Image by Jennifer Herd © 2007

Image by Jennifer Herd © 2007
The Mary Sue Checklist
By J.M. Frey
1) The Mary Sue is sexually attractive to all canon characters,
regardless of their established sexual orientation or
availability.
2) The Mary Sue often has violet eyes, or eyes that change
colours, or are a biological impossibility. Sometimes the same
goes for ear shape.
3) The Mary Sue is adept at any sort of fighting or magic
wielded by the canonical characters, often surpassing the
canonical characters in ability with little to no practice or
previous experience.
4) The Mary Sue is the centre of the plot, the key player in
any battle, and is the only one who can 'save the day'.
5) The Mary Sue is often the reason for the main conflict in
the plot, whether inadvertently or as a central figure.
6) The Mary Sue is immediately accepted into the canonical
character's inner circle of friends and confidants, no matter
how unsociable or closely guarded said circle of friends is in
the canon.
7) The Mary Sue character exists for the Suethor's wish
fulfillment. The Sue looks like the author wishes she looked,
acts like the way she wishes she could, says what the author
wishes she could say, and creates an environment within the
canon in which things that the Suethor wishes would have
happened in the canon does (The Sue is the Id).
8) The Mary Sue is a character either previously unrecognized
by the fandom's central protagonists and antagonists, or drops
in from 'reality'.
9) The Mary Sue is often ardently desired by the villain despite
there being no advantage or reason for the villain to want said
Mary Sue.
10) The Mary Sue is witty and snarkish, and no matter how
lame said wittisisms are, the canonical characters akin the
Sue's sense of humour to that of a Comedy God.
11) The Mary Sue is often able to shift shapes, or has a friend
or magical pet that can shift shapes.
12) If the Mary Sue is related to a major character that is not
the romantic interest, then said relation is often used as a
haphazard excuse to introduce the Sue to the canonical
characters/ future romantic interest.
13) The Mary Sue has a tragic past that they 'get over' cheerily,
suffering neither post-traumatic stress, Stolkholm syndrome,
or other disorders or phobias brought on by their past
experiences. Any scars or marks that result from the trauma
are 'cool', or are interesting places or shapes. Sues are rarely
ashamed by said scars or marks, or associate them only lightly
with the trauma.
14) Mary Sues mope, brood, or pout, but only for as long as it
takes for the canonical characters to distract her. Long-term
guilt or pain is rare in a Sue.
15) The surrounding canon characters are made to act out of
character by the Mary Sue’s presence.
16) Somehow the Mary Sue character 'saves the day' in unlikely
ways that leave the canon characters stunned and amazed.
17) The Mary Sue often was given a name with a hidden or
relevant meaning, or that simply “sounds cool”, with no
regard for ethnic tradition or likelihood.
Book One: Dracula The Series
Chapter One: "Slider"
Sometimes I pray that I could just wake up from this bloody
nightmare.
Always a nightmare.
Sometimes, I think if I can breathe deeply enough, the residual
terror will fade faster, and I won't realize what it is that I was
fighting against in my dream. I won't realize I was flailing, tangling
myself in the sheets, screaming, “Get off me!”
It never works, of course.
I usually scare who ever is in the room with me, if anyone. I shrug it
off and pretend go back to sleep, or I tell them I'm okay and it was
a one-shot deal.
Usually they believe me.
Then I lay back down, because sleep will not come, and pray to
wake from this bloody nightmare.
=====
This is a story.
Whether you choose to believe in it as truth or not is your
prerogative.
I am merely telling it. I, of course, know it to be truth.
I am a Mary Sue in the strangest sense of the word. Let me explain:
If you were to fall into your favourite fandom, I mean, really do it,
would you tell people? Would you be scared of that character that
you are fond of, knowing that he or she really has the power to hurt
you for real? Would you pursue the silly crush? Would you warn the
heroes of the future? Would you even tell them who and what you
are?
Odds are, you've answered 'yes' to these questions.
Once upon a time, I answered 'yes' too.
Now, my answer is 'no.'
The less I get involved with them, the better. The faster I can get
out of that reality, the faster I can get into a new one. The faster I
can leave. The closer I am to home.
Gods, my new life is like a bad episode or two of “Sliders”.
I was never a fan.
=====
In the middle of one of the poorer districts of the city of
Luxembourg, in a certain warehouse filled with gadgets and potions
ingredients, a strange mix of technology and alchemy, a thirtysomething blond man in a very tasteful business suit was waiting
patiently with his hands folded behind his back as men and women
in lab coats scrambled to write something on the dusty cement floor
in blood.
The man is a Vampire.
The people in lab coats are not.
I was not there when this happened, but I was told the story later. I
figure you may appreciate knowing this part. It helps.
The warehouse is on the easterly side of the city, off a small stretch
of road that connects to the Rue Jules Willhelm. If one was to
follow the road, one would pass at least three churches before
reaching the city centre.
This is important information. Don't forget it.
In reality, my reality –your reality- there is no castle on a hill,
overlooking the downtown area.
Here, there is.
In my reality, the Castle is called Castle Vianden, and is located
outside of Luxembourg City near the actual town on Vianden. In this
reality, the Castle is also called Vianden, but those in the know
laughingly call it “Castle Dracula”.
In my reality, Castle Vianden is a tourist attraction, where, over ten
years ago, a television program called “Dracula: The Series” was
filmed at night with a mostly Canadian crew.
In this reality, it is owned by a wealthy philanthropist and the CEO
of Lucard Industries International, Alexander Vladisvus Lucard.
In my reality, the actors of the show moved on, joined the Stratford
or Shaw Festival Theatres, did guest spots on television and in film,
became the stars of other TV shows.
Here, the world has stopped in the early nineties.
Gustav Helsing has rescued his son Klaus from the vampire Lucard,
and he and his nephews, Maximillion (“call me Max, please”) and
Christopher Townsend, and Gustav's ward, Sophie Metternich, wage
the ever-lasting battle against the darkness. They are Vampire
hunters, the only ones in town, and, in my estimation, not as good
as the great-grandfather from whom the Helsings inherit their name.
Actually, Abraham was a bit of a bungler himself, if I recall.
'Child-brain' my ass.
Well, in this strange television reality, Alexander Lucard stood in
the warehouse waiting for the people in the lab coats to finish
painting archaic designs on the cement floor, trying very hard to be
patient. Which was difficult.
Alexander Lucard was fed up.
He was sick to death (undeath?) of Helsings.
He had lost more money in the last decade trying to avoid the
damned vampire hunters than he cared to admit. Loss was not
acceptable. No more avoiding them. He'd had his fun, strung them
along, had a few wonderful nights of bloodsucking and laughs.
It was time to kill them.
The only problem was getting to them.
They had the Cross of the Magyars protecting their home. Any
Vampire passing into the house was immediately vaporized by its
holy power. They knew who he was and knew what to look for in an
ambush. The twentieth century had provided them with UV
Flashlights, internet searches, the ability to hack into his private
cellular phone signals and stock portfolios. The kids had gotten
smarter in the past few years. Stronger. Faster. They were almost a
threat. Almost.
Given enough time, they would be a threat.
He had to get rid of them.
Now.
But he couldn't get to them.
The best solution seemed to be the simplest.
Bring them to him.
Only problem, it was a hard thing to do. If he kidnapped any of
them, the police would know. He had many of the police in his
pocket, but he couldn't afford to be openly accused of anything.
Too expensive to pay people to keep their mouths shut; more
money out of his pocket.
Missing people reports would be filed. It was no secret that the
Helsings and Mr. Lucard had a very stormy relationship, and soon
people would start to point fingers.
He didn't dare hire assassins for fear of their blackmailing him later.
He couldn't even get them drummed out of town. The most he could
do was get the Townsend boy's student visas revoked and thus the
boys deported to America, and that would do nothing to get rid of
the rest of them.
Lucard had to get them to come to him, meet him on his own
ground on his own terms, in a way that would keep him free of all
blame and suspicions.
Long gone were the days when the Helsings randomly broke into his
castle to harass him, and long gone, too, were the nights when he
enjoyed the game so much that he let them escape afterwards.
It was time to end it.
He had to do it in a way that was discreet and infallible - a way that
couldn't be traced back to him.
Hence, Magic.
It was a summoning circle.
Alexander Lucard wasn't sure exactly what kind. One of the
members on his staff was a priest of some sort and had offered this
solution. Lucard was to the point where he was willing to try
anything once.
The annoying thing was the lack of specificity in the spell.
The circle could summon a person, but it was nearly impossible to
make it a specific person. Lucard couldn't just nudge the blood on
the floor with his foot and say, “Hey, you, circle-thingy. Bring me
Gustav Helsing.”
He had to try to narrow it down, or it would just summon the
nearest human being.
So they had incorporated some specifications into the summoning
charm. The person had to know that Alexander Lucard was Dracula.
The person had to be alive. The person had to be in possession of a
University education, and had to have studied Vampires during the
time of that education. The person had to have studied Alexander
Lucard. The person had to be human. The presence of the person
had to be advantageous to Lucard.
They thought that was specific enough to bring them only Gustav
Helsing.
I can tell you from personal experience that they were damned
wrong.
=====
This is the part of the story where I come in.
I had nothing with me.
I was sitting in a café, sipping coffee, wearing my glasses and a nice
pair of pinstriped pants. I had on dark blue sneakers; a pair of
grapey-rust coloured legwarmers and a matching mock-turtleneck
knit tee-shirt. Over that was an olive green button up blouse. Fake
suede.
My hair was loose and un-gelled for once, a rusty red in colour and
hanging limply around my face, just over jaw-length. I had been
lazy that morning and failed to curl it outwards.
I'd just spent three hours that morning discussing Performative
Gender, Interior Gender, and Physical Sex in Drag Queens. I was in
university. I study Canadian theatre and television. I had written
papers on “Dracula: The Series”, and how Alexander Lucard was
Dracula.
I was reading a book on Literary Theory, trying to figure out how to
apply Jung’s theories of the Ego and Id to Mary Sue Fanfiction.
And suddenly, I blinked out of existence.
=====
It is shocking to the body to be sitting one second, and then
suddenly have the chair yanked out from under it. It is shocking to
the mind to be one place, and then suddenly another.
I flailed, fell onto my arse onto cold, dusty concrete, and clutched
my textbook and coffee mug in panicking hands. I looked up and
around. I dropped the coffee mug and it shattered on the ground. I
didn't think Rob, the owner of the café, would mind.
I wasn't in the café.
I was sitting in a warehouse, in the middle of circle of people in lab
coats. Around the walls, and on tables, stood bits of unrecognizable
technology. Slowly, warily, I pulled myself to my feet. Nobody
offered to help me.
I gripped my textbook hard and stared.
There was blood on the ground. Fresh blood. It looked like writing.
It smelled like rotting meat.
From behind the people a cultured, accented voice asked, “Who the
Hell are you?” The crowd parted and a handsome man in an
expensive suit came forward to stare openly at me. One golden
eyebrow was arched over unimpressed grey eyes.
“Geordie Johnson?” I said softly.
The man didn't blink. “You are Geordie Johnson?”
I shook my head. “No, you are.” I let myself smile. Yes, that was
the answer. I recognized the put-on accent. “Are you filming
something? Did I sleep walk without realizing it?” I looked around. I
saw no cameras. The smile faltered, but I persisted. “I'm sorry, I
didn't know this was a closed set. I'll see myself out.”
Grasping for straws. Dumb excuse. Get out.
I started for the exit behind the crowd, but someone grabbed my
elbow and stopped me. The someone was very strong, and I winced.
Hired Bruiser.
The blond man - he had to be Mr. Johnson, I knew. I was a fan came to stare down into my face.
“Are you a university student?” he hissed softly.
I nodded, swallowing hard. I didn't like the ice in his gaze, the way
he appraised me as if I was… dinner.
“Do you know who I am?”
I nodded again.
“Who?”
“Geordie Johnson… right?”
“No.”
My voice made a squeaking sound. My voice, not me. No, I was in
control. I wasn't scared. Ri-ight. “Alexander Lucard?”
“Yes. And?”
I looked around the room. The people in the coats looked hungry,
too. “Dracula?”
He nodded, a cat's predatory smile stretching his lips back away
from his teeth.
I had a friend once with lots of money and a warped sense of
humour. He had spent thousands of dollars on these contact lenses
that could turn his eyes red. They were double layered - in between
the layers of glass was a strange substance that was clear. However,
if a certain electromagnetic field interfered with the gel, it turned
a cloudy red colour.
There was a hand-held device that went with the contacts, and he
kept it in his pocket. When he flipped the switch, his eyes appeared
to turn red. He used to wear them when he went to McDonald's to
scare the employees.
Alexander Lucard's hands were free of hand-held devices.
When his eyes flushed a predatory golden, I knew it was for real. My
guts twisted, my reaction visceral. Suddenly, I knew I was prey. It
was the single most terrifying feeling in my life. My heart leapt up
into my throat and I could taste my pulse. He laughed slowly, and I
saw the sharp white fangs.
He turned to his left and swatted at a man caked in drying blood.
He looked like he'd been finger-painting, only he smelled like a hot
butcher's shop. The man flew back and smashed into the wall. But it
looked like Lucard had only tapped him. I wasn't sure if he was
going to get back up.
“You botched it!” he hissed. I cowered, even though his ire was not
directed at me.
He returned his gaze to my face. “But the specifications of the spell
made certain that your arrival would be advantageous.” He leaned
in close, and I could feel his hot breath on the skin of my neck. I
tried to back up but the bruiser who held my elbow quickly
snatched the other one and held me still. “I wonder how… Who are
you?”
I swallowed hard and shook my head.
This wasn't happening.
“Who are you?” he asked again, obviously unhappy with having to
repeat himself.
I threw my book at him.
'Threw', maybe, isn't the correct adjective. I swung my arm up from
the elbow and bashed his aristocratic nose with the spine of my
Literary Theory text. Finally, the damn thing made itself worth the
seventy dollars I had been forced to shell out for it.
Lucard reeled back, howling in pain and anger, clutching at his nose.
It was gushing blood.
I remembered Miss Congeniality's advice - SING - and did.
Solar plexus - the bruiser got my elbow in the gut. He doubled over.
Instep - I stomped hard on his foot.
Nose - I tried to crunch the bridge of his nose with the heel of my
hand and didn't really succeed. But I managed to shove him away.
Groin - I kneed him hard, darted around his body, and aimed for the
fire exit on the far wall.
The lab coats were in chaos. One had picked up my book, dabbing
the blood off it uncertainly. Another five or so were fawning over
Lucard. Two were holding up the groaning bruiser.
“Stop her!” the Vampire snarled and they all turned their attention
to me.
I ran hell-for-leather out of the door and found myself on the Rue
Julien Willems. That's what the sign said.
Left or right?
I turned right and ignored their shouts to stop.
They hadn't asked nicely enough.
I am not a very fast runner. But I had enough of a head start to get
to the building with the spire I saw in the distance. Church. Old one.
My lucky day.
I hammered up the steps, slammed back the doors, and skidded to a
halt in the back of the building. It was filled with dust, old wooden
pews, worn red carpeting, and not much else.
The important thing was that it kept out the lab coats.
They must have been zombies, all of them.
I thanked my luck again and walked away from the door, where I
could hear them hissing and spitting and banging against the
invisible barrier that kept them at bay.
I had never been a big one for church.
Usually, I thought that I'd had better things to do on Sunday
mornings.
I was starting to think that I had been wrong.
=====
Alexander Lucard never ran.
It was undignified.
He took his time.
I was leaning back against the closest pew, my eyes on the door and
the mingling people. I wondered if someone who worked at the
church would come and see what the racket was about soon. There
was a small house beside the weed-broken walkway that had lead
up to the front steps, but so far no lights had gone on.
Even if a priest, or father, or reverend, or whatever came out of
the house, what good would it do anyone? Better to let him sleep.
The zombies couldn't get into his house without an invitation.
My head was reeling.
I shoved away the non-reality feeling, the nausea, and adrenaline
after-shakes and the dizziness, and kept my attention on the empty
door. If one of them found a way in, I wanted to see them doing it.
The muscles in my calves and thighs were burning from the spurt of
athletic exertion followed by cold inactivity. I am definitely not an
athlete.
I thought I could probably back up to the altar at the front of the
church and still keep my eyes on them. I had read a fanfic once
where someone being chased by a Vampire had drunk Holy Water to
keep the undead predator away. It seemed blasphemous, but it may
work.
I was just starting to move when an honest to God bat landed at the
feet of one of the lab technicians. There was a flare of shadow and
suddenly Lucard stood on the other side of the invisible barrier,
scowling at me.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.
This revelation hit me like a sledge hammer between the eyes.
This was real.
I had just seen that.
But Lucard couldn't get into the church any more than his zombies
could. He pressed a palm against the open air and was rewarded
with a sparking crackle of energy forcing him back a few steps.
Yay.
“Come out this instant!” he snarled, his eyes glowing golden. The
sky behind his head was fully dark, and I wondered how close to
dawn we were.
I was warm and safe inside the church. I could play at a contest of
wills all night if need be.
“No,” I said.
Lucard sniffed, annoyed, and I noticed that his nose was healed.
The front of his immaculately white shirt, however, was stained
with crimson droplets. “Come out here, now,” he said again, his
voice losing patience.
“Are you deaf or stupid?” I said, edging around to put a few rows of
pews between him and me. “I said no.”
He frowned. “You are a very brazen young lady.”
“And you're a very rich snob guy. So?”
“I won't hurt you.”
“Do I look stupid?” I shook my head. “I know who you are and I'm
staying right here until dawn, thank you very much.”
Lucard grinned. He looked like he was trying very hard to be sincere.
“I'm rather hurt. My manners are not all that bad." The gold leeched
away from his eyes, leaving them an attentive gray. His fangs
retracted.
He put on a sort of charmingly hurt look, slightly seductive and all
mock innocence.
I felt my heart leap into my throat. I had always thought Geordie
Johnson was attractive. He had been at his most attractive when he
had been playing Mr. Lucard. I had to close my eyes and shake my
head and remind myself that this was not Geordie Johnson. This
was not an act.
“I know what kind of manners you have,” I shot back. It was kinda
lame, but it's hard to be witty when you're terrified. Bugger all, he
had me cornered and we both knew it. I would have to leave the
church sometime.
He tipped his head to the side, smiling gently. "That's a little biased
on your part, don't you think?"
“Biased? Jeeze, you're Dracula.” I've never been a hardcore
Christian, but it sure felt good to clutch the Bible I found sitting on
the seat of the pew.
His voice faded slightly as he walked in a confidently slow manner
off to the side. The techies in the lab coats dispersed at the demure
wave of his hand. They were going to circle the building. Two
remained at the door, watching me with glittering eyes. I swallowed.
I wanted to keep him in sight.
"And you're going to believe a mad and vulgar Irishman over the
state of my character?” His voice echoed eerily in the night. “Come
now."
“Stoker nothing, I've seen 'Dracula: The Series.' I know how
Alexander Lucard works.” I felt nervous. Caged in. I was. “Come
back where I can see you, dammit!”
A sudden crash sent me reeling out of the pew and into the aisle,
covering my head with my arms. How had he just broken the
window?! The coloured glass was like shrapnel and I screamed as
one piece dug into the flesh of my forearm.
I stared at my arm, at the thin stream of blood. The glass was blue.
I sucked on my lip and yanked it out. There was more blood - not a
lot, but enough - and I pulled off my green shirt. I hated doing it,
but I ripped at the hem of it and used the strip I tore off to bind the
wound. It wasn't deep, but it stung like a bitch.
"You know, now that we're on the topic of manners, I believe yours
might need some adjusting…" He voice rang through the church, a
stage whisper that echoed. I looked around - no, he wasn't inside.
He was outside of the broken window.
“My manners?” I repeated, tugging the knot on the bandage with my
teeth. “Hello, just broke a window.”
A soft chuckling danced across the rafters of the church. I shivered.
If he was trying to freak me out, it was working.
The windows began to smash, one by one, all around me. I ran into
the center of the room and jumped as each one exploded inwards. I
managed to avoid all the other flying glass. I didn't want him to
smell the blood from my cut.
“That's getting old!” I shouted over the busting glass. I just wanted
him to stop. It was scary. I scrubbed at my eyes - no, no crying
allowed.
The last window was not broken by a mysterious force. A body was
flung through it. It was a man. Dead. Throat torn out. Eyes wide in
shock. A passerby? I didn't recognize him. I screamed, loud and shrill,
like a good slasher-movie queen, and put as much distance between
myself and the corpse as possible.
I ended up pressing myself against the wall by the open door.
I resisted the urge to slam it shut. If he came back to the door, I
wanted to see him. To be able to read his face.
“You were saying?”
I swallowed hard. I would not vomit. I would not.
Any thoughts of Lucard as Johnson fled my head. He was not
harmless. He was a murderer.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice sounded weak and pathetic, and
terrified. Even to me.
There was no answer. A long pause.
“Answer me!” I called out, pushing away from the wall. I turned my
back on the body, tried to block out the smell. I craned my head to
peer around in the darkness, trying to see him. The two techies had
moved to the bottom of the stairs. I ignored them.
There was a rushing roaring sound, a sudden burst of heat and light
at my back. I turned on my heel to stare at the massive wooden
crucifix that hung behind the altar. It was on fire.
It came tumbling down and hit the altar. The linen cover-cloth lit
quickly, and the flames raced across the floor as if it were slicked
with oil.
“Stop it!” I screamed, taking a fearful step or two backwards. I was
mindful of the door, though, and its invisible barrier. The old pews
began to burn. I still held the Bible in my hand and I clutched it
close to my chest. I began to cough. The smoke was thick.
Surely the fire department or the police or someone would be
coming soon. I just had to hold on. Stay in the building as long as
possible. They would chase Lucard away. He wouldn't dare with all
those flashing lights around… right?
The smoke made my eyes water. My lungs felt like they were
burning.
If I passed out, I would burn to death.
If I ran from the church, he'd kill me. Or worse.
A pillar of wood burnt away from the ceiling rafters. Plaster
crumbled, raining down in a shower of embers. It landed practically
at my feet. I screamed again. The fucker was aiming for me!
I stared out of the door. The zombies were staring back hungrily.
Maybe I could shove them aside and run for the rectory. They
couldn't get in. But I bet the door is locked. I couldn't get in either.
I was going to burn to death. Or suffocate. Or get crushed. Or have
my throat torn out by a Vampire. How the hell had this happened? I
was just sitting in a café reading a theory book, sipping coffee!
The scent of burning meat suddenly filled my nose. The dead man
was on fire. The flames were jumping from pew to pew, skipping
around the Stations of the Cross along the wall. The confessional
suddenly began to glow from within, orange against its worn and
patched paisley brown curtains.
“Stop it!” I shrieked.
I covered my head. Suddenly, the fire was gone.
I looked up. The church was whole. The windows weren't smashed. I
tore at the makeshift bandage on my arm - no cut. I took a deep
shuddering breath. A burning lump pressed against my adam's apple.
I let the tears drip out, slowly.
The world went silent and calm.
The breeze that had been coming in the doors died.
“How did you do that?” My voice was shaky, small. I backed away
from the door. The Zombies looked disappointed. I kept touching
my arm, to make sure it really wasn't bleeding.
Silence.
“Answer me! Where are you?!”
No answer.
“I know you're still here.”
Nothing.
Had he given up?
Cautiously I moved to the door. I didn't believe he would give up,
but I didn't see him. I eyed the rectory carefully. The zombies on
the steps had melted back into the shadows. If they were still there,
I couldn't see them.
No, too inviting. He wasn’t gone. It was a trap.
Maybe there was an office somewhere in the church? With a phone?
God, and what would I say? 'Gee, officer, I'm being held captive by
Count Dracula. Little help?' Besides, more than half of the cops in
the city were Lucard’s boys anyway.
I suddenly wondered if Gustav Helsing's phone number was listed.
I didn't move. I wanted to go find the office. Find a phone. I didn't
want to let him out of my proverbial sight, though. I looked at the
rectory. Still no lights on.
Come on, what the Hell kind of priest are you, buddy? A Vampire is
stalking an innocent victim in your sanctuary and you're having tea
with the Sandman.
Maybe I could get to the house. It was just a few steps. Maybe he
didn't lock his door.
But what would the point of leaving the church be? I was safe here.
Lucard may have been fucking with my head, but I was safe here.
Behind me, there was a small sputtering noise and one of the cold
candles suddenly was adorned with a bright tongue of flame.
“No,” I said firmly, closing my eyes. “No, stop it.”
The flame merely danced amiably. I walked over to it quickly,
staring down at it. It looked like a regular candle. I looked around.
Nobody. Nothing. I licked my thumb and pinched the flame. It died.
I sat down slowly on the stairs by the fount of Holy Water. I took a
deep breath.
“What do you want?”
No answer. The flame flickered back to life.
I was suddenly very cold.
“Stop it.” I stood and pinched the flame again. The flame went out.
“Stop playing games and answer me!”
I set down the Bible and cupped my hands above the fount. “I'm
going to drink the Holy Water.” I wasn't sure if it was a threat. I
wasn't exactly sure why I told him. “What will happen if I do?”
Silence. I stomped my foot angrily. “Answer me!”
There was a strange sizzling sound under my hands, and I jumped
back from the fount. The water was boiling away!
“No!”
I dove for the metal bowl but it was dry and slightly warm when I
managed to touch it.
Not a drop left.
I shouldn't have said anything, dammit!
I flopped down onto the steps and pressed the heels of my hands
against my eyelids, resting my forehead on my knees. I had a
headache, sudden and consuming.
I could wait if I had to.
I wondered if I should bother looking for a phone. He'd probably
already cut the line. I bit back a sob. Not allowed.
I wondered how long it would be before he wised up and sent a
human in after me. Or would it be a matter of pride to flush me out
on his own?
I waited for something to happen. Anything.
“You're a really sick fuck,” I said under my breath. I knew he'd hear
it.
That got him talking. I had hoped it would. “Such a mouth my dear.
I'm not very -aaargh!”
His words bit off into a roar of pain. I jumped to my feet. I grabbed
the Bible. It wouldn't be a great weapon, but it was heavy and
throw-able.
Bernard Behren's welcome voice rang out, “It's safe! He's gone!”
I rushed to the door. I was almost outside before I remembered that
I should probably be careful. “Mr. Helsing…?” I said tentatively.
“Over here!” he called from somewhere to the right. “He managed
to take a swing at me. I need your help. I’ve thrown out my back
again.”
I bit my lip. I peeked my head around the frame. “Mr. Helsing? Are
you okay? How did you know I was here?”
Strong hands grabbed the collar of my olive shirt and I was yanked
out of the doorway, onto the step.
Aw, fuck!
Oldest trick in the book. Even Captain Hook had figured it out when
Peter had done it. Dammit.
Long fingers wrapped around my throat and I found myself staring
evenly into the golden eyes of Dracula. This was a bit of a problem,
as he was at least two heads taller than me. My toes dangled above
the stone steps. “Predictable,” he said softly. “And you had seemed
so clever up until now.”
I kicked at him feebly.
I had the pleasure of bashing the spine of the Bible into his nose,
breaking it again, hearing him howl, before the lack of oxygen
tumbled me into waves of sickening blackness.
Book One: Dracula: The Series
Chapter Two: "Darkness"
My own coughing woke me up.
I laid a hand over my throat. I swallowed and the inside felt like it
was raw and burning. The outside felt tender and aching. I fought
back a mewl of pain.
I knew there would be a bruise. I also knew that it would be in the
shape of an adult male's hand.
I sat up slowly, my head spinning, eyes wide to try to suck in any
light I could. The room was pitch black. The only indication of
colour came from set of thick curtains. Golden sun streamed
through the cracks at the bottom and in the middle. The fabric was
lightened. I think it was brown. Or red.
The silhouette of a man was a dark shape against the curtains.
Three guesses at who it was.
I couldn't tell if he was looking at me or not. I'd bet even money
that he was.
It was unnerving, so I decided to figure out where I was instead. It
was a room. It was very dark. There was one window; he was
standing in front of it. From the slant of the sunlight, I'd guess it
was the late afternoon, close to sunset. I was lying on a bed - soft,
clean-smelling, lots of pillows. I was warm, still in my own clothing.
My shoes were missing.
My guess was a well-appointed room in his castle.
It made me shiver. I really don't like the idea of the Bad Guys and
me in a bedroom together. Alone... as far as I could tell. God, I
hoped we were alone. I'm not big on the whole 'gang bang' idea
either.
“You're still a sick fuck,” I said softly, facing the window.
He chuckled softly under his breath, and the silhouette took a step
closer. “And you're still a brazen young lady.”
“Don't come near me,” I warned, groping along the cover (was that
real brocade?) for something to throw. I found the bedside table
and closed my fingers around a heavy, hard-cover book.
He chuckled again, and the sound gave me something to aim at.
He yelped as the book glanced off the side of his head and I could
see his shadow move as he raised his hand to the new bruise.
“Why do you insist on throwing books at me?!” he snarled, and two
dots of gold appeared in the shadow. His eyes were glowing. I
flicked my eyes to the curtains - they were no longer backlit. The
sun had set. The light from his eyes cast sharp angles of shadow on
the planes of his face, and he looked pissed.
The glare of the sun receded from the window, and the shadows
finally softened in the twilight. I could just barely make out his face.
He was smiling. But he looked hungry.
“Why do you insist on trying to hurt me when you know I will throw
books at you?” I snipped back, sounding far more confident than I
felt.
He snarled and I felt the bed sink and sway. I crab-walked
backwards until I hit the headboard. I could only see the feral glow
of his eyes, but they were coming closer, skimming towards me over
the bed. Christ, he was crawling.
I pulled myself into a ball and clamped my arms around my neck,
hiding my face in my knees, in an effort to protect the vulnerable
stuff. I felt his long fingers prying at my arm and I went stiff. I could
feel his thighs on either side of my legs, his other arm brushing my
shoulder. He had me pinned to the headboard.
He laughed softly and his breath whispered along my ear, hot and
smelling of rotted meat. Old blood.
“I have never tried to harm you,” he said softly into my ear. I shied
away from that side, and the movement gave his hand the leverage
needed to pull my other arm away from my neck. He grabbed my
forearm and slowly yanked it upwards and back, pinning my wrist
against the wall. I couldn't fight him. He was moving slowly,
deliberately, and I couldn't fight him.
He switched his face to the other side of my neck, the side that was
free now, and nuzzled. I could hear him snuffling against my skin
like a dog, taking in scents. His tongue shot out and lapped briefly,
then vanished. It appeared again, pressing down, searching for the
pulse. He found it and nipped once, no fangs. Not a bite, but a
reminder; a warning to be a Good Girl.
I struggled briefly, but there was no point. “You shattered the glass.
You tried to burn down the church. You almost strangled me to
death!”
“Just mind tricks.” His face was so close to my skin. I felt him smile.
“I would not have done that if you had come out of the church
when I had told you to.”
“You tried to bite me,” I countered, feeling foolish.
“I would not have hurt you. I was merely searching for information.
It would have felt good.”
I shook my head minutely. He nipped again and I quashed the urge
to scream and struggle. “You are going to hurt me.”
I felt him sigh against my skin and it caused goosebumps to rise.
“That was a nasty trick I played on you. My apologies. I have gone
about this all the wrong way - we are enemies and I do not intend
us to be. I really am an amiable man, once you get to know me.”
I felt him sit back. Suddenly the lights sprang to life. It hurt my eyes
briefly and I blinked a lot.
He was sitting on the foot of the bed, blazer missing, shirt sleeves
rolled up, tie missing. The picture of the concerned gentleman. Riight. He had done all of that stuff in the dark on purpose. He was
trying to terrify me. Throw my off balance by this abrupt change of
attitude.
It was working.
I dove for the door.
Screw my shoes, I could run away without them.
It was, of course, locked. I yanked on the handle. It didn't even so
much as rattle.
“Let me go!” I whirled around to face him, intending to death-glare
him, and found him right in front of me.
“No,” he whispered softly. He lifted his arms, probably intending to
grab mine and I ducked under them. He turned to face me. “I don't
want to.”
He took a step towards me. “And I always…” I took a step back.
“Get what I…” He took another step. So did I. “Want.”
I knew where this was going. I threw up my arms to keep the space
between us and he grinned. His fangs were out - long, terrifying. I
felt like prey again. I was prey. He grabbed my wrists and pulled my
arms straight until my fingers were curled against his chest.
What the hell was he doing? Alexander Lucard didn't seduce people.
He took what he wanted and killed what he couldn't have.
So why the kissy feely in the dark? Why this macabre tango? Why the
subtle swing of his hips as he advanced on me, backing me, god
help me, into the bed? One good shove and I would be on my back,
he would be on top, and I'd be dead.
Or would wish I was.
“I'm not playing this stupid game with you,” I said softly, even as he
did push me onto the bed. “Kill me or not. But don't lay on the
charm.”
He scowled for one brief second.
“As you wish.” I felt myself being lifted bodily and slammed back
into the center of the mattress. I yelped in pain. My wrists were still
in his hands, and he was straddling my hips. I swallowed hard
enough for it to hurt, and coughed again. “Who are you?”
I smiled on one side of my mouth. “I almost liked you better when
you were trying to seduce me.”
He squeezed and something in my left wrist popped. I screamed. “It
wasn't working. I only use methods that work. Now, who are you?”
He was smiling as he said it. I think it was more of a show of teeth.
“N-Nobody.”
He snarled. “You realize that if you do not volunteer this
information, I will hurt you. Possibly kill you. Then I will raise your
corpse as a Zombie and command you to tell me.”
That did give me pause. I closed my eyes. “Please… don't.” Yes, I
was scared shitless. Wouldn't you be?
He sat back slightly, some of the pressure on my wrists easing off.
“Your name.”
“…”
He squeezed again. “Your REAL name.”
“Marie!”
“Hn. You've studied me in university?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
I shook my head. No, it was absurd. It was unreal. This wasn't
happening.
I expected a sound of exasperation from him. For him to brake my
other wrist. I did not expect the gentle caress of his thumb on my
throat. He gathered my hands in one of his and gently ran his
knuckles along my neck.
I was surprised, confused. Like he wanted.
Suddenly he was pressing down. He was going to crush my windpipe!
I coughed once, flailed my head desperately. I eased up only long
enough to rear up and strike.
His fangs tore into my flesh and I screamed again, bucking against
his body, ineffectual.
I felt him smile against my skin, the fangs horribly slick with blood.
He pulled back just enough for me to be able to see him. A light
splash of crimson on his upper lip made his smile even more sinister.
"Tell me..."
I whimpered, immobile on the bed. "No. Stop."
He wiped his mouth, arched up over my prone form, bent down and
whispered in my ear. "Tell me. I can make the pain stop."
“I can't.”
He pressed his fingers against the ragged tear in my throat. I cried
out, red-hot pain lancing through the nerve endings in my neck.
"Tell. Me."
“You wouldn't believe me!” The tears had come and I couldn't stop
them. It hurt so damn much. It hurt. “You'll think I'm lying!”
He chuckled again, his breath wafting in my hair. His free hand
came down and skimmed across my breasts, down to the waistband
of my pants. “No, please no,” I sobbed, but it only seemed to
encourage him.
“I can hurt you in so many ways,” he whispered, scratching lightly.
“I can make you beg to tell me.”
“No.”
His fingers clenched and I screamed again as his fingernails ripped
into the soft flesh of my belly. He withdrew and deliberately
wrapped his hand over my mouth. I felt my own blood against my
lips. I tried to yank my head away, but his grip was like steel. I
breathed hard through my nose against the back of his hand as he
pushed my head to the side, stretching the wound open.
“Enough,” he hissed. “If you will not co-operate, I will learn this
way, instead.”
He tore a new hole.
I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. He was sucking, his
tongue thrusting into the wound to widen it. The length of his body
was pressed against me, and he shoved one of his knees down
between mine.
He was stealing my life, one gulping mouthful at a time.
This wasn't happening. Alexander Lucard isn't real.
My heart pounded in my ear and a sudden flare of searing pain filled
my chest. My brain was shocking my heart to keep it from stopping.
I'd had heart palpitations before. They always hurt like a bitch
because every nerve ending available screams so your heart is
shocked into beating again. This was a hundred times worse.
Bullshit he wasn't going to hurt me.
God, it felt like rape. When he was certain that I was unable to
scream in his ear anymore because I was too hurt, my neck was so
much raw meat, and I didn't have the breath or energy to take in
the necessary breath, his tongue probing the ever-widening wound,
he skimmed his hand back down along my body and went to work on
my fly.
There's nothing more terrifying than the human imagination.
This is why my nightmares are so bad.
I never saw him rape me, if he did. I never watched as he stole the
last of my blood and forced his own down my throat. I didn't even
feel his sharp fingernails deftly shredding my two shirts. He killed
me, and resurrected me, and I never even knew it.
I blacked out.
=====
For the second time that night, I woke myself coughing.
This time the sound was wet and gurgling. Something was in my
mouth. I swallowed heavily and something hot and bitter and thick
burned a path to my stomach. I gagged, tried to sit up, and found
my legs pinned.
Alexander Lucard was sitting on my knees. His lips and chin were
smeared with blood. One of his hands was also dripping red, blood
under the fingernails. His shirt was missing, and there were thin
rivers of red stuff making paths down his chest. His pants were
undone, but not off. They were open and riding low on his hips. He
could have pulled them back up.
My own pants were open, and my thigh felt warm and sticky.
I gagged and he put a hand over my mouth to stop me from
vomiting. The weight of it pushed me back into the pillows. I could
taste blood on my tongue, could see the gash above his right nipple.
Oh, god.
His expression didn't change, though, and that was the most
terrifying of all.
In the whole of the twenty-one episodes of “Dracula: the Series” I
had seen, I'd never quite seen Lucard looking so… incredulous.
His eyes were perfectly round, his mouth slightly open. He was
staring at me. He looked dumbstruck.
Finally he blinked, cleared his throat, and looked down at me. He
sort of jumped. Had he known he was half smothering me? He lifted
his hand away and I propped myself up on my elbows slowly.
“You… were right,” he admitted slowly, his voice low and rasping.
“I … don't believe it.”
=====
I was sitting in one of the well-loved leather chairs by the fireplace
in his sitting room. My fingers were flexing on the arms, and I was
pressed back as far as I could go. I didn't want to be anywhere near
him.
He had dragged me here bodily when I refused to follow his
command to get up and walk.
He was sitting opposite in a matching chair. There was a small
glass-topped table between our armrests. He was smiling gently,
charming once more. He had his knees crossed and was nursing a
glass of something red and expensive. It smelled like wine. It could
have been blood.
The stench of it had made my stomach roil. I had not picked up the
glass he had poured for me.
The burning on my face from the slaps, in my broken wrist, the
punctures in my stomach and on my neck… all had vanished.
I felt whole.
I felt well.
I felt better than I had in years. No knots in my back. No carpel
tunnel. I didn't even need my glasses. That was good, considering I
had no idea where they were. Back on the steps of the church,
maybe?
I felt terrified.
I felt like I should have a headache, at least. Nope. Fine. All in one
piece. Not breathing.
I think the not breathing scared me the most.
I was a Vampire now.
Holy shit.
He was smiling.
I was waiting for him to say something. Anything. To accuse me of
being a liar. To start asking me questions. To demand to know what
the Hell it was he had seen in my head, in my blood. He just stared
at me.
It was damned unnerving.
I avoided his eyes, looking around the familiar sitting room. Quite a
few important things had happened in this room in the show. I
wondered where the Van Gogh was portrait, Lucard's most
treasured possession, was. Then I remembered that Gustav Helsing
had put a torch to it.
To my left was the fireplace, large and crackling with orange flames.
Beside that, a door leading to what I assumed was the dining room.
Behind him were four large loophole windows with expensive leadmullioned panes. A lone suit of armour inhabited the corner, held
upright on a lonely wooden stand. The wall to my right was broken
up by a jutting stone staircase that ran its length. At the top was
another door, and below it, a third. The wall behind me held a
fourth door that lead into a hallway. The floor was covered with red
and brown rugs that couldn't have been anything but expensive.
My eyes kept jumping back to the fireplace.
I squinted. If I looked hard enough, would I see what was hiding
behind the flames?
It had been so long ago that I had seen that last episode, I hardly
remembered it but… maybe…
I forced my eyes away from the fireplace and back at him. He was
still staring.
“Say something,” I finally hissed. He blinked, and a sudden
malicious look flitted across his eyes. I should have stayed quiet.
“Geordie Johnson?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “I was played by
a … Canadian?” His lip curled in distaste.
I sucked briefly on my lower lip. “I'm Canadian,” I said, so softly
that I thought he may not have heard me. And what was wrong with
being Canadian?
He snorted. “And such a horribly campy show. I am not as
incompetent as all that! Or is that just how you remembered it?”
“It was supposed to be a comedy,” I said softly, not sure why I was
trying to defend it. It was campy.
He resumed studying me. I think he was angry. For all his speeches
about being glad that 'Dracula' was a fun-house figure, as it made it
easier for the real Dracula if people don't believe in him, I think he
was genuinely pissed off by the portrayal.
He snorted again and drained off the last of the wine. “And you've
written papers on that show, I gather? That is why the stipulations
of the spell thought…” he trailed off with a snarl. I waited him out.
“I have no use for you.”
I shrunk back in my seat, hands flexing on the arms of the chair.
“…what?”
“What you know has already passed. I have taken your knowledge of
this embarrassing excuse for a television show, vague and
needlessly academic as it is, and what you know ends at events
which took place years ago.”
I frowned, and for a moment a flare of anger replaced the terror
and confusion I'd been wallowing in. “Wait a sec… you… you did this
to me, and now you're just going to… to send me back?”
One corner of his lip turned down slightly. “Send you back? Did I say
I would send you back?”
The flames of the hot anger were doused in a sudden crashing wave
of freezing fear.
I shrank into the chair, a small, frightened rabbit with a small,
frightened voice. “You're going to kill me.”
He smiled. This time, it held no charm. He set aside the empty wine
glass and sat forward slightly. “I'm going to kill you.” He uncrossed
his knees and set his feet firmly on the floor. He was wearing shiny
dress shoes.
I was still in stock feet and two ripped shirts.
The fire beside me popped, a log shifting.
I decided to take a gamble.
In the last episode of the series, Klaus Helsing is sent through a
vortex, a mystical portal into a sort of glowy blue Void thing, which
is hidden behind Lucard's fireplace. I didn't know where it went, but
I did know that Lucard was reluctant to enter it himself.
I don't know if he saw my intention. I didn't bother to spring to my
feet. I launched myself over the arm of the chair and dove headfirst into the fire, praying that the Vortex was there and open, that
I wouldn’t crack my head on the hearth-stone and burn to death. A
wash of cool blue light poured over me as I passed through the
torturously hot flames and I was suddenly floating in airy silence.
Prayers answered.
I felt a tug on my ankle and looked down to see Lucard's hand
reaching out of a coalesced section of whiter light, grasping at my
pant leg. I could hear him shrieking in anger, but it was a muffled
sound, as if I was wrapped in many layers of cotton.
I kicked his hand away and the momentum launched me towards a
different spinning white ball of coalesced light.
I wondered briefly if this is how it felt to Floo, falling through
random fireplaces. If it was, then J.K. Rowling was a sadistic bitch.
My head was spinning, I couldn't get my bearings, and my stomach
was still back in the chair by the fire. I could taste my pulse.
I hit the light and threw up my arms in a futile attempt to block out
its blinding brightness. The shouts and roars of an unseen crowd
rose around me, the screaming whistle of the wind, and then a flat
cracking sound, like a gun shot.
I sucked in air, even though as one of the newly dead, I didn't need
it. I meant to use it to scream with. I never got the chance. I was
suddenly falling.
I hit the ground with a bone-crunching, teeth rattling jar. I had to
have broken at least one rib. I coughed and felt blood spatter my
lips. Oh, perfect. I decided to lie where I was until the nausea
passed. Or until I drowned in my own blood.
You know, whichever came first.
Book Two: Harry Potter
Chapter Three: "Interrupted Game"
I sat up slowly. The sounds had all faded. Everything was eerily still.
I climbed to my feet, holding my side, and looked around.
My ribs didn't hurt anymore. The pain had passed into a dull
throbbing ache and the last whispers of the discomfort were easing
away, even as I raised my hand to shade my eyes. If I ever need
proof of my new-found Vampirism, it was that.
I was standing in a field of some sort. The ground was smooth, even,
the grass under my feet lush and well cared for, like the green of a
golf tee. A hot sun shone above me and I blinked up at it.
The sun?
Shouldn't I be burning to death by now or something?
No, the “Dracula: The Series” Vampires had the ability to walk
around in the daylight. They didn't have their powers until after
sunset. Then their eyes changed colours, fangs extended, they
could shift shapes into a bat or a wolf, or command zombies. During
the day they walked about, could eat real food (but had to
regurgitate it later), and had reflections, when it suited them to.
It hit me suddenly that I was dead.
I was damned.
I was a fucking Vampire.
I leaned over and puked my guts out onto the nicely manicured lawn.
It was all red. I reeled back away from the pool of crimson gore at
my feet, trying not to think about what it was.
I felt too perfect, too healthy to be well. My carpel tunnel wasn't
making my wrists slightly numb for once. The knots in my back were
gone. The dull ache in my foot and knee from the break a few years
ago had vanished. I could see perfectly without my glasses.
I didn't like it.
It didn't feel like my body.
That's it. I was someone else. With a perfect body. Someone
inhuman, too perfect to be real. Something inhuman. My gorge rose
again and I forced the feeling of nausea and the horrified panic
away.
Something whizzed by my head. I stood up quickly and wiped the
back of my hand across my lips. I saw no birds which might have
dive bombed me.
What the hell?
I looked around. To my left was a dark expanse of gloomy forest,
about thirty paces away. To my right, a good five or six minutes'
walk, was a rocky outcropping of a hill overlooking a shimmering
calm lake. In the distance, I could see misty grey mountains.
Where the Hell was I?
Was this the Vortex that Klaus Helsing had stumbled into?
He had come out human again. Was I human again already? No, I
felt too… perfect, still.
This was all so fucking frustrating! Where the hell was I? What was
going on!? I just wanted to go home!
I took a step towards the outcropping, thinking that maybe from
there I could get some high ground. I could look around and try to
recognize something or find a building or a plume of smoke or signs
of human life, anything, and was struck with a wave of … something.
It was as thick as a wall and it was a compulsion of some sort.
It nagged at me.
I was forgetting something.
There was something I was supposed to do today, something
important. An appointment, yes, that's what it was. Only… I didn't
have any appointments. I was god-only-knows-where, dead, and
wandering around in the sunshine like a friggin' moron. What the
hell appointment could I have?
The something buzzed my head again and I whipped around, trying
to follow it. I couldn't see it! I closed my eyes and tried to listen
carefully, see if I could hear the flap of wings. I heard a voice,
faintly, nearby. It shouted something. There were other voices, but
I couldn't make them out.
I opened my eyes. Nobody.
“I can hear you!” I called out. I paused, listening again. Nothing.
“Show yourself, who ever you are! I've had it up to my eyeballs with
this mind-fucking crap!”
The sound of feet hitting the turf behind me made me whirl around.
I found myself staring at a tall, pale man with a hooked nose and
greasy black hair. He was dressed in wide, flapping black robes of
some sort. He looked like a priest.
He raised a thin wooden stick and pointed it at my nose.
“I don't know how you got in here, Muggle,” he said and I took a
stumbling step backwards. “But you are trespassing on private
property. Stupefy!”
There was a flash of red light, and then blackness.
I was really getting sick of loosing consciousness.
Really.
=====
I was told later that I was indeed on private property.
I had somehow ended up in a very private school in the North of
Scotland.
The Headmaster swept onto the pitch shortly after the impatient
and suspicious priest-look-alike sent me sprawling in the grass with
a flick of his wrist and an uttered word. The students were rounded
up and sent back to the school to have some down time before
lunch while the staff scoured the area for signs of other intruders.
They found none.
The Medical Wing of the school has its own private entrance, and it
was there that they tried to bring me inside. An invisible barrier
rose between be and my unconscious body and no matter how hard
he pushed, the hook-nosed man carrying me could not get through
it.
Another Professor, a younger man who looked like an old one and
had a proficient understanding of potentially dangerous creatures,
was called to examine me. He was a guest that day, there to watch
the game.
I was not breathing, but I had a pulse - albeit a very faint and very
slow one.
He thought for a moment, then whispered in my ear: “Enter,
Stranger, and welcome.”
The invisible barrier vanished and I was brought inside and settled
in a bed. The matronly nurse was sent away for the moment, and
the headmaster, the priest, and the other professor held a brief
counsel over my stunned body.
“She is not breathing," the Headmaster said softly, "but she has a
faint pulse. Tell me, Remus, what sort of Muggle appears out of thin
air, cannot penetrate our spells and yet can hear us, does not
breathe yet has a pulse, and cannot enter the school?"
The one called Remus raised his eyes to the Headmaster's “I don't
know how safe this is, sir.” The other one was standing there with
his arms crossed across his chest, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
The Headmaster smiled slightly. "We shall see when she awakens.”
Remus shot a glance up. "Shall I awaken her, Headmaster?"
The priest leant over me, the thin stick pointing at my face. “In this
case, no matter how harsh, the most efficient means must be used,
Headmaster.”
The Headmaster thought about the obvious offer to torture for a
brief moment. "I agree with the caution, Severus. But there is no
need to be suspicious yet. Remus, if you'd come take this side of the
bed?"
Remus did, and they were now surrounding me. The Headmaster
retrieved his own pointy stick from a pocket in his purple robes, and
aimed at me. Softly, under his breath, he cast a charm.
=====
“Ennervate!” I heard someone say in the darkness, and suddenly I
was wide awake.
Unsettling, to say the least.
I was staring straight up at a gold-brown ceiling of ancient looking
brick. And three faces. One enraged, and I recognized him as the
man from the field. Another was concerned looking, and shrouded
with white hair. The third looked wary and weary and scarred.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. A headache was starting, but it
faded just as quickly. I wondered if that was the Vampirism at work.
“I am getting so sick of strange ceilings,” I said softly, under my
breath.
The greasy-haired man was immediately in my face, the stick
pointed right between my eyes. “Don't move, Stranger. What are
you doing here?”
I crossed my eyes to look at his face, to really see him for the first
time, and gasped. I knew him… I think. I shook my head,
suppressing a groan. No, this wasn't happening.
But I had said that about Lucard, hadn't I? And look what it had
gotten me.
Dead, that’s what.
I sat up slowly and pulled the blankets of the bed up around my
shoulders, partially for the false sense of security it provided, and
partially to cover the bloody tears in my shirts. A second, kinder
voice said to my other side:
“For the love of Merlin, Severus - excuse me, miss, but … who are
you?”
I didn't answer. Instead, I took a good long look at 'Severus', then
turned my eyes towards the second speaker. He was standing on the
other side of the bed, wearing patched but warm looking brown
robes and a gentle smile. His eyes looked tired but sparkling.
“My name is Marie,” I offered slowly. “Who are you?” I made an
obvious point of ignoring the other, rude man.
The tawny-haired man smiled soothingly. “My name is Remus Lupin.
I'm a guest here. And this--” he gestured at the older man in purple
standing beside him, “is Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster,
Madame Pomfrey, the nurse, and Professor Snape, my… peer. “
Professor Snape grimaced.
I stared at him for a moment, then allowed my eyes to rove over all
of them. Involuntarily, I made a makes a sound somewhere between
a yip of delight and a groan.
Dumbledore exchanged a glance with Lupin and gestured for him to
continue. Lupin cast a worried look at him, but went on:
“Well, I am a guest today, and my colleges are staff here at
Hogwarts, which is where you arrived - abruptly. This is a school,
and while you're welcome here, you don't... ahem. Fit. But our first
concern is your health.” He dug into his pocket for a piece of
chocolate and proffered it.
The sickly sweet smell made my stomach heave and I closed my
eyes and turned my face away from it, not breathing on purpose. If
I didn't inhale, I couldn't smell it.
The mere scent of food made me want to hurl.
I must have hit my head when I was stunned. Yes. That was it. I was
concussed.
It had nothing to do with... with that.
“Thank you, no,” I said as politely as I could. “I don't take candy
from strangers. And I know what Hogwarts is.” Snape made an angry
sound and the wand by my face moved a few millimetres closer. I
looked him in the eyes and added, “And if you don't get that
goddamned wand out of my face, Snivellus, I'll snap it.”
Snape's eyes widened in shock and anger. He was half-way through
an immobilization spell before he was stopped by Lupin. I cowered
back on the bed.
“Order, please!” Lupin cried as he wrestled unseemingly with
Professor Snape over the end of my bed. He succeeded on throwing
the other man off, and turned to look at me, a faint smile on his
lips as he smoothed out his robes. “I wouldn't be quick to anger
Professor Snape, as he's got quite the volatile temper.” Snape
glared at Lupin, then lowered his wand, but didn't put it away. I bet
he was just itching to use it on me. Lupin cleared his throat and
quickly changed the subject. “Did you say you know what Hogwarts
is?”
The headache was threatening to return, and I ducked my head and
rubbed my temples with my fingers. “I'm sorry, Professor Snape,” I
said slowly, eyes aimed at my lap. “I shouldn't have said that. It was
out of place.” And, not because it was an excuse, but because I felt
like adding it, “I've had a ...trying two days.”
Snape crossed his arms, still mightily displeased. “Your actions are
still inexcusable-”
“So!” Lupin said quickly, and a bit too loudly. Dumbledore almost
looked as if he was trying not to smile. “Would you like to tell us
how you came to be here, Ms...?
“Just Marie is fine,” I said. No need to give away my whole name.
“I...” I paused and shrugged, knowing how ridiculous I was about to
sound. “I jumped into a fire.”
Snape snorted. Lupin raised his eyebrows. “In your situation, that
was not the wisest of decisions.”
I laughed gently, amused by his perplexed state, and smiled for the
first time in over twenty-four hours. It felt longer than that, like I
hadn't smiled in years. It felt damn good. “It was that or be ripped
into little pieces by Count Dracula. He is a scary, scary bastard who
wouldn't think twice about tearing someone apart, physically or
mentally. I shudder to think of what would happen to anyone who
deliberately crossed him. I gambled that he still kept an interreality vortex behind his fireplace, and won the gamble.”
Dumbledore's face scrunched in confusion. “Inter-reality?”
I turned and looked at him for the first time, really looked at him,
and was awe-struck. There was a lively energy to the man unlike I'd
ever felt in anyone before. His eyes truly were twinkling. He exuded
an aura of… fatherliness. Of whimsy and safety all at once.
“Are you really Albus Dumbledore?” I was whispering and I didn't
care.
Slightly shocked by the genuine awe in my voice, he nodded slowly.
A sudden rush of relief poured over me. “Oh, thank God.” I was at
Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore was here. The only Wizard
Voldemort had ever feared. I was safe.
If Voldemort couldn't get to anyone here, Dracula sure wouldn't be
able to.
Lupin seemed even more confused by my relief, and Snape even
more annoyed.
“Excuse me, Miss, but - how do you know about us again?” Lupin
asked in that perfect gentlemanly manner he had. He was trying
very hard to be non-threatening. He was also as relentless at his
questions as a dog worrying at a bone… or a wolf, for that matter.
Snape added bitterly, “And if you don't mind, a straight answer
would be a pleasant surprise.”
I spared a moment to glare at him. I was not one of his potions
students. He had no right to try to brow-beat me into guilt. Of
course, I had called him 'Snivellus.' I suppose I did feel slightly guilty
for that. “If I told you that you wouldn't believe me, you promise
you won't try to rip out my throat? I've already had that happen
today, and it's getting a bit old.”
Lupin smiled, warm and promising protection and comfort. “I can
guarantee you nobody in this room will try to rip out your throat.
Wait, no - Severus, if you would leave the room?”
I couldn't help it. I laughed. That's what Remus had been aiming for
- lightening the mood.
Snape raised his eyebrows, hooked nose wrinkling with distaste.
“Very funny, Lupin, but in your case--”
I waved him to silence and got my giggles under control. They were
threatening to boarder on hysterics and I clamped down on them. It
was no good going to pieces now. The scary stuff was over, right?
Ri-ight. “No, no, I know we can trust him.”
“Do you, now?” he said, in a perfect imitation of the Alan Rickman
drawl. Or was it Mr. Rickman who was imitating Severus Snape?
No, can't think about that. Thoughts like that could drive a girl
crazy.
Heh.
In answer to Snape's question, I looked pointedly at his left forearm.
Right about where the Dark Mark should be.
He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, staring down at me
menacingly. “You can tell me directly or suffer the consequences.”
Lupin made a dismissive gesture. “I think we'd rather just hear the
story, Severus.”
I smiled sweetly, never taking my eyes off the annoyed Potions
Master. He would be a fun one to bait. Oh, yes. And he couldn't
take points off me. “Fine. I am from an alternate reality where you
are all a characters in a children's novel series.”
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Remus made a funny
dog-like sound deep in his chest. Madam Pomfrey was pointedly
ignoring the conversation like a good nurse.
Snape laughed. Actually laughed, and it made me shiver. It was not
a pleasant laugh. “Headmaster, we are wasting our time here. I say
we obliviate the girl, and send her back to whatever godforsaken
land she came from.”
I scowled at him.
Lupin shook his head. “Marie, you should know that makes no
sense.”
“Oh, no?” I challenged, suddenly feeling like I was on the defensive.
Maybe I was. “Ask me anything, then. Anything about you. I could
tell you almost anything. I know about The-Boy-Who-Lived. I know
who was under Quirrel's turban. I know about Baby Norbert. I know
what's on your arm,” I pointed at Severus and he sneered, “and I
know who wrote the Marauder's Map.”
Lupin shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the map, and tried
to hide it.
I made a point of looking all four of the adults in the eye. “It's all in
the books.”
Dumbledore was stroking his beard, watching me closely. The
twinkle had faded in his eyes, but not gone out completely. I took it
as a good sign. “Is this… true? There are... books about ...
Hogwarts?”
I nodded slowly. “But not here. They're not available here. Riddle
won't get a hold of any of them.”
Dumbledore blanched at Voldemort's real name, and I cussed at
myself inwardly. Sure, great way to make them trust you.
Lupin looked away quickly, trying to gauge the Headmaster's
reaction. His hands were in his pockets and his face carefully
neutral.
“I believe we should give the girl some rest - she's obviously had a
trying day.” Lupin said softly.
“And then,” Snape added, acid on his tongue, “I suggest we check
our fireplaces.”
I shook my head. “I've had the rest I want, Thank you. And I didn't
come out of your fireplace. I went thru his vortex and showed up on
your Quidditch pitch.... probably because I was thinking about
flooing.” I shrugged again. “I won't tell anyone, I promise. Not even
that dunderhead Fudge. The only place to access any of this
information is right here.” I tapped the side of my head to
emphasize my point. “And I would rather die than...” I trailed off.
Oh, my god.
Oh, my God.
And then it hit me. It hit me. I was dead.
There was a silence, horrified, and Snape stared at me for an
uncomfortably long period of time. I hardly noticed. I slowly
covered my face with my hands, breathing heavily but not crying. I
was shuddering with terror, with residual shock. The reality of the
situation was hitting home and I was struggling to shove it away. I
didn't want to know. I didn't.
It wasn't real.
“Miss?” Lupin asked quietly, concerned.
I shook my head. “No, no I... this isn't happening. This isn't real.”
Snape made an unimpressed clicking sound with his tongue and
looked away. Suddenly, I hated him. I really, really hated him.
“I am not talking to you,” I continued to tell myself. “You are not
real. You are in a book. I am not... I am in a cafe, drinking coffee,
and reading Critical Literary Theory. I am not... dead...”
“Of course you're not,” Lupin said, and set a kind hand down on my
shoulder. He leaned in to speak to me soothingly. “Technically.” He
coughed gently, slightly uncomfortable.
Dumbledore suddenly said, “Severus. Let's us give Miss Marie some
time to sort out her thoughts. Professor Lupin, would you mind
terribly remaining here with her? She's had a bad shock and I'm sure
she wouldn't mind talking to a handsome young man like yourself.”
I knew what he really meant. The vampire girl is nutters, let's leave
her alone until she calms down, but we'll keep the werewolf here
to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone or herself. Good to know he
cared. Ri-ight.
“I'll send a house elf in with supper for you both soon,” the
Headmaster promised as he closed the heavy door behind him.
Madam Pomfrey removed herself discreetly to her office.
Snape sneered and swept out of the room.
And Lupin and I were left alone for a little monster-to-monster talk.
Book Two: Harry Potter
Chapter Four: "Secrets"
As soon as Snape and Dumbledore were out the door, Remus turned
to the bedside table and clutched it, coughing heavily. He'd
obviously been trying to hold it in.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently, raising my hands to keep him from
tumbling over if he couldn't keep his balance. I didn't touch him,
but I was ready, just in case. Instinct made me want to thump his
back. “It's not close to a full moon here, is it?”
Lupin looked up sharply, the last cough dying in his chest. “I don't
know how exactly you get your information, miss, but I would
greatly appreciate you not mentioning that so obviously, when you
don't know who's around.”
I jerked my hands back, as if he'd thrown hot water at them. I
looked down and away, ashamed. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten
that his lycanthropy was supposed to be a secret. “... sorry.”
Lupin shook his head slightly and turned to lean back against the
night-stand. “I'm sorry. But you have to consider what a shock this
is - to all of us. I'm a little on edge.” He smiled half-heartedly,
trying to apologize without actually apologizing.
“Yeah. Ditto.” Apology accepted. There was a slightly
uncomfortable pause. “You can sit, if you want.” I gestured to the
foot of the bed. It was empty, as I was now sitting up in the lotus
position with the top blanket wrapped around myself. I had it over
my shoulders and around my neck, more for protection than warmth.
And shame - I didn't know if my shirts were still bloody, or my skin
livid with suck-marks or teeth punctures.
The thought of a mark left on my skin made me feel dirty.
He hesitated, unsure of whether he wanted to take the invitation or
not. I was still a strange person who knew entirely too much about
things I shouldn’t. To try to get him to feel at ease, I added: “I
know Madam Pomfrey well enough to guess that she'll make us be
quiet, try to shoo you out, try to make me eat chocolate, and try to
make me sleep. I don't want to sleep.” The thought of sleep - and
the inevitable nightmares - suddenly made me feel horrible and
filthy. I looked away. I wanted a shower. I couldn't meet his eyes. “I
don't really want to sleep ever again. I'd rather... talk.”
“Alright.” Lupin sat himself delicately on the edge of the foot of
the bed, hands folded in his lap. I think he was grateful to be sitting,
because he sagged slightly, relaxing. But not too much. I was still an
unknown quantity. He couldn't afford to relax just yet. “Would you
mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, sorry - no, go ahead.”
He nodded, the gentle smile returning for a brief instant. “We'll
start simply. How old are you, Marie?”
“Twenty-two.”
Lupin looked mildly surprised. “Twenty-two years in total, or in life
only?”
Ah. Right. “In total... You... know what I am?”
The smile broke through his weariness like the sun through clouds.
“We couldn't get you through the door. I had to invite you.”
I felt the colour drain from my face, lips twisting and quivering for a
moment before I could compose myself. I took a deep breath and
wiped casually at my eyes, trying to make it look like I wasn't about
to cry.
I had to be invited.
Obviously, my acting needed improvement. He reached out,
concerned, and touched my shoulder gently. I had to fight not to
flinch. “Miss Marie…? Nobody knows but the four of us.”
I nodded slowly, appreciating his concern. But that wasn't what I
was worried about. People knowing didn't bother me. The truth of
it bothered me.
He ventured another morale boosting phrase: “I'll trust you with my
secret if you'll trust me with yours.”
I nodded again, my eyes on my knees beneath the blankets. I still
had no shoes. I don't know why that bothered me. Of all the things,
the fucker had taken my shoes.
It was like he had tried to prevent me from running away. It was
more subtle then, oh, say, tying me up, but it was effective. No one
wanted to run down the street or through a forest in nothing but
socks. People always hesitated when they had no shoes.
For a vampire, that hesitation, the moment of indecision, would be
as good as waving a neon banner over your head and screaming,
'Here I am! I bet I'm tasty!'
It nagged at me, made me slightly angry.
I fixated on my shoes. Or lack of them.
Better than thinking of other things that were wrong, right? “I...” I
began slowly, the words having trouble getting around the lump in
my throat. If I said what I wanted to, then I would be admitting the
truth of it. I didn't want it to be true. “I… have been what I...” I
swallowed hard enough for it to hurt. “ ... what I am... for maybe
ten hours. Maybe less.
“Ten hours? Oh, dear.”
I nodded again.
“Marie - how did this happen?”
I shrugged, appearing a lot more nonchalant than I felt. I wasn't
feeling much of anything, actually. Numb was a nice place to be. “I
don't know. I was sipping coffee, trying not to fall asleep over my
Literary Theory text book and then I was... somewhere else. A
warehouse. And then ... there was a vampire there. Alexander
Lucard. I don't know how I got there, or why, I ran. I ran into a
church and he... he...” I shook my head. I don't know what I was
denying, the truth of it, or the outcome of the situation? My hands
clenched the blanket tight. “He was a fictional character, too. I
used to watch 'Dracula: The Series' when I was a kid, and... there I
was, getting my neck chewed on by Lucard himself.”
Lupin frowned. “Wait. Dracula? I'm sorry, but you're making very
little sense.”
I supposed I wasn't. “Yup. A. Lucard. Dracula backwards. You'd think
the people on the show would figure it out, eh?”
“So, who did this to you - Alexander, or this... 'Dracula?'”
“Yes.” He didn't get it either. “I mean. Yes to both. He's the same.
Just... Lucard is what he called himself in the early 1990s. In that
TV show. Here...” I shrugged. “The vampires are different here. He
said he was going to kill me. I mean, kill me, kill me. The spell was
wrong, the one that brought me to him. It wasn't supposed to be me.
And I remembered the vortex from the last episode, and I took a
nose-dive.” I sighed heavily and rubbed my palms over my face,
scrubbing away the frustration. “And now I'm in a different fictional
world talking to a different fictional character...” I paused and took
a good long look at him. He looked very very perplexed. “You don't
look much like Daniel Thewlis. He was too... old.”
Lupin was slightly taken aback. I didn't blame him one bit. I would
be too. “Pardon?”
I laughed slightly, wondering how obvious it was that I was trying
desperately to change the topic of conversation. “In the movie.
They did a movie version of the third book and Daniel Thewlis
played Professor Remus J. Lupin.”
Lupin stared at me for a long time with honey-coloured eyes. It was
eerie. “...I see.” was all he finally said, making it obvious that he
didn't see at all.
“It was okay casting,” I offered, wanting to keep the conversation
rolling. The silences were awkward, and they gave me time to think.
I didn't want to have time to think. “I liked most of the casting. The
Dumbledore wasn't carefree enough, though. But Madam Pomfrey
and Professor Trelawney were perfect. Snape looks just like Alan
Rickman. God, even sounds right. Gave me shivers up my spine.
Until I imagined him as Metatron with his pants around his ankles.”
Lupin didn't take the bait. Honestly, if it had been me, I would have
asked about Snape and no pants. Instead he very eloquently
bypassed the topic entirely and said, “If I may ask - exactly how
much do you know about me? About us?”
For the first time I offered him a serious answer. Something in his
voice said 'no more mucking around.' The glibness was just masking
my pain, and furthering his confusion. “There are seven books. Five
fiction books and two guide books. I've read all of them, and more
than once. And seen all three of the movies more than once too.
They're filming the fourth movie now, and the sixth book is due out
this summer. Though if you said you're a guest here, I have a guess
that I'm in the sixth book.”
“I see,” he said again, and again not seeing. He pinched the bridge
of his nose, warding off a headache. It was a lot to take in, I know.
And seven books is a lot.
“I'm sorry,” I suddenly said, and meant it. “This must be damned
inconvenient for you.”
He chuckled slightly. “Inconvenient. No, I'm interested, frankly.”
“If it would make you feel better, you're not the main character,” I
blurted.
He turned an interested eye my way, and abruptly I regretted
saying it. I would have to tell him. And he would know that I knew
much more than I was letting on. But just telling him the names of
the books, it would be obvious what they were about, where my
knowledge was centered.
I could be in danger.
What if they did try to obliviate me? I would be stuck in this world
forever with no memory of who I was, where I was really from. No
friends, no family, no money, nothing. Just a fucked up Muggle
alone in a world that hated Muggles.
“Who is the main character, then?”
I hesitated. Suddenly, I didn't want to tell him. Suddenly I knew how
dangerous this whole situation was - for Remus, for Harry, for me,
for everyone who would ever try to stand between Voldemort and
Harry… or if Voldemort ever found out about me, Voldemort and me.
I could be come a target, and fast, if I didn't start cutting the
babble down. Or worse, I could say something that could get Harry
or any of the other members of the Order of the Phoenix killed.
But if I didn't, and it came out eventually… I thought about all the
good I could do, too. The way I could help.
It was dangerous, but to help fight against a psycho like Voldemort,
I think I was willing to take the risk.
I took a deep breath and let it out again. “... Harry.”
All the blood drained immediately from Remus' face.
I decided to press on, regardless. “Harry Potter and the
Philosopher's Stone,” I said softly, almost a whisper. I counted off
on my fingers. “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Harry
Potter and the P-Priz...Prisoner of Azkaban.” I didn't stumble over
the name. Not because of Sirius. Nope. I'm the Queen of De Nile,
sometimes. “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Harry Potter and
the ...ermm…” I lowered my voice even more. “Order of the
Phoenix. And the Guide to Fantastical Beasts and Quidditch Through
the Ages.”
Lupin narrowed his eyes, staring off into space. “You realize,” he
said slowly, “if this were ever to become public knowledge…”
“I know.”
“The consequences would be dire.”
“I swear, I swear, I won't tell anybody,” I said softly. “I'll kill myself
before Voldemo-- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ever finds out.”
“Also,” he added, chagrin crossing his face, “I believe your
discretion would be appreciated. There are those of us who have far
too many skeletons in our closet.”
Ouch.
Well, I deserved it.
“I was stupid. I won't mention the moon or Snivellus or ...
the ...um... OoP anymore. I'm sorry. But... can I ask...” I paused.
Could I really say it out loud? “... is ... is Sirius really...?”
Lupin blinked, staring with surprise and horror at my face. Then he
looked away, into the shadows cast on the far wall, at nothing
really. He remained quiet for a few minutes.
That was all the answer I needed.
“I'm so, so sorry.” I reached out and placed one hand over his. “... I
cried, too.” It seemed a simple, silly thing to say, but it was the
best I could come up with. Maybe he needed to hear it. Maybe I
needed to say it.
Lupin bowed his head. He lifted his fingers and twined them around
mine, accepting the hand holding as a form of sympathy. “He was
a… a wonderful person. I--”
I squeezed once, suddenly sorry I'd brought it up. “I know.”
An awkward and melancholy silence descended on the hospital room.
In a very quiet voice I added, “He was innocent.”
Remus looked at me from under tear-dotted lashes. “You… you
know?”
I smiled. “The whole world knows. Everyone who's ever heard of
Sirius Black knows he's innocent.”
Remus smiled. “I… suppose that's something, then.”
I thought about Sirius, and the day I'd read that chapter. It had
never really hit me then, that Sirius Black was gone. Maybe not
dead, but definitely gone. I had never really thought about where
the Veil lead before, but if Lucard's Vortex had led to the Harry
Potter-verse, then would the Veil lead to…?
We both jumped when a sudden popping sound rang out in the
vaulted room, and a house elf with socks on and way too many knit
caps appeared carrying a tray of food covered by a silver bell dome.
I shrieked and tried to scramble backwards up the wall.
Damn gravity, anyway.
The Elf dropped the tray and clamped his hands over his huge ears.
Lupin dove and caught the tray before it hit the floor.
He bowed quickly and Lupin shushed both of us. “H-Headmaster
said that Miss and Professor Lupin might be hungry?”
Lupin thanked him and set the tray on the empty bed opposite. “We
are, Dobby, thank you very much,” he said briskly.
“Dobby?” I repeated.
Dobby paused. “Does Miss …know Dobby?”
I couldn't help but smile at his uncertainty. Lupin was watching us
carefully. I had promised him not to say anything else that could be
dangerous, but I'm sure he was still fascinated that I knew so much
about his life. “Miss does. I think you're wonderful, Dobby. Nice
socks.”
Dobby returned my grin and 'poofed' out of existence.
The smile on my face remained pasted on, looking increasingly fake.
“ ... was that really a really real house elf?”
Lupin grinned cheekily. “I thought you'd read the books.”
“Yes,” I dared a feeble backhanded swat at his arm. “But I've never
seen a House Elf before.”
“For really real.” His smile faded slightly, gentle still, though
looking far-off.
In the silence the dark thoughts came again. Am I really here? What
am I? What did he do to me? Am I dirty now? Am I dead? Will I ever
get home? And I shivered once, all over. Let's change the subject,
now!
“What's on the menu?”
Lupin sat down on the bed opposite and lifted the silver cover on
the tray. The wafting scent of French onion soup, filled the air, and
I saw a few cold cuts and a baguette. “And for you...” he said softly,
“Mm. Are you against cow?”
I felt the blood drain from my face immediately.
My stomach twisted and the universe swirled.
He misinterpreted the sudden horrified paleness.
“I could… donate,” he said softly. “If you need. If you prefer. It
wouldn't be the first time.”
I covered my mouth with a palm shook my head. I could smell it. It
was tantalizing, steaming in a white bowl on the side of the tray. I
could smell it and it made my veins burn. I wondered if this is what
hunger would feel like from here on. I wanted it and that made me
sick. I felt nauseated because I knew that I wanted to drink blood.
Lupin studied my face carefully. “...this wouldn't be your first time
feeding, would it?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to see it. Seeing it made me
want it. Very firmly I said, “I am not a Vampire.”
God, I wanted it to be true. How I wanted it to be true, if only it
could erase…
He reached out slowly, probably to keep from startling me, and
tilted my chin up to meet his eyes. “Shall I check for you?”
I didn't want to be touched, but I didn't back away. “What do you
mean?”
He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the line of my jaw. I doubt he
was aware of doing it. “I highly doubt our barriers were
malfunctioning, but a look at your incisors would give it away. Or
perhaps, there is a scar? That sometimes happens here.”
I jerked away from him. “No.”
He pulled his hands away and folded them in his lap. Very softly he
said, “Alright.” He let that hang for a moment, then added, “But
eventually, you'll have to eat.”
I shook my head. No, I didn't. I would never drink blood. Never. I
would never let Lucard do that to me; force me into that.
“No.” I let my eyes wander to the blood. Then at the wall. Very,
very still and calmly, I felt the tears fall down my cheeks. I ignored
them.
If I acknowledged them I would have to admit that they were a
terrifying and vibrant bloody red.
He risked me yelling at him again and wiped the tears away with a
kind knuckle. “It's never easy. But at some point, we must embrace
the beast in each of us - some more literally than others, hm?” One
side of his mouth quirked up at his joke.
I sniffled and choked on a chuckle. I coughed once. “... yeah.”
I let myself look at the blood again. Did it look appetizing? Yes. Did
I want to drink it? ... no. The body was willing, but the mind was
revolting. “I'm not hungry.” I wasn't sure if it was a lie or not.
Another round of light coughing wracked Lupin's frame. When it was
over he spat discreetly into a handkerchief and tucked it back into
his pocket. I could smell the blood on it, too. I wanted to ask him if
he was okay. If he needed anything.
He had asked me to be discreet, so I didn't.
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“Well... this is ....” I began slowly.
“Awkward?” he finished, licking his lips free of anything else that
might have come up. “Well. Do you have any questions?”
I jumped on the topic change. “How did James Potter finally get
Lily to date him?”
Lupin threw back his head and laughed freely. “I'm not quite certain,
but I know it involved swallowing a lot of blood and pride. All I
know is that when he was out of the infirmary, they were... Close.”
“She break his nose? Oh, tell me she broke his nose. I would win ten
dollars.”
Lupin cocked his head and looked at me out of the side of his eyes.
He looked at me oddly.
“What?” I asked.
“It is curious, knowing that people know so much about us.”
I let that slide. I sat, staring at his food for a bit. “You gonna eat?” I
ignored my hands. They were shivering slightly.
The bugger noticed. “Dear, you'll have to eat soon, or you'll faint.
Shock does not go hand in hand with malnourishment.”
“No, I don't. I'm fine.”
He eyed me incredulously. “I doubt that.”
I fisted my hands in the sheets. “I'm fine,” I said, maybe a bit too
loudly.
Very calmly he said, “Marie.” He pulled back his arm and rolled up
his robe sleeves slightly, exposing the vein to my gaze. “You'll have
to face this eventually.”
I shook my head. “I'm not a Vampire. It was a nightmare. He... he
strangled me and I... I woke up. And nothing in between happened.
Nothing happened.”
God, I sounded like a bad Mary Sue. But I couldn't help it.
“Then you won't mind showing me your throat? If that makes you
uncomfortable, I could call Madame Pomfrey, but I daresay I'd make
less of a scene.” He leaned towards me, hand up to pull at the
blanket. I recoiled.
“No.”
He rolled his eyes. “Miss Marie, don't you think I should check?
These theatrics have gone on long enough.”
“Theatrics?! I… I…” I was flabbergasted. “I am not one of your
students, Mr. Lupin. You can't tell me to… to just…!”
He grabbed my jaw. I tried to pull back but the wolf in him lent him
strength. He dug his fingers into the hinge of my jaw and forced my
lips back. I snarled at him for a moment, then stopped. I went limp.
It was inevitable.
He lets his hands drop in his lap and sighed softly. “ ... I'm sorry.”
“It's not real,” I said softly. “It's not possible. It's not real because if
it's real then everything else he...” I took a hiccupping breath,
covering my face with my hands. “... he did... was ... real...”
“... Marie?” he said gently, making my name a question. He laid a
gentle hand on my knee and I let him. He didn't mean any harm. “Is
there something else we should know about?”
I shook my head slowly, stiffly. “Ask me more questions. Different
questions. I want to talk. Or ... you should eat. Your soup's getting
cold.”
“I've never been one for French Onion, and I shouldn't eat this soon
before my appointment anyways.”
“Appointment?”
“With Professor Snape. You're changing the subject.”
“I am not. What appointment?” he looked at me pointedly from
under those tawny bangs. “Could I…” I shivered again. “Could I have
a shower?”
Professor Lupin looked at me. “Yes, I don't think that will be a
problem. Can you wait until the students are finished their lunch?”
I nodded slowly.
We passed the rest of the afternoon in amiable, nothing, waffy talk.
He did not pressure me about feeding; I didn't press him about his
appointment with Snape. He knew, I know he knew, about the other
things. Things I wanted to forget but couldn’t remember.
We both knew the other was paddling just upstream of the River De
Nile.
Book Two: Harry Potter
Chapter Five: “Victim”
The shower was hot. I tried to burn my skin off.
I know that's the sign of a rape victim: someone trying to burn the
filth away.
I was burning, but… was I … had I been…?
I wasn't sure.
Had he raped me?
Or was I over-reacting?
Even if he hadn't touched me sexually, he had kidnapped me.
Scared the hell out of me. Murdered me. I felt disgusting. I felt
violated.
I felt worse than a rape victim. I was a homicide victim.
I had been murdered.
I should have been a corpse. I should have been a rotting hunk of
meat and bone, splayed out on the ground, with a chalk outline
passing by my eyes and a yellow police tape flapping in the wind
around me like some sort of twisted mourning banner. My pale,
bloodless face should be turning alternately red and blue in the
light of the cop cars.
Instead I was walking, talking… standing here having a shower.
I was thinking.
I doubled over onto my hands and knees in the water, choking on
bile. I couldn't help it, and vomited again. It was reddish, but
mostly clear. Whatever I'd had in my stomach that had been red
when I had first been sick on the Quidditch Pitch had been absorbed
into my body. All that came up now was the thin bitter fluid of the
stomach.
I let the spray wash it away and curled up in the corner, folding my
legs in front of me and wrapping my arms around myself. I rest my
forehead on my knees and told myself that the tears were from the
force of the puking, not because I was crying.
I wasn't crying.
Couldn’t be crying because that would mean I had been hurt, and I
wasn’t hurt because he hadn’t done anything.
But of course he had.
I reached up and turned the hot-water handle, opening it up. The
water grew instantly scalding and closed my eyes.
I would burn away the dirt.
I would burn away his touch.
I didn't care if I had to take a layer of skin with it.
Maybe it would kill me. I would be dead like I was supposed to be.
That sounded nice.
I didn't feel violated about being killed so much as I felt violated for
being alive. He had taken my life, yes, but then he had given me a
new one. I didn't want a new one. I would have been content dead,
I thought. I could rest. I wouldn't be staring at Remus J. Lupin's
veins in his wrist and licking my lips. I wouldn't be imagining over
and over what Lucard could have done with my prone body.
I screamed. Before I could help myself I heard the scream ripping
out of my throat, echoing off the tile in the student washroom. I
was in the last of a line of showers with privacy curtains. I clamped
my hands over my mouth and the screaming stopped.
I heard someone throw open the door, feet banging along the
walkway. Someone threw back the privacy curtain and hissed as the
hot water touched their skin. A hand reached around the water
carefully and turned the whole shower off. A cold breeze suddenly
hit my skin and I shivered. I kept my eyes closed and did not look up.
The person sloshed into the water at the bottom of the shower and
sat down quickly right beside me. Strong arms wrapped around my
shoulders and I was pulled into a comforting embrace. I stiffened,
trying to push the person away, but I didn't want to hurt them so I
didn't push very hard.
“It's okay, it's okay, it's over…” a man's voice said soothingly. One
hand was running over my head, through my hair, petting. It was
soothing, and his words made something inside of me break.
I buried my face in his chest and let myself cry.
A few minutes (a few hours?) later I ran out of tears. I was dry
sobbing and eventually was too sore to continue even that.
I looked up into the face of the man who held me and found a very
damp, very mussed Remus Lupin smiling gently back. I was glad it
was him. I don't know what I'd do if I'd found myself crying
undignified-ly in the arms of Snape.
“Are you feeling better now?” he asked gently, and I nodded,
sniffling. I tried to pull back away from him, but a sudden bout of
dizziness swept over me and I swayed. I had to close my eyes.
I felt rather than saw him frown.
“Marie,” he said gently, his voice slightly coaxing “You can't delude
yourself forever.” He leaned closer and whispered into my ear. “I
have to drink the wolfsbane potion. You have to drink blood.”
I shook my head weakly. “I am not a Vampire.”
“You are. And you only hurt yourself by denying it.”
“No.”
He sighed. “Do you realize what will happen if you keep denying
yourself? You will grow weaker. You won't be able to control
yourself. You will either die a slow agonizing death, your body
eating itself from the inside out, or you will attack one of the
students and probably kill them.” I felt his hand running gently
through my short, wet hair. “I can't let you hurt a student. You
would force our hand.”
I didn't open my eyes, but I shuddered once. “Force your ha-hand?”
“I would have to kill you.”
I shoved myself away from him, maybe harder than necessary. He
sagged into the corner and I sprawled on the floor of the shower, all
elbows and knees. I shook my head. “You're just like him.”
He sat up and came towards me. “Marie…”
“Don't you fucking touch me!” I shrieked. “You're just like him!”
Lupin pulled himself to his feet and stared down at me. His hands
were fisted at his sides. “Marie, I have no desire to harm you. But
you must understand that you must take responsibility for your
monster. If you continue to deny what you are, what he did to you,
you will hurt yourself. Worse, you will hurt another person, and I
cannot allow that. Not when all you have to do is accept.”
I sat up slowly. “I …don't want to accept.” I sounded like a petulant
child. “He… murdered me.”
Remus knelt in front of me, slowly, carefully, as if afraid he'd scare
me off. “He did a horrible thing to you, Marie. But you can't punish
yourself because he hurt you. You didn't choose to have this done to
you. If you continue to hurt yourself, then you've let him win.
You've made yourself his victim.”
I heard Lupin’s words, but I wasn’t listening.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed the heels of my hands against
the lids. My eyes burned from crying, and from unshed tears. In the
darkness behind my eyes I saw him, my blood on his fingertips as he
dug his nails into my stomach, the cut above his nipple, the
crimson-stained grin and the golden predator eyes.
He had stolen me. Then he had stolen my life. He had forced this
new life on me and I didn't want it. I wanted to be myself again. “I
want my life back.”
I heard him kneel in the shallow water beside me. “I can't give you
that. Not even here can we give you that. There are no spells to
reverse Vampirism. None that anybody but the Darkest of Wizards
knows.”
God help me, I could smell Lupin.
He smelled like warm spice and leather-bound books, ink and
parchment and pine trees at night, and the orange he must have
had with lunch and the foul wolfsbane potion on his breath, covered
only slightly by peppermint, and under that something warm and
tantalizing and thick, pulsing, pulsing, glowing in my brain, hot and
absolutely perfect, absolutely necessary—
“Yes, that's it,” I heard him whisper and I jerked back, my eyes
flashing open.
I realized that I had been reaching for him. My lips were slack,
partially open. Lupin had his arm extended towards me, the cuff of
his sleeve rolled back. I could see the veins on his skin, perfectly, as
if they had been painted on.
“No,” I said.
“Marie, please.”
I closed my eyes. I shook my head. Nausea, dizziness swept over me.
I had to put my hand out against the wall to steady myself. My skin
itched. My stomach clenched in hunger, but so did every vein in my
body. The pain wrung a pathetic, whimpering half-scream from my
lips.
The smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air, spilling into
existence. It touched my nose and my stomach, my whole body,
writhed in agony. Feed the monster! something inside of me
screamed, something that sounded like Geordie Johnson but eviller.
Do it or you'll hurt yourself. You'll attack someone. He offers
himself freely. Take him!
Something burned my eyes. I looked up at him and I watched as he
gasped. But all colour bled away, fading. All I could see of Remus
Lupin was the blood under his skin. There was a knife in his hands,
and it shone deadly silver in my vision. The blade was stained with
red. His arm was awash in the thick fluid that I craved.
I felt my incisors scraping against my other teeth, not painfully but
jarringly, as the fangs slid out of pockets in my gums. I knew
without having to be told that my eyes had turned yellow, like
Lucard’s did, that nightmare predatory gold of night-time beasts
and monsters.
I reached out carefully to Lupin's arm and he didn't resist as I
crawled over to him. I hesitated over the wound, resisting the urge
to drive my teeth into his skin, to bite down to the bone, to tear
the meat from him and open his arm up into a delicious spurting
fount.
He had already made a cut for me; all I had to do was suck.
I bent my lips to the blood, bubbling up across his skin like lava
from a volcanic offshoot. I licked up the blood that had spilled down
his arm, lapping at it as a kitten with cream. It hit my tongue with
the jarring shock of kissing an electrical outlet. I craved more.
I knew that I would never taste blood like this again. Deep inside
me I knew - this was the blood of a werewolf. It was thick, heady,
like drinking a rich desert wine when I had been expecting a cheap
bottle of homemade.
I sealed my lips over the cut and sucked. I waited until I had a
mouthful before swallowing. The warmth slithered down my throat
and into my stomach, spreading outwards. It hit the bottom of my
belly like an iron rod. I didn't realize how cold I'd been until I felt
the blood slide through my veins, outward from my gut, into my
fingertips. They tingled, like frost bitten extremities finally thawing
by the fire.
I pulled on the wound again, probing with my tongue to widen the
tear in his skin. He gasped in pain and it was, oh, such a sensual
sound.
The gasp did it.
I wanted him.
I wanted all of him. I would take his blood. I would take his life and
cradle it in my arms and kiss him until his soul flickered out of his
eyes and I then would kiss that soul out and swallow it. I would be
the best lover he'd ever had, and the last. He gasped again and, oh,
oh, how I wanted him.
I swallowed the next mouthful, and the next. I sucked harder. I
wanted all of him. I would make Remus Lupin mine, and mine alone.
I slid one hand down his chest. I caressed his neck gently, pressing
delicately to find that hopping life-vein. I slid my fingers downward,
across his collarbone, down between his pectorals, and across his
not-quite-flat stomach. I found the soft layer of academic's fat
enticing, sexy. I envisioned his brain, filled with knowledge, with
purpose, with sweet blood.
I swallowed another mouthful and my body felt like a fever had
descended. I felt strong. I felt invincible and giddy. I felt drunk.
I slipped one finger into his belly button, still covered with fabric. I
found where his robe parted without having to look and made quick
work of his buttons. His skin was cool and slightly damp from earlier,
soft and vulnerable. I resisted the urge to drive my nails into the
flesh of his belly and contented myself with sucking with more force
at the wound.
He groaned this time, a throaty sound of mingled pain and lust and I
smiled against his skin.
I slipped my fingers into the waistband of his trousers and that
brought him out of his heady haze. He jerked back from me and it
was so unexpected that I was unable to maintain my grip on him.
I hissed, not pleased. I glared at him. How dare he deny me my
pleasure?
“Marie,” he said sternly and I scowled. “Marie, come out of it.
Marie.”
I shook my head. No. I was drunk and I was warm and I was content.
“Marie, look at me. Look at me with your eyes.”
I licked my lips free of the clinging blood and swallowed. I felt the
heat in my gaze receding, willed my fangs to retract. When I looked
back at Remus Lupin, it was with a human gaze.
He was sitting in the corner of the shower, his hurt arm cradled
against his chest. Blood still dripped from the cut, but he had his
other hand clamped over it. He was pale and shivering slightly. But
he also looked half-ravished. His robe was undone over his shirt and
trousers, and somehow without realizing it I had managed to work
open his fly. His shirt was riding high over his stomach, his pants
riding low over his undergarments, and he was flushed, panting. His
hair was mussed and looked like he'd been running his hand through
it.
He looked absolutely delectable.
I forced myself to look away. “I'm sorry.”
I heard him swallowing hard, trying to pull himself away from the
wall. “No, I…” he sighed deeply. “I didn't… I mean… I've never felt
anything like that.” I heard some scuffling against the tiles of the
shower as he climbed to his feet. “I… need to go to the infirmary.”
I looked up at him. “You… hate me now. I almost… did to you
what… what he did to me.”
There was a pause, then the sound of a soft sigh. “I don't hate you,
Marie. You were very hungry. I don't doubt that your control will be
better once you've begun to feed regularly.”
I turned to look up at his face, to apologize sincerely. “But I… I … I
almost raped you.”
He smiled, a quirky half-curl of his lips that I'd never seen on him
before. It was … slightly naughty. “Trust me, you didn't do anything
that I didn't… enjoy.”
I looked away, embarrassed, down at my hands. They were pale,
but rosier than they had been before. I still felt warm all over. I
felt… alive.
I felt alive again.
It was wonderful.
I knew, though, that this warmth, this feeling of a beating heart,
came with a price. It would always come with a price. And I would
pay it, again, and again, if I wanted this warmth back.
“Come,” he said and I watched as he re-buttoned his fly and pulled
down his shirt. It was awkward because he was trying to keep one
hand over the cut on his arm. He tugged his robes closed. “I need to
go see Madam Pomfrey, and you, my dear, really need to get
dressed.”
Dressed?
I looked down at myself.
Oh my god.
I had been in the shower.
