FULL MOON WANING - Part 1
[PREVIEW] Chapter 7: Patience and Tolerance
Full Moon Waning Masterpost
Today, the 27th, marks nine years since I started this project, so here's another chapter! There's been a slight name change since this has ballooned into three books; this first instalment is Full Moon Waning, and the series itself is called Shifting Phases.
Enjoy this direct continuation! One more chapter comes tomorrow :)
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CONTENT AND WARNINGS: Guns. wc: ~3.0k
Liz's Perspective
Raging fury burned through Liz’s every vein, but there was nothing she could do, not when the muzzle of a loaded gun dug into the back of her skull. Her breath misted in hot, fast puffs. Her hands opened and closed, squeezing at her sides. Her heart raced and every muscle twitched; adrenaline still coursed through her body, electrifying every nerve. “Ye’re a fuckin’ coward, Colette,” she hissed, face twisting into a snarl.
“Consider this a favour, a gesture, if you will;” Colette said flippantly, “I’m stopping you from starting a fight you and your boyfriend can’t finish.”
Liz could hear the glee in that smarmy bitch’s voice. Her fists itched to connect with something, or someone. Preferably someone. Preferably Colette. But until that gun was gone, Liz couldn’t do a damned thing. Pete needed her. He wouldn’t stand up to Burton, not on his own; he would just take the beating, no complaints. He needed confidence… and numbers. There was no way he could win a fight against four, not even with Liz’s help.
The fuckers did that deliberately, Liz thought bitterly.
… Not that he would’ve tried.
Liz just couldn’t understand him—he let himself be beaten time and time again. The only difference earlier was her and Timmy’s presence, that was the only time he fought, but now he was alone again. She couldn’t let it happen. She’d fight for him, she’d make sure he never got hurt again.
Colette and Liz approached the edge of the gardens now, having walked back on the path that she and Pete had strolled just minutes before. Liz weighed her odds. They were alone, but with the gun still to her head, she stood no chance. Liz gritted her teeth as Colette fished around her coat pockets until she found her phone, and moved around, muzzle still trained on Liz’s skull until they stood eye-to-eye.
Laughs broke out back in the park, along with cries that could only have been Pete’s.
An opportunity was coming, Liz could sense it. Colette would surely leave soon, and that meant she’d turn her back; she was cocky enough. One punch to the back of the head was all it would take. As cowardly as it was, it was no more cowardly than pulling a gun when faced with loss.
As if she could hear Liz’s thoughts, Colette said, “Don’t interfere, Liz. I’m going to leave you here now. If you decide to play hero, I’ll shoot you both before you can throw a punch.”
Liz stared after her. She wanted to scream, chase after her, tear her limb from limb, but she couldn’t, she’d kill Pete. When she could no longer hear Colette jogging away, and the red faded from her vision, she let out a shaky breath she didn’t realise she was holding. The adrenaline faded, leaving her panting in the cold night air. She had to do something, but the dire threat was not one she was willing to contest; she wouldn’t—no—she couldn’t risk Pete’s life for a chance at saving him. No. Her hands trembled at her sides.
…She’d almost died a few minutes ago. That was… real.
What good was she to Pete if her brains were splattered across the cobblestone? She would only hurt him more by subjecting him to the sight and loss. Her imagination, excessively creative, conjured too many vivid scenarios. They needed help, real help.
The coppers…!
This stuff was their job, they’d help! If only she could just call the coppers…! Pete would surely be furious with her if she did, Burton might just kill him if he got arrested, but it didn’t matter—Pete would be alive to be mad at her, and that was all she cared about. They could manage from there. She decided, with trembling determination. …But the bitch had taken her phone.
Cries of pain and desperation still occasionally rose above laughter. Liz paced, wringing her hands, dragging one through her tangled curls, and cursed. She cursed. A lot. She spat every single word she knew. She had to call the police, but how?
