Inheritance

Chapter 3, 4, 5: Son of Stan, Jack, Son of Stan

The Son of Stan 

A chill sweat broke over Ronan in the middle of the night. He rolled over with a groan and reached out for physical contact. Something, anything, to anchor him in this world as the power of the witching hour raced through him. Nothing but an extra pillow rested in his bed. Cassie could not, or would not, cope with his tattoos and his 'magic'. Ronan climbed out of bed and splashed his face with cold water. He unsuccessfully ignored the new swash of gray at his temples and the dark circles around his eyes. Damn the magic killing him slowly. He drank two handfuls of water to sooth his dry throat. Sleep called with promises of oblivion, and he fell back into bed. But the nightmare which woke Ronan in a sweat only began again. The image of a young man writhing in pain moments before he died burned through his dreams. 

The sun rose over a surprisingly still here snow. Snow falling before Halloween caught the weathermen and women off guard. Snow sticking through the weekend and only melting in time for Monday surprised everyone. Ronan nursed a cup of coffee and tried to talk himself into doing something, even taking a shower would be a good move in the right direction.  

His phone rang and interrupted his motivational talk with himself. Good riddance. He was a horrible motivational speaker. He picked up the phone, looked at the number, and shrugged. Answering an unknown number might provide some entertainment or, at least, some distraction. Ronan could not refuse the opportunity to justifiably berating someone for bothering him. Who really called someone this early in the morning?  

"Ronan?" 

"Who is this?" 

"Well, this is Jack Galloway. I'm a friend of your father, Stan, kinda like his grandson." 

Ronan swore. He rubbed the back of his neck and wished he let the call go to voice mail. He had not planned to contact Stan, the father he had never known, when he found him two years ago. But magical tattoos and super powers left him nowhere else to go. That did not mean Ronan wanted to get to know his whole extended family, or friends of the family. 

"How the hell did you get my number?" he asked. He already hated this kid, this 'Jack'. Jack grew up around old man Stan and Ronan only got to met him a few years ago. And he was his freaking son. This kid knew the old man well enough to consider himself a grandson. 

"You belong to a very small and specialized circle now. Not hard to find someone who knows you." 

"Did you call for a reason?" Ronan ignored the implications of what Jack said. 

"I did. We need your help." 

"We who?" 

"Me and Fortunatus." 

"Who is that and why?" 

"Fortunatus is a vampire, but he is part of the Requiem, which means he resist the urge to eat people. We found an innocent killed by magic at midnight on Thursday. The normal police CSI stuff won't help us here, but you can." 

"Look, Jack, I would love to help you, but I've got enough cases as it is. Sorry." 

Ronan knew it was the "cop" thing to say, even when he did not really feel sorry. A strange chill passed through him and remembered visions of the murder at midnight on Thursday flashed before his eyes. He blamed the visions for the sleepless nights filled with tossing and turning. 

"You're working cases where people are hurting other people, right? 

"Yes," Ronan said, cautiously. 

"Well, this is a witch killing a human, something only another witch can really do something about." 

"I am not a witch."