Guardian Angels
2 0
Jordan stands in the entrance of the Carter manor, shrugging off his coat. His mind is still reeling from witnessing Kora’s secret. How does nobody else know of her special blood and abilities? Would she have told him eventually, or ever, if he hadn’t of struck her?
He trusts her. It’s not like the trust he shares with his sister, but more like an unspoken bond that’s between them. He can’t even explain it to himself, but there’s a string linking them together. Jordan has never enjoyed anyone touching him, yet holding Kora in his arms feels like the missing piece he’s been searching for his whole life. A puzzle being fit together properly after years of searching.
“Jordan!” His father’s voice brings him back to the present. Placing his coat on the rack, he turns to see Tobias thundering down the staircase like a madman. “We need to talk.”
Before Jordan can even say anything, Tobias has a hold of his arm and pulls him towards the drawing room. It’s quiet in here, with the fireplace lifeless. Cold air seeps through his clothes, creating gooseflesh on his skin.
“What is it?” he looks to his father, who is shutting the door behind him.
Tobias’ jaw clenches as he scratches his light hair, as if thinking of where to begin.
Jordan flops down in an armchair, waiting for his father to explain. “I overheard something in Robert’s office. It was between him and Charles. I don’t even know what to make of it yet, but I don’t think I anyone was meant to overhear them.”
Jordan frowns up at Tobias. “What exactly did you hear?”
“I think they’re planning something that is illegal.”
Jordan’s face stills, “Like what?”
Tobias sighs again, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he clamps his pale eyes shut. “Something about a shipment. A shipment of pints.”
“As in, pints of beer? I hardly think that is concerning father. It’s not illegal to trade alcohol if you have a licence.”
Tobias shakes his head hurriedly at his son. “No, not beer. I think they were meaning pints of blood.”
“ Blood.” Jordan repeats in a louder voice, standing from the armchair with a shocked expression.
His father’s blue eyes grow in worry. “Yes, blood. They mentioned something about an Emmett. I am guessing he’s the one who is buying pints of blood from them.”
Jordan shakes his head, trying to focus solely on his father to make sense of what he’s saying. “Wait, who is Emmett?”
“How should I know? I have been in London as long as you have. I’ve never heard of an Emmett before!” Tobias yells in a hushed tone to avoid being overheard.
“All right, all right,” Jordan mutters, thinking to himself. “Pints of blood. Someone named Emmett is potentially buying them. Do you think they are selling Seraphim blood?” he suggests.
Tobias shrugs. “If they are, then that’s certainly illegal.” He stops to think as well. “Robert said it will help Charles in becoming the next leader of the Ascendancy.”
“How would selling blood help him become the leader?” Jordan questions Tobias. “There has to be more to it than that. Are you sure you heard them correctly?”
Tobias buries his head in the heels of his hands. “Yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “they were speaking low and, granted, the door was only open ajar, but I heard them clearly. They’re planning something in secret.”
Jordan nods at him. “We will figure it out, if it’s anything to figure out. I’ll ask Matthew about who Emmett is. He might know, and that might give us a lead.”
“Do you think we should bring him into this?”
“I trust Matthew. And he has a lot of connections to people that we don’t. If I tell him to keep it between us, then he will.”
Tobias lets out a slow breath. “All right. Speak with Matthew, and I will try to find out some more information from either Robert or Charles.”
* ? * ? *
Matthew’s boots squelch in the muddy soil as he strolls through the market set up by the docks. The Marked Market is a place he visits more times a week than he’s proud of.
He purses his mouth shut as he passes the usual merchants peddling in the canvas stalls. Keeping his head down, he makes a beeline for Tarin-the liquor vendor.
It’s a typical market, but the enchantments placed at the entrance only allow Marked ones to pass through. River water blows through the crammed wooden and canvas stands. Unlit strings of lights hang between the walkways. The scents of herbs, dirt, salt and drinks all swirl together in the air. There’s lively chatter, sounds of coins mingling, and vegetables being chopped on thick boards.
