.family.

The scene was gruesome. One of the worst Sam had seen since she'd joined the Undertakers. It had to be some ritualistic killing. There seemed to be a lot of them lately. But this one was bad.

It was a family. Sam had a soft spot for families. Especially her own.

She wasn't a detective or a sergeant, so it wasn't her job to investigate the crime scene. Her job was to rope it off, hold people back, and wait for the big wigs to do their job and solve it.

Some days she wished she was the one solving crimes. Other days, like this day, she was glad all she had to do was stretch police tape across a doorway.

It was a family and Sam had a soft spot for families.


.partners.

Caleb tried to get the mustard off of his collar while Sam drove. He was a sloppy eater and Sam thought it was good that he'd found himself a wife who was willing to put up with his demanding laundry schedule.

"You hear about the Were pack on 31st?" Caleb asked, still trying to rub the yellow stain from his shirt.

Sam licked her lips, eyes going to the rearview mirror for a moment before she lied. "Nope."

"They're cats," Caleb went on. Sam's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Cougars or something. You have to wonder who thought up some of these Weres, huh?"

"They're created by witches," Sam said automatically.

Caleb snorted. "Shit, I know that. I'm just saying...why break from the norm? Wolves don't cut it anymore?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know shit about it."


.blood.

When Roman asks for blood in exchange for information, she wants to tell him no. She doesn't. She says yes.

She knows as soon as the fangs sink in that this changes everything. She won't be the same.

She tells herself it's for the greater good.

She lies.


.bite.

His name is Trent and he's her boyfriend depending on what day of the week you ask. She's known Trent for a couple of years and he doesn't have a whole lot going on upstairs, but he's pretty to look at.

They go dancing at a bar. She wears a strapless black dress and she's out on the dance floor with Trent's hands around her waist when she sees Roman. At first, she doesn't think he's noticed her, but then his eyes shift towards hers and for a moment, she's stuck. She's tuck because she sees hunger on his face and she wants to sneer at him and tell him she doesn't give blood for free.

She's stuck because a part of her wants the bite. She realizes this and it takes every amount of effort she can muster to look away and turn around to face Trent.

"Let's go," she says.

Trent misunderstands, she can tell by the smutty grin on his face. She might give him what he wants tonight, but she doesn't think so. She doesn't want to fuck Trent.

She just doesn't want to give in to Roman.

 

Tristan stares at the opposite wall as he lays still on his bed. His back is torn to shreds by his Dad's belt and it isn't the first time this week that he's upset his Dad to the point of getting a beating. He lays there with tears on his cheeks and his arms folded in front of him and he misses Isaac. He misses his brother.

There was no stopping their Dad when he got mad, but at least Isaac was usually there afterwards to remind him that he was alright. He was usually there to mend the wounds. His other brother's didn't care. He was the runt, he was the weak link and his other brothers just thought of him as a nuissance.

He sniffles and he misses Isaac. There's a woman singing in the corner of his room and even when he closes his eyes and tells himself she's not there, he can still hear her. She drowns out his own thoughts and after a while, he just gives up and listens to the song she's singing. It's a lullaby. He lets it lull him to sleep.

***

His Dad has his hands around his neck. He pulls back a fist and brings it down hard into Tristan's face with a crack. He can taste blood, he can feel it all over his face. His Dad slams him into the floor and then hits him again and again and again.

Trist goes limp, he's trying to submit, but his Dad isn't accepting it. He's scared. He's scared that this time his father has realized he's not worth keeping around. Tristan's head rolls to the side and his younger sister is there, eyes wide as she watches. There are tears in her eyes. His other brothers aren't there. They don't care. She does.

He wishes she doesn't.

***

He's beaten unconscious and when he comes to, he's still on the kitchen floor. His sister is there, and she's trying to clean out the wounds. There's a fresh bruise on her cheek and it makes Tristan angry because that's his little sister and their Dad can beat the crap out of him if he wants, but he should never be allowed to touch his sister.

"Tristan?" she asks, small and scared.

He nods. "We're leaving," he says.

She just nods in response and doesn't question.

***

The house smells like Isaac. It was hard tracking him, he'd done a good job of hiding himself. But their little sister is good at it. She's good at following the scent of wolf. Tristan wouldn't have been able to do it without her.

