Chapter Text
Later that night, they head back to Pearl’s room in near silence. She hadn't been privy to the conversation Pearl had with her parents after their revelation. Whatever can be said about her, Cleo isn't unaware. She had left the room and spent about an hour in an obscenely plush chair twiddling her thumbs in the drawing room before Pearl had come to collect her. Cleo is exhausted and ready to sleep when Pearl interrupts her.
“If I ever… go feral. Well. I want to show you something.” Pearl says, reaching out under her bed.
Pearl hauls something out, placing it on top of the sheets. It’s an ornate carpet bag, made of a deep wine red wool fabric decorated with a bronze damask, the hand of it a shining gold that Cleo suspects is real. A normally inexpensive piece of luggage turned into luxury with a simple change. If she were to run her hand over the fabric, she suspects it would be much softer than the normal rough offcuts that would make up such a bag. The only thing that differentiates it from any other bag is the small chain and lock that hold it closed. It’s almost delicate enough that Cleo wouldn’t question it as anything other than a wealthy lady’s bag that she’s particularly paranoid about, but when she sees the red welts decorating Pearl’s fingers after she unlocks it, she realizes the additions are made of pure silver. It’s the only outward indication of the true nature of the bag’s contents.
The chain is dropped carelessly onto their bed, and Pearl begins pulling out her supplies with the precision of a surgeon. Her expression is blank and impassive, all business. Cleo has never seen her so deliberate before.
First, a dark mahogany box, opened to reveal five different sizes of silver dagger, organized by height from one with a blade the length of the palm of her hand to one the length of her forearm. They catch the firelight of the room’s torches in a way that makes them appear to burn red hot. There’s a black stained leather strap tucked into a pocket in the other velvet lined side of the case. Likely to go around an arm, or a thigh, for easy access. Pearl runs her fingers over it with care.
“You don’t keep a sword on your belt,” She comments. Again, her tone is unfamiliar to Cleo. A statement like that might usually come with some teasing, but here it’s something neutral, something unfeeling. “Would you be more comfortable with something small like this? You’d want to wear it above some fabric, of course, so it wouldn’t burn you,”
“I’m alright,” Cleo assures. The idea of using these terrifies them. Pearl hums and places the strap back in the box. Her long fingers graze the sides of each blade, uncaring about the sizzling of her skin. Cleo bats them away. “Stop that, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“That’s kind of the point, these tools are meant to kill werewolves,” Pearl replies coldly. She picks up a midsized blade, balancing it with the butt of the handle and tip of the silver each pressed into a finger. She spins it like a lathe, eyes focused on the way the light spins with it. It looks plenty dangerous to Cleo, but Pearl tuts disapprovingly. “Needs sharpening. It’ll be a pain to do, it’s a soft metal, you know? Dulls after practically every use.”
Cleo didn’t know. They’ve sharpened plenty of knives in their life, almost certainly more than Pearl, under the command of Aric, but silver weapons were obviously a no go in the coven. On the whole, Cleo is only familiar with the things dangerous to vampires in the abstract, in pieces of information caught from snooping on fledglings being taught, in watching punishments, but they were never allowed to handle any themself for fear of them rebelling in some way (not that they physically could, but the coven was a paranoid lot).
Pearl doesn’t acknowledge their lack of response, closing the box and moving it to the side. The next box is opened, smaller, but the contents no less dangerous. Three different preparations of wolfsbane are tucked into the velvet lining, each wrapped with butcher paper. To the furthest left is a small bundle of dried flowers, perhaps four or five stalks worth. Their color has been dulled by the drying process, now a muddled blueish brown. They’re tied together with a fine silk ribbon, much too valuable to be used for something like this. Cleo doesn’t know if that was on purpose to mark the plant’s importance, or done because it was simply typical to treat such things with little care around a home like Pearl’s. Next to the dried stems is a dark brown glass bottle, a paper tag tied to the cork with its contents written in elegant script, “monkshood oil”. Plausible deniability, should it somehow be found. And finally, a packet made of a thin transparent fabric containing a handful of oblong spiked seeds. Pearl takes them out and hands them over to Cleo, who takes them only reluctantly.
