Chapter Text
Wriothesley’s POV
The glorious city of Fontaine sat stalwart, muted in the downpour that blended its vibrant city lights into puddles of iridescent melancholy in the gutters of the streets. It was beautiful like this, the normal cacophony of the cityscape dampened by the blanket of moisture that coated every surface in a chilled embrace. This was Wriothesley’s favorite Fontaine to gaze upon – the only time, in his opinion, that the streets were washed free of the sins that had erected them.
The sigh that had been building in his chest left him in a rush, and with it went his own trepidatious thoughts. Wriothesley tilted his head back, the last sip of hot tea poured unceremoniously down his throat, leaving him with the lingering taste of bergamot upon his tongue.
He was the only individual seated at the outdoor tables of the corner café; everyone else had long since fled inside or continued with their business. Drinking alone, whether it was tea or alcohol, was nothing new to him. He’d gotten used to solitude over the years, craved it, even, as an escape from the chaos of his day to day. This sort of peace, the tranquility of time suspended in a moment as the gentle sound of rain caressed his ears, was seldom found, and he mourned that this respite might be his last.
The porcelain clattered with a sound he considered comforting as he settled the teacup against its matching saucer. The rain wasn’t going to let up anytime soon, and that meant there was no use in stalling the inevitable; it would only be worse the longer he put it off. Wriothesley tossed mora onto the table to pay for his tea and the pastry that he’d only taken a single bite of before thinking better of it.
His fluffy ears flattened against his head as he stood, adjusting his coat and the wraps around his hands before setting off into the downpour. Every so often, the wolf-like ears would flick away rain droplets, even as they kept tabs on everything in his vicinity. His destination was only two blocks away, and based upon the movements and faces he’d been seeing on the streets, somewhere downtown, things were going to kick off soon.
Wriothesley looked at the multistory business complex that loomed ahead of him, the lights of the first floor and the thrum of a pounding bass suggesting that although the upper windows were dark, there was quite the party happening inside. He adjusted his waistcoat and made sure that everything he needed was still on his person. Wriothesley didn’t make a habit of walking into precarious situations without everything he needed, whether that was supplies, training, information, or a loaded gun; he valued proper preparation. It was what had kept him alive all these years.
The club in question was owned by a family that had only started making a name for themselves in the past year. Wriothesley had existed on the less-than-savory side of Fontaine for most of his life, and he’d only started hearing the Oratrice name thrown around judiciously in the past six months. He’d first caught wind of them when they’d bought several abandoned properties across the city in the span of a week. Seemingly overnight, they had turned the dilapidated warehouses into various office buildings and business establishments that weren’t just nice, but also profitable.
Wriothesley had been told to investigate these up-and-comers, and sure enough, they’d gone from being nearly nonexistent to owning a shocking thirty percent of the city in a matter of months with no one being any the wiser. It was unheard of, and it had certainly been ruffling feathers across the scene. Fights had started breaking out with alarming frequency as smaller territories were pushed into conflict due to the new properties crossing turf boundaries.
Wriothesley couldn’t care less about the bigger picture of which house names were controlling what as long as they kept it to themselves, but that seemed to be getting more precarious each day that passed. His fists clenched at his sides, ears flat to his head as he took one more steadying breath.
He didn’t want to be here, and he certainly didn’t want to be doing this, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a genuine choice in anything he did. Procrastinating the inevitable would only get him hurt, and so with a deep breath, he descended the stone steps to the doors that would lead him into the Opera Epiclese.
The bass of the club vibrated along the floor and inside the walls like the heartbeat of a stressed animal, too fast and yet steady in its driving intensity. Wriothesley clung to his neat whiskey, the condensation on the outside of the glass the only benefit to the prop as his crystalline pale blue gaze swept over the crowd of intoxicated patrons.
Wriothesley had never been inside the Opera Epiclese before, but the royal blues and greens of the club, accented with opulent gold, lent strong credence to the abundance of rumors about the place, all of which spoke highly of lavish decor and a surprisingly welcoming atmosphere.