Gulping down the lump forming in his throat, Matthew enters the all too familiar stand where Tarin sits quietly on her wooden stool. Greasy raven hair looped into a messy knot on top of her head. Permanently bloodshot eyes follow him as he approaches her .
Sliding off the stool in one smooth movement, Tarin saunters to stand in front of her stock with her arms crossed. Wooden crates of glass bottles stacked four feet high, carrying various kinds of spirits, wines and brews, are packed messily behind her. “Back so soon, Blackwell?” she purrs in her Welsh accent.
A smile fails to reach Matthew’s face. “Yes. I need three bottles this time, please.”
She clicks her tongue regretfully, “Only have two left, my love. That’s the best I can do until Monday.”
Matthew curses to himself. He can’t really wait another two days for an extra bottle. “Fine, the two then.” He grits out.
Tarin turns her bony back to him. She’s a skinny little thing but scary enough that nobody will have a go at her. The Foreshadower Mark branded on the back of her hand in a deep indigo shade. The eye that sees all .
Sifting through some of the wooden crates stacked at the back, Matthew takes a moment to look through everything else she’s selling. Glass bottles of rum, gin and wine line shelves. All sorts of colours, mixes and shapes. There’s also some merchandise he has never noticed before, despite being her most loyal customer for years now.
Tarin normally has the bottles of whisky ready for him, but not this time. Maybe she didn’t expect to see him in here again so soon. It’s only been a day and a half.
A basket sits at the end of a shelf. Matthew picks up one of the small hessian bags the size of his palm and sniffs.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Tarin says without even looking up from the crate she is digging around in.
Matthew drops the bag and clears his throat. “What’s in them?”
Tarin stands up, spinning to face him with two bottles of amber liquid filled to the brim. “Let’s just say lucky dip,” answering him vaguely.
Matthew scoffs as she places the bottles on the counter. “Eight pounds. ”
“Sure. Thank you.” He mutters, handing her the notes and taking the bottles out of her hands.
He stalks out of the stall before she can question him about his early return. He doesn’t want to talk about it with her, or anyone, really.
Tucking the bottles underneath his coat, Matthew heads back to his house. He wishes his family’s estate looked similar to his friends’ manors, but this one is dilapidated and hasn’t been looked after in over a decade.
Alice tries her best to keep it as tidy as possible, but the paint is chipping off, dust cakes every surface, and the garden is overgrown and wild. Ivy has consumed most of the single-storey house and the hedge surrounding the property is too tall and thorny. The windows are caked in so much dirt and grim that sunlight doesn’t even properly filter through them anymore.
Yanking open the rusted iron gates, Matthew walks into the unlocked house. The stench of bile and burnt grass fills the air, making him want to vomit right there in the entryway.
Gulping down the bitterness burning in his throat, he pulls the bottles out from his hiding spot and strolls into the kitchen.
Lawrence Blackwell is slumped over in a chair at the dingy looking dining table. His head resting in his arms as he snores softly to himself.
Tiptoeing past, Matthew sets the bottles down.
There’s already another empty one gripped in Lawrence’s palm. There’s no glass beside it because Matthew can’t remember the last time his father used a glass to drink from. Ever since his mother died, Lawrence has gone through an entire bottle a night at least. His breath constantly smelling of spirits that Matthew doesn’t even notice anymore.
Stepping past his father, Matthew takes the empty bottle from his hand and goes to take it outside when his father’s voice stops him. “ Did you do get me some more like I asked?” It’s more of a demand than a question.
He looks at his father, who’s sitting up, swaying a little from dizziness.
“You have two more up there.” Matthew points out.
Lawrence looks behind him to see the filled bottles on the bench. “I said three, you imbecile, or can you not count?” his voice thunders through the room.
Matthew’s pulse skitters, his body readying to fight like it’s used to. “Tarin only had two left. She will have more on Monday.”