I was… naked.
Remus J. Lupin had seen me naked.
I curled into a ball around myself and glared at him as he laughed.
He peeled off his robe and dropped it over me. “I'll wait outside of
the bathroom for you,” he said, chuckling, and walked out of the
shower stall.
I had enough blood in my body now to blush with mortification.
Book Two: Harry Potter
Chapter Six: “Potion”
With a burning face, I donned the clothing that had been left
outside of the shower for me. My own pants were there, but the
House Elves had replaced my destroyed shirts with a nice red
turtleneck and a thick dark blue robe.
I tried not to think of whose undergarments and socks they had
pilfered for me as I slipped them on. Possibly one of the students.
Not McGonagall’s, I prayed.
There were boots, too, a nice pair of butter-soft leather anklebooks in a light brown that fit surprisingly well. I didn't have a comb
or anything so I finger-picked my hair as best I could. That was the
nice thing about having short hair - no styling time required.
When I emerged from the washroom, Lupin was waiting for me. His
hand was still clamped over the cut his arm. We walked back to the
hospital wing together, and I ogled everything on the way. The
moving portraits fascinated me the most, and when we all but
literally ran into him, I made a point of not asking Sir Nicholas how
he could be 'nearly headless'.
When we arrived in the medical wing, Madam Pomfrey shooed us
both onto beds to sit while she dealt with some people who were
there ahead of us. Apparently, somebody hadn't been listening to
Professor Flitwick properly and had accidentally incinerated a whole
box of pillows in Charms class. Three of the students had firstdegree burns, and another five were suffering from smoke
inhalation.
Madam Pomfrey got through them in short order, and they left the
Hospital wing, all burn-free and smiles and a few “G'bye, Professor
Lupin”s. I asked Lupin if he was supposed to be teaching a class
instead of babysitting me.
He told me that he wasn't a teacher anymore. He had just come to
watch Ron and Harry play the Quidditch game.
I felt suddenly guilty. “That's okay? I mean, you don't mind staying
with me?” I asked and he nodded.
“Professor Dumbledore lets me visit every once and a while.”
“And he felt that you'd be the best person to look after me, right?” I
looked down at my hands in my lap. I still felt bad for hurting Lupin.
The werewolf sighed. “He felt that I would be the person you would
respond to the most. We've had a … shared experience.”
I wrinkled my nose. I could still smell his blood, but the scent was
fainter. I assumed this meant that the cut was starting to clot.
“That's a pleasant way of putting it.”
“Indeed.”
The matronly nurse swept over, scolded Lupin for his rashness and
performed a charm that took care of the cut. It healed instantly, as
if it had never been there. Then she took my pulse, pressed a hand
to my forehead, and made some notes on a chart.
“Well, you're both fine and dandy,” she said with a gentle smile.
“Although, I would advise you to go to the kitchens the next time
you're peckish, Ms. Marie. Professor Lupin can't be loosing that
much blood every day. Nice to see some colour to you, though.” She
looked at me hard for a moment. “If it's not too invasive, I would
like a sample of your blood. I've never seen one of your kind who
can walk about during daylight hours.”
I hesitated, then agreed. She hadn't been around for the 'I'm from
an alternate reality with an alternate form of Vampirism' talk that
Lupin and I'd had. What harm could it do?
And maybe she could, just maybe, find a way to...
But, no. Lupin had said there was no cure, here.
I closed my eyes as she took the blood from the bend in my elbow. I
wasn't afraid of needles, I just hated watching them go into the skin.
She released us both to the world and Lupin said that he had just
enough time to rush to a classroom before the start of the lecture
of the day. He said that someone whom I’d never read about named
Professor Slughhorn had been wanting to talk to me, (and the tone
which he said it with did not make it seem like a desirable thing)
which is why we were going now. I didn’t mind if Lupin didn’t seem
to like this Slughorn - anything was better than having the time to
think.
The way was more convoluted than I thought it would be, and we
reached the potions classroom just as the last of the students were
settling into their seats.
“Isn't this Snape's class?” I asked softly.
Just as softly, Lupin shook his head and said, “Not anymore it's
not.”
“Huh, so Snape finally got DADA?”
“Yes.”
I hung back as Lupin knocked on the open door and exchanged a few
brief words with the rotund professor at the front of the class.
Some of the students noticed. I realized how acute my hearing had
grown when it hit me that I could understand their whispers.
“… Muggle from Quidditch this morning…”
“Who do you think she is?”
“I dunno… spy for You-Know-Who?”
I deliberately stopped eavesdropping. Eavesdroppers never heard
anything good about themselves.
A thin hand suddenly touched my shoulder, and I jumped and spun
around. Dumbledore drew his hand back and smiled kindly over the
rim of his glasses. “Feeling better, my dear?”
I nodded. “Loads.”
“Good to hear. Why don't we have chat up in my office, hm?” His
eyes were sparkling behind his glasses and I took it to be a good sign.
I nodded.
“My apologies, Professor Slughorn,” he said. He didn’t shout, but
his voice carried to the front of the hall nonetheless. “I'm afraid
that this was bad timing for you. I am going to steal her away for
the afternoon.”
Slughorn looked disgruntled but said nothing.
Lupin bid us both goodbye and excused himself. Where he would go,
I didn't know.
Dumbledore began to walk, and followed him through the twisting
halls. I could well believe that first years could get lost easily in this
maze. He hummed as he walked, his hands folded gently behind his
back, and I smiled at this. It was a comforting sound.
“Doo da doo do dooo do doo, do do do do da doooo….” I sang softly
when he had reached something in the same key and he turned to
look at me.
“I'm afraid I don't know that one.”
“It's the theme for the movies,” I said. “I couldn't help myself.”
His smile was visible for a split second under his whiskers. Then,
“Ah, here we are.” We stopped in front of a giant statue of a
Phoenix and I held my breath. “Icy Mice” he said softly and the
statue began to turn. It moved upwards in its recess, revealing a
flight of spiral stairs, and I hoped on and rode them up right after
the Headmaster.
We reached his office and he puttered about making himself a cup
of tea. He mentioned that he'd offer me one, but that I was looking
fresh and healthy, so I was probably full up. The off-hand comment
made me slightly queasy, so I merely nodded and smiled with my
lips closed.
We sat to the side of his desk, by his fireplace. The large,
comfortable wing backed chair loomed over me, almost too much
like the one in Lucard’s castle to be comfortable. But that was silly,
chairs were chairs, all over the world, and I couldn’t let a silly thing
like sitting get to me.
Dumbledore took a long sip of his tea, then set aside the cup and
looked at me. “Are you feeling much improved, Miss Marie?”
“I am, thank you.”
“Professor Lupin told me that you are newly as you are.”
I tried to fight back a grimace. “That's a tactful way of putting it.
When did he get the chance?”
“He stepped out while you were bathing.”
“Ah.”
He nodded gently. “Would you care to tell me about how you came
to be what you are and in my school?”
“I don't know,” I started softly. “One minute I was reading a
textbook in a café, the next I was standing in the middle of a group
of scientist-alchemist-zombie things. I… I realized that I was in an
alternate reality, one where a television show I used to watch as a
kid was real. I mean, not right away, but… yeah. And then…Well, I
ran.”
“Why did you run?”
“Because Count Dracula was there and he was going to have me for
lunch.” I shivered once, all over, and curled myself up into a ball in
the chair. “In a nut shell, he caught me. And he did… this…” I
looked down at my feet on the lip of the chair and fought back the
panic, the nausea, the feelings of guilt and betrayal and horror.
I'd had my breakdown for the day back up in the showers.
Dumbledore, when he spoke, was gentle and kind. “Do you know
why he did it?”
I thought about it for a moment, worrying my bottom lip with my
teeth. I knew the straightforward answer. But, had there been
other reasons…? I decided to give the straightforward one. “He
wanted information. Wanted to know how it was that I knew who he
was. How it was that his carefully prepared spell had backfired so
terribly as to bring me to him instead of his rival.”
“Could you describe what you know of the spell?”
I did. I told him about the man covered in blood, about the writing
on the floor in gore, and I tried to draw a picture of it on a loose
sheaf of parchment. I told him about the requirements that Lucard
had grilled me on. Dumbledore studied it, one hand stroking his
beard.
“I am not familiar with such Dark magics, but I will try to figure out
how it is that you were able to cross the dimensional barrier thus.”
I looked up. “Then you believe me?”
He met my eyes solemnly. “With what you've said, how can I not?”
I looked down at my lap for a moment, and then an idea suddenly
hit me. It was a revelation in the best sense of the word. “I… I know
where Lord Voldemort is hiding!”
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slowly into his hairline. “You do?”
“Yes! I… I totally… I should have said something earlier. I'm such an
idiot. The whole beginning of book four is… He's at the Riddle House.
The place where he murdered his father and his family.”
Dumbledore closed his eyes slowly, as if this information was
painful for him to hear. Dumbledore was the one who had been
Voldemort's chief rival before the birth of Harry Potter, but he had
also been Voldemort's mentor and professor when the boy had been
at Hogwarts. He held himself partially responsible for Tom Riddle's
transformation into the Dark Lord Voldemort, and every time
something went wrong because of Voldemort, or people were hurt,
Dumbledore always secretly blamed himself.
“I never thought…” he said slowly. “The place is abandoned. Are
you certain?”
“Was abandoned. I know that's where he was living before he
kidnapped Harry at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
Pettigrew was looking after him. I don't know if he's still there.”
Dumbledore nodded and swallowed hard. “Thank you. I shall… look
into this information.”
“Not with Fudge, I hope,” I said before I could help myself. He
looked at me askance and I pressed on. Oh, well, I had one foot in
my mouth anyway, right? “C'mon, the bungler wouldn't believe you
when you up-and-up told him that Voldemort was back. He tried to
kill an innocent hippogriff just because Draco Malfunction is a
Drama Queen, and he sent Sirius to Azkaban without a trial!”
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. Then he said, his voice
quivering and low, “There is indeed a great deal that you know
about us, and our world. If you are willing to be discreet, you could
be a very useful weapon in the future war.”
I worried my hands in my lap. “I… I'll tell you all I know, anything I
think will help. But… I'd rather… I mean…” I looked up at met his
eyes, and I felt the tears burning in a lump in my throat. “I want to
go home.”
“Of course,” he said softly. “For tonight, join us at the Head Table
for dinner. We will speak more of it afterwards. I must write some
letters and consider what you have told me about how you got here.
Hopefully by this evening I will be able to help you return.”
“Thank you,” I said earnestly, meaning every syllable.
He showed me out and asked a House Elf to escort me to Hagrid's
Hut, where I spent the rest of the afternoon in idle conversation
with the Giant and Remus, watching Remus Lupin sip his tea and
remembering how badly I had wanted him.
=====
At dinner I sat between the Headmaster and Severus Snape. Not
exactly the most wonderful of dining or conversation companions Albus was always engaged in chatter with other professors, and
Snape did nothing but glare.
If the students were commenting on my presence at the Head Table,
I didn't hear anything. I had learned my lesson while eavesdropping
in the potions class that afternoon - I didn't want to know what they
were saying.
I ate nothing and breathed less. The scent of cooked food was
slightly nauseating and I tried to breathe it in as little as possible.
I would have preferred to sit beside Remus Lupin, but I didn't trust
my 'inner monster' to behave. Something inside of me still wanted
him, and wanted him badly. Something wanted me to finish what
we'd started… either by taking all his blood and killing him or by
consummating what my touches had promised.
This was a new and disturbing sensation for me. At twenty-two I
was not innocent, but I hadn't really ever lusted after anyone
before. I'd dated guys, but never did anything more serious than
some tonsil hockey in darkened bar with a guy with curious hands.
I was both thrilled and terrified by the strength of my desire to haul
him into a random broom closet. I'm sure it would terrify him, too.
And I couldn't help but wonder if it was real emotion, or if it was
something brought on by the blood-lust.
Steadfastly ignoring my desire to look at him, I turned to Snape
instead. “I'm sorry,” I said.
He blinked and set down his fork. “For?” he drawled.
“For calling you names, earlier. It wasn't right of me.”
He raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his lip. “Fine,” he said,
and went back to his meal.
Well, that was abrupt. I was hoping at least to goad him into
conversation.
“So,” I tried again. “How long have you been teaching?”
He set down his fork again and turned to glare at me. For a brief
second I really pitied Neville Longbottom. “Miss Marie,” he said, “if
you truly insist on dragging me into foolish conversation, I suggest
that you cut to the point.”
I blinked, taken aback. “The point?”
“Yes. You obviously wish to ask me something. Ask it and leave me
to my meal.”
“Wha… no, I just… thought that… you'd want to--”
“I don't want to.” He resumed eating and I stared at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.
Okay, now that was just rude.
“Listen, you punk-ass little snit,” I hissed under my breath at him,
“I said I was sorry, okay? Don't take your issues out on me. So you
hate Lupin, despise Longbottom, and resent Potter. Get the fuck
over yourself. You chose your life. Deal with it. And wash your hair
every once and a while.”
The sound of his chair scraping back startled most of the Great Hall
into silence. He stared down at me with narrowed black eyes, his
lips a quivering knife-slice. There was colour high on his cheeks, and
his anger was an almost tangible thing. His arms were straight at his
sides, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists.
“Professor Snape?” McGonagall asked gently and he sneered,
without turning to look at her.
“I have suddenly lost my appetite.” He turned on his heel and
billowed out of the Hall. I'd say he stormed, or stalked, but Snape
doesn't 'storm', he 'billows'.
Dumbledore and Lupin both fixed me with unamused eyes and I
leaned back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest defensively.
“What?” I asked petulantly. “I apologized.”
=====
An hour later found me once again in Dumbledore's office, only this
time I was getting bitched out.
“…completely inappropriate behaviour for a guest at my table, don't
you think?” he said, turning those disappointed blue eyes to me. I
wish he wouldn't look at me like that, like a kicked puppy.
I bit back my 'but he started it' and said, “Yes. I'm sorry,
Headmaster.”
He sighed and took a seat in the chair opposite the desk from me.
The twinkle returned to his eyes and he smiled slightly. “Although, I
can understand the urge to…ah… retaliate against Severus'… unique
form of conversation.”
I smiled slightly and relaxed into my chair. Requisite bitching-out
complete.
“Now,” he said, turning his attention to a pile of papers on his
desktop. He flipped through some of them, then handed me one.
“Did the drawing on the floor of the warehouse look like this?”
I stared at the yellowed sheaf of parchment with wide eyes. “Yes,”
I said softly.
He nodded as if he had expected this answer. “Then we are in luck.
There is record of this spell in our archives. A man who accidentally
crossed over into our reality approximately seven centuries ago
reportedly used it. Many have tried to re-create it, but without
success.”
I felt my heart drop to my toes as I let the parchment fall back onto
his desk. “Then why are we in luck? There's no way for me to get
home.”
“On the contrary.” He opened an ancient looking spell-tome and
turned it to me so I could read the text. The writing was so loopy,
the spelling so 'foul-papers Shakespearian' that I could barely read it.
“What is it?”
“A potion,” he clarified. “This potion was discovered by a Potions
Master trying to recreate the man's experience. One… ah,” he
turned the book back around so he could read it, “Sheldon Snape.”
I nearly choked on my teeth. “A po-potion?”
Dumbledore stroked his beard as he looked it over. “It's a very
interesting mix, my dear. From what I can tell, it has the ability to
cast those people nearby during its activation into a neighbouring
reality.”
“A neighbouring one,” I echoed. “But… not necessarily mine?”
He shook his head. “No, I'm afraid it's a gamble.”
The damned annoying burning lump returned to my throat. “So, I
mean… I could just… slip through dimension after dimension and
just… never ever get home?”
Dumbledore looked up, and this time there was comfort in his eyes.
“Possibly. But there are a finite number of realities. Yours among
them. According to this, once you've visited one reality, you can
'key' a potion phial to recognize that plane and return you to it. It
should keep you from repeating. And, much as I hate to suggest it,
perhaps Mr. Lucard has done you a favour.”
I sniffled and at the bastard's name the crying began in earnest.
“Oh,” I said, seething hatred and sarcasm, hiccoughing on tears.
“Pray, tell, explain to me how his rape is helpful.”
Dumbledore came around the desk to take my hand. I was shaken.
It was the first time I had admitted it out loud.
“Lucard has given you a weapon, a means to travel alone with the
power to protect yourself, to be resistant to most harm. You will
never need to fear starving as long is there is another living thing
nearby, nor will you need money. And when you return to your
home reality, you will appear exactly as you are - unchanged.”
I looked at him with wide, wet eyes, and bizarrely, saw his
reasoning. I wasn’t happy, but it was comforting to know that I
could probably take care of myself. I squeezed his hand once and
scrubbed at my face with the cuff of my other hand. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome my dear. The least we can do after you agreeing
to help us with the war.” I nodded and accepted his offered
handkerchief. I dabbed my eyes dry and watched as he circled back
to his chair and sat. “According to the spell, it will take Severus at
least a month to complete the brewing process.”
“Snape?” I questioned. “But--”
Dumbledore held up a hand. “He is the most skilful Potions Master
in the area. Including Slughorn. I trust him completely. Would you
begrudge him simply because of a personality clash?”
“That's putting it mildly,” I muttered, shaking my head. “No, I'll
take his help, if he's willing to give it… he may not be.”
Dumbledore leaned forward over the desk and lowered his voice. “If
you can help to free him from the Dark Lord, then Severus will
gladly do it.”
“Yes, yes, okay. Thank him for me?”
“Why don't you thank him yourself?”
“Myself?”
The Headmaster smiled, and there was something devious in it.
“Yes, yourself. I feel it would be very helpful to you to brew the
potion along side him, and learn how it's done so that you may make
it yourself later.”
“But… but!” I sputtered. “We'll kill each other!”
Dumbledore laughed. “Try not to.”
=====
Several days later I tapped gently on Dumbledore's office door. I
heard the muffled “Come in!” and opened the door, peeking around
the frame.
“Ah, Miss Marie,” he said, looking up from a sheaf of important
looking letters. They all had the Ministry of Magic letterhead on
them. It was all glowy and multi-coloured and cool. “What can I do
for you?”
“I... I've been thinking,” I said slowly, stepping around the door and
closing it behind me. “About Sirius Black.”
“Oh?” He set down the letters. “Do, come have a seat by the fire.
Tea?”
I shook my head, my stomach rolling once. “No, thank you.” I knew
my reality's sort of Vampires could consume mortal food, but I had
yet to be able to make myself accomplish it.
Yesterday I had sat down and had a long talk with Madam Pomfrey
about all the 'Dracula: The Series' kind's of Vampires were capable
of and apparently she had passed the information onto the
Headmaster, as he had just offered me tea. I was dreading the day
they asked me to turn into a bat.
I hadn't had the guts to try that one yet. And I wasn't sure I could do
it without being taught, anyway.
I assumed it was a lot like an animagus transformation, but I was
honestly too chicken shit to try. What if I fell out of the air? What
if I tumbled down the stairs?
Dumbledore and I sat together by the fire and he sipped a cup of
tea he prepared for himself.
“How are your potions lessons going?” he asked, a smile playing
around the corner of his lips.
I grimaced. “As well as can be expected. We're being… civil.” I
sighed with exasperation. “I don't know what his deal is. I've said I'm
sorry.”
“Severus is very good at holding grudges,” Dumbledore said fondly.
“Don't I know it. I was thinking… don't you think he's a little
overloaded? I mean, between my potion, and the wolfsbane, and
the DADA lessons…”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Severus thrives on a full schedule. It
keeps him from… thinking about other things.”
I couldn’t fault Severus that. It was the same reason I was taking
potions lessons, and had just begun charms lessons on the side, and
spent long hours in frivolous conversation with Lupin or Pomfrey.
I shrugged and crossed my arms to hold in the warmth from the fire
at our knees. I relished the warmth of the blaze, as the rest of the
castle was drafty despite the turtleneck and robe I wore. One thing
I'd found about my condition was that I got very cold very easily if I
hadn't fed from a living body in the past few hours.
Of course, the cold wasn’t the only reason I wore the turtleneck.
Like Remus had warned, my neck bore a puffed, white ridge of scar
tissue. It was in the shape of Lucard’s upper jaw, bisected by a line
that I assumed was torn when he thrust his tongue into my flesh.
I hadn’t seen it, I had no reflection unless I consciously summoned it,
and I hadn’t learned how to do that yet. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to
see what I looked like, anyway. Lupin had drawn the scar for me in
the margin of a letter he’d been reading.
Wanting to take my mind off my neck, I said “You really know him
well. Snape, I mean.”
Dumbledore smiled and sipped. “Severus was my student for seven
years before he became my colleague. I have known him for almost
twenty-five years. I should hope I know him well.”
I nodded and thought about it for a moment. Twenty-five years was
a long time to know somebody. A long time to watch somebody
struggle with nightmares and regrets. I couldn't fault Dumbledore
for his protectiveness.
“So, what were you thinking about Mr. Black?” he asked, startling
me out of my thoughts.
“Oh,” I said, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. “Well, I was
thinking… if the Vortex sent me here, to your reality, then… I
wondered where the Veil lead to.”
He regarded me with slightly surprised eyes for a moment. “You are
thinking that the Veil may lead to an alternate reality as well?”
“Well, why not?” I asked. “It's as good a theory as any.”
He regarded me carefully, then set aside his teacup to steeple his
fingers. He laced them in front of his face, resting his elbows on the
armrests of his chair, studying me seriously. “Are you offering what
I think you are offering?”
I nodded. “I think so Brain, but how are we going to get all of the
Spice Girls into rubber pants?”
He blinked at me, open-mouthed with shock.
“Sorry,” I giggled. “I couldn't help myself. Yes, I'm offering what
you think I'm offering.”
He coughed once, shook his head in wonder, and smiled. “You
certainly are… eclectic, Miss Marie.”
“I pride myself on it.”
He picked up his tea and sipped again. He licked his moustache free
of any clinging droplets and said. “Are you aware of the possible
dangers?”
“That I might not come back? That I could die? That some beastie in
there could eat me?”
“Something along those lines… yes.”
I shrugged. “We won't know 'till we know, right? And if Sirius is alive
then I… I want to bring him back. Harry… has suffered too much
already. You all have. If I can return Sirius to you then I… I want to
be able to try.”
“Such noble self-sacrifice.”
“Self-sacrifice, nothing,” I smiled gently. “Sirius Black is my
favourite character. I want to be able to go home and tell my
friends I got to kiss him.”
Dumbledore laughed at this, and I think it was a needed laugh.
When he returned his gaze to me, the tension that had been
lingering around the corners of his eyes and his mouth had vanished.
“Very well. We will wait until the potion is complete, and then key
two of the phials to this reality. If you do, indeed, find Sirius, you
can return him to us that way. If you find yourself in danger there,
you may also return.”
“I'd like a copy of his 'Wanted' poster and a sketch of Padfoot, too,
if that's possible,” I added.
Dumbledore blinked. I honestly thought I'd never get sick of
surprising him. “You know Sirius is an animagus?”
I nodded. “I know how he escaped Azkaban, remember? And I know
about the Marauder's Map.”
“Ah, yes. It had slipped my mind.” He finished his tea and pulled
himself shakily to his feet. It was only when he stood up or sat down
that I got the sense that he really was an old man. Otherwise, he
exuded a boundless energy that belayed his physical appearance.
“If you'll forgive me, my dear, I have mountains of owls to send
replies back with, and they'll scratch up my windowsill if I don't
attend to them soon.”
“Have fun,” I said, and he grimaced.
“As much as I can. Ah, and before I forget, I wanted to talk to you
about the Secret Keeper spell, sometime tonight. See if there's any
way to prove that it was Pettigrew from what you've read.”
I had been meeting with him every evening after dinner these past
few days to have long conversations about what I knew. I didn't
doubt more than half of those Ministry owls were due to what I'd
said to him. I knew he was also keeping record of our conversations
in his Pensive.
“Short of dragging Pettigrew in here with a Veritus charm on him, I
don't think I can help you, but I'll be here.”
“My thanks.”
“No problem.”
I left his office and headed downstairs for my private tutoring
lesson with Professor Flitwick. It had been Lupin's idea that I learn
as many offensive and defensive charms as I could while I was here.
There was no telling what I would run into during my travels.
I had agreed with him, and the diminutive charms professor had
returned from Diagon Alley the next day with a wand that was
almost a perfect fit for me. It would have been just right if I had
gone to Mr. Olivander's myself, but we were all scared that
Voldemort or one of the Death Eaters would kidnap me or
something if I left the Castle grounds, so he’d gone instead with my
measurements.
Word had to have gotten around by now that someone strange had
appeared on Hogwarts property - the Death Eaters weren't stupid
(most of them), and I didn't put it past them to put two and two
together. I bet the Aurors and the Order were starting to give them
grief right about now.
As I practiced my 'swish and flick', my mind strayed once more to
Remus Lupin.
He hadn't let me be alone in a room with him since the incident in
the shower.
Two: Harry Potter
Chapter Seven: “Month”
I'm sure you're asking how it is that a Muggle like me can use a wand
and perform charms. My answer: “Hell if I know.” I supposed it was
because I was a magical creature now, a thing of magic myself.
I never really asked, no one ever really told. I'm an original
character with a canonical weapon; of course it was going to work.
=====
Spending the two hours after classes and before dinner with Snape
was really starting to irk me. And that was a nice way of putting it.
I couldn't bloody do anything right, according to him - my butterfly
wings were cut too thick and uneven, my green goo too green, my
flame too banked. Arg! It was driving me nuts!
I could understand the need to be so particular, but did he have to
be so goddamned rude?
“Miss Marie,” he drawled, standing directly over my shoulder and
lifting a mangled batch of smoked dandelion (thank god there
wasn't anything too 'weird' in the potion, like kappa spleen or
something, or I would never be able to make it in another reality)
and let it dangle before my face. “Does this look properly
blackened to you?”
It didn't, but enough was enough. I snatched it out of the air faster
than he could pull back (yay Vampiric reflexes) and slapped it down
on the table. I stood abruptly, the stool scraping back and bashing
into his kneecaps, and turned to glare up at him. He sneered down
his nose at me, trying not to nurse his new hurts.
“Listen, buster,” I said, pointing a finger in his face. “I may not be
your favourite person in the world right now, but you have no right
to get off treating me like some idiot first year. This is the first
time I've ever been around a Bunsen burner, let alone brewing a
magic potion, so just get the fuck off my back, okay? Would it kill
you to be nice when you give me criticism?”
He raised an eyebrow. His voice, when it came out, did so in a high
and nasal falsetto. “Oh, then, forgive me Miss Marie, but I am ever
so regretful to inform you that your hard work, darling and heartfelt as it has been, has terribly been for nothing. It's such a shame,
really, that although I told you the proper method of smudging this
delightful and aromatic herb, you clearly misunderstood me and
have done it all wrong. How silly of me.”
I glowered. “I get the point.”
The falsetto and the fake smile ceased to exist. “Then do it
correctly next time.”
“Yeah, fuck you, too.” I slumped back into the stool.
He sputtered but said nothing.
We both knew that the faster I learned how to do this right, the
faster I'd be out of his greasy hair.
=====
I found Remus Lupin sitting alone on the roof of the Astronomy
tower shortly after sunset.
Dinner had already been done and over with. I had sat and ate
nothing. He had finished and fled the room quickly.
He was staring up at the waning moon, chin on his knees and arms
around his calves. It was late autumn and he was bundled up, but
had neglected gloves. His hands were shoved into his sleeves.
For a long moment I just watched him.
He was beautiful in the moonlight. Not the type of beautiful that
ended up in Playgirl magazines, or as Cosmo's 'Shirt-less Hunk of the
Month'. His face was expressive and gentle, his eyes warm and
honey coloured. His hair was like spun pearl in the soft light and he
was in decent shape, even though he did have that soft and
endearing laying of fat that seemed to collect on people who spend
too much time writing essays and articles and not enough time
playing outside.
I peeled off my own scarf as I had little need for it. I liked the
comfort of the cloth protecting my neck, but I didn't really feel
outside temperature like normal people anymore. I felt a cold lump
in my gut if I hadn't fed in twelve or so hours, and the longer I held
off on a feeding, the further into my extremities the cold would
spread. When I fed, I felt like I had the first time, the tingle of
limbs thawing out and fire rushing through my blood stream.
My feedings had not been so blatantly sexual since, but I wasn't
feeding off a warm body then. Now I only took what the House Elves
gave me.
I made a point of making sound as I walked up behind him so as not
to startle. He turned to look at me, then jumped slightly. He moved
to get to his feet and I shook my head. “Stay sitting.”
He watched me warily, then settled back into his position. I knelt
beside him and pulled his hands from his sleeves and wrapped them
in my scarf like an improvised muff.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
I sat beside him, pulling the cloak I had borrowed around me to
block out the wind and settled my own chin on my knees.
“So,” I said softly, “If Snape is the DADA prof, why are you still
staying at Hogwarts?”
He watched me for a long moment before licking his lips and saying,
“The books didn't say?”
I shook my head and kept my eyes on the night sky. The night wasn't
nearly as dark as I remembered it being. Between the stars and the
moon it was as bright as a pale dusk. “They only go up to where you
dropped him off with the Dursley's this past summer. The sixth book
is due out soon. Hm. I haven't pre-ordered mine yet.”
He shook his head minutely, closed his eyes for a moment, and then
turned his pale eyes to the moon as well. “After… Sirius …
vanished,” he said softly, “Dumbledore and I agreed that I…
shouldn't be, you know… alone. The Death Eaters could start to pick
us off if we're not careful. And, I wanted to… to be near Harry. I'm
his Godfather now. He couldn't get me reinstated, but he offered
me a place for those times when I was... between tasks.”
Between spy-work, I read between the lines.
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “I'm glad of that. Dumbledore's a good
man, and Harry needs you.”
There was another long moment of silence. I was enjoying the ease
of it, the contemplation, the relaxing break from the bustle of the
school and the students below. I didn't blame him for sneaking up
here to the quiet.
“Dumbledore told me,” he began softly. His voice was unsteady.
Unsure. “Are you really going into the Veil?”
“Yup.”
Another silence. “I wish I could go, too.”
I shook my head and turned to look at him. I found myself staring
directly into his honey eyes without meaning to. He was looking at
me, too.
“Hogwarts needs you. The war needs you.”
“I know.”
“Harry needs you.”
“I know.” He sighed and tucked his chin under the scarf, resting his
forehead on his knees. “I just… I miss him so much. I miss Sirius and
James and Lily and… I miss the real Peter. I just feel so…
abandoned.”
I reached out and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. He
stiffened, and then accepted the comforting gesture for what it was.
“Miss Marie,” he began slowly. I cut him off.
“Just Marie is fine, if I can call you just Remus.”
I felt rather than saw him smile. “Yes, okay. Marie… I think… I feel
we should talk about what happened in the shower.”
The lust inside me flared, but I couldn't tell if it was for flesh or
blood. I shoved it back down. “Yes?”
He pulled himself away from me to study my face. He folded his
hands in his impromptu muff in his lap. “I am… uncertain what …
signals this encounter sent you.”
“That's why you're avoiding me?”
He blushed and the smell of his blood was suddenly thick and
tantalizing in my nose, so close to the surface. But I had fed once
that day already, and probably would again soon, before I retired.
It was not hunger that made the smell prominent.
“Yes. I… I wish to apologize to you.”
“Apologize?” I blinked. “To me? But I was the one who nearly… I
mean… the bloodlust…”
He held up his hand to silence me and I trailed off. “I should not
have provoked you by cutting my arm. It was foolish and … rash of
me. I had no right to force you to taste me and I should not have let
your… ahem… hand wander.”
So that was it. He hadn't liked it after all. Suddenly I felt like a
monster. “No, I'm sorry. I didn't know that you were so
uncomfortable with it and-”
“Uncomfortable?” he asked, his eyebrows arching. “Me? I … no…. I
mean… it was so stupid of me to get you into a sexual situation so …
so soon after you were… well…”
I stared at him as the rest of the sentence died in his throat. “I
didn't mean to take advantage of you,” he finished lamely.
I smiled gently and shook my head. “You didn't. Totally
consensual.”
His lips curved upwards slightly, hopeful. “You're not upset with me,
then?”
“No.”
“Oh, good.” He resumed staring at the moon, suddenly relieved and
uncomfortable at the same time. A sliver of flesh was visible
between the folds of his scarf and I licked my lips.
Would I… could I dare to suggest a repeat performance?
I decided not to.
The thing inside of me wanted Remus Lupin, his blood or his body,
it didn't care which. Preferably both. I, on the other hand, didn't
want to hurt him.
I rose to my feet with way more grace than I could have
accomplished in life and said, softly. “I'm going to head in, now.
See you in the morning?”
He nodded and I took my leave.
=====
That night was when the nightmares started.
Up until then, I hadn't really suffered from the nightmares. I'd spent
the first few nights in the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey had
sluiced Dreamless Sleep Potion down my throat. When I had moved
into a small, unused room that I suspected was a vacant teacher's
apartment, I was at first too scared or disoriented or distracted to
sleep.
Now I had been at Hogwarts for just a little over a week, and I was
settling into a sleep pattern. Also, I was thinking a lot about Remus
and Vampirism, and blood and sex.
I knew by my watch that when I woke up screaming, trying to shove
off the phantom Lucard, I had only been asleep for about twenty
minutes.
The unfortunate thing about being a Vampire is that when we sleep,
we sleep heavily.
I once awoke to Madam Pomfrey freaking out because she couldn't
wake me up and thought I was dead. When I had been human, I had
slept restlessly, rolling, turning, and clutching at the pillows or
anything else within reach.
As a Vampire I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes and was
gone.
Sleep of the dead.
This makes the nightmares worse because it's harder for me to
struggle upwards out of sleep into wakefulness. It was easier if I
slept at night, but when the sun rode the sky everything about me
was a little more cold, a little more sluggish. A little more human.
When I slept during the day it was deeply and almost dreamlessly,
total and complete.
The thought of being trapped in my daytime stupor with the
nightmares has often induced me to keep day-walker's bedtime
habits. I wanted to sleep when it was easy to wake up.
I woke up three more times that night, screaming, clutching the
covers, crying.
Lucard haunted me.
The thought of what he'd done, could have done, might still do…
they plagued me.
They were mixed with visions of Death Eaters and Voldemort.
After I woke the fourth time, a mere three hours after I had first
gone to sleep, I just stayed up.
There was no point.
=====
The next three weeks passed quickly. I had nightmares nearly every
night, but got better and waking myself out of them. I would never
be able to sleep with anyone beside me, though, for fear of clocking
them in my frantic struggling.
I quickly learned to avoid Slughorn like the plague.
Before I knew it I had memorized the potion and held five phials of
it in my hands. The potion made approximately six to seven phials,
depending on the size of them, but Snape had kept two for his own
research.
I didn't begrudge him that.
Things had never improved between us, but I hadn't torn his eyes
out and he hadn't driven a stake through my heart, so all in all I
thought we did a good job.
Two of the phials were 'keyed' to Hogwarts. Two were blank, so I
could shift to another reality if necessary. One had a label with the
thick black lettering 'Lucard' on it. We had picked his hair off my
purple shirt before I had burned both of them. You never knew.
The way a phial was keyed was this:
The active ingredient of the potion was oxygen.
After the twenty-seventh day, the cauldron it was brewing in had to
be sealed. A lid and duct tape would do in a pinch, but a pressure
cooker top was the best option. The cauldron or brewing pot had to
have a spigot in the bottom.
When the phials were 'keyed,' it was a complicated process. First, a
bit of tangible material from the realm you wanted to return to was
placed in the bottom of the phial. A few hairs, some carpet fibres,
a blade of grass - whatever it was, the potion user would reappear
close to it when they returned.
To keep the oxygen out we jammed a cork into the top of it tightly
and sealed it with candle wax. Then a long needle was poked
through the wax and cork. A thin tube was attached to the end of
the spigot and the needle.
The potion was slightly watery, and a rich burgundy colour. I
couldn't tell you what it smelled like. Once the phials were filled,
the needle was pulled out slowly as more candle wax was dripped
onto top surface of the cork to seal off the hole.
I thought it was a two-person operation, but Snape made me
practice with plain water for weeks before letting me bottle the
potion, and I learned to do it carefully and slowly with something
propping up the phial.
We carefully labelled each one with a white sticker and black
marker, and Snape immediately cleaned out the cauldron and began
the potion all over again. He said that he knew it was only a matter
of time before I was back and begging for more. Which I resented
but couldn’t quite deny.
To activate the potion, all I had to do was smash it at my feet.
Whomever the potion touched, and whomever that person was
holding onto, would be transported into the next reality over.
The next morning I said good-bye and thank you to Hogwarts, the
staff, the students, and especially Professors Snape, Flitwick, Lupin,
and Dumbledore. The Great Hall applauded. They thought I was a
visiting Potions Master who was doing a research project with Snape.
That's what we had told them. I don't think Harry even knew the
truth. They had decided not to tell him, just in case Voldemort
went for a wander through his mind.
The good-byes in order, Remus, Dumbledore and I headed for the
Ministry of Magic.
Remus and I had become good friends in the month I had been there,
and although we had shared one wonderful afternoon in Hogsmede,
which ended in an even more wonderful kiss, we had not pursued
our romantic (or bloodlusty) inclinations. I was going away. He was
a werewolf. Bad all around.
On his full moon night he had vanished. I knew where he would be
and didn't seek him out. I wouldn't have been welcome and it would
have been dangerous. The next morning I was immediately in his
rooms with fresh blankets, hot water to clean himself up with and
chicken noodle soup. He had laughed and told me I was a Mother
Hen.
I met Cornelius Fudge at the Ministry and disliked him even more in
person. He shook my hand and made a speech and was all in all
ignorant and annoying. He had greeted us in the foyer with several
important ministry members. Among them were Arthur Weasley,
Kingsley Shaklebolt and Nymph Tonks, and a very sour looking
Lucious Malfoy.
They followed us to the Department of Mysteries and I made it clear
that I only wanted Dumbledore and Remus in the room with me. I
totally didn't trust Malfoy or Fudge, but I didn't want to say, “Oh,
only Order of the Phoenix Members please. You two losers stay
here.”
They agreed and Fudge speeched some more before we could
escape into the quiet of the amphitheatre-like room. As I walked
passed him into the room I winked at Malfoy and under my breath
hissed, “How's being a Death Eater treating you, Malfunction? Dark
Mark itchy at all?”
He stared at me, wide-eyed and angry as hell, but then I was
through the door.
I hope Fudge had heard me.
Not that it would matter at all if he had.
When the door closed I stopped at the top of a set of stairs carved
out of stone. The benches were carved as well, and they all faced a
pit orchestra-style stage. In the middle of the stage sat a dormant,
unimpressive stone archway from which mouldy and cobwebby
brown curtains were hung.
It looked very harmless.
I knew better.
Lupin and Dumbledore began to descend the stairs and I followed
after them, head high and jaw set.
To tell you the truth, I was scared as all Hell.
What if I was wrong and I died permanently?
Well, too late for that now.
I approached the Veil with single-minded determination, and
paused at its edge. Around my waist, under my shirt, was a buttersoft light brown leather pouch. It was wide and flat and contained
all five phials and my magic wand, and a small piece a paper with a
copy of just the ingredients of the potion, but not the instructions
in case someone unpleasant got their hands on it. There was also a
copy of Sirius' 'Wanted' poster and a pen sketch of Padfoot.
Remus came up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You can
still back out,” he said softly. I shook my head. “Alright. Then take
this.” He slipped something thin and hard into my hand and I lifted
it to see what it was.
It was dagger in a beautiful dark brown sheath with a matching hilt.
It was just the right size for my hand. I slipped it out of the sheath
and was amazed at how sharp and new it looked.
“The highest quality mix of silver, iron, and steel I could get.
Should be good against shape-changers and magics.”
I hugged him warmly and kissed him on the cheek in thanks. I put
the dagger in my pouch.
“Bring him home,” he whispered into my ear as we parted.
“I will.”
I said my goodbyes to Dumbledore and took a deep breath.
I was going to do it.
I was going to step through the Veil.
I closed my eyes and walked forward.
A cold wind smashed against my body, freezing the blood in my
veins instantly. I was sucked forward and I could feel the rotted
slither of the moulding curtains against my face, my arms, my legs,
my whole body. It felt like they were trying to wrap around me,
cocoon me, strangle me.
I shrieked and batted them away.
I saw a flash of white light behind my eyes, like a flash bulb, and
heard a flat crack like a gunshot on an open plain. I was suddenly
free of the curtains, free of the crushing cold and the howling wind.
I was in free air, warmish, smelling faintly of harbour.
I was falling.
I managed to twist my legs and arms under me and landed on hard
cobblestones, skinning the heels of my hand and almost tearing a
hole in the knee of my pants.
I stood up slowly, warily, made sure everything was still in my
pouch. It was night time here. I looked around. It looked like a city.
Sure enough, when I turned around, I saw the skyline across the
water, the smell of ripe fish and boats and factories strong in the
air. Riverfront district of something, somewhere.
I didn't recognize anything, anyone.
Where the Hell was I?
And where would I even begin to look for Sirius?
Book Three: Anita Blake
Chapter Eight: “Stripper”
I took a room in a cheap dive of a motel with the Muggle money
that Dumbledore had provided me with. I covered the window with
the filthy duvet to keep out the neon glow of the adult theatre
across the alley and tried to sleep through most of the night. I
managed a good few hours before the nightmare woke me. I slept
for another few after that, was woken up again, and irritated, took
a long bath in a tub I had to scrub myself, and thoroughly with the
tiny bar of complimentary soap (repackaged after the last user - ick )
until the sun peeked over the horizon.
I washed my underthings in the sink and dried them with the
provided sparking hairdryer (at least I couldn’t get electrocuted to
death), and resolved to buy more to carry with me. When it hit nine
o'clock in the morning, what I considered a decent hour, I set out to
peruse the town. From the maps, postcards, American flags, and
the names on signs, I eventually realized that I was in St. Louis, but
being Canadian I knew jack about the city, except for the silly arch
thingy.
The first night and day was spent in fruitless effort. I walked into
every place I could and waved about Sirius' poster, and nobody
recognized him or the dog. I went into coffee places, hotels, bars,
tourist traps, fast food joints, greasy spoons, everywhere. I walked
until my feet were sore. Sometime around noon I bought an icecream cone and forced myself to eat all of it, toeing off my brown
boots and resting on a park bench.
The ice-cream was really cool and actually very nice. I had been
working on my ability to ingest food back at Hogwarts, and I
appreciated it. At first I used to gag a lot and have trouble
swallowing. The worst part, of course, was the still the vomiting,
but the food really had no where else to go.
P.N. Elrod, in her books “The Vampire Files”, notes (and truthfully)
through the mouth of her vampire character Jack Flemming, that
the important thing about re-learning how to eat was the social
factor - so much of the world's business was done over food. To not
eat was strange and usually considered an insult, pretty much
everywhere. It drew attention that would be, in my case, unwanted.
So I ate.
When I was finished the ice-cream, I had to find a public washroom
and did so at a crowded McDonald's. The grease smell made my
stomach roil, which helped. I went into the restroom and puked up
every last bit of the desert.
I could not digest it, but had enjoyed it going down.
It sucked coming back up and I decided never to eat mortal food
ever again unless I absolutely had to in order to save face. I don't
know how Lucard did it everyday. He must have been masochistic.
Or bulimic.
An elderly lady looked worried for me as I came out of the stall and
washed my face and hands.
I gave her an earnest smile and patted my stomach. “Morning
sickness,” I said weakly.
She congratulated me and I went on my way.
By mid afternoon my eyes hurt and my veins itched. I was just
praying for sunset. I wanted to feed. I wanted to fucking sleep
goddamn it. I wanted even just one clue of Sirius. This was a Muggle
city, though. Where would he be in a Muggle city? Was he even here?
It's not like I could stand on the top of the arch and scream “Sirius
Black?! Where are you?! I’m not a Deatheater!”
Irritated, I waited out the sunset under the shade of a tree,
frowning.
When I felt the tingle of release that came with the darkness, of my
powers returning to me, settling into my skin, I got up and
wandered until I found a nightclub suitably sleazy for my purposes.
I had never hunted before and was very nervous. I had never picked
up in a bar before, either, which made me even more nervous.
I waited until some boy, barely old enough to shave, offered to buy
me a drink. I let him and listened to his drabble as he drooled and
was drunk. I sipped at the drink, but didn't swallow. It reeked of
pineapples and rum. I hate pineapples and rum.
Around ten I finally screwed up my courage to suggest that we go to
his car.
He grinned and paid his tab, and my veins screamed in relief.
My eyes and eyeteeth were itching, burning. I wanted to rub at
them like I sleepy child and refrained. We got into the backseat of
his car and he damn near pounced. His tongue was so far down my
throat so fast that I knew he would have suffocated me had I been
living.
I licked and nipped my way to his neck, trying not to gag on the
taste of cheap beer and sweat. I felt my eyes burn, the yellow
bleeding away the blue, my vision turning into a predator's look. I
saw the blood under his skin, pulsing, rushing, so hot and thick and
warm and enticing.
I had never gone this long without a feeding before and didn't
hesitate.
It was heaven.
Not anywhere as good as Remus, and it tasted of cheap beer and
too many cigarettes, but blood was blood was blood. I took several
long swallows and felt my limbs thaw, my own lust fluttering though
my veins, my power tingling along my skin. The painful clenching of
my stomach relaxed and my head was soon spinning with the boy's
booze.
He groaned, arched into me, and I could feel his arousal against my
thigh. It made me gag and pull away. He groaned again, eyes
fluttering.
“Damn, bitch. You're hot,” he slurred, and I think he meant it to be
a compliment. Gross.
I slid out of the car, satisfied he would recover from the blood loss
just fine, and walked away before he could get his bearings. I hoped
he thought I was just kinky when he saw the mark and didn't report
me to the police as some crazy psycho.
It'd be hard to search for Sirius from behind the bars of a jail cell.
=====
I felt revitalized.
I felt fresh.
I hit up all the bars and cafes that were open on the way back to
the motel, and had no luck. I refused to be frustrated.
I took a shower when I got in, climbed into the provided terrycloth
robe, washed my clothes in the tub and hung them to dry, cussing
silently for forgetting to buy new undies and socks today, and went
to bed.
I was only woken by the nightmares twice. An improvement.
=====
I was spent.
I may be a Vampire, one of the strongest of bloodlines in the reality
I was from, but all this talking and footwork was exhausting. I had
spent most of the second day slipping in and out of bars as
inconspicuously as possible, flashing Sirius' “Have You Seen This
Wizard?” poster and sketch of his animagi form all over town.
I had started near my hotel and headed in the opposite direction of
the day before, gone down the streets and up the avenues, back
and forth, left and right. Every place that was open I went into.
Everyone said the same thing: nope, haven't seen him. We'll let him
know you’re here if we do.
Eventually I entered an area of town the signs called “The
Riverfront District.” It was cut off from any sort of traffic more
complex than pedestrian, and the streets were cobbled. The roads,
filled with tourists and pale locals, were lined with faux antique gas
lamps that flared to life with the coming twilight.
Jeeze, dusk already?
I ran a hand through my hair and puffed out a sigh. It'd been close
to noon when I'd left the hotel.
Wondering if it was about time to be heading back (I could pick up
here tomorrow night), I sort of spaced out, staring at the first pin
pricks of stars in the pale pink sky. Suddenly, my space-ness was
interrupted by a bright flash of light bare feet from my nose. I
snarled at the source, irritable and annoyed.
“Sorry - it's just a picture!” the man behind the camera said and I
forced my lips back down over my teeth. It wasn't close enough to
full dark for me to be able to sprout fangs and glowy eyes, so I was
thankful enough for that.
“Bug off!” I snipped at him. “I'm not a tourist attraction.”
He shrugged. He had a wife and an unimpressed pre-teenaged
daughter trailing behind him. “You look pale enough.”
“Pale…” I shook my head. “Listen, buddy, I have no bloody clue
what you're on about. Take off.”
He hesitated. “Do you want the film?”
I shook my head. “It's a wasted shot anyway. I don't show up.”
Let him puzzle about what that meant.
I turned on my heel and kept walking. I didn't see many open places
on the strip. They must all be waiting for full nightfall. I chose a bar
with the catchy and nigglingly familiar name Dead Dave's, and
ducked in. Where did I know it from?
The name nagged at me.
There was a large - not tall or fat, but definitely barrel-chested black man behind the bar, and I choose a stool. A titter went
through the crowd behind my back as I approached the bar, and I
steadfastly ignored it. There was a mirror above the alcohol shelf,
and I took a moment of pleasure watching as the tender flicked his
eyes back and forth between it and me, wondering where the Hell I
was.
I waved him over, forcing him to forget it for now, and ordered a
double shot of Bailey's over ice. He complied. He set it down before
me and watched very closely as I took a sip, a cigarette dangling
from the corner of his lips as if it was surgically grafted there.
He seemed amazed when I swallowed the Irish Cream and kept it
down. I knew I'd have to bring it up, but I really wanted a drink.
Even if it couldn't give me a buzz, I wanted the psychological
effects of alcohol.
More tittering, and the hair-raising feeling of being watched by the
people in the booths.
What the fuck was with all these people?
I unfolded the picture of Sirius - it was behaving and keeping still
for once - and set it on the bar. “I'm looking for this guy. Have you
seen him?”
The tender shook his head. He stepped away to fill another order,
and then came back. He glanced a few more times at the mirror,
then outside. I could feel the sunset, mere seconds away. The glass
of the windows went navy blue, and the darkness tingled over my
skin, washing me with its power.
Ah. Felt damn good.
I tapped the picture again, pulling his attention away from the
window, and he looked at it obediently. “If you see him, tell him
someone from the Order of the Phoenix is looking for him, right?”
He nodded again. I pulled out the sketch of Padfoot. “I'm also
looking for this dog - answers to Padfoot. Really smart for a mutt.”
The bartender shook his large head.
“Hell,” I hissed under my breath.
“C'n I ask you a question, girlie?” he said with a slight southern
drawl. I bristled at 'girlie', but let it pass. He probably called
everyone 'girlie'. I nodded. “How you doin' that?”
“Doing what?”
“Drinking the drink. No reflection. And it's not full dark.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?”
“I thought people like you couldn't--”
He was cut off by someone snatching the picture of Sirius out from
under my hand. I turned to look at the woman - severely cut black
hair, nice suit, high collar - who was staring at it. “I know him,” she
said.
“Where from?” I asked, snatching the dog picture up and shoving it
into my pocket. I let her keep staring at the poster.
She smiled and looked over the paper at me. “He's the new guy.”
=====
I stood on the street, staring at the sign above the bar across the
road with wide eyes.
I must have looked like a moron.
I sure as Hell felt like it.
The lurid red neon arched over the roof, spelling out the words
“Guilty Pleasures.” I realized suddenly why “Dead Dave's” had
sounded familiar, why the tourist had snapped my photo, why
people kept staring at me and wondering why I had no reflection
and was out before full dark.
I was in Laurell K. Hamilton's books. This was the world of Anita
Blake.
I shook my head.
Trust me to fall into a fandom where Vampires were legal citizens
under the law, had reflections, and The Executioner, the woman
hired to put to death the undead, was shorter and spunkier than me.
In this world, the Riverfront district of St. Louis was also called
“Blood Square”. It was filled with bars, strip joints, restaurants,
and any other sort of tourist attraction that a major metropolitan
city would want to offer its tourists.
Except here they were run by the Vampires.
There were lycans of sorts here too - wererats, wolves, snakes,
leopards, etc.
The Master of the City, the Vampire in charge, was named JeanClaude. He was a beautiful blue-eyed, black haired aristocrat who
hated being told 'no.' The person telling him 'no' currently was The
Executioner herself, a woman with a license to kill Vampires, who
was the paranormal advisor to the Regional Preternatural Incidents
Team, and worked as a Zombie Animator as her night-job, Anita
Blake.
I had always liked Anita Blake.
She was witty, brave, and like me, short.
Well, she had one inch on me. I wouldn't begrudge her one inch.
Us short people have to stick together, you know.
I was currently standing out front of “Guilty Pleasures”, a strip club
where lots of non-humans worked, taking it off for the good human
women of the world. It was owned by Jean-Claude and many of its
employees were his denizens and servants. He protected them and
gave them steady work and pay-cheques. They did what he told
them to.
And Sirius was supposed to be working here?
I shook my head and went in. Buzz the bouncer (I remembered his
name from the three books I'd read) asked for my ID. A vampire
named Buzz. Honestly. When I couldn't provide any, I flashed my
fangs instead, and he let me in.
Oh, joy.
=====
I was stopped by the Holy Items check girl. I had nothing to give
over, though she puzzled at the leather pouch hanging off my belt.
In contained the list of ingredients for the slider-potion, a knife, my
wand, and four phials of the potion itself. Two had labels reading
“HP - Hogwarts” on them. The third was blank as I had yet to 'key' it
to any one place. The last's label read “Lucard”. Just in case.
Hey, you never know.
She let me keep everything but the knife, which was fine by me.
It was the least dangerous thing in there, anyway. But I wasn't going
to tell her that.
I wove my way through the crowd and took a seat by the stage. The
woman at “Dead Dave's” had said that Sirius Black was the new
stripper at Guilty Pleasures, going by the name 'The Wiz'. She said
his show was filled with magic.
I just hoped he was attentive enough to the crowd for me to be able
to flash his poster at him while he danced, and have him see it.
He was not the first act. I nursed a rum and coke that a very
handsome man in very little clothing had brought for me, and never
took a sip of it. I won't lie and say that I didn't enjoy the first act.
Hey, I may be undead, but I'm not frozen.
When the second act started, it began with a large black dog
padding out into the center of the thrust stage and rearing up on his
hind legs. There was a crashing downbeat in the heavy music and a
flash of light. Suddenly, Sirius Black stood dead center in nothing
but black jeans, a tight black tee-shirt, leather wrist guards, and an
obvious dog collar. His grey eyes were lined with thick black kohl.
Great gimmick.
Woof.
He scanned the crowd for women with money upheld, pulled his
wand out of his back pocket with an obscene hip gesture, and with
my Vampiric hearing I heard him whisper 'accio'.
The bills went flying across the room and into his hands. He grinned,
rubbed them down along his torso, and tucked them into the fly of
his pants. The women screamed. I swallowed hard.
I had always been a fan of Sirius Black.
As his grey eyes roved over mine, his teeth sparkling in a charming
smile, I realized why.
Hot damn.
He gyrated close to me, and I suddenly felt stupid for taking a seat
right next to the stage. The plan was starting to backfire. He pulled
at his shirt. In a flash of harmless red sparks it tore, and he tugged
at the sides, ripping it off.
I felt my heart in the back of my mouth and swallowed it.
He fell gracefully onto his hands and knees and began to crawl right
for me, mouth open, tongue lolling to the side like a big puppy. I
sat perfectly still. He pressed the side of his face up against my
cheek and I was amazed to feel his hot, wet tongue slide up my
neck. Good doggie. I shivered.
Before he could pull away I whispered, “Dumbledore sent me.”
He faltered. The music went on without him and he stared at my
face, eyes wide. Someone in the crowd whistled and he suddenly
remembered himself. He struggled to catch up, but he was
flustered, I could tell. The dance was filled with harmless puffs of
smoke and flashes of meaningless light. No real magic. He finished
his routine by ripping at his black thong undies, but tumbling into
his dog form before anyone saw anything more than a smooth flash
of his flank.
He Apparated off stage and the music finished.
I was about to rise and try to talk my way back stage when someone
slid into the chair next to me. I turned to tell the stripper that I was
not interested in a body shot or lap dance, and froze.
This was no stripper.
Perfect, oval shaped pale face. Blue eyes so dark they were like a
night-time sapphire. Dark hair that hung in shoulder-length curls. A
white shirt that frothed lace and yet remained masculine. Paintedon black jeans. Peeking above the collar of the shirt was a dark
brown scar in the unmistakable shape of a cross.
Fuck me all to hell. It was the Master of the City, Jean-Claude.
I smiled amiably as I could, swallowing my fear.
If he was half as powerful as Ms. Hamilton had written him, he
could kill me with barely a thought. He returned the smile and
reached into my jacket pocket without asking for permission. He
plucked the poster out and unfolded it, studying it carefully.
The Sirius I had seen on stage was definitely better looking than the
one in the poster. His hair was trimmed and washed, a sexy,
villainous goatee on his chin, and he looked like he'd had a good
dozen square meals. He was healthy. But he was unmistakably the
same man.
“You are looking for my Mr. Black,” Jean-Claude said. His voice was
so thick with The Blood that it was an almost tangible thing. It slid
down my spine and made me shudder with unexpected desire. This
was his power - the seduction. I suddenly wondered how it was that
Anita Blake could resist him. “You've been all over town, looking for
him. Why?”
“I've come to bring him home.”
Jean-Claude sneered and caught my eyes with his own. “I don't
think so.”
His mind rolled over mine and I was sent spinning into the blackness.
=====
I was really, really getting sick of waking up in strange places.
When I sat up, I found myself on the bed in a blue room. The walls
were swathed in blue, and there were black leather chairs, and a
glass-topped coffee table to one side. I was lying on a large bed
with a black coverlet, gauzy curtains encircling the bed.
Jean-Claude was sitting on the foot of the bed, staring at me. His
eyes were impenetrable ice, his face carefully blank.
I was in deep shit.
He had turned out the contents of my pockets and pouch. On the
bed between us sat my wand, the recipe, the phials, the poster and
the dog sketch. My knife was even there. Bully for him.
I looked around and found the rest of the room empty. I half
expected Richard, his werewolf familiar, or Anita Blake herself to
be there, and was slightly surprised that they were not. Apparently
I wasn't enough of a threat to warrant the attentions of anyone else
besides the Master.
I wasn't sure if I was insulted or pleased.
He pointed deliberately at the poster (it was moving again) and said,
“Mr. Black is mine. Why are you searching for him?”
I shook my head slowly. “I don't mean to contradict you, Messier
Jean-Claude, but Mr. Black is not a werewolf. You can't Call him.”
His eyebrows rose slowly and he pursed his lips. “You are aware of
my name and that my animal to Call is a wolf. Who are you?”
I shrugged. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Suffice it to say,
I am not an enemy.”
He narrowed his eyes until all the whites vanished. Not a good sign.
The last time I had been on a bed with a Vampire he had raped me.
I suddenly wondered if it was going to happen again. I shrank back
in the covers and waited for his response.
“I have nothing to trust on that but your word.”
I tried to shrug casually, tried to win back my bravado. “Call Mr.
Black in here. I'll talk to him. You'll see.”
Jean-Claude shook his head. “I do not think so. I am not yet willing
to give up Mr. Black.”
It was my turn to narrow my eyes. “Give up?”
The Master Vampire tilted his head to one side, a very human
gesture, and slightly startling coming from him. Oh, we were both
Vampires, but I still moved like I was a human, like I was alive. He
was so comfortable in his unmoving dead body that he seemed
unreal. Any human-like movement from him was startling.
“There is something… strange about Mr. Black. He claims he is
without a home, without money. His magics are strange. He came
to me for a job, I gave it to him. He realizes that other werewolves
work in the club, he tells me he is a weredog. I believe him. He
transforms too easily and too often to be a were-anything, but he
has… a strangeness to him. I do not know what he is, but I do not
wish to let him out of my sight lest he… prove dangerous. I will not
turn him over to you.”
“He won't be in St. Louis anymore, so he won't be your problem. I'm
taking Sirius back to his family,” I said stubbornly. “He was lost, I
was sent to find him.”
Jean-Claude stared at me for a long moment with those
unfathomable blue eyes. “You are strange as well. I hear no
heartbeat. Yet you walk about in the sun. You drink alcohol. You
are pale, as I am. But you are not what I am.”
I debated how much to tell him. I had learned from the books that
Jean-Claude preferred honesty. He tended to get bloody when he
was lied to.
“I'm not,” I admitted slowly. He sat back slightly, as if settling in
for a long story. He was going to be disappointed. I wasn't in the
mood to tell long stories. “I am … a kind of a Vampire. Not your
kind of Vampire. A different kind.”
His eyebrows rose a little more. Otherwise, his expression remained
perfectly neutral. It was damned unnerving.
“A kind that may walk about in daylight and consume mortal food?”
I shrugged. “Among other things, yes.”
“An advantage…” he murmured.
“Not really - I can't do those nifty mind tricks you can. And I can't
make Human Servants, or Call or control animals.”
“No?”
“No.”
He hummed to himself, thinking.
“May I see Mr. Black?”
He asked, “How did he get… lost?” I assumed that was a 'no.'
“To be perfectly honest,” I said, sitting forward on the bed. “It's
really not my place to tell you. If Mr. Black chooses to tell you, then
he will. Otherwise, I'm just going to collect him and get him home.”
Jean-Claude picked up one of the precious “HP” phials. “With this?”
I tensed and tried to look like I hadn’t. Like I wasn’t terrified he’d
take it away, or worse, break it. He turned it slowly in the light,
allowing the thin burgundy liquid to sparkle. He lifted the recipe.
“I've never seen anything like it. What is it?”
Decision time again. Truth? Or not?
“It's none of your business.” I guess 'not'.
He set down the phial and leered, leaning in towards me. He was
trying to intimidate me, and it was working. His voice was back on
full power, sending little flutters of magic-induced lust running
through my veins. The pupils had vanished from his eyes, leaving
them a drowning midnight blue.
“On the contrary. Everything that happens in my City is my concern.
You are in my City. You are a strange Vampire. Mr. Black can
perform magics that I have never seen before. And you search for
him with a 'wanted' poster.”
He let me chew on that for a moment before closing the space
between us. I backed up quickly, but he was older, faster. His lips
hovered above mine as he deliberately invaded my personal space.
Anita always called him an 'invasive bastard'. I was inclined to agree.
“I think you are a bounty hunter, or a law officer of some sort. Mr.
Black suffers from nightmares. I have heard him scream at night. I
think you are hunting him.”
I snarled and ducked under his head and slipped out of the bed with
a burst of my own preternatural speed. He wasn't the only one with
undead-tricks. “Call Mr. Black in here and ask him what I said to
him. He'll believe me.”
Jean-Claude sat back and considered this option. I stood by the side
of the bed and glared.
Our impasse was filled with tension as tangible as the Master
vampire's laughter.
It was solved by an explosion.
Book Three: Anita Blake
Chapter Nine: “Hunter”
The force of the explosion rocked the room, and Jean-Claude and I
both braced ourselves with the bed. I clapped my hands over my
ears against the loud boom and crashes of scattering cement.
It sounded like it had gone off in the hallway!
Once the room shopped moving, Jean-Claude swung a deadly glare
at me, his eyes entirely midnight blue and a snarl on his lips.
“It wasn't me!” I said quickly, hands up by my shoulders, palm out,
in a gesture of innocence.
“We shall see!” I climbed to his feet faster than I could see him
move, and grabbed me by the wrist. He hauled me out of the room
and we paused to stare at the debris at the far end of the dimly lit
cement the corridor.
“Richard!” Jean-Claude shouted and I saw a tanned man with long
brown hair barrelling down what was left of the stairs at the far end
of the hall. The air was filled with dust motes and powdered
cement and he had to artfully leap over a pile of rubble at the
bottom. Some of the stairs were smashed out, probably from the
chunks of concrete rolling down them.
“We don't know yet!” the man shouted back, answering the furious
question in the summons. “A bomb at the top of the stairs!”
Jean-Claude's grip on my wrist tightened painfully and I stumbled
after him as he stormed down the hall to meet Richard. We stopped
directly in front of the brunette man, and I could see, could smell
the dirt and blood on his face and arms. He'd been close to the
blast-site, probably hit by cement fragments turned to shrapnel. His
green and brown sweater was ripped and burnt.
I knew who Richard was. At this point of the story, if he was coming
to Jean-Claude's call so readily, he was the Master's werewolf 'pet',
his consort and servant, and probably his pomme du sang, his blood
apple. The pomme du sang was the person from which a Vampire
fed regularly. He or she was like a walking fridge.
“Send someone to get the guests calmed, and out safely,” JeanClaude said, his usually mystical voice just this side of a barking
order, “and start going through the rooms on the second level.
Make sure everyone is present and well.”
Richard nodded once, his eyes flicking over me in a clear question:
Who the Hell are you? He didn't have the right or time to ask,
though, so he didn't. Then he was leaping over the debris, up the
stairs, and was gone.
Jean-Claude redoubled the painful grip on m arm and hauled me up
the stairs after him. He managed to walk on top of the cement
debris, toes lighting with Vampire prowess on impossibly jagged
edges with no wobble. Following after him, led by the elbow with
my shoulder wrenched up and forward, I felt like a five year old
who couldn't keep her balance. I kept nearly tumbling over, and
only my free hand on the wall and his constant tugging kept me
more or less on my feet.
We reached the second level and I saw that it was a second
concrete corridor filled with doors. Bedrooms? Private chambers for
strippers to 'entertain' customers in? Storage? Who knew? Our end
was totally littered with bits of wall, the cement dust and ash thick
in the air, blotting out the far end of the hall. Several of the lights
on this side had been blown out, one halfway down the hall was
flickering and giving off sparks intermittedly. I stopped breathing to
keep the crap in the air out of my lungs.
Richard was running back to us from the far side of the hall, worry
on his face, neck craning so he could look into each room he passed.
All of the doors had been flung open. “Have you seen Black?” he
panted as he got closer. “He should have been in his room, but he's
the only one I can't find!”
My eyes widened. Oh, no. No, not Sirius. Had he been killed in the
explosion? Had it been his fault?
Jean-Claude yanked hard on my arm and I cried out. He swung me
around viciously and wrapped both hands around my shoulders,
gripping painfully. “Where is he?!” he snarled, and there was
something in his voice that made me absolutely terrified. His
magical voice held pure rage.
“I don't know!”
He roared, actually roared, and slipped one arm around my
shoulders to crush me to his chest. My feet came off the ground. He
grabbed a great fistful of my hair and wrenched my head to the side
to expose my neck. I yelped. It was the same side the Lucard had
chosen. I wondered fleetingly if Jean-Claude saw the scars from
Lucard's bite there.
“Liar! You come and inquire about Black and now he is missing!”
“It wasn't me!”
Richard was trying to play peacekeeper, his brown eyes wide and
slightly panicky. “Jean-Claude, I don't smell a lie.”
Jean-Claude snarled again and shoved me backwards. I crashed into
Richard's chest and he hastily caught me under the arms to keep me
upright.
“Allez, Richard,” he snapped and turned on his heel. “Bring her.”
We strode up another flight of stairs, Richard's hand wrapped
around my arm to keep me from running. The blood on his face was
tickling my nose and my stomach. I hadn't fed yet this evening.
We came to a heavy steel door whose whole handle had been neatly
blown away by a gunshot. A guard was just as neatly blown away,
what was left of his head splattered on the floor and walls. I
clamped down on my gag reflex. Then on my hunger.
“Silver bullets,” Richard hissed, eyes narrowed and I watched the
anger fill his face.
Somebody knew what they had been shooting.
Jean-Claude stared at the body, expressionless, then walked
through the door. We followed. We emerged in the back of a large,
open building filled with panicking and screaming humans. The
press of sweaty and desperate humanity was surging towards the
doors, knocking over everything and everyone it could. A mass of
Vampires and werewolves in suits and security uniforms were trying
to get people out safely.
It was surreal, to see the monsters shepherding the humans.
All around us were carnival booths, rides, but all neon and
grotesque. We weren't under Guilty Pleasures, like I had first
thought. This was the Circus of the Damned, I realized. The Circus
of the Damned was a tourist locale run by Jean-Claude and filled
with the disgusting, the abject, the macabre. It was an indoor fair
and the aim was to scare you with real monsters.
Jean-Claude and Richard were scanning the crowd for something. I
lifted my nose, trying to scent out Sirius.
I caught a waft of his scent, familiar to me now because he had
been so close to me earlier in Guilty Pleasures. I scratched me neck
guiltily. “Sirius is that way!” I shouted and pointed to the Ferris
Wheel.
Richard swung his head around and followed my pointing finger.
“He is!”
Jean-Claude growled. “There is an emergency exit that way.
Come.”
The three of us ran, pushing past the press of panicked bodies.
Richard's grip on my arm was jostled and he was forced to let go.
He reached for me again but I sped ahead of him to leap over the
railing. Jean-Claude had reached the door before me and he was
making a grab for a fleeing man.
The man was thin, but looked athletic. He had pale ruddy-brown
hair and a very large and lethal looking gun strapped to his back.
Sirius, unconscious and bleeding from the head, lay on the cement
on the other side of the threshold, outside.
Jean-Claude dove and the man swung the gun up and fired at him
point-blank. The Master Vampire managed to twist in mid-air and
the bullet - silver! I guess I know what happened to the door and
the guard - just grazed his cheek. But he was airborne and the
majority of his body was horizontal with his head. It slammed into
his shoulder and Jean-Claude went down. Even a master Vampire
can be felled by a silver bullet.
I heard Richard snarling behind me and really didn’t want to be in
the middle of anything. The desperate wish to be out of the way
triggered something deep inside my psyche and suddenly I was not
running on two legs, but flapping in mid air.
I was a bat!
The transformation was disorienting and I cart-wheeled through the
air, chittering in terror.
I swung around and got my equilibrium, happy at what I had just
discovered. Now that I had done it, I knew it. I could do it again. I
could become a bat. It could be useful, I realized, really useful. It
gave me increased mobility and made me a hard target.
I heard the gun go off again and I flew straight at the man's face. I
spread my toes and scratched at his eyes. He batted me away with
a swat and I spiralled and tumbled out into the night sky.
I got my bearings and turned back to him in time to watch him put a
slug in Richard's hip. The Werewolf screamed and fell to the floor,
hands over the wound, trying to hold everything in. The man
slammed the door shut and slung the gun over his back.
Then he hefted Sirius up into a fireman's carry and quickly moved
him into the back of a very nearby waiting van. I could see a cage
and some very heavy manacles in the back, bolted to the floor of
the van. Sirius was being kidnapped!
I flew down, squeaking madly and scraping at the kidnapper's
pinched face with my claws.
He howled and slapped me down, driving me into the pavement.
The shock of the fall and the pain of hitting the ground forced my
body back into my human shape. I looked up and found him staring
down at me with wonder in his eyes. The wonder quickly bled away
into a hungry expression and he grinned. I didn't like the grin.
He reached down and tried to grab my shoulders and I kicked him
hard in the knee. He howled and dropped me and I jumped up to
my feet.
“What the fuck are you doing!?” I snarled.
He came up with the gun pointing directly between my eyes. “Get
in the van,” he said, not hint of humour in his voice. “or I'll blow
your fucking head off.”
“I don't think so.”
He grinned again and it was a terrifying grin. It was a dead grin.
“Get in the van. I will kill you.”
“No. Let Sirius go.”
He shook his head. “Mr. Black is the only weredog I have ever
encountered. He will fetch a pretty penny on the auction block.”
“Auction block?” I repeated, dumbfounded.
“There are people out there willing to pay for… exotic pets. Now
get in the fucking van. I've never seen a werebat before and you're
going to make me enough to retire on.”
I lashed out with preternatural speed and knocked the gun up. He
went with the momentum of the hit, pivoted on the ball of his foot,
and came back around to kick me solidly in the gut. I doubled over.
I heard the gun click and the flat crack of the explosion in the
barrel and suddenly my arm was burning.
Silver bullets!
I shrieked and fell and my shriek was answered by the snarl of a
wolf. Through my pain I saw the door fly open and a large brown
wolf lunge at the kidnapper. He fired again and the wolf was hit in
a foreleg.
It gave the man enough time to climb into his van and drive away.
The silver burned and I writhed on the sidewalk, howling, hating,
cursing.
I would get Sirius back! I would!
I heard someone call my name, and then the pain became too much.
=====
Another unfamiliar ceiling.
I had the sinking feeling as I realized that I was waking up
somewhere, once more, that was not my own bed and was not
anywhere I was acquainted with, that this was going to be a running
theme.
At least when I was knocked unconscious instead of falling asleep, I
didn't suffer from the nightmares.
I groaned and covered my eyes with my forearm. Well, the one that
wasn't wrapped in bandages, at least. That's right. I remembered
now. I had been shot.
Bastard.
“This isn't real,” I told myself very firmly. “I will close my eyes and
when I open them I will be at home, in my bed.”
“I think that is not what will happen, cherie,” a voice beside me
said.
I cracked an eye and glared hatefully at Jean-Claude. He smiled
pleasantly back. I noted with some satisfaction that there was a
long red welt on his cheek where the bullet had grazed him.
Although he was a Master Vampire, he couldn't heal that fast. His
shoulder was as swathed in bandages as mine.
I bet the wererat nurse from book one had tended to us both. The
thought of little clawed hands digging around in my flesh to extract
a bullet made me feel suddenly queasy so I stopped thinking about
it. I distracted myself by sitting up carefully and looking at JeanClaude.
He was seated in a chair by my bedside. He was reading a book.
“White Fang”. He closed it gently and set it aside. He'd been
waiting for me to wake up.
I was not in his blue bedroom under the Circus. I didn't know where
I was, I didn't recognize the décor from any of the books I'd read.
Maybe another safe place? Under 'Guilty Pleasures' or another
business he owned? I know he owed almost half of the Riverfront
District, under the managing name JC Enterprises.
Yeah, really original.
The room was done in tasteful earth tones and greens. A bed,
rather Spartan by Jean-Claude's standards, made of oak, was
flanked by matching night tables. It was only a double, not like
Jean-Claude's massive King. The coverlet was a deep rich brown
that looked like good soil. The floors were hardwood with sporadic
throw rugs and there was a closet and a desk opposite the foot of
the bed. The closet looked a mess and the desk was piled high with
papers and a rainbow assortment of file folders and pens.
The chair Jean-Claude was sitting on was definitely the one from
the desk set, rather hard and cramped looking. He was trying his
best to be imposingly-casual, lounging dangerously in the rickety
chair and failing.
“How's Richard?” I asked.
He sat forward, balancing his elbows on his knees and lacing his
fingers. He rested his chin on his knuckles. “Where is Messier
Black?”
I shook my head. “I told you, I don't know. The guy - said he was
collecting expensive pets.”
Jean-Claude's face became suddenly blank. I knew that he did that
when he didn't want someone to read his expression. He was like an
eerie, life-sized china doll, perfect and lifeless. It usually meant
that he was startled or angry and was hiding it. I hoped his anger
wasn't directed at me.
He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before saying, his face
remaining perfectly and disturbingly passive, “Richard is in fine
health. The bullets were removed, and none of the wounds were
fatal.”
I settled myself back into the pillows. I obviously wasn't going
anywhere soon.
I wondered if Sirius was all right.
“You heal … remarkably fast,” Jean-Claude observed, “Faster than
any Vampire who is not a master, and yet… you are not a master.”
“I told you, I'm different.” He didn't outwardly react to that, so I
added. “Can I have my stuff back?”
The corners of Jean-Claude's lips turned upwards at this. “I will
return your … stuff… to you when you have proven yourself suitably
loyal.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Jean-Claude shifted from the chair to the bed, faster than I could
see. He was just suddenly straddling my knees, arching over me,
one hand on my cheek, his thumb under my chin. I yelped, shocked,
and he put pressure under my jaw to tilt my face up to his. He
leaned in close and whispered against my lips, “You are a puzzle,
cherie, and one which I am loath to give up before I can solve you.”
He ran one finger of his other hand along the raised scar tissue that
Lucard's fatal bite had left me with. “Like this… such a lovely scar.
Whose teeth are these, cherie?”
I tried to turn my head away and couldn't. My heart wasn’t beating,
but the adrenaline wash made it feel like it was pounding, the rush
of blood deafening in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut against his
hungry blue gaze.
Not again, I pleaded silently, Please, not again, never again…
“Once he has been retrieved, you, ma cherie, and your Mr. Black
will be my guests for an… extended period of time, am I clear?”
“No, please…”
He chuckled and his laugher was like a hundred silken-clad fingers
lightly running all over my body all at once. I tried to shake my
head, try to deny him his power over me. He leaned close, closing
the gap. His lips settled over mine and his Power made lust flutter
through my stomach.
I didn't want the lust.
I reached towards the nightstand with my bandaged arm as his
tongue slipped past my lips, and I found the book he had been
reading. My fingers closed around it. I swung it hard, and cracked it
against the side of this head.
He pulled back, startled, confused slightly. I backed up as far as I
could against the head board, glowering angrily. Jean-Claude
looked at the book and I did too - there was a spatter of blood on
the spine. I must have nailed his scalp with a corner.
Good for me.
He grabbed my wrist and yanked the book away and tossed it at the
wall.
“That is inappropriate behaviour for my pet,” he said, and his voice
was even and calm. “Behave.”
The word 'pet' made my hackles rise. I knew what a pet was in this
fandom - a gopher, a bodyguard, a driver, a dolly to dress up and
parade around, an available fuck, a pomme du sang, anything.
I was not Jean-Claude's anything.
He leaned in for another kiss and I ducked under him. This only
succeeded in getting me flat on my back and he pressed his torso
against mine to pin me in place. He grinned. “Am I not beautiful,
cherie? Am I not powerful? I can smell your lust. Give in to me.”
I was about to tell him to go screw himself when a gentle 'ahem'
came from the doorway. We both looked up to find Richard,
extremely pale and haggard and almost mummified in bandages
from his waistband to his collarbone.
“If she's awake, I'd like my bed back. If that's not too much
trouble.”
Jean-Claude didn't move. I feared he wouldn't, would deny Richard
his own bed in his own house (for I realized now that this was where
we had to be), or worse, invite Richard to 'join' him. Instead he
slipped gracefully off of me and onto his feet.
There was still blood running down the side of his head, just past
the front of his ear, down his neck and into the collar of his poufy
white shirt. I watched a drop follow along the path and had to
forcefully prevent myself from licking my lips.
It had to have been at least ten hours since I had last fed. My
stomach and veins clenched with this realization.
Jean-Claude helped me to my own feet. I tried to stay where I was,
so it was less 'helping' and more 'lifting me out of the bed by my
elbows and setting me on the floor.' He prodded me out of the
doorway and into a relatively comfy but very cluttered living room.
Richard lived in a bachelor apartment that still contained some
university-student-days throwbacks like a shabby couch and a
bookshelf made of random planks of lumber and dirty broken bricks.
I heard Richard climb into bed, even as Jean-Claude forced me to
sit beside him on the couch.
“You hit me with a book,” he said and his voice was somewhere
between anger and an amused whisper.
“I tend to do that a lot to Vampires I don't like.”
He tilted his head and pursed his lips. “You do not like me? I am
hurt.” He waited for me to apologize. When I didn't, he added,
“Which other Vampires, ma cherie?” He gestured to the mark on my
neck.
I buttoned my lips.
“Do not make me force you to tell me.”
“…Dracula,” I said grudgingly.
“C'est impossible,” he dismissed. “He is truly dead. The truth,
please.”
I hesitated. “Not the Dracula,” I said softly, hoping he wouldn't be
able to smell this lie. “A Dracula. He… was from the line. Now I am,
too.”
He stared at me for a moment, and for a moment I feared he
wouldn't believe me.
His eyebrows raised, and I think the blank expression was supposed
to hide extreme amusement. “So you are now a Dracul as well?”
“Not by choice.”
He laughed here and I couldn't suppress the shudder it caused. His
damn voice!
“I will enjoy having you about, Mademoiselle Dracul,” he whispered
seductively, lowering his head to look at me through the black
lacework of his eyelashes. His voice was husky and promised long
languid sessions of lovemaking on a soft rug by a fireplace. “You
will succumb to me yet.”
“I won't be your pet, Jean-Claude.” I glared at him, but made a
point of not meeting his eyes. I wouldn't let him roll my mind again.
“And don't call me that ever again.”
The thought of me being a part of Dracula's clan, something that
belonged to or with him in anyway made me feel very ill all of a
sudden. It was a terrifying and disgusting notion.
“I shall call you what I wish. I am your Master.” He touched my fist,
clenched on my thigh, with a light caress and I tried to repress the
seductive shudder. “You will be overjoyed when I take you, make
you mine.”
I knew that Jean-Claude fed on sexual energy as much he fed on
blood, so I did my best to keep the mind-tricks-induced lust out of
my mind and out of the way. It’s just that he was just so damned
beautiful, so good at the seduction.
I pulled my hand away from him. “Not willingly, I won't be. I'll fight
you every step of the way, you know I will.”
He sighed. “I do not understand you women. You want me. It is
plain to my nose that you wish to use my body. Why do you not
submit?”
I shook my head.
“I can make it very pleasurable, ma cherie,” he leaned forward to
whisper in my ear, fingertips trailing up my arms to take hold of the
sides of my face and hold me still. He placed an almost chaste kiss
on my lips. “Like you've never had before. I will keep you safe,
warm, well fed. Why deny yourself that?”
“I don't want to be kept.” My voice was like a low hiss.
“You may have anything you desire, as my pet.” He slipped one
hand into my hair, cradling the back of my skull gently, guiding my
lips to the line of blood that was lingering on his neck from the
head wound.
I turned my face away. I was starting to get really hungry, but I
would not drink his blood. “I desire to rescue Sirius and get him
home.”
Jean-Claude sat back to study my face. “No. Describe the van.”
The non sequiter threw me for a second and I blinked at him
stupidly.
“If you wish to rescue Messier Black, describe the van. It had pulled
away by the time I came outside to retrieve you.”
“Uh…” I shook my head for a moment. Had it been Jean-Claude I
had heard call my name before I passed out? No, think of the van.
“White, but dirty. Um… scuffed and muddy plates. Full sized van,
with a ladder - maybe like an electrical van or a plumber or
something? There was writing on the side, but I don't… it could
be…a business or something. God, how many vans like that exist in
the city?”
“Many.” His tone was not meant to encourage. “Anything else?”
“There was a cage in the back, with manacles screwed into the
floor of the van. To... collect people in.”
Jean-Claude considered this. “Perhaps this man is also responsible
for some other… disappearances in the city among the …
preternatural communities.”
I perked up. This sounded like a pattern - maybe one Jean-Claude
was familiar with. Patterns lead to evidence. Evidence lead to
rescues. If I could find Sirius, he may have his wand still. We could
accio my pouch and stuff and then get out of there. Or he could
Apparate into the building. Something to get us away from JeanClaude. I know I had no desire to live the rest of my unlife under
the thumb of the Master of St. Louis. I wanted to go home. I knew
Sirius would want to, too.
“You've heard of this collector, then?” I fished, warily.
Jean-Claude stopped pondering and looked at me. Really looked at
me. “I do not know,” Jean-Claude finally admitted, with that
infuriating tilt of his head.
“You don't--!” I stopped myself and closed my eyes. I took a deep
breath and let it out again. “You don't know? You've never heard of
him?”
“No, or I would have killed him already.” He smiled. It was both
charming and wicked all at once. “Perhaps ma chere petite will
have heard of him, however.”
I rolled my eyes. “She doesn't like it when you call her that, you
know.”
=====
Watching Anita Blake work was like watching yourself get drunk.
From the shadows in the tree line we observed as she and a younger
man with hair the colour of a 'surprised carrot' circled a gravestone.
The family of the deceased stood outside of the circle they
described with their footfalls, dressed mostly in black, clinging to
one another. A suit stood off to one side, and I assumed he was the
lawyer.
I did not try to run from Jean-Claude. I knew that right now, I was
powerless to escape him. Still weak from the gunshot, and the lack
of feeding, without my pouch and wand. I was trapped… for now.
Efficiently, Ms. Blake anointed her eyelids, forehead and cheeks
with a greenish ointment that smelled so strongly of rosemary that I
could scent it even this far away. It was in a large mason jar, the
kind my mother used to make pickles in.
She opened the top few buttons of a dark green blouse and dabbed
it over her heart, and I pretended not to notice when Jean-Claude's
breath hitched in his throat. The Big-Bad-Master-Vampire was not as
calm and detached as he liked to pretend to be.
With almost no hesitation, she put the jar away and her helper Lawrence, I remembered his name was, but he preferred 'Larry' held a chicken firmly by its wings.
Ms. Blake lifted a machete and with a clean slice took off the
animal's head. The scent of blood wafted across the wind to us and
my veins burned hotter, screaming with need. I dug my fingers
deeper into the bark of the tree, using its bite to clear my head. Ms.
Blake caught the chicken’s blood in a silver bowl and the instant the
hot red liquid touched the silver I felt a shiver of power spread out
from the grave like a cold wind. It blew back my hair and made my
skin tingle.
The family seemed unaffected, but Larry was shivering too.
With the bowl and the ridiculously large knife, Ms. Blake made a
circle around the grave in chicken blood. Her long dark curly hair
was also fluttering in the wind. I guessed her hair-tie broke,
because I knew fluttering hair annoyed the hell out of her.
When the chicken body had ceased to struggle, Larry set it aside on
the grass and stepped close to the circle, but not across it. Once
the circle was closed, no one could enter. Or exit.
Anita called a name, and I felt my insides roil. It felt like I had
consumed a whole mickey of tequila, and it hit me fast. The world
spun yet my feet were planted solidly. I had to grab a tree to
remain upright.
She called the name again and I watched Jean-Claude as he closed
his eyes, a lazy smile curling his lips. He was getting off on this. The
power that was making me feel like I really needed to get my Sea
Legs was giving him his jollies.
I shook my head. As a friend used to say, 'Whatever fluffs your
Garfield.'
The third time Ms. Blake called the name, a pale hand shot from
the freshly turned grave soil and a young lady with dirt-flecked
yellow hair pulled herself from her grave, looking very confused.
Anita broke the circle and the Family surged around her. From what
I could tell, the girl had been hit by a drunk driver. This was her
family's way of getting closure.
An hour passed of tearful goodbyes and I politely turned my back on
their private grief. Some things were not meant for prying or public
eyes.
Then Ms. Blake laid the young lady to rest and the family went
home.
She and Larry buried the chicken corpse in the loose dirt over the
grave, cleaned themselves up with some Wet-Wipes from her car,
and packed away their gear.
Only then did Jean-Claude stroll out of the shadows towards them.
I followed behind. To them it probably looked like I was yet another
of his 'pets', part of his entourage. The thought annoyed me and I
sped up so I was walking a few steps in front of him.
I was not his pet.
They felt us coming before they saw us. Or rather, Ms. Blake felt
me, and Larry turned to follow her gaze. They were both surprised
to see the Master of the City bringing up the rear.
“Ms. Anita Blake?” I said, trying to sound as amiable and harmless as
possible. I stuck out my hand in what I thought was a friendly
manner and she took it hesitantly, glaring at Jean-Claude over my
shoulder. I had removed my bandages before coming out to the
cemetery. So had he. Both of our wounds were healed, though it
had freaked me out. I wasn't used to healing like this. Anita
shivered and goose bumps crawled up her arm from where she
touched my skin, but she did not let go.
Brownie points for her.
“Yes,” she said warily, cutting her soft brown eyes from JeanClaude to me and back again. “What do you want, now?” That was
not directed at me. She let go of my hand slowly.
Jean-Claude laughed, and it was like warm fur that slid down my
spine. I know the brunt of it was meant for Anita, but I saw Larry
shiver just as easily as I did. “Me, ma petite? You know what it is
that I want. But I am not here for that.” Oh, he sounded so innocent.
I knew she was dating Richard right now, the Master Werewolf of
the city, and that Jean-Claude hated it. “I have merely come to
bring Miss Dracul to you. She so wanted to meet you.”
“Dracul?” her eyes narrowed at me, as if she were really seeing me
for the first time.
“I told him not to call me that,” I grumbled and managed a smile in
her direction. It was hard to do without flashing the tips of my
incisors, which were pointy now. I knew she considered fangflashing a mark of the young ones, the newly dead. I didn't want her
to think I was one of the newly-dead. Dracula was supposed to be
long gone here.
“But you are?” Larry asked, blue eyes eager. He was excited. Heh, I
guess I didn't blame him. Not every day you get to meet the
daughter of Dracula.
I shrugged. “I prefer just Marie.”
“Alright, Marie,” Anita said, taking charge of the situation. I knew
she carried a Browning with silver bullets in a shoulder holster, even
if I couldn't see it against the black jacket. I could smell the
gunpowder. “Why did you want to meet me?”
“Would you believe me if I said I just wanted your autograph?”
Her eyes narrowed even more. Jean-Claude threw back his head
and full out laughed. Even Larry chuckled.
“No, huh.”
She shook her head.
I sighed and pulled Sirius' wanted poster out of my pocket and
unfolded it. I handed it to her. She watched for a moment, amazed
as Sirius raged in the portrait, shaking his fist, laughing hysterically,
and trying to throw off the number board.
“I'm not hunting him for you,” she said, and I admired her strength
of will. It's dangerous to tell the Master of the City 'no', or the
Master's guest, and she did it repeatedly.
“I'm not asking you to,” I replied. “I'm not after Sirius. I've come
to … bring him home, for want of better terminology. He has been…
cleared of his crimes, but he was exiled here,” I gestured around
me to indicate her world. I think she got it. “I found him, working in
'Guilty Pleasures',” Anita's gaze flicked to Jean-Claude as she
suddenly realized why he was there, “but he was stolen out from
under our noses.”
Anita allowed herself a small smile. “Stolen? Out from under JeanClaude's pretty little nose?”
Jean-Claude sniffed. “No need to tease, ma petite.”
“What took him?” she said, turning her attention back to me.
“Not ‘who’?” Larry asked over her shoulder, staring at the manyfolded poster.
“He's a Wizard, this poster says, and a powerful one, I'd wager,” she
said. He gaze remained on me. “It would have to be something
more than human.”
“I'm not sure what he was,” I admitted. “He smelled human, but…”
I shrugged. “He was strong.”
“Why should I help you?” she asked, all business.
I smiled back, equally all business. “I could pay your boss Bert and
then you'd have to help me.”
“But you won't or you would have already.”
“Touché.”
Behind us Jean-Claude watched our repartee with silent, glittering
blue eyes.
She shoved her hands into her pockets. Knowing what I did of her,
she wouldn't like not having her hands free to reach for her gun, but
they looked cold. “So why haven't you? Paid Bert, I mean.”
“I have no money.” She looked momentarily startled and I grinned.
“Besides, I don't want to force you to help me. Sirius Black is an
innocent man and I have been sent to bring him home. I would
prefer it if you did it as a favour to me - I would do what I could to
repay you.”
Larry looked at his watch. “Anita, we have an appointment in half
an hour.”
If he heard him she didn't acknowledge it. There was a long moment
of her studying me, followed by her studying Jean-Claude.
“Okay,” she finally said.
Larry looked antsy. “Anita…”
“You can handle this last one on your own, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said. She tossed him her car keys. “Bring it back in one
piece. I'll see you at work tomorrow.”
Larry was caught between joy at being able to go to the
appointment alone in Anita's car, and fear for her.
“I won't let anything happen to Ms. Blake,” I said to him. “I swear.”
He nodded and left us alone. When he was in the car and halfway to
the gates of the cemetery I sighed. “Well, that's fabu. How do we
get you back to town?”
Anita looked at me. “Didn't you come in a car?”
“I flew.”
“Flew?”