There's a penguin following them. He knows it's not really there.

When they knock on the front door, a strange wolf opens it and Tristan's lip pulls back in a snarl. He pulls his sister behind him and he's pointing a finger at the strange wolf. "We're looking for Isaac."

The wolf lifts an eyebrow. "Can I ask who you are?" he asks and Tristan doesn't like the pleasantries.

"We're his fucking siblings," his sister says and Tristan doesn't have it in him to scold her for swearing. His knees are getting wobbly, his face pounding and he just wants his brother. He's tired of watching his back and skirting around their father. He just wants to sleep.

A familiar voice speaks from the doorway, but Tristan's already halfway to the ground. "Tristan?"

Familiar arms catch him and he closes his eyes, resting his head against his brother's shoulder.

"Make it go away," he whispers. "Make it go away."


 

Blood dripped from the end of Ayden's nose as he sat tied to the chair. He couldn't lift his head and see where he was at, but it sounded dark, damp, decayed and dead. He remembered the motel room. He remembered how empty it felt because Johnny had run away. He'd been a dick of an asshole and he'd run off because something had bit him and now maybe he wasn't as human as he'd like to be anymore. So instead of waiting for Ayden to fix it, he'd run off like a little bitch and as soon as Ayden saw him again, he was going to tell him exactly what he thought of that.

If he saw him again.

Right now, it wasn't looking so good. Blood dripped from the end of his nose. It trickled from the corners of his lips and he's in pain, everywhere. He remembers the motel room and hanging up the phone with Ashley Baker. He remembers telling the man to get there as soon as he could, he's found something that could save Johnny. Ashley Baker says he isn't worth saving because he's a little bitch. Ayden disagrees. With the worth saving part, not the little bitch part.

Ashley Baker isn't the first one there. Ayden doesn't expect it and that's his fault because he's a god damn Marshall and that means there are always baddies out there that want to hurt him. He shouldn't have let his guard down. Not ever. But he did. He did and a baddie found its way inside the motel room to kick his face in and take him.

Blood drips from the end of nose and Ayden tries to blink away the macabre sight of stab wounds around his torso. They knew just where to hit. They knew just where to stab where it wouldn't hit anything vital, but it would bleed and it would hurt like hell. One of his eyes is swollen shut and he's coughing blood, wheezing as he breathes and maybe they knicked a lung. It's hard to stay awake.

He see's Johnny's face, being a little bitch because he got bit by something nasty and now he's turning into something nasty. He see's Johnny's face as they argue that Ayden can find a way to stop it and Johnny shouldn't be locked up or killed. Johnny's finger is itching the trigger of his gun and Ayden tells him that it's a pussy's way out to kill himself. He thinks it's the only thing that stops Johnny from pulling the trigger.

He's see's Johnny's face as his brother straddles his waist, hands wrapped thickly around Ayden's neck, choking the life out of him. Except it's not Johnny's face. It's the evil thing he's threatening to become. Ayden chokes out a beg and Johnny's eyes suddenly widen. He lets go, scrambling back and Ayden lays there hacking and gagging on the ground. He doesn't even sit up before Johnny is out the door and gone. Just like that.

What a little bitch.

Now Ayden sits in this dead, dark, decaying, damp room with blood dripping from the end of his nose and stabs wounds around his torso and blood choking his throat. His eye is swollen shut and he can't feel his hands from where they're bound with rope behind his back.

He could have gone to college. He was smart and he'd gone a few semesters at a community college, but it got to hard to explain the injuries and having to leave to go hunt things down. It was too hard to be normal when you were anything but. He wonders if this would still be happening if he had stayed in school. Or maybe Johnny would be dead. He wonders where his brother is.

A shotgun blast sounds and he thinks maybe it's an answer, but he's having trouble breathing and his head is so heavy it hangs down in front of him. He hears something scream awful and loud, screeching. A hand finds his shoulder and then a familiar voice is cursing, "Jesus. Little Buddy, can you hear me?"

Ashley Baker.

