I actually have so much love for Tori's pets I'm dying on the inside.
~
Who knew that we could drive past ten states in one day?
This girl didn't.
But as crazy as it is, by Friday lunch one day later, Bucky and I had gone from Stowe, Vermont to Greensboro, North Carolina. Passed NYC – much to my dismay, never been to the Big Apple – as well as Richmond and Philadelphia. He's been sticking pretty close to the coast line, not driving too far inland. And I did manage to take the wheel so he could sleep for some time, but I got distracted by an apple-picking farm sign fifty minutes in and almost crashed us into a cattle truck.
Strangely enough, I haven't had the wheel since.
We (he) decided that a break after fourteen hours of driving was well overdue, but I personally think it has something to do with me replaying and belting out our (my) official Road trip anthem; Shelter by Machineheart. It's not a popular song, or a very upbeat, party-like song, but my phone froze on it a few months ago and wouldn't play any song bar that one until it got fixed. Instead of wanting to personify the song and throw it off a cliff, it actually grew on me.
Every time I listen to it, I feel like I'm stepping into a story, a tragedy; starting at the prologue, feeling the beautifully harrowing experiences of the characters, following them on their journey. Readers are with characters every step of the way in a story. They follow their footsteps. And it isn't just books that tell this, but good songs, good movies, good TV shows, good art. Anything that tells a story, anything that reflects the artist's own life.
A good song is a story that you listen to with your ears and heart. It's a story that, even without lyrics, can rings bells of peace, beat drums of war, bow violins of sorrow, and strum guitars of love. Not that this song is one of the greatest songs of all time, but I can feel it, ya know? Pretty sure Bucky felt something inclined towards drums of war by the eighth time I sang it though.
"Like an ancient story
Full of death and glory
Remember who we are,"
Twenty or so times during the car trip did that song tumble past my lips, the sombre and nostalgic yet compassionate beat and my mismatching bubbly attitude making Bucky laugh or smile the first few times. After those said first few times however, like I mentioned previously, he was only just polite enough to stop himself from running us both into a cattle truck on purpose.
"With our eyes wide open
And the doors all closing
Surrender to your heart
Remember who we are,"
Greensboro is about as nice as it comes. Laid back people, white-picket-fence-like neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the city, with friendly, go-happy streets all around the CBD. I'm suddenly wishing that I'd chosen to move here instead of Stowe five years ago. Some dude running one of those park flower stands even gave me a rose, entirely free of charge!
"A pretty flower to match the pretty lady," he had said, nearly bowing as he kindly handed me the single flush pink rose, greeting me with a bright row of his pearly whites.
Of course, I had no idea what to do. I've never really been flirted with before, really. What even is flirting? As long as he doesn't sell my father a goat or a cow or something, I should be good.
Humorously enough, however, Bucky handled it for me.
"Thanks," the Russian assassin gruffly said with such a straight deadpan I had to withhold my own laughter. Accepting the rose for me, he plucked it sharply and continued with the stroll we were previously partaking in around the lush, verdant park to stretch our legs. I spluttered momentarily, before proceeding to join him.
"Running down the halls
We're writing on the walls
We never letting go,"
He fiddled with the rose rather ambiguously, with my grey eyes tracing the small, near-undetectable twitches and crinkles of emotion running through his face. Like he was unsure that it was in fact a rose. Yeah, um, pretty sure it's not a HYDRA agent Bucknado. If so, that's one hella impressive disguise. Dude who runs that shiz will have to hit me up if that's the case.
"It's a nice rose. I prefer sunflowers though, they're pretty dope. Roses are nice too though, and the intent behind it was even nicer." I shrugged, snapping his attention from the flower to me. "A pretty rose for a pretty lady after all," I reminded him, giggling, and lightly punched his metal arm – because it was the closest one – in that friendly manner Naomi constantly does. Pretty sure I only have about 15% of Naomi's muscle mass, but it's the thought that counted. The fact that it was his metal arm only sunk in after I punched it of course.
May as well have punched a brick wall. Or the Titanic. Or the Incredible Hulk. Or a friggin silverback gorilla. All four would have had the same effect on my feeble hand.
