CHAPTER FIVE —

— THE BROTHER.

KILLIAN BLACKWELL WAS A VERY STRANGE MAN.

To be fair, Kate has known that all her life. Since when she was two and all her blurry first memories being just her mother's face. By the time she was five, she had attended about a thousand dinners, promotional events, hotel openings and a hundred more meaningless name-dropping excursions; a poor excuse for 'family time'. That was back when Killian still smiled, she remembered that. But by seven, that smile was fake and plastered on only for the media. At home, he very rarely did. Not even for birthdays, and only sometimes for holidays.

At nine, Kate knew her father as a mysterious god in the eyes of American citizens, and as a stranger in the Blackwell home. She didn't really know what he did, only that her great-grandfather had saved the world (or something, apparently), and they'd reaped the glories of that victory since then. He was a hero somehow, and Kate kind of got the correlation there — because after all, all superheroes do is put on a fancy show and destroy families.

 She didn't really understand why her parents were famous, why her mother was on the cover of a bajillion magazines and why her father basically lived on the TV screen. She just knew everyone loved the Blackwell's, which by proxy meant they loved her, for no reason. 

From ages one to ten, everyone always told her how lucky she was, to be the daughter of one of the most influential and most amazing men in the world — and Kate always felt guilty, because she didn't give a crap, she just wanted him to be her dad.

When Kate was halfway through eleven, everything changed. There were police on her front porch, telling a stone-faced Killian that there had been an accident on the highway. Something blurred her vision, to the point where she couldn't see the policemen's faces anymore. A ringing in her ears blocked most of the conversation, but she heard the facts.

Two cars. 

One victim. 

Drunk. 

Dead.

Killian Blackwell barely batted an eye.

And Kate still remembered the last time she actually spoke to her father — before the disaster currently, of course. It was raining, and cold, and she was holding tight to her sister's hand because that was all she had left. Everyone was crying and clutching onto one another and wailing about how good Delaney was, but also whispering about her 'dark secrets', like one could believe Delaney Blackwell would drive drunk and jeopardize her family. Kate wanted to scream at them, tell them nothing the police said was true (because it couldn't be, could it?!). But no one would listen to her, so she learned to keep her mouth shut.

People kept coming up to her and telling her they would pray for the Blackwell family, that they were in their hearts, that their 'mommy was still there, she would always be with them', a huge stupid lie. They were all sniveling and snot-faced, sobbing into expensive handkerchiefs and some asking weird questions like, 'does your father plan to remarry' like it wasn't his wife's fucking funeral.

And the only person that never shed a tear was the newly widowed, supposedly devoted husband, Killian Blackwell.

And Kate remembered it like it was yesterday. She remembered pulling away from Mariana, despite her protests, and running up to her father. She remembered the film of tears that wouldn't blink away, making Killian's blank expression look composed of stained-glass. She remembered screaming at him. Begging him to fix things. Make it better. She remembered asking him to just look at her, to love her — because no one else was going to, anymore.

And Killian Blackwell's lip had curled, and he looked at her like she was a cockroach on his perfectly lacquered shoe. And all he offered his eleven-year-old daughter was a biting, sneering, "grow up, Katherine."

That was all she had from her dear old father.

"Well," she said aloud, "until tonight, of course."

Kate stared at her ceiling, watching the shadows drift aimlessly across it. She idly traced their movements and wondered how much easier it must be, to be a shadow instead of a Blackwell daughter. Even if it was an impossible goal, it kind of sounded nice.

"Why's it gotta be me?" She asked the night air. "What kind of past life did I live, to deserve this hellhole?"

Just like usual, no one answered. 

"It's not really fair," she said anyway, like someone was actually listening. "I get it. I'm a privileged little git. I've got the world at my fingertips, nothing to complain about, blah blah — but does that really make me a bad guy? Or that I deserve this crappy family storyline? I-I mean, I don't see how this is fair. I'm not a bad person. Right?"

The shadows on the ceiling swayed in silence, peacefully ignorant to the woes of humanity.

Kate huffed. "Right. Thanks."

She heaved herself up on her bed, swinging her feet down to her floor. They traced the carpet until they found her slippers, promptly slipping into them. Kate shoved herself to stand with a sigh.

"Not gonna find answers on an empty stomach," she told herself, like a mother might advise her kid. Kate tried not to think about how sad that thought kind of was. "Let's find some food to drown in, Blackwell."

