Name: Matteo Lazkano
Occupation: Latin professor at Tideview Unviersity
Age: 43
Sexuality: Hetero
Species: Werewolf (Warwick pack)
Hometown: Port Leiry
Relationship Status: Widower
Personality Traits: unyielding, arrogant, pedantic, patient, polite, calm
Biography (tw: death mention )
Metteo Lazakano was deemed a monster, before he even knew what that word meant.
On november 8th, 1981, at Port Leiry hospital, Matteo was born — the first son of Sofia and Mario Lazkano. Their spark of hope.
From the moment they welcomed their son into the world, they knew the risk they were taking. The werewolf gene ran through the Lazkano bloodline, but that wasn't the only curse that had poisoned the blood of the ones carrying that last name.
They were familiar with the prophecy. On the night of the first kill — like a switch being flipped, their lives would turn nightmerish. Hallucinations would plague their concious, whispers of brutal and vicious urges would rush through their ears — promting them to act on their worst desires, feeding on their inhumane nature, on their primal instincts.
The Warwick pack, although ruthless and set in their ways, looked over to Matteo with pity and sorrow. Never encouraged his first kill, not before he was old enough to become aware of the consequences — the price he had to pay.
His father was crowned alpha, before he met Sofia. Tore the one before that into pieces. He lived for the kill. Alas, those victorious days of towering over any enemy, were long behind him. The curse had turned his blood black — his bones weak, and his mind a very loud place where all his coherent thoughts came to die.
Matteo watched his father succumb to his weakness. Crumble beneath the force of his hex. He watched, as he become the one beings tore into. A crown taken too easily. The death of his father frightened him, left him begging his mother for an explanation. And so she did — didn't spare him even the gruesome of details. He swore not to tell his younger brother, not before the right time has come.
That time never came.
Instead, Matteo found himself standing over the lifeless body of a man he killed with his bare hands. He'd found them in the woods — his younger brother and an older guy with his hands wrapped around his throat.
And althogh frightened, utterly mortified at the thought of ever turning into his father, Matteo did what any older brother would've done.
He became the monster, he was always meant to be.
"When was a monster, not a monster? When you love it."
And she did — his beautiful wife. She loved him, in spite of what he was. A love short lived, but real. The kind of woman you wooed, you took out on dates, you merry. You'd love her, because she was the best damn thing in your shitty life. And he did love her — with what little sanity was left in him.
With her gone, he struggled to be in control. For better, or worse — what would be left of either of them was a child, just as beautiful as she was, and just as smart. Addie, his daughter, was now the reason he gripped to those last shreds of lucidity so hard.
BAD BLOOD / The blood witch who had hexed the Lazkano bloodline. Matteo doesn't hold a grudge over what has supposedly happened more than a few centuries ago.
( @zanexxpatel )
LOOK AFTER YOU / His brother was crushed when their father died, and from that point on, Matteo made it his life mission to always be by his side, taking care of him, being his clutch when he needed and his strength when he had none left to fight. ( @cesarlazkano )
SAVE ME FROM MYSELF / A witch who's provided remedies for his condition over the years. His wife had also been a witch, so it could be someone close/related to her. ( Brennan, Cait’s uncle before he was murdered. Present time — ( @ofgarnett )
WARWICK WOLVES / Old ones, who had probably witnessed the downfall of his father.
RIPPED A PART OUT OF ME / The witch hunter who murdered his wife. ( @ofreardcns )
Resin and pine whips at her senses, snaking down her cavities so urgently that it would have stolen the breath of the living. An urge to find the fastest route and carve a way through until those dirty paws went quiet overwhelms every innate instinct; primal in the same vein as the beast fervently pursuing her. The pace only grew more violent, a galloping at her rear against the damp earth that groans its protest.
She did not plan for a fight, but she's silently preparing for one.
Castillon begins to taste musk, salting her lips.
She stops with the suddenness of brakes on asphalt, bare heels burrowing into the ground; she'd almost met nothing but air as she recognises a vicious edge, marking its hunger as stone walls crumble beneath her feet.
Shock grips her, like a vice squeezing unneeded air from her lungs, first. A mind that cannot gamble on odds she hasn't determined. It's a blind bet, and she doesn't take those types of risks. She refuses to allow a man-beast of all things to force her hand.
Below, between the mud and stone walls of a cavernous decline is a steep drop three times the height of Tamanawa Falls, it's split by a rapid river gushing down the embankment below. Nsilo has not thought about how she could have remained in Seattle until now. A quiet, delirious laugh passes between reddened, dry lips. She curses the wolf with the luck of something that has outmanoeuvred the house.
She turns slowly, with her back to the cliff edge. She looks the wolf in its beady, frenzied eyes for all its damn worth. Nsilo will watch the amber lights go out, she swears it. Even if it is the last thing she does, with ash on her tongue.
There's an agonised scream when the first claw digs and strikes bone. It echoes with the beast's manic growl, suffocating her pain behind its rage. Talons slice through flesh like a knife in butter from a shoulder to a navel. Once, twice. Again, and again —sharp, choked cries burst from protesting lips as fingers grapple with a gnashing jaw, dripping poison and thick saliva. Trembling arms, shredded raw as a wolf digs into a body like it is burrowing a hole in the ground; digging a grave at speed. Ribbons of flesh spray as Castillon peels fur from leather-like skin.
Sounds of a broken orchestra; strings out of tune, squealing from holed out lungs. The rumble of chests unable to drum the beat of every stolen breath. Bodies that scratch and burrow at the precipice of a steep fall.
Nsilo remains on her back, hair tumbling over the edge, matted. Blood obscures her vision as hands twist, twist a neck away from where it desires to devour.
Both fury and ferocity meet in growls and hisses; death has never sat on a chest so close, stealing undeath in such a grotesque, sacriligious display. She blinks away the red-tinged flashes of knowing an end; how every decision she made for a century put her here, in the path of a single wolf.
It all ceases to matter when a clawed mass punctures a chest.
By now, she must have known who he was. That this relentless hunt was not born of hunger. Her decaying body would never sate him, Мatteo craved living flesh, the pulse of a still beating heart. What she offered was nothing but rot and worms. She must have known he would chase her anyway, that he would follow her over the cliff if he had to, follow her even into his own death, if it meant stripping the master of his fate of any final breath. Her reign over his family was over.
Blood drenched the earth beneath them as two beasts tore into each other with the hatred of mortal enemies, each intent on ending the other at the cost of their own lives. A massive paw slammed down on her delicate neck, crushing hard against a windpipe that no longer needed breath, small bones snapping beneath the weight.
Her hand lashed out, trying to wrench his starving jaws aside only to be caught between sharp ivories. Like throwing a dog a treat. But it wasn't enough. There was a throat without a pulse with his name written on it. He wanted to leave his mark, and so did she. Fur was torn from his chest and his back, clutched in desperate fingers. Her agony braided with his, where a share scream echoed through the woods like a symphony of death.
Death.
He could feel it brushing along his neck, and his pointed ears, down to the tips of his paws. Death was in the grip of a manicured hand.
The wolf yelped, as if struck down. This was where it all ended, wasn’t it? The curse and the war (inside him and out), and all the rage. Maybe peace would find him at last. But there was no light, only the sound of his own blood slamming in his ears like a hammer. His vision blurred, as if he was sinking and trying to see underwater. Claws shrank back into phalanges. The fire went out of his eyes like smoke—no longer amber, but pale. Human skin crept over him where fur had kept him warm. He was human again, bare and alone, and he would die as one.
Silence joins the stench of decay. Not the lingering body Castillon has not long left in a shallow grave, but the unwashed wolf, bleeding as monstrous talons break through flesh. It often takes less than a second for a gamble to miss the payoff. Nsilo thinks she's made a poorly calculated one, now.
Fear does not suit her, so she stuffs it down in favour of calculation.
