Chapter Text
He blows into town at the ass crack of dawn on a Tuesday morning, nothing but sheer force of will and Mickey's own special brand of magick all that's keeping the car together.
The front seat is littered with empty cigarette packs and energy drinks, remnants of his nearly forty straight hour drive hurtling away from Chicago city limits.
He knows he’s somewhere in Oregon, having started going south as soon as he’d left Illinois in his wake, zigzagging his way towards Mexico before something had him turning west near the Arkansas border.
The car had rumbled and groaned as he’d pushed it to keep going just that much further, just a little bit farther, his tattoos pulsing in the dark as he’d concentrated on making sure the wheels didn’t give out beneath him.
It’s not like he knows exactly where he’s going but every attempt to head any direction other than west pulls at his gut like a hook tugging at his navel from the inside.
He’s heading away from Chicago in any case, so whatever’s guiding him in this direction can’t be any worse than what he’s leaving behind. He hopes.
His mother’s car was already a piece of shit before she died, and the ten years since haven’t done much to change that; rust spots bigger than his head dot the outside, with tires that needed to be changed five years ago. Massively peeling car seats, more foam than seat. The gas gauge has long since given up on its own, needle endlessly flickering back and forth between full and empty.
The knot of anxiety in his stomach had slightly lessened the further he’d gotten to the west coast, dense forest growing thicker around him as he’d kept going, like a blanket cocooning him against outside forces.
Like it can keep what’s hunting him at bay.
He vaguely remembers passing a cheery looking sign that had read ‘Welcome to Skylark!’ as he’d driven into town, giant hemlock and fir trees bracketing the road, the rising sun illuminating their massive branches the further in he went.
He can feel the exhaustion setting in, his bones aching from having been in the car for so long when he spots a large wooden signpost up ahead.
Skylark Inn is carved in elaborate script, a little blinking sign next to it advertising rooms for rent. It’s slightly rundown, but still a cute looking motel from what he can see as he pulls into the lot. Little cottages for each occupant are scattered around the property, and a small wooden board hangs underneath the motel signpost that says in big block letters “Fae welcome! NO PIXIES ALLOWED.”
He pulls into a spot just outside a building marked Administrative , leaving the car running just in case. He traces the rune on the door handle, reinforcing the wards surrounding it and ensuring no one but him can get inside while he goes to check out the room situation.
There’s a pimply-faced kid with a shock of pink hair sitting behind the counter who is barely awake, half asleep with his head in one hand as he levitates a rubber band ball with the other, fingers barely moving. There’s a little round pin attached to his shirt that says “Fae Folk have rights too!”, spelled with a little faerie flitting in and out.
Mickey squints under the bright lights of the office as he approaches the desk, flicking his lip ring back and forth with his tongue absentmindedly, a nervous tick.
The kid greets him with a barely held back yawn, letting the rubber band ball fall to the desk as he reaches for a stack of papers next to him.
“Welcome to the Skylark Inn, how can I help you on this wondrous day?” he says monotonously, pulling a contract from the stack and sliding it across the counter to Mickey.
“One room,” Mickey grunts, pulling the paper closer to see what sort of info they need.
It’s a fairly standard motel room agreement asking for a contact name and phone number, check in and check out dates, if a familiar will be accompanying the occupant, how many individuals will be staying in the room, and several options for cottage size. Mickey almost checks off the cottage for giants just to be a dick but decides he’s just too tired to be an asshole right now and instead puts a little check mark next to human.
Printed at the bottom is a somewhat lengthy disclaimer:
Skylark Inn is not responsible for any lost property such as grimoires, broomsticks, or wands, as well as damage caused by spells, potions, forces of nature, pixies, trolls, and any other supernatural being. Gold and/or faerie dust are not acceptable forms of payment. Cash only. NO dragon products allowed. All rideable broomsticks and carpets must be registered with the front office.
“One standard room will be $50 a night. Breakfast is not included. Did I mention no pixies allowed?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, pulling his wallet out and forking over enough to cover a week.