Considering not a drop of dinner had been touched by Kate, and the growling of her impatient stomach oblivious to her mental struggles, that seemed like the best solution at the moment. And, maybe she would get lucky and find Cecilia out and about still. It'd be nice to have someone to confide in that wasn't her own brain.

Kate had long since changed out of her dinner outfit — which now lay in a crumpled heap in the corner of her room. She had found her mother's hoodie yet again and paired it with a pair of old pajama pants with faded Christmas trees on them. She shuffled forward on slippered feet and to her bedroom door, where she would brave the Blackwell home once again.

The hallway was empty, as expected. She slipped to the left and towards the old staff staircase, that wasn't really just for staff anymore, but just for those not wanting a scene. She crept down the flights of stairs and quickly reached the door below.

Kate pulled it as slowly as she possibly could, inching the notoriously noisy door open with bated breath. Luckily, the universe seemed to be on her side that night; or at least, the staff door was. Kate was able to slip through it without a single sound. She grinned, and stepped into the vast foyer. From there it was easy. Sharp left, couple rights and the kitchen would be hers.

"C'mon, Blackwell," she mouthed to herself. Back pressed into the wall, shrouded by shadows, she started to shimmy towards the hall across the room, when—

"Hello there!"

Kate froze, comically mid-step.

She gulped and swivelled in her spot in the shadows, turning until she found the source of the sound.

There was a large, formal living room that the Blackwell family never really used, even when there was still life in their home. It was filled with tchotchkes and expensive paintings and books she was sure no one had read, but just owned to say they did. She was used to it being completely dark and sullen, like the rest of the Blackwell Home, but that night there was a single ochre light, casting a single being in warmth and shadow.

"Sorry to interrupt your voyage," the man in the chair said, sounding too jovial to be condescending. Once he spoke, it wasn't hard to know exactly who it was. "I didn't mean to ruin your fun!"

Kate swallowed and took a step away from the wall. Mission failure, she thought to herself. "You're...still here."

Jaspar hummed. "Yes! Sorry! Your father and I haven't quite finished our discussion. I was invited to stay the night. But only if you're alright with that?"

Kate just nodded, because she didn't know what else to say.

"I don't mean to stop wherever you're going, but — are you hungry? I," Jaspar raised an arm to a large tray, sitting next to him on a table. "I can be quite the scavenger, and I fear I scavenged too much tonight. I don't think I can take on all this on my own."

"Oh. Um. I'm good, I'll—"

"—you didn't eat a crumb at dinner. Did you?"

"...no."

"Then please. I have too much."

Kate glanced over to where she knew the kitchen was waiting. She could feel it calling. The easy way out. Then, she looked back to her uncle, a man full of mystery, who could maybe answer a question or two that she'd been stuck with for several years. Maybe he could help ease the pit in her gut. Was that a gamble she was willing to take?

"Okay," she finally sighed, walking into the shadowed space. "But I can't stay long."

Jaspar's eyes glittered in the lamplight, "J'ai pense que tu serais d'accord."

She frowned as she took the seat next to him. Languages weren't her strong suit. "Huh?"

"Nothing, nothing. Sit! Make yourself comfortable! Eat away, please!"

Kate chose to overlook his strange mumble, and stared at Jaspar's spread. He had amassed several peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut into messy triangles, cheese, crackers, grapes, and a quarter of a cake she didn't even know they had. It was the sloppiest charcuterie board she'd ever seen...and it looked incredible to her extremely empty stomach.

It kind of felt like a trap. But she was starving, so Kate picked up a triangle, fighting the urge to shove it down her throat like a snake. She could feel her uncle's eyes on her; they felt like they were trying to worm their way under her skin. Like he was searching for something.

What did he want from her, anyway?

"I'm...sorry for the way I behaved at dinner," Kate said slowly. "I was very rude."

"Oh! No, please, don't apologise."

"I think I have to."

"You really don't," Jaspar chortled. Kate looked up to see her staring her down over a large glass. "Truly, Kate. Don't worry."

Kate watched the shimmering, dark liquid in his glass slosh around. She wondered if it was wine, and if her father knew. It didn't seem like Killian had wanted his brother drinking at dinner.

"It wouldn't be a Blackwell dinner if someone wasn't storming out, and we had very limited numbers tonight. I'm just glad I didn't have to!" Jaspar said. "My knees have an, erm, unfortunate locking habit from time to time. Old age's a bitch; it makes everything less fun."

