Covens and Proxies

8

Toby's POV

I'm laying on one of the crates towards the ceiling, waiting for (Y/n) to show up. My boss and his brothers own this building, but they hardly ever bother with the businesses. We get enough money from our victims, so the company is more of a front then anything. They sell flowers from Offender, clothes from Trender, Slender mostly deals with financing or lawsuits, and Splendor produces some interesting party supplies. I'll never understand how they work together so well, but it's not my place. My job is to follow orders given from my boss, not ask questions about it all.

I sit up when I hear the door clang open. Watching her shut the door, I don't make any moves to climb down. To be honest, I don't really want to. I'm mostly interested in seeing what she'll do. I told her I'm waiting for her, so I might as well play with it a little.

She walks towards the back and checks the offices before setting down on a crate. I watch her check down the isles before looking up into the rafters, following the steal beams on a few feet above my head. I fail to smother a growing smirk when her gaze rests on me.

Dropping down, I land with a faint crack, feeling my ankle snap out of place. I curse, standing up. "Da-damn it." Looking at the joint, my right foot is twisted about 45° to the inside.

(Y/n) wrinkles her nose, sliding an old book from her bag and walking over. She grabs my sleeve and pulls me to the crate before pushing my down by my shoulder. I let her, sticking my wounded leg out, more in amusement then anything. Before she has a chance, I lean forward and snap my ankle into the right position with one hand before leaning back again.

She kneels down, setting her book in front of her. In the air. It surprises me a bit.

I thought the 'floating book' trope was just some other fictional cliche. Watching in wrapped fascination, the book flips it's pages rapidly, as though a strong gust of wind were blowing on it, before resting on a single chapter. I can't read it from here; I doubt I could read it up close either. It looks like a different language.

My attention is drawn back to (Y/n) as she starts muttering the Latin incantation. A warm glow envelopes her palms and my ankle, her eyes shut tight. A comfortable heat spreads through my body. Without control, my body starts to relax; my muscles loosening, knots unwinding themselves. I rest my neck back on the box, letting the warmth spread to my head, wrapping around my brain. It soothes my anxiety, my anger dissipating, I can feel my schizophrenia dripping away like melting icecream. Slowly, it drips out of me as she finishes.

I have to fight against the urge to sigh, to hurt myself even worse just to feel that good again. I've never felt so at peace. It's dangerously addicting.

I open an eye to see her sit back on her heals, her book coming to rest at her side. She looks at me with a scowl. "Don't be so reckless. You could've just climbed down."

I smile to myself. I'm a murderer, a rapist, a torturous psychopath, and she's lecturing me about safety. My wrist cracks. I shrug, rolling up my sleeve and drawing a knife. I point the handle at her, waiting for her to start.

She hesitates before taking it, scooting up to my side. I resist the urge to roll away and run. I know she's going to hurt me, but I also know it's not going to actually hurt. She's doing it to practice so she can fix me later on.

I watch as the blade slices through my skin, watch my blood beading up to the surface. The sensation of my flesh splitting is strange without the pain. It's hard to put into words.

The soft warmth floods my arm again as she works. A cut, the heat, a cut, the heat. Over and over until she's almost swaying on her knees.

She raises the knife, but I stop her. "That's enough." I state simply before taking the blade and putting it away.