Considering that the entire building had been renovated only four months ago, Wriothesley was glad to see that it hadn’t been completely trashed by gang violence in that time. Actually, he was perplexed by the lack of gang activity that he had observed on the dance floor, or even on the second-floor balconies, where individuals of all distinctions chatted with their drinks around high-top bars with gleaming chairs below ornate blown glass chandeliers that looked like crystallized raindrops.
Sure, he’d seen at least two drug deals, and there were at minimum ten security guards absolutely sporting the winding blue dragon tattoo characteristic of the Oratrice gang, but neither of these had caused a disturbance or seemed especially illicit. The drugs had been recreational at worst and in quantities that were obviously meant for personal use, not resale. No one was being harassed, nobody seemed to be getting special treatment, unless they’d shelled out for the VIP lounge, which appeared populated but certainly not crowded, and Wriothesley was starting to think that he’d mistakenly walked into a club on the upper East End of town rather than the main streets of Fontaine. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to make a move, to create an opening that he could insert himself into and it just wasn’t happening. He gritted his teeth, the press of his sharp canines against his molars near painful with the force applied as he continued to watch from the packed bar.
This wasn’t his preferred scene; he’d much rather be seated comfortably at the rain-soaked café tables outside, especially with the number of scents that were tangling in various states of arousal and inebriation in his vicinity alone. It was overstimulating, but that was what happened when half the population were shifters of various kinds, especially in the underground. Most of Fontaine was human, easily fifty percent, but the other half were an absolute melting pot of generations of shifters of all kinds who intermingled and reproduced with humans and each other. It was near impossible to find pure shifters these days; most were hybrids of the common animals like dogs, cats, and various species of birds.
The more diluted one’s blood was, the less likely one was to display any characteristics or to be able to truly shift at all. Although often mistaken for your garden variety canine shifter, Wriothesley had wolf blood running through his veins. Hell if he knew where he got it from, but it had been shoved down his throat enough times how valuable and important he was because of it. Various past figures of authority had talked about his temper, his strength, and other attributes brought about by his shifter blood, but he’d disappointed those people on more than one occasion when he’d been able to check all of their boxes except the one that mattered.
He couldn’t actually fully shift into a wolf.
Intermingled with the mess of human and hybrid were the sweet Melusines, an entirely different species altogether, humanoid but smaller and with strange, shaped antennae. They were, in Wriothesley’s experience, kinder and more loyal than most humans or hybrids, but they had a mischievous streak that ran a mile deep, and a peculiar sense of taste. He’d been curious on more than one occasion and visited a Melusine bakery, only to leave with the lingering taste of despair and desolation upon his tongue for no discernable reason.
Something peculiar about the Opera Epicles crowd, though, was that every bartender and serving staff that he could see was a Melusine. Wriothesley had never seen so many in one place, at least not in an establishment that wasn’t specifically built to cater to their kind, and the longer he looked the more he realized that they were practically running the joint. Did that make them members of the Oratrice family? It was too soon to tell, but he made a mental note of it as his gaze continued to wander.
“Ooh, aren’t you a pretty one.”
“Leonie, don’t, do you see all of his scars?”
"But I like them a little rough around the edges."
Wriothesley’s ears perked up as he caught the whispers of two nearby voices who seemed to be discussing him. He turned on his barstool and raised an eyebrow at both ladies, a characteristic smirk gracing his face.
“Can I help you ladies?” His tone was smooth, taking in both of their appearances carefully. One of them had a pair of black cat ears atop her head that seemed slightly pinned back, likely in response to the cacophony of noise, or perhaps it had to do with him. He saw her green gaze rake over his exposed forearms, where scars of all shapes and sizes sat interlaced upon his skin with his tattoos, like a roadmap of his past. Her red-headed friend was far more interested, and he clocked the way she was gazing at his ears and, less subtly, at his chest and shoulders.
