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Summary: an assassination attempt changes Spade's unfriendly relationship with his powers.
Warnings: Violence! :D
One of the advantages to the main house having grounds edging on a decent span of forest was that it was easier to get away from people occasionally. The gardens meant it was still decently likely for someone to be able to find him; none of the servants were quite good enough at tracking to find him in the woods, particularly after dark, and it didn’t hurt that most of the household had grown more suspicious and superstitious about them the more time he spent there, particularly after what’d happened with his brother when they were younger.
The same small clearing at the bottom of a drop-off had turned into a favorite haunt; it was one of the last places in the woods any of the family wanted to go near, it was quiet, peaceful, and secluded, and the more he grasped what’d happened back then, the more aware he was that it was just a normal clearing in the woods, not haunted or infested with anything more dangerous than a few owls nesting in a nearby tree. As long as he had control, the rest of his powers may as well have not existed, and the clearing was safe.
He’d fallen into half-dozing when it processed that the night birds had gone quieter than usual, then that he wasn’t alone in the clearing, a moment too late to react well; there was a heavy, gloved hand on the back of his neck as whoever it was caught one of his wrists, wrenching his arm behind his back and pushing him to the ground, someone that had to be almost twice his size. He got a good glimpse of boots in front of him, his first good warning that his attacker wasn’t alone before there was a knee driven into his back hard, pinning him to the ground.
He tried to squirm free anyway, in spite of the weight, but between that and the way his arm was twisted, it wasn’t doing any good; they’d caught his free hand fast, pulled it around as well, and managed to awkwardly get his wrists tied behind his back with rough rope tight enough to cut off circulation.
There was a moment of awkward silence broken only by him hissing through his teeth and making another attempt to get loose.
“…That’s it? All those horror stories and that’s all the trouble he is?” He didn’t know the voice, but the confused disbelief was enough to add a note of sulk to him holding still and waiting; apparently someone had gotten annoyed enough with him to hire people to go after him.
“What do you want? Who hired you?” The question was snapped with enough force that you wouldn’t have guessed he was unarmed, tied, and pinned. The answer was the man that had him pinned stuffing a wad of stale old cloth in his mouth and tying something around it; that ruled out questioning, at least just yet, or at least meant they didn’t want to risk him raising noise where someone in the house might hear. It didn’t clear up who it was or who was responsible, but at least a kidnapping he could get out of, and even if he couldn’t get out on his own, Elena could get word to Giotto; he knew his family wouldn’t pay a ransom, but the Vongola wouldn’t leave him. He could feel his power squirming somewhere in back with his own anxiety, and forced it calm; he wasn’t going to be the monster again, there was no telling what would happen if he did let it loose. He was intelligence, he had backup, he just needed to hold out until they got there.
The one pinning him shifted, grabbing the back of his collar and planting a boot on his lower legs; they stood up, dragging him to his knees, the weight on his legs holding him there. Their partner, a tall man in a heavy coat and battered hat, didn’t look familiar to him at all, but did have a revolver trained on him; the way he was being held didn’t speak of any plans to go anywhere, and that anxiety was struggling to claw loose, the shadows around the trees nearby flickering as he struggled to keep it under control.
He made a small gesture with the gun, indicating off towards the edge of their land. “Shouldn’t we get him off the grounds first? It’ll look bad.”
There went that hope of questioning or being drug off for ransom.
“This far out it won’t matter; we can be gone before anybody comes to look, and it’ll mean less dealing with him trying to bolt. I doubt they’ll even put much effort into chasing down what happened; make a show for the sake of appearances and probably thank god they’re rid of him. Besides, this one I just want to get over with and get away.” And that would be his reputation working against him. The assassin was probably right; his family would be less howling for revenge and more glad he was gone, and there was a knot in his throat staring down the gun. For all that it was shifting into panic, he was still managing to keep hold on the nightmares, although other lines were reacting, enough that he knew Elena had to know something was wrong; they’d just started having a solid chance to do something, and for all he knew, he was about to get taken out by someone paid off by one of his siblings that didn’t know a thing of what was going on –
There was the click of the revolver cocking, and certain things snapped into perspective with it; whatever happened, he still had things he needed to do, he couldn’t give up and abandon what they’d worked for, and letting loose what he’d hated was worth not leaving Elena alone like this.
At first it wasn’t really controlled; what dim moonlight there was nearly blacked out as there was a rush of movement, something skittering in the shadows around the camp, large shapes between the trees that twitched and twisted unnaturally; the gunman hesitated, stiffening, then moved to fire just to get it over with, only to find the gun in his hand a coiled adder, fangs bared at him. He screamed, trying to drop it and throw it away from him, stumbling back to where the same dog-sized “forest spiders” Daemon’s brother had terrified him with when they were little – the same things that’d appeared through his power back when his brother had turned on him out in this clearing – reared up and struck, dragging the man back and carving into him with sharpened claws. His partner made a small, panicked noise as the gunman’s screams cut off into the body twitching under the mass of black bodies and legs; the man’s weight shifted, probably going for some kind of weapon with his free hand.
