Cynthia half-limped through her home’s basement, quiet as she could
be while she crept back up the stairs and slithered through the door
there. One hand gripping her side, dress tatters on her frame, her
smile unbreaking while she slid into the nearest bathroom and closed
the door behind her.
A large medic’s bag retrieved from the bathroom closet, and she let
her dress slide off her shoulders onto the floor while she checked
the wound on her side. A deep gash, a broad from tit to hip, not
healed at her own request though already bleeding through its
bandage. The gauze easily cut away while she fumbled for a bottle of
peroxide and a napkin with her free hand.
The cut cleaned off, Cynthia in the middle of stitching the wound
closed when there was a knock at the door and Hank asked, “Cynthia?
You finally home?”
The woman rolled her eyes, moving away from the door while she
continued working and just answered, “door’s unlocked.”
Hank didn’t bother waiting a moment longer before he threw the door
open, Cynthia not bothering to hide her body as he stepped in and
went wide-eyed at the sight. Her half-stitched wound, blood soaked
hair, hand prints scattered across her body in a mixture of wolf
blood and her own.
Cynthia not bothering to fake embarrassment as she told him, “close
the door, I don’t feel like scarring Marty for life.”
Hank obliged her, slowly sliding the door closed while refusing to
look at her even as he corrected her, “Marty’s on a field trip,
thought you’d at least remember that much. Or do you just sign
whatever he gives you these days?”
Cynthia hummed softly, finishing off her stitching and starting to
pack her belongings, “you either signed it it off black out drunk,
or he just signs them himself, because he hasn’t asked me for
anything since Elementary school. Where are they even going?”
“Some gay theater trip, gave a pretty theater speech and won a trip
somewhere to help with something,” Hank brushed off, and Cynthia
resisted the urge to snap on him for it while she climbed into the
shower. Hank leaning against the sink while the woman let the water
run over her and scrub at the blood caked on her flesh for a few
minutes before Hank continued, “he knows. You know that, right?”
She sighed, moving to her hair and fumbling for her shampoo while she
asked, “what does he know?”
“You’re fucking that leech,” Hank explained, a dull snort
following, “if he doesn’t know then he’s half as dumb as you
are for fucking that corpse.”
Cynthia continued to resist snapping on the man until the soap was
fully done running down her face. Only as she was finished throwing
the curtain open enough to ask, “is fucking the fey much smarter?
What, haven’t sold your soul to her on accident asking for a
handy?”
“You gotten a blood test in a few years? Wouldn’t want to catch
something from all those questionable blood draws you’re getting.”
Cynthia slammed the water dial off, lips thin not caring if she got
everything off her while
she snatched a towel and dried off. Hank watching her arms crossed
the whole time, only stepping back as she climbed out of the shower
and stepped back into the house. Up the stairs to their room,
fetching a nightgown from her closet, until she finally announced,
“Marty’s almost seventeen.”
Hank rolled his eyes, the man laying back on the bed lighting a
cigarette while he complained, “oh you remembered that? Here I
thought he was just a-”
“We’re getting divorced,” Cynthia announced more than asked,
turning to face the man with a bright smile. Her husband looking up
at her almost confused while she explained,
“you have a year,
year and a half, however long it takes for Marty to get into a nice
college and move out for a few months.”
Hank let out a snorting laugh, nearly choking on a cloud of smoke
before he sat up and asked, “fucking Hell, any other requests?
Martin know about your little life plan, or you just failed to check
his grades too?”
“Marty doesn’t know, and you’re not going to tell him,”
Cynthia said, strolling over to stand above the man. Hank looking up
at her even as she reached up and took the cigarette from him,
twirling it through the air while she explained, “in fact, you’re
going to leave, stop calling him, act like the deadbeat you are. You
don’t talk to him while he’s here, I doubt he’ll notice much of
the difference. He’s probably going to still hate you for it, but
he’ll get over it and in a few years maybe you can come by for the
holidays and be a dad again if you can be a decent human about it.”
“Why the fuck should I agree to that? He’s my son much as yours,
I at least know corpses shoot blanks if they shoot anything.”