She shook, and her muscles twitched, itching for action, leading her to jog down the path along the edge of the gardens, heels clacking against the pavement, red hair bouncing behind her in the wind. If she could just—
There!
On the distant corner was a phone booth, dimly lighting the mist that circled its base. Yes, perfect! I hope I have enough change. Liz ran faster, closing the distance until she yanked the door open and slammed to a stop against the booth’s wall. In the tight space, her panting echoed off the walls. Beyond the rattled glass, mist billowed and curled high into the air along the street where she’d run. The various items in her purse clacked and rustled as she plunged her hands into it, searching frantically for spare change. The phone only took half-credits—shet, where are they! She was sure she had more, she’d put some in her change purse that morning, but all she had left where three quarters and tenths. Credits clattered to the ground, all small and nickel, none the right value. Liz reached to the bottom of her bag and emptied everything onto the floor. She didn’t have the right change. Nothing would fit into the slot. Nothing would work.
Liz looked up to the phone again, searching for any other option; maybe she’d misread! But the label was clear about the required denomination, and there was no place to swipe a card.
“Shet!” she cried, “Shet!” Angry tears gathered in her eyes.
They must’ve thrown it in the fountain—she hadn’t noticed what she’d given Pete, or even what she’d had; it hadn’t mattered. Her cheeks coloured at the thought of her brashness. Swiftly, she gathered her belongings and swept out of the booth, running along the street. Maybe—
“Please,” she begged, matching her frantic pace to a man who hurried down the street, paper grocery bag in hand, “could ye lend me yer phone, or, or if that’s too much trouble, a quarter? I need the police! Please! My friend—he’s in trouble!”
“Sorry Miss, I don’t have change, and I have ta get goin’,” he said, and kept walking as Liz faltered to a stop.
There was someone else across the street, maybe they could spare her a minute. By the time she asked two, three more people, she realised they’d never listen, they didn’t care. In a fit of desperation and frustration, she yelled into the night, sobbing out curses and pleas for anyone to stop and help, anyone at all.
As if the Powers heard her plea, she spotted a dark van cutting slowly through the mist: hunters.
Slowly, Liz raised her arm. Surely, she thought as she waved and called, “Hey! Help, please!” They’ll stop and call the police fer me. They can’t refuse a call fer help.
And they didn’t.
The van pulled to the gutter short of where Liz stood, and she ran to meet them. A man stepped out. The beautiful mask adorning his face glimmered the same gold as the long hair that flowed behind him. A House Master. Compared to some other men, he was somewhat small, but his presence and gait, elegant yet purposeful, was anything but. One hunter exited behind him, but Liz spotted more silhouettes behind the darkly tinted windows. This other hunter’s mask was black with gold along the brows. He seemed dishevelled, a sharp contrast to the House Master, whom he closely followed.
“Please, House Master sir,” she begged the man in the golden mask, “My friend! They’re goin’ta shoot him—they’re hurtin’ ‘im! They chased after us, they have a gun! With bullets, and I—they threatened me—us—I can’t help! Please, I need the police, or a half-credit, if a call is too much hassle—they’re gonna kill him this time!”
In a blink, the House Master was at her side, steadying her with his calm, odd-coloured faze. A sweet smile tugged at his lips. “Steady, Miss, steady,” he said, voice velvety smooth. “Your friend, he is in trouble? We can still be of service until the police arrive, if haste is required. Even if there are no demons.”
“Yes…!” Liz nearly sobbed with relief. She couldn’t bear to appear so distraught in front of people; the tears could wait. “Yes, please, please help him!”
“What’s his name?”
“Spencer, Pete Spencer,” she said, trying to steady her voice, “he’s in the park, by the fountain there’re four of them, beatin’ on ‘im—”
“And yours?”
“Liz Millen.”
“Perfect, you’re doing well, Miss Millen. You seem shaken. I’ll have one of my hunters escort you home, and we’ll take care of the rest,” the House Master said. “Greene, you’re with the young lady. Elmer, move the van further up and meet me there. Nelson, with me.”
