They Knew Better. 

Down, down, down. Floor after floor held it’s secrets, pregnant with the promise of a hellscape should one dare to scratch the surface. Each Locke sibling was unique, Dermot was the eldest by a minute or two, and held his father’s temperament; reckless abandon and all the charisma of a python. Handsome enough to charm anyone just long enough to strangle the light out of them. Enia had come second - the middle sibling she held the grace in the family, her mother’s daughter. She tried, she tried so very hard to be the moral compass for the three of them. Though even the hand that pointed due north had been skewed for some time. She liked to tell herself that she had gotten out, she was her own woman, not woven into the fabric her brothers had sewn… and yet. 

Down Down Down. Pipes click, floorboards creak, music and laughter flow through the halls of Locke and Co. 

The hotel and casino was their baby, but it was Philip that had nurtured it, and grown it. Philip Locke was the youngest, and had torn his way into the world kicking and screaming. Philip was different. It had been a long time since he’d allowed the light to hit his skin, to feel like he fit into places. The hardest decisions, the decisions he took to protect his family had always been his burden to bear; and so the light in him now was only saved for private moments. For moments with Blair, his Blair - for the promise of a life between the two of them that would be legitimate. Away from the blood and the violence that knitted him together.

Philip Locke. The youngest, by five minutes. The doctors said he struggled, there had been a risk to life, and yet there he was. He tried to clutch at Enia’s moral compass, but threat to family came first and it needed snuffing out. The lad was gypsy to his core, born Irish, though his father was from over the puddle, and preferred the perks that particular brand of aristocracy brought to them. His mother had taught him tongues growing up as he was the only one that had taken an interest. An old soul from the moment he took air into his lungs. The way he conducted himself was witchcraft, no doubt, but those he was unable to charm would most certainly die at his own hands. 

His make up was such that it made sense to him that Blair had been presented to him as the only woman on this earth able to harness him. Why he consulted Orla on every decision he made, and with their whiskey, and Mickey’s drugs running through the veins of most of his clientele, he was as much family to the Shea’s as the rest of them. He listened when Orla would tell him of Gypsy curses, of ghosts that whispered in his ear to warn him of trust. 

For a while now, he had been tracking a mole, an informant to one Michael Shea. Philip and his siblings had enough on with their own family affairs - nevermind that of the Shea’s. He did recognise however, that the old heart in his tin chest had a few knocks in it yet, and therefore he needed to protect all of his kin - even the extended ones. 

Orla had warned him. 

Light in the room had been snuffed out, left instead with the yellowed glow of the security lights over-head. Ruben stood at his flank, alongside Aidan - two men he would trust with his life. The tick and hiss of the boiler in the basement the accompaniment to the thuds of revellers above. Another party of his brother’s making, no doubt. Ordinarily, he preferred silence for his exploits, but they had been under his nose and so this would need to do. 

It was fitting it was in the bowels of his business - the empire they had amassed was built on bones, without a doubt. The party his brother had held was crawling with them, there were two of them sat before him. A third lay dormant on the tile. Philip sniffed, the scent of iron, sweat and wine in the air. Wrapping his hands around his knuckles, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, white shirt mottled with red, the stain spreading. 

The heel of his shoe knocked the body at his feet onto his back, just enough to hear the gurgling in his throat as the light went out in his eyes. The other two sat fidgeting, leather bound palms holding their shoulders to cracked wooden chairs. The task at hand was bloody, but of the two, it was the woman he had been balls deep in only half an hour before that seemed to hold the most resolve. Her face twisted into a smile, white teeth flashing in the dim light. 

“Ay Mr. Locke. You still owe me a hundred for helping you grieve the loss of another kid. P’haps.”

There were many things he could hold his resolve to, a stony disposition, this was not one of them. It was as if the young woman held a mirror upto his own shortcomings, and reminded him that he was still only human. “ENOUGH, eh? You didn’ even come fuckin’ close.” He had flown at her,  grasping her face in stiff palm. “Think yourself nuthin’ more than a fuckin’ recepticle.” Her eyes strained themselves to meet his, though he pushed her head to the side, lips at her ear, the feeling of disgust sticking to his skin. “Micky Shea ring any bells to you?” He sniffed, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her lip. “Think you can flash your tits and solve my problems with a shag do ya, she’s my fuckin’ WIFE, and you, diddy wee cunt, will n’er match up?”