“Monday!” He shouts angrily, standing from the chair and almost toppling over himself. “I need more than that before Monday!”
“Well, go somewhere else then.” Matthew tries to keep his voice calm, even though his own rage is bubbling up through his veins and threatening to spill out of his mouth. His hands curl at his sides.
The chair falls with a crash as his father storms towards him. Yanking the empty bottle from Matthew’s hand, he grunts angrily, smashing it on the edge of the bench and holding the jagged end towards his son’s chest.
“You listen to me,” he snarls out. “You disappoint me when you can’t follow my simple instructions.”
“I did listen!” Matthew yells back at him, not containing his frustration anymore. “I told you, she only had two left! If you want more, then find someone else to buy off of. I can’t get you any more than that!”
The sharp glass presses against Matthew’s flesh as his father’s dark eyes glare into his. Lawrence’s face is coated in greying hairs. Stale alcohol clings to the pathetic beard he’s growing because he’s too drunk most of the time to shave himself. He reeks of sweat, sickness, and spirits. “Do not yell back at me!”
Matthew’s emerald eyes glisten as Lawrence pulls his arm back and his fist collides with Matthew’s jaw .
Stumbling backwards, he holds his face, which will inevitably bruise within the hour. Luckily, their supernatural bodies heal fast, but not fast enough to hide his bruises. He will have to lie once again and tell people he injured himself while training.
Wetness threatens to spill from his eyes, but Matthew holds himself together as another blow hits him in his side.
Falling to the sticky floor, Matthew groans, feeling the impact of that kick to his ribs more than his jaw.
“Don’t ever talk back to me again.” Lawrence grumbles. He tosses the empty bottle to the floor, glass shattering and nicking Matthew’s skin while flying about the room.
Grunting, Matthew gets to his knees, staring daggers at his insane father. “Get a grip on yourself! Mother has been gone thirteen years. You can’t act like this anymore.”
Lawrence is in his face within a blink. He slings his arm back again when the patter of small feet makes Matthew tense all over.
“No!” Alice shouts, stepping between them.
Lawrence glares down at his children. Alice holds her shaky hands up as Matthew remains crouched behind her. Her tiny body shielding him.
“Don’t touch him. Please .”
There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Neither of them dares to move a finger as if one movement will have both of them killed.
Lawrence sniffs angrily, pulling himself back, as Alice lets out an exhale of relief. Turning, he snatches a bottle from the bench and yanks the cork out with his teeth, guzzling down another few shots of whisky before shuffling out of the kitchen woozily.
Matthew lets his head fall as he blinks away tears.
“Are you all right?” Alice is kneeling now, holding his face in her tiny hands.
“Alice, I can’t do this much longer. ”
Her eyes glass over and her lips tremble as she looks at him. Shaking her head, she swallows loudly. “We can make it until you’re twenty-one. It’s only two months away.”
Matthew runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know if I’ll make it to twenty-one, Alice. I’m tired of fighting him.”
“No.” Her voice is hoarse. “We’ll get through this. Please, Matthew.”
She falls forward, hugging him around his neck as she did when she was five and Matthew was forced to look after her when their father began drinking and forgot about raising his young daughter.
“I’m sorry he always picks on you.” She whispers into his ear.
Matthew brings his arms around her back, holding her tight against him. This is why he chooses not to love anyone other than his sister. He can’t bring anyone else into this. He doesn’t want anyone to know what he goes through.
Love does make you crazy. That’s what he told Lewis, and he wholeheartedly believes it. He watched his father lose his mind after their mother died giving birth to Alice. He watches as his father drinks himself to sleep every night. He lost his position within the Ascendancy. He lost the respect of his own children and friends.
Matthew never wants that. He doesn’t want it to even be a possibility, which is why he chooses to keep himself away from love like it is poison.
“I won’t ever let him hurt you, Alice. I promise,” Matthew murmurs before burying his head in her neck.