I couldn't resist the opening and slipped down into my bat-shape. I’d
done it a handful of times in Richard’s apartment, to get the feel
for it. Jean-Claude could fly on his own, so I had clung to him with
batty fingers on the way to the cemetery. She squawked and I
laughed and resumed human form. She looked startled. Jean-Claude
looked hungry.
I couldn't forget.
Finding Sirius was one thing. Extricating him and myself from JeanClaude's grip would be another thing entirely. He still had my sliderphials, my wand, and my knife. He had plans, and I'm certain we
both figured in them. I didn't want to figure in them.
Jean-Claude looked up as another car, this time sleek and black,
slid almost silently into the cemetery, like a great black shark. “Ah,
there is our ride, now,” he said, smiling. When it pulled up beside
us I saw that a man in leather with a dog collar on was behind the
wheel, and I knew it was one of the Master's pet werewolves.
Anita and I exchanged a glance and, having nothing else to do, got
in.
Book Three: Anita Blake
Chapter Ten: “Plans"
We drove in silence. Jean-Claude and the driver only exchanged a
glace or two. Anita and I sat in the back. She was doing her best not
to touch me, scrunching herself up against the door while trying to
look like she wasn’t.
I didn't blame her. It was uncomfortable and eerie. Her powers told
me I was undead, but I was different, strange. Unknown.
“So,” I asked, by way of trying to start a conversation to fill the
tense silence, “What is it with werewolves being furry pedagogues?”
Jean-Claude looked at me sharply in the rear-view mirror.
Anita turned a puzzled expression my way.
I shrugged. “It just occurred to me that one of the werewolves in
the city is a lot like the last werewolf I met - they're both school
teachers.” She looked at me with wide brown eyes. “My guess is
that it's a pack thing. You know, wanting to protect and guide the
cubs.”
Anita swallowed.
“It is possible, cherie,” Jean-Claude whispered, and silence
descended once more, the conversation effectively killed.
“Right.” I shrugged. “Down to business it is, then. Sirius black was
kidnapped by a man with reddish-rusty-brown hair and a sort of thin
face. He had a huge freaking gun that spat silver bullets and a white
van that had a yellow ladder on top and some sort of business logo
on the side. He said he was collecting 'rare' preternatural creatures
to sell as exotic pets.”
Again Jean-Claude looked at me in the rear-view mirror – or rather,
tried, because I wasn’t in the mirror – and finally turned in his seat
to look at me. The look was easy to read: Don’t say anything about
our relationship.
Because I liked all my bits where they were, I said nothing.
“Collecting pets?” Anita repeated.
“That’s what he said.”
“Okay, start at the beginning, explain everything.”
Anita listened carefully as, between us, Jean-Claude and I
recounted what had happened from the explosion onward. I noted
that the Master Vampire was reluctant to admit that he was holding
me hostage at the moment. He also chose not to mention Richard,
and I took the hint and left him out as well. There was enough
strife between Jean-Claude and I. There was no need to add more
by talking about what he chose not to mention.
Yet.
When we were all finished, Anita was silent for a long moment,
then said, “But why Sirius?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why Sirius, why take him?” Anita clarified. “From what I
understand, he's just a witch. There's other, stronger witches out
there. Other witches that can do niftier tricks – surely they’d be
worth more to sell.”
I watched the reflection of Jean-Claude's eyes looked between the
two of us in the rear-view mirror. He was expressionless again.
“Sirius Black has the ability to turn into a large black dog,” I said,
and pulled the drawing of Padfoot out of my back pocket to show
her.
“He's a weredog?” she asked, studying the paper. “I've never heard
of anything like that. Lycanthropes aren’t usually domesticated
animals.”
“It is a first for me, as well, ma petite,” Jean-Claude admitted.
The driver made a sound as if to add his disbelief without actually
contributing to the conversation. His ears were open, but he was
professionally deaf.
I shook my head. “He's not a weredog.”
Jean-Claude turned in the seat to glare at me. His long, slim fingers
dug into the fabric of the seat, and that was the only indication of
his extreme unhappiness. “He's not?”
“No, it's just more magic. It’s just another spell. Sirius is an
Animagus.”
Jean-Claude was silent, and I could feel his anger thick in the air,
like it was a tangible thing.
“But our kidnapper doesn't know that it's just a magic trick,” Anita
said, either unaware or totally ignoring the pissed-off-vibes of the
Vampire in the front seat. She folded up the drawing and pocketed
it, and I let her. “Okay, I'll call Dolph, see what he knows.”
“I have also put the word out,” Jean-Claude said and none of the
anger I felt from him was in his voice. “I expect to have some news
when we return to the Circus.”
Anita narrowed her eyes. “I want to go home, first.”
Jean-Claude eyes widened in mock shock. “But, ma petite, we have
already passed your turn off.”
Anita swung her head around to look out the window. She cussed.
Jean-Claude smiled charmingly. “We will go to the Circus. You may
use my phone, ma petite, and Miss Dracul and I will …talk.”
I didn't like the sound of that. By the sour look on Anita's face, she
didn't either.
He truly was a manipulative bastard.
=====
As soon as we arrived at the Circus we were ushered downstairs
through a private door. I didn't like being flanked by Jean-Claude
and his werewolf driver, like I was a prisoner.
But that's what I was, wasn't I? A prisoner.
We entered an all white sitting room, white couches, white walls,
white chairs. It was set up to be cozy, but only looked cold. It was
sitting room of sorts, another one I didn't recognize from the books.
I wondered how many sequestered lairs Jean-Claude had. The
carpet was black, actually black, and the trim on the furniture
matched.
The driver showed Anita into a small office on the far side of the
room, and she closed the door between us and her.
Don't leave me alone with him! I wanted to shout, but didn't. I was
a big Vampire. I could take care of myself… right? I removed my
Hogwarts robe, which I had worn to the cemetery, and draped it
over the back of a chair. I had noticed both Anita and Jean-Claude
puzzling at the school crest that sat just above my heart, wracking
their brains for its meaning, but neither had asked about it.
I'm sure Jean-Claude had already asked his cronies to get the word
around that he was looking for a place called “Hogwarts”. It was a
personal satisfaction to know that he wouldn't find it.
Jean-Claude steered me onto the couch with a firm grip on my
upper arm and made me sit, facing him. He got right in my face.
“You knew that he wasn't a weredog,” he said right away, not
tiptoeing around his displeasure. It wasn't a question.
I sighed. “I knew.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“You didn't ask.”
“You should have volunteered the information. It is irresponsible of
you. Why will you not help?”
“Because you're determined to hold us both hostage!”
“Hostage?” he sat back a little.
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“I won't be your pet,” I spat. “I know what being a Master Vampire's
pet entails, and I won't do it. Neither will Sirius. He's needed at
home. His godson and his friends miss him terribly. They think he's
dead. He's important there and I promised I'd get him home.”
He raised an eyebrow, eyes sparkling. “There is far more to this
than you are telling me.”
I kept my gaze away from his so he couldn't play his mind games.
“Yes, there is,” I said honestly, because it was obvious that a denial
would be a blatant lie. “But I won't explain it to you.”
He thought for a moment, and then hit upon a realization. “You're
doing this as a favour to someone, cherie, that is why you're so
determined.”
It was disturbingly close to home. I changed the subject.
I looked at my hands folded in my lap. “Give me my wand back and
I can make this whole process faster. A map and a locus alio charm
and we'll know where Sirius is in seconds.”
He shook his head. “I do not think so, cherie. I will not give you
such power.” He lifted a hand and brushed it across the scars on my
neck. I tried to jerk backwards and his other hand grabbed my wrist
and pulled me towards him. I turned my face away, but
unfortunately that ended up presenting the skin of my throat.
He pressed soft, cool lips over the scar, his tongue tasting, mapping
the ridges of white scar tissue. “Is it so terrible a thing to be with
me?” he whispered against my skin and I shivered.
“What… Anita's in the… stop it…”
He chuckled and the vibration of his chest traveled up my arm.
“Anita knows that my heart is hers.”
“Then let go of me, you philandering jerk!”
He pressed his teeth down against my neck, the hand on my wrist
sliding up to press against my ribcage, then circle around my back.
He pulled me onto his lap; our chests crushed together, one hand on
the small of my back, the other on the back of my neck.
I kept my face turned away. I didn't want him to be able to roll my
mind, and there was something disgustingly invasive about his being
able to kiss me when I didn’t want it. It was far more intimate than
being able to bite my neck and drink my blood, in my mind, so I
went with the lesser of two evils.
“Is it so terrible a thing to be with me?” he asked again. He had let
go with his teeth and gone back to kissing and licking. “I am the
Master of St. Louis. I control the werewolves. I could give you
anything and everything you want. All you would have to do is obey
me - use your magic, your strange skills to my advantage.” The
hand on my lower back slipped down inside the waistband of my
pants. “I could make you very happy.”
“What would make me very happy is you letting go of me.”
He made an unimpressed snarling sound that made my whole body
shiver, and used his grip on my hair to turn my face to his. I
squeezed my eyes shut. I could feel his breath wafting over my lips
as he spoke.
“Let us bargain, then. I shall work with you to help you find your
Sirius Black. You are returning him home to replay someone for
something, so I will not deny you that. He is of no use to me if he is
merely a witch, at any rate. I will deign to release him. You,
however… in payment, you will remain here, with me, as my pet
willingly.”
“No.”
“Would you prefer it if I did not allow Sirius to go free? I could keep
you both here, seal you in a coffin, chain him to the wall until you
are both acquiescent.”
“No.”
“Then be my pet. Come to me of your own accord and it will not
be such a terrible thing.”
I shook my head, trying to pull away. His grip was strong and I
couldn't. “Why would you even want me as a pet? I can't be your
pomme du sang. I'm a Vampire, too. I won't use my spells to kill
anyone for you. I refuse to hurt anyone for you. And I'm probably a
lousy lay, anyway.”
He laughed. “Oh, you are too modest my dear. As long as you feed
before you feed me, I will only grow stronger on your blood.
Perhaps I will gain your ability to walk in daylight and consume
mortal food. I do miss blackberries.” I felt his lips so close to mine
that they were brushing me as he spoke. “And we are Vampires,
cherie. You will kill for me and like it.”
“No.”
“As for whether or not you are… ah… a skilled lover…” his hand in
my hair slid down to cup a breast, “these things can be taught.”
I tried to shove him away, and the struggling made my veins burn,
the hunger suddenly flaring to life. I had been able to suppress it all
night because there had been no blood so temptingly close. Anita
and the driver both smelled strange, of moonlight and grave dust,
and they hadn’t made me hungry.
But now I could smell the blood under his skin and it made my
stomach clench. I gasped, my hands balling into fists in his shirt,
and tried to bend double to ease the sudden consuming pain. I
pressed my forehead against his collarbone and whined.
I hadn't hurt this badly since I had been in the shower with Remus.
“Ma cherie?” Jean-Claude said gently, and I felt his hands circle my
shoulders tenderly. He pushed me back a little to look into my face.
His own was a mask of concern. I wondered if it was genuine. He
frowned slightly. “When was the last time you fed?”
I shook my head. “Last night… sunset.”
He frowned deeper. “Why did you not say something?”
I snarled. “We were a little busy, eh?”
He stood gracefully, taking me with him, and lay me back down on
the couch. He was touching me as if I were a fragile china doll. “I
will have someone sent in.”
I shook my head and sat up. The world swam and I put a hand over
my eyes. The fire shot through my veins again and I groaned.
“Do not argue with me, cherie,” he said, and then he was gone.
I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I could hear the soft
murmur of Anita's voice in the other room. I could smell her blood.
Hunger surpassed the strange scent, and now I wanted it.
No.
I forced myself to stay where I was. Maybe I could attack JeanClaude?
Yeah, right. I couldn't even break his grip - how could I subdue him?
I could seduce him, but the thought was unpleasant. He'd like it too
much, and consider it a sign of my acceptance of his bargain. I
would not be his pet.
Maybe, I thought, waiting for him to return, maybe I should accept.
I mean, it would get Sirius home. And I was a Vampire - I had
literally forever. I could play along just long enough for him to give
me my things back, and then I could take off, keep going, finish my
journey.
But what if he broke my wand? What if he destroyed the phials?
And could I really allow myself to be kept? I'd go nuts.
I had the potion memorized, but would I ever escape his eyes long
enough to brew it in secret?
No, I had to escape. I had to rescue Sirius, and then myself.
The door opened and I could smell a living person with him. The
scent of live blood ticked the underside of my stomach, and I closed
my eyes and bit my lip to keep from pouncing. The scuffling sound
of denim on the carpet told me that the person had knelt beside me.
“Cherie,” Jean-Claude said softly “This is Jason. He is training to be
a pomme du sang. Be gentle.”
I sat up slowly and stared at the blonde boy in front of me. He
couldn't have been older than twenty. He reeked of werewolf. He
was wearing a tank top, so his shoulders and neck were bare. I
could see faint marks on his neck from other Vampire's fangs, but
they didn't look like they'd scar. His left shoulder was ravaged, most
of the wound covered with bandages but not all of it.
I reached out and touched a gauze pad gently.
“I was bit last week,” he said softly. “On the full moon.”
I wanted to weep for him. Twenty years old, just bitten by a
werewolf. He'd survived, but that meant he would change with the
next full moon. And now, because the Master Vampire of the city
could Call wolves, he was also under the control of Jean-Claude.
What did it mean, to be trained to be a pomme du sang? Would
Jason feed every Vampire in the area, now? Would he be rented out,
like some sort of whore? Did he even have a choice in this? What
had happened to his former life?
Had Jason even been given the choice as to whether or not he
wanted to be a pomme du sang?
I suddenly hated Jean-Claude very much.
I shook my head. I had to feed. Jason was offering. Indeed, he had
his head back, to the side, exposing a vein. I was too hungry to
worry about morals just now. I would rant later. Later.
Gently I allowed my fangs to slide out and felt my eyes flush golden.
Jean-Claude made a murmur when he saw the colour of my eyes his kind of vampire's eyes didn't do this, nor did their fangs lengthen
or retract.
I kissed the skin of Jason's neck before slipping my fangs in. I didn't
want to shock him. I did it as quickly as possible, to spare him the
pain, and retracted just as quick. The blood welled up and I waited
until I had a mouthful before I swallowed.
The red heat burnt a path down to my stomach, spreading outward,
warming me.
I sighed and Jason echoed it.
I sucked the second mouthful and tried to think of warm, lazy
summer afternoons and soft sensual kisses to make it pleasurable
for Jason. His hands slid up my thighs and I realized that he was
getting off on this all on his own.
I swallowed a few more mouthfuls and was satisfied enough to let
go. There was no need to glut myself on the boy. I lingered over
the cuts, lapping at them, until the blood flow slowed, then
stopped.
I pulled away, sitting up, and Jason let out one last shuddering
groan, his head thrown back, his eyes little slivers of white under
his lids. He looked sexy, ravaged, satisfied.
Not nearly as scrumptious as Remus had, all damp and tousled, but
enough that I couldn't resist giving him a small kiss.
He groaned into my mouth, trying to deepen the kiss, his hands
coming up to cup the sides of my face. I pulled backwards and he
pressed forwards, following me.
“Jason,” I heard Jean-Claude say. “Enough.”
The boy sighed and sat back on his heels. He smiled at me, a sexy
smirk. A thin stream of blood was trailing from the wound down his
chest. I wanted to lick it away. Instead I looked at my lap.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“Any time,” he purred. “You ever want me again, I'm yours.”
He was sent away, and I moved to the chair. I curled into a ball and
rested my face in my hands, just breathing. Lust filled my every
vein. Jason's desire thrummed in my veins, and Jean-Claude's
presence, his powerful seductive voice wasn't helping.
I took some time to calm myself, breathing in great lungfulls of air
that I didn’t need in a rhythmic pattern, before I looked up.
Jean-Claude was lounging on the couch, his shirt deliberately open,
framing his smooth, beautifully sculpted chest and the brown scar
that was appealing rather than marring. He was wearing a wanton
smile.
“No,” I said.
“Come, cherie, I can smell your desire. Why deny yourself?”
“No,” I said again, and meant it.
He grinned and ran a hand through his hair.
Erg. It was going to be a long night.
=====
It was well past three in the morning by the time Anita came into
the sitting room and flopped down on the couch. She had been on
the phone for at least two hours, calling everyone she knew. She
looked exhausted but triumphant.
She waved a piece of paper under Jean-Claude's nose.
“No supernatural powers,” she said, grinning, “No bribes. No death
threats. Just good old fashioned detective work and a few white
lies.”
Jean-Claude raised his eyebrows. “I am impressed, ma petite,” he
said softly and scooched closer to her on the couch. “Come, let me
give you a victory kiss.”
“Buzz off, I'm too tired for this crap,” she growled and Jean-Claude
shrugged and stood. He plucked the scrap of paper from her hand. I
saw that it had a phone number written on it.
“What is this?”
“The answering machine that you leave a message on,” Anita said
wearily. She yawned and we both waited her out. “Just leave your
name, contact info, and the type of pet you're looking for. Oh, and
a price quote. If he likes your offer, he'll contact you.”
“Wait,” I said, from my chair to the side. “Does this mean that
someone specifically requested Sirius?”
Anita looked at me and I could see the disgust registering on her
face. “Yeah, probably.” She glared at Jean-Claude. “Which makes
this all your fault.”
“Moi, ma petite?” he said, one hand pressed over his heart.
“Yeah, you. You're the one who put him on display at Guilty
Pleasures, aren't you?”
I frowned, touching the side of my neck where Sirius had licked me
during his routine. The skin tingled at the remembered contact.
Had it really been only eight or so hours ago? Sirius had looked
so …well, so sexy. I didn't really blame anyone for requesting him.
Still.
Abduction and slavery were wrong, human or not.
Jean-Claude did not dignify Anita's accusation with an answer.
Instead he slipped the paper into his pocket and said, “I will take
care of this part. Thank you, ma petite. You are very tired. Take my
bed for this evening.”
Anita sat forward, scowling. She had a very pretty scowl. “I'd rather
go home.”
Jean-Claude shook his head. “I would rather that you were here,
just in case I need you,” he said, smooth as silk. “I will be a perfect
gentleman.”
Anita threw up her hands. “Fine, I'm too tired to argue. But stay out
of my dreams, or I will put a bullet between those pretty eyes of
yours.”
He smiled. “You think my eyes are pretty?”
We both groaned.
=====
Anita retired to the bedroom adjacent to the sitting room and once
again I was left alone with Jean-Claude. I felt a hundred times
better than I had been, full and warm finally. But I wasn't looking
forward to another seduction-session, however, and it must have
shown on my face.
He was standing between the couch and the chair, and he had
turned to face me. “Come now,” he said, “my company isn't all that
distasteful, is it?”
I shook my head. “I'm too tired for this bullshit, too, Jean-Claude.”
“Tired?” he asked.
“I was up and around at eleven o'clock this morning,” I said. I had
lounged back in the chair, trying to force my eyes to stay open. The
one downside to a full tummy was that it made you feel sleepy. “So,
despite the two times I lost consciousness tonight, I really haven't
had any sleep.”
“Ah, I have been remiss in my duties as host.”
I snorted.
He moved towards the door. “I will have a coffin prepared for you.
It will not be your own, but it will do for now.”
The thought of sleeping in a box with a lid was enough to make me
rigid all over. I felt the colour drain from my face. He paused with
his hand on the knob and watched me closely. “You… do not like
the idea?”
I shook my head. “I… don't sleep in coffins.”
He tilted his head again, in the manner of a curious puppy perking
an ear. “You do not require it?”
“No.”
“Do you not require the soil from your own grave with you?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I've never had a grave. Do you?”
He smiled and didn't answer. Infuriating.
He turned the doorknob and stuck his head out into the hall. He
spoke in hushed tones with someone, then shut the door and walked
back to the couch. “I have arranged a room for you. No one will
disturb you. Sleep as long as you like.”
I stood warily and moved towards the door. “Can I at least have the
phials back?”
He smiled again, that smug 'I'm-not-telling' look and said, “No, my
dear.”
I exited the room. The driver-werewolf was waiting for me. He
waited a little longer as I punched the cement wall in my fury, over
and over, biting down on my tongue to keep from shrieking in
frustration. I heard a loud crack and a sharp pain shot up my arm.
I'd broken my hand.
The pain made the fury subside, to slide into shame for my angry
display, and I let the werewolf lead me to a room two doors over. It
was small but well decorated and had a bed rather than a coffin. I
wondered if it was Richard's room. The werewolf offered to find me
some bandages for my hand, and I thanked him and told him it
wouldn't be necessary. Blood was running down my scraped
knuckles, over my fingers, and onto the floor. I was leaving a small
trail.
He bid me good day and just before he closed the door behind him,
he said, “You know, Jean-Claude is an okay guy. Good businessman,
and he treats us all pretty well. Much better than the Master who
was in charge before him. You should be flattered that he wants to
keep you around.”
“And yet, somehow, I'm not,” I sneered.
He shook his head and closed the door. I wasn't surprised to hear
the metallic scrape and click of a lock being set. Not that it
wouldn't be too hard to kick the door down. But he lock wasn’t
there to keep me in. The lock was a reminder. I was a prisoner.
I sat on the foot of the bed in the dark, alone, licking my wounds.
=====
When the nightmares jolted me awake, it was just before sunset. I
had slept longer than I had meant to, but I had been very tired and
the nightmares hadn't helped.
I had woken three times during the day, the first right before
sunrise. I had been dreaming of Lucard again, of what he may have
done to me. The second dream had replaced Lucard with JeanClaude. I remained awake for about an hour and a half after it, then
forced myself back to sleep. I would need to be well rested tonight.
The third nightmare involved both of them. I screamed no, shrieking
it over and over, kicking, punching, biting where I could, and it had
been for nothing. They were immovable, both emotionally and
physically. I couldn't get them off me. They were smiling, having a
pleasant conversation about the differences in their Vampirism
while they... they ....
There had been someone else standing in the shadows in that dream,
and that's what had scared me the most. Someone with glittering
eyes and an expressionless face. I had called to him to help me and
he had just melted back into the shadows from whence he'd come,
like mist in the morning sunshine.
I had screamed so loudly, then, that I had woken myself up.
I sat up in bed, the blankets tangled around me, my face slick with
sticky red sweat.
When I realized where I was, what had just happened, I screamed
again, though this time in frustration. I threw the pillow at the wall
so hard it burst, sending feathers flying everywhere.
The lock on the door clicked open and a blond head popped into the
room. It was Jason.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, eyes on the feathers floating all
around me, slowly sinking to the floor.
I hid my face in my hands in an effort not to cry. “Just a
nightmare,” I said softly. My voice sounded weak and shaky.
He came all the way into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Want me to make it go away?”
I looked up to find him leering, leaning against the door with his
hips jutted forward and his arms folded over his chest. His ankles
were crossed. He was wearing black jeans and another dark tanktop. The bandages on his arm had been removed. There was an
angry red welt in the shape of teeth on his shoulder, but otherwise
it looked like it was healing fine.
The marks on his neck were all but gone. Werewolves healed almost
as fast as Vampires. I hoped Richard was feeling better.
Jason noticed my eyes on his neck and he sauntered forward. He
slid onto the side of the bed and crawled up on his hands and knees
to press his face under my jaw. I was so startled by the aggressive
intimacy that I couldn’t move. He kissed and licked me there and I
stayed still, too shocked to push him away.
“Ja-jason, what are you… doing…?” I asked softly.
He growled against my skin and said, “Helping you forget your
nightmare.”
I put my hands on his whole shoulder and tried to push him away.
Like an insistent puppy he refused to be deterred and moved
further up, lapping my sweat off my cheek.
“Jason.”
He whined, low in his throat. “C'mon. You've gotta be hungry by
now. You're the best suck I've ever had.”
“The what?”
He sat back on his heels. “Suck. I mean, jeeze, letting you feed off
me was like… better than most of the actual sex I've had. I had to
go jerk off for an hour afterwards just so I could get to sleep.”
I closed my eyes. “I didn't want to hear that.”
“Bite me again,” he whispered huskily. He leaned forward and took
my hands in his, running them down his chest to rest on his thighs.
He kissed me gently.
When he pulled back I said, “No.”
He chuckled and kissed me again, this time testing my lips with his
tongue.
I moved away and said, “What is it with all you Hamilton boys? Are
you all nymphos?”
He ran his hands down my side and gripped my waist gently enough
to pull me up onto his lap. “Just kiss me back,” he said. “It won't
hurt you.”
He was right and I was loath to admit it. He was sexy, a good kisser,
and I was hungry again.
I kissed him back. I let his tongue into my mouth and just revelled
in the feeling of him trying to devour me. Unlike in my nightmares,
what he was doing felt good. Real good.
“Bite me,” he panted when we parted, and he leaned his head to
the side.
The kiss had impassioned me enough to not care and I slid my fangs
into his skin. He tensed and jerked as I retracted them and I sealed
my lips around the punctures and sucked.
He groaned and threw his head back, chest heaving. His hips ground
into mine and he moaned as if it was the most mind-blowing sex of
his life.
I wondered if he was a masochist.
He clung to me, nails digging into my back, and I let my own lust
crackle over our bodies. When I was full I withdrew, lapping at his
skin to encourage the flow to stop, and slid off of him.
He flopped backwards, a very satisfied look on his face.
The sound of clapping startled me. I turned to the door and found
Jean-Claude standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, and
applauding our performance. I blushed, embarrassed and slid off
the bed.
“You see, cherie,” he said softly and his voice made both Jason and
I shiver with renewed lust. Jason jerked on the bed and curled in on
himself. “You are most welcome here. Why not stay?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Les femmes,” he said softly. “Come, Anita is waiting
for us.”
I walked towards the door. As I passed him he refused to move. I
had to brush by him (invasive bastard) and once we reached the hall,
he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and touched his thumb
to my chin. It came away smeared with red.
“You are a neat eater,” he said softly and I watched with ensnared
gaze as he licked the blood of his thumb slowly, languorously. “But
you missed a spot.”
I took a jerky step back and shook my head. “Let's… go talk to
Anita.”
I wondered, secretly, if he had been watching my dream, if he had
been the pale expressionless face in the shadows of the last one.
Invasive bastard.
=====
While I had been asleep, Jean-Claude had had someone call the
kidnapper and put in a request for a rare lycanthrope. It had been
Jean-Claude's idea to suggest perhaps something that flew, as it
would be amusing to see it in a cage. It would appeal, he thought,
to the kidnapper’s innate cruelty.
The man had called back, arranged to double the sum that JeanClaude's man had originally suggested, and told him about a rare
werebat he had met just that night.
Jean-Claude's man had agreed and they were out meeting right now
to hand over the first briefcase of cash. I was indescribably angry
with Jean-Claude. Obviously the werebat was me. But, I had to
admit, it was a good plan.
I had agreed to go back to the Circus with Anita to cover me tonight,
hopefully the first place the man would start looking for me. I all
but begged Jean-Claude to return my wand and my knife, so I could
at least defend myself. He declined.
I was not an attacker, I was the prey, he said.
He lent me fresh clothing - an obscenely tight pair of leather pants
and a sleeveless tank top of a billowy silk material the same shade
of butter-brown as my boots. In my shirt, clipped to the small of my
back, we hid a very small cell phone with a GPS system so they
would be able to track me if I got out of sight.
Jean-Claude himself and any number of his vampires and
werewolves would also be there, but I would not see them. They
would be invisible in the crowd, watching, waiting.
If I saw the man, I was to put up a fight, preferably run out of the
Circus to keep the casualties to a minimum (nothing worse for
business), but allow him to capture me.
They would follow the van to the man's hiding place and thereby
find and free Sirius and, hopefully, the other missing members of
the preternatural community. If they were still there, that is.
If they weren't, Jean-Claude was going to have fun with the
kidnapper to get him to tell to whom they had been sold.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
What Jean-Claude didn't know was that I had no intention of
returning to the Circus with him once this whole kafuffle was done
and over with.
I was hoping against hope that Sirius or the kidnapper would still
have his wand. Or that Sirius was in any sort of shape to Apparate.
Sirius and I were going to run.
Book Three: Anita Blake
Chapter Eleven: “Escape”
It took less time for the kidnapper to find me than we had
anticipated. A few hours, maybe a bit less. We had expected that
he wouldn’t find me at all tonight.
Trying to look natural but at the same time, always stand out so I’d
be easy to spot, I had been walking around the Circus, stopping to
listen to the barkers, riding a ride here and there, trying not to gag
at the sickly-sweet scents of sawdust and candy-apples and blood.
Then, I felt a gentle hand descend on my shoulder. It was a kind
touch, but the kindness was for show.
I knew who he was immediately. I remembered his scent, the reek
of gun powder and oil, the sound of his voice.
“I told you I'd be back for you,” he whispered in my ear. I felt
something small, hard and cold and round press into my lower back,
just above the cell phone. The barrel of a gun, probably. Would he
really be willing to shoot me, I wondered. If he was really going to
get as much money from selling me as Jean-Claude had been
bargained up to, it would be very stupid to shoot me.
“Who are you?” I asked, just as softly, continuing to play carnival
game I'd been preoccupied with, as if he wasn't there. I was
supposed to be shooting a squirt of water - in the Circus of the
Damned, it was coloured red to look like blood, but it smelled like
sugar - into a fanged clown's mouth to make a balloon inflate. I was
loosing.
“I collect pretty, unique things like you. I'm a 'rare hunter'.”
I snorted. “Oh, how Yu-Gi-Oh of you.”
He made a confused, annoyed sound and the gun barrel pressed
harder into my skin. I let go of the squirt gun. “You should be
flattered. You'll never want for anything for the rest of your life. He
sounds very rich, the man who is paying me for you. It's time to
go,” he said softly. “Be a good girl and I'll be nice. I won't shoot any
of the people around you.”
“What makes you think I give a flying fuck about the people around
me?”
He chuckled, softly. “I've been watching you all night, sweetheart. I
saw you help that little girl get her tickets back at the rigged both.
You're a softie.”
I grimaced inwardly. That had been over an hour ago. How long had
he been watching me? How had Jean-Claude missed him following
me for over an hour?
Unless Jean-Claude had done nothing on purpose. He had hung me
out to dry, the bastard. They weren’t going to grab the man at all –
they were going to let him take me, I suddenly realized.
Jerks.
The Rare Hunter steered me around and I let him. We walked
towards the main exit, his arm wrapped around mine like a proper
gentleman, the gun pressed against my ribs under the flapping
expanse of his coat. He had his other arm crossed across his
stomach to accomplish this and it just looked like he was
rummaging in his inner pocket for his wallet or something.
“You'll like being a pet,” he said to me as we walked towards the
doors. I felt the panic rising me, and resisted the urge to struggle or
look around for Anita.
“I doubt it,” I hissed back. “Someone's offered me that position
already.”
He laughed. “Then that's probably who's paying me this
commission.”
A lump of ice formed in my gut - what if Jean-Claude was only doing
this to get his claws into me? If this 'rare hunter' had a way to
sedate me or restrain me, then Jean-Claude could indeed keep me
captive, as his pet.
I struggled here, wanting to really rip his arm off, but he tightened
his grip on my wrist and hissed, “Think about it girlie. Awful lot of
humans around here. What if I tried to shoot you and missed?”
“You're a despicable bastard.”
“Tut, tut, love.” He smiled. “Sticks and stones.”
I turned to glare at him and by some trick of movement, caught a
glimpse at the other inner pocket in his coat, the one on the far
side of his body from me. Sirius' wand! There was a stick in the
other pocket which was unmistakably an Ollivander.
I looked away from it, staring at my feet as we moved to the
outside. I didn’t want to make it look like I wanted it, or he’d move
it or get rid of it. I doubted he even knew what it was. But any
struggle would end with bullets flying, and we were in the parking
lot behind the Circus. Still too full of people.
“Where's Sirius Black?” I asked as he hustled me across the lot. He
had a different vehicle this time, a dark green minivan with heavily
tinted windows. It looked like it should seat a family with three
screaming kids, not an abducted shape shifter.
The man laughed. “Why do you care?”
I didn't answer him. When we got to the van he clicked a remote
door opener that had been clenched in the hand on my elbow and
the trunk door swung upwards. Inside was a cage and manacle set
that matched the one in his white van.
My heart jumped into my throat and I dug in my heels.
“Please, don't…” I said, putting up a real fight for the first time.
The thought of being bound, helpless, pinned down unable to
escape was terrifying. Being a captive I could handle. Being unable
to fight back was literally my worst nightmare. Lucard's ability to
keep me trapped had translated into a compete and utter terror of
being bound. “I can't… the cage, please…”
He tugged hard on my elbow and I swung my other fist up, aiming
for his cheek. He dodged and I only clipped his ear. I lunged for the
wand in his pocket and he whipped out of the way. Bugger was fast!
I tried to shift, then, to change into my bat shape. Fuck the plan, I
wouldn't be tied down! I could follow him to his hide-away in my
bat form. He slapped me hard across the face and the stunning
quality of the blow confused me enough for him to press the gun up
against my arm.
“Silly bitch,” he said, and then pulled the trigger.
The pain was not at all like I expected. I looked down, anticipating
a bloody hole, perhaps my arm blown clean off. Instead, I saw the
fuzzy red end of a tranquilizer dart sticking neatly out of my flesh,
the barrel empty.
“You lying son of a bitch,” was all I had time to say before the
darkness came crashing over me.
=====
As you can probably guess, I woke in a strange place.
Yes, this was indeed becoming a running theme. I was lying on a
cold cement floor. Above me was a dark, unfinished ceiling.
Someone's basement? Between the ceiling and me were bars,
shining silver in the harsh dim light from an exposed bulb. The cage
itself was wrapped in chicken wire. The bars were inscribed with
runes of a sort - probably a containment spell.
Pretty much escape-proof.
I groaned and sat up, rubbing my head.
“That wore off faster than I expected it to,” the kidnapper's voice
said, and I turned to look at him. He was sitting at the bottom of a
set of newly-lumbered stairs. The wood hadn't been painted yet.
“Go to hell,” I growled.
I heard the curse echoed by a few voices around me and I blinked,
peering into the darkness. There were at least half a dozen similar
cages lining the walls, filled with animals or people, some looking
decidedly less happy than I. On all the cages was a thick, expensive
looking electronic lock, the kind it was impossible to pick or break
open by sheer application of force.
At the end of the row of cages sat a forlorn looking man in torn
black jeans and a dark blue turtleneck, which had once been clean.
Now it was ripped and burnt and bloodied. Sirius Black had been
caught in the explosion. The cut I had seen on his head the night
before had been tended to, a thick pad of blood-spotted gauze
taped to his skin, and I bet it had been while he had been
unconscious.
He was watching me with dark, glittering eyes.
I was sure he recognized me.
I turned my eyes to the man on the bottom step. “So what are you
big plans, Captain Jerkwad?” I asked our tormentor. Some of the
caged people laughed.
He ignored them and came forward to stare down at me in my little
box. I began to feel decidedly claustrophobic and tried to beat it
back. “The person paying me for you is feeling a little…eager. He'll
be coming by to pick you up in a few hours.” He gestured around
him to the others. “Usually they prefer it if I break spirits for them.
I charge extra, but it’s less messy for the client.”
“I won't go easy.”
He lifted the gun and turned it in the light, letting the dull black
metal shine. “A few of these and you'll have no say in the matter. I
know what you're thinking - go ahead, shift forms… it'll make you a
harder target, I admit, but think of the joy I'd get from handing you
off to them, duct-taped into a shoebox.”
I snarled at him, wanting to bear my fangs, wanting to scare the
shit out of him, and didn't. My lips curled back but that's as far as I'd
let myself loose control.
He thought I was just a lycanthrope. Let that be his mistake.
I nodded at Sirius. “What about him?”
“Ah, you were asking about Mr. Black earlier, weren't you?” He said
genially, making a show of leaning against the cage of a young boy
beside me. The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen. There
was a fresh werewolf bite on his leg and the marks of a whip
coloured his back, still dribbling blood a little.
The boy cowered back from our tormentor, and I didn't blame him.
Fucking bastard.
“Why is that, I wonder?” The kidnapper asked. “Can you tell me,
now, sweet thing?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, wrapping my hands around the bars of my cage
and staring purposefully at Sirius. “Mr. Black is a murderer, aren't
you Mr. Black?”
Sirius' grey eyes widened slightly. Otherwise, his face remained
blank.
“Mr. Black killed fourteen people with a single curse. It was
impressive.” I gave him a look, hopefully obvious enough for him to
understand what I was getting at, but not so much that our captor
figured it out. “Everyone within the radius of the spell just…
imploded. Albus Dumbledore told me the truth himself.”
The kidnapper turned impressed eyes to Sirius.
“That true?”
Sirius got it.
He smiled, suddenly oozing slimy charm. He unfolded himself and
stood up, pressing his palms and forehead against the bars, fingers
twining in the chicken wire. “Every word. Give me my wand and I'll
show you the spell.”
I shook my head. Good cop, bad cop, with a slight variation. “Don't
do that! There are no Aurors here! He could use one of the
Unforgivables on you!”
The kidnapper smiled slightly. “Unforgivibles? I like the sound of
that. What do you say, Mr. Black? I let you out, and you become my
partner, eh? I won't sell you to the nice lady looking for a lap doggie,
and you help me bring in even more exotic pets. It'd be worth it.
You could stay off the radar. Make loads of cash. It pays well.”
Sirius seemed to consider it. He met my eyes. “Did you really talk
to Albus Dumbledore?”
“Yes,” I spat. I pretended to loathe him. It was hard. The werewolf
in the cage next to me bristled. Could he smell my deception? “The
Order of the Phoenix can't wait to get their hands on you, you
bastard!”
That did it. He nodded, and held out his hand. “I'm in. Keep me
away from this crazy bitch, and I'll do your dirty work. I'm not going
back to Azkaban prison.” He sounded exasperated enough to be
believed.
For a moment our kidnapper hesitated. Then he pulled Sirius' wand
out of a pocket in the inside of his jacket and handed to him
through the bars. The man worked the code on the electronic lock
and the door hissed open. Sirius stepped out, smiling, and
immediately brought the wand up to point at his nose.
“W-wait…!” the man shrieked, his eyes bulging.
Greed made people stupid. I'd always thought it, now I had the
proof.
“Imperio,” he said softly. There was a flash of light and suddenly
our kidnapper was sagging. He didn't fall, but his whole posture
relaxed. “Open the cages. All of them.”
One of the Unforgivibles, the Imperitives curse. It could make
anyone follow the commands of the caster. I was glad Sirius had
caught my drift.
The man did as he was told, starting with the far wall. Beasties of
all descriptions poured out of their prisons and up the stairs, into
the night. Some threatened to turn on their captor, but Sirius
shooed them away. He had to be alive to open all of the cages. He
unlocked my cage last, then stood back and waited for instructions.
Sirius stood there, hand still tight around his wand, aiming at me,
studying me. “You with the Order?” he finally said.
“More like I do freelance work.” I smiled. “I've been sent to take
you home, Sirius Black.”
He frowned slightly. “There's no way back through the Veil. Believe
me, I tried.”
I nodded. “I know. I have something else.”
“Portkey?”
“Something like that. I need you to do me a favour though.”
“What?”
“Accio pouch.”
=====
Anticlimactic, I know.
What can I say?
Sometimes real life is just not the movies.
Ha. Like this is real life. I'm a friggin' Mary Sue.
Scant minutes after I had strapped my pouch (thank you JeanClaude for putting all of my stuff back inside it) around my waist
and pulled my shirt back down to hide it, Dolph Storr, Anita Blake,
and half of the Regional Preternatural Incidents Team came
barrelling down the stairs.
I hoped no one had seen it flying through the air towards us. Sirius
had concentrated on the pouch for a very long few minutes, and I
wondered if he was mentally navigating it through the passages and
hallways, over streets and yards, with his mind, or if some trick of
the spell just automatically sent the summoned item harmlessly
through walls.
As long as it worked, I didn't question it.
Our kidnapper was arrested, and we were lead upstairs into a
deceptively normal looking suburban house. It made me shiver to
think of all the monsters that had been living in these nice people’s
‘kooky’ neighbour's basement. I discreetly passed the cell phone to
Anita, and Sirius just as discreetly lifted the Imperatives curse just
as Sergeant Storr slapped the cuffs on our captor.
Sirius and I both gave our statements, and then tried to slip out the
back. Sirius claimed a need for a cigarette and I told him I'd keep
him company. Anita offered to go with us to keep an eye on us. I
would have preferred it if we could have slipped away alone, but
the cops were having none of that.
If it had to be someone, I was glad it was Anita. I wanted a chance
to thank her.
The minute we reached the back yard, I dug into my pouch and
retrieved one of the 'HP' labelled phials. We were standing in the
shadows, off to the side of a newly-finished deck.
Sirius turned to me immediately. “I want to go home,” Sirius said,
desperation in his voice. I nodded. I grabbed his hand with my free
one, lacing his fingers in mine.
“What are you doing?” Anita asked, her voice raising a pitch in
alarm.
“Bye Anita,” I said, smiling at her. “Thanks. Give my regards to
Jean-Claude.”
I lifted the phial over my head and smashed it on the unstained
wood. I felt the world start to tilt and suddenly a hand grabbed my
other wrist in a crushing grip.
“Give them to me yourself, cherie,” his voice hissed, and then
there was a flash of light and a loud cracking sound, and I was
falling.
=====
Jean-Claude, Master Vampire of the City of St. Louis stared up at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with awe in his
sapphire eyes. I had wrenched my wrist out of his hand the moment
we had landed, and hauled Sirius to his feet.
“C’mon!” I hissed, hauling the stunned Sirius behind me. He
stumbled and I wrenched harder and he launched forward.
We were on the far end of the Quidditch pitch before I realized that
Jean-Claude was not following us. He was too busy staring at the
castle, the Forbidden Forest at his back, dumbstruck.
The moon was out and the stands around us were empty, echoing
with Sirius’ panting.
For a long moment, Jean-Claude and I merely stared at each other,
waiting, ready for the other person to make the first move. Neither
of us were willing to do so, and so we waited while Sirius caught his
breath.
There was a shout from Hagrid's hut and the lumbering half-giant,
Fang snarling and snapping and barking at his heels, came barrelling
towards us.
“Hide!” I cried to Sirius, and though he looked confused, he
dropped down into his dog form and pressed himself under my cloak,
hiding in the shadows behind my legs.
“I saws the light, I did! Yer back, yer back!” He hauled me into a
bone-crushing bear-hug. Sirius shrank into my shadow and Fang
sniffed at him once, then retreated to sniff at Jean-Claude instead.
I allowed it the hug, keeping an eye on Jean-Claude. He was
watching us, amazement written on his face. “Yeh did it!” He said
to me, ruffling my hair as he set us down, “Yeh’ve come back from
beyond the Veil. Did yeh see Sirius?”
“No,” I lied softly as Hagrid set me down on my feet. “No, I didn’t,
I’m sorry. It was too big – but I think he’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.”
Hagrid looked crushed, but nodded sagely.
As much as I wanted to shout “Yes!”, as much as I wanted to dance
up and down, hooting, pumping my fist into the air, celebrating my
victory over the Veil, I didn’t. I had no idea what J.K. Rowling’s
plans for Sirius may or may not be in the sixth and seventh books,
and I didn’t dare interfere.
If it became known that Sirius had been brought back from beyond
the Veil, I could inadvertently destroy the whole fandom. Sirius’
return had to stay a secret. Dumbledore would have to know, and
Remus of course, but everyone else, especially Harry, couldn’t
know until after the war was over. That’s when I assumed that
Rowling would stop writing the series. After that, Sirius could reveal
himself, because his arrival couldn’t harm the yet-to-be-written
plot.
But not before.
Hagrid turned to Jean-Claude, and Fang, cowed by the Master
Vampire’s strangeness, hid between his legs.
“’Os this?” Hagrid asked me.
“Trouble,” I replied.
Jean-Claude just smiled.
=====
Using a portkey brought down to the pitch by Dumbledore’s owl,
Jean-Claude, Sirius and I moved to the Headmaster’s office. I
wanted to leave Jean-Claude behind, but didn’t dare for fear of the
disaster he could cause.
He had yet to say anything, just smile.
When the owl had dropped the candlestick into my hand, I had
known immediately what it was. Sirius had wrapped himself around
my leg, as much as his doggyness would allow, and I had held it out
to Jean-Claude.
“Please take hold of this,” I said.
He only continued to smile and did as I asked.
There was a sharp tug behind my navel, the last-second blur of the
human Sirius snatching hold of the candlestick, and then we were in
the office.
Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, looking grim. Remus was
standing by the fireplace, worrying the cuff of his cardigan.
Severus Snape was sitting in one of the wing backed chairs beside
Remus, looking distinctly sulky. Aside from those three,
Dumbledore’s office was entirely empty.
Sirius shot to his feet and put himself between Jean-Claude and
Remus.
Remus leapt at Sirius and wrapped his arms around his friend,
weeping openly into his neck. “You're alive!” he kept repeating
over and over again. Sirius made soothing sounds and rubbed his
back. “You’re alive!”
I stepped forward to put the candlestick down on Dumbledore’s
desk. He rose to shake my hand. Dumbledore gave me a once over
and smiled, patting my shoulder, before turning his attention to the
Master of the City.
But Jean-Claude was looking at the affectionate reunion between
the two Marauders.
“Ahem,” Jean-Claude said gently, the expressionless look was back
on his face. “I would appreciate it if you would unhand Messier
Black.”
Remus stepped back and stared at Jean-Claude. “Why?” he asked,
his voice full of suspicion.
“Because,” Jean-Claude drawled, smiling. “He belongs to me.”
There was a few seconds of absolute silence. Dumbledore snapped
to it and said, “Won’t you please sit, Mister...?”
“Jean-Claude,” the Master Vampire provided.
“Jean-Claude,” Dumbledore repeated. Jean-Claude took the
accepted offer of a seat before the desk. “And Miss Marie?”
I nodded and sat in the chair beside Jean-Claude before the desk,
feeling like a little girl in trouble.
Bad man, I thought as hard as I could at Dumbledore. Tell Snape.
Gotta key a phial. Get him gone. Hurt Sirius.
“Tea, Severus, if you will, for all of us,” Dumbledore requested
grandly. The Potions Master cum DADA Professor sneered and
elegantly began to pour.
I pulled a single, long blonde hair out of my pocket, where I had
been hiding it. While Severus handed me the tea that I couldn’t
drink, I passed the hair to him discreetly.
Dumbledore dismissed him, and Snape billowed down to the Potions
Lab.
God bless Dumbledore and his occulamency.
Jean-Claude was lounging back in the chair, his tea untouched on
the edge of the desk before him, one ankle resting on his knee, a
smug smile on his face.
“Now, Mister Jean-Claude,” Dumbledore said amiably. “Please tell
us how it is that Sirius Black has become ‘yours’. I’m sure we can
work out some sort of arrangement.”
“We had a bargain,” Jean-Claude said plainly, “Miss Dracul and I.”
“Don’t call me that!” I snapped. Beside me, Sirius jumped, and
Remus’ eyebrows drew down into a scowl. They remained silent and
standing, however, waiting for a signal from Dumbledore before
they did anything.
“Regardless,” Jean-Claude shrugged, “You and I did come to an
agreement. I would help you find Sirius Black. You would return
with me to the Circus and become my pomme du sang and pet.”
“I never actually agreed to it!” I protested.
Dumbledore sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But you
accepted his help nonetheless.”
“Professor!” I gasped.
Remus and Sirius also protested, but Dumbledore put up his good
hand and silenced them. It was then that I noticed that one of his
hands was hidden in the cuff of his robe. What had happened when I
had been away?
God, I wanted to read the sixth book...
I yanked my attention back to Dumbledore’s words: “By default,
that means you accepted the terms of the bargain.”
“No!”
“See, cherie?” Jean-Claude said seductively, and I could feel the
touch of his power tracing along my spine. His eyes were intense
and glittering, staring at me as if he could see into my soul. It made
me feel sick. “Even your Professor admits that I am right in calling
you my own.” He took my hand gently in his and tried to lift my
knuckles to his lips. I yanked my hand out of his grip and he merely
shrugged and sat back.
“Marie,” Remus said softly, “Surely, there's something you can--”
“Stay out of this, Wolf,” Jean-Claude said in a cold, brittle
command, and Remus snapped his mouth shut out of pure shock.
“Marie,” he turned the magical warmth of his voice back on. “I will
not be so bad a Master as your last one.”
I stiffened. “What the Hell do you know about my last Master?”
He smiled slowly. “I drank your blood as you slept at Richard's. I
have the ability to travel your nightmares.”
I leapt from my chair, lunging at him. Sirius and Remus managed to
grab me just in time and haul me backwards. Dumbledore stood,
flabbergasted.
“You invasive son of a bitch!” I shrieked. “You… mind-rapist! That
was you in my dream, you peeping-tom fuck! You saw all that and
you didn't save me! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”
He sat there and took it all without batting an eyelash.
Dumbledore sat slowly as I tired myself out, struggling in Sirius and
Remus' arms.
“Is this true?” the Headmaster asked Jean-Claude, and Jean-Claude
merely nodded.
“As my pet, I have the right access her dreams.”
Dumbledore did not look pleased. “I do not believe that sounds very
ethical.”
Jean-Claude's eyes flashed dangerously. “And who are you to call
down judgment on me, old man? I am the Master of St. Louis and a
direct descendant of Belle herself. Who are you?”
Remus and Sirius began shouting obscenities, when a polite knock
on the door and a loud “A-hem!” put a pause on the mounting
hostilities.
Professor Snape was standing in the doorway holding up a phial. It
looked freshly corked and in the bottom floated several long blonde
strands.
Jean-Claude stood up, warily, eyes on the phial. “What is that?”
I smiled and the two men holding me let me go. “Jason's hair,” I
said, “from our little 'show' at sunset.”
Jean-Claude whipped around to snarl at me. “Don't you dare!”
Dumbledore rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “I believe that,
on the grounds of your violating Miss Marie's privacy, I will deny you
the right to claim her. Have a good evening, Mister Jean-Claude.”
Snape grinned and threw the phial at Jean-Claude's feet.
The Master of the City howled in frustration and tried to reach for
me, but I ducked out of reach. There was a flash of light and the
cracking sound of air rushing in on a vacuum, and suddenly he was
gone. There was a small spray of broken glass at our feet, but no
sign of the potion.
I turned to Snape and smiled at him. “Good arm,” I said.
For the first time, I got a genuine smile in return. “My pleasure.”
=====
I stayed a month at Hogwarts while I brewed another batch of the
potion. Severus had started that second batch before I’d left, but
he had used it all up himself in tests. We got on a bit more civilly
this time around, but I mostly brewed the potion on my own in the
empty teacher’s quarters in which I was secreted.
This time I did what I could to stay out of the public eye. None of
the students of Hogwarts knew I was there, nor Fudge. He had not
been told that I had found a way to return from beyond the Veil, for
Dumbledore wanted to keep it a secret for now. It was a secret
security for the Order of the Phoenix, who all carried a phial with
them now, keyed for Grimmauld Place, and it would do no good for
the Death Eaters to know the method as well.
Of course, some of the teachers knew I was back, and Slughorn had
a way of finding things out. He still wanted to “talk” to me, and I
still didn’t want to. Avoiding Professor Slughorn was a challenge,
but I did have the ability to throw myself out of the window, when
necessary.
I had been lucky - Snape had been saving that last little bit in the
bottom of the cauldron from the first batch, just in case.
Remus and Sirius had vanished into London proper, doing what they
could to get Sirius out of England as soon as possible. He was still a
wanted criminal, and many of the Death Eaters thought he was
dead. If his return could stay a secret, then he could become a
fantastic spy or secret weapon.
To make up for the disappearance of Remus, I went on a few
missions for the Order of the Phoenix that month. They were simple
tasks – go to this or that graveyard, cling to a tree, and eavesdrop
on a conversation. I perfected my ability to transform into a bat at
will and crawled about in the shadows, generally.
Mostly, I stayed on the Hogwarts grounds, learning more charms
from Professor Flitwick and watching Remus and Sirius catch up
while they had still been here. Although not once did I hear Sirius
mention what it was that he had done for employment in St. Louis.
When the time came for me to be on my way, it was nearly
Christmas. I know nothing really important happens in J.K. Rowling's
books until after the Christmas holidays, but I didn't really want to
stick around. I hadn't read the sixth book yet and to be honest, I
wasn't sure I wanted to be in the middle of it, either.
I chose to travel from Dumbledore's office. No more Veil for me - I
didn't want to end up back in Jean-Claude's clutches.
The contents of the pouch were added to - I still had my wand, my
knife, the recipe, a 'Lucard', two 'Harry potter' phials, and an 'Anita
Blake' phial, but now I also had two spare unkeyed ones. Snape told
me that in his research he had discovered that if I shifted too soon
from realm to realm, I may make myself ill, so to wait at least
twenty-four hours before I shifted each time.
I wondered if Jean-Claude was feeling the after effects yet. Heh.
The day I was to leave, I was also given a pouch of loose knuts and
sickles (because almost every reality dealt in some sort of coin
money), as well as some Muggle money, and a bag of lemon drops
and a small box Bertie Bott's Everyflavour Beans.
And I finally got that kiss from Sirius I had been wanting, though I
had to lean into a fire to do so.
I thanked everyone for their hospitality and help and raised the
phial above my head, meeting everyone's eyes and savouring the
taste of Sirius Black on my lips.
Book Four: Pirates of the Caribbean
Chapter Twelve: “Rum”
By now the flash of light and the flat, gunshot like sound of the air I
was suddenly vacating rushing in on itself was familiar. I braced
myself for the fall and landed on cobblestone. I dropped right down
into a crouch and looked around, warily.
Where was I now?
Above my head, the sky was just starting to darken, the clouds navy
streaks in a bright orange and fuchsia sky.
Sunset, somewhere.
That was nice – I’d have my powers at my disposal any second now.
I straightened and backed up, pressing my back against a damp,
rough-hewn brick wall. The town around me was grimy, narrow and
old fashioned looking. A sudden, high laugh cut the air and I sank
back into the shadows, wrapping my dark robe closely about me,
pulling up my hood to hide my pale skin and vibrant hair.
Two people passed, a woman on a man's arm. They were both
smiling, laughing. He was in breeches and hose, a tricorner hat fit
snugly on his head, a tail of light but dirty hair out the back. He was
wearing a cloak. She was in a wide-hipped and flat fronted dress, a
cloak wrapped tightly around her, as well, and both had seen better
and cleaner days.
At least I knew when, if not where. Somewhere between 1780 and
1830… ish. That didn't help much. The weather was warmish, so I
couldn't be any further north than the Carolinas. If I was in the
United States at all.
I watched the couple walk down the street a bit and stop at a door.
They opened it and warm light and loud laugher came spilling out. A
tavern or a pub. I shrugged and pulled my hood up further.
It was as good a place as any to scope out my night's meal and a bed
for the day, both of which I would need during my twenty-four
hours where I was. I had enough phials to move on immediately, if I
wanted, but I remembered Snape's muttered warning about not
sliding too much, too often. I could make myself very ill.
Thinking of the Jean-Claude disaster I had just narrowly escaped
from, I decided that this was one Mary Sue who was going to stick to
the background for today.
And I had a woman's curiosity - I wanted to know which fandom I
was in.
I looked around and saw nothing suspicious besides myself, so
walked down the street to the pub. The sign above the door said
'The Saucy Wench'. I shrugged, pulled the Hogwarts robe closer
around me, and went in.
I was immediately blasted with the heat from two roaring fires on
either side of the room. The clientele was respectable looking
enough - all middle class merchants, whores, pick pockets, and
drunken sailors and soldiers. There were indeed wenches milling
about, getting their bottoms slapped and their trays upset.
I picked my way to the bar and sat on a stool off to the side, as
close to the shadows as I could get. There were a scant few others
at the bar, mostly loners like me. A few stools down was a mass of
dark hair resting his face on folded arms. His black pants and white
shirt were grubby and I suspected that he'd passed out. His frock
coat, just as filthy, was folded on the stool between us.
He reeked of rum.
The bartender came over and tried to get a good look at my face
under my hood. I angled my chin down so it would be impossible.
Being as unrecognized as feasible would probably be a good idea. I
didn't plan on getting into any trouble, but I was a Mary Sue. If
something did happen, if I became known or I got into the middle of
something by accident, then I didn't want anyone to know that I'd
been to a pub on my own. A female unsupervised and in trousers…
what a scandal.
I suddenly ached for the twenty-first century.
I ordered ale from the man and pretended to sip it when it arrived.
I looked around, observing, trying not to be observed. An hour
passed and full dark descended and I was no closer to finding out
where I was. Feeling more confident in my ability to wander around
alone now that the dark had come, and with it my powers, I
decided to leave.
I wasn't going to learn anything sitting in a pub. The pub in question
was growing steadily rowdier anyway, and I had a feeling I should
duck out before a brawl began.
Because there were always brawls in these sorts of places.
Setting a knut on the bar I slipped to my feet and headed towards
the door. As I passed the smelly man sleeping on the bar, he jerked
a hand out, faster than I expected from a drunkard, and grabbed my
wrist. I could have yanked out of his grip but he was drunk so I
stopped instead. I didn't want to hurt him, after all.
“Yes?” I said archly, keeping my voice low.
“Thas' the strangest coin I've ever had the pleasure of layin' eyes on,
sweeting,” he slurred and his head turned slightly. So he'd been
awake this whole time, had he? Hm. I could see one browny-green
eye poking out between dreadlocks and filthy white shirt to regard
me. “From which country hail you?”
I gently extricated myself. “A country that I doubt you'll ever see,
sir. Good evening.”
With a rocking sway he pulled himself to his feet, my wrist still in
his hand. He smiled at me, and I could see the flash of at least two
gold teeth. I gasped, recognizing him instantly, and cursing my
blindness for not figuring it out earlier. The red bandana, the
cheeky accent, the beaded dreadlocks.
“Captain Jack Sparrow…” I whispered.
I was in 'Pirates of the Caribbean', talking to the most famous Pirate
in the movie.
I wondered if I was pre-, in the middle of, or post-movie.
By the respectability of the clientele around me I could tell I wasn't
in Tortuga, the Pirate island, but I could be anywhere in the British
Colonies.
Jack Sparrow was momentarily shocked, and then he broke out into
a broad grin.
“'Eard of me, then?”
I nodded dumbly under my hood. This character was Johnny Depp's
finest performance, I thought. But, I had to tell myself, this wasn't
Depp, any more than Lucard had been Geordie Johnson or Sirius
Garry Oldman. Jack's swaying and weasely mind weren't a
performance.
As pretty and as harmless as Jack Sparrow may seem, he was smart,
witty, and very very dangerous.
“Let's us talk somewheres … quieter, hey, lass?”
I nodded again and let him lead me out into the streets. If I said no,
I'm sure he would have used force. He pulled me up a ways, and we
turned into an empty alley. I scanned the shadows and saw no one.
Confident that we were alone, I pulled my hood down and leaned
my back against the wall, opposite Jack, who took a seat on a
broken down barrel.
“How did you know I was a girl?” I asked once he had finished
settling himself.
He reached out and lifted one of my hands, brushing a filthy rough
thumb across the back of it. “Only ladies have fine hands such as
this.” He half leered, half squinted up at me. “Run away, did you?”
I laughed lightly. “I didn't run away from home, if that's what you
mean. I'm not a highborn lady out seeking adventure among the
commoners.”
His eyes roved boldly down my frame. “Yet your hands are
uncalloused. Yet you wear trousers - no hose, even. And a men's
shirt…. Of a sort. And your hair,” his eyes lingered on my neck, my
exposed ears, and I suddenly felt obscene for wearing my hair so
short. I'd never had a guy stare at my cleavage, but it felt like that like he was imagining me doing all sorts of sexual things. Or like I
was the most breathtaking woman he'd ever seen and all he wanted
was a touch and a taste. All this from looking at my neck. “Like a
boy's. Are you one of them lasses who prefers her own sex?”
I swallowed a laugh, coughing. I made a strange hiccoughing sound,
and then giggled. “No, … ha… no, no…” It took me a moment to
sober up. “I'm not. Just makes it easier to get around.”
He nodded and stood slowly. “And per'aps you were lookin' for ole'
Jack, hey? Maybe wantin' to be a pirate yerself?”
I shook my head. “Just passing through, really.” I shrugged. “But I
am very happy to have run into the famous Captain Jack.”
“Ah, sos it the fame, is it?” He grinned again. “Come, lass, you'll
buy me a drink with your strange treasure, and I'll tell you all my
stories.”
I grinned back. It seemed as good a way to pass the night as any. I
knew Jack would probably try to get me drunk enough to get into
my 'strange trousers', but I was confident that I could ward him off.
Besides, if I was careful, I could use him as a pomme du sang for the
night.
“What of Will and Elizabeth?” I asked as he swayed back onto his
feet. “I should like to hear them tell you you're full of shit.”
He frowned and looked away. “They're… previously engaged
tonight.”
“Oh,” I said, “That's too bad. With what?”
He mumbled something.
“Pardon?”
“I says… their engagemen' party.”
I stopped and blinked at Jack. “Their… engagement party?”
A few things clicked into place. I must be in Port Royal, then.
“Aye,” he snipped, “I was to stand for Will. Woulda made my heart
proud to stand wiv Bootstrap's boy.” His body was one tense line,
radiating anger. “Make a bonny speech an' all tha'.”
“What happened?” I asked gently.
“Norrington,” he hissed. “Tried to arrest me. I left. I didn't want to
ruin the kid's day. Sos I ran. ‘Spect Norrington will be behind me on
the next tide.”
Anger flooded me as well. As sore as he was, Norrington had no
right to deny Will his Best Man. He had given Jack a few days head
start at the end of the movie, after Jack had escaped from his own
hanging. Couldn't Norrington have given him a night's reprieve to
attend the engagement party of his best friend's son?
A sudden idea struck me.
“Which way to the Governor's house?”
Jack pointed listlessly. “But you don't want to be goin' there,
poppet. The party's there, savvy?”
I grinned and grabbed his wrist. “Exactly.”
=====
Jack and I traded our outer garments. He put on my cloak and I
shrugged my way into his oversized, smelly, dirty frock. It was a
pathetic attempt at a disguise, but at least he didn't look like
Captain Sparrow any more.
Jack pulled the hood up over his head and it covered his distinctive
dreadlocks.
His coat was huge on me, hanging well below my fingertips and I
rolled up the cuffs. Even though the coat wasn't actually designed
for it, I was small enough that I managed to button it up the front.
The collar was higher than I expected it to be, and it felt like I was
wearing priest's robes.
Jack told me stories as we walked towards the large house on the
hill, and occasionally I called him on his bullshit.
Mostly, I just enjoyed listening to him talk. He was a very good
storyteller. I'd always appreciated a good storyteller.
When we were almost there, a second idea struck me. We passed a
man sleeping on the ground, reeking of cheap wine and clutching a
battered violin. I slipped it stealthily out of his grasp and handed it
to Jack.
“I'm all for theft,” the pirate admitted, holding the violin carefully
and close. “But don't you think it a mite cruel to take the man's
livelihood away?”
I pulled five silver sickles from my pouch. “You reckon this will buy
him a new violin?”
Jack's eyes widened. “I reckon it'll buy him two.”
I slipped the money into the man's chest pocket and we were on our
way.
“That is strange coins,” Jack ventured. “Be it treasure from an
Indian tribe?”
I shook my head. “No, Captain, I won't tell you where I got it.”
He smiled to himself, as if to say, 'We'll see.'
We walked up to the gate and two guards confronted us. They were
navy men in their bright red dress uniforms. I got us passed them
with some quick lying and a little bit of the Vampiric mental razzledazzle. I couldn’t hypnotize people, but like Lucard, I just stared
at them and they stopped moving and did as I told them to.
After the guards went on their way, convinced that the piece of
paper from my pouch that I had flashed under their noses was
actually an invitation, Jack stopped gawping.
“I'll admit, I ain't never seen the likes of a trick such as that, lass.”
I winked at him, smiling, “And you probably never will again,
Captain.”
His made a face that was sort of a cross between a grimace and a
grin. “You play it close to the vest.”
“Only way to keep the game where I can see it.” I began to walk up
to the house, not waiting for Jack. He had to scramble to catch up.
When he did, he laid a hand on my arm. “We could use a lass of
your skills,” he said, and his voice sounded mildly impressed. “On
the Pearl, I mean.”
I laughed. “Thank you, but no, Captain. Like I said, I'm only passing
through.”
“Mores the pity,” he muttered softly and I could feel his eyes on my
breasts, visible through the fabric of his coat. “An' you c'n call me
Jack.”
I shook my head and chuckled. Jack was always after something. If
one thing was denied him, he'd always turn to another. I let it go
and walked up the lane towards the Governor's mansion. Every
window was awash in golden candlelight, and the strains of music
and laughter were coming from everywhere.
We were admitted at the servant's entrance under the pretence of
coming to join the orchestra. Upon my instructions, Jack presented
the violin and I told them I was the singer.
We were ushered inside. We left our outerwear in the hallway with
the other guest's cloaks and hats and whatnots. Jack and I snuck
upstairs when nobody was looking and 'borrowed' some clothing
from an empty servant's room. I slipped a skirt over my pants, and
threw a shawl over my shoulders. I put my Hogwarts robe back on to
sort of hide my mismatched outfit.
Jack borrowed a posh green livery and buttoned it tightly across his
chest to hide his wide pistol belt and dirty breeches. He pulled his
dreadlocks back into a tail and slipped his scarlet bandana into a
pocket. I even convinced him to wash his face in the basin by the
window.
He was still holding onto the violin, just in case.
We made our way back downstairs and he slipped his arm through
mine, 'escorting' me into the ballroom through the servant's
entrance. Three steps in I stopped and I gasped. The room was
sparkling with the light of a thousand candles refracting from the
crystals set in chandeliers. Everywhere women were dressed in
bright jewel-toned gowns. The men were just as smartly dressed.
Dress Navy uniforms circulated among the fops and aristocrats. Fans
fluttered, earrings danced, laughter floated on the air. Powdered
wigs twirled on the dance floor to the rhythm set by the clicking of
gilded heels.
This was like any Hollywood movie about the mid-1700s. If Jack
hadn't been on my arm, I would have wondered if I'd stumbled into
“Interview with the Vampire.”
I was glad I hadn't. I was pretty sick of Vampires right now.
The dance floor was filled with happy people, and in the middle of
the room I spotted the two happiest faces. They were practically
floating.
Elizabeth Swann and William Turner were turning in slow circles in
each other's arms, faces aglow.
“Ex'cuse me, love,” Jack said to me and cut through the dancers on
the floor like a goldfish through reeds.
I watched as he tapped Will's shoulder. My Vampiric hearing allowed
me to eavesdrop over the din of the conversation and the strains of
the orchestra:
“May I cut in?” Jack asked, and Will turned to frown at him.
Recognition, like lightning, danced across the boy's face and he
grinned, hissing,
“Jack?”
The pirate smiled. “That I am.”
Elizabeth laughed. “If the Commodore finds you here…”
Jack shook his head. “I'm cleverly disguised, savvy? Washed me
face.” Will grinned and turned his bride over to his best man. Jack
handed him the battered violin and pointed at me. “Go be a mate
and keep me girl happy, eh?”
Will's brown eyes got wide as he stared at me. “Your girl? The one
with the… short hair?”
Jack nodded. “An find out where she got them coins, mm? Can't
seem to get her to fall for the old Jack charm.”
Will shook his head, laughing and headed over. He was stopped a
few times by well-wishers, but I stayed where I was to make it easy
for him. He bowed to me and kissed my hand and I attempted a
curtsey, hoping I didn't look too foolish.
“William Turner,” he said, tucking the violin under one arm.
“Marie,” I answered, introducing myself in return. “And I'm not
Jack's girl.”
Will frowned slightly. “Ah. I, uh… Just Marie?”
I shrugged. “For now.”
His eyes were drawn to my short hair and he said, hesitantly, “May I
ask… Miss Marie… your hair?”
“Horrible sea-turtle roping accident,” I dead-panned.
He blinked, chuckled slightly as if not sure whether or not to
believe me, and let it slide.
I think he was about to ask more when someone came up to me and
tapped me hard on the shoulder. I scowled at the person, then
realized it was the servant I had told I was the singer.
He was frowning. Will looked at me, expression puzzled.
“Excuse me, sir,” the servant said to Will and dragged me away.
“You have not been paid to bother the guests,” he hissed at my
primly. “You are here to sing.”
I smirked. “I haven't been paid.”
The scowled and pointed at the leader of the orchestra. He was
conducting, still, but was watching us carefully under his white wig.
“He is waiting, Miss.”
I swallowed.
Wait, me… sing? Actually do it?
In front of … everyone?
Okay, theatre student though I may be, singing, completely
unprepared, in front of a whole ballroom full of nobles and snobs?
I cut a look at Jack, who was laughing at my predicament.
Oh, fine repayment for getting him in here.
“Yes, alright,” I said to the man. “One moment.”
I made my way to Jack and whispered in his ear. “Just one song. I'll
be leaving after this.”
“Leaving?” he whispered. “Where shall we go, lovely?”
I shook my head. “Just me, Jack. Just passing through, remember?”
He frowned slightly. For a moment it appeared as if he was going to
say something, but he just stood there, looking at me and chewing
on his moustache. Finally, he said, “Then my thanks for getting' me
in to see Bootstrap's boy.”
“My pleasure. I had fun.”
“You come see me when you're ready to be a pirate.”
“I will Captain.”
“'Cause that trick o' yers--”
I cut him off with a giggle. “I will, Captain, I promise. When I'm
ready to turn to piracy, I won't join any other crew but the Pearl.”
Jack nodded. He reached up and pulled on the thin silver coin tied
to the end of the dreadlock that usually hung over his forehead.
“Trade you this for one of your copper ones?”
I laughed. “Okay, fine.” I handed over a knut. He gave me the coin
from his hair, then one from his pocket. I added a sickle and he was
more than pleased.
“Gimmie a good-luck kiss?” he pushed and I raised my eyebrows at
him. “ 'S good luck to kiss a pirate.”
I hesitated. Then I thought, what the hell - when would there be
another chance to kiss Captain Jack Sparrow?
Elizabeth looked appalled, and I didn't hear Will return to her side,
but he was there when I finally pulled away from Jack. His mouth
tasted like rum and sea-water and his beard and moustache were
scratchy, but in a nice way. His mouth dangled open, sexy and
wanting and... hot. It was lovely and sent little tingles to all the
wrong places. Like my eyeteeth.
Wow - Jean-Claude, Sirius Black, Jason, and now Jack.
I was going to have to start keeping a little black book.
I reached up and pulled a few hairs from Jack's head and he yipped
in pain. “Souvenir! Well worth the difference for the sickle!” I
laughed in my defence. I wanted it for the next batch of potion.
Because, maybe one day I would want to turn pirate.
I was starting quite the collection.
I slipped the hairs into my pouch, thanked Jack, Will, and Elizabeth
for a wonderful evening and gave them my congratulations and good
wishes on their upcoming marriage.
Taking a deep breath, I turned towards the slightly raised platform
that the orchestra was set up on. The conductor was frowning at me.
I guess it was time to hurry up.
I knew what I was going to do, knew that using the potion so soon
after my last slide may make me feel sick, but I was willing to risk it
for the fantastic exit. Theatre people are nothing if not dramatic.
Still… I couldn't believe I was doing this.
I pulled and unkeyed phial from my pouch as a walked and tucked it
discreetly in my palm. I approached the conductor and he sneered,
“Well? What will it be?”
“Mind if I go a capella?” I asked in a whisper. He raised his eyebrows
but nodded. The players put down their bows and mouthpieces and
watched expectantly. The room fell silent at the cessation of
playing and I felt all eyes on me.
I turned to the crowd and gave them my best smile. I was nervous
as hell and wondering what in God's name I was doing, but I was
going to do it anyway. I'm an actor… sort of. I could fake it.
“To the affianced!” I called out into the hall. It was a cheap way of
testing the acoustics, a trick someone taught me the last time I had
been asked to give an impromptu performance at a public gathering.
Shout at the crowd, talk to them, tell a joke, anything. Get a feel
for the sound of the room before singing - that way you know what
kind of volume and emphasis would be required. “May your years be
filled with joy and adventure! Savvy?”
The three people in the know broke out into peals of laugher.
I caught Norrington out of the corner of my eye, frowning and
studying me. His eyes flicked over the crowd and lit with a deep
scowl on Jack. He began to cut across the room, so to distract him,
I decided to start.
I took a deep breath and launched into the song before I could
chicken out. It wasn't exactly the most appropriate to an
engagement party, but it seemed to fit the mood.
And it was easy to stay on key.
Think of me,
Think of me fondly, when we've said good-bye!
I sang tenderly, one hand out to Norrington, to make it clear I was
singing directly to him. The ploy worked and he stopped, confused
to be directly addressed.
Remember me,
Every so often,
Promise me, you'll try!
When you find
That once again you long
To take your heart back and be free...
If you ever find a moment,
Spare a thought for me!
I winked at Jack.
Think of August,
When the trees were green.
Don't think about the way
Things Might Have Been.
Think of me!
Think of me waking, silent and resigned!
Imagine me,
Trying too hard to put you from my mind!
Recall those days,
Look back on all those times,
Think of the things we'll never do!
There will never be a day
When I
Won't
Think
I raised the phial above my head.
Jack slipped out of a side door.
Norrington went after him, muttering, “To the ends of the earth if I
have to...”
Of
You…!
And dropped it.
=====
The light and crack were familiar by now, but the accompanying
violent wave of nausea was not.
I collapsed to the ground, head swimming, clutching my middle. I
felt like I was going to be sick.
Snape had been right.
Damn.
I closed my eyes and braced my hands against the stones, taking
deep breaths to try to calm my nervous stomach and muscles. I
hadn't fed all night. I'd never gotten the chance. That made my
veins burn even more. I pressed my hot forehead to the cool damp
paving stones below me.
Someone was standing over me suddenly, wide skirts brushing
against my hands. I looked up and made out a pale face against a
grey, dripping sky. She looked concerned.
“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, êtes-vous correcte?” she said, and I
blinked stupidly at her.
French.
Perfect.
I suppose I had been lucky to land in English-speaking fandoms thus
far. Of course, my luck couldn't have held out. I wanted to shake
my head, but any movement made the world tilt dangerously.
I felt drunk, the bad drunk, worse than Anita's magic had made me
feel. That had given me a one-in-the-morning-still-ready-for-morebuzz. This was the four-in-the-morning-icky-kind-of-drunk.
“Êtes-vous blessé?" The girl held out a gloved hand for me. She had
delicate fingers. A lock of golden hair fell over her forehead. “Avezvous glissé sur les pierres? Il vient de pleuvoir."
“Desole,” I said in a flat, bad-high school accent. “Je suis…
Anglais.”
The girl smiled brilliantly, and I took her hand. She helped me to
my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that the world would
stop spinning.
“Venez, venez avec moi à l'intérieur. Mon anglais n'est pas si bon.
Maman va nous aider." We began to walk towards a colossal building
with a grand edifice and gothic angels perched round the top.
It looked annoyingly familiar, but I couldn't figure out from where.
Somewhere… something in Paris?
I must have passed out on the stairs.
I don't remember walking inside.
Book Five: Phantom of the Opera
Chapter Thirteen: “Angel”
I woke up lying on a fainting couch. Marvel at the appropriateness
of the name.
Yes, more unfamiliar ceilings. I guess this was just my lot in unlife.
I put a hand to my forehead and sat up slowly. Around me was a
knot of giggling girls with their various shades of hair pulled back
into rigid buns. They ranged from age ten to twenty, it looked like,
and they were all in white leotards, point shoes, and limp rehearsal
tutus.
“Mademoiselle?” one of them said, “Ca va?”
I shook my head. She was asking me if I felt alright and I certainly
didn't. I was starving. The rushing wave of vertigo and nausea had
passed, but I could smell the blood under her skin. I could see it
jumping in the big vein on the side of her neck. I could hear it in
the chambers of her heart… I could almost taste it on my tongue if I
just…strained forward…enough…
I caught myself before I could sit up and forced my own blood to
hush.
Soon, soon.
If I didn't feed soon, I would attack somebody.
“Viens,” she said to one of the other. “Cherchez Maman.”
The other ballerina bustled off to find 'Maman'. I shivered and a
blanket was dropped around my shoulders by the smiling blonde girl.
“Je m'appelle Meg Giry,” she said gently.
I blinked stupidly. I heard her words but they didn't sink in. I was
too distracted by the smell of her ... think and sweet and oh, so
refreshing.
No, I was stronger than this.
I would be stronger than this.
I was not an animal, to feed my base instincts wherever and
whenever they arose. I was no beast, no monster. I was a person
and I could control myself.
I concentrated, instead, on the girl's face, on her blue eyes and her
blithe smile.
I reminded myself that she was human. She was not prey.
But I knew her name. I was certain I'd heard it before…
An older woman, iron-grey hair also in a rigid bun, neck and back
straight as a ramrod, came into the room. Here mere presence
scattered the ballerinas like Moses before the Red Sea.
“Are you well?” she asked me in heavily accented English. The
accent sounded part French and part Irish. She sat on the chaise
beside me and pressed a hot hand against my brow. “You're still
very cold.”
I pulled away. I didn't want her to realize that was always cold, and
that now, with my stomach empty, I was clammy. She didn't need
to know I was a corpse.
And I didn't want her so temptingly close.
I was freezing. I tried to huddle under the blanket, but the ice was
in my stomach, around my heart, in my veins. The blanket did
nothing. It was uncomfortable and was making me both agitated
and sleepy. The warm press of the ballerina's bodies was becoming
more than I could bear. I tucked my feet under the blanket, sitting
lotus-style.
I would lash out soon.
I grabbed my ankles, digging my fingernails into my flesh. The pain
helped my head clear a little.
I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. “I'm fine. Just… the people…”
The woman waved a hand and the tittering girls dispersed,
bemoaning their ill-luck for being cast out of the room and starting
to tell stories about where I must have come from already. I waited
until their voices faded from the hall and then looked around. The
girl who had introduced herself as Meg was sitting in a chair to the
side, watching me worriedly. She had thrown a dark cloak over her
rehearsal garb. The older woman, 'Maman' and so probably her
mother, was watching me carefully.
“Did you hit your head?” she asked gently.
“No,” I said softly, then, “Maybe. I don't know.”
“Je pense qu'elle a tombé, Maman.”
Madam Giry turned her eyes back to my face. “Have you hurt an
ankle? Your knee?”
“I really am fine. I was just careless, Madam,” I said. “The stones
were slick, and I was running.”
Madam Giry raised an eyebrow at this and ran her eyes over my
wardrobe. My Hogwarts outer-robe was hanging off the back of a
chair nearby. I was wearing the skirts and shawl I'd stolen from the
Swann house over the black leather pants Jean-Claude had given me
and a thick red turtleneck I had borrowed during my month at
Hogwarts. My soft brown leather ankle boots were sitting on the rug
next to the chaise.
Discreetly, I slipped a hand under the shawl. I checked to see if my
pouch was still there, under my shirt, and was relieved to find it so.
I must have been quite the sight.
“I'm sorry, where am I?” I said, pulling her gaze back to my face.
“The Opera House,” Madam Giry supplied, and said something
quickly to her daughter in French. The girl nodded and left the
room. “My daughter found you on the ground by the steps. Are you
sure you are well?”
“Yes, I'm fine,” I lied. I needed to get outside, soon. I needed to
find a pick-pocket or a cut-throat or a pimp. I needed to feed.
God, I wished she'd stop touching me. It just made it harder. It
made her too close.
Too damn close.
“Your clothing is strange,” she finally said, voicing what I knew she
had to have been thinking. “As is your accent. Where are you
from?”
“Um, America,” I lied. Well, no really I was from North America, so
it wasn't a total lie. “I, uh, appreciate your help, Madam, but I
really do have to go, now.”
“Oh, no, I can't possibly allow that,” Giry said, shaking her head.
“Our hospitality is better than that. You will remain here until your
chaperone comes for you.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. My chaperone? Right, 1800s Paris,
young women weren't allowed out alone. Bugger. “I can just take a
hansom cab home, it's really all right.”
Giry raised a sceptical eyebrow at me. “With what money? Your
purse has been taken, or Meg couldn't find one on you.”
I cursed under my breath. Of course, I couldn't pay a cab with paper
pounds or wizarding money, and that was all I had. I thought for a
moment.
I couldn't slide away, either. I'd used my last phial to come here.
Somehow I was going to have to find somewhere I could stay for a
month to brew the potion. I could go back to Hogwarts and ask
Snape for more, I had a phial for that - but I didn't want to be
dependant on him, on them.
I was going to get home on my own.
Besides, he said that I'd be back to beg more from him, and I didn't
want to prove the greasy-haired bastard right.
If I could find a way to get Madam Giry to take me in for the month,
then I could stay at her flat and brew the potion there, away from
prying eyes, away from brigands and robbers and…people. But she
would see me doing it, pry, or worse, ruin it.
She could throw it out - over boil it… eat it. Any number of things.
And then I would have to start all over.
This was so frustrating.
I longed, suddenly, for Snape's damp and drafty dungeon potions lab,
where the worst thing that may happen is Harry asking what it was,
or the new Potions guy tossing it.
Or, I could maybe, then…. or… no, the idea was absurd but… but it
could work.
This had to be the Paris Opera House, Garnier's Masterpiece. I knew
that there were any number of empty rooms, abandoned attics, and
at least five stories below the stage level of chambers, fly houses,
prop rooms, not to mention the lake. I could work in any one of
those places, spend the days there, feed from the criminals in the
streets, and steal the ingredients from shops and from the kitchens
of the Opera House itself.
All I needed was for Giry to leave me long enough to vanish into the
shadows.
And vanish I could.
There was a legend of a Phantom haunting the Opera House.
For a month, just for as long as it took for the Lady Moon to change
her face, I figured… they could be true.
Meg Giry returned, carrying a plain cotton dress in light blue, with
darker blue stripes. “You may borrow this, Mademoiselle,” her
mother explained to me. “It will be more fitting for you.”
I thanked them and asked them politely to leave the room as I
changed. I had no bloody clue how to put on the dress, but it wasn't
for modesty's sake that I asked for privacy. I noticed a window,
small but open, to one side of the room and I intended to transform
into my bat shape and sneak out it.
I was starving.
Madam Giry called me silly - no girl could possibly dress on her own
- and instead proceeded to attack my stolen skirt herself. I wriggled
out of my clothing fast, folding the parts I wanted to keep - the
leather pants, the turtleneck - and putting them on the chair with
my robe.
Dammit, I was never going to get to eat!
I held still as they forced me, tied me, buttoned me and suffocated
me. When I looked up at myself in the mirror, I saw a surprisingly
pale girl with fever-flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and short
reddish-dark hair badly in need of a hairbrush.
I was also slightly shocked at my reflection. I couldn't remember if
Lucard-style Vampires could been seen in mirrors. Obviously, I could.
When I was finished, I confessed that I wished to check the street in
hopes of finding my purse again, and Meg was more than happy to
escort me outside. I lost her quickly and found a pimp with bad
street French even faster. He was a quick meal in the alleyway and
I returned scant minutes later to Meg with a warmed core and a
fake frown.
We admitted to being unable to find my purse, and returned inside,
getting out of the rain. I went with Meg back into the dressing room
and we were surrounded once more in the waves of ballerinas. I was
told that I could remain in the dressing room until someone had
managed to locate my family or my chaperone and let him know
where I was.
No one had the presence of mind to ask me where they were. I
would have lied about a place, a house, but they assumed my family
was at a hotel and had sent someone out to check the nearby ones
already.
Eventually the girls all went to rehearsal, and I was left alone in the
room, staring at myself in the many mirrors and wondering what to
do. Now would be the perfect time to take off, but if I vanished,
would there be an all-out-search to find me? If they did search and
they did find me, then I may never manage to brew the potion in
peace and escape.
If I waited, then I may be given an apartment where I could brew
the potion in relative privacy, but if I did that, how long would I be
waiting and would I get the privacy required?
Too many damn questions!
It was all so frustrating to think about and I wished I had stayed in
Port Royal after all. I had been afraid of being arrested for piracy,
but now I had to deal with gossipy, meddlesome ballerinas.
I wasn't entirely sure which was worse.
The sudden waft of the scent of a person filled my nose and I
paused in my self-pitying internal diatribe to try to locate the
source. It smelled male, his clothing slightly damp and smelling of
wet wool. But no one had come in the door and I didn't hear any
one's breathing or heartbeats out in the hall.
Where was it coming from?
Suddenly feeling as if I was being watched, I carefully and casually
turned my head. I picked up a hairbrush and began to attack my
rain-tangled locks to mask the head movements I was making to try
to angle my ears in the right direction, moving my head back and
forth to try to hear the heartbeat of the person I smelt.
There.
At the far end of the room.
Behind the… the large, full-sized mirror?
It took everything I had not to gasp and drop the hairbrush.
So, there really was a Phantom of the Opera!
I smiled to myself. Well, this just might solve all of my problems. If
there was a Phantom, then there was a Phantom's lair… the perfect
place to gather ingredients and brew my potion and do it in relative
comfort in a place where no one would find me.
I just had to convince him of that.
“Why in the world are you there hiding?”
I sang softly to the tune of Webber's “Angel of Music.” I figured the
best way to get Erik's attention was to sing. I may not be the best of
the best, but I could carry a tune and I knew that he would listen to
me if I sang.
“Really, you are perfect.
I only wish we shared your secret.
Who are you, strange tutor?
Flattering child though I may be,
I know in shadow you hide.
I see your face in the mirror You are there, inside.
Angel of Music,
Guide and Guardian ---ack!”
A thin wire was pressed up against my throat, pushing against my
vocal chords, being pulled from behind. There were two strong,
black-gloved hands on either side of my face, pulling on the
garrotte.
The fucker was trying to strangle me!
He must not have liked the idea that I knew where he was. Oops that's me and my too-blunt-ness again. I shifted my head a bit to
bring the pressure off my voice box so I could speak.
“You know,” I said casually, carefully measuring out the breath
required to speak. I wouldn't be able to suck any more in. “That
only works if your victim needs to breathe.”
The wire was lifted away and I turned in my seat, knees crossed and
a smile on my lips, to look up at the stunned eyes of the Phantom
through his mask.
“Bon soir, Messier Le Fantome,” I said softly. “I have a proposition
for you. Tell me, do you know what a pomme du sang is?”
Book Five: Phantom of the Opera
Chapter Fourteen: “Phantom”
The eyes behind the mask stared at me. I felt the garrotte wire slip
away and with a deft hand movement, watched as it vanished into a
pocket. I heard the hissing silver sound of a knife being drawn from
its sheath and though I couldn't see the weapon, I assumed he had it
clutched in the hand hidden by the folds of his cloak.
“Stabbing me won't work either,” I said softly. His only response
was to blink. “Look, Messieur,” I said, “I have no intention of
ousting you to the managers or the police. I am actually in need of
your aid.”
“My… aid?” he said softly and I felt a shiver travel up my spine. The
Phantom's voice was special. Not like Jean-Claude's voice had been
special: Jean-Claude had the power to physically touch someone
with his voice. The Phantom's voice sounded like music. He had
spoken, but his voice was still pure music. To my sensitive ears, it
was like hot honey and cinnamon. “Why would an American child
need my aid?”
I frowned at him. “I am neither American nor a child.”
He seemed to ponder this, and then asked, “What is it you wish to
ask of me?”
My hands knotted in my lap. This request was a gamble. He always
did this for people in Mary Sues, but it was so out of character for
him to acquiesce that I wasn’t sure which version of his answer
would win out – the Mary Sue or the Truth.
“I need somewhere to stay for a month,” I said, taking the gamble
anyway.
The Phantom scowled. “Then take a room in a hotel. I do not take
in charity cases.”
“Normally, I would do that,” I said, “but I have no money and
nothing to trade. Besides, I need to somewhere where… the police
cannot find me.”
He chuckled. “Why, my dear… what crime have you committed that
you seek refuge in the Opera House?”
“None,” I spat. “…yet. Look, I need solitude in order to … to create
a … something special and suspicious. I swear to you that it will not
harm you or anyone here. But I can't be found by any sort of
authority.”
“And if I allow you to take a place in the dark corners of my Opera,
what will you give me in return?”
I gestured to the mirror behind me and concentrated on having no
reflection. I knew I had succeeded when I heard him gasp. “Some of
the best scares you've ever done. They say you're a real ghost,
Messieur Le Fantom. I can make it seem like it.”
He continued to stare at the mirror but shook his head. “No, I am …
it is incredible… but I am too busy for such childish things as this.”
“Too busy?”
“I am writing an Opera.”
I smiled. “Don Juan Triumphant.”
His eyes snapped back to my face. His voice was raw and dissonant
when he asked, “How did you know?”
“Perhaps, if you help me, I'll tell you.”
He fell silent, regarding me carefully from behind his mask. I was
dangling an awfully tempting carrot in front of his nose. The
Phantom's life depended on solitude and secrecy - obviously,
somehow, I had invaded both and he would be keen to find out how
and why.
Finally he said, “Very well. But if you betray me, if my lair is found
or I am hunted, I will find a way to kill you.” He turned towards the
full-length mirror.
“A wooden stake through the heart.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder at me. “I beg your pardon?”
I stood slowly to follow him, “To kill one of my kind, you must
pierce my heart with a weapon made of wood.”
“And why do you tell me this?”
“So it's fair. I know your darkest secrets. Now you know one of mine.
Hopefully we can learn to trust each other.”
“Trust each other?” the Phantom echoed softly. “Trust is for the
weak.”
He turned on his heel in a swirl of black cloak and vanished into the
looking glass. I sighed, picked up the bundle of my folded clothes,
and followed.
=====
“Oh, much better!” I sighed, stretching. I had used the guest
bedroom to change out of that damnable 'respectable' dress and
corset into my leather pants, Hogwarts cloak, and red turtleneck.
From the stool in front of his organ, the Phantom regarded me
disdainfully. He was in his shirtsleeves. “Respectable ladies should
not dress in such garments,” he said.
I smiled winningly at him. “I'm hardly a respectable lady.” I sat
down on a low stool by his Organ.
The Phantom's Lair was like a cosy, overly cushioned house.
Although the house open to the lake in the Gerard Butler movie was
dramatic, it was eminently impractical. My host had built an actual
house, walls and all, on the far side of the lake. It was long, with
one room spilling off the back of another.
A Siamese cat with a diamond collar rubbed against my knee and I
reached down to pet it. The cat's fur stood up and she pressed her
ears back. Okay - so she was allowed to touch me, but I wasn't
allowed to touch her. I dropped my hand back into my lap and she
resumed scent-marking me.
If the Phantom had a cat, then this had to be Susan Kaye's Phantom:
A Novel Of His Life.
The Phantom turned on the stool to watch me. “No, indeed you are
not a respectable lady. What are you?”
I shrugged. “I am a traveler from… very far away.”
“And you are not human?”
“Why would you say that?”
His hands flexed once on his knees, curling slowly into fists. “I could
not throttle you.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, rubbing my neck gingerly, “that”. I shook my
head. “That's why Ayesha doesn't like me much.”