“Yeah, I got it, don’t worry. Little shits ain’t exactly my idea of a good time.”
His money counted and collected and his signature spelled onto the paperwork, the kid looks up at him with tired eyes, sliding a room key with the number 27 emblazoned on the keyring across the counter. His gaze lingers on the tattoo sitting halfway up Mickey’s throat that disappears into the top of his shirt, a stark contrast against his pale skin. It looks like liquid moving, a living thing shimmering under the fluorescent lights.
Mickey clears his throat, eyebrow raised.
“Gonna tell me where my room is?”
The kid’s cheeks tinge pink. “Yes, sorry,” he says, stuttering slightly when his gaze falls on Mickey’s knuckle tats. “Uh, g-go down the drive all the way to the end. Your cottage is on the right. Safe travels and blessings of the day to you, Mr -” he turns the motel agreement around to read the name Mickey had written, “- Mr. Van Damme.”
Mickey nods, taps the counter once, and heads back out to the car. He turns back to look at the office, briefly toying with the idea of erasing the memory of him having ever been here.
Memory spells were never his strong suit though, probably more likely to make the kid a drooling zombie than just simply forgetting about him. He abandons the thought and climbs back into the car, the door hinges groaning loudly.
The car whines pitifully as he pulls out and heads down the small road, the engine sputtering and grinding slightly. He follows the numbers until he spots 27 in gold lettering above the doorway of his cottage.
There doesn’t seem to be too many people occupying the other buildings thankfully, leaving Mickey relatively isolated surrounded by giant trees that make him feel like he’s nestled in a national forest somewhere, and from the dense woods he had driven through to get here, he thinks he may very well be.
Sighing heavily, he stares around at the other cottages as he fiddles with his keys, letting himself breathe a bit for the first time in the past forty odd hours, rubbing the lunica tattoo on his wrist back and forth, the silvery ink helping to soothe him somewhat, center him.
He leans back into the car and grabs the necklace hanging from his rearview mirror, the black tourmaline crystal glittering as he wraps it around his neck, fingering it slightly.
There’s not much else he needs to grab besides his backpack on the passenger seat and the duffle bag in the back containing what’s left of his life in Chicago.
He shoulders them both and is heading toward the front door of the cottage when the car lets out a pathetic moan behind him and practically collapses in on itself, the last remnants of Mickey’s protective force wearing off, leaving it a rusted out husk that doesn’t look like it’s going to be working again anytime soon.
Fuck.
He stares at it, sighing loudly as he looks up at the slowly brightening sky.
That’ll be a problem for Tomorrow Mickey.
The cottage itself is nothing to write home about as he heads inside, but it’s clean and well maintained, albeit slightly dated.
There’s a double bed against the wall to the left that has a blue patterned quilt on top of it, looking like something someone’s great-grandmother had made that’s been washed a thousand times, the colors faded and worn.
A large wooden dresser sits across the room from the bed, a surprisingly modern looking tv perched on top. On either side of the bed are two matching nightstands, with the ugliest pair of lamps Mickey’s ever seen, the base a sickly green with hideous lace decorating the lampshade. Frilly pink curtains frame the windows on both sides of the front door overlooking the driveway.
A kitchenette takes up most of the corner, with a refrigerator, table for two, a sink, and a small hearth-like stove for cooking. There’s a door directly across from the entrance leading to what Mickey can only assume is the bathroom. And consequently, a fucking shower.
He’s got half a mind to drop everything right where he is and head straight for it, but first things first.
He shoulders off his backpack and tosses the duffle bag on the bed, pulling it open to rifle through until he finds his box of chalk and sets about marking up the entrance doorway with every possible ward he can think of that might be needed. It’s probably overkill once he’s done, the glow of his tattoos fading slowly as he finishes and wipes his hands on his pants, standing back to survey his work, flicking his tongue back and forth on his lip ring.
Yeah, it’s definitely overkill and he might have to undo a few just to get out in the morning, but he feels himself relax just a little bit more, somewhat safe in the knowledge that nothing’s getting in here without a serious fight. Hopefully.
