An End
Doyle sat down in Elysium, his wounds still aching from the fight with Jordan. He was starting to get hungry, but leaving to feed would mean someone else would have opportunity to follow Joshua and Sofia off into the night, as they doubtless prepared themselves for opportunists. All their enemies were here, yet. All their enemies, he could at least watch.
Fiona was upset with him, still. He was with her as well, but his focus was on the matters at hand. It was the only way he could concentrate on the fact that he wasn't at full strength, that he wasn't well-fed, and there were still a huge number of very petty, childish kindred in the Elysium who might still try and get their jollies with murder.
The one person you thought didn't betray you, the one you thought wouldn't play you, and she did.
His thoughts still wandered into darker places, even with his beast less insistent since Atlanta.
Ventrue whore, the monster writhed. Drain her tainted blood and rip her apart, break the lord and make it yours, drink, fuck, hunt, kill-
Doyle scowled, his thoughts roughly shoving the Beast back down. He liked it better since Atlanta. Telling the monster to shut up and get in its hole had never been so easy. It still felt awful, but that was a price he'd deal with. He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses, listening closely as Jake Cross picked up his phone.
The police were on the other line - a woman stopped for disturbing the peace, seemingly arguing with herself. Doyle listened closer.
"She killed the uniform there, took his patrol car. Small framed girl, long dark hair, looked like a biker."
"You have it lowjacked?" Cross's voice turned serious.
"Yeah, she crashed the thing into a damn fire station, took off east on foot." The location wasn't far.
Doyle rose and was out the door before anyone else could speak. The pain didn't matter. The gnawing hunger in him didn't matter. All that mattered was the one thought Doyle and his beast felt with equal loathing and hatred.
Lorna....
He paused, looking to the one man in his path that might understand his bloodlust, tapping out a text message to Fiona. Snapping his phone shut, he looked up. "Vivus."
The masked Crone had revealed himself to be quite alive during the argument over praxis, and now stood calmly outside the gathering. "Lord Calligan." he said, his thick greek accent not masking the Ventrue's glee.
"You interested in helping me find someone?" Doyle fixed him with a level gaze.
"What kind of someone is this?"
Doyle barely paused. "Someone I need to kill."
Vivus only grinned.
----
Arriving at the scene and heading East, Doyle sniffed on the wind, starting to hunt. He could almost feel her presence nearby. A few of the Stormcrows had followed besides Vivus, and Doyle thought he'd seen Denton Quinn at some point or another. Fiona was still on her way, and Doyle tried to keep her updated. The Carthians kept arguing and debating - no time, or she'd get away. Doyle kept moving, only pausing moments to tell their erstwhile leader - the traitor who had been Carlos Castle - bits of information when asked. He had to focus. He had to follow. She wasn't far. Doyle kept running, finding her scent on the air and following the twinges resonating in his blood. Eventually, the others followed suit.
Fiona had pulled up just as they arrived at the warehouse. One of the big, heavy doors had been ripped aside, the lights all out. Her scent led right into the building. Doyle's beast rumbled close to the surface. The traitor rambled something, the other Carthians started whispering an argument, going on about right of destruction. Doyle paid it no heed and walked in.
His senses sharpened as he walked into the darkness of the warehouse, following the scent and the dull thrumming of his own blood. It hammered in his head, each pulse a memory.
There's nothing for you here.
Come with me, please.
It had sounded so sweet, once upon a time. So free, so full of heedless possibility.
The scent of blood, the bitter tears, the screams of anger, the axe handle in his hands, the sound of dogs. Blood again. The taste. His own. And hers.
I'm sorry, Doyle. She'd sounded so genuine.
"She's like that," Elias had told him. "She can play the comforting shoulder very well indeed, boy. I watched her, trained her to fight, but her ability to bring others under her sway is all her. The dogs should have been your first clue."
It should've been obvious. He remembered feeling his heart break, his beast roaring to the forefront, and Elias's steely grasp pinning him as he raged and cried, completely out of control. He remembered his grandsire's words as Elias restrained him, the powerful determination in the old hunter's whisper...and he whispered them now, keeping his beast still and his mind calm.
"Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed..."
