XIII. When the Rose Whispers To You, Run

4

"Recognize anyone familiar?" Wil asked Robin as she highlighted the Grimm article swiftly. As the sun sat in the sky, ensnared in the throes of passion with the moon, Robin listened to her kettle sing and thought dazedly about Scott; the Southern born-and-bred, hell-raising raised piece of *ss Lafayette told her to get over. Its shimmering blanket kissed Robinʼs face salaciously as she thought of Scott, confusing her with the futile battle between the light and the darkness, Robin blinked twice – temporarily blinded by the sunʼs skin hitting her face.

"Robin..."

I canʼt trust myself when Iʼm with you, he had said. Weʼre toxic, you and I. 

What the hell did that mean?

"Robin!" Wil snapped.

Robin reached for the stove and turned off the tea, the vanilla aroma of Earl Grey flooding the room, and as she poured a cup for herself, dumping a little bit of whiskey in. It didnʼt taste good or anything, but being buzzed was better than being sober at the moment.

"The Night Wolf," Robin said lazily. "The monster wolf. Italian. The one that every hunter wants for some cash or whatever gets people off these days."

"Exactement," Wil hummed playfully. "I think we have our smoking gun. They issued warrants for arrests over an animal attack; to silence witnesses. Itʼs a tell; the Order is looking to start a bloody body count, and they need the Night Wolf to do it."

Robin frowned and sipped quietly.

"Why the hell would the Order want...a werewolf, Wil? Theyʼre the supernatural KKK that wants to kill those who are not Christian. A werewolf wonʼt help them, amor."

"I dunno, love. Iʼm just statinʼ the facts. Any intel we get against these vampires is another step to takinʼ them down. Hence the job, Robs."

Robinʼs eyes narrowed at the article, her lips pursed. The violence was poetic in a way; an artistʼs paintbrush coming to life. But unlike art, this violence wasnʼt original.

It was a bloodbath, exactly like the one sheʼd

seen in Cuba with the same body count, same form of killing, and same collateral damage.

Robin drank slowly.

"Thereʼs a funeral in Baton Rouge. Small, localized. Scottʼs burying his son," Wil blurted.

I canʼt trust myself when Iʼm with you, he echoed. Weʼre toxic, you and I. Thereʼs only one way this ends. And thatʼs bloody.

It hurt to think. The throbbing, the pounding, the music blaring in the background as her head tensed up. Desperation flowed into her bloodstream, thrusting, whimpering like a desperado and she had to blink back curtains of anxiety, of anger, and angst as her head beat a new tune into her head.

Another voice, competing against la voz.

When the rose

whispers to you,

Run.

She hated him.

She hated that he left her when she was at her most vulnerable; when he was at his most vulnerable.

And thatʼs why she loved him.

She hated the way he glided his mouth against hers hotly, the feverish feeling that melted into her bones when he kissed her, the taste of citrus and Japanese whiskey that lingered on his lips. The way they felt, velvety and plush, against her hipbones, her succulent skin. The way the radiant light from his stupid smile matched the fervor of the sweltering Louisianan sun, kissing every nook-and-cranny of her skin. The hunger he stirred that made her pulse, made her whine, made her scream, the way he ignited a darkness in her eyes...

She hated the way she cursed him with this pain, with Virgilʼs death, with the loneliness of power.

And thatʼs why she loved him.

When the rose

whispers to you,

Run.

Cupping her stark, paling face, Robin shakily exhaled. Pulling her Earl Grey to her chest, goosebumps erupted over her skin and as Wil continued mumbling absently, she turned her back away from the phone; hands cupping her face and fingers combing away any hair and cold, crisp sweat. The threat of bitter, angry tears welled in her eyes as quickly as they receded, like the foamy teeth of the frosty sea biting into her body, and as she tried to make the madness malleable, understandable, she couldn't. Virgil was dead, she was reminded of his death, her lover left her because she was "toxic" and as she sat in silence, fear – fear of messing up her eight other babies ruined her.

"And?"

"I just wanted to let you know, Robin."

Ignoring him, Robin grabbed her laptop and logged on.

"What do we have on the wolf?" Robin demanded. "What intel? Because I will be damned if I believe that a group of entitled white supremacists are planning Biblical genocide with a werewolf."

Wil sighed.

"The Night Wolf has been migratinʼ south. Hitting the towns where our most wanted are. Some of them are kidnapped, some of them are indentured servants. Love, itʼs all over the email. If they use a rabid, mangy beast to do their dirty work, theyʼve got to have a disposal of new-and-improved hybrid creatures, fantastical beasts, at their disposal."