They're baring fangs, as though one pair isn't more deadly than the other.
She takes too long, watching the man turn beast. A sick fascination in listening to the snap, crack — crunch of ivory shattering, reshaping beneath the skin. A smirk equal parts unease. She wonders how quickly she might move against a creature on all fours. There's a bet she doesn't put money on when feet carry her in the opposite direction, one step, two.
A wolf's howl, in which Nsilo knows she will not outpace. Not at this starting distance.
Fuck it.
Come on then, wolf.
Shoes slide off, bare feet sink into the mud of the forest floor.
New odds; she isn't arrogant enough to believe she can outrun a wolf on the straight path. But she can try if she takes short, sudden routes. The wolf can skid left and right, changing direction all he likes. Knock over a tree on its head, whilst he's at it. Castillon will watch and laugh at the animal losing its bearings.
She dashes left first. A shadow between the trees.
She wasn’t any faster than a rabbit running from a wolf. The days when he’d fed on small, trembling things were long gone. His fangs tore through human flesh now.
Matteo often thought about the couple in the woods, those campers. They’d pitched their tent and lit their fire, probably thought themselves safe. First, he’d ripped the man’s ribcage open, guts spilling out like wet ribbons. Then he’d eaten his heart, as though it were a ripe peach.
The woman had run until her ankle snapped, sending her tumbling down the hill. A slow death. She’d begged for mercy from the bloody maw of a creature that had never learned what mercy was.
This one was clever, he’d give her that. Maybe because she was a creature of the night. His senses were full of her; decay and perfume. But even the winding paths she chose couldn’t keep her from him for long. His paws tore into the mud as he leapt over trees, and rocks, and the broken ribs of the forest floor, until they met a rocky end. A cliff’s edge, where water roared below.
There was no going back. The vampire’s only choices were his claws or the rocks waiting beneath.
Matteo emerged from the treeline, all fur and fury, the ghost of a man buried beneath the wrath. For a moment, their eyes met. Beast and maker. She was his curse. She created the monster he'd turned into. He saw her stillness and mistook it for courage, but it was something else.
He leapt and engulfed her whole, the way fire devoured a building.
Castillon hates when she has to admit she's backed the wrong horse — or been bold enough to place an uneducated bet. But she is not flawed enough to believe she gets it right every time. Sometimes there's a price attached to curiosity. This wolf looks lost. Trailed off the beaten path and wandered away from its pack. A sad, tormented thing that walks under the moon in the same way she does. Nsilo had once sworn she had heard a phrase about how lone wolves do not survive long without company.
She supposes that she is its company, for now.
(And without considering, she is also alone, with him as her company, too)
Nsilo doesn't roll the dice and take any steps closer. But she does keep a wide berth when he turns to spot her. Senses equally as keen so that rotted mould of something split open and bleeding permeates the space between them.
It is a wrongness — a worser kind of decay than the body she had not long ago allowed the earth to reclaim. A thumb and forefinger ghost over the pads thoughtfully, glossed fingernails coated in ruby and flecked with soil.
"That would be quite a search you've pursued. Out here." It would not be somewhere her enemies might have followed her, typically.
Castillon does not like to dirty her hands even at the best times. The forest is not her element, nor a comfort. It is a means to an end. Coincidence? A wolf driven off the edge, more likely. Eyes survey his features and assess the tick on his lips, the amber light that devours the iris; speculation of how close they are to becoming bad odds. Hm. She considers the bet; a spin of the roulette wheel, gambling on whether this will get messy, or if she would be better off leaving a wolf to its madness for tonight.
There is a smirk on painted lips: "I believe you may have your nose in the wrong direction, wolf."
A half-lucid mind didn’t cling to words. She spoke and yet no sound came, only a huff of air from a dead woman who no longer needed to breathe. Only to feed.
But his blood was poison, running black through thinning veins, rotting him from the inside out. And all he knew, all he felt, was that this was her fault.
Her doing.
He had found her at last, between the ghosts of his wife and his daughter, she stood — the woman responsible for it all. His undoing. His end, and his beginning. He had been born of the blood she had corrupted, and now he would die from it.
But he wasn’t going to die alone.
Not tonight.
He saw red. Claws burst through his nailbeds, tearing skin as blood dripped down hands already vanishing beneath fur. His mouth split open, wolf fangs pushing through torn flesh, pearly white and starving for dead meat. Now he understood what his father had felt all those years, letting the curse devour him. Now he knew what power truly was. What the hunger for destruction felt like once you stopped fighting it.
Every bone in his body snapped and bent, each crack echoing around them. The transformation came so fast, the vampire barely had a head start. There was nowhere for her to run when a howl, aimed at the moon, tore the night. Matteo charged, driven by a single feral thought: tear her to pieces and bathe in her blood. Have her all to himself. Eat her dead heart.
Matteo only wanted release. César refuses to let him die. Between them hung a truth neither was ready to face —
@cesarlazkano
césar’s not a clever man, he never has been. he seizes, and bullies his way through, and takes and ruins when and where he wants, and not a moment after. he’s cruel, and violent, and impulsive, and he’s never pretended to be otherwise. he won’t, even now. he wants his brother, and he intends to take him back. waiting has never been his forte, and it’s not patience that keeps him from matteo. if his older brother wants to punish himself, wants to soak in the torture of an isolation that he’d done to himself, fine, césar can let him have that. he deserves it, for taking away his brother. the difference is, césar doesn’t care what he’s done. the blood on his hands, no matter how innocent, césar is sure his are worse. who cares? they’re the stillpoint of the turning world, and nobody else. fuck his job, fuck his students, fuck his reputation and morals. césar doesn’t care, he’s coming home. arleen bailey will know who’s broken in regardless of the mess césar’s made, so he doesn’t mind much of anything in his intrusion. he kicks the door in when the handle doesn’t give, finds he doesn’t have the patience to fuck with the lock. really, she’s lucky he didn’t go for the windows, just to feel the glass shatter beneath his fist. it’s no time at all that he learns who is here, and where they are. the redhead’s scent is missing from being present, though he can smell her on everything. she’s not who he’s looking for. all that matters is the steady, increasing presence of his brother that césar’s now tracked beneath the house.
still, bailey hasn’t left him alone, and the scent, and sound of another wolf in the house drives his paranoia to a skyrocketing height. red floods his vision, the wind lifting at his heels as he finds his way to the basement, feeling something animalistic building in his throat. all césar needs is the smell, the silhouette of the werewolf he assumes to be warwick, and he pounces. with his back turned to the ramp that césar descends, the warwick wolf is already at a disadvantage, which is made even clearer given how he inhabits the body of the man. even at the best of times, césar’s half wild. violent hands thrust the wolf to the floor of the basement, satisfied at the sound of cracks in the warwick’s head and shoulders as they hit the concrete. but he’s still not entirely satiated until the taste of blood is behind his teeth, so césar bites into the warwick’s jugular, ensuring him dead … before he meets his brother’s eyes. he doesn’t know if matteo’s looking at him, if he even knows he’s there at all. no matter, césar’s here anyway. with bloody palms, and a bloodier mouth, the shake that comes with adrenaline is ignored. césar almost carries a mask of calm as he rips the key from the dead warwick’s clutches, using it to unlock his brother’s cage. he takes a slow, nearly taunting step forward, lowering to a crouch as he brushes dark, damp hair from his brother’s face. he speaks to him in spanish, low and slow. “ home time, brother. ” then, césar taps matteo’s shin. “ your legs work? ”
Matteo couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. If it's been days, or weeks, or months — time had rotted away in his own private hell. Those four walls pressing in, where sweat soaked through his clothes, and the curse chewed at his insides until he was nothing but a husk curled on the floor.
He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t moved.