Elias had repeated the poem until he'd remembered it like a mantra, William Ernest Henley's Invictus. Bloody but unbowed. Unconquered and unconquerable, no matter the circumstances. Elias had made him recite it while they drilled and practiced. Doyle continued through the warehouse, hearing the others start to enter. He felt her tense, the divide in her whipping between outrage, fear and hate.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
Doyle steeled himself, knowing his injuries. He was hurt and hungry, but he had a plan. God willing it would work - but there was no other way. This ended tonight. It had to.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Doyle looked up, seeing her crouch, screaming out her fury. The woman was smaller than him, long dark hair that whipped freely about her as she seemed to frenzy, her bike leathers worn from the road, her claws out and digging into the concrete. Doyle's muscles were fortified, the blood surging into his body to strengthen and empower it. He'd wanted to say something, something commanding and regal, something to exemplify the hatred he felt for her. Here, as the moment arrived, he could only find two words.
"Hello, Lorna."
----
"I'm going to find her, one of these days."
"And what will you do then?" Joshua's voice was its same calm, clinical tone, just a hint of his usual ego, the two of them conversing in the quiet, secluded corner of the cafe in Mount Pleasant.
Doyle scoffed a little at the question. "Then, I make sure she has to face me. Armed, prepared, and in a fair fight. And I'll kill her with my own hands."
"What good will that do?" Joshua retorted. "You'd put that blood on your hands and lose a bit more of yourself to the Beast. Killing her certainly won't bring your family back - death doesn't fix anything."
"No, it doesn't." Doyle agreed. "Her dying won't be a good thing, and it won't bring them back. Nothing can do that. I don't think it'll even make me feel better."
"Then why even follow this revenge kick? You're obsessed with it."
"I'm doing it because it has to be done. I don't care that it won't help me, but she can't just get away with what she's done. I'm going to kill her, not because it will change anything, but because she's spent her whole life running from consequences. And I can't let that happen any more. Someone has to speak for my family, and for the people she's killed, the things she's done...and I'll take on that burden."
Joshua said nothing, but gave a nod.
----
Lorna was up in a crouch, looking to Doyle with a half-mad glare, her yellow eyes flashing as the others finally arrived, circling around her with weapons readied.
"We could've been so good together..." Lorna hissed, tensing.
"It just wasn't in the cards, Lorna." Doyle said in return, his voice low and steady as he watched her movements, readying himself. "This has been a long time coming."
"Weakling." Doyle's sire spat, starting forward.
"Murderer." Doyle whispered, and charged.
She was faster than him, the elder gangrel lunging at him with a strike that raked her claws across his chest, reopening the wounds he'd taken in his fight with Jordan and reminding Doyle instantly of why it was such a bad idea to do this now. Swiping at her with a wide open claw, Lorna tried to twist out of the way of him, dark red rents opening along her thigh. She ducked and crouched as some of the others began opening fire, bullets impacting like mosquito bites across her body, standing up again and moving to attack.
Doyle abruptly lunged forward, ducking what could have been a lethal blow and grabbing hold of her, another few bullets from the others impacting into Lorna's back as the two of them wrestled for dominance. Doyle's fangs were out, he was so very thirsty...and "Mommy" would get a kiss to end it all. He heard Fiona speaking in Latin, starting to wonder what the hell everyone thought the battle plan actually was. The distraction was enough for Lorna, an opening provided. She twisted Doyle's arm around, placing herself firmly in charge. Doyle struggled, but couldn't get himself free.
"Help me out here, Merri..." he whispered in a groan as he strained under Lorna's grasp. As if on cue, the form of Nick - the man who'd been Carlos Castle - suddenly crashed into them both, grabbing hold of Lorna and holding her fast.
Lorna snarled, and suddenly dissolved into mist, the thin fog settling on the floor and creeping its way towards a sewer grate.
"No.." Doyle murmured, looking around...and fixing his eyes on Vivus as the Ventrue lit up a road flare.
"I think you are needing one of these?" the big greek asked. Doyle called on his speed, the thirst nearly crushing him as he ran at full tilt to Vivus's side, grabbing the torch from him and rushing forward to jab its flame at the mass of mist that had been Lorna. Tripping in his haste, the flare sputtered and went out - Doyle howled in anger as Nick snatched the improvised weapon from him and lit it up again, only to have the same result as the faulty flare died again.
Call for her. The ghostly voice in his head could only have belonged to Doyle's mother.
