Thread Back-Up from Discord for the thread "Blood is Thicker"
Starring: Cynric Parker & Jack O'Grady
Written from: 2/18/2021
Total Word Count: 3,280 words

Cynric hated being called into Jack's office. He had been called into offices and private meetings for all sorts of reasons, most justified, but for once he didn't think he had done anything wrong. Still, an uncomfortable itch settled across his shoulders as he rapped his knuckles on the door and waited to be called in.

Jack did not look up when he entered. His attention was wholly focused on whatever paperwork his pen worked across. The room was thick with cigar smoke from the nearly finished nub at his lips. Cynric blinked, eyes darting around, as he let the door shut behind him and resisted the ways his fingers itched for his own cigarette pack in his pocket. 

"Sir?" he finally asked. 

The werelion waved a hand with a grunt at the empty armchair in front of the desk. Cynric's brows creased together, but he sat.

Jack's silence wasn't unusual in the least. There was no one else in the room. Nothing looked or even felt out of place. Yet an unease still tapped at his instincts. A wariness. Something was wrong. He couldn't tell if that was paranoia talking or a sixth sense.

Silence stretched on in heartbeats. Cynric tapped his fingers against his knees and kept his palms flat on his legs. Just waited. Pestering or trying to suss it out was pointless, he knew. 

Finally Jack sat back with a sigh, one meaty hand rubbing the back of his neck as he rolled his shoulders. He snubbed what was left of the cigar out into the ashtray.

"Let's have a drink, boyo," Jack said, and despite the friendly tone he said it in, Cynric's stomach clenched. He stayed quiet, and Jack sighed again and stood up. He made his way over to the side table and returned with the decanter and two highball glasses which he set down on the wide mahogany desk in front of Cynric.

Blue eyes tracked each and every single movement as the werelion poured generously into each glass and then picked them up, holding one glass out to Cynric. He took it without comment, but started lowering it to his lap without touching it. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Drink it," Jack said, raising his own glass to his lips, and the subtle shift of his tone made him jump. It was an order, not an ask. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and lifted the glass to his lips. Jack drank with him, and his eyes didn't let him lower the glass until he had drained it.

Cynric coughed at the burn of his throat, accompanied by a wince. He didn't much like alcohol and certainly not the top-shelf aged whiskey Jack preferred, laced with magic. No chaser, either, just straight. The fact that Jack made him drink it was... not a good sign. If this was more bad news...

He numbly passed the glass back when Jack reached for it, and his eyes widened as the older man became to pour more. 

"Is it Faina?" he finally spoke, struggling to find his voice behind a forming lump.

To his surprise (and relief), Jack chuckled softly. "Nay. Not fer the moment, at least." 

There was the barest of smirks on his lips as he turned back to hand him the glass again. Another generous pour. But this time, tension bled from his shoulders as Cynric took it. 

The last time his adoptive father had been so serious, it had been to tell him his little sister almost died attacking the CEO of the Seraphim Hotel. Some kind of... mission gone wrong. And it felt like every serious discussion afterwards had been about something Faina had done - or convinced him to do with her.

Cynric had the glass halfway to his lips again when Jack folded his arms and leaned back against the desk. 

"Ya still ain't gonna like what this is about," the werelion said, softer. It had the uncharacteristic tinge of... sympathy to it. 

He froze, lowered the glass, looked at him.

"... What is it, then?" Cynric asked, when Jack didn't continue right away. A chill replaced the itch in his shoulder blades, icy and slowly crawling down his spine. If not about Faina... what?

Another sigh. Jack was sighing a lot. He leaned forward in his seat, opened his mouth to ask again, more frantic, but Jack spoke over him before he could. 

"This won't be easy ta hear, lad, an' I need ta make somethin' clear: you need to stay calm. I ain't about ta have ye drop the roof on our heads with tha' magic o'yers." 

He spoke it so calmly and casually, for him, but Cynric could hear the edge of warning gong in that deep Scottish brogue as if it were a siren. 