“What type of mutt are you?” the redhead asked with a sharp grin, a gleam in her eye and not an ounce of decorum. Wriothesley found himself laughing at her cocksure attitude. Her feline friend seemed embarrassed on her behalf, and those pointed black ears pinned back even further against her head.
“Rather forward question to ask a complete stranger, don’t you think? Why don’t we start with names, and after a bit more conversation, we can see if we make it as far as what kind of hybrid I am.” Wriothesley watched the vibrant red pigment of shame color her cheeks as she realized her social faux pas. Her friend tugged on her arm in a furious attempt to drag her away, but she didn't budge.
“I’m Leonie, and this is Colette. And you are?” Despite her blunder, she stepped closer, curiosity getting the better of her. Wriothesley was impressed by her bravado, but he wasn’t here for a good time; as much fun as it would be to talk her in circles, he was better off sending them both far away.
“I’m a hazard to your health. Your friend is correct to be wary. Have a nice night, ladies.” Wriothesley pointedly took a sip of his whiskey, ignoring the scorned expression Leonie shot his way and the retaliatory hiss that her friend aimed at him as she whisked them both back into the crowd. He watched them leave out of the corner of his eye until, like an amoeba consuming its dinner, they were swallowed by the undulating crowd on the dance floor.
Wriothesley sighed and pushed away from the bar. He needed to make a move or the night would be a waste, and that simply wasn’t an option. He was on a tight deadline and a tighter leash, and he wouldn't be the one to suffer should he misstep.
There. With another scan of the room, he spotted a handful of individuals clustered together at the edge of the dance floor. One of them had a tattoo of a red fox tail wrapped around their bicep, just barely peeking out below the sleeve of their shirt; based on the tight knit nature of the little circle, he was willing to bet more than a few of them were associated with the same group. It was almost laughable how the various gangs insulated within their own factions, but at least it made his job easy.
There weren’t many ways to get in good with the gangs that ran Fontaines’ underbelly, at least not without a proper in or a set task with which to prove yourself and your loyalty. Most were primarily family run and operated, and affiliate members were, by and large, born to the life or adopted in after trial by fire. Outsiders too eager and willing to sign on were eyed with nothing but suspicion; no one took to this life willingly, unless they came with baggage, be that hefty debt or a need that couldn't be met in polite society. In other words, a person would have to be desperate and desperation was often met with cruelty.
No, Wriothesley was not desperate. He was disillusioned, perhaps a little depressed, and certainly wearing thinner with each passing day, but he was no desperate fool. He had plans, his wits, and motivation enough to keep him just out of reach of the harmful hands that sought to torment and abuse others.
His plan was simple. Cause chaos, become noticed, work his charm. Now that he had a target, all he needed to do was make a scene.
His sharp eyes landed on a girl with a full beverage rocking clumsily on her feet near the group. He nearly felt guilty, but, wobbly as she was, she must have had at least a few drinks already; she would, at least, somewhat benefit from the loss of said drink.
Wriothesley played it cool as he walked across the floor, swaying with the music himself as he calculated the angle he would need to achieve his goal. It was almost too easy to fake a trip and stumble into the poor woman’s back. She lurched forward with a shout, the precariously held glass instantly upturned out of her loose grasp onto two of the Kitsune gang members loitering nearby.
“Oh—I am so sorry!” Wriothesley apologized loudly, catching her by the wrist to help stabilize her back onto her unsteady feet, lest she also fall to the ground.
“You jerk, that drink was expensive!” Yeah, that sounded about right.
“It was an accident. How about I buy you another one?” His cheesy grin felt plastic on his face, but it did the trick of looking just shitty enough to turn her off from the offer.
“You wish. Nice excuse, but that won’t work on me. Get lost, loser.” Ouch. Even if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, he hadn’t been called a loser in a long time, at least since he was eight years old. The childish insult poked at old wounds that were better left in history books, but he was practiced at shrugging them off.
“Okay -"
“Hey bitch! What the fuck do you think you’re doing spilling your drink on me?”
Bingo.