Pulling himself to his feet, Doyle looked as the mist just reached the grating.
"Merri, get back here RIGHT NOW!" he shouted, his most authoritarian elder-brother-tone shining through.
Abruptly, the mist stopped...and reformed, Lorna seeming frozen as she reached desperately for the grate.
Just got one chance, Doyle thought, springing forward and grabbing Lorna's still form, hoisting her smaller body up and pulling back his hand, ramming his claws in directly under her jaw. She would scream if he hadn't severed her vocal chords, her spine caught between his middle and ring fingers.
"It's over." he said finally, holding her up by her skull as she remained limp, pulling back for the final strike.
Nick suddenly appeared behind Lorna, whipping out a stake and ramming it into her chest. Her body shuddered and her torn throat gurgled. Doyle looked with sudden shock, almost feeling her agony, confusion and despair as she began to turn to ash, the grey dust slowly falling through his fingers.
"...Oh..." Nick said quietly, his face a mixture of surprise. "I didn't think that..."
Doyle's hand was shaking as he dropped to his knees, looking at the small pile of ashes left by Lorna, now topped with the stolen locket of his little sister, Meredith. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he muttered quietly to himself, pulling out a bag and beginning to collect the ash. "...Sick to death of this..."
"What was that?" Nick said, suddenly indignant.
Doyle didn't bother looking up. "Not a one of you takes me seriously, unless I start ranting and raving like some comic book supervillain. I knew what I was doing." Ignoring Nick's stunned expression, he finished gathering the ashes and returned to Fiona's side, trying to avoid looking at her with hunger even as the thirst twisted and cried out inside him. He was in pain, his injuries even worse than before. Nearly collapsing, Fiona caught him quickly, helping him out towards the car.
----
The two kindred stood at the small cemetary in Dearborn, looking over three headstones. Doyle slowly, reverently, set the locket at the one on their right.
"She talked to me, ya know." Fiona said quietly. "I was tryin' ta exorcise her again, give her some peace." She paused. "I waited fer this, she wanted to rest...but she wanted you to be the one what did it."
"What did she say?" Doyle asked, returning to her side.
"Dat it was done...and dat she was happy for ya."
Doyle allowed himself a pained smile, looking to the gravestone.
Meredith Calligan
1983-2001
Burning Twice As Bright But Half As Long
Goodbye Little Sister
Fiona was upset with him, still. He was with her as well, but his focus was on the matters at hand. It was the only way he could concentrate on the fact that he wasn't at full strength, that he wasn't well-fed, and there were still a huge number of very petty, childish kindred in the Elysium who might still try and get their jollies with murder.
The one person you thought didn't betray you, the one you thought wouldn't play you, and she did.
His thoughts still wandered into darker places, even with his beast less insistent since Atlanta.
Ventrue whore, the monster writhed. Drain her tainted blood and rip her apart, break the lord and make it yours, drink, fuck, hunt, kill-
Doyle scowled, his thoughts roughly shoving the Beast back down. He liked it better since Atlanta. Telling the monster to shut up and get in its hole had never been so easy. It still felt awful, but that was a price he'd deal with. He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses, listening closely as Jake Cross picked up his phone.
The police were on the other line - a woman stopped for disturbing the peace, seemingly arguing with herself. Doyle listened closer.
"She killed the uniform there, took his patrol car. Small framed girl, long dark hair, looked like a biker."
"You have it lowjacked?" Cross's voice turned serious.
"Yeah, she crashed the thing into a damn fire station, took off east on foot." The location wasn't far.
Doyle rose and was out the door before anyone else could speak. The pain didn't matter. The gnawing hunger in him didn't matter. All that mattered was the one thought Doyle and his beast felt with equal loathing and hatred.
Lorna....
He paused, looking to the one man in his path that might understand his bloodlust, tapping out a text message to Fiona. Snapping his phone shut, he looked up. "Vivus."
The masked Crone had revealed himself to be quite alive during the argument over praxis, and now stood calmly outside the gathering. "Lord Calligan." he said, his thick greek accent not masking the Ventrue's glee.
"You interested in helping me find someone?" Doyle fixed him with a level gaze.
"What kind of someone is this?"
Doyle barely paused. "Someone I need to kill."
Vivus only grinned.