The man's bright Hawaiian shirt hurts his one open eye. It's too bright in this dark, damp, dead place. Ayden tries to tell him yes, he can hear him, but his head lolls to the side and Ashley Baker is rounding the chair, pulling at the rope around his wrists.

Another shotgun and the sound of something being beat echoes through the room and then Johnny, the little bitch himself, is coming to stand in front of Ayden. His eyes are wide as they look down at him, shotgun in one hand. He's got darkness under his skin, something evil trying to turn him. But the fear in his eyes is all Johnny.

He swallows thickly and leans down. "Ayden?" he asks, voice wavering. "Shit, you in there?"

"I found a cure," Ayden whispers hoarsely, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth as he says it.

Johnny's face contorts and he nods, crouching down in front of him, the shotgun resting across his knees. "I know," he says quietly. "That's why these guys came after you. You messed around with their shit, you dumbass."

Ayden doesn't say anything as Ashley gets the rope to loosen. His hands fall forward and it hurts badly. He starts to tip out of the chair, but Johnny is moving forward and catches him. His arm is soft and comforting around his shoulders and it makes Ayden's eyes flicker close. He doesn't recognize this Johnny and it's not because he's evil. It's because he's scared and he cares.

"Hang on, Little Buddy," Ashley Baker says. "Hold him there a minute, let me get the first aid. He's losing too much blood."

"Okay," Johnny's voice is small and then they're alone in the room. He feels his brother shift beneath him and then Johnny's asking, "Ayden? Come on, don't die on me now."

Ayden smirks. "I won't," he whispers back, even if his eyes won't open. "Need to tell you what a bitch you are."

Johnny snorts. "Fuck you," he says, but it lacks the normal bite.

Ayden licks his dry lips. "Johnny," he says, and he hates that it turns into a whimper as the pain from the stab wounds starts to make itself known. Johnny tightens his grip on him.

"I'm here," Johnny says.

Ayden nods. "I found a cure."
 

She never cried when Luka died. She was so busy trying to keep her son alive and safe that she didn’t have time to grieve over his death. And having Mischa around didn’t help, because on off days, she could pretend like Luka was still here. They had the same face. Mischa was bigger and stronger and had more tattoos, but she could pretend.

She breaks in the bathroom of a cheap motel room in Wyoming. She isn’t sure what pushes her over the edge. Every time she showers, she takes off the ring on a necklace around her neck and sets it on the counter. But for some reason, when she takes it off this time, she can’t tear her eyes away from it. She just looks at the silver ring and Luka had gotten it for her a few years back. They’d never married, but it didn’t mean they didn’t love each other.

He’d gotten her the ring on Tommy’s birthday. It meant they had escaped.

She should have known better. Her hand comes out to run along the chain and as soon as it meets the cold metal of the ring itself, she’s crying. It doesn’t come slowly. She’s crying and sobbing all at once and her knees give out as she falls to a sitting position against the tub. She rests her head on her knees and she sobs because Luka is dead.

Luka is dead.

She isn’t surprised when the bathroom door opens softly. She doesn’t know how he’ll react. She’s been spending so much time trying to get him to trust her. She’s tired of trying. She’s tired of pretending everything is okay and she doesn’t feel guilt gnawing away at her gut because she knows she got Luka killed.

Mischa sits down quietly next to her and the feel of his arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close to him reminds her so much of Luka that it only makes her cry harder. Mischa’s chin rests on the top of her head and she can pretend it’s Luka, but she’s tired of lying. Luka is dead. Dead and gone.

After a while, she has nothing left to cry and they’re still sitting on the floor in the bathroom. Tommy is probably out in the motel room, trying to give them some privacy and she feels like she’s failed. She’s supposed to be strong for her son. But she’s tired. She misses Luka and as she thinks it, she nestles her head against Mischa’s chest, his arm still around her, holding her tight.

“I never even told him my real name,” she whispers, her voice broken and her shoulders shaking.

“Nyet,” Mischa says. “You tell him only name that matters.”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t even know me. I loved him and he didn’t know me.”

“You are Anya,” he Mischa says sternly. “You will always be Anya. Anyone else is liar.”

“Anya’s the lie,” she whispers. “He shouldn’t be dead.”