Robin pulled up the email.

TO: robin.demarcus@thcincorporated.com

CC: william.harris@thcincorporated.com

Subject: VANISHED INMATES

WANTED (LOUISIANA AND ELSEWHERE): "am prìosanach Pyro"

001 - Delaney DeVonne (Louisiana) 003 - Ifrit (Versailles) 

005 - Emilia Prince (Mexico)  002 - Ophelia Davis (Korea)

004 - Djinn (Barbados)  006 - Leila Ravenswood (England)

007 - Reina Santiago (Unknown)

"The DeVonnes, Davises, and Ravenswoods are all a part of the Princeʼs court now, prisoners turned bureaucrats, but Montesquieu, Dauphin, and Reina Santiago are...gone. All psychotic, ruthless killers. This list gets updated regularly, and the the Night Wolf has been to all these places so far."

Robin hardened, listening to Wil drone on: listless, emotionless. Reina Santiago. The name was a torrid reminder of her past, of Virgil, and it wept out of her the way blood did. Closing her laptop, Robin lifted the empty bottle of vodka and her half empty cup of Earl Grey and sighed with discontent.

"What does the Order want with Reina Santiago? What do the Hellbenders want with her?" she asked, her voice grating. Stone-cold. Monotonous, heavy, angry.

Images flashed through her mind. Screaming. Electrocution. Baby's blood. Plaintive cries, Weeping saw. Alcohol. Booze, so much booze. Sutures. Explosive arteries. Bile on a faceless face. Alphas screaming. Omegas gasping. Betas gurgling on curdles of their own blood. Possession. Lack of control. Schizophorenia diagnosis. Die witch: said by W, R, M, O, T, B, L, L. Surgery, surgery, surgery. Cannibalism. Convulsing muscle. Hunger for eyes. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark beauty. La voz. My dark flower. M'dark flower, darkdarkdarkdarkdark–

Estaba oscuro, la voz. Oscuro y triste y femenino, espantoso, como una plaga en Europa. Oscuro y triste y femenino y espantantoso y mortal.

The voice was deadly, sad, feminine, dark...and deadly.

It was killing her.

Hello, my child.

Hola, mija.

Olá, minha menina.

Robin panted, gritting her teeth, and squeezed her eyes shut as she massaged her forehead. Wil, as per usual, was way too enthusiastic.

"Robs, what wouldnʼt the Order want with Reina Santiago? She murdered her son in cold-blood and completely decimated every bloody psychiatric ward in Cuba. She assembled an army and had them f*ck and fight to settle her scores with the Mazzora Psychiatric Hospital. Sheʼs an animal, a complete and insane f*ckinʼ animal. Robin, she was the Molotov mistress. Hoppinʼ on the d*cks of one crime lord to the next, only to get extradited. Sheʼs the Order of the Dragonʼs worst nightmare, and the Hellbendersʼ most psychotically charged weapon. Hiroshima wrapped up in lace and silk. Finding her...it would change the game completely. It would give us a fighting chance to stop the demon flux. To be I dunno...Sam and Dean? Vanessa and Ethan? The saviors of the bloody universe?"

Wil paused.

"Why do you ask?"

Think of something, think of something.

"I knew her; I was – how you say? – deported around the time she lost her son. In C-uba. The Order isnʼt using the wolf, because the Order doesnʼt know who Reina Santiago is. Even with their resources. Davis, DeVonne, and Ravenswood turning on the Hellbenders has to be because of something else. The Order is too elitist to waste their inexhaustible resources on a Latin American immigrant. Thereʼs something else in play."

Thereʼs a new player in town. 

But Robin didnʼt dare tell Wil that. She was p*ssed at him, that was true, but Wil..he was Robinʼs rock. Her deepest confidant, and even when he acted hollow and distant, he was her...Wil. Her number one partner-in-crime, and what happened in Cuba stayed in Cuba.

Even if the truth...

Hello, my child. 

Robin hardened when la voz began singing in her hand, rampant, violent, scratching the walls of her brain and drawing blood greedily.

"Iʼll head out as soon as possible, amor," Robin murmured into the phone with a strained voice. "Just...give me time. Please."

"Alright," Wil murmured back. "I'll see you soon. Take care of yourself first, alright?"

When the rose

whispers to you,

Run.

"Love you," Robin replied simply.

She felt Wil smile on the other line.

"Love you too, Robs."

And she felt herself die inside.

La voz estaba enchantada por la sangre, locura, la furia.

Hello, my child, she said, deep and ominous. 

What games shall we play?