#cyrus mccarthy

[luckyy19]

His hand moved to the pack of smokes in his pocket. It took all of his effort to leave them alone. Muddling his mind would only make tonight harder, but gods would it be welcome. Maybe then he wouldn’t jump at every shift in the shadows. Maybe his thoughts could be occupied with the weather or tomorrow’s schedule instead of how sacrilegious it was to murder a man in a temple to the Goddess of Love. It was an act of love, in a sense. He loved Viola as much as she would allow him and he loved Phoebe with whatever cracked pieces of his heart she would accept, and at the end of the day all of this was to keep them safe.

Gods above, he sounded like a monster.

“Do you know what the most dangerous thing about you is?” Viola had asked him once, when they were young enough to be speaking but old enough to consider that telling her his secrets had been a mistake. “You can convince anyone of anything, even yourself.”

Cyrus had laughed and taken another sip, or a drag, or done something equally self-destructive while Viola frowned because, honestly, when had he ever been anything but suicidal? A blessing he had to keep hidden, yet also utilize at the right times without ruining his moral code. A family who thought him incompetent or ignorant, which was to say they didn’t think much of him at all. All the money he could need and then so much more, but all he wanted was an apartment with a certain young lady and a night to pretend he was anyone other than Cyrus McCarthy.

Everyone liked Cyrus. He made sure of it through layers of charm and tailored suit jackets and the occasional scandal everyone would forget within a week.

Nobody really liked the McCarthys. Not even the McCarthys.

So maybe he was the monster this time. Maybe it wasn’t for love and it wasn’t for justice, and maybe Cyrus was just really, really sick of Beckham’s bullshit and everything he’d done to keep Viola away from the people who actually cared about her. Maybe Cyrus was pissed because Sasha deserved better than a kingpin who would use her for her blessing and body and little else. Maybe Cyrus woke sometimes from nightmares where the Silver brothers finally had enough and it was Phoebe’s throat they slit, just because they could, and he was tired.

His hands were shaking.

[luckyy19]

“Have you really been here for four days?” Adrian pressed. There was a crease between his brows and a frown tugged his mouth into an ungainly pout. It looked to anyone else like he was genuinely upset over his lack of awareness. And Cyrus had no doubt he was upset, but not out of concern.

“Perhaps. Maybe I’m lying to prove a point.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Against his better judgement, his breath caught in his throat. Adrian’s eyes narrowed, a hound following a blood trail, and Cyrus flashed a charming but hollow smile and stepped carelessly out of arm’s reach. “And yet, you suffer me nonetheless,” he crooned. Hovering on the bottom step, he waited. This, more than anything else, resulted in a phenomenon Cyrus had only witnessed on a handful of occasions. A shadow passed over Adrian’s face as grief and disgust warred with each other. His fingers twitched at his side. Cyrus cocked his head and the spell was broken. Adrian sighed, and Cyrus pounced. “Will you inform the master of the house?”

Adrian rolled his eyes. “Yes. Father should know that you—”

“Then expect me to be gone within the hour,” Cyrus said, already halfway up the stairs. It would have been trivially easy for Adrian to give chase, demand he sit before their father and explain why he had been hiding in the attic, squirreling away meals for the better part of a week. Perhaps he would have to explain how and why he went to the casino, too. But Adrian only watched him from the base of the stairs until Cyrus could no longer see him through the steps.

“Mister McCarthy!” A booming voice called out. Cyrus paused, dreading what he knew was inevitable. “A moment, sir.”

“What do you want?” Adrian snapped. Cyrus winced. It was entirely his fault the poor man was on the receiving end of Adrian’s wrath. Still, he couldn’t feel completely awful about it. At least Adrian hadn’t spoken to him in such a cold manner.

“It’s Viola Izmane. She’s—”

Cyrus was already moving, rushing up the stairs to grab his coat and shoes, shoving his feet in the latter and arms through the former. The enforcement officer was still speaking—rambling, really—when Cyrus breezed past them, coattails flapping in his wake.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Adrian demanded. Cyrus sidestepped Adrian’s attempt to catch his elbow, spinning out of his grasp.

