No bed frame to fret over if she’s too high to get up on the bed. Plenty of comfy tactile throw things to get lost in. It’s just how it should be. Sloan has a tendency to lean toward cool tones and neutrals, it’s thanks to her parents. With an abundance of natural light, Sloan feels less inclined to actually get out and into the sun. Closest to the back of the house, she often makes use of the back door to come and go from the house, entirely avoiding the common areas unless Shiloh is around.
Shiloh’s Bedroom
Deep calming shades on the walls and a bank of bedroom windows to let in refreshing light; Shiloh’s room is her own oasis of positive energy. She even has several motivational quotes on her walls, framed alongside places she hopes to one day travel. Her room is attached to Sloan’s by a shared bathroom.
Big Brother’s Attic
When he turned twenty, Rony’s parents let him move to the attic space and together they remodeled it to his liking. He went with more neutral tones for the walls and bedding in order to give it an ‘adult’ vibe, much like his parents room. Plus the greys reminded him of stone, the one solid constant his family could rely on.
Parent’s Bedroom
As members of the Gargoyle Parliament, Sloan and Shiloh’s parents kept the cool grey theme running into the confines of their bedroom. Most of their belongings are kept stored away in their place, the picturesque example of tidy. Their bedroom still looks untouched years after their death as this part of the house goes virtually undisturbed. Shiloh will enter the room only to dust and sweep the rich hardwoods of her parent’s bedroom.
Den
A direct contrast to the cooler tones of each Steinar’s bedroom, the living areas are vibrant and rich. Homey. The fireplace is well used. The walls are decorated with snapshots of family photos and smiles. The large recliner in the corner of the room was Sloan’s father’s chair and every child vied to sit in it. Now no one does. The den is another place often left untouched as it holds too many memories of happy moments.
Kitchen
Bright cabinets, granite counter tops, and brushed metal accents. It’s the perfect kitchen for a family of gargoyles. A large island serves as the focal point for the room, a place of activity and communion. Large widows blanket the far wall above the window, providing nourishment for an array of cooking herbs.
Entrance and Dining Area
There is always something left out in the entrance of the house, as if someone had pressed pause on the day’s activities. The Steinar’s have always been a busy bunch and the open layout of the dining area serves the lifestyle well. A farm house style table ensured that every member, as well as every friend, had a place to sit for meals.
“Humiliation would be a start,” Jyrda harps back. Riding the indignant fury at being seen as inconsequential to Sloan, the siren is blinded to the possibility that their encounter has run its course. The young gargoyle sees no reason to change her attitude. Maturity in life blatantly not a priority. “Demeaning my position as your professor and making a mockery of my classroom are offences I will no longer overlook. Not even for your sister’s sake.”
Taking one last step to crowd Sloan out of the last of her comfort, Jyrda issues an ultimatum. “Dismiss your own failure and make no attempt to improve; fine with me. However, you will face consequences of my choosing for your disrespect and offensive behaviour. Fail to meet my demands and not only will I issue a formal failure before term’s end and see you unceremoniously kicked from the academy, I will clear Shiloh of any false hopes she has for you. Make her aware of your penchant for underground brawling so that she knows just where your true priorities lie.”
Green eyes, fiery emerald irises, dare her student to resist. To refuse punishment for her transgressions. Jyrda knows that news of Sloan will devastate the responsible twin, but the siren sees it as a chance for Shiloh to gain the strength to cut Sloan out of her life. It’s no secret that Shiloh spends her days weighed down by her twin’s wellbeing. So sure that the twin before her will reject the professor, Jyrda anticipates the future conversation she will have with the other sister in due time.
“Your sister deserved a better twin than you. You may like to throw punches, Steinar but refuse the lighter sentence and I will deal the killing blow.”
“Oh great, I’d say we could start there but you’ve alread--,” Sloan began but was cut off by another round of Jyrda’s beratement, self-righteous indignation. A passing thought comes to her as her professor’s words hit soundly. The thought that perhaps her behavior was being misinterpreted, being taken as if it were a personal attack to the siren. In reality, it had nothing to do with Professor Nysse, nothing to do with the classroom. They were victims of her casual carelessness. “Wait… wait…” Sloan narrowed her eyes, holding up an open hand, a fruitless attempt to dampen the anger-fueled situation.
