Chapter Text
Act I: The Grey Silence
The last leg of their flight is almost empty, just the five of them plus three more. The three are odd, keeping to themselves while in the air, and Grian doesn’t expect much from them.
Except, when they land, they’re quickly ushered onto the tarmac of an airport that appears to be a single gas station and a very long driveway. There’s a van waiting at the gas station. Overloaded with luggage, the team struggles towards it. The man swoops in and takes one of Grian’s three suitcases and his duffel bag. It doesn’t seem to phase him.
“What are you all carrying in here?”
The luggage has been evenly split between the eight of them, it seems, and all of it belongs to GIGGS. These three seem to have nothing with them.
“Ghost hunting equipment,” Scar says, wheeling along happily. Grian notices his load has been lightened, but not removed, and blinks in shock.
The three strangers nod to each other and accept it.
The van is rather big, more of a small bus than anything else. The driver is gruff when they try talking to him, and seems to not understand any English.
“Gem,” he shouts, and she appears. He gestures to the driver, “Talk to him!”
Gem looks aghast. “You think just cause I’m Canadian I can talk to French people?”
“You booked the ride!”
“I used Google translate!”
“You speak French!”
“It’s basically a different language!”
Impulse gets between them, looking exhausted. Gem sends him a sweet look and says, “Sorry Dad,” and he melts on the spot, but he also knows better than to treat them like children. “It looks like Scott’s got it taken care of.”
Gem tosses a satisfied smile his way and clambers in behind Impulse.
One of the two women stands behind him. “That’s her dad?”
Grian shakes his head. “No, she’s just a master manipulator.”
She nods knowingly. “Shelby’s the same way with Scott,” and Grian blinks, because he’d thought they were the same age.
“In a, like in a ‘dad’ way or a ‘daddy’ way?”
She coughs, giggles. “Oh my god.” She runs ahead. Her load is at least as heavy as Grian’s.
“Hey Scott,” Skizz calls from the back, and why the biggest guy in the group is in the back is anyone’s guess. “Why don’t you come with us?” How he’s covering up the strange feeling these three give off, Grian doesn’t know - and it can’t have been longer than thirty seconds ago that their two groups even began interacting. What is Skizz even offering here?
The man – Scott - tilts his head and drawls out, “Well, it looks like you do need a translator.”
“Exactly!”
†
Cramming eight people in the van is a bit tighter than five, but at least they don’t have any more luggage. Grian quickly figures out that they’re all heading to the same place, although his closer look at the three strangers tells him that they are on wildly different scales. These three, with their red contacts, bright white hair, and impeccable, if gothic, style, give off a privileged air. But their actual actions are not those of the out of touch rich kids Grian has the occasional misfortune of interacting with. None of those brats would have taken on the load these three did, without even being asked. Still. How often must they get their hair done so that the white looks like it grows in that way? There’s not even a hint of rootage - and Shelby’s hair is very curly, and look - Grian’s seen what bleach can do to curls. Lizzie’s pin straight hair grows out of her head curly, but her constant pink straightens it right out.
These three are on a different level altogether, and Grian can’t tell if he’s threatened by it or not.
Along the way, another two hour drive, Shelby explains that they keep everything they need at the manor - which they apparently have? - so they don’t even really bother bringing anything with them on this trip.
The sky is clear when they leave the airport, but only half an hour into their trip, that changes. A few spotty clouds turn into an overcast sky. The closer to their destination they become, the itchier Grian gets. It’s an odd, prickling sensation, bone deep.
Forty five minutes before they reach their destination, the driver begins speaking. Grian catches none of it. Gem makes an odd face, but Grian can’t tell if she truly understands it.
The look in Scott’s eyes is disconcerting. Their three companions begin a hushed conversation with the driver, and Grian tries to tell himself the hostile vibes he’s getting are misplaced. He’s heard that happens sometimes when listening to conversations in other languages.