“For the garden,” Pearl suggests. “Back home, that is.” There’s a green tint rising up her complexion the longer the box stays open. Her throat spasms visibly and she swallows. Cleo reaches over and shuts the lid, hard. Pearl jumps back and shoots her a quizzical look. Something between concern and confusion is overwhelming Cleo, the moment is tense and horrible.
“Pearl, you were about to throw up.” They urge. Cleo feels nauseous themself as Pearl blankly shrugs.
“Again, that’s the point. Wolfsbane is meant to make werewolves sick. Next full moon you should take a shot of that oil, it’ll make it so you smell repulsive to me. Werewolves will only attack someone inundated with wolfsbane if they’re fully feral or raging.” The words are recited like they’re something memorized from a book. Cleo scoffs.
“I don’t want to be repulsive to you. I like the wolfy cuddles.” They whine. Pearl doesn’t laugh, if anything her gaze gets harder.
“I’m serious. Planting it around the castle will keep me away, drinking it will stop me from hurting you. And the daggers will be a last resort. Along with this.” Pearl takes one last box out, a black wooden case carved with floral patterns. The simple clasp on the front opens, and sitting upon a cushion is a pistol. Cleo’s never seen one in person before, the coven was too old fashioned for such a weapon. The barrel is maybe 7 inches long, the whole thing a little over a foot. It’s got a revolving chamber with enough space for six bullets and a curved wooden handle that’s been embossed with flowers in gold. Pearl handles the weapon with practiced ease, and offers it to Cleo.
“I don’t know how to use it, I don’t think it’s safe for me to handle it.” Cleo puts their hands up. Pearl flicks out the cylinder, showing them that it’s empty.
“You never store a loaded gun,” She says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s a few unfamiliar tools in the box with the pistol, along with what Cleo can recognize as a powder case from the small black smudges by the cap. There’s a smaller box in the case as well, which Pearl opens to show her. Cleo feels their nausea intensify at the sight of what’s in it. Eighteen little rolls of paper topped with a ball of silver. Cleo may not know anything about this kind of weapon, but she can guess what those are for. “It’s a Colt revolver, they’re all over the United States. We had to get this one shipped over. Technically it was mum’s but she trained me with it. Do you want me to walk you through how to use it?”
“I would rather not. I don’t want to hurt you.” Cleo begged. Something in their tone seems to finally snap Pearl out of her cold methodical attitude. Her head tilts in confusion, and Cleo breathes in a sigh of relief at the goofy gesture that reminds her that this is really still her Pearl.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe. I would rather you hurt me than I hurt you. And it’s fine,” Pearl puts the gun back in its case, “When a werewolf goes feral, they aren’t really themself anymore. They're nothing more than a beast, an animal. And one that’s in pain. It’s a mercy to put them down,”
“I really don’t want to have to do that, please don’t ask me to,” Her voice cracks in the middle of her pleading.
“Christ, Cleo, can you do this one thing for me!” Pearl’s composure cracks, a flash of something animal in her eyes as she slams the lid of the case down. “I sacrificed everything for you! Everything! My purpose, my values, my life!”
Pearl whirls around to look at them, breathing heavily, and Cleo flinches back. Still, an emotion between pride and fear rises in their throat and spills out before they can think it through.
“This is my line, you know this is my line. Killing Legundo was my one last terrible thing.” They try to keep their voice steady and fail.
“What lines have I not crossed for you?” Pearl asks in response, “I didn’t want to be a vampire, and I became one for you. I wanted to avenge my parents, and I gave that up because you needed someone to stay in Oakhurst for your plan to work. I didn’t want to be a werewolf and you turned me into one. I stepped in front of a sword for you. I’m not asking you to do any of that. I’m asking you to put me out of my misery if it comes down to it.”