Jyrda dismissed Sloan’s plea to further impress into her personal space; the words and action do not even seem to register. The young gargoyle is back against the hallway wall, face to face with the wrathful woman. There’s no escape without physical force and Sloan cannot help but feel at a disadvantage. The situation may be different and logically, Sloan comprehends that her professor does not mean to physically harm her, but it mirrored the day her family was killed far too intimately. A sense of helplessness crowds out logical thought as dark eyes dart between Jyrda’s furious features and the endless space of the hallway behind her. Sloan felt a mixture of nauseousness and anger rise up in the back of her throat the longer that her professor spoke, the more that the fiery eyes dealt out their sentence with finality.
Sloan closed her eyes for half a moment, the coldness of the wall serving to ground her, to calm her. Her eyes remain shut for a tiny moment, long enough for her to exhale through her nose rapidly. She doesn’t care all too much if Shiloh knows about her illegal betting and fighting; her twin would be concerned, perhaps disapproving, but she would get over it. No. Sloan was far more worried that Jyrda would bring attention to the fact that Shiloh did deserve a twin far better than her. To the fact that she was doing little more than holding her sibling back, and she knew that. But… Shiloh didn’t. And Sloan was terrified what would happen if she did.
“Fine,” Sloan measured out the word, “Just tell me what to do and consider it done.”
Ramona smirked as well. This girl compared to the other one was much more confident and grounded, and she seemed to like to be to the point. Ramona liked blunt, in both shapes and forms. The rocker leaned closer to slide her tongue slowly over the upper lip, feeling the delicious dip and soft flesh. “My store, my apartment, whatever works for you baby.” She whispered.
Sloan felt her lower abdomen flood with heat when the woman slowly traced over her upper lip, drawing a line across it. A dare. An invitation. She returned the smirk, keeping space between their bodies, close enough to feel the others’ warmth, close enough to reach out and close the distance in an instant, yet still existent, still teasing and taunting. Sloan leaned in to press their lips together in a fiery kiss, only to pull away sharply. She took a large pace to the side, a predatory if not cocky smile on her face. The gargoyle walked around the counter, ensuring she took her time, before bringing herself to stand before the shop owner, pressing their bodies together and pinning the other woman against the counter. “We could start here. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any customers.”
“With-… Jesus, Sloan.” Ruby’s voice wasn’t judgmental or cross. It was worried. She knew Sloan did drugs; Ruby had done them with her, but this… She pressed the woman’s hair back from her face gently. Her own face turned ashen as the gargoyle continued to explain. “Heroin?? Fuck.” Ruby ran a hand across her mouth, her other one staying on Sloan’s head. Heroin had been what killed Marigold, Ephram’s fiancee. It was a terrible, hard drug. And it was addictive. Very addictive.
“Well,” Ruby started slowly, “you’re alive, and I’m here now, okay? We’re gonna get through this.” The statement was meant for her as well. Ruby needed the company, though she wasn’t heartless enough to lay her burdens on Sloan. Not right now. Not while she was suffering. “First thing we’re doin’ is gettin’ rid of this shit.” Ruby stood and carefully gathered all the things she could see that could possible be used to shoot up. She put them in a shoebox she found lying on the floor, and them shoved it in the trash. She would have flushed it if she thought it would fit down the toilet.
Sloan sighed loudly under Ruby’s attention. Her eyes remain closed as a hand worries across her forehead and through her hair. Rho had already been by to take care of her, to pull her from the depths of an overdose. It was nothing short of a miracle that Shiloh didn’t know given all the commotion in the house, in the early hours when her twin was generally most active. All the sudden attention was a little much, a little overwhelming. But, it was too be expected that Ruby was mothering her - the woman was compassion embodied.
Ruby got off the bed while speaking. Sloan remained still, unwilling and perhaps unable to conjure up the effort to lift herself. “Oh I’m sure we’ll get through this,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. Ruby was already moving around the room, collecting all the drug paraphernalia. It wouldn’t change the fact that she was out, empty, bone-dry. “The drugs weren’t mine, they were a friend’s. And there isn’t any more dope in the house,” Sloan exhaled sharply from her nose. A few beats passed before Sloan turned, her voice softer this time, features concerned, “Hey Rubes… Why are you here now?”
“There’s nothing like deep breaths after laughing that hard. Nothing in the world like a sore stomach for the right reasons.”
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
“I’d love a divorce, but it ain’t gonna happen. Threw that chance out the window when I ran. He’ll never give me one. So, death by exsanguination it is.” Ruby went inside and in the direction Sloan indicated, bumping the wall as she took the bottle back.