This wasn’t really a basement. It was a room Arleen had prepared — for emergencies, she called it. Metal straps at the wrists and ankles for wolves who couldn’t hold themselves together. A sanctuary for control, except it felt more like a tomb. Let me die, Arleen. He remembered begging. That was the last clear thing in a memory already torn to ribbons.
The last thing after that — his brother’s face.
César.
One word and it started a ripple through the memories he's both clung to and tried to hold down, hold tight, prevent from slipping like sand from between his fingers. A ripple that became a wave, then a flood, then a tsunami. Memory rushing, rushing, rushing and suddenly everything was too much, too fast, until he couldn’t breathe.
Let me die had become Let me out.
In and out of consciousness, he caught the edges of violence beyond those walls. His senses still sharp, even in ruin. The wet snap of bone. Teeth ripping flesh apart. Bodies colliding. And then — a familiar kind of smell. So familiar it carved its way through blood-choked nostrils, buried itself deep in memory.
Again.
César.
Brother.
Heavy lids threatening to close were met with a boot. For a moment, he almost welcomed it —wanted to be crushed, ground down to nothing under its heel. A cold hand ghosted across his skin, and it was as if death itself had brushed by, ready to carry him home.
His body jerked, like it was trying to remember how to move, how to reach, but he was so far gone his limbs couldn't obey.
His lips formed shapes before they found any sound. A whisper pushed through:
"…César…"
His head thudded lightly back against the wall as though the name alone cost him. The weight of it pulled more fragments loose, scattered words slurred together, half-Spanish, half-prayer, tangled in fever: "Hermano…estás… aquí…" And then nothing, just the thin rattle of his breath, his gaze unfocused but fixed desperately in César’s direction, like clinging to the sight alone might keep him tethered.
matteo breathes, he says his name, he shows césar that he’s alive, and, in return, his brother remembers irritation. it quickly sparks aflame, and while it twitches in césar’s expression, wild and restless, he doesn’t walk away. there’s no retreat, no abandonment. he stays right there, covered in another wolf’s blood looking for matteo. but, now, he’d found him, and that made it all worth it. they were going home, together, and that made it all worth it. césar had known, coming here, he wasn’t going to take anything else as an answer. they’ll be in that cursed fucking house, and whatever matteo wants to believe about his incapabilities to be there, he can believe that. they both know he’s not all there anymore, and, more importantly, matteo’s in no shape to fight him on the matter. they’ll live out the curse like their father before them, the difference is, matteo actually deserves to live, to have his life drawn out as long as possible. that, and césar’s unbearably selfish, he needs him there. they’ll figure out the kid thing later. whatever. mario lazkano’s money can buy a lot of things. surely, it can buy someone suitable to take care of a child. neither brother are that person. césar had never been, and matteo can’t even keep himself alive. they’ll get there. matteo doesn’t have a choice. he will get better, because he has to. it’s a blood pact that matteo never signed, but césar’s writing in his sake. césar can tell from the way he’s moving that matteo’s not fit to get up on his own. that’s fine, that’s why he’s here. his brothers got some weight to him, but césar’s come to bear that responsibility, too. he dips down low, muttering again, “ está bien, hermanito, vámonos. ” and césar carries him home, sliding his hands under his knees and feeling the way matteo drags his posture down. for now, it’s a price he’s willing to pay.
he carries him home, past the body that’s caught the lazkano rot, past the front door of arleen bailey’s home. he shoves matteo into the backseat of the car, and drives. similarly, césar carries him inside. hands tucked under his knees, and around his shoulders. the whole time, he doesn’t say a word. he sits matteo up in his chair like he might watch television, instead of seconds away from becoming a decomposing corpse. he’s going to get better, he has to. “ ¿tienes hambre? todavía hay conejos detrás de la casa. les gusta el jardín de sofía.”
There she was, when he closed his eyes — Sofía. In her wedding dress, sitting in a wide green field, letting the grass slip between her fingers. Flowers bloomed where she touched, purple and yellow and pink, colors bleeding into one another like warm liquid. When he reached for her, the colors slid down his hand. She was warm. She was here. And he needed nothing else but that dream. The dream that had been ripped from him. In death, they would be together again. In death, his dream would finally come true. "Leave me, César. Please… little brother, leave me." Because his dreams were better than this reality. Because wherever she was, there was no more pain, no more suffering, no more tears. But his brother has always been stubborn, holding tighter and tighter, while Matteo was begging him to let go. He carried him all the way to his house, and up the stairs to his room, holding tighter and tighter, as if letting go meant letting him die, meant letting him win. You win, little brother. You win. Lids fluttered shut, and then open again, and reality shifted; Sofia had vanished, and in her wake was the pale walls of his house. Rooms deprived of his daughter's laugh. "Where is she?" he asked. His wife. His daughter. "Where—César, where is she?" It became more clear, that Liam has been here, recently. He had taken the little girl to safety. Because what kind of protection could her father offer? A crumbling wall, half its bricks already torn loose, seconds from collapse. A man of ruin. "I'm sorry, little brother, I'm— sorry.." His words faltered, dragged down by shame. "Where are we?" The walls felt wrong. The seat beneath him wasn’t his own. Nothing belonged to him anymore, not even this house. “I’m not hungry. I’m just… tired. So tired, César. What are you… doing here? You’re not supposed to be here…”
so he won’t eat. so he’s tired. so he’s delusional. so he’s talking to his dead wife that césar doesn’t want matteo to meet for another twenty fucking years. and then once his brother gets there, césar will want him ‘til 80. ‘til 100. ‘til immortality. césar will keep demanding impossible wishes of his brother when he stops jumping to reach them. he can do this, too. he knows matteo can. he makes no promises to give up on anything. especially not to leave. dumbass. “ she’s not here. ” césar states, not even an attempt at comfort, though, somewhere in him, he thought it would be, nevertheless. “ but she should be. she deserves to be home, in the house her papa raised her in, with him. ” he narrows his gaze, doesn’t bother to growl but his face carries the ferocity of one, in still motion. “ hiding her does nothing for her, the only thing it helps is your shame. ” it’s a miracle he doesn’t twist into his brother, violently, some manner of a purchase that’ll scar. “ you think the sickness was the reason that nuestro papa was how he was. but that wasn’t it. that was warwick, that was his cruelty, he tried to infect us with that rot but you’ve always been the luckiest of all, teo. you’re not him. you’ll never be him. you can be sick, and your little girl will never feel the anger and the fear that you and i felt. it won’t touch her, not even once. ” césar knows it’s too many words, for now, but he’s running out of time to say them. flickering between topics, re-entertaining the thought of feeding him, césar scribbles ¿tubo? on a half-crumpled napkin with a dying pen that streaks between nothing and blue ink. like he’s a fucking nurse now, writing down his patient’s bullshit. he might as well be, guessing that matteo’s not going to suddenly get better. jesus christ- “ fine. be that way. my turn to tell stupid stories.
