Ethan Callahan (ethan_callahan) wrote in birchcreek, @ 2008-12-26 14:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | thread: cian o'neill, thread: ethan callahan, thread: michael elder |
December 21, Solstice (backdated)
WHO: Ethan Callahan, Michael Elder, Cian O’Neill and anyone else
WHAT: Solstice Night celebration
WHERE: The end of Oxford street, on the outskirts of town
WHEN: Solstice, from mid-afternoon until the last person staggers home
WHY: It’s a celebration!
RATING: TBD
STATUS: Incomplete and ongoing
Whoever had plowed Oxford street had done a great job, Ethan thought as he pulled over to the edge of the street, as far from traffic flow as he could manage. Although traffic flow was non-existant from this point on; city utilities had donated a couple of orange-and-white striped barriers that someone had decorated with festive wreaths of pine boughs and wintergreen, each with a big red ribbon.
Ethan climbed out of his Expedition--not police-issue, but his private one--and clipped his Beretta to his belt. Not that he'd likely have a use for it, or for the big Ka-bar knife he'd used in the Marines that was nestled in the small of his back, but old habits died hard. He'd spent more than twenty years armed to the teeth. He zipped up his warmly-lined black bomber jacket, tucked gloves, his police radio and a Maglite in his pockets, and was ready.
His breath was a white cloud before him. The day was crisp and cold, though not bitterly so, the sun beginning to sink behind the trees. Since he'd Changed, the cold didn't seem to affect him quite as much, but he still thought it more than a little nuts to have a party outdoors in mid-winter. But if he'd learned nothing in his years, it was that people were generally crazy. But, if they wanted to do it, it was fine with him. He was off-duty, but the organizer had asked for someone to occasionally stop by and take a look at things, to make sure that things didn't get out of hand. Not that they expected things to get that way, but hey, people drank, and so the unexpected happened. Ethan figured that if there were a bunch of witches there, they'd handle anything themselves without any need for him.
He was a little curious about the whole witch thing, which was why he'd volunteered. Before he'd Changed, his own life had been nothing but ruthless practicalities; the supernatural had never factored into it. Now, his whole life was nothing but supernatural this or that, and it was damn hard to turn around a whole lifetime's way of thinking. Other weres he understood, at least from a kinship point. Even if they weren't the same species, they all changed with the full moon, and most of them could change at will. He'd heard that the really strong ones could do partial changes as well, but that was one of the things he'd have to see for himself.
Witches, he had no kinship with, no idea of how what they did was even possible. Even after he'd Changed, before he came to Birch Creek, he hadn't run into any. The first witch he'd ever met had been his fellow deputy, Grant, and wasn't that a squirm-worthy memory. He'd been fascinated by the scent, different than anything he'd experienced before and had crowded way too far into Grant's personal space to get a better whiff of him. Luckily, Grant hadn't taken offense and had laughed it off. Grant was one of the most good-natured people Ethan had ever met, but still, Ethan had been ashamed of his lack of control. Ethan had withdrawn into a cold, distant professionalism while working with him to make up for the incident.
Maybe volunteering to work a detail that would have him surrounded by witches wasn't the best idea, but Ethan had always been a sink-or-swim type. He'd have to get used to it, so he might as well do it all at once. Learning by immersion.
At the end of Oxford, people milled around like a disturbed ant mill. As Ethan drew closer, he saw that it wasn't nearly as chaotic as it looked, and in spite of the cold, spirits seemed high; he heard a lot of chatter, laughter, and the occasional snatch of a carol, both the familiar Christmas ones, and not. A bunch of people were building the base for a huge bonfire, and the woodsman and Marine within him approved of their technique. Close--but not too close--were nearly a dozen picnic tables, decorated with greenery, red berries, pine cones and fat white candles. Further away stood a huge fir Christmas tree, or whatever witches called it. Surely not that. Pagan tree? Hell if he knew. Closer to the tree were long folding metal tables, like the ones in school cafeterias, and on them were piled all sorts of things that could be used to make decorations or wreaths, mostly natural materials and huge spools of red ribbons of different sizes and wire to tie things together. Across from those were tables that would most likely hold food, with stacks of coolers sitting close by. Spaced evenly around the perimeter of the area were the tall torches people used for summer entertaining.
Ethan snagged a woman--not a witch, from her smell--as she hurried by, and said, "Excuse me, ma'am. Who's in charge, here?"
"That would be Michael," she said, as if it was patently obvious who this Michael was. In a town this small, it probably was, but he hadn't gotten around to meeting all that many people yet. He tipped his head inquiringly, and she laughed. "Oh, sorry." She paused to look around, then pointed in the direction he'd come from. "That's him. Black parka, carrying the box, coming this way."
"Thanks, ma'am," he said, and turned just as the man came close. He was tall, and even with the bulk of the parka, Ethan could tell he was lean. He had thick short-cropped dark hair and sharply-cut features. Ethan waited a moment more, letting the space close between them, then took a step forward.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you the organizer of this..." he wanted to say mess, but it was actually too well-organized to say that, "...party?"
"I am, yes." He had a low, soft voice, with a slight trace of a southern accent. Definitely not a native, then. He set the box down on the nearest picnic table and tugged off his gloves. "I'm Michael Elder. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Deputy Callahan. I believe you asked for someone from our department to come by. Also, do you have a permit for the gathering as well as the bonfire?"
"Thank you for showing up. I don't expect we'll need you, because gatherings such as these tend to be orderly, but not everyone coming by is here for a spiritual celebration, you know? And yes, I have a permit."
He unzipped his parka, revealing a bright red turtleneck sweater, and rummaged in a pocket for the permit. Ethan noticed that, but only dimly, because on the rush of body heat that rolled from within the coat came scent. Man, a slight tang of sweat, but more than that, witch. It was like Grant's smell, though different, subtle and complex. Leather, wool, herbs, grasses, woods. Incense, cold wind, and oddly, feathers. The scents all swirled together to make a mix that he wouldn't forget, that he could track if he ever needed to do so. And, wait. Cat. But not a domestic. Big cat; a cougar sprang to mind, and the short hair at the nape of his neck rose in reaction.
And then another scent, this one sexual. Arousal.
Ethan's eyes opened--when had he closed them? He realized with a sickening sense of horror and dismay that he'd closed the distance between them and had his face practically buried in the man's neck, nose against his skin. Ethan looked up into the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, the blue disappearing as the pupils grew huge and dark. He let go of the edges of the parka and stepped back, shaking his head. Fuck, fuck, fuck it all to hell and back. He'd done it again.