She pursed her lips and looked back at the PB&J half in her hand. "Right. Well...still. I'm sorry."

"And I refuse your apology. It's entirely unnecessary! I got to see you, and I get to see you now, so I'm not mad at all."

Kate nibbled at the crust. "Okay," she said slowly, "fine. Thanks for...letting me sit, I guess." Though, if she was being honest, she didn't want to be there at all. She could already be back in her room, snacks in both hands, forgetting all about the dinner. She could be doing work, disassociating from the real world and escaping into her mind. She could be far, far away from the strange energy filling the Blackwell home — which sounded much better than her current situation.

But if her uncle picked up on her hesitation, he didn't remark on it. He kept up his easy, sharp-toothed smile. "To be fair, I sort of made you sit with me. I'm very selfish like that."

"Oh, well, no—"

"—don't worry, I'm stable enough to accept my flaws," Jaspar said, sipping from his ornate glass. He half-looked like a vampire, Kate thought, with the dark lighting, the glittering rings on his hands and his bared canine grin. "I just wanted to speak to you, Kate. If that's alright."

Kate licked peanut butter off the sides of her mouth. "Sure."

"And I am sorry I made you attend tonight's dinner."

"That isn't your fault."

"I think it is, actually. At least partially. I begged your father for a chance to see you — and your sister, too — again. I hadn't considered the delicacy of whatever I was walking into."

Kate stifled a bitter laugh. "Yeah, but that's not on you."

"Well, who else could I possibly pin the blame on?"

The way he said that, told Kate he knew his answer already. His eyes danced bright with a cunning that didn't seem to suit his otherwise innocent nature — but did speak to the Blackwell poison in his veins.

"I'm sure dinner already told you everything. My father and I have a...strained relationship."

Jaspar nodded sagely, gulping down more wine. "I gleaned as much." He had a weird way of talking, and a strange accent on top of it. Like a dozen European languages, mixed into one flamboyant oddball. "I'm guessing he's not around much, then?"

Kate scoffed into her second sandwich half. "Sure. You could say that."

"And what would you say?"

"Why?"

He sipped at his wine, "I imagine you have an opinion on the matter. So?"

"I...I would say that... I barely see the guy. I just hear him all the time screaming in his office. And tonight was the first time I've spoken to him since my," she paused to gulp down air, "my mother's funeral, and I don't understand why he thought this was the best way to catch up, but it wasn't." She tore at her sandwich. "And he's not stupid. He's the opposite of stupid, so he should'a known that — but. Whatever."

"Mm."

Kate looked at him sharply. "What?"

"What?"

"You know something. Don't you?"

Jaspar cocked his head, sending a coil of dark hair across his forehead. "Do I?"

"Yeah," Kate replied lamely. "I just don't know what."

"Ah. Well, I'm afraid I am not a very good detective, Kate. I only have a feeling — and I may be wrong — that Killi made this whole thing this way on purpose."

She snorted. "Why would he do that? My father doesn't like things not going his way."

Jaspar pointed at her with his glass-filled hand. "Ah. But who's to say this didn't go his way?"

"I..." Kate didn't know what that was supposed to mean.

Her uncle didn't seem like he wanted to elaborate, either. He moved onto his next conversation piece quickly, adjusting his curled up position on the armchair to one much more relaxed. He crossed his ankles in front of him, socked feet pointed towards the empty fireplace, and curled his free hand around his chin to prop him up. He watched Kate lazily, like a cat wondering if she deserved his full attention.

"You're so grown up now," he said, in a much softer tone than before. "How old are you now?"

"Seventeen."

"Almost an adult. Final year of school?"

"Yes."

"And you've got so much going on. I imagine you live a very busy life."

Kate shifted her weight. She didn't like how he said that. He still seemed like he knew much more about her than he let on — but what could he possibly know? Who she went to school with, her grades, her lack of interest in what came after graduation?

What about--? No, she told herself. There's no way he knows about your little side project.

"I'm really not interesting."

"You say that, but..." Jaspar smiled over the rim of his glass. "You have the same look in your eyes Del always had. Like she was constantly keeping a million secrets."

She watched his hand tap an unsteady rhythm on his glass. That was easier than trying to keep up eye contact.

"Do you..." She swallowed. "You talk like you knew my mother well."