Two of the Kitsune members rounded on the woman, faces contorted with indignation and rage to spare as their sights narrowed upon the culprit who’d been rudely forced to spill her drink. Several heads turned at the sound of a conflict and, what was more, it had gotten the attention of at least one security guard and two of the Melusine staff members. Wriothesley just needed a little more, to ensure the brewing spark of chaos would properly explode into a conflict worth remembering. The orchestrated pandemonium was his masterpiece and he the humble conductor pushed It along to follow the melody he’d composed.
“So sorry, gents, that is entirely my fault. I ran into her. That color looks quite good on you, though.” His snarky grin was sure to raise hackles, and he relished the effect it had as nostrils flared and the man that he suspected was a bear hybrid in front of him let out a low warning growl. He was a big guy, muscular, with two tiny little black ears atop his head, but none of that was a coincidence. No, Wriothesley had chosen these participants by design, and he needed them to play their roles perfectly or he was going to be shit out of luck.
“Say that again and I’ll show you what color looks good on you.”
“Is it red? I love the color red.” Wriothesley was particularly proud of his ability to get under people’s skin. He put his hands up just in time to block the swing that came flying unannounced at his head. That had to be a new record for pissing someone off.
“Whoa there! I’m not looking for a fight” He absolutely was. “Can’t we settle this like gentlemen? I don’t want to hurt you.” He had no qualms about hurting this man.
“Fuck you, flea bag.” Well, that was just plain rude. He did not have fleas!
Wriothesley sighed, the action exaggerated for the show he was putting on. He dodged the next punch, backing up until he bumped into a gaggle of drunk individuals who shrieked and scattered as the large man crashed after him. He was fast, Wriothesley would give him that, but he was also buzzed, the faint scent of alcohol clinging to him in a boozy cloud.
“Stand and fight, asshole!” The bear of a man shouted, taking a brief pause to line Wriothesley up in his sight before he charged after him. They’d maneuvered their way across the bar area towards the dance floor, drawing quite the crowd as patrons backed up to avoid the wild, hefty swings of the massive man who was very literally the size of a black bear.
Wriothesley ducked his punches, his limbs kept tight to his body so that he was never left defenseless. He needed this fight to last just long enough to get the right people’s attention; only then could he put the oaf of a man out cold on the ground. His restraint showed in the way his exhales started to fog, the air in his vicinity growing cold with his elemental alignment as he focused acutely on the fight.
What he didn’t anticipate was how quickly the rest of the Kitsune gang decided they wanted to get involved. Neither combatant had even landed a punch yet when Wriothesley heard the unmistakable metallic scraping of a knife being drawn, and his ears swiveled in the direction of the sound.
Fuck. That was certainly more of an escalation than he’d been bargaining for.
It was hard to tell who was actually holding it, as three individuals stepped forwards out of the ring of observers at the same time.
“Oh, come on! Four on one seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” He brought his fists up and tightened the stance, exhaling to steady his nerves as his cold eyes took in each person approaching him, waiting for the movement that would indicate the first assailant.
There.
Crack! Flesh and cartilage gave under the merciless force of his knuckles. He stunned the first attacker with a jab to the nose; the following brutal right hook slammed into the sharp ridge of a cheekbone, spit flying out the opposite side of the poor fucker’s mouth. The force of the blows sent them stumbling into the crowd and Wriothesley knew that he was absolutely going to be feeling those hits tomorrow.
Grizzly man, as he’d sweetly nicknamed the bear hybrid in his head, had found his way back into Wriothesley’s space, much to the wolf shifter’s dismay. He narrowly ducked another punch only to feel a wide hand slam down onto the back of his neck. His world spun as he was unceremoniously picked up and tossed like a sack of potatoes towards the polished wooden floor, despite his utmost efforts to the contrary. Wriothesley did his best to protectively roll while also avoiding the shins and ankles of the bystanders who were too obnoxiously sluggish to get out of the way. It was only partially successful, and he mentally begged those few innocent individuals that were now haphazardly splayed across the ground for their forgiveness for being the pins in this impromptu game of people bowling.