As the van pulled off and the House Master and Nelson began a brisk jog to the park, another hunter stepped out of the van; he must’ve been Greene. He wore the same mask as Nelson, and he was similarly broad and lean in appearance; though tidier. The thin black beard along his jawline was finely shaved, and he had long braids drawn back into a large bun, with some shorter strands woven with golden cuffs, framing his face. Behind the mask, his dark eyes glittered with a kindness that seemed absent from the other two. “Let’s get you home, Miss Millen,” he said.
It wasn’t long before they arrived on Liz’s street and walked down the path to her family townhouse. It wasn’t large, but it was enough, and even had a small garden occupied chiefly by a swing set that shone coldly in the moonlight. The silence between her and Mr Greene was more comfortable than she expected. She would have preferred to continue the silence to the front door, fearing her voice would warble and betray how rattled she really was, but she couldn’t forget her manners; Mr Greene and the other hunters had gone out of their way to help her. When she got to the gate, she paused. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, “fer stoppin’ I mean. I uh, can’t tell ye how much that means. Pete’s my good friend, and I—I just walked away. Thank you fer stoppin’ ta help him when I couldn’t.”
Mr Greene looked her over, eyeing her mussed hair, dirtied clothes, and stinging, bruised skin. He spoke in a deep, soft voice, “It sure doesn’t look like you walked away. I don’t think you let anything happen. You know, it’s not healthy to blame yourself for something out of your control. You did the right thing by coming to us for help. There’s no shame in it. I’m sure your friend would be heartbroken if you got shot.”
“Aye, but… I… I just don’t feel like I did enough. They really wanted ta hurt him this time, Mr Greene, I should’ve done more; he even thought we were bein’ followed and I just—I didn’t listen—”
“He’ll be glad you’re home safe, Miss Millen.”
Liz thought for a moment, dropping her gaze. Pete was kind and selfless… he always seemed to worry about her more than himself. “Ye’re right, he… he would be relieved. He’s always worryin’ about draggin’ me an’ Timmy inta his problems, but he’ll be alright now, and I’m alright. Thank you, Mr Greene.”
“It was no trouble, really,” he said. “This is the most rewarding part of my job. I just wish I could see this more; it’s easy to lose sight of what you’re fighting for. You have a good evening, Miss Millen.”
As quickly as Liz blinked, Mr Greene faded quietly into the mist.
Once Liz was through the door, the tension drained out of her body, taking with it the last of her energy. From the glimpse of herself she caught in the hall table’s mirror as she hung her coat, she looked like shit.
“Hey Lizzy,” Papa called from the kitchen. “I’m preppin’ at the moment, would ye mind helpin’ when ye’ve cleaned up?”
Oh, she did not feel like dealing with the kitchen. Of all the times, it had to be right then. “Yeah, I’ll be back soon,” she said, and trudged up the stairs.
Liz was covered in much more muck than she’d realised—even her clothes were filthy. Fuck. She was hoping to wear that coat again for a few more days at least before getting it cleaned. Under the grime, she was covered in bruises and grazes, from her jaw to her chest, arms, and knuckles. She didn’t even remember what gave her the bruises on her chest, just that they gradually darkened, and were tender to touch. She should ice them… But first, she’d shower… and almost fall asleep under the warm cascade of water.
~*~
Hours had passed since Liz arrived home, escorted by the kind Mr Greene. She’d helped cook dinner, clear up, and now she sat in the living room with her newest scrap journal. Already half filled, the previous pages bulged under her palm as she braced it and began scribbling small doodles shrouded in melancholic shadow. She’d use blues for that page, she decided, maybe purples, as well as her pen’s black ink. Though she tried to disguise it, her misery did not escape the notice of her father.
Papa asked, “Liz, is everythin’ alright? Ye haven’t been in high spirits all evenin’, and ye’re covered in bruises. Is everythin’ alright?”