The hushed conversation, however, quickly grows louder and louder. Finally, the driver pulls over and starts shouting. When they don’t move – which, none of them understand him, what was he expecting? – he opens his door and runs around the van, throwing their things on the ground.
“He-hey!” Scar says. The man’s wheelchair clatters on the gravel road, and Grian squashes the urge to get into a fight. His jaw clenches, but keeps an eye on Scar to see what the man wants to do.
And then, before either of them can form a response, Scott is there, shoving the driver – and oh. That’s what angry French sounds like.
“He says to get out,” Drift speaks up.
Grian hops out and rummages through their luggage to find Scar’s cane. Once the man is out of the van, they stare at the pile of stuff.
They struggled to get it from the airplane to the van. Do they have any other travel options?
They must be at least fifteen miles from their destination. Grian checks his phone – no service. Even if he were able to use it, he’s not sure there’s any civilization near enough to call an Uber from.
Skizz and Impulse are having an argument with the driver via Scott and Shelby. Gem’s already sorting the luggage into piles.
“I don’t think they’re gonna be able to convince him,” Drift says.
“What is he saying?”
She tilts her head, listening. “Apparently, he’s got the heeby jeebies and is refusing to continue driving.”
Scar’s jaw sets. “That’s not right.”
“No,” Drift agrees, “it’s not.” She heads over to help Gem just as the shouting picks up. Grian winces.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to take my wheelchair if we have to walk,” Scar says. His usually cheerful tone is missing.
Grian sighs. “Let’s see what we can manage.”
Between the four of them, they’re able to sort the luggage into eight roughly equal piles plus the wheelchair - which, luckily, wasn’t damaged when the driver shoved it out the back. Drift takes a step back, casting an assessing eye over the group.
Grian sputters as dust and dirt are kicked up into his face; the driver speeding off with no regard for the people he’s left on the side of the road.
“Scar, do you think your wheelchair could manage on the gravel if it’s just you in it?”
Scar’s head shoots up and his eyes fixate on Drift, then a more critical eye on the chair. He normally has a lot of their equipment hooked onto it, and it’s got a basket and hook on the back that they find useful when traveling.
Drift waves over the rest of the group. “I think if we keep Scar’s cane out, and split the luggage between the seven of us, he can drive the chair in. I’m sure between all of us, we can make sure it doesn’t get or stay stuck.”
Impulse quickly wipes the scowl off his face; one day, when his skin is all wrinkly and hair all white, he’ll make a wonderful mall Santa.
“How far do you think it is?”
“At least ten miles,” Shelby says.
“Does anyone have service? Maybe we can call Lizzie or Jimmy to come pick us up?”
Everyone pulls out their phones, but no – no one has anything.
Walking is their only option, they decide. Scar’s load is redistributed between the four strongest of them – which is, interestingly, their three guests – or, not guests, since their van is gone – and Skizz. A test go on the gravel proves that the barring any potholes, Scar will be fine. Scott eyes the sky.
With uncertain footsteps, they push forward.
The gravel road is hard on their feet. Grian’s not cheaped out on shoes – he runs for his life in these things fairly frequently. But still, there’s something about walking nonstop and carrying half your body weight on your back. It hurts.
“What brings the five of you to Oakhurst?”
The question is coming from Scott, innocuous. It’s normal small talk.
A shiver runs down Grian’s back. He has Jimmy’s letter in his pocket, already rough and worn from his worry. It’s barely a week old at this point, if that.
Impulse is the one who answers: “We’ve been requested to hunt ghosts; we have a friend in town who insists that there are definitely ghosts, and that he can’t handle them on his own.”
Scott’s head tilts. It’s almost animalistic. Skizz, ever the optimist, jumps in and explains their job – identifying ghosts for an extraction team to handle.
Grian, as one of the shorter members of their group, falls behind soon enough. Impulse, Skizz, Scott, and Drift walk ahead of them, the latter two gliding along with a calm air that Grian couldn’t hope to replicate.