Once settled, Ruby looked over at Sloan. “Now what? What’s this gonna do?” She opened the baggy and pulled out a pill, holding it up to examine it. “Do I just… swallow it?”
“You do you. Dick won’t give you a divorce, take the next best thing. And if that happens to be his death, all the more power to you.” She wasn’t going to sit here and ask the whys of why Ruby ran; it sounded like a bad situation and Sloan was not one to judge.
Sloan settled, sitting in the center of her bed, with her legs crossed. “Make yourself comfortable…” she started the explanation with the soft offer, “Yes, you just swallow it. And it’s pure MDMA, or Molly, or whatever the kids are calling it these days,” she chuckled before continuing, “and it is a good, clean high. You’ll still have your head and be completely aware of what is going on. It just… kind of... amplifies everything and makes everything feel good, new, shiny....” The gargoyle closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, attempting to recall, to conjure up a good way to explain the drug. All it takes is that deep breath to thrust the girl back into her last roll, her heart rate rising and body warm, “You just kind of live in a state of euphoria for a long while. Like you’re on a cloud. It’s different from ecstasy in that it doesn’t give you a ton of energy, you won’t be bouncing off the walls. And you shouldn’t spend tomorrow feeling like death.”
Ruby moved towards the room, knowing where it was from her first visit here. She stopped in the doorway, opening her mouth to speak, but closing it just as quickly. The place was… a mess wasn’t the word. Stepping through and towards the bed, Ruby saw a few used needles and a tourniquet lying on fhr floor near the bed. A long moment passed as she stared at it, knowing that whatever had been in that needle wasn’t good. “Sloan?” Ruby said a bit more quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the cover back from her friend’s face. “Honey… what happened?” She put the back of her hand to the woman’s forehead.
Sloan heard Ruby enter her room, many long moments before the woman spoke. A low grumbles escapes from below the blanket, an unintelligible conglomeration of nonwords. The bed shifted, pitting under the weight of Ruby’s body, moments before she is uncovered. Sloan exhaled sharply; the question was unavoidable. Inescapable. But, Ruby clearly needed her if she was willing to drive here. “Withdrawal,” Sloan stated simply while rolling to her back, her head resting aside Ruby’s outer thigh. Her eyes glanced up, searching Ruby’s eyes for something... some judgement... come critique...
“I kind of OD’d last night... on heroin... I didn’t realize I was human... dosed a bit much...” Sloan clenched her eyes shut and says each word slowly, as if she feels the weight of each word.
Ruby didn’t miss that she didn’t say whether or not she was alright. But she was alive at least.
txt: I’m coming over.
txt: Alright. Be there in 20.
Ruby let herself in, frowning at how the woman would just leave the door unlocked. “Sloan?” she called, closing and locking the door. “Where are you?” Ruby sat her bag down by the door and moved through the house. “Sloan!” she called again.
Sloan hears her phone chime twice more, but she doesn’t move to check it. It’s Ruby. And if it isn’t Ruby, she doesn’t care. Moving is too hard, too painful. The world around her spins at the slightest movement and Sloan hasn’t stopped dry heaving long enough to eat any solid foods; not that any food is even remotely edible at the moment.
At some point, Sloan must’ve fallen asleep. In and out of consciousness. Ruby is calling her name, screaming it. “Rubes...” Sloan replies, hoarsely from her bed, buried beneath covers, “I’m in my room, calm your tits.”
Sloan woke abruptly, her heart thumping in her chest. Her skin was slick with sweat and rough with goose flesh. She was profoundly terrified, utterly so. She knew that she had been dreaming, knew that something horrible had hunted her, haunted her, but beyond that, she had no ideas which monsters were preying upon her this night. Her heart was lurching around in her chest, rolling under her ribs in a horribly erratic manner. Sloan sat up in the bed, unsure of where she was. The room was dark, with only a tiny sliver of dim lighting showing atop the blackout curtain.
Awareness slowly returned, seeping in, fragments of herself reluctantly knitted back together as wide eyes adjusted to the gloom. She was in her bedroom. And she was in an abnormal amount of pain… her head… her stomach… her legs. Her legs were restless and the phantom pain in her lower left leg was back with a vengeance after a binge on pills and alcohol. Sloan let out a low groan, kicking the blankets away with her right leg, off her sticky skin, to expose her bottom half. She kneaded her fingers into the naked stump, anxious to get rid of the pins and needles in the flesh that wasn’t there. That hadn’t been there for years.
