undergrounds | Fires at Midnight

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Fires at Midnight

June 1st, night:

Abigail had never seen the Reds and Night Council in action before. She'd stayed tucked away in Geap Manor, learning about the Night Council and Institute and all those things she'd face in the real world, but she'd only heard of them. They existed only as an abstract concept. Being in Barnet was an entirely different situation.

On the surface, it seemed peaceful. Emissaries came from the Institute to the factions -- the vampies and the covens being the central focus, but there were others who looked for people who were different. The meta-humans. From what she could tell, they were simply being convinced to join the Institute.

But there were darker things at work, too.

Her attention was primarily on the covens. Most of them seemed to welcome the influence of Redbright, as it meant they were closer to the heart of Circle Daybreak. For a light witch, that was everything. But she saw what some of the others tried to hide because she was looking for it. One skittish girl had particularly caught her attention, so Abigail followed her, meaning to pull her aside when it was safe.

Someone else had been waiting to get her alone, too, though.

From where she'd stood, Abigail watched as the man -- a large one, all brawn but very quiet too -- grabbed the girl. None of her magic could protect either her or the victim, so Abigail had ducked down, hiding behind the large bin. She'd tried not to even breathe as she listened. The girl screamed, and the man threatened her. If she didn't give him the names of her fellow dark witches, he'd kill her.

Over and over, she'd said there weren't any others. She didn't know who they were. She didn't know where they were. He hadn't been satisfied. So, he stabbed her twice. As the girl slumped down against the brick wall, the man took her purse and ran. Anyone who found her would see a mugging gone bad.

She waited for some time, trying to make herself stop shaking, before she pulled herself to her feet and staggered away from the bin and scene, almost completely without thinking that the noise and smell of blood might easily have drawn others who weren't part of the engagement.

June 3rd, day:

Abigail kept to herself on the second. She'd always been taught to mind the phases of the moon, so she'd stayed in Geap Manor all that night, safely tucked away from anything that might want to hurt her. After that, though, she went back to Barnet.

The girl's face hadn't ever left her. She could still hear her screaming.

But it told Abigail what she had to do. There was still the official order that every dark witch who wouldn't renounce the magic she practiced had to leave Barnet. Those were the ones Abigail was trying to help now.

The cards she distributed (passed off to people she could recognize as witches who didn't seem to be violently opposed to dark witches) were simple:

Need to leave Barnet? Have nowhere to go?

Help is available.

020 7946 0660

Call or text. Any time day or night.

Dangerous? Possibly. But that was why she had a cheap burner phone for the calls and texts.

She had no solid plan as she went around the borough that day, handing a card or two where it seemed appropriate and leaving them tucked inside the right books in the right stores, places she knew they'd be found by the people who needed them.

June 6th, night:

The job was nearly done, and Abigail knew it. She had done almost everything she could, and she felt she'd helped at least some people. Others were dead, yes, and there were a few fools who thought they could continue to pass as Daybreak under the close scrutiny of the Redbright Institute and their people. Them, Abigail couldn't help, and she was afraid of them. After all, they knew her name, knew about her activity here. But she couldn't let fear stop her.

Still, she waited in a pub she'd been using as a waypoint. She'd made it clear she was leaving Barnet and not coming back at 22:00, period. Any last minute stragglers were welcome to come up until that point, which meant she still had an hour to wait. Just in case.

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He regards her with widened eyes, surprised if only because it's a question he's been asking himself a lot lately. Returning his gaze to the street, he shrugs. The quiet that follows might imply that's all the answer she's going to get from him, but then he speaks. There's a rare hesitance dragging out his words - usually, when Derek is unsure of what to say, he says nothing at all.

"It still feels too early to say," he admits, watching the ground beneath their feet intently. "I don't know when that's gonna change."

Realizing he's being a little too open, he squares his shoulders, makes an effort to sound less uncertain. "But my pack needs someone. Right now, that's me."

Abigail nods a little. She can understand that uncertainty. But he deserves some context, an understanding of why she's asking what she is. So, as he looks down, she looks ahead, her hands sliding into her pockets to keep them steady.

"Circle Midnight has never had a coven. At least not in recent memory. Members hide in Daybreak covens or are trained apart. Like I was. But they're all separate."