“ after i saw you, en la carcel, the first time … i went to the gala. there was a woman there, said she knew abuelo. ” if matteo’s as sick as he claims to be, talking about this is worthless. but césar has to be the key to his brother’s locked tomb, because there’s no one else alive left to do it. he keeps turning, waiting for the sound of a click. “ is killing her how we fix this? is that what we need? you know i can do it, and you’re not allowed to give up. ”
Papá. A gently smile on chapped lips. He was someone's father. He had been. In the haze, a small, sweet face swam up to him — big, brown eyes, dark hair. His daughter. She had to be. But he couldn't remember if she looked like him or her mother. He couldn't even remember Sofia's face anymore — only that she had been foolish enough to love a monster. César always said things the way he saw them. He was a brave man, a smart man, a good man when he wanted to be one, always spitting in the face of injustice — unstoppable, unreachable, unbreakable. He was everything Matteo had ever wanted him to be. Some called him a monster. But then, hadn’t they all been called that at some point? Show me who wasn’t. "Her papa doesn't sound like a very good man, brother." Neither was theirs. "We have his blood. We're no different than him, hermano." Matteo wanted to reach for him then, just a hand on his shoulder, to say they had each other, that whether in life or in death, the same blood would always run through their veins. But his limbs stayed heavy, numb at his side. He wanted to scream. "You'll be here.. when I'm not." The haze in his gaze cleared, and brown eyes settled on his brother, "You've grown up, César. So grown up... and I'm proud of you." That had to do for parting words. He wasn’t sure how much strength he had left. His bones felt like branches under the weight of a storm; bending and cracking. He could see the end. Death, close and hungry, sniffing him out beneath all that onyx fur, homing in on a fragile, barely beating heart. But words still made sense, at least the ones sharp enough to cut through the fog. "Wh—what woman, little brother" Killing her. Why would they need to kill her? Hadn't they done enough? "I—I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, César. How does she know abuelo? Is she—" A vampire then, or worse, a witch. "Is that the… No, no… She—" Wild eyes stared into his brother, "Are you saying she is the witch we’ve been… No…"
his daughter wakes something slow, and sleeping inside of his big brother. it’s warm, lazy, familiar, but it’s not hope. it’s not hunger, it’s not wakefulness, so the love and the yearning for the littlest, most precious lazkano does nothing for césar. it does not serve him. the monster with control over his brother’s horns, the thing that had turned his beast into a dying thing, it doesn’t languish control for a little girl’s need for her father. fuck this, they’ll talk in the morning, when matteo can look at the world again after he’s ate, and slept, and felt freedom on his skin for longer than an hour. now, he knows how far gone matteo is just from the look in his eyes, but he’d know it further from the lack of fire behind his voice. no spark, no fighting against the exhaustion that plagues his body. césar’s never been the smart brother, nor the one with heart. people didn’t depend on him, they won’t miss him when he’s gone. he can’t do this alone. we’re no different than him, hermano. matteo’s too tired to convince him, or anyone that it’s not true, even when césar makes it easy to blindly bob his head around. but matteo won’t take it. grief claws a hand around his throat. let matteo live another night, let him see that césar won’t let him go, then let him try to say his goodbyes. without thinking, he swats up the back of matteo’s head. “ fuck you, teo. ” he’s afforded one spiteful, angry slip up in the wake of everything. he’d been patient, planning- the rescuer, the comforter, and now, the nurse.
césar shakes his head. “ no. nothing will ever be that easy. not for us. ” for matteo, he goes slow. “ smelled rotten. poison. ” the memories of the conclave come back in faded pieces. at least what he’d felt- and smelled -was easier to remember than the actual order and reality of what happened. “ vampire, i think. just old enough for abuelo, not one of the ‘toinettes or any of that shit. ” he’s half leaning on the back of the couch, one of his hands goes to push at his temple, making sense of the scattered details. “ she seemed like she liked playing games. she didn’t do this to us, but she might’ve been the reason. ”
⚔️ CROSSED SWORDS — a past experience of my muse's
The death of his wife, Sofia Lazkano / 2016
A Garnett witch, she believed there was true magic in kindness and goodness. So much so that she loved a monster and married him. She showed him there was more to this world than monstrosities. Taught him how to be more than what he was. In her light, he became a better man.
Castillon prides herself on balancing the fine line of sitting upon a throne, and being equally as prepared to dirty her hands. When those closest to her want to run off script, or fail to meet their end of a bargain. There is always mess. And it often leads to discretion of a capacity that Nsilo doesn't usually trust to pass over to many but herself. An Anemoioa manager embezzling funds outside of 'Maru, and Castillon's enterprise crosses lines she cannot forgive.
Needless. She'd have given them the world, in exchange for loyalty.
But she knows that such traits cannot be bought. Thus, she has a new opening for a pinnacle of a position at the casino and teahouse. Gloves brush dirt from between leathered fingertips, a permeance in the soil that's now bathed in deep red. Regrets in how she had not created an immortal of them; they're easier to dispose of, as ash.
Mortals are bones, gristle and leave irritating trails. Kanemaru is all about finding the enjoyment in immortality, in showing up the other clans for their rules and regulations. All business doesn't mean there has to be no pleasure in the mix. But as she slips through the forest in an out-of-place burgundy suit, she finds that black suede shoes pause on autumn leaves.
There's something else in the woods with her.
More than moss and pine. And something other than the stale lingering of rainwater yet to sink into the mud. It moves between pillars of wood, a shadowy force that spurs Castillon to move faster. A new shadow, stalking the figure in the distance. First north, then west. Every vantage point that might give her a warning as to who might be wandering this far out into the wilderness without company. More fool them to believe they are alone in the night.
Perhaps she will indulge in this. A well-deserved gorging after some grafting, she thinks.
But as she approaches from the South, with silent steps, a cat-like predator that wants to lead a path like a red carpet entrance. Something feels off. Not decay, or rot, but something wolfen. Close enough to mold. Fern and old musk. She pauses in her pursuit and smiles curiously. Perhaps she has stumbled on a wolf desiring to indulge in his own basal instincts. In which case, Castillon's gamble may be less favourable and she may have to reconsider the odds.
There was a woman, his brother had said, who claimed to know abuelo. In the murky waters of Matteo’s mind, those words bobbed like a buoy. Memories kept crashing beneath the waves, splintering against rocks, shattering into nothing, then reforming only to dissolve again into sea foam.
He couldn’t remember if she was a witch. If it had been her magic that blackened his blood, if killing her might somehow heal him. Was it all her fault? Or was she only a mercenary? Perhaps the hand that struck, while behind her loomed a larger shadow. A puppeteer.
There was a strange scent on her, one that perhaps only a beast without its soul, rabid and starving could follow. A stench of decay. It made his belly growl, not with an appetizing pull, but still his claws threatened to split the skin on his nailbeds, and the sharp of a wolf fang nearly poked through an aching gum.
Boots crunched over branches and leaves, and with each step, the presence that had only lingered at first languidly like a deformed shape at the edge of vision, or a word he knew but couldn’t quite recall, grew sharper, larger. Before he even saw her, he felt her — the cold brush of a breath, the hush of a sound behind a window no one dared look through.
Steps grew louder and faster and faster. And then there she was — red riding hood standing alone in the green. He didn’t look his best, not like the big bad wolf was meant to. Matteo had long since lost his battle with life. But before death claimed him, he would know her.
"I think it's you, I'm supposed to be looking for."
Matteo’s little brother had turned into a guard dog. He left his side only to eat, or to use the bathroom. In all their lives, Matteo couldn’t remember a time they’d shared more than a tedious family dinner together, and even those had been brief. Now it felt like César was trying to make up for every moment they’d lost, haunted by his own regrets. Maybe, Matteo thought, they should have done this sooner. Maybe César could have come home earlier. Did they always have to meet at funerals? If Matteo even had the mercy of a proper burial. His father never did. Maybe that was why César never came home that day.
Exhausted, Matteo let his eyes rest for a moment, and by his side César finally did the same. Matteo had been saving his strength for this, for the moment he would face the woman responsible for his family’s century of misery. His gaze lingered on his brother’s still frame, as if memorizing it, as if this might be the last time he saw him.
Any day could be his last. Death might come today, or tomorrow, but it was coming, and neither he nor César could stop it. He felt like a heavy chain fastening around his brother’s throat, dragging him down.
Was this what César wanted for the rest of his life? To serve as his older brother’s caretaker? That wasn’t right.
He had only ever traced the edges of the woods on four paws, running where scent pulled him, but now grass crunched beneath human boots. It was only him, and silence. The kind of silence that carried weight. Un-loneliness, like sitting in an empty room and knowing it wasn’t truly empty. She was waiting for him, out there, where the light bled away behind the trees.