Instead, he huffs and puffs, Gem right next to him in the same position. Drift is also hanging back, keeping pace with Scar and an eye on the entire group.
“So,” puff, “What do you do?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Drift says, somehow not winded by the same load that makes Grian’s heart hurt.
“Really,” Scar says, and Grian lets his chattering wash over him as he tries not to fall on his face.
†
It is four hours before their three companions loosen up. They’re in Oakhurst territory, finally. The gravel has transitioned to hardpacked dirt, and it doesn’t take muck longer for the road to become a mere suggestion. The sky has darkened quite a bit, but Scott assures them night has yet to fall.
Drift jogs a bit to catch up, though Grian hadn’t noticed her falling behind. He winces at his own carelessness – losing track of people is how one loses people, he knows well enough.
They set down for a minute for a rest and to pull out flashlights. The team has brought their best flashlights with them, which Drift oohs over. It’s dark proper as they walk up to town, and Grian can only be grateful they managed to pick up tour guides for this portion of the trip.
Scott, Drift, and Shelby leave them at the entrance to town, assuring them that their friends can point out which houses are available to stay in. They drag their things into the center of town, which is horrifically small. When Jimmy said he was moving to a village, Grian didn’t think he’d meant a cult in the woods.
He’s probably catastrophizing.
Jimmy is the one who notices them out here, sprinting out from his house. It’s a… really nice house actually. Didn’t he lose everything last year? How’s he got this?
“I was so worried about you guys!” he shouts, and barrels into Grian. The awful pit starts to fill in as he gets to touch his cousin for the first time in years – since Grian moved to America for his assignment. All of the sudden, there’s people everywhere, luggage is being lifted from his arms, and before he knows it, he’s in Lizzie and Joel’s house. It’s just the four of them in a quiet, cozy dining room. Grian’s throat grows thick.
“I missed you,” he says, and Joel gives him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
Dinner is steak, salvaged from one of BDub’s cows (is salvaged meat good? Joel and Lizzie don’t seem phased by it), and carrots and potatoes that Lizzie and Joel evidently grew themselves. Etho and Bdubs are helping his team get settled while Grian has dinner with his family.
Fuck, he’s missed them.
Lizzie is sitting catty corner to him, and she stands to give him a hug. He realizes, abruptly, that her stomach is huge.
“Are you pregnant,” it comes out before he can consider his words. Luckily, Lizzie just laughs, bright and clear. Joel looks so proud as he begins telling Grian all about the baby – coming in a little over a month; maybe he can find a way to stay here long enough to meet them.
“How is it, doing all this all the way out here?”
Lizzie’s smile is a bit brittle. An alarm goes off in the back of his mind. “It’s mostly fine,” Lizzie says, “We had a few pre-natal appointments in town a few hours away, and we’ve had some extensive classes and education about home births. We’re gonna try to get to a hospital, but this far away, it’s… not so likely we’ll make it.”
Joel nods. “I still think that we should go stay in the city,” and Lizzie rolls her eyes fondly. This is a conversation they’ve had many times.
“We’re prepared to give birth here,” she speaks over her husband, “but we’re hoping and planning on being a hospital.”
Dinner lasts hours; the food is all eaten quickly, Grian made to feel bad about letting food go to waste. It strikes him how different his family’s lives have become; he doesn’t grow his own food, harvest it, butcher it.
They move to the living room. The moon rises high in the sky as talking becomes board games, becomes drinking homemade mocktails, because Joel refuses to allow alcohol in the home if Lizzie can’t drink with them, but Lizzie insists on fun drinks.
It is on the the third round of mocktails and the tail end of the first and only game of Monopoly that it happens. Grian’s just gotten out of jail and just landed on Park Place, which belongs to Jimmy. The two of them start bickering, and Grian finds he cannot truly be angry at the game or this turn of events, a grin constantly winning the battle he wages against it. Lizzie rolls her eyes and goes to the restroom, while Joel grabs their cups and sets about another round of drinks.