Sloan had woken like this many times before, but this time felt so acute, so sharp. So sober.
“What’s wrong, babe?” A voice sounded from the opposite end of Sloan’s bed, like a bucket of ice water saturating her body, chasing away the fever and leaving her shivering. From burning up to freezing in a few seconds flat. Sloan shouldn’t have been surprised that the woman from the hazy fragments of the night previous was still here. But, she was.
“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Sloan snapped. Her hands were clammy as her fingers trembled on her stump. Failing to produce any relief. The lamp on the side of her bed clicked on, bathing the room in low ambient light. The gargoyle flinched at the sudden invasion of brightness. The tendons in her neck strained against the action, pulse visible in the pallid complexion of her skin. “Fucking hell, I feel like shit,” Sloan muttered and buried her face in her hands and attempted to will the awful ache of her insides, of despair away. She had never felt so wrong before, like she was missing some vital aspect of herself. It was similar to how she felt after she first lost her leg… except on a massive scale… except on an intimate level… as if her very soul was missing.
Cool hands run across the bare flesh of her spine and Sloan shudders violently. They move of their own accord before settling on her cheek… then her forehead. It is an action that reminds her of her childhood; it is something her mother did to check for fever.
“No wonder. You’re dope sick.” It’s something that her mother certainly never said. Sloan’s attention focuses on the girl, on Toni, with her eyebrows pinched together. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I know dope sick. You’re dope sick. When was the last time you used? We’ve been in bed for the last day and you haven’t had anything except a lot of pot, alcohol, and some bars.” Sloan doesn’t have an answer. Not right away. She searches her brain for the answer, trying to recall the last time that she had anything. She had been taking roxy pretty steady for the past week, until she ran out a couple days ago…
Sloan’s mouth falls open, wordless. All Toni does is laugh in response before replying with what would be a simple solution, “Well… take something…”
A silence settles in the room before Sloan bursts into action. Her hands grab greedily at the worn backpack at the side of her bed, her stash. It’s shockingly low. Yet, the gargoyle still searches with some sliver of hope that there is a pill left, the crumbs of a pill, something. All she finds is a small plastic bag of bars; one finds its way free and is chewed up between anxious teeth. Sloan throws the bag back to the floor in frustration, “I’m out.”
“That’s ironic. A drug dealer out of drugs and fiending for a fix,” Toni laughs again, as if this were all one cosmic joke.
“I didn’t realize you were a poet,” Sloan growls out, reaching for a half-full fifth of whiskey on her nightstand to chase the xanax, hopefully kicking it into effect sooner rather than later.
“Woah,” Toni holds out her hands defensively, “Calm yourself. You’ve saved me from a tight spot more than once. I’ve got you this time, babygirl. Sit tight.” The blonde woman slides across the sheets to the opposite side of the bed. Sloan hears Toni dig around in her purse but can’t be bothered to be concerned, to be curious enough, to move. “I know you have a wicked tolerance, being a gargoyle an’all, but I’m going to hook you up.” All her joints ache, the effort it would take to move would be entirely too much. All Sloan can do is clamp her eyes shut and pray that relief is on its way. At some point, her iPod is started and music begins to filter into her room. And around the same time, the bar begins to take effect and take the edge off. But nowhere near enough, Sloan still feels uncomfortable in her own skin.
“Come here,” a soft voice says, cooing Sloan over to the center of the bed. The gargoyle complies, slowly drawing herself up against the headboard aside Toni. It isn’t until she is settled that she sees it. A syringe of amber liquid. Heroin. The word sits like a stone in Sloan’s stomach, heavy and weighty. “Come here,” the voice beckons again, patting the bed surface. It is as if the drugs themselves are calling Sloan, beckoning her closer and closer. Sloan’s breath catches in her chest, hitching painfully, wrenching her gut dramatically. She was on a rollercoaster, and the cart was slowly ticking up… and up… and up…
“Let me see your arm,” Toni states, a question more than anything else. The woman gives Sloan ample opportunity to reject the drugs, to backtrack. Her arm is given away without a second thought. The tourniquet is fastened snugly around her upper arm. Sloan could stop this. Deft fingers skate over her flesh, catching on the deep hue of blue veins; they pick their victim after a few moments. It wasn’t too late. The pad of a thumb bounces on a plump vein, checking for sufficient viscosity. All Sloan had to do was say no. The needle is placed at the anterior apex of her elbow. The sharp edge nestles against her skin and Sloan struggles to stifle a shudder, a shiver. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. But, she doesn’t.
