Sol broke every single traffic law in existence as he hightailed out of Maine.
His left hand snared around the steering wheel while his other redialed Wrath’s cell number only to get dumped into voicemail all 108 times. The anxious cycle continued until his thumb considered falling off his hand.
His sadistic brain kept repeating the sight of Artemis freefalling into the den of lions. Guilt was asphyxiating him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were to gather intel, go home, and plan. Sweet Artemis wasn’t supposed to be hauled into the frontline of his war, especially after he opened up to her and she accepted all the horrors that came with him.
She was his friend. Out of the vast inventory that money could buy him, companionship was not included. Because friendship had its own currency.
And yet... history ended repeating itself. His selfish desires led to another’s downfall. This time, both literally and figuratively.
Tears of exasperation pricked the corners of his eyes. This was his doing. He had tried to defy his evil nature so life swerved him back into his lane.
No. No. Not again. This can’t be happening again.
Wrath’s eyes flashed with temper.
He could see through the crystal bottle in his hand and that was unacceptable. If the bottle wasn’t amber, it wasn’t right.
He propped the glass on his bedside table before it cracked under the pressure his hand was asserting. After tossing on a T-shirt, he walked out of his room with pockets stocked with cash and a throat starved of a comforting burn.
You can now toss alcoholism on his list of psychological flaws right under depression. Wasn’t he a catch?
He walked with slumped shoulders, feeling grateful for his long legs and how they slurped the space between him and the corner shop. He pushed past the door and it recoiled against the wall, his despairing thirst getting the best of him.
The shop owner mimicked a statue. His hand hovered over a phone that he’d likely use to dial 911. He had the same ritual everytime Wrath barreled in to get his next dosage of medicine.
Alcohol was not only efficient at destroying lives but managing his Artemis deficiency. It muffled her existence, making her the fantasy that she was supposed to be. The grogginess made it hard to recall how she smelled and felt under his undeserving hands.
Alcohol helped him cope. He needed more of it.
He made his way over to the fridges. To his uttermost horror, they were empty, apparently undergoing maintenance. He growled, ready to blow a gasket.
The universe was out to get him today.
He stomped out of there with a thick murderous aura. The bar was his last resort. If for whatever reason no alcohol was available there either then Wrath was most certainly going to get arrested tonight.
There were too many people in the bar and too much volume in the obnoxious music playing.
He wasn’t good with crowds. He found the faces that surrounded him overwhelmingly similar to the ones of past ghosts. Friends and family that were long gone lived on in these strangers. The familiarities were morbidly haunting.
He claimed a stool, feeling his stomach clench with hunger. He ignored the plea for food. Drinking on an empty stomach helped him get numb more quickly.
“What will it be?” the bartender turned to him.
“Four bottles of whiskey,” Wrath grumbled, digging into his pockets for cash.
The bartender didn’t seem phased by the curt answer, having met plenty of alcoholics in his line of work. From his periphery, he noticed that the woman sitting next to him stopped texting. At first, he figured that his order bemused her. But based on her attention which was directed at the counter, she wasn’t shaken her by the concerning amount of liver-toxic ounces he ordered, but rather the three hundred dollars he threw on the wood.
“Throwing a party?” she yelled over the music. Her lips curved and her finger did as well, sultrily twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
He sneered at her unwanted attention. His dick hadn’t been stroked by a woman in more years than he could count and he would most certainly remain celibate for the rest of life now that he met Artemis. No woman will compare to her. Wrath wanted no one but her. He needed no one but her.
He shook his head rebelliously. What he needed was the bartender to hurry up and bring him his medicine.
After he was handed his amber drug, he walked back to the motel as close to happy as he could get. His booted feet stomped up the steps as his left hand nursed a bottle to his lips. He chugged and chugged, finding the lava that melted his throat endearing.
His nostrils flared and he chocked on his last sip of fire when Sol’s scent reached him. He ran up the rest of the steps, knowing that the lycan was only supposed to seek him out in emergencies and there was only one reason that Sol, a rich man with connections would need Wrath for —Artemis.
He sobered up, tossed the bottles somewhere and cornered Sol. “Why are you here?” he grit out menacingly.
Sol gripped the forearm that was crushing his windpipe. “You- you weren’t picking up! I need help,” he gulped and began to tremble. Not from fear of Wrath but fear for Artemis.
“It wasn’t supposed to go down like. That. I’m sorry, Raiden. She... she wasn’t supposed to get hurt...” he began to rave unintelligibly.
“Get it together!” Wrath growled, cutting off his distraught gibberish. There was a frantic look in Sol’s eyes. Wrath had been in the void so many times that he recognized where Sol was drifting. The darkness was clouding his sanity.
Sol’s hands began to shake with anxiety. “We went after Ezekiel. She got caught.”
With that sentence, Wrath kissed his human form goodbye.
His lycan ruptured to the surface, standing at a staggering eight feet. With a vengeful swipe of his claws, Sol’s chest was adorned with four red stripes.
Sol snarled from the unexpected pain then tossed his body to the side when Wrath’s claw descended once more. He managed to put a few feet between them but not before feeling claws dip into his abdomen a second time.
“The more time we waste jumping around, the more time Ezekiel has with her!” he tried to reason, dodging the lunge of the terrifying black-eyed demon. Wrath landed against a wall and his weight oppressed the concrete.
Sol placed a hand over his chest to control the stream of blood and watched Wrath’s body fight between flesh and fur. His hands went to his head which was pulsing as two consciousness tried to domineer.
In the end, flesh won.
“Where is she?” the murderer that took a life hundreds of years ago made his comeback. He was going to personally mail the culprit to their maker: Gift-wrapped and via express delivery.
He hoped the goddess has plenty of storage. Because he was going to be shipping many body parts. And by the look of things, this will be including Sol’s.
A/N> There is a surprise on my Instagram/Twitter. Gooo check it out. Username: 0ancientt