He groaned, rising to his hands and knees, shaking his head as he tried to regain his bearings. A snarl started in his chest, his instincts getting the better of him as the threat escalated from a fun, controlled game to a serious matter. His ice blue eyes flashed a warning as all three remaining assailants thundered towards him across the illuminated dance floor without a care for those not involved in their personal conflict.
The bass pounded with each of their steps, addicting rhythms and vocals accompanying the cacophony of shouting and violence as it unfolded inside the club. He’d more than succeeded in creating a scene.
Wriothesley had just landed a serious uppercut onto one of them, frost blooming across his knuckles with the impact, when there was a unrelated thud, accompanied by a chill that swept across the dance floor, clearly not caused by his fierce punches. He dropped the gang member he’d been about to ice unceremoniously onto the floor as the music dipped in volume and a hush fell over the room.
“What sort of nonsense is this?” The deep, scornful words traveled across the space crystal clear, cutting through the noise and unruly atmosphere with a steely calm that made the hair on the back of Wriothesley’s neck stand on end.
The loud strike of a heeled boot against ground echoed across the room, followed by the thwack of a solid wooden cane as it similarly connected with the floor in a way that screamed poise and authority.
“I do believe that an explanation is in order; this is a nightclub and lounge. It is not a brawling ring or a street corner you are free to fight on.” The owner of the sonorous and intimidating voice stood on the other side of the dance floor. He was flanked on either side by Melusines who were scowling in what would have been a, frankly, adorable way if it hadn’t been for the very real looking guns in their hands. Wriothesley’s gaze raked up over thigh-high boots with gold trim that hugged legs clad in what was obviously a custom-tailored blue suit clearly more expensive than the sum of everything he had ever owned in his humble 28 years of life.
Ah. Whoever this was, they meant business, and clearly had the funds to back it up.
“This asshole mutt started a fight with us!” One of the Kitsune shitheads spoke up instantly, and Wriothesley growled fiercely at them. It was mostly involuntary. Mostly.
“Wow. Way to heft the blame onto someone else. I apologized – you decided to throw a punch. Your honor, I plead not guilty; this guy is a liar.” Wriothesley waved his hand at his two remaining opponents, as if that alone explained his actions.
The problem with a good plan was that it was only ever as good as the time it took for first contact to ruin it. Most of Wriothesley’s plans accounted for this with the one trait of his that he considered paramount to all the others: improvisation. If you could think on your feet and act before the situation got out of control, then whether your plan got past first contact became a moot point. Adapting the plan was what made someone good in a crisis.
No amount of improvising could have accounted for the tall, slender man that stood across from Wriothesley, commanding the attention of the room with an ease that spoke of years of wielding authority. His white hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, intricate ornaments pinning the side up behind a pale ear, ensuring that the pale lavender, slit-pupil gaze leveled upon the room was not interrupted by any stray unruly hairs. Whoever this was, he was damn pretty, and something about him was familiar. For the first time in a long time, Wriothesley found that his quick wit floundered in another’s presence. His mind blanked, as those damn eyes landed squarely on him and narrowed dangerously. A shiver shot down his spine, and a droplet of fear manifested as sweat traced down the side of his neck in a taunting caress. He swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat as his ears fought the instinct to press back and hide within his unruly hair.
“I see. Then you shall all be escorted off premise to finish your entanglement elsewhere. Brawling is not permitted within my establishment.” His commanding voice rang with superiority, and the sentence rang down like a guillotine upon all of Wriothesley's meticulously crafted improvisations.
His establishment? Well, slap him with a raw fish and call it dinner. Wriothesley felt the metaphorical floor drop out from under him as he plunged into an ocean too deep and too cold to tread through on his own. He was immediately overwhelmed by the tide of the task assigned to him in the face of the adversary he never could have anticipated and a pressure, physical and heavy, on his chest and in his nose. Wriothesley didn’t have a fucking clue what the scent invading his nostrils was, but it reminded him of ocean storms and hurricane force winds.