Jimmy finally wriggles payment from him (see: stole from him) just as Lizzie’s returning from her trip. She’s got two glasses in her hands, Joel behind her, when she yelps. She doesn’t drop the drinks, but they do slosh over the edge and onto the floor.
Grian wasn’t watching her, aware of her but not paying attention. The sound makes him flinch. She’s looking beyond him and Jimmy, but when Grian turns his head, nothing is there. By the time Grian’s processed the sounds, Joel’s placed his two glasses on the floor and pulled the two out of Lizzie’s hands.
He tosses a glance at Jimmy, whose lips are pressed tight. In fact, all of him looks pinched.
Joel mutters something to her and Lizzie shakes her head.
“It’s fine,” she mutters, “he just surprised me.”
Joel looks scared, almost.
“This is one of the ghosts,” Jimmy says. “In this house.”
Joel huffs, “It’s not ghosts, mate. It’s just stress.”
“Stress doesn’t make people see corpses!”
The two look raring to get into it when Lizzie sits down and sweeps the monopoly board away. “Boys,” she says, low.
They both quiet down.
“I think,” she says, a forced calm to her tone, “That it’s time to play something more relaxing.”
“Lizzie?” Grian ventures, “Corpses?”
The glances his family share send a chill down his spine.
⚜︎
It is late by the time they arrive at the castle. If they had just batted, it would have been a matter of a few hours, maybe less, but before Scott knew it, he had been picking up the load off the ghost hunters and climbing into their van. Shelby and Drift had followed suit, and they had all ended up driving to their destination.
Hiking, really. Their driver may have taken them most of the way, but humans walking pace was slow. It took another six hours, maybe more, to arrive on the outskirts of town.
He really should spend more time on the ground out here, the woods have a way of making him feel small, reminding him his place in this world - no longer at the top, and against all odds, happier for it.
He doesn’t need to sleep, but he lays down on the plush bed regardless. After such a long trip, a few hours with his eyes closed feels incredible.
All too soon, Shelby is knocking on his door - a dignity she only affords him here. At home, she would just waltz right in, dragging Drift or Abolish with her at will. But here, in his ancient domain, she lets him pretend he is in charge. He answers, all of the ancient vampire lord he sheds most of the year.
The grin on her face is delighted at his manner - or dress. He only indulges in his old clothes here as well, and as comfortable as hoodies are, he really relaxes best in his “manor clothes,” as the girls have taken to calling it.
“It’s cuddle pile time,” she says, and waits for exactly a nanosecond before grabbing his hand and dragging him along.
He does not yelp.
He did, nearly two hundred years ago, the first time this happened. It is a yearly tradition that Shelby insisted upon back when they first left Oakhurst. Over the centuries, it has become second nature to lie with his fledgelings, even as they grow old enough for independence. He never let himself cling to his fledgelings before, but it is calming.
He ends up in the middle, Pearl on one side and Cleo on the other, and his girls on either side of them. He threads his fingers into Cleo’s hair.
She smells of anxiety, contentment, blood. An odd mix, and he tries not to longer on the fear undercutting their interactions.
“You guys seem on edge,” Drift says, minutes or hours later.
“Not now, darlin,” Cleo says, tossing a hand over Drift’s face. Notably, missing her mouth.
Drift shuts up anyways, though she catches Scott’s eye. Something setting her equally on edge, and unfortunately, he never catches on as quickly as she does.
He closes his eyes and lets the current carry him away.
†
He wakes with the sunrise, an odd occurrence for him. The ICU always needs more night shifts, so he has spent much of his life since leaving Oakhurst all those years ago living nocturnally. Slowly, his companions stir to accompany him.
It is well into midday when he finally gets to hear what has scared Cleo and Pearl so badly they had to call him. He is nursing a bottle of blood, sitting on the massive couch in what used to be the ballroom - it’s now a kitchen, living, and great room.