“Coulda fooled me.” Her drawl but a whisper, and the anger in him bubbled so hot he felt her teeth crack at his knuckle. 

“Lip.” 

Aidan spat, and he turned his head. There was a softness in the man he had at his side, but to Philip, anyone that betrayed him and his was no better than a rat. He loved Blair, she had been the only one in all his years that had shown him what love was. It didn’t, however, mean the two were always honest with each other. The pain they held onto for being unable to make a life of their own meant on occasion they found solace with another when the ire of looking at each other got too much. 

“Y’alright there Aidan?” 

“Just, lets get this over and done with, shall we?”

He stood upright, the male next to the woman he held onto shivered in his chair, no doubt he had been drafted and charmed by Mr Shea just enough to think walking into the vipers den and trying to get one over on them was indeed the right thing to do. He had a knack at doing that, but he may as well be sending lambs to slaughter.

Ruben however, though younger than Aidan was made in his image. The lad idolised him, and his brother, and therefore the more he got involved with, the boyish idioms bled out of him like a haemorrhage, a puppy dog no more.

“C’mon Lip, Blair’ll be mad as hell.” 

Eyes flickered. “An’ what do you know about hell eh Ru? Might find some joy in there sometime.”

Hand slid over her clavicle, leaving a trail of red behind it, and for the first time the woman’s demeanour cracked. Not long enough for her to speak, as he wrapped his hands around her neck and snapped it. A swan, grace and beauty, fell limp in his grasp and she slithered from the chair. A ghost now like the rest of them, cursed to be trapped in the dusty pipes of this hotel forever more. 

He was an animal, the wolf in him had stretched and jaws frothed. It had become so commonplace in his life that he rarely felt the shudder of his actions between his feet. It was a strange dichotomy, to think they were capable of the things they did. Spiriod knew the people they were, they were bad people - but to them, and those that earned the protection of the Locke siblings, they were their bad people.

The man in the chair had wriggled free of Ruben’s grasp, and knocked the lad onto his back, and Philip flew, striking like a python. He and Aidan dragged him up, freeing their apprentice. 

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him.” Ruben was quick on his feet, bouncing on his toes like young men did when prepping for a fight, but this was beyond a scrap in a bar. He slowed as he watched his boss.

Philip had him flat on his back, the man reached, his hands and fingers grasping at his face. Truth be told, Philip had planned to let him go, give him a new smile to show his boss on the premise that he would never darken their doorway again. Plans change though, don’t they? Clumsy hands reached for blade, Philip wouldn’t remember this after, his heart in his throat. It had become like a blood sport for him, a frenzied attack. The man became mulch at his hands, until he, like the rest of them fell still, the black masses grew where his eyes had been.

“The sooner Michael fuckin’ Shea expires the better.” He rubbed the blood from his eyes, the taste of it on his tongue. Breathless he hoisted himself to his feet, tossing the knife at the body. He flew at Ruben, knocking the wind from him as he pinned him to a post. “Yer won’t be killin’ anyone lad - you think what we do is ALRIGHT? Look at it. Your sister would have me hung.” He let him go. 

Aidan slid out of the dark to his side, the three of them stood, surveying the damage as trickles of blood ran into one another. 

“You’ll be a Gypsy Boy forever, Lip.” Aidan noted, patting his shoulder, his voice still tremored. There was silence again, except for the clicking of pipes, the smell of iron and the rising damp.  

“P’haps - call my brother would ya? Fuckin’ lump can help me sort this, and I can have a word with him about who he invites to our events, eh?”

Philip lifted a cigarette to his mouth, running it along his lower lip, smoke replacing the taste of blood. 

—--

Philip’s brother had always been a lighter figure than he could ever be. He tried, he had his mothers wisdom, but the full weight of his father’s ferocity. Dermot was much more a free spirit, lifted by the privilege their lives gave them. 

Philip was under no illusions that perhaps Dermot was not as desensitised as he was be to scenes such as this, but figured it was best he saw, and experienced, to know why and how he stood on the privilege he did. Lip had merely made his peace with who he was, and the business he dealt in. Youngest by a fraction though he may be, he was the brains and the brutality behind the operation. It was never a playground for him to revel in, it was a desperation to hang onto all he had built, to protect his kin in ways their parents simply neglected to do for them. 