Next up is a shower, and not a moment too soon. He’s ripe and he knows it as he strips on his way to the bathroom, leaving a path of discarded clothes from the bed to the bathroom door.
It’s small, typical for a motel, the lights flickering slightly like they haven’t been used in awhile. It’s clean though, no bugs in sight, and the water starts up with hardly any issues, a vast difference from the ten minute whore’s bath he’d managed to give himself at the only gas station he had allowed himself to stop at along the way for more than just filling up the tank.
The water pressure isn’t too bad either, and Mickey lets out a loud moan that bounces around on the tiles at the hot water that comes rushing out as he steps in, a blessed relief.
He leans his head against the shower wall, sighing loudly, letting the water wash over him, his body sagging slightly.
His hands come up, pushing himself slowly back under the spray, closing his eyes and tilting his head up to let the water run down his face, cleansing. He tries to let go of the ball of anxiety in his chest, reaching blindly out for some of the soap from the dispenser on the wall.
He washes up and over his arms, the soapy water making the Chernobog and Belobog tattoos on his forearms slightly blurred, like ink spilling onto the page.
He opens his eyes, gaze catching on his knuckle tats. Not for the first time, he notices the vast difference between them and his other tattoos, and he stares at the way the words on his hands sit still and lifeless on his fingers, the letters slightly fading into his skin, while the others are practically alive on his body, flickering and moving like oil on water, all but one of them black as night.
He grabs more soap, pushing his hair back and blinking water out of his eyes as he moves his hands further up his arms, over the Svarga and Peronika tattoos that wrap almost fully around his biceps, rivulets of water running over them. He moves down over his front, tracing the liquidy lines of the star of lada that covers half his upper chest, the peak of it reaching just under his Adam's apple.
Pushing his head back under the spray, he lets the stream run down his back, the warmth soaking into his skin.
The few people that have ever seen him with his shirt off were often most entranced by the ink that lays here. His wood of life tattoo covers almost his entire back, a tree mosaic made up of knots and runes woven together to form the branches. It’s a constantly moving pattern of intricate blackness, reaching from the small of his back and branching out up over his shoulder blades, and had taken an agonizing seven days to ink fully onto his skin.
He stays under as long as possible, until he’s wrinkly and pink and the hot water starts to turn tepid before he finally climbs out and wraps himself in one of the slightly scratchy pink bath towels sitting on a shelf next to the door.
He heads out to the bedroom, a cloud of steam exiting with him as he turns the bedside table lamp on, then rummages through the duffle bag on the bed to find a clean pair of boxers.
Pulling them on, he leaves the towel in a heap on the floor, and goes back in his duffel, shoving clothes around before finding his last pack of smokes and a lighter and finally collapsing back on the bed with a grunt.
The smoke drifts slowly up towards the ceiling, making the room hazy and stuffy in the morning light. He should probably open a window but it feels like too much effort, requiring him to actually get off the bed, which just sounds like a lot to ask of him right now.
He leans his head back against the headboard, watching the cloud of smoke drift around the ceiling light, thoughts turning sour once again.
Forty hours and counting.
Just over two days since his entire life essentially imploded.
Granted, shit wasn’t going all that well prior to that, but at least he wasn’t on the run, holed up in some strange town with a nightmare-esque creature after him courtesy of dear ol’ dad.
He takes another drag, smoke curling in his mouth, and thinks about what he knows so far.
It’s a story. One he’s heard whispered in back alleys and used to scare teenagers when they start learning to drive.
‘Never leave your passenger side bare lest you invite something in’. Especially at night and never when you’re by yourself.
Accidents on long stretches of bare, endless highway often blamed on wildlife or, like everything else, fucking pixies.
He’s twenty hours outside of Chicago, obsessively staring out his side view mirror for any hint of whatever’s following him.
There hasn’t been anything, not since he left the city limits but the thing he saw before that did NOT look like something he wanted to fuck with. He curses Terry yet again for being this much of a shitty human being that he would send whatever the fuck that thing is after his own flesh and blood. Granted, he knows why, but still.
