Let's see what some of the series' shadiest characters are up to...
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Scene 10: Twist of Fate
A.D. 2015
Fingers cradling the smooth bowl of a wineglass — its contents drained, the glass as empty as her soul had always been — she sat upon her secret lover's sofa, staring out the window and reflecting on her sins. Wished that the rain drumming against the pane could wash away the stain. Of course this fleeting wish, like most things in her life, was all in vain. With a few rapid blinks, Katherine brushed it away.
The wineglass in her grasp suddenly sank from added weight; she stirred from her brief daze with another blink, realizing then that Parker had taken the liberty of replenishing her drink.
"That's quite enough," she huffed once he had poured more than what civilized society permitted in one cup. "For the life of me I can't see why you'd want to get me drunk. You already have open access to my bed, and to all my secrets; plying me with alcohol seems truly useless."
A roguish smirk lifted his lip as he tilted the bottle further downward toward her glass, clearly of no mind to desist.
She scowled as the fine red wine swirled up to terribly unrefined heights. Seated on his sofa, her glass the only thing between the ceaseless stream of blood-dark liquid and the pale taupe fabric, she was appalled but helpless to resist. "Parker, stop — I'm serious—"
Naturally, he didn't. Not until he had tipped the bottle upside down and let its last drops drip into her cup, chuckling at her frown.
"Ugh, you are such a twit. I don't want this — here, take it," Katherine spat, shoving the brimming glass toward him as forcefully as she could without risking a spill. Which was not very forcefully at all.
And apparently her cautionary efforts were in vain, because to her immediate regret, the movement had been just violent enough to cause a splash of wine to slip over the rim and land right on his sand-colored carpet.
"Shit," she hissed. One of the few circumstances in which Katherine ever used curse words was with Parker; their dalliance was so thoroughly dirty that it made no sense to keep her language clean.
She instantly stood up, set the glass down on a side table, and hastened to the bathroom, returning promptly with a damp cloth.
Parker sat back in his armchair and watched, amused as he himself nursed a dark amber scotch. "You know you didn't have to..."
"What, so that your cleaning lady can come by and address it long after the stain has stubbornly set in?" Katherine scoffed as she knelt to the floor, stooping low to tend to the unwanted blossom of Merlot. "Why am I not surprised that your lazy ass knows nothing about cleaning."
"And why am I not surprised to see you so instinctively, even eagerly, drop to your knees..."
"Oh, don't go making a sex joke of this, please—"
"No innuendo intended. Not of the sexual variety, at least," Parker teased, taking a long sip of his single malt. "I just meant to allude to a time in your life when... you must have often been in this position..."
At that, Katherine threw down the washcloth and snapped up to her feet, icy blue eyes afire. "Here I was just being nicer than I ought to be, cleaning up after a mess which is really entirely your fault..."
"Aw, come now — there's no need to get all riled up, little Katie," Parker sadistically taunted. "Your days as a maid are just part of your past. We both know that you weren't born to be a high-society lady."
"Well, I became one. On my own terms," Katherine retorted, trying in vain to maintain an iota of dignity in the face of her lover's cruel reminder. His occasional jabs at this shameful chapter of her past always hit her where it hurt. "And that is all that matters."
"Oh, yes, of course. Just the end; not the means. Nobody cares just how you got to where you are." Parker set down his drink and stroked his facial hair with long, mischievous fingers. "I wonder if the press and all your so-called friends would even find it interesting, if I were to just... expose some of the skeletons in your fancy walk-in closet..."
Katherine shook her head, and in spite of herself somehow ended up kneeling on the floor again, following an impulse to complete the cleanup that she'd started. "Parker, these idle threats, they're just..."
"Who says they're idle?" her paramour goaded.
She shuddered and continued tending to the carpet till the scarlet splotch had faded to the faintest shadow of itself. All but gone. Of the countless stains that she could never hope to clear, this wasn't one.
And erasing this blood-colored mark, deep and dark, had somehow helped Katherine to feel less like a killer — in spite of all her closeted skeletons, the murderous things that her past self had done...