----
Arriving at the scene and heading East, Doyle sniffed on the wind, starting to hunt. He could almost feel her presence nearby. A few of the Stormcrows had followed besides Vivus, and Doyle thought he'd seen Denton Quinn at some point or another. Fiona was still on her way, and Doyle tried to keep her updated. The Carthians kept arguing and debating - no time, or she'd get away. Doyle kept moving, only pausing moments to tell their erstwhile leader - the traitor who had been Carlos Castle - bits of information when asked. He had to focus. He had to follow. She wasn't far. Doyle kept running, finding her scent on the air and following the twinges resonating in his blood. Eventually, the others followed suit.
Fiona had pulled up just as they arrived at the warehouse. One of the big, heavy doors had been ripped aside, the lights all out. Her scent led right into the building. Doyle's beast rumbled close to the surface. The traitor rambled something, the other Carthians started whispering an argument, going on about right of destruction. Doyle paid it no heed and walked in.
His senses sharpened as he walked into the darkness of the warehouse, following the scent and the dull thrumming of his own blood. It hammered in his head, each pulse a memory.
There's nothing for you here.
Come with me, please.
It had sounded so sweet, once upon a time. So free, so full of heedless possibility.
The scent of blood, the bitter tears, the screams of anger, the axe handle in his hands, the sound of dogs. Blood again. The taste. His own. And hers.
I'm sorry, Doyle. She'd sounded so genuine.
"She's like that," Elias had told him. "She can play the comforting shoulder very well indeed, boy. I watched her, trained her to fight, but her ability to bring others under her sway is all her. The dogs should have been your first clue."
It should've been obvious. He remembered feeling his heart break, his beast roaring to the forefront, and Elias's steely grasp pinning him as he raged and cried, completely out of control. He remembered his grandsire's words as Elias restrained him, the powerful determination in the old hunter's whisper...and he whispered them now, keeping his beast still and his mind calm.
"Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed..."
Elias had repeated the poem until he'd remembered it like a mantra, William Ernest Henley's Invictus. Bloody but unbowed. Unconquered and unconquerable, no matter the circumstances. Elias had made him recite it while they drilled and practiced. Doyle continued through the warehouse, hearing the others start to enter. He felt her tense, the divide in her whipping between outrage, fear and hate.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
Doyle steeled himself, knowing his injuries. He was hurt and hungry, but he had a plan. God willing it would work - but there was no other way. This ended tonight. It had to.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Doyle looked up, seeing her crouch, screaming out her fury. The woman was smaller than him, long dark hair that whipped freely about her as she seemed to frenzy, her bike leathers worn from the road, her claws out and digging into the concrete. Doyle's muscles were fortified, the blood surging into his body to strengthen and empower it. He'd wanted to say something, something commanding and regal, something to exemplify the hatred he felt for her. Here, as the moment arrived, he could only find two words.
"Hello, Lorna."
----
"I'm going to find her, one of these days."
"And what will you do then?" Joshua's voice was its same calm, clinical tone, just a hint of his usual ego, the two of them conversing in the quiet, secluded corner of the cafe in Mount Pleasant.
Doyle scoffed a little at the question. "Then, I make sure she has to face me. Armed, prepared, and in a fair fight. And I'll kill her with my own hands."
"What good will that do?" Joshua retorted. "You'd put that blood on your hands and lose a bit more of yourself to the Beast. Killing her certainly won't bring your family back - death doesn't fix anything."
"No, it doesn't." Doyle agreed. "Her dying won't be a good thing, and it won't bring them back. Nothing can do that. I don't think it'll even make me feel better."
"Then why even follow this revenge kick? You're obsessed with it."
"I'm doing it because it has to be done. I don't care that it won't help me, but she can't just get away with what she's done. I'm going to kill her, not because it will change anything, but because she's spent her whole life running from consequences. And I can't let that happen any more. Someone has to speak for my family, and for the people she's killed, the things she's done...and I'll take on that burden."
Joshua said nothing, but gave a nod.
----
Lorna was up in a crouch, looking to Doyle with a half-mad glare, her yellow eyes flashing as the others finally arrived, circling around her with weapons readied.
"We could've been so good together..." Lorna hissed, tensing.
"It just wasn't in the cards, Lorna." Doyle said in return, his voice low and steady as he watched her movements, readying himself. "This has been a long time coming."
"Weakling." Doyle's sire spat, starting forward.