Which made them easy to quiet and easy to remove without anyone raising a fuss. It wouldn't help Jennifer, but it might prevent others' from suffering her fate. If they could be knit together.

Derek hadn't been expecting the explanation, but when it comes, he finds that he appreciates it. He doesn't look at her when she talks - this conversation is already veering too close to prying for his tastes, even if she's volunteering the information relatively freely - but he does listen carefully to what she has to say.

It's not what he expected, either. The idea of witches being so splintered seems wrong to him. He thinks of when it had just been Laura and himself, and a shudder winds its way down his spine. It's not fair has to be the stupidest response there is, but the words stick in his mind.

"That just sounds like it'd make things more dangerous." He sighs. Maybe that doesn't make sense. "A werewolf without a pack is weaker. But it also doesn't have the guidance. The control."

"When I asked about applying for the Institute, Redbright told me they would only accept someone of my... background... if my coven vouched for me." That was, ultimately, what had started her thinking. Because before then, she'd just accepted that dark witches had to be separate. That it wasn't safe. But after seeing what she had? Maybe that needed to change.

"Most just study on their own in secret, which is where a lot of the horror stories about dark magic come from." Possession, death, all sorts of things that came from young, unexperienced witches teaching themselves to summon and contract fae. "I was taught it by my parents, then my uncle. But even then, one witch alone? Can't do even half of what three can. Seven or nine? Even better."

"Stupid," Derek comments, under his breath, because even without Abigail's further explanation, that's how the decision strikes him. Where's the benefit in the exclusion? As she continues, his reaction only settles deeper into his belief. It leaves Derek with a sour taste in his mouth.

It doesn't take long to get to his car, because he's spent much of the day pacing the same area. "Here." Opening it with a click of his keys, he nods towards the passenger side before climbing in himself. The interior of the camaro is clean and tidy and pine-scented. Derek inhales it as he turns over, once again, what she's said. He has to fight off thoughts of his own family. A coven has never seemed more like a pack to him.

"These witches chased out of Barnet might not even get that kind of offer."

If they wanted it, that is. Limited though his empathy may be, Derek cannot imagine that he would.

"They probably won't," she murmurs as she gets in the car and leans back against the seat with a sigh. It's complicated and dangerous, and she knows it's crazy. But she knows she has to do it. Or, at least, she thinks she has to. Which is good enough. "And even if they did take it, they'd be watched. Constantly."

Which might drive more of them off, guarantee there was no place for them in Daybreak.

She's supposed to be seeing the world, making a contract with a fae, and securing the future of the Widdowson line. Not... this.

"That's why they--" No. That was wrong. She was them; they were her. "We need a coven."

Once she's comfortable, he pulls the car out and into the street. With no direction in mind right now, he's just taking turns as they come, keeping an eye out for anything that looks worthy of note. He suspects that she's entirely right. Things are only going to get harder and harder for dark witches, especially if Redbright refuses to be a buffer helping them find any kind of balance.

He looks at her, sidelong, considering.

"Not many are being proactive right now," he says, in a way that might imply but you are.

"Because no one else is." It's the terrifying truth. Someone has to be first, has to draw the fire. Which is why she wishes she could ignore all of it.

But the Widdowson name is an old one. Five hundred years ago, they were a force to be reckoned with. Then, the curse had taken hold, and their prominence decreased. There was still a legacy to the name, though. It couldn't just be brushed aside or shouted down.

Besides, it was just as safe to do this as it was to do anything else for her. At least this, she could believe in.

"It's insane. I know it is. But I'm doing it. I need to."

He could point out that she doesn't need to, that this is her choice and nobody is forcing her. But when Laura died and his alpha followed, there had been no choice as far as Derek had been concerned. He'd had to move. He'd barely hesitated.

"Your cards. Have they been working?"

"Two so far. I sent them to my family home. They can't stay there long, but it gives them time to make plans."

Geap Manor was unforgiving toward strangers staying too long. Especially when they were of the same sex as the last surviving one and, therefore, unsuitable to carrying on the line. Or, at least, that's how she'd felt. That the house had a will and mind of its own, and it did not take challenges well.

But they had a few days, at least, to gather themselves.