The recent killings, gruesome and awful, are described to them in great detail.
And he finds himself surprised, when, after describing in great detail the disembowelment of a boy, Cleo continues.
“What’s really got us freaked out,” they say, quiet almost as a mouse, “is the dead wood.”
Scott lets that sink in. It takes a few blinks and Shelby gets to it before him.
“You mean the old dead wood? That disappeared after we left?”
Pearl nods. “It’s back - mainly behind the castle but spreading.”
Scott pulls Cleo’s letter out of his pocket. The moon has developed a rusty cast to it and the air tastes of iron. The leaves have gone silent and the trees grey. I am afraid Owen’s prediction all those years ago may be coming to fruition.
He brushes his hand over the words.
“I refuse to believe Owen was correct about this place.” The idea that Owen’s bitterness held merit is a bitter pill to swallow; the words coming out of his mouth before he can think, but they are true. He’s been here centuries and nothing like this has ever happened. This cycle only began once he was forcefully put to sleep going on eight hundred years ago.
“We don’t know what else to think,” Cleo says. “The nights are as red as they used to be, the dead wood as silent as it was then.”
“There’s even wither roses out there,” Pearl offers. Silence envelops them all.
“BDubs found them. He was looking for his horse.”
Scott gently places the piece of parchment on the table. He can sense their worry more than smell, clutched so tightly to him. “Show us,” he says.
They do, leading him out the back door and into the woods. Even here he can see the spread of the color - a monotony that used to be soothing, but after so long in the busiest city in the world, now hurts his eyes.
“We’re worried about it spreading,” Cleo says. “It was more widespread before, but it’s growing by the day. It won’t be long before it catches up to its old range, and then what happens?”
What happens indeed. He grabs a leaf only partially consumed by the grey. It crackles gently in this hand. The grey half of the thing resists when he tries to bend it, but when he pushes hard enough it gives.
The dead wood of Oakhurst past was seemingly made of stone. Did it start like this?
It is a gently cool day, wind rippling through the trees, and the silence in front of him is deafening.
“Lets split up,” he barely gets the word out before he is met with protests. “Three and two, no one is alone. Something isn’t right here.”
Perhaps he’s gone soft. Perhaps he’s exactly what his past self would hate. He doesn’t care, instead focusing on the presence of the people he loves. “We will be fine,” he promises, and doesn’t say how far he will go to keep that promise.
†
He has to see the dead wood with his eyes, finding it impossible to believe. Centuries ago, they’d cleared out of Oakhurst. By their next return, on the second birthday Avid didn’t get to celebrate, the dead wood was lush and green, blooming brighter than any of the forest around it. They had waited with bated breath for decades for the wood to return to the state it had been in, and it never did.
The day is finally upon them, and the timing could not be worse.
“There’s no way Owen was right,” Shelby hisses. She has a wither rose in her hand, pissed beyond measure at what is happening in the woods she’s come to find safe and comforting. Scott feels the same way.
And yet. It’s been one hundred ninety one years. Almost right on time, Owen’s clock striking the hour.
The grey color spreads to the river shore that separates the castle from Oakhurst. Scott lunges across to the other side. Here, the leaves are yellow and orange; an early autumn.
The beacons are still red as they have always been, radiating death and blood. Scott, in a moment of instinct, finds himself at the ruined tower - now, more ruined.
The moss has made its way to the beacon. He hovers a hand over the thing, but nothing stands out about it. What was it, that overcame him like that? In moments, he returns to the castle.
The red glow of the moon sets his teeth on edge. It is not supposed to be like this.
He needs to make sure the escape routes are all intact. He could not bear it if the townsfolk came charging in here and his coven had nowhere to go.
