Louis Donovan (strikethose) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-02-18 18:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | !something wicked this way comes, *log, cristián martin-argüelles, louis donovan, micah callaghan, neil donovan |
[quicklog: micah c, neil d, cris m, louis d]
Who: Micah, Neil, Cris, and Louis
What: Confronting Micah.
Where: Something Wicked This Way Comes door.
When: Today.
Warnings/Rating: TBD, most likely violence.
[This wasn't the end. Louis knew that.
Even when Micah was dead, it didn't end cleanly. This wasn't a tying up of loose ends, this was fraying, slicing open fresh wounds. He marked the door for Neil and Cris, as he'd promised. This death wasn't just about the killing. He couldn't be the only one who saw it. And while the impulse to kill was settled as deeply in his breast as his own heartbeat, the need to have Neil and Cris there was not. That was no god's want. That was his own.
He hadn't done everything he should have for Joey. Blind to what was happening in his own life, wrapped up in what was happening for Sam, he hadn't been there for him the way he should have. Now he was dead, and his corpse was nothing more to Micah than one more vehicle to torture Sam with, just another outlet to cause her pain. His rage was for her, but it was for Joey, too - nothing more to Micah than a footnote in his grand opus of misery for Sam.
In the last year, Louis had killed people who didn't deserve death. There was nothing he could have done to stop himself, but not all of the victims of the bloodthirst he dutifully slaked were criminals or human mongrels. There had been innocent people in that number, and he hadn't spared them. He had been a sacrifice in that long line himself, and now the thing he had done so much for owed him a boon in return. It was not, after all, a strictly evil thing. Old beings worked by old rules, rules of give and take. Perhaps a few thousand years ago, an odd lamb or a virgin would have been enough. Hunger compounded with interest over years. Faithful service earned a reward, even forced, and Louis had spilled gallons of blood for a nameless thing. Even a witch's sigils couldn't stand in the way of that need, of family, of righting something irreversibly wrong.
The carnival was empty and run down, sticky snacks melting on the sidewalk. He smelled sugar and asphalt and greased machinery. Overhead, the noonday sky was slowly darkening under a burgeoning summer storm.
It was all so anachronistic - old things from the deep earth that drank blood from the soil like water, a maniacally tinkling carousel, bulbs malevolent and dim grey in midday, and the gentle pulse of an icon on his phone screen, leading him on past the rides and the empty booths, past the discarded, tumbling trash in the hot wind, to the rickety trailer at the edge of the encampment beyond.]