Rowan put down the clipboard he'd been holding, signing off on his last case for the night. He'd been at the hospital since the previous night and was looking forward to a few hours off to spend at home, hopefully mostly with Cris, before heading back in to work the following evening.
He put his lab coat on the back of the chair in his office, which seemed to have grown in size (and changed locations) since his promotion. As he did, something in the front pocket of his scrubs crackled. He frowned, puzzled. Rowan didn't keep paper in his pockets; he would forget about it and then wash it and then Cris (who was, naturally, the neater of the two of them although Rowan did make an effort), would end up handing him a small pile of dryer debris with a mildly amused yet tolerant expression and...
...Rowan didn't keep paper in his pockets.
Or tongue depressors, or empty syringes, or cotton balls with little eyeballs drawn on them. He'd learned.
He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Plain white paper. Folded neatly. Rowan unfolded it and his heart stopped. He recognized the handwriting. He felt his skin grow cold.
This had to be a joke. Someone had to be playing a horrible joke on him.
'Tis a night for games.
Wouldst thou play with me, little bird?
Fly with me, if thy wings can bear the heat
Or will they burn with the nearness of the sun?
Icarus, we begin tonight.
Look to the east, to the flaming tower
Wherein hides a tragic princess.
Save her, if thou wouldst.
Or let the flames save her, cleanse her, free her.
Rowan stared at the paper for a good five minutes. It couldn't be. It couldn't possibly be. Why him?
He tried to ferret out the meaning behind the words but could only come up with a vague idea. He understood that this person, this man, had written a description of his target's death and then deliberately turned it into a reality, but this did not target Rowan. It targeted a tragic princess. Rowan didn't know any of those.
His thoughts raced as he shoved the paper back into the pocket of his scrubs and picked up his sweater, a black hoodie. Tugging it on he hurried out of the hospital. He had to figure this out. He had to get home to Cris and let him know what was going on.
Rowan practically raced along the city streets. He wanted to take a different route but in his haste he stuck to his usual one with only a quick diversion. As he emerged from the side street about halfway to the Towers he saw it. It wasn't quite east; not with the little detour he'd taken. But he saw it.
One of the buildings was on fire.
((ooc: Rowan out of the hospital))
Play With Me (attn: Rowan)
Brand smiled as he ghosted along the halls of Nachton Hospital. Everyone could see him, but no one paid him any particular attention. He blended in; he might as well be invisible. It had been a very simple matter to send his invitation to Dr. Murphy.
Dr. Murphy, the vampire.
Brand knew. He'd seen the redhead's reaction to the killing he'd witnessed. If one was familiar with vampires at all, there were a hundred tiny indicators that the good doctor was more than what he seemed. Brand loved to play games with them most of all. The secret, in his opinion, was to prey upon them. They were too strong to injure physically so you had to find their weaknesses in other ways. They all had them.
He suspected from the start that the tall red-haired vampire needed to save people. Children, moreover. He couldn't stand to see them hurt. Brand also knew from Rowan's reaction to his previous killing that the vampire didn't like fire. Was that his weakness? He didn't know, but he planned to find out.
He slipped along the hallways, his invite in the proper place. He left the hospital quickly; he had a lot of set-up to do.
Rowan Murphy
12 years ago