"So what yer gonna do, is drink tha', an' promise me tha' you will not touch yer draken magic, not under any circumstances." Jack's tone brokered no argument. He did not even give Cynric the opportunity to respond before he motioned to the glass in his hand with the one in his own. Robotic Cynric copied his movements, and they downed their glasses again. 

He didn't cough this time as he passed the glass back, and Jack poured again. Warmth pooled in his belly, whether from the whiskey or the magic laced within it, he couldn't tell. It helped calm the roiling nausea threatening to build. What the hell could this be about?

"I... promise." And he meant it, as best as he could. Jack grunted in reply, handed him his glass back.

"Good," the werelion said, calm enough, gentle enough, to lend even more threat to the words that followed. "If I sense one pinprick o'magic on ye, one whiff ov'a scent change, I'll have ye collared." 

Cynric flinched. Jack was serious, deadly serious, concerned enough that Cynric may still disobey despite his promise to need to put that out there as a warning. As if he couldn't still feel the last time that thing was at his throat. He could barely look at Faina for weeks after their stunt. He had to resist the urge to look around for it, now that he knew Jack had it close at hand.

"I get it. I promise." He shifted in his seat. His spine had become a steel rod in his back, the icy chill radiating outwards as if it had been frozen solid. "What's happened?"

Jack seemed content enough with his sincerity. He did not make him drink the third glass, nor did he wait any longer to begin. "Ye remember the flag we had out on yer file?" 

Cynric frowned, but nodded. Jesus, that was years ago... five years, if not longer. After Jack took him in, the werelion arranged for the old childhood file they had left out there to be monitored, and anyone who accessed it traced. It had been done in the hopes that they'd find Faina that way, if she ever tried to go looking for him.

"We left it active," Jack continued, "Even after we settled the whole mess with Cerberus an' yer sister. Jus' in case. Never hurts ta have eyes on these things." The werelion shifted. "It was accessed three days ago."

Cynric started, eyes pinned to his adoptive father's gaze as he processed, before the air collapsed in his lungs. 

"Was it--?" he started, a ragged edge of panic scraping along his spine, the Scale on the back of his neck suddenly burning--

"No," Jack interrupted, firm; firm and commanding enough that Cynric felt that flood of panic immediately replaced by a flood of relief, and he took a calming breath. He had nearly forgotten his promise straight out the gate. "No, as best we can tell, they're still underground. Rest assured, lad, if that cunt ever rises from whatever slimy hole they've crawled into ta hide from me, we'd be havin' this conversation from the road."

Cynric lifted the whiskey glass to his lips and took a shaky gulp. Once he thought his voice back to normal - Jack waited - he spoke again. "Who accessed the file, then...?"

The silence stretched on as Jack seemed to... struggle with his words. Cynric couldn't think of a time he had seen that happen. 

"We think..." Jack started, slowly, then sighed and gave a small shake of his head. His gaze bored a hole through him as if to continually remind him of what he had promised. 

"I know ye were young, boy, an' ya prob'ly don' remember anythin' strange or out o' the ordinary, but I'll ask ye regardless: did yer mam ever act as if she were under some sort'a spell, before she passed?"

That... was... not what Cynric expected him to say. His... mother? Under a... spell? ......... What?

Jack knew all about his childhood by now, of course. Every single dirty detail Cynric could bring himself to speak out into the air. It had not been an easy road and even just being asked to think back on it now made him want to shrink in on himself. Curl into a ball in the chair and bury his face into his knees. 

His disaster. His failure.

He took another shaky swallow of the whiskey. The burn helped steady him. Already the magic-laced booze pumped through his blood and helped dampen that desire for his muscles to coil and collapse. 

"My mom..." Cynric swallowed the lump in his throat. "was... in a lot of trouble. But, magic...?" He slowly shook his head. "That wasn't magic. That all was just... grief." 

The word cut into his mouth as though covered in razor blades. Grief. Grief that was his fault. All his fault.