“Where I always go, my dear brother,” Cyrus said with a lazy salute. “To fix this.”

[luckyy19]

Four days ago, after leaving his disastrous conversation with Viola and electing to never think of it again, he burst into Adrian’s quaint third-story office that had once been Cyrus’s bedroom and disrupted what appeared to be a very important meeting. The men in suits turned in outrage, practically spitting in their fury, but Adrian simply flicked his wrist and told them to disperse. “This had better be important,” Adrian said, prepared to continue regaling Cyrus with tales of his own stupidity, but something passed over his face and he stood, circling to the front of the too large desk in the too small room, and took Cyrus’ chin in his hands.

His fingers had been cold. It was the only thing Cyrus could focus on as his brother touched him in anything other than reprimand for the first time in years. Adrian tilted his head this way and that until Cyrus finally blinked out of his stupor to recoil away from those long, thin fingers he knew as well as his own. They were his own. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t look well,” Adrian had said. “You didn’t look like this last night.”

“I met up with Viola after the—”

Adrian scoffed, expression souring. “Well, that certainly explains it. Drink too much, did you? Still hunting for the edge of the cliff?”

“Beckham is dead,” he had said. Viola’s beratement came from a place of grief, he knew that, and he allowed it until she gave him the room to retaliate. It was a give and a take, a dance as much as a fight. Adrian did not pick fights he didn’t win, and Cyrus still had the reminder hidden in his hair of why he should not protest in his own defense.

Adrian froze halfway to sitting. “I’m sorry, I believe I misheard you.”

“Beckham Silver is dead,” he repeated. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know.” He was standing now, gripping the back of his chair like a lifeline. Hurt flashed in his eyes. Cyrus still couldn’t decide if it was genuine days later, and the internal debate made him sick. What monsters we’ve become. “Do you think I’d have kept it from you if I did?” Cyrus shrugged, noncommittal, and flicked a piece of lint from his shoulder.

[luckyy19]

In a rare fit of foresight, Cyrus spent the night in his family manor, high atop the hill so it could loom over the city of Estra like some monster out of myth. It wasn’t all that impressive, or at least Cyrus had never thought much of it, but he could understand how an outsider might be charmed by the sleek black of the walls, the glowing lights floating absently about the large porch, the central spire—okay, it wasn’t technically a spire but he had never known what to call the strange piece of the building that stretched past the roof into a sort of point—and the window settled in it. There were rumors of spiral staircases winding up the three floors, of an attic bedroom Cyrus rarely occupied, of tunnels leading to the sewers, of a wine cellar housing hundreds of racks. All ridiculous. The house would reek if the tunnels led to the sewers and the city dwellers would be less than thrilled to learn that actin actuality, they lead to a variety of places across Estra but were mostly used by the heirs for elaborate parties and sneaking out of political meetings.

The table was set as always, complete with embroidered tablecloth, polished silverware, a steaming kettle, a full coffeepot, a vase of what appeared to be daffodils, and platters of more food than the four of them could ever hope to eat. A painted teacup with traces of lipstick on the rim, butter residue on a plate, a napkin neatly folded over the back of a chair. Cyrus released a small sigh of relief. His family had, once again, eaten without him.

He grabbed a scone of indeterminate flavor and prepared to flee the scene before anyone saw him. Their chef, a burly man with a permanent scowl and the unfortunate name of Acheron, was quite inclined to keep his job and would certainly sell him out to his father if he believed it to result in a reward. Cyrus hoped the man was rewarded handsomely for his troubles, but wished he had found a different manner of receiving it.

As he rounded the corner, he heard someone curse under their breath. Cyrus picked up his pace and made it to the second step of the obnoxious spiral staircase before a hand clamped around his wrist and pulled him down. He stumbled over the first step, catching himself heavily against the railing. The wood groaned beneath his weight.

“You could have called for me,” Cyrus muttered, rolling his shoulder. Something popped painfully.

Adrian fixed him with a murderous look. “You would have continued on your way.” A fair enough assessment. Cyrus broke off a piece of the scone and ate it. Blueberry. His lips pursed. “Where have you been? I’ve had enforcement running around the city looking for you.”

