HADLEY LIKES TO think of himself as a man not prone to self-pity. He spends less time wallowing in a pool of doubt and hesitation and more charging bravely and blindly into the future. Time wasted hesitating is time lost forever.

Maybe some hesitation is good, Hadley thinks with a sort of clarity that only comes with violently retching into the toilet. Maybe self-doubt isn't all that bad.

"Are you done?" Philippa asks, behind Hadley's closed bathroom door.

Hadley only heaves some more.

"Christ, what did you have last night?"

The thing was that Hadley drank with the intention of being knocked out cold for the next few days, if not weeks. Waking up with an insanely bad hangover and feeling like something had died in the back of his throat was not the intention. If there was an intention at all.

As always, it was hard to say what prompted the drinking. If Hadley was feeling truthful, he'd say that it was frustration—frustration with David's sudden disappearance, the realization that his feelings for him weren't all chummy, what this could possibly mean for him and Vic, and literally everything else that bothered him in the slightest.

But he's not feeling truthful. He's feeling like hell. And since he's feeling hellish, he thinks that what prompted the drinking was the fact that he was a stupid, self-destructive moron with no fucking concern for the repercussions of his stupid fucking actions.

Hadley's not a man prone to self-pity. But self-pity isn't the same thing as self-hatred.

"I'm assuming it's over now," Philippa says, with a hint of disdain that somehow manages to carry over despite Hadley's raging headache. "Judging by the lack of puking sounds."

"Mmmgh," Hadley says, intelligibly.

"What? I didn't get that."

Hadley flushes the toilet. Washes his face without once looking in the mirror, knowing that if he does catch a glimpse of the mess he's right now, it's going to make him angry. The last thing he needs, in addition to feeling like a garbage pile, is being an angry garbage pile. Especially if Philippa's in the same room.

Slowly, he unlocks the door. He opens it, just a crack, and peeks through the sliver of space, and meets Philippa's eyes.

She narrows her eyes at him. "You know what I don't understand? What unearthly urge possessed you to get drunk the night right before Mother was going to arrive—"

He shuts the door.

"Oh, for God's sake," she says. "Open the door, James."

"How do you know," Hadley says, rasping the words out, "Mother's coming home today?"

"Don't you check the family group chat?"

He rests his forehead against the door. "I didn't know there was a family group chat."

"Of course," Philippa says. "Of course. Why do I even bother?"

"Don't yell," Hadley mutters. "Please don't yell."

"I'm not yelling," she says, wearily. She knocks on the door, just once. "There's some Tylenol and Advil on the table."

How strange, the way she cares for Hadley. He can't ever recall doing anything to her to warrant this sort of affection.

"You didn't have to," he says.

"I know, but I like being a decent human being. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

He opens the door, and she's waiting right outside, arms folded. Her eyes are rimmed with red, as they usually have been these last couple of days. Hadley can only guess what sort of wild antics she gets up to.

"God, you stink," she says, stepping back, her face pinched in an expression of disgust. "Be glad Mother's not here to see you like this."

"She never comes up here," he says. He glances down at himself, and is unsurprised to find himself shirtless. "Alright. When's she going to show up?"

"Her flight lands at seven. No chauffeur, this time. We're going to have to pick her up."

Gently, he starts massaging his temple. "And we're going to use my Evoque."

"She likes the Evoque."

"Yeah, I know," he says, "Hard to forget, since she got me the damn thing."

"At least you have a car."

"Maybe," Hadley says, walking past her and into the closet to grab a shirt, "maybe if you didn't nearly total every car you ever drove, maybe then, she'd get you a car."

"Touché."

As Hadley bends over to pick up a pair of jeans that looks and smells somewhat clean, his phone starts ringing. He winces at the sudden sound, and turns to look at Philippa pleadingly.

She sighs. "Fine. I'm not even being a decent human being anymore. I'm being, like, basically the best twin sister ever."

"You're the good twin," Hadley says, as she picks up the phone. "I'm the evil twin. It's your job to be a well-rounded individual and have everyone like you while I lurk in the shadows, plotting the downfall of civilization."

"Aren't you supposed to be hungover?"

"Aren't you supposed to be answering my call?"

She rolls her eyes—she has this way of rolling her eyes that makes Hadley's head spin just following their motion, regardless if he's hungover or not—and answers the phone.

"Hello, this is Philippa Bishop Hadley," says Philippa, her voice suddenly nasal, "but my useless brother is too busy being a disappointment to everyone he knows to answer your call. If you'd like to leave a message, uh, go ahead. Right, if I could just know who's speaking." Philippa glances at Hadley. "Hassan Chowdhury, you say?"

Hadley stops wrangling with a pair of jeans, surprised, and looks at Philippa.