Each sibling wore that boulder around their neck like a noose, and in a way - it was. They were not untouchable, and could only bolster their lives by surrounding themselves with like minded folk. With people they could put on the payroll. It was not greed that drove Philip, but wrath. It surged throughout his extremities and propped him upright enough to function. 

He was stony faced, eyes flickering from one body to the next, the gravity of the massacre settling into the lines on his face. What were three more? He thought of Blair, he thought of his siblings and resigned to matters he always did - it had been necessary to protect them. Michael Shea was a bastard, cold and undeserving of the empire he wanted to snatch, and he looked out for his own. It also meant Blair had less death to take on of her own, he needed her to go legitimate. He needed her to start to distance herself from the lifestyle they shared, the ills they involved themselves in. She was his crutch, all he needed to lean on to say he would get out of it, this time would be the last time. 

But it was always the last time, so he needed her to be the stronger one of the pair of them. He had a wife before Blair, she was still around, Hollin, a hard faced woman who had only been made as such by her husband. Another woman he had rejected normality with and for her he wasn’t enough, the life wasn’t enough and nor were his promises. He had fought her on the divorce - no one divorced a Locke man. Only they had the say so on it, or so he thought, until one sombre afternoon, after stumbling in on him finding comfort in Blair, he signed the divorce papers. 

The sound of the doors clicking behind him broke his thought process, the movement of the other men in the room and the entrance of his brother made him turn his head. 

Dermot was cocksure, always was, so very sure of himself. To his credit, he was never afraid to get stuck elbow deep in the animalistic actions of his brother, and without a question as to why. What he didn’t understand was how to help prevent things reaching boiling point. 

Philip blinked slowly, watching him remove the cap, his suit jacket, peeling off layers of grandeur to paint himself red like the rest of them. He exhaled, slowly. 

“Who’ve we offed?” He noted, sniffing, watching the light hearted exchanges around him as his core temperature bubbled once again. “Who’ve we fuckin’ offed?”

He took a step, stopping only to wipe blood from his visage roughly with the cuff of his sleeve. “More like, Dermot threw another fuckin’ party. Another show of look who tha fuck we are. Another event where I have to clean up fuckin’ SHIT, because Micky fuckin’ Shea’s crack team o’ twats are in here tryna get ta’ us, me, YOU, our fuckin’ sister – BLAIR?”

He stopped. “Who’ve we fuckin’ offed?” Dermot repeated. The question his brother asked about the disposal of corpses hadn’t crossed his mind, but he shot Dermot the same look he had shot him, concern at the inhuman and disconnect they had towards death. “Uh, I dunno.” He turned. 

“I need ta’ speak to Orla.”

brain: let's change everything, again.

me: no.

brain: pls.

me: fine.

𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.

The world under his feet was shifting at a rate that neglected to allow him to steady himself; and the air, the air was thick, hot. His Aunt Orla had always told him to take a step back.

It came with a sense of looming horror; the realisation that perhaps his world was as small and as insignificant as a snapped neck in hunters mouth - more often than not now, Tadgh Shea was drinking himself unsensible and these waves came more often than he cared to admit. Their family was slipping into something far darker, and he was powerless to stop it – and he was implicit.

Though they were brothers in arms; he and his father had always been different. Mick was graceful; would wring someones neck and somehow find a way to make it look graceful. As if perhaps the victim had slipped into peaceful asunder and he did it with a smile on his face. When Tadgh chose his side, there was still a small part of him that knew his Aunt and Blair would hurt for him if they knew, but equally, the demons in him knew she’d take him back into the fold eventually regardless. When you have everything to gain, Tadgh chose to gamble. What he neglected to realise was Mick relied on his unreliable memory, in his UNHINGED MENTALITY, on the gaps of time that turned black.

Blackness —- Thursday, Rapacity.

Cool palms grasp clammy cheeks, the scent of tobacco and whiskey seeps into his sinuses and the fuzz around him seems to settle. A steady tone cuts through the din and Tadgh begins to refocus; foggy irises seek to piece the splintering around him together and he chokes in air though it feels thick, like tar and coats the inside of his lungs until he splutters, sputum coating chapped lips, he tasted the iron of the blood on his tongue and his pupils dilate. 

Mick stood over him, grasping his face; and he blinked, his father's lips were pressed into a thin line, it had happened again, family meetings gone awry. Part of him knew his father had needed this, the animal within his son.

