Hellfire

Interval Eighteen

Lucius wary, tension and ice running through him; unsure what to think. Happiness was meant to be it, the sort he saw glowing from Susan as she burned safely before him. His witch wasn't going to be taken by her hellfire any longer. She could feel without fearing she'd lose herself and burn. She'd no longer harm herself, splitting apart in her rage and unable to control her soul. She was no longer going to die. He hadn't taken away what made her her either – those tempers, that heat and ferocity. His witch was still his witch.

But an edge of steeled uncertainty was there. Cold wariness thickened at how they'd just stumbled into the cure for Susan's Brightness he'd been hunting for years. He wasn't sure he could trust this was permanent. He still didn't know why the witches lied, or if the even did and this hope was about to be snatched from Susan's hands. There were too many unknowns to make him feel comfortable. Too many questions he needed answered before he felt certain Susan was safe. It felt all too simple, too easy, after such a long fight that always resulted in nothing.

At least, for now, the detonation was solved. Susan wouldn't explode for the time being and her rise in other emotions, her tears, and her frozen hellfire, wasn't a sign she had lost her witchness in his selfishness, but a sign she was more human than ever. That in itself made his muscles loosen with tentative relief.

He had to let Eva take control over this, however, no matter how much he needed to take the helm. The Eventide Queen and her Court were the only people the witches spoke to. While Lucius had strong standing amongst his own, he didn't have enough importance in the eyes of the Crones to ask such guarded questions, nor did he want to give away who Susan was to him. It frustrated him, running frost over his skin with the need to know this cure was real and to assure Susan that this was permanent, but his hands were tied.

For now, he had a depraved vampire to hunt.

Lucius' bats whorled about the centre of Bath, a thick cloud that darkened the glittering night sky. Amongst the Tabitha's bats flashed, little ghosts amongst shadows, indicating she was near.

With a flourish, Lucius stepped into the alley between two hotels - both large and expensive, the sort used by those with good money. He rose his brow at the sight, standing quite still before the vast building, listening to the throb of life within the white walls and eyeing the well-dressed mortals moving within the arching windows. Often, parasite events or murders occurred in the poorer districts; focusing on those who wouldn't be noticed immediately to be missing. But he was here, amongst the rich; people who'd cause the biggest fuss if one of their own vanished and with the power for authorities to actually care.

Either the killer was trying to be caught or didn't care if they were.

At the end of the sweeping steps, Oliver appeared with his own bats, rusted in colour, clinging to him. He stepped forward, his casual, loose clothes standing out amongst the splendour behind him.

'Tabitha's on the third floor. You'll smell the room.' He indicated.

'Trouble?'

'No. Not a bit, and I've been sitting here for a good while.' Oliver said and flashed his teeth warily. 'But it's bad in there.'

Lucius nodded and made to enter, until Oliver called him.

'Is Susan okay?'

Lucius frowned. 'She's home, safe, and under agreement she's staying put. Why?'

Oliver shrugged, but those chocolate-brown eyes of his glimmered with alarm. 'Just...make sure she doesn't get irritated enough to run out.'

Lucius' chest tightened, an instinctive flex of power rippling through him, before he nodded and set off around the corner, seeking the sweeping steps. No one noticed him enter; not the guests dressed in finery, not the security manning the doors, not the workers. They moved about him, talking and working and looking through him, as he strode through the foyer and made his way up the stairs. Instantly, Lucius found himself beginning to prowl rather than walk. His muscles tensed up instinctively and his teeth slid free from the smell drifting down from above. The dry, metallic stink of blood and the heavy, decaying perfume of death.