“And I’m saying I can’t do that.”
“Then you’re more selfish than I thought.” The response is final. Cleo recoils, feeling like she’s been slapped.
“Pearl. You don't- you don't mean that,”
Pearl sighs, deflating. Her shoulders hunch, making their home up by her ears.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's not fair to make you feel guilty for all that.”
“But do you believe it?”
“I shouldn't have said it.”
“I didn't ask if it was fair, or if you should have said it. I asked if you believed it.” Cleo reiterates.
Pearl sits down on the bed, pulling the box onto her lap. She runs her thumb over its carvings, over and over. Cleo watches the motions of her hands so she doesn't have to look at her face.
“I don't know. I'm sorry. I just-” Pearl sighs in frustration. “being back here is making me think about everything I left behind. It's not fair of me to pin it all on you but I can't help some of it.”
“You could have said no to the plan. I never forced you to do anything.” Cleo defends themself. “You said yes before you even thought it through. You can't blame me for that.”
“You didn't have to force me! You told me that it would save people and that was enough!” Pearl growls back, literally, her upper lip curling back in a snarl. “I am always going to try to save people!”
“And what about the people you think are monsters? What about them? Do you save them?” Cleo spits, not even really believing what they're saying but needing the hurt to be out. “Why didn't you defend us?”
“Defend us? From what?”
“From your parents. They called you a monster! They said you died!” The room is silent for a long moment after their exclamation. Pearl’s mouth tightens, her eyes flicker to the ground.
“I am. I did.” Pearl says simply. “Cleo, I never wanted to be like this. I wanted to be a human. I did all kinds of experimenting to never become a werewolf. I wanted to hunt down and kill them to avenge the way my parents were forced to change. I know you don't get it-”
“I do get it-”
“Let me talk,” Pearl growls. It's as aggressive as Cleo has ever seen her. It silences them. “You don't get it, because you grew up in a place where vampires held all of the power and you were made to obey them, and you came to Oakhurst seeking more of them out. You always wanted to be turned, even if not in the way it happened. You always saw becoming a vampire as evolution and not death. But I died, Cleo. I died with your teeth in my neck after watching three of my friends die as well. Only one human made it out of Oakhurst. And I'm happy for him. I'm happy that Abolish gets to be free and live a normal life. But no one else does. Everyone else got a choice in what they became in the end except for me and Apo because we had to decide that other people’s lives were worth more than ours.”
“Why-” Cleo takes in a breath. “Why didn't you tell me any of this? It's been months.”
“Because you would feel guilty. And I just can't sort through my feelings if I have to deal with your guilt.”
You and your precious guilt Cleo had said to Apo. Because Cleo is a hypocrite, they know this. They know that they are a pest that infects the people around them. They know they are a murderer.
There's a long silence before Pearl speaks again.
“I'm sorry that was out of line.” She sighs, falling down onto the bed with her head in her hands.
“I deserved it.”
“No you didn't. You don’t. I just- this is how I've been taught to deal with things okay? When horrible things happen, if you never speak of them it will be okay. If I just pretend they never existed then they didn't.” The way Pearl’s voice shakes breaks Cleo’s heart. They know what it looks like to lie. It was one of the core tenants of their life, one of Aric’s ten commandments that he enforced with holy rage. But Pearl had always seemed so honest, hadn't she? Maybe Cleo had never really gotten that good at telling when someone was hiding something from her. Or maybe Pearl had gotten too good at hiding.
“I'm sorry you felt like you had to do that with me. You could have been honest. I would have stayed, I promise you I would have stayed.” Cleo tried to reassure. They sat down next to Pearl, having to gently push her box of weapons to the side in order to fit. Pearl turned her face to press it into Cleo’s shoulder and they almost couldn't understand what she said next.
“I want to tell you about them but I'm not sure how.” Pearl’s hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. “I'm not usually… we don’t talk about it,”
“I don't think secrets have ever done either of us any good, love.” Cleo says softly. Pearl sighs, gathering something like courage.
