「WHO」 Max & Adria 「WHAT」 Returns 「WHEN」 Oct 30th, 11:40PM 「WARNINGS」 N/A
Asleep on a lumpy couch, an arrhythmic creaking in the hall woke Max at 20 till midnight. Before he could recall where he was, a shuffling black silhouette of a girl hauling an enormous comforter passed a door jam into the living room. The sight made his body feel like a ball of rubber bands about to snap. Shit. Too many seasonal horror movies. Light from passing headlights slanted through the living room blinds, illuminating stripes of vividly purple pajama leggings and a sun-bleached AC/DC shirt so large it could have passed for a nightgown. A messy tuft of caramel blonde poked through the neck hole, looking like the cutest sheepdog there ever was. The sheepdog yawned. "Er' you awake?"
"D'ja," rumbled a heavily accented baritone. He sat up. A solidification of shadow moved behind him, near liquid in its shapelessness. Grasping tendrils dispersed with a reedy, rattling whisper. Though he disliked their uninvited appearance, something base in him felt lessened in their absence. He palmed the sleep from his eyes. Refocused, they blinked a cool, luminous red in the gloom, bereft of heat or aggression. Two years into life as a bitten lupine shifter and braver than anyone he'd known at her age, Annie Whitacre seemed to care not a whip. "What'd'ya need, Bandit?"
creak - creak - creak
"I had a mega crappy dream. Kinda silly, honestly." Her eyes rolled to emphasize the drama. Clearly, almost twelve was too old for such things. She swung the comforter onto the couch -squarely smacking him in the face with a corner- and seized his forearm for leverage. Onto the cushion at his right, she flung herself with an exaggerated sigh. The shoddy framework of the settee squeaked, not to be outdone by the old home's plaintiff flooring.
"Want to talk about it? The dream?"
"Nope. I'm just gonna sleep here," she announced, a pre-teen judge issuing decree.
"Not sure your Mom'll be thrilled about that." Lauren was less blasé about the recent evolution in Max's 'supernatural weirdness.' Leopard Shifter had been baffling enough; whatever he was now, was too much for her to digest.
"Well that's sillier," said Annie, tugging on his shirt sleeve—the indication that snuggles were to be had, standard since her early childhood. No objections would be entertained. If challenged, she'd insist that sleeping in piles was a wolf thing, and therefore completely normal. Nothing childish about it. "Besides, you never stay long enough. I don't get to see you. So, tough toenails."
Sluggishly, he chuffed humor, scratching fingers through the entirely un-supernatural shadow covering his jaw. "Gross. You're not a shifter at all, are you?" Suspicious, eyes like cooling charcoal narrowed. "I'm thinking … mini bridge troll."
"Says the shifter fail." Annie cackled in tones of silver and gold, punching a couch pillow to fluff it. "Teacups?" She supplied. "Tambourines?"
"Toadstools?"
" ... Turdblossoms," she countered proudly, grinning like a cat caught with a canary. Assuming her banterish victory, she swept her hand over his face to close his eyes. "Nightlights are for kids. Go back to sleep. And - Oh! Banana pancakes in the morning?"
"So bossy," he mused, feigning incredulity. Wrestling the snarky wisp into his arms, he flattened his right side into the couch once more, taking her with him. The beaten cushions and worn support hardly registered, now. He pecked a kiss at his daughter's crown. "You're on. Sweet dreams, Bandit."
"Love you, Uncle Max."
Uncle Max. His heart ached like a rotten tooth. A few more weeks of work with Elia, and he could tell her. A few more weeks, to be sure his abilities had stabilized and wouldn't put her at risk. A few more weeks, to be certain he could be present for her, if he meant to so alter her life with a difficult truth. She deserved far more than that. Less was unacceptable.
"Love you more."
"Love you mucher," she muttered, using his arm as a pillow.
"Love you most."
Before he opened his eyes, he knew. The darkest whispers were different here. There was a thin, deceptive veneer of politeness, as though the spirits, unseen interlopers and things between were aware they were likely to be monitored and sensed at Le Cirque more than in most locales the world over, both supernatural and mundane. Needing no adjustment to the lack of light, he took in a room he'd not seen in a year. Everything was as he'd left it. Annie was gone.
He loosed a heavy, put-upon sigh. In the past year, Max's threshold for panic or magically-induced agitation had narrowed to an exceptionally thin window. Perhaps it was the perspective he'd gained from ever-increasing exposure to, and acceptance of the void. Perhaps degrees of Elia's composure had rubbed off on him. Perhaps it was his death. The reason mattered little. His jaw set by a mild irritation tantamount to a cat stroked the wrong way, he stood from his bed, patting the pockets of his jeans. Phone and assorted necessities secured, he exhaled, then summoned a memory of falling.
Reedy murmurs; a frenzy. Distant rattling; a crescendo.
A shadowy brume wrapped him like a lover, or ravenous predator—sometimes the two were indistinct. A cold hole in reality yawned wide in welcome. He stepped in, then through, meaning to return to the Whitacre house in Baton Rouge. Addressing the Cirque's new intent could wait until morning. Travel to and from had never before been restricted. The solid darkness coaxing, curling round his legs and feet receded …
The Cirque's Central Cauldron loomed before him.
Squinting at the magical well as though it'd dealt him an offense, he focused and tried again. The whispers thrilled at so speedy an encore. The terminus was the same. He stared, blinked to be sure, then groaned into a palm dragged south across pinched features. October 30th was often called Mischief Night. The title had never been so germane.