The Entanglement of Bishop and Lydia

The Entanglement of Bishop and Lydia

Bishop fucks like a god.

Lydia thinks that afterwards, lying in his bed with the sheets tangled around her legs. Her blonde hair is mussed and wild, spilled across his pillow. Her body is deliciously sore. He left finger shaped bruises on her hips and her neck because sex with Bishop is always rough and a little bit desperate. She thinks she should mind but she doesn’t because Bishop fucks like a god.

He’s still lying on top of her, one muscled and tattooed arm thrown over her stomach and his chin digging into her shoulder. She runs her fingers through his black hair while his breathing evens out. Her other hand rests on his forearm.

She thinks she likes having him lie naked in her arms. She thinks she probably shouldn’t.

The position is surprisingly vulnerable and trusting of him, and she understands completely that it’s only because he’s asleep.

He doesn’t wake when she slips out of bed. He doesn’t wake when she pulls her jeans on or tugs the white top over her head. She thinks she might make it out of here without waking him at all this time.

He doesn’t wake until she opens the door and then his voice comes, rough and sexy and deep.

“Bye beautiful,” he tells her. She smiles even as she thinks she shouldn’t and pulls the door shut behind her.

†

The bat cracks off the side of the man’s head.

His body thuds against the side of his shiny black sedan before he crumples to the dirt. Bishop stands over him and he spits into the dust. He twirls the bat with one hand before slinging it over his shoulder.

He presses his boot down against the man’s spine before he leans down. “Fuck you.”

The man groans and Bishop thinks about putting the bat into his head again. He doesn’t. He kicks off him and then he steps up easily onto his trunk. From there he moves to the roof of the car and then he brings his bat down in a vicious swing on the windshield. The glass splinters and cracks in every direction and he hits it again for good measure, tiny chunks breaking off onto the sidewalk.

The man groans and crawls onto the sidewalk. There’s blood leaking down the side of his head.

He tips his head back and his face is vicious. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

A snarl curls Bishop’s lips. It makes his teeth look sharp and dangerous in the street light and then he’s hopping down off the car in front of the man. He digs in his pocket for his cigarettes, pounding one out and shoving it between his lips.

The asshole looks up at him and he doesn’t look scared. He should be, but he’s not, because that’s just how the Apostles are.

“Yeah?” Bishop snaps after he has his cigarette lit. “And who the fuck told you that?”

The Apostle snorts and spits the word right back. “God.”

Bishop nods his head because it’s the answer he expected. He sucks in smoke and blows it into the air, feeling it burn in his lungs. The cherry floats bright and red on the end of his cigarette and he points it at the man on the ground. He thinks he probably cracked his skull open. He’ll probably bleed to death in an hour. He hopes he does.

“Yeah, well fuck him,” he says. Then he turns and flicks the cigarette at the car behind him. It’s easy to drop into the Veil. It’s easy to manipulate the world around him, to turn that small burning cherry into a fire that races along the top of the car.

“And fuck you too.”

†

The gunshot is loud and bright in the dark alley.

It hits the man in the chest and he careens against the brick all. His head cracks against the hard surface and his feet scramble against the cement as he tries to stay upright. She takes a second shot and it hits him in the back, near the spine. That brings him to his knees.

“Fucking bitch,” he growls out. She feels the world start to rip as he tears through the Veil, dropping down into shadows.

She follows easily. Maybe he thought it would buy him time, but it doesn’t. It buys him less.

He’s crawling towards the exit of the alley, blood leaking out from between his fingers and a low whine in his chest. He’s desperate and needy but it doesn’t matter because he’s a witch and she’s been told to kill him. She doesn’t know if it’s because of that black dog she can see on his back or because he pissed off the wrong person. It doesn’t matter.

She comes up behind him and puts another bullet in his back. He lets out a scream and it turns into a cry and he slumps to the ground. The world around them is dark and gray except for the blood leaking out between his fingers.

