Covens and Proxies

16

Reader's POV

You lay on your bed, bent backwards over the side with your spellbook upside down so you can read it. The page you've opened reads a spell to invoke immediate karma.

What was brought down upon me
Returned but times three
Head to toe, skin and nerve
May thee get exactly what thee deserve

The idea fascinates you. What would someone mugging you get? What if they tried to kill you? Could it be used  for good means? Say, if Zemra tried to make breakfast and you cast the spell, what would happen?

You sigh and set your book on the nightstand, rolling onto the floor and getting to your feet. You've been staring at that page for an hour, trying to decipher the extent of the spell. Most of the pages have such details, but this spell had none. The only thing on the page is the name of the incantation and the spell itself, which is excruciatingly vague. It's giving you a headache.

The house is abnormally quiet, as Zemra is spending the night at her relatively new boyfriend's house tonight. It's almost eerie, save for the sound of rain comfortingly splattering on the roof and windows.

You step onto the patio, wrapped in your blanket, and breath in the fresh, wet air of the night. Rain has always been something you've loved. The smell of the wet air, the feeling of all the grime and dirt being torn from the sky. The cool water splashing you skin. It's invigorating.

The moment is shatter when the smell of blood hits your nose, something pulling at you consciousness. Someone familiar just dropped into your backyard, though it's too dark to make out more then a silhouette. Their head cracks to the side, making your heart leap and your lips pull into a tight grin.

After four months, Toby's come by.

He limps over, gripping his shoulder, stopping a foot from you. You close the distance, hugging him around the waist tightly. His wounded arm wraps around you, holding you fast against his body. He's soaked, and shivering from the cold, but neither of you care. It feels too good to be in each other's arms to do anything except hug.

His grip becomes lose, letting you pull away. You pull him into the kitchen, turning on the light. The fluorescent glow casts his face in shadow from his hood, his sleeve already stained red from the wound. Something about his knee seems off too, probably dislocated.

Stepping closer again, you notice that the forearms of his jacket are splattered in blood. Of course. He was just out killing. Still, the though of how many people it took to stain so horribly makes you a little sick.

You help pull his jacket free, hurrying it to the washing machine to let it run. You return with a spare shirt and pair of sweatpants for him. You're about to leave him to change when he clears his throat.

"I... Can-can't." He mutters, staring intently at the floor as his cheeks flush a crimson red.

You blush too, realizing he's going to need help undressing and dressing, though it doesn't surprise you. His shoulder is wrapped in some sort of denim, and already dipping blood, which means the cut on his shoulder must be three inches deep and brushing the bone. Even being incapable of feeling pain, that has to cause immense discomfort and would have to make movement difficult.

You remove his harness, leaving it on the counter and roll his shirt up. You stop, gawking at the expanse of shining scars that adorn his toned skin. You've seen his scars before, but you've never taken the time to really see them. Jagged and clean, some stretching five inches, some don't seem any bigger then paper cuts. You shake yourself from your stupor and pull his shirt free.

Your entire face heats up at the mere thought of touching his belt or his zipper, so you step back and look away. He drops his pants and kicks them away as you bring the new pair over.

"Where did the-these come from?" He asks as you shimmy the pant legs up to his knees.

"I figured situations like this would come up fairly often." You respond, leaving the zipper to him once more. "How do they fit?"

He shakes his legs lightly and gives a few hops. "They're comfortable. Tha-anks." You smile, setting the shirt on the counter next to his harness.

Untying the flannel strip, you struggle to keep your face emotionless. "How many tonight?" You ask absently, snapping your fingers to summon your book. This cut has not only reached his bone, but nicked it as well.

"Seven. None of them were families." He responds, leaning back on the counter and relaxing when you raise your hands.

He knows how you feel about murdering innocents, children and mothers especially. It comforts you that he acknowledges this, even when he's in a blind rage.

"Were these wounds from two separate targets, or all from one?"

Warmth envelops your hands, spreading over his shivering, wet skin. Instantly, his blood recedes into the wound. You catch only a glimpse of the full extent of the damage before the muscles and nerves begin to sew together. The bone had a decent slice through it.

"I was already tired whe-when he got me in the alley. Some idi-iot gang member, I think. I wasn't real-really paying attention to what I was doing."

You pull from his shoulder, examining the glistening scar in place of his wound. He pulls the shirt over and tugs it on, still shivering. You notice his hair is still dripping wet, so you run and grab a towel, not bothering to ask permission before you start rubbing his hair dry. He only gives weak protests at first before realizing what your doing. Thankfully, his hair is fairly short; unfortunately, it's also fairly thick. When it's only a floppy, damp mess, you pull away. His hair sticks to his face, making you giggle a little. He flashes a joking snarl and takes a step forward, only to collapse from his knee.

You pull him to his feet. "You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Toby." You chide, gently pushing the bones into place before wrapping your hands around the joint. It doesn't take nearly as long as it used to, thanks to your new-found tolerance for pain.

"That's why I've go-got you hear. So I can push myself past my-y limit and not have to worry about jack shit-shit." He shoots back, pulling you back to your full height and into him.

His hands rest on you hips, his dark eyes never leaving yours. For a moment, you forget how to breath or think, letting yourself get lost in their abyss.

"I've missed you." You whisper, letting your head rest on his chest.

His arms hug your waist, his chin resting on the top of your head. "I missed you too."

For a while, the only sound it the pattering rain and his heartbeat, his steady breaths falling in sync with yours. It's a beautiful, peaceful quiet. Until his phone goes off. He pulls it from his wet pants, his undamaged hand not leaving your hip, and checks the message.

"Da-damn it." He groans, setting the device on the counter behind him.

"Do you have to go?" You ask, your heart sinking. You don't want him to leave.

He nods his head. "Tim and Brian figured me-me out, but they aren't goi-going to say anything to the boss. They're covering f-or me right now, but I ha-ave to go soon."

You hold him tight. "Soon. Not right now. Just another minute." You plead, giving him big, begging eyes.

His stoic expression cracks into light laughter. "Just one more minute." He pulls you back into him.

"Will I see you soon?" You ask.

He hums. "Maybe. We can't go back to what we were, but I think it's safe to visit once a month or so."

You smile, grateful that you're going to be able to see him again.