She must have known that sooner or later, he’d catch up to her. That a Lazkano would.
he rests his forehead against the bars, cold against the heat of his skin, against the rolling rage. he’s angry at his brother, he’s angry at the cell, he’s angry at whoever locked him in here. but it’s matteo that should know better. better me than you. fuck. that. you stupid fucking moron, jack-off of a brother, who put a wall between them before césar got any say so. nobody gets to take his brother away from him, not even matteo. he won’t let him do this, and matteo can’t take his choice away. his grip tightens on the bars, framing his face. imagines it’s matteo’s shoulders. his wrists. his throat. anything that’ll let the stupid old man know that césar’s not playing chase anymore. he’s not running, he’s caught him, this time. yeah, he thinks he could bend the metal. snap them in half if they wouldn’t give. he could. he will.
all of his grief has boiled under the fire of the curse, has been left to stew in the time spent away and some part of him had kept him from matteo, on purpose. on purpose, so césar couldn’t hurt him more than he already has. matteo didn’t deserve more punishment for just existing, having a screaming, bastard brother shoved into his arms at the ripe age of- fuck, what was it? -eight? and césar never stopped screaming, and matteo never stopped trying to hold him. not when he kicked, and hit, and bit. now, when césar felt the sadness pool, watching his brother die, all he could do was hate him for it. i lived for you, you don’t get to die for me. how fucking dare you?
his brother’s broken, hoarse voice reaches césar’s ears through the roar of blood. his fingers twitch around the bars, like some part of him wants to turn, get him whatever he wants, whatever he needs, whatever will fix this. but césar had never been that kind of brother. that had always been matteo. he refuses with gritted teeth. “ nuh-uh. you locked yourself in here. fuckin’ deal with it. ” a growl builds in the back of his throat, césar’s never attempted to seem like less of an animal around his brother. he understands. in fact, he’s the only one alive that does. “ talk. i’m done fucking around. ”
Matteo’s eyes flickered up, meeting César’s burning gaze through the bars. The cold steel was a prison — but so was the weight on his chest, the clawing hunger in his gut, the fractured pieces of his own soul.
He swallowed past the dryness in his throat, voice low and ragged, raw like broken glass. And managed a hoarse huff of a chuckle. God, he hasn’t changed, has he? Still a kid. Living through this a second time. Losing a parent, a second time.
Matteo could still see it — César’s small frame in the hallway, eyes pressed to the cracks of the bedroom door, catching glimpses he was never meant to see: their mother bent over their father, wiping the sweat from his yellowed skin, coaxing sips of water past cracked lips, steadying him when he could no longer stand on his own. Back then, whenever he could, Matteo made sure those cracks were sealed, that door shut and latched, whenever his little brother came home.
Who was going to shut him out now?
César still looked small to him. Not in stature, but in the way fire in his eyes burned. The same way it always had, sharp and unrelenting, framed now by the bars between them.
"What is there to say, hermano?" Matteo’s voice was a dull weight. "You’ve seen this before." He hated being the one to remind him. Hated that those old shadows had followed them here.
He wanted to spare César the gory details, but there was no way his brother would leave without getting what he came for. So he let his head hang, breathing through the dry scrape in his throat, curling his knees in tighter as if he could fold himself into something smaller. "I’ve been… unwell," he said, "Month, maybe month and a half. Could be two. I’ve lost track." A bitter laugh slipped out, more air than sound. "I even—forgot to get Addie from school. I try to sleep off the migraine when it gets bad, but— I’m hungry all the time. I’m angry all the time. I’m… tired, but I can’t stay still." He didn't function like a normal human being. He couldn't do the normal human being things, like go to work, or bring his kid home from school.
"I black out at night. And I do… unspeakable things, little brother. I hurt people who never did me any harm. I could hurt—my own child."
The silence after was thick, pressing in on him from every side. Where else could he go? What else was there but this?
"This is where I belong," he said, almost to himself. "This is the hell I’ve earned." His eyes lifted just enough to find César’s through the bars, the words dragging like chain links. "I can’t go home."
"I'm sorry?" Liam practically spat back at his father. "That's what you say to me? After all this time -- after everything we've been through together... After everything I allowed you to see of my past, that's what you say?" More tears bubbled at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. His body was vibrating with emotion -- anger and sadness mixed into something destructive and volatile.
His wolf, while unable to stretch it's limbs and grow out it's claws, gnawed at the inside of him. It wanted out. It wanted to attack. It wanted blood. The blood of whoever had caused Matteo to endure this. Whoever was taking his father -- his third father -- away from him. His first father had left him before he was even a toddler. Died before Liam knew him. His second, well. Liam fucking hated thinking of him. He never considered Killian a father. But Matteo... He and his wife and Addie had been everything Liam had needed. Everything he still needed.
He'd lost one real father to death. The other, by his own hands. He'd lost one real mother and one sorry excuse for a mother by his own actions. Liam couldn't lose the last one he had.
And yet... he was. And there was nothing he could do about it.
"Fuck you." Liam hissed at Matteo, eyes darkening as he advanced towards him. "Fuck you!" He raised his fist, ready to strike. Ready to show Matteo just how much hurt he was causing. But something stopped him. A thought. Just one.
Addie is still here.
He almost immediately deflated; his hand dropping to his side as more tears poured. Liam shook his head back and forth. "I'm taking her." He said in a ragged voice as he took a step back. "If you're here, she shouldn't be. If you're that unstable, then we are leaving."
His head had helplessly bowed to his chest. Matteo could take it all. All his spit, and all his rage. A good father would let his kid take all of it out on him. A good father would sit with his kid, for whatever time he had left. A good father — the kind his own had never been. So, he swore he would be good, and loving, and caring. And there for his kid when they needed him.
But how could he be there, when death was knocking on his door? When she had already taken his hand and was leading him down a path to the ferryman?
Kids should never follow their parents in death.
He raised his head slowly, eyes wet, heavy with apology and quiet defiance.
"You think I don’t want to stay? You think I don’t want to sit here and watch her grow, Liam? You think I haven’t prayed every night to some god I don’t even believe in that I’d get just one more year? I’d cut my own heart out if it meant she’d never have to look at me and wonder why I couldn’t love her enough to live. But I can't." A breath. "And I need you to stop acting like I woke up one morning and decided to curse my kids with a dying father."
Their eyes met as Liam’s hand rose, like lightning coming down to strike a tree in a storm. But it never fell. Instead, tears pooled in his son’s eyes, and now they were both crying. Human, and alone. And so afraid. "There’s a suitcase," he said, "packed with her clothes. Some of her toys, and her books for school. It’s by the door." He’d kept it ready. Always ready. For emergencies he’d prayed would never come.
"There’s money," he added, nodding faintly toward the counter. "Probably enough… for now." His next words caught in his throat before he pushed them out softly, "If you need anything, and you can’t reach me… call Arleen." In case the worst has happened.
little brother’s here, or at least the pieces of him are. the husk of him, the rest left behind in favor of a sharper, shattered man. out of the two of them, matteo had taken all of the good bits. when they were younger, he’d used the nobility to protect césar, shielding him from the horror of their family, their kind, their pack. but the same as his brother grew into his own life, césar embraced the chaos, strayed to places where matteo couldn’t follow. matteo found a family, and all césar had was fire. he stands here, a scorched corpse, crumbling to ash. or maybe that’s matteo, and césar’s still burning.
his brother sounds as rough as he looks, his voice tattered as he speaks, every utterance ending in question. it tears some part of him to ruin. the soft part, the space between his ribs. “ damn, teo, you think i wouldn’t visit you in jail? ” like césar hadn’t been leaving him to rot in that house, like he hadn’t been happy to leave a traitor in the dust, forgotten. somehow, this had changed it. somehow, his brother’s affiliations didn’t matter. somehow, he’s no longer clinging to warwick. and this time, césar’s the one chasing him. he shoves his hands in his pockets, almost sheepish, making a mockery of a younger césar, baiting matteo into nonsense. “ i’m that bad, huh? ”
even with no business to, césar keeps going. “ kinda’ thought it’d be me behind bars, first, y’know? ” he could never stop himself from picking at his brother, ceaselessly. he falls into that familiar rhythm now. even small, even trying to stuff his feet into matteo’s kind, exhausted shoes, he’d never stopped trying to get on matteo’s nerves. like his care was never enough, césar had always tried to make it hurt. “ your hands have never been as dirty as mine are. ” he continues, like maybe matteo will confess to a crime that’ll make sense of his situation. he’s waiting for matteo to explain why locking himself up is supposed to help any-fucking-thing, and why it doesn’t make him a coward.