He glances over at the passenger seat, at the backpack sitting there, and thinks about that story, about inviting something in.
It’s risky as fuck, could very well be giving whatever’s hunting him a quick and easy way to reach him. But he needs answers. He needs some way out of this mess and, well, fuck it. How much worse can it possibly get?
A lot worse, his mind supplies.
His eyes stay on the road as he moves the bag to the back seat, leaving it free and clear and unnervingly empty.
He’s half expecting something to immediately happen, some creature to burst into being any second and do god knows what, but the seat next to him remains unhelpfully vacant.
He fiddles with the radio, half the stations static, glancing at the passenger seat every so often.
A truck passes him once in a while, but this far from any nearby towns means he’s relatively alone, the moon hanging high overhead.
Eventually, the tense line of his shoulders starts to relax as the time goes from 1 am to 2 to bordering on 3 with absolutely jack shit happening next to him.
It has him rethinking this entire dumb idea and cursing whatever fucking drunk idiot had ever uttered this stupid story to him, just about ready to give up and grab his backpack to move it up again when, suddenly, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.
The radio that’s been warbling increasingly terrible country music for the past hour goes staticy before cutting off completely, the car filling with a deafening silence.
What he sees when he turns to look has him almost driving straight off the road, nothing preparing him for the sight of a 12 year old Mandy sprawled lazily across his passenger seat, a shit eating grin on her - IT’S face.
Because whatever this thing is, it’s not Mandy.
It looks exactly like her though, like it took whatever memories he has of the last time he saw her and made a carbon copy, a perfect match right down to the ripped black mini skirt and the battered leather jacket with the tear on the upper sleeve.
Her familiar tourmaline crystal necklace is wrapped around her neck, swaying slightly. He can even see her little jade belly ring peeking out the bottom of her shirt, the one she’d gotten into a screaming match in the living room with their mother about getting.
He’s got half a mind to pull over, but he knows, somehow, that this thing only stays if he keeps driving.
He swallows hard, clenches his teeth and steels himself to look again.
Not-Mandy just sits there cleaning her fingernails, chipped black nail polish on all of them, a bored expression on her face. Her long, black hair falls around her, held partly back by the heirloom butterfly clip their mother had given her on her 10th birthday. Fuck, does this thing know how to do detail.
He swallows again, eyes flickering to the road before glancing back over. Fuck it, he's just gonna get right to it. No point beating around the bush with whatever this thing is.
“What’s after me?”
It chuckles, the sound an almost perfect match to Mandy’s laugh, eerie and echoing in the car, edging up on just the right side of wrong.
“Something that doesn’t like you, that’s for sure.”
The sound of Mandy’s voice after ten long years is rough to hear, like a knife to the heart, but he focuses, eyes glancing at the crystal hanging from the dash, twisting with the movement of the car. It centers him, reminds him what he’s doing here.
“You gonna tell me what it is?”
“Hmm. I could …. What if I want your first born child in exchange?”
It props Not-Mandy’s feet up on the dash, black combat boots banging against the wood, the sound echoing in the empty car.
Mickey snorts. “Do you?”
“Not really,” it says, examining its fingernails. “Don’t have much use for babies.”
Mickey grits his teeth, gripping the steering wheel.
"How much time I got?"
"How much time does anyone get?"
Fucking Christ.
Mickey can feel a headache coming on and he lets out a frustrated growl.
“How do I kill it?”
“Who said you can?”
"Can you fuckin' give me ONE straight answer?"
The thing chuckles, edge of madness and glee to it.
"I could... If I wanted to. This is more fun though."
Suddenly, it looks like a tv station changing channels, like it can’t quite take the form it wants, flickering between Mandy and other, less recognizable figures.
Mickey hears it let out a low chuckle.
"Oh ho ho... looks like mama Milkovich has got some power, even in death."
The mere mention of his mother has Mickey’s heart in his throat and he swallows hard, glancing over to see it still flickering.
He knows what it’s trying to do now, who it’s trying to look like, and the thought has his stomach dropping.