"Let my eyes be the rhythm
Let my mind be your freedom
You can take it all, you can take it all
Let my heart be your shelter,"
Not long after the rose incident however – a rose which he still tucked into the breast pocket of my black overcoat – I managed to convince him to go to a cafe or two, as well as do some sightseeing with me. We had been cooped up in a car for fourteen hours, and there's only so many times I can play I Spy with him before he gets tired of answering 'tree'.
Greensboro, it turns out, has a butt tonne of haunted sites. Being a magical entrepreneur of the arcane dead arts myself, I thought 'Hey, ya know, this could be fun. Not like ghosts and demons scare my Russian assassin enough as it is, so why don't I just throw him into a whole haunted building to really make him feel at home with it all. In fact, why don't we just stay the night in one? Who doesn't love the feeling of the dead standing and watching you as you sleep?'
In case you were wondering, that was sarcasm.
In case you were also wondering, no, my sarcastic thought didn't occur to me until after we had checked in to the Biltmore Greensboro Hotel, home to quite the handful of active spirits.
Had to pay extra (read: bribe) the manager for Lady, Everest and T'Challa to be granted entry, and even then, no one else is supposed to hear or see them at any time or we'll be kicked promptly out onto the streets, metaphorical and literal tails between our legs. Otherwise there were no problems in hiring the room; a quaint, old-fashioned one room accommodation with a small bathroom.
Now, as I sit cross legged on my outdated, patterned bed, on the right hand side of Bucky's – because he insisted on being the one closest to the door – I run a brush absent-mindedly through my long raven hair under the glare of the strong, yellow artificial lighting. Glasses off and on the bedside table, I sway side to side where I sit, listening to some pop song playing over the radio app on my phone.
A small smile is present on my companion's face, tinging his lips from the entertainment I seem to be offering. "You're lucky I'm not break dancing on the floor right now," I explain to him, tossing the brush to the side and launching myself ungracefully off the bed, in a rather spritely mood despite the heavy aura of the haunted atmosphere. "I could blind you with that. I've got about as much rhythm as a sack of bricks. I'm not kidding – throw me on the dance floor and I go plop! No dancing. May as well drop the bass."
"You dance," Bucky amusedly disagrees, staring at me in a manner I can't precisely decipher. "When you cook. You dance around the kitchen."
Appalled, I have to pause for thought and sift through my memories to when he would've seen me do such a thing. Come to think of it, I never really pay attention to anything but the food when I cook, so he could've watched me the whole while every night whenever I cooked. The fact I always play music when I cook, probably means I dance most times as well. And his eyes are still intact? That's good, at least. I mean, my dignity isn't, but to see his eyes are unaffected is good.
"I must apologise for subjecting you to such a horror," I sincerely bow like a peasant, worried for his own mental health. Like it wasn't in shambles before he saw me dance.
His chuckle is brief, soft. "Feel free to subject me to it anytime. I'd take that horror over any other any day."
Gawking, and red I'm sure, I stare at the assassin, floundering how to respond. Was that... was that a... a flirt?
Words tangling and knotting in the back of my throat, I eventually blunder out "Me? I? Moi? Kum? Yo? Mimi? Mua? Pft, you don't – you don't – my dancing? Wow, I'm currently subject to a red face and a lack of articulation, so, I'll – you know – um – yikes – mind the Animalia, I'm gonna shower."
Smooth.
I swear, I flew into the bathroom in my daring escape from an awkward situation, all but slamming the white wooden door shut and hiding in my own thrall of embarrassment and fluster. Baal, I'm acting like a friggin school girl. What is wrong with me? I'm not entirely used to flirting and flattery, but I'm no virgin of it either (or a virgin, for that matter). Usually, I shrug it off with a smile, you know. Respond with 'that's cool, thanks friend' or something of the like.
The fact that Bucky is who he is, however, makes me feel entirely comfortable and yet entirely awkward at the same time. Five weeks and two days I've spent with the man, and I already feel like I can tell him almost anything. His blatant lack of trust and abundance of caution towards everyone makes him a hard man to form any kind of friendship or relationship with, so the fact that he seems to be enjoying my company, and even flirting, is warming to say the least. It's also why I've been quick to trust him, but then again, that's always been a flaw of mine. I'm always quick to trust everyone.