“ so let’s have a chat, yeah? de hermano a hermano. ” he wraps rough hands around the bars, appreciating the feeling of them under his palms, considering how hard he’d have to pull to sever them in two. now that he’s laid his eyes on him again, now that matteo’s suffocating in whatever the fuck has him trapped here, césar’s shame of leaving isn’t so loud. after two years of nothing, he’s not so sure that he’s ready to leave him behind again. he leans in, menacing, a glint in his eyes that promises nothing soft. he’s angry at the world, and he’s angry at this, too. “ what the fuck are you doing here? ”
This cell wasn’t justice. There was no parole waiting for him. No judge, and no lawyer. He couldn’t even answer for his crimes, because the void in his mind had swallowed them whole and now somewhere in that darkness they lived still, thick and viscous as the blood in his veins, the same black blood that had painted Estela’s fingers. But he couldn’t remember if the person he’d torn to shreds was an old man, or just a boy.
He couldn’t remember.
This cell was just an obstacle. A barrier between him and the next human reduced to pulp under his claws. The memory of a pool of blood and torn flesh was already vague, blurred. Muffled and distant was the snapping of ribs beneath a monstrous paw. The crunch of bone in a maw too big, too hungry — a half-forgotten nightmare.
He needed to be stopped. Contained, bound, gagged, whatever it took to keep him away from his kids, his friends, his students. Maybe they had to exile him, the way they’d exiled César. "I thought you were gone," A beat, "Would stay gone, for longer." But then again the younger Lazkano was never known for keeping still, was he?
The faint smile that tugged at Matteo’s mouth was weak, barely there but it surfaced anyway, because César’s taunts always had that effect on him. He was still the boy Matteo remembered. Still tugging at his hand just to steal a shred of his attention
"I'd never let you end up in here, hermano. I've spent half my life, making sure you never saw the world through those bars." And he’d spend the other half, whatever moments of it he still had left, doing the same, over and over. "Better me than you. I wouldn’t have it any other way, little brother."
There was a weakness in his bones, like he’d been bedridden for weeks, hollowed out from the inside. Every attempt to lift himself from the ground met with failure. The harsh light above César’s head stabbed at his eyes, and he squinted, peering up at him with one eye slitted against the glare. Mouth and throat painfully dry.
"Could you... get me some water first, please?"
Lazkano's kind had always run hot. A steaming sencha, breathing warmly against a cheek as it draws near a mouth. Miyazaki coaxes the eupnea from the man, as though he is weaving smoke in the space between them. Curling and dancing to the beat of Tetsuya's mind. He does not imagine being the first to touch this charred husk of a creature, but he is not afraid of his fingers coming out black. There's plenty rot and decay threatening his stature; a physical form that does not have the durability to hold a transfigured power like Tetsuya's.
Obsidian, raven, charcoal. They have a common trait, but they are not the same. Most would consider the night to be black, and bleak for those who do not understand what magic lies in the shadowy corners. But its definition is not so basic.
Matteo speaks like someone who does not understand what possesses his spirit.
"You allowed this curse to enslave you." For far longer than most. Miyazaki has not determined if it is a weakness or a strength. An endurance that is as foolish as it is admirable. The witch who left their mark, stained a bloodline so deeply, it's a parasite designed so crassly for the act of ruination. Miyazaki can almost taste the magic biting at his own power. It tastes like the poison of the azalea, a bitter ricin with the sweetness of the amanita mushroom. A natural order of deadly affairs. "It lives, breathes in your marrow." It practically produces itself, like any well-executed curse; left little reason for the counter-hex. A resistant and made-necessary part of a being. Irreplaceable, like a heart.
This kind of work, the one that Tetsuya explores like fingers inside every cavity of Matteo's very essence, is a tailored suit. It's made for this blood, for this beast. The perfect prison by a clever architect
There is no mercy in testing the limitations of a beast trapped. Lazkano drags fingers down the tendons of a throat. Bruisingly red, not slicing. Nails cut short, neatly trimmed and undirtied as expected from a cursed creature. He knows the moon hides at this hour, and there would be no transformation to its completion.
But they are not without their tells. The golden eyes that roar with captivity; a beast shackled to a body also not befitting its power.
He wonders what awakens if he allows this body to collapse. What Miyazaki could rip apart with no defiance. What he would find in the hollowing of Lazkano's bones.
Choked words aren't enough to cease the sensei, but the desperation on the creature, the open book of a bloodwitch's curse laid thick; generations of power, regurgitated, inherited with more and more potency. This magic does not die, nor take mercy on its host. Latched on with tiny hooks that deny apoptosis, but murder civility.
Miyazaki finally feels the violence in the curse. It's dormant, but hungry. As much of a slave to its wrath and its gluttony as any kyūketsuki, but this one takes ōkami otoko form.
Tetsuya releases his magic, allowing Matteo to draw breath.
"I know what cursed you." Not who. The who is less important. It's painfully blunted, like the most dishonourable act of a chipped blade, left to rust in its sheath. Miyazaki tucks his hands behind his back once more. Waits. Before they are to develop a counter spell, he wants to know if this feral beast living within Lazkano can be tamed on its own. If it can be disciplined.
The air speaks for Miyazaki, slamming Lazkano into the far wall, toppling a wall of bokken and hanbō.
Becoming a prisoner in his own body hadn’t been his choice, and neither was remaining bound for as long as he had. Perhaps he lacked determination, or vision — both crucial when it came to finding a cure. He was soft-hearted, content with every beat, because he lived, and he loved, and he would be loved, and mourned when all this ended. Matteo was happy, with however much time he had left, to hold his daughter and his son, and make peace with the cruel world he’d been brought into. It would’ve been easier, yes, if his parents had never given him life — but then would he have all he had now, if he’d lived in another body, carried another soul in his chest? Lazkano would have died with his father, and Matteo would have borne another name. Perhaps one less of a burden — but also one with less meaning. What good was a name if it bore no scars, no history, no weight? What good was a man if his life left behind nothing to mourn?
"And what am I supposed to do with your observation?" It was almost funny, although no laughter left his parted lips. Every time, the same kind of diagnosis, as though he were living with a terminal illness that every doctor agreed would rot him to the bone. Like a bad omen, hovering over him like a rain cloud. He was wasting his time, wasn’t he? "Tell me something I haven't heard my entire life, sensei."
And, as if on command, he did. What Matteo thought impossible was suddenly alive— there, taking shape and form, dressed in the words he’d longed to hear for as long as he’d lived and breathed. Ever since he’d seen the first glimmers of madness in his father’s eyes. Ever since he’d felt the same shaky lucidity in himself, the moment his hands ripped the last breath from a young, troubled boy who had his brother pinned by the throat.
I know what cursed you.
