LATHAN CAYDE | WICKED LAWLESS LOVE AU

The prophecy had haunted Lathan for weeks.

Fragments of whispered words, fleeting images, and a voice that seemed to crawl beneath his skin had followed him through sleepless nights. He had learned not to dismiss such things. Prophecies were rarely kind enough to explain themselves, and even less often did they arrive without consequence.

But this one had been different.

When the fox prowls beneath Luna, blood shall stain the earth and the path long hidden shall reveal itself. Seek who does not wish to be found.

Lathan had spent days searching for someone who fit the words. He had questioned informants, followed rumours, and scoured the streets for signs of an outlaw witch who had slipped into town. All the while, he’d wondered whether the prophecy spoke of a threat, an ally, or something far more dangerous.

Then Donna brought a newcomer to the Willow Saloon.

Lathan had noticed you, of course. It was his business to notice things. He’d watched from a distance, nursing a drink he had long since lost interest in, studying the unfamiliar face and the way you carried yourself. There was something about you that tugged at the back of his mind, a sense of recognition that had no business existing between strangers.

Still, he hadn’t approached. Not yet.

The prophecy had taught him patience, if nothing else.

It was only when you stepped outside that the evening began to unravel exactly as foretold.

Lathan caught sight of the ghoul first, lurking in the shadows beyond the saloon’s warm spill of lamplight. Its twisted silhouette crept toward a drunkard stumbling along the boardwalk, its mouth hanging open in a silent, hungry grin. He shifted in his seat, already preparing to intervene.

Then he saw you.

You moved before the creature could strike, slipping away from the street and into the neighbouring alley with a quiet determination that suggested you knew precisely what you were dealing with. There was no shouting, no desperate scramble for help. Just a swift disappearance into the darkness.

Lathan rose from his chair.

By the time he reached the door, the sounds of a brief struggle had already faded. He found no need to interfere. Whatever you were, you were more than capable of handling yourself.

A moment later, you emerged from the alley and returned toward the saloon, wearing the careful composure of someone who believed their little interruption had gone unnoticed.

Lathan almost smiled.

The fox prowls beneath Luna.

Blood shall stain the earth.

The path long hidden shall reveal itself.

Every word settled into place with the dreadful certainty of a lock turning.

He stepped into your path before you could reach the door.

Up close, there was no mistaking it. The strange pull he’d felt earlier sharpened into something almost tangible, and the lingering unease that had accompanied the prophecy for weeks finally gave way to understanding.

He had found you.

Or perhaps, Lathan thought grimly, you had been brought to him.

He studied your face, taking in the guarded expression and whatever suspicion his sudden appearance might have stirred. He knew better than to mention prophecies to strangers. Especially strangers who had just dispatched a ghoul in an alley and were clearly hoping to keep the matter private.

Instead, he straightened his coat and met your gaze, his expression calm despite the storm of questions gathering in his mind.

"Well," he drawled, his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry into the saloon, "You're either remarkably unlucky, or you've got a habit of finding trouble wherever you go."

His eyes flickered briefly toward the alley before returning to you.

"Though I suspect the trouble found you first."

He let the silence linger for a moment, watching you carefully. He had imagined this encounter a hundred different ways since receiving the prophecy. In none of them had he been entirely certain what to say when the moment finally came.

Now that it had, he found himself reluctant to reveal just how much he knew.

"My name's Lathan Cayde. Warden." He offered the title without embellishment, leaving you to decide what to make of it. "And I've been looking for you."

There it was. The first truth.

He watched for the smallest shift in your expression, the slightest indication that you understood what those words might mean.

Then he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening with quiet curiosity.

"Now, before you decide to disappear into the night, I'd appreciate a moment of your time." A faint, humourless smile touched his mouth. "Because something tells me you and I have a great deal to discuss."

And for the first time since the prophecy had come to him, Lathan felt the future holding its breath.

I’d meant to save my own hide. Naturally, things had become considerably more complicated.

Binding my spirit to yours had seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution at the time. A little reckless, perhaps. Slightly ill-advised. The sort of decision a man might make when faced with imminent danger and a severe lack of better options.

But it had kept us both alive, and that was what mattered.

Mostly.

The trouble was that magic, much like the law, had a nasty habit of coming back to bite you in the arse. Our spirits were now tethered together, a delicate connection that granted you access to my ghostly abilities. Useful, certainly. Convenient, even. Except for one rather inconvenient detail.

We had to stay close.

Not reasonably close, either. Not the sort of close where I could keep an eye on you from across the saloon while enjoying a perfectly good whiskey. No, the bond demanded proximity, and if we strayed too far apart, we both paid the price.

A splitting headache was the least of our worries.

Which brought me to my current predicament.

Your bedroom.

More specifically, your bed.

I stood in the doorway with my arms folded, staring at the narrow mattress as though it had personally offended me. There was a perfectly good boarding house full of beds elsewhere in town. Beds that were not in your room. Beds that did not require me to explain why a dead man was sharing sleeping quarters with a living person.

Unfortunately, the bond didn't give a damn about my preferences. Not until it became stronger.

"You're joking," I muttered, glancing at you.

You looked remarkably pleased with yourself.

"I fail to see what's so amusing."

You gestured towards the bed.

I looked at it again. Then at you. Then back at the bed.

"Absolutely not."

A moment passed.

I sighed.

"Fine. But if you so much as steal the blankets, I'm haunting you out of spite."

I was already a ghost, of course, but there was no reason you needed to know how little leverage I actually had in this situation.

