Will Graham is dragged back into the force by the firm hand of Jack Crawford.
While The Dragon hunts in the shadows, waiting for the next moon.
Hannibal Lecter abides patiently within the walls of his cell to begin the games once more with the cro...
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New Orleans was still the same; warm, exuberant, and bright. He'd lived there as a boy, in the Marina, with his Dad and their boat, Old Bettsy. It hadn't cost him much to pay for an extra fight there, a couple of days away from the shit-storm he was heading back into.
The kind that Jack Crawford hung over like a leech, draining up every good form of light and life.
Will barely tolerated him these days.
Chef Harbour Marina stared back at him, lined perfectly with old yachts, pontoons, catamarans, houseboats, and trawlers. His dad had five; an old rickety houseboat that had belonged to his great-grandfather, Hektor, and three old trawlers (when Will was a boy they'd only had one, the beginning of his father's fishing business), and a Yacht.
Will had never seen the Yacht, it was a recent purchase. Brought from the booming fishing industry that his father had entered slowly.
"Wilhelm!"
It was Edith, his great-grandmother that prided in her fake, glistening pearls and rainbow coloured skirts. An eccentric old bat, with a cunning eye for romance and short-made fortunes in gambling. A habit his father had never managed to get his mother to cease.
"Granny," he smiled grimly, a stiff thing that faded as quickly as it came. "I told you. It's Will."
"Oh, pish posh!" She cooed, her old stone bangles clanging as she clutched at his cheeks. "Let's have a look at you, my boy. Why, I haven't seen you in years. Where have you been?! Did you bring Molly with you?"
"Uhm, no I—"
"Ah. That's probably for the best. I never liked her. Strange girl. Marrying a fire-man, good lord! I wouldn't be caught dead with one of those. It's like marrying a police officer, no offence dearie, or an army-man, they might never come home! Then who's going to look after the children, dear me. That poor boy. Well, at least he's got you."
"Granny," he hissed, a wretched thing that slipped past his clenched teeth. "Where's Pa?"
"He's in the house."
"Great, thanks."
Will sped past her, twisting down the aisles of boats, across a bridge and towards the house. It was an old thing, made of white wood, storage containers, and glinting metal. It wasn't much of a boat. It floated along the river-side, in a square shed-like form with fairy lights and a long white deck. There were new additions too, he noticed, with the water-slide and hammock, a few pots of flowers and tomatoes on the side. Will blinked, looking back at the deck that rested near the end. There was a green house down there too.
He jumped over the bridge, his feet brushing across the grass mats his Pa had put down years ago.
"Will?" Croaked Beau, blinking bewilderedly over his reading glasses as he put down the fishing magazine. "Will? Is that you?"