The regarded me carefully. “You know my cat's name. You know the
name of my Opera. You knew when I was behind the mirror. How do
you know these things?”
I smiled gently. “I'm sure you won't believe the full truth, so let's
just say that I've been paying attention.”
“That is not good enough.”
I sat forward and steepled my fingers. “As you have so candidly
pointed out, Messieur, I'm not human. My hearing happens to be
very good - I've overheard conversations. I could hear you breathing
behind the mirror and I heard what you called your cat when you
entered the house.”
“And the name of my Opera?”
I sat back and told a little white lie: “The acoustics of this area are
beautiful - I've heard strains of the music coming out of the drains
nearby. That caught my attention, and that is partially why I want
to lodge with you. You're interesting.”
He frowned, obviously not pleased with my answer, and turned back
to the Organ. Well, what was I going to say? 'I've read a book about
you and I know that even though you are desperately in love with
Christine you're going to be killed anyway in about six months.'
Ri-ight.
He began to pound out some chords, then stopped. “I don't want
you watching me.”
I nodded and stood. “It's nearly sunset,” I said, “Now that I've been
down here, I can find my way back. I'm going to start collecting
supplies.”
“For this suspicious thing you are making?”
I nodded.
He turned back to the organ and began to play again. I knew when I
was dismissed.
=====
I roamed the streets of Paris and the setting sun turned the sky to
flame.
I was looking for a pot or something that would serve as a cauldron.
I could force a spigot into the base of it with my Vampiric strength,
but I had to find one of those first, too.
I didn't want to steal one from a poor family, because it would
probably be the only one they had. But stealing from a poor family's
house would be easier than trying to break into a rich person's.
I was debating this dilemma when I came to the banks of the Seine.
There were piles of discarded appliances and pots, rotted boards, a
broken and rusty bicycle, and other sorts of treasures. An
impromptu junk yard to most, and a lucky day for me.
I was finally rewarded by finding twisted hunk of metal by the river.
It had once been a chamber pot or something of that persuasion. I
rinsed it out in the water of the Seine and banged the dents out of
it. Yes, it would do. I rummaged around in the trash some more
until I found a discarded, rusty sheet of metal I could clamp down
over the pot as a lid.
The spigot would be harder, so I kept searching for a tube or
another strip of metal I could bend into one.
When the time came for the needle, the corks and the phials, I
figured I could pilfer some from the Hotel Dieu, the Parisian
hospital.
So intent on pawing through the trash was I that I totally missed the
sound of footfalls coming up behind me. Something blunt struck the
back of my head and I went sprawling forward into the damp grass
and dirt.
I cussed and rolled over. Above me stood several hooligans with
bats and knives.
One spat to the side and sneered at me. “Your money or your life,
boy.”
I sat up slowly, rubbing the tender spot on the back of my head.
The pain was fading, but my head was throbbing from the hit.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my hand to use it to lever myself to my
feet carefully. “I don't have either.”
Another one frowned. “Huh?”
“I have neither money, nor a life,” I said, frowning around at them,
“and I'm not a boy either.”
Eyes widened. “A bit 'o skirt oos playing dress up?”
I shook my head. “Fuck off, guys. I'm busy.”
They laughed. Then they started to move closer.
Aw, hell.
I skipped backwards a few steps, then paused. Hey - how was it that
I understood them?
“What language am I speaking?” I asked and they stopped advancing.
“French, ya daft nit.”
“Hm,” I nodded. Yeah, I was, wasn't I? But how was this possible?
My French wasn't this good. I cast my mind back - when had I
started to understand? After Meg and I had come back from
'searching for my purse'. So, after I had eaten that pimp.
I drank his blood and now I could speak French.
I thought about it, ignoring the hooligans what were advancing on
me. If I had learned to speak French just by snacking on the street
punk, then… then that explained why I could perform magic. I'd
drunk the blood of a Wizard. Maybe why my sense of smell was so
keen, as I’d fed from two different werewolves.
Well, that was a nice and tidy revelation.
Probably be useful… sometime.
I felt filthy hands grab my arm and I flung the hoodlum aside. He
wailed until he hit the ground, and then lay still and quiet. For a
second I feared I'd killed him, but I could still hear his heart beat,
and over that, his pathetic mewling.
“I just busted your buddy's ribs,” I said to the others. I had heard
the crack as he'd landed. Maybe they had, too. They had backed up
and were staring at me like I was some kind of monster. I guess I
was. “You better get him to the hospital.”
There was a tense moment of inaction, then energy burst out of the
thieves and they ran. One had the courtesy to stop long enough to
scoop up his friend.
I smiled, shrugged, and went back to my scavenging.
=====
When I returned to the Lair, it was well after midnight.
I could hear the Phantom's deep breathing in the furthest room as I
carefully set my packages down on the floor of his kitchen. He was
asleep. I had found a broken faucet to use as a spigot, and had
managed to collect up most of the ingredients for the potion.
I was just missing morning dew, but I could go outside and collect
that in a cup in a few hours.
I prowled around silently, trying to find a cutting board and a knife
to start shredding the butterfly wings and dandelion roots while I
was waiting, and was startled to hear the Phantom wake up.
He came into the kitchen swathed in some sort of dark robe. He'd
slipped on his mask. I guess he wasn't comfortable enough to let me
see him without it, and I didn't mind.
“Sorry I woke you up,” I said softly. “This can wait until morning.”
He shook his head. “I need very little sleep, as it is.”
He hesitated by the doorway and I said, “Come in and watch if you
want.” I found no knife, so I reached into my pouch and pulled out
the silver one Remus had given me. It wasn't meant as a veggieshredder, but anything in a pinch.
The Phantom walked over to the table I was working at and
watched for a moment. “That is a beautiful dagger.”
“It was a gift from a … a teacher.”
There was another long silence, and he asked. “What is a pomme du
sang?”
“Huh?”
“You asked if I knew what a pomme du sang was, but did not tell
me what it was when I did not know.”
I shrugged. “It's pretty much what it sounds like - a Blood Apple. It's
someone who willingly lets a Vampire feed off them. But, it's sort of
a deal. You provide a risk-free, secure meal, they promise not to
hurt or kill you in the process. And feeding can sometimes feel…
uh… really good, so you know, both sides win.”
The Phantom sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the table.
His eyes were glittering with curiosity. “You are telling me that you
are a Vampire, then?”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He shook his head. “How strange.”
“Stranger than some guy living in the basement of an Opera with a
voice so good it's damn near preternatural?” I paused in my
chopping to meet his eyes. He looked away. “Yeah-huh.” I started
chopping again.
“You want to feed from me, then?”
I shrugged. “Nope. Not unless you want me to. Otherwise, I can go
find a cutthroat later tonight. I'm starting to get chilly.”
“Chilly?” he repeated, and his one visible eyebrow rose.
“Yes, when I don't feed I get cold, Messieur Le… oh, bugger it, can I
call you Erik?”
He sat back. “You know my Christian name as well, Mademoiselle.
You are indeed a puzzle.”
“Look, call me Marie.”
One corner of his lips twitched upwards. “Then you may call me
Erik.”
I turned back to my work. “Yeah, I'm a big fat puzzle. I'm so puzzley
that even I don't know everything about myself yet. You hear this
French I'm speaking?” I pointed to my mouth with the tip of the
knife. He nodded, bemused. “I couldn't do that a few hours ago. I
drank the blood of a rascal and now I can speak French. Go figure.”
“You were not aware that you had this ability?”
“No frickkin' clue. Yeah, the guy who did this to me - not big on the
sharing of information.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Yeah - he was sort of more focused on finishing the job than
helping me learn the ropes.”
The thought made me angry and I ended up slicing too hard. The
knife got away from me and I accidentally drew it across my
knuckles. I cussed and dropped the knife and ran over to the sink.
Blood ran over my skin, welling up from an erratic, deep cut.
“Jesus fucking Christ on a piece of toast!” I said and just let myself
bleed.
Erik rose to his feet and reached for a towel.
“Don't ruin your towels on account of me,” I said as he began to
approach with one. “It'll heal over soon. I'm fine. Did I get blood on
anything?”
He stopped and held the towel in his hands, as if considering the
truthfulness of my words. The blood flow wasn't slowing just yet,
and my whole arm was starting to feel numb. The cut itself tingled,
the pain lasting longer than it had when I had fallen in Harry Potter.
Perhaps the cut was taking a while to heal because my knife was
made partially of silver? That was a disturbing thought - I'd have to
make certain not to cut myself again if it was the case.
Erik's eyes skipped over the things laid out on the table, then turned
back to me. “It appears not,” he said. “I believe your…
ingredients… were not soiled.”
“Good,” I said. “I'd have to start all over again if they were.” I
looked down at my hand. “Ah, there we go.”
The blood flow had finally stopped. I poured some cold water over
the cut to rinse away the residue, and watched with sickened
fascination as my skin knit together, healing over the cut in a thin
white line of scar tissue.
Within minutes I knew the scar tissue itself would fade, and my
hand would be left as clear and as whole as it was before I had cut
it.
Erik was watching the process too.
“That is… unnatural,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” I agreed, holding my hand away from me as if it was a giant
pale spider, “Yeah, it is.”
=====
We got to know each other for a few hours, Erik watching me cut,
slice, burn, chop, cuss and growl without ever offering help. I didn't
want help, anyway, and he seemed too…well, not annoyed by my
presence, but I was definitely a chore, a burden.
Nothing more was said about my particular physiological condition. I
suspected that he had seen enough for one night.
About a half an hour before dawn I went out to collect dew from
the flowers in the planters by the doors of the Opera. Erik had
vanished into the corners of the building already, to go spy on
people, write his notes, or whatever else it was that Phantoms did
at the ass-crack of dawn.
I felt the hunger gnawing at my gut and decided that I had just
enough time before sunset to go pick off a meal. My meal was
waiting for me in a nearby alley, a different kind of thief this time,
one with a flashing knife and a crushing grip. His breath stank and
he was filthy. There was a brief struggle. I ended it quickly by
sinking fang into his neck, but he left me quite a nasty token of his
hatred. Even as I swallowed his thin blood, blood of my own trickled
down my face from the open gash his knife had cut on my cheek
and nose.
By the time I'd had my fill the cut was healed and gone. His knife
had been made of cheap steel.
I scrubbed the dried blood off my face and let the unconscious man
slump to the dirty alley floor. I had yet to be so thirsty as to kill a
human being as I fed from them, and was always careful to never
take more than six or seven good swallows. I hoped I never killed.
I went back inside with my cup of dew, warm and sated and feeling
rather cheery. I wandered around the foyer for a few minutes,
admiring the statues and the marble work, before donning my bat
shape. I gripped the cup between my toes and flew down the secret
passageways and over the lake to Erik's house.
When I got there, I could hear the organ pounding away.
Erik was working violently on his Opera.
I set the cup down in the kitchen and plopped down on the table
myself. My little batty wings were killing me - bats were not meant
to be beasts of burden. There was a yowling hiss and Ayesha the
Siamese cat sprang upon to the table and made to swipe at me.
I screamed and flapped backwards, tumbling off the table. I landed
on my human arse on the floor.
“Mademoiselle Marie?” Erik's voice rumbled out, and I turned my
head to find him standing in the kitchen door. I wondered how
much of that he'd seen. From the ghostly pallor of his face, I'd say
all of it. “Are you… well?”
I stood and moved to pet the cat but she snarled at me and took off.
“My dignity's hurt more than me,” I said.
Erik hovered by the door, silent but thinking. “That bat… was you?”
“Yes.”
He frowned again. “I followed you outside.”
I stopped puttering around with the cauldron and turned to look at
him. “Oh?”
“I saw… your eyes. Your teeth. You… drank the blood of a man.”
“…yes.”
“You killed him.”
“No.”
“You… gave him this pleasure that you spoke of earlier?”
“…no. I only do that for people I like.”
Erik nodded to himself, and without another word left the room. In
a few minutes I could hear the organ again. It took me a few
moments, but I recognized the melody.
Past the point of no return,
I sang along softly from the kitchen.
“No backward glances.
The bridge is crossed
So stand, and watch it burn…”
Yeah, I thought. I'm surrounded by burning bridges.
Book Five: The Phantom of the Opera
Part Fifteen: “Blood”
For the next week, I stayed out of Erik's hair, and he stayed out of
mine. I always thought I'd held a rather romantic opinion of the
Phantom of the Opera - somewhere deep inside I'd always wanted to
believe that he was really kind, wise, and tender. The way he
acted around animals and Mary Sues.
The real Phantom was very different.
Erik was a singularly unpleasant man. He was gruff, opinionated,
and took no care to be easy on the feelings of anyone but
Mademoiselle Christine and his damnable cat.
Granted, I was imposing on his space, so I had a lot of nerve
expecting him to be a generous host. But still!
Mostly he pounded on his organ during the day and spied on the
rehearsals above during the evening. While he was skulking about
the Opera House, mooning over his lovely ingenuous (and Mr.
Webber has clearly forgotten to mention that Erik is old enough to
be her father), I was in the kitchen, doing the hour or so of work
each night required for the potion.
At night, when he slept, I stalked the streets for dinner and
entertainment. I managed to ghost my way into the Hotel Dieu and
take the medical supplies I needed - needles, tubes, phials and
corks - and found a lovely café where an engaging group of young
men with grand idealistic designs spoke passionately at a table by
the fire. They drank and made love even more passionately.
I eavesdropped and laughed along with the young men, but
something inside kept me from joining them.
Their life sparkled in their eyes - warm blood coloured their cheeks,
and for the first time since the whole mess began I felt…dead.
I sat near the men and drank up their vitality as I drank blood. The
warmth of their youth kept off the chill for many nights, and I
suppose when one was to see me looking at them, one would see
longing on my face.
The young men - boys, really - always left the tavern with a new
wench on their arms, and more than once I was sorely tempted to
be that wench. If their drinking and laughter was this passionate,
how must their lovemaking be?
But I was too shy, still. Too afraid of myself and what I could do.
And couldn't do. I had never slept with a boy before, and I was
scared.
I didn't even know if I could make love like a normal human being
anymore. I felt quickened by a heady blood suck, but it wasn't the
same.
On my fifth night in the café, I turned down an invitation to join the
young men and headed back towards the Opera House. There was a
play on tonight and I planned on watching it from the ventilation
hole in the roof.
I had debated shifting into my bat form and sitting on the
chandelier, but I had heard the echoes of La Carlotta rehearsing
earlier in the week. I didn't think my sensitive batty ears could
handle such shrieking.
The Opera was due to start at eight o'clock, and I had a good fortyfive minutes to bum around out front and watch the carriages arrive.
There were way too many painted faces and glittering gowns and
mounds of powder and fake hair and it just made me roll my eyes.
The upper classes really were simpering.
More than once someone peered into the shadows by the grand
staircase at me. I was wearing my Hogwarts robe and I watched
their eyes flash to the crest on my lapel, then the eyebrows draw
together in confusion. The people would try to get a look at my
face and fail, because I had the hood pulled up all the way. But I
would smile and wave, and they would balk and walk off.
It was then that I realized that I had turned into a bit of a sadistic
bastard.
Annoying people was way too much fun, and I loved gauging
people's reactions. And as I was, it was also very easy.
Oh, well, as long as I didn't go too far with it, I wasn't all that
concerned. It was when I started to turn into Lucard or Snape that I
would have to be self-reprimanding.
I climbed up the side of the Opera House by clinging to the vines
and the brickwork, once the doors were closed and went in through
the roof access. I sat in the attic of the theatre, swathed in black,
an (un)living shadow, and gazed upon the stage from afar.
Carlotta blew. But the rest was great.
During the curtain call I heard the soft crunch of an expensive shoe
on dust and smelled the familiar damp-wool smell.
Erik sat down beside me. “Did you enjoy the Opera?” he asked. He
sounded gentle. He sounded like he actually cared. It was the
kindest he had ever been. It was true; music did soothe the savage
beast.
“It was lovely,” I said. “I've seen a few, when I was younger. But,
you know, I have the knowledge now to really appreciate it.”
He rubbed his uncovered cheek briefly with a gloved palm. “I do
wish it had been Mademoiselle Daae to sing the lead role,
however.”
“Instead of that toad Carlotta? Amen.”
He smiled down at me. “I believe I have tea back in my kitchen.
Will you partake?”
I stood and brushed the dust from my knees. “You mean, 'Can I
partake?' The answer is yes; I'd love a cup of tea. Thank you.”
He chuckled to himself and we slipped thought the alleyways and
catwalks of the grandiose building in silence until we reached the
lake. Two ghosts in the rafters.
He took up the pole and stepped into the boat.
“I'll get the water boiling,” I said, tossed off a salute, and dropped
down into my other form. The flap across the lake was quick and
the tea was steeping by the time Erik came into the kitchen. Ayesha
and I had formed a tremulous truce, and she was watching me with
alert eyes and tail from the counter as I laid out the cups.
Erik stopped in the doorway, untying his cloak, and shook his head.
“You are remarkable.”
I handed him a cup then filled it from the pot. I was torn between
laughter and the burning lump that suddenly appeared in my throat.
“Some people would call me damned,” I said. I meant it to be a
joke, but the reality of the statement slammed into me so hard my
hands began to shake.
Was I damned?
I had to turn my back to Erik and set the pot down. I took a few
deep breaths, then I poured a second cup for myself and we moved
out into his music room. He took a seat on the organ bench and I sat
on an ottoman.
“Thank you,” I said as we settled ourselves. Ayesha followed us out
and wound around Erik's legs. “For letting me stay.”
For the first time, the smile that I was given seemed genuine. “I
suppose I have a habit of adopting strays,” he whispered. He took a
sip of tea and I followed suit. I wasn't looking forward to having to
sick it up later, but for now the heat was nice. “Do… they call you
damned because you feed on blood?”
I blinked. I hadn't expected that question. The burning lump
returned and I tried to wash it away with a swig of hot tea. The
back of my eyes hurt, as if I was going to start to cry.
No, I refused to allow myself that luxury.
“I suppose. There is… well, people, stories say that Vampires live
forever because they give up their soul to... Hell, the devil, demons,
I don't know what, but something that damns them.”
He thought about that for a moment. “So, you don't fear
damnation?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?”
“Then why did you … choose to become as you are? If you knew the
price, then why? Was the lure of Immortality so great?”
I shook my head and set down my cup. Ayesha seemed to think that
I did this for her benefit and padded over and began to lap at the
cooling tea. Erik didn't stop her and I didn't mind. Less for me to
have to vomit up later. “No, I… well… I didn't choose this. It was
forced upon me.”
“Forced?”
I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. “You know what rape is,
yes?”
“…yes.”
We let that hang between us for a long moment.
Erik finished his tea and went into the kitchen for a second cup. I
thought about what I had confessed. Did I actually believe that I
was damned? That when, if I died, I would go to Hell?
I had never been that much of a church person in my mortal life. I
was more New Age than my Mother's Presbyterian. But I thought,
hopefully, because I hadn't really done anything bad yet that,
perhaps, I was okay. I mean, I hadn't agreed to this. And I hadn't
killed anyone yet. I had barely hurt anyone. But I did have some
petty larceny under my belt.
I wasn't a Catholic, but going to Confession was starting to sound
better and better.
When Erik returned, he asked, “Do you suppose you may be damned
because you feast upon the dregs of society?”
“What do you mean?”
He sipped his tea. “I have watched you, followed you,” he levelled
his gaze on me and I felt an embarrassed flush creep up my face.
“You feed upon thieves and pimps, people who commit crimes and
harm others. Perhaps it is their blood that fouls you.”
“Maybe,” I said, not really wanting to think about it. If it was true,
then that meant to save myself I would have to feed from the
innocent. But I would be damning myself that way too, for harming
the pure. Either way, I was screwed. I said as much.
Erik nodded. “Possible. Is that why Vampires take this… pomme du
sang? A willing and knowing innocent?”
“I dunno,” I admitted. “Possibly. But, I mean, finding a person
willing to let you suck out their life through two little holes in their
neck is... hard, to say the least. Feeding is a very intimate act when
both parties are willing.”
Erik raised one eyebrow. “You have… experienced this intimacy?”
I blushed harder and looked at my feet. “Yes… erm… twice.”
“With a pomme du sang?”
“Yeah - the first guy was the Professor who gave me the knife. I was
starving to death and pretty much intent on killing myself by not
eating. He cut his arm and let me. The second guy was a… hmmm…
kind of a letch.”
“A letch?”
I nodded slowly. “He got off on it.”
“ 'Got off'?”
“Ah… erm… yeah, you know. He found it really pleasurable.”
Erik set aside his empty cup and cleared his throat. “Oh. Ahem. I
see.” He loosened his bowtie and set is aside. Erik was never
anything less than impeccably dressed. “And… you want me for your
pomme du sang?”
Ah. So this is where this whole conversation had been heading.
“I dunno,” I shrugged, “I hadn't really thought of it. I wondered if
you knew what it was, that's all, really, that's why I asked. I wasn't
really offering.” He wriggled a little, obviously uncomfortable.
“Erik,” I said earnestly, sitting forward. “If you really want to, I'm
not adverse to it. But feeding is an awful lot like lovemaking, and I
know that you are in love with Christine.”
His eyes flashed and he stilled immediately. He was angry. He was
suddenly very dangerous. “How do you know that?”
I lied. “I see the look in your eyes when you talk about her. When
you watch her.”
He looked down. “You disapprove.”
“I think you're willing to go to unhealthy lengths, but I don't
disapprove. You can't disapprove of love.”
He shook his head and stood. “I… I wish to consider this. Leave.”
I stood, not offended, and collected up the empty teacups. As I left
the room, Erik applied himself to the music. He began to attack the
same section he had been worrying for the past two days. He just
couldn't seem to make the bridge of the melody work.
I stopped at the door and said, “Erik, try, going up a half step there.
I mean, go from a minor to a major - it is the climax of the song.”
He paused, hands like claws over the keys. He nodded, then shook
his head, and then nodded again. He moved his hands up and began
to play the section again, this time in a major key.
Yes, that sounded just like what Andrew Lloyd Webber had written.
I washed the dishes and retired early.
The nightmares came back that day, and it was only then that I
realized that they had slowed recently. I'd only been having one or
two a night. That night I had five.
I had talked about it. That's why.
=====
The next week passed quickly. Again, Erik and I spent little time
together. The music consumed him to the point that he never left
the house. As it got worse, I would find him passed out on the organ,
asleep, and have to move him into his room. I spent a night cooking
to make sure he had enough leftovers to last him through the week,
and made sandwiches to eat as he worked.
I had felt bad for sponging off him, so this was one way I felt I could
repay him.
He never thanked me and barely acknowledged by presence, but
when I woke in the evening there would be plates and dishes empty,
scattered around the music room. The next Saturday we shared Box
Five to watch the Opera and again had tea and conversation
afterwards.
This time I asked him about his own life. I knew from the book that
it had been filled with disappointment and wrenching, bitter anger.
I steered away from topics I feared would encourage self-pity and
instead focused on music, architecture, and puzzles: Erik's great
passions.
Sometime around the third pot of tea, he raised one hand to his
mask and said, softly, “Why have you never asked me about this?”
I shrugged. “Erik, you wear the mask because you don't like the way
you look. People judge you on your appearance, rather than on your
heart and intellect, and you think it makes you a monster.”
“I am a monster.”
“You are no more a monster than I am. We were both forced into
situations which have scarred us physically, without any choice or
chance to redeem or fix these problems. But dying hasn't changed
me anymore than a strange face has changed you. It has effected
our lives and beliefs and choices, but we are essentially the same
person inside, and that person is not any less because our outsides
are different.”
He stared at me. “You say that almost too easily.”
“And perhaps I believe it too easily. The important part is that I
believe.” I sat forward and set aside my teacup and Ayesha was
again quick to claim what was left as her own. “Leave your mask
on or don't, Erik, I don't much care. I've probably seen worse. I've
seen a security guard with the back of his head blown out and his
brains scattered all over the stairs.”
“Pleasant.”
“Yup.”
His hand hesitated by the ties at the back of his head, and in the
end he chose to leave the mask on. I had told the truth - I didn't
care one way or another if he kept his mask on. Whatever made Erik
the most comfortable was fine with me. He did, however, undo the
top three buttons of his dress shirt, and shed his tie, vest, and
jacket.
Being that undressed was almost unnatural for him, and I sat back,
slightly shocked.
“What are you doing?”
“I… have thought about it,” Erik whispered, and his voice was like
black velvet. I shivered and was surprised to feel the shiver. I
thought only Jean-Claude could do that to me. “And I think,
perhaps, I would like to be your pomme du sang… just this once.
Just to feel it.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I… uh…” I felt the heat fan on my
cheeks. Jeeze, I was going to do this. I was totally going to suck on
the Phantom of the Opera. “Perhaps, we should go sit on the couch.
Just in case.”
“In case of what? In case I faint?”
I laughed. “In case I faint.”
=====
“Just lay back,” I said softly, “and relax.”
He eyed me. “Easy for you to say.”
We were sitting on the opposite ends of the couch. He was sitting
stiff-backed, with his hands in his lap and his ankles together. I had
unconsciously mimicked his pose. I had my head turned to him, but
he was looking straight ahead.
“We don't have to do this if you don't want to.”
“No,” he said, almost too fast. He paused and took a breath. The
musicality in his voice was lost to hard discomfort. “No, I… I want
this.”
I knelt on the cushions, feet tucked up under me, and reached out
with one hand. He jumped as I carefully brushed my fingers over his
mask. It wasn't porcelain, or china, or anything brittle, but it wasn't
really cloth either. My guess was fabric stiffened by white glue.
“Shall I remove it?” he asked softly, a little boy suddenly.
I realized what this meant to him. To Erik, this was his first sexual
exploit. Erik was over fifty and still about as virginal as a man his
age could be. I swept my fingers down against the skin of his neck,
and he felt hot. I could feel his pulse jumping and it made my
mouth dry.
I swallowed hard.
Aside from the boy in the car outside of the bar back in St. Louis,
this was the most sexual I'd ever been, too.
“Keep the mask if it's what makes you the most comfortable,” I said.
“I can cut down on the intimacy, if you want.”
He finally turned to look at me, his other hand reaching out to take
my free one. “No, please don't… I… it feels so good to just be… just
be touched.”
I nodded. “I won't do anything more than touching.”
He nodded. I pushed forward slightly, forcing him to readjust the
line of his body. One knee came up and he resettled his foot on the
couch. His legs splayed wide and I settled between them, resting
my weight on his stomach. He let his head fall back against the arm
of the couch and pressed his back into the arm pillows.
I met his eyes once, just once, and asked, “Do you want me to
stop?”
“…no.”
I sighed and it was partially from relief and partially from the sexual
tension. I was not physically attracted to Erik. He was very fit for
his age and the side of his face that wasn't mangled was very
handsome. It had nothing to do with his mask or what lay beneath it.
It's just that I didn't find him attractive.
The thing inside of me, however, could hear his blood pounding,
smell its heat beneath his skin, and wanted it. It was less sexual
tension and more pure hunger.
On Erik's side, however, it would feel like lust. If Erik reacted
anything like Jason had, then we might be in for a spot of
awkwardness in a few minutes. But we’d cross that bridge if we got
to it.
I shoved my insecurities aside and parted my lips.
I pressed my open mouth against his skin and kissed, sucked, nipped
and nibbled, did my best to give him a hickey and get him used to
the idea that I was about to slip fang into him. When he was
groaning, his eyes rolling up into his head, I bit down. Not hard
enough to bruise with my other teeth, but enough to puncture the
skin with my fangs.
I could feel my eyes burning, my vision dappling with red in the way
that told me my iris had turned bright yellow. I don't know why they
did that - there was no biological explanation for it. My fangs could
retract into pockets in my upper jaw and slid out when I was hungry
or aroused. Muscles in the gums squeezed them out of their sockets
until they were long and naked. But the eyes had no logical
explanation.
It made me wonder, again, if I was damned.
I forced these thoughts away and concentrated on the hot blood
that welled from the wounds into my mouth. I pulled on the
punctures, like sucking liquid through a straw. When my mouth was
full, the taste of Erik rolling hot and thick against my tongue, I
swallowed.
The heat hit the back of my throat and slid down my chest, into my
stomach and radiated outwards. I was always amazed at how cold I
was before I fed. And I always seemed to forget that I was cold until
I was feeding.
Other people recoiled at my touch. Before I fed I was chilly and
corpse-like. But I felt neither cold nor heat, so I couldn't tell.
I pulled and swallowed again, revelling in the waves of heat that
passed through my tissue and nerves, like a wonderful orgasm. I
could tell that Erik was enjoying it too. Lust, rich and meaty tasting,
tinged his blood. I took one last large mouthful and pulled away. I
licked my lips free of the remains, making sure I hadn't left any on
my chin, and lapped away the blood seeping from the cuts.
I pressed my fingers down on the wounds to stop the blood flow and
Erik lay limp against the cushions, sweating and panting, his eyelids
fluttering and his mouth open wide.
I withdrew and stared down at him. I lifted his other leg and placed
it on the couch, adjusted the pillow behind his head, and spread
the throw blanket that had been on the nearby chair over his prone
form.
He wasn't asleep or unconscious; he was just… caught up.
To see him like this… vulnerable and … passionate… it felt wrong. I
felt like I was intruding on his most private thoughts. I couldn't feel
more awkward if I'd walked in on him masturbating.
I hastily vacated the living room and went to the kitchen. Erik had
some juice in his cold box and some pastry sweets leftover from a
nearby bakery. Not exactly the carton of orange juice and the
cookie you get at the blood donors, but close enough.
I set them out on a small table by his head and went out to the lake.
I stared over the bottomless, black water and closed my eyes and
felt Erik coursing through me. I could taste his passion and his anger
on my tongue still; feel his bitterness under my skin.
But in my head… in my head, I could hear his music.
If I had done this half a year ago, I would have puked.
As it was, it was all I could do not to tear into him again and finish
the job.
I wanted Erik's music.
I wanted all of Erik's music.
No.
That was the difference between the monsters and me.
I wouldn't kill.
I had told Jean-Claude as much, and I meant it.
I would not kill.
I stood alone, on the edge of endless night, and listened to the
music of disappointed solitude that rang clear and slow in my head.
Book Five: Phantom of the Opera
Chapter Sixteen: “Ethics”
The last two weeks passed fast enough.
Once more, Erik was consumed by his music and I kept out of his
way. Just once, one afternoon, I slipped into the music room and
sat on the ottoman and listened to him play and mutter to himself.
It was a bad idea. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
His opera, Don Juan Triumphant, was almost complete.
I knew what that meant - soon he would rise from the organ and
take the bound libretto and don the Red Death costume and
menace the managers and cast. He would stalk Christine and she
and Raoul would flee and Erik would force the company to perform
his opus.
In the middle of one of the songs, Erik would kill Piangi the tenor
and take his place, and Christine would unmask him in front of all
of Paris. He would drag her down here and threaten to kill her and
Raoul and everyone in the building if she didn't agree to marry him.
Christine, however, would feel pity on Erik. She would marry him to
save Raoul and they would have one night together. When that
night was over, Erik would die of what his friend Nadir would
describe as a broken heart. In that night, Erik would learn what real
love was, and he would regret separating Christine and Raoul.
He would die, and Christine would marry Raoul and they would flee
to England, where Christine would have a baby boy named Charles.
He would love stray animals. He would have dark hair, and brown
eyes.
Charles would have an extraordinarily compassionate nature, a
brilliant mind, and a love for music. And Raoul would know the
truth and never hold it against his wife or her son.
But Erik didn't know any of this right now, and I was not inclined to
tell him.
I had learned something in my travels these past six or so months:
you never put your nose in it.
Every time I've ever stepped in and spoke to or interacted with the
people, the characters of a world, it had been nothing but trouble. I
had been hurt, or I had hurt someone. I had changed things that
shouldn't have been changed, and swayed the balance.
Erik's life had been hard, and although I liked to believe that my
presence had helped to ease his loneliness and bitterness these past
few weeks, I knew it was too little, too late.
Erik would die.
There was nothing I could do about it, short of making him a
Vampire.
Which I couldn't do.
I honestly believed that Erik would not appreciate being given
eternity when fifty short years had hurt him so much. Not in the
flesh of a monster. If he wanted it, he was blunt - he would have
asked for it.
Part way through reviewing his song, Erik began to sing Don Juan's
part softly under his breath. I recognized the section and waited
until Christine's part began and sang along. I sang softly at first, but
grew louder as I became confident that I knew the melody.
Erik stopped abruptly and turned in his seat to stare at me.
“I did not hear you come in,” he said.
“Sorry, I'll leave.” I stood to do just that and he raised a hand.
“No, wait. You know this song?”
I nodded. “I've heard you playing it enough.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know it well enough to
sing it with me?”
I paused and sort of gapped at him. “I'm not good enough,” I
protested. “Not to sing with you.”
“You can hold a pitch,” he retorted. “That is more than Carlotta
can say.”
I shrugged and nodded, “Yeah, okay.”
He picked up the song from the beginning and I moved to peer at
the sheet music over his shoulder. I couldn't read sheet music very
well. I'd taken the requisite classes in high school but that had been
so long ago, and I hadn't been very good then, either. I did,
however, remember the melody from the musical and used the
sheet music to remind myself of the words.
I found it fascinating that although the version of “Phantom of the
Opera” I was in was clearly Susan Kaye's, Erik was still playing
Webber's music. It was such a strange development. I mean, could
two versions of the same reality overlap? Could they both exist at
the same time in the same place?
It made me think. I wondered if there was a core reality out there.
Well, obviously not a core reality. I was sliding through enough
realities to know that they were all too different to be connected in
some fundamental way.
Then again, maybe they were.
I sort of had this secret theory that each reality was just a fractal
fragment of the centre reality, a core truth, an essential time and
place. If that was the case, I was hoping that my home reality was
the centre - then all I had to do was spiral down through the
alternate universes until I got home.
If that was the case, if the universe really was fractal, then it stood
to reason that each separate reality also had its own fractal nodes.
“Phantom of the Opera” had at least three different official
versions that I knew of in my reality - the Kaye, the Webber, and
the LeRoux. It made sense that whatever power or vision an author
or a creator used to tap into this alternate reality, to see it and
record it, would help the 'creator' see it through different lenses.
Each version of a story was really just the same story seen through a
different lens of a kaleidoscope.
It was a heartening and terrifying all at once. It meant that there
could be a finite number of realities, and one day I may make it
home.
It also meant that oppositely there could be as many endless
variations of different realities as there were dreamers and fanfic
authors, and I could be left stumbling through the multi-verse for
the rest of eternity.
I shoved these thoughts aside, saved them for the day when I knew
they would fertilize my nightmares.
Erik was singing.
I was supposed to join him.
We sang through the song and when it finished, Erik rested his
hands on his thighs and turned to look at me. There was a sadness
in his eyes that I didn't expect to find. He reached out and touched
my cheek gently and I was startled by how rough and calloused his
fingertips were. He'd been playing piano and organ for most of his
life, and he'd been on construction crews as well.
“Tomorrow I am going to take this to the Managers,” he said softly.
“I know,” I replied and did not pull away from his touch.
“I will make them perform this. Christine Daae will finally have the
spotlight she deserves.”
“She will.”
“You know, you say, as if this is no surprise to you.” He lowered his
hands and narrowed his eyes at me from behind the mask. “You
know so much about me, and I do not know why. Was it in my
blood?”
I smiled and knelt on the ottoman so as to be eyelevel with him.
“The only thing I took from your blood, Erik, was your music. I close
my eyes and I can hear it in my head. It's beautiful. Music really is
in your blood.” I paused, licked my bottom lip, and decided to say
what I really wanted to say but really shouldn't. As much as I
cautioned myself against it, I couldn't help wanting to make his life
even the tiniest bit happier. “Your son will inherit this gift.”
Erik smiled a self-depreciating smile and turned away. “No woman
would let me get a child on her.” He stared down at the black and
white keys in front of him.
“Why not?”
He snorted, a harsh and self-hating sound. “I am a monster.”
“Erik…”
“No matter what you say, Miss Marie,” he said and turned back to
me on the organ stool, “No matter what you wish to believe, we are
both still monsters. We both skulk in the shadows, hating those who
can walk in the sun, hating those who have lives and loves and …
homes. Real homes.”
I shook my head and stepped away from him. I stared at my hands,
then down at my feet, anywhere but in his eyes. Those brown, truth
telling eyes. “That's not true.”
“Oh, isn't it?” he said and rose, coming toward me, matching me
step for step, “Then why can you not answer me? Then why do you
brew that potion? Why do you live in the shadows and watch the
people even as I do? Aren't you desperate to return to your home?
Wouldn't you cure yourself of this affliction in an instant, if you
could?”
“I…” I stuttered, but had nothing with which to reply.
“Answer!” he bellowed. “Account for yourself! You muddle blindly
through the alleyways, feeding on scum and skulking away from the
light! You are a monster, the same as I!”
“No!”
“What makes you what you are, then? What keeps you human when
you drink blood and wear the shape of a bat!”
“I am still human,” I protested, but I was being backed up against
the wall, both literally and figuratively. I laid a hand over my chest,
and felt my fingers fluttering against my throat. “- inside me, my
heart, it's still human.”
“That is a pathetic and half arsed excuse and you know it!”
“I am not a monster!” I screamed. “I don't kill!”
Erik stopped advancing on me and stood stalk still, his arms rigid at
his sides. Fire burned in his eyes, but his skin went pale. He ceased
to move entirely - he didn't breathe, he didn't sway, he didn't
twitch.
“Is that what defines a monster?” he asked and his voice was tight,
his teeth clenched. The music had evaporated. All I could hear in
his voice was pain. “Does murder make one a monster?”
I jerked back as if he has slapped me. “Oh, Erik,” I said softly, “I
didn't mean…”
“You meant exactly what you said.” He turned away from me. “I
have killed. My heart is no longer human. I am a monster and
Christine will never love me.”
“Erik…”
“Go away.”
I hesitated, one hand reaching out to him.
Then did as he asked. I went away.
=====
I went out to the Seine and I stayed there by the water, watching
the sunrise.
I listened to the music in my mind and refused to cry.
Could monsters write music like that?
=====
I returned to Erik's house beneath the Opera just before dawn to
check on the potion one last time. It was the right colour and
viscosity - a watery burgundy - and would be ready to cork in the
morning. I would make six phials, key one to “Pirates” with Jack's
hair, and one to here with a piece of fur I had rubbed off of Ayesha.
That would leave me four blanks. Four worlds in which to travel, to
spend twenty four hours in each or more.
If I found a particularly suitable world, I would probably stop there
before I ran out of blanks and brew a batch or two more. That
would give me between six and twelve extra blanks.
I could travel for an extended period, get some ground beneath me,
get that much closer to home before having to stop again.
During the past month, while I had been waiting for this batch of
the potion to brew, I had made some adjustments to my pouch. I
had sewn little pockets around the inside of it, with some extra
padding - that way the phials could stand in the pouch without
clinking together, and I could run without fear of breaking them. I
had written the name of each phial onto the cork, so I could glance
at them swiftly and pull them out if needed.
I wasn't above using my phials as emergency escape routes or
offensive weapons. I had no problem dropping an attacker into
Jean-Claude's or Norrington's lap. They'd probably get what they'd
deserve.
I had roughly forty separate pouches for phials, and hoped that I
wouldn't need more than that. I hoped even more that I never
filled all of them.
I wanted to go home. I wanted warmth and daylight again.
Erik's words had stung, but they had been accurate. Erik had been
right about me - I was a thing that stalked in the shadows and
longed for home.
As I slept that morning, the nightmares of Lucard were replaced
with those of an eternity of never being able to hold my parents
again.
=====
When the next day came, I awoke to the sounds of Erik donning his
Red Death costume. The fabric was thick and made a swishing
sound as he threw the cape up over his shoulder.
I stood in his doorway and watched him slip the death's head mask
over his face.
“Will you join me upstairs?” he asked over his shoulder as he
adjusted his hat on his head. He was going by the feel of it. Erik's
house had no mirrors. His question had been mocking, calculated to
be cruel and cutting.
“You know as well as I that I would only get in the way of your
grand entrance.”
He turned to me, his hands on his hips and a frown on his lips. “You
promised to teach me magic tricks once. Will you not use one for
me now?”
I looked at him, really looked at him. A man so desperate for love
that he would blackmail for it. He would terrorize people for it. He
would kill for it. “No, Erik,” I said softly, “I won't.”
“You are a liar, then,” he hissed. “You are false and you are
selfish.”
“Maybe.”
“I gave my blood for you.”
“I don't recall forcing you.”
Erik took a threatening step forward, and my wand was in my hand
and pointed at his chest before he could take a second.
He stared at the wand.
“You would kill me?”
“If I had to.”
He smiled, triumphant. “Then you truly are a monster.”
“I guess I am,” I said, and hated to agree with him. I didn't take my
eyes off him, though, and my aim was unwavering.
“I want you gone by the time I get back,” Erik whispered.
I nodded.
“Have a good party, Erik. I hope your Opera is a success. And I hope
you don't regret getting what you want.”
He swept a bow towards me. “Good bye, Miss Marie. I hope your
nightmares ease.”
I stepped out of the doorway and let him brush by me.
And that was the last time I saw Erik, the Genius in the Cellars, the
Phantom of the Opera.
I slid with a bitter taste on my tongue.
=====
I closed my eyes against the flash and braced myself for the fall,
wand out and at the ready.
I hit sandy turf and crouched, following the momentum of the fall
to save myself from the disorientation of the jarring effect of it. I
opened my eyes and looked around.
I was standing on a small sandy rise. There was a lone, Beckettesque tree just to my left, and scrub brush on the ground around
me, struggling to stay alive. The sky above my head was red,
streaked with long, wispy amber clouds.
As far in the distance I could see, there was nothing but flat desert.
But it wasn't hot, it was slightly windy. A brisk breeze picked up and
blew my hair into my face, flattening my Hogwarts robe to my back
and flaring it out around the front.
“Are you here to play?” a voice suddenly whispered in my ear. It
was male, a clear tenor with a slight English accent. I repressed the
shriek of surprise that threatened to claw out of my throat and
whipped around to point my wand tip to the patch of skin between
the man's eyes.
His mismatched eyes.
“Ziggy Stardust?” I asked hopefully.
He shook his head and took a step backwards. He raised a gauzy
black cloak along his arm, blocking the view of something behind
him, smiled at me, then dropped it. When the fabric fell away, I
could see it - a winding and terrible maze. On a hill in the very
middle stood an imposing and almost impenetrable castle.
“Will you play?” he asked again, one eyebrow cocked.
“You're him,” I whispered. “You're the Goblin King.”
Book Six: Labyrinth
Chapter Seventeen: “13 o'Clock”
The Fey like games. In every book I'd ever read, in every fanfiction
or article, it mentioned that the Fey, or those with Fey blood, were
mischievous tricksters with a special affinity for playing games.
Any kind of games would do; from real old fashioned chess to 'hide
the left sock', hide and seek in the orchard, to mazes, to riddles.
That's why so many stories that involved fairies and goblins also
talked about prizes and punishments, time distortions and confusion
for the humans involved.
The Fey liked to play games, and seemed as if Jareth, King of the
Goblins and Ruler of the Labyrinth, was no exception.
I regarded the Goblin King before me, his mismatched blue-grey and
green eyes shining with eagerness, but his expression and posture
cold and menacing. He was playing the part of ice-King, but inside
was as happy as a kid at Christmas. His feathered white hair
fluttered in a breeze that I couldn't feel. His garments were
flapping dramatically, but I was stifling in the heat of my leather
pants and turtleneck. I felt no breeze at all.
He had asked me “Will you play?”, and I knew that he meant he
wanted me to run the Labyrinth.
I had absolutely no desire to.
I just wanted to sit on my butt in the sand and not interfere. The
faster my twenty four hours were up, the faster I could move on,
and if I got myself tangled in a giant maze-from-hell, something
could happen that prevented me from sliding.
In fact, something probably would.
I didn't want anything like my little bargain with Jean-Claude over
Sirius to happen ever again. The Goblin King was far too good a
twisting words and intentions, and falling into a trap of his would be
too easy.
I had to stay out of it.
No more interacting with the people I met, as much as I may like
their characters or world. No more exploring. No more chances that
I could be stopped permanently. I would flit through their lives like
a dark, unseen shadow, and be gone.
I would live my own life alone, cold, unseen, unheard, unknown.
I would withdraw from people, from humanity, from civilization. It
was the safest bet.
The thought left me cold inside, but what else could I do?
I wanted to go home.
I returned my thoughts to Jareth, and his imposing Labyrinth, and
shook my head. “Forgive me, your majesty,” I said gently, with as
much honest aplomb as I could muster. “But I have not come to run
your Labyrinth.”
Jareth dropped his pointing arm to his side and frowned. The news
didn't seem to anger him or puzzle him so much as cause
disappointment to flit over his elfin features. “Yet you are here.”
“A mistake, I assure you.” I was trying my damndest to sound
courtly and polite. Many months navigating the choppy waters of
different realities had taught me that I had a habit of being too
damn blunt around the wrong people. It had gotten me into more
messes that I cared to admit.
Vinegar and honey and all that.
The Goblin King took a few steps towards me and I stood my ground.
He had one leather-clad finger resting on his chin, the other hand
on his hip, and he was regarding me thoughtfully with narrowed,
green and blue eyes.
I refused the urge to step back, to aim my wand at his face. Deftly,
I slipped my hand into the pouch and let my fingers curl around the
hilt of my wand and my dagger, bringing them close together, just
in case.
If Jareth saw the movement, he dismissed it.
“I have no child of yours,” Jareth said after a moment of studying
me, “You did not wish one away.”
“No,” I said, “I'm here by accident.”
He shook his head. “That is not possible. No one may enter my
realm without wish and a desire.”
“…desire?” I asked, knowing that soon enough I would wish that I
hadn't. Despite my new oath to never get involved, my curiosity was
getting the better of me.
He grinned, “A desire to play. That is the way this works - I take
something dear to someone, and they much travel my maze to get
it back from me.”
It was my turn to narrow my eyes. “And this benefits you how…?”
“A person's desire reaches a fever pitch as they run through my
Labyrinth,” Jareth said, as if that was supposed to explain
everything. I still looked puzzled, so he went on: “They panic, and
it increases their desire to find the thing or person I have taken
from them. They are frightened, and their desire to protect
whatever or whomever it is they have lost increases.”
I shook my head. “I don't understand how that's relevant.”
“The Labyrinth acts like a focusing device - all the desire flows into
my castle.”
“So?”
He grinned wider and leaned in closer. “I feed on desire.”
This time I did take a step back. “What do you mean, you feed on
desire?”
He sighed, his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed his head forward.
His nose was practically in my hair and I jumped to the side. He
opened his eyes and straightened, and his grin this time was less
filled with child-like joy and more with sultry want.
“I smell much desire in you,” he said, “It's hot and it's desperate.
For what or whom do you yearn so strongly?”
I shook my head. “Nuh-uh,” I said, “I'm not telling you. I'm not
playing your stupid game.”
Ice formed in his gaze, and I knew he was angry now. Perfect - I got
him mad when I was trying to do the exact opposite. Damn blunt.
That's me.
Why is it that I can't avoid the clichéd traps of the Mary Sue, ever?
Right, because I was one. Silly me.
“I want your desire,” Jareth said, and took a rolling step towards
me. The movement drew my attention to his thighs and hips, and I
knew he had done it on purpose. He was as deliberate and arrogant
as Jason and Jean-Claude together. I don't think he was just talking
about my desire for… whatever it was he said I desired. I think he
meant in the sexual sense, too, and that bugged me.
Couldn't I, just once, land in a realm where there weren't sexcraving guys?
Jean-Claude, Jason, Jack Sparrow, Erik, those hoodlums, and now
Jareth.
Well, I guess I couldn't really blame them. Guys were kinda the
same everywhere, now that I thought about it.
Or was this the eternal damnation of the Mary Sue?
Mary Sue always seems to be able to make any guy at all fall for her
- what if it's not the Mary Sue's power, but the power of the story?
What if the men (and sometimes women!) were magnetically
attracted to the Mary Sue? What if she put out some sort of
irresistible pheromone that she herself couldn't detect, but was like
liquid sex to every virile creature in the fanfiction realms?
What if it wasn't the Mary Sue who seduced the characters, but her
very existence?
That sudden thought made me cold all over.
I didn't want to spend the rest of my (un)life fending off horny
suitors and avoiding comfort sex or demons who were trying to
seduce me. Worst still, I didn't want to leave a trail of broken
hearts in my wake.
Because I would be leaving.
I would be going home and nothing and nobody, not love and not a
lover, would stop me.
Jareth reached out to touch me and I jumped backwards, bringing
my dagger and wand up to point at him. “You stay away from me,” I
threatened.
“Or you'll what?” he laughed, “Give me a splinter?”
“This wand is magic - I know you can probably feel it. And this
dagger is made partially of iron, fey.”
Jareth's scowl blotted out his amusement. “You come prepared.
Have you come to destroy me, then? Is the desire I taste the desire
for my own death?”
“No,” I said, “I didn't come to kill you, or anything else. I was on my
way home and I got a little sidetracked. Trust me, just leave me
alone, and I'll be out of your… very feathered hair… in twenty three
hours.”
Or sooner, I thought. Illness be damned, I don't want to stay here
any longer than I have to.
Leaving the wand pointed at him, I slowly began to reach for my
pouch. I decided that I would slide, and hope that the next place I
ended up was safer.
Jareth darted forward faster than I could see and snatched the
pouch away from me, snapping the ties that held it fastened to my
hips. I stared in shock as he lifted it before him. I couldn’t believe
he had just done that!
“Your desire to return home is strong,” he said, “and I want it.” I
snarled and he laughed. “It is connected to this - this will help you
get home, yes?”
Reluctantly I ground out, “Yes.”
He gestured with his free hand a small black clock appeared,
hovering in midair. It had thirteen hours on the face, instead of just
twelve. It read thirteen o'clock but as I watched the hands reversed
themselves until they were set at one o'clock.
“You have thirteen hours to defeat my Labyrinth,” he said. “Come
to me in the Castle Beyond The Goblin City and I will allow you to
challenge me for it. If you win, I will give up the pouch to you. If I
win…” he took several steps forward and touched my hair gently
with his glove. Then it fisted around my hair and he yanked hard. I
yipped a little, not expecting the pain. “I will harness that great
desire in you and force you to feed me until I drain you dry. Once I
have taken all the desire, all the will power from you, you will
make an excellent and loyal goblin, I think.”
I swung up with my foot, intending to kick him in the knee, but my
leg passed right through him. His body began to vanish, to fade into
the orange sky. When he was gone, only his laughter remained,
ringing through the open space.
“Asshole,” I spat, and turned towards the great outer wall.
Guess I was going to run the Labyrinth after all.
=====
I decided that I would genuinely try to run the first few parts of the
maze, the parts I knew from the movie. After that, or if I ever got
to a point where I didn't know where I was, then I would morph into
my other shape and fly to the castle and hope that didn't constitute
cheating.
My only trouble with that is that I would have to fly low and
carefully, as I would have to carry my wand and my dagger with
little bat feet so it would be in my hand when I transformed back,
just in case. As I walked towards the wall, I wondered why it was
that I could transfigure my clothing with me when I changed, but
never what happened to be in my hands.
Was it something about mass or weight? Could I only take so much
with me?
I would have to experiment later, when it was safe to do so. Right
now, I had to get my phials back, and I only had thirteen hours in
which to do it. The Labyrinth seemed to be caught in eternal sunset,
so I was at least lucky there. If the sun rose I would be as a human
in this place (albeit heavily armed with offensive charms) and
whatever advantage my Vampiric senses and abilities leant me
would be gone.
There was a brief moment of wondering as I walked towards the
mucky pond that sat in a stone basin beside the wall, if this was
pre-, during-, or post- movie. So far, there hadn't really been a
pattern in when I had arrived places. In 'Dracula: The Series' and
'Pirates' it had been post, but in 'Anita Blake' and 'Phantom' it had
been during. I'd yet to end up somewhere 'pre-' and wondered if this
was it.
Would I find Hoggle spraying faeries? Or would I cross paths with
Sarah? Could Jareth keep track of more than one player at once?
There was no Hoggle the Dwarf around when I reached the gate, so I
went to try to talk to the faeries instead.
“I'm so very tired,” the faery I approached said. “Hold me up?”
I shook my head. “I bite back, pip squeak,” I replied and she hissed
at me and moved to fly away. I plucked her out of the air by her
wings and held her in front of my face. “Where is the door to the
Labyrinth?” I asked. All I could see was solid wall.
“I won't tell you!” she shrieked, “This is unfair!”
“Life's unfair, chika. Show me the door to the Labyrinth, and then
I'll let you go.”
She kicked dainty little feet at me, but couldn't reach. Finally she
pouted, and pointed at the wall. “There it is! Let me go, you
bully!”
I released the faery and she dropped a few feet before taking off at
a brisk flapping pace. I didn't blame her for wanting to get as far
away from me as possible. I looked to where she pointed.
The door was now there.
Sweet.
=====
I had watched the movie enough times to know to turn left and
keep walking until I found the weird fern with the eyeballs that
grew from it, and the fallen stump. From where I stood, it looked
like the path went on forever, and knowing the Labyrinth, it
probably did.
But to the side, there were gaps, artfully hidden gaps in the
brickwork that were invisible unless you knew they were there, or
accidentally brushed against the wall in exactly the right spot.
I, of course, knew it was there.
Where I got to the rotting log, I turned to the wall on my left and
said, “Hello?”
I waited for a moment, and when I got no answer, I said, “Hello?”
again. From a tiny gap in the silver brickwork, right about knee
level, a small blue worm with a red scarf on inched his way into
view.
“Did you say 'Ello'?” he asked me, in a mildly cockney voice.
“No, I said 'hello',” I corrected, grinning, “but that's close enough.”
He squinted at me, but said nothing. What I had just done was
recited one of his own lines from the movie, and I honestly
wondered if he realized it. I hadn't the time, really, to stand around
and chat with wall-worms, so when he opened up his mouth to
invite me in to have a spot of tea with the Missus, I interrupted and
asked, “I beg your pardon, but is there a path straight to the castle
at the centre of the Labyrinth?”
The worm gasped and started at me, aghast for a moment.
He was no fan of “that ghastly castle”, and clearly said so in the
movie, but I knew how to navigate the Labyrinth, or so I thought.
The best way to do things was to A) Ask the right questions, B)
never take anything for granted, and C) play fair.
Finally the worm cleared his throat and said, in a much smaller
voice, “Aye, there is.”
I crouched to be eye level with the worm. “Do you know where the
path that leads straight to the centre of the Labyrinth is?”
The worm coughed once, but nodded. Apparently, the creatures in
the Labyrinth were required to help a petitioner if they asked
questions, but only the correct ones. I had read theories about this
on websites and overheard them at conventions, and it was nice to
find them true.
Of course, maybe the worm was just a helpful honest fellow, and
was doing this without being compelled. That meant I may run into
trouble if I took for granted that all the creatures of the Labyrinth
would be helpful and honest.
I would have to be careful.
Grains of salt and the like.
“Would you please show me how to get on the path that will lead
me straight to the castle at the centre of the Labyrinth?”
The worm started at me with huge eyes, then finally gestured with
his head at the opening I knew was across the way from his hole. I
could have saved myself ten minutes of wormy conversation and
just turned and walked through it, but the Labyrinth has a nasty
habit of rearranging itself when your back is turned, and I wanted
to make sure that everything was where I expected it to be before I
took for granted that it was the same.
Say what you want about me, but I'm a stubborn bitch, and when it
came to getting home, Jareth the Goblin King was right - my desire
was strong.
I thanked the worm and went through the artfully hidden gap in the
stonework opposite him. He told me to go right, and I took his
advice, starting off and away with a preternaturally fast loping run.
From here on out, I was on my own.
In the movie, Sarah had gone the other way, and had to travel
through many dangers untold to get to where Jareth had her little
brother Toby held hostage. I, on the other hand, was on what I
hoped was the direct path.
Oh, yes, Jareth had been very right about me - my desire was strong.
I was a passionate person who acted more on instinct than intellect,
especially since this whole Sliding mess had begun. I had noticed it
myself: my growing dependence on my emotions, my gut feelings
and my Vampiric instincts, rather than logic and rational human
survival tactics. The university logic was burning away in the heat of
my want.
I felt more than I thought.
And right now, I felt like kicking Jareth's poncey blonde ass.
Book Six: Labyrinth
Chapter Eighteen: “Illusion”
I knew Jareth was watching me stumble, frustrated, through the
Labyrinth, from somewhere high in his castle towers. Every time I
glanced up at them, taking my eyes from my path, it gave me a cold
shiver and made all my short hairs stand on end. Sometimes I even
caught the glint of diluted sunlight refracted from his scrying
crystals.
He was clever, though, and that was unsettling. He knew exactly
what to go for, and that unnerved me.
How easy was I to read?
I paused to slip the knife and my wand into my boot, sick of
carrying it in my hand and afraid it may come off as too aggressive,
and then kept running. I could see the top of the castle growing
closer as I made my way down an extremely straight and narrow
passage way.
It was dingy and grey, filled with fallen foliage, eyeball moss, and
giant cobwebs. It looked like it hadn't been used in centuries, which,
knowing this place, was probably truth.
If the movie, and the wall-worm had been right, this passage ought
to lead me straight to the castle, but how willing was I to take it for
granted that this was the truth?
Jareth had accused me of coming to destroy him, and I wondered if
winning my phials back would do just that. Neither the movie, nor
the commentaries on the DVD, actually explain what happens to
Jareth after Sarah beats him. Do her words strip him of all his
powers and dissolve the Labyrinth? Or does it merely mean that he
has to relinquish her and Toby and start over?
Does Jareth's defeat affect him at all?
And why was he an owl at the end of the movie? He turned into a
snowy owl after Sarah said the words “You have no power over
me,” but did the words force him into the form or did he choose to
switch? If he chose, why? If not, then is he trapped as an owl
forever? Or just until someone else wishes a child/desired thing
away?
It was all so confusing! I suppose knowing the answers to these
questions wouldn't really effect my own stab at the Labyrinth, as I
fully intended to win back my phials, no matter what… but said
answers may make things easier, at least.
If I knew whether or not my words would destroy Jareth
permanently, I may try to bargain with him instead.
I hadn't killed anyone yet, something that I think must be a record
of a sort for a seven-month-old Vampire. I definitely intended to be
the world record holder on that one.
All this running was giving me time to really think, something I
hadn't been able to really do in a few worlds, at least. I chewed
over some of the thoughts as I ran, the first being, What the hell
was I?
I was me, of course, still the same old Marie Susan Brooke.
But now I was a dead me.
Undead me. Whatever.
But that didn't explain what I was.
I was some sort of person, torn from my own reality and sent
spinning headlong through fictional worlds, another's canonical
intellectual property.
The closest term I could think of for it was the fanfiction’s Mary Sue,
and had indeed been referring to myself in my head as one for
months already. But if I was a Mary Sue, that meant that I was now
also a fictional character, didn't it?
Which of course I’m not.
Thoughts along that vein gave me a headache and the bone-deep
willies so I shied away and instead thought about what it meant to
be a Mary Sue.
I knew I was slowly, one by one, falling prey to the traps of the
Mary Sue of Fanfiction.
I knew, from my Literary Theory classes, and now from my own
experience, that a veritable checklist of requirements for being a
Mary Sue could be composed: the Mary Sue is sexually attractive to
all canon characters; the Mary Sue character exists for wish
fulfillment; the character drops in from 'our reality'; the Mary Sue is
considered attractive; the character has a tragic past; the Mary Sue
character 'saves the day'.
When I get home, I promised myself, I'm writing an essay about this
for class. Professor F-- had damn well better give me an 'A' on it,
too.
What wasn't addressed in Mary Sue fanfiction, I realized as I risked
another glance away from my path up at the castle, is how soulnumbing being a Mary Sue can be; how desperate you become, and
how horribly homesick. How exhausting jumping from crisis to crisis
was, how mentally draining being on the alert all the time could be.
If the insanely huge gaps of culture shock don't kill you, the
swarming hormones might. Getting involved with any of the events
or characters meant throwing that whole world out of whack and
inadvertently making yourself the centre of attention - and thus,
the centre of the plot.
When you were in the centre, when everyone was looking at you, it
was hard to escape.
I had made this promise to myself once before, and I made it again
as I continued to run (glad, perhaps for the first time that I was
undead, as I was not, of course, running out of breath): I will not
interfere. I will wait out my twenty-four hours and slip between
the realities, unknown, unseen, unheard, unloved.
The internal vow made my heart and stomach twist simultaneously.
I wanted my phials so badly- I wanted to go home so bad. I wanted
to see my mother and father, talk to my friends, embrace them, be
home, safe, and free of the nightmares and the stress and the
constant wariness and the fear and anger and hatred…
I wanted to feel safe again.
My desire was so strong - it occurred to me that to Jareth it must be
damn near intoxicating, it had to be so strong and passionate, and
so laced with... arsenic. Heady, dark... tainted.
I caught the smell of green things in the distance and squinted as I
ran. There was an equal amount of path behind me as ahead of me,
and I hoped I was more than half way. From the scent of the foliage
and the little spots of green and red I could see, it appeared as if I
was indeed more than halfway down the path, and that it would
eventually lead me into a pleasant little rose garden. I hoped it was
right beside the Castle. And that they weren't strange carnivorous
roses.
I was making it through this thing in less than an hour - a record to
be sure, and a worry. What if I was going the wrong way? What if all
this progress was a trick?
If I found out it was, I would transform into my bat shape and fly
directly for the castle over the Labyrinth, I decided. I didn't relish
the thought of having to carry my knife and wand in my claws, but
what else could I do? I hoped that wasn't cheating.
I just really, really didn't want to be stuck here for the rest of
eternity - and I really didn't want to be a goblin.
And what would Jareth do once I got there?
Taunt me again? Try to seduce me and feed from my desires?
Try to kill me and be done with it?
All this running gives me too much time to think! I cussed to myself.
No more thinking allowed!
I finally came to the rose garden and skidded to a scraping halt.
I ended up flailing a little bit, and scratched the back of my left
hand against something unexpected and sharp.
While he wasn't there a second earlier, Jareth was now standing in
the doorway between the garden and me. The archway was made of
elaborate stonework, twined with brambles and thorny vines. It was
engraved with the images of the little biting fairies and frolicking
twisty goblins.
I could see more of the fairies flittering among the blood red, livid
purple, midnight blue, and black blossoms behind Jareth. I'd never
seen such Tim Burton-esque roses before.
Jareth himself was standing on the direct threshold of the archway,
the heels of his thigh-high black leather boots in lush dark green
grass, the pointed toes resting on the dingy grey stonework of the
passage I stood in.
I narrowed my eyes are him warily and took in his appearance.
He was wearing green trousers that matched the grass, his wild and
asymmetrical jacket a rich blue and a rose head like a gunshot
wound obscenely displayed on his lapel. His shirt and ascot were
black, and his eyeliner particularly thick. He was spotless down to
his black leather gloves.
In his hand, he held a single pale red rose, the only one in sight. I
had scraped the back of my bare hand against its stem, and the
thorns had raised blood. It was just short of pink, and I didn't trust
it. He was holding it out, as if he wanted me to take it, and I knew
better than to accept anything from the Goblin King. He didn't move,
or drop his arm, or anything, and neither did I.
For a long, long moment, we just started at each other, both of us
determined not to be the first to break, the first to blink, or the
first to speak.
I crossed my arms under my breasts and waited him out. After all,
it’s not like I was getting any older. Although it was possible that he
wasn’t, either. We weren't quite at the castle, yet, and I couldn't
recite the poem that would force Jareth to accede to my win until
we were inside it. Those were the rules.
Suddenly, as if a switch inside of Jareth had just been flipped on,
he smiled in greeting and extended the flower towards me. "I
thought we could meet here,” he said gently, the soft burr of his
accent warm in my ear. “Just for a small rest. It's so much more
pleasant."
I still did not take the flower. Something fishy was going on here.
"Thank you, no. I have a castle to get to. If you'll excuse me."
I waited for him to move out of my path. Obviously, he wasn't going
to. I scowled at him, and debated my options. I could go around him,
shove him out of the way, or fly over his head… he saved me the
choice by speaking again:
"What's your hurry my dear? You've got lots of time.” He remained
smiling, but the smile did not reach his mismatched eyes. “I am
anxious to discuss how you managed to find the short cuts so quickly.
Your determination is... most intoxicating."
I shook my head. "The only thing I want to discuss is you moving so I
can get to the castle and get my phials back.”
The rose remained upraised - he was determined that I take it, and
the longer he stood there offering it to me, the less I wanted to
touch it. “But why such a rush? You have missed all the great
splendours of my Labyrinth.”
“I want to leave."
"I can see that." The look in his eyes just got colder and colder, but
his smile remained, plastic, and so did the offered rose. "But you
have already defeated me. The least you can do is briefly indulge
me. Come, am I that repulsive?"
I scowled at this very obvious ploy. The near echo of Jean-Claude’s
own simpering plea twanged on my already taught nerves.
Somehow, I thought Jareth would be more clever, more subtle than
this. "Don't yank my anything. We both know I haven't defeated you
yet. I will force my way past you if you will not step aside, King or
no."
Finally, he stepped back a pace, but continued to hold his ground.
"But you have defeated me. The castle is there...I cannot detain
you from it for the rest of the time remaining. Clearly, you know
what has to be done in order to solve my world...now all I ask is for
you to tell me how. I can offer you...many things..."
By this time, I had grown very frustrated and thus angry, and
perhaps a little sloppy.
"Fine,” I snarled, “if this is close enough to count as the castle,
then this is close enough to finish this dog and pony show. Give me
the Phials. Through dangers untold and hard ships unnumbered..."
Jareth's calm veneer cracked and I actually could see the moment
he began to panic. I knew more than just how to solve his Labyrinth,
and he had just realized it. I knew how to play his game at his level,
and he wasn’t used to being challenged.
There was a flash of light and suddenly he held my light brown
leather pouch in one gloved hand. He was threatening the phials I
so coveted and in his most commanding voice said: "Stop! I can
destroy these before you ever finish if I wish to. I am King here and
however you may know my world, you are a guest. I am willing to
acknowledge your triumph, but you will accept my gift and you will
answer my questions first."
Slowly, deliberately, I bent down and retrieved my wand from my
boot. I straightened and pointed it at him. "I'm really not in the
mood to screw around," I said.
Jareth viewed the wand with distaste and mild humour. "That will
not work for you here. This place, this game, is of my creation. It is
my magic...my world. Other magics are invalid in my reality. We
play by my rules."
I frowned and lowered the wand. I had no way of knowing if this
was truth, but the last thing I wanted to do was try a spell and have
it backfire on me. Suddenly, my ace-up-the-sleeve was gone. All I
had left was the poem - if I could finish it before he could react,
then maybe … but there was no guarantee that he wouldn't crush
them anyway!
And would my reactions be fast enough to snatch the phials out of
the air if Jareth did drop them?
If the phials were destroyed, I'd have no way of getting out of the
Labyrinth - I'd be trapped forever, and a goblin to boot!
I had to try.
"... I have fought my way here, to the castle beyond the goblin
city..."
His gloved fingers flexed around the pouch and I heard the groan of
the glass and stopped. We were at an impasse.
His voice lowered to a dangerous hiss. "I'm not playing anymore,
child...I will destroy these."
"You can't,” I reasoned. “They're my prize for solving the Labyrinth.
You can't destroy my phials any more than you can deliberately kill
a child."
He glared at me, and for the first time, lowered the pale red rose.
"And just how do you know what I can and cannot do? You appear to
know all of my secrets, but I may just surprise you. I suggest you co-
operate with me, rather than test me. You will receive your prize, I
assure you… just take my gift."
I shook my head to that one. “No - it's going to do something to
me.”
“It is merely a token of my affection - I am very impressed that you
have come as far as you have. Think of it as a goodwill offering. A
truce so we may speak for a few hours before you go?”
I let the bluntness out. "You can't possibly say or offer to do
anything that will make me want to stay in the Labyrinth and let
you suck all the energy out of me, feather-head."
He quirked an eyebrow and raised the rose again. He peered at the
blossom, staring at it intently as if he can see something within it.
"Oh? Are you sure there's nothing I can offer you? Nothing you want
desperately, to the very depths of your being? Nothing you've been
fighting for, for some time now?"
I clenched my fists and my jaw. I hissed at him through my teeth.
"Even if you could know what it is that I want - and I don't think you
do - I doubt you could give it to me. And if you could, I wouldn't
accept the offer, because whatever price you would ask would be
too high."
"All I have asked... all I am asking you for is answers... for you to
tell me how it is you know all you know.” He looked back up,
sincerity painting his features. “This is my world, and yet you
breeze through it as if it were an afterthought. That does not
happen. As for what I can give you... my powers are quite far
reaching. I created this world. Do you honestly think it is beyond me
to give you what it is you crave?"
"What I want is not of your world. You can't give it to me. And trust
me, you won't like my answers. No one else has, yet."
Sighing, he took a small step towards me. I let him, and didn't back
up. He was now out of the rose garden entirely, and for some
reason, it seemed to pull some of the life and colour out of him,
like a thread of breath. The vibrant shades of his clothing became a
muted dull grey, washed out and dusty. His cheeks and lips, once
rosy, were pale and luminescent. His eyes dulled to a dishwater
grey, and there were fine lines around his eyes.
He looked suddenly human, and very weary.
"I'm not asking to like your truths,” he said, and for the first time, I
heard raw desperation and want in his voice. “Merely to know them.
If my world, my Labyrinth can be defeated so easily, it weakens me.
It threatens my very existence. And perhaps that doesn't matter to
you, but this is all I have. Please…. I… I can do many things that are
not of this world, child. You underestimate me. Just take the rose,
and tell me what you know, and I will do all I can to fulfill your
desire.”
I didn’t reach for it, though I found myself grudgingly moved by his
plea. “I don't trust you.”
She shook his head and muttered to himself, “They never trust me.
It was one of her faults as well..." His eyes and thoughts were now
elsewhere, thinking of the only other
person to defeat him.
"You're thinking about Sarah."
His head snapped up and this time he moved more aggressively
towards me, clutching the rose like a blunt weapon, but stopped
short of me. "How do you know that name?"
"I've already told you, you won't like the answers. Just give me the
phials and I'll leave. You'll never see me ever again."
"I am not a child to be coddled, nor am I a patient man." By now, he
was almost shaking with anger. "I don't care if the answers infuriate
me or not, I need to know. Will there be others like you? Has this
world become superfluous?”
"No, it hasn't and no, I don't think there are any others like me in
the world.” I took in his haggard appearance, his obvious
desperation, and, ignoring the instincts screaming otherwise, took
pity on the Goblin King. “I'm a traveler, Jareth. I'm passing though
worlds that I thought only existed in... imagination... in fiction. In
libraries."
"Fiction?" He sounded curious now, and his anger deflated a little.
He touched the head of the rose gently, stroking the petals with the
tips of his fingers as he mused. "Am I not real, then, where you
come from?"
"I told you that you wouldn't like the answers. Now give me my
phials, please."
"Have I shown you any anger yet? Have I given you any reason to
distrust me?" He cocked his head to the side. He didn't insist that I
take the rose again, which left me slightly startled and wary. What
had he done to the rose that he wanted me to take it so badly, and
what would it do to me? And why didn't he want me to take it any
more? "I am more curious than anything. I take it you read of this
place then? And of Sarah?"
I touched the back of my hand gently, where I had drawn blood on
the roses' thorns. The cut had healed over already, thanks to my
Vampiric abilities, but the spot was still slightly itchy. That was a
small concern, but I decided to focus on the threat right in front of
my face before I worried about why my skin was still itchy. I
hesitated, then said, "Yes."
Ever the vain fey creature, Jareth smirked slightly, but it was a
wounded smile. "Then you know of my defeat once already. Tell me
how was I... received?"
"You mean, what people thought about you?" I shrugged, relaxing
slightly with the banter, but I kept my gaze vigilant on my pouch.
Jareth was calmer now, but if I said anything else to anger him, it
may be 'game over'. "Most people thought it was a shame that it
ended the way it did. Sarah doesn't have a lot of fans, in my world."
He smirked again. "You wouldn't just be saying that in order to
placate me, now would you?"
Actually, I sort of was, but it was kinda the truth too. Everyone I'd
ever watched the movie with agreed that Sarah was a whiner and
she didn't really deserve the Goblin King's attention or affection.
I shook my head. "I think she was a snivelling brat who got taught a
much needed lesson in growing up when she was here. You did
exactly what she demanded and expected of you and still she
couldn't take responsibility for your actions. That said,” I added
hastily, “I did not wish away my phials, nor did I agree to this
contest. Please uphold your end of the bargain now, Goblin King, or
I will finish the poem."
He appeared to ponder it a while, before finally inclining his head
ever so slightly. "Very well. You seem to think me honourable and
yet deplorable at the same time... curious. I will give you what you
ask of me; but what of your home? Do you not wish for me to try to
send you there as well?"
I felt the colour drain from my face and my stomach do a perfect
back flip and then land at my toes.
But what of your home? He had asked - how had he known?!
"H-how…” I whispered. I felt like someone had punched me in the
chest, I couldn't get enough air to properly make a sentence. “ ...
how do you know what my desire is?"
He smiled, almost warmly, and brushed the petals of the pale red
rose under his nose. "Deductive reasoning child, simple as that. You
have told me how you know of me...from your home and yet you
are here, and quite unhappily so. I know you want something so
badly you can taste it. I'm right aren't I?"
He took a step closer to me and I realized what he was doing - he
was feeding on me. That's why he was standing here, that's why he
kept popping in to visit Sarah. Jareth was sucking my desire out of
me and consuming it. That's why he was growing happier, more
content, while I felt my anger and fear slowly draining away. My
passion was leaving.
All the energy and power, and strength, that my indignation had
given me was swirling out of me like water out of a very small hole
in a bathtub. The realization made me feel the effects even more
strongly, and I swayed on my feet.
I had to take a step back, brace myself against the wall to keep
upright.
Jareth grinned at me and I glowered at him from underneath my
hair.
"... yes,” I finally admitted. He tried to take another step forward
but I straightened, keeping one hand against the wall to keep
myself upright, and held the other one out in front of me to ward
him off. I took a step back again and he stopped. “But I don't
believe you can send me home. Better men than you have tried."
He stepped forward despite my outstretched hand. He was almost
within touching distance and I jerked my fingers back. With a flick
of his wrist, the rose vanished and was replaced by a pale red
crystal ball. He balanced it between his fingertips for a second,
then released it - for a second it appeared as if the ball would
shatter, but he slipped his knuckles under it and began to roll it
back and forth over the top of his hand, up his fingers, over the tips,
down into his palm, and back again. He made it look as easy as
waving.
"You wound me and yet I am willing to help you,” he insisted, “Is
that not generous?" He smiled, at me, knowing the words would
have an impact.
I blinked at him. "Generous?"
“I have been known to be so."
He gave me a look of complete innocence and held up the crystal
yet again. I realized that I was trapped, now. The banter, the offers,
the rose, the pleading, it had all been to stall me, to get him close
enough to me, to get me relaxed enough, for him to start draining
away my desire, my ambition. Even now when I thought of home,
the burning need to reach it had dwindled.
This realization alarmed me, filled me with muddy despair.
Soon I would be nothing more than a husk, wan and uncaring; just
as Sarah was in the JunkLady’s house.
I had to get away from Jareth. I had to get to the castle, finish the
poem, and free myself.
"Wait... no,” I said, “this isn't... this is too... what have you done
that's generous?"
He smiled, enjoying my disconcertion at the deja vu. I had
unknowingly given him a weapon. "Everything. You may not have
asked to play my game, but I have accommodated you as best I
could. I have graciously accepted my own defeat...isn't that
generous?"
"But I... I mean, I haven't even... give me back my phials, then!"
He bowed slightly and handed me the pouch. His hand brushed mine
as we parted and I felt heat leap from my body into his through our
hands. I bent over, clutching the pouch to me, shivering suddenly.
Jareth bent as well, leaning into my ear, and whispered, "Thank you
for everything you've given me. I wish you a safe journey."
I strapped my belt on, watching him watch me, reached into the
pouch and plucked up an unkeyed phial, lifted it above my head.
"You're welcome... I guess," I said, not knowing what else to say.
I dropped the phial and when it hit the ground, it broke. Just…
broke. Burgundy liquid oozed out onto the grey flagstones beneath
my feet, vanishing into the cracks - but there was no flash, no crack.
I stared at it in amazement and horror for a second. Jareth had
cautioned me that my magic wouldn't work here - did that include
the phials?
I reached into my pouch for some wizarding candy - if the
enchantments on the candy weren't working either, then I would
know that none of the Harry Potter brand hocus-pocus would be
able to help me. My hand hit empty air.
I looked at my waist - there was no pouch. At my feet, there was no
broken glass, no puddle of useless potion.
There never had been.
Jareth was standing there, on the threshold between the eerie rose
garden and the stone corridor, once more clad in his gothic finery.
He was watching, smiling, amused that I had fallen for his little
illusion.
"You sneaky son of a bitch!" I cried, and lashed out with a foot
before he could quite react to the insult. I hit him directly in the
hand.
The crystal ball he was holding was sent spinning into the air, flying,
rolling over and over, and shattered against the ground. The world
around me splintered - the sky rained down in shards of broken
glass. I shrieked and covered my head with my arms.
When I looked up again, I was back in the grey, damp, cobwebby
passage that lead towards the castle. There was no rose garden.
There was only a wall with a carved rose in the stone, grey and
eroded with age and rain. At its base were smashed crystal
fragments in pale red. From the shapes of the scattered pieces, I
could tell that it had once been a small rose. On one of the thorns,
a drop of red shivered - my blood.
I had been trapped in an illusion, just like Sarah and the peach.
I lifted my face to the air and screamed in frustration.
Book Seven: Labyrinth
Chapter Nineteen: “The Words”
The frustration finally gave way to fury and that was that.
I concentrated and before I knew it, I was a bat. My wand and my
knife were clenched in my little batty claws.
Apparently that much magic still worked for me. Perhaps because
it was ingrained in my DNA. I still functioned – I was still a Vampire,
still walked and lived, so that magic was still active. I hadn’t
crumpled the moment I’d walked into the Labyrinth. So it made
sense that I could also still transform.
I flew up over the grey stone wall and made a bee-line for the
castle.
I just hoped this wouldn't constitute as cheating. The player was
allowed to use every means at their disposal, right?
As I approached, I saw Jareth sitting on the windowsill of the
circular tower throne room. On the sill was a smashed crystal and
his eyes and mouth were wide 'o's of surprise. He had probably
dropped the crystal in shock when he saw me transform.
Served him right.
Peeping tom.
I flew over his head and landed on the stone floor on human feet,
and in a single fluid movement brought the knife up to his chin.
“Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,” I began,
even as he rose to his feet, sputtering, the colour draining away
from his face. He took a step backwards and I matched it, flicking
the blade of the dagger, lightly scraping the flashing metal against
his skin. He froze. “I have fought my way here to the castle Beyond
the Goblin city.”
“W-wait!” he cried out, but I was in no mood to listen.
“To win back the phials which you have stolen.”
“Please, don't do this!” he said, and just hearing the Goblin King say
'please' was enough to pique my curiosity, enough to make me
pause in the incantation.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why shouldn't I?” I asked. “Well? Will it
kill you?”
“No,” he said hastily, “but you are the first challenger I've had in…
years… I'm half starved for desire. Remain with me, please, and…”
he flicked his wrist and another of his crystal balls appeared in his
hand, balanced on his gloved fingertips. “I'll give you anything you
want.”
“You can't give me what I really want and keep me here.”
“I can.”
“I want to go home.”
“I can make is seem as if you're home.”
“I don't want another fucking illusion!” I took another menacing
step forward and Jareth, obviously flustered and thrown off by my
brutal aggressiveness, could do nothing more than press himself
back against the stone wall and stare in horror. “I want the real
thing, dammit!”
“What are you?” he whispered.
“A Vampire,” I replied, not really seeing why it was relevant.
He shook his head minutely, as if afraid that too strong a motion
would cause him to slit his own throat. With the way I was holding
the knife, and how closely, it was a distinct possibility. “I know
that,” he said dismissively, “I mean, what are you?”
That made me pause. For the briefest of seconds, I hesitated, and
he used my confusion to break away from me. I turned to follow
him, but his words stung.
Had I truly become a monster?
I had accused Erik of being one because he had killed - and here I
was, with my knife poised to slash out someone's throat. Was my
own desire, my own anger, mutating me, making me an ugly thing?
I shook my head. Now was not the time to think about such things. I
had to escape. “Don't try to distract me. For my will is as strong as
yours, and my kingdom as great.”
Jareth dropped to his knees in front of me, holding up the crystal,
offering it to me as he had offered the rose. “Don't do this to me,”
he said softly. “Don't leave me to starve.”
I looked into his eyes, and couldn't tell if he was lying. Would he
truly starve to death if I left now? If I said the last six words, would
that be the end of the Goblin King? I cared, I wanted to know, I had
no wish to hurt him, only to leave… but my own selfish desire to win
back my precious phials overcame me.
“You have no power over me.”
He sighed, and the exhalation of breath made his whole frame
shudder. The castle shuddered with him, cracks appearing in the
mooring between the ancient stones. The whole building began to
shiver. There was a tugging sensation at my waist, and suddenly I
felt my pouch. It was back, hitched high over one hip, like it should
be.
I dug out a blank phial and held it above my head.
Against the hand with the knife, I felt the chilled, smooth surface of
a crystal pressed against my fingers.
“Take it!” Jareth screamed and shoved the crystal into my other
hand. “Seek your home, but feed me of your desire! I will feed from
you through this - as a creature who must rely on others for
sustenance, you cannot deny me my chance at survival! Please!”
This last word was shrieked over the thunderous rumble of falling
masonry.
I felt guilt twist in my gut, and I closed my fingers over the crystal. I
had been less than a stellar example of human compassion the last
few hours, and I felt guilted into accepting it.
I hoped I would not regret my generosity any time soon.
The minute it left his hands, Jareth became a snowy white owl, and
swooped out the window. The castle was coming down around my
ears, and I wasn't going to wait for it to crush me.
Just as I had released the phial, something unforgivingly hard struck
the back of my head, and I tumbled down with the castle, spinning
into blackness.
I clenched the crystal in my other hand and prayed that my landing
would be soft.
=====
In my mind I had dubbed it the “Slip-Sickness”, and I lay on the
ground firmly in its throes. The bash on the head wasn't helping any,
but my Vampiric nature was helping to make the feeling go away
fairly fast.
I rolled over onto my side and vomited into the lush, soft grass
under my cheek. It was all red and reeked like rotting meat, and I
pushed onto my hands and knees to escape the mess. My throat felt
tight and raw, my head swam, and the world swayed and bobbed.
My vision was dark around the edges, and stars sparkled in the
middle. My stomach felt like it was trying to crawl out of my mouth,
and my heart was trying to break out of my rib cage. My extremities
were numb with painful cold, yet all my joints were on fire. Knives
stabbed the back of my eyes every time I opened them and let in
the light, and every breath of air made my chest constrict and my
bowls roil.
I vomited again and crawled away, backwards.
My ears were ringing and my head throbbed.
I lay back in the grass, flung my forearm over my eyes and prayed
to die.
=====
The first thing to sluggishly return to me was my hearing. The gongs
and high-pitched whistles that had been ringing in my ears, making
me want to pull a Van Gogh, finally evened out into the whirr of the
wind, the wet green sounds of shivering foliage, and the heavy
crash of nearby thunder.
The ground shook and it sounded, felt, like I was in the middle of a
storm. But I felt no rain, and the sky on the other side of my eyelids
was light. I heard a high-pitched whirring whine, like some
electrical thing powering up, then a zapping sound of a discharge.
There was a flash of light, more crashes, and a muffled curse
broadcast over a poor quality, cracking radio.
“Surrender, vigilante!” one crackling voice commanded, and it was
met with the sound of a zapping discharge.
“You can't order the Shinigami to just surrender and expect me to!”
another, brasher voice called back over a speaker system. “I mean,
hello, Death.”
There was another zap and the grass near my head was suddenly
hot, and smelled of burning greenery. I climbed to my feet and
opened my eyes.
Above me, almost directly above me, stood two giant robots.
No shitting.
One was grey and very plain looking, man-shaped and armour-esque.
The other looked like a hybrid between the Batmobile and a
Transformer. In one giant mechanical hand it held a staff with an
arc of acid green energy off the end that made the weapon look like
a scythe. In the other is clutched a laser gun.
A laser gun.
The two robots exchanged another volley of laser fire, and I had to
dance out of the way when the missing shots arced by my head.
They continued to fight, oblivious to my presence. I nearly was
stepped on, and I wasn't feeling with it enough to move fast enough
to get out of the way.
I guess that's why I didn't see the third angel-like robot hovering via
thruster-pack in the air above my head. I hear the whirring sound of
a large zap gun being charged, and looked up, over my shoulder just
in time to see the stream of yellow energy heading right for me.
“Aw, shit,” I said, and covered my head with my hands. I crouched,
and wondered if this was to be the end of me.
=====
I sat up slowly, my head spinning, eyes wide to try to suck in any
light I could. The room was pitch black. The only indication of
colour came from set of thick curtains. Golden sun streamed
through the cracks at the bottom and in the middle. The fabric was
lightened.
The silhouette of a man was a dark shape against the curtains.
It made me shiver.
“You're still a sick fuck,” I said softly, facing the window.
He chuckled softly under his breath, and the silhouette took a step
closer. “And you're still a brazen young lady.”
“Don't come near me,” I warned, groping along the cover for
something to throw. I found the bedside table and closed my
fingers around a heavy, hard-cover book.
He chuckled again, and the sound gave me something to aim at.
He yelped as the book glanced off the side of his head and I could
see his shadow move as he raised his hand to the new bruise.
“Why do you insist on throwing books at me?!” he snarled, and two
dots of gold appeared in the shadow. His eyes were glowing..
“Why do you insist on trying to hurt me when you know I will throw
books at you?”
He snarled and I felt the bed sink and sway. I crab-walked
backwards until I hit the headboard. I could only see the feral glow
of his eyes, but they were coming closer, skimming towards me
over the bed. Christ, he was crawling.
I pulled myself into a ball and clamped my arms around my neck,
hiding my face in my knees, in an effort to protect the vulnerable
stuff. I felt his long fingers prying at my arm and I went stiff. I
could feel his thighs on either side of my legs, his other arm
brushing my shoulder. He had me pinned to the headboard.
He laughed softly and his breath whispered along my ear, hot and
smelling of rotted meat. Old blood.
“I have never tried to harm you,” he said softly into my ear. I shied
away from that side, and the movement gave his hand the leverage
needed to pull my other arm away from my neck. He grabbed my
forearm and slowly yanked it upwards and back, pinning my wrist
against the wall. I couldn't fight him. He was moving slowly,
deliberately, and I couldn't fight him.
He switched his face to the other side of my neck, the side that
was free now, and nuzzled. I could hear him snuffling against my
skin like a dog, taking in scents. His tongue shot out and lapped
briefly, then vanished. It appeared again, pressing down, searching
for the pulse. He found it and nipped once, no fangs.
I struggled briefly, but there was no point.
“You tried to bite me.”
“I would not have hurt you.”
I shook my head minutely. He nipped again and I quashed the urge
to scream and struggle. This time he drew blood. “You are going to
hurt me.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. His fangs flashed crimson, his eyes glowed
gold. “Yes, I am.”
I screamed.
=====
The sound of a scream ringing in the void under a high ceiling awoke
me.
Cautiously, I opened my eyes. I was laying on my back in a wide,
expensively draped bed. On the nightstand beside me sat my knife,
my wand, and Jareth's crystal.
Don't let me starve!
I closed my eyes and looked away from the ball of glass.
I heard a door open, and the soft footfalls of boots on thick carpet.
I didn't look up. I smelled a man - expensive rose cologne, salonquality shampoo, very fine whiskey - stop at the end of my bed.
“You are awake?” he asked, and his voice was smooth and confident,
lightly accented and with just a hint of a rumbling purr. Sexy, is
what it was.
“I am,” I whispered. I didn't open my eyes.
“You were screaming.”
“Nightmare.”
“Ah,” he said, and left it at that.
Book Seven: Gundam: Wing
Chapter Twenty: “Conversations in the Dark”
I woke again later, but how much later I don't know.
It was dark and the man who smelled of expensive things was not
there. Beside me on the nightstand, Jareth's crystal was faintly
glowing. At first I thought it was a trick of the light - the moon light
lancing through the stone.
But then I realized that the crystal was on the opposite side of the
bed as the window and the shadow of my own head was in the way.
A light, faintly red, throbbed in the very centre of the orb.
Your desire will be mine, the light seemed to say. I will take it
from you.
I threw a pillow over the crystal and let the pain of my singed flesh
drag me back down into blackness.
=====
His desire is strong, the crystal was saying in my dreams, and fine.
He is a man of refined tastes with refined desires. I will have them.
You mean the man who smells expensive? I replied, not at all
concerned that I was talking to Jareth through a crystal. Or to the
Crystal itself.
Weirder things had happened.
And mostly they had happened to me.
Yes, the crystal said. His desire is so strong that I may siphon it off
from even here, on the other side of his … house.
I was waking slowly, this conversation pulling me out of my sleep. I
laughed to myself at the euphemism the crystal used for what was
probably a sprawling palace. I could hear people moving all around
me, the low indistinct murmur of voices, the splash of water, the
snick of someone chopping vegetables. This man had servants, and
lots of them. What does he want?
That I can't say. But his hunger for it makes his desire sharp and
honed. It is like a heady champagne and a rich cheese.
Nice to hear you found someone better than me to feed you.
Oh, no, don't think you're so easily replaced, the crystal said. He
may be champagne and caviar but you are a full bodied red wine
and your desire is cutting.
Goody, I sassed and wondered if my mental tone sounded as
sarcastic as I thought.
No need to get tetchy, the crystal said. Don't forget, you agreed to
feed me by taking the crystal.
I turned to face the crystal. It wasn't glowing anymore. “So you are
King Jareth then?” I asked it.
“Me, a King?” the expensive smelling man said from the doorway
and I gave a slight start. I had been focusing so hard on the crystal
that I had missed his approach. The lights were still low and I
couldn't make out his face, but he was dressed in light-coloured
breeches and dark boots, and a sort of military coat in Prussian blue.
I wondered if I had ended back up in 'Pirates'.
“Er.”
“Hardly,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “but I could
see where you would make the mistake. My name is Khushrenada.”
He stepped into a patch of moonlight and I watched as it turned his
eyes into glittering shards of blue ice, his roan hair into a foppish
puddle of gold and blood. “General Trieze Kushrenada. But you may
call me just Trieze.”
I swallowed hard.
Your desire has just grown sharp, my dear, the crystal said. Either
you want this man, or you fear him… or maybe both?
Shut up! I thought at it viciously.
You know who his is, then?
How could I not? He's the Leader of the Specials, the Officers of the
Zodiac. OZ for short, and they're the most talented and ruthless
Mobile Suit Pilots in the universe. This guy is just as ruthless, but
he's definitely more stylish about it.