"I did! Ah. Well, sort of. I did in the beginning."

"The beginning?"

Jaspar hummed. "I met Delaney before your father knew her, actually. We met in school. In our creative writing class."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes! She loved to write. She was quite good at it. And I...well, I just wanted an easy grade and a class I could catch up on sleep in. But then I sat next to her and she — she made me do all my assignments, you know? And on time, the little devil."

Kate's lip quirked despite herself. "That's funny."

"Yes, well it was annoying at the time, be-because I was always up late getting up to trouble, being a hooligan, doing anything to piss off my dad — you know, the works." Jaspar let out a gentle laugh. "And I just wanted to nap. But she would tap my shoulder every time I started snoozing off. And she'd poke me with her pencil. Oh, and she'd bring me coffee! Every morning."

"I had no idea you guys knew each other."

"Del was my fidus Achates. My dearest friend. She was a nightmare and I absolutely hated and I adored her, all the same." Jaspar laughed again. "She would bully me into showing up for school, no matter what state I was in — and sometimes I looked absolutely horrible, you know — because we were going to graduate and run away to Sicily together. And she gave me lilies every Valentine's that she stole from the mayor's garden, you know? And she — ah, there's too much to say. Truly, a one of a kind woman."

Kate's heart ached. She tried to imagine the blurry image of her mother she had left, much younger, tucked into the side of a tall, pirate-looking kid, laughing in the Midtown atrium. She knew the Delaney Winter's pressed into yearbooks, into old photo albums but they were all demure and carefully posed. Nothing like the person her uncle described.

Nothing like the woman Kate had in her memory either, the demure, perfect woman who never seemed to have time for herself. The woman who's smile dropped the second she thought no one was looking. The woman who cried herself to sleep and started a million charities and who was never seen without emeralds around her neck, her 'good luck charms'.

The woman with a now ruined reputation. A woman who supposedly ruined her family.

"She sounds wonderful," she whispered, not trusting her voice to not crack from emotion. "Did you...how did she meet my dad?"

"Oh, well that was a debacle in itself, actually. At that point I wasn't talking to my brother," there was a lot of weight in that statement, but Kate chose not to press yet, "and I was working as a bartender. Del went to college, and she would come to my bar after classes and I'd serve her free Martini's. One night she came by with a glow in her eyes and, and I still remembering her saying with the biggest smile, ' Jay, I just met my husband' — a-and, that, that was that!"

There was a quiver to Jaspar's voice. Kate couldn't tell if it was because the subject was dead, or because of something else. She wondered if their friendship was just friendship, if the loving way he spoke of her mother was more than just platonic.

When Kate didn't say anything, Jaspar ploughed on. "And after that she would come in every day and tell me everything, and I'd let her because she was happy! And he sounded wonderful. And then she asked me to come to a party with her because he was gonna be there and she didn't want to be alone, and I agreed, and then lo and fuckin' behold, there was my dear estranged brother."

"Didn't you wonder, based on the name?"

"She hadn't told me it," Jaspar replied. "And I wasn't really a Blackwell anymore, so there wasn't a connection to be made."

"Oh." Kate pursed her lips and watched Jaspar's face. He wasn't looking at her anymore. "Did...nevermind."

"No, what?"

"Did you get back in touch with him after?"

Jaspar laughed ruefully, shaking his head. "No. Delaney was the point that tied us together but it wasn't close. I told her an abridged version of our story and she respected that I wanted to keep my distance."

"But — wouldn't you not want her dating him?"

"Que? Whatever for?"

Kate frowned, "you knew what he was like, didn't you? You guys stopped talking, you didn't like him anymore—"

"—I never said I didn't like my brother."

"You implied it."

"No," he said slyly. "You made the implication."

"Okay. But your family didn't associate with you anymore, you got disowned, you changed your name—"

"—and I still loved Killian."

"Oh, bullshit."

"I loved my brother," Jaspar repeatedly, much more serious. "I still do. Our relationship broke because of matters above both of us, Kate. He had a choice to make, and so did I. And we chose opposing paths. Went our separate ways."

"Right, so wouldn't that--?!"

"He was a good man to Del. She absolutely adored him and he seemed to love her, and he treated her well. I couldn't want much else for her."

Kate didn't say anything, and after a moment, Jaspar looked back at her, squinting. "You don't look like you believe that."

"Uh, no, I just..." Kate looked down to her lap. "I guess I just didn't see all that love you're talking about. Not when I was around at least."