He laughed. “They must not be very good at their jobs, then. I’ve been here for days.”

[luckyy19]

Viola nodded and took a flute from his tray. “Plausible deniability,” she said with an innocent look. He rolled his eyes, but turned and headed for the dressing room, leaving Viola to extract Cyrus as painlessly as possible. She didn’t recognize the man he was speaking with, but she knew Adrian. Viola winced in sympathy as Adrian’s arm wrapped around Cyrus’ shoulders. She couldn’t let that be. “There you are!” she cried as she approached. Cyrus visibly brightened as she looped her arm through his and tugged him, just slightly, away from Adrian. “I’ve been looking for you all night.” “Miss Izmane,” Adrian said coolly. “I wasn’t aware you were on the guest list.” “I’m not.” She took a long drink from her flute and almost spit it out. Not champagne as she’d thought, but something sour and bitter. Orange, perhaps? “It’s one of the perks of infamy.” “That’s one word for it.” Adrian flicked his eyes—the same seafoam green as his brother, but with all the oceanic chill and none of the sun—over the crowd. “Where’s your dog? Finally let him off leash?” Viola rolled her eyes. “Beckham didn’t think his presence was necessary.” “Unlike yours.” “My presence is never necessary but always enjoyed. Or so I’ve been told.” Cyrus scoffed. “By who?” “You, for one,” she replied pointedly. “And your brother, once.” Adrian didn’t rise to her bait—unsurprising but certainly disappointing. Adrian McCarthy didn’t feel things like regret anymore. It was nothing short of a miracle that their parents lived on. Perhaps they saw the monster they’d created and wisely stepped out of the war path. “My tastes have refined with time,” he said, politely distant. “Your prospects, Miss Izmane, are not what they used to be. It does me no good to waste my time indulging your casino. What was it called? Some idiom or other?” An insult rose to her tongue and she swallowed it down. There was a glint in his eye that promised humiliation at every misstep. So Viola smiled, close-lipped, and said, “The Bleeding Hearts.” “A fitting name,” Adrian declared. “I like to think so. It’s a lovely flower. Quite poisonous too. Just touching one is enough to—” “Well, we should be going.” Cyrus pulled Viola aside, placing his empty flute on a passing tray. “I’ll see you at home.” A knowing smile danced across Adrian’s lips. “That would be a nice change of pace. Mother will be thrilled.”

Viola and Cyrus have quickly become my favorite pair of bros to write

[luckyy19]

From the prologue, written in third person present and doing some funky narrative shenanigans:

A hand lands on the young man’s shoulder, solid and heavy. It squeezes too hard and he forces a good natured smile. Perhaps someone else would see through lies he was never all that skilled at weaving, but the owner of the hand has only ever seen rictus grins and harsh laughter from the man. The Hand does not question the sudden rigidity of the young man’s spine. “Come with me,” the Hand says. It guides him away from the crowd he was trying to disappear amongst and he is struck with familiarity. As it was when he was a child, he turns himself to clay and allows the Hand to shape him into whatever tool he requires. It is easier than burning in the kiln of disapproval. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” As the Hand and young man cross the room, they catch the attention of a traitor. The traitor watches them with dark and discerning eyes, and slips into the crowd to follow. The Hand stops the young man before a man their father’s age. In the new Eshian style, his russet hair is long and secured away from his thin face with a silver clasp. He looks down on both the young man and the Hand from over a narrow nose, eyes like emeralds narrowed in distaste. He reminds the young man of a rat. “Declan Reynes,” Declan says, extending a hand. The young man splits his lips into a smile and does not take the offer. The Hand will berate him after if he shakes it, if he dares to touch the filth of those not fortunate enough to be born into wealth. He can see the gold thread in Declan’s waistcoat, the genuine gleam of every ring he wears. But that’s not enough when speaking to a McCarthy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “Reynes is a new associate of mine,” the Hand says with a smile the young man does not trust. He says something else, too, but the young man is distracted by the sudden ripple of his shadow across the sticky floor. He is distracted, and so he does not notice the traitor’s gaze flick, briefly, to glance at the young man’s shadow as well. “I spent a good deal of coin investing in him.”