Mischa turns his head and she just closes her eyes as his lips press into her hair. “Nyet, he shouldn’t,” he agrees. “But he is. For you. He love you.”

She shakes her head. “He loved a lie.”

“Then it is good lie.”

 

"Baka!" Emi yelled as her sword sliced through the last lizard-like creature aiming its dripping jaws at Sly. She hated that they were going after him, but the fierceness behind her blow wasn't drawn by hate. It was drawn by the half of a medallion she held in her hand and the matching half he held in his. This was it. This was her freedom and her life with Sly. After this, she was done being the guardian. She could defeat Takeru and the seal would be saved and she could spend the rest of her days with Sly.

It had made her giggle when he'd asked her if she was afraid of growing old. She hadn'tk nown how to answer him except to laugh and kiss him and he'd accepted that answer, whatever it may mean. He accepted all of her answers that involved her kissing him.

And this medallion was the key. It was the key to her freedom.

Tucking into a roll along the ground, she ran for Sly, gunning for him as he held his hand out, the half of the medallion towards her. She didn't hesitate. There was no doubt or second guessing. He'd said this was the key, he'd said this would save her and let them be together forever and she believed him. She believed Sly and she trusted him and if he said this was the answer, then this was the answer.

The world jolted around them as soon as the halves of the medallion were reintroduced. Electricity seemed to snap between their fingers and for a split second, her eyes met Sly's. She wanted to tell him she loved him, because she hadn't said the words yet, but she did. She thought he knew. She hoped he knew. Because now they were going to be together.

Except the medallion cracked apart no sooner than it had been put together again. Emi let out a pained cry as she was flung backwards, Sly mirroring her on the other side, though his descent was shortened as he hit the wall behind him, falling to his hands and knees. Emi tried to land gracefully, her hand skimming the asphalt, but all she managed was to scrape away her skin and she rolled, her sword coming loose from her fingers.

As she came to a stop, a awful pain came to life on her chest and she couldn't help but cry out, her torn hand coming to her sternum as symbols and designs etched their way onto her skin. She sat up, looking down at herself, pulling her button up shirt apart to look at her chest and her eyes widened as a circle with twelve animal symbols burned its way onto her chest. She shook her head. It was a marking she was all too familiar with and she didn't know why it was on her skin now.

Her head snapped up to look at Sly, who sat against the wall. His eyes widened when he saw Emi and she watched as he pulled his shirt up, exposing just bare skin where the symbols had once been. She didn't understand, but apparently Sly did. He looked back up and suddenly flung his piece of the medallion away. "No!" he yelled.

"I..." she shook her head because she knew what this meant but she didn't want to admit it.

"Shirubureka," something hissed from her side and she turned to fight it off, her hand pawing on the ground for her sword, but she'd lost it in the fall. It didn't stop her from slaughtering the monsters now coming at her. Their eyes focused on the symbol on her chest.

"Emi!" she heard Sly scream, fear and panic making his voice awful. She turned, trying to see what was coming after him so she could cut it down. But he just stood shakily against the wall, his eyes locked on her. No, not her. Something behind her.

The pain was sudden and firey. She jerked and tried to draw in a breath, but her body wouldn't listen. Sly's eyes widened and then he was screaming, fire erupting from his hands, but Takeru's monsters dropped between them, sacrificing themselves for their master.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her tigheter against her own blade, protruding from her chest, coming from the center of the symbol as if it were a target. That's exactly what it was. Her head fell backwards, her body unable to keep herself up. Takeru leaned a cheek against her forehead. "This is my gift to you," he whispered. "Freedom. And your lover's life. Take it and be satisfied."

She couldn't draw breath and around them, the world started to crumble. The ground breaking open and this was a part of the seal she never saw. The breaking. The ending. This was her failure.

Takeru drew Kaidokusuru from her chest and she fell to the ground in a heap. He tossed the sword down beside her and she saw her own blood staining the metal. From beyond that, she could hear Sly screaming. Primal, animalistic and her eyes started to slip close. The world started to fade around her because she'd failed.