“It’s… It’s Pete.”
“Mmhmm?”
“Burton’s gone ‘im twice today. The teachers punished Burton twice; once fer foolin’ around with the teacher’s bullets, and again fer pickin’ a fight with us. But while we were walkin’ over here after class, his pals cornered us at the park. I—I was gonna tell him, Pa, I did, but before he could say anythin’ himself, they were on us. I tried ta fight, but—but there were too many, one had the teacher’s gun and forced me away…! I called fer help, and some hunters came by, but… I hope they got there in time. Burton was furious with him. Looked like it was gonna be bad…” Liz said. Her voice wavered as the returning memories threatened to spill as tears. “I’m worried about him…”
Papa sighed, running blunt fingers over his prickly cheek. “That sounds like quite the predicament… but he’s a resilient young lad. I’m sure Burton won’t have an easy time—”
“But that’s the thing, Papa!” Lis started, “He never fights back, he always lets Burton have his way! I just don’t understand it…! If he just—just did somethin’, told someone, he wouldn’t have ta deal with this! He barely even says anythin’ ta me and Timmy, but we always know when Burton’s had ‘im; somewhere’s always tender, or we can see where he’s masked the bruises with cheap foundation. I just—I just wish he’d at least tell us. We’ll always have his back. He’s gotta know that, right?
Papa’s thick brow furrowed. Though Liz searched his features, his expression was unreadable; or perhaps she just couldn’t read the story each little line told.
“There… may be more to it, Lizzy,” he said slowly. “I don’t doubt you two will always be there fer him, but, sometimes there’s more happenin’ under the surface or behind closed door than meets the eye. I wouldn’t be so quick ta judge. Meet his shyness with kindness and patience, just like ye’ve been doin’, and I’m sure, eventually, he’ll grow comfortable enough ta confide in ye the barest details. And then when time passes, maybe more.”
Liz nodded slowly, eyes and fingers trailing the wrinkled edges of the journal pages.
“’Tis best not ta rush these things, ‘specially not trust. It may take years, but it’s important he has a pal with him all the way,” Papa continued, “Give him room, give him safety, and he’ll come ta ye. Ye just have ta be patient.”
“I—I will, Papa,” Liz said, determination rising in her chest.
It must’ve showed in her expression because Papa laughed and said with a warm smile, “Ye shouldn’t rush ta fight his battles fer ‘im either, lassie, even if ye can kick their arses and make ‘em sorry.” Papa’s smile was infectious.
“I’ll do my best.”
She closed her journal and stretched. Papa reached over to muss her hair as she stood and wished him a good night. On her way to wish her twin siblings Casey and Kaiah a good night too, she found them with their door ajar, still playing with their wooden soldier legion. “Goodnight,” Liz whispered, and chaos descended upon the room—the lights flicking off, and one diving into his bed, while the other dashed across the hall to her own room, flashing her a cheeky grin on the way.
Liz smirked, “I won’t tell mum.”
Finally, Liz made it to her room. It was dark, and she felt as though she could collapse onto her bed and sleep for a month, but as she again recalled the evening’s events, she figured she’d better give Timmy a heads up. Instinctively, she reached for her phone until she remembered that bitch Colette had stolen it. Liz groaned, cursing her up and down before sliding off the bed to fetch and open her laptop which nearly blinded her with its light.
Hey Timmy, she wrote, Burton cornered us in the park after class. The fucker brought all his pals. They beat him bad, I couldn’t do anything, they stole Miss Moore’s gun and ammo. I haven’t heard anything since. I need to sleep now, I’ll explain more when I see you tomorrow. Goodnight.
Despite her words, she kept her laptop open for a moment longer, waiting to see if Timmy came online. He didn’t, nor did he reply, but it was late and he had been working. Disappointing, but expected. She could tell him tomorrow morning when she saw him at the academy.
With a sigh, she closed her laptop and set it to the side before settling down to sleep.
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