“Breathe, honey…” the words are the only indication to Sloan that she wasn’t breathing. “…I am going to help you fly.” The needle slowly slides in settling beneath Sloan’s skin, piercing her vein. The most beautiful amber brown liquid glides into her bloodstream with no resistance.
The seconds count away. Almost immediately it starts to take effect. Sloan first tastes it in her mouth, an odd impression. She attempts to brace herself, to repose in the knowledge that it is about to hit full force. It hits. And Sloan is stunned for a moment. Her heart skips a beat, she loses the rhythm of her breath. The rush hits the back of her skull and leaves her spinning in pleasure; her vision goes black even before her eyes slide shut. Wave after wave washes into her.
Euphoria.
Delight.
Fulfillment.
Warm comfort settles over her body and seeps into every cell of Sloan’s being. All of her physical and mental pain instantly dissipates, as if it never existed. It dissolves away to the most lovely sensation. Limbs feel heavy, weighted, as if someone poured a liquid substance into her body and Sloan can’t help but melt backwards into the headboard.
Limp.
Warm.
Clean.
A deep relaxed sensation penetrates the small and major muscle groups, seeping and dripping down to fill the cracks and crevices of her bones, of her soul. Liquid bliss is the only thing that flows through her veins, sunshine has replaced the blood. It is glowing, and she has just became a being of light. Her entire essence has run off into oblivion. She has ascended.
After the initial rush falls away, as the heroin settles, there is a struggle for breath. Huge gaping breaths that do nothing to alleviate the sensation of not being able to breathe. It’s difficult. It’s like…
Sinking.
Drowning.
Fading.
And Sloan realizes that the feeling is not a bad one. It is an ultimate comfort. It is drifting away into peace. The rush is over, but that doesn’t worry her. Sloan is completely accepting. Her body feels like it is floating and no matter how unpleasant the burning in her chest from the lack of oxygen is, Sloan is completely satisfied with it. She tries to force her eyes open, but the world is blurry, and they quickly slip back shut. Toni is speaking but the words are muted. The music is muted. Even her own heartbeat feels muted. Far away and distant. Like a warm blanket had wrapped itself around her entire body and created a buffer between the world and her mind. There are no worries. No inhibitions. No anxiety. No depression. No discomfort. No insecurity. No panic. No pain. No fear.
Thea had begun to feel a little bad for the remark about the Disney film, but that quickly faded as she noticed the amusement radiating off of Sloan. Well, that and the comment about her kick being weak. “That kick wasn’t weak. Far from it!” She shifted so the ball rested under one of her arms a small smirk playing across her lips as she studied the other woman. Even holding back she had always had a kick that made most goalies groan if they managed to block it.
“Think you can do better?” She held out the ball after a moments hesitation. “I’m not sure if gargoyles play soccer, but you’re welcome to give it a try.”
“Oh it was weak,” Sloan replied, a soft smile accompanying heavily hooded eyes. There was the slightest hint of a challenge, but not one that she intended on following through. It had been many years since Sloan kicked around a soccer ball, and while she was sure that she could evenly match with a wolf, she wasn’t too keen on playing anytime soon. “I know I can do better…” she replied, this time with a bit less gumption as the ball was extended to her, “I played soccer through high school but, uh, don’t play anymore.” The ball hung, a dare left unanswered; Sloan considered taking it but was not entirely convinced.
It was as Iann had suspected when they were in the chatroom, and it was why he’d requested to pursue Sloan outside of the online forum. Under all that bullshit trolling and ‘for the lolz’, Iann perceived that Sloan was a smart person, very smart. For whatever reasons, she’d decided on the path of shit-canning and what seemed like fruitless drug-involvement instead of other paths. And Iann wasn’t talking about lameduck conformist ‘higher education’, when he meant other paths. He meant productive paths, whatever those might be, for Sloan. But whatever Sloan was doing now, seemed like it was more self-destructive than productive.
Because as he listened to her go on about ‘people’ and ‘real life’, she obviously could see the bigger picture, if she chose to. Iann was duly impressed by her insight. Perhaps if Sloan was pushed beyond what seemed to be her usual youthful dismissal and derision, that…well, it was promising. But it was also dangerous, for her. She was balanced, it seemed, on the quintessential early-20s tightrope; and it was getting thinner and thinner the longer she stayed on it. Iann didn’t consider it his realm or right to try and persuade Sloan towards any particular side of the rope; but he was now curious to see how she’d end up. Maybe he was just a little invested, after meeting her face to face. Iann didn’t like waste, and losing Sloan to the societal norms of mindless, addled stupidity - that would be a waste.