"Murderer." Doyle whispered, and charged.
She was faster than him, the elder gangrel lunging at him with a strike that raked her claws across his chest, reopening the wounds he'd taken in his fight with Jordan and reminding Doyle instantly of why it was such a bad idea to do this now. Swiping at her with a wide open claw, Lorna tried to twist out of the way of him, dark red rents opening along her thigh. She ducked and crouched as some of the others began opening fire, bullets impacting like mosquito bites across her body, standing up again and moving to attack.
Doyle abruptly lunged forward, ducking what could have been a lethal blow and grabbing hold of her, another few bullets from the others impacting into Lorna's back as the two of them wrestled for dominance. Doyle's fangs were out, he was so very thirsty...and "Mommy" would get a kiss to end it all. He heard Fiona speaking in Latin, starting to wonder what the hell everyone thought the battle plan actually was. The distraction was enough for Lorna, an opening provided. She twisted Doyle's arm around, placing herself firmly in charge. Doyle struggled, but couldn't get himself free.
"Help me out here, Merri..." he whispered in a groan as he strained under Lorna's grasp. As if on cue, the form of Nick - the man who'd been Carlos Castle - suddenly crashed into them both, grabbing hold of Lorna and holding her fast.
Lorna snarled, and suddenly dissolved into mist, the thin fog settling on the floor and creeping its way towards a sewer grate.
"No.." Doyle murmured, looking around...and fixing his eyes on Vivus as the Ventrue lit up a road flare.
"I think you are needing one of these?" the big greek asked. Doyle called on his speed, the thirst nearly crushing him as he ran at full tilt to Vivus's side, grabbing the torch from him and rushing forward to jab its flame at the mass of mist that had been Lorna. Tripping in his haste, the flare sputtered and went out - Doyle howled in anger as Nick snatched the improvised weapon from him and lit it up again, only to have the same result as the faulty flare died again.
Call for her. The ghostly voice in his head could only have belonged to Doyle's mother.
Pulling himself to his feet, Doyle looked as the mist just reached the grating.
"Merri, get back here RIGHT NOW!" he shouted, his most authoritarian elder-brother-tone shining through.
Abruptly, the mist stopped...and reformed, Lorna seeming frozen as she reached desperately for the grate.
Just got one chance, Doyle thought, springing forward and grabbing Lorna's still form, hoisting her smaller body up and pulling back his hand, ramming his claws in directly under her jaw. She would scream if he hadn't severed her vocal chords, her spine caught between his middle and ring fingers.
"It's over." he said finally, holding her up by her skull as she remained limp, pulling back for the final strike.
Nick suddenly appeared behind Lorna, whipping out a stake and ramming it into her chest. Her body shuddered and her torn throat gurgled. Doyle looked with sudden shock, almost feeling her agony, confusion and despair as she began to turn to ash, the grey dust slowly falling through his fingers.
"...Oh..." Nick said quietly, his face a mixture of surprise. "I didn't think that..."
Doyle's hand was shaking as he dropped to his knees, looking at the small pile of ashes left by Lorna, now topped with the stolen locket of his little sister, Meredith. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he muttered quietly to himself, pulling out a bag and beginning to collect the ash. "...Sick to death of this..."
"What was that?" Nick said, suddenly indignant.
Doyle didn't bother looking up. "Not a one of you takes me seriously, unless I start ranting and raving like some comic book supervillain. I knew what I was doing." Ignoring Nick's stunned expression, he finished gathering the ashes and returned to Fiona's side, trying to avoid looking at her with hunger even as the thirst twisted and cried out inside him. He was in pain, his injuries even worse than before. Nearly collapsing, Fiona caught him quickly, helping him out towards the car.
----
The two kindred stood at the small cemetary in Dearborn, looking over three headstones. Doyle slowly, reverently, set the locket at the one on their right.
"She talked to me, ya know." Fiona said quietly. "I was tryin' ta exorcise her again, give her some peace." She paused. "I waited fer this, she wanted to rest...but she wanted you to be the one what did it."
"What did she say?" Doyle asked, returning to her side.
"Dat it was done...and dat she was happy for ya."
Doyle allowed himself a pained smile, looking to the gravestone.
Meredith Calligan
1983-2001
Burning Twice As Bright But Half As Long
Goodbye Little Sister