Ah, then it is ambition that makes his desire strong.
Actually… his only ambition, I think, is to create peace.
I think the crystal laughed. Peace? A Warrior? How does he plan on
doing that?
I took a good long look at the General. By becoming a martyr.
The crystal fell silent and I turned my attention back to the patient
Trieze. “Sorry,” I said softly. “I'm a little out of it. I was…
thinking.”
He smiled at me. “That is all very well. You have been injured
badly. I expect you to be… 'out of it' a little. I am very glad to see
you awake, miss…?”
“Marie,” I said softly. “Just Marie.”
“Ah,” he nodded his head knowingly. As if he expected me to have
only one name. Spies only ever have one name, don't they? “Then
welcome to my estate, Miss Marie.”
I quashed the inane urge to try to pull a curtsy and just nodded
instead. “Thank you, General.”
He chuckled again, a rumbling lion sound and strode out of the
patch of faint light. I felt the foot of the bed sink and sway -he's not
Lucard, stop thinking about that stupid dream - and he sat gingerly
on the edge, as if to stay far away from me for my own comfort.
“I said you may call me Trieze.”
“Right. Sorry. Trieze.”
His face really did look concerned.
As I studied his expression for genuineness, a shocking realization
slammed into me. I was looking at General Trieze Kushrenada… and
he was real.
All the other realities I'd slid into had been based on live-action
series or books. But “Gundam : Wing”, the story that Kushrenada
came from, was animated. Here I was looking at the real-life fleshand-blood face of a man whom I'd only seen as ink lines and paint
smears.
He looked far more handsome, far more cunning, and far more
charming in the flesh. Literally.
I would have to be careful around him. Letting my guard down near
His Excellency Trieze was just begging for all kinds of trouble. The
man had the uncanny ability to know exactly what your weak points
were, and the ruthlessness to go for them.
The only weakness I'd ever heard of Khushrenada having was a
fascination with beautiful and unique things. Trieze collected rare
birds, raised nearly extinct flowers, and tended to collect around
him people who were the last or one of a kind. His lieutenant was
the Prince of a dead Kingdom. His current foe was the last really
ethnic looking Chinese person in the universe.
And here I was, the only Vampire in the tale, accompanied by the
only sentient rock, bandaged up and infirm in his great big house.
As long as he never found out, things would go fine.
Ri-ight.
Trieze reached out one white-gloved hand and picked up the crystal
ball. Deep within its dark depths I saw the red light pulsing faintly.
“This is a most fascinating mineral, Miss Marie.” He said my name as
if it was in inverted quotations. “Wherever did you find it?”
I struggled to sit up against the pillows, hissing under my breath
when I felt my burnt skin cracking open. I was swathed in bandages
and slathered in some sort of menthol liniment.
It didn't hurt as bad as it had when I had first woken up, but I must
have been very badly crispified indeed to still be in so much agony
so long after. Trieze watched me adjust myself with silent and
calculating eyes, but never offered to help me. He was waiting for
me to answer.
“It was a gift,” I said softly. Around us the room was growing lighter,
the windows rosier. Dawn was on its way. Damn dawn.
“And what does it do, exactly?” he said, turning it this way and that
in the light. “Besides make my fingers tingle?”
Ah, so the crystal was sucking the desire out right at the moment.
Silly man.
“Nothing, really,” I admitted. “It just sits there like a lump of coal
and sparkles.”
I resent that last remark.
Shut up, featherhead, you don't get a say.
Trieze set the crystal aside and the red glow died. If he had noticed
that it was pulsing with light faintly, he said nothing and did
nothing to give it away. Trieze played everything close to the vest.
“You were clutching it very tightly,” Trieze pressed. “We feared we
might have to break your fingers to get it out of your grip.”
“You could have left it,” I said.
“Oh, but you see my dear… you were dead.”
I froze and stared at him. I know I must have looked like a deer
caught in the headlights, and I tried to will the expression away,
but I couldn't. “D-dead?” I repeated, and cursed myself for the
stammer.
Underneath the sheets I moved to grasp a phial, and froze when I
realized that yet again, my pouch was missing. In fact, everything I
have been wearing was gone, and I was in some sort of loose silky
bathrobe thing over piles of bandages.
Oh my god… had my pouch burnt up?
My wand, my potion, my recipes, everything, gone?! If they… it they
really were… I was defenceless! Without the wand, I would have to
rely on hand to hand combat when I fought, and I was shit at that.
“You suddenly look panicked,” Trieze purred at me and I stopped
my freak out long enough to scowl at him. Smug bastard.
“The pouch I was wearing,” I said, answering cool tone for cool tone,
“What happened to it?”
“Ah, this?” he said and pulled my pouch from the inner pocket of
his jacket. He handed to me and I did everything I could to keep my
hands from shaking as I examined it.
The back of the strap had burned away. It had probably been flung
away from my body by the force of the electrical blast. Thank god.
I opened it up and went through it - yes, wand, knife, phials, recipe,
odds and ends, yes, it was all there… By my careful count I had one
blank phial left.
That meant I would have to stay here and brew more, or hope that
the next world was settled enough to do it. I was by no means well
enough to even start thinking about brewing the potion here and
now, and I knew better that to try it around Trieze, at any rate.
That was just asking for all kinds of cans and worms.
“Is everything in order?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Good. Now, if we may return to my original question. You were
dead, were you not?”
He hadn't actually asked that question but I didn't care to point it
out to him. I answered his question with one of my own.
“Do I look dead now?” I asked and he frowned slightly. It was more
in the corner of his mouth and in his eyes, but I could see the 'not
happy' look.
“No, I dare say you do not, now.”
“Then I can'tve been dead.”
He said nothing and studied my face for any betraying tics. I
schooled my features as best I could, trying to re-enact JeanClaude's China Doll look.
“People don't come back from the dead, General Khushrenada,” I
said softly, and I knew it for the truth. I was dead and I was not
coming back.
Something went funny in his eyes. Not like getting or loosing a
glassy look, but definitely a change that told me he was thinking of
something deep inside of him. Was he planning ahead for his own
death? Or maybe thinking of the lost mother of his estranged child?
Or of colleagues and protégés fallen in battle?
“No, I dare say they do not,” Trieze whispered and his low voice
was like warm cinnamon. He leaded forward slowly, as if I were a
skittish kitten, touched the side of my face gently with the backs of
his fingers, running his knuckles lightly down my neck.
His nose was entirely too close for comfort.
Yeow.
He was almost as good as Jean-Claude.
Almost.
Beside me I felt the crystal smiling. Give in, it said. Go on - feed
the flames of desire.
Fuck off, I thought back cattily.
The crystal was silent.
I turned back to Trieze and he had returned from wherever it was
that his thoughts had taken him. His true thoughts and emotions
were unreadable on his elegant face. I wondered if he was
disappointed that I didn't give in, take the offer of his tempting
proximity, and kiss him.
Hell, I'd been seduced by badder and better.
If Trieze wanted to try to use my femaleness against me to uncover
whatever secrets it was that he wanted to learn, he could damn
well go stuff it in his jumper.
“Sorry,” he suddenly said, as if he had suddenly realized what he
had been doing. He jerked backwards and put his hands on his lap
like a Guilty Little Boy. I didn't buy that act either, but I kept my
face carefully neutral. “That was entirely inappropriate.”
On anyone else, it would have been a clever ruse – make the patient
think you cared for her, thought her beautiful, and she would tell
you anything. It worked better than torture.
“It's okay,” I said. It wasn't, and we both knew it, but it was what I
was expected to say. “Listen, I don't know what happened, okay? I
heard this discharge and then… I woke up here.”
“You were very nearly killed,” Trieze said. “If I had not seen your
hand twitching, I would have been certain that you had been
killed.”
“I'm a tough cookie,” I said. “I take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.”
A smile cracked at that, and this one I thought may just be genuine.
“Where do you come from, my dear?”
“Nowhere and everywhere,” I said with a pain-inducing shrug. Dawn
had come full force, leaving the eeriness of Trieze by moon light
behind. This new Trieze by daylight was rosy and breathtaking.
Dawn had also left me more or less human for the day and therefore
unable to heal up properly as a Vampire should. The agony of the
burns began to pick at me and I fidgeted.
Truth be told I was also starving. This whole healing thing always
left me parched.
“You're a vagabond then?”
“I go where the stars guide me, yeah.”
He laughed again. “That's rather romantic sounding.”
I allowed myself a smile. “Yeah, I guess I'm a bit of a hopeless
romantic.”
“That's the best kind to be,” he admitted with a nod. “All or
nothing, that's what I say.”
“Yeah.”
“You've grown pale, my dear. You must be hungry. Shall I have
someone sent up?”
Hungry. Yeah. He had no idea. Sending someone up sounded great.
Maids slipped and fell neck-first onto forks all the time, right? Riight.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I felt my eyeteeth pushing
against my gums, but while the sun was up, I was unable to make
the change necessary to give me the feeding equipment that I
wanted.
If Trieze hadn't come to me at dawn, if he had tried this last night…
I probably would have taken him.
I was glad that I hadn't. This whole “the dead don't come back”
thing may not have worked so well with his blood staining my lips.
He stood and made his way to the door. He stuck his head and
spoke to someone. Hm - I wondered if I was being guarded or
protected. I heard the heartbeat and the footfalls of the other
person patter away, and Trieze turned in the doorway to look at me.
“It is a wonder,” he said softly.
“What is?”
“The speed of your recovery, my dear. If the dead don't come back
to life, then I am certainly looking forward to finding out just who
you are. You looked very dead to me.”
“I wasn't,” I insisted. “And I told you, my name is Marie.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, but his tone told me that he didn't
believe a word out of my mouth and hadn't yet.
“I can only tell you the truth,” I whispered.
Liar, Jareth's crystal hissed at me gleefully.
Trieze nodded. “Of course,” he said again. We both knew he meant
the opposite. And then he left.
=====
The serving girl had no idea what hit her. When she got close
enough I simply stared at her and sapped all the willpower from her.
I had seen Lucard do it on the TV show - paralyze someone with a
gaze like some sort of grotesque man-shaped basilisk. This had been
my first try at it and I was secretly both proud and disgusted for
having been able to accomplish it.
The girl had already set aside her tray of soup, bread, and strong
tea, so all I had to do was get her to step up to the side of the bed.
But, dammit, it had no fangs.
I was hungry, but how could I pierce her flesh if I had no fangs? Well,
I could chew, tear, hack… but that would kill the girl or at least
endanger her life, or maim her at the very least. No, I couldn't do
that.
The idea was a quick meal with as little evidence leftover as
possible.
Then I remembered my dagger.
I hated the thought of using on this innocent girl, but what choice
did I have? I pulled my pouch from its new hiding place under my
pillow and withdrew the dagger. With shaking, careful hands I lifted
the girl's arm.
I touched the point of the blade to her skin, causing a tiny indent,
and hesitated.
Was I really about to do this?
I had done worse, I know I had, biting people's necks, but this
seemed so… so dirty. So cowardly. At least then I had been giving
those I had fed from something in return, even if it was as shallow
as some brief physical pleasure.
Feed, the crystal thrummed, Feed us both.
I did not dignify that with a reply. Instead I nicked the inside of the
of the girl's elbow, trying to make the cut look like the kind you'd
get from kitchen work without noticing. She didn't even flinch.
I licked the blood carefully from the end of the knife and put it
away so it wouldn’t rust. When I had turned back to the cut on her
arm, it had begun to well tiny beads of blood. I lowered my lips to
the red liquid and sucked as gently as possible. I was determined
not to leave a hickey.
I drank just enough to take the edge off my hunger - three or four
mouthfuls - and slowly allowed her arm to flop back to her side. I
licked my lips free of the clinging droplets, then reached up and
nudged her gently. The girl blinked once, as if suddenly coming to
attention.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” she gasped. “I... I don't know where my head
went…”
“That's fine,” I said. “You look a bit tired. Why don't you sit down
and talk with me?”
“Well,” she said, hesitating.
“Will they miss you?”
“Well, no.”
“Then please, sit.” She sat. “It's kinda lonely,” I admitted and felt
guilty twice over for what I was about to do. Not only had I used her
for my dinner, but I was about to use her to get Trieze off my case
too. “Talk with me?”
“Well, yes, alright,” the girl said, relaxing a little.
“I'm Marie,” I said.
“Elizabeth.”
“Nice to meet you. Are you sure you're okay?”
She shook her head. “I do feel a bit light headed.”
I pointed at the food. “I've had my fill, please, go ahead,” I said,
and this time she only made a token protest before digging in. I
knew Trieze wasn't the type of employer to treat the help badly,
but I'm sure the quality of bread and soup were better that she
usually had.
As she ate, we talked. I told her all about the brother I had who
didn't exist, and how I was looking for him. Rumour had it that he
had run off to join the war, but he hadn't said anything to me, I told
her, so I had come looking for him.
The crystal on the bedside, I told her, was from our old Grannie
who also didn't exist, and it was supposed to be a sort of good luck
charm.
I told her how Mr. Trieze was being awfully nice after I had
accidentally mistook his lovely rose garden for a public garden and
accidentally (and isn't it just too bad?) trespassed and even more
accidentally had gotten myself crisped around the edges by that big
old laser cannon.
I really appreciated him taking me in and caring for me and aw
shucks, if he isn't just the most charming man ever, anyway.
I heard Jareth laughing my head the entire time. It was less
disturbing to know that the Goblin King was eavesdropping and
more annoying really. I had come to a point in my (un) life where
the weird was just accepted now.
Couldn't suffer from culture shock every three seconds now, could I?
Things would never get done.
As Elizabeth and I traded lies, I could feel her blood tingling in my
skin, trying to do what repair work it could while the sun was up. A
few more square meals and I thought my skin would be completely
healed. A week's worth of rest, a good soak or too in a nice hot bath,
and I would be on my way.
I'd just consider this my little vacation.
When Elizabeth left to go whisper everything I'd told her in Trieze's
ear, I lay back and closed my eyes, for the moment content.
Heck, I was in a big, comfortable bed, getting fed and pampered
and so what if the guy who was taking care of me was a bit of an
eccentric sociopath.
In the end, weren't we all?
Ha.
The sound of Jareth's laughter chased me into sleep.
I dreamt of rose-scented baths and Vampires with expensive
whiskey on their breath.
Book Seven: Gundam: Wing
Chapter Twenty-One: “Roses and Angels”
Late the next afternoon I was 'miraculously' well and, unbeknownst
to my host, mostly whole. And bored enough to climb the walls.
When my restless boredom became obvious, I was bundled up in a
big blanket and placed in a gazebo out in the garden where I could
breathe in the fresh air and take in the scent of the roses. They
really were nice.
Jareth's crystal was sitting on my lap, as they thought it would be a
comfort to me, and it was quiet and dark for once. Maybe he was
enjoying the late afternoon respite as well.
I was not surprised when Trieze showed up with a bottle of afterdinner wine and two tasteful glasses shortly thereafter. I had
declined joining him for supper, claiming that I was not hungry and
that the soup from lunch had given me an upset stomach.
He'd had more food sent to me around noon and to save face I had
eaten it. When the maid was gone, I had promptly gone to the
bathroom and gotten rid of all of it.
Foul.
“Care to partake?” he asked, and I felt it would be rude to say no.
“It should help settle your digestion.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said softly.
He poured out a carefully measured glass of the vintage and handed
it to me gently. I was still almost mummified in bandages (which
was lucky because once the sun set I would probably heal
completely, and I didn't want anyone to see) so I had to balance the
sleek glass in my hand delicately. If I held it too lightly, it would
slip on the gauze and fall. If I held it too tight, I would crush the
glass.
Trieze was already suspicious enough of me. Having the strength to
crush a wineglass in his presence was probably not the best way to
help set those suspicions aside.
I followed the General's example and place the rim of the glass
under my nose. I took the time to appreciate and savour the scent
of it - it was the first time as a Vampire that I'd had wine, and a
million more scents than were usually undetected swam up my
senses.
My god, beer certainly didn't smell this good!
I could smell the grapes, the currents, the oak of the barrel, the
slight smoky scent of charred wood, the soil of the field, the hands
of the workers, the autumn breeze... it was a sheer treat and I
continued to smell the beverage long after Trieze had taken the
first sip of his own.
I clutched the glass carefully by the bowl and closed my eyes,
inhaling slowly.
Oh, what a marvel!
In my mortal life I had been quite the fan, but now… I could smell
things that I doubted even an obvious connoisseur like Trieze could
catch. I took a mouthful and held it on my tongue, regretting that I
would have to sick it back up later.
The flavours danced along my taste buds - wind, sun, and that first
nip of autumn frost. I groaned and then flicked guilty eyes over at
the General. He was amused, watching my blatant enjoyment of the
wine.
It really was superb.
Not that anything of Trieze's was never anything less that superb.
“I'm glad that you liking the wine,” he said softly and another of
those mostly-genuine smiles graced his features.
“It's delicious,” I admitted, not having to embroider one spec of
that truth. I took and savoured another sip, really sad that I would
have to expel it.
I was also sort of in the mood to get drunk. That's the problem with
being a Vampire, of course. You can't get drunk. The sweet
rollicking oblivion of alcohol was not for one such as I.
It was probably just as well. If I had been able to properly partake, I
would have been a wino worlds ago.
Would have made all this 'slipping' much easier to deal with.
“Are you feeling better, my dear?”
“Much improved, thank you.”
He blatantly swept his blue eyes along my body again, in a gaze
probably calculated to make me get all warm and goosebumpy. I
shivered once to appease his ego. He smiled to himself and
uncrossed his legs. He tucked a hand between his thighs and gave a
short tug on the seat of his chair, pulling it around a little so he
could face me better.
He pressed the bottoms of his boots firmly and calmly against the
paving stones under us, and rested his elbows on his knees. He bent
forward slightly and an earnest mask appeared on his face. He laced
his fingers together slighting in front of his mouth, and for a
moment I was sharply reminded of the villain from a different
anime, Neon Genesis Evangelion.
“I hear that you are looking for your brother,” he said.
“It seems the walls have ears,” I said back.
He sat back a little. “Well, Miss Elizabeth was very concerned for
you, and came to me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said and the scepticism was clear in my voice.
A little grin pulled at the side of his mouth again. “You do not
believe me?”
“I know that you probably told her to report to you after she spoke
with me.”
He sat all he way back and crossed his legs again, one elegant ankle
resting on his knee. “I see. That is the way of things, then? Of
course, I must now ask, do you really have a brother?”
“Yes,” I said and finished the glass of wine. “His name is Klaus and
he's totally insane.”
Trieze nodded again but did not voice his obvious disbelief. Instead
he said, “Are you certain you are not hungry now? Is there anything
more I can do for you?”
I flicked my eyes to the sky behind him - nope, still at least an hour
away from sunset. It must be summer here. I wasn't 'eating' anything
for a while yet.
You could hand me your blood in a silver tureen, I thought, but
decided against saying it.
People don't come back from the dead, remember?
=====
We parted ways pleasantly enough. Trieze had some matters to
attend to, he said, and I was installed in the library to browse as I
saw fit. He was being extremely gracious, and I really did feel bad
for lying to him.
He was probably spying on me though. I'm sure he must have
cameras somewhere.
As soon as my escorting butler was gone, I found my way to a
bathroom and got rid of the wine.
Trieze really was a good host. The wine had been nice.
But he was as clever as the come, and I didn't dare let my guard
down for a second.
I knew the minute I tried to run or escape in anyway, I would be in
shackles in some god-forsaken dungeon. My wand, my phials, my
pouch would be taken away and I would be left bound and helpless.
And I would be without a food source, the crystal said.
Har har, I thought back. You're awake?
I don't sleep. I was simply ...resting.
Yeah, sure.
=====
I was led back to my room about an hour after sunset. I was served
tea, but drank what the maid had under her skin instead.
She didn't remember a thing, and this time I had my fangs at my
disposal.
I followed the blood with the tea, thanked the maid, and when she
left, I made another trip to the bathroom.
=====
Trieze was busy all the next day, so I was left to my own devices. I
wandered the house a little, but finding so many locked doors, I
decided to stay in the garden or the library. Too much exploring
would lead to trouble, and trouble was exactly what I didn't want.
I was still mummified in bandages but shrouded in a silk lounging
robe. I had left my pouch and the crystal in my bedroom to keep
Trieze from asking me about them.
I ate the lunch brought to me, then puked it into the shrubs when
the porter left.
One more day, I thought. One more day of pleasant roses and
vomiting up solid food bits.
That night I would leave. I was feeling rested enough, and I was
starting to get a bit antsy to be on my way. The pain had
completely faded by sunrise that morning, but I wanted to wait
until sunset, just in case, to make sure that I would have my full
powers before I slid.
I sat to dinner with Trieze that night. We both chatted, he verbally
circling me, warily like a hunting cat, trying to decide what was lie
and what truth.
When the meal was finished, I moved to excuse myself and he said,
softly, “I do hope you're not planning on visiting the lavatory
again.”
I paused, halfway out of my chair, and blinked owlishly at him.
“Ex...cuse me?”
He smiled softly and gestured for me to return to my seat. I did.
“My staff tells me that you've been having stomach problems. You
seem in fine health, but you are sick after every meal.”
I blinked, taken aback. He knew? I mean, he knew that I had ...
eeeeew.
“I'm fine now,” I said. “Really.”
He pushed aside his empty plate and put his chin in his palms.
“Perhaps this is an attempt to avoid...ah... how to put it
delicately... putting on weight?”
I blinked again, stupefied as easily as if Severus had pointed his
wand at my nose.
Then I threw back my head and laughed.
Trieze looked disgruntled at my sudden amusement, frowning. That
doubled my laughter and I clutched at my full stomach. The food
was sitting like a hot rock in the bottom of it, and the laughter was
making my gut roil and churn, but I forced the feeling away and
tried to concentrate on calming my giggles.
“I do not see what is so amusing,” he said.
“You think I'm bulimic?” I asked, and the mere mention of the word
made me chortle.
“Well,” he said, “seeing as you are being so blunt - yes.”
I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. “Thanks for the concern,
General, but I'm not.”
He slammed his palms down on the table, the only indicator of his
anger. He rose calmly to his feet, looking otherwise unruffled. “Are
you saying my concern is misplaced?”
The thought that he was concerned about me sent me into another
fit of giggles and he patiently waited me out.
Imagine, Trieze Khushrenada concerned.
“Then explain!” he said. “There is no record of either a Marie nor a
Klaus in any of the military's records. You eat everything yet digest
nothing. You seemed perfectly dead, and now you move about as if
nothing has happened to you. That crystal of yours seems to glow
more the closer I come to it. And my serving staff has suddenly had
a rash of clumsy accidents wherein they cut themselves.”
I grinned toothily at him. “There's nothing to explain, General.”
He came forward suddenly, walking briskly around the table to
tower over me. His face was smooth, his tone cool, but there was
sparkling fire in his eyes. “I will not be defied or lied to. Who are
you and why are you here?”
“I am Marie and I had an accident.”
A little line appeared between his eyebrows but otherwise he
seemed perfectly cool.
He was about to say more when he turned his head to look at the
door that separated this dining room from the study. He was
listening to something.
I sniffed once and found what had captured his attention - there
was someone in the next room.
By the look on Trieze's face, it was someone who was not supposed
to be here.
“Please wait here,” he said, though I could tell by the tone of his
voice that it was an order and not a request.
He did not wait for a reply, which was just as well as I did not
intend to give him one. He stalked over to the wall and removed an
elegant ornamental sabre from the display of swords on the wall,
and went carefully into the next room.
“My, my,” I heard him say before the door swung shut behind him.
“What a pleasant surprise. Mr. Chang -” The rest was lost by the
door closing.
He was probably about to say something else, but a loud shout,
followed by the clatter of something falling over and the
unmistakable clang of metal on metal told me the battle had been
joined.
I seized the opportunity and dashed out of the dining room. There
had been guards on the far side of the door, as I had anticipated.
With the force with which I slammed the door back, I knocked the
man behind it unconscious. The second man barely had time to
register my presence before a sharp kick to the chest sent him
sprawling backwards down the hall.
I raced up to the guest bedroom where I had left my pouch and the
crystal.
Laid on the foot of the bed was a fresh set of clothing and I stripped
off the silk lounging robe and bandages in a flurry. I quickly donned
the tasteful black skirt and the blue turtle neck provided. My brown
boots were sitting on the floor with pantyhose. I forwent the nylons
and jammed my bare feet into the soft leather.
I mourned my Hogwarts robe, burnt to a cinder.
What's happening? Jareth asked.
Grabbing the pouch and tying it as I walked towards the bathroom, I
thought back, Dunno, don't care. We're leaving.
But his desire right now is so sharp! Jareth protested.
I could leave you behind, I threatened.
The silence that followed was sullen.
I expelled the food, then washed my hands and rinsed my mouth
thoroughly. I grabbed the crystal in one hand and was fishing in my
pouch for a phial with the other when my door slammed back.
I turned and clutched my wand instead, pulling it out in a rapid
crass-draw, aiming at the intruder's head.
Or rather, in the empty space where the intruder's head would be
were he standing.
Which he was not.
Trieze Kushrenada was slumped against the doorframe, a wound on
his side gushing red.
“Jesus!” I cussed as he stumbled into the room and fell to his knees
on the floor.
“The boy did not see the cut,” he said grimly. “He is far more
skilled than either of us have given him credit for. Determined to
kill me as he is, he will never know that he mortally wounded me.”
I went to his side and helped him stumble to the bed. “Stay here,” I
said, setting aside the crystal. It rolled along the mattress, pulled
by the indent Trieze's body made, and came to a rest touching the
General's hip. “I'll get help.”
I turned away and heard him say, “It is too late for that, I--”
The rest was interrupted by the loud blare of a klaxon.
The almost obnoxious alarm started to go off and I jumped,
slamming my hands over my ears. “What the hell is that?!” I asked
into the air and nobody answered. Or if they did, I didn't hear them.
I felt the earth under my feet shudder and I ran to the window.
Was it an earthquake?
No, there was a giant robot on the front lawn!
It was large, white, and had protrusions out the back of its thrusterpack that resembled nothing more than Angel's wings.
This was Wing Zero, the most technologically advanced, yet
dangerous giant robot in the series. It was piloted by a computer
system so advanced it could literally tap into the user's brain and
read the electric impulses of the pilot and anticipate it's next
motion.
The downside of this was that it drove nearly everyone that piloted
it insane.
I backed away from the window and turned to talk to Trieze.
“Hey, is there a back way out of...”
I stopped.
Trieze was sprawled backwards on the bed, his knees hooked over
the edge and his feet still touching the floor.
He was deathly pale.
A scarlet pool was collecting around him, seeping into the bed
sheets.
Beside him, touching his hip still, the crystal orb was glowing a
violent red.
“Stop it!” I shrieked at the crystal and sprang forward to snatch it
away. “You're killing him!”
I want him! Jareth screamed back. Heat flared out of the stone and
burned me instantly. I dropped it with a shriek.
The red died, but there was still a burning nebulous of desire in the
core.
“You son of a bitch!” I screamed at Jareth through the orb. “I ought
to leave you here to starve!”
If it meant staying near Trieze, I could do it.
“Oh, god, Trieze.”
I went to the General's side, ignoring my healing hand, and felt for a
pulse. It was weak, but it was there.
“You can't die!” I told him. “Not now, not here, not like this. You
have to live long enough to be a martyr!”
His eyes silted and he looked down his nose at me, but they were
pale and without shine.
“How...” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat and tried again.
He sounded parched. “How do you know about that?”
“It doesn't matter,” I said, “We have to get you to a hospital, You
can't die here!”
The mostly-genuine smile returned. “And what does it matter
where I die?”
I grabbed both of his hands between mine. He was freezing. “If you
don't die in space, fighting with Wufei, where every camera
satellite in the universe can see, this war will never end!”
“So it works?” he croaked.
“Of course. Now, tell me, how can I get you out of here without the
Gundams seeing you?”
Trieze shook his head and his eyebrows drew down. He must have
been in agony, but his face remained as hard to read as ever. “I will
not survive if you move me.”
“Then what do I do?!”
He stared at me meaningfully, and I took a jerking step backwards.
“No,” I said.
“Do to me what you did to yourself. You healed from wounds that
should have been fatal, and at a miraculous speed. Whatever it is
you did, do it for me.”
“No, I can't,” I said.
“Yes, you can. You told me the dead don't come back, but you
live!”
“No,” I screamed, “I don't!”
There was another silence, broken only by the klaxons and the
shudders of the suits battling outside. I could hear the distinctive
sound of laser fire and wondered briefly in the back of my mind if
the room we were in would be hit.
“What do you mean, you don't live?”
“I am dead, General,” I said. “I have been dead for near on seven
months, and yet I am as you see me. I am not bulimic, I simply do
not eat. I probably did die, but my soul is tethered to this corpsebody that continually re-makes itself. You do not want to be what I
am.”
“But you could make me as you are?”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “I have never tried, but I do
know how.”
“Please.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed and horrified.
Had Trieze Khushrenada, the man who took what he wanted and
never felt regret, just said please?
“I-If,” I said shakily. The whole house shuddered and I pitched
forward. The red stain on the bedspread was continually growing. I
was running out of time - either Trieze would be dead or we would
be flattened by fighting robots. “And that's a big bloody if... If I
turn you, you have to promise me two things.”
“What?” he asked.
“Promise and I'll tell you.”
One side of this blue lips quirked upwards. “Tell me and we'll see if
I promise.”
“Fine.” I moved to stand over him, looking down into his white face.
He no longer had the strength to lift his head to stare at me. “One you must swear never to make another of us. Period.”
“I think I can honour that.”
“Good. Two - you will still martyr yourself as you planned to.”
“Why?”
“If you don't, this war will never end. You do want it to end, don't
you?”
“Will I die from it?”
“No, but it'll hurt like an S.O.B.”
He closed his eyes and made a small motion that I think was
supposed to be a nod. He probably no longer had the strength to
speak.
“Okay, then,” I whispered. “Keep your eyes closed. This will prick a
little...”
I lowered my mouth to the wound in his side, pushing away the
frock coat and the silk shirt in my way.
Yes, take him! The crystal trilled from the floor.
I ignored it.
=====
When I came back to myself, I was lying on my back on the carpet.
Trieze was standing with his back to the window. His eyes were a
glowing, feral yellow, and he was staring at his hands as if he
couldn't quite believe they were his own.
I lifted a hand to my neck and winced at the pain it brought. Jeeze,
had he ripped my throat open when I had told him to drink?
It hurt like a bitch!
He had sucked for all his worth and then, with no more blood in my
brain, I had slipped into the darkness.
But I was feeling better already. The speedy healing was doing its
work. My veins screamed in hunger, but I had enough power left to
pull myself to my feet.
“What is this?” he gasped.
“Undeath,” I replied. “While the sun rides the sky we have no
power. When the moon rules we can bend the weather to our will,
take the form of a bat or a wolf, and are in possession of senses far
superior to that of any human. In payment, we must drink the blood
of the living to sustain ourselves.”
The yellow eyes that met mine were mildly horrified. “I'm a
Vampire?” he whispered.
“Now and forever.”
He frowned. “I did not expect this to be something so...”
“Vile?” I supplied.
“Base,” he corrected. “Common.”
I frowned, offended. “Well, what did you think I was? An Angel,
fallen from heaven?”
His own scowl deepened. The yellow faded from his eyes and his
fangs retracted.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“I am not sure,” he admitted.
I stumbled over to the bedside and clutched at the table to help
stay upright. The dizziness was fading with every passing minute,
but I pressed my fingers against my eyelids in an effort to will it
away faster. “Well, a wooden stake will solve your problems, if you
decide you're not.”
“What about the sun?”
“You saw me in the sun, didn't you?”
“Of course. Yes.”
The house rattled, the paintings on the walls shuddering violently.
“Time to go,” I sighed.
“Go on a head of me. I will stay,” Trieze said. “This battle needs to
be stopped.”
I turned my own eyes to him. “You misunderstand. I'm leaving,” I
said, and the finality of the statement was not lost on the General.
“Will you return?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know. Give me something of yours.”
He frowned again but complied. From around his neck he pulled a
gold locket. I had never seen it before. He had always hidden it
beneath his shirt. He snapped it open to show me the picture.
On one side was a lovely young woman with pale brown hair. On the
other, a baby with bright blue eyes that matched Trieze's and a few
thin curls of what I knew would darken into a mandarin red.
“Marimaia and her mother,” I whispered. “Your daughter?”
Trieze stiffened when I spoke the name of his illegitimate child but
otherwise showed no sign of surprise. He snapped it shut and held it
out for me to take.
“I can't,” I said. “I won't take that.”
“It's the dearest thing to me,” he said.
I reached up and pulled the rose out of the buttonhole on his lapel.
“This will do,” I said, smiling. I wrapped it in one of the strips of
discarded bandages from earlier, and placed it in my pouch.
I reached out carefully for the crystal. It was still throbbing red, but
it didn't burn me. Jareth must have been sleeping off his feast.
“You are truly leaving then?” he said, and for the first time I
thought I heard a little fear in his voice.
“Look,” I said. I fished out one of the Harry Potter phials and
pressed it into his hand. “If you have any questions, any concerns,
use this. Ask for a man named Dumbledore or one called Remus or
Sirius. They can help you, or point you to me. Be sure you bring
something uniquely of this world with you - a coin, a rose,
something.” He nodded. “To use it, smash it against a hard surface
and be sure you are near enough to be splashed by the liquid.”
I lifted a second phial, my last blank, above my head.
“Like this.”
I slammed it downwards.
Running.
Like the coward I was, because I couldn’t believe I had just done
that to him.
Monster.
You know, with the sun setting behind him like that, and Wing
silhouetted against the dying light far in the distance, I could
almost believe that Trieze was some sort of fallen…
Flash.
Crack.
Drop.
Crouch.
…“Angel?” I heard a woman say, and ducked into the shadows of a
concrete planter on the sidewalk. “Angel, is there a Taco stand
around here somewhere?”
I clutched the crystal in my hands tightly.
Don't scratch me, it said.
Oh, hush, I thought back. For a sentient rock you sure to gripe a lot.
I am not a sentient rock! He hissed. You know damn well that
you're just speaking through the crystal to me.
I know. I grinned as I slowly straightened. I just like pissing you off.
There was a low growling sound and then the King of the Goblins
was silent.
I looked around the busy Los Angeles street. No one seemed to have
noticed my appearance. Then I noticed the sign advertising the
building three inches from my nose.
“Huh,” I thought. “That works.”
What does?
I've figured out what I'm going to do with you, I said to the crystal
and there was a sort of mental shrug in return. I'm going to leave
your betraying, selfish ass right here.
Right here?! He bellowed. Like some kind of common lawn gnome--!?
Well, not here here, obviously. I held the crystal aloft a little so he
could see the smart sign with silver lettering that I was standing in
front of.
Wolfram & Hart? He read and I could hear the scepticism in his
voice.
Oh, yeah, I remarked. If there was ever a place that reeked of
feverish desire, it’s this place. I won't put up with you trying to kill
people around me for their desire. You won’t force my hand again
to fill your greedy belly. You can glut yourself here and never get
full.
=====
Angel was right - for a law firm dedicated to the ways of evil (or the
ways of Good through Evil if Angel and his crew were currently in
charge), it was ridiculously easy to break into. Well, I didn't so
much break into the place as I just… sort of walked in and took the
elevator up to the executive floor.
Book Eight: Angel: The Series
Chapter Twenty Two: “Talking to Myself”
Walking in the main foyer of Wolfram & Hart was a little like
walking into a cathedral. The ceilings were high and cavernous, the
glass and chrome polished smartly, the wood honey coloured and
warm, and everywhere the air held the hushed sense of Importance.
Men, women, and creatures of all descriptions rushed about with a
kind of frenetic self-importance, cell phones to their ears, PDAs
grafted to their palms (some literally), swathed in the eternal
bureaucratic uniform of subdued blazers, pencil skirts, and neck
ties.
These externally blind, self-important business-people dodged
around me as if I were no more consequence than a flag standing
upright and silent on a slalom slope.
Wow, Jareth thought to me. I still held his crystal tightly in my hand,
and the depths were glowing with a faint redness that would have
been undetected had I not been searching for it. There's so much
raw desire... I'm getting dizzy, Jareth whispered, his voice filled
with a hushed sort of awe, as if this was not a regular occurrence.
Knowing his particular diet, it probably wasn't. At least he wasn't
feeding on me. I feel like I'm drunk.
The red core was starting to pulse brighter.
“Cut that out!” I said out loud, hissing under my breath. “Can
Goblin Kings even get drunk?”
“They can if there are enough people in the room. That’s why they
tend to take people one at a time into their mazes.”
The voice that answered my rhetorical question was marked by a
distinctly clipped British accent, upper-class of that I had no doubt,
and came from over my left shoulder. I turned to face the speaker,
tucking the crystal out of view behind my back, trying to jam it
inconspicuously up my sleeve to mute the glowing.
You look guilty, Jareth hissed at me.
Shut up. Out loud, I said, “Oh, I ...um... didn't know that.
Fascinating. Yeah.”
“Wesley Wyndam-Price,” the man said suddenly and stuck out his
palm at me.
“Eh?”
“I... uh...” he seemed puzzled by my confusion, his suave attempt
at introduction made suddenly awkward. “It's... uh, my name.”
“Oh,” I said, then the lights went on. “Oh!” I took his offered hand
and shook it, keeping the other one, the one holding the crystal,
out of view. “Sorry, I'm an idiot. I'm Marie Susan.”
“Welcome to Wolfram & Hart, Miss Susan,” he said. He puffed up
his chest slightly and I understood immediately that this character
probably had some important job to do here. I had been a long time
since I had seen 'Angel' and I didn't remember everything that had
happened very well.
When I simply continued to just stare at him, Mr. Wyndam-Price
deflated a little and hesitantly said, “Is ... is there, uh, anything
Wolfram & Hart can do for you, Miss Susan? Perhaps a nasty maze
incident with the afore mentioned Goblin King?” He frowned slightly,
a cute scholar's crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“Technically, if you agreed to enter the Labyrinth, we can't really
press charges, but you could sue under the context of misinformed
intent... Maybe you should be talking to Charles--”
“Mr. Wyndam-Price,” I tried to cut in, but he wasn't really listening.
“—as he has a better understand of the legalities of such verbal
contracts. Of course, Goblin Kings are just like any other kind of
pest--”
I am not a PEST!
“—and all you have to do to get rid of one is recite poems at them.”
He cleared his throat dramatically, all proud of his mental
capacities, and launched into the recitation: “Through dangers
untold and hardships unnumbered--”
“—I have fought my way here to the Castle beyond the Goblin City,
yeah, I know.”
He ground to a halt, his eyes widening fractionally. “Oh. You do.
Wait, I mean, you do?” He ran a hand through his hair. It was a dark,
rich brown. Though he had to be older, as evidenced by the smile
lines around his eyes and mouth, he looked about thirty.
“Yeah. But it's taken care of.”
“Oh.” He looked slightly embarrassed, and jammed his hands into
his pants pockets, as if ashamed of their now-pointless academic
fluttering.
He was tall and thin without being skinny, wearing a finely tailored
suit jacket paired with a dress shirt of blue that brought out his
light eyes, and a pair of crisp denim trousers.
A distinctive scar ran vertically across his neck. Someone had slit his
throat, once. I rubbed my own scar in a semi-conscious empathetic
gesture. His scar reminded me of what it felt like to slowly
suffocate, your life oozing out of your skin, even as your lungs
pumped desperately for the oxygen that you didn't have enough
blood left to carry to your brain.
It was a terrifying memory and I shoved it away, down into the
black box in my guts where I had begun to keep all the things I
didn't want wandering through my regular thoughts. The place
where all my nightmares escaped from.
Wesley's hazel eyes immediately settled on the scar and a
calculation followed by a lightning realization lit up his face.
“Vampire problem, then?”
I curled up the corner of my lip in what I knew must have been a
pathetic attempt at a smile. “Oh, no, that's taken care of, too.”
Wesley frowned slightly and removed his hands from his pants
pockets, only to flex the fingers once, then jam them into his blazer
pockets. “Then, forgive my confusion, Miss Susan, but ...what
exactly can Wolfram & Hart do for you?”
At this, I did smile.
“Are you accepting applications?”
=====
An hour later I set Jareth's crystal down on the - my - new desk.
I had been secreted in a small cube of a room in some back hall off
to the side of the main foyer. I had been given the rather tedious
task of typing up the Holiday Season's letters. It was a temporary
position.
I was given to understood that it was usually the boss' personal
secretary who did this job, and did it rather efficiently. However,
the new boss had a like-wise new personal secretary, a bouncy
blonde who lived up to and even surpassed most of the jokes her
hair colour was famous for.
The new boss feared she would inadvertently offend someone just
by getting within ten feet of the letters, and thus somehow cause
the end of the world.
He had just been pondering how to convince said secretary - a
Vampire named Harmony, honestly, just as bad as Buzz - to hand
the job over to someone else when Wesley had stuck his head in the
boss' office door and asked whether there were any positions
currently open.
In any truthful reality, I would be told leave a resume and get lost.
But, seeing as I was a Mary Sue, this male character had
immediately gone out of his way to personally forward my request
to the head honcho himself.
I was starting to learn what my status in these realities could bring.
It would be interesting to exploit it as much as I could, se how far
people would be willing to go against human convention or against
their own character just because I was there.
“How the hell should I know, Wes?” the boss-man (a four-hundred
year old Vampire with a soul and a hero-complex named Angel - talk
about your contradictions) said, then peered over Wesley's shoulder
at me. “On second thought, she looks like just the kind of girl
we...um, you are a girl, aren't you? I mean, obviously, female, but...
ah... no extra appendages, I mean, no, not like that...” Jeeze,
could Vampires blush as brightly as that? “No overt slime orifices or
anything, right?”
I shook my head. “Nope. What you see is what you get.”
He waved us in and just as I was about to sit, Harmony herself
flounced in. “Hey, boss-man,” she started, staring at her clipboard,
“about those letters--”
“—here she is, Harm, remember, the, uh,” Angel had started strong,
gesturing grandly to me, but faltered for a moment, “....university,
um, accredited... uh.... card-writer major girl that I was... uh,
telling you about. Remember? I was telling you about it.”
Harmony paused and stared at me, her lower lip jutting out prettily.
“Oh?” Clearly, Angel had not told her about anything, as he had just
made it up on the spot. Harmony would not, however, loose face,
and instead said, “Right, yeah! Okay, yeah, you were just telling me
about it. Okay, so does that mean I don't have to do the cards?”
“No.”
“Great, cause I wanted to go to this new bistro, you know, the one
that I keep telling you that you should bring the Tallaxians to, and-”
“—that's great Harm,” Angel cut in, “You'll check it out for us? Do a
little street-work?”
She looked at Angel with a sort of blatant, vapid calculation. “Can I
use the company credit card?”
He fished into his wallet and tossed it at her.
She plucked it out of the air with pink-lacquered nails. “Sure bossman, no sacrifice too great!”
She flounced out again, relieved to be duty-free, and Angel
collapsed into his chair and put his hand to the bridge of his nose,
relieved to be Harmony-free. He pinched briefly, then looked up at
me over the desk.
“You're hired,” he said, wearily, and Wesley stood to gather up the
piles of clipboards laying helter-skelter all over the large black desk.
“You don't even know who I am,” I said back. “What if I'm here to
corrupt your company?”
“It's already corrupt.”
“Oh. What if I'm here to uncorrupt it?”
“We're trying to do that, any help would be appreciated.”
“Oh.” I tried again. “What if I'm here to kill you?”
Angel smiled wearily, “Do you know how to write a business letter?”
“Well, yes, but I don't see--”
“Can you dot 'i's and cross 't's?”
“Of course, but--”
“Then I'll deal with the assassination attempts as they come. For
now, just write me some letters, please. Wes, get her an office?”
Wesley was trying so hard not to snigger that Angel had to repeat
the request, slightly louder and angrier. Wesley ushered me out the
door and down the hall. I sent once last look at Angel over my
shoulder and said, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, sweeping empty Taco Bell wrappers into the
rubbish bin by the side of his desk, “Just no human blood, okay?”
I blinked. “Right. Um. Oookay.”
Wesley was waiting patiently for me in the hall. He stared at my
scar once more, then flicked a glance through the window-wall at
Angel and then back to me. “So that's what you meant by the
Vampire's taken care of?”
I frowned at the slightly reproachful tone in his voice.
Anger, hot and searing, fuelled by the things in the black box,
roared up in me. They came out my mouth before I even meant to
take the breath required for speaking. “I didn't do this to me, and I
didn't ask for it either, buddy-boy. In fact, I distinctly remember
screaming 'no' with my very last breath, so get off your high-horse!”
Wesley blanched and took a step back.
“Don't take it so personal, lovey,” a congenial voice said behind me,
and I turned to come face-to-chest with a garish yet paradoxically
natty banana-yellow suit, and a green demon fellow with red horns
inside it. “I'm Lorne, honey-bear, and Wes here just forgets that
sometimes we can't help being born green, if you catch my uh-huh.”
I smiled despite myself at the little wink and nudge and the loungesinger personality that flowed like waves of relaxation off this Lorne
guy. He definitely had not been in the first season of 'Angel', or I
would have remembered him.
“Right,” I said, shoving everything back down, mentally re-settling
my feathers. I turned back to Wesley. “Sorry.”
“My apologies, Miss Susan,” he said softly. “I didn't mean to
insinuate anything.”
I raised my eyebrows to match my smile. “Righte-o then. Office?”
“This way,” he said and jerked his chin in the direction I was to go.
“Catch ya later, babe!” Lorne said and glided off, a harried looking
assistant trailing fitfully in his wake. “Do drinks with us sometime?”
“Er...” he was gone before I could answer fully, so I turned to
follow Wesley, who was shaking his head confusedly.
“He's usually not that genial around new-comers.”
I snorted. “MS powers strike again.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Lay on, MacDuff.”
Wesley had led me to the small supply-closet-cum-workspace,
glanced around apologetically, then left me with a pile of
clipboards filled with information like:
Name: Chandark
Preferred Title: The Mighty Pointed-ly-ness
Yrs With W&H: 387
Holiday: Krshlatuk
Ritual: Annual shaving of genitals and back
Ew.
Well, it was now my 'job' to write and print and mail each of these
clients a 'personalized' holiday card. Wesley would check the first
few letter I did. Once the first ones were approved, I would be at
liberty to finish the rest. I was to send them to Angel's office in
groups of ten or so he could read them over and sign them. They
would then be returned to me so I could fold them into their
envelopes, address them, and send them away.
Or at least, that’s what the instructions left on the top clipboard
said.
All-in-all, easy. And temporary.
Which is what I wanted.
Why did you get a job? Jareth asked me, the distaste obvious in his
tone. I set him in the clean ashtray. Clearly, it was on my desk for
my convenience, but I didn't smoke and it kept him from rolling
away. The indignity of it also had to annoy him, which wouldn't hurt.
I pulled the leather bag I'd been using as a money bag out of my hippouch and opened it, showing Jareth the meagre few coins and
paper bills I had left. “Zoom in on my empty wallet. I need cash.”
You could steal it.
“Which I bet you'd just love.” I next opened the pouch proper. “Also
witness the lack of blank phials. Fresh out. And I gave one of my
Harry Potter ones to Trieze, so I'm short one of the more important
ones. It takes a month to brew more, so I gotta do something in the
interim.”
But... stuffing envelopes? It's... undignified.
“Pre-cicely. Do you really think anyone will come in this room if
they don't absolutely have to? I can't think of anywhere better to
brew than right here.”
Where there are demons and Vampires and werewolves around
every corner?
“Ah, but now I'm a fellow employee.”
“And one who talks to herself.”
I threw a paper over Jareth, ignoring his mental shout of protest,
and turned to look at the intruder. He was standing in my doorway,
obviously just having opened it.
“Most civilized people knock,” I said pointedly.
He grinned at me, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his
smirking mouth. “Most civilized people don't hold conversations
with rocks, ducks.”
He did have a point.
He wore a black leather jacket that brushed his ankles, and his hair
was slopped back with enough gel to do me for a month, and was
dyed an almost phosphorescent blonde.
He spoke with an almost-cockney accent, as if it had been a long
time since he had last trod on the soil of his native England.
Now, here was a character I recognized better. I had only ever
watched a handful of episodes of “Buffy: The Vampire Slayer” and
its sister series “Angel”. But Spike, the fellow making a show of
holding up my door frame, had been visible enough in both.
The way his arms were crossed arrogantly over his thin chest, his
hips thrust arrogantly to the side, his ankles hooked together... he
reminded me sharply and suddenly of Jean-Claude's pet werewolf
Jason.
...You're the best suck I've ever had...
A hot blush crept up my face at the memory of the delicious and
grope-y werewolf. Spike smiled, assuming that my intense and
immediate physical reaction was in response to his presence. I
didn't bother to correct him.
Instead I turned away and went to sit in my chair.
Not the most comfortable of chairs, but it would be okay for
sleeping in.
I didn't have the money to pay for a hotel room for a month, but I
could sleep in the chair in my bat-shape contentedly enough, and
use the employee locker-room to shower. I would just have to hope
that no one noticed my lack of changing outfits.
Oh, maybe I could figure out how to charm my clothing to change
colours...
Spike's hand pressing down on the desk in front of me snapped me
out of my distracted thoughts. I looked up to find him leaning into
my personal space, a sharp grin on.
“Like what you see, ducks?”
I snorted. “Yeah. You. Leaving.”
Spike took a slow and deliberate drag of his cigarette, exhaled
through his nose (as if that was suppose to impress me - ew), and
obligingly turned his back to me. He took his swaggering time
walking to the door. He turned his face over his shoulder and said,
“An ass-girl, I see. Feel free to look all you'd like. Whatsay I pick
you up around closing time and I take you out for a bite?”
“I say 'groan'. Out.”
“As you command, sweet-fangs.”
He slipped out the door, leaving it open.
I started to realize the meaning behind the new annoying nickname.
It meant that he knew I was a Vampire.
Well, duh.
He and Angel both - they probably both could hear that my heart
wasn't beating, and until my eyes changed colour and my fangs
extended without my forehead becoming all bumpy, the would
never know that I was a different kind of Vampire from them.
Something I never intended on letting happen.
When Spike was gone, I pulled my wand from my pouch and pointed
it at the door. “Sayonohamora,” I said, and the door swung shut and
locked.
I set my wand down on the desk, uncovered Jareth, and began to
leaf through the pages on the clipboards, deciding where to start
while the computer booted up.
Neat trick, Jareth said.
“What, the door thing? It's just a charm.”
No, the part where you make all the men fall ass over ears for you.
“Oh, Gods, don't start,” I begged, but he started anyway.
First, I find myself unnaturally intrigued by you. So much so that I
act completely out of character and force you into the Labyrinth.
Trieze fell under your spell easily enough - I have a feeling that
were it anyone but you, your fine bed would have been a rough cot,
and period of convalescence would have been spent in a dungeon.
Dear mister Wesley's aura of desire jumped when you began to
speak that cursed rhyme and he realized there was a brain behind
your baby-blues. He clearly has an intelligence fetish. The demon
invited you out for drinks immediately. This 'Spike' had the
strongest reaction, practically panting, but then I assume by his
demeanour that he is used to gaining his sexual conquests.
I set down the paperwork with a 'whump'. “What the hell is wrong
with you?” I said, “Sexual conquests? What the hell do you think I
am?”
They all desire you, to an almost unnatural level, and though I
revel in the buffet of reactions, I wish to puzzle out why. What
power is it that you possess?
“No power.” I sighed and rubbed my forehead, mimicking Angel's
frustrated motion from earlier by pinching the bridge of my nose.
“It's because of what I am.”
A Vampire?
“I don't want to talk about it, Jareth.”
Well, I do. Is it because you're a Vampire?
“No!”
Then what are you?
I sighed again. “A Mary Sue.”
A what?
“Never mind, you wouldn't understand.”
Try me.
“Remember how I told you that your world was a book in mine?”
Yes.
He bristled. It was probably a blow to his ego to be told people
think he's just a fictional character.
Truth be told, I couldn't be sure I wasn't a fictional character
anymore either. Jareth and Jean-Claude, Erik, Sirius, Anita,
everyone I knew, they were all made up. I had been assuming that I
was the real person amid the menagerie of fictional ones, but what
if it just wasn't true?
What if I was made up, too?
I shoved that thought down into the box, to keep company with all
the other dark, disturbing things that plagued me.
Fictional Character or not, I was me, and I would let nothing stop
me from getting home. If that was my plot, that was my character’s
major motivation, then I would go with it. There wasn’t anything
else to do.
I licked my lips and dove into what I thought was a reasonably easy
to understand explanation:
“These past two worlds have been similar - fictional realities from
the point of view of my world, but entirely real from the point of
view of theirs. A Mary Sue has the ability to cross these barriers, at
least nominally. That's me - crossing into fictional realities from
what I assume is the real one. And I'm not even sure of that,
anymore. Well, suffice to say that, among other traits, a Mary Sue is
marked by a leading character's inexplicable sexual and romantic
attraction to her, whether she welcomes the reaction or not.”
So, you're telling me that these men fall in love, or lust, with you
simply because you exist?
I shrugged. “More or less.”
I folded my arms on the desk top and rested my chin on them,
staring at the crystal. The red glow was fainter, almost invisible.
“Tell me, Jareth, how bad did you want me?”
He was silent for a moment, and I assumed his was contemplating
the question. Finally, he answered, Badly.
“More than you wanted Sarah?”
Oh, yes. What were you to her? A woman in full bloom compared to
her childishness and waify youth.
“Gee thanks. Why?”
I beg pardon?
“Why did you want me?”
There was another silence. Then, I... don't know. You... were just
there, and the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you. Had to
consume your desires, all of them, satisfy the ones I could, feed on
those I could not, and take you into me entirely.
“Little squicked, but I'll take that as a compliment. And now?”
What do you mean?
“Do you want me now?”
...no.
“No?”
Yes, dammit! Just... not as much.
“Because I'm not near you?”
Perhaps.
I leaned back in my chair, amused by his puzzlement.
So, he ventured after another long, thoughtful pause, You're telling
me that the sudden, violent longing I felt for you was the direct
result of your proximity?
“Bingo.”
Hm.
“That's why you offered me the crystal.”
Oh, it is, is it?
“Yup. Aren't you secretly harbouring hopes that one day I'll slide
back into your realm and return it to you in person, or something
like that?”
...no.
“Huh. Maybe you're using it as a way to keep track of me - keep n
eye on what you think is your rightful property?”
... of course not!
“Yeah, sure. You don't mind me hanging out with these other men
who find me suddenly irresistible, do you, as long as I come back to
the crystal and you, that it?”
...
“Would you be jealous if I went out with Spike tonight?”
Of course not - it would only feed me if you gave into his desire.
“Pervert,” I replied. “You'd like me to make it with every guy who
blinks at me.”
Yes.
“Pervert,” I confirmed and proceeded to ignore him. I started the
paperwork.
=====
Just before the work day ended, I covered the crystal again to mute
Jareth's well-fed red glow, snuck out of my office, locking it behind
me, and picked my way slowly and carefully towards the science lab.
If I was going to brew my potion, I'd need a cauldron and a Bunsen
burner.
I was starting to get the hang of this Mary Sue thing, and I was
shakily confident that I could weasel them out of Fred, the girl in
charge of the lab. According to my theories, I had the ability to get
whatever I wanted. My talk with Jareth had got me thinking, and I
sort of wanted to test it to see if it was true.
It was also a good way to avoid Spike, who would be heading to my
office soon to make good on his promise-cum-threat.
As I approached the lab, I heard Wesley unmistakable voice
conversing with a southern-accented girl. Fred, I assumed. And,
another hesitant and soft sounding male.
“...well, we'll all keep an eye out, at any rate,” Wesley was saying,
obviously wrapping up some conversation. “I just wish the alert
system was a bit more... well, specific. 'New, other-worldly magic
in the vicinity' just doesn't help.”
“Knox and I'll keep our heads up, too, Wes. Show me the spell in the
mornin' and maybe I can take a look at it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I'll prep a table for it,” the second man said.
“Sure. Thanks, Knox. Wes, let me walk you to your car?”
“Yes, okay.”
I ducked back around the corner so the departing couple wouldn't
run into me. When they were down the corridor and out of sight, I
let myself into the lab. I expected to find it empty.
Instead, I found Knox, an amiable-looking dark-haired twenty
something in a lab coat. He was holding a scarf that was extremely
girly and very obviously belonged to Fred, a longing expression in
his eyes and his nose buried in the soft wool.
Knox I remembered hearing about, too.
I didn't like a word of it.
Never trust a man whose name is Latin for 'dark', and is a charm for
extinguishing a lumos light.
Knox jumped guiltily when he heard the door open and hastily
dropped the scarf back down on the chair he had taken it from.
He cleared his throat and said, “Hi. You're the new Vampire? I'm
Knox.”
“Let's get one thing straight, fort-boy,” I said, pointing an accusing
finger at his face. He jumped again, surprised by my sudden and
unprovoked hostility. “I don’t like you. I think you're a total asshole
for what you're going to do to that sweet girl.”
“How do you--?”
“Doesn't matter. I know I can't stop you either, I don't have that
kind of power. But I tell you right now, you hurt her before that in
anyway, you pull more of this romantic bullshit, I will do everything
that is in my power to make the rest of your admittedly short life
very, very painful.”
The amiable mask slid away and a crueller, zealot Knox stood
sneering at me. “And just how do you plan to do that if you can't
stop me from releasing the Elder God?”
“Glad you asked!” I withdrew my wand from my boot and pointed it
at his chest. “Crucio.”
Knox hit the ground like a pile of rocks and writhed around, wailing,
his skin flushing an angry red over pulsing veins.
I felt a cool breath in my ear, smelling of cigarettes and whiskey,
and wondered how he'd snuck up behind me without my hearing it. I
must have been too involved in my anger. A mistake I couldn't let
happen again.
“Looks like you started the party early, ducks,” Spike whispered.
“Nice trick.”
“Finite Incantatum.”
Knox collapsed backwards, sprawled on the cold tile floor, panting,
tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyelashes.
Spike rested his chin on my shoulder and pressed his chest against
my back. “Teach it to me?”
“No.”
“Aw, why not?”
“I can't.” I stared down at Knox, who had curled himself into a
painful foetal position, and was now rocking back and forth, holding
his head and keening softly. Served the bastard right. “For one
thing,” I told Spike, “You don't have a wand.”
I felt rather than saw him clutch at his crotch. “I gotta wand right
here.”
“Eug, weak. Get off me, Spike.”
I pushed away from him, stepping over Knox's prone form and
walking around a desk to get to the far door. Spike jumped over the
suffering human with nary a glance for his pain and caught up with
me.
“See you found out me name. You look like someone who needs to
get drunk,” he said.
I snorted and returned the wand to my boot, careful not to present
my ass for pinching fingers. “Wish I could. Doesn't work that way for
me anymore. And I'm sure I won't find someone willing to get drunk
just so I can suck on them and steal their buzz.”
Spike raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, palms up. “Who
says you need to find someone, sweet-fangs? Offerin' here.”
“Christ, Spike,” I rolled my eyes and put my hands on my hips.
Being a Mary Sue had both it's up and it's down sides. “You don't
even know my name.”
“Don't matter.”
“What if it's Gertrude?”
“... might matter. Are you Gertrude?”
“Marie.”
“See? Not so bad. Let's go.”
I wanted to say 'no'. I wanted very badly to say 'no'.
On the floor, Knox rolled onto his back, panting. He groaned and
the sound was filled with lingering agony.
I was struck with a sudden, nauseatingly guilty thought: You just
used an Unforgivable on an unarmed, unprepared mortal. Without
a second thought. You hurt him just because it suited you to.
Because it was fun.
The desire to get drunk won over and I let Spike lead me out of
Wolfram & Hart by the elbow, blinking back burning tears.
I was not a monster.
Book Eight: Angel: The Series
Chapter Twenty-Three: “Broody”
I was starting to think that maybe this had been a Bad Idea.
The kind that deserved Capitalization.
Spike was sitting across from me in the shadowy booth of any even
shadier bar, throwing back whiskey shots like the Prohibition was
starting back up tomorrow. The clientele was a mix of the human
and the not, and I was shocked to find that us Vampires were in the
demony minority.
I kept my eyes on the table, if only to keep from staring in wideeyed wonder at the vast array of things that went bump in the night.
In this case, judging by the dance floor, some went bump-n-grind,
too.
“Come gimmie a cuddle, sweet-fangs,” Spike said after a protracted
pull on the whiskey bottle, and I looked up across the sticky table
to find him staring at me with a seductive 'come hither' look on his
face. Or, it would have looked 'come hither' if he had been able to
stay upright.
He was slouched back against the backrest, one arm flung up over
the edge. He had one leg rucked up so his shin touched the edge of
the tabletop, the steel toe of his boot tapping the bottom of the
table intermittedly, as if he was trying to keep beat with the music,
but too lazy to tap on every count.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I'm good here.”
“Aw, now are you gonna be a party-pooper? I didn't get this blitzed
just for me, you know.”
I rolled my eyes. “I'm really not in the mood anymore, Spike.”
He snorted. “So you'd rather sit there and mope?” he asked,
fumbling in his pockets for what I assumed was cigarettes and a
lighter, cause that's what he surfaced with. He popped a crumpled
cigarette between his lips and lit it with dexterity that I didn't think
a man as drunk as him could posses. The gestures must have been
pure habit.
“I'm not moping,” I insisted, tucking one leg under my other thigh.
“I'm... thinking.”
His eyebrows pulled downwards and he gave me a sort of disgusted
look, blowing the smoke out of his nose. “Oh, no. You're one of
them Vampires that flashbacks.”
I blinked. “Flashbacks?”
He snorted, and made a sort of dismissive gesture with the hand
that held the cigarette. Smoke trailed after the hand like some sort
of elaborate design in the air. I could see the whiskey in each
movement Spike made. I could hear it in his voice. “You know,
sommat reminds them of sumthin', and suddenly they're all glassyeyed thinking about this or that situation in the past. Flashbackin.”
I snorted myself. Yes, it was a device used often in television shows
to reveal some of the character's past - Forever Knight, Highlander,
and even Angel used it to some extent. I, on the other hand, was
only seven or eight months old, so I had no past to flashback to. I
was definitely not flashbacking.
“No, not doing that,” I said, looking my hands folded in my lap.
He took another long drag of the cigarette. This time the smoke
leaked out of his mouth when he spoke, like a dragon with a belly
full of fire. “Ah, so you're brooding.”
I looked up at him, incredulous. “Brooding?”
“Vampires either flashback or brood.” He took one last drag, then
smothered the dying embers of the butt against the scoured table
top. “It's practically a law.”
“I'm not brooding, either,” I insisted.
“So you're not sitting there thinking about how guilty you feel for
every little thing you've ever done that wasn't morally acceptable
according to the human's ethics, or about all the terrible things that
have happened to you, you poor thing, or might happen to you.”
I stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.
How, how had he known...?
Spike looked smug. “And yer not thinkin' about what you did to
'Poor Knox', wondering what it was that drove you to hurtin' him like
that?”
I was actually speechless.
Spike snorted again. “Right. I don't know that the whelp said, but if
it was enough for you to do whatcha did, then you gave Knox what
he deserved. The past is in the past and you're now. And if you
always worry about the future, then everything you worry about will
come true. Okay?”
“I...” I said, knowing that I was gibbering but unable to stop it. How
did Spike know exactly what had been eating at me? “Okay...”
He smiled then, a drawing back of his lips over his teeth. “Just like
Angel, ya are, ducks. You think too much. Now, come get drunk.”
I nodded slowly, shocked. I had been brooding. Me! I'd been
brooding! Brooding like Angel! Angel was the worst brooder there
was! I was a bad Vampire cliché
Well, enough of being that for one night!
I was determined to get drunk now.
I scooted around the seat in the booth until I sat directly beside
Spike. I reached for his wrist and he grabbed my hand before I could,
dropping his leg to the floor. “Puh-leese,” he said, and with a deft
yank and tug, I was straddling his hips, our chests crushed together.
“Much better,” he intoned with the gravity of the very drunk. One
arm slid around behind me, his hand sliding down to tuck under the
material of my skirt. I had a brief panicked moment of recollection,
being in this same position with Jean-Claude, but Spike's breath was
hot and smelled of whiskey, his hands broad and persistent but not
intrusive, so I let the memory fade away and focused on Spike
instead.
His other hand was stroking slowly up and down my neck, and I
shivered once, realizing with a start that Spike had found a new
erogenous zone. My neck hadn't been the sensitive before I had died.
His tongue stroked along the other side, like the lapping kiss that
Padfoot had given me at Guilty Pleasures, and Spike sucked briefly
at my scars.
“Giv's us a kiss, sweet-fangs,” he said, and I leaned back from him a
bit, affording him with a fish eyed glance.
“How is all this supposed to get me drunk, Spike? Surely not through
osmosis?”
He grinned. “Giv's us a kiss, and you'll see.” I frowned at him. “Aw,
the only one I'm gonna bite is me, ducks.”
Then he bit his tongue. I could suddenly smell blood, thick and rich
and tangy with alcohol.
And then he kissed me.
Well, this is new and interesting, I thought.
=====
I banged my head.
It was dark, so I couldn't see what I had banged it off of. I lifted a
hand gingerly to the newly forming lump. I didn't feel any tell-tale
wetness, so I guess I hadn't cut myself.
I blinked dumbly into the inky room, running my parched tongue
over fuzzy teeth.
Gawd, I felt like shit.
My head had started to throb with the bump, and although the
Vampiric healing was taking care of the hurt, it was still a
persistent, aggravating thump behind my eyes and at the base of
my skull.
“Spike?” I said into the darkness, and was startled mostly awake by
how croaky my voice sounded. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“Spike?”
No one answered.
I realized through he haze of confusion and muzziness that I was
laying on the ground. I tried to sit up and banged my head again.
“Goddamn,” I hissed, clutching my abused skull, trying to keep it
from throbbing itself into a hundred pieces. I reached up to find a
solid wooden ceiling directly above my head. I moved my hand to
the left and found a wall of the same material.
Panic tried to seize my heart, but I shoved it away.
I was not claustrophobic.
I wasn't.
I was scared of cages.
After what Lucard had pulled with the church, what Jean-Claude
and the Rare Hunter had each done to me, I had every right, I
thought, to be terrified of being locked in somewhere.
Cautiously, carefully, I reached out to the right, terrified of feeling
another wooden wall. My hand crashed into something metallic and
cylindrical, and I yelped, jerking it back.
Bars!
I held my hands over my heart, willing the sudden rushing beat to
calm down. I was alert and awake now. My wand, where was my
wand? My knife?
My pouch was not around my waist.
What the fuck had happened last night?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the shortness of my cage
not allowing me to stretch out my legs. I pressed my forehead to my
knees. I concentrated on trying to banish the panic, the throbbing
headache of the hangover, and on my misty memory.
Spike had kissed me, I remembered that. His mouth had been full of
his blood, thick, heady with lust, and alcoholic. I remember feeding
from him, neither of us needing air, until he couldn't remain upright
any longer.
He had slid down the bench, until he was lying on it, and I on top of
him.
That was when the cat-calls had started. Someone whistled.
Someone else screamed, “Take it off!”
I looked up at them, and there had been a general exclamation of
appreciation at the sight of my glowing yellow eyes and bloody
mouth.
“Do me next!” someone had said and then there were hands, a
wrist in front of my mouth, it’s partner already in Spike's.
I bit, and sucked. He, too, tasted of blood, and demon, and alcohol.
The man was kneeling on the bench by Spike's head, and we were
both feeding from him, a sexual, arousing feeling of connectedness
growing between us.
Spike's feeling on the matter was clearly outlined by the tight
leather of his trousers, and I didn't pull away. I was too drunk to get
off him without falling over, I think.
Then what?
The man was pulled off us by his friends before we could hurt him,
and a woman took his place, a wrist in each of our mouths. By then
I was feeling bloated, a swollen leech engorged with the feverish
blood I'd stolen from the drunk and the desperate. I consumed their
desire as much as I'd consumed their blood.
Then there was another, and another.
...fantastic, the Senior Partners will be thrilled...
...promoted...
There were voice swirling in my head, snatches of someone else's
thoughts carried to me on the blood...
...the monster, one man said. ..release it and Angel will never get
the...
I was burning with blood. I was sick on it.
...crystal, said another...detected it in the area.... open the
cage....
Spike's tongue was in my mouth, his hands on my breasts, his hips
under mine, straining upwards. And then...?
... figure out who’s got it. Track down everyone who came into the
building yesterday...
I shook my head to try to shake away the annoying gaps in my
memory.
Where had these strange wisps of conversation come from? Whose
was it? Not mine, surely, not with Spike.
We were both too drunk to say anything coherent.
Spike was trying to get his hands up under my shirt, and then...?
There was no 'and then'. I woke here. In this cage.
Had someone seen my eyes, the way my facial structure remained
smooth, and realized that I was a different kind of Vampire? Was I
imprisoned in the basement of Wolfram & Hart? Had Angel ordered
me locked up?
Or had it been someone from the bar?
What crystal had they been talking about?
Not Jareth's? Maybe they wanted it.
Or maybe... Angel had told me no human blood. Oh, god, was I in
trouble for hurting those people?
Guilt, hot and heart-wrenching, nausea-inducing, flooded my breast.
Had I killed someone...?
Worse... had I slept with Spike?!
“I'm never drinking ever again,” I said out loud, defiant in the
darkness of my new prison. “I will never touch another drop of that
hellish stuff!”
Ah, the Eternal Cry of the Hung-over, Jareth chuckled into my head.
I was so shocked to hear him I jumped and banged my head again.
“What the hell are you doing here, too?” I hissed, rubbing my new
bruise. “Did they capture you too?”
He was too busy laughing to answer.
“What's so goddamn funny?” I snarled.
You are, he sniggered. Captured? Ha!
I frowned into the darkness. Why would Jareth think it so funny that
we'd been captured.? Of course, he wouldn't mind so much, as there
was probably enough desire in the air to keep him satiated. But if I
didn't get out of here, who would take care of his crystal?
Maybe, with the right angle and application of strength, I could kick
out the bars.
I tucked myself into a ball, the back of my neck banging on the low
wooden ceiling, and braced my feet against one of the bars. I took a
deep breath and kicked.
The ease with which it came loose startled me and I slipped down
and smashed my head against the ground, put off balance by the
lack of resistance to the momentum of the kick. I heard a
screeching sound, like un-oiled wheels, and a loud crash as the
metallic bars thumped into the wall opposite.
“Shit!” I hissed.
In my head, Jareth was laughing harder.
I heard footsteps racing down the hall outside towards this room,
and struggled to pull myself to my feet. I was still slightly dizzy
from the hangover and the crack on the head. I wouldn't have much
time to get my bearings before whoever it was arrived. I would have
to assess the situation fast, maybe transform into a bat if the sun
would let me.
I leaned against my cage, resting my arms and chin on the top of it,
groping around for something to throw at my attacker.
Just as the door began to open I closed my hand on something
smooth and heavy and wound back to throw it at the door,
hopefully hitting whichever guard was there.
The door swung inwards and I pulled my hand back. The silhouette
was in sharp contrast to the knifing light streaming in from the
hallway behind him. Just was I was about to release, I heard his
tentative, “M-Miss Susan?”
I paused.
“Why are your lights off?”
The lights suddenly went on and I cried out and covered my eyes.
God, they hurt!
I rubbed them, trying to ease the pain, and was disgusted by the
crusty residue that gummed my lashes together. Ick, I hadn't had
'sleep' in my eyes since I had been mortal. This gritty feeling of dirt
alone was enough to have me swear off alcohol forever.
When I felt I could stand the pain of the light, my eyes having
adjusted, I looked up to find Wesley standing in my doorway with a
startled look on his face. “I, uh,” he stammered. “I heard the crash.
Are you okay?”
I blinked around me, stupidly, taking in the room.
It wasn't a prison. It was my office.
I was kneeling behind my desk, my arms and chin resting on the
blotter, my flower vase wielded in my hand like a ceramic football.
“Oh,” I said intelligently. “Oh! I... uh...”
“Are you okay, Miss Susan? You look awful.”
I nodded once, pulling myself to my feet shakily. I set down the
vase gently, scooping up the fallen flowers. I ignored the puddle of
water on the carpet and placed them back into the vase. A glance
behind me revealed my chair laying on its side against the wall, a
tell-tale dark black scuff-mark in the paint above it.
I felt my face flush red with mortification. On the blotter next to
my hand was my wand and my pouch. I made a show of shuffling
some papers and set them down on my pouch to try to hide it.
Wesley had probably already seen it, my wand laying in plain view,
but he may not have realized what it was.
Spike must have helped me get back here last night, or I had done it
on my own... and then I had come in here, dropped my stuff on the
desk (it was a wonder I hadn't broken any of the phials!) and then...
...passed out under my desk.
Jareth was still howling with laugher.
Wesley was waiting patiently for my answer.
“I'm fine,” I lied and my voice was hoarse. “Sorry, I slipped. Bit of a
crash. Bu-bumped my chin. I'm okay.”
Wesley glanced at me critically. “I didn't see you come in this
morning.”
“Wanted to start early,” I said, and even to myself it sounded lame.
“Okay,” Wesley conceded, even though he favoured me with a
funny look. “Are you sure you feel alright? You're awfully pale. Have
you fed? I know Angel told you no human blood, but I know Harmony
keeps a few bottles of a few different species of mammals in the
bar-fridge behind her desk for Angel. Shall I have her bring you
some?”
I nodded, “Yes, thank you. I forgot to eat this morning. Didn't know
what to do.”
Wesley smiled fondly at me. “You shouldn't punish yourself like that
- Vampires get the shakes pretty bad when they haven't fed. I'm
sure going cold turkey will be hard for you, but you'll see. Going off
human blood isn't so bad.”
I blinked at him again. “Ah, yeah. Cold turkey. Yeah. Thanks.”
“No problem.” He nodded, his expression suddenly extremely fond
and amiable. “Just let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He moved to close the door, taking a step back and I said, “Wait!”
He paused and turned eager eyes back to me. “Yes?”
Now, I knew that Wesley was in love with that Fred girl, the one
who ran the Lab, but here was the Mary Sue's curse again. If I told
Wesley right now that I wanted him to come into the room and get
naked, he undoubtedly would.
I think he had more of an admiration for my mental prowess than
nooky - like Jareth said, he had an intelligence fetish - but I'm sure I
could manipulate it into a sexual context.
If Wesley was hoping for a good verbal spar or a shag, he was about
to be disappointed.
“Has Spike come in yet?” I asked.
Wesley wilted slightly, but bolstered himself admirably. If he was
crushed, I couldn't tell. “Yes,” Wesley said. “A few minutes ago,
actually.”
I nodded. “Thanks - trying to avoid him.”
Wesley's metaphorical ears pricked up again. “Oh, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “How did he look this morning?”
“Fine...” Wesley said. “Did something happen between you two
that I should know about? He hasn't been acting inappropriately, has
he? Angel has already had a talk with him about hanging about the
female locker room--”
“Everything's okay,” I said hastily. Inside I was fuming. I was hungover, a wreck, and Spike was 'fine'? There is no justice in this
Universe! I was hoping he at least would have a bad headache to
punish him for getting me so wasted. “Thanks again, Mr. WyndamPrice.”
“Wesley's fine,” he said, waving a hand as if to clear the room of all
lingering formalities. “I'll have Harmony send round that blood.”
“Thanks. Ta ta.”
“Ta.”
He closed the door slowly, and I could hear him move slowly down
the hall, back towards his office.
Oh, how embarrassing.
Jareth was still laughing.
“Shut up,” I grumbled at him, and went to right my chair.
=====
...fantastic, the Senior Partners will be thrilled...
...promoted...
...the monster ...release it and Angel will never get the...
...crystal... detected it in the area.... open the cage....
... figure out whose got it. Track down everyone who came into the
building yesterday...
I sat at my desk, chewing on my thumbnail, staring at the door.
The clipboards lay forgotten on the desk by my elbow. Jareth's
crystal was throbbing faintly with a dull red glow. He was feeding
again. I wasn't feeling any worse for wear, so it wasn't from me.
I had gone down to the locker room, checking thoroughly for any
Peeping-Spikes, and had a long hot shower to help clear my head.
In the steam heat of the water, snatches of the conversation I had
heard last night came back to me.
Now that I was sober, the words had me worried.
Obviously, someone was looking for some sort of stone to open
some cage to release some monster that would eventually kill Angel.
And they hoped to get promoted for it.
Was the stone they sought Jareth's? The voices had said that the
stone had only been detected yesterday. And now that I thought
about it, wasn't that what Wesley had been talking to Fred about
when I had eavesdropped on them? Some sort of alarm spell had
gone off letting him know that something dangerous had entered
the building?
Fuck, I thought to myself. If it is Jareth's crystal they're all after, I
could really be up shit-creek. I still need a month to brew the
potion - I've got no phials left besides the ones that are already
keyed, and I don't think I could get a month in secret in any of
those places... and I won't go crawling back to Snape.
I guess I just have to hope that it takes them a month to pin-point
me.
But even if it wasn't Jareth's crystal, whatever it was that they
released would without a doubt wreak enough havoc that my potion
would be destroyed, or my life could be endangered. In fact,
according to the rules of the Mary Sue, it was pretty much a
guarantee that I would find myself in the middle of whatever battle
took place.
Fuck!
I would have to think of a way to get rid of the monster, and fast.
Or... or, get rid of the men who were planning to release the
monster.
If they weren't around to do it, then I wouldn't have to worry.
Obviously, I wouldn't kill them. I wasn't a monster myself. But, I had
no qualms sending them to Port Royal to deal with the Zombie
Pirates, or straight into Lucard's lap to be dinner.
If they were demons or evil or dangerous, then I would have to
figure out a spell to immobilize them permanently, or something
similar. Or I could just report them to Angel, and he could deal with
them.
But I had to find out who they were first, and on my own.
If I told Angel, or any of his crew, what I had heard, the plotters
could bolt, and I would have no way of foiling their plans. Or they
could just start a big fight and again that could endanger my potion.
No, I had to do this in secret, on my own.
But how to figure out exactly who these men were. I had no faces
for them, only the sound of their voices in my admittedly hazy
memory. I had been so drunk...
What did I have to go on? Nothing, except that they were both men
and desired to kill Angel.
Desire.
“That's it!” I said, and turned to Jareth.
The red light gave a startled jumping throb and Jareth said, What's
it?
“Can you pinpoint the two men who desire to kill Angel?”
Why on Earth should I do that?
“Because if they succeed in releasing the monster, then your crystal
may be broken in the resulting melee. Besides, I think they want to
use you to open its cage.”
Oh, fine then. There was a short, pregnant pause. Then, I can't pinpoint who the two are.
“What?” I asked, startled. I was sure this would work! “Why not?”
Because, he sighed, there many more than just two.
Book Seven: Angel: The Series
Chapter Twenty-Four : “Mortimer”
Knox was sufficiently scared of me that when I demanded them
from him the next day, he handed over a cauldron, a portable
Bunsen burner unit, a scalpel, and a cutting board with nary more
than a quivering bottom lip and a steely glare.
I didn't feel guilty, but I didn't exactly feel innocent either.
I shoved these new ambiguous feelings into the box in my guts and
tried not to pay attention to the way its seams groaned in protest.
My little box of nightmare fodder was getting awfully full.
=====
I tried to keep the clatter-bang sounds to a minimum. I was only
supposed to be typing in my office, so the rattle of setting up the
cauldron, the clinking of phials, and the scrape-thunk-snick of
slicing things on the cutting board were sounds that would probably
be investigated.
After the incident with my poor chair, I was aware that my office
was close enough to all the main ones that I could have a leading
character poking their head in at any strange auditory signal.
I had the cauldron set up on a folding card table in the back corner
of the room, and I was working away with my back turned to Jareth.
How's the headache? he asked at length.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Getting better. It's mostly faded
now. I just can't figure why it's taking so long. It must be this
place.”
Or the copious amount of libations you imbibed.
“It wasn't that copious.”
You weaved in here bare hours before dawn, babbling like a lunatic.
There was a haze of desire so thick around you I almost got drunk
too.
I paused in my preparations and turned to narrow my eyes at the
crystal. Sure enough, the depths of it were pulsing a contented red.
I walked over and poked it with one finger - that finger tingled.
“You're feeding from me!” I hissed.
Well, of course I am, Jareth said, and if I could have seen him, I
probably would have watched him roll his mismatched eyes. You
can't honestly expect me to pass up a feast like that. You had the
desire of at least thirty three different people clinging to you, not
to mention the thick cloud of Spike's.
“I can't believe you,” I hissed. “You're the reason I've felt so crappy
and snarky and weak all day?”
I suppose.
“You suppose?! Jareth, you ... you just don't think do you? Did it
ever occur to you that if something happened I'd need to be able to
react fast and with a clear mind to get us - both of us - out of
danger? If you keep sucking on me, how am I supposed to stay
alert?”
But it was so tempting!
I turned back to my make-shift laboratory with a snort of disgust.
“Then learn to curb your temptation. You're a danger to me if you
do this. You're a danger to both of us.”
Just as I had begun to heat the first ingredient in the cauldron four and three fifths of a cup of water - I heard the unmistakable
creak of my door being pushed back.
“I'm busy, Spike,” I said, not bothering to look up from my
dandelion-root slicing.
“How did you know it was me, ducks?”
“Everyone else knocks.” I set the weeds aside and turned to look at
him, wiping the juice that was making my hands sticky on my skirt.
“And you reek of cigarette smoke and Jack Daniel's.”
He was leaning against the doorframe again, the entrance wide
open behind him. I didn't like the idea that anyone passing in the
hall could see in and catch me at what I was doing. “In or out,
Spike.”
He chose in, and shut the door behind him. My wand was still sitting
on the desk and he strolled over and picked it up. He twirled it
between his hands like a pencil and continued to look at me.
“You were talkin' to your rock again,” Spike said. “Yellin' mores like.
What's it sayin'?”
“Nothing that would be of interest to you. Please put that down,
Spike.”
He smiled at me, a wide tooth grin, but set aside my wand.
“Thatchyer magic wand?”
I raised an eyebrow. “And if it was?”
“Never heard of a Vampire that did magic, before.” I opened my
mouth, and he hastily added, “Not with no poncey wand, I haven't.
You brewin' a potion?”
I debated lying. It was obvious that brewing a potion was exactly
what I was doing, so that would have been moot. Instead I said,
“Yes. You gotta problem with that?”
He shrugged. “As long as it don't hurt me ... nope. If yer a Harry
Potter fan, who am I to spoil yer little dreams?”
I nearly choked on my teeth. Right. Yes. A fan. I had forgotten that
J.K. Rowling's books had been mentioned in this fandom before.
Humph - 'as long as it didn't hurt him'. I rolled my eyes, thinking,
selfish bastard.
“Course,” Spike ventured, hitching one butt cheek up on my desk,
leaning across it to leer at me, “I never saw a Vampire whose eyes
did what yours do either.”
This comment made me freeze. “Do what?” I tried to say with calm
nonchalance. It came out as more of a squeak.
Spike stood and stalked around the desk. He lifted his hands to
touch my face and I backed up, almost upsetting the card table,
side-stepped it, and pressed myself against the wall. Spike kept
coming, until I was trapped between a Spike and a hard place. He
cupped my face in his hands and frowned as if he was concentrating
on looking into my soul and finding out my secrets.
“You are a Vampire, ain't ya? Not some demon.”
I tried to nod and found his firm but gentle grip didn't allow for it.
“Yeah, I'm a Vampire,” I said.
“But your face didn't go bumpy.”
“So?” I shrugged.
His eyes narrowed even more. “So, the only bloke's face who never
did that was Dracula's.”
The fear fluttered across my face and Spike saw it. He let go,
rubbing his hands on his pants as if I'd left a slimy residue on his skin.
His distaste was apparent. It made every angry, seething thing in
my burst to life.
“You're one of Drac's,” he said, and it wasn't a question.
“Don't you pass judgment on me, William the Bloody!” I snarled,
pushing away from the wall, shoving my finger in his face. “I didn't
choose Dracula any more than you chose your sire! I told Wesley
and I'll told you - with my last breath I said no.”
His eyes widened fractionally, but the frown got deeper. He shoved
his hands into his pockets and turned away, walking towards the
door. He stood in front of it, making no move to remove a hand
from his pocket to open the door.
“I ain't gonna tell anyone,” Spike said, and his voice was an angry
grumble. “Butchyer gonna owe me.”
“Like hell,” I spat.
“Open the door,” he ordered, looking pointedly back over his
leather-clad shoulder at my wand.
I lifted it and hissed, “Alohamora.”
The door swung open.
Spike nodded once, a sharp, angry movement. “That's what I
thought.”
And then he was gone. I got great pleasure in stalking over to the
door and physically slamming it myself.
You shouldn't have blown up at him... Jareth said softly.
“Oh, for God's sake, don't you start!”
=====
Spike did not come back and bother me that night, nor any night for
three days afterwards.
Every time someone knocked on the door, I panicked, thinking it
was Angel come to kill me.
I did my best to pretend nothing had happened, and continued to
write my letters and brew my potion.
It was an easy enough task to wander the streets of LA and
collected the requisite potion ingredients. Some inventive shotglasses lifted from a local bar proved to be the perfect phials, and
the stubs of some candles out of the wine bottles in the middle of
the tables in an outdoor café vanished into my pockets before the
waiters could look up.
This stealing thing was getting easier and easier, and the fact that
it rarely twanged my conscious any more worried me only slightly.
It was all just a means to an end.
Anything to get home.
While I worked away at the Seasonal Letters for Angel, and the
potion for myself, Jareth was doing his part and trying to pick out
the two men who desired to kill Angel with the monster.
I worked as fast as I could on the letters, and I made up excuses to
wander the building. Getting coffee I never drank, getting 'lost' on
the way to Angel's office, helping Harmony deliver some mail. I was
listening in on as many conversations as I could, trying to recognize
the two voices from the night I had gone out with Spike.
It didn't seem to be working. I had been too drunk.
=====
The days passed, and then the weeks, and I did my best to keep my
head down and out of the way. It was uncomfortable at first,
keeping myself isolated as I dared, sleeping in my office. Eventually
I got the hang of sleeping in my bat-shape - pun intended.
I just dug my little claws into the armrest of my chair and snoozed
peacefully away, ears down and tail up.
Despite my attempts at staying under the radar, the Curse of the
Mary Sue had kicked in and I became the new centre of interest for
most of the main characters. None of them mentioned anything
about Harry Potter or Dracula, and I began to think that Spike was
keeping his word about staying mum.
But he had threatened a favour in return, and I wondered when that
particular Doc Martin was going to drop.
I couldn't seem to avoid the leading characters, no matter what I
did. Angel and I chatted at least once a day while he signed the
previous day's letters, which I always managed to cut short by
telling him that I had more letters to write. Harmony was easy
enough to avoid, and Gunn seemed fairly occupied himself. Fred
was always up in the Lab so I think she was spared some of the
effects of my proximity.
Spike was the hardest to avoid interacting with. He seemed
determined to get into my skirt, and I, of course, was equally
determined to keep him out of it. He never pulled the 'favour' out
on me, but I had a feeling it was just a matter of time.
Okay, so he was gorgeous. And witty. And sexy as hell.
But he was also Bad News. He knew things that I didn't want him to
know.
I couldn't afford any distractions, not with all the mental juggling I
was already doing. And boy, was Spike a Distraction.
I managed to not be in my office every time he 'dropped by', mostly
by virtue of the fact that I'd turn into a bat and hide under my seat
cushion. If he smelled me, he must have thought it was a lingering
scent leftover from my presence. I was lucky, and he usually only
showed up after the sun had set.
Of course, if he knew I was Dracula's get, maybe he did know I was
changing into a bat, or mist, and didn't press it.
Lorne and Wesley each wheedled me in turn to go out for coffee or
drinks with them, and I conceded on several occasions, if only to
escape the mindless prattling of a hyped-up Jareth.
Apparently, desire really was like alcohol, and with so much around
Jareth at all hours of the day, he was like a drunk twenty-fourseven. It was getting increasingly distracting and annoying.
With the stress of trying to finish the goddamn letters, and brew the
potion, and keep an eye out for whoever or whatever it was that
those men were planning to do lest either Jareth or I end up in the
midst of it, Spike 'favour' in the back of my mind, and my scramble
to make sure that no one found out that I was working Harry Potter
magics, I was starting to become a stress-monkey.
I worked incessantly when Jareth slept. When he was awake, I tried
to stay out of my office as often as possible. It seemed as though
Jareth could only communicate with me if I was in a ten meter
radius, so I tried to stay out of that radius as much as I could while
still doing my job.
I always, always locked the door after me.
Which was why when I returned from lunch with Lorne and Gunn
one afternoon somewhere around week three, I was shocked to find
my glass ashtray empty.
Oh, shit.
=====
As quickly and discretely as I could, I searched Wolfram & Hart for
the crystal. Every ten steps I would shout to Jareth mentally,
hoping I was close enough for him to hear. No one and nothing
replied.
I had no scents to follow - whoever had broken in had been pro. No
prints, no scents, no hair, nothing. Only one small scuff on the
outer casing of the lock had given away the intrusion, and the fact
that Jareth was not there.
I couldn't help but wonder if Spike had sold me out, finally.
I completed a hasty circuit of every area I could access in the
building, and was about to start to try to break into the areas I
wasn't allowed, when I heard a throat clear behind me.
I turned to find Spike grinning at me, standing in the direct centre
of the hallway as if to prevent me from passing.
“This yours, ducks?” Spike said as he tossed Jareth's crystal back
and forth between his hands.
“Oh, thank God you found it, Spike!” I said and ran towards him
with my hands outstretched to grab it.
“Ah, ah,” he said, and held it above his head where I clearly
couldn't reach it. “Now, I saw this in the hands o' a couple of
wankers down on the storage level with this, and I thought to
myself, 'Mr. The Bloody, ain't that the hunk o' rock that Marie talks
to all the time? I think it is.’ When I asked them, they had nothin'
interestin' to say, so I took it away from 'em.”
I lifted my own hands over my head. “It is, Spike, please give it to
me!”
He smirked and lifted his other hand to brush the pad of his fingers
over my bottom lip. “Oh, I'll give it to you ducks. Butchya gotta do
two things for me first. Remember that favour? I'm callin' it in.”
I jerked back from his invasive touch and scowled. “What?”
He held up one finger in front of my nose. “One, ya gotta tell me
why you've been avoidin' me.”
“I haven't been avoiding you, Spike,” I lied, making exasperation
clear in my tone. “I've been working.”
“Uh-huh,” he smirked. “Just like you've been thinkin? For all the
'work' you do, you seem to have gotten pretty cuddly with Book-Boy
and the Green Wonder.”
“That's cause Lorne doesn't act like a horndog when he takes me
out,” I huffed and tried to reach for the crystal. Spike stood on his
tiptoes. I was sorely tempted to give him a good knee to the
stomach, but I resisted the urge.
He might have mistaken it for foreplay.
And he could very easily tell someone who I was.
Spike put one hand on my shoulder and pushed me away from him,
raising an eyebrow. “I'm waiting.”