Stripping down and warming up the shower, I take my time washing my hair. As always, my shampoo and conditioner are rather plain, vanilla scented only. And yet, no matter how many times I wash my hair, the vanilla constantly seems to mingle with the various soft scents of the herbs I use throughout the day.
The water is warm against my back, trickling down gently like rainwater on a windowsill. The warmth is wonderful, but upon accidentally knocking the hot water dial with my elbow, the searing heat of the water is no longer that welcoming. It only reminds me of the heat of the fire eating my house, fanning and weighing heavily at the back of my neck.
"In house on fire
Now we're climbing higher
Escaping in the dark
Remember who we are,"
Hands flying, I fix the water temperature, having launched myself into the corner to avoid the boiling of my own skin. My now searing back is startled by the abrupt icy tile wall, the sudden change of temperature again catching me off guard. I can't win, honestly.
And then, every hair on my body stands ramrod straight.
I felt it immediately. A shift. Nothing noticeable to anyone not magically inclined, but the weight and mood of each atom in the air twisted and dropped, the sudden act of breathing feeling like I'm breathing in bricks. Lungs of lead, a heart of dread, I shut the water off at once, drying off as quickly as I can, hair still dripping. Throwing on the large, baggy, colourful butterfly pyjama pants on, as well as the black American Horror Story 'Normal People Scare Me' shirt, I tiptoe precariously out of the bathroom, finding Bucky lying contently on the bed in the midst of the book I recommended him, Throne of Glass.
Upon spotting me, he must read the distress in my face (never had a good poker face, sorry Lady Gaga), for his brows knot into that iconic, stony furrow. "What's wrong?"
When I exhale, despite no puff of condensation coming out with it, it feels as if I breathed out pure ice. Room 332... room 332... please... please.... He's hurting me...
A spirit.
Everest and Lady immediately begin barking, T'Challa aggressively hissing and scurrying under the bed. "Confuto!" (Silence!) I hush, them, clicking my fingers, to which they instantaneously respond to with deadly silence.
Practically flinging myself towards my bag, I dig around frantically for a few of my powders – my staff would be a bit conspicuous – finding the two worn pouches of powders and sprinting out our room, throwing a "Won't be a moment! Gotta wannabe ghostbuster to bust!"
"And the roof is caving
But I'll hide you safely
I'll hold you in my arms
Remember who we are,"
My stumbling down the hallway is anything but elegant; fingers jamming the elevator buttons repetitively like a kid at a traffic light. Launching myself into the elevator and pressing the right floor button, just as it begins to close, a metal hand urgently jams itself in between the two doors, prying them open to reveal a very concerned and very battle-ready James Buchanan Barnes. Lips in a pencil thin line, his eyes scream aggression and vigilance, but it's not directed at me. It's directed at every millimetre of the elevator, every corner, every stain, every mirror lining the walls. Everywhere, but me.
"What is it?" He asks, gruff. Monotonous. Guarded. Apparently, all it takes is one moment of freaking out on my behalf for soldier mode to kick in for the Russian assassin, a fact that is comforting, considering that we're on the run from HYDRA. It only highlights how much he believes in me.
"Oh, uh," I falter, unsure how to explain this without sounding pathetic. Why would he care about saving spirits? He probably thinks I'm freaking out over HYDRA. "Someone is antagonising a spirit in room 332. So, uh, I was going to have a polite conversation with the person, probably some kids, and if worse comes to worse, I have knock out powder that should to the trick. Not that I like knocking out people, or hurting people in general, even if it is with powder, but there are always people out there willing to save human lives. Never are there any people who are out there willing to save the lives of magical beings and creatures. They'd much rather hunt them. So, wow, I'm like a super hero for ghosts and the magical community. That's cool. As for the situation itself, I've got precautions in place. So all goods!" My thumbs stick up at him in a bubbly manner, the brown, worn, fabric pouches dangling in each hand.
