My delicious, handsome, beautiful, husband Bo Sinclairâs full name is FUCKING BEAUREGARD SINCLAIR???? I THOUGHT âBOâ WAS SHORT FOR LIKE ROBERT OR SOMETHING BUT FUCKING BEAUREGARD???
Itâs been months and my playlist cover image is still this. Too attached to change it, scary slasher/monster brunette men of horror, my loves â€ïžâđ„
How did the night they returned Michael home go? They certainly didn't use the front door.
-
âTurn him this way.âÂ
âPivot!âÂ
âShh! Donât fucking shout!âÂ
Four hands hold the limp body while another two work the screen out of the window frame from the outside. A tricky affair, but experience and skill and a philipâs head screwdriver make all the difference.Â
And still-Â
Thunk goes Michaelâs head against the window sill as Paul underestimates the amount of lift needed to guide him through the space.Â
He freezes. David freezes.Â
Michaelâs face twitches.Â
â...He looks like heâs about to sneeze,â Paul whispers.Â
âShut up,â David hisses.Â
Dwayne is already in the room, feet firmly on the ground and reaching out to guide Michaelâs shoulders in first. Together, theyâre delicate, precise. They only knock the lamp on the bedside table a little bit sideways. Theyâre especially careful of Michaelâs neck as David lays it down. The blood is doing the dark work it was intended, but that didnât mean there wouldnât be complications if they werenât attentive.Â
It would be pretty embarrassing if he survived a fall from a train bridge but not from his bed to the floor.Â
David looks over Michaelâs face as he lays there. Serene, calm. In unconsciousness it lacks that hard line through his brow like heâs always ready to scrap. Defend himself. Itâs dirty from the dust at the bottom of the empty river bed, scabbing over where it had scraped as it landed with a crunch on the ground. Those would be gone by morning, and all Michael would know is a wild, cross-faded night he could shower off. David spies a twig sticking out of the curly mop of hair Michael called a âdo, and tugs it out.Â
Some part of him hopes that not everything gets washed away.Â
A rattle and a bump pulls him out of his revere, the sudden, sharp sound sending a jolt through him. David spins to see Dwayne grimace. Heâs got a magazine in his hand - pulled from a pile of things on the dresser by the door, knocking over a book onto the floor.Â
Sorry, Dwayne thinks. He holds up the magazine, a shiny photo of a red sports car blazing across the front. I donât have this issue.Â
David certainly doesnât think Michael will miss it, but heâs more concerned about being here for longer than necessary. The shadows in the trees outside had eyes - thousands of them, invisible but always watching. The hills themselves here knowing all the comings and goings of those who trod, missing nothing. Tonight it seemed she was reserving judgment, maybe waiting to see how things played out. Maybe just entertained that their little pack thought they were being sneaky. The cabin lay still and quiet, save for the relentless three heartbeats humming nearly imperceptibly against the wallsâŠand the one that was only just starting to stutter back to life.Â
Theyâd done what theyâd come here for, now to get back, report to Max and-Â
Pleasure and surprise flash across the bond, and itâs only then that David realizes Michaelâs bedroom door is open.Â
Both he and Dwayne look to the door, and then lock eyes in understanding.Â
Feet barely skating the floor as he glides forward, David floats out of the room. The air isâŠweighted. A barrier between him and his abilities the moment he crossed the threshold of the window. The walls knew he had not been properly welcomed - and they resisted him.Â
It also meant no playing tricks.Â
David gets to the top of the stairs and looks down into the dark living room. Paul stands in the corner, rifling through a large bookshelf. He looks up when he senses Davidâs pointed nudge through the bond.Â
âCheck it out!â He stage whispers. He holds up a record sleeve, the white cardstock stark in the night. âOriginal White Album!âÂ
âStop messing with that,â Dwayne growls, starting down the stairs to make him if he doesnât do it voluntarily.Â
David looks around the room for Marko, but. Doesnât see him. Where the fuck-
Something sweet explodes across the bond, sugary, artificial, and peanut butter-y. All three look to the kitchen and this time, David doesnât stay at the top of the stairs. Not even bothering with the steps themselves, he swings himself off the landing, landing in silence in a crouch. He lopes through the open double doors into the kitchen, only to be half-blinded with the light of the open refrigerator.Â
He hisses, teeth flashing momentarily until Marko has the sense to tilt the door closed a bit.Â
âSorry,â he apologizes. A peanut butter bopper still in his hand.Â
âWould you knock it off!â David snaps. âWhat the hell?âÂ
Marko looks less than concerned. He shrugs. âPayment for services rendered,â he justifies.Â