“Fine,” I said and crossed my arms under my breasts. “Yes, I've
been avoiding you.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no desire to be hit on every five seconds, nor
groped, nor ogled.”
Spike shrugged. “We could just shag, then.”
I threw my hands up and rolled my eyes at the ceiling as if to ask
the Senior Partners to witness what I had to put up with. “What's
demand number two, Spike?”
“That you come out drinkin' with me again tonight.”
“It's a weeknight.”
“Didn't stop you last time.”
I shook my head. “Spike, we both got so drunk that we started
sucking off of half the crowd.”
“It was fuckin' hot, I know. I'm hopin' for a repeat performance.”
“Well I'm not,” I insisted and held out my hand, palm up. “Give me
the crystal please.”
“Promise you'll go out with me tonight. No funny business. I won't
even drink as much.”
I fish-eyed him.
“Well, not much funny-business,” he said, trying for innocent and
failing miserably.
I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking it over. I could turn down Spike,
but then who knows where Jareth would end up - he could fall into
the hands of the plotting 'wankers' again.
But did I really want to get drunk with Spike again?
I had learned my rather embarrassing lesson last time.
But if I didn't, then he could blab.
Evil Monster that could kill us all vs. Evil Monster that would try to
shag me.
It was a tough choice, really, it was.
In the end, the need to try to foil the 'wankers' plans won out.
I nodded my agreement to his second term. Then, I added, “Is there
anything I can do to make you give me that crystal that doesn't
involve me getting drunk with you?” I asked, hands on my hips.
Spike gave me a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, but involves you, me, a
pair of handcuffs, and as little clothing as possible.”
“Right,” I said, “Drinking it is.”
=====
Jareth was abnormally silent, and it was worrying me.
His red glow was absent, and the crystal was just refracting light
back at me. It was the first time I had seen it so dormant since he'd
handed it off to me, and I didn't like it.
There was little I could do to find out what was wrong, however, so
I just kept it close by and hoped that he would wake up soon.
I didn't trust leaving Jareth's crystal alone in my office again obviously someone knew how to jimmy the lock, so I decided to
bring the crystal with me.
In the weeks I had been here, Lorne had noticed that my clothing
had not changed, and without a word of pity or apology, three new
outfits had arrived at my office - all of them were very professional
and made of light, flowy materials that were perfect for Los
Angeles.
He really was just the sweetest, most thoughtful demon ever.
After the 'talk' with Spike in the hall, I returned to my office. I
donned one of the clean blouses, put Jareth into the matching
purse that had come with it, and met Spike at the elevator.
He eyed me openly, but instead of making a brazen comment about
me, he said, “How's your pet rock? Alright? Not all scuffed?”
“He's not speaking,” I admitted reluctantly. “I don't know if he's
asleep, or if the wankers did something to him.”
“Give 'em the night,” Spike said, rooting around for his cigarettes
and lighter again. “Maybe he'll be better in the mornin'.”
We exited the elevator and walked out of the office. The evening
air was nippy and Spike snuggled down into his coat. “C'n you
Apparate us there?”
I snorted. “Didn't figure you for a Harry Potter fan.”
“I ain't, but Dru liked the books, so I would read 'em to her. She
would always be so disappointed when Harry escaped You-KnowWho's plans.”
I rolled my eyes. “Poor baby.”
Spike shrugged, sucking on his cigarette to light it. “She always felt
better after killin' a boy with black hair 'n green eyes.”
“That's sick,” I said, the revulsion clear on my face.
Spike ignored my disgust and said, “So, Miss Drac, you gonna
Apparate us or not?”
“Not,” I said.
“Why not? Don't wanna do magic in front of me?”
I balled my hands up in my sleeves to keep them out of the chill air,
wishing I still had my Hogwarts Cloak. I missed it. “No,” I explained.
“It's cause I don't have my Apperating License, and I don't want to
be hauled in to stand in front of Umbridge on 'Misuse of Magic'
charges.”
Spike laughed.
=====
Neither Jareth nor I were very coherent in the morning.
I had to throw out the new blouse. Bloodstains just don't come out
of silk.
But at least Jareth was talking.
He couldn't remember what had happened to him after the wanker
had snatched him out of the room. I just hoped that he wasn't
incoherent because he'd been used to the cage of the creature.
As for me, I was hung over.
Again.
=====
By mid-afternoon I had a throbbing, blazing headache.
The noise in the foyer just down the hall form me was getting
steadily louder and more shrill.
When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I stuck my head out of my
office door, scowling at the noisy chaos in the main foyer.
“Excuse me!” I said. No one heard me. “Excuseme!”
Annoyed, I retrieved my wand from the desk and tapped it against
my voice box, and muttered. “Sonorous.”
“Excuse me!” I screamed over the din, my voice now magically
amplified. “Some of us are trying to work! Your noise isn't helping
any! I have a very delicate potion in here that could blow up and
shift us all into alternate realities if I don't concentrate!”
Everyone in the room stopped running and screaming, and instead
stared at me in gap-mouthed wonder.
“Better,” I said, and moved to go back into my office.
Then I saw It.
The reason they had all been screaming and running. It hadn't been
just random noise.
They had been fleeing in terror.
From The Monster.
Looks like the Wankers had used Jareth after all.
Oops.
“Well, shit,” I said. I winced at the way my amplified voice echoed
around the cathedral-like room. I quickly nixed the spell with a
whispered, “Quietus.”
The monster's many inky wet eyes swivelled and focused on me, the
only moving thing in the room. Apparently it was part T-Rex. It only
saw what moved.
Deliberately I stepped out of my office and raised my wand.
If I was going to have to deal with this thing, I would deal with it,
first and then worry about everyone's reactions to seeing Harry
Potter magic work in their own reality.
The monster slithered towards me, a giant seaweed octopus-looking
thing with tentacles that ended in sharp wooden points. It was like...
a crawling shrub, but glistening with monstery-ooze-slime and
dangerous.
So this was the Angel-Killer - a living stake-machine. One jab in the
chest with those thick, branch-like tentacles, and any Vampire
would be dusted. Me included.
I swallowed hard.
What the hell kind of spell did I know to rebuff something like that?
'Cause I sure as hell wasn't fooling myself into thinking I could fight
it. Looking at the mess the creature had made of the foyer, and the
people in it, I knew I wouldn't last a minute against this beast in
physical combat.
Angel was sort of draped over the balcony, looking very bloody,
slashed up, and unconscious. Gunn was hunched in a corner,
cradling his arm. Spike was just rushing out of a side hall, where it
looked as if he had been tossed. Fred and Wesley were up on the
second level, making their way to Angel, Wesley frantically flipping
through the pages of a spell book.
Spike saw me standing there with my wand and said, “Avada
Kedavra the bastard!”
“I don't know the Killing Curse!” I shouted back. At the same time,
Wesley yelled, “There's no such thing, Spike!”
Spike snarled at threw himself at the monster again, sword raised,
and the monster whipped out three tentacles to intercept him. It
was clear as moonlight that Spike was about to be impaled.
I hadn't wanted to use anything distinctly Harry Potter while I was
here. Ri-ight.
I swung my arm around to aim at Spike and screamed,
“Expellaramus!”
Spike went hurtling backwards, faster than the monster could jab at
him, and crashed into the wall opposite. He slumped down, still
clutching the sword, and glowered at me. “I didn't ask you to get in
my way, Little Miss Dracula!” he snarled.
“You’re welcome!” I snapped and turned my attention back to the
monster.
Above Spike I distinctly heard Angel say, “Wait, Dracula?”
Fan-bloody-tastic.
I scanned the room and everyone who could fight, or would at any
rate, was still down for the count.
It seemed that the Mary Sue would have to save the day.
Lovely.
“Petrificus Totallus!” I tried, steadfastly ignoring the panic in my
voice. The Creature grabbed for the flash of light as if it was a
butterfly to catch. The limbs that the spell splatted against froze
and dropped to the floor, but the Creature as a whole remained
animate.
It blinked dumbly at its frozen limbs. Then it howled. It lunged
towards me, slithering faster than I gave it credit for. I skipped
backwards, ducking to avoid the wide swing of one tentacle, just
barely missing getting jabbed by another, rolled to the side, and
came up to my feet behind it.
The room cleared out. The smart business people were using their
slalom skills to get out of the way of the tentacles and my waving
wand arm.
“Stupify!” I shrieked, and only three more limbs succumbed to the
spell. The Creature was angry now. It hauled itself around, more
than half of its legs still functioning. I dug into my brain, trying to
remember everything I'd read or learned with Flitwick. “Fuck, highpower freezing spell, freezing spell...!”
“What the hell are you doing?!” I heard Wesley's' voice behind me,
but I didn't dare take my eyes off the monster. “What kind of spells
are those?!”
“Defensive Charms!” I screamed back. “Don't fucking distract me!
Uh... um... Locomotor Mortis!”
This time it stopped the beast in its tracks. There was a wet
slapping sound as its legs all slammed together. It tried to pull them
apart, straining and keening, but like a particularly bad case of stiff
bubblegum, it was stuck.
The whole thing overbalanced in its struggles and tipped over onto
the carpet on its side, blinking furiously at me.
The Creature writhed and howled, thrashing, but the charm
prevented it from taking a step in any direction.
I heard Wesley descend the staircase, felt Angel come up behind me
and put his hand on my shoulder. “What the hell was that?” he
asked, rather more flippantly than I would have expected from
someone who was very close to being killed mere moments earlier.
But then, I suppose Angel was used to nearly being killed. He did it
on almost a weekly basis.
“Leg-locker curse,” I said. “I've never tried it on anything bigger
than an ant. Looks like it worked though. Guess I should send
Professor Flitwick some flowers and a thank-you card for the private
tutoring.”
“Send him some from me, too.” Angel squeezed my shoulder once,
then sucked in a breath. “Wait, did you say Flitwick?”
“You read Harry Potter, too?” I asked, brushing at the slime that
had gotten on my new blouse with disgust. “Anyone here who
doesn't?”
Fred tentatively put up her hand. Wesley and Lorne I expected, but
Gunn? I raised an eyebrow at him and he said, “Hey, my sister liked
'em, okay?”
“Yeah, I said Flitwick,” I admitted to the curious faces. “Did a little
training in an alternate reality, okay?”
“Er... yeah, okay,” Angel said, obviously not wanting to think about
it (or bawl me out) just yet. He had other things to worry about
first. Like writhing, snarling, homicidal shrubberies. Angel walked
past me to cautiously inspect the struggling Monster.
“Miss Susan. Spike called you Dracula - I would assume then that
you are the progeny of--” Wesley began, his tone equally awed and
reproachful, and I turned to look at him, cutting him off.
“Mr. Wyndam-Price,” I interrupted, deliberately using his last name,
as he had used mine, matching him tone for tone. “What Spike
called me is none of your damn business.”
“It is if Dracula is involved! He is a particularly nasty--”
“Yeah, I remember,” I snapped, cutting him off again. I pointed to
the scar on my neck. “No with my last breath.”
Wesley looked suitably chastened. “Well, then, I would like to ask
you about this whole Harry Potter thing, then. Is that really a--”
“Yes, that was wand magic, no, I don't know how it was done, no, I
can't teach you, yes you can inspect my wand, yes, I can give you
some demonstrations.”
His eyes grew round, obviously surprised by my anticipation of each
questions.
“Uh, very well then,” he said, trying to regain the upper hand. “I,
uh, look forward to it. Now, what will you do about the creature?”
“Well, from what I understand,” I said as we both turned back to
inspect it. Lorne, Gunn, Spike and Fred had all circled it, keeping
an eye out in case it broke free of the spell and started to rampage
again. “It's programmed to kill only Angel?”
Gunn nodded and hefted an efficient looking battle axe. “I say we
chop it to messes.”
“Nice Shakespeare,” I said with a quirk of my eyebrow, “but that
seems a little cruel, doesn't it? I mean, it can't help being
brainwashed. What if it's an innocent shrub sprite or something?”
Fred shook her head adamantly. “Ah get tha distinct impression
that shrub-boy was never an innocent anything. But, ah agree with
ya that we shouldn't kill it.”
Lorne grimaced. “Well, if you don't want to kill it, sweet-fangs,
then what do you plan to do? Let it go?”
“Hell no,” I said. I thought for a moment, and then it came to me.
If the creature was programmed, as I'd said, then it was hardly fair
to kill it. We could just... reprogram it. “Step back,” I said, and
everyone warily did so. “Obliviate!”
The blue sparks shot from the end of the wand and hit the creature
right in the eyes. It didn't appear to pain it any. It just... slumped.
It stopped struggling and blinked around quietly, sort of shocked
looking.
“What did you do?” Spike asked, fingers still flexing on the hilt of
the sword he gripped, as if he really wanted to use it.
“Book Two - Gilderoy Lockheart.”
Spike, Wes, Angel, Gunn, and Lorne all nodded, understanding. Fred
looked even more confused. For her benefit I said, “Totally erased
its memory,” I said, with a smile. “Now it doesn't remember that
it's programmed to kill Angel.”
“Well, that's all fine and dandy,” Angel admitted, “But we've still
got a huge walking Vampire-killer plant-doohicky here, who
although doesn't remember that it's supposed to kill me, could do so
by trying to hug me.”
I stifled a chuckle and thought instead. “Hmmm. I think I can take
care of that, too... but I'd need some Shrivelfig roots.”
Spike snorted. “Oh, that it then? Not asking much are we?”
I turned to glare at him.
Gunn snapped to - “I think I can call in some favours,” he said and
dashed off towards the elevator.
“Anything else you need?” Wesley asked.
“Yeah - cauldron, burner, spoon, daisy roots, caterpillar, leech
juice and... um ....” I wracked my brain... bugger, what was that
thing that Neville kept messing up... “Ah, one rat spleen!”
Wesley nodded once and went up the stairs towards the lab. Fred
was hot on his heels. With a shrug and a smile at the stunned Angel
and Lorne, I followed after.
“And here,” I heard Lorne whispering to Angel as they followed me
up the stairs, “I thought she was just the letter girl.”
“Me too.”
=====
Gunn's kitty came through.
As I brewed the potion as best I could from memory, I explained to
the senior staff of Wolfram & Hart who I really was and what I had
been doing for the last seven months of my life.
It was the first time I had divulged everything. I hadn't even told
Remus the full story.
It felt damn good to get it off my chest. It also made me feel a
little emotionally naked.
Angel started in on me about 'Dracula', but Wesley headed him off.
Well, he had learned at least.
I even went so far as to explain what a Mary Sue was and why
everyone had been acting towards me the way they had. They all
seemed slightly surprised by the inadvertent manipulation, and
denied it until I started to point out instances, little comments they
had made about one another.
Spike was the least pleased, to put it mildly.
Fred took notes on everything I did, Wesley made notes on
everything I said, and I pointed out that if the potion turns orange,
it means you've spoiled it.
When the potion was a nice, acidic green, I spooned some into a
glass beaker and took it back downstairs. The monster was still
laying on its side, looking dazed. It was complacent and I found it
easy enough to manipulate it into opening its mouth.
I poured the potion down its throat and with a cough and a wheeze,
it was suddenly the size of my hand. Around me, everyone gasped in
awe.
And thus the Mary Sue saves the day in ways that totally shock and
amaze the cannon characters.
In my defence, they didn't know I was brewing the shrinking potion.
“Ennervate,” I said, casting one last spell on the unfortunate
creature, then picked it up as it began to wriggle around on the
carpet.
“Oooo!” Harmony cooed, standing up from where she had been
hiding behind the desk. “It's so cute!”
I rolled my eyes but handed the thing off to her. She promptly put it
in a deep round flower vase of glass.
“It's not a pet, Harm,” Spike said, but she wasn't listening. She was
already naming it.
“Hello, Mortimer, you cutie widdly thingy you!”
“That was some remarkable magic,” Wesley ventured after a
moment's dumbstruck observation of Harmony. “Would you teach it
to me?”
“You can keep the rest of the potion,” I said, jerking my thumb
towards the stairs. “It's all yours.”
“What did you mean earlier, baby-cakes,” Lorne said, “when you
said you had a delicate potion going that could blow us all into
another reality?”
“Oh, that,” I said, waving away his concern. “It's just my slider
potion. Its how I'm going to get home.”
Wesley's eyes lit up.
=====
In the end, I conceded to give him two phials for him and Fred to
study. I keyed one to this reality for him, and left the other blank.
It meant that I'd only have three phials left for myself - I had to key
one with Trieze's rose, one with some of Remus' tatty robe, one
with a clipping of Angel's fingernail, and one with a bit of Jareth's
hair.
I skimped a bit on each phial, trying to make the potion stretch as
far as I could. I had tried to make the batch larger than usual, but I
had only managed to squeeze two extras out of it.
Of course, whether or not any of them would work was a question.
One I tried not to think too hard about.
Before that, though, there was a week of letting the potion simmer.
In that time, I spent more hours than I'd care to admit in Wolfram &
Hart’s octagonal glass 'testing' room. It felt an awful lot like being in
a cage and I hated every second of it, but I had promised Wesley
that I would let him see what my wand could do, and I wasn't about
to renege on my promise.
I threw as many charms, curses, and hexes as I could remember at a
stuffed practice dummy. Some of the less harmful ones I threw at
Spike. Fred and Wesley video taped each session and I knew they
spent long hours together in his office studying the tapes.
It made me happy to see them spending time along together,
snuggling on his big leather couch, sharing coffee.
All too soon, Fred would be gone forever.
=====
When the month was up, Fred came into my office and handed me a
shopping bag.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Just some clothes,” she said. “Ah don't wear 'em so much any more,
and I thought they had to be tougher than the stuff you're wearin'.”
I looked down at myself. The clothing Lorne had given to me had
been wonderful, but everything he had bought had been beautiful
but fragile. My various skirts and blouses ad poufy little neckscarves would do me no good while I was sliding. They would be
torn straight through by the first bush I passed.
I appreciated Fred's foresight and let her know, then opened the
bag.
Inside was a pair of tough boiled leather pants, a thick black teeshirt that said “Foxy” in glitter print, and a warm-looking red
hoodie.
Fred left me to don the new clothing, which I did after strapping on
my pouch.
I picked up Jareth and shoved him into the kangaroo pocket of my
hoodie.
When I got out to the Foyer, intent on going up to Angel's office to
say the first of my goodbyes, I was greeted by a small crowd of staff
members. It was mostly made up of the senior staff and a few of
the secretaries, lab folks, and personal assistants I had come to
know in my short month at Wolfram & Hart.
Fred and Lorne had on cute little party hats.
“What's all this?” I asked, blinking at the smiling faces and clapping
hands. Well, those hands that weren't holding drinks were clapping.
“Good-bye party, ducks,” Spike snorted, as if it was obvious.
Emotion swelled inside of me, and for a few short hours, I could
pretend my box of nightmares didn't exist.
=====
Let's go already! Jareth snarled after I’d had cake, made a speech,
played with Mortimer the Plant Monster, and had way too much
wine.
“Oh, no,” I told him, pulling the crystal out of the pouch where I
had been concealing it. “You're staying right here, remember?”
You can't do that! Jareth howled. Especially since I helped you find
those men!
“You did not. Spike found them.”
Well, I tried.
“You also damn near killed Trieze,” I spat back, “and I don't think
you'd hesitate to do it again, would you?”
...
“The only reason you helped this time is cause it was your own
bacon in the pan.”
If you leave me here, I will have to feed on all the same desires.
Where is the variety in that? Where is the interest?
“So you want to come with me because you'd get bored?”
Yes!
I held the crystal up to my face and sneered at it. “What's worse,
boredom or starvation?”
The crystal's red light pulsed thoughtfully. Starvation, of course.
“Right, and there's no grantee that you're going to be as well fed
anywhere else as you were here, right?”
...yes.
“Good - then you agree that it's for the best that I leave you here.”
... yes. But--!
“Don't but me, Mr. Goblin King. You only want to stay with me
cause of that Mary Sue stuff. If you really miss me, you can go get
drunk with Spike, but I grantee you that you'll get over me and go
back to mooning over Sarah the moment I'm out of this reality.”
He said nothing else, but I could tell that he was pouting.
Imagine, a moody crystal.
“Um,” Wesley said gently beside me, and I looked up to see
everyone in the room staring at me with identical expressions of
bemusement. Oops. “Who exactly are you talking to?”
I turned to face him and lifted the glowing crystal up so Wes could
see it. “Wesley Wyndam-Price, meet King Jareth of the Labyrinth.”
Wesley gasped. “Is that the...!?”
“The stone that opened the Creature's cage? Yeah, and I'm sorry. I
accidentally brought it here with me, and I didn't mean to start that
ugly ball rolling.”
“Oh, I'm sure it was all an accident,” Wesley insisted, his gaze
intent on the stone in my hands. He hadn’t actually said anything I
said, and was entirely engrossed by the orb. He was like a kid in a
candy store every time I came up with something new.
Angel looked extremely annoyed at Wesley's flippant
pronouncement regarding his near-death experience, but said
nothing.
Wesley held out his hands and I obligingly passed over the crystal.
He let out a little gasp of shock and I knew that he felt the tingling
sensation that meant that Jareth was sucking his desire out of him.
“This is truly fascinating. How exactly is he speaking to you?”
“Well, the real Jareth is back in the Labyrinth, but he's
communicating with me via this crystal. He speaks directly into my
mind.”
“I see. Why is it glowing red?”
“It means he's feeding.”
“From you?”
“From you.”
Wesley dropped the crystal took a distinct step backwards. It
bounced once and rolled a bit until it stopped, resting against my
boot. Spike barked out a laugh.
I bent to pick it up. “As long as you're not in contact with it too long,
or you're too weak when you touch it, it can't hurt you.”
Just as Wesley was about to speak, he paused, his already wide
eyes growing rounder.
“He... he just spoke to me,” Wesley said, his voice full of awe.
“Great.” I tossed the crystal at him and he caught it, fumbling for a
second but pressing it against his chest. “He's your headache now.”
Well, goodbye to you too! Jareth snarked at me.
Goodbye, Your Majesty, I thought back, infusing my mental tone
with warmth. It had been nice to travel with Jareth for a while,
even if he was a selfish prick. Sliding was lonely. I wanted him to
know that I had appreciated his presence, if not his actions.
“Time to go,” I said out loud, and went fishing for a blank phial. “As
much as I've loved my time here, I wanna get home.”
“Travel safe,” Fred said and gave me a warm hug and a peck on the
cheek.
“Yeah, we'll be here to bail ya out if ya need us,” Gunn added,
doing the same.
“It was nice meeting another Vampire with a good heart,” Angel
said, and gave me a firm handshake.
Wesley smiled almost shyly at me and also shook my hand. “Thank
you for being such a good sport.”
Spike said nothing. He just grabbed me, dipped me low, and kissed
me as thoroughly as possible. When he was finished and he
straightened us back up, I was distinctly out of it.
Lorne laughed. “Don't think I can top that one, honey-bear,” he said
and bumped cheeks with me, kissing the air. “Just take care of
yourself. Pop on back any time you'd like, okay? Especially if you
find yourself in Pylea. You'll wanna get outta there pronto.”
“Pylea?” I said, smiling. “Who knows? Maybe the next stop will be
Pylea. It would make twisted sense.”
“Well, then avoid my family, toots,” Lorne said with a quirky smile
and I grinned back.
“If they all look like you, then why should I?”
Lorne grinned large at the compliment. “Honey cakes, I'm an elf in
a sea of orcs.”
I laughed.
With one last good-bye wave, I lifted the un-keyed phial over my
head and dropped it. The glass shattered against the tile floor of
the science lab, and I was gone.
There was a crack and a flash and I bent my knees to soften the
drop.
Well, whattya know. The weaker version of the potion had worked
after all.
The thought that I may be able to stretch each batch further
distracted me. The footing under me was slightly springy, and I
slipped. “Oof!” I cried and flailed to try to regain my balance. I
failed and fell onto my arse on the side of a grassy slope.
I shook my head and looked around. I was sitting at the base of a
small hill. Around me rolled a peaceful looking valley, a dirt road
cutting along between the knolls. A patch of vegetables or two
could be seen around the large-leafed, ancient looking trees. The
sun was shining and the sky was mostly clear.
I shaded my eyes with my hand, checked my pouch with the other
briefly, and looked up. The pouch was fine, but I knew that I
probably ought to spend the whole month in this realm, wherever it
was, to make more phials. I wasn't keen on the idea, but with only
three spares, this was the only choice.
I sat still, revelling in the fresh breeze. The air was definitely
cleaner here than it had been in LA. And without Jareth prattling in
my head, the consistent headache Id' had since I'd gone drinking
with Spike the second time was slowly fading away.
The sun on my face was nice.
On second thought, I didn't think I'd much mind spending a month
here.
Where ever here was.
I looked around again and didn't recognize it.
Hm.
I'd always wondered if I'd ever come across a realm I didn't know. It
was a possibility that this is where I was now.
I climbed to my feet slowly, making sure not to slip on the dampish
grass again, and noticed the hoof prints and foot prints in the
pounded dust of the road beside me. Well, there were people here.
That was good. I just had to pick a direction and start walking.
Deciding to go right, I followed the dirt road around the bend of the
hill and stopped, gasping. I was just outside of a village square. The
hill had hidden it. I squinted at the square, puzzling at the
perspective. It was small, so I thought it was far away, but it wasn't.
It was just down-scaled. Instead of seven foot tall doors they were
five feet. There was a man dragging a pig to market, but the pig
was nearly the size of him. His hair was soft and curly, his feet bare
and covered with hair.
That struck a chord and I had to choke back a giggle.
Hobbiton.
I was in Middle-Earth.
Cool.
Book Nine: The Lord of the Rings
Chapter Twenty-Five: “The Green Dragon”
I headed for the pub. That seemed as good a place as any to find
Mirriadoc Brandybuck or Perrigrin Took. If I did have to be here for
a month to brew more potion, then it would be in good company,
dammit.
Because I did want to brew more potion. I just wasn't comfortable
with only three blank phials. If this had been a rougher world, I may
have just waited my twenty-four hours and moved on. But I knew I
could find a safe enough place here to brew.
I hoped.
If this was Middle-Earth, it could be filled with all sorts of orcs, dark
wizards, goblins, trolls, necromancers, elves, giant spiders, and any
number of creepy-crawlies who could pose a danger.
I tried to shove those things to the back of my mind. No, I would try
to use the cash I'd made working for Wolfram & Hart to procure a
room in an inn for a month and stay out of the way of whatever
quests were going on at the moment. Maybe somewhere nice and
quiet like Gondor, where I could vanish into the crowd easily.
Of course, I would have to worry about cut-throats and murderers,
but I knew how to take care of monsters of that variety.
Humming softly to myself, I strolled along the rambling, amiable
paths towards the town square. Tolkien had been right, of course Hobbiton really was one of the most peaceful places in the world.
The whole place just set my heart and mind at ease.
And I had been to several - I had comparison material.
I felt like I was breathing again, really breathing, for the first time
since Lucard had murdered me.
How long ago had that been, I wondered. Eight months? Seven? Nine?
I'd lost track already, jumping about as I did.
Hm. I'd been dead for over half a year.
... I wondered if my parents were worried about me yet. If they
even knew.
I didn't like where this train of thought was heading, and tried to
distract myself. If Jareth had been here, he would have done it for
me.
It had been less than an hour, and already I was feeling Jareth's
absence keenly.
He was a jerk and a selfish ass, but he had been someone to talk to.
Yes, I wanted company, talkative company, and who better than
Merry and Pippin?
Providing that the Hobbits in question weren't actually out
Fellowship of the Ring-ing right now.
I ducked under the small archway of the famous Hobbit pub, and
scanned the crowd. Conversation stopped. I smiled weakly and
crouched, heading directly for an empty table. I balled myself up to
sit on the chair - it wasn't too small. The legs were just short.
A plump, glowing waitress came over slowly and smiled warmly.
“Don't get many of the Big People in Hobbiton,” she said softly,
golden curls bouncing with her nod towards me.
“I'm passing through,” I replied. The conversation in the room had
returned to a low buzz, although I could all but see their pointed
ears swivelled in my direction. “May I have beer, please?”
The Hobbit woman bobbed her head again and flounced away.
Presumably, to get my drink.
The buzz of voices got louder, as if trying to make up for the
awkward silence moments before. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a
Big Person. They were probably blaming the Tooks for my being
there already.
An older Hobbit man came and sat at the table across from me, a
suspicious look in his eye but a welcoming smile on his face. “Just
passing through, I heard you tell Rosie?”
I nodded. “That was Rosie?” I wondered if it was Sam's Rosie.
“Aye, that there is Rosie Gamgee, and I'm her father-in-law.”
“The Old Gaffer?” I gasped, overjoyed.
His eyes narrowed even further. “Yeh've been hearin' of me then?”
“Ah,” I said, oh-so-intelligently. “Stories here and there.”
He nodded. “And where might you be heading, that takes you
through Hobbiton, Miss…?”
“Marie, sir. And I'm trying to get to… ah…” Think quick! “Gondor.”
Well, I had thought about it - I guess I had just made up my mind.
His eyebrows went straight up into his hairline. “Gondor, eh?
Gondor,” he hissed, rubbing his chin. “Damn Tooks.” Rosie returned
with my drink and I pretended to sip it. “Bet every Big Person there
ever was is going to go tromping though Hobbit country now, eh?”
I shook my head. “No, probably not, sir. It's a very indirect route,
you see.” I thought for a second, and decided to seize on this
opportunity to get into contact with the Hobbits in question. “Did
you say that this… Took knew how to get to Gondor?”
He had said nothing of the sort. But I was fishing. I think he was
already buzzed, so he may have believed that he had actually said
it.
“Yep.”
I shrugged. “Think he'd be willing to work as a guide?”
The Gaffer narrowed his eyes at me again. “Don't you think that you
can come in here like that bloody wizard and just go draggin' off
Hobbits. Er a wizard aren't you?” His eyes made a point of roving
over my leather pants, the strange red hoodie, and my short hair.
Though not as lewd as Jack, the Old Gaffer's expression said how
distasteful he found short hair on women to be.
Well, it wasn't that short any more. I hadn't had it cut yet, and it
was just to the point where I would need to start tying it back.
I shook my head. “No, sir. I'm not. Just a lost traveler.”
He harrumphed at me and that ended our conversation. He left the
tavern after a short word with Rosie, and I stayed where I was. I
had no idea where to even begin to look for Merry or Pippin, or
even Sam for that matter.
One of them would eventually have to come to the town watering
hole, I figured, so I would have just as much luck sitting here as I
would wandering around and peering into little round windows.
Now that I'd committed myself to at least leaving Hobbiton, if not
actually following through and going all the way to Gondor, I'd need
to speak to at least one of the more worldly Hobbits.
I'd need one of them to at least help me get to Bree.
Now that I really thought about it, I realized that I had no desire to
stay in Hobbiton for the month, beautiful and peaceful though it
was. I couldn't live or hunt anonymously among the Hobbits. I didn't
want to hurt any of them, either. They were suspicious enough of
me because I was a Big Person - what would they do if they knew I
was also undead?
No, I had to move onto Bree. I needed an urban centre. I needed
other humans around me, people who looked like me so I could
blend in. Maybe actually even go all the way to Gondor.
It was an appealing idea. Why not? I could go east and skirt
Rivendell. It would be empty now, with the last of the elves having
left Middle Earth for the Grey Havens, but I could probably still
spend a night there. (Presuming I was showing up at the end of the
books, of course). I would love to explore the abandoned city of
elves, even if I knew I would be awash in the lingering sorrow of the
departed.
It would be a perfect place to wait out the month, but far too
unpopulated. I was a city predator, I needed people to feed from. I
couldn't stay in Rivendell.
After that I could cut south, skirt the foothills of the Misty
Mountains, avoid the ruins of Isenguard, (if it was in ruins) and
maybe find a horse near Helms Deep. From there I could ride across
the plains of Rohan and if I followed the rivers south and then back
west a bit, possibly reach the White City within the month. Then I
could spend another brewing.
If I was unaccompanied I could go over the mountains in my bat
form and shave days off the trip. At night, if I couldn't find a horse,
I could lope across the plains as a wolf. I hadn’t tried that
particular transformation yet, but I was willing to experiment.
Eventually I would reach the river. If I followed it southward enough,
I'd reach the ruins of Osgiliath and eventually Minas Tirith, the
White Tower.
I would have to be careful changing forms. Someone might suspect
me of Dark Magic and try to kill me. In fact I would have to be very
careful in general. There were many people here who were good
with archery. The last thing I wanted was to find an arrow shaft
sticking out of my chest.
What I really should do is hide in the woods for a month, but the
idea of beasties that might be in there scared me. Big tough
Vampire that I was, I was terrified of creepy crawlies and giant
spiders and stuff.
Even on the borders of the Shire, there might be nasties. I'd rather
stay within civilization.
I was sipping the beer, casually sopping it up with a cloth napkin I
was provided to make it look like I was drinking it. I 'accidentally'
spilt half off it when the Hobbits I was seeking walked in the door.
The three of them looked around and spotted me. It wasn't obvious
if they were looking for me in particular, but I had a feeling word
had gotten around already. They were searching for someone, and I
was the only Big Person in the room.
“You're Miss Marie?” Samwise said, and I nodded, offering them
seats with a wave of my hand. They clambered onto the benches
and Rosie brought them drinks without having been asked. She
lingered only long enough for Sam to give her a peck on the cheek.
I wondered who was minding the kids.
Sam introduced everyone at the table, and I saw that Merry and
Pippin had their elvish short-swords strapped to their hips under
their cloaks. I didn't blame them. I was a stranger, after all, and
they'd had such bad luck with strangers recently.
“You're looking for a guide to Gondor?” Pippin said, cutting straight
to the point.
I blinked at his abruptness. “Yes, I suppose I am. Are you willing?”
Pippin and Merry looked at each other. Sam put up his hands and
the meaning of the gesture was obvious - no more adventures for
me.
“What are you offering to pay?” Merry finally asked. There was a
shrewdness in his demeanour that I found startling. I had to remind
myself that this was not the bright happy Hobbit from “Fellowship”,
but the battle-seasoned warrior of “Return of the King”.
“What are you asking?” I countered with. I had no money, nothing
that anyone in Middle Earth would take, at any rate. I had no
camping supplies. No rations.
Pippin had noticed. “You don't look like you have anything to
offer,” he pointed out.
I nodded. “I am ill-prepared for the journey. I lost all of my gear. I
have no money. I was hoping that the chance to visit old friends in
Gondor would be incentive enough.”
They exchanged another glance. “Old friends?” Merry asked.
I decided to act as if I knew who they were from the coronation
ceremony. “You are friends of the King, are you not? You were at
his crowning.”
Another glance. More silent communication. It was getting
unnerving.
Finally, Merry set down his mug and said, “Yes, we'll go with you. Is
it okay if we wait two days to leave? Pippin and I have some affairs
to take care of. Sam has offered to guide you to Bree tonight - if
you'll wait for us at the Prancing Pony, we'll procure gear. You'll
have to pay for your own food, though.”
I smiled. “I am a very good hunter, Mr. Hobbit. You provide the
vegetables, I'll catch the meat.” After I had sucked all the blood out
of the game, of course.
There was more talk, more arrangement, and more agreements.
Sam said dark would be coming soon and he wanted to be home
before it, so he and I set out towards Bree immediately.
There was a sombre stateliness about Samwise Gamgee. He was a
father now, and a husband, and I knew his heart still held a place
for his master Frodo. Was he writing in that red book at night? Had
the War of the Ring destroyed the sunlight in his soul?
I walked, professing that I would not tire easily, and Sam had
borrowed a neighbour's pony. The pony and I had immediately
exchanged such similar looks of distrust that Sam had actually
laughed.
Sam was a kind and thoughtful guide, and never went faster than he
thought I could walk. Of course, I didn't disabuse him of the notion
that I could only walk as fast as a human. I was enjoying the gay
scenery of Hobbiton and wanted to absorb as much of it as possible
before I was stuck in gloomy, grey Bree.
For the first half an hour we barely spoke. I was concentrating on
the landscape. Sam was concentrating on making it look like he
wasn't concentrating on me.
Eventually Sam said, “Who are you really?”
It was rather sudden. I had been contemplating what to do in Bree,
how to procure camping supplies, and I wasn't expecting his
question at all.
I blinked at him dumbly for a moment while my brain switched
gears.
“Pardon?”
He pulled the pony to a stop and turned in the saddle to look at me.
“You don't look nothing like any Man I've seen. You're too pale; your
eyes are too bright. And I don't think you'd have any real business in
Gondor. Before I let my friends go off into the woods with you, I
want to know who you are.”
I stopped and turned to him, a slight smile playing at the corner of
my mouth. “If you don't trust me, Master Gamgee, then you took
quite a risk, coming out into the woods with me alone.”
Sam turned his face away. I think his cheeks may have gone slightly
red. His fingers tightened in the reigns. “I wanted you away from
Hobbiton.”
“I gathered as much. That's very noble of you, by the way, but not
much good if I had decided to kill you.”
He frowned and his own hand went to the sword under his cloak,
though he didn't draw it. “Are you going to kill me?”
I snorted. “Hardly.”
“Oh.” His face got redder, and he returned his grip to the reigns.
“What do you think I am, Master Gamgee?”
He looked back at me, eyes narrowed. “A wizard, maybe? I dunno you don't dress like any wizard I've ever seen. Too many colours.”
I looked down at myself. I was still in the black leather pants and
the warm red hoodie that Fred had given me. My pouch was around
my waist under the large sweater. I had a tee-shirt on that
proclaimed me a “Foxy”, but I didn't think Sam would get it.
I think I looked more like a Ranger than a Wizard, but Sam was
entitled to his opinion.
“Can't I be what I say I am? A lost traveler?”
Sam thought about that for a moment, then conceded. “I suppose.
But you're not a Man either.”
“No, I'm not a Man.” I knew I could trust Sam, and telling him could
only make things easier. Sam Gamgee was like a dog with a tennis
ball - he wouldn't let go until he'd worried all the fur off the ball
and could see it for what it really was. “I don't know if there is a
word in your tongue for what I am, Master Gamgee. I don't know if
there's anything else like me on Middle Earth. But I promise you that
I won't hurt anybody while I'm passing through.”
“But you are just passing through?”
I shoved my hands into the kangaroo pocket in the front of my
hoodie. “I am. I'll be here for a month, maybe a little more, and
then I can move on.”
He spurred on the pony, which was happy to keep walking. Its skin
kept crawling under the saddle. It didn't like being near me, and I
think Sam was wise to that. He kept it on the far side of the road
from me.
I had no problems with that, and neither did the pony.
“So… what are you, then?” Sam finally asked. I was wondering how
long it would take before he asked. Less than I had anticipated.
I shrugged. “Once I was a Man. I was attacked by a thing that was
also once a Man, and now I'm not.”
He sent me a sideways glance.
“I am dead, because it killed me. Yet I walk and talk. I think. I am
as a Man is during the day, but when the sun sets I am a different
creature all together.”
“Then, it's a curse?”
I shrugged again. “Yes, I guess that's a good way to put it.”
“And this thing that attacked you - you're the way you are because
of that attack?”
“Yes. Don't worry, though, I have no intention of attacking anyone
and cursing anyone else. I still have a Human conscious.”
Sam thought for a moment. “Do you go to Gondor to seek the cure,
then?”
That made me pause. Literally. I froze in my tracks. “I… do you
think it's possible?”
It was his turn to shrug. “Queen Evenstar is a powerful Elf. I bet she
could do something for you. And I'll ask Merry and Pippin to try to
catch up with Legolas and Gimli - there might elvish or dwarvish
cures where there are no Hobbit ones.”
“I… thank you, Master Gamgee.”
“Just Sam's fine. And there's no needing to be thanking me. Folks
gotta help other folks out. It's the right thing to do.”
I nodded and thanked him again anyway. For doing the right thing.
My heart suddenly felt lighter. I saw how this man could have
buoyed Frodo through his ordeals.
We chattered amiably for the rest of the journey. It was near full
dark when Sam turned around at the gated wall to Bree. I asked him
to spend the night, as it would be safer, but he smiled at me and
told me that he had been through worse in his life than a dark
forest, and he could handle himself.
“Things out there you wouldn't care to imagine,” he said, smiling all
the while, but I knew the things he spoke of and saw the pain in his
eyes.
I almost told him so, and bit my tongue.
Instead, I offered him the knife that Remus Lupin had given me.
“It's not much,” I said, “But it's bespelled to repel most
lycanthropes and fey.” He promised to send it back with Merry and
Pippin when they came to pick me up.
I went into Bree with hope in my heart and an idea in my head:
Was there a cure for Vampirism in Gondor?
If there is… do I want it?
=====
The Hobbits made good on their promise and a few hours after
sunrise, we were mounted on two ponies and a horse with a strong
constitution. It took some doing to get mine to hold still, I can tell
you!
I was all for walking, but the Hobbits insisted that the horses would
cut our time in half, and maybe more depending on how hard we
pushed. I finally conceded. The less time I had to spend on the road,
the better, and the horse and I came to a wary truce when I forked
over some apples.
Sam had sent my knife back to me wrapped in white fabric, a
gesture of good will.
When I had secured rooms at the Prancing Pony with a roll of
American pennies the night before, I had gone out and fed as
heavily as I dared from the cutthroats in the alleys, and pinched all
their purses. So, I now had enough Middle-Earthian coin to buy
whatever we may need along the way.
I had made a point of purchasing a thick-bottomed soup pot with a
lid, and a spigot. It wasn't nearly as big as a regular cauldron, but I
figured while we were stopped for the night and the Hobbits slept, I
could work on the potion in a half-batch.
I did my best not to distract myself with thoughts of what may lay
for me in Gondor, the destiny that Arwen Evenstar may hold for me
in her hands. Instead I listened with a keen ear and a glad heart to
the tales and songs that Merry and Pippin wove out of words and
tune.
They were both master storytellers, and both had high, pure celtic
voices for singing. When they demanded a story of me, I bowed in
my saddle and admitted my lack of talent in the face of theirs.
Maybe one day I'd tell them a story about my adventures, but for
now I was content to listen to theirs.
We passed the first night on the damp undergrowth of the forest. I
would have been far more comfortable clinging to the stirrup of my
saddle in my bat shape, happily upside down, but the horse was way
too skittish to allow that.
And I wasn't about to allow the Hobbits to catch me at it.
I had sort of gotten used to sleeping in my bat form in the last
world and found having to deal with long human legs and arms
annoying in sleep.
I made good on my promise and when Merry and Pippin began to
make the fire and prepare their rations for dinner, I slipped into the
darkened woods and brought them back two perfect little rabbits sans blood, of course.
They were slightly concerned when I turned down dinner, saying I
was full already. But, Hobbit appetite won out and they were more
than happy to eat my share, too. I knew I would have to fake eating
breakfast tomorrow - if I took just an apple, I could pretend to eat
it and slip it to my horse to strengthen our newfound truce.
Sleep was slow in coming to me, and I only became comfortable on
my bedroll when I crossed my arms over my chest in mimicry of bay
wings folded together.
I felt foolish and cliché, but it worked.
By noon the next day we were out of the woods and trotting along
at an amiable pace along a beaten path in a stretch of fields. Far in
the distance, I could see the distinctive, crumbled outline of the
ancient mountain-top keep of Weathertop, where Frodo had
received his nearly-fatal stab with the Nazghul-blade.
A notable place of Hobbit history, Pippin told me.
And I was going to spend my second night on the road there.
How cool was that?
Book Nine: The Lord of the Rings
Chapter Twenty-Six: “Story-teller”
“Now it's your turn,” Merry said to me, meeting my gaze over the
firelight.
I shook my head. “No way. I don't have any stories for you.”
“Sure you do,” Pippin argued, pausing his puffing just long enough
to blow the words out at me along with the fragrant cloud of pipeweed smoke. It smelled suspiciously of marijuana, but I said nothing
about it. Tolkien was a sly devil. I'd always wondered why everyone
went off to find something to eat after having some Longleaf. “Sam
said you 'ad quite the story to tell him. Tell us.”
I shook my head again, silently cursing Samwise Gamgee. Of course
he'd be curious about who and what I really was, beyond what I had
told him, and of course he'd set Merry and Pippin on me. Easier for
them to wheedle it out of me than him.
“At least tell us where you learned to hunt like this.” Merry pointed
to the stew simmering in a pot over the fire. In it were vegetables,
a bullion, some tubers Pippin had dug up, some mushrooms that had
been growing on the side of the path, and several large rodents,
sort of like mice but as big as voles. The mouse-voles had been all I
could find on Weathertop's barren ruins. “And, tell us what you do
with the blood. There's never any left.”
I licked my lips theatrically. “I drink it.”
Merry shook his head and Pippin choked on a laugh.
“No really, how do you drain it so fast?” Merry insisted. I merely
raised my eyebrows at him, indicating the answer I'd given was the
only one he'd get. He sat back, resting against the rocky
outcropping we were sheltered under, grinning slyly at me.
I knew that look. It was the, 'I'll figure it out eventually' look.
Merry poked at the fire with one big hairy toe, easing a branch
further into the flames.
Neither of the Hobbits were worried about the firelight being seen
by anything below. Weathertop, they had explained to me on the
ride up the steep path that led to the fortress' ruins, used to be
haunted. But thanks to a Ranger named Strider, all the dark things
in this area had been driven away.
I knew full well they were talking about Aragorn's battle with the
Nazgul over Frodo, but I didn't tell them. My hunting prowess, my
eating habits, and Sam warning them that I had 'a story' was enough
to make them wary of me.
I didn't want to end up with one of Legolas' arrow-bolts sticking out
of my chest just because I got too chatty.
“Well, then,” Pippin said, tapping the ashes out of the bowl of his
pipe into the fire. “At least tell us what your strange shirt says. It's
not Elf-runes, it's not Gondorian.”
“T'ain't Roharim, neither,” Merry tossed in. “What is it?”
I had taken off my hoodie at mid-day. It had been hot. They had
booth been intrigued by the sparkly glitter letters spangled across
my breasts. Or, they had been interested in the breasts.
It was hard to think of such short men as anything other than curlyhaired kids, but I couldn't fool myself and forget that these were
two full-grown thirty-somethings.
“Foxy,” I said. “It means... sexy. It's sort of a joke.”
The Hobbits exchanged telling glances but said nothing. What the
glances told I didn't know - they were close friends, cousins, and
brothers-in-arms. They had their own silent language of hand signals,
nods, and looks, and I had been way out of the loop all day.
Silence fell again, slightly strained but mostly comfortable. Pippin
poked at the pot over the stove with an inquiring wooden spoon,
and declared it ready to eat.
Merry happily pulled three bowls out of his carry pack, along with
three smaller wooden spoons. I knew that outside of this, he also
carried three cups and a knife for cutting up meat, and nothing else
in the way of utensils.
I hadn't think to bring anything like that, of course - I rarely ate
solid food, and I never drank from anything except straight from the
vein. I had no need for spoons, bowls, or cups.
I did have my pot with the lid, in which the smudged dandelion
roots and water were currently marinating. I had left the pot tied to
the pommel of my horse's saddle, where it would not draw the
attention of the Hobbits. When the time came for me to heat the
concoction, I was confident I could do it in the embers of the
nightly campfire after the Hobbits had gone to sleep.
If I could get the work done at night, then I felt I could safely doze
in the saddle during the day. My horse was perfectly content to
follow Merry's pony without my needing to steer him.
I have to stop thinking about him as “Horse” and give him a name, I
thought candidly.
When Merry began to dish out dinner, I managed to talk my share
down to a half-portion. I split it between my mouth and the nearby
scrub bushes, knowing the bushes was eventually where it would all
end up anyway.
Conversation picked back up around spoon-fulls of stew, and Pippin
was soon weaving a story of the White Tree in the courtyard of
Minas Tirith. Boromir had once told him its origins, and now he was
telling me.
The story wound down as our spoons were scraping the wooden
bowls for the last of the broth.
There were leftovers and though Merry and Pippin insisted, I did not
take seconds. They shrugged, and stored the rest in a widemouthed wine-skin obviously built for this purpose.
It looked like it would be mouse-vole stew again for lunch tomorrow
for the Hobbits. I was perfectly content to pretend to sleep through
the midday meal to avoid having to eat it.
I offered to help clean up, but I was told to relax and enjoy the fire
- after all, I had done all the hunting. The hunting had not been
hard work in the least, but I was happy to sit back and watch them
go about their cleaning up in contemplative silence.
Merry began to mutter to himself under his breath. Slowly, almost
seamlessly, the muttering turned into humming.
Merry's mindless humming as he packed up the food was soon
echoed and harmonized by Pippin. It grew into a melody, then a
song, and words sprang forth like water bubbling up out of a
cleaved stone. The words were rolling, long and elegant and wholly
unfamiliar to me, but it did not take away from the pleasure of the
listening.
I sat still, mesmerized by the haunting beauty of their voices. The
melody wove in and out of me, circling around me, ensnaring me in
a way that I had never experienced before.
I felt like the most comfortable fly in the world, lounging amid the
silken threads of a very gentle spider.
The notes were sweet and pure to my sensitive Vampire's hearing,
and cut straight to my heart. I gasped, feeling something inside me
hitching, yearning, something that was of me and yet was not mine.
I was floating.
I was falling.
I was loosing.
I began to tumble headlong into the notes, the reverberations, the
timbre of their vibrating throats, the sweet ecstasy of that one
perfect pitch making something inside me tighten hotly.
That something inside me was enthralled by this ethereal, strange
music.
“S-stop it,” I managed to whisper. Was I talking to myself or to
them? I was clinging to the edge of a cliff - below me was the soft
grey mist, the comfort of the melody, and all I had to do was
jump... all I had to do was let go.
The peaceful succumbing to all tone and song terrified me - my
complete compliance and subservience was horrifying and that
horror rattled my teeth with fright. I felt my heart cut in two.
“Stop it!”
My echoing cry rent the dream.
Merry and Pippin's voices died in their throats. I was not clinging to
the edge of a cliff. I was kneeling on all fours on the ground, my
face slicked with bloody sweat, panting like I'd just run a marathon.
The tips of my fingers were digging into the sharp crags of the
stones, and I felt the itching heat of the numerous tiny cuts on my
palms made by pebbles.
“Marie?” Pippin asked softly, hands out to shake my shoulder.
“Don't touch me!”
Pippin jerked back as if mere proximity to me had burned him. He
exchanged a glance with Merry. Merry took the cue and said, “Are
you okay?”
“Wh-wha...” I said, still panting, feeling my normally-still heart
banging against my ribcage with urgency. “What the hell did you
do?”
Another glance.
“We were just singing,” Pippin whispered. “It's an Elf-song.”
“No more Elf-songs,” I said. I forced myself to take deep breaths, to
calm the flutterings of my soul. I sat back and stared with cool
collectedness at my palms. They were already healing over. “No
more Elf-songs,” I said again, “Ever. None.”
The glance again.
Merry and Pippin sat carefully by the fire, but I saw each of them
make a point of flicking their cloaks out of the way of the hilts of
their swords first. If I was about to go crazy, they would have their
weapons at the ready.
Maybe I was going crazy.
How else could I explain the strange compliant trance I'd just fallen
under?
God, if Jean-Claude had ever played Elf music, I would never have
made it past that third world. He would have had his rotten way
with me then and there when I was too confused by the notes to
fight him off.
The thought that anything could have happened while I was under
the trance served to horrify and anger me further. No, I couldn't let
myself get caught like this a second time.
I mopped at my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, grateful that my
blood-sweat and the fabric were the same colour. The Hobbits had
to have seen the blood on my pale face. They had yet to say
anything about it.
Maybe they were too scared.
I folded my hands in my lap and stared at the flames of the fire,
forcing myself to continue the even, calming rhythm of the deep
breaths.
In, out... in... out... in... out... in...
I held the breath for a long time. Perhaps ten minutes of silence
followed in which the Hobbits were straining to hear me exhale.
They had to know something was wrong with me by now.
I paid their secret glances and gestures no mind.
I was too busy wondering what the Hell had just happened.
What on earth had been that thing in side me that had risen to the
music, so purposefully enslaving me to the beauty of the Elvish
sound.
Erik..
The thought was like a blow to the back of my head. I gasped and
clutched my throat.
This wasn't my lust for music, my longing to be lost forever in
melody - this was Erik's. This was the Phantom of the Opera's.
I had inherited the ability to make magic when I drank from Remus.
I had learned French the same way. It made sense that I had also
taken into myself Erik's passionate yearning for the world of fragile,
melodic beauty.
Mixed with Trieze's obsession with collecting beautiful things, the
Elf-song had become a dangerous trap for me. A trap where I could
be lost forever inside its floating grey realms.
I looked up at the Hobbits. They were waiting for something - my
exhalation, an explanation, or for me to go ape-shit.
None of these things happened.
Instead, I began to speak.
“There once,” I started slowly, “there once was a child born with a
voice so hauntingly beautiful, so mesmerizing, that people said he
had inherited the music of the angels.”
Merry and Pippin exchanged one last glance. Pippin let go of the hilt
of his sword and picked up his pipe instead. Listening intently, he
quietly stuffed his pipe with the dried leaves in his hip-pouch. Merry
handed him a glowing twig from the fire and Pippin took it carefully,
holding it to the bowl of the pipe.
He puffed expertly and soon the weed was burning gently. He
passed the pipe to Merry, who took a strong pull, then passed it
back.
It looked like I had a story after all.
“The child was a boy,” I said softly, my voice barely audible over
the crackling and popping of the fire. “To compensate for the
beauty of his voice, which would have given the boy-child unfair
power over men and unfair advantage over women, God took away
his face.”
“Took it away?” Merry echoed, his concentration intent on me, his
eyes boring into my through the flames. The shadows thrown by the
warm dancing light heightened the quizzical upslant of his eyebrows.
“Where his nose should have been was a dark hole. His eyes were
sunken and mismatched, one a starting, bulging blue, the other a
small furious yellow. His skin was yellow and dry, like old
parchment. His lips were mismatched and awkward, though his
teeth were straight and perfect. One side of his skull never
developed. Through a thin layer of his yellow skin, it was possible to
see his working brain.”
Merry and Pippin both recoiled in horror at my description. It did
not horrify me. It only made me sad.
“Poor unhappy Erik,” I recited softly. “Should we pity him? Should
we curse him? He had a heart big enough for the Empire of the
World. In the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. Clearly
then, we must pity the Opera Ghost.”
“Opera Ghost?” Pippin echoed in a puff of bluish smoke.
“Erik, as the boy was called,” I said, “Did indeed have the most
beautiful voice in the entire world. But his face kept any from
loving him. He hid behind a mask - it was his first garment,
fashioned by his mother's revolted hands. His genius was
unparalleled - he was a skilled architect, lay-mason, and stonecarver. He could compose buildings as easily as he could compose
music. He was a deft hand at parlour-trickery and even defter with
poisons, pick-pocketing, and his deadly garrotte wire. Erik was
clever enough and talented enough to get everything he ever
wanted - except one thing.”
“Which was?” Merry asked, captivated by my tale. His arms were
wrapped around his knees as if despite the warmth of the fire
singing his arm-hairs, my tale chilled him to the core.
“The love of a young woman named Christine.” I smiled sadly.
“Christine, like Erik, was alone in the world. Her mother had died
giving her life. Her father had died several years after. Before he
died, he swore when he got to Heaven that he'd send the Angel of
Music to his daughter, so she would never want for anything or
anyone. Her father would see her trained to be a great performer,
and everyone would love her.”
“And did the angel come?”
“No.” I lifted my hands to the fire, feeling the heat lick at my palms
like an affectionate puppy. “The angel never came.”
“Then what happened?”
“Christine was taken to live at a theatre, where she was trained to
be a dancer. It was the same theatre that Erik had helped build. It
was the same theatre where Erik secretly lived in the cellar, where
the hateful stares of mankind could not reach him.”
“And Erik saw Christine and fell in love with her?”
I nodded. “Yes. Erik took on the guise of Christine's angel and
became her secret mentor. For years he trained her voice, so that
she was a match for his. He groomed her in confidence to be the
perfect mate for him.”
“Only when she saw his face, she was scared. I'd be scared,” Pippin
admitted as he took the pipe back from Merry.
“No,” I said, “Christine was never scared of Erik's face, not after
the first time. The truth is, she had given her heart away to a young
man named Raoul before she had even met Erik. Erik never knew
that he could never have Christine's love because he had come into
her life just those few years too late.”
“That's tragic,” Merry admitted.
I nodded. “Erik grew so angry when he found out about Raoul that
he tried to kill his usurper. But Christine's tears convinced him not
to, and in the end, he died of a broken heart. But Christine had
pitied him, given him one night in which to show his love to her - so
although the Opera Ghost was dead, he had a son that carried on
his love of music.”
“Did the boy have a face like his father's?”
“No,” I said. “He was whole.”
Pippin shook himself all over, as if to shake off the lingering terror
of the tale. “Did Erik ever see his son?”
“Never - Christine married Raoul and Erik died three months later.
Only Raoul ever suspected that the child was not his.”
“Did he hate the boy for it?”
“No. Raoul loved Charles like he was his own son, because the boy
had been made by a great man who had once loved his own wife
very much.”
Merry nodded. “That was noble of him.”
Pippin tapped out the pipe and went about re-stuffing it. “That
doesn't explain why we can't sing Elf-songs.”
I shivered all over, myself. I met their frank eyes and sighed. “Once,
I met Erik.”
“You've seen him?” Pippin squeaked. I was tempted to laugh at his
wide-eyed terror, but it was so genuine that I couldn't.
“I never saw Erik without his mask,” I admitted, “but I'd heard the
stories.”
“So, what happened?”
“Quite by accident,” I said reluctantly, trying to figure out how to
explain what had happened without letting on that was anything
less or more than a Man. I ran a hand through my hair, a short
frustrated movement. “I took some of Erik's devotion and
memorization to music into me. It was a silly thing to do - I hadn't
meant to do it. Elf-music is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard
in my life; that part of me that is still Erik's longing ... it was
drowning me.”
“Drowning in the music?” Merry lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Sounds
a bit dangerous, doesn't it, Pip?”
Pippin nodded. “Right then, no more Elf-song.” But he had latched
onto a different part of my explanation. “What do you mean, you
accidentally took part of him into you?”
“That, my good Hobbit,” I said, trying to force some of the old
cheerfulness into my tone. It was hard - I suddenly felt hollow and
empty. “That is a story for another campfire on another night.”
=====
He stood over me, looking down with a sneer on his face. The
firelight burned in his eyes, or maybe it was the usual golden
predatory glare.
I was laying on my sleeping roll on the side of Weathertop.
I could feel the sharp stones poking up through the leather padding
and the thick blanket.
I could smell blood, and it was fresh.
His feet, still in the shiny black dress shoes, were on either side of
my waist. His fingers were soaked in blood, splashes traveling up
his arm to the elbow. He looked like a child who'd been fingerpainting with gore.
The blood was steaming slightly in the night air, collecting in fat
drops on the tips of his fingers. He lifted his arms and spread his
hands above my face. I knew what he meant to do but I could not
move to avoid it.
Fat, hot drops of blood fell onto my face, into my mouth and eyes.
I screamed but there was no sound.
He laughed, and kneeled down. His hips pressed against my chest as
he slid forward and painted my cheeks in long, livid lines. The
caresses were languorous, seductive. He was touching me and it
made me want to claw my skin off, to retch in his face, to die.
I would rather die than have him touch me again.
But I was already dead.
He had killed me.
He had violated and killed me and violated me again by brining me
back. He forced this hated, this half-life on me, and it was a worse
torture than his hands and lips and teeth and ... and...
And I could not move.
He pushed gently with two fingers, just enough pressure to roll my
frozen head to the side.
I suddenly knew where the blood came from.
The ruined bodies of two tiny Hobbits lay scattered across the
camp site, limbs strewn in a haphazard jumble with organs and
bone, curled fair hair wet and limp as paintbrushes, chunks of flesh
and scraps of Elf-cloak.
He leaned down to kiss my ear and his lips were painted with blood
as well, wet and revolting against my flesh.
“You belong to me,” he said, his mouth moving against my skin. His
splattered hand slid down, between my breasts, pausing over the
place where his fingernails had once driven deeply into the flesh of
my belly. “No one but me. I have followed you, you know. I have
always been one step behind you. I am your shadow. I am your
reflection. The blood on my hands is the blood of everyone you
have ever loved.”
He touched my hands, leaving burning hand-prints on my flesh.
Now it was all my fault.
I felt the tears pooling in my eyes but I could not cry out, no
matter how hard I shrieked.
He dropped something on the stony ground, right in front of my
unblinking eyes.
It was a mask.
A white half-mask, streaked in glowingly red blood.
=====
My own shrill cries of terror woke me.
I was shaking hard, panting, the tears running out of the corners of
my eyes.
I jerked up into a crouch, eyes glowing and teeth bared, ready to
throw him off. My knife was flashing in my hand before I knew I had
reached for it, prepared to use deadly force against my attacker.
No one was there.
The empty black night was still and silent, broken only by my
ragged panting.
I looked over at the Hobbits. They were peacefully slumbering,
unawares, innocent... whole.
I shuddered once, all over, my skin crawling and pricking with
disgust.
I could feel the hot slickness of his blood-smeared lips on my ear
and neck and I wiped frantically at the side of my face with my
sleeve, desperate to erase any mark of him.
There was nothing on me.
My scar burned, painfully sharp in all the places where his teeth had
once driven through my skin. Not like Harry's, but in a different way.
The tactile-memory of his tongue prising the wound wider, his teeth
latching onto my flesh and pulling back, tearing a ragged hole in my
body.
I scratched the scar, trying to drive away the phantom pain.
“He isn't here,” I told myself firmly. I concentrated for a brief
moment, blinking away the beast-yellow in my eyes. The heatvision brought on by the change vanished, and once more the night
was chill and black. I bit down on my tongue, as if to assure myself
that my fangs had indeed retracted. “He wasn't here. You will go
back to sleep and you will never dream about him again.”
I almost believed myself this time.
I lay back down and tried to sleep.
I still clutched the knife in my white-knuckled grip, and it only
vaguely occurred to me that I ought to be aghast at myself for being
so ready to slice and hack with this deadly weapon.
Since when had I become so violent?
This and other disturbing thoughts kept chasing themselves around
my mind. Sleep didn't come, so I stared up at the unfamiliar stars
and tried to will the adrenaline coursing through my abused system
to dispel.
“Pitiful creature of darkness,” I sang softly, hugging myself, “What
kind of life have you known? God grant me courage to ...”
I couldn't finish.
I was alone.
=====
I didn't catch the flash of dim firelight on Perrigrin's eyes as he
watched me trying to fall back asleep in terrified puzzlement.
Book Nine: The Lord of the Rings
Chapter Twenty-Seven: “Him”
I was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to lodge any sort
of protest when the Hobbits forced breakfast upon me the next
morning. Pippin was silent but watchful, and it made me wonder
whether my nightmare had woken him up the night before. Merry
was just as chatty and free as ever, so I overlooked Pippin's
sullenness.
Maybe I was just being self-centred and paranoid. Maybe Pippin had
just slept on a sharp pebble and he was feeling cranky.
After breakfast, we rode down Weathertop, and across the plain,
making decent time. We didn't press our mounts, but they seemed
eager enough to leave the steep mountain passes of Weathertop on
their own.
The ghosts of horrors past seemed to bother them, and I can admit I
was glad to be away from that dead place myself. My fangirlishness
had evaporated at sunset, when the discomfort and haunted-ness
place became all too real.
As we rode, we talked. The chatter between Merry and I was light
and frivolous, and we spoke of a whole lot of nothing.
We discussed naming my horse for an hour at least, and landed on
'Karl'. He thought it was a neat-sounding name when I had suggested
it, and it was a sort of private joke for me. The actor who had
played the Prince of Rohan, the leader of the Riders of Rohan, had
been a Kiwi actor named Karl Urban.
I patted the butter-coloured horse's neck and whispered in its ear,
“Well, whattya think? Karl?”
The horse snorted and I took that for a yes.
Karl it was.
When we got to Gondor, we'd see about finding him an Eowyn.
For the rest of the morning, Merry and I spoke of nothing in
particular. Pippin remained uncharacteristically silent, and when I
made a motion with my head towards him, Merry shook his and
mouthed, Leave him. He gets in moods.
I wondered if Pippin's moods had anything to do with the carnage he
had seen in Gondor. I certainly knew that sort of thing was where
my 'moods' came from. I was worried for Pippin, but decided not to
press him.
If Merry thought that leaving him alone was best, then I would trust
his judgment. Merry knew his cousin better than I did.
Bad moods festered if they lasted too long. I hoped that Pippin
would work his was thought his own quickly. However, our
interference could only make it last longer.
If we jolted him out of his heavy thoughts, I knew from personal
experience that it would serve no purpose but to annoy him.
Whatever it was that he was chewing on, it was best just to leave
him to it. He'd join us when everything was all sorted out.
Not for the first, nor the last, time, I wondered of Pippin's
sullenness had been brought about by my screams last night. Merry
had given no indication that I had woken him, but then, he'd
smoked a lot of leaf last night.
If I had woken Pippin, I could well imagine the sorts of thoughts
hearing me screaming and panting, watching me writhe and then
jump up to eviscerate an invisible non-entity would stir in him.
Both Hobbits had battled fiercely on the plains out side of, and
streets within, the White City, Minas Tirith. Both had seen death,
blood, and carnage. Both had killed. Both had people try to kill
them. Merry would not have been immune, by any means - that sort
of mass slaughter left an impression upon a person, a watermark
that overlaid the colours of the world, dimming them just that little
bit. But Pippin struck me as more susceptible to dark thoughts,
more fragile.
He was more curious, more introspective, more perceptive, more
emotive.
Pippin had definitely come out the worst of it.
Knowing there was little I could do to ease Pippin's inner turmoil, I
turned my attention back to Merry. We chatted in the relentlessly
bright morning sunlight. I encouraged Merry to regale me with as
many stories as he could, for I felt sadly lacking in things to tell him.
There was only so much one could say about one's friends and
family before betraying the fact that one was not a citizen of
Middle Earth and never had been.
Besides, talking about them made my heart hurt.
God, how long had it actually been since I'd thought of my parents?
My friends back at school?
Surely I'd put them from my thoughts somewhere in “Anita Blake”. I
hadn't wanted Jean-Claude to pluck them from my mind and use
them against me. I'd made myself forget about them.
And I had done it so thoroughly that it wasn't until now that I had
noticed that I had not thought of them at all.
I felt guilty suddenly, terribly guilty for forgetting the people back
at home. I was fighting to get back to them, fighting hard.
Wasn't I?
Enduring world after world, torment after torment, each and every
characteristic stereotype of the Mary Sue.
I felt worn down. I felt wary. My heart hurt every time I let my head
stop leading me.
Except here I was, enjoying the sunshine and the conversation, on
my way to Gondor. I had enough blank phials. Why wasn't I sliding
immediately when I could?
Shouldn't I be trying faster? Harder?
The thought made me suddenly weary and I remembered why:
Dumbledore had told me. As draining as this was, is was also a gift.
I had to get home.
But I couldn't loose myself in the process.
The nightmares hurt, yes.
But they meant I was still human.
I turned my thoughts away from my own aching nightmare-box and
back to my family.
Were my parents worried? Did they know I was gone? They had to by
now - my landlord would have noticed me not returning to my
apartment. If not that, then he at least would have figured it out
when I hadn't paid him for the next month's rent.
Work would have called.
When I hadn't picked up the phone, would someone have called the
cops? Would my friends have forced their way into my apartment,
only to find it empty?
And then what? Cops, detectives, missing persons reports, feared
kidnapping? Run away? Would they arrest Rob, accuse him of killing
me and burying my corpse because his café was the last place I had
been seen?
Was my mother clinging to my father every night, sobbing?
Did they think I was dead?
That I had run off? That I had killed myself?
Were they mad at me, angry that I hadn't turned to them when I
needed help, when I was overwhelmed with the world? Were they
angry at themselves for not paying attention to me? For not 'seeing
the signs'? Were they replaying our last conversation together over
and over, looking for imbedded meaning, for a cry for help that
they should have heard?
I shook my head, forcing away those dark thoughts.
How long had I been gone?
Nearly a year now? Eight months, surely...
I felt the leather of the reins in my hands cut painfully into my
palms. I was clenching my fingers so tightly I had cut through the
flesh. It was only a tiny cut, but the stinging pain brought me back
to myself.
Karl rolled his eyes and snorted at me, he ears against the side of
his head.
He could smell the blood, and it was making him antsy.
I patted the side of his neck with my clean hand and he settled
enough for me to feel safe that he wouldn't suddenly bolt.
It was time to put this all away again.
These thoughts made my head hurt, and my heart. My throat
suddenly felt too tight. My eyes burned.
Breakfast wanted out.
I pulled Karl to the side of the path and dashed around a bush,
coughing and gagging. Merry dismounted and stood behind me, a
worried look on his face. When I was finished, I took his offered
water skin and swished the taste of vomit away.
I handed the skin back and he went back to his pony and returned it
to the saddle bags.
We remounted.
“Miss Marie... are you okay?” he whispered after a few moments of
silence.
“Fine,” I lied. “Just a reaction from last night... you know. I didn't
sleep so well.”
Merry narrowed his eyes. “Pip said you were havin' nightmares.”
I tossed a glance behind me. Pippin was watching us with shaded
eyes.
So he had heard.
“Sometimes I get them,” I said.
“What about?”
I shuddered all over once and frowned. “Someone who did
something very nasty to me. Something I'd rather forget, so let's
change the topic now.”
Merry looked slightly startled, blinked, smiled, and said, “Well,
okay. What's in the pot on your saddle? Lunch?”
I shook my head. “Stuff that you'd really rather not eat, Master
Hobbit. Trust me. New topic.”
This time Merry laughed. “Demanding! Very well then... tell me
more about Erik.”
I told him the story of the night Erik had been born. His father had
been killed in an architectural accident, a large corner stone of
elaborate masonry crushing him to death mere days before Erik's
mother went into labour.
She had intended to name the baby Charles, after his late father,
but when she saw his Hell's Face, she had told the priest to name
the baby after himself instead. The maidservant attending the birth
had run to fetch Father Erik the moment the child's head had
emerged from his mother's womb, and never returned.
When the priest had baptized Erik and cleansed him and handed
him to his mother with a blanket covering his face, he left. The
selfish, frightened bastard left that broken woman alone with her
living dead child. At first Erik's mother refused to feed him. If she
denied him suck, he would die, and she would be rid of him.
But the child cried, his angel's voice a keening wail of desperation
and despair, and his mother could not resist his piteous sobs. She
fed Erik, swaddled him, then set him aside in the crib that had been
prepared for a pretty baby, and set about sewing his very first scrap
of clothing...
A mask.
Despite the heat of the morning, when I finished the tale Merry was
shivering.
“That man never had a happy moment in his life, did he?”
I shrugged. “He seemed pretty happy in Italy, when he was
apprenticed to a stone mason. And when he was designing palaces
in India. And when he loved Christine in France.”
Merry shook his head. “I've never even heard of those places. Where
are they?”
“Far away,” I said with a totally straight face.
Merry groaned. “You play it closer to the vest than Strider!”
I smiled sadly. “Only place where I can see the game,” I said softly,
mocking my own flippant reply to the last time someone had told
me that.
Merry cajoled. He wheedled. He whined. I told him he'd just have to
wait until the next time I was ready to tell a story to find out who I
was, where I was from, or how I had accidentally absorbed some of
Erik's “essence”.
Not mentioning, of course, that I fully intended on that being 'never'.
“You won't do it to us, will you?” Pippin asked suddenly, startling
Merry so badly the blond Hobbit nearly tumbled out of his saddle.
Pippin had been hanging back on the trail, his eyebrows drawn
together in a look of thoughtful preoccupation. He'd barely said
three words together since we'd left.
“Do what?” I asked, but I feared I already knew what he meant.
“Absorb our 'essence'.” I saw his fingers tighten on his mount's reins.
“No,” I said, and I meant it. I stiffened my spine and tried to look
affronted.
“You said it was an accident,” Pippin pressed. “Is this 'accident'
likely to happen again?”
“No,” I repeated. “That was a long time ago, when I was young
and ... unaccustomed to what I could do.”
Pippin frowned, but left it at that.
=====
At lunch time I declined the food, citing a headache brought on by
the incident by the fire the day before and my sickness that
morning. Merry shrugged and accepted that, and doled out the
remaining stew between Pippin and himself. Pippin ate slowly.
His thoughtful slowness began to infect the rest of us, and by the
end of the meal, we were all silent and staring at each other.
“What?” I finally said.
Pippin set aside his bowl and placed his hands carefully on his knees.
He met my gaze directly and said, in a well rehearsed voice: “Don't
you think it's time you told us who you are?”
I scowled.
I sort of had an idea that this would come, but I didn't think it
would be so bluntly and so soon.
“And if I say no?” I asked tartly.
Merry's eyebrows ratcheted up a few notches.
Pippin seemed nonplussed by my rudeness. “Then Merry and I will
get back on our ponies and turn around.”
It was my turn to lift my eyebrows. “Would you really do that? Just
turn around and go back?”
Merry set aside his own empty bowl. “We can't just leave her out
here, Pip!”
Pippin's scowl deepened until it matched my own. “I have the
feeling that she doesn't need our protection.”
I looked away, down at my feet. Suddenly the frankness in his
burning gaze was too much to bear. It was too hot, too
uncomfortable, and I felt the heat in his eyes transfer to my cheeks.
I blushed hard, mortified, angry, embarrassed.
“You don't?” Merry gasped, and then gasped again when I nodded.
“Why invite us along, then?” He shifted backwards a little.
“You...you don't really want to take our essences, do you?”
“Of course not!” I shouted. “I wouldn't do that to you. I told you, I
don't do that to people on purpose. But I... I didn't lie when I said I
needed guides,” I whispered. “I wouldn't know east if it grew teeth
and bit me on the arse.”
I smiled, hoping the mild joke would break this animosity.
It didn't.
Aren’t Mary Sues supposed to be witty?
“What are you?” Pippin hissed.
I crossed my arms over my chest and chewed on my bottom lip.
“There is no word for what I am,” I lied. There was, but it came
with all sorts of negative connotations that I didn't want to invoke.
“Look, I told Sam, and I'll tell you: I was once a Man, okay? I was
once Human. Then I was attacked, and wounded, and I died. But I
didn't stay dead, and now I'm what the thing that attacked me was.
But I won't hurt you, and I won't attack anyone else. It was horrible
and painful. It's not right.”
Both of the Hobbits thought about this for a long time.
Quietly, slowly, Merry said, “Sam said that you wanted to go to
Minas Tirith to talk to Lady Arwen. He said you were looking for
something.”
I nodded. Sam had unwittingly just given me an out - an excuse to
stay with them, a lie to play along with. “A cure. Maybe. Or peace.
Maybe. Or help to get home.” And maybe I really did want a cure.
Maybe.
Merry sat back, satisfied for the moment with that answer. Pippin
was still glaring at me intensely.
“Last night,” he began, and I felt the fear and disappointment
clutch at my heart. I had woken him, which means he had seen...
“Last night,” he repeated, making sure that he had my attention,
“you were screaming in your sleep.”
“I know.”
“She was?” Merry sounded startled, but only slightly.
“I was dreaming of the person who did this to me.”
Pippin nodded. “Where is he now? The person who did this?”
I snarled, quite without meaning to. “Far away, and hopefully dead,
the rat-bastard.”
Merry began to crack his knuckles, a nervous gesture I had never
seen him do before. This conversation definitely had him spooked.
“Which him was it?” Pippin pressed. “You said him. He's gone. What
him?”
And then it all clicked into place.
Pippin's sullenness, his worry, his anger.
“I saw Him,” the Pippin in the film had said. “I could hear His voice
in my head.”
Him.
Sauron.
The Enemy.
Pippin thought I was His envoy. That I was trying to bring Shadow
back to Middle Earth.
It made me want to laugh.
It made me want to cry.
I settled for a strange hiccupping sound somewhere between the
two.
Pippin's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“Which Him?!” he repeated.
“I... I...” I stuttered. “Not the guy you're thinking of! Not Him.”
Pippin climbed to his feet. Seeing things were about to take a turn
for the decidedly painful, I dove to the side, rolled, and sprang up
to my feet. It was faster than Pippin could follow, but I didn't go far,
so he didn't loose me for more than a second or five.
Those five seconds gave me opportunity to pull my wand from the
kangaroo pocket of the hoodie. Pippin unsheathed his sword. Merry
lunged at his friend and grabbed the hem of his cloak in an attempt
to delay him.
“Pip!” Merry was screaming, “Pip, for God's sake, be reasonable!”
“She works for Him!” Pippin was screaming. “Let me go, Merry! You
haven't had Him in your head! Let me go!”
Pippin kicked back and nailed Merry square on the chin. The other
Hobbit rolled backwards. His cloak free, Pippin lunged at me. I
sidestepped, and he swung wide. He lunged again, and this time a
slender hand poking out of a fine grey sleeve halted the fierce
swing of the elf-dagger.
I took a hasty step back, putting distance between Pippin and
myself, held my wand warily, and looked up into the face of my
benefactor.
It was upswept, with fine skin and luminous blonde hair. And pointy
ears.
“Hold, Master Took,” Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Mirkwood
said softly. “I taste no Shadow around her. She is free of The
Enemy's Eye.”
The Hobbit turned his eyes up to the elf. Legolas nodded almost
imperceptibly, and Pippin sagged. His eyes rolled up in his head and
his knees seemed to turn to water.
Merry rushed forward and snatched his friends before he fell to the
ground. Gracefully, Legolas released Pippin's arm. He moved his
toes out of the way just in time to keep them attached to his foot.
He turned serene grey-blue eyes to me and smiled.
I took another step back.
Legolas' presence was a physical thing, as powerful and invasive as a
fist in the gut.
Tolkien had mentioned how Elves created a sense of 'awe' in humans,
but I didn't realize said 'awe' was a gripping, choking feeling. It was
like Legolas had stepped up, hypnotized me into immobility, and
reached into my chest and gave my heart a little squeeze. His hair,
his skin, his eyes seemed to glow in the harsh sunlight.
Then he moved and the spell was broken.
I gasped in air, suddenly aware of the emptiness of my lungs,
though I didn't need the oxygen. Legolas had turned to watch his
travel companion, a puffing, red-faced dwarf, chug over a small hill
a few feet away. We had set up the lunch camp-fire beside it
because it was good for blocking the breeze that seemed
determined to keep us from getting the logs lit.
Gimli, Son of Gloin, jogged up to stand beside Legolas and glared up
at him.
“There's no need to be running off like a sprite, Master Elf!” he
gasped, glowering with anger. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets.
He wasn't wearing his helmet, nor is customary armour, though I
guessed it to be in the pack on his back. “I know fair well that your
legs can outstrip mine!”
Legolas, whom I noted was also dressed more for travel than war,
laughed gaily. “Had I not, Master Pippin would have spitted this
lovely maid.” He gestured at me. I smiled, trying not to gag on the
courtly prose that spewed out of their lips.
At least Hobbits spoke like real people.
I was also secretly flattered that Legolas thought I was “lovely”.
Gimli gave me a once over, eyes boldly roaming and finding me
somewhat lacking. I wondered if he was secretly comparing me to
Galadriel.
I returned the favour and checked them both out. Legolas was still
in his grey leggings, and his elf cloak and green overlay tunic, but
he also wore a vest of leather. I guessed it was supposed to act as
stand-in armour, just in case they were ambushed.
Gimli was similarly attired in leather pants, boots, and a cotton
shirt under a leather vest. Only he was sweating in this
uncomfortable afternoon shine. The Hobbits were dressed for
summer, Elves don't sweat, I don't think, and I'm dead.
“And why would Pippin want to spit you?” Gimli asked me at length,
obviously finding no fault grievous enough to deserve the offence of
being impaled with my appearance. “Whoever you are.”
“Small misunderstanding.” I held my fingers about an inch apart.
“Tiny. He thought I was a spy for Sauron. Which I'm totally not!” I
finished hastily when Gimil's hand went for the axe hanging from his
belt. “But, you know - a little cursed. Well,” I considered the space
between my fingers and held my arms apart, as if measuring two
good meters. “A lot cursed.”
Merry, who had laid Pippin out on the ground beside the fire and
was cradling his head on his knees added, “Miss Marie has
nightmares. Pip thought she was an envoy of Sauron.”
Legolas' blue eyes narrowed. “Why would Pippin think that?”
Merry shrugged. “Pip heard her say 'him, him' in her sleep.”
“Ah,” Legolas said gently. “It becomes clear.”
He turned his gaze back to me.
“Sarumon is not the only Him whose hurt people,” I said grumpily. I
jammed my wand back into the pocket in the front of my sweater.
Then I went over to my horse and patted his nose. I held another
apple from my saddle pack under his lips and he eagerly accepted
my offering. “C'mon Karl,” I said. “I know when we're not wanted.”
“Miss Marie,” Legolas said quickly. “Do not be hasty. You cannot
travel to Gondor alone, in the wild.”
“Watch me,” I said and lifted my foot into the stirrup.
He placed a fine-boned hand on my shoulder and I jumped slightly.
Normally I could hear people walking up behind me. It didn't sound
like he had moved at all. I decided immediately that I didn't like it.
I hated not being able to track him and it gave me a small, freezing
jolt of horror to know that I was relying on my Vampiric powers
more than I used to. That I felt incomplete and wrong if something
wasn't working.
The thought terrified me.
If I really found my cure in Minas Tirith... could I handle it?
Could I really stand to be human again?
I let that thought drift away, cutting it loose.
“Miss Marie,” Legolas said softly, shattering my introspective
torture. “Do not let Pippin's anger speak ill of him, or us. He has
been tormented by the Shadow and loathes the thought of any
others suffering as he and his cousins suffered.”
I sighed, a long-suffering sound, and un-hitched my foot. “Fine. I
don't hold it against him.”
Legolas smiled a brilliant, megawatt smile and for a brief
millisecond, that heart-pattering leap of awe sprang up in my
breast.
“Good,” Legolas said. “Then you will let Master Gimli and I
accompany you to The White City? I am looking forward to seeing
King Elestar and my cousin his Queen again.”
I found myself smiling in response to his simple joy. His emotions
were so honest, so unfettered. Then a funny thought struck me.
“Now, wait - how do you know that Gondor is where we're headed?
In fact, how did you even find us?
“Rumours fly fast from Bree,” Gimli said simply.
“Messenger birds from Sam fly faster,” Legolas added.
“Ah,” I said.
=====
Merry and Pippin doubled up on his pony. I took Pippin's empty one,
though the beast seemed hard pressed to want to bear me. Karl
snapped his teeth at the pony, clearly reprimanding him for his
skittishness, and it settled down.
Legolas took Gimli into the saddle before him and they rode Karl.
Pippin awoke a few hours later. I heard the pattern of his breathing
alter, but he didn't say anything. I looked back over my shoulder at
Merry, who was concentrating on keeping them both in the saddle. I
caught a glimmer of refracted light off the other Hobbit's eyes as
Pippin looked around, assessing his location.
His gaze met mine and he hunched lower in the blanket wrapped
around him and closed his eyes again. He was downwind of me, or I
would have been able to tell what he was feeling.
By nightfall, we were just at the beginnings of a forest. I was
starting to recognize the greenery around me as the forest that
Arwen had sped through with the ailing Frodo, the Dark Riders on
her tail. Maybe tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, we would reach
the stream that had stopped the Nazghul.
Before that, though, we stopped beside a freshet for the night.
Merry went about starting a cooking fire. Gimli plunked down on a
rock and didn't move. Legolas went off to collect some herbs to
brew into a tea to help Pippin with his newfound throbbing
headache.
I slipped into the shadows of the evening and returned half an hour
later warm and full, with four rabbits held by their ears. I passed
them to Merry, and watched with amusement as the Dwarf's eyes
grew comically round.
“How did a lass like you catch four tasty morsels so quickly?” Gimli
asked, watching Merry start to skin them. The pelts went into a pile
he had begun to make - he was keeping the skins, probably to cure
and make mittens or hats out of, or something. “And bled them, too?
Nary a drop.”
Merry looked up sharply. “You were telling the truth last night,
weren't you?” he said, and his voice was a mix of awe and concern.
“You drink the blood.”
I nodded.
There was a tense moment.
Would they drive me away? Would they try to kill me, now that they
knew what I ate?
Merry pointed at me with the tip of his gory knife.
“You got a spot on your cheek,” he said, then went back to carving.
I raised my fingers to the cheek he'd pointed at and found a cold
spot of wet blood there.
Well, I'll be.
I never expected acceptance. And certainly, not so quickly.
But Merry had met Wizards, Men, Dwarves, Elves, Dragons, Demons,
Ents, and all manner of other creatures.
“You're being... calmer about this than I expected,” I whispered
softly.
Merry shrugged, his eyes still on the meat. “Insects feed on blood,
why not you? Is that so unnatural?”
“No,” I said gently, a genuine smile on my face, “I guess not, when
you put it that way.”
On the far side of the fire, Pippin shifted in his cocoon of blankets
and sat up slowly. I grabbed a skin of water and sat down beside
him. I handed him the water wordlessly, and equally as wordless, he
drank.
“My head hurts,” he said softly, setting aside the empty skin.
“Legolas went to go get some herbs to make a painkiller for you,” I
said softly. “He thought your head would hurt when you woke up
again.”
Pippin frowned. “I'm sorry,” he said suddenly. “I... jumped to
conclusions. I assumed things about you that I never should have.
Are you really going to Gondor to beg a cure from Lady Arwen?”
I quirked one side of my lip. “If one exists, then yes. I never asked
for this living death, and I'd be glad to be rid of it.”
“Living death,” he repeated softly. “I saw your eyes glowing last
night.”
I snorted. “Side effect of being raped and murdered.”
Pippin's eyes grew just as round as Gimli's had been, but he said
nothing. I noticed the uncomfortable silence around the fire - Merry
and Gimli had been listening in.
I coughed and the Hobbit and the Dwarf resumed their muted
conversation. Their voices rumbled and buzzed at each other in a
tone too subdued for me to catch over the crackling of the flames.
“Listen, Pippin,” I said slowly, “I know what it's like to be haunted
by memories. Trust me.”
“I do,” he said, but I cold hear the ghost of a smile in his voice. “I
do now.”
“I don't hold it against you, what you did today. I'm sure if I'd been
through what you have, I'd do the same. Probably a lot sooner,
though. I tend to have a shorter temper these days.”
He shrugged. “Thank you. I still feel horrible. I just... I didn't want
another war. You understand?”
“Yes. Yet you drew your sword on me. Are you so eager to fight
again?” I asked softly.
“I don't want to be in a battle,” Pippin admitted. “But waiting on
the edge of one that I cannot escape is even worse. I felt I would go
mad if you turned out to be a spy for Him.”
“Don't worry,” I said again. “It's all settled. I'm not.”
“You're not,” he agreed.
=====
Pippin was feeling horribly, horribly guilty.
He drank his tea, ate his rabbit, and said nothing.
When I proclaimed my intention to sneak into the woods and take a
dip in the nearby freshet, he volunteered to go with me. I'd have
preferred to go alone, but there was no deterring him.
He felt honour bound to protect me from the things that went bump
in the night, forgetting that I could bump back.
“But why?” Pippin pressed.
“Because, dear Hobbit,” I said, scrubbing at my scalp with my
fingernails. I could feel the grit accumulate under them and
grimaced. “I find it distinctly pleasant to take in a breath of air to
speak, and not be forced to smell myself.”
Pippin adjusted his seat on the bank of the creek, swished his
oversized feet around in the water, and looked dubious. “It's just
not right. Bathing.”
“Where I come from, people do it at least once a day,” I said primly
over my bare shoulder. I had my back to him. “Keeps away bad
smells and disease.”
“I knew a Hobbit once,” he said, “and he said that bathing gives
you sicknesses.”
I snorted. “Highly unlikely, Master Hobbit, unless he caught a case
of 'just-pissed-off-the-kraken.' I hear those can be terminal.”
Pippin drew himself up. “A Hobbit died from bathing last winter.”
I snorted again. “Well, any idiot fool enough to go for a dip in a
crick in the middle of January deserves to catch pneumonia and
die.”
I heard Pippin's feet swish some more. “You speak so strangely.”
I shrugged. “Call it accumulated slang. I've traveled a lot. 'Scuse me
a sec.” I sank under the water and scrubbed at my greasy hair as
best I could without soap and shampoo. I stayed under only as long
as a regular human was able to hold their breath, then resurfaced
up to my shoulders.
I turned, and Pippin was still sitting on the bank. Luckily, the water
was just murky enough to hide my nudity, the night just dark
enough, or I would had protested more at his insistence that a
young woman ought not be left alone in the wilderness, even when
she went to take a bath.
Pippin was feeling like he had to make it up to me.
“Pip?” I called.
“Yeah?”
“You can go back now - I'm almost done, so, I'd like a little privacy
for when I get out.”
“Oh. Oh.” I could hear the blush in his voice. How sweet.
There was the rustle of fabric, the sound of bare feet on grass, and
then I was alone.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I turned in the water and stood. It was
fairly shallow, so I walked over to the bank and stepped up onto the
greenery. I was just a step away from my clothes when I heard
Legolas' distinct voice say, “Pippin? Merry sent me to fetch you and
Miss Marie. He says that if you wanted any more to eat, the fire is
rea--”
He came around a tree and stopped.
If Elf eyes could bug out, Legolas was doing a very thorough job of it.
His perfect little mouth was hanging open.
“You're catching flies,” I said primly and bent to pick up my clothing.
When I straightened I saw that Legolas still had not closed his
mouth, though his eyes had roved considerably lower.
“Pippin's not here,” I said, trying again. A violently red streak
appeared on the austere Prince's nose and cheeks. “And, as you've
so aptly noted, I'm naked.”
“A ... ah ... yes,” he croaked. “You are.”
“And you're still looking.”
He snapped his eyes up and his mouth closed. “I... forgive me!” he
said quickly, dropping his eyes to the ground and bowing his head in
humiliated apology.
I shrugged, holding the sweater over my torso.
And to think, once upon a time being nude in front of a strange man
had made me the embarrassed one. I'd come a long way from the
victim in the shower with Remus Lupin.
Legolas spoke to his boots. “I... will... ah... go tell them that you
will.... be back shortly.”
“You do that.”
He spun on his heel and dashed back into the forest, with rather
less grace than I expected an Elf to posses.
Heh.
=====
Several moments later found me seated by the fire, my back to a
tree, finger-picking the damp knots out of my hair.
When had my hair gotten so long? It used to sit just at my earlobes.
Now it was well past my shoulders. Well, that was some consolation
that even if my body was dead, my hair kept growing.
Even if I hadn't really noticed it.
I was grunting quietly to myself as I tried to work out the tangles
with no comb, listening to Gimli spin a poem about the legendary
battle at the Lonely Mountain between the Riverfolk, their allies
the Dwarves, and the Dragon.
I knew this story.
I'd read “The Hobbit” in grade school. He had left the part about
Riddles in the Dark out, and I was in no way tempted to interrupt
and remind him.
“Let me,” I heard Legolas whisper into my ear.