“Because I think Christopher likes me more than your little fairy
likes you,” Cynthia admitted, tossing the cigarette back at him
while she walked off. Hank cursing and nearly falling to the floor
while he swatted for the burning stick and the huntress walked to the
bedroom door. Only as she was there stopping to tell him, “we
agreed, we’ll make things work until Marty was out of the house.
I’m just reminding you so you don’t say I didn’t give you any
warning. God knows you weren’t much of a father as it were.”
Hank glared after her, taking another deep draw from his cigarette
before he decided to finish their conversation, “you’re a real
piece of shit, you know that?”
“Could say the same of you.”
The door closed behind her, Cynthia stopping outside the guest
bedroom considering going to sleep before returning downstairs. To
the kitchen, fetching a few ingredients from around the cabinets
before stopping staring through into the living room. Martin’s
backpack still hanging by its hook on the wall, curiosity from Hank’s
words winning out as she walked over and opened it for a quick snoop.
Not organized, she’d get on him about that later, the top few
papers were at least the important ones. A few tests covered in red
ink, too much homework with points marked off for being late or
turned in mostly blank, and a report card for the third quarter…
Cynthia sighed, trying to look on the bright side that two
grades were not just passing but Bs instead of Ds before realizing
they were in Theater and Gym. The woman shaking her head while
walking over to kitchen once more and finishing her julep before she
took up the phone. A number dialed from memory, a few rings through
before it answered and Christopher answered, “my darling, hardly
one hour passes this night, what troubles you so? Is it the husband —
I prepare the stake.”
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Cynthia laughed, sipping her drink before admitting, “Hank’s an
ass but I can put up with it a little longer. No, I just figured I’d
call and ask again about the college applications for Marty. Know you
got contacts on the admissions board, but he’s… well, not exactly
doing the best. Can’t really guarantee he gets in on the bare
minimum, you know?”
There was a low hum, the sound of papers ruffling before Christopher
admitted, “good grades, this would help yes. If he struggles this
year, we can make up for such things. The boy, does he hold any
talents?”
“Apparently good enough in theater they let him win some trip
despite the grades,” Cynthia admitted with a small laugh, shaking
her head as she sipped her drink with a proud smirk, “Hell, if he’s
that good at it I can look past him being a little softer than I’d
like. It’s better than him turning out like his dad, you know?”
“I do not like husband, this is agreed, and the theater is a proud
field these days — less whoring,” Christopher agreed with his
dark little chuckle, “problems now shall not haunt the boy, this I
make sure. His seniority comes soon, no? Make sure he does better by
then, adequacy with some talent in such fields shall work well. I
make sure someone performs his SATs to a board’s satisfaction and
my contacts shall get him in. If they wish to charge, I shall pay the
difference. Then, my darling, we bring you into the night’s fold.”
“I look forward to it more everyday,” Cynthia agreed with a small sigh,
deciding to make his day by taking a quick dig for his benefit, “you
promise you’ll make sure I actually learn my languages, right? I
don’t want to end up like the Styrian stumbling my way through
every other sentence. I’ll make you kill me I ever start sounding
like that bitch.”
He laughed, a cruel cackling that went on several seconds before he
admitted, “all our kind risks such matters, though I would believe
her creator put too little blood in her before she died. Done right,
the body expires from the blood taking over what little remains in
the veins, you may be gone hours, but what blood remains has the
ability to hold its form. The Styrian, I have seen her reading,
speaking, she acts like her body has not remembered to do anything
without thought since her blessing. Her blood was weak when she died,
and it was the loss that took her and not her creator’s gift. No, I
would never be so careless in your creation my darling, no one would
for their prized love.”
Cynthia had to smile a little at that, a small heat coming to her
cheeks while she paced the floor and sipped her drink. Briefly
getting caught in the phone’s overly long chord and stumbling with
a small laugh even as she said, “reminded Hank we’re getting a
divorce today. Should be fine long as-”
The sound of a can kicked across concrete rang through the air,
Cynthia stopping in her place while she tilted her head towards the
window for a silence too complete to be animals. Even Christopher
silent over the line while she sat her julep down and fumbled for one
the nearby drawers. A revolver quickly fetched, ammo checked while
she pretended to not see the shadow through her kitchen’s curtains.
Her smile briefly returning while she raised her gun to the window
and announced, “I’m going to need you to send some help, and
might need you here if things get bad. At the very least, cops are
about to get called.”