Several emotions flash across his expression at once, ranging from relief to sudden realisation to confusion and once again back to guarded. Something else flashed at one point, an emotion I can't exactly pinpoint. Something softer. Something familiar, but not from him. His final nod is terse, and he remains silent as he falls into step beside me, showing no signs of leaving me even at the mention of magic and spirits. Attempting to hide my small smile at the act of it, the rest of the ride up and the scurrying to room 332 is soundless and unproblematic, until we reach the locked door itself.
"Running down the halls
We're writing on the walls
We never letting go,"
Clearing my throat, I rap lightly on the door, fidgety as I politely inquire "Hi, friendly neighbourhood ghost and spirit connoisseurs here. We felt a supernatural disturbance from this room and thought it imperative that we inform you the danger of attracting negative energies, we even have quite the informative pamphlet and—"
BANG – SCREEEEEEECCHH
A large energy wave presses against the door to the room after the sound of various things falling grates on our ears, only I picking up on the screech. My pointed tourmaline necklace burns against the base of my neck, exceeding in transmuting those negative energies into positive energies. Thank Morrígan I had Bucky get a pentagram tattoo.
"Fine!" I pout, stomping my foot like a petulant child. "Alohamor—"
Bucky, not as patient or wary as I, proceeds to aggressively punch a hole through the door and turn the knob from the inside in the middle of Harry Potter spell (not that it would've worked), depriving me the chance to walk into the room first by barging in himself. And fiery tongue of a snake, it is not what I thought it would be.
The room is complete disarray. Torn wallpaper like an animal has stormed the room litters each wall, feathers from the duvet and pillows still gliding in the air after evidently being thrown around and torn open. More scratches are scattered along the floorboards, one of the windows on the back wall shattered in a manner that makes it look like a spider web. My eyes are quick to take in all these details, but even quicker to notice the salient figure of the suite.
A man stands in the centre of the room, his back to the door. Upon the intrusion, he abruptly turns and makes direct eye contact with me. Couldn't be older than thirty five. Semi-broad shoulders are covered by an ageing, black suit overcoat, with a deep green partially unbuttoned dress shirt and black suit vest underneath. Black trousers to match, but the clean hiking boots look marginally out of place, as well as the multi-coloured and multi-patterned sewing fabrics wrapped around his fingers and wrists. However, what's even more so off-putting is the rest of his attire.
A crocodile tooth necklace hangs around his neck; three teeth on either side with the skull of a bird – most likely a raven – acting as the centre pendant. A raven feather is woven into his impossibly dark brown, curly, chin length hair to match. Under the coat, pouches similar to mine loosely hang at the right side of his hip, the left side of his hip accompanying bobbins with a variety of different coloured threads. Fairly pale, yet not overly so, with a – shocker – black piercing in his left eyebrow, the fair skin and dark piercing contrasting with his fierce, biting green eyes.
"Let my eyes be the rhythm
Let my mind be your freedom
You can take it all, you can take it all
Let my heart be your shelter,"
Handsome, and bedraggled. Clean, and messy. Aristocratic clothes, and coarse accessories. This man doesn't know whether he wants to look like a multibillion dollar business man, or a busker on the streets. Personally, I would vote for the former, with a twist of wiccan flare thrown in the midst.
That is, I thought he was wiccan, until his fingers screw the glass vial in hand shut, the grey energy wisps convulsing within as he tucks the vial away into his coat pocket. The act reveals the outlandish knick knacks and tarot cards lining and stowed away in the various inner pockets of his coat, as well as three completely naked fabric dolls.
Not wiccan. Witch doctor.
"Let these bones be the giver
Let this soul be your whisper
You can take it all, you can take it all
Let my heart be your shelter,"
"Well," the mystery man comments, blandly, with an expression that distinctly makes me feel like a child having been sent to the principal's office. His piercing emerald eyes flicker between Bucky and I, only flittering over the far more deadly Russian assassin before grounding themselves immovably on me. "This is a surprise."