It happened every now and again; for years now - gaps of time he couldn’t explain, fits of panic that took over like fog rolling over the moorside. A last sharp pat to his face and his dear old twat of a father slid down at his side and patted his knee, his body heat serving to show him how he quivered despite how stifling the bar had become. He liked to think all sides of his family protected him, but they all knew he teetered as ever on the edge of a cliff, and falling off would only spell true madness. It was only Mick that underneath he knew would be the one to give him the final shove.

Little by little the room around him came into focus, and his ears rang. They sat on the dusty wooden floor of an old bar in Rapacity; owned and ran by a fella whom he only knew was in the way of something the elder Shea wanted. His volatility was an asset, he’d tell him. Recounting the way he handled other human beings as if they were made of rags - and yet, it wasn’t in his nature, he didn’t mean to though it was clear something in him needed to. 

Eyes flicker to the man beside him; and he feels his stomach drop as he looks at the damage around him; his conscience kicking in. They were brothers in arms; bound by a collective cause (or so Mickey thought) and slave to their secrets. Broken glass and moaning bodies; a scramble of furniture.

Another empty shell to add to the list of victories - the very kind of victories Orla would berate him for mind. Most of the time he still felt like a little boy; he had no control of himself, of his head. As though his foundations were collapsing in on himself. He was HEAVY. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t - he had tried to opt for the quiet life, but there was a greed in him that playing the legitimate businessman wouldn’t sate. Tadgh Shea would never be one for a noble cause; he wasn’t as strong as Blair to be able to walk away entirely, his sister had an ethereal nature, much like his aunt, and he knew they would always be better than him. Despite all, he still moved with the ebb and flow of violent delights and added them to his mental anguish afterward. 

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐰; 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ'ᴅ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ'ᴠᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴏᴋ ᴛʜᴇ 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ 𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖐? ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ, ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ, ɪ'ᴅ 𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊 ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱɪʟʏ?

“M’ tired.”

Her voice is small, and sinks into the ripples of the surf in front of them, syllables sticking to the chill in the breeze. The sun sinking below the waves, throwing splotches of pink and orange into the tide. Saoirse and Darragh had run to the edge of Spiriod, tensions in camp Shea were bubbling over and they needed respite, or out all together, but the closer they got to the edge of town, the wearier their limbs became. Leaving them with the next best thing; the coast. 

“I know love.” He sniffed, the scent of sticky sweet doughnuts wafted over and his stomach rumbled. They had come all this way and just sat. Sat, and talked. The quiet Shea needed a break too sometimes. Peeping at him through salty tendrils of hair, plaited sloppily at her breast, she studied him, Derry was weathered as the cliffs overshadowing the bay, lines set into his face peppered with the dying embers of the auburn in his facial hair, it had all been snuffed out. It suited him, age, getting older, a mop of white hair at furrowed brow. Though she supposed neither of them could say they were wiser or better off for it. For all the troubles they were determined to turn their backs on, the need to help their family seemed to be the thing pulling them under. Part of them wanted to go back to being the kids in the caravan park, a town girl on the wrong side of the tracks. Her parents had fuckin’ despaired at the time, but they just didn’t see what she did, and he hadn’t failed her yet. They got off that site, and as the business grew, so did their fortune.

The tide was coming in, salty blue trickling closer and closer to sandy toes. Saoirse found herself making bets with the water, daring it to slip under her and soak the fabric of their clothes. Wash away a multitude of stresses, pull it from their pores and yet, as she looked back to her right, her husband had shuffled further back and was smiling at her, hand outstretched. 

Irises tracked the length of his arm and she reached for it, allowing him to pull her closer. The smell of stale beer on his breath and the aftershave she had bought him for Christmas last year; cinnamon, vanilla, bourbon sat in the crook of his neck. The warmth of his skin and the scent of it was home to her. Not where they were. He had given her everything, a home, a platform to have a career, beautiful children. His family were different, not all of them - steadfast as they were to protect their own, they had no desire to cut the cord, only to drink themselves deeper into wonderland - but it wasn’t wonderland at all, and none of them were Alice. Instead they were ensnared in a cocaine powdered trap and the more they wriggled, the deeper the teeth sank. It puzzled her, putting things on the line in the name of wealth and perpetual success. Sure, they did it as a team, won and lost together, lived and died by the Shea name, but sitting on the outside, she could see the toll it had taken over the years, the lost opportunities, the missed connections, any honest passions. Anything they had was tangled within the brambles Michael had grown around himself. 

