Covens and Proxies

26

Rain pours down, drenching you through your shirt, the abyss shard an inch from Toby's face, him panting, standing with his arms spread in front of Masky.

"Toby, move." You tell him, your grip tightening.

He glares. "No."

You tighten your jaw, eyes stinging with fresh tears. "MOVE!" You shriek, pulling back the shard to strike again.

"No! Put-put the damn thing away and st-op what you're doing to him!" He snaps right back, refusing to budge.

As you stand there, frozen, your anger starts to drip away. It slips through your grasping fingers, desperate to keep it together. But it's gone. Your shard shrinks to nothing, the tendrils becoming plane liquid blood staining Masky's jacket, your book shutting and disappearing inside.

Your fight is gone.

And all you want to do is curl up right there and cry until death takes you away.

What's the point of being part of a coven when everyone else is dying or dead?

Your limbs are weighted, you turn and stumble inside, collapsing next to the dining table. Tears spill over, rolling down your cheeks as the weight of what you'd seen settles in, the weight of what you've known for age settles in.

Your coven is dying, one by one. And there's nothing you can do.

Warmth presses into you and your only dimly aware of Toby picking you up, arguing with Masky over something and the TV still playing. You watch the clown with the ridiculous forehead and buck teeth attack the kids before it's swept out of sight.

A funny, abstract thought occurs to you. Zemra will be home within the hour. What will she think when she sees all of you? Masky, covered in blood; Toby carrying you to your room; you in a daze of tears and morning.

She'd be furious. So you push out Toby's arms and move to Masky, unsteady on wooden legs, and ask for his jacket and mask. He looks to Toby, who glances at the clock and nods. Tim strips to a grey t-shirt and wet jeans, handing the rest to you with a warning glare to Toby. You take his clothes to the laundry room, stashing his killer things in a box, and drift to the bathroom.

Splashing icy water on your face wakes you up a little, enough to think fairly straight. You look at yourself in the mirror, drenched with puffy eyes and red cheeks. It makes you laugh a little.

Shuffling back to your room, you pull on some old sweat pants and a sweater a size too big, leaving your drenched clothes in your basket. When you walk back into the living room, Toby and Tim are still arguing. Toby demanding to know what happened and why he got you so pissed off, Tim trying to convince Toby they should kill you and forget about all of it because you're dangerous. Different topics, same argument.

You notice something you hadn't cared about before. Masky has been particularly rude to you, even for a killer. You'd assumed it was because of some mental baggage, and you were right.

He doesn't trust you because you and Toby like each other and he worries you enchanted the ticker like that woman had done to him. That you're going to kill Toby.

The very thought of it makes you sick.

Yet another realization crashing into you like a wave, churning your stomach inside out. You feel bile rising in your throat, but you can't push it down this time. You run for the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet.

Toby is in the doorway when to sit up, panting, your stomach wrenching and twisting violently.

"Are y-you okay?" He mutters, crouching next to you.

You nod, wiping your mouth on the paper and throwing it in, flushing everything. On shaky feet, you manage to stumble to the living room where Masky is watching out the front window. He only glances over his shoulder when you say his name.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to try to kill you."

He scoffs, turning around. "Every kill is intentional, whether you realise it or not." His lip curls as though he'd just made some twisted joke. "Don't expect me to forgive you anytime soon." He looks at Toby. "You're coming back next week. We've got a big mission coming up. Don't let her twist your mind to think you're anything other then a killer. Just like the rest of us." He almost storms out, growling in frustration. "Where's my gear?"

Toby gets it for him, leaving you with the furious psycho in tense silence.

"Who was she?" You ask at last. "What was her name?"

He hesitates. "Ella. She was... Tracking us. She liked killing us. Hoodie and I were sent to deal with it. Hoodie almost died before I caught up to her." He explains.

She wasn't part of your coven, then. She was part of a much smaller coven no one wants to talk about--witches that are bent on becoming gods again. It eases the pain, but only slightly. "Not all of us are like that." You want to say more, but Toby walks in with his friend's mask and weapons, handing them to him.

He glares at the ticker for not getting his jacket, which Toby grins and shrugs at. And then Tim's gone and Zemra's car lights are flashing through the window. Toby, with an arm around your waste, helps you back to your bed.

He sits there, staring at the floor, obviously uncomfortable. He opens his mouth to say something before shutting it again. You lay a hand on his elbow, drawing his eyes, and smile as comfortingly as you can. He relaxes a bit, only to nearly jump out of his skin from Zemra's loud shouting.

"I'll make ev-everyone dinner. You just rest-rest." He mutters, gently squeezing your hand.

You hold him another moment, not sure how to word your next question. "Toby.... Am I making you... Soft?" You decide, using Masky's own words.

For a moment he looks shocked, almost appalled, at the question before smirking. "After tonight, I-I need to worry about making yo-you soft."

You roll your eyes, let him go and roll over for some sleep.

Toby's POV

I'm careful to be as quiet as possible, shutting the door behind me. I catch Zemra's questioning glare and put a finger to my lips. "She's sleeping off some food poisoning." I tell her softly. She only grunts, sitting on the couch and turning on the tv. "Any requests for dinner?" I try to be nice to her, but she's been making it unbelievably hard.

She cocks an eyebrow. "You can cook?"

I grin. "Yeah. I help with most of the meals."

She looks surprised, turning back to her phone. "I don't really care. Maybe some sort of sandwich or soup."

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup it is." I make some chicken soup too, for (Y/n).

After taking (Y/n) her dinner, her roommate and I eat in silence, The Boys playing. Just sitting there with an ignorant girl across the couch has my blood boiling. It's been weeks since I've killed, and it's tearing me apart.

Tim was right.

I'm losing my grip.