At any rate, as he always did after putting her through brutal torture like this, Parker reassured her that it was all just teasing, but as always, it was virtually impossible to believe him. Even when she was doing her best to comply with his every command and his every request, giving him no reason at all to act upon his blackmail threats — even leading him to vital information about that cryptically significant Cloe Turner character, in return for which he actually owed her a promised favor — she lived in constant terror that Parker would spill her secrets nonetheless.
Later that evening, mere seconds after his lover had left to return home, as he sat in his flat all alone, Parker received a call. The number flashing on his screen was unknown, but it wasn't unfamiliar at all.
With an exasperated grimace and a loud groan, he decided to answer his phone. "Listen, this has to be the hundredth time I've seen these digits — clearly you're either an idiot for not yet realizing that you've got the wrong number, or the world's most fυcking desperate telemarketer."
The stranger on the other end chortled before responding in a heavy British accent. "Well, I promise I am neither. Hello, Parker."
"Okay, now this is just creepy. Ever heard of voicemail, texting, if you do know me and had something to say to me?"
"No need to be so condescending, Mr. Campion. It's just that I've wanted to speak to you directly. Knew you would pick up eventually."
"Is that so," Parker rejoined in an impatient monotone. "Well, then, with whom do I have the unwelcome displeasure of speaking?"
"Does the name 'Jacobs' ring a bell?"
Parker blinked twice quickly. Shrugged. "Can't say that it does."
"Really? Then allow me to refresh your obviously defective memory," the British stranger volunteered. "My name is Jett. Jett Jacobs. As I suspect you may recall on second thought, our forefathers were once the very best of friends. Practically brothers, even."
"No such recollection," Parker replied, a brazen lie. "And even if our ancestors were besties, Jett, I wouldn't give a fraction of a shit."
"Lie through your teeth all you want, but I know far too much to fall for any of it," Jett asserted. "I know, for instance, that you've spent years poking around in pursuit of the Fates. That you've secured a strategic relation to one of them, and just recently acquired leads on the others. While I can't claim to know your ultimate agenda, Mr. Campion, I do know this: you remember the Guild of Godhounds and its mission. Which means that you know all about my forefathers, and all about their history with yours. So don't dare lie to me about this and expect me to believe you."
Parker flexed his jaw, grip tightening around his phone.
"No doubt you thought the Guild to be extinct. For decades, this was true," Jett continued. "I reckon you determined to pursue the Guild's objectives on your own, hunting immortal creatures down, with no desire to reassemble the descendants of the other hounds. I reckon you believed our legacies would just fade out, so that, whatever might come of your lone pursuits, the power and the glory would belong solely to you."
"Don't pretend to understand me, you little—"
"Oh, I know there's more to this story of yours. Let me finish," Jett snapped. "The most important thing I know about you, Mr. Campion, is that you will stand in solidarity with the Guild as it is rebuilding. As I rebuild it. Would you like to know just how I know this?"
Some part of Parker already knew the answer. Nonetheless, he dreaded hearing it.
"You know, fate is a funny thing," Jett mused aloud. "It has a way of... fυcking people over, shall we say, in just the most ludicrous ways. Take this twist of fate: a man — if an unearthly creature could ever be called a man — is reincarnated in mortal form, time and time again. And it just so happens that, in one of those incarnations, he is born into a bloodline set on hunting down his kind. Can you imagine that!"
"You goddamned bastard—"
"Oh, I think you're the one who's been damned by the gods, Mr. Campion. Your dear firstborn goes by his middle name of Ryder, yes? Quite uncanny how he fell into essentially the same name from so many previous centuries, though he has no clue about his true identity..."
"I swear, you sick sack of shit, hell will fυcking freeze over before I let you lay a finger on my son. You will not hurt him."
"Hurt him? I never expressed any such intent, but now that you have mentioned it... perhaps I will kindly consider hurting him less if you agree to join the Guild as we rebuild. To serve and follow me."
Parker seethed. "Who do you think you are, boy?"
"Me? Oh, I am Lord Hound," Jett declared simply. "And you, like all the other sodding mongrels in this business, are my bitch."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
... any thoughts about Katherine? Parker? Jett? The Guild? o_O
Next scene, we'll head back to B.C. to see what happens next with Rider...
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