"Emi," Sly's voice broke through the fog and when her eyes opened again, she was in his arms, looking up at him. His face was stained with blood and tinged black from the fire he manipulated. There were already tears streaking through the soot and his hand padded down her hair. "Babe?" She tried to say his name, but only blood came from her mouth. "No, please," he whispered, pulling her up to his chest, his hand pressing over the pulsing wound in her own. "This isn't what I wanted," he whispered. "Emi, please. Stay with me."

Her fingers grasped weakly at his shirt. She wanted to do what he asked, but the world was fading around her, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. She wanted to tell him she loved him. She loved him more than anything. He would always be hers. He would always be the one she chose.

"Babe, please," he whispered. "Please."

She thought about him telling her about the girl who'd died in his arms before. She hated she was repeating it. She hated he would remember her like this. Weak. Frail. Dying.

Dead.

"Sly," she gurgled. He hugged her tightly, the tears coming unbidden now. The words were on her tongue, waiting to be said.

She didn't get the chance.
 

Her toes barely glimmered over the water, leaving small, waving ripples in the surface. It was cold still, not quite warmed up for the spring. A baggy, hand knit sweater hung loosely around her frame, her jeans rolled up to not get wet from the pond as she sat on the dilapitated wooden dock. Her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes were closed against the rising sun, warm on her face, shining in her hair.

His boots were heavy on the dock as he walked over. She didn't flinch or acknowledge he was there, but he sat down beside her anyway and they both knew she couldn't ignore him forever. They'd have to deal with what he'd told her eventually. She'd have to deal. He couldn't take back the words and it would be dangerous to ignore them or pretend they never happened. They needed to talk about this. They needed to know how to handle it because secrets and lies only led to pain and hurt and she didn't want that for either of them.

"You want I should leave?" he asked, voice quiet and rough. "Part ways?" His English was getting better.

Anya's eyes pulled open, staring out across the pond, focusing on something no one could see, not even her. "Why did you say it?" she whispered to him, her voice a quiet whisper.

Mischa was quiet for a long moment. "I say only what I mean," he told her gruffly.

"You shouldn't have said it," she told him.

"Nyet," he spat. "It needed to be said."

Anya shivered slightly and it wasn't because of the cold water lapping at her toes. She felt his shoulder brush against hers, sitting closely and his scent was strong and familiar, comforting even with being so smokey and rough. "I don't know what to do," she said, more to herself than to him. "I always know what to do. I always know how to handle things. But this...I don't..." she licked her lips. "What do I do?"

His rough, calloused hand slid across hers and she allowed him to bring her fingers to his lips. "What is it you want to do?" he asked. "Tell me this."

"What I want and what's best aren't the same," she whispered and shook her head, turning away from him, shielding her face from the sun. "You're a distraction. You're loud and obnoxious and I hate that you smoke around my son." She heard him chuckle and it wasn't what she wanted to hear from him. "You chew with your mouth open and you attract trouble like no one I've ever met before."

"Me?" Mischa asked, snorting with disbelief. "Nyet, this is not true."

She sighed and it was answered with another chuckle. "You could die. Every day we could die, any one of us. There's so many people out there who want us dead and some day someone is going to be better than us. Someone is going to get lucky and get what they want and I can't..." she trailed off and his hand settled gently on the back of her neck. "Why did you say it?"

His mouth pressed against her shoulder, his fingers running back through her shortly cut blonde hair and she closed her eyes against the touch. It was closer than she wanted him, but not close enough as she needed. "I already answer this question."

"Well, I don't like your answer," she snapped at him.

He laughed. "Is only answer I offer."

"Distraction will get my son killed," she told him and she could practically hear the smile falling off his face. "He always comes first."

"This I understand," he told her. "I give my life for Fomushka. I give my life for you." He leaned forward, his hand brushing across her cheek and she turned her head back towards him, even if she couldn't see his face. "I not take the words back."

She nodded. "I don't want you to take them back," she whispered, leaning her head forward and resting it on his shoulder. His arm came up and wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him and she closed her eyes in the comfort of his arms. "That's what scares me."

"Do not be scared, Anushka," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I say I die for you, does not mean I rush to do so." She smiled, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt and holding tightly to him, feeling herself relax for what seemed like the first time in 17 years. "I say I love you, does not mean I expect to hear it back."