Even one would be impressive, but that isn't what earns Abigail the questioning, concerned look. He might not know anything about her manor, but he knows that it might be a liability. It connects her. Also, if she's dealing with them directly, it amplifies the potential threat. Derek wouldn't put it past some sly member of law enforcement to try and find out more about the mysterious benefactor, if one of her cards got into the wrong hands.

"You need to be careful with that," he says sharply, but the sentiment there is almost unthinking. Derek's will would have him slow to give a damn, but the reality has always held true: he is perilously quick to become invested, and right now Abigail is putting herself in danger.

"I don't have anywhere else to send them," she replies just as sharply. It's defensive, she knows. She's well aware of how dangerous it is to use her family home. But the only other property she had was her flat, and that was even more dangerous.

If she was going to do this. Going to unite at least some of the witches into a coven. They'd need a safe place to meet, one that wasn't as obvious as Geap Manor. But acquiring property, especially if she wanted to make it hard to trace back to her, takes time. Right now, she doesn't have it.

Derek huffs a sigh, accepting but no more pleased about the idea. She's absolutely right, he can't even begin to argue that, but still - his point stands. As he drives, he wonders how he keeps ending up tangled with dark witches.

"Well, I guess it's better than nothing," he says, yielding that much. To the witches she'll help, it's probably definitely better than the alternatives. "What's the opposition been like?"

"Most of Redbright and the Night Council just want them out. As long as it looks like there's progress there, they aren't hurting anyone." But she has to say 'most.' Because she knows there's at least one man out there who has hurt someone. Who will hurt others. And she needs to help anyone she can before that happens. "For the most part, doing them actual harm seems to be a last resort."

Which gives her time, at least.

It's as expected, but Derek is still relieved to hear it. It's not his fight and it's only tangentially his concern: all the same, he doesn't like the idea of needless fighting.

Still, Abigail's sudden passion for the cause makes him wonder - he doubts she's become so invested, when compared to her indecision at the ball, over so little activity. But he's not about to ask.

On the other hand:

"Enfield will probably be next on their list." That's where her family originated, right? Look at him, helping out.

Enfield. She's tried very hard not to think about that. But it's true.

"It probably will." Because it's a logical progression. A place where there was no one source of power. Of course Redbright would expand there next. And depending on what happened... "My family's home is there."

Geap Manor. A testament to the ability of the Widdowson family to withstand the trials of time and suffering. So much magic and blood had been poured into that house, both its foundation and over the years it had been inhabited.

"With what they'd done in Barnet? I-- It's possible they'll try to burn it down."

She isn't sure they'd actually do it, but there is just that part of her that can't help but be terrified it might happen. Jennifer is dead. Why wouldn't they burn a house? She takes a deep breath and sighs, shaking her head.

At the confirmation, his gaze slides sidelong to look at her. It's brief, but knowing. Her tone is all too familiar to him; the way she says the words my family's home is akin to how the memory sounds in his head. Quiet, far away. A weighty silence falls over him like a heavy coat; he too seems distant, at least until she mentions the prospect of a charred ruin, a hollowed out home, blackened walls and scorched foundations and creaking beams that Derek can hear even now, air thick enough to choke --

he breathes, though it's belated, comes only after a telling catch in his throat. But Derek has a long history of keeping a stoney face, and that's the only outward tell. Still, he thinks of Abigail and a burning house and, even if the basement would not be filled with her family, even if she would lose a building and not the people in it, his chest feels tight, his throat dry. Now filled with a restless, uncomfortable energy, the type that makes his skin crawl, he wishes he wasn't driving, wishes he could move.

Getting involved doesn't suit Derek; inaction suits him worse. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he drives whilst hitting the pass code and sliding through the contacts. It's easy; there aren't many. When he finds his own number, he holds the phone out to her, eyes ahead.

"Consider it off the record," he states, tone hard because the action itself is not - Derek struggles to compensate. But he doesn't necessarily want his pack involved in this: this is him, alone, and what little he might be able to make that count for. "If you want it."

The quiet in the car and the weight of everything has her crying. Almost silently. The house matters. More than it should. But her family is gone. Her family line is gone. All that's left is her and her house.