Normally David would agree and even take one himself if not just the whole box, but thereâs only one wall between them and the room where an old hunter rests, his bedroom on the first floor. Less than twenty feet from all of them.Â
David can smell silver, lead, and fresh gun oil. Heâs not interested in seeing how fast Jonathan Emersonâs draw is.Â
âAw, sweet!â Paul exclaims, rushing past David to join Marko at the appliance. Heâs got no compunction against swinging it wide the fuck open and flooding the room with light and cold. Glass bottles rattle against each other on the door and as Paul plucks one up. âThe old manâs got good taste. Cherry!âÂ
Heâs speaking almost at normal volume - which for Paul means full volume for other people. More than loud enough for a big, echo-y hill cabin at four in the morning.Â
The longer they stay here, the more the intrusion eats away at them. The eyes in the darkness peer through the windows, through the cracks in the planks, wondering how long the unwanted guests would overstay. There is no hospitality offered to home invaders. Less for those who took without repayment.Â
âStop fucking around and letâs go,â David urges. Pressing into the bond as much as he feels is necessary.Â
He can tell itâs more that theyâre getting bored themselves than his urgency that does it, but Marko steals a couple more treats and Paul takes two bottles of soda as his prize as they retreat.Â
The four of them pad out into the living room. Theyâre going to have to walk up the stairs, the magic of flight gone under the weight of unwelcome. Thatâs fine, itâs not like anyone-
A floorboard above creaks.Â
Then another.Â
From the room at the furthest end of the hall, the old master bedroom, Lucy Emerson shuffles out.Â
David doesnât move. None of them do, backs against the couch. They donât breathe, dead bodies able to hold still in a perfect statue. In the darkness, the trail of her movement leaves a wave behind her, invisible to human eyes, but to a vampire itâs the tail of a shooting star across the night sky. Life, pure and vibrant.Â
They can only hope she doesnât bother looking down.Â
Lucy moves past the landing, the top of the stairs. She turns and the light in the bathroom flicks on. With a hiss of her own, she closes the door.Â
Dude, Paul thinks, still not moving a single muscle, this is just like when Manson was doing his helter skelter shit in Hollywood-.
Shut. Up. Dwayne responds, anxiety spiking through his thoughts.Â
Paul allows himself a single movement to turn and stick his tongue out at him. Iâm not even talking!
Stop David shoves through all of their heads as the toilet flushes, and the light goes off.Â
Lucy comes back out, holding her silky nightrobe closed. Her footsteps are muffled through a layer of thick knit socks, but each step makes a floor board sing. David canât properly see from here, but tries to memorize which ones sheâs stepping on, to avoid them.Â
As she passes the far post of the stairs, she pauses. And turns her head.Â
David meets her eyes, through the shadows, and with what the house will let him, presses into her mind.Â
She blinks.Â
Her eyes slide past the couch, to the window and the security light.Â
Yes. Light on shadow. Tricks in the night.Â
Just an odd shape in the dark.
Lucy interrupts herself with a yawn, which she covers with a hand and then shuffles back to her room. The door latches and Davidâs shoulders drop.Â
Heâs going to have a headache tomorrow. That was too close.Â
Letâs go.
Thankfully, the others donât object. David waits a few more minutes, just to be safe, and then climbs the stairs. They donât creak under the weight of four vampires doing their best impression of cats on a rail, and they manage to slip back into Michaelâs room undetected.Â
Marko is out the window first, followed by Dwayne. David turns to glance over Michael one more time. A paranoia lingers in the back of his mind. About nothing and everything. Really, he shouldnât worry - about this, at least. In the short amount of time theyâd been downstairs, his heart had come back to life, pounding away under reformed ribs, circulating the blood. Davidâs blood.Â
Maybe thatâs whatâs got him spooked. A deviation from an order. Heâs already laying out just how heâs going to tell Max without technically lying as he clambers through the window.Â
The air outside finds him as the chains of the cabin are cast off. Heâs buoyed through the wind, lighter than air like he never left. All his faculties come rushing back, and for a moment, heâs free. No matter how things turn out, heâll always have this.Â
Paul is the last out, joining David in the sky. Ready to make their way to their bikes hidden down the road.Â
âJust so you know, you put him upside down,â Paul says, floating past.Â
"Lindsey Graham, a longtime US senator and key ally of Donald Trump, has died from a sudden illness, his office said on Sunday. He had just turned 71.
Grahamâs abrupt death will send shock waves through Washington and the Republican party. He had served in the Senate since 2003, representing South Carolina, and was running for re-election in November."
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