In that instant, he no longer cared if this was his last moment on earth. The possibility of a cure for his daughter, for his brother suddenly looked so real it hurt. When Miyazaki finally released him, Matteo’s hands fell to the mat like weightless bricks, and the wolf stumbled into a fit of coughing. Then, relentless magic slammed into him once more, picked him up and threw him with ease. "If you really know why, then— tell me, or— I will not believe you." He said, through the sound of his own bones snapping and mending with every crack, head lolling against the wall as he glared at the other man. "I think you’re a man of your word… aren’t you, Miyazaki?"
he really doesn’t care who sees him as he crosses the entry of the jail, all the eyes that matter are cast on another town entirely, a gathering of monsters. however, césar’s here, in a place that’s so aggravatingly human it buzzes a nuisance to this wild thing. there’s paperwork, césar fights a feral twitch in his hands as he signs the dotted lines with a signature that’s so out of use it’s illegible. when the clerk at the desk starts talking about matteo lazkano’s approved visitors list, he starts thinking he’s gonna’ have to reach across the counter and give them a reason to bring him back behind bars, visiting teo as his cell mate instead of his concerned brother. however, surprise, surprise: césar lazkano’s id checks out, and he’s on that list, no matter how hard the clerk’s really trying to look and see if it does.
more waiting, more paperwork, until he’s escorted through the office, behind the sharp click of the sound of a door when it locks. he starts getting a little loopy, like one of those old prison fucks in the movies, like he’s gonna’ end up stuck here, too. he’s not, because césar knows better than to be fucking caught. now, he’s never been the world’s greatest uncle, doesn’t even like to call the princesa her name, like giving her one is a commitment to her existence and he’s still not so sure about her. but teo’s got a fucking ten year old at home that needs her papá. teo’s been raised by the same man. teo knows better than to get caught. so what the hell is he doing here? the walk to where he’s going to meet his brother is silent save for the sound of their shoes on the tile.
then, the bitch takes his fucking coat.
ooh, teo’s real lucky that césar’s got something to look forward to tonight. he’s excited to see that bottle of tequila that’s in the car waiting for him.
his brother’s gotten worse in two years. funny, césar thought him leaving was supposed to fix that. but he looks worse, acts worse, sits like the world crushing him and his eyes- césar’s watching the curse eat away at his older brother, watching it kill him. “ hey, teo. ” he says, dry, a little breathless, words scraping the edges of his mouth.
It was the night of the gala, when monsters dressed in suits to play politics, sipping from humans like crystal glasses and whispering commands that scrubbed the screams right out of their throats. Wolves, with claws tucked neatly beneath manicured nails, perched on thrones with the hum of war still clinging to their lips. Somewhere, in one of those marble rooms, an arranged marriage, like his own, was being bartered over.
He’d been small, once, when his father shoved a toy into his hands and sent him running through these beautiful, carefully decorated halls, left to chase his little brother’s laughter echoing off the stone. It’s so boring, César had whined back then. Chase me, Teo. Chase me.
That voice still lived in his head, high and sweet and impossible to kill — a cracked music box that wound itself up no matter how many times he smashed it. A hand came down hard on the cold concrete of a jail cell, trying to chase the phantom away. Break it. Smash the gears. Silence the song before it guts you. But even in the quiet after, he swore he could still hear it, faint and distant: Chase me, Teo. And he would. He’d follow him into the unknown. To the ends of the world, if he had to. All it would take was for him to ask.
When the bars had slammed shut on him this morning, Arleen had called it temporary. Said she’d move him somewhere safer soon, somewhere they wouldn’t have to worry about him tearing through the bars and devouring the staff at the police station.
Hunger had finally ebbed, but it left a pounding headache behind, a hot pressure at the base of his skull, threatening to burst. He kept his head down, hands pressed to his neck as if he could hold it all inside, eyes shut tight, trying to sleep through the pain.
Footsteps approached — another kind of pounding now, in his head, in his ears. For a moment he thought that to be Yuisa, or Arleen. The first thing he saw were the shoes, through the slits of his eyes, barely open. His gaze climbed slow over the figure wearing a long black coat. And then the voice deeply stitched into his memory reached down, into the depths, and hauled him up like a drowning man.
Teo.
"César?" That little boy still lived, etched on the insides of his eyelids. The purest version of him, before the evil had spread. "You’re here, little brother?"
"They'll tell her the shock is playing tricks on her, that there's no such thing as werewolves." The words feel like bile on her tongue, lies and gaslighting that the poor woman doesn't deserve, especially right now, but they can only focus on helping one person right now. The police are no stranger to covering up the supernatural traces of this town. Is it fair to leave this woman questioning her own sanity after the tragedy that has already befallen her? No, it surely isn't, but Riley can't think about that right now.
But Matteo's lands cut through the problem-solving and planning mode they've instinctively fallen into. It's more than just the wolf that Riley had assumed. They've never heard of curses beyond the general one that afflicts all werewolves, though they're starting to realize that there's a lot about this side of the world that they simply are unaware of, despite having been part of it her entire life.
Riley admits that they don't know how to grasp this desperation. Their parents never wanted them, never cared for them so openly like this. When they packed up and left, they never even got a hint of whether they were looking, a suspicion that was only confirmed a decade later. But the way Matteo looks at them, it's genuine terror and Riley takes a deep breath.
"Arleen Bailey?" they say skeptically. If this is what it takes to get Matteo to stop fighting them and get him someplace where he can fall apart with less eyes watching, then they can swallow their pride. This goes beyond what they can do with their connections and it lights an uncomfortable fire in their stomach when they acknowledge that internally.
They press the older wolf against the trunk of a tree, hidden in the shadows. They think about all of the trace evidence that they are leaving behind and hopes that whatever protocol they have in place at the police department knows how to handle this. Fishing Matteo's phone out of his pocket, they scroll through the contacts and find the number they're looking for, leaving behind a bloody thumbprint on the screen as they press call, speaking as soon as they hear the other wolf pick up.
"Don't talk and listen to me. Matteo got himself in trouble and he said you should be looped in. The woods on the edge of the city, over by the diner on 22nd. I don't know what kind of clean up crew y'all have for these kinds of things, but you need to send one here, and-" They look back over at Matteo, lips pinched into a thin line. "And I think you're going to need to lock him up." The very thought makes nausea roll through Riley's stomach, but they don't know what other option there is right now.
It's a busy enough day at the precinct, but Arleen always has time for a call from a fellow packmate. Matteo doesn't usually call without warning, though, so the wolf has no time to excuse herself from the bullpen before she picks up. "Teo, what's --"
But the voice on the other end of the line isn't his. It takes her a moment to place it, even with heightened hearing across the filter of cellular transmission. That Takeda kid -- what are they doing with Matteo's phone? The officer thinks of barking back, but Riley gets there first, all but telling her to keep her trap shut. Arleen eyes her coworkers around the office and growls low in frustration.
Teo's in trouble? Christ...
Better sell the act -- Arleen isn't on any official PLPD equipment but she sandwiches the phone between her ear and shoulder, and sets to taking some notes. It's chicken scratch, no one looking over her shoulder would be able to make a lick of sense of it. Takeda mentions cleanup and already, Arleen knows she's looking at Warwick resources, not official police stuff. Can she do this without looping in Yuisa? Does she want to?
"God damn it, Matteo," she mutters. But the other wolf's suggestion of locking him up... It makes the dog in Arleen barking mad at the notion. That's one of theirs. Ain't no way he's succumbing to his curse already, so soon after his father had to be put down. Two dead Warwicks -- hell, two dead Lazkanos in twice as many months isn't a good sign. Especially with Teo's younger brother sniffing Harford tail... with the littler Hassim too. Fuck.
"I'll do what's best for the pack," she growls low into the phone receiver. "Don't fuckin' move, I'll get a team out there in 30."
If Arleen really does have to lock him up, it won't be in the station. If he's really that bad, she's going to have to start making the call on what's best for the good of others. Damn it, she has to do this without dragging Yuisa into it, even if she's reluctant to work with that packless brat besides.
