"I told you that wasn't my magic!"
While the words -spoken with nothing but truth and steady voice - filled the space between them, Scott reached for the bucket at his side. Retching up dirt and worms and wondering why he still tasted ash. The remains of his earlier hunt mixed with the warm blood and slimy innards, offering to the dead, to a power of which he knew almost nothing. Over the rim of the bucket, red eyes drank in the sight of Lucien's face, of the shit-eating grin that touched his lips. Scott cringed as the skull in his head, the totem of his ancestor Andres de la Fuente carved from obsidian, smacked against metal with a sharp ring.
Scott cradles the bucket in both hands, holding on to the dented and rusted metal as if it was the only thing keeping him in this world. Grounded and sane, not sprawling the memories of a dead man. The look he gives his handsome friend is nothing short of scathing, ever more haunting with those ruby eyes.
Andres's magic had once touched the pages of Lucien's ancient tomes. Pages of flesh, inked in blood. How much easier it would be for Scott, the one person with both Andres's blood and magic flowing in his veins to find the information, then for Lucien to his usually subtle approach. The man had all the grace of a chainsaw.
"You realize I had to experience his death. His own family, our family, killed him for practicing necromancy. The pages are, or I guess, were in the Ancestral Plane. Wasn't it destroyed when the Covens freed their spirits? Also, I'm never doing that again. Does it always feel so... cold and violating when you practice that crap?"

