"Ah. Well, I can't speak for the later years. I wasn't around the two of'em as much; we spoke mainly through letters, or in separate visits. But," Jaspar paused to clear his throat, and when he spoke again it was much quieter, "if I know one thing about Killi, it's that he...he loved her to the end of her days. He loved her like nothing else."

She took a cracker, but didn't eat it. "I don't really believe that either."

"Well, I suppose I can't fault you there." Jaspar smiled, teeth glowing in the soft yellow light. "Curiosity is the world's greatest weapon. And the most misused one."

"Isn't it that curiosity killed the cat?"

"Mm, well. Some people can't handle the truth," he said mysteriously, sipping at his goblet. "And cats are occasionally lovely creatures, but they're a bit too cocky for their own good. Can't handle tasting their own medicine."

Kate wasn't sure why Jaspar talked like he was on CSI, or if anything he said actually made sense. It sounded good on the surface, but then when she tried to guess what he was saying, she came up with nonsensical attempts at being philosophical. There could be a hidden meaning in the words, but it completely escaped her mind.

"You're not like my dad at all," she said quietly, half under her breath.

Jaspar snorted. "Che osservazione intelligente."

"Hey," she snapped; maybe she didn't know what he said, but the sarcastic inflect told her it wasn't nice. "I just meant—"

"—I know what you meant, Kate. I'm only teasing. You'd be surprised, how many times I've heard that in my lifetime."

"Does that piss you off?"

"Not being like Killi? God no," he chortled. "I've been running from my cursed blood all my life, sweetheart. Doin' everything in my power to get away from my name. I'd only be insulted if you dared say I was like my brother. I'd have to like..." Jaspar trailed off, looking like he had a joke on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't know if he should say it. 

"I guess it'd be nice, not having the label on your back." Kate eased back into her armchair, holding herself for a bit of warmth. The Blackwell's formal living room felt like the Arctic. "It must be freeing to live your life however the hell you want to."

"Mm. Well, you know Kate, everything is...it's a double-edged sword. Freedom comes with consequences too. You lose a lot, choosing your own path in a realm like this."

Kate picked at the edge of her hoodie. "I don't care about the money, if that's what you're sayin'."

"I wasn't necessarily talking about material goods."

Her eyes moved to the large bookshelves across from them. They were littered with hundreds, maybe even thousands of books. Science, philosophy, history; classics worth fortunes that she was sure no one had ever read. They just sat there for decoration, in a house where decoration didn't really matter. Someone could steal them all and no one would even notice. Or care. And they would probably be set for life.

There was probably something ironic in that, but Kate's mind was too tired to connect the dots. Instead, she considered Karma Kane, and how freeing her life was, even if it wasn't really real. Someone like Karma didn't answer to anyone. Didn't care about anything; especially not names or wealth or jewels. Someone that would probably like Jaspar Byrne.

"Can I ask you a question?" Kate said suddenly, tearing herself away from her alter ego.

Jaspar spread his arms, "of course! Ask away, m'dear!"

"Why are you really here?"

"Mm. I was wondering when you were going to ask that."

"Can you blame me?" Kate huffed. "You're going on and on about how not in the picture you've been. You're not even a Blackwell anymore. Are you?"

"That's correct."

"And you said you don't associate with anything Blackwell anymore."

"So it must be."

"But now you're suddenly here, and this whole debacle's happened and, and like — I'm a little lost."

"Understandably."

"You're not just here to catch up with my father, are you?"

Jaspar blew out air. "Ah, no."

"Then, why?"

He didn't speak for a long moment. He stared off into the darkness of the formal living room, watching the shadows flicker over the tall bookshelves. Kate watched his expression closely; his face went through a thousand emotions, over only a few seconds. She wondered what he was thinking. If he was trying to figure out a lie, to get out of answering, or if he was trying to find the best words to be honest. Jaspar seemed like an honest guy — but he was also a stranger with a sharp tongue and Blackwell blood.

"I can't tell you why I'm here, Kate," Jaspar said finally, going against both options Kate thought. "Not because I don't trust you, but because it's not my place to say."

She scoffed. "Yeah, 'cause saying that isn't—"

"—I know, I know, that's unhelpful and unsatisfying. But I know that if I tell you my small fragment of truth, you'll be hopelessly lost without the bigger picture. And, before you ask, I can't tell you the rest. That would be up to your old man."