She licked her lips. "Mischa," she whispered and she felt him shift so he could see her face. "You don't need to hear it." He took a small intake of breath and she smiled up at him. "You already know it."
 

.one.

She didn't hear it coming.

There's a pinprick in her neck and her hand immediately comes up to the source of it, dropping the bag of groceries on the ground. There's a dart in her neck and as soon as she yanks it out, her vision swims. She goes for the gun in her waistband, but as soon as it's free, her fingers go limp and it clatters useless to the ground. She follows a moment after, her face hitting the pavement and it skins one of her cheeks. She grasps deftly at the cracks in the sidewalk, but she already knows she's not going to win this.

She just hopes they haven't found Tommy yet.

It takes her a moment to realize she doesn't know who "they" are. She lays there breathing and she thinks if this is supposed to knock her out or kill her, it's taking its sweet time. Maybe it's not supposed to do either. Maybe it's just supposed to incapacitate her and that scares her more than she likes to admit. She hates being helpless.

A pair of boots come into her line of sight and she immediately knows who it is, with only seeing their boots. He grabs a fist full of her hair and yanks her head back anyway, making her look up at him.

"Hello, Anya," Jeremiah says. Then his face darkens. "Where is my son?"

She wouldn't answer him, even if she could. She knows this. Jeremiah knows this.

So he kicks her in the face and things go black after that.


.two.

She wakes up in a bathtub, a pair of handcuffs around her wrist, holding her in place on the shower rod. She can feel dried blood on her face, dripping down from her mouth. Her skirt hands around her waist and she growls at Mischa for saying it was all he could find for her to wear. Her tank top is gone, leaving her chest bare, but she's not shy about that. It isn't anything Jeremiah hasn't seen before. She doesn't like that her body feels so weak or that she's alone.

She tries to rub her wrists out of the handcuffs, but it just makes them bleed, dripping down her arms in rivulets, dark tear drops against her skin. Her fingers are numb.

"I didn't know you were into Ruskis," Jeremiah says from the door and the words make her angrier than they should. "He doesn't seem like your type."

"You'll get nothing from me," she tells him.

He smiles and leans against the doorway, holding a glass of wine in one hand. He sips it as he watches her, his eyes moving down her form. "You still look beautiful, Anya."

She hates the words and she hates him. She straightens her jaw and she'll say nothing more to him. Nothing that matters. She'll die for her son.

She'd just prefer not to.


.three.

It's hours before Jeremiah is done with her.

She wonders if he actually expected to get something out of her or if he's just paying her back for trying to kill him. He's done a good job. Anya's barely conscious, her head unable to stay up. Blood soaks the tub and splatters the wall. It leaks from cuts all over her torso and one of her eyes is swollen shut. Blood is all she can taste and it's all she smells, her face darkened with bruises and dried blood.

Jeremiah licks his lips as he steps back, wiping off his knife with a towel. "I'm proud of you, Anya," he says. "Unbreakable."

She wants to tell him she only has one weakness. She thinks of Tommy alone out there. No, not alone. And she can't help but think maybe now, she has two.


.four.

He fills the bathtub with ice before breaking the cuffs that hold her up. She falls into the freezing tub and he pushes her down, burying her until only her head and hands are above it. His hand settles on her head, running through her blood matted hair and she starts to shiver immediately, but the ice will slow down the bleeding. It may also kill her, but she won't be bleeding to death.

"I had to know," Jeremiah says, his voice quiet and distant. "I had to know if you'd talk."

He leans forward and presses his lips against her bloody forehead, a gash onher temple bleeding a river broken up by her nose.

"Please try to understand," he pulls back and leaves the knife on the counter. "I want him alive."

Whether it's the blood loss or the hypothermia, she doesn't know, but she's not following his logic.

After that, she's not following much of anything.


.five.

A steady stream of Russian curses break into the darkness and the world tips around her as she's lifted from the melting, bloody ice and laid out on bathroom rug. Her mind is slow to focus and her body slow to react. She tries to lift a hand to bat them away because she hurts. She hurts everywhere, but a calloused, rough hand grabs hers firmly, pushing it back down.

"Jesus," a familiar voice hoarses out from behind them and she feels a soft hand slip into hers. "Mom?"