She was bending her morals for him. Offering lies to save his skin. "I won't let you do this for me, Riley." It cracked out of him like something uncontainable, even as his chest heaved and his hands trembled. She was just a kid in his eyes. Matteo remembered the first time he’d helped her, and how she’d refused his hand at first, stubborn and self-sufficient, but he’d stuck by her anyway. That was who he wanted to be — a quiet anchor on the edges of her world, a crutch they could lean on if they ever needed one. Not this. Not a weight around their neck.
Riley didn’t belong in his life. Not down here in the dirt and blood where Lazkano’s curse had already spread through him like a deadly disease, eating everything good, everything human, piece by piece. He shook his head at her now, weak but insistent, his back still pressed to the tree. "You don’t… you don’t owe me this," voice breaking halfway through. "Don’t… don’t lie for me, don’t…"
He could only breathe a faint sigh of relief when she didn’t fight him on it, when she followed his instructions without argument. He didn’t know how long he could last out here — how long he could hold the line without hurting her. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.
When the line connected and she spoke with Arleen, the wolf listened to every word. Voices muffled but cutting just enough to remind him what was at stake. Yuisa couldn’t know, could she? No, she had the pack to take care of. Someone had to keep them together while Arleen kept him at bay. There was no one else. When the call finally died in her hand, he let out a quiet, hoarse: "Thank you."
But there was still one more thing she had to do. "Tell Liam—" a shaky hand stopped her before she could dial, reaching out weakly for her. "—don’t call. Just text him to get my daughter. She gets scared when she’s left waiting too long. Thinks something’s happened to me… I don’t— I don’t want her to be afraid."
"What?" Liam asked, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at his adoptive father. He wasn't making any sense and honestly, it was causing Liam's anger to spike. Did Matteo not see what his actions were doing to his own daughter? How upset she'd been, lately? How worried and confused she was? How she sometimes begged for him, especially at night? "You're not going to hurt her, Matteo. She's your fucking daughter, you'd never--"
His words were cut off as his father's word's sunk in. His situation was different than Liam's. Different than most wolves. Matteo didn't trust his wolf and not only that, something was wrong. Something that Liam didn't understand. "Why are you only telling me this now?" Liam asked, his voice mixed with both anger and desperation. "Why didn't you tell me this before? What else are you hiding from me?"
Liam's eyes glazed over, warmth spreading through his face. Don't cry. Don't fucking cry. He couldn't break down. He couldn't. Not when it was clear that Matteo wasn't okay. That he was broken, in a way. "No, it's not fair. I-- I don't know how to be a dad, Matteo! I can't... She doesn't need me, she needs you." He insisted, shaking his head back and forth. He turned away from his father and let out a low, ragged growl. "Fix this! Fucking, find a way to fix it, Matteo. You need to. You have to."
He'd known that kid since he was seventeen. Liam's met his wife, who'd make sure he had warm clothes on his back and food in his belly. Healing hands had touched his forehead goodnight. He was just a boy, when he had cradled the small head of a baby, the drumming heartbeat stilling the wolf inside him, making the quiet soothing rather than a warning sign. They’d been his home. Sofia. Addie. Matteo. For so long, they were his home. And Matteo had had the privilege of watching that boy turn into a son, a brother, a man who carried so much weight, Matteo wished — God, he wished he could take at least half of it. If a blackened heart finally gave out, there was no one better than Liam to protect his daughter.
I'm dying, Liam.
But how could he ever prepare him for this? What moment in time could possibly be right for this kind of truth? Eight years ago, when Sofia was murdered? Last year, when the ghost of his own father returned to dig claws into wounds that had barely scarred over? No. There was never a good time. There would never be a good time.
"I'm sorry, kiddo."
That was all he could say, and it felt like so little. "I'm really sorry." Sorry that it had to be him. Sorry that Liam never had any luck when it came to parents. Sorry that this, too, would fall on his shoulders.
"There is no....fixing it, Liam." He couldn't lie to him, he couldn't dare look his son in the eyes and lie. "I’ve tried before. Sofia tried, too. Plenty of witches gave it their best shot. I’ve downed every potion handed to me. Let magic hands dig into my chest like they could pull it out with their bare fingers." His own hand curled into a fist, like he could still feel Estela's fingers. "I’ve tried it all, mi hijo."
Hadn’t he?
The doubt slithered in anyway. Was there still some ancient rite, some buried spell he hadn’t found? Some corner of the world he hadn’t bled in? No. No, Matteo, basta. He shook the thought off. Not now.
"You don’t need to be her father. You won’t ever take my place — not in her mind, not in her heart. That’s not what I’m asking." His voice grew quieter, and a soft sigh followed. "But you can stay, Liam. That’s all. Just... stay. Be the one she runs to. Be the voice she trusts. You two, you understand each other." A beat, "That’s what she needs."
Avi doesn't sit. He skips past the pleasantries, right past the -
Hey, how are you, how's Addie? How old is she again? Have you heard from César? Speaking of demons, how are yours? You look like you haven't slept. Have you adopted anymore strays? You look like an old man now, do you need my skincare routine?
All of that dies in his ribs, far before it even gets to his throat, because he knows if he starts down that road, he won't get to where he still needs to go.
Still, Matteo answers like he had asked, and Avi's face flinches. He swallows thickly, lips pressed thin because every word here costs a nail anchored in the facade he's built up. He can't think about that, about bridging the three-year long gap, at least not until all the air he's puffed up into his chest is long gone.
His gaze lifts to meet Matteo's, and there's a flicker of a young boy in there -- the one who mouthed off just to test the boundaries of Matteo's protection and patience, who knew exactly whose shadow to hide beneath with César when things got just a little too dicey. But it's gone as quick as it comes.
Onto business. He's an alpha now, for fuck's sake.
"She's not fit to rule," he says, low. "She's a killer, she's the worst kind of killer. That's what I came to talk about." Matias is the unspoken truth for Avi's presence, but he doesn't say his name. Killer would have to carry that on its own
"I don't care if your dad was dying. That's not what this is about. This is about her climbing a ladder made up from the bones of her own people and pretending it's a fucking throne." Even if it is the Warwick way. "This isn't...this isn't just bad blood, it's..." There's the edge, and he backs off of it before he free-falls. There's a brief moment of hesitation before he continues, "Come on, Matteo. You, of all people, can't be this blind."
Matteo would argue his father was the worst Alpha this pack had ever seen. Unpredictable and cruel. And what was worse than that? Not knowing if your leader would turn on you tomorrow. Never being sure if the threat came from outside or from the hand you'd once held, the face you trusted. He killed his own father. That much was true. But the Lazkanos were known for that. For killing. It was laced in their blood, etched into their name like a brand. Violence wasn’t an aberration, it was a legacy.
So if Avi hated her for it, if he saw her as unfit because of blood spilled, then he must hate Lazkano too.
But he knew this, didn’t he?
Even from a young age, Avi had known the Warwick way. César too. They both knew exactly what kind of blood they were born into. He was just a kid when he witnessed those vicious acts — teeth tearing into flesh, brother turning on brother. Family devouring itself from the inside out. Crimes dressed as tradition.
None of this was new.
That wasn’t to say Matteo would ever turn a blind eye. But you couldn’t just rip people out of their habitat and their traditions. The truth was simpler and uglier. They’d sooner bathe in kin’s blood than spit it out.
The entire time Avi spoke, Lazkano just shook his head slow, and steady, like the weight of it might tip him over. Small sighs left his dry lips, one after another. What could he say to him? Nothing helpful. Nothing Avi didn’t already know.
But he tried. He would always try for Avi. That’s why he reached for him, calloused hand on an even heavier shoulder, grounding them both.
"What do you need from me, hermano?" sad eyes lingered on a pair of dark ones.
It hurt. God, it hurt that the man he still called a brother had more time for politics than Matteo’s grief.