Kate wanted to like Jaspar. She really did. He seemed nice, and like a genuine human being, which was rare to find. But the shifty, vague answers made her want to go all Karma Kane on him, and immediately distrust everything he's said.

She huffed, rubbing at her tired eyes. "You can't just tell me that and not say anything else!"

"Can't I?'

"I'm not a kid anymore," she retorted.

"I know that, dear."

"Then why—"

"—it's not my business, it's your father's," Jaspar interjected. "I'm sorry, Kate."

"Y'know, I, I — I thought you'd get it."

"Get what?"

"You were a Blackwell; you have to know how frustrating this 'live in darkness, do as you're told' thing is. You get how I feel, right? How lonely this all is? How frickin' confusing?"

Jaspar looked at her strangely, in an almost contemplated manner. "I think you're a very interesting person, Kate Blackwell," he said slowly. "And I think...you have a lot more power to change things than you realise." 

Right. Back to the nonsensical advice bits. "You're just trying to distract me now."

"I'm not! I'm really not."

"You're avoiding my questions completely. And you sound just like a self-help book."

Jaspar smiled at that. "My apologies." He didn't sound sorry in the slightest.

"Can't you tell me something, man?"

"All I'll say, is that you don't have to worry. I'm here to fix a problem before it becomes a problem."

"That tells me nothing!"

"As it shouldn't," he exclaimed cheerily.

"C'mon, really?! That's all?"

"I can't give you anything else, m'dear!"

Kate groaned and fought the urge to throw a PB&J triangle at his head.

"But you don't have to worry, dear. I'm only here because of a promise I made many years ago, to a very dear friend. A promise that I intend to make good on."

Kate didn't have to ask; she knew, from the filmy gaze in her uncle's eyes, he was talking about her mother. But a sentimental detail didn't answer any of her burning questions.

"That's not fair," she told him again. "That still tells me nothing."

"I know. If it helps, I also made a promise to not say anything, so..."

"You're annoying," Kate grumbled, folding her arms across her chest.

Jaspar snorted. "So I've been told."

"Tch," she clicked her tongue, leaning back into her chair. She wanted to get mad at him, scream something foul and try to make him care, but whoever Jaspar Byrne was, he didn't seem to be bothered by anything, much. Like nothing shocked him anymore. She could probably say she murdered someone last summer and he wouldn't flinch. Or, worse, he'd say he already knew, because her uncle seemed to also have this annoying omnipotence about him.

Kate still couldn't figure out if she liked the guy or not.

"Can I say something, or are you too frustrated with my Lynch-ian tendencies to acknowledge so?"

She gritted her teeth. "Say whatever," Kate said gloomily.

"Well, I wanted to say once we move past tonight's dinner debauchery, I would like to be in your life, Katherine."

She looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You're my niece," Jaspar grinned, "and one of the few family members I've got left to collect. From what I know about you, you're a very interesting young woman. I want to get to know you properly."

Kate squinted at him and tried to read the ulterior motive behind his innocent request. It almost seemed like he truly meant what he was saying, but something about the way he said it made her hair stand up on the nape of her neck. Her worry about her uncle's reappearance only spiked. Maybe for no reason, but, still...

Before she could decide on a response, the chance was ripped away by a voice.

"Katherine."

At once, she froze like the voice had paralysed her in her seat. Deja vu from dinner made her brain hazy, like it'd only been a second since her father first smiled at her. Everything felt cold, all of a sudden, even though just a second ago the room had been too warm. A sour taste coated the back of her throat and tongue.

"Ah, brother. I'm sorry; did I disturb you? I was just—"

"—it's late, Katherine." Killian's sharp voice boomed through the formal living room. He stepped into the space and finally, without turning Kate could see his tall, skulking silhouette looming into the doorway like a supervillain. Or like Batman, if Batman was an asshole father (Kate never got really into comics, so she didn't know for sure). "I think you should go to bed."

Kate swallowed harshly. "I'm not doing anything wrong."

"You have school in the morning."

"Like you care."

The silhouette of Killian didn't budge. "I won't argue about this. Let's go to bed."

"It may be for the best, dear," Jaspar chimed in. He rose from his seat inelegantly, a cascade of long limbs and sloshing wine, and grinned down at her. "I'm sorry for keeping you up so long."