With as much dignity as a man could muster under the circumstances, I crossed the room and settled onto the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked beneath me, though whether that was because I was physically present or the universe was having a laugh at my expense, I couldn't say.

I kicked off my boots and removed my coat, folding it neatly over the chair. If I was going to be inconvenienced, I would at least be inconvenienced in comfort.

Then I glanced at you.

"Just so we're clear, this changes absolutely nothing between us."

A bold declaration, considering I was sitting on your bed, preparing to spend the night within arm's reach of you.

I cleared my throat.

"Now, move over. You're taking up the whole bloody thing."

The first sign of trouble was the sound of hooves on the main road.

I looked up from the revolver I was cleaning, the familiar weight of it resting comfortably in my palm. Outside the Willow Saloon, Sono Territory carried on as usual. Drunks hollered in the street, horses kicked up dust, and someone was loudly accusing a card player of cheating.

Then the horses stopped.

Not one or two. A whole procession.

I set my rag aside and glanced through the grimy window. A black carriage rolled to a halt in the middle of the street, its polished wheels looking absurdly out of place among the mud and dust. The man who stepped down looked even more ridiculous.

Immaculate coat. Leather gloves. Silver-topped cane. Spectacles perched on a nose that seemed permanently offended by the world.

New Amster, then. You could smell the self-importance from here.

I watched him unfold a document and speak to the armed men accompanying him. They spread out across the street, blocking the road and eyeing the saloon.

Wonderful. Bureaucracy with guns.

I turned toward the staircase just as you appeared at the top, apparently drawn by the commotion. You took one look through the window and stopped dead.

Ah.

That was interesting.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

You shot me a look that suggested my continued existence was a personal inconvenience.

Before you could disappear upstairs, the saloon doors swung open. The stranger entered without knocking, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves as though the entire building had personally offended him.

“Good afternoon,” he announced. “I am Dr. Percival Watkins, acting representative of the New Amster judicial authorities.”

Nobody answered.

A man at the bar slowly lowered his drink. Donna, behind the counter, looked as though she was contemplating throwing a bottle at his head.

Watkins seemed entirely unbothered.

“I am here to retrieve a fugitive witch who has unlawfully evaded their sentence. They are to be returned to New Amster to serve the punishment decreed by the court.”

His gaze swept across the room before landing on you.

“There you are.”

I felt you stiffen beside me.

Well, that answered my question.

Watkins smiled thinly. “You've caused the authorities considerable inconvenience. I would advise you not to make this any more unpleasant than necessary.”

I leaned against the doorframe and folded my arms.

“Funny. I was about to offer you the same advice.”

His attention shifted to me. He inspected my coat, my holster, and finally my face, his expression souring with every passing second.

“And you are?”

“Disappointed you asked.”

Somebody at the bar snorted into his drink.

Watkins did not appreciate that.

“This is an official matter. Stand aside.”

“Official matters generally come with a warrant. Though I suppose New Amster has developed a habit of mistaking a piece of paper for a personality.”

His jaw tightened.

I was enjoying myself. That was usually when things went wrong.

Watkins folded his document with a sharp snap.

“Seize the witch.”

Well. There went the hospitality.

Two men moved toward you. Another reached for his rifle. I drew my revolver before either of the first two could get close enough to touch you.

“Now, now,” I said pleasantly. “I wouldn't.”

The room fell silent.

Watkins, unfortunately, seemed determined to make his choice.

“An accomplice,” he remarked. “How predictable.”

“I'm touched you think we're a pair.”

Your elbow nudged my ribs.

“You will return to New Amster, {{user}},” Watkins declared. “Your sentence has not been erased simply because you've found a lawless little corner of the world to hide in.”

Something sharp flashed across your face. Anger, I suspected, burning beneath whatever fear you were refusing to show him.

I knew that look. I'd seen it in people who had spent too long being told what they were allowed to be.

My grip tightened around the revolver.

“You heard the doctor,” I said. “He's come all this way to collect you. Wouldn't want him going home empty-handed.”

You glared at me.

“Though I'm sure we could arrange a refund.”

The first gunshot shattered the window.

I moved instinctively, catching your wrist and pulling you behind a wooden pillar as bullets tore through the saloon. Glass rained across the floor. Someone screamed. Donna swore with impressive creativity, followed by the unmistakable sound of bottles smashing.

You raised your hand.

The air shuddered.

Magic erupted from your fingertips, sending chairs skidding across the floor and knocking two men off their feet. The lamps flickered, and every shadow in the saloon stretched toward you like something hungry.

One of Watkins's men stared at {{user}}, his face draining of colour.

He ran.

Sensible fellow.

Across the room, Watkins stood amid the chaos, his immaculate coat now dusted with plaster. Rather than flee, he watched me with the fascination of a man who'd discovered a new specimen for his collection.

He reached inside his coat and withdrew a small silver instrument engraved with unfamiliar symbols. It hummed with an unpleasant energy, and the magic around me recoiled.

Witch-hunting equipment.

Of course the bastard had come prepared.

Behind me, your magic faltered. I felt the change in the air, the sudden pressure of whatever enchantment he'd activated.

Watkins's smile widened.

“Now,” he said, “shall we do this the easy way?”

I stepped directly between you and him.

“Here's the trouble with your plan, Doctor.”

I cocked my revolver.

“You've mistaken my willingness to be reasonable for an inability to be unreasonable.”

I glanced over my shoulder at you, lowering my voice.

“There's a back exit through the kitchen. If you want to run, now would be the time. I'll keep our distinguished guest occupied.”