s alright – we’re just gonna take these bullets out and get you out of here. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, okay? I’ve got you.” Hope nods; her head jerking like a bobble head – the world spinning in and out in a wild blur of colour and shapes. She rises; ragdoll limp as she’s arranged in someone’s arms and moved – the stars and the night replacing the crumbling vaulted ceiling of the church. It must be Rafael carrying her – the stench of wolfsbane and wet-dog, the blur of gold and brown in front of her face – it’s certainly not Josie; though Hope can feel her hovering close by, clinging to her hand. Something blonde moves in front of her – a hurricane of motion and blue and she can’t help the soft gasp at the sight of it; squinting and fumbling forward in Raf’s hold. Adrenaline sparks to life in her system even as she crumbles in his grasp; nearly sending both of them to the ground. The blur of blonde moves closer and Hope reaches – tearing her hand free of Josie to grasp for her – “Lakhesis,” she breathes, reverent. And there behind her, beneath the dark skeletons of the trees; hearts nuzzled against his greedy sucking mouth; his eyes wild and dark, is Cronos.