The Hellhound

Ch. Twenty-Three

"In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable." 

- Dwight D. Eisenhower

                                                                     ***

All Sirius could do was stare. Then, his temper snapped. He could almost hear the crack. Before he knew what was happening, Rhys was on the ground and he was on top of the witch, a hand around his throat.

That didn't fall in with what he knew he needed.

"Sirius," Rick warned, but he didn't move to stop the Hellhound.

"What do you mean, he's not coming?" Sirius snarled. "He needs to go, she needs to see him."

The words hurt his heart. Admitting that there might be anyone else she could need more than him hurt, but Sirius knew better than any the Soul-rending torture Hell specialized in.

And Sirius wasn't going to trust that he would be able to force Theron to heal her properly if her body was still destroyed. Didn't trust that her body would be in suitable condition conveniently when they got to her. 

The bracelet Persephone had given him—the one that kept showing up in his pocket no matter what he did to be rid if it—grew heavy and cold.

"He can't," Rhys gritted out. He didn't move as Sirius' claws pricked into the delicate, vulnerable skin of his neck.

"Sirius," Rick said again quietly.

"He has to," Sirius whispered, darkness wrapping like satin ribbons around his arms.

The witch's eyes followed the darkness, but there was no fear anywhere in him. Sirius couldn't smell the tang that came with terror. His fangs flashed, aching to bury themselves in the witch's throat.

Rhys met his gaze calmly, the silver strands of his hair bright in the darkness. "Killing me won't help anything," he said, still insultingly relaxed. "And you won't do it anyway. So, if you don't mind, would you get the fuck off of me?"

Sirius realized immediately why the witch wasn't frightened. He was a telepath. He had read the chains across Sirius' mind, read how her words prevented him from really harming any of them.

"Why can't Logan go?" Rick asked, crouching down next to them to look into the witch's face.

Rhys never moved his eyes from Sirius', even as he answered the Hunter. "Because he can't."

Sirius gently drew his finger down the side of Rhys' neck, right next to the steady thrum that marked his carotid artery. Blood wept from the shallow cut, but the witch still didn't flinch.

"You'll have to kill me," Rhys said softly, "or ask him. It's not my story to tell."

A growl rattled in Sirius' chest, but Rick put a hand on his shoulder. Fisting his fingers in the material of Sirius' shirt, the Hunter pulled him to his feet and off the witch. Sirius threw a disbelieving look at him, but Rick just shrugged.

Rhys sat up, then pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt and pine needles from his hair and from his dark t-shirt. He traced a finger along the shallow cut Sirius had given him, then looked at the blood staining his fingers. "You'll have to do better than that to scare me," he said with a smirk. Then it faded into a grim frown. "How long has she been down there?"

Sirius knew he meant in Hell-time. Looking away, he hissed, "Too long."

"You know how we'll have to do this." It wasn't a question. It was a test.