"Sure," Philippa says, frowning at him. "I'll just—"

"Give me the phone," Hadley says, holding out his hand.

Philippa hands him the phone, still scowling.

"James Bishop Hadley?" Hassan says. "That you?"

"Yeah," Hadley says. "What's up?"

"David send you that message?" Hassan sounds tired, his voice stretched so thin that even Hadley, through his hangover, can recognize it. "That dumbass sent the same thing to every single one of us. Don't look for me. He sent it to all of us, but Vic got a little 'please' at the end." Hassan sighs, heavily. "Motherfucker."

Something in Hadley twists, and he glances helplessly at Philippa, only to find her watching with that frown on her face.

"Well. I'm going to leave," Philippa says, walking towards the door. "Again, Tylenol and Advil on the table, get your car cleaned for mom, and remember to pick her up from the airport."

Hadley waves her away. Philippa says something along the lines of 'so much for gratefulness' but with a great deal more colorful adjectives and head-spinning eye-rolling.

"I did get the message. Listen, not to change the topic or anything," Hadley says, seating himself on the bed, "but how'd you get my number?"

"Vic gave it to me. Trusted me, good old Hassan Chowdhury, to call you. So I am. Calling you. She's busy having a breakdown, Shani is busy doing her job, Benji is busy trying to console Vic, Jeanne and Francis are trying to see if they can trace David somehow, since the Coterie's coming and all—"

"What's the Coterie?"

A long and lengthy pause. Hadley thinks that Hassan is being remarkably lax about spending all his talk time on Hadley, considering how they've never really exactly been on the best of terms.

"David didn't tell you?" Hassan says. "Christ, he was with you for a week and a half. The hell did you guys do? Make goo-goo eyes at each other and talk about your feelings?"

"No, we did manly things," Hadley says, bridling at Hassan's tone. "We got drunk and went to the gym and talked about our repressed emotions and how we felt about toxic masculinity."

"You made goo-goo eyes at each other and talked about your feelings," Hassan says, dismissively. "Anyways, you know what the Coven is, at least?"

Hadley tries to rack his brain for one of David's conversations, but this is a hard thing to do when he's all hale and well, harder to do when he's fighting with a headache.

"It's like, the magical FBI or something," Hadley says. "Really big and powerful. All big magicians. Or something. Right?"

Hassan actually laughs, and again, Hadley thinks of how tired he must be. How tired the rest of curse club must be, from what he's heard. Is this what David's done? Just abandoned them, people he called his friends, without an explanation? Left them scrambling behind him, in the wake of whatever gargantuan incident has just occurred—because Hadley knows, without a goddamn doubt, that thing in the graveyard didn't just shake him, but the ground, the skies, the core of this earth. And David left them, without a word, to deal with it. With it, and his sudden absence.

How selfish.

"You got most of that right," Hassan says, his laughter dying down. "See, sometimes, not everybody wants to be part of the Coven, and not everybody wants to get sucked into their fucking politics. And the Coterie, they understand that need to operate independently, and they give us protection, keep us little fish out of the maw of the goddamn monster—that's the Coven, by the way—in exchange for whatever services we can offer. It's a symbiotic relationship. Symbiotic the word? I didn't pay enough attention to that shit in high school."

"Symbiotic's the word," Hadley says. "Last question, I swear, but why's the Coterie coming?"

"Cause of the stupid stunt David pulled," Hassan says.

"What stupid stunt?" Hadley asks.

"Thought you had no more questions."

"Humor me."

"What, you really don't know?" Hassan says, and laughs, and cuts himself off abruptly. "Right, shit, obviously you don't know. There was this thing, two nights ago, at one of the graveyards."

"Oh, Christ. I was there." He closes his eyes. "I think."

"I know, Bishop," Hassan says, and Hadley blinks at the use of his middle name. "Why do you think Vic had me call you?"

"How did you—"

"Call it a sixth sense. Vic's sixth sense. Either that or David told her. Wouldn't be too surprised. Motherfucker tells her everything." Hassan stays silent for a while, thinking over the rest of his words. "Anyways, that thing at the graveyard—a nyx, Coven calls it—it was lured out. Summoned."

Hadley's blood runs cold. Blood on snow, red on white, a pattern he couldn't figure out. That night, two things were called out of the shadows. By the same person. What stopped a third thing from clawing its way into this world?

"David," Hadley says—no, breathes. He breathes the name, and it catches in his throat. He feels sick.

"Yeah," Hassan says, and Hadley can hear the wry smile in his voice. "Now you're getting it. You up for acting a witness?"

Hadley answers without hesitation. "Give me an hour."

***

"ARE YOU SURE you should be driving with a hangover?" Philippa says, looking like she'd rather be anywhere but in the passenger seat of Hadley's car.

