Host of Sheets (shyan)

Chp 11. Faith

Shane paced.

In other circumstances, he might have found all of this fascinating. The paranormal had become real, flesh and bone; it could officially be labeled a branch of science, all those 'ologies Ryan was always spouting off- parapsychology, cryptozoology, ghostology, whatever. He wanted to learn about every part of it, but Everett just kept getting in the way. Everett didn't give one fuck about the intellectual side of it, and it made it hard for Shane to concentrate.

That, and he was going through terrible nicotine withdrawals. He'd never known what those felt like until now. Now, that didn't make sense at all, not really; withdrawals were a chemical reaction in the body, something his physical body shouldn't be experiencing. He wasn't a smoker.

But Everett smoked, so Shane needed a cigarette.

His pacing ended up at a row of desks, taking his time to paw through abandoned bookbags and purses. He was still unsuccessful when Steven finally returned.

Shane's gaze flicked over him. Steven looked like a disaster, split lip and swollen cheek. Hair tousled, sweater ripped.

"The hell, Steven? Where's Ryan? Did he whoop your ass that badly? You can't act tough for two minutes?"

Shane knew he wasn't being fair to Steven; he'd never spoken to him like that before. And he knew Ryan was stubborn. It was hard to get him to do anything he didn't want to do. But Shane was tired, and Steven was just standing there, useless. Shane sighed at the hurt look on Steven's face, going up to him to rub a thumb along his bruised cheekbone gently.

"...He really did get you good, didn't he? I'm surprised. Didn't think he had it in him."

Steven fidgeted, "I got him good too! The knife just wasn't sharp enough, or it woulda gone in deeper. I-"

"-Excuse me? Deeper? ...You stabbed him?" Shane blinked and then blinked again, something tightening in his chest, dark and oily. Steven seemed to hear it in his tone- he raised his hands to placate him, laying them on Shane's chest.

"He's okay, it was just a tiny nick, he wasn't... behaving like you wanted him to-"

"That doesn't mean stab him! I wanted him here alive!"

"...You told me to bring a weapon?" Steven's voice slipped quieter and more uncertain with every word. Shane's rose louder.

"I meant to threaten him with! Like a gun!"

Steven looked bewildered. "Where would I get a gun? I don't know how to use a gun!"

Shane made a frustrated noise, rubbing at his eyes. Every man had a gun, how could Steven not? How the hell else did you defend yourself, take care of this kind of bullshit? Or- fuck, he was mixing things up again. He certainly didn't have a gun anymore either; it was probably some rusted hunk of metal somewhere in the mine by now.

He was terrible at being the bad guy. He didn't want to be the bad guy. He just wanted everyone to do what was best for them. Especially Ryan. He should be here, not flipping out in haunted hallways, hiding in the god's periphery.

He pursed his lips.

"Help me find a fuckin' cigarette." He grumbled instead, "Who here smoked?"

Steven skittered forward, "Oh! I know this. Frankie keeps a pack in her desk-"

Steven pointed to a desk and Shane waved the veins away, black tendrils curling away from his fingertips until the drawers came free. He pulled out the dented, half-empty pack and pink lighter, shoulders sagging in relief. He lit up right then and there and took a long drag.