He wasn’t the only one affected as the crowd parted, hybrids with good sense stepping out of the way as they too picked up on the sheer force of raw power being abruptly wielded within the dimly lit room.
Maybe if he hadn’t been so distracted by the steady approach of the head of the Oratrice family, or the oppressive and foreboding aroma in the air, he might have anticipated the movement behind him a few seconds sooner. His ears didn’t pick up on the additional footsteps, not until the swish of fabric gave away one of his assailants’ stealthy approach. By then, it was too late to truly avoid the attack.
Wriothesley dragged his gaze away from the vision of a man striding towards him, twisting just in time to see the glint of the knife he’d heard earlier as it was thrust towards him. His block was messy, instinctive, as he rammed his arm into the path of the weapon to protect his much more vulnerable torso and the organs within it.
He struck back once, hard, with a left hook that connected with more force than any of his previous hits and sent his attacker careening backwards directly into the floor. There was a satisfaction in the sore bones of his fist when he saw a tooth fly free and sail through the air, knocked clean from their mouth. The unfamiliar assailant's body hit the ground as sharp and searing pain made itself known in his left forearm.
Wriothesley looked down, a pained, rumbling growl vibrating in his chest as he registered the pocketknife embedded several inches into the thick muscle of his forearm. Bright red dripped down along his wrist onto the dance floor, leaving golf ball sized splatters as he swiftly gripped just above the wound and squeezed tight to try and slow the blood flow to the area.
Well. That was difficult to improvise around, and it was absolutely going to leave a scar. Another scar. Also, it fucking hurt.
“Sedene, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur,” chirped a soothing and cheery voice to Wriothesley’s left.
There was a bang, and something stung the side of his neck. There was a dull ringing in his ears from the alarmingly loud sound and the crowd widened its berth around the circumference of the fight. It was followed by a second powerful bang, and he watched from several feet away as the grizzly man swatted at the back of his own neck before slowly crashing to his knees one at a time.
Wriothesley winced and pivoted, alarmed to find that the tall white-haired gentleman was just a few steps behind him. His startled ice-blue eyes met lilac as he touched and yanked free the tranquilizer dart that had been embedded into the thin skin of his neck.
A slow, amused grin spread over Wriothesley’s face as he felt the world turn to kaleidoscope mush around him, desperately fighting his sudden heavy desire to lie down on the ground. “That’s cheating, Monsieur,” the wolf shifter complained, swaying on his feet as he fought the effects of the sedative.
“Only if one ascribes to the conditions of whatever game it is you seem to be playing. Make no mistake, this is my house. When you’re in it, you play by my rules.” The clipped tone left no room for argument.
The gentleman finally stepped close enough to tower over Wriothesley, gazing down his nose at him, upper lip curled in disdain. Wriothesley, obligingly, tipped forward, and the ground came up to meet him at an alarming rate. Strong arms caught him as his legs gave out completely, preventing him from crashing face first into the floor. So much for that glorious plan of his. At least this way, he wouldn’t have to keep playing at life with the shitty hand of cards he’d been dealt. Hopefully, when they threw his body into the bay with a cinderblock attached to his ankle, they’d make sure the rope was tight enough that his body would never be found. The last thing he wanted was Sigewienne to see him like this, or worse, bloated and waterlogged, long gone to a watery grave. She was too good for this needlessly harsh world.
At least if he’d tried, then he hadn’t technically broken any of his promises.
“There is no such thing as a fair game,” Wriothesley mumbled as any and all remaining tension in his body went slack, sending him careening into the gentleman’s shoulder as his body gave out and his eyelids fluttered. This was one hell of a sedative.
He thought he heard the faintest chuckle as his vision tunneled and he lost consciousness. Perhaps, on the bright side, the last thing he’d remember from life was the alluring smell of the ocean immediately following a summer storm, petrichor rich in his nose and sun-warmed stones beneath his bare feet.