I jumped.
Again with the moving so I couldn't hear him!
He touched my shoulder and I obligingly leaned forward. He folded
himself into the space between my back and the tree, tucking his
legs on either side of my hips. I felt the smooth zing of a comb
through my hair and sighed.
Okay, I'll admit that Legolas was acting a little more girly than I
would have expected, offering to comb my hair and all... He was
closer to Fannon!Leggy than Cannon!Leggy... but it just felt so nice
that I didn't dare protest.
Of course, he had also just seen me naked. This whole shared
grooming thing could be natural to Elves, or his way of apologizing,
or his way of trying to get closer 'cause he had liked what he'd seen.
Gimli's voice became a vague buzz of comfortable white noise and I
let my chin rest on my knees, breathing gently, enjoying the scent
of the wood smoke and Elf.
When my hair was smooth and laying against my back, I felt him
quickly and deftly wind braids into the hair above my ears, in
imitation of his own style. Then he pressed something small,
rectangular and wooden into my hand.
I looked. It was an intricately carved but simple comb of wood.
“You keep it,” he said. “I can make another.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It's beautiful.”
Legolas smiled gently, and removed himself from behind me. He
returned to his place in the circle. Gimli gave him a slanted look
under his bushy red eyebrows, but went on with his tale. Merry and
Pippin didn't seem to have noticed that Legolas had moved.
I lay back against the tree and closed my eyes, smiling softly.
Legolas' fresh woody scent still clung to the air around me, and it
lulled me into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Book Nine: The Lord of the Rings
Chapter Twenty-Eight: “Leggy-Sue”
The next evening, we camped beside another stream. After my
splashing soapless bath, Legolas once more combed my hair free of
tangles for me. As he re-braided my hair, he said, “Though we have
traveled together for a single day and night, I feel, Miss Marie, as
though I may trust you completely.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
=====
Gimli wanted to ride with me the next morning. The pony could not
bare both of us and I couldn't control the horse with Gimli in front,
so we were spared that embarrassment.
With his flexible bow, Legolas shot a serpent on the path by my foot
when we stopped for breakfast. The poor thing would never have
hurt me, but Legolas was trying in his Elfy way to be macho.
Gimli offered me some of his Dwarven Whiskey at lunch.
Legolas suggested Gimli take the pony after lunch and I ride with
him on Karl. Luckily, the pony wouldn't obey Gimli, so again we
were spared.
Gimli recounted his deeds at Helms Deep. Legolas told fantastical
tales of his childhood in the Mirkwood. Gimli described the
Sparkling Caves. Legolas launched into Sindarian poetry.
When the sun set I shouted, “Okay! Hey, let's stop! I need some
exercise.”
The two Hobbits, who had been watching what had been happening
all day and laughing their furry-footed asses off about it, exchanged
a confused glance. I jumped off the pony before anyone could
protest and said, “Whew! Wow, isn't walking nice! In fact, I like it
so much that why don't you lot go on ahead and I'll meet you at
camp, you know, when you stop.”
“We can't do that, lass!” Gimli began to protest. “It isn't noble, nor
honourable, nor--”
“Stop!” I said. “Please, God stop. I will be fine. Just go. Go ahead.
For a little while. Please.”
Gimli tried again. “But lass--”
“I don't need your protection and I don't need to be patronized!”
Gimli blinked. A look of hurt crossed his face and I immediately felt
guilty. He had just been trying to look out for me. He was just
trying to show his... strange, Dwarvish affection.
Legolas looked like he'd just won.
Damn.
“I will walk with you,” Legolas said and leapt down from the horse
before I could protest. “Walking is very good exercise indeed, and I
would not mind walking after riding all day.”
“I appreciate the offer, hon,” I said, “but I really really want to
walk all by myself.”
Legolas frowned slightly, but remounted. The Hobbits each took a
pony and I watched with a grateful sigh as all four men faded into
the night as they walked away.
I held my breath until all sounds of them and their horses vanished
from my ears.
Silence.
Beautiful, wonderful silence.
No pissing anywhere. No testosterone. Nobody trying to one-up one
another.
I transformed into a bat and mounted the cool night winds.
Gorgeous, lovely silence.
I flew high up over the path. I could see them again in the distance,
but they were too far below me to hear. I flapped a bit faster to
keep pace with them, high above their heads.
Only once I caught the blonde flash of Legolas looking up at the sky.
If he saw the little black bat silhouetted against the stars, I'm
certain his Elf-eyes weren't good enough to catch me sticking out
my little pink tongue at him.
=====
I landed a little ways into the woods a few moments after they
stopped to make camp for the night. I took my time walking to join
them, still smiling from my reprieve, and noticed that they had
chosen to stay close to the stream again.
I wondered if it was for the convenience of water, because they
knew I would want a bath, or because a certain Elf Prince was
hoping to 'walk in on me' again.
I wasn't entirely sure how to handle this.
In all the Lord of the Rings Mary-Sue fanfiction, it's always Legolas,
poor Out-Of-Character Legolas who falls hard and fast for the
female character. He becomes a poetry-spewing chivalrous knight
who would do anything up to and including dying and/or giving up
his Immortality for his New Lady Fair. Whom he has usually known
for about five minutes.
He ceases to be Legolas Greenleaf, brave and wise Prince of the
Mirkwood, and becomes a giggly metrosexual Leggy-Sue.
Gag.
It was enough to make me want to be ill when I read it.
I couldn't believe was I living it.
=====
I did not bathe that night. I think Legolas was disappointed.
=====
As we travelled, it became increasingly clear that Gimli had
conceded to defeat, and Legolas was in hot pursuit. Ever been
woken up by a kiss? Yeah, sounds romantic. Feels like suffocating.
Feels too much like dying that first time.
I screamed, shoved him away harder than I had meant to. He had
smacked into a tree and was dazed for the rest of the morning. I
felt awful.
Merry thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen in his life.
“Did you see him fly?” he kept chuckling, and Pippin would dissolve
into another fit of giggles.
I explained the Legolas at lunch how exactly I had been 'attacked',
and he felt sorry for trying to wake me the way he had. From then
on, he slept close beside me, but did not touch me until I touched
him first.
More than once, I woke wrapped around the mussed looking Prince,
and wondered when in the night I’d reached over, exactly. But he
never did anything that I didn't do first.
Which ended at holding in my sleep by accident.
If I had a nightmare, he would shake me awake before it got too
bad.
Suddenly, it was nice to have someone to sleep beside.
And he was warm, too.
And smelled good.
And did I mention that he looked a lot like Orlando Bloom?
Days, then weeks fell away in our travels.
During the day Legolas would wax poetical about his home, or
Gondor, or his travels. At night he would ask me to describe where I
was from, what my family was like, and where I was headed after
Arwen gave me a cure. I would brew the potion when they were all
asleep, changing into a bat to wriggle out of Legolas' arms without
waking him.
He rarely slept, so I had to be quick.
In the evenings, Legolas tried to hold my hand, and brush my hair,
and cuddle by the campfire. It took him a while to understand that I
drank nothing but blood, so he could stop trying to fetch water for
me.
The funny thing was, as annoying and smothering as it all was, it
was nice, very nice to have a handsome young man doting on me
without trying to get into my pants.
Leggy-Sue was a perfect gentleman.
He kissed all right, nibbled on my earlobe when he thought nobody
was looking, whispered things like “I would like to show you a
secret place in the wood, if you would care to accompany me.”
But when I said “no, thank-you”, he was not angry nor insolent, not
rude. He did not push, or yell, or threaten, or cajole. He was unlike
any other person I've ever had after me. He just smiled and nodded
as if my answer made him perfectly happy, and went back to his
nibbling or hair brushing.
I should have pushed him away.
I should have told him he was wasting his time.
But it felt so nice to be respected, to be liked, to be held at night,
and not lusted after like some sort of cheap trophy, that I couldn't
bring myself to do it.
Was it wrong?
Yes.
Was I enjoying it?
Yes.
Did I feel guilty?
Well, I should have...
Time passed quickly with the Merry, Pippin, Gimli and Legolas to
entertain me with stories and songs. I began to sing for them, short
bits of Webber's Phantom score when they pressed me, and called it
“Erik's Music”. I told them the story of a ship full of pirates who had
been cursed by the heathen gods, and a young man named Will who
looked an awful lot like Legolas who helped the dastardly Captain
Jack Sparrow save the day.
I stretched the tale out, so it took several afternoons to tell.
Then, at night I taught them the pirate song.
And there is nothing quite so amusing as two Hobbits, and Elf, and a
Dwarf sitting around a blazing campfire singing: “We're horrid,
we're rotten, we're really bad eggs! Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!”
=====
Before I knew it, we had skirted Rivendell (Elrod had abandoned it
and all the other elves had gone Over The Sea), passed over the
Misty mountains, and were riding into the haunting beauty of The
Golden Wood.
Gimli seemed inconsolably sad.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“Ah, lass,” he said softly. “The Lady of the Wood is gone to the
Gray Havens. I thought the sight of this place would cheer me, but
it makes me remember her sweet smile with much sorrow.”
“You mean Galadriel,” I said softly. “Was she really as beautiful as
I've heard?”
“More,” Gimli said.
Legolas seemed to think this was a fine time to launch into stories
of Galadriel's virtues, not forgot among them her kindness, her
skilfulness with a loom (she had personally woven each of their grey
cloaks), and her ability to perceive the future, as skill honed and
shared only with Elrond of Rivendell, though the potential for it was
in every Elf's blood.
“The mirror!” Pippin said suddenly, interrupting Legolas’ tale. “No
there's an idea, eh Merry? Maybe if Miss Marie looks at the mirror,
she can find the cure for her sickness.”
Merry shrugged. “Maybe Pip.”
“Or maybe I'll be forced to relive what was done to me to make me
this way,” I said, shaking my head. “I have no desire to peer into
Galadriel's Mirror,” I said darkly. “Besides - Galadriel herself has
gone to the Grey Havens. Who'll operate the thing?”
Legolas and Gimli exchanged a glance. “The lass has a point, ye
ken,” Gimli said knowledgeably.
“It will work if you desire it so,” Legolas said, his head titled to one
side in a romantically philosophical manor that would have done
Percy Shelly proud.
“Oh, fine,” I grumbled, “We'll try it.”
=====
We made camp high in the Mellorn trees, on the flat bowers of the
long-lost High Elves.
Then Legolas led me to the mirror, my arm in his.
“Do not fear what the mirror shows you,” he said gently. “It cannot
harm you. It can only show you what may come to pass, not what
will.”
“I know,” I said. But I was still scared.
He kissed me gently on the cheek. “Be brave, my dear,” he
whispered. He stood at the top if the steps, hands folded patiently
before him.
I walked down the stairs and into the glade alone.
I walked over to the stone basin, and peered in. Water from
rainfalls past sat serenely, bulging precariously at the rim, balanced
at the moment between overflow and safety. It made a perfectly
smooth mirror, and for the first time in weeks, I saw my own
reflection.
I willed my face to reflect and it appeared, in oily blobs, on the
surface. My hair was indeed long, and I noticed that the braids over
my ears were actually quite fetching. My skin had paled even more
since I'd been at Wolfram & Hart, despite my having been out in the
sunshine for three weeks straight. It appeared as if Vampires were
just pale, period.
My eyes had grown brighter, the blue almost a radiating glow. I
wondered if it was some sort of supernatural reflection of the
intense magic that was always around me in Middle-Earth. My eyes
certainly hadn't glowed like this elsewhere.
I sighed and shifted back. Galadriel's Mirror was just that. A mirror.
I saw no images of the past, no prophesies of the future. Just my
reflection.
I wasn't quite Mary Sue enough to make a magic mirror work
without the person whose magic it relied on being alive. It was
actually a bit of a relief.
And then my reflection winked at me.
Damn.
Guess I was Mary Sue enough after all.
In the reflection, my reflected self smiled at me, then turned so I
was looking at the back of her head.
Over her shoulder, I could see Alexander Lucard. He was bloody. A
line of bright crimson wound its way down his nose from a bullet
hole in his forehead. He was snarling. He was standing in someone's
kitchen. I didn’t recognize it. Something happened, an explosion
that I couldn't see the source of, and Lucard flew at my reflected
self.
Myself shot a spell at him and he dodged. She shot another,
desperately, and he dodged again. He got his hands on her throat
and broke her neck neatly.
“No!” I screamed.
The water rippled. Trieze Khushrenada was standing in a whitecarpeted living room. He was drinking from a long-stemmed wine
glass. I knew, inside of me, that it wasn't wine. He was chatting
amiably with my father, both men nodding and smiling as if they
were the best friends in the whole world.
My mother and a girl were seated on a matching white couch,
sipping various red liquids and laughing, watching the two men with
approving glances. I was not there.
I jerked back.
The spell was broken. My reflection was no longer on the surface of
the bowl.
Two visions. In one, I was killed by Alexander Lucard in a fight
involving an explosion and my wand. In the second, my whole
“family” was together, and liked each other.
I don't know which vision disturbed me more.
I wound my way slowly up the stairs. Legolas was waiting for me. He
had a serious expression on his face. “I heard your cry,” he said
softly when I mounted the last stair. “What disturbed you?”
“I had two visions,” I said, not seeing any reason to lie to him. “In
one, I was killed by the man who cursed me. I fought him, but he
dodged me and broke my neck.” Legolas pursed his lips thoughtfully
but said nothing, nodding to encourage me to continue. “In the
second,” I went on, “my parents were talking pleasantly with my
son. My adult son.”
Legolas' eyes brightened. “You will have a son? What does he look
like?”
I knew the Elf was fishing. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pointy ears
perhaps? He was hoping that I would have seen that the son looked
like him and that we were really meant to fall desperately in love
after all and I would change my mind and stop being so distant from
him and fall-in-love-for-happily-ever-after.
Instead I said, “That future will never happen.”
“Why?” Legolas asked softly, his voice dropping into the realm of
huskiness. His slender fingers brushed the back of my hand, it what
was meant to be a comforting gesture.
Suddenly, all his attentions weren't endearing.
They were annoying.
“Because,” I said, “my son has been dead for three months.”
Legolas went ashen white and jerked his hand back.
I walked away into the darkness, ignoring his pain in favour of my
own.
I really was a bitch.
=====
I wandered the Golden Wood.
I was reliving my time with Trieze.
Until now I had not thought of him at all. I had not thought of him,
or what I had done to him. I hadn’t even really thought of him as
my progeny, but the first time I had spoken about him aloud, just
now, I had called him ‘son’.
Clearly, I thought of him as something close to me, something from
me. But I had never recognized this feeling in myself before.
I had never claimed more than a passing affection, lust really, for
the General. And he had never done anything to indicate that he
saw me as anything more than an ill patient with a penchant for
miraculous healing.
There had never been anything between us even remotely familylike. I was his mother, in the same sense that he was now my son through Vampirism. But it wasn't until I had seen his face in that
pool that I had even thought of it in those terms.
That I had even called up his image at all.
Did that make me a bad person?
Wufei Chang had taken his life, and I had given him another at his
own insistence, so that Wufei could take it again. I had not done to
him what had been done to me. I had not murdered him and given
him no choice.
But what he had become was not what he had expected.
In a way, I had sort of lied to him.
Then I had left.
I pushed him into a strange reality and went on my way. Abandoned.
I never thought about his own pain, or his own confusion. I had put
him somewhere with trustworthy people, but could that ever make
up for having me, his maker, his Sire, there?
Was I just as bad as Lucard?
Was I Lucard?
The thought my heart twist, my bile rise, and I spent the next two
hours crying among the Mellorn trees of Lothlorien.
What had I done?
=====
Legolas found me sitting on the ground, my forehead on my knees,
my arms around my legs. My head hurt from the crying.
He sat down beside me. He put his arm around me, and I let him.
He was warm. It was gentle. It made me feel safe.
I felt guilty for yelling.
He should have been mad at me.
I was mad at myself for being so rotten to him. He hadn't deserved
what I'd done. But he didn't seem to hold it against me.
“You had a son?” Legolas asked softly.
I nodded and sniffled. “Yes.”
“And he died three months ago,” the Elf said quietly.
“...yes,” I lied. More or less. He had died.
“I see then why you are so reluctant to open your heart.” He
whispered it against the crown of my head and I could feel his
cheek resting on my crown. “You have been hurt deeply by your
loss.”
I didn't correct his assumption.
“How old was he?”
“An infant,” I said. I figured that was close enough to the truth. If it
made Legolas feel better that I was rejecting him because I was
heart-sore over the loss of my baby, then I was loathe to dissuade
him of that illusion.
It certainly made me feel like less of a monster.
“I see.” The hand on my shoulder slid down to tuck against my waist,
pull me closer to him. “Why did you have a child out of marriage?”
I snorted softly, amused by his medieval assumptions. “Who says I
have to be married to have a kid?”
Legolas looked serious for a moment. “Was it an accident?” I
nodded. “Were you... violated?”
“I did it because it needed to be done,” I said. I said it vaguely
enough that it remained truth but didn't say anything outright. Any
conclusions Legolas jumped to were his own, I told myself. Ri-ight.
“There was no other way. There was a war going on - if I hadn't, the
war would never have stopped. Then I had a son. And now he's
dead.”
Legolas nodded, no doubt commending me mentally for doing my
duty as a citizen of wherever it was he thought I was from, for
doing what I could to bring peace to my people. He assumed I slept
with someone at said someone's demand in order to stop a war and
became with child from it. Then the child had died when I had been
attacked by the man who had laid this curse on me.
I did not dissuade him of this illusion. It was a nicer story than the
truth.
It didn't make me feel like a selfish bitch.
“What was your son's name?” he asked eventually.
“Trieze. Why?”
“That's a nice name, Trieze.” He tested it on his tongue. “Names
have power,” he said to me. “True names. A name holds power.
Names hold the essence of a person. To know one's name is to seize
their essence. To call a name is to call an essence.”
His line of reason was easy enough to follow. “You mean to call up
my son's essence?”
“To give you closure,” the Elf insisted. “When we arrive at Minas
Tirith, Arwen and I can do the Mourning Ceremony for you. Call up
the child's essence so you can bid it farewell. Then the boy can go
to the Grey Havens with a light heart and you can live your life in
peace.”
And be free to be all yours, I thought spitefully, but didn't say.
Instead, I said, “Thank you, Legolas, but I think Trieze is happy
where he is, and I do not wish to disturb him.”
If it worked and the real General Khushrenada showed up, he'd be
pissed and I'd have a lot of quick talking to do.
I’d have to face up to what I’d done to him.
It wasn't all that appealing a thought.
=====
I could hear singing in the air as Legolas and I walked back to camp.
“You can drink far and wide!”
The voice were high and pure and immediately I recognized the
Hobbits. It made my heart feel lighter.
“You can drink the whole town dry!
But you'll never find a
Beer so brown as the
One we drink in our old town!”
When we got closer, I could hear Gimli's rumble underneath, quieter
because he didn't quite know the words. Legolas and I exchanged a
glance and I joined in.
“You can drink your fancy ales!
You can drink 'em by the flagon!
But the only brew for the brave and truuuuuuuue ~”
Legolas and I came around the corner and I jumped into the circle
of firelight and wailed:
“Comes from the Green Dragon!”
That earned me a pair of delighted smiles from the Hobbits, a scowl
from the Dwarf, and a blink of confusion from the Elf. I think
Legolas expected me to be more gloomy.
On our walk back, I had decided something.
Trieze was a fully capable young man. He was a General. He was a
brilliant strategist. He was a near genius. If my 'gift' didn't quite
turn out the way he had expected it to, he of anyone would have
learned to cope with it, to milk it for its good points.
Perhaps I had abandoned him, but he probably wouldn’t be as
resentful about it as I had felt.
Whereas I thought of Vampirism as a curse and a humiliation, he
would see it as a gift. He would look on the bright side.
I didn't have to worry about Trieze. I could still feel guilty for not
sticking around and guiding him through his first few weeks, but
those weeks were done and gone. I hadn't been there, and I couldn't
go back and re-do it.
All I could do right now was focus on getting home. Once I had
phials keyed to my home reality, then I could venture out again.
Then I could try to find my son, whether he was still in the Gundam
reality or if he had taken my advice and gone to see Dumbledore.
Or, if he had ended up somewhere else.
But I wouldn't do it until I knew that I could bring him home with
me.
I would want a stable reality for him. I didn't want to drag him
through the fandoms like this. I wouldn't wish Slipping on anyone
else, if I could help it. It was just too hard on the heart, and on the
sanity.
Having made that decision, I felt better, and the raucous spirit of
the drinking song was easily infectious.
It made no sense to let myself get depressed over something that I
couldn't fix just yet.
We sat around the campfire and talked, and sang, and laughed far
into the night.
I was in such a good mood that I didn't even mind it when Legolas
started to make out with me.
Dude - can Elves even make out?
It just doesn't sound English enough.
Book Nine: The Lord of The Rings
Chapter Twenty-Nine: “For A Single, Floating
Moment...”
Almost exactly a week later, I watched with awe as the White City
came into view over the rise of a gentle hill. We stopped our
mounts on the swell and gazed at the chalky stone of Minas Tirith
with varying degrees of wonder, breathlessness, nostalgia, and
happiness.
“It's beautiful,” I said, and I meant it. “I think it may just be the
most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
Legolas reached out and grabbed my hand. He squeezed once.
“Second most beautiful,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back.
I really don't think I have to sell you on Legolas. Although our
conversation in Lothlorien was still a sore point, we had come a
long way in a week. When you spend twenty-four hours a day with
someone, you can't help but become close. When you hunt for each
other's food, trust each other to watch backs, when you share
stories and stews and songs, then you and four other people become
a tightly knit family.
No matter what was said, you come to rely on each other.
It became less strange to touch one another - pats on the shoulders,
punches in the arms, or in the case of a certain Elf, becoming my
living teddy bear. A teddy bear that did a very good job of scaring
away Lucard in the dead of night.
It was no longer strange to the company for me to vanish into the
woods the moment we stopped to make camp for the night, and
return an hour or so later with their dinner, completely bloodless.
I enjoyed those few hours of solitude. The forest was mine, then,
my hunting ground, my territory. If there was no forest, then I
would speed off over the plains, duck behind a rock where they
could not see me and change into a bat so I could scan the ground
for life with my sensitive echo-location.
I would hunt. I would kill. I would feed. Then I would carefully wash
the cold blood of my chin and rinse out my mouth, or chew on some
grass, so that when Legolas kissed me, he wouldn't taste death.
Leggy-Sue really was a wonderful person. He was handsome,
thoughtful, gentle, honest, and poetic. He held me when I slept and
chased away the nightmares. He was smart and kind and a very
good kisser.
And I was lonely, god was I lonely.
I think I was in very real danger of being in love.
=====
The ride up the spiralling city streets was leisurely and enjoyable.
In the same way that the past week had been leisurely and
enjoyable. Nothing more pressing than a chilly wind one night had
plagued us on our ride through the flatlands of Rohan and the
beginning of the hills of Gondor.
I had spent many a warm, sunny day in lengthy conversation with
Merry, Pippin, Gimli and Legolas, and many a warm, comfortable
night whispering in the dark to the Elf who lay beside me on a
bedroll.
We had talked about his family, about my family, about growing up
in the Mirkwood, and the fun to be had at dance clubs, and the
shared tedium of parents who try to drill table manners into their
children.
He would kiss me softly on the lips before I fell asleep, and kiss me
gently on the cheek to wake me up. If I was cold he sit behind me
and wrap his long slender legs under my crooked knees, fold them
under and suddenly I was sitting on his lap. He would draw a
blanket around both of us, wrap his arms around my shoulders or my
waist and rest his chin on my shoulder.
At first Gimli would give him frosty looks, but that faded and I was
left with a warm Elf-blanket and a friendly, whiskey-sharing Dwarf.
Merry and Pippin didn't quite know what to make of Legolas' sudden
and obvious interest in me, especially since I had tried very hard to
not fall to his charms at first. Now that I had given up on that and
was enjoying being taken care of, they weren't quite sure how to
take it.
“Well, do you love him?” Pip asked when he and I went to fetch
fresh water one afternoon.
“That's a bit personal,” I countered.
“All's I'm saying is,” Pippin said agreeably, “Legolas seems the
serious type, and it'll do no girl any good to say no to him when he's
got his mind set. I just want to make sure that you're okay with
being set on.”
I had shrugged and smiled and said, “For now, he makes me happy.
He makes me forget what I am and what was done to me. I haven't
had a nightmare in days.”
“I noticed,” Pippin said, smiling ruefully.
“We'll see if things change.” I had reached out and taken the bucket
from Pippin. It was not too heavy for me, not with my added
strength, and he seemed relieved to be free of the burden. “For
now, I'm just fine with things the way they are.”
“Legolas will want you to join him and Gimli, or go back to the
Mirkwood and live there with him. Think you could stand living with
Elves?”
“Arwen can stand living with Men.”
Pippin nodded, conceding the point. “So you've got no desire to
sneak out into the forest with his Elf-ness?” Pippin said, shaking his
head. “Poor boy. His slacks must be awful uncomfortable.”
Somehow the bucket had up ended over Pippin's head, then stuck
like a bad helmet, though how it had gotten there, I couldn't tell
you.
=====
As pleasant as the journey was, there were things that weren't
being said. I didn't want to talk about them, but if things went too
much further with Legolas, I would have to.
There were other problems, of course. He kept treating me as if I
were human. He never forgot that I did not eat and drink like a
human, but he did other things, like worrying about the cold or
fearing I would get hurt. Legolas never watched me feed, and in
fact I think he forgot that I drink blood.
We did not speak of Trieze, nor of my journey, nor of my curse.
Nor of the fact that... I couldn't stay with Legolas. I knew it, deep
in my heart I knew it, but I couldn't bare to bring it up. I needed
Legolas right now. I needed to be wanted. I felt horrible that I
wasn't being honest with him, but right now, I couldn't afford to be.
My sanity was fragile enough as it was.
He didn't know that I couldn't stay, that I wasn't from here and I had
made a vow to find home, and then find my son. And I wouldn't take
Legolas away from Middle-Earth. He would be miserable in the real
world.
So I clung to him, to the warmth and protection, and affection he
provided, happy to be wanted as a person for once, and not as a
body, or a pawn, or a Mary Sue. And I closed my eyes to the future
and looked resolutely away.
=====
When we rode across the battle pocked plain outside of the White
City, I was almost sad to be there. I was really starting to enjoy my
time with Legolas, and my new friends. But everyone else was
happy to be there, excited to see Aragorn and Arwen, and that
included our rides.
The ponies enjoyed being in civilization again, and Karl was having
a grand old time, prancing up the cobbled streets with his neck
arched. He sure felt special. I'm sure they were all just envisioning
the juicy apples, dry hay, clean water, and warm stalls that Merry
had been promising them since we left Bree.
All around us, people nodded and bowed, shouted hellos. We were
not a hard group to mistake. How often to an Elf and a Dwarf
willingly travel together? Who else could be on Karl but Gimli and
Legolas? And what two Hobbits could possibly be with them besides
Perrigrin Took and Merriadoc Brandybuck?
And who in Gondor didn't know their part in the War of the Ring?
If the people didn't know who I was, or didn't recognize me, they
paid me little worry - I traveled with four men who were welcome
guests in Gondor, so I had to be good and safe. It was a given.
I heard the guard at the first city gate say, “My Lords Legolas and
Gimli. Ah, and Lords Merriadoc and Perrigrin. Welcome back. Is King
Elesar expecting you?”
“No, he is not,” Legolas had said.
“It's sort of a surprise, you see,” Merry had said. “So don't tell 'im,
eh?”
“And the lady?” the guard asked amiably.
I stiffened.
There was going to be trouble. There was always trouble when
somebody noticed me.
Legolas reached out and touched my head gently. “She is with me.”
“Oh, and us!” Pippin said. “We're her guides you see.”
The guard laughed and I blinked in wonder. He bowed low, said,
“My Lady,” and opened the doors for us.
And just like that, I was part of their group. I was accepted.
And a chill shadow settled in my bones because they thought I was
safe, trustworthy, welcome, and I knew that I could kill them all
with a word and a gesture. I was a damned creature with no soul.
I shivered once, all over. “I'm not used to it,” I whispered.
“Used to what now, lass?” Gimli asked, adjusting his axe so it
gleamed showily in the late afternoon sun.
“To being liked.”
The four Middle-Earthers exchanged sad smiles.
“There's nothing that's not to like,” Pippin said softly.
I think I smiled, but it felt flat and grey. “There's lots not to like. I
just haven't shown you.”
We rode in comfortable but worrisome silence through markets
filled with jostling shoppers and eager well-wishers. Everyone
wanted to catch sight of the Saviours of Gondor and the Lady with
them.
Word traveled fast in the White City. At the second gate, the guards
smiled and shouted, “Welcome back, my Lords!” and waved us
through with nary a glance.
By the third gate I had been noticed and some woman handed me
flowers as we passed. “My Lady,” she said, and curtseyed.
“Oh, don't do that,” I said, feeling embarrassment making my
cheeks burn. “I'm not anyone's 'Lady'.”
She shook her head, smiled, and walked back into the crowd.
Legolas sprang off Karl, leaving a rather disgruntled Gimli with the
reigns, and came to walk beside my pony. “You are my Lady,” he
said. “My Lady Marie of the Dagger Tongue. Sharp, quick to cut, and
bright.”
I stuck said tongue out at him. I jammed the end of the makeshift
bouquet into one of the saddle packs, so the flowers stuck out at a
strange angle.
“Why am I your Lady?” I asked. The thought of being Legolas's Lady
made me all warm and squiggly inside.
Legolas smiled at me. “That is a very easy question to answer. You
are beautiful. You are kind. You are intelligent. You have a
wonderful laugh. You are brave. I admire you greatly, and feel great
affection for you. Why should you not be the Lady of my heart?”
“I'm not brave,” I said softly.
“Yes, you are,” Legolas insisted. “You gave your body to a man you
did not love to end a war. You gave life to a son, you raised him
alone, when you knew that it would not be welcomed. You
undertook a journey alone to protect that son. And even though
that child was taken from you, you continue to go forward. How is
that not brave?”
His earnest glare made my eyes water. I jerked my hand back, and
the chill in my bones got colder.
Legolas admired me for things I had never actually done.
“I'm not brave,” I said again. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned
my face away. “I'm a coward and a filthy liar. I'm a monster.”
Legolas squeezed my hand again. “Not by choice.”
“Because I hafta be.”
“Nothing you say can make how I feel for you vanish,” he said with
honesty so earnest it made my chest hurt. “Nothing.”
He didn't understand. I was a monster. I was. And it wasn't because
Lucard had forced this on me. And it wasn't because I pushed my
friends and family from my mind. And it wasn't because I killed and
drank blood. And it wasn't because I could take the shape of a bat
and fly.
And it wasn't because I had killed a man.
It was because I had brought him back.
And then left him.
And couldn’t even admit it.
It was because I was a coward.
=====
We were received in the courtyard with the withered-looking White
Tree of Gondor. A single, fragile white bloom flowered on a branch,
and I suddenly felt filthy, dark and dirty.
A black smudge of soot on this fair city.
This pure city.
I turned to go.
I should not have come. I should slide and get out of there right now,
before I did something so horrible that it stained the soul of Gondor
forever.
“Do not fear,” Legolas said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders
to keep me from slinking away. “They will like you greatly.”
“We'll see about that,” I muttered.
=====
We were given time to bathe and refresh ourselves before being
brought before the King and his Queen. The valets assured us that
the King had only been told that someone had arrived to see him,
and not our names. The surprise would hold.
The Hobbits and the Dwarf we led off in one direction, and Legolas
and I in another.
“Um,” I said, when we were shown into a room with a really big bed
and a really big bath. I turned to the guard and said “Um,” again.
The guard laughed and winked at Legolas. “Newly weds, aye lad?”
A flag of red appeared on Legolas' cheeks, but he did not correct
the guard's assumption. The man left, closing the heavy stone door
behind him. I detached myself from Legolas and moved purposefully
to the other side of the bed, putting a little distance between us.
“Newlyweds?” I echoed.
Legolas shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose my affection for
you was... blatant. To the Men, I mean, and when affection is that...
open, then... um... well, humans tend to assume, aye? Since it is
improper to humans that there would be, ah... physical love
without m-marriage...”
As amusing as a stuttering Elf was, I cut him off.
“So, humans being what they are, they think we're married,” I
clarified, and was slightly surprised by the lack of acidity in my
voice. I would never have taken this sort of thing from Jean-Claude,
or Jason, or Lucard, or Erik, or Spike, or Wesley, or Jareth, or ...
or... well, any of them.
The catalogue of men whom I've had to literally escape from
suddenly depressed me. I slumped and I think Legolas thought it was
because I was angry or disappointed in him.
He lifted wide blue eyes to me. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Here was the one man in all the universes who had stopped when I'd
said “stop”, had been polite, and caring, and genuinely affectionate,
and I was being a total bitch to him.
“No,” I said softly, “It's not such a bad thing.”
He came around the bed and took my hands between his. He leaned
forward and kissed my forehead. “I will have it clarified that we are
not wed. It is improper for a bachelor and a maid to share a bed.”
I raised an eyebrow. And he said it so innocently, too, as if he
actually believed it. As if he hadn't been trying to get me alone in
the woods for the past two weeks...
I found his earnestly and gentlemanliness a sudden turn on.
There was just something that worrying about a 'Lady' could do a
girl that even Jean-Claude's magic voice couldn't.
“Bathe,” he said again. “We will meet the King and his Queen my
cousin for a fine dinner. The Ladies-In-Waiting will help you dress.”
“What about you?” I asked.
He smiled, that wonderful, brilliant, mega-watt smile. “I will have
my clothing sent to Gimli's room, and force the Dwarf to share. He
is but small, and takes up little room, and he will not mind.”
Sudden slashy thoughts entered my brain quite against my own will.
I felt my face blush hotter and turned away. “Ahem. Um,” I said.
“Well, you know, there's no need to, ah, shared with Gimli, you
know,” I said, trying all the while not to think of kinky fanart
threesomes.
Besides, the beard would feel funny.
I twisted my fingers nervously with my other hand. “The, ah, the
bed is plenty big if you, uh, you know, wanted to, uh, sleep on your
side.” My face got redder, and I felt relatively certain that if
Middle-Earth had invented heat-seeking missiles, I would be the
primary target in Gondor.
This time Legolas' lips landed gently on the side of my neck. “I shall
keep that offer in mind, my Lady of the Dagger Tongue,” he said
softly, purring into my ear.
And then he left.
And I felt all wiggly inside.
“Bath,” I said to myself. “Cold one. Nowish.”
=====
I honestly couldn't remember the last time I enjoyed wearing a
dress. That thing that Madam Giry had tucked me into had been
restrictive and uncomfortable, and though I had liked what Lorne
had bought for me, it had been too frilly for my tastes. I had a black
slinky thing in my closet back home, but it sill had the price tag on
it. I had been convinced by a friend to buy it, but never had
occasion to wear it.
I suppose it could attest to the pathetic-ness of my booky life preall of this mess, that I never really went out of my way to find the
kind of places that required slinky black dresses.
The one I wore now as comfortable and was made up of clean lines
and cool colours. It was a heavy, silver fabric that didn't bunch
around the bulges and flowed with a sort of elegant weight. I was
covered from earlobe to toe, the cut a single slimming line from the
high neck, tapering in at the torso and flaring out again just below
my hips to give me a deliciously curvy look.
The sleeves were tight, but not uncomfortable, and ended in an
elegant bell sleeve with a trim made of some sort of blue ribbon
that miraculously matched my eyes. It made me wonder how many
of these gowns they had to have just sitting around.
“Well, we'll trim this one in blue,” said a seamstress in my mind,
“you know, just in case any random visitor in strange clothing
arrives to speak to the King and Queen, and she needs nice clothing,
and she has blue eyes, and then this one in russet, and this one in
green, and this one in...”
I had visions of a complicated passenger pigeon warning system for
seamstresses. “Over, the strange woman who appears to be heading
towards the castle has violet eyes, I repeat, violet eyes, one-two,
code yellow!”
The thought had me giggling to myself and the maid who was busy
behind me, trying to make my limp brown hair do something ornate
and filled with these little seed pearls that insisted on rolling away
over the marble floors, sigh in frustration.
Finally I donned an over-dress, with slightly shorter sleeves and
open in front, in a slightly greener shade of blue, and a pair of
comfortable, but slightly pinchy slippers.
It made me feel elegant. It made me feel clean in a way that I
hadn't in months. It made me feel female. It made me feel like a
ballerina.
I felt like twirling, so that's what I was doing when Legolas came
into the room.
He was wearing the same shade of silver in an Elvish version of a
frock overcoat and he looked especially dashing. He had on that
funny Mithril crown and I remembered that he was a Prince. He
laughed at my clumsy efforts to do a pirouette and his gaiety was
infectious. I laughed. I spun faster, the hem of the dress flaring up,
showing off my legs. I felt weightless.
I felt free.
For a single, floating moment, nothing bad had ever happened to
me.
Legolas stepped in, grabbed my hands, twirled me through a few
steps of a dance that I didn't know. Then he stopped us both
abruptly with a hard, warm kiss.
“Well, hello,” I said. “Now I have to redo my lipstick. And my hair.”
“You're beautiful,” he breathed into my mouth.
And I believed him.
=====
Legolas, as far as I was concerned, was the best thing that had ever
happened to me.
He stood firmly by my side, our twined fingers hidden by the
generous drape of my sleeve. I was scared. Arwen Evenstar was a
powerful Elf, powerful enough to know that I was and perhaps
prudent enough to cast me away. Or kill me.
We, all five of us, were standing in the Great Hall. The chair that
Denathor, the Last Steward of Gondor, had once occupied stared
blackly back at us. The tall staircase that had ended in a white
chair was gone. In its place stood a white marble three-steeped dais.
On the top of the dais was a simple chair of a dark, rich looking
wood, broad and strong. A deep love had gone into making that
chair. That love for the king was etched into every decorative whorl,
every leaf and antler, organic and yet solid. It seemed a tribute to
Aragorn's days as both a Ranger and as Elf-kin. Beside the King's
chair, Arwen's throne of the same wood was smaller, more delicate,
but no less solid.
Powerful, earthy seats for powerful, earthy rulers.
A trumpeting fanfare startled me so badly that I jumped. The
Hobbits laughed at me. Their high, pure voices vaulted around the
room, bouncing on the white stone and reverberating back almost
to the point of becoming painfully pitched.
But the sound died away and was replaced with the soft rustle of
fabric and pliant-leather booted feet.
King Aragon and Queen Arwen entered, hand in hand, from a side
alcove. I expected all of us to bow or curtsey, for them to look upon
us monogamously and smile. Instead, Aragorn's eyes got huge, and
he let go of his wife's hand and rushed the group like an overexcited
five-year-old, shouting, “My friends!”
He swept Merry and Pippin into a massive hug, lifting them clear off
their feet. He spun them around once, dropped them, and visited
the same jubilant humiliation upon Gimli, who did not look all that
put upon.
By this time Arwen had come to greet her cousin Legolas with a
warm hug and a soft kiss on the cheek. “Why did you not tell us you
were coming?” she asked in dulcet tones, and I felt the familiar awe
of an Elf wash over me.
Arwen didn't make my non-beating heart go pitter-pat the same
way Legolas' had done, but it still nailed me to the floor.
“Sly rogues!” Aragorn was blustering, calling for wine and a proper
feast and hitting his comrades on the back in a manly fashion.
“'Twas a surprise, ya ken?” Gimli said around a gruff smile.
Aragon grinned like a golden retriever. “And a good surprise at that,
my friends. What brings you to our fair city?”
Six pairs of eyes turned to me. I swallowed heavily.
“Um,” I said. I wiggled my fingers. “Hi.”
Aragorn came forward and swept a courtly bow at my feet, then
lifted the back of my hand to his lips. I fought the urge to wrench
my hand away. I was just being silly and twentieth century and
there was absolutely nothing weird about a guy kissing your hand,
for god's sake.
“I am King Elesar,” he said gently, straightening, “Protector of
Gondor.” He held out a hand and wrapped Arwen into a one-armed
hug. “And this is my wife, Arwen Evenstar.”
For a brief moment, he looked so much like Sirius Black, smiling
around a dark beard and long, slightly straggly hair, shot through
with dignified grey, that I had to physically shake my head.
He exchanged a look with Arwen but said nothing.
“This is my Lady, Marie, daughter of Susan,” Legolas stepped in
smoothly. “And she has come to beg a boon of my cousin the
Queen.”
“Your Lady?” Aragon repeated, eyebrow raised and mouth quirked
under his moustache.
“Um,” I said again, and Legolas blushed.
Aragorn laughed, long, and loud, and joyful, and I could see what
Arwen saw in him.
=====
The feast was splendid and this time I didn't feel so guilty not eating
it. I had learned from Trieze's wine that it was the most flavourful,
the most intoxicating (but not in the 'drunk' way), and the most
palatable of the mortal liquids. I could drink that and move the
food on my plate around a bit and make it look like I was enjoying
the feast.
I had sips of every kind of wine I could get my hands on, marvelling
in the taste of each, the sensations they wrought, and the emotions
they called up. Legolas sat beside me, and he did not press me to
try anything more than the wine for he knew that all I could
properly digest was the blood.
Though he had never seen me do it.
I think there was a block in his mind. He knew that I was dead, that
I was not human, that I drank blood, but I don't think he realized.
He knew in that way that you know things without actually believing
them. Like that the universe is massive or an atom is smaller than
the human eye can see.
The chill threatened to return and I beat it back down into my
nightmare-box.
I watched intently as Merry and Pippin recounted our travels here,
though I didn't quite recall the part where we tangled with wild
wolves on the outskirts of Bree. They left out anything having to do
with my 'condition', as the room was filled not only with our small
company, but with a host of Gondorian Lords and Ladies.
I refused to be prodded into singing one of “Erik's songs,” though
Merry massacred “Music of the Night” enough for me to finally
consent and sing it correctly. Heaven forbid any Lord of Gondor
ever think that was what had been written by the greatest musical
genius in the world.
As the night wore on, and the drinking became heavier, Merry and
Pippin had taught all their side of the table the Pirates song, and
half of the Nobles of Gondor were proclaiming in loud, sloshy voices
that they were “really bad eggs.”
Oh, to have a video camera.
Legolas, Arwen, Aragorn and I took this distraction as an
opportunity to slip out of the room and down the hall. Beyond the
heavy doors, the palace was quiet and serene, bathed in
luminescent moonlight that arched gently through the high windows.
I wondered briefly if Karl was enjoying the moonlight too, in his
fancy-shmanzy stable, munching on waxy apples and oats.
The men left us at the door, and Arwen and I went into what
appeared to be a solarium. In the daytime, this room would be
filled with the lazy buzz of bees and the heavy fragrance of flowers.
The walls were lined with pots and bushes, and little trees of every
size and description. The ceiling was a wide circle of ornately
patterned coloured glass.
Now, though, the colours and scents were muted. The bees were
asleep and the blooms closed up tight.
Arwen waited patiently for me to finish taking in the room. I turned
to her. Her hands were folded gracefully in front of her, and she
was standing so still as to seem like an apparition in the cool
moonlight.
If I had been breathing, I'm sure she would have taken my breath
away.
“The Shadow of the Enemy does not cling to you,” she said in that
deeply resonant voice. “Yet something dark does hover. This is the
reason you have sought me out, I assume?”
“Yes, my lady,” I said gently, curtseying as deeply as I could
without falling flat on my face. I wobbled and wiggled and made a
proper mess of it, but I didn't fall. Vampiric powers could not help
me much with such a darned unfamiliar gesture.
“The Halflings have called it a curse,” Arwen said, her eyes
narrowing slightly, “And yet I see no spell on you, no words writ on
your spirit. If it is a curse, it is one I have never heard, nor read of,
nor seen before.”
I fidgeted and tried not to. “Well, uh,” I said. “There is, of course,
a perfectly good explanation for that. Perfectly good. It's that, well,
you see, I--”
“You are not from Middle-Earth.”
I swallowed back my words and stared at her.
“It is obvious enough to those who know what to look for,” she said
with a gently smile. “Do not be afraid. You are lost. I can See that.
You are looking for your home.”
“I... I am,” I whispered. “Can you... could you...?”
Arwen shook her head, somewhat sadly. “I cannot send you home,”
she said. “But you will find it. My part in your journey is not to send
you. It is to help you come to accept what you are.”
“What I am?” I asked warily. But I didn't want to be what I was, that
was the whole point of being here.
“What you will be,” she said, waving a hand gently as if to brush
the thought off her sleeve. “You wish for me to end your curse?”
“If it is possible, yes.”
Her blue eyes, luminescent in the moonlight, narrowed. “Of this
you are certain?”
“Yes. I want to be as I was.”
“Very well,” Arwen said. “Give me a day to consider what must be
done. Then come to me again, here, tomorrow at sunset.”
I curtseyed again, and this time managed to wobble a lot less.
“Thank you,” I said, with every cell of my dead heart.
Book Nine: The Lord of The Rings
Chapter Thirty: “Mistake”
Legolas and Aragorn were waiting for us outside the room. Arwen
professed a weariness and her husband excused them and walked
her back to their rooms. Legolas asked if I wanted to go back to the
feast-cum-drinking party.
“You go,” I said. “I can find my way back okay.”
“In the dark?”
“The moonlight is enough for me. I'm fine,” I said. “I just need to
think for a bit. Go back and enjoy the party, I know you want to.”
“I am transparent,” he said softly and kissed my cheek, then my
forehead, then my lips. “I will see you anon,” he whispered, and his
voice was full of wonderful promises.
I didn't trust the butterflies in my stomach to not fly out of my
mouth, so I only nodded. He kissed me one last time, and I could
taste the wine on his tongue.
=====
I finished the potion immediately after returning to my rooms. I had
been in Middle-Earth for one month exactly. I keyed it with some of
Legolas' hair, which I had pulled off my dress on my way back to my
room.
That meant I now had one phial keyed for Middle-Earth, and five
blanks in total - two left from my batch back in “Angel”, as I had
used the third to slide here, and three from this last half-batch here.
I could slide five times before I had to stop.
I would have preferred to have a full run - perhaps ten blanks and
really see how far I could go. For now, five was enough. If I ended
up somewhere stable enough, I would consider stopping again.
I could have left. Right then, I could have vanished forever.
But Arwen had promised to help me and Legolas... Legolas loved me,
and I was really starting to love him. I could afford this dalliance, I
told myself.
I could.
=====
It was just after midnight. The tower guard had called the time,
and his shout had woken me up.
I stretched once and rolled over, reflecting on how nice it was to be
woken by something that wasn't a nightmare. The mattress was soft
and thick, and so were the blankets. The sheets were clean and
smooth and fresh and cool; by far more luxurious than the cheap
bedroll and thin wool blanket I'd been using for the past month.
Much more luxurious than any place I'd slept in the past year,
probably, aside from that brocade-covered bed in Lucard's tower
prison-bedroom.
I was wearing a loose white gown of smooth cotton, cool and
comfortable. I had found it waiting for me when I got back to my
room, deliciously tempting and clean. I yawned and snuggled into
the fluffy pillow, perfectly content.
There was a small chuckling sound.
I opened my eyes.
They met luminous blue ones.
“Well, hello,” I said.
“Hello,” Legolas replied. “My Lady of the Dagger Tongue.”
I stuck out that praised tongue. He tried to grab it between his
thumb and forefinger and retracted it too quickly. “Been here
long?”
“I was watching you sleep.”
“Figured as much.”
His head was on the pillow beside mine, his shoulder tucked under
it. He was wearing only his grey leggings and a soft white shirt with
long tails. His bare feet wiggled in the cool moonlight, and his
fingers were wrapped in the cover.
“Aren't you cold?” I asked.
“Slightly,” he admitted.
I pulled back the coverlet and let him snuggle in beside me. He kept
about five inches of empty air between us. “You can come closer,” I
said.
He pushed forward and wrapped his arms around me. I turned my
back to him to make it easier, let him snuggle up behind me. We
spooned. His wet lips were on my shoulder, kissing softly, hotly.
I sighed and closed my eyes. He looked over my shoulder at me.
“I never told you to stop,” I said.
He chuckled. “Yes, My Lady Dagger Tongue.”
He touched his teeth gently to the skin on my neck, and I shivered.
Then he kissed again, and deciding that my neck'd had more than its
fair share of attention in my lifetime, I rolled over and captured the
kiss in my mouth.
He tasted like wine, still, like sunrises and earthy vines and honest
sweat and under that the pure, driven magic of things older and
cleaner than I. He made a noise and I swallowed it. His slender
fingers wrapped around my waist, sliding lower, cupping and flexing
and pulling me close, as close as my nightgown and his britches
allowed.
I pushed open his lips with my tongue, dove into his mouth, hot and
wonderful, our teeth clicking once in impatience as we tried to
make our flesh vanish, trying to fuse ourselves into one creature.
Sweat, red and bloody, prickled at my forehead, between my
breasts, and he pulled back gasping for the air I had denied him
with my fierce kiss, his heart thudding with anticipation against my
chest. He smiled, his eyes glazed with desire and his lips swollen.
He looked wanton, his hair mussed and his eyes half-lidded, heavy
and content.
“You look ravish-able,” I whispered.
“Then ravish me,” Legolas whispered back.
I giggled, wrapping my arms around his neck, winding a lock of hair
around my fingers in a silken, intricate labyrinth of white gold.
“Isn't it the dashing Prince who's supposed to ravish the Lady Fair?”
Legolas grinned. “If you insist.”
He pushed his torso forward, moving his hands to my waist, rolling
me onto my back and I let him, let him settle heavily, a delicious
weight on my pelvis, the feverish heat of his thighs pressed against
the inside of my knees.
I ran my hands down his arms, across his chest, hooking my fingers
into his simple cloth belt.
“Do you love me?” Legolas asked me, arching over me, a pale
stallion in the moonlight, poetry and heat and glittering eyes.
“Yes,” I said, and I knew I meant it. “Do you love me?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Oh, oh, yes.”
And I thought he meant it, too.
=====
“My Lady Dagger Tongue?” I heard a voice calling, a teasing finger
tapping the tip of my nose lightly. “Such a sleepy head.”
“Mmm,” I said and stretched, feeling glowy and content. Boy was I
content. I opened my eyes and found Legolas kneeling over me,
pale and nude and still slightly sticky with the sweat of his exertion.
“Wasn't sleeping,” I protested.
He grinned, a wry smile that curled the corner of his lips up. I could
see traces of my lipstick around his mouth, the colour I had failed
to remove before bed. I reached up and wiped a smear of coloured
wax from his chin.
He sat back slightly, tenting the blankets around us, and I shivered
when the chill night breeze struck my sweat-slicked body. I was
nude, too.
“Are you yet cold?” he said.
“Yes. Come back here, and bring that blanket with you.”
He sat up all the way, letting the blanket slide down his shoulders,
sitting lightly on my thighs to trap me where I was. He raised his
eyebrows defiantly.
“Meanie,” I grumped.
“Shall I warm you?” he said. His palms flattened on my stomach,
then started a torturously slow slide upwards.
“Yes,” I whispered, my voice husky and caught in my throat, my
chest tight with anticipation.
He lay down on top of me, solid and safe-feeling. He left the
blanket pooled on my knees and licked slowly up the side of my ear.
His shoulder was right in front of my mouth and I kissed it. He
laughed, a warm, sensual puff of warm air against my ear.
I kissed him again. He laughed.
I moved up to his neck, kissing, then licking, then doing my
damndest to give him a livid hickey.
His arms, holding most of his weight, shivered violently and he
dropped onto me more, groaning now instead of laughing.
“My God, Marie,” he hissed, and it was my name tumbling out of his
lips that undid me.
I slid my fangs gently into his flesh, tenderly, carefully, but quickly
to tame any pain he'd feel. He gasped, his body tightening, his cock
jumping against my stomach. I pulled my fangs out, let the blood
come to me, to well up and bead and slip down his hot skin and
along my waiting tongue.
I licked the wound and he jerked, his pelvis thrusting against my
skin, his member trapped between our heated flesh. I sucked and
he jerked again. I sucked hard and he cried out his pleasure,
cresting already, and we were both surprised by the force of it, the
warm spray of liquid against our stomachs.
I sucked again, pulling hard, swallowing his heady, crystalline blood.
He panted and lay still against me, chest heaving and head limp,
and I swallowed him, consumed him, and revelled in the refined
heat of his essence.
He made my head spin, my nerves sing, and I swallowed again.
His blood filled me with ecstasy, with contentment, with
satisfaction in nature, in my place in the world and its composition.
Everything was perfect and wonderful and I felt everything and
nothing.
He stirred, his breath against my neck, his hands lighting gently on
my shoulders. He didn't have the strength to sit up, but I didn't care,
I was strong enough for both of us, filled with his poise and his heat
and his grace and his power.
The deep magics of Middle-Earth flowed in the blood of the Elf-kin,
and now it flowed in me.
I flipped him over, laying him gently back against the pillows, a
hand cradling the back of his skull tenderly, my lips still on the
wound.
“Ma-marie...?” he whispered and I pulled on the punctures, making
him arch and cry out again, an animal sound of passion and pleasure
and just that faint hint of pain.
I liked the sound of the pain, I decided suddenly. The sound that
marked me as in control, me as the hunter, him as my delicious,
delicate, hot, prey. I bit again, tearing deep into his flesh and he
quivered under me. He was hard again and I pressed myself down
onto him, swallowing him up, stealing his delectable heat from
there, too.
His hands spidered up my arms, clutching at my shoulders, fingers
flexing and tightening and then pushing.
Pushing?
I pulled back, licked a wide pink tongue around my lips to catch any
clinging drops. I kissed the wound, put blood on my lips. Then I
kissed him deep, opening his mouth, coating his tongue with his
own rich blood.
He gagged.
I sat back.
“Legolas?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
His face was white. Red splashed up his neck. I had torn deeper
than I thought. His mouth was a tight white line of revulsion, his
eyes hard and dark and narrowed.
“Legolas? Jeeze, I'm sorry,” I said. I lifted a hand, meant to press it
against his neck to stop the flow of blood.
He jerked away from my touch.
I stared at him with wide eyes.
“Get off me,” he hissed. “Let me up.”
I got off him. He tried to sit up. It was a struggle. My voice caught
in a hot lump in my throat. The heat that I had stolen from his
blood rushed out of me, extinguished in a wave of icy fear.
“Oh, no,” I moaned. “Please, I didn't mean it...”
He managed to get himself sitting up, struggled for the edge of the
bed, hands pulling on the blood-spattered sheets.
He was trying to run away.
“Legolas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you,” I said, starting
forward, moving to help him to his feet.
“Stay away from me!” he shrieked and it scared me so badly that I
skipped backwards a few steps, hands fluttering beside my ears, my
eyes wide and surprised.
Then they began to burn.
He touched the side of his neck, inspected the red, touched it again
and winced when he felt the torn edges of the ripped flesh. “You
attacked me,” he said, accusingly, finally managing to get his
wobbly feet under him. “You tried to make me like you - a cursed
thing! You lied to me!”
“I didn't lie to you!” I protested. “It was an accident. I love you.”
“Monster!” he cried.
That hated word struck me like a slap to the face. I rocked back on
my heels.
“No,” I said, but my voice was weak, scared.
Terrified that he was right,
“You only pretended to love me. You used your wiles to seduce me,
to drink my blood and steal my essence and my power.”
“No.” My voice shook. I began to shake too.
“You are no better than the creature that did this to you! You are a
cursed thing, a monster, a deceiver.”
“No,” I hiccoughed, and the tears, dark red stains, further evidence
of my unnaturalness, slid down my face. “No, no.”
“Monster,” he burbled. “I see now that I never loved you. You held
me in your thrall.”
“Don't say that!” I sobbed. I reached for him, seeking his warmth,
his comfort, but he had none to offer me any more. “Don't! This
wasn't a Mary Sue thing! It wasn't! You... you really ...didn't you?!”
He backed away from my questing hands, his eyes wide in terror.
The blood at his throat was a livid, viciously glittering streak in the
freezing moonlight.
“Tell me I'm not a monster,” I begged. “Tell me its okay.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me this was real.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me I'm not alone.”
But I was.
And I always would be.
Forever.
Because that's what being a Vampire was.
Eternity.
Alone.
Legolas' hand reached out, towards the end of the bed. He was
reaching for his bow. It was resting there, silent and waiting.
“Please don't,” I whispered. “Haven't you killed me enough for one
night?”
He paused.
I grabbed my nightgown off the end of the bed.
The window behind his head was open.
I flew out it.
Behind me I could hear him screaming for a healer.
=====
I had fallen into it. Blindly, stupidly. As moronic as any Mary Sue
before me. I had closed my eyes and walked happily into my own
trap. I had actually believed that Legolas loved me.
Stupid, stupid girl.
=====
The man in the shadows was dressed all in black leather. He had a
large sword at his side, hanging with an almost sentient, animate
menace. His skin was darkly tanned, Mediterranean looking. His
hair was a dark spray of barely-controlled almost-curls.
He was looking at me with much the same expression as I was
giving him.
Both of our eyes were saying, 'WTF? Who are you?'
“You're not Lucard,” I finally said.
The man shifted his weight of the balls of his feet. Apparently I
wasn't a threat. He snorted. “I am not,” he said. “Surely you know
who I am.”
“Surely I don't,” I said. “And I'm not much with the caring right now.
Long as you stay not-Lucard, we're all good.”
His nosed wrinkled and his chocolate eyes narrowed. Another time,
a time when my heart wasn't broken and my veins weren't burning
with self-loathing, I may have found him attractive. Right now I
just wanted him to go away and leave me to my melancholy.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a God?”
It was my turn to snort. “Who me? Yeah, no. Pretty much the exact
opposite, I'm thinking.”
He took a step closer. The source-less light hit the wide planes of
his face and I could see that he was more than attractive. He was
handsome. A well-trimmed goatee framed thick, kissable lips and a
narrow nose.
Aggressiveness flowed off him in waves. I took a step back, and he
seemed to find this amusing.
“Do you really not know who I am?” he asked. His hand fell away
from the hilt of his sword and he clasped his fingers in front of him.
It was a bit late for the non-threateningly sexy act, but it didn't
stop him from trying.
“Really,” I said.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I blinked at him. “I'm in Middle-Earth.”
“We're in a place called Middle of the Earth?” the man asked,
perplexion crossing his features. “Does Hades know about this?”
“No, not... not the middle of the Earth,” I said, exasperated. “I'm
in Middle-Earth. You're not.”
“Then where am I?” the man asked, and the puzzled look gave way
to more of that smug amusement. Normally a face like that would
get my dander up. Right now I didn't give two flying whatevers.
“Duh, that's obvious,” I said. “You're in my dream.”
He blinked. He seemed genuinely startled. “I'm in your dream?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting,” he said, looking around him at the vast emptiness.
“So this is your mind-scape? Bit cold and dark in here, don't you
think?”
“I like my solitude.”
He smiled. “You're in a very bad mood.”
I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes to keep the threatening tears
at bay. “I just had the person I love call me demon and try to kill
me. Yeah, I'm in a bad mood.”
“You were rejected by your lover?” he asked. He took another step,
and this time I let him. He took two more, until we were about an
arm's length apart. “And then you conjure me? Do you need
someone dark and dangerous? Passionate? Kinky? Was your last
lover a flighty disappointment? Am I the new man of your dreams?”
“Groan,” I said. “Lame.”
He reached up and touched the side of my face. I let him. “Oooo,
you're cold,” he said. “Here.” He rubbed his thumb over my cheek.
Then he let his thick fingers slide down the side of my neck,
brushing my scar gently, and settle over my left breast. “And in
here.”
“Go away,” I said.
He frowned and for a brief moment his form flickered. Then he
concentrated and he was back.
“Interesting,” he said. “No one's been able to do that to me before.
What kind of power is that?”
I was feeling belligerent. “This is my dream. I can banish you if I
want.”
He shook his head. “That's not what this is. You didn't bring me
here. We met by accident, I think. It's something else. Something in
your blood. We shouldn't be able to meet like this, but here I am...
Do you have the gift of foresight?”
I shivered and took a step back from him. I really, really didn't like
the sound of that. I reached for my knife, tucked in the leather
sheath at the small of my back, under the over-dress. I wrapped my
fingers around the handle to comfort myself. It was a dream and I
didn't think to question the fact that I was still wearing my dress
from the day before when moments earlier I had been in a cotton
nightgown.
Blood. Power. Foresight.
The world around us blurred.
“Aw, you're waking up,” the man said, gazing around him at the
hazing gloom. He sounded like a little boy whose fun had been
spoiled. Then he was gone in a puff of silver smoke.
His voice lingered a second longer.
“See you soon,” he said.
I sat up.
I stared at the sun rising behind the White Tower. I had fallen
asleep under a ruined barn at Osgiliath.
Blood. Power. Foresight.
“Elf blood,” I muttered to myself. “Goddamn it.”
=====
The Hobbits had been looking for me. I had not been in my room
and they had feared I had vanished. Legolas had gone to the healer
in the dead of night and refused to speak to anyone about what had
happened. I was relieved, because having only Legolas hate me was
just about as much hatred as I could bare.
I couldn't have bourn it from Merry and Pippin, too.
Legolas had told them that I was leaving, as soon as I had my
appointment with Arwen.
They asked me if this was true.
I told them it was.
They asked me why Legolas had been bleeding. I told them there
had been a small problem, and not to worry about it.
No one believed me, but no one pressed it. Someone gave me a
heavy morning robe to cover the dew-dampened nightgown. I glided
over the floors. I was miserable. And I was perfect.
Legolas' blood was still inside me, and while it was, all was right
with the world.
Only it wasn't.
I felt nothing. And everything,
Merry and Pippin led me to a small, sunny room on the same side of
the palace as the sunrise. It hurt my eyes and made me want to shy
away, to hide my face under my arm. Instead I went and sat one of
the four empty chairs around a small breakfast table. The other
three were occupied with Aragorn, Arwen, and Gimli.
Merry and Pippin were sitting on tomes, the Middle-Earth equivalent
of phone books.
One empty chair glared balefully from Arwen's side and I avoided
looking at it. I know who was meant to sit there. And wasn't.
We breakfasted in silence. They ate and I stared at the floor.
The clink of utensils on dishes was loud and lonely sounding.
The smell of the eggs and toast made my stomach churn and my
head throb.
Aragorn bid me take a bath to warm myself. I was shivering. He
thought I was cold. I didn't correct him. I got up and left the table,
and the pitying glances of the Dwarf and two Hobbits only made my
bones feel heavier, more leaden.
Arwen's gaze was impenetrable and narrowed.
A valet met me at the door, and walked me back to my room. I
went slowly. The bath was waiting. The bed had been stripped of its
bloody sheets and re-clothed in dark blue. It resembled a funeral
bower and I forced myself not to look at it.
I was enjoying the sensation of emotional numbness. I liked hiding
in it. I didn't want to be forced to feel.
I stripped out of the dirty nightgown. It was crusted with blood,
with the evidence of I and Legolas' love making, with damp grass
stains and mud. I tossed it into the fireplace and watched it burn.
Then I stepped into the bath. It was almost too hot, but I stayed in
the water.
I scrubbed my hair, over, and over again, and then my skin, until I
was glowing and red.
I wallowed in the warm water until it was icy. Outside of my
window, the morning burned away. Then I dressed. Someone had
provided men's style clothing for me - thick hose, soft grey boots.
My tough tunic was of the same overlay leaf design as Legolas'. I
was wearing Elf-style clothes. There was a belt just the right size to
loop my knife-sheath onto and a new leather holster for my wand.
There was even a leather case with a new bronze button just the
right size to tuck my pouch into.
Someone had obviously been paying attention. Certainly hadn't been
me.
I de-tangled my hair with the wooden comb Legolas had given me,
then tucked the comb carefully at the bottom of my pouch. I had a
strong urge to snap it in half and throw it into the fire, to follow the
nightdress, and I resisted. I was angry and sad now, but I knew I
would wish I had the comb in the lonely, cold months to come,
when I started to feel again - a token, a proof that once I had been
loved.
Once.
I dressed.
I took my time, clipping everything carefully, snugly. I marvelled in
the fabrics, touched the elaborate stitching, followed the organic
swirls with numb fingers. Distracted myself with meaningless bits of
finely rendered cloth.
I tried to braid my hair and couldn't.
I cried for an hour.
I forced myself to stop.
I tried again.
I failed and I cried and I hated myself.
I tried a third time and they stayed.
I watched the afternoon slip by. I washed the dried blood from my
tears off my cheeks.
And then it was sunset.
I opened the door to find Merry and Pippin waiting in the hallway
for me.
“Hi,” I said to them.
“Hello,” Pippin said back. “You look nice. Gimli said you'd
appreciate some tough Elf clothes for your journey. D'you like the
belt? It was Merry's idea.”
I forced myself to smile warmly and hoped it didn't look to flat. “It
is nice. I love it. Thank you.”
Merry nodded, accepting my thanks. Then he jammed his hands into
his trouser pockets. “You, ah... you ready?” he asked. “Arwen's
waiting in the garden room.”
“Ready?” I repeated. “Yeah, sure. Lay on MacDuff.”
“My name is Merry,” he said.
“I know.” I felt the smile slipping and jammed it back into place.
“I'm just being morbid.”
=====
Arwen was waiting for us patiently in the solarium. The windows
along the wall had been opened wide to let in the breeze, and it
stirred her long dark hair. Her fingers were woven together, pale.
She seemed made of moonlight and shadow.
The sunlight slanted orange through the glass walls. Reflected fire
turned her mithril crown to gold, the strange scrawled patterns on
the floor to lava.
Arwen stood on the edge of a circle drawn on the paving stones
under our feet. Immediately I didn't like it. I hesitated on the edge.
If the circle had been drawn in blood rather than chalk, it would
have looked almost exactly like the one that had started all of this
mess.
The designs were in flowing Elvish, of course, and the script, rather
than ancient and angled runes that had summoned me into Lucard's
grasp. But it was still a circle, the concentric designs of circles,
intersecting with triangles and things that may have been flowers
and feathers or blades and guts.
I stopped on the opposite edge of the circle from Arwen and met
her eye. Pippin and Merry hesitated by the door. Aragorn stood,
loose-limbed and ready to jump into a fight if needed, leaning
against the far wall between windows. What sort of fight there was
going to be I didn't know. Gimli was seated in a chair beside a
hydrangea bush bigger than he was.
“Are you prepared?” Arwen asked.
“No,” I said. “But we might as well start anyway.”
“Where is Legolas?” Aragorn said softly, so softly that his voice was
barely above the buzz of the last of the bees hovering over the
night-closing flowers, putting in a little last-minute overtime.
“He wouldna come,” Gimli grunted.
Something inside me twisted sharply. I sucked in a deep breath but
said nothing.
Arwen nodded gravely. “Step into the circle,” she said. “Stand in
the centre.”
I did.
The bottom of my feet itched. I wanted to run away.
No, I told myself. Stay, you lying coward. You came all the way
here, you stay here. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be cured.
To cease to be a Vampire.
To stop being a monster.
To perhaps become something Legolas can love again.
That was a castle in the air if I'd ever heard one.
I met Arwen's gaze steadily. I felt the sun, hot on the back of my
neck, pricking through the Elf-cloth of my frock coat.
“I'm ready now,” I said.
“Very well,” she replied. She lifted slender hands, palms out, to
shoulder height. She stretched out her arms, swung them in a slow,
dignified arc to the side, until she appeared to be crucified.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. No, the sky beyond the stainedglass ceiling.
For a brief, adrenaline-inducing second, she looked so much like the
Negative-Galadriel, succumbing to the force of the One Ring in her
glade by her Mirror, that I took a step back. Aragorn hissed, and I
moved back into the centre.
Then Arwen began to speak.
Her words were nothing I had ever heard before. It was like
listening to silver speak. It was sinuous, rapid and filled with double
consonants, sensuous and floating and suddenly I felt like my head
was filling with blood or helium or perhaps that one fleeting second
of almost-falling right before you succumb to sleep.
Arwen was singing.
I groaned.
I clapped my hands over my ears, squeezed my eyes shut.
Something in my chest began to burn. The melody washed over me,
riding me hard, throbbing, thrusting, bashing me against the rocks
of solidity of the thing that made whatever I was cling to this notlife. I dove down into my black box, cowering like a hard-hunted fox
from the hounds of her strange silver-words, but I found no solace
there, no comfort, only horror, horror, pain and terror and cold,
black blackness.
I felt my hands touch the calked designs on the circle and wondered
when I'd fallen to my knees. The music pounded into me, driving me
downwards, stealing the strength in my limbs, turning my bones to
water and my heart into an ember and my brains into sloshing
quicksilver.
I screamed and I tried to scream all at the same time. I could hear
my own panic thundering in my ears but no sound outside of them.
I felt fingers inside me, on my heart and soul, behind my eyes and
in my ears and pulling at my teeth, like someone prying something
away, trying to be gentle, but pulling back the plaster too slowly,
making it hurt more than a single rip, pulling out all the little arm
hairs and leaving tacky glue behind.
Someone was stealing something from me.
I screamed.
I heard glass shatter and wondered if my voice had done it.
Someone was yelling. I was writhing. The chalk burnt - it burnt like
holy things and fire and silver all together and it hurt hurt hurt.
The plaster ripped away.
I gasped.
Something like a fist slammed against my chest, threw me onto my
back with the force of it. Every nerve ending was on fire,
electrocuted, squeezed and crushed, hot and cold together and
twisting with a vertigo so bad that I was laying on the ceiling. The
fist struck me again - dump. Then again. Da dump. Again. Dump.
Da-dump.
It hurt.
Then it fluttered. The fist in my chest struggled. I gasped.
I wanted air. My dead lungs were burning. I inhaled, sucking,
coughing, sucking again. The world tasted of dust and sweat and
worry. It coated my tongue and closed my throat. I gasped again,
and panic began.
Air, air, need air, the old instincts screamed. Da-dump. Dump. Dadump. Da... da du .. mp.
I arched my back against the burning lines of white-hot fire etched
into the floor, burning black sigils into my skin. I sucked. I screamed,
a little aborted sound, the terrified cry of a strangling animal.
Strangling.
No air. I couldn't get enough air. The fist in my chest lost its
strength, puttering slowly, burning, aching with the effort, a
quivering muscle with no strength left.
Then I felt something hot on the side of my neck, right where
Lucard's teeth had ripped into my soul.
Blood gushed. I felt it start, a trickle at first, then a fount, bubbling
and burning and stealing all my warmth, and still still still the Elf
song ripped me to pieces.
Gasping, not because there isn't enough air, but because there isn't
enough blood in the body to carry oxygen to the brain.
Gasping, crying, not being able to make a sound beyond the low
keening of a rabbit under the fangs of a serpent.
And then I heard a single clear voice cut, like the cold kiss of a
scythe, through the song:
“Stop!”
=====
Sunset came. Night bloomed.
I died all over again.
Then I sat up and stared at my hands. Red streaks. Powder from the
chalk. Chalk again, not fire, now. Dust and dirt and despair.
“I cannot undo what has been done,” a lyrical, melodic voice said.
A voice that I loathed. “I can only make you as you should be.”
“Sorry, Marie,” a smaller, lighter voice said. “She can't give you
back your life. Only your death.”
“Leave me,” hissed. My eyes burned and I saw the world in warm
sweet blood. Heat was my guide and my desire and these things
were filled with it. My mouth was dry, my throat raw, my heart still
and silent once more. My teeth were sharp and wet against my
bottom lip, itching to be driven into pure flesh.
Someone said my name.
“Leave me!” I shrieked.
The blood-things left.
I curled into a ball amid broken glass and sleeping flowers and wept,
and wept, and wept.
Book Ten : SailorMoon / Dracula: The Series
Chapter Thirty-One: “Closure”
I sat in that empty room, alone, until sunrise.
Then I went and bathed one last time, dressed, and went to the
stable to say so long to Karl and borrow a meal from the large vein
in his leg. He held quiet and still for me, unperturbed. On my way
back to the Palace to say my goodbyes to the King and Queen, I
found Legolas sitting alone on a garden bench.
His neck was tightly bound in layers of white bandages and he was
wrapped in a blue blanket. His hair was bound back in a tight, single
braid of white gold. I paused just behind him and watched him for a
long moment.
I wanted to throw myself at him, to beg him not to be angry.
Instead I said, “I'm a Mary Sue, you see. You didn't stand a chance. I
ensnared you. I didn't do it on purpose.”
Legolas sat stiffly on the garden bench and did not acknowledge me.
“It wasn't my intention to hurt you,” I said. “I thought you really
loved me. I really loved you. My kind, well, we sort of... bite. But...
well.” My throat was tight and burning. “I'm leaving in a few
hours.”
He turned to look at me over his shoulder.
“You lied to me,” he said.
Right then I realized that lying was the worst sin in existence.
“I loathe you,” he said, “not because you are cursed. Or because
you hurt me. Because you lied to me. Did you even have a son?”
I didn't know how to answer that. I grasped at wisps of half-formed
excuses for a moment.
Then I realized I didn't owe him an answer.
I walked away.
=====
The goodbyes were stiff and formal, and it broke my heart. Gimli
would not touch me, and I knew Legolas had told him what I had
done. The Hobbits looked wary and shook my hand gently. Aragorn
gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
Surprisingly, it was Arwen who was the least hostile.
She pulled me into an embrace and whispered into my ear, “Forgive
them, Marie. You are a strange new creature to them and it fears
them to think of someone who can kill with pleasure. If even it was
an accident. They are still your friends.”
I nodded and embraced her back.
I had the distinct feeling she was lying to me.
I looked around the audience chamber one last time.
Legolas was here. Legolas had his back to me. He was leaning
heavily on the window sill, his eyes on the city below.
I was tempted to call out to him. To beg him not to hate me.
I had tried once, that morning.
I wouldn't try again.
I had my dignity. And my bitter pain. And my pride.
And he had his.
I dropped the phial onto the flagstones.
Perhaps a bit uncharitably, I thought that if I ever saw another head
of long blond hair, it would be too soon.
=====
The familiar flash of white light was followed by the flat cracking
sound and I braced myself for the five foot drop. I landed on my
feet, stood slowly, and found myself in a mostly-empty park. The
trees and ground were covered with scorch marks, and it looked
like a battle had been fought here in the recent past.
Knowing my track record, one probably had been.
The air was heavy with damp. I had come just after a rainfall.
I heard whispering voices behind me and turned cautiously to find
myself face to face with five young ladies in really short multicoloured skirts.
“SailorMoon, who do you think she is? More Negatrash?” The one in
the green mini-skirt and ankle boots asked, and I groaned.
Long blonde hair, indeed.
And shouldn't they be speaking Japanese? No, she said 'negatrash' this is the crappy dubbed DiC version.
I won't bore you with the details of my very short stay in
“SailorMoon” world. She was loud, cried a lot, and they all thought I
was some youma monster to destroy. I reached hastily into my
pouch and closed my fingers over the closest phial.
I didn't read the label when I tossed it at my feet.
I didn't have time.
Between the five short-skirted Super-hero Sailors and their itchy
trigger fingers, I would have been frozen, burned to a crisp,
electrocuted, and whipped. Maybe purified if SailorMoon herself
had gotten off her shot, but there's no guarantees that it wouldn't
have just destroyed me.
I mean, hello, Vampire.
We'd already established that I was Dead, and it seemed that the
universe classified anything that was Dead yet Still Moved as
automatically Evil. And SailorScouts destroyed Evil.
Not exactly the most forgiving of combinations.
With a crack and a flash I was crouching on all fours on a cobbled
street.
For three seconds I was fine.
Then a rushing wave of nausea hit, and I vomited.
I seemed to be doing that a lot, lately.
I backed away and found myself I nice, dark, smelly alley to lay
down in.
“I'm so pretty,” I said to myself, my voice heavy with cynicism and
self-loathing. I wiped a red smear off my chin with the cuff of my
fine Elf-frock. “Just bloody gorgeous.”
I stayed there until the waves of vertigo and nausea passed. It was
too hard to sit up, so I lay down on my face. Well, I started to lay,
but gravity took care of it for me. I think I lay, unmoving,
unbreathing, on the cobblestones, just willing my stomach to stop
trying to crawl out of my mouth, for about an hour.
The damp stone was cool against my burning forehead.
The weather drizzled a bit, but couldn't quite decide if it wanted to
actually rain.
When I finally felt well enough to look up, it was just past sunset. I
was slightly damp from the condensation on the cobbles and the
moisture in the air.
The rushing onset of my vampire powers returning to me helped to
chase away the last remaining tendrils of the Slip-Sickness. I sat up
slowly, shakily, my joints feeling like sloshing water and my eyes
burning in the too-bright light of the lamps.
Elf blood sang in my veins, almost literally. I felt like I was stoned,
but it was the kind of high where everything is perfect. If nearly
suffocating to death the night before hadn't taken away that
buoying gaiety of rightness that Legolas' blood had bequeathed, I
didn't know if anything ever would.
I didn't know how long it would last.
I didn't even know if it would go away. I sort of hoped it wouldn't. I
liked not feeling anything. I hoped it would, too, because not
feeling anything was scary. Or, at least, I thought if I could have
felt anything, I would have been scared.
I ought to be scared.
I looked around. The shattered bits of phial had remained in the
park, or I would have sifted through them to discover which phial I'd
used. I was hoping it was an unkeyed one, but there were more
keyed phials in my pouch than unkeyed ones now.
I pushed myself to my feet, using the night-cooled wall for balance.
My legs wobbled and ached ferociously with pins and needles. I
leaned down and rubbed my calves until the sharp pain faded away,
left the soles of my feet itchy and my lower-half uncomfortable.
I walked over to a street lamp and pawed through my pouch. HP,
Anita, Labby, Pirates, Angel, LotR… everything except… oh, no.
Just in case, eh?
I looked over my shoulder towards what I assumed would be the
centre of town. On a hill overlooking Luxembourg City sat the pale,
squat Castle Vianden - home of the man who had murdered me.
If I acted quickly, I could vanish. I had four more blank phials. I
could go, try to find somewhere to lay low. Lucard would never
know I was here.
Or I could slide right now.
Except there was no guarantee that the next world would be a
place where I could safely wait out the Slip-Sickness. And Snape had
warned me against Slipping twice within twenty-four hours. If twice
was so bad, then what would three times do?
The Elf blood in me made me brave.
It made me stupid.
It made me feel nothing.
I wasn't the poor girl he had raped and killed last year.
I was someone new.
I was someone different.
I was someone powerful now.
I was a Vampire. I was trained in offensive and defensive duellist
magic. I had a silver knife and Elf blood. I was not helpless.
I was not prey.
Not anymore.
I looked up at the silent, curious moon.
Then I vanished into the shadows of the alley with a smile on my
lips and a plan in my head.
If anyone had cared to look, the last thing they would have seen of
me, before I melted into shadow, would have been two pinpricks of
glowing gold.
“See you soon,” the man with the dark goatee had said. I wondered
idly if he had been the Grim Reaper.
=====
I snuck into Lucard's castle.
It was actually ridiculously easy and I wondered how it was that he
hadn't been staked yet. Very poor security. Then I remembered that
a lot of the major plot of the TV show came from the fact that
humans could easily sneak into his home.
It was the getting back out that was the hard part.
In the hallway outside of the sitting room, the one I had vanished
from ages ago by diving through the fireplace, I heard him entering
the room from another direction.
I slipped in the door under the stairs and watched from behind the
suit of armour as he entered through the door by the fireplace. He
sat down in one of the wing-backed chairs with a book and a glass
of something red.
The last time I had smelled the something red, I had thought it was
wine.
Now I recognized the scent of blood in it. Human blood, mixed with
something oaky and bold. Blood and wine.
Well, what do you know - Alexander Lucard was a lush.
I waited until he was settled, then moved myself to the windowsill.
I sat down on it quietly and swung my feet up and folded my hands
on my knees and watched him. From my place, his eyes were a
stunning grey, his hair a rich spiced blond. His nose aristocratic and
fine, his cheek bones high.
He was beautiful.
Nowhere near as lust-inducing as Jean-Claude, or as finely rendered
as Prince Legolas, not even as darkly dangerous as the man from the
dream. But still very beautiful.
I wondered if I could have ever fallen in love with him, if he hadn't
attacked me so brutally. I wondered if he could fall in love.
Then I wondered what the hell I was doing here.
Ah, yes - that little thing called closure.
I waited until he'd read a few pages before I took in the breath
necessary to speak with. He heard the intake and was on his feet
and staring at me before I could form the words:
“The wine… who was it?”
He stared at me, curled up on his window sill in Elvish garb - thick
grey breeches, knee-high boots, an overlay of green-gray and slate
tunic woven with gold thread. Slung around my hips was the thick
leather belt, my hair braided back from my face and my wand held
loosely in my hand. I was definitely the last person he expected to
see. And I certainly didn't look the way he remembered me to.
He straightened from his crouched offensive posture and smiled
charmingly. He rearranged his face, erasing the snarl and instead
going for a carefully schooled look of surprised happiness.
What a liar.
But that's what Vampires are. Liars. We look alive and aren't. We
breathe but don't. And we don't fall in love.
“My dear,” he whispered in that strange accent of his. He had
learned his English reading books, so the emphasis was on all the
wrong syllables. It made it hypnotic. His tone was a mixture of awe
and anger. “You escaped the vortex?”
I smiled slightly. “Yes. And No.”
He set down the book and took a step towards me. I tightened the
grip on my wand and suddenly it was aiming straight at his chest.
He paused, curious.
“Ah, ah,” I scolded. “You sit right back down in that chair, Vladyboy.”
He raised an eyebrow and repeated with incredulity: “Vlady-boy?”
He did not sit.
“Are you deaf, or just stupid?” I snapped angrily. “Sit. There.”
He grimaced. But he sat. He turned the chair to face me by hooking
his ankle around the leg. He folded himself gracefully into it, but
his feet remained flat on the floor and his palms pressed against the
arms, ready to spring up again at any second.
He frowned. “I have no great love of that phrase. I thought it crude
when I first heard you use it, and I think it is still crude now. I
would prefer it if my daughter had some more lady-like manners.”
I unfolded myself gracefully, using every trick I had picked up from
Legolas and Jean-Claude about agility and balance to make it
appear otherworldly and intimidating. His eyes widened fractionally,
which was rewarding. I stood and took two menacing steps towards
him, wand pointed between his pretty grey eyes.
“Daughter?” I snarled angrily. “Victim! You murdered me!”
Lucard smiled and spread his hands. “If that is what you would like
to call it.”
“You're not denying it?”
“Why should I? You are a Vampire, are you not?”
I frowned. My aim never wavered. I shook my head.
“Why have you come back to me?” he asked softly, so softly and
gently that it almost sounded like a… like a lover welcoming back an
ex who had left him against his wishes, against his heart.
No, I said to myself, pushing away his charm, he's tried this before.
Jean-Claude was better at these tricks. And Jareth. I know them
now. They won't work.
He stood slowly, and the motion made me panic.
“Expellaramus!” I cried and he was sent slamming back into his
chair with a blast of white light from my wand. It rocked back on
two legs, and for a moment, appeared as if it would tip over. Then
he threw his weight forward and it slammed down on four legs with
a crack of splintering wood.
He shook his head, stared at me, then stood again, one corner of his
lips peeling back away from a fang. His eyes were yellow now.
He was very, very angry.
The mask of surprised happiness shattered.
I backed up hastily. He came after me.
“Expellaramus!” I said again, and this time he flew half way across
the room. He crashed onto the throw rug in an undignified sprawl.
He shot to his feet, snarling, suit rumpled and hair mussed. God, he
looked sexy. I hated him.
He came at me again. This time I made the mistake of looking him
in the eye. His gaze was like a basilisk's. I felt myself freeze under
his eyes. I couldn't move! Somehow he had made me… immobile. I
had seen this on the TV show before - Lucard petrifying people by
just looking at them, like a snake about to strike. I had done it to
Trieze's serving girl. But I didn't know he could do it with another
vampire.
I tried to raise my wand. I couldn't.
I tried to run. I couldn't.
This had been such a stupid idea.
Panic rose in my chest, hot and choking.
He stopped right in front of me, invading my personal space. His
eyes remained locked on mine. He plucked the wand from my slack
grasp. I was terrified he would break it, but he merely slid it into
his back pocket.
“I'll have a better look at your little toy, later,” he hissed. His eyes
glittered, yellow and beast-like, and he smiled, revealing long,
pointed incisors. He raised a hand and gently touched my cheek. I
wanted to flinch away and couldn't. “Sweeting, I'll not have my
dominance threatened in my own home,” he said with terrifying
finality. “You are mine and you will respect me.”
“Screw you, Captain Overbite,” I said, adding a colourful cuss I'd
once heard Gimli use in Dwarvish.
“My, my,” he whispered. His face got closer and I swallowed hard
enough to make it hurt. “Aren't we just full of surprises, my dear?
Your eyes have changed. They are brighter, now. Purpler. But oh,
so filled with hate. I liked it better when they were filled with
fear.”
I stared defiantly at his eyes, because I could not look anywhere
else. I hoped the hatred I felt for him burned hot in my gaze. “I
want you to answer me… when you … when you turned me…”
I trailed off. I couldn't say it.
I didn't want to know. What if he said 'yes'?
His eyebrows rose slowly. “Is that why you have returned to me?”
“I haven't returned to you!”
He laughed. He threw back his head and let forth a full-throated
laugh. He patted my cheek and it was more of a slap. His laughter
made him close his eyes and in an instant I was free. I backed away
quickly, only to feel him slam his body against mine, backing me
into the stone wall between two windows.
My stomach hit my spine and I let out the breath I'd been using to
speak with in a rushing woosh. He placed his hands on either side of
my head and leaned in close enough to trap me, his nose mere
molecules from mine.
“Do you really want to know?” he whispered softly, dangerously.
“Will it relieve your nightmares? Does it make you scream at night?
Will it make you hate me? Or want me? Perhaps your dreams are
better than nightmares, hm? Does it even matter?”
“Tell me,” I growled. He was unimpressed.
“Scream for me. Scream the way you scream when the nightmares
of it wake you.”
“No. Tell me how to get home, then.”
“So many demands, and from a person clearly in no position to
make them.” He drew back slightly and rubbed his cheek against my
own, nose snuffling against my skin as he scented my neck, my hair.
“Why should I?” His tongue darted out to taste the scars that he had
put there. I cringed.
Would he bite me again?
“I ha-have to know.”
He switched sides, lathing my skin, biting gently on my earlobe.
“No.”
“Manipulative Bastard!”
He chuckled. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”
“Get off me.”
“No.”
I tried to shove of the paralysis and only managed to make my
hands twitch. I pushed, my eye locked onto his, and lifted my arms.
I reached around his body, and he thought I was trying to embrace
him. He pulled me close, crushing my breasts against him. I
wrapped my fingers around my wand and tugged. It came free from
his pocket.
“Accio book!” The novel he had been reading flew off the coffee
table and smashed him in the back of the head. He jerked, then
slammed me back into the stone. My head bounced once, and stars
danced behind my eyes.
“Again, a book!” He stepped back and hissed at me. “Bitch! I have
blocked the Vortex, you cannot escape me!”
I pointed the wand at him. “I don't need your goddamned Vortex. I
don't know why I put myself through this. You only want to play
with me, to control me, to fuck me up.” I fished the unkeyed phial
from my pouch and lifted it above my head. “You don't feel the
slightest sliver of regret, do you?”
His eyes darted from the phial to the wand. He had no idea what I
was about to do, but he knew it would take me away from him.
Take away my knowledge, my power. I was just a tool to him. A
means to a fucking ends.
Screw him.
I moved to smash the phial and he lunged at me. “Inflamare!” I
cried and he dropped to the floor, his hands on fire. I watched for a
second as he beat out the flames. I slammed the phial against the
cold stone floor.
There was a flat crack and a brilliant flash of white light. I dropped
to the ground, wand still raised defensively before me, like a gun. I
was aiming right between the eyes of a mostly bald man in a black
and red shirt and black pants.
He stared at me with wide blue eyes for all of five seconds before
he threw his head back and said, “Q!”
I quashed the inane urge to shout “R, S, T!”
Instead I laughed myself into hysteria.
The calmness of Legolas' blood was gone.
Books Eleven and Twelve: Star Trek: The Next
Generation / Tokyo Babylon
Chapter Thirty-two: “Disillusioned”
I passed out. I shivered and shook and was sick. The doctor couldn't
help me because her precious 24th century technology said I was
dead. They tied me to a bed in the medical bay to keep me from
thrashing so hard as to hurt myself.
It was a like an epileptic fit, they told me, when I came out of it.
They didn't have any explanation for it.
I knew it was from Slipping thrice in as many hours.
If I had been human, I'd be dead. All the way.
I wasn't sure that wouldn't have been welcome at this point.
The Ship's Guidance Councillor was an empath and the searing
night-terrors brought on by my Slip-Sickness and visit to Lucard
shook her so badly that she was screaming from three decks above
me. They shot her full of a sedative and put her in a bed as far
away from me as the ship would allow.
Two days later I woke up.
I wasn't any more calm awake than asleep. I was freaking out.
Security personnel in yellow shirts had to hold me down when I
wrenched the restraints right off the bed.
It took me several long hours of shouted reassurances and futile
attempts to give me calming drugs for me to become tranquil. They
shot me full of things that just made me angrier, and wore off in
moments.
Finally I exhausted myself. I lay shaking and crying, drained and
empty and dead feeling on the bed. The Doctor whispered false,
empty, reassuring things to me. I slept again, sleep with no dreams.
Sleep with no rest.
Then I woke.
Then they demanded a story.
I said I was a traveler, I had gotten lost, sick, hurt. I needed shelter,
kindness, warmth. I said I didn't know how I got here, that I just
needed to rest.
The Empath woman said I believed that what I was saying was the
truth.
The Captain, being compassionate, granted my request to be left
alone to recover - so long as I didn't leave Sick Bay. Invisible,
shimmering shields of energy blocked the doors, silently and
efficiently.
Where they thought I would go was beyond me. I couldn't venture
into the areas of the ship where people slept or lived - not without
being invited.
They returned my personal effects - my knife, my wand, my pouch
and phials - at my insistence. The head of security, a gruff bumpyforeheaded guy, wanted to keep the knife. I insisted and the
Captain made him give it over.
What was a knife, they thought, to phaser pistols? What was a stick
to “stun”? What harm could it possibly do, the Doctor said, to give
me back my archaic toys?
What harm indeed.
I almost laughed. I may have giggled a bit. I put my hand over my
mouth, and maybe a titter escaped around the cracks between my
fingers. I got lots of funny looks and clamped down on it.
I put my wand back in its new sheath on the front of my leather
belt, and the knife in the back in its, and counted my phials twice.
None were missing. Jack's coins were still there, and Legolas' comb,
part of Trieze's rose and all the other odds and ends I'd gathered
from all the worlds I'd visited.
My little portable museum of memories past and people failed.
I turned the comb over and over between my fingers.
Then I asked for a mirror.
I stared at the round, plastic framed piece of glass. It was amazing
that something so simple - foil, mercury, glass - could make you
hurt so much.
What Lucard had said was true.
My eyes were brighter now. Vaguely violet-er. More Elf-Like.