There were trees on the overhang behind them, and he knew the roots that strung out of the dirt “wall” in his sleep; before the still living assassin could get to whatever he was after, the roots had lashed out, elongated and entangling. Daemon twisted loose, awkwardly shuffling away to sit in the middle of the clearing facing the overhang; the screaming was probably enough to’ve been heard at the main house by now, as the spiders moved around him protectively.
And for once, it was easy to be aware that they were his; he could feel the same power he’d been struggling with moving through them and the roots, following his will.
One of the spiders bit through the cloth tie that formed part of the gag, then set to severing the rope holding his hands; he spit out the rag, tossing it aside, and pushed, just a little, towards the roots, to get it over with. The mess of roots turned murderous, pulling apart and gaining sharpened points to pierce through; it was only a couple very violent seconds before the clearing was quiet other than the shifting of the spiders and the blood and viscera dripping out of the tangle.
Probably, even a few months ago, he’d have been getting sick at this; maybe he still would, when the adrenaline wore off and things calmed down. As it was, the mess was almost morbidly fascinating; it’d taken so little to turn the tables, and apparently, seriously trying to kill someone led to overkill.
He was starting to feel a little fuzzy, the edges of the same kind of tired he’d gotten back when there’d been outbursts; it was over, he was safe, and it took a little effort to let go of the power and dismiss it.
After a couple moments, the clearing was back to normal; the rest of the bits and body parts from the one the roots had killed dropped to the ground wetly. The overhang was the same as it’d been a few minutes ago; the revolver was a few feet away, metal and ivory, and besides the gore and blood, there wasn’t a sign anything had moved.
Just like with all the other things that’d happened, it was only real as long as there was power to it; he picked up, pulling his coat around himself closer, and hurried back through the woods, dirty, bloody, and a bit bruised. It was part of the rest of the dazed train of thought, that if he could do that much, he could probably make sure nobody saw him – and sure enough, wrapping it around himself in a nice cocoon of “there is nothing here” meant that he walked right through the house, past a few of the servants, without anyone even looking up.
He needed to get out of the dirty clothes, get the blood cleaned off of him; he’d probably have to burn some of it, some time when nobody was watching, if anyone went out in the woods and found the bodies it’d be too obvious if the servants knew he’d come in with bloody clothes…
*****
Warnings: Violence! :D
One of the advantages to the main house having grounds edging on a decent span of forest was that it was easier to get away from people occasionally. The gardens meant it was still decently likely for someone to be able to find him; none of the servants were quite good enough at tracking to find him in the woods, particularly after dark, and it didn’t hurt that most of the household had grown more suspicious and superstitious about them the more time he spent there, particularly after what’d happened with his brother when they were younger.
The same small clearing at the bottom of a drop-off had turned into a favorite haunt; it was one of the last places in the woods any of the family wanted to go near, it was quiet, peaceful, and secluded, and the more he grasped what’d happened back then, the more aware he was that it was just a normal clearing in the woods, not haunted or infested with anything more dangerous than a few owls nesting in a nearby tree. As long as he had control, the rest of his powers may as well have not existed, and the clearing was safe.
He’d fallen into half-dozing when it processed that the night birds had gone quieter than usual, then that he wasn’t alone in the clearing, a moment too late to react well; there was a heavy, gloved hand on the back of his neck as whoever it was caught one of his wrists, wrenching his arm behind his back and pushing him to the ground, someone that had to be almost twice his size. He got a good glimpse of boots in front of him, his first good warning that his attacker wasn’t alone before there was a knee driven into his back hard, pinning him to the ground.
He tried to squirm free anyway, in spite of the weight, but between that and the way his arm was twisted, it wasn’t doing any good; they’d caught his free hand fast, pulled it around as well, and managed to awkwardly get his wrists tied behind his back with rough rope tight enough to cut off circulation.
There was a moment of awkward silence broken only by him hissing through his teeth and making another attempt to get loose.
“…That’s it? All those horror stories and that’s all the trouble he is?” He didn’t know the voice, but the confused disbelief was enough to add a note of sulk to him holding still and waiting; apparently someone had gotten annoyed enough with him to hire people to go after him.
“What do you want? Who hired you?” The question was snapped with enough force that you wouldn’t have guessed he was unarmed, tied, and pinned. The answer was the man that had him pinned stuffing a wad of stale old cloth in his mouth and tying something around it; that ruled out questioning, at least just yet, or at least meant they didn’t want to risk him raising noise where someone in the house might hear. It didn’t clear up who it was or who was responsible, but at least a kidnapping he could get out of, and even if he couldn’t get out on his own, Elena could get word to Giotto; he knew his family wouldn’t pay a ransom, but the Vongola wouldn’t leave him. He could feel his power squirming somewhere in back with his own anxiety, and forced it calm; he wasn’t going to be the monster again, there was no telling what would happen if he did let it loose. He was intelligence, he had backup, he just needed to hold out until they got there.