Iann did obediently remain silent when Sloan said she could handle the pack of ‘school chums’. He believed she could, and he was fascinated to watch her go off on them.
Hagen stood firm though, stony and angry even as the other young gargoyles cringed at Sloan’s words. ‘Let’s just go’ one of them murmured, trying to tug at Hagen’s sleeve; but the lead boy gargoyle’s face was turning red the longer Sloan lambasted him. He’d always disliked the Steinars, for whatever inter-political reason, even after other gargoyles in the community took pity on the orphaned children.
“Your help with homework isn’t even that good, Sloan. You’re slipping, and it’s pathetic.” Hagen held his head loftily, ignoring Iann completely now. “Besides, you try ratting on us and you lose your best customers, dumbass. And I wouldn’t just throw you under the bus for ratting, I’d take down Shiloh too…” he sneered maliciously. “Maybe I won’t tell the Parliament though. Maybe I’ll just drop an anonymous tip with the town authorities, see what they do with you, you little freak.”
It seemed that Hagan had grown a pair of stones. At the most inopportune moment. Sloan sighed deeply, an exhaled growl. His group of lackies, consisting of two friends and Hagan’s younger brother, had taken her threat sincerely. And rightfully so. Sloan wasn’t just bluffing; she fully intended on never selling amphetamines to this group of gargoyles again unless they walked away from the situation with their mouth shut. Even then... the prices would forever be gouged.
“Please do. Please. Tell the Parliament. Tell the town authorities. Shout it from the rooftops,” Sloan shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her words casual and unphased. The large angry swollen bruise to her eye, the split laceration on her cheekbone, the rough scabbed appearance of her knuckles all spoke to her ability to survive an encounter with the town authorities. Sloan could not care less about the legal ramifications of her actions, as long as Shiloh was uninvolved. And she had been. Until Hagan opened his filthy mouth and doomed himself by mentioning her twin. “I.” Sloan took a step forward, “Do.” And another, “Not.” Her face was a mere inch away from the boy’s. “Care.” Their chests were almost touching, and at each rapid-fire exhale, Sloan could almost feel the ghostly brush of fabric against fabric.
“Let me lay it out for your smaller-than-average brain. I have texts on my phone from you that bluntly ask for drugs… not once… but three times this month. The last one being what? Saturday? All I would have to do is suggest to the Academy that you were academically doping and they would drug test you. And if that isn’t clear enough, let me be a bit more blunt. Expulsion.” Sloan spat the word in his face. It was a dirty word to gargoyles. Graduating from Sumner Academy was a right of passage, and it was the only way to garner some modicum of respect, of honor, within the community. Expulsion was a fate worse than death, by far. It was something even Sloan loathed to experience despite her dismissal of all things academic. “You are by far the lowest rank on my radar. My best customers? Ha. That’s a good joke, Hagan,” she guffawed, before her face schooled into utter seriousness. “But, let me tell you what isn’t a joke. If you ever mention Shiloh again, if the name ever leaves your mouth again… I will not destroy you. I’ll destroy Aiden. I will make it my sole goal in life to ensure that he is expelled and arrested. It’s a lot of effort, sure, but it isn’t all that hard when your little brother has been buying rock off me. And I’m not talking meth.” Sloan glanced over Hagan’s shoulder to Aiden, his little brother.
Rock was slang for Crystalin, a drug only digestible for gargoyles. A crystal rock that glowed bright violet. It produced a high greater than any methamphetamine, super addictive without all the pitfalls of the human drug. And it was virtually impossible to get caught doing it, as the rock was swallowed like a pill, slowly to dissolve and be absorbed over long periods of time. Euphoria with a clear clarity. It made you better than you could ever be alone. Except for the fact that extended use made for brittle stone. Gargoyles use the drug until they literally crumble away to dust. It was one of the reasons Sloan would never try the stuff. She was already short a lower leg.
Three years younger than both Hagan and Sloan, Aiden was already doing hard drugs, previously unknown to his brother. Hagan would probably kill Sloan for this, if it weren’t for the fact that an instant cut off of Crystalin meant certain death.