His hangover has mostly subsided into a slow and dull ache, sitting at the back of his head. Everything else, however, is taking up the rest of his head, but driving the car with Philippa muttering complaints under her breath is a welcome distraction, if a slightly annoying one. Hadley was going to take the car to a car wash, alone, but Hassan's call put a wrench into that. So Philippa's agreed to come along. To take the car once Hadley's at curse club.

"I don't have a hangover," Hadley says, slowing down as he approaches a yellow light. "I swallowed two Advils and three Tylenols. And I had a shower. And I had breakfast. I don't have a hangover."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"Doing a good job of it too, I'd say."

An elderly woman jogs across the crossing, and Philippa sighs. She fiddles with the hem of her sleeves. Hadley's noticed the long sleeves—both in and out of the house, it seems—in that distant, vague way of his. The weather's been cold. Sometimes heating isn't enough, even if it was enough for the last few weeks.

Hadley, ever tactfully, doesn't mention it.

The light turns green. Hadley starts driving again. It takes half a minute for his sister to start muttering again.

"You really shouldn't be driving," Philippa says, clutching to her seat belt. She sounds just slightly panicked. "You really shouldn't be—"

"Who here," Hadley says, "has crashed a car, at least half a dozen times?"

A moment's silence. And then, with lethality, Philippa says, "You're the worst."

"Evil twin, remember?"

"Why do you get to be the evil twin?"

"Because I'm much more better looking than you."

They fall into the old rhythm of bickering like children, and Hadley is quietly relieved for it. It's not that the sight of Philippa in his nightmares has been completely wiped (don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it not with her right there) from his mind, but this Philippa—snarky, mean, four minutes and twenty-three seconds older than him and tremendously smug about it—just makes nightmare Philippa feel like something from a cheap horror movie. These are the moments that have the weight of reality on them. Moments that Hadley can believe in. Not looking in the rearview mirror of his car, waiting for a nightmare to catch up to him. Not stepping through a world where things didn't make sense. Not talking to ghosts under the moonlight. Not conversing with a version of himself that was both him and not him.

In short, not whatever his life has turned into ever since David stepped in it.

Their bickering dies down as soon as Philippa points out that she's going to drive the car once Hadley's out of it, and if he doesn't want any harm to come to it, he should shut up, like a good little brother.

The low buildings of the suburbs gradually give way to gleaming skyscrapers looming over not-so-gleaming neighborhoods and streets, and Hadley actually has to pay attention to the oncoming traffic, the pedestrians, the slow and beating pulse of the city.

They stop at an intersection, and Hadley pulls the David's cheap blue pendant from under his jacket and fiddles with it, rubs his thumb over the smooth back, over the ridged painted surface. He's been doing that a lot, lately. Fidgeting with it, turning it over in his fingers. It feels more like a stress relief toy than it does a charm with magical properties. Even after that dream, last night, he hasn't gotten rid of it. He doesn't think he has it in him to take it off.

"Why don't we talk much?" Philippa asks. "You know, like we used to."

The question doesn't startle Hadley as much as it should. He doesn't answer. Keeps his eyes on the road, and manages a shrug as best as he can with both his hands on the wheel.

"We grew up," Hadley says. "Sort of. Did we ever really talk?"

Philippa thinks over her answer and she's just about to say something when she gets distracted by the glove compartment. No, not by the glove compartment. By what's on the glove compartment. David's dried up blood, reddish brown against the dark gray of the leather finish. Without thinking, Hadley reaches out and grabs her wrist and she lets out a hiss of pain.

Hadley frowns. He didn't grab her that hard.

"Mind letting go?" Philippa says, through gritted teeth. "You're hurting me."

He lets go, but glances at Philippa, who is gingerly rubbing her sleeved wrist. The pendant thrums at the hollow of Hadley's throat. He touches it, again, and it is slightly warmer than it used to be, and something strikes Hadley.

Long sleeves. Philippa doesn't wear sleeves, not unless there's a reason to. The car is warm enough.

"Why do you have a blood stain on your glove compartment?" Philippa asks, coldly.

"What's with the long sleeves?" Hadley asks back.

"I asked first."

"I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Fine," Philippa says, her voice still cold. "Go ahead."

They come into a traffic jam. Hadley takes in a breath.

He eases his hand off the wheels, and stares right into Philippa's eyes. "I killed a man," he says. "I killed him and my accomplice got sloppy. I had to kill my accomplice too. I'm a murderer, Philippa."

Philippa is staring at Hadley, unimpressed. "You're too incompetent to kill anyone."

"Wow, low blow. A friend of mine got his hand cut up, touched the glove compartment, and I never got around to cleaning it," Hadley says. There's no need to lie, not when the truth is so easily believable.

"You could attract wild animals like that."