For clarity: Cyrus McCarthy=the young man Adrian McCarthy=the hand ??=the traitor

[luckyy19]

Character Intro: Cyrus McCarthy

It was infuriating how well versed he was in lazy arrogance, every gesture potentially disingenuous.

Cyrus McCarthy (He/Him); The Bleeding Hearts Casino

Alias & Faction: Cancer, Third-in-Command of the Zodiacs Age: 20 Magic: Compelling voice (Cancer-Blessed); Siren (derogatory) Sexuality: Straight Physical Description: Blond hair, blue eyes, White, 6' 2" Nationality: Eshian

Other Information

Born to an aristocratic family

Older brother Adrian

Viola tried to kill him, ended up receiving an offer to join her Zodiacs

Works as a dealer in the casino—always runs the most popular table

Dating Phoebe

[luckyy19]

Cyrus makes a mess, Viola cleans it up

Viola considered the young man lying on her couch, staring at her ceiling with eyes that saw nothing. When she first met him, she thought that he must have been a prince. Or, considering Estra had no noble class, descended from wealth. That pale complexion, that cheerfully naive attitude, the way he sprawled across everything as though he owned it ….All tied together with that wild magic he could barely control. Everything about him had screamed aristocracy to her and the heart of Estra was no place for Eshian aristocracy. It was why she had tried to kill him when they first met. Then he took out her best fighters without laying a finger on them and Viola reconsidered her opinion of him. The Izmane moral compass was well known for being fickle and pointing towards wealth and power rather than the best option. He was gambling with his life, seeking her out. It made her respect him all the more for it.

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed and a light began to flicker on behind the bland sheen. He told her about the struggle, once. The fight he had to begin every time he went too long without using his abilities. He compared it to a muscle that, left unused, would begin to ache until he flexed it. Viola understood. Everything had a price. She had learned that from her father long before her mother died, and this was Cyrus’s. He blinked rapidly and let out a low groan, flinging an arm over his eyes. Unable to stop herself, Viola smiled. “Having a rough night, are we?” “Shut up.” “No, no. It’s pronounced ‘thank you Viola for preventing me from losing my job.’” His arm lowered so he could look her in the eye. “You wouldn’t have fired me.” Cyrus was significantly paler but not nearly as pale as he normally was. It gave her the boost of anger she needed. “Awfully confident for someone who was just in the heads of—” “I tried to tamp it down.” “Well, you didn’t,” she snapped. Guilt flickered across his face but she refused to feel bad about it. “We have a deal, Cyrus. You told me you could handle this and you’re doing a terrible job of proving it to me.” Cyrus snorted. “Oh, woe is me,” he said dryly. “I live to please you, Miss Izmane. Please, tell me how I can better serve your great—” “I get it, I get it,” she said with an eye roll. “You’re very funny.” “I like to think so.” He sighed, shifting into a half-sitting, half-lying position, propping his head up on the armrest. “Are you kicking me out?” “For the night.” Cyrus groaned, running his hands down his face. “Great.” “Phoebe?” Viola asked hesitantly. “Yeah.” Almost lazily, he rolled his head to look her in the eye. “I shouldn’t be around people right now. I can’t go home tonight. I don’t want to hurt her.” It took monumental effort to hold his gaze without emotion. They both knew what would happen if he was left alone to let the magic fester inside of him. He would recover eventually, but none of it would be pretty. “Cyrus, you can’t do that to yourself.” “Are you volunteering?” he asked, one fine brow arched. It was infuriating how well versed he was in lazy arrogance, every motion potentially disingenuous. Seven years and she was still learning to speak his language. He laughed softly, turning away. “Of course not.” “I’m not letting you leave without—” “So you’ll stay and help me?” he asked, quick as a whip and once again catching her off guard. Waiting just long enough for it to be apparent she had nothing to say, he let out an amused huff. “I thought as much.” Viola swallowed. “Cyrus,” she said as gently as she could manage, which wasn’t very gentle at all. “You should go home—” “I’m so glad I speak to hear the sound of my own voice. It has a lovely cadence, doesn’t it?” She took a breath. Gods, he was infuriating.