water's sweet but blood is thicker | alcyone/calypso [blitz]

Silence.

For most, sitting in a quiet, empty house would be soothing—therapeutic even. For me, it spelled 'trouble' and made me feel uneasy. An empty house meant my sisters were out; girls left to their own devices were dangerous, reckless, and likely to return home with cuts and bruises.

What's more, they may even be ignoring the wolf's code. Though I can't say I've been strong enough to resist the temptation of breaking the rules.

That's why I'm not at all startled by the broken silence. Nor am I concerned by the desperation in her voice. There is nothing that could make me fear her, hate her, punish her.

"Alcyone, I fucked up."

I've never been any good at following the rules. I've never been good at anything but family.

"What happened?" I ask gently, already knowing full well there is no need to doubt that she did indeed fuck up. That's how it worked with my sisters and I—we fuck up. And then we fix it.

No matter how bad.

Her knuckles turn white, her face grows pale.

She stutters ("I-") and I can feel the tension in the air, feel the weight of the world and her secrets shifting from her shoulders to mine. Her worry, her pain, her fear—I watch it dance across the room, take me by the hand. ('Sister's before blood.') But which comes first—the Wolf Pack? Or my sister?

"It's Xanthe, I - she -"


"There's this rival gang and I didn't say anything because -"

Which sister comes first? Xanthe or Calypso?

"Because I didn't want the pack to worry and I - I gambled with the leader over territory."

I can't look at her, not right now. It was true, we always fixed it. Every problem, every infraction—we dealt with it and we moved on. We are wolves and we defend what is ours, take what we need, and gnaw at the flesh of those who disobey order.

But that didn't mean we didn't bear our teeth and snarl when one of our pack mates stepped out of line.

"And?" I snarl.

"And I fucking lost."

I run my hands through my hair, chuckle because I can't believe she could've been so stupid!---"Why didn't you just-!"

Ask for help? I stare at her, swallowing back the rest of my question and moving on. But do I dare---?

"How much?" I ask, raising my eyebrows not in inquisition, but agitation. I pray she answers the question carefully, correctly. Because even if she has followed every Wolf Pack rule, she has gambled something I can't risk losing: family.

There is nothing left for me to do but go through the motions. I move across the room, sift through drawers and slam them shut when I can't find what I need. I purse my lips, squeeze the bridge of my nose. Nothing gets rid of the blinding migraine I feel encroaching.

Where is my revolver? I need the bang, bang, bang! to break the silence between us.

Where is my flask? I need the sting of alcohol in my throat to help me find the words.

Instead I have to settle for clenching my fists and glaring at her from across the room. Thousands? Thousands!? How could she be so reckless as to throw away all we've been working for? Everything we've ever dreamed of? How could she gamble our livelihood away the way Dad did?

"And that's not even the worst part."

I blink at her, dumbfounded. Because what could possibly be worse than--

"Calypso," I say, feeling my throat begin to swell shut and my heart begin to race. "Where is Xanthe?"

But I already know the answer. Gone.

The only way I'm going to get through this day—and likely the rest of this week, month, and year—is by guzzling down the alcohol we brew. And based on what I just heard, I can't afford to do anything but sell what we make. Earning back what we've lost will be the hardest thing we've had to deal with for a long time.

...that and the fact that our sister—("They took her.")—is now in the hands of some goons who think they can take what is MINE. I begin shuffling through the drawers again, searching for something I know isn't there.

"She traded herself so I could walk free."

It became clearer in my mind as my vision began to blur. Calypso's idea of loyalty was not to me or any of our sisters. Sisters before blood had nothing to do with familial ties, though I know it was never meant to be read that way. It simply meant, "Wolf Pack before all else." and "Gamble away what you can before all of your possessions are taken from you."

"How could you let them just take her?" I shout, plunging my hand into the cushion of our couch, finally finding the gun I had been looking for. I pull it out and flip open the cartridge—every single cylinder is empty.

I growl and slam it back into place. I pull the trigger over and over, the soft click, click, click doing nothing to calm my nerves.

"What happened to kill when necessary, huh? How was this not a situation which called for it?"

I should know better than to descend into a fit of rage. Dad always did that; I never want to be like him.

But it's too late now.

It's a wonder I've got enough composure to form coherent sentences, let alone have enough ambition to go searching for bullets.

"I couldn't do anything! She offered herself up - don't you think I tried?"

I shake my head and clench my jaw, stooping to look beneath the furniture for bullets; I need to do something. I need to fix this. That's how it's always been for me. My sisters were the pure ones, the only thing that seemed to matter in this world and I, the unworthy and lowly, cleaned up their messes so no one could see.

How could she be so damned headstrong?

"I was a fucking idiot to be there in the first place--"


"I thought I had everything under control!"

I inhale, ready to continue on with the screaming and worrying and what I could only guess would be an endless search for bullets. But she pauses, too.

One deep breath to dispel her anger—("I've always had everything under control.")—and just one sentence to make me regret every bit of mine.

I get back to my feet, take a deep breath. The anger turns to fear the moment I look at her, beaten down by her loss.

"Control is just an illusion," I say, letting my breath out slowly. I stare through her, simply because I do not yet have the power to look her in the eyes. "No amount of bullets or money can change that."

I take a few steps towards her and shake my head, look her straight in the eyes.

"We have to get her back."

It's not typical of me to want to kill someone. I hate it. I'd rather shoot beer bottles off the top of fences or the crows that nest in the trees out back. But in this particular case—the one involving my sister's flesh and what she chooses to do with it—I feel the itch. I can picture it in my mind, the BANG! of the gun and the SPLAT! of his blood against the wall as his skull goes CRACK! against the ground. And the eye of red where the bullet sits between his eyes will not frighten me. I may even find the gumption to smile.

("I want to kill him, Alcyone.")


"I want to kill Thaddeus Bloodworth."



I nod, slowly. I try to calculate the number of bullets necessary to pull such a mission off, the number of sisters we are willing to risk to get just one back. And the answer comes to me so quick that I know I'm a real hypocrite: All of them. Just as Caly had taken the gamble for more, I am willing to risk it all for Xanthe.

"Okay."

It's the only thing I can think to say. (Kill only if you must.) I look at her, put my hand on her shoulder. She has to know what I mean. She has to know I won't tell a soul if she puts a bullet in the skull of the man who took Xanthe from us.

Thaddeus Bloodworth, you have messed with the wrong family.

"Okay."