She debated staying put and fighting back at her father. What would he do, physically drag her from her seat? Unlikely. She could probably fight back hard enough to stay. Though, she didn't know Killian Blackwell anymore. Dinner told her nothing, only that he was very good at shutting down a tempered spirit. But he spoke coldly and the look in his eyes warned her not to try it.

Slowly, Kate got to her feet. She looked to her uncle, who looked very eager to give her a hug. But she wasn't a hugger, and he was barely not-a-stranger. So she held out her hand and waited stiffly.

"Goodnight. It was...nice meeting you."

"Oh. Oh! Sure." He took her hand and shook it, hard. As he waggled her arm around like she was those blow up stick figures on top of car dealerships, she felt something small and sharp press into her palm.

Curious.

"Lovely to see you again, Kate. I hope we can talk again soon! I want to know more, and-and maybe I can..." he trailed off as he noticed Killian's sharp gaze. "After you sleep, 'course. Goodnight, dear girl."

His hand fell away and Kate carefully folded hers into her hoodie. She dropped the piece of paper into her pocket. She'd look at it later.

"Night," she repeated, before stomping away. She hurried through the doorway, brushing past the tall, horrifying intimidating figure waiting under it and towards the safety of the main stairs—

"—Katherine. Wait."

She didn't stop. She reached the bottom of the steps and gripped the solid oak bannister like a lifeline. One foot in front of the other, Blackwell, she urged herself like some sort of half-baked mantra.

But a hand caught her wrist before she could escape, and she jerked back with a small cry. Kate whirled around to see her father had caught up to her, and was holding her hand captive.

"Let me go," she gasped, cold fear dripping down her spine. "Please."

"I need to talk to you."

"I don't want to hear it."

Killian's eyes flashed with icy fire. His grip on her wrist tightened. "Katherine, you have to listen to me."

"Let go," she cried back.

"Katherine," he repeatedly urgently, "please. I mean no harm."

"Yeah. Then why the hell are you holding my arm hostage?!"

Killian looked down to her wrist, then back up to her face. His bottom lip quivered. "You sound so much like her, you know," he said quietly, the softest he'd spoken all night. "I didn't know that, until tonight."

Kate swallowed and tugged again on her hand. "Y-yeah, well, you would, if, if you tried to speak to me in the last five years."

"I know. I know, believe me. I had to—"

"—stop it," she cried, still pulling. But her father's grip was iron and shackled her in place. "I-I don't have anything to say to you, Father."

"But I do!" He took a step, nearing her on the third stair. "I have to..." he didn't finish his sentence, trailing off in a way that was so wholly unlike Killian Blackwell, Kate wasn't sure if he was actually in the skin-suit, after all. "I'm trying to fix things, Katherine. Can't you understand that?"

With her father so close and holding her captive, Kate had no choice but to look at him. There, she realised how different he looked from the last time they had been so close — and even, from the suave, immaculately put together face plastered over the news. Whether it was TV magic or makeup, her father never looked anything less than perfect on screen or in photos.

But in real life, he looked ghastly pale and worked to the bone. He was gray and purpled, his skin resembling a corpse more than a breathing human. And the skin itself looked stretched tight over his bones. It didn't look like there was much else left of him; nothing but skin, bones, and whatever dark matter rotted in his brain. His voice echoed hollowly and it lacked power, all of the fervour he drove in his TV appearances.

He looked half-dead. Scarily so. Did he eat? Sleep? How could such a powerful man reduce himself to such a state of ruin? He owned half the pharmaceuticals bullshit in the country, couldn't that make him less of a walking dead? Kate wondered what was going on, beyond the screaming fits and phone calls, in her father's business. If it was connected to whatever his brother was here for.

But that wasn't enough motivation to care. Not after five years of nothing.

"If you actually want to talk, you'll have to do better than this," Kate hissed. In one harsh pull, she managed to slip her hand lose and immediately launched herself away from his reach. "You don't get to push me around whenever it suits you."

"I am your father," Killian said, but he sounded out of breath, not commanding. "You have no right to speak to me like that."

She scoffed and hurried up more stairs. "Only by blood," she muttered under her breath.

"Katherine, stop!"

She didn't. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, and the image of her late mother in her mind, Kate raised her hand with her middle finger pointing directly back to her father. She didn't look back to see how he took it, but took his silence and ran. Literally.

"I'm going to make things right, Katherine!"

A thousand sharp responses bubbled in her throat. She swallowed them back, opting for silence.