Feet planted with her body bladed to the window and her revolver
raised in one hand, one the many things about her training Hank
hated, shot barely aimed before she took the first attack. One loud
burst ringing through the air, the figure in the window jerking to
the ground, a bolt of heat to her core. The woman’s ears still
ringing when a figure crashed through the wooden door beside her, a
mass of blonde fur she didn’t hesitate to fire into.
Four shots, dumping the last of silver into the form before she
dropped the gun and went to sprint away…
The Phone’s chord caught on one leg, body crashing forward into a
dish rack and knocking her to the ground with a wave of dishes
crashing into her back. White pain blinding her, ears still ringing,
a wet warmth running down her side from ripped stitches.
No time to suffer.
The ground shook with the force of the werewolf running, Cynthia
forcing herself to spin on the ground with blurry eyes. Teeth filling
her vision, an arm raised on block the attack, flesh and bone
snapping under the bite while her free hand dug across the ground.
Her attacker’s grip not loosening even as she raised her fork and
drove it down into the things head.
First hit into the fur, not enough to break flesh, its head ripping
back and forth, her shoulder letting out a popping noise, claws
cutting through nightgown and flesh. Second hit, the tines bouncing
across the things fangs, barely grazing the gums but enough to get a
glimmer of human recognition from its eyes.
Third hit straight into the thing’s right eye, the silverware
digging deep into the wolf’s pupil, dug in deeper with a twist in
the half second it took the thing to pull away. Cynthia taking the
opportunity to slide herself a few feet farther along the floor with
a quick kick. Her right arm on her chest, the forearm at a forty-five
degree angle with bone sticking out, left arm near ripping the sink’s
cupboard door of the hinges and pulling the double-barrel from under
there.
Someone screamed something, ringing in her ears too loud to make out
words, though she saw well enough finally to make out there were two
werewolves in her home. The blonde one in front of her, a black
haired one crouched low staring off into the living room.
Cynthia’s answer to what it was looking after answered by a
gunshot, the creature sprinting as a bullet crashed into the floor
next to it and heading towards the stairs upstairs.
At least he’s good for one thing,
crossing her mind while she held held the gun out in one hand. Barrel
swaying, her non-dominate arm not enough to aim properly, the animal
raising its claw into the air.
The huntress’ fingers danced across both triggers as she pulled.
Cynthia’s next few moments a blur of pain. Any semblance of hearing
she had vanishing in a single moment, her wrist feeling like it
exploded, a bar of metal slamming into her nose with a pop
that rang through her skull in the half second before the back of her
head slammed into the cabinet behind her.
However many seconds it took her to be able to understand anything
around her an eternity in a moment. Fear burning through her chest,
the idea of I’m going to die ringing out until she blinked
through blurry eyes and looked up to the scene in front of her.
Her attacker still stumbling to its feet, his left paw a bloody stump
it whimpered like a bitch to lean on. Its companion sprinting from
the house like a coward and quickly followed by the wounded wolf.
Cynthia left laid back whimpering in her agony while she saw Hank run
into the kitchen, vision clearing most of the way though the nail in
her skull of a headache never leaving. Her husband’s rifle
discarded on the ground like an idiot, the man muttering something
while he groped at her neck, side, arm, helped a jacket under her
head and ran off.
A few seconds later returning with the first aid kit, the man padding
at her arm until she finally croaked out, “Christopher’s on his
way, he’ll heal me.”
Hank spoke, her ears still ringing too much to hear until he stared
her down with a scrunched face and near yelled, “I’m keeping you
alive until then, idiot.”
Cynthia grunted, letting her husband tend to what wounds he could,
roughly pulling her arm back into place and then her nose while she
cried out for each. Only as the last of her wounds were wrapped he
collapsed back onto the floor, leaning against the cupboard and
fumbling for his cigarettes.
Two held in his mouth, both lit and then one placed gently against
Cynthia’s lips. The woman biting the end in place while she
grumbled, “can’t move my arms.”
“Grunt when you need me to grab it.” Only a few seconds passing
before she did so, Hank holding her own in the air while she blew a
cloud of smoke out and Hank complained, “that was my grandma’s
silver that wolf ran off with.”
Cynthia chuckling at the complaint, shaking her head and regretting
it with a final, “fuck you.”