Silently, she takes his phone. Her hand shakes a little as she enters the number into hers. Off the record. This isn't a formal offer of help. It's just someone giving her a number if she needs it.

"Thanks." It's hard to force the words out, but she manages it, wiping her eyes hard before putting his phone back in the centre console. "I--" She feels like an idiot. It's her doing this came up. "I'm sorry I'm acting like this."

Really, Derek should notice her tears immediately - the salt in the air, the sound, soft as it is. Instead, he's so fixated on the road, determined to evade the recesses of memory, that at first the shift in her doesn't click. It's only when she starts typing at her phone that he glances at her again, and then the look he gives her is almost fraught, albeit short-lived - though it's followed with a swift double take, because at first he doesn't believe what he saw. He doesn't want to.

Derek will accept, readily, that he's possibly the worst person to be stuck with right now. His fingers flex like he means to touch her, but he doesn't. He glances at her again, perhaps to verify that she's still crying. She is. And he's still the worst person to deal with it.

"Don't." He almost winces; it sounds sharp even to his own ears. "Apologize. Don't apologize." Oh my god, he's useless. Pursing his lips and scowling at the road, he hopes for the right thing to say to present itself. It doesn't. Derek struggles.

"You're not doing anything wrong, Abigail," he tries, half-under his breath. Were they anywhere else, he'd probably have fallen silent, but their current proximity spurs him to make an attempt.

"I'm trying to organize a group of people who are hiding because the magic they do is illegal. Which puts me against the Night Council and the most powerful woman in our society in London. Who also happens to be a witch, the calibre of which I am nowhere near."

The words come rapidly. Horrors flash before her eyes. She can see that girl, that man, and the knife. She knows it's insane. She knows she's setting herself up as a target. Maybe as a martyr.

"All because I'm scared. I'm risking my life. Their lives. For-- for-- I don't even know what for!"

"Because you're one of them!" It comes out sharply, but Derek is unapologetic. It's better that she fully understands, recognizes what she's getting herself into. Her distress makes him uneasy; he's always worked with anger, he knows how to use that, and her rising panic is foreign even if he knows it all too well.

"You do know why you're doing this, and you need to keep knowing." At least, Derek thinks she does, thinks she will if she stops freaking out and considers it. Is it dangerous? Absolutely.

He sighs again, largely because he doesn't know where to go with this wave of sentiment, of understanding.

"Your mind is made up, right?"

Fear. It all feels like fear as she's sitting there, trying hard to start crying again. She makes herself breathe, though, and listens to what he says. She is one of them. She is a witch who has to belong to Circle Midnight. There is no place for someone like her in Daybreak, even if she sometimes wishes there was.

"Yes." It's terrifying to admit that, but it's true. She has decided, has committed. They need a safe place, they need a public coven, and they need someone willing to stand as a lightning rod. She has enough social prominence to make herself the leader of this. "It is."

She lets out a breath as she says it. There's no way around it. All she has is this goal. Is this desire.

"I have to do it."

"Alright then," he says, sounding relieved, shoulders sloping out of their hard line. He is relieved at her iron, her determination - partly because she's no longer crying, admittedly, but mainly because she needs it. "Good."

Not that she has to do it, or that she's been driven to it, but that she's resolved, that she's making herself ready. Where some might balk at the idea of a Midnight coven, Derek considers the witches again in terms of werewolves. Those on their own are loose canons. They might be weaker, but they tend to be the ones causing trouble. Pack means safety, security. However dangerous Midnight witches might be, Derek is sure that they'll have better control in a group.

He glances at her again, perhaps to ensure that she's alright.

As long as they're all separate, anyone can do anything to a Circle Midnight witch without anyone to speak on their behalf. By having a coven, there could be a sense of visibility and legitimacy. Dark witches would have somewhere to run if they felt they were in danger.

"Thank you," she murmurs, letting out a deep breath. At least it comes out without shaking. "I'm sorry about... all this. This breakdown."

She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite happen. Still, it's an attempt.

He shakes his head, but when he huffs it sounds almost amused - it makes him sound more gruff than angry.

"I already told you. Don't apologize." Frequently, almost nervously, his eyes flick to her in swift assessment. He doesn't ask if she's okay, but the looks serve the same purpose.

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