Far be it past her to say, but it was too far gone for them to release them - best they could do she supposed was to chop them off at the ankle, bloodied and alive than risk watching them be mauled one by one by the stark reality of this life they had woven. Win or lose. 

Darragh would be the one to tell the tale at the end of it all, she had no doubt, and whilst his moral compass flickered from time to time, he had never lost sight of the simple pleasures and achievements the rest of his kin had. 

Long finger wandered into the breeze to tap the end of his nose, beet red in the fading sunlight. “Doughnut Mr. Shea?” He caught the end of her finger between his teeth and let it go to replace with a kiss. 

“Ye spoil me, Mrs Shea.” 

“Don’t forget it.”

There they sat, on a cool sand, faces smothered in powder kisses. Sticky and indulgent they pulled at a grease stained bag for beige wonderment. Enjoying sweet treats as a child would. Gulls whirring near by as if vultures looking for their carcass. Flat yellow feet pattering wanting prints in the sand, getting deeper with each pace. Everything deserved minute indulgence from time to time, and so she stood, scattering sugar crumbs among the birds, wings catching the wind to land, beady eyes not meeting hers for even a second as beaks picked at gooey dessert. 

Grinning widely, she turned to Darragh and her heart sank, his blue eyes nestled in his phone. It wasn’t like him, to be sure, but as his eyes scanned mystery text, she too felt the pull, the itch in her feet to return home to duty. To pop the bubble. 

Just then she shivered, and phone screen went dark, birds flew away. 

“We’d better go, love.” He murmured, the disappointment evident on his slumped shoulders, sticky hands thrust into the sand he shook it off as he stood as if a snake shedding skin. His features had darkened but he reached for her, as he always did and planted a kiss at her temple - cinnamon, vanilla, bourbon. He would always be hers, first and foremost, before any other familial duty. 

“Mick’s had Absinthe done over, a warnin’ m’ guessin’.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐒 are synonymous for where their elders crash landed. One of the only big travelling gypsy families to have grown roots and remained. They were drawn to the energy in its earth, and chasing the money they had heard on whispers could be had here. Four generations later, and they still remain, a mainstay and a respected one. Having finally made their fortune they could stand to see it crumble at the greed of one man.

None of the women take their husbands name, and until Michael Shea, women ruled the roost; men never did last long within their family.

Incredibly traditional in practice, it is thought the magicks they harness are stirring something even they can't hold down. Their family are no longer tied to the purity of their roots, corrupted and ugly, 5 siblings, all with a gift - except for the brothers. Some say this is the reason he turned, not able to harness or truly understand what it is to be powerful.

The beings behind the trees, those inexplicable, beyond nature trees at the edge of town, the boundary between stone and moor, where heat meats damp, are becoming more active. The sisters find it comforting to meet here, undisturbed by them, or their inhabitants.

Rare though it is, every born Shea woman has a gift, be it the ability to see beyond the veil of life and death, to charm dogs, read true fortunes and control the weather with emotion.

The pull in Spiriod, and the familial turmoil has forced their hand, and turned some intentions. While some sisters enjoy the thrill, others crave to pull from darkness and return to their roots. Afterall, personal gain never lead to anything good in white magic, did it?

3:00AM. THE HOUSE.

Her eyes would never adjust to nightfall, when the world fell quieter, for Orla it was deafening; raucous and torturous - faces that loomed in the dark waiting for her. It was as though a careless seamstress had picked a hole in the fabric of the earth, letting souls spill through the tear, pushing toward her through the ink.

Though tonight was different; it started as a tension headache, a cluster and filled her with a sickness she had only ever experienced once before,just after her husbands’ death - perhaps it was the universe’s way of telling her to stop poking her nose in the afterlife. 

Starting out into the blackness, she wrings her fingers around the glass and drains the amber liquid contained within, a feeble effort perhaps to reduce the mounting pressure in her skull. Lifting her palm to her face, her cheeks hot, she covered her eyes, blocking out the air that surrounded her and she pushed dry thumbs into hollow eye sockets, the dull ache behind the bone elicits a warmth to accompany the shapes that danced in front of her irises and she retreated inside. 

