Winter in Boston is a beautiful sight. Downtown the snow is fluffy, the streets are twinkling with lights, the stores are still proudly displaying Christmas decorations. Filling everyone with a sense of joy and magic even though itās almost February and those fuckers should really get their shit together.
On this side of town, things are a little different. The sky is gray and heavy with a threat, the bare trees are all twisted up like skeletal remains from a Tim Burton classic, and the thin sheet of ice covering the ground is seemingly innocent but Atlas is just w a i t i n g for some idiot to take a spill and crack their head open.
He hopes it happens in front of their house. For the aesthetic. Heās nothing if not stylishly inclined.
Heās sitting on the front steps, with a cigarette in one hand and an occult book in the other. Wrapped in a dark fur coat thats authenticity heās refused to comment on since the day he wore it home. Louis says it makes him look like a douche. Atlas doesnāt take fashion advice from someone who thinks bed head is acceptable in public. Even if it is cute on him.
Thereās something inherently wrong about the house on 1648 Tremont St. Something that causes mothers to stand between it and their children when they pass on the sidewalk. Something that causes the delivery people to leave packages at the start of the yard instead of the door. Something that causes the hair on the back of any normal personās neck to stand on end.
Atlas inhales smoke through his mouth and out through his nose and feels a smile tugging on his lips. He wonders if itās the old century architecture. If itās them. Or maybe, just maybe, if itās the way that at dusk one can almost see a noose hanging off of that old oak tree.
Blink and itās gone.
Atlas blinks and he can still see the rope pulled taut around Cassā neck.
Oh, thereās something wrong with him alright. To look at a place like this and see it as home. Supposes thereās something wrong with Ryder, too, who considered it better than a pure Southern upbringing. Or with Louis who had any other option right at his fingertips. Or with Cass, who had a protective older brother telling him no.
He feels the thrum of power in his veins and a shock of warmth thatās misplaced in this weather. Licks his lips and leans heavily on one of the white pillars framing the steps. The wood creaks dangerously but holds stable. He smirks, because he knows the house wonāt drop him. It loves him as much as he loves it.
His thumb slides over one of the frail pages of the book in his lap, tracing old latin words theyāve yet to fully translate. His body hums. Greed. Knowledge. The thrill of darkness. He could get off on it.
A ghost of a voice whispers by his ear, a forgotten memory of something he canāt quite understand, no matter how hard he tries to listen. Itās there and not there. Real and not real. The cigarette in his hand goes out and he abandons it in favor of tilting his head towards a sound that doesnāt want to be heard.
A shot cracks through the air and shakes the ground heās sitting on and Atlas jumps with the forceful shock of it. His fingers curl over the binding of the book, knuckles turning white. What was it Louis always told him when he got angry like this? Count to ten? One... two... thr-- āGoddamn it, Cassidy Aisling!ā
Heās on his feet in a second, journal pressed protectively to his chest, and the front door slams open even though he never touches it. He can already picture the blood soaking into his floors. On his walls. For Christ sake.
Louis and Ryder are in the living room when he storms through it and he shouts back in their direction. āI hope you two are good with digging a giant fucking hole tonight because Iām going to bury this little shit!ā
He goes up the stairs two at a time and shoves the door to Cassā room open with his shoulder. Thereās blood splattered across his fucking walls like he knew there would be, brain matter splashed on the wooden floor, a dark puddle starting up under brunette curls.
Itās the stuff of a nightmare. This boy, with his soft face and his skewed glasses and the gun resting limply in his hand. Crumpled against the floor like something sad and forgotten. Hole blasted through the side of his head. Thereās no serenity in a death like this.
A better man might have felt something. Atlas only feels annoyed. He points a finger at the body by his feet and snaps, āYou better take your sweet fucking time coming back because Iām going to kill you. Do you know how hard it is to get all of this blood out you selfish little prick.ā
As a thought occurs to him he spins back to the door and sticks his head out. āHey! Where did this fucker get a gun, anyway!?ā
Theyāre going to have words when he comes back. Which might take awhile, post monster phase and all, but heās sure he can stay angry long enough.