The tunnel in the back of the hallway is intact, full of dust. The caves beyond their spawn room have shifted slightly, rock falls that have been braced with wood hiding entrances. Hidden rooms, false ceilings, everything down to the tiniest hiding place - he maps it out. He will show it to the coven soon.
It is dark down here, he knows this. He is not sure anyone has ever put lights in here proper, just lanterns and torches, but it does not bother him.
Should not bother him.
There’s something at the edge of his consciousness, following him like a whisper, but when he turns his head, there is nothing. It is not safe here, not in his home of nearly two thousand years.
He turns a corner into the main foyer of the crypt. Shadows in the corner of his eyes jump. Something smothers him, covering his mouth and nose. His hind brain wails as his conscious mind tries to remember he does not need to breathe. The thought is lost as something invades his chest, but his eyes see nothing - no hallway, no crypt, not even himself.
†
He awakes. He is on the floor, Shelby looking panicked above him.
His chest aches like never before, and it is not often he can say he has experienced something new, but today sure is something, and the ache pulses like a heartbeat as he heaves for air that he does not need.
“What happened,” Drift cries.
Scott tries to recall, but everything has gone muddy. His mouth gapes as he tries to come up with something.
Was he attacked?
Cleo looks furious. “You said not to go alone! Why’d you go off by yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he does not know how to say the words - he says them all the time at work, of course, because half of his patients are dying and he refuses to lie to them, but he does not think the words have ever been uttered in Pearl and Cleo’s presences.
Pearl’s barely hidden anxiety wins the battle against her face. Worried puppy-dog eyes implore him, “Scott please tell us.”
He forces his mind to go over the last day, but all he gets is that, “I needed to protect you all from the townsfolk.”
The look of shock on their face hurts, just for a second, then he remembers all of his friends in town. “I don’t… I don’t know where the feeling came from, or what I did. I just had to protect you.”
The emptiness leaves him reeling, fingers grasping at a cliff edge just out of his reach, but the last few hours are gone.
He tries standing. The world spins, and back down he goes. Shelby has caught him by the elbow, so he does not slam his head on the way down.
“Whoa,” he says. “That is some strong juice.” It is a joke he gives the families of his loopy patients - usually, drugged up that much, they are kept sedated, but occasionally they will wake up or be woken up, and sometimes they are really funny.
Sometimes they are not. Sometimes they are weepy or scared and he just does his best to reassure them; tries to tell them what Shelby would want to hear, or maybe Cleo, and sometimes they want to know everything.
Shelby pulls him back up and Pearl darts in under his other arm. His heart melts at her eagerness - they had never had a chance to grow close personally, but their family refused to let them sit awkward for too long. She is sweet, loyal, but pragmatic. He loves her.
“We’re going to bed,” Shelby says, and the five of them shuffle into Scott's room - still the largest and best decorated, in his opinion, and also the only one with a bed big enough for all of them. He is gently laid down on the edge of the bed then dragged into the middle. He laughs.
“I was going to go anyway,” he teases Shelby. She pouts at him, and Pearl shoves him down. Soon enough, he is surrounded by his loves all over again, but he cannot sleep. Beyond just not needing it, he keeps replaying the sensation over and over again. Was it death?
Was that what death feels like?
It had been slow, drawn out. His lungs gaped for air, and he never thought in his immortal years that drowning would ever be something he would have to worry about.
When he thought the lack of air must have killed him long prior, fingers pressed into his chest, harder and harder until they must have bruised. And finally, at the last heartstopping moment, the fingers were replaced with the tip of something sharp, pointy. The force grew and grew and his body yielded to it.
He never thought he would be Avid, and he is still not, he supposes, eyes awake to continue going.
He had not been so afraid, no, but he had dreaded. The pit in his stomach grew with the pressing of the fingers. He has been staked before, but he could normally walk it off.
This thing has caused him to black out. Maybe it caused his fuzzy memories of today.
He reaches his hand under his shirt, careful not to disturb his family and presses his fingers to where the sensation of tearing came from.
There is a scar.