Bucky is quick to stalk forward, but staggeringly, the witch doctor is quicker. One second, he's staring down the grim assassin, the next; the witch doctor has slipped his hand into one of the pouches that look near identical to mine, blowing dark blue powder in both of our directions. It swirls in patterns like a dangerous, navy sandstorm, coming straight for the both of us.
Bucky is immediately down for the count, collapsing to the floor like a sack of bricks in the blink of an eye. I'm only just swift enough to blow the man's powder back in return and launch myself towards the floor, catching the heavy assassin right before Bucky's head hits the floor. Have I ever mentioned how heavy he is? Perhaps I should, just as a reminder.
"Running down the halls
Writing on the walls
We're never letting go,"
The witch doctor blinks again, a spark of intrigue igniting behind those eyes that have caught all the greens of forest trees. He takes in my appearance again, narrowing in on the pouches I'm also holding in hand, and then judgementally eyeing my butterfly pyjama pants and American Horror Story shirt with a wry smile. "Nice pyjamas."
Cue nervous babbling. "Thanks, I was thinking of you when I bought them." Nice.
His jaw moves from side to side, amusement briefly flickering across his expression before being tossed out the window. The moment it is, it's replaced with distaste. "You're a witch."
Despite myself, I manage a small, nervous grin, nursing Bucky's head in my lap as I shift to sit cross legged on the floor. "Necromancer, if you want to be specific. Victoria Kingsley – though, I prefer Tori, 'cause Victoria is a bit too regal for someone in butterfly pyjama pants. Hello!"
He blinks, the entertainment marginally resurfacing amongst the perplexity. He talks much slower than I, still evidently unsure about the entire situation. "Maleko."
In comparison, my babbling is much faster. "That's a cool name; Maleko. Original, haven't heard it before. You're a witch doctor, right? That's pretty cool, haven't actually met a witch doctor before. The one from Princess and the Frog gave me nightmares forever when I was a kid, but I don't support prejudice, you know? You could be a pretty cool dude for all I know. Though, I gotta admit, this all looks a bit suspicious man. Whatever spirit you were messing with didn't really like it, so, do you mind... not pushing around the spirits? They have feeling too, you know. Not that I'm telling you what to do, you do you dude, but I'd really appreciate it – so would the spirit – if you just... lay off a little?"
Was that too forceful? Maybe it was. I should add a please.
"Please?"
Better.
"Let my eyes be the rhythm
Let my mind be your freedom
You can take it all, you can take it all
Let my heart be your shelter,"
His lips are parted now, brows marginally furrowed in the upmost confusion. He appears as if he doesn't know how to respond, that response in itself seeming to be an affect I commonly have on people who attack me. After a few moments, one of those brief, breathy, open mouthed laughs brushes past his parted lips, one that gives off a slightly stuck-up, vain vibe. "Isn't this precious? You expected to enter this room and use such graceless, stumbling language to persuade me of a dead being's apparent emotions and how I have displeased it in such a way? If you weren't so adorable, I wouldn't even be giving you the time of day right now."
I blink, unsure. "You think I'm adorable?"
The sigh that follows is deep, Maleko exasperatedly shaking his head in a way that prompts a couple dark curls to dangle in front of his eyes. "As entertaining as this has been, I have more urging matters to attend to. He'll be awake in—"
"Twelve seconds," I intervene spiritedly, the orange powder from one of my pouches that I covertly snuck into the palm of my hand and held against Bucky's mouth having entirely wafted up his nose by now. "FYI, he's not a happy camper when he wakes up after being knocked out. Just letting you know, because I know how it feels to be hit by a metal fist. Spoiler alert; it's not fun."
Maleko's verdant eyes zero in on the little scar on the left side of my upper lip, stretching to the base of my nose. He is barely allowed a moment to scrutinise it though, for Bucky's eyes snap open in hostility, the assassin back up and crossing the floor in a matter of seconds.
"Let these bones be the giver
Let this soul be your whisper
You can take it all, you can take it all
Let my heart be your shelter,"
With a flick of the wrist, a purple and gold tarot card is wedged between Maleko's middle and index finger, a card which he snaps out at Bucky. It slices through the air like a shuriken, but Bucky is no amateur at this, he merely steps to the side and deflects it with his metal arm. More cards follow at a lightning fast rate, nearly as fast as a bullet, until the assassin is close enough to reach out for the witch doctor.