"I tell you wait by door," a gruff voice growls, but there's an unusual lack of bite in the voice.

"Fuck you," he answers and she stirs at the curse because it doesn't feel natural. "Is she okay?"

The other man doesn't answer for a while and she feels rough fingers push a lock of hair from her face. "Nyet, he finally answers. There's another stream of Russian curses flowing from his mouth and there's movement around her as they gather towels and washcloths to wrap around her arms and torso. "Anya?" the voice asks. "Open eyes now, Annushka."

She listens, but only partially because the other eye is swollen shut. Above her are her son and Mischa. Tommy lets out a small cry and his hand comes to her head. "Mom?" he asks and he sounds terrified.

"Go and find blankets," Mischa says. "Don't leave room, just get."

Tommy glances up at him and then nods. "I'll be right back, Mom," he says and stands in a hurry, nearly tripping over his own feet to go and find some blankets.

Anya looks up at Mischa because it was an obvious attempt to get rid of her son. Even in her state she could tell them. Mischa swallows and looks back down at her. "How are you, Annushka? he asks.

"I didn't hear him," she whispers, voice hoarse and so quiet, he has to lean down to hear.

Mischa nods, running a hand over her head as her eyes start to droop.

"Is alright," he says as Tommy runs back into the bathroom with blankets. "When I find, he not hear me either."
 

Evan's Thing
from "Magic" 
---

Evan has this thing.

It’s a tic, a quirk, of his. It might be a little OCD, but other than this tic, he’s as normal as normal can be. It might be something inside of him snapped a long time ago, because his Dad used to beat him to shit until the day he’d turned around and smashed his face in. Literally. The man looks like he has an ass for a face now and no matter how far modern science has come, no amount of plastic surgery can make an ass look like a face.

It might be because a while ago he found out he had this power and his brain doesn’t know how to cope with it. He can rip streetlights out of the ground and toss cars like they were matchbox toys. He can bend steel and break marble and he’d think he was superman if it weren’t for the crash he always feels right after.

Or it might be just because he’s a little bit not right in the head. Something’s broken and rattling around up there and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t put it back into place.

So Evan has this thing.

He has this thing he does where he stands in front of the bathroom mirror and lists the things he has to live for each day.

Maybe he’s just depressed. Maybe there’s just a chemical imbalance in his brain that makes him have blue moods and shakes and constant pain. Except he doesn’t have blue moods or shakes or constant pain. He doesn’t lose hope when he can’t think of anything standing in front of that mirror. He doesn’t get happy when his list goes on and on and on. It’s just a fucking list and he’s not suicidal.

He does his thing daily. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. Sometimes whenever he can find a mirror. But he does his thing and he’s not sure why, he just does it.

“Chicks,” he says as he starts. “Beer. Football.”

He begins his list and usually it’s the same stuff every day. He looks himself in the eye as he says these things and he gets to “Gatorade” before he realizes this feels like a lie today. These reasons to live are hokey and dumb.

So he licks his lips and starts again. “Natalie Portman. Megan Fox. Angelina Jolie.”

This doesn’t feel any better and he runs his hands over his eyes, leaning against the sink because he doesn’t understand why this is so hard today. His hands fall flat on the sink, palms bent over the edges and when his eyes lift again, he can see the frilly shower curtain behind him and it’s nothing he’d ever put in his place.

His place was ransacked weeks ago.

He’s been staying with the brothers ever since.

He tries again. “Mia’s pink hair.” The words feel smooth and soft. They don’t feel like he’s forcing them, like barbed wire on his tongue. He tentatively tries another. “Brett’s taste in music. Ivy’s hot ass.” He smirks and he thinks this feels alright. “Picking on Rodney. Shirley’s cooking. Matty’s…Matty.”

He runs a hand over his mouth. He’s never been a part of something the way he’s a part of this group of misfits. He doesn’t know what to think about it, but he thinks he likes it.

“Brothers from another mother,” he says and it makes him laugh. He thinks Mia’s crazy is starting to wear off.

From outside the bathroom, Brett knocks on the door and yells, “Come on asshole, jerking it doesn’t take that long, I need to take a shit.”

Evan smirks. “Family,” he whispers.