He rolls over, eyes wide and desperate. He’s crying. She thinks she should feel bad.

“Please,” he says. “I have a kid. A daughter.”

Lydia answers him with a bullet.

†

They come together with the same kind of desperate need they always do.

He slams her back against the wall, her legs hooked around his waist and her nails digging into his shoulder. He’s growling like a beast, tearing at her shirt and yanking it up over her head. One rough hand palms a breast and she tips her head back and moans.

“That’s right baby,” he says. He buries his mouth against her throat. “Scream for me.”

She does.

†

The first time they meet she is pointing a gun at his head.

He just smiles back. There’s no fear on his face, not then, not now, not ever.

“Show me your eyes,” she says. She motions the gun at the dark aviator glasses, and behind her she can hear her partner giving the same order to someone else. There are five of them and only her and Valen. It doesn’t matter. She’s used to bad odds.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, babe,” he tells her.

There’s a click as she pulls the hammer back on her gun. She points it at his forehead and she’s not smiling. He chuckles and then he reaches up and pulls them from his face. His lids slide open and she’s looking back into the abyss. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black but it’s only the iris so it might not be from witch tar. “Roll up your sleeves,” she orders.

His grin grows wider but he does as she says. “Well,” he drawls. “Aren’t you the pushy one? Next you’ll be saying take off your pants and close your eyes. I’ll tell you now sugar, I’m only doing that if you go first.”

“I’m not asking you again,” she says coldly.

She looks at his arms instead and she sees a lot of tattoos and a lot of scars and there, including the ones she’s looking for. The track marks are small and old and she wonders if he’s not the one, but she can’t take the chance.

He shrugs carelessly when her eyes meet his again. “What can I say, sugar? Never said I didn’t try it.”

She’s ready to put a bullet in his head and call it good when she hears the yell and the gunshot.

Valen’s head is just cracking off the floor when she turns around, one of the men on top of him and his eyes black as night. His mouth opens and the voice that comes out isn’t anything human anymore. “Lost, violent little souls,” the demon hisses. There’s a grin as he looks up at her and there’s nothing left of the host inside those eyes anymore. This is who they’ve been sent for.

She doesn’t hesitate to put a bullet through his head. He drops like a broken puppet, black spilling out between his lips.

“Fuck,” Valen curses. He pushes the body off him and scrambles back to his feet. The other three don’t go after him. They stand and stare and there’s surprise looking back at her. They didn’t expect that. They didn’t expect to see a demon in their midst.

“Well shit.” Bishop says after a moment. She glances back at him and he’s staring at the body. The man used to be his friend.

She lets out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.

†

“We are the Hollow men, the stuffed men.”

She says the words to the mirror after she wipes the fog away. She stares at her own reflection, her pale blue eyes looking back at her. There’s a beauty mark above her lip, her blonde hair loose and wet around her face. If she tilts her head to the side she can see fading yellow bruises on her skin and her hand rises to them. She brushes over the marks and she feels a shiver run down her spine.

He’s no good for her. No one is, because she’s got to remain hollow and empty to do what she does. Killer for hire. Witch who kills witches. She takes a breath and looks in the mirror again, whispering the words to herself to try and remember that they’re true.

“This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.”

The poem is older than her. It’s the code they live by.

The Hollow men. The stuffed men.

Bishop steps out of the shower behind her. He smiles at her in the mirror with dark eyes, running a towel through his hair. It splatters droplets of water across the glass, blurring and distorting her reflection. Strong arms wrap around her, pulling her tightly against his chest. He digs his chin into her shoulder and meets her eyes in the mirror. “What are you whispering, babe?” he asks.

She wants to say the words out loud, wants to say them in the back of her mind where she can stay cold and stay safe. She knows what he is. He knows what she is. This is the way the world ends. It will only end badly.

“It’s nothing,” she says. She smiles back and turns her head. He kisses her and it’s demanding and all consuming.

“Nothing at all.”

†