Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXV. Strangers In A Strange Land

15
Scott
Willemstad, Curaçao 
Hellbender Safehouse: The Grotto
Territory: Unknown
July 16th, 2004
Time: 12:30 AM 
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When the night finally found one moment of quiet, one moment to rest its eyes, Curaçao was all that remained. A needle in a haystack, Curaçao was a smugglerʼs paradise cloaked in old world secrecy, in the remnants of the slave trade, harboring a broken heart of a lover who couldʼve been with the scorn of hatred. Scott and Robin hid in the shadows to avoid the sting of Curaçaoʼs kisses come the morning, and yet, the darkness provided no comfort. Blood had flooded the streets, bringing its promise of revenge, and Psyche clung on to dear life. Everywhere they walked, the carnage from Uruguay had spilled into every corner of the Caribbean, making it clear: war was coming.

Curaçao was neutral ground, for now, with their eye to sit out the storm was the Grotto, a luxurious jungle estate founded by enterprising Dutchmen, later bought out in cash by a few penniless Hellbender operatives.

Ruth didnʼt lie to him, which begged the question: why? Loyalty was an expensive price to pay, but there were more expensive ones. So why did Ruth Tudor save him?

Scott sighed, watching as the Grotto came to life under their feet, plants writhing as the crickets sang their swan song at the witching hour.

"Aquí," Robin murmured, motioning her head for him to come in. "Put her here."

The apartment was quite; a jungle paradise, so far removed from what he assumed wsas a Hellbender base. The trees sang to the moon, the wind bristled through the hairs of it all, and the house listened to their footsteps, waiting for Ruthʼs corpse, Scott reckoned. Deathly quiet. He and Robin hauled Psyche onto one of the couches, listening to the house whir to life when Robin turned on the heat. Curaçao was untouched by the heat wave that struck after the coup, the burning snow that swept over the continent, and yet, Scott doubted Curaçao didn't know where the bodies were buried.

"Will she be okay?" Scott asked, settling in next to her.

Robin clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth, searching through the cupboards.

"Canʼt say, have to see what potion that b*tch used. Until then, all we can give her is godsblood and pray that does the job."

"Godsblood?"

Scott watched her massage a violet-colored vial between her fingers, cocking an eyebrow in judgement. Godsblood, a highly potent toxin that can also reverse engineer the side effects of most potions on demigods. A rare find.

"LʼArme is the biggest network of hunters in the world. You don't know what godsblood is?"

"I know not to trade in it," Scott murmured, rolling his shoulders back and closing his eyes. Robin scoffed at that. 

"Always the pretty ones; give her two drops," Robin muttered, rummaging through the cupboards still. Scott cradled Psycheʼs head on his lap, feeding her pretty pink lips the elixir. In the darkness, he watched Robin, stalking towards him like a cat.

"And in the mean time, give us, two more."

Scott stared at the silver bottle she pulled. Robin opened her lips coyly, teasing him, before drinking damn near half the bottle without chasing.

"José Cuervo," Robin deadpanned, holding the tequila tightly, plopping down next to him. Scott inched away from her, eyes narrowed, skeptical, hesitant and distrusting. She could poison him easily, have her way with him and steal some other intel again.