He raised his gaze back to Jack's eyes, and there is was again. That strange expression of almost... sympathy. Or even pity. "No, Cynric. It doesn't appear that it was jus' grief." 

He reached behind him, on the desk, picked up some sheet of paper, and held it out. Cynric, lost, confused, took it.

It was a photocopy of some... damn, it looked like parchment paper lifted straight out of a medieval fantasy. Script - and that was the best way to describe the ink scrawled across the page - covered the whole middle of the parchment, surrounded by thick, blocky symbols that could've maybe been runes.  The writing in the center was somehow neat and flowy at the same time it was rigid and jagged, a cursive script that may have been Latin for all that it could have been English, or could have been no language from Earth. 

Looking at the paper made his eyes almost hurt. The only thing he could really pick out was... the large, neatly printed signature of Adelaide Donovan Parker towards the top of the script.

He tore his gaze away, wincing, looking back up at Jack. "What is this...?"

"It's a contract," Jack explained. He had folded his arms back across his chest and did not reach for the photocopy back. "A blood-and-soul contract, an' a mighty steep one, too. I ain't seen ones o' tha' ilk in... centuries, an' certainly not in America. It's been in the Archive, accordin' ta Trinity, since they came up here an' started collectin' lots o' old records from this'n'that. No one thought... well, no one thought it o' any importance since it was expired. Filled. It didn't flag 'til yer file flagged, so it was the firs' time me or Cerberus had seen it."

Cynric glanced at it again, winced at the way the words seemed to cut at his eyes, and he held the paper out from his body as if something was about to leap out of the picture and attack him. "Just because it has the same name as my mother...?"

There was a slight pause, a slight hesitation. "Not the same as," Jack said, slow. "It is yer mam, lad. This is her contract."

He blinked. Frowned. What? No. His mom? A contract? How? But what came out was, "For what?"

Jack slid his gaze to the paper for a beat. But his voice was as calm and expressionless as usual as he replied, "Ta save the life o' her child. Her soul fer her blood. Half o' her soul, to save Ellesmera Parker from death by drownin'."

The words didn't sound like English in his brain. Jack's voice had been replaced by a low, rumbling roar in his ears. Cynric abruptly stood. The photocopy crumpled in his fingers as his hands curled into fists, and the glass in his other hand cracked under the strain, but didn't shatter. Jack didn't so much as flinch, only watched, impassive, as a harsh shudder wracked up his body from his toes to his head.

"What do you mean? What are you saying?" he practically spit, a growl in the back of his throat. Terror and confusion and agony slammed into his head in equal measure, and Cynric turned a desperate, glaring gaze to his father. 

"I mean exactly what I said, lad," the werelion said, unmoved and unchanged. Still calm, still looking at him with a foreign look that made him want to cower away. "Yer mam signed a blood-and-soul contract ta save yer sister's life."

"Save her? But... but Ellie is dead, we - I - so what is this?" He shook the crumpled photocopy in his fist only inches from Jack's nose.

"The contract," Jack answered, patient, unflinching, "was filled. This kind o' contract... ya don't go back on what's written. Both sides o' the deal were done. Adelaide gave part o' her soul... and Ellesmera lived."

Cynric recoiled from him. The backs of his legs hit the arm of the chair and he caught himself by his elbow on the back to keep from staggering. "That's not possible. We... went to her funeral, we buried her --"

"Closed casket, as I recall," Jack interrupted. "Didja ever see her body?"

Cynric looked at him aghast. "No, fuck no, we were only little kids--"

"Then yer mam buried an empty coffin." He said it so matter-of-fact the words practically speared him straight through the chest. "Ellesmera Parker wasn't in it. She lived." A pause, then, softer, "She's alive, Cynric."

A numb chill flowed through his veins. Disconnected his body from his mind. He wasn't aware of the tears gathered in his eyes and suddenly coursed scorching hot down his cheeks, nor was he aware of the blood that oozed between his fingers as the whiskey glass in his hand finally shattered and broken shards cut into his skin.