The one pinning him shifted, grabbing the back of his collar and planting a boot on his lower legs; they stood up, dragging him to his knees, the weight on his legs holding him there. Their partner, a tall man in a heavy coat and battered hat, didn’t look familiar to him at all, but did have a revolver trained on him; the way he was being held didn’t speak of any plans to go anywhere, and that anxiety was struggling to claw loose, the shadows around the trees nearby flickering as he struggled to keep it under control.
He made a small gesture with the gun, indicating off towards the edge of their land. “Shouldn’t we get him off the grounds first? It’ll look bad.”
There went that hope of questioning or being drug off for ransom.
“This far out it won’t matter; we can be gone before anybody comes to look, and it’ll mean less dealing with him trying to bolt. I doubt they’ll even put much effort into chasing down what happened; make a show for the sake of appearances and probably thank god they’re rid of him. Besides, this one I just want to get over with and get away.” And that would be his reputation working against him. The assassin was probably right; his family would be less howling for revenge and more glad he was gone, and there was a knot in his throat staring down the gun. For all that it was shifting into panic, he was still managing to keep hold on the nightmares, although other lines were reacting, enough that he knew Elena had to know something was wrong; they’d just started having a solid chance to do something, and for all he knew, he was about to get taken out by someone paid off by one of his siblings that didn’t know a thing of what was going on –
There was the click of the revolver cocking, and certain things snapped into perspective with it; whatever happened, he still had things he needed to do, he couldn’t give up and abandon what they’d worked for, and letting loose what he’d hated was worth not leaving Elena alone like this.
At first it wasn’t really controlled; what dim moonlight there was nearly blacked out as there was a rush of movement, something skittering in the shadows around the camp, large shapes between the trees that twitched and twisted unnaturally; the gunman hesitated, stiffening, then moved to fire just to get it over with, only to find the gun in his hand a coiled adder, fangs bared at him. He screamed, trying to drop it and throw it away from him, stumbling back to where the same dog-sized “forest spiders” Daemon’s brother had terrified him with when they were little – the same things that’d appeared through his power back when his brother had turned on him out in this clearing – reared up and struck, dragging the man back and carving into him with sharpened claws. His partner made a small, panicked noise as the gunman’s screams cut off into the body twitching under the mass of black bodies and legs; the man’s weight shifted, probably going for some kind of weapon with his free hand.
There were trees on the overhang behind them, and he knew the roots that strung out of the dirt “wall” in his sleep; before the still living assassin could get to whatever he was after, the roots had lashed out, elongated and entangling. Daemon twisted loose, awkwardly shuffling away to sit in the middle of the clearing facing the overhang; the screaming was probably enough to’ve been heard at the main house by now, as the spiders moved around him protectively.
And for once, it was easy to be aware that they were his; he could feel the same power he’d been struggling with moving through them and the roots, following his will.
One of the spiders bit through the cloth tie that formed part of the gag, then set to severing the rope holding his hands; he spit out the rag, tossing it aside, and pushed, just a little, towards the roots, to get it over with. The mess of roots turned murderous, pulling apart and gaining sharpened points to pierce through; it was only a couple very violent seconds before the clearing was quiet other than the shifting of the spiders and the blood and viscera dripping out of the tangle.
Probably, even a few months ago, he’d have been getting sick at this; maybe he still would, when the adrenaline wore off and things calmed down. As it was, the mess was almost morbidly fascinating; it’d taken so little to turn the tables, and apparently, seriously trying to kill someone led to overkill.
He was starting to feel a little fuzzy, the edges of the same kind of tired he’d gotten back when there’d been outbursts; it was over, he was safe, and it took a little effort to let go of the power and dismiss it.
After a couple moments, the clearing was back to normal; the rest of the bits and body parts from the one the roots had killed dropped to the ground wetly. The overhang was the same as it’d been a few minutes ago; the revolver was a few feet away, metal and ivory, and besides the gore and blood, there wasn’t a sign anything had moved.
Just like with all the other things that’d happened, it was only real as long as there was power to it; he picked up, pulling his coat around himself closer, and hurried back through the woods, dirty, bloody, and a bit bruised. It was part of the rest of the dazed train of thought, that if he could do that much, he could probably make sure nobody saw him – and sure enough, wrapping it around himself in a nice cocoon of “there is nothing here” meant that he walked right through the house, past a few of the servants, without anyone even looking up.
He needed to get out of the dirty clothes, get the blood cleaned off of him; he’d probably have to burn some of it, some time when nobody was watching, if anyone went out in the woods and found the bodies it’d be too obvious if the servants knew he’d come in with bloody clothes…