A shiver ran up Seols spine at the thought of being stalked around town by some creep. It wasn’t really an appealing idea when it came down to it. “Of course, you are the exception. I wouldn’t wait for anyone else.” she smirked. She knew that Sloan had a habit of being late and Seol arrived early knowing full well that the other would probably be late. Her head popped up looking at the other humorously. “Mark? Jeez of course I remember him. Though I highly doubt he’d stalk me. He seemed far more interested in you and Steph.” she said with a giggle “Have you checked your shadow Sloan? Perhaps he’s there.” she added with a devious grin plastered on her face.
“Are you saying that I am devious?” she mused with a dork wink before nodding at Sloan. “Of course. I’ll be waiting here.” She waved the other off gently with her hand. Taking another casual sip of her drink.
“Not a single other person?” Sloan raised an eyebrow, the edge of it peeking out from beneath her sunglasses. “Oh Seol. Now I feel special.” She pulled her sunglasses down to wink, clearly teasing her friend. Sloan had always been flirty with every member of her high school soccer team and time had not changed her ways, if anything, it had gotten worse. “Nevermind. I take it back, you’re not making me feel special...” Sloan backtracked as soon as Seol mentioned how Mark would’ve been more interested in her. “... he stalked all of us. Actually, now that I think of it… it probably had nothing to do with the soccer team and more to do with the fact that half of us had names that started with S. Maybe that was his fetish. The letter S.” Sloan gasped, scandalized, “Seol. Sloan. Shiloh. Steph. SOCCER. It all makes sense.”
Before walking off, Sloan smiled largely at the wink, “Oh I meant the town. Unless there is something about you I don’t know.” The gargoyle leaned on the table heavily, with both arms, pushing closer to Seol before launching herself backwards towards the barista counter. Sloan ordered a drink, payed, and returned within a couple minutes with a dark roast coffee.
[text]: I have a pack, I don’t have friends here. Yet. Besides, the pack is all busy preparing for the new little ones to get here. So - me and you.
He didn’t see the problem in inviting people to do things when he first met them. He had a poor grasp of waiting for a future date. When he was younger, MB had to take him to the calendar every day and explain what day it was, what was happening tomorrow, how many days until the next big event. He’d gotten a little better as he’d grown up. He grinned when she took his invite and applied it to the next time it rained. Tonight? All right.
[text]: Sure, if it rains tonight, but I don’t think I’ll go with stealing. Ned’s Boys freak me out, and I’d rather not get the pack in trouble.
[text]: Scouts honor? Like Superman ‘I definitely mean what I say’ or “I’m going to pick you up and fly the first chance I get?” - because I’d have a heart attack.
[TEXT]: New little ones?
[TEXT]: Is your whole pack moving to Sumner?
Sloan’s interest was piqued at the texts. She learned not only that Red was a wolf, but also that they had an entire pack. A pack that was preparing to move to Sumner. That could be trouble. Particularly if things continued to progress in the direction they were with Sheriff Ned. It was not a good time to be new to town, or even old to town. Sloan bristled slightly when she thought back to her last encounter with them; her hand ghosted over her shoulder, the shock from the electric whip lingered in her memory.
[TEXT]: Probably a good idea. Ned’s fuckwits are not anyone to take lightly.
[TEXT]: I definitely mean what I say. As long as you don’t try to pick me up and throw me in the ocean… or a pool… or even a puddle… then I definitely mean what I say.
The shot missed the man and nearly hit Sloan as she tackled him. The buckshot buried itself in the woods across the yard instead, the sound of splintering wood cracking through the night air. The gargoyle was wrestling the man on the ground, and the ship lay off to the side. Ruby moved as quick as she could and kicked the weapon out of the man’s reach. There was a sound from behind her, and she turned to see the man she’d shot getting up off the porch, his flesh knitting itself back together before her very eyes.
“Jesus…” she said, reaching down for the whip now that it was out of the reach of the man being pummeled by Sloan. Ruby called her name. “I’m outta bullets! Here!” She held the whip aloft, waiting on the gargoyle to see her before she tossed it in her direction.
The first thought that goes through Sloan’s head as she lands in the grass atop of one of Ned’s Boys was that she needed to stop tackling people. Adrenaline is not enough to lend the gargoyle reflexes that she does not have. Not when her entire body aches, jittery with the after effects of being shocked by an electrified whip. Sloan manages to get the first hit, and the second one. The third is not hers, a large fist landed in her gut, knocking the air from her lungs.
A loud ‘here’ catches her attention and Sloan looks up in time to catch the whip. It isn’t currently active, and the gargoyle doesn’t have time to learn how to use it. She brings down the metal butt of it hard on the man’s skull. He thankfully goes limp. “Thank fuck!” Sloan’s body is heaving with heavy breath, utterly exhausted.