In instances like this, as before, her home offered little comfort for the looming shadows, hissing out of sight like hungry serpents, teeth grazing her ankles as she sat at her desk. Pen to paper, focus on the nib that scraped the paper.

JOURNAL.

My body aches. Fingers ache. It’s coming again, my skin feels as though it’s splitting, shedding to let something else in. My mouth tastes bitter, metallic and...I know I can’t stop it. My family will think Auntie O is falling off her rocker again if it sticks like it did before. Though even this time feels different, darker. It’s suffocating. The beings are louder than usual, more brash, enjoying the haunt as though they know something else is rising too. That perhaps under tonight’s veil they may be able to take what they need from me. 

She’s standing there, I see her - and she’s haunting me. It’s no longer the playful visitation, no, tonight she waltzes to my side and breathes in my ear. I can smell her, it’s seeping into me. This house is no longer looking like my own, either. It aches, as though the walls themselves are weeping and she’s still standing there, blank, tears cutting her ivory skin and I want to reach out and touch her but I can’t. I try but the cold burns my fingers. 

It’s louder now, the walls are breathing, she’s staring through me now, at whatever lurks at my shoulder, her feet rooted to the floor, it’s a slow, soft hush as if time is realigning itself to contain us here. I’ll sit and I’ll watch until it takes over, watch her pass from room to room, waiting, on loop. 

The walls are screaming now, rattling, I’m trying not to be perturbed, I just watch, eyes glazing over as the inevitable waits at the hearthside. I crave her eyes to fall on mine, instead of it, and they do every now and again, but it’s void of anything, I’m just chasing a projection and it’s holding me, I’m as trapped as she is. 

The headache is too much to bear now, pen to paper, pen to paper - it won’t do. The figure is staring at me now, aware I can’t ignore it anymore, it comes nose to nose, opening its mouth to speak though words don’t come out. Instead, she clears her throat, and smiles, a smile that seems to stretch over her jaw, contorting her features and then it sinks like ice into her flesh. 

Orla stretches, though her skin feels stretched, as though she no longer fits in her body. A stretch, she approaches the mirror and pushes manicured fingers into the lines on her face and tuts, her voice is sinking behind the one that spills from parted lips. Orla no longer embodies herself. “Easier to get under your skin nowadays, O, losing your touch. I’m gonna get you ready doll, and we’re going out.”  

Brunette curls are pulled into a low bun, the woman who always looks so small in her own frame now dominates. Heels clack now; against the pavement, having already traded a sloppy blowjob for the taxi fare into the city centre, it was about time Orla Shea went out, the poor woman deserved it, over the years she had dipped in and out of the petite battleaxe, finding her surprisingly easy to suppress. It was still mildly amusing that even after all these years, Orla Shea still exhibited an extraordinary amount of restraint. Taking simple pleasures in ravaging the Catholic guilt that would creep back over her come morning. How could she still believe in God, when the family she was head of took joy in conducting so many ills? 

Perks of the job, perhaps as devil incarnate, forcing humankind to unwind, push and pull their bodies to a limit they had previously found impossible. With Orla, it was about chipping away at that reputation, about exploiting her long buried flaws. She had made a criminal enterprise her art, and she did it under the guise of mother dear. What Orla Shea needed to remember, more than anything, is that she was a fucking shewolf. Death, murder, bloodshed wasn’t something she needed to make her commit, no, that came with the territory. The true conquest was forcing her to unwind, to revel in delicious sin. 

It didn’t take long to find what was needed, taking particular joy in exiting to watch from a distance as colour rose in her alabaster cheeks. How beautiful she looked, fingers curled around the edges of the dresser. Orla was poetic in her climax, watching the diamonds on her fingers glitter as one wrapped into the hair atop her lovers head as it sank between her thighs, the other wound around the cigarette between her lips. 

Those chocolate hues rose to mine, as it registered she was her again, chest heaving, I wave and nod. He can’t hear me, though she can, and though I no longer inhabit her, the sway will be just enough to compel her to remain. “Burn him.” Orla’s eyes narrow, struggling with clawing back her inner sanctum as the cigarette lowered, pressing into the males shoulder, he flinched, though didn’t stop. Amusement came anew as she didn’t move him away, a cackle.

“ Better leave you to it. Till next time, Auntie O.” 

It rattled out of her, knocking on every bone as it left, leaving her with the ripple between her legs and the fingertips that curled roughly around her wrist.