"I don't believe you." His lips moved, but he didn't hear himself say it. It might have been a whisper. It might have been a scream. He didn't know. Jack didn't react to it, either way. "Ellie didn't - Mom wouldn't - she can't be."

"I'm sorry, lad." Scorching heat raced up his arm, throbbing hot and acrid in his bleeding hand, and it took everything he had not to hurl his fist straight into Jack's *sorry* mouth. "We don't know all of the details fer sure - the team is still workin', an' she covered her tracks - but we believe it was Ellesmera who accessed yer file."

He was too calm. Jack was too calm, too serious. Jack never lied, and he was rarely wrong, basically never wrong that Cynric could think of. He believed what he said to be true. 

Ellie could be... Ellie was... alive.

For a moment, the Scale on the back of his neck burned, scorching hot, throbbing with magic that boiled under his skin. The urge to claw off this human skin and rend the earth beneath taloned claws tore at his mind, confusion and rage beating out all conscious thought as if it could smother the pain speared in his heart. Only a thread served as what remained of his sanity as the beast roared - the thread of a promise to stay calm.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezed. Cynric recoiled and tried to twist away from the iron grip, but it was useless. Jack drew him to his chest and wrapped him into a tight bear hug. No matter how he struggled, hit, or kicked, it made no difference. Might as well have been fighting an iron wall. Jack held him until he wore himself out, and then continued to hold him as he howled his sobs into his shoulder.

Ellie was alive. His baby sister was alive. He hadn't killed her. His mother had saved her. But she never... told anyone. Why did she let her kids go on thinking their sister was dead? Why go through burying an empty coffin? It didn't make sense. 

And yet, it didn't really matter. A small spark fought back the rage, the confusion, the terror, the grief, and slowly began to seep warmth back into his limbs. Maybe it was just the alcohol Jack made him swallow down, but it really felt like... relief. Relief, and salvation. Ellie was alive. She was alive.

By the time Cynric returned to consciousness, he was back in the armchair, curled up and hunched over, and Jack pressed a cool, wet glass to his lips. He flinched, some of the liquid spilling down his chin, but it was only water; once it registered, he opened his mouth to drink. Jack tilted it slow, to make sure he didn't choke too badly as he struggled to swallow and breathe at the same time.

Once the glass was empty, Jack patted him on the back. Although it was hard enough that it felt more like thumps. And stopped once Cynric's gaze refocused on him. 

"Thatta boy," the werelion said, low and reassuring. Praising. "Can ye hear me?"

Cynric nodded in a small, jerky motion. It felt like his throat was embedded with shards of glass, and not his hand, which he now felt, pulsing in a harsh wave of pain. "I want to talk to Faina."

"Later," Jack promised, shifting to crouch in front of him. "Cerberus is or will be talkin' to her soon - best ta let 'em get that bit o'er with, same as we're doin' now. Ya know how yer sister be. She relies on ya, an' if she sees ya fallin' apart, we'll all be worse off fer it."

He rested a hand on his knee. "Not that there's any shame in this, mind. But ya feed off each other, an' the last thing me or Cerberus want is ta make this harder on you two because yer both too distressed ta see reason."

He didn't have the strength to argue. Jack was right, anyway. He was in no state for Faina to see him like this. He never broke down in her front, not in all of their time together, as kids or as adults... one of them needed to stay strong and keep it together, and it was his burden to shoulder, not hers. He was the big brother.

Cynric didn't need to respond or acknowledge - Jack could tell. He patted his knee and then stood up. "Lemme get the kit fer yer hand, then we can talk more - if ya want. I'll tell ya all that I know." 

Cynric nodded, just a fraction, and Jack moved to leave.

"Dad." The word ripped from his throat without thinking. Jack stopped. Waited. "... Thanks." It was all he could choke out. It was all that needed said. 

Jack dropped a hand to his shoulder, squeezed, then patted it twice before he stepped out to get the kit.