“Can I show you something?” Pearl asks.
Cleo answers without needing to think. “Always.”
Pearl rises from the bed, pulling Cleo with her with those warm shaking hands that wrap hers up perfectly. Neither of them speak as they approach another door in the same hallway, carved just as ornately as Pearl’s. It opens with a squeak, shocking Cleo who would assume that all the hinges in this home would be carefully maintained.
At first glance it seems like a guest bedroom. A bed with dark sheets and a redwood frame sits in the center, flanked with nightstands of the same wood. It's neatly made, clearly not slept in. But then Cleo’s eyes are drawn to a wardrobe that's cracked open, revealing a number of coats and vests inside, hung neatly by color and style. There's a half burnt candle sitting on top of a writing desk where everything else has been cleared off except for it and a dark stain where someone must have spilled ink long ago. There's a portrait turned to face the wall and tucked into a corner on the ground. The room is unassuming, except for the fact that it clearly belongs to someone. Or belonged, as it were, because despite it being so neatly organized, a layer of dust coats everything. Cleo hesitates to breath in such a space, but Pearl charges ahead. She grabs the painting from the corner and turns it around.
It's a boy, maybe six years old. His hair is perhaps a shade or two lighter than Pearl's and his eyes a dark brown, but the features are similar enough that Cleo can tell they're related. He wears a dark blue tailcoat, the collar of his shirt is a white frill that reaches up to his chin. Flowers are tucked into his breast pocket, and it's then that Cleo realizes this portrait is the same style as the portrait of a toddler Pearl that hangs in the hallway, and the same artist signature sits in the bottom right corner. Pearl stares at it, eyes glazed over like she's trying not to fully take it in. Then she speaks the way a sinner might in the confessional. Desperate for absolution and ashamed for seeking it.
“I had brothers. Charles and James. Charles was three years older. He started training around when he was 10, just like me and James, and he was turned and went feral when I was only 12. I think-” Pearl swallows hard, “I think I must have killed him. It's hard to know but there was a werewolf that I swear looked so much like him a couple years back and I killed it. I never let myself think about it for more than a moment. He was a beast and I killed him. Brother or not.”
“Oh Pearl,” Cleo coos. “I'm so sorry. That must have been awful.”
“It wasn't, though. That’s what I'm trying to tell you. I loved my brother but when he was turned I was told that I should focus on killing the monsters that did it to him rather than mourning him. And when it came down to it, I put him down and didn't feel anything because I couldn't if I wanted to finish my mission.” Pearl’s explanation is flat and blank, the same way she had gotten when she spoke about her own potential death. Cleo doesn't know what to do with that.
“And James?” They ask in lieu of responding to what Pearl has just revealed.
“He was my twin. James was always far more sensitive than me. He took to the research and science where I took to fighting. He left when we were 18 to go make his own way in the world. Before he left he told me I could escape all this madness and hunting if I wanted, that the two of us didn't have to live the way our parents do and risk our lives. But I didn't go with him. I don't know where he is now. I'd show you his portrait but I think he took it with him.” She shrugs like this is no big deal, like she hasn't just torn herself open and laid something bare for Cleo to see.
“If you could go back, would you want to go with him?” Pearl startles like she hadn't even considered the question. Like she hasn't been allowed to.
“I don't know. I wouldn't have met you.” She says simply, the way she says everything that changes Cleo’s entire world. Pearl lowers the portrait to the ground, gently turning it back towards the wall. The movement is slow and deliberate, and the second the portrait is secure, Pearl rushes into Cleo, wrapping her into a hug. Cleo reciprocates with ferocity, squeezing Pearl with all of her supernatural strength.
“I love you.” She breaths into Pearl’s neck. Pearl sighs, burying her nose into Cleo’s hair.
“I love you too.” Then after a beat, “Can we go to bed now? I can talk more later but I'm tired, please.”
“Of course.”
Cleo releases her only with reluctance. Tomorrow then, they'll talk. They have to.