Maleko, it seems, is also no amateur. Sharply jerking his wrist towards the floor, his fingers hypnotically dance and tug and pull at something I can't see. Now that I'm analysing his fingers more carefully though, I notice that little sewing needles and buttons are occasionally pinned through the fabrics wrapped around his fingers and wrists, a useful tool for a witch doctor.
Immediately, Bucky stops. He struggles, like he's fighting against an invisible, immovable force. And then, it clicks.
He can manipulate shadows.
Shadow manipulation, a sub-division of shadow magic, is very rarely practiced by anyone who isn't a shaman or witch doctor. I should've seen that coming! Why didn't I see that coming? Wait, why am I just sitting here gawking like a fool? Chaaarge! For the Buckinator!
"Hey, buddy –!"
Maleko glares at me, holding Bucky's shadow hostage as pins me down with his glower. "I'm not your buddy."
"– ... hey honey...?"
Sighing, more so exasperated than angry, he shakes his head as Bucky warns "Tori no—"
"— did you say 'Tori go'?" I question back without waiting for an answer, launching forward with my own sleeping powder.
I let out a battle cry. Sure, a lot of people might have mistaken it for a yelp of pathetic fear, but trust me, it was a battle cry.
As predicted, Maleko swats the powder to the side with a twist of his free wrist, looking rather unimpressed about the display. "What was the point in—"
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHH.
The frightened off spirit from before returns to the room, the lights shaking, quaking and flickering in alarm as it tears through the witch doctor. Startled, Maleko hisses and shoves Bucky's shadow across the room as he careens from the attack, Bucky bound to follow after his shadow, but not entirely weak against it. With the lights flickering, the assassin gains momentary breaks and lapses of freedom, and yet not enough to stop him from being launched across the room.
Snapping my fingers, I direct my new spirit friend away from attacking the witch doctor, the ghost instead springing towards my loyal protector and easing his fall, like a dark, grey cloud of comfortable mist.
"Let my eyes be the rhythm
Let my mind be your freedom,"
Unfortunately, that leaves Maleko open, and Bucky and I distracted. Scowling, the witch doctor wastes no time busting the window behind him that was already shattered completely open. Staring at me, he briefly surveys me again, as if really looking at me for the first time. Unspoken words dance in the back of his throat, words that he knows he doesn't have the time to speak in this moment.
"Let my heart be your shelter,"
Instead, he scowls, and launches himself out the window.
With a flurry of his black coat and misshapen curls, black clouds around him and moulds into feathers, until all that's left is a raven. He stumbles in flight for the first few flaps, until he's well out of reach and well out of sight.
"Let these bones be the giver
Let this soul be your whisper,"
Casting Bucky a glance, he appears about as confused and frustrated as expected, and even more so. That could have been nothing more than a witch doctor causing trouble. That could have been a standalone incident with nothing else that will come out of it. But having been raised in a world with magic and fate, I believe very little in coincidences.
Well, I sigh in relief, now that the altercation is over. At least Bucky is alright.
I smile at the aforementioned assassin, weakly. And yet, even in the midst of his frustration, perplexity and Winter Soldier adrenalin, he somehow manages to find it in himself to weakly smile back.
"Let my heart be your shelter."
A/N: Ah yes, the not-so-subtle introduction to the third antagonist. Wow, poor Tori and Bucky, gotta deal with Maleko, Special Agent Lacroix and HYDRA. And none of these are even the MAIN antagonist! Though, hint hint, one of the three does work with the main antagonist.
Song of the Chapter: Shelter by Machineheart (in case you didn't get the idea after the name drop, music video and lyrics throughout the whole chapter). I just feel like this song speaks of not only the plot of this book, but the kind of relationship Tori has with Bucky, and vice versa. In fact, Tori is kinda just like this with people in general, so, yeah, iconic song for the awkward Necromancer.
Pic of Maleko below, played by the beautiful Aidan Turner. Bless your soul Aidan.
Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx
~ T.L