"I'm going to fix this. All of this. Do you hear me?!"

Kate didn't say anything. She reached her room and slammed the door before he could make it up the stairs. She locked it tight and stared at it, waiting for the telltale sound of footsteps approaching, or hands scrabbling at the lock, trying to get in.

But nothing.

She heaved a giant, shaky breath, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing did.

"O...kay," she hummed in a trembling tone. "Uhm..." She raised her voice a little, "you out there, f-father?"

Silence.

"Fantastic."

Kate slumped onto her bed, slamming her head back onto her pillows without a care. She glared at the ceiling above her, "should'a known leaving my room was a mistake." Angry tears started to build in her eyes, but she blinked them back, too frustrated to allow herself the privilege of crying. "I — at this point, I'm gonna just live in here. You know? I'll be like Spider-man. Shimmy down my balcony, shimmy up with groceries. Or I'll, I'll make a zipline. That sounds more fun. Easier, too."

She imagined life like that: zip-lining out of her mansion window, zipping back into prison when she had to. Would that be so bad? Might be a bit difficult, but she could get used to it.

"Whatever," Kate groaned. "Whatever! It's so — so — eurrrrghh!"

The half-assed scream-shout didn't make her feel better, nor did the choice words that slipped out after about her father and his oddball brother. But she wasn't positive anything was going to ease the frustration building in her skull.

"This really sucks, you know? Like, you thought this shit sucked before. But Kate Blackwell, you were dumb to ever want this to change. Y'know that?" She huffed. "Mysteries are only fun when they're not real, I swear." 

Honestly, even if she was just Karma, and some meek redheaded girl named Kate Blackwell came to her to ask for help, she'd probably say no immediately. Because this was torture.

And —

"—wait," she murmured aloud, cutting her own thoughts off. "Speaking of mysteries..."

Whatever Jaspar had given her, she had shoved into her hoodie and forgotten about once Killian spoke. She hadn't even thought to check what it was or what it meant. But maybe it could ease her discomfort a little. Feed her a massive clue she was missing.

Kate reached into her hoodie pocket and snagged the slip of paper. It was a half-ripped page from something else, but whatever had been written before was cut off by the messy tear. Kate frowned and flipped it over.

In beautiful crisp penmanship, someone had scrawled a phone number onto the back. It wasn't familiar to her, but the cursive message beneath gave her some clue.

"'In case you ever need a lifeline'," Kate read aloud. She traced the doodle at the bottom, a tiny whale waving a flipper up at her. "Huh."

The suspicion-driven Karma Kane part of her mind unfurled and started it's investigation of the note. But there wasn't much to decode, just seven words and a surprisingly detailed whale drawing. And the fish couldn't be code for something; none of their conversation had focused on aquatic life. What, was Jaspar some sort of marine biologist? Or a fish doctor? A deep sea diver?

"Makes no sense," she murmured, running a finger across the text. 

'Lifeline' implied something bad was going to happen. But if that was the case, wouldn't he give a better warning? And if not, why would he pick such dramatic words? Unless he just wanted to screw with her brain?

Jaspar Byrne did have an odd sense of humour.

But he also said he was trying to fix a problem. Made it sound kind of bad.

But was that just to screw with her mind?!

A small inkling of an idea, a tiny tendril at the bottom of Kate's mind, starting to curl into existence. She stared at the surprisingly detailed fish doodle and wondered if worrying about this was pointless. If she could be doing something better. That, if 'Uncle Jaspar' wasn't going to give her answers, she'd just make up her own.

Sure, it wouldn't be for Kate, but Kane needed a new idea. And a puzzling note sounded like the perfect foundation.

"What a strange life you live, Blackwell," she said to herself, in her best Karma Kane impression. She sniffled, suddenly filled with the great desire to cry again. "What a terrible, messy, strange life."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Sorry for missing another week. Work has been kicking my ass :') I've made the career switch to a full-time nights job, and it's been a...long transition. Surprisingly, not because of the sleep change, rather just the people I work with. Plus, I have to walk forty minutes each way because I don't have my license yet, so I've been really exhausted lately.

But I digress. I apologise for the wait. I write these things and then forget to post - but here we are! :)

Jaspar Byrne is an odd character and honestly, each time I write/edit chapters, my mind switches up on him. I haven't decided how I feel about him yet.

THANK YOU
for reading.