"We live in the suburbs. The only wild animals we ever get are raccoons." Hadley tilts his head. "Your turn."

In answer, Philippa rolls up one of her sleeves. Hadley stares at her arm for a good, long while. A car behind them honks. Hadley doesn't look away. The car honks again. Hadley still doesn't look away. The car honks for a third time, and finally, Hadley tears his eyes away and starts driving the car.

It takes less than a minute for the traffic to come to a standstill again.

"Christ," Hadley says. His chest goes tight when he looks at her arm again. "Who did that to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Philippa says, rolling down her sleeve, hiding the awful, horrendous bruises. Scratches. Those awful marks crisscrossing across her arm like a network of red. Whatever they were.

"Philippa," Hadley says, "if someone's doing this to you—"

She lets out a bark of a laugh. "You think I'd let anyone touch me without my permission?"

Hadley tenses his jaw. She doesn't mean the remark as some sort of stinging insult, he knows that. He knows that. He knows that she's not trying to imply that he's weak for getting thrown around by their mother. He knows that. Just like how he knows that his hands aren't shaking, how he knows his anger isn't rearing its ugly head in the pit of his stomach, how he knows Philippa hasn't grown quiet.

He needs to get away from her.

Philippa cranes her neck. "Hey, this isn't—James, we're going the wrong way."

"We're not going the wrong way," Hadley says, his voice uneven.

"James, we're headed to Chinatown. The carwash isn't in this direction."

"We're going to Chinatown first," Hadley says, more forcefully, "and then I'm going to get off there, and you're going to take the car to the carwash."

She snorts and says, "That's not what we—"

"Do you understand me," Hadley says, every word tempered with cold anger, "when I say that we're going the right way? Or are you incapable of understanding any fucking word that comes out of my mouth?"

The look on Philippa's face is undefinable. Again, that awful silence. His hands have started shaking.

"This is why," Philippa says, her voice small.

"What?" Hadley snaps.

"This is why we don't talk anymore," Philippa says, and looks at Hadley. Her feelings are written all over her face; the only problem is that Hadley doesn't know the language they're written in. "You can be so much like her, sometimes."

The air feels like it's been sucked out of his lungs.

Hadley pulls over, parking right outside of some Asian convenience store. Philippa watches him do it, a vacant look on her face. His hands haven't stopped shaking, but he manages to get the keys out of the ignition. At this, Philippa manages to look at least a little bit curious.

"I'm sorry," Hadley says, and he hates how childish he sounds. "I can't—Jesus, I'm sorry for being like this."

"Are you—oh my god, are you having a breakdown?"

"I don't know. Just—for God's sake, stop looking at me like I'm going to kill you and just take keys and take it to the carwash and—"

"Chinatown is like, two blocks away," Philippa says, sounding slightly panicked.

"I don't exactly trust myself right now not to break something. Like the car." Like you, some part of him wants to add, but doesn't. "I'll walk."

She takes the keys from his hand and asks, "Have you thought about how you're going to come back home?"

"I'll call you or get a ride or—I just—I'm sorry, I don't feel like I can drive a car and—" he removes his seat belt, unlocks the driver-side door and throws it open, nearly hitting a small child walking by— "maybe you're right, maybe that hangover is right, and just—god, I just need to get away."

"Um," Philippa says. "Okay. Take care. We can, uh, talk about the bruises when you get back from your getting away. You know what? I'll just pick you up."

"Okay," Hadley says, and jumps out of the car and onto the sidewalk, startling some passersby. "Take care."

Philippa nods, and without any preamble, clambers out of her seat and into the driver's seat, and slams the door shut. Hadley takes a step back, and watches the Evoque drive off away from him, into the distance. It's disorienting, watching his car leave without him.

He pushes his cold hands into the depths of his pockets, hunches his shoulders up against the cold, and starts walking towards curse club. 

***

a/n: hey look i got featured and all but i know about 1/10th of the featured readers actually read the whole thing, which is understandable. if you're that 1/10th, welcome to this shitshow. lol

and to all old readers who are still sticking this out: hello! welcome back! and a big shoutout to who saw this chapter through through all sixteen of its iterations. im not gonna lie this was a tough chapter to crack but in the meantime i got like loads more material! the only question is of course, if ill update it this week or next week or next month again hoohoo im sorry im a bad person. anyways. 

 anyways. heres this...thing i made. back in the day when i was still crunching out curse club chapters (just kidding that never happened but this is pretty old. old readers i think have already seen this? or im misremembering) and it seems a shame not to show it off, despite its overall embarrassing-ness. if hadley fucking. had an instagram account i guess

ANYWAYS... see ya chums! thanks for reading this long ass author's note, which is slowly starting to devolve into my personal crisis zone.