Sloan looks up to Ruby, only to see the horror of a man, flesh mending at the seams as he stumbled around. A giant hole in his head. “Uh, Rubes. I think we just need to go…” Sloan pushes herself off the unconscious man below her, stumbling, her prosthetic leg sitting awkwardly on her leg. She limp runs over to Ruby, this time speaking louder, “We need to go!”
To the everyday mortal, sirens feed to live; sucking free another person’s soul or essence, their energy, and taking it into themselves. Each person will have their own idea of what powers the human being beyond flesh and blood, bone and ligaments, but the consensus is nearly unanimous that a living energy resides in each mortal person. And the siren feeds from it. Takes a bit of life away. However, the unaware person assumes that the act of feeding stop and starts just as one starts to eat a sandwich and stops when they are full.
Sirens know better.
Stirring up another person’s energy, tapping into their life at the corporeal level, brings more than just energy with it. As Jyrda drags Sloan’s life force into herself, pieces of the gargoyle’s identity come with it. Her current emotional state brushes through the siren’s insides like sandpaper ghosting between the hollows where her own life force should exist. She’s left with an impression of violence like acid on the back of her throat. Yet Jyrda keeps pulling.
With each passing second, the more of Sloan’s energy the siren fills herself with, she can feel the immediate effects. The discomfort of brittle skin fades, her undead organs stirring with potential that will never be fully realised; her tail no longer feels like an impossible weight to bear and her mind clears of cotton-like fog. Sloan’s life force acts fast, a punch of energy that recharges the siren in less time than the life of a human mortal. No doubt, the answer can be found in her student’s species. The fae life force.
Jyrda can’t say she objects to the advantage Sloan’s life force gives her.
Very little time lapses before the siren’s eyes fall shut, breaking the connection to the gargoyle’s inner energy. The unerring inhalation ends and Jyrda regains her own identity after the brief contact with Sloan’s. Then she gratefully shifts from tail to legs and pulls herself slowly from the pool. Her lower half now bare and only clad in a bralette over her breasts.
Sloan felt her stomach lurch uncomfortably. She did the best to ignore it, that tickle in her stomach, the flutter in her chest. It wasn’t quite painful, but it wasn’t exactly pleasurable either. This was not the first time that the gargoyle had been fed from, but the circumstances surrounding the feed were certainly different; every other experience had begun with sex and the act of feeding was meant to enrich the experience. It was always done in the heat of the moment, in the throes of passion. And it isn’t until the feed begins that Sloan comprehends the difference.
Jyrda was starved. She needed to feed. Sloan wasn’t dessert, a light snack - she was the main course.
That in-between balance between pain and pleasure changed with the sensation quickly evolved into a strong pull, a constant pull, as if her very life force was attempting to claw its way up her throat and out of her body. And if Sloan thought about it, she would have realized that was exactly what was occurring. The pain hit like a hammer to her chest as Sloan realized that the siren’s feed prevented her from being able to breathe. She held out as long as she could, her eyes popping open and going wide as she gripped Jyrda’s shoulders and let the siren take and take and take. When her lungs burn and she begins to feel lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, the sensation changes once again. It is rich and intoxicating, crisp and complex.
Sloan unconsciously jerked her head to the side, to break the feed, her body responding before her mind does. Her dark eyes settle on Jyrda, only to realize that the siren was the one that broke the feed. Sloan is amazed at how quickly the pain she had just felt in every nerve had dissipated to be replaced with pure pleasure. It coursed through her system, lit her bloodstream, even as she continued to gasp for air, to catch her breath.
That pleasure only doubled as Jyrda spoke her gratitude, only tripled as Sloan realized the state of her professor’s undress. Her eyes darkened deeply with her desire. She knew, cognitively, that this was only meant to be a feed. But, what she wanted was so much more. She longed to feel Jyrda’s mouth upon her’s once again, to experience that sharp illicit tug of the feeding once again. And Sloan was left feeling slightly awkward. Hot and awkward. She hadn’t even known something this awkward could also be so incredibly hot, particularly since they disliked one another so passionately.
“Take what you need,” Sloan breathed, her chest still heaving as her gaze darts between the siren’s eyes and mouth, not caring enough to be subtle, “Take more than you need.” Her last statement is barely above a whisper, each word punctuated with assurance, with longing, with hope.