Some twisted part of him longs to see her again even if it’s through the work of a demonic creature, but he shoves that thought down quick before it can take root, terrified of what this thing could do with that piece of information.
His eyes return to the road, knuckles white against the steering wheel, head pounding.
Damned if he’s gonna let a shitty little mischief demon fuck with him. He’s just about to curse the thing out when it speaks again.
“You’re a wiley one, I’ll give you that, boy.”
The voice changes from Mandy's higher pitched timber to a much deeper register, one that immediately fills him with bile. He knows without even looking over who it is, and his heart rate picks up even as his brain tells him it's not real, it's not him.
It doesn’t change the fact that it’s Terry sitting in the passenger seat now, eyes glaring hatefully at Mickey, that familiar look of disgust and malice on his face.
Its lips turn up suddenly, mean laughter spilling from his throat, the sound echoing and vile in the small car. He looks exactly like the last time he saw him, ripped, dirty jeans and a filthy white wife beater covered in grease stains and blood.
"This thing wants you bad, Mikhailo. Terry must have sold his soul to get this."
He doesn't doubt his father would do so, not like he's using it now.
Mickey’s fingers immediately itch for a cigarette, whether to smoke it to calm his nerves or stab this thing in the eye with the glowing ember, he’s not sure. Maybe both.
"You gonna tell me anythin' useful or you just gonna keep spoutin' bullshit at me about things I already know?"
Not-Terry is up against his ear in an instant, Mickey flinching back at the motion, car jolting into the other lane before he manages to correct himself, headlights flashing erratically in the dark.
He swears he can feel his own father’s rancid breath on him and he lashes out, his protective force like a pulse wave that sends the creature slamming against the passenger side door. The air shimmers, Mickey’s tattoos glowing gold in the dark.
There’s a bit of satisfaction in seeing his father get smacked around, even if it’s not actually him, and he’s glad to know he’s not completely defenseless against this thing if it tries anything else.
He hears it chuckle, but it doesn’t make a move to come near him again, just sits against the door staring him down, a smirk pulling at Not-Terry’s lips.
He cracks his neck, keeping his eyes trained on the road and not on this imposter version of his homophobic, Nazi lover of a father.
“Fire do anything to it?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He’s pissed and fed up now, about ready to send another wave at it to see if he can force it out of the car when it hisses, “You got until the Hunter’s Moon, boy,” right up against his ear and then it’s gone, leaving Mickey alone again in the car, the passenger seat unnervingly empty, country music filling the silence once again.
He’s smoked another two cigarettes by the time he’s done thinking about it all, brow furrowed as he takes a final drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the bedside table.
He can practically hear his mother’s thick Ukrainian accent telling him to soften his facial features, lest he get wrinkles at 10 years old. Always so pensive, my Mikhailo. You’ll be old man by the time you’re 12 if you keep up all these brooding looks.
His eyes catch on his mother’s grimoire that’s halfway out of his bag at the foot of the bed, the dark leather thick and cracked in places.
He had loved leafing through it as a child, the smell of the pages familiar and comforting, the words written in craggy Ukrainian lettering, sizes and shapes changing depending on who had written it. It’s been in the family for longer than he knows, carried over from the old country when Laura had come with her sister, just a tiny suitcase for the both of them and a promise of work.
A promise of work that had led her right to his father’s door.
Thoughts of Terry has him remembering what he’s doing here in the first place, chain smoking cigarettes in a cheap motel room deep in the heart of Oregon.
He reaches out and grabs the grimoire, placing it carefully on the bedside table before kicking the duffel bag onto the floor. It lands with a thump.
It’s barely 7 am, the sun shining through the curtains, but he’s dead on his feet, exhaustion reaching near levels of delirium.
He pulls the covers up over his head, blocking out as much sun as possible.
The Hunter’s Moon is in a little less than a month, that much he knows as he drifts off to sleep. Which means he’s got less than thirty days to figure out exactly what Terry’s sent after him. Less than thirty days to find out just how fucked he actually is and who, or what, pulled him towards this town.