 

They're fighting in the middle of the fucking street when he feels the bullet tear a hole in his shoulder.

He's down faster than he'd like to admit, his knee striking the pavement and his hands reaching out to catch himself. They don't manage, at least not the right hand. It gives out as soon as he puts pressure on it, sending half of his face into the asphalt and he can't help the snarl that escapes his lips. He tries to push himself back up, because the others are still fighting a monster that has no business in this plane, but he can't manage that either. He thought he was a lot stronger than this.

"Matty?" Brett sounds confused, instead of scared. He didn't hear the shot and he guesses Brett didn't either. He guesses none of them did because they're still just fighting. They're still just standing there and he wants to scream at them to get out of the street because someone is taking shots at them.

Or at least him.

It's Brett and Rodney and him, all there in the street and he wants to make sure they all come home to Shirley because she expects it of them. She expects it of him and he'll be damned if he lets either one of them get their heads blown off because of him.

It's the military. It has to be. There's no other option.

"Matty?" Brett says again and this time he's scared, probably because he's noticed the blood.

Forsaking his right hand, because it's useless and limp, he pushes himself up with his left, ignoring the agony that courses through him.

"Go," he grits out at his brother and he sees Brett's wide eyes. He climbs to his feet and then he's pushing himself at both of them, clumsily and pained, but he does it. "Get behind something, damn it," he yells at them.

Brett doesn't move, but Matty thinks it's the fear that's paralyzing him. He shoves Brett with his good hand, waving at Rodney to follow. They hurry behind an overturned car and as soon as they're behind it, Matty's knees are giving out again. He skids to a sitting position and pushes himself against the car as Brett and Rodney fall in beside him. The monster still wreaks havoc somewhere in the street behind them.

"What the fuck happened?" Rodney demands and he sounds angry, like usual.

Matty bangs his head back against the car in frustration. "There's a sniper," he grits out, holding his arm up against his stomach because it kills to move it at all. He turns his head, not oblivious that Brett is just sitting there wide eyed. He peeks his head around the corner and jerks it back just as another bullet whips pass them, dinging the metal of the car. They're pinned and he slams his elbow back against the car in anger.

"You're bleeding," Brett says and he sounds distracted. Matty glances at him and his little brother's eyes are wide as he looks at his shoulder. "Shit, Matty you're shot," he says, snapping out of the initial shock and coming forward, his hands hovering over the wound in the back of his shoulder.

There's no exit wound.

"Ugly's running," Rodney barks, his eyes on the monster.

Matty licks his lips, his mouth going dry and it's not fear doing it. "Heading out of town?" he asks, looking towards the angered man. Rodney just nods his head. "Good, just let it go for now." Rodney turns to glare at him. "I'll shimmer us, but you guys need to be ready to run."

"We're fucking running?" Rodney snaps.

"Fuck you," Brett growls at him and it surprises all of them. "He's hurt," Brett says simply and it makes Matty proud the level of protectiveness is in his little brother's voice. For all the trouble he causes and the arguments he puts up, it's good to know his little brother's got his back when it really counts.

Brett leans down and pulls Matty's good arm around his shoulder. Matty grits his teeth when it jars his shoulder and Brett's eyes go wide. He talks before Brett can lose his composure. "Ready?" he asks, ignoring that his teeth are chattering already.

"Are you?" Brett shoots back, but it loses some of its bite in the fearful tone that colors it.

Matty nods and then he's focusing on shimmering them. They're up and running and Matty's head starts to swim because his power has never been strong, not like Brett's. They make it down the road before the shimmer fades and another shot rings out, but by then, they're already too far.

Matty loses track of things after that.

He didn't understand what had happened at first.

One minute, things were fine, and the next, pain shot up his spine.

A hand on his shoulder yanked him back against the firey pain and then it pushed him forward and pain exploded in his shoulder, higher and deeper. He couldn't draw a breath or move or react - he didn't understand.

"I'm sorry."

Evan let go of him and he fell to his knees, hands gripping deftly at the counter. Evan walked backwards to the door, a bloody knife in his hand and it took a moment for Matty to realize the blood was his.

"Evan?" Matty croaked, because he didn't understand.

The man just shook his head.

"I'm so fucking sorry."