Like I had plucked them from someone else's face and put them in
my own - alien and bright and oh so empty.
The person who stared out at me from the mirror hardly looked like
someone I recognized at all. It was more than just the eyes.
Gone was the slightly chubby girl with too many freckles, a mop of
rusty-coloured hair, and dull blue eyes trapped behind bookish
glasses. In her place was a thin, angry, pale woman with a
weariness in eyes too blue, eyes that had seen too much, and long
sun-reddened hair in elvish braids.
I didn't like the person I saw in the mirror, the taught lines of
wariness and hurt and anger around my eyes and mouth, so I made
my reflection go away.
It was easy. I just had to not want to see me, and then I didn't.
It faded from the glass, like oil sinking to the bottom of a crystal
clear cup of water.
So easy to make all the pain and all the hurt and all the anger just
vanish.
And if I couldn't see it, it wasn't real.
I threw the mirror at the wall. It shattered on the clean white bulk
head and it made such a pretty shower of silver shards that I
laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
And felt nothing.
=====
I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My eyes were open but
they saw zilch.
The frizzling sound of the electrical door between us faded.
I heard a soft voice beside my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
the woman with the cascade of dark curls said. She smelled worried
and just that tiny bit afraid.
I liked the fear.
It smelled like food.
“No,” I said.
“Are you hungry?”
Yes, lean over.
“No.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Nothing you can get for me.”
She took this tactless comment as an offer to sit down. She hitched
a turquoise slicked hip up onto the foot of the bed. “What do you
want? You'd be surprised - the Enterprise is very well equipped. Any
food, any drink, we can get you anything.”
I sat up and glared at her, with eyes that were too blue, eyes that
weren't mine.
“I want my soul back,” I said. It was cruel. It made her doe eyes
widen. More fear. It tickled my nose, stroked my beast. I smiled and
she saw the corner of one sharp, retracted eyetooth. Her heart
skipped once, only once. She was too well trained to let me see her
fear, but she couldn't keep it from my nose.
“Your what?”
“My soul. I want it back. Can you give me that, blood bag?”
“Nobody took your soul,” she said, but her words were uncertain.
Her mind was contradicting what her heart told her. That part of
her deep inside, ingrained in her DNA, that lost, ancient reptilian
monkey thing that had to run from the tigers before man discovered
speech and fire and spears. “Nobody can steal souls.”
“You're wrong,” I said, and lay back down again. “He did. It's gone
and I'm a monster.” I tucked my hands under my head, comfortable,
content in the knowledge that I was now totally irredeemable.
It kept everything in me cool and calm and dead. No turmoil. No
nightmare-box.
“You're not a monster,” the almost-but-not-quite afraid woman said.
“No matter what anyone did to you, it doesn't make you a
monster.”
“I nearly killed the man I loved. I was damned by a creature that
shouldn't exist. I have hurt people willingly, gleefully.”
“Yet I sense regret in you,” the woman said. “Strong regret - hurt
and pain and guilt. Monsters don't feel guilt.”
“Get out!” I screeched and my eyes blazed yellow.
She got out.
The frizzling sound again and I was a prisoner once more.
=====
“Are you hungry?” a different woman tried. This time the woman
had red hair and the blue uniform of a doctor.
“Yes,” I said.
She sighed with relief. “What would you like?”
“Blood. OB Negative. Hot.” I sat up and smiled at her.
She backed away slowly and put up a force shield between us.
I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and my stomach cramped with
emptiness.
My veins burned and I laughed.
Maybe I would starve to death. That was a nice thought. I liked that
one.
Starving to death had something of poetry to it.
=====
”There once was a lady from Niger,” I sang softly to myself, twirling
my wand over my knuckles, through my fingers, under my palm and
around again, over, and over, and over. I lay on my back on the
medical bed, swinging my foot off the side in time to the beat.
“Who rode off on the back of a Tiger.”
“Where did you learn that song?” the woman with the dark hair said.
She was sitting in a chair on the other side of the invisible field. It
kept me trapped in the alcove with the one bed as surely as a cross
on a lintel.
“Dunno,” I said, interrupting my recitation. “But I like the moral.”
“Oh?”
“Cautionary tale,” I said with a shrug.
“Against what?”
“They came back from the ride
With the lady inside
And a smile on the face of the Tiger.
Don't get to comfortable around things with fangs.”
=====
“You haven't eaten anything four days,” the red-head doctor said.
“Please, don't force us to inject you with proteins.”
I laughed. My skin felt tight and too hot, my insides empty and cold.
The shakes would start soon. The cramps already had. “That won't
do a thing. I'm a monster. I only drink blood.”
“You're not a monster!” the woman said firmly. “You just--”
“—have no heartbeat, don't breathe, and have no vital signs,” I
finished for her.
She blinked.
“Blood,” I said. “Hot. C'mon, before I start to seizure here.”
A cup of blood so hot it steamed appeared in an alcove in the wall.
She timidly, cautiously turned off the force field. The large, dark,
intimidating man with the bumpy forehead stood behind her and
looked warning. I winked at him.
The doctor gave me the blood and I blew on it as if it were tea.
Then I downed it in one long pull.
“Aaaah,” I said, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. My
fingers started to tingle. It wasn’t enough to thaw me out, but it
was enough to take the edge off. “Much better.”
I handed her back the empty cup.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked softly.
“Revenge?” I said. She backed away. “How bout my sanity? I sort of
miss that. What about home, that would be nice. I'd really like to
get home.”
She seized on the one thing that seemed remotely plausible.
“Where is your home?”
“On the other side of the TV screen,” I said, and laughed again
when she put the force field back up. “You sure do think I'm
dangerous.”
“No,” she denied firmly. “We're just afraid you'll do something to
hurt yourself.”
I unclipped my knife from my belt and held it aloft, letting the
fluorescent lights overhead play over the keen edge of the blade.
Gimli had shown me how to sharpen it with a whet stone that I now
kept in my pouch. “What?” I said, rolling up the sleeve of my other
arm. Cash had looked so cool doing it. “Like this?”
I pressed the tip of the blade deliberately against the skin of my
wrist.
“No, don't!” she cried, and I jerked back hard.
The silver burned.
She dropped the force field, and the bumpy-headed man rushed in,
twisted the knife from my grip. The doctor grabbed my bleeding
arm and called for help.
The buff guy put my knife into a pocket at his hip. I plucked it out
again deftly and put it back in my sheath at the small of my back
without his ever noticing.
I shoved them both away with a yellow-eyed grin. They sprawled on
the floor and looked up at where I was sitting primly on the bed. I
licked the blood off my arm in a long, languorous line. The wound,
fresh and angry red, stared out at them.
Then, slowly, it began to knit together.
If I had not made the wound with silver, it would have been closed
in seconds. As it was, it took minutes. But that was still faster than
anything either had seen before.
“How did you do that?” the doctor asked.
“Ask the man who murdered me,” I lisped back around my fangs.
“I'm tired now, go away.”
I lay down and ignored them and the muted whispers and their
putterings until I went to sleep.
=====
“So that's where you're hiding,” the man in the red and black
pyjamas said. “I might have known it was aboard the Enterprise.
Jean-Luc certainly attracts more than his fair share of interesting
situations.”
I rested my hands on my hips and glowered. I was getting pretty
sick of strange people showing up in my dreams. “Who are you?
You're not Lucard and you're not Jean-Claude and you're not the
guy with the sword.”
“The ‘guy with the sword’ isn’t here right now.” The man standing
before me raised an eyebrow. “I am Q.”
I appraised him dubiously. “The guy makes stuff for 007?”
He frowned. “No. What are you?”
“A Mary Sue.”
He nodded once and folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his
jacket. “Ah, that explains it. I wondered why the entire universe
suddenly realigned to make you the focal point.”
I grimaced. “Not entirely reassuring,”
He smiled. “Well, you're certainly something else. I've never met a
Mary Sue with your distinct lack of interest in her Suedom.”
“You've met others?”
He pressed his blueish lips together and said nothing, a shit-eating
grin on his face. I hate those kinds of grins.
“You cold?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But you are. I rarely take poetic license when
describing humans, but your heart is like ice.”
“Better ice than broken,” I shot back. “And check your radar, I'm
not human.”
“Of course you are,” the man said. “Oh, I know the word for your
kind of human is 'Vampire', but really, your whole species likes to
sub-categorize far too much. No other race is so narcissistic as to
name a whole sect of you something entirely different. You're still
the same species. Oh, you don't eat food or breathe air, and your
body is nothing but a corpse, but you are still a human being. I'd
congratulate you, but there's nothing particularly congratulatory
about being something so... base.”
I woke screaming.
Of course you are. You're still the same species. You're still
human.
When I finished screaming, I did a lot of thinking instead.
=====
“I'm sorry,” I said. I was standing on my side of the force field,
looking suitably abashed. “I said a lot of needlessly cruel things. I...
haven't been myself lately.”
Counsellor Deanna Troi exchanged a glance with Doctor Beverly
Crusher.
“We forgive you,” the empath woman said. “Now, would you like to
tell us why you've felt so standoffish?”
I shrugged and sat down on the table.
“Well, here's the thing. I was ripped away from my home by a man
who may or may not have raped me, but who definitely changed my
cellular structure. He made me into something else, something I
don't want to be. He violated my body, violated my mind, and then
violated my corpse. I escaped him and I've been traveling fruitlessly
for almost a year now in an attempt to find my own home again.
During my travels I have been hunted, hated, haunted, trapped,
punished, hurt, and worse than all of that, loved. Worse, because
those people never really loved me, they just loved what I am, and
there's nothing I could do about it. It just makes me feel more and
more like a lying bitch with everyone of them I capture. I'm tired of
being in the middle of all the disputes, all the rivalries, and all the
major plot points. I ended up killing a man to stop a war and while
it was the right thing to do, it's been eating at me. I also nearly
killed a man in the midst of making love to him, because of my
craving for blood. He trusted me and I hurt him. His blood messed
with my mind, made me delirious, gave me nightmares and
confidence and I don't know which is worse. Now I'm slowly being
ground down, weary of this life on the run, scared that I'll never
find home, and taking it out on whoever is closest to me. So, you
see, it's not your fault that've been so horrid,” I said, clapping my
hands together, startling both of them enough to make them jump,
“I simply have misplaced aggression and a fear of being closed in
cages or trapped which combined to made me use the two of you as
an outlet for my frustration and scapegoat targets for my anger.”
“Erm,” the Counsellor said.
I smiled brightly. “Thanks for the talk. I really needed that. I feel
better, now. Bye!”
And I shattered a phial against the side of the bed.
=====
The place I ended up was beautiful in the way that carefully
groomed gardens are beautiful. Avenues of green foliage
intersected crowded roads of rubbery cement and puddles.
A garden, in a major metropolis, somewhere. I could see the outline
of sky-scrapers above the canopy of the trees. I could hear the
distant, muffled sounds of vehicles and horns, chiming trucks and
shouting salesmen.
The faces all around me had high cheek bones, caramel coloured
skin, dark, almond eyes, and straight black hair.
I crept out of the shadows of a copse of the spindly, almost bare
trees and towards the crowds. The park was simply filled with
people - Asian people with conservative fashion sense, on their way
to work, walking with their families, talking into their cell phones,
pausing to bow and shake hands and converse.
I stepped out in the middle of the thoroughfare and stared up at the
sunny sky above me. It felt nice to have the heat of a real sun on
my skin again, rather than the sickly bluish glow of the fluorescent
lights in the Sickbay.
People walked around me, ignoring me totally or giving small little
nods to the tourist.
I felt revitalized.
I felt fresh.
Hell, I felt like myself again.
I had needed that temper tantrum back in “Star Trek”. I had
needed to rant and rail and generally feel sorry for myself. Now I
was ready to move forward, to move on, to get going. I had two
blank phials left.
I decided, recklessly, that I would use them both, one right after
another. I would spend today in this lovely park, sleep on a bench,
feed from a homeless guy, and be gone the next afternoon.
I didn't even care where I was.
I wasn't going to stop any more.
I wasn't going to make friends. I wasn't going to meet lovers. I was
going to keep my head down and plough through.
The decision was made. My stomach twisted slightly at the thought
of how alone I was going to be for the next... however long it took.
I ignored it. I had made my choice and that was that. I was going to
get home dammit and I would have no more Triezes or Legolases
sitting on my heart or gnawing at my conscious.
I was done with being curious, enjoying the ride.
I felt paradoxically light, freed, happy... and heavy with sorrow.
It would be lonely, yes. I would have to be callous. But I would be
unscathed.
A little girl, clinging with sticky fingers to her mother's hand looked
up at me, her liquid eyes huge.
“Nihao,” I said softly, smiling with my lips closed to hide my fangs.
“Mama mama!” the little girl exclaimed excitedly. “Gaijin da!”
Her mother hit her head gently, in a reproachful manner. “Anno konnichi wa,” her mother urged her.
The girl gave me a sticky smile. “Konnichi wa!” she repeated.
“Konnichi wa, Gaikokujin-san!”
“That's not Chinese,” I said to myself. I had expected to be in China.
The woman looked confused, so I waved and let her and her
daughter go on their way.
“Japanese,” a strong, deep voice said behind me.
I turned. He was at least six feet, maybe taller, completely defying
my thought of what a typical Japanese man looked like. He was slim,
attractive, dressed in a very distinguished dark coloured suit. He
wore it like a uniform; proudly. His hair was black, carefully styled
to be piecey - edgy without looking punk. Anime-like. He wore a
pair of sunglasses so dark I couldn't see his eyes, even though the
day was slightly cloudy.
“Japan?” I repeated. “Thanks.”
“Are you lost?” he asked, and his English was nearly flawless. He
had no problems with his 'l's and 'r's, and I was impressed.
“A little,” I admitted. “Where am I?”
What happened to not making friends? I scolded myself.
I'm not, I argued back. I'm chatting up my potential meal.
“Ueno Park,” the man said. “That's in almost the centre of Tokyo.”
“Ah.” I smiled and scratched my head.
“Are you going to a convention?” he asked, nodding towards my
Elvish garb. “Is that Cosplay? Or are you looking for Harujuku?”
I blinked, and looked down at myself. I did look like a costumed
freak from a fantasy convention. Or one of the famous Harujuku
girls who dress in Lolita-gothic clothing and hang around the stone
bridge at Harujuku station on Sunday afternoons in Tokyo.
I grinned sheepishly. “No. I... it's a long story. I sort of lost my
luggage,” I lied, “and this was all I could get my hands on.”
The man laughed, and his laugh was pleasant, safe. Just that tiniest
bit sexy. I got goosebumps.
What happened to no more Triezes or Legolases?
“I see,” he said. “Well, I think the boots are very flattering.”
I thought they had been too, and I was secretly thrilled.
He isn't a Trieze or a Legolas.
I wasn't masochistic enough to let myself fall for someone all over
again, especially after what had just happened with Legolas, but
flirting was very nice. This man was good for my ego.
He suddenly stuck out his hand, “If you have lost your luggage, I
assume you've probably lost quite a deal of money as well. Allow me
to treat you to lunch?”
I smiled and took his hand. A sort of electric shock ran up my arm,
giving me goosebumps. He smiled.
“Sure,” I agreed, “that sounds great. My name is Marie. Marie
Susan.”
“I'm Seishiro Sakurazaka,” he said.
Book Twelve: Tokyo Babylon
Chapter Thirty-Three: “The Keeper of the
Cherry Blossom Burial Mound”
Seishirou-san was absolutely charming.
His gentle voice and attentiveness went a long way towards helping
me crawl out of my Legolas-induced funk. We sat in the shade of a
striped awning, on the sidewalk outside of a small café in the
Akihabara area. He smoked Lucky Seven cigarettes and I didn't
breathe unless I had too, but even then I found the disgusting habit
rather charming.
We sipped coffee and though he had offered to buy me lunch, I
managed to convince him that he needn't waste his money on an
eight-hundred yen sandwich for me. I stripped off my cloak and
outer tunic, leaving the Gondorian silk blouse and the thick grey
hose and boots, and felt less like a cosplaying reject for it.
Tokyo, Seishirou-san told me, was unseasonably hot this April. I
agreed. He told me that I should visit the Imperial Palace grounds,
and Tokyo Tower, if I hadn't already. I agreed.
He drank his coffee and ate a slice of cake and told me that he had
a weakness for sweets, and smiled from behind a pair of dark
sunglasses that he never removed and smoked.
And I hung on his charm, on his wit, on his blithe grins and his easy
compliments and wondered how exactly I would manage to get this
wonderful, cheerful man in a business suit that must have been
boiling him in private.
“What do you do, Seishirou-san?” I asked him.
“I'm a veterinarian.”
“Oh,” I said, “why did you choose that?”
“Someone I... knew. He loved animals. It inspired me.”
“What does this someone think of your career now?”
Seishirou-san smiled and for the first time, it seemed slightly
disingenuous. “I have not spoken to him in eight years. Not since his
sister died.”
“Oh,” I said again.
“Don't be sad for me, Marie-san!” he laughed. “I am not.”
“Don't you miss him?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Oh. Are you avoiding him?”
“No.”
I shifted in my seat, slightly uncomfortable by his sudden candour.
“Do you think you'll ever speak to him again?”
“Perhaps,” he said. He tapped the dead ashes off his cigarette,
revealing the bloody flame that danced at his fingertips. Harmless
looking, but deadly all the same. “In 1999. At the appointed time.”
He levelled a look at me through the glasses. I had the queer, hairraising sensation that he was looking right through me.
“And what will you do at the end of the millennium?” he asked me
softly.
The question held extra meaning, I knew it did, but I couldn't figure
what kind.
“Party like its 1999?” I said glibly, with a small shrug. I had already
lived through 1999 once. Y2K didn't scare me, if that's what he
meant.
He made a small sound, as if confirming something to himself. “No
grand plans. You are not a Dragon.”
I blinked at this non sequitor. “Dragon?”
Nope. I didn't think I was a dragon.
In fact, I was pretty sure I was a Vampire.
He laughed again and waved his cigarette in a strange circle,
dismissing my confusion. “Forgive me, an error in my translation. I
meant to ask if you were dating someone.”
Sure, okay. 'Dating' and 'Dragon' sounded sort of alike.
I got them confused all the time.
Ri-ight.
“No,” I said. “Not any more.”
The silence and the smoke lingered in the air between us from his
hand motion, and for the briefest of moments, it seemed to make
the shape of an inverted pentagram.
A tickling sense of not right began to pluck at my mind.
Somehow the sun set.
I hadn't noticed it.
The chill wash of my undead power returning to me gave me shivers.
Seishirou-san asked if I was cold, and I lied and told him I was. I put
my tunic back on, but kept the belt under it to hide the knife from
any police who may catch me in the open.
“Have you seen the sakura yet?” Seishirou-san asked, pulling me out
of my niggling worry.
“Sakura?”
“Cherry Blossoms, forgive me. They are spectacularly stunning at
night. Why don't we go to the corner store, buy some wine and
some more cakes, return to Ueno-koen, and have our own private
hanami?”
“Hanami?”
“Blossom Viewing Party.”
And here I had thought that the clichés of drunkard Japanese
salary-men crowding into parks in April to recite spontaneous,
contagious, inebriated haikus at pink flowers had been just a
stereotype.
“Sure,” I said, because getting him alone was what I had wanted all
along. “Sounds fun.”
=====
Turns out that convenience stores in Japan sell wine with screw
tops in the refrigerators beside the cola. Huh. This really was an
amazing country.
Seishirou loaded up on sakura-flavoured kit-kat bars, cheap wine,
sake, and some pre-wrapped cheesecakes, and Lucky Seven
cigarettes. I offered to help carry the bag and he declined, saying
that it was wrong for the lady to do the heavy lifting.
I told him a few cakes and a bottle of wine wasn't exactly heavy
lifting, but he would hear none of it.
I hated the title ‘Lady’, now.
We walked back to the park in companionable noise, talking about
nothing in particular. “Is it true that salary-men wear their ties
around their foreheads when they're drunk?” I asked, thinking of
several anime I had seen.
Seishirou-san laughed. “Yes, I've seen it. Do they do that where you
are from?”
“Gods, no,” I said quickly. “They'd be too embarrassed.” I looked at
him out of the corner of my eye. “Have you ever done it?”
He laughed. “No. It's undignified.”
And Seishirou-san struck me as very dignified.
We reached the park, and though there were rows and rows of
cherry trees that were lit by the giant flood lights, revellers sitting
on blue tarpaulins or on picnic blankets shouting and laughing,
Seishirou-san kept walking.
“There's an empty spot there,” I said, pointing, “Or there.”
“No, no,” he said. “Far too loud, wouldn't you agree? And all the
men would come to stare at the gaijin. It's unseemly. Surely you
don't want that kind of attention?”
I nodded. He had a point.
“Where are we going then?” I asked.
“Somewhere else.”
I laughed. “You have a favourite cherry tree?” I teased.
He stopped for a millisecond. I got the distinct impression that he
was blinking at me in confusion, but I couldn't see his eyes behind
his dark sunglasses. Finally, he resumed walking.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I have a favourite. The most beautiful one in
the park. Her blossoms are so dark they are almost red. Would you
like to see her?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sounds lovely.”
We walked for a few silent minutes. I shivered again, wondered
what this faint feeling of wrongness was and why it kept plaguing
me. I tried to shake it off, shoved it to the back of my mind where
it became a faint tickle.
Seishirou-san stopped, and I turned to look up at the tree whose
thick, knobbly branches we were standing under.
I gasped. The blossoms really were so dark as to almost be red.
“It's gorgeous,” I breathed.
“I'm afraid I have no blanket,” Seishirou-san said as I started up at
the faintly glowing petals. Wordlessly I handed him my cloak. I felt
him take it, heard him spread it own the ground. Heard the clink of
the bottle, the rustle of the plastic bag, the faint hiss of the carbon
escaping a twist-top. “Will you sit, Marie-san?”
I tore my eyes away from the strangely hypnotic flowers. They were
bobbing in the wind, petals curling like fingers saying come here,
come here. I turned to Seishirou-san. He was seated on the edge of
my cloak, his blazer jacket folded neatly on a protruding root.
I sank down onto the fabric beside him. He handed me the wine and
I lifted it to my lips. I intended to merely wet my mouth with it, but
he was watching me too closely, so I swallowed. I passed it to him
and he did the same.
I reached out a hand to the trunk of the tree, ancient and sturdy
and beautiful. I touched the bark.
There was a sound.
A sigh.
A sigh?
No, a scream. Faint and high and ghostlike. Barely there. I frowned,
pressed my fingers harder against the bark. It got a little louder,
but I wasn't sure. It still sounded faint, like the breeze through
branches.
Was I imagining it.
“What is wrong?” Seishirou-san asked, and I jerked back my hand
guiltily.
“Nothing,” I breathed. “I ... I thought I heard....”
He smiled. “Thought you heard what?” He handed me the wine
again.
“Nothing,” I said. I drank.
He drank.
A single petal fell, floated gently, landed on the back of my hand,
which was resting on my knee.
“She likes you,” Seishirou-san said gently.
I lifted the petal, stared at it. The feeling of not-right increased
fractionally.
“I like you, too,” he said.
I looked up, would have met his eyes, save for the glasses. I felt
loose, suddenly, as if the wine had really affected me. Not drunk,
but relaxed, trusting. Content. Satisfied.
Satisfied and not.
I wanted, suddenly.
Wanted.
Wanted something. Someone.
I wanted to see his eyes.
I reached out and he didn't flinch back. I took the arms of his
sunglasses gently between my fingers, pulled them away, folded the
arms tenderly and set them aside. I looked back up, wanted to see
what colour his eyes were.
One was a deep, dark black-brown. The other was a white marble.
I gasped.
“It disturbs you?” he asked softly.
I reached up, brushed fingertips along the skin beside the corner of
his fake eye, across his eyebrow. “No,” I said. “There's no scar.
What happened?”
“A woman took it.”
“Took it?”
“Stabbed it.”
“Why?” I breathed.
He leaned into my touch, rubbing his cheek against my palm.
Breathed into my palm. His skin was warm, his expression blissful.
Perfect. Everything it should be. Exactly as a lover ought to look.
The wrongness prickled but I didn't care.
There was something too perfect about him, something almost too
rehearsed, to clinical, but I ignored it.
No, we were seducing each other. I was just being paranoid. Afraid
of another Legolas.
No.
Go away.
And it did.
“Protecting someone,” he said. “My friend.”
“The friend who left?”
“Yes. I broke his heart.”
He leaned forward, and my hand slid over his ear, into his thick
black hair. His nose hovered near mine, his breath sweet from the
cakes and the wine and desire.
“Help me forget,” he groaned.
I closed the gap. Kissed him. Opened my mouth to him and let him
in.
Forget, forget, yes, yes, forget under the lovely red petals with a
lovely glass-eyed man.
But which eye was the fake one? Which one shone with real emotion.
Any emotion?
“Is there someone you're trying to forget?” he whispered softly, his
finger tracing a slow, hot line from the centre of my forehead,
down my nose, to pause at my lips.
'Yes,” I breathed. I kissed the tip of his finger, closed my eyes.
“Shall I help you forget him?”
“God, yes. Please.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, tugged him
closer, rubbed my hip against his knee.
“Oh, my. Begging. Say that again.”
“Please,” I groaned against his mouth. Tongue flicking. “Please.”
“Very well,” he said into my mouth. I felt the tips of his fingers
press against my breast, over my heart. “Because you beg so
prettily.”
And then he thrust his hand through my rib cage.
=====
This wasn't like my normal dreams. I was floating. Floating in
darkness. There was no up, no down. No gravity.
There was a light. Far off in the distance.
I kicked my feet, moved my arms through the nothing. Swimming in
black.
The light came closer. It was a hazy sphere of whitish glow.
It surrounded, enveloped... no, emanated from a tree in the center.
It was gnarled, old. Tough. Enduring. Thick across the trunk. Three
people could clasp hands around it. Spindly, knotted branches shot
in all directions, thin and brittle, shooting up from limbs as thick as
my thigh. Big enough to sit on.
There were no leaves on this tree.
Only flowers. Vivid glowing red-pink flowers, no bigger than a
quarter, with serrated petals and a soft scent. The fell from the
flowers in a shower, blown by a breeze that did not exist, that I did
not feel.
The petals swirled up, taunting, beckoning. I kicked my feet again,
moved closer. I stood on the light, by the roots that dove into the
darkness. The blossoms danced around me, circling, circling,
hypnotic and calm and... beautiful.
The glow came from the undersides of the petals. Some of them
shimmered off into the darkness, specks of pink like fireflies in June,
bobbing over rushes that weren't there.
A petal brushed over my cheek, a lover's caress. Wanting me.
“Hello,” I told the tree.
The light pulsed and in its branches I saw a falcon. A sleek, sleepy
looking bird of prey.
“Hello,” I told the falcon. It blinked one wet marble eye at me. I
looked down at myself - I was wearing blue sneakers with purple
legwarmers. Black, pinstriped pants, a grape-coloured turtleneck
sweater under an olive faux-suede button down shirt.
I touched my clothing. Clothing that I had not worn since the night
I'd died.
“Am I dreaming?” I asked the bird. “This isn't like my dreams usually
are. Have you seen the man in black? Maybe... maybe I'm dead.”
The bird puffed up its feathers and settled them, turning its head to
get a better look at me with one eye. I moved closer and the bird
cocked its head, opened its beak at me. I could see both eyes now.
One was a clear, marble white.
“Maybe I am dead,” I told the bird. “That wouldn't be so bad, I
guess. Done that once already. Or maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe this
whole thing has been a bad dream, and when I wake up I'll be at
home in my bed, and still have that essay due for F--'s literary
theory class. Maybe I'm not a Mary Sue at all.”
The bird twitched its head to the side. It looked curious.
“Explain?” I echoed. “It's a long list. I'll bore you.”
It's feather's puffed and settled.
“Okay. A Mary Sue is a ...a fictional character, you see. A fictional
character created by a fan - and inserted into a pre-established
fictional world. Out of cannon. New and strange and... a diva.
Poorly written.”
The bird made a noise.
“Maybe I'm poorly written, how would I know?” I said. “I'm just the
Sue. I'm not the author.”
It blinked.
“My author? Dunno. Don't wanna think about it. Haven't got one. I'm
real. I'm not a Sue. I'm different. I don't fill the requirements. Not a
twin, no purple eyes, no special magical pet. Not annoying. Am I
annoying?”
It blinked again.
“Thanks. Am I dead yet?”
It cocked its head in the other direction.
“Oh, okay.”
Noise.
“The whole thing?”
Noise.
“Okay.”
I sat on a protruding root, held up a finger, and began to count.
“One, the Mary Sue is sexually attractive to all canon characters,
regardless of their sexual orientation or availability. Two, often has
violet eyes or eyes that change colours. Three,” I held up a third
finger, “Is adept at any sort of fighting or magic wielded by the
canonical characters, often surpassing the canonical characters in
ability with little to no practice or previous experience.”
The bird flew down from its perch, landed at my feet. Staring,
fascinated.
“Four, she is the centre of the plot, the key player in any battle,
and is the only one who can 'save the day'. Five, she is often the
reason for the main conflict in the plot, whether inadvertently or as
a central figure. Six, she is immediately accepted into the canonical
character's inner circle of friends and confidants, no matter how
unsociable or closely guarded said circle of friends is in the
cannon.”
The falcon walked a few steps closer, head bobbing to help it keep
its balance, one eye trained on my face. It opened its beak, made a
noise with its blue tongue.
“Seven, the Mary Sue character exists for the Suethor's wish
fulfillment. The Sue looks like the author wishes she looked, acts
like the way she wishes she could, says what the author wishes she
could say, and creates an environment within the cannon in which
things that the Suethor wishes would have happened in the cannon
does. Eight, the character is either previously unrecognized by the
fandom's central protagonists and antagonists, or drops in from
'reality'. Eight, she is ardently desired by the villain despite there
being no advantage or reason for the villain to want said Mary Sue.”
The falcon pushed its head up under my hand and I stopped
counting on my fingers, ran my fingernails through the oily, soft
feathers on the top of its head instead.
“Nine, she is witty and snarkish, and no matter how lame said
wittisisms are, the canonical characters akin the Sue's sense of
humour to that of a Comedy God. (i.e. Joss) Ten, she s often able to
shift shapes, or has a friend or magical pet that can shift shapes.
Eleven, is related to a major character that is not the romantic
interest, and said relation is often used as a haphazard excuse to
introduce the Sue to the canonical characters/ future romantic
interest. Twelve, the character has a tragic past that they 'get over'
cheerily, suffering neither post-traumatic stress, Stockholm
syndrome, or other disorders or phobias brought on by their past
experiences.”
Something near my heart began to hurt. The muscle throbbed. The
bone ached. The bird rubbed closer to me, content and cooing.
Something was wrong.
I wanted to stop. To shut up, to jump away from the glowing tree
and the creepy falcon.
I couldn't.
It was a dream and I couldn't escape.
“Thirteen, Mary Sues rarely scar, or if they do, it is in a cool place
in a meaningful pattern. Fourteen, Mary Sues mope, brood, or pout,
but only for as long as it takes for the canonical characters to
distract her. Long-term guilt or pain is rare in a Sue.”
I kept talking, couldn't put my hand over my mouth, couldn't stop
the tumble, the waterfall of words now, all my secrets spilling out,
out, water from a fountain, blood from a fatal wound...
“Fifteen, the surrounding canon characters are made to act out of
character by her presence. Fourteen, somehow the Mary Sue
character 'saves the day' in unlikely ways that leave the cannon
characters stunned and amazed. Lastly, the Mary Sue often was
given a name with a relevant 'hidden' meaning.”
“What a marvellous power,” the bird under my hand said.
I jerked away. Tried to stand, couldn't. Something was wrapped
around my ankles. Something thing and knobbly, painful. Something
twisting and squeezing.
The bird laughed, flew back onto its branch, watching with wet,
greedy eyes.
“Power, power,” it chirruped.
I looked down. The roots of the tree were crawling up my legs.
I screamed, tried to struggle away, tried to break the branches, but
they moved away from my reaching hands, too fast, too thick.
Branches dipped down, lashed my wrists, yanked my arms out and
above my head, slammed me back against the tree.
Crucified.
“Want it,” the bird said.
I woke.
=====
I was still in the deadly embrace of the tree.
Our picnic was spilled, forgotten on my cloak.
Seishiriou was standing in front of me, eyes flicking from the blood
coating his hand and wrist, to my breast. I rolled my eyes
downwards, terrified of what I would see.
The gaping hole was mostly closed, a glistening patch of raw red
flesh and torn tissue. I gagged, sucked in a breath and winced at
the wracking pain it caused. My shirt was torn in an almost perfect
circle, the width of Seishirou's arm. Slick with dripping gore.
“Wha... why did you do that?” I asked, my mind a fog, my world a
daze.
“To kill you, silly girl,” he said. “But you did not stay dead.”
“Don't die easy,” I coughed, and blood came up with the words.
“As I see. Oh, you really are remarkable. Perfect for what I want.”
I lifted my eyes to him now, felt the tears well in their depths. Hurt.
Betrayed.
Killed, harmed, preyed upon by my lover, the one person I was
supposed to be allowed to trust. Hurt me, hurt me, when he was
supposed to love me.
I was his Legolas and it hurt.
Turned the tables.
“Want me for what?” I asked softly.
“My tree. It hungers.”
Oh, god.
“Do you have a favourite Cherry Tree?”
“Yes.”
“But why me?!” I wailed. The branches wrapping around my wrists
tugged tighter and I winced.
“The Mary Sue is the centre of attention,” Sesheriou said, running
the back of his knuckles lightly over my cheek. I gasped at the
words as much as I did the chill of his touch. He chuckled at my
horrified reaction, a smile twisting the side of his mouth. “The Mary
Sue saves the day. The Mary Sue is put through the worst emotional
torture and seems to come out just fine.”
“How do you know this?!”
He paused in his continued stroking up and down the side of my
face, his fingers lightly on the scar. “I felt the magical balance of
the world shift when you arrived. I went to investigate who you
were. Who do you think the bird in your dream was?”
I didn't bother answering him. We both knew the answer, already.
Seishirou pressed his palms against the smooth bark of the tree, on
either side of my head. He bent his elbows, as if he were about to
do a press-up, and hissed directly into my ear: “But you forgot one
very important thing: the Mary Sue is always ardently desired by
the villain.”
He kissed me, thrust his tongue between my teeth, lapped at the
blood. He didn't want the kiss, he wanted the magic in the fluid. I
tried to snap my teeth shut on him and he was gone too fast.
“Let me go,” I said. Demanded. “Right now. Let me go or I will
make you hurt.”
“You can't hurt me,” he said. “You are a Mary Sue and you are
ineffectual and pointless. I want you and I will take you, and I will
add your power to my own and she will be satisfied.”
I snarled. I snapped my fangs at him, letting my eyes flush gold, and
he laughed. Pressed his hands together, one red, one pale, and
laughed.
I changed. My body shrank, too fast for the tree to loop around. I
pushed myself off of the trunk, screeching in fury, trying to burst
his eardrums and scratch his face.
He caught my furry body in one hand, started to squeeze.
I changed back, dropped all my weight onto him, kicked him in the
chest and rode his falling body into the ground. Pinned his arms to
his sides with my knees, wrapped my hands around his neck.
He laughed.
The tree shivered, repressing movement, waiting. Watching.
He laughed.
“Stop it!” I screamed.
He stopped. Took a breath. Waited. Watched. Calculated.
“Would it make you happy to kill me?” he asked softly, his cheerful
tone never wavering. It was damned eerie, how he never sounded
mad or angry or upset. I didn't like it.
My hands tightened marginally around his throat, threatening.
Warning him to shut the hell up or I really would do it. I would kill
him. But I wouldn't drink his blood. I never wanted any part of this
man inside of me. Ever.
If he felt my grip tighten, he didn't seem all that concerned.
“Do it,” he urged. Grinning. “You are so close to the edge. Loose
your human heart. Drink me, take my darkness. Close the gap,
Marie-chan. Make your pain end. Kill me!” His eyes got wider, but
his tone got softer. “Become the Sakurazukamori. Take the power
from me. Feel nothing. Feel nothing. For once and for all. End the
pain.”
And all I had to do was squeeze.
If I killed him, I would replay the Sakura tree for his death by taking
his place. I knew this. I didn't know how I knew it, but I knew.
My knuckles were white, my hands shaking from the opposing desire
to shatter his spine and shove him away.
Kill him. Become Sakurazukamori. Feel no pain.
Feel nothing.
Never get home.
The thought galvanized me. I sprang to my feet, stumbled back
away from him. He sat up slowly, as if there was a hinge in his waist,
and coughed once. Coughed because strangled people are supposed
to cough, not because he had to.
I picked up my cloak, shook off the cake crumbs, put it on.
“You couldn't do it,” he said. His voice almost held the ghost of
faint disappointment.
“I won't feed you to your own tree,” I said. I took a shaking step
away, twitching fingers reaching for my pouch, scrabbling with the
heavy button in the leather. Panting, desperate. Panicking.
My heat fluttered, my lungs labouring even though I didn't need to
breathe.
Panicking.
He stood. He raised his hand and I gasped.
“If you won't feed me to the tree, then I will feed it you,” he said
calmly, casually.
“No!” I shrieked, “no, no!”
I couldn't... why wouldn't I get my pouch open?! What was wrong
with me? My fingertips felt numb, my body heavy. Seishirou grinned,
marking an elaborate pattern in the air.
My knees shook, threatened to go out from under me, my hand gone
numb.
“No, no,” I sobbed.
I sobbed.
The red tears sprang out of my eyes, tracking hot paths on my cold
face.
“Won't let you,” I growled, “won't, won't.”
I pulled, I tugged.
I gripped the button in my palm and yanked - it tore off.
I was crying harder, my whole torso heaving, panicked, scared,
scared, and so so cold.
And so close.
I fished, slanted my eyes to the side, sought a blank phial with
questing, numbed fingers from the pile at the bottom of the cloth
sack. Found, closed fingers on it, found it, found it, found it.
Squeezed.
Screamed as the broken glass cut into my skin.
Screamed and sobbed and laughed in delight at the confusion that
sprang into Seishirou's one real eye.
Gone.
Fuck you.
I left a piece of my sanity under that cherry tree. In Seishirou's
bloody hand.
…and I think I left it willingly.
Books Thirteen and Fourteen: Pride and
Prejudice / Highlander: The Series
Chapter Thirty-Four: “Quickening”
I ended up somewhere quiet and English. It was all carefully
cultivated woods and sculptured ponds and wild roses.
I sat in the shade and picked the glass out of my hand and cried,
and cried and cried.
That had really been it.
I had almost really died, right there.
Died all the way. Permanent-like.
For real.
Died because I couldn't kill him first. Didn't want to.
The sound of someone walking through tall grass yanked me out of
my self pitying thoughts. I wrapped my hand around the handle of
my knife, at the small of my back.
I peered out between the trees and watched Colin Firth peel down
to his undershirt, then jump into a pond. My, my, I thought to
myself. Darling Bridget was right.
Good. Good. Nothing scary here. Nothing worse than Miss Bingley,
and her I could handle.
Safe. Oh, god. Safe.
I didn't bother them. Lizzie would have enough to deal with that
day. I melted back into the shadows and passed my twenty four
hours peacefully snoozing lightly to avoid the nightmares, waking
myself up if they started to turn dark. I rested under the green
shade of the trees, perfectly content knowing that not a one of
them was a Sakura.
Safe.
I slept and the man in black was there, but he said nothing.
=====
I landed lightly on my feet in the middle of a crowded street. I
tensed, hand on my dagger hilt, ready to lash out, to fight to
escape the crush of a lynch mob.
No one stopped to gape at me, no one cussed or screamed, or even
pointed at my strange, bloody clothing.
Huh.
I straightened slowly, letting go of my hidden weapon.
Yay for the cynical city-dwellers of the world.
I wrapped my cloak around me to hide the gaping hole in my tunic
and shirt and looked around.
I was in the midst of a twilight crowd of shoppers, lovers, and
tourists. One glance up and down the street revealed a river banked
on both sides by cement, pleasant paths, cobblestones, little
trapped trees, and elegant six storied apartment buildings. The
sidewalk was filled with quaint little shops, cafes with chairs and
tables that poured out onto the street, and striped awnings.
All around me, French buzzed in my ears.
I walked across the road, dodging the manic city drivers in their
absurdly tiny European cars, and leaned against the railing that
separated me from the water. I stretched up on my tip toes and
narrowed my eyes at the cylindrical building that sat upriver of me.
It was on an island in the middle of the water, lights glowing in
between the flying buttresses and from the eyes of the fearsome
stone gargoyles.
“Well, I'll be damned,” I muttered to myself. “Notre-Dame.”
Beside me, an older British man and his wife, who were also
enjoying the view, turned to look at me.
“It's quite the sight, isn't it?” the woman asked in her rolling, lyrical
accent.
“Sure is,” I said.
“Are you American?” the man asked.
“Canadian,” I corrected. “Everyone makes that mistake. The accent
is similar. How do I get to the Cathedral?”
The woman pointed. “There's a bridge a few blocks that way.”
“Thanks!” I said, and pushed myself away from the railing. I
jammed my hands into my pockets and began to stroll.
“Wait!” the man called, “The church is closed to tourists at this
hour.”
“I know,” I said with a grin. “I just wanted to go look at it. I can't
go in it, anyway.”
The man and his wife shared a puzzled glance. “Why not?” the
woman asked.
I laughed. “I'm a Vampire. The crucifixes would never let me past
the front door.”
They both went pale at the same time and turned away from me.
God, I was such a cruel bitch sometimes.
I loved it.
=====
As I walked towards Notre-Dame-de-Paris, the most famous
cathedral in all of literature, I wondered what fandom I could
possibly be in. It was too early-nineties to be “Hunchback”. I had
already visited “Phantom of the Opera”, so I knew I wasn't there.
Unless my theory of fractal realities had been true. It certainly
would explain how Galadriel's Mirror functioned - it showed the
result of choices as they were played out in other dimensions.
I was running through the possibilities in my head when a severe
headache suddenly descended on me. The sheer agony of it was
nothing compared to the shock. I couldn't believe I could feel
something that hurt this much.
I stopped and leaned against the railing, the heels of my hands
pressed against my temples, as if I could hold my head together and
keep it from cracking apart.
Good God, I thought, What the Hell is this? I haven't had a
headache this bad since I was alive…
As suddenly as it was there, the buzzing, scalding pain was gone.
Had it been because of a slip-shift I had done too soon? Was it the
slip-sickness again? No, I didn't think it was. It certainly didn't feel
the same. The sickening vertigo was not present - this wasn't
stomach-roiling dizziness, this was hot-poker pain. And it had
vanished so fast. But then again, every injury I got healed fast, and
every kind of pain too.
It had to have been a really spectacular migraine for me to have
felt it at all.
Maybe I had been shot in the head.
I hadn't heard a gun go off. I touched the back of my skull. I didn't
feel anything wet.
I remained leaning against the railing, resting back on my elbows. I
craned my head back to put my face to the sky, my neck one long
arched line. It felt good to stretch like that and I took a deep
breath and let it out slowly, closing my eyes.
God, that had hurt.
I wondered why it had happened.
Then I felt something cold, sharp, and metallic press against my
throat and stopped wondering. I had something more important to
worry about.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I lowered my chin until my head was level. I
opened my eyes and found myself staring into cold green ones, like
chips off of an iceberg. A man stood right in front of me, far too
close for comfort.
I cussed to myself. I had been too wrapped up in the pain to hear or
smell his approach. And now I was going to pay for it.
He had a wicked little switch blade pressed against the skin of my
neck.
“In the alley,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the one right
behind him on the far side of the road. I heard him speak French
and still understood him. Apparently, I hadn't lost what I had gained
by feasting on French thieves in the Phantom's fandom. That was a
nice discovery.
“I have no money,” I said truthfully.
“I'm not going to mug you,” he replied, and his face split into an
ugly smile. Suddenly, I felt less confident. My stomach dropped a
little, and I allowed myself to panic, just a bit.
He wanted something, and it wasn't money.
Did he know what I was?
Had he seen me arrive?
No. No, it couldn't be that, could it?
“I hear I'm a lousy lay,” I said, but quieter. I realized that his own
arm was blocking the view of the knife he held from the passers by.
To anyone around us, we looked like lovers having an intimate
conversation on the banks of the Seine.
“I don't want that, either,” he whispered, then reached down and
twined his fingers in mine, to make me hold his hand. To continue
the illusion. With a tug he yanked me across the road, and I let him
only because I didn't want to be hit by a car.
We reached the far side of the road and I let him pull me a few
steps into the darkness of the alley before I put on the brakes. I'm a
Vampire - when I don't want to go anywhere, no one is strong
enough to make me. No human, at least, and this man was human
because the moment I stopped moving he couldn't budge me an inch.
He let go of my hand and turned to face me.
He looked angry, and I was feeling slightly more confident.
I had the ability to keep him from pushing me around.
The knife was worrisome, as was his interest in me and the
mysterious reason behind it, but he wasn't anything I couldn't
handle. I hoped.
The sun was setting at my back, and in a few moments I would have
all my powers at my call. He had just pulled his own doom into the
alley behind him. Darkness was my place, and I was the predator
here.
He frowned at my grin and reached into the inner lining of his coat.
At first I thought he was going to draw a gun, and tensed for the
shot I knew would come. I wasn't relishing the thought of the
feeling of a bullet ripping through my body, but I knew it couldn't
kill me. Seishirou's fist hadn't killed me. It wasn't close enough to
sunset yet for me to be able to escape the bullet.
I was surprised to see not a gun, but a full sized Italian rapier come
out of his coat.
“Where the Hell were you keeping that?” I asked, incredulous, and
his reply was to snarl and lunge at me. “Are you Doctor Who?” I
danced out of the way, circling around behind him, moving away
from the street and the prying eyes of passers-by. He turned to face
me and I took a few steps backwards to draw him further into the
shadows.
Just a minute more and I could fight back.
This guy was pissing me off, and I decided that turn about would be
fair play. He was trying to prey on me, so I would make him my
supper.
He lunged again, thrusting the blade at me artfully. He wasn't going
for style, but functionality. He wasn't trying to fight me, he was
trying to kill me.
I sank as far back into the shadows of a dumpster as I could, and
called out, just a voice in the darkness, “This is hardly fair, you
know.” I paused to take a breath and watched him turn in a circle,
trying to figure out where my voice was coming from. His night
vision was no where comparable to mine.
With a shuddering sensation, I felt the rushing wash of power tingle
over me, like cold water and electricity all at once. I let my eyes
burn yellow, let my fangs extend. Finally. “You're armed and little
old me is outmatched.”
“Draw your sword,” the man snarled, “and face me!”
“Are you deaf or just stupid?” I asked, moving carefully and slowly
within the shadows to avoid making a sound with my booted feet.
Good thing I was still wearing Elven boots. They were excellent for
sneaking. “Did I not just say that I'm unarmed?”
Okay. Total lie because I had my knife and my wand, but he didn't
know that. I could have pulled my wand, but I didn't want to risk
making enough noise doing it for him to locate me.
He turned to where I had been standing and plunged his sword into
the shadows. I was several steps away, but now I was getting
worried. To have figured out where my voice had been coming from
just by two sentences, he was better than I thought.
I entertained the notion of just slipping down into my bat form and
flying away, finding dinner somewhere else, when he turned quickly
and shoved his sword on an upward diagonal into my chest.
I choked back a little scream.
Jesus god that hurt!
And what's with guys impaling me lately? I liked it better when
they were all trying to screw me...
I felt his blade scrape against my rib cage and shrieked pain. I took
a step forward as he tried to withdraw the blade to keep it from
moving. My hands spasmed around the hilt - he kept trying to pull it
out, to jiggle it free and it shook my bones. I clutched at it, trying
to make him hold still. It hurt, god, it hurt so much…
He kicked me in the chest and it sent me spiralling backwards, off
the sword, and slamming into the brick wall behind me.
I smacked my head and hit the grimy pavement hard.
I saw blackness and couldn't tell if my eyes were closed or not. He
came at me, the sword raised above his head for a killing blow, and
there was nothing I could do about it.
“There can be only one!” he said, smiling down at me triumphantly,
and the look of sheer shock on my face made him pause. Well, that,
and he had just noticed the glowing yellow eyes. “Christ, what are
you?!” he yelped, and I took the opportunity to spring to my feet.
“Christ has nothing to do with me,” I said and with a little spurt of
preternatural speed, snatched the sword from his hand. I shoved
him backwards and he hit the alley wall opposite me and hit the
ground in a daze.
I raised the sword above my head and stalked towards him. Blood
streamed down my chest, across my leg, pudding on the pavement.
My fingers and toes were going cold. I paused at his feet and waited
for him to look up at me, his eyes unfocussed and glassy. He was
concussed. But he was coming out of the daze quickly - he, too,
healed fast.
“If I let you go, right now,” I said, “Will you come after me again?”
He snarled, “Yes! I sensed a very unique Quickening in you. I want
it!”
“Fine,” I said, and swung downwards.
His head left his body.
After all, decapitation is the only way to kill an Immortal. Anyone
who had watched “Highlander” knew that.
I watched the white mist collect around his corpse, and suddenly
feared what I knew was about to happen next. When an Immortal is
decapitated, it releases what is, in essence, their soul and/or
memories. That is called the Quickening. The Quickening erupts
from the corpse in a violent electrical storm and basically fries the
nearest Immortal and fills them with their dead opponent's essence.
What worried me was that he had obviously sensed me as he senses
other Immortals, with that buzzing headachy feeling. And that's
what my mini-migraine had been. And if he had perceived me as an
Immortal, then the Quickening was about to as well.
I did not want this guy inside me.
I dropped into my bat shape and pushed off against the brick wall of
the alley, flapping as hard as I could to escape the lightning.
I was too late.
The arcs of energy slammed into me and I was startled back into my
human form. I had been well above the building, and I dropped
from the sky as the lightning chased me down, slamming into my
body in waves of pain and pleasure. I shrieked as I fell.
I slammed into the pavement hard, felt bones break, my head
crunch, the electricity dancing through my nerve endings, making
me jerk like some sick cracked puppet. My head felt like raw
hamburger, spilling all over the pavement.
It felt like it would go on forever and I wanted to die.
And then it was gone, just like that.
For a brief second I was not myself. This man whom I had beheaded
- I had not 'killed' him, it was self defence, he was Immortal, it
didn't count, I told myself hastily - was in my head. I knew his name,
his life, I had his memories and suddenly, I had all his sword skills,
too.
I sat up slowly, carefully, feeling bits of me snapping back into
place, the wounds closing, the bones fusing. My brains were back
inside my head.
And then suddenly the migraine was back.
I could smell a man behind me and ignoring the pain in my head, I
reached out and snatched the dead Immortal's sword off the ground,
where I had dropped it. I lifted it and spun around on my knees,
raising the blade to point at his chest.
He held up his hands, startled, at said, “Don't shoot. I come in
peace.”
I snarled at him. I couldn't see his face for the light behind his head
from the street lamp, and I didn't like that. “Come into the alley
where I can see you,” I said.
He took an obliging step forward and lowered his hands. He jammed
them into his pockets. “That was quite the nasty fall,” he said, and
I detected the faint brogue of a long forgotten accent on his voice.
“I'm not here for your head. My name is Duncan.”
I stood warily, keeping my eyes on him and my hands wrapped in a
white-knuckled grip around the rapier. “Duncan?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” he said. “Nice eyes, by the way.” He sounded casual, but
he smelled nervous.
I closed my eyes and willed the glow of the beast out of them.
When I opened them a blink later, they were blue.
“Whoa,” Duncan said, and I saw his pasted-on-smile falter.
“Yeah,” I said. “Whoa.”
=====
“That's quite the hole in your shirt,” Duncan said. He held said
punctured shirt up to his face and stared at me through it. It was
roughly the width of a man's arm, ringed in blood and dried-on
pieces of my inside-bits.
I snuggled down into his couch, pulling the fluffy terry cloth robe up
around my ears, revelling in the feeling of being clean, clean, clean.
Denying the pain that was illustrated in the shirt. Hot showers were
lovely, lovely things and I resolved to never ever slide to
somewhere without them ever again.
“What do you want me to do with this thing?” Duncan asked.
“Burn it,” I suggested.
“Do you have another shirt?”
“Even if I didn't, do you really think I could wear that one out in
public?”
He looked at the perforated, Middle-Earthian silk. “Point taken.” He
moved over to the small, free-standing wood stove in the middle of
the room and pitched it in. “Pity,” he said, “the material was really
nice. What was it?”
“Gondorian, I believe,” I dead panned.
He blinked at me. “Riiiiight,” he said. “I'm just gonna go see if
Amanda's left any shirts here that may fit you. Failing that, I have
numerous big fluffy sweaters.”
“Big fluffy sweaters work for me,” I said.
He walked out of the room, and I was impressed.
I had been in the re-fitted barge that Duncan MacLeod called home
for a whole hour and he had yet to ask me, even once, how an
Immortal like me could turn into a bat.
The man has patience in spades, I'll give him that.
While I was waiting for Duncan to come back into the room, I
reached over to the book shelf beside the arm of the couch and
plucked “The Fellowship of the Ring” out of the pack. I began to
flip through it, until I found the Council of Elrond.
“Poncey hypocrite,” I said to the first page that had Legolas' name
on it.
There.
I felt much, much better.
Now... what to do about dinner?
Book Fourteen: Highlander: The Series
Chapter Thirty-Five: “Try Me”
The migraine came back. I clutched my head and tried to will it
away sooner.
At least I knew what it was, now. Though I didn't know why the
Quickening buzzed between my ears, as if I was an Immortal.
Maybe it was because I was a type of Immortal?
Maybe the difference that the guy in the alley had felt was my
Vampirism? Could Duncan feel the difference? Or had it been just he
residual magik of the slide that had twinged the stranger?
My thoughts threatened to stray to the man I had murdered -self
defence, it wasn't murder- and how I now carried a part of him in
my body.
No, no, down into the nightmare-box with you, sir.
Keep all my other deaths and betrayals company.
“Mac?” an accented male voice called down into the barge over the
screaming pain in my head. It faded as he got closer. To enter the
boat-house, a guest had to go up a gangplank to reach the deck,
and then down stairs though a square hole in the ceiling. “Mac, you
here?” the voice called.
“In the bedroom,” Duncan shouted back.
The sound of footsteps beside the entrance hesitated.
“... you got company?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh... ah... I'll come back later,” the voice said.
I giggled.
“What? Why, come down and join us,” Duncan replied.
“...what?”
I felt pity for the man at the door. “Duncan is in the bedroom,” I
called up. “I am on the couch. Dressed.”
“Oh. Oh,” the man said. Then one black hiking boot appeared on
the top stair, followed by its mate. Slim legs in tight blue jeans. A
bulky fisherman's sweater, just a bit too loose. Long neck, narrow
shoulders, thin, scholarly face. Surprised hazel eyes. Close-cropped
dark hair.
Well, hello dinner, I thought, smiling. Ask and ye shall receive.
“Uh, hi,” the man said, rubbing his hand on his thigh to rid it of any
barge-railing-grime, then coming forward to proffer it, “I'm, ah, I'm
Adam.”
“Nice to meet you Adam, I'm Marie.”
We shook, then he went directly to the fridge in the galley and took
out two beers. “You want?” he said, craning his head to hold up a
third beer. He shook it gently, temptingly.
“Nah,” I said. “Don't drink... beer.”
“Mac's got wine,” he said, closing the door with a little bump of his
slim hips.
I smiled. “Should you be offering Mac's booze?”
The man laughed and sat down beside me on the couch. He put his
feet up on the old trunk that served as coffee table and popped the
top of a beer bottle on the lip of the cabinet beside him. The scores
in the worn wood suggested that Adam had been opening his beers
this way for a while now. The other beer stood waiting, perspiring
patiently, for Duncan to come and claim it.
“You're not holding any, so I would say that Mac has been remiss in
his duties as a host, and it is my duty to amend that.” He smiled at
me and it was such a nice smile. So mischievous.
I raised an eyebrow. “What a considerate friend,” I said.
“I am,” he agreed, taking a swig of beer. “Too considerate.”
“Glad to see you two are getting along,” Duncan said from the top
of the stair. He tossed me a shirt and I plucked it out of the air
easily. “You met before?”
“Nope,” I said. “I just got here.”
I stood up and crossed paths with Duncan, me going into the
bathroom to change, and him going to take up my vacated spot on
the couch. He gave his friend a sideways look when he noticed that
his fridge had already been raided, then sighed and opened his own
beer.
“Make yourself at home,” Duncan said with a touch of the ironic in
his voice.
“Mi casa es su casa,” I head Adam say as I shut the door behind me.
I shed the terrycloth robe and shrugged into the tight black, highnecked tee-shirt. Duncan had also been considerate enough to leave
me a bra on the sink. It was a bit big, just a tad too loose, but it
was better than showing. I put this on, and looked at myself in the
mirror.
Everything was so tight looking. The Elvin pants were still fine, so I
had kept them, but they were more thick tights than trousers, and
even the boots were cut close. But with the black shirt I looked like
a ballet dancer. I wandered into Duncan's room and found a grey
button-up shirt that was way too girly to be his, and put that on
over top. Much better - now I didn't look so much like a spandexclad superhero.
I shuddered at the thought.
Yeah, me, Marie Susan, Vampire Superhero.
My code-name could be Crimson Moonlight and I could have the
supernatural ability to make villains fall all over themselves trying
to get me out on a date.
Ha.
I had to roll up the sleeves because Amanda was taller than me, and
I left the shirt undone. Then I went back into the main room.
“How'd I look?” I said, doing a little twirl.
“Very nice,” Duncan offered platonically.
“Yowza,” Adam said appreciatively. I liked his answer better. “Nice
belt.”
“Gift from a friend,” I said.
Adam pointed to the book I had left on the end-table. “Fan of
Tolkien?” he asked.
“No,” I said, crossing the room to join him and Duncan. Wishing I
could get drunk. “Not any more.”
=====
“When did you get to Paris?” Adam asked as I perched on a chair
opposite the couch. Duncan had jumped up and offered me his
place, but I was more comfortable on the far side of the old trunk
from the two Immortal men. It was my understanding, having
watched the show off and on for a few years, that Immortal men
tended to try to seduce anything that obliged.
Combined with Sueism, this whole situation was just asking for a
few problems.
And I wasn't ready. Not for shit like that.
Not after Seishirou had No.
Sort that into the box.
Smile. Answer the man.
“Today,” I said. “But I've been before.”
“Yeah? When?”
Good question. “Um. 1890s?” I offered dumbly.
“What happened to you?” Duncan asked, pointing at the punctured
Elvish frock draped across the back of another chair. The hole and
blood were clearly visible. I had kept it in hopes of being able to
patch it up, but looking at the damage now, I didn't think it would
be possible.
The dead Immortal's sword lay beside it. Now mine, I supposed,
though I hadn't cleaned it nor had a sheath for it. I wouldn't take it
with me, because my knife and my wand were enough and I couldn't
be sure I wouldn't be arrested for carrying it around in public in the
next world.
But they thought I was Immortal, and every Immortal needed a
sword, so I'd kept it. For now.
“Guy stuck his arm though my chest,” I said. I wanted it to sound
flip, but my throat was suddenly too tight and my heart was
fluttering wildly, trying to escape the essence memory of being
impaled on the Sakurazukamori's hand.
Duncan's eyes bugged out. “All the way through?”
“Yup.” I smiled through my teeth.
Adam winced. “He the guy you beheaded?”
I shot him a look.
“Duncan told me when you were changing.”
Hm.
I turned the glare to him.
“What?” he asked innocently. “I'd never seen anything like that
before. I was getting a second opinion.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, the guy whose Quickening I took was not the
guy who impaled me.”
Adam sat up. Now he was a little concerned. I didn't know much
about Adam, save for his biggest dirty secret, and the fact that he
was a total survivalist. If he thought there were Immortals out there
shoving their arms through other people's chests, he would probably
go find a cave to hide in until someone'd taken the psycho's head.
Duncan, on the other hand, would seek the man out directly.
“What happened? Why?”
I shrugged. “He knew what I was. Wanted my power. Thought a
ritual murder would give it to him.”
Adam set down his beer, licked his lips, and rubbed his palms on his
thighs. This was getting less and less like the kind of situation he
wanted to be a part of.
“Don't worry,” I said casually. I smiled thinly. “He's dead, too.”
No, he's not, my inner voice chided me.
Not here, can't get here, I snarked back. Close enough.
Adam picked his beer back up and sprawled back into the couch
once more.
“So, getting back to the glowing eyes and the bat thing,” Duncan
nudged gently.
“Your imagination,” I said.
He snorted and Adam lot out a sort of deep chuckle.
“I'm a witch,” I tried again.
The laugher increased.
“Fine, I'm a Vampire.”
By this time they were howling. I let them.
“Seriously,” Duncan said.
“Seriously,” I echoed back, straight faced.
This made the mirth fade a bit. Adam was still smiling, but there
was a new wariness in his eyes.
“I don't believe you,” Duncan said stonily.
“Believe me or not, I'm not much with the caring right now,” I said
with an eloquent shrug.
Duncan stood and began to pace. Adam and I regarded each other
coolly over the trunk. He finished his beer and set down the bottle,
then reached for Duncan's half finished one.
I made a face.
“Not like I'm gonna die from his cooties,” Adam said.
It was true.
Abruptly, Duncan grabbed his coat. “I gotta make a phone call,” he
said. “I'll be back soon.”
“Say hi to Joe for me,” Adam said casually, but there was a
crackling tension in the air.
Duncan was going to go talk to his friend Joe Dawson about me. Joe
was a Watcher, a secret organization that Immortals weren't
supposed to know about that kept discreet tabs on Immortals and
their Game. He would ask Joe about me, see if I was on file. Try to
figure out if I was pulling his leg.
If I was dangerous.
Duncan nodded at Adam, “You gonna be okay here? I have dinner in
the fridge.”
Will you be able to watch her? What if she is a Vampire and tries to
eat you.
“Tosh,” Adam scoffed. “Eat your food? We'll be fine. I know how to
call in for pizza.”
I can handle myself. I don't believe she's a Vampire. I'll call you if I
need you.
I watched this secret communication with interest, and then Duncan
was gone.
An empty silence hung heavy and slightly awkward between Adam
and I.
“So... why don't you like the Lord of the Rings?” he finally asked
once he had finished the second beer. He picked up the novel and
flipped through it, eyes skimming but not reading.
“Dated a guy once,” I said. “Reminded me a lot of Legolas. Kind
and smart and thoughtful and handsome and I thought... well, I
thought a lot of stupid things.”
“Like?”
“Like he loved me.”
Adam's face grew sympathetic. Slightly pitying. On anyone else it
would have aggravated me.
But I was talking to the World's Oldest Living Immortal.
From him, it was therapeutic.
Adam Pierson was about 5 000 years old.
If anyone knew anything about loosing love and being hurt, it was
him, and the thought that he understood soothed me.
“What changed?”
I shrugged, frowning. Feeling petulant and angry and hurt and like I
wanted to curl up in a ball and cease to exist. Thinking of Legolas
still made me feel like a naughty child, like a horrid monster, like a
failure. Like all the things he had accused me of being.
“He found out what I was.”
“Ah,” Adam said softly. A world of infinite understanding was
nestled in that single syllable.
“I thought,” I admitted. “I had thought that this one time, it
wouldn't have mattered. That all the bullshit, all the magic, all the
clichés and conventions and inevitability hadn't trapped us this time.
I thought he had loved me.”
Adam sat forward, rested his elbows on his angular knees. “You
thought he loved you. All he loved was the illusion. You thought
you'd found happiness, finally. A place. But you think you can never
have either, because of what you are.”
He still thought I was an Immortal. I could tell by the tone in his
voice.
But Adam wasn't wrong.
“And that's the crux of it, isn't it?” I said softly. “These are the sorts
of things that people like me are allowed to want. But never
allowed to have.”
“Is that something you're resigned to?” Adam asked softly.
“Is it something I should be resigned to?”
He sat back, laying against the cushions. “The complete and utter
void of satisfaction or happiness in one's life?” There was a long
pause. “No. No, I don't agree. It doesn't matter who you are, what
you've done, or how long you've lived; everyone has the right to
pursue happiness.”
“Because the alternative is unthinkable,” I whispered.
He sat up slowly, green eyes wide, face slightly pale. Tense. Every
muscle a burning rope screaming at him to run, a taught line of
bone and carefully controlled panic.
“How do you know about that?” he hissed.
It was a good question. Those had been the very words that had
convinced Alexa, his 69th wife, to finally allow him to date her.
Alexa, who had been dying, even as he had endured and courted
her. Alexa, whom a terminal illness stole from him before a year of
their marriage had even passed. And he had known it was coming.
She had told him and he had loved her anyway.
Their bower had been her deathbed.
I met his horrified gaze square. He looked like a rabbit. He smelled
like food, suddenly, and I was reminded that I had planned to use
him as my pomme du sang tonight. That I had not fed in a day.
Telling him I was Vampire was one thing.
Telling him that I knew he was Methos and that his entire world was
a cultish sci-fi series that had ran on cable in the early nineties was
something else entirely.
I settled on half-truths. If I could convince him I was a Vampire,
maybe he would believe in mind-reading. Or alternate realities.
No need to tell him he was a fictional character played by a Welsh
ex-trampoline champion.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” I settled on. “I told you I
was a Vampire and you laughed at me.”
“Yeah?” he said. There was no malice in him. The scent of fear
spiked, then ebbed. It was overshadowed by the tang of curiosity.
“Yeah.”
He leaned forward, eyes practically glowing in their intensity. “Try
me.”
Book Fourteen: Highlander: The Series
Chapter Thirty-Six: “A Tour of Paris”
I found Methos sitting on the steps of Notre-Dame cathedral, elbows
on his knees and chin on his laced fingers. His scent had been fresh
on the breeze, easy to track. I took my time wandering after him,
enjoying the crisp Parisian night, giving him the chance to absorb
what had just happened.
What I had said.
I walked across the stone courtyard outside of the massive, night-lit
cathedral, pausing momentarily at the little stone marker that said
“pointe zero” - the place from which all distances in France are
measured - and looked to my right. Yes, there, across the quay was
Adam Pierson's second hand book shop “Shakespeare and Company”.
The yellow and brown sign was just visible through the green foliage
of the trees along the curb.
I smiled at the thought of all the priceless (probably waterlogged)
scrolls and wines in its hidden basement, then turned to look at
Methos. He was watching me with wary, narrowed hazel eyes, his
lips a tight line.
His instincts were probably warring between fight and flight, though
his brain was probably telling him to just chop my head off already.
I stood still and watched his face get harder as he struggled with
accepting that I knew who and what he was because I was from an
alternate reality.
He wasn’t taking it as badly as Jareth had, but he hadn’t been as
accepting as Remus, either.
He had listened to everything I had said.
Then he had stood up, his face and unreadable marble sculpture,
and walked out of the barge.
“Trying to avoid me?” I said, gesturing to the church behind him.
“No,” he said. “I'd go inside if I wanted that. It's quiet here.”
“Thinking then.”
“Yeah.”
I sat down beside him without being invited. For a long moment we
sat in silence. We both stared straight ahead, and I listened to the
soothing pattern of his slow, thoughtful breathing. It helped to
soothe my own jangled nerves.
“There's no such thing as Vampires,” he said, suddenly. I blinked
and turned to face him. “You may know I'm Methos. Maybe you read
the chronicles. And you may even be from an alternate reality. But I
don't believe in things that go bump in the night. I'm five thousand
years old - if they existed, I'd have heard about them by now.”
Apparently he hadn’t met the demon that killed Richie yet. Hm.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. I grinned wide, flashing my retracted canines.
He blanched slightly, but said nothing. If I could get him to accept
that I was a Vampire, that may explain why he took the appearance
of the demon in season five so well. “Willing to bet on that?”
He dropped his hands and his posture relaxed slightly. I guess he
had decided that I was no longer a major threat. The acrid,
delicious scent of fear ebbed away, though he remained slightly
tensed, ready to jump up if I did anything unwelcome.
He leaned his elbows back against the step above him, and made a
smug face. “What will you bet?” he asked.
I thought. I didn’t have much of anything to offer. Very little cash,
no material things. But I could steal money easily enough. I could
get him something.
I could get him drunk.
And if he was drunk, I could go back to my original plan - having
Methos for dinner.
Mmmm. Vintage.
“A meal,” I said at length. “If you can prove to me that Vampires
aren't real, I'll buy you dinner at any restaurant you want.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Any restaurant? As expensive as I like?” I
could see the hamster in the wheel gaining speed.
I raised my eyebrow to match. “With beer after beer until you slide
under the table.”
“I'm Immortal. I don't get drunk fast.”
“I know.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Okay. And if you win?”
“Same. You provide a meal for me.”
He thought about the implications of that. “Expensive restaurant,
all the booze you can drink, yadda yadda?” he asked warily.
“No,” I said. “If I win, we'll still go to the restaurant, and you'll still
get your expensive meal.”
He sat up again and cocked his head. He narrowed his eyes again, as
if trying to figure out where he could be missing the loophole. He
gave up trying to puzzle it out and asked, “So where do I loose
out?”
I grinned. “Afterwards you have to take me back to your place.”
His mouth spread into a sly smile that matched mine. “Still not
seeing where I loose out.”
“And let me drink your blood.”
His smile faltered. The colour drained from his face a little bit.
“From the neck?” he whispered. “I'm a little touchy about my neck.
Understandably.”
“Anywhere is fine,” I said.
He swallowed heavily. “Ah, okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “Either
way, I'm getting a nice dinner with a pretty lady, aren't I?”
I nodded.
He stuck out his hand and I shook it. We had a deal.
“Now,” he said. “Prove Vampires exist.”
“What proof would you accept?”
He stared at the church behind me. I shuddered. He was
uncomfortable with the thought of me drinking his blood, and this
was his revenge. He wanted to make me uncomfortable, too.
Carefully, I stood on shaking legs. “You realize that if this all goes
horribly wrong, I could be consumed in holy fire in a matter of
seconds?” I said. I tried to sound flip, but my heart was in the back
of my mouth, trying to escape.
He stood as well, following me to his feet. “I'll pull you back and
toss you in the Seine. I won't get my free beer if you're dead.”
I snorted. Slowly, I walked up the steps towards the door. This
would be the first time I had ever attempted to enter a holy place
since my death. The door was unlocked, and I pushed it open slowly,
letting it creak.
A night support staff protected the cathedral's treasures and
granted midnight petitioners absolution of their sins, so the church
was always open to those who sought God's solace.
I wondered if I would be allowed inside. Maybe God didn't care
about my Vampirism. Maybe the only reason Lucard and his Zombies
couldn't get inside the church back in Luxembourg wasn't because of
their biology, but because of their sins.
Because they were murderers and metaphysical monsters.
Which didn't say much for me, his daughter.
Would being Lucard's kin automatically make me a sinner too? Was
my soul - if I even had one still - tarnished by his touch?
Or would the fact that I beheaded a man not four hours ago do it?
Other Immortals could go into churches after taking heads, why
couldn’t I?
I put a hand out it front of me, and stepped forward slowly.
If I was stopped, I resolved, it was due to my biology and not my
actions. I was not evil.
I was a horrid bitch and I was cranky and an slightly unethical - but I
was not evil.
Almost immediately, I felt resistance.
I had held a secret hope in my heart that the cathedral would let
me in. Methos' proof be damned, I wanted proof for myself that I
was not a monster. It was getting harder and harder to be human.
I needed it.
And it was denied me.
My guts churned. The back of my eyes stung.
I wanted in so badly, and I couldn’t.
I wanted proof that God, whoever and wherever he was didn’t hate
me for something I’d had no control over.
I’d been raped and murdered. I hadn’t chose this. Surely He
wouldn’t punish me for being a victim.
But He had.
He was.
I was at a church, wanting His forgiveness, proof of His love. And I
couldn’t get in.
It wasn't like walking nose-first into a brick wall, more like trudging
through rapidly thickening oatmeal. I thought if I pushed hard
enough, maybe had the right leverage, I could get inside. Maybe.
In that moment, the Christian God died for me.
Fine.
I hadn’t been all that religious before. But if He didn’t want to talk
to me, then I wouldn’t give Him the time of day either. I didn’t
need Him, anyway. I had gotten this far without Him.
The air before me crackled blue and I jumped backwards, eyes wide.
A crucifix inside began to throb a white colour and I dove to the
side to avoid a streak of light that lanced out the open door.
Methos yelped and ducked.
The white energy, frustrated, dissipated in the crisp night air.
“Proof enough?” I asked, panting, back pressed against the carved
lintel.
Adam stood and stared down the church at the nave, and the cross
that had stopped glowing.
“No,” he said.
He went inside and I didn't bother to try to watch where he went
for fear of getting my block knocked off by another stray bolt of
holy lightning.
After a few moments, Adam came back out. His left hand was
glistening.
“What did you doooooaaargh!”
He had grabbed my hand and burned all the flesh he'd touched. I
shoved him away and threw myself backwards, changing into my bat
shape to keep myself from going splat when I hit the paving stones.
I flapped in a wildly spinning circle, the pain in my wing too much
to bear. I dropped to the stones on human hands and knees and
howled, clutching my blackened skin.
“Oh, god, oh, god, I'm sorry,” Methos said, rushing towards me,
wiping his wet hand on his sweater. “I didn't think it would actually
do anything!”
“What the fuck did you do?!” I snarled and he stopped so fast it
looked as if someone had cast the leg-locker on him. He stared at
me, his face completely white, mouth working but no sound coming
out.
I know what scared him.
My eyes were glowing a violent gold, so bright in my agony and fury
that I could see the shadows cast in sharp relief on the pavement
below me. My fangs were distended, sharp and white and glistening
as I bared them at him.
“What was that?!” I snarled.
“H-holy water,” he said softly, jumping at the sound of his own
voice.
“Fuck,” I snarled. “Just… don’t do it again.”
I pulled myself to my feet and when he moved forward to help me, I
let him. He guided me to the edge of the island and I jumped over
the stone railing and landed on the narrow stones at the bottom.
Digging my fingers of my good hand into the stonework, gripping
with my toes through my boots, I dipped my burning hand into the
soothing, filthy water of the Seine.
When all the Holy Water was gone and the throbbing ache had
subsided, I pulled out my hand and inspected it. The flesh was still
burnt black, hanging in oozing strips from my muscles and bones. I
looked like an H-Bomb victim, or the guy from Survivor: Out Back.
The skin was healing, already, but slowly. It hurt.
With a frustrated snarl, I leapt back up the wall, landed lightly on
the railing, then hopped down. Methos took a step back and stared
at me.
“I sure as hell believe you now,” he said.
I snorted. “But you had to burn most of the flesh off my hand to get
there?”
He shrugged slightly, as if he had wanted to shrug but stopped
himself halfway. “You could have been faking the door.”
“And the lightning bolt?”
“Stray Quickening?”
“Huh,” I said, looking at my hand. Around the edges, the blackness
of scorched flesh had begun to recede, like ink being sopped up in a
sponge.
“You're mad at me,” he said softly.
“Of course I'm mad at you!” I snapped. “You burned my hand with
Holy Water!”
He grasped my wrist gently, turned my blackened hand over
between long, gentle fingers. He touched the skin gently and I
hissed at the ache it caused, but didn't pull away. He had been a
doctor before, and more than once, and I could see his clinical gaze
sweeping over the damage.
“It's healing,” he said. “Slower than an Immortal would - no
lightning. I guess you are a Vampire.” He looked up and smiled
sheepishly. “Of course, the whole turning into a bat, leaping over
walls, and glowing eyes sort of helped me come to that conclusion
as well.”
“Hmph.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. He went back to poking gently at my hand.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Actually, yes.”
He raised his eyes to my face. “What?”
“I need a donation. Helps it heal faster. Think of it as being an
appetizer.”
“A-appetizer?” His breathing quickened and his heartbeat sped up.
“You mean me?”
“No one else around,” I said. “Call it payback.”
I grinned. My fangs were still extended. I grabbed his wrist and
before he could protest, jerked it towards my mouth. He cried out
at the sharp movement, and the painful stab of my teeth.
So there, I thought nastily. Serves you right.
The cry turned into a low groan as I began to suck.
His other hand groped and found my shoulder, and he balled his fist
in my grey shirt.
After a few mouthfuls, I pulled away, licking the blood from my lips
and watching as blue lightning flashed over the wound, searing
away the damage.
Electricity tingled inside of me, and I supposed I had absorbed a
small part of his Quickening with his blood. I wondered if it would
try to find its way back to him, like a thunderstorm's lightning bolt
that had only completed half of its circuit.
I wondered how much of his Quickening I would take with his blood
when I fed from him later. If it would try to find a way back to him,
or if my body would absorb it.
I wondered if he had even felt it depart.
I let him go and he clung to me to stay upright, eyes little slivers of
white under fluttering lids.
Oops. Guess he had liked that a little more than I had anticipated.
Maybe Methos was into kinky blood play. If that was true, tonight
just got a whole lot more interesting.
He shook himself all over and stared down at my hand. It was
almost perfectly healed now, itching with the tightness of new skin.
He looked down at his wrist, also healed, a blood smear the only
trace of what my teeth had done to him.
“Uh,” he said softly. “Is it okay for me to admit that I'm a little
turned on right now?”
I laughed and punched him in the arm.
=====
“You seriously want to have dinner on the Eiffel Tower? ” I asked.
He shrugged, closing his cell phone. He had just called Mac to tell
him not to worry about us, and that he was taking me out to dinner.
Duncan asked if he was okay, if he had found out if I really was a
Vampire. Methos had looked smug and said he had found out. And?
Mac had demanded. His reply had been to hang up.
Adam raised his face to the sky, following my gaze to the grid-iron
monstrosity. “Haven’t eaten there yet. Figured I ought to sometime
before it rusts and falls to ruin, and you offered to pay.”
I shook my head, resigned. “You sound like you have experience.”
“The grilled lamb outside of the Library of Alexandria was supposed
to be phenomenal. If I have any regrets, its that I never got around
to trying it.”
I laughed. “Right. Okay. Up we go then.”
He pointed to the south pillar elevator. “Entrance is there. We’re
going to Le Jules Verne, on the second floor.”
I walked beside him, shaking my head again. “Is that seriously what
its called? That’s so… sci-fi.”
“Says the Vampire.” He grinned.
I grinned back, “To the world’s oldest living critter.”
“ 'Critter'?”
I laughed.
We took the elevator up to the second deck of the tower and
disembarked. “Er,” I said suddenly. “Aren’t we gonna need
reservations?”
Adam looked at me. “What, you can’t hypnotize them into giving us
a table?”
“I’m a walking corpse,” I said, “Not David Copperfield.”
He stopped and looked thoughtful. “Got a fistful of hundreds?”
I looked at the thousand bucks I had managed to scam off of a
street mug I had chased down on the way here. Methos had been
suitably impressed with my ability to attract the right kind of thief
by looking vulnerable and touristy, and secondly with my ability to
kick the crap out of him and intimidate him into handing over his
evening’s profits.
“May be able to swing it,” I said, “But if the price list is too high,
we might have to skip desert.”
“Hm,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine - I’ll try the hypnotism thing.”
I caught the eye of the maitre d'. Now. In ‘Dracula: the series’,
Lucard had never out and out hypnotized anyone. He had planted
strong suggestions in weak willed minds, and could freeze his prey
with his stare. I already knew I could freeze people, but I had never
really tried to force new thoughts into a human brain.
I wondered how much of what Lucard could do had to do with
Vampirism and how much with the spells and magiks he seemed to
dabble in. And if I did discover a talent for manipulating a person’s
thoughts, then how much more of my humanity might be stripped
away?
The Maitre d' looked at our less than black-tie attire and wrinkled
his nose.
Asshole.
Right, now I didn't feel so bad trying to mess with his mind.
“Excuze-moi,” I said sweetly in French. He raised his eyes to mine
and I snagged him. behind me I heard Methos suck in a breath as the
Maitre d's posture slumped slightly and his eyes glazed over. He
looked like a rabbit. Mm. “I want a table for two. I see you have
one by the window. You will happily give it to us,” I suggested in
French. I tried to put force into the words. I suppose if this didn’t
work, I could just cast the Imperius curse on him.
The Maitre d' blinked, sucked in a breath, hesitated. Looked like he
was fighting.
“Not woooorking...” Methos singsonged in English.
“Shut up. Sir, you will happily give us that empty table because the
man standing behind me is an American movie star. Your favourite
one.”
Methos guffawed and covered his mouth with his hand.
That seemed to have done it.
I released the Maitre d' by looking away. At first the sneer remained.
He looked me up and down and stared at his seating chart.
“I am sorry, but there are no empty tables right now, but if--” He
stopped talking when he spotted Methos behind me. His face went
white and his jaw dropped. “I… are you…?” he said in hesitant
English. “Are you who I zink you are?”
Methos came forward and shook the flustered Maitre d's hand. “Ah
shurly am,” he said in a fairly impressive approximation of a
southern drawl. It was my turn to guffaw. “This pretty lady here has
always wanted to dine in a famous tower, and I thought, heck,
while I’m in Paris, why don’t we check out that fine Jules Verne
place?” He frowned slightly and drew back his hand. “Course, if you
ain't go no free tables, we’ll go somewheres else.”
“Non, non!” the Maitre d' said hastily. “I.. .I vill zee vhat I can do…”
He scurried away and Methos turned to me, face cracked in a huge
smile, chuckling like a madman. “Oh, this is too fun,” he said in his
own international accent.
The Maitre d' himself showed us to a cozy table in the very corner of
the restaurant. It was framed on two sides by glass paneling. All of
Paris spread out before us, twinkling and silent.
The décor was black and white - we both had comfortable black
leather chairs, and the china was black, stark against the white
linens. A single nosegay of bright magenta flowers jumped out of
the contrast.
A bucket of fine champagne was already cooling in a brushed silver
stand beside our table, and I raised my eyebrows at Methos.
“I’m an ACT-or, dahling,” he drawled.
I grinned.
“It’s, euh, on ze house,” the Maitre d' said, indicating the
champagne. “Shall I open it for you?”
“Please,” I said.
With a graceful twist of his hand and a loud pop, the alcohol that
was probably worth as much as my last ten paycheques was poured
into our glasses.
“If you need anyting, anyting at all,” the Maitre d' simpered,
looking at Methos, “Please don’t 'esitate to call for me.”
With that, he swept away.
Methos and I held our glasses up.
“Cheers,” he said. “To a successful scam.”
I laughed. “And a free meal, possibly.”
“Two free meals,” he corrected, scratching his neck nervously.
Our glasses touched, and I watched him sip. His slender throat, a
lickable column of pale flesh, arched gracefully as his adam's apple
bobbed.
Mmm. Distracting.
I smelled the Champagne, wrenching my eyes away from his neck.
Like wine, within the initial scent of the bubbling liquid was the
thousands of subtle nuances that made up the alcohol. Sunlight on
fields, fresh crisp autumns, rainstorms and soil.
I took a small, luxurious mouthful, groaned, and closed my eyes.
Oh, this was way better than Trieze's wine.
I swallowed happily, my whole body warm and content with the
orgasmic sensation of tasting the entire life-span of the grapes,
then opened my eyes.
Methos was watching me with much the same slack-jawed lust as I
had been ogling him as he drank his champagne.
“You can drink that?” he asked, clearing his throat in an attempt to
cough away the huskiness that had dropped into it.
“I’ll have to, eh, get rid of it later,” I admitted, trying to put it
delicately. “But it tastes divine.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice and folding his hands over his
unopened menu. “Better than my blood?” he asked.
I leaned forward to meet him. “No,” I said. “The champagne is good,
but you’re quality. Vintage.”
He blushed furiously and pulled back. “I … uh… what does it taste
like?”
“Blood,” I said. “But better. Delicious. Like the most wonderful
food in the world - the sweetest wine, chocolate, blackberries and
strawberries and every delectable thing there ever was. Only it just
tastes like blood. With you - you tasted like comfort and
satisfaction and … I don’t know. Something older - purer. Closer to
the source, you know? Your blood was clear and heady and … crisp.
Like drinking straight from a mineral spring instead of the bottled
stuff.”
“Older and purer?” he repeated. His voice was hushed. I shrugged.
He seemed to be contemplating this. “Do Immortals taste different
from Mortals?”
“Yes,” I said. “From what I can tell, Immortals have a bit of a kick
to their blood.”
He raised both eyebrows. “A kick?”
“Like sticking my tongue in an electric socket.”
He smiled, nodded, understanding. “The Quickening.”
“Probably,” I agreed, having more or less come to that conclusion
myself.
The Maitre d' swept down, re-filled our glasses, and took our orders.
“Ah want the most ex-pensive thang on yer menu,” Methos drawled.
“And for the miss?” the Maitre d' asked, pen poised above his
notepad eagerly.
“Steak tartare,” I said. “As blue as possible.”
The Maitre d' struggled not to make an 'ew' face. Methos coughed to
cover a laugh.
“In fact,” I said, enjoying the Maitre d's expression, decided to cop
a line from The Tenth Kingdom, “Don’t even cook it. Show it the
oven, let it get scared, then bring it to me. Mooing.”
The Maitre d' nodded and beat a hasty retreat.
Methos and I laughed for maybe five minutes straight. The patrons
around us glared, annoyed with our disturbance, but we ignored
them.
“Making a statement about your identity?” he asked, around the last
of his chuckles.
“Maybe. What do you think yours will be?” I asked.
“Dunno, but I’m looking for ward to the pleasant surprise.”
We chatted aimlessly for ten minutes before our respective dinners
arrived - his was an incredibly fanciful looking fresh salmon with all
sorts of interesting little trimmings and a thick white sauce - and
the topic came back around to Vampires and Immortals.
“So, you could sense him like an Immortal does, and you took his
Quickening?” Adam asked in the same whispered tones we’d been
conversing in all night.
“I’m as surprised as you,” I admitted, licking the blood from my
fingertip. My steak had indeed been as raw as possible and still
within the food safety codes of France. It had bled all over my plate
when I had poked it with a fork, and I was happily taking my time
scooping it up on the sopping pieces of meat. The potatoes and
vegetables I ignored.
“Perhaps when you arrived in our reality, you were sensed as
something 'other' and slotted into 'Immortal' because that was the
closest identifiable thing to what you are,” Methos suggested.
“That puts an onus of sentience on the universe,” I pointed out.
He sipped his champagne. “True. Maybe we sense you as an
Immortal because you are one. Of a sort.”
I shrugged. It was possibly. Honestly, I thought the main reason was
probably because I was a Mary Sue, but I didn’t tell him that. He
had swallowed enough of my story for one night, and I honestly
didn’t see the point in telling him that the only reason he was as
attracted to me as he was had nothing to do with my personality.
I had long since stopped drinking my champagne, so when he was
done, he reached over the table and took mine.
I signalled the waiter and asked for the desert menu and a second
bottle of champagne. He brought both promptly and as Methos
finished up his meal, then my vegetables, I perused the pictures of
the cakes.
“Something you want?” he asked.
“I’m picking something for you,” I said.
“Why don’t I get to pick?” He pouted. “I’ll be the one eating it.”
“Because I’m the one paying for it, and I want to see if I’ll be able
to taste it in your blood.”
His heart skipped a beat again, as it had every time we had wound
the conversation back around to what was going to happen later.
His face and posture betrayed nothing.
“Fine,” he said. “I like chocolate.”
=====
An hour and a half later found me three hundred and ninety-six
euro dollars poorer -about five hundred American dollars - and
Methos and I meandering pleasantly through the night-time
Trocadero Gardens outside of the Palais du Chaillot.
We climbed the white stone stairs that lead up to the Palais and
turned to look at the Tower in its illuminated garishness.
“It’s hideous,” he said gently, wrapping an arm around my
shoulders and pulling me against his chest. I enjoyed the warmth
the proximity of his body lent, so I didn’t push him away.
Beside us, a pair of tourists shot him a dirty look and walked away.
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s get back to your place.”
“Why?” he said, blowing deliciously warm air at my neck along with
the words.
“Cause I'm cold. And I'm hungry.”
Book Fourteen: Highlander: the Series
Chapter Thirty Seven: “Dijiin”
I fiddled with the flap on my pouch all the way back to Methos'
place. It hung open, gaping slightly, and every time I moved too fast
I was afraid my phials would fall out. Which was silly because I had
the soft leather pouch inside of the tough leather belt-pouch. But I
was still concerned.
“I guess I have to get a new button,” I said to myself.
“I may have one. Did it fall off?” he asked, leaning across my body
to look.
I turned slightly, lifting my hip to show him. “No, I had to tear it off.
Couldn't get it opened. I was in a bit of a panic.” I smiled a bit
lamely.
He cast me a fishy eye, but didn't comment.
I touched my wand, the top poking out of its little sheath resting on
my thigh, and then the hilt of my dagger, hiding underneath the tail
of the grey shirt I had borrowed from Duncan's closet. Just for
reassurance.
We walked the rest of the way to Methos’ apartment in relative
silence, both of us watching the humans around us. They were punk
kids out trolling, lovers strolling in the nippish night, late workers
heading home, or early workers heading to their jobs. It was
somewhere around midnight, I guessed, but I had no watch of my
own.
Even if I did get one, it would never be right. I never shifted at the
same time - one place it was midnight, another, noon. It was almost
better that I didn't have a watch. I didn't like the idea of having a
constant time reminder of how long I had been gone.
Nine months now? I forgot…
And it suddenly struck me, the way that things strike you when you
realize that your life is strange: I'm a Vampire. I've been gone for
nearly a year. I am walking beside the oldest living man and I fully
plan on drinking his blood within the hour.
I am not human.
It was sort of odd to realize that we were the only two things amid
this sea of humanity. At least, it was odd to me. I guess Methos'd
had far longer than my nine months to get used to the idea.
I pulled the Elven cloak around me to ward off the sudden chill that
froze my bones. It had nothing to do with the weather. Methos put
a comfortable arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him
to share his body heat, and I appreciated the gesture.
He still smelled of the delicious combination of champagne and
chocolate and cream sauce and salmon and under all of that… a
freshness, a purity that other people did not have. Like mineral
water from a spring long dried up, untainted. He smelled of dusty
summer days and electrical nights.
He smelled wonderful and as satisfying as that taste of him in
Notre-Dame's courtyard had been, I wanted more.
I wanted everything he could give, because all I could do anymore
was take. And he was Immortal - he could give and give and give
and I would never have to fear killing him.
If I could get him to like it. That was the main problem. Although,
with the way his eyes had rolled up into his head when I had sucked
on his wrist earlier, I wasn't too concerned about it being a big
problem.
Methos' apartment was located within view of the Eiffel Tower, the
rightmost on the third floor of a quaint white building. We entered
the building over a slightly flimsy metal catwalk and stopped at an
equally flimsy plastic and wooden door. Vertical mainlines hung
over the plastic to block the view of inside.
“Not the kind of door I expected you to have,” I said.
“Oh?” He didn't look up from his coat pockets, where he was
searching for his keys.
“Yeah - I expected thick, wooden... iron bars and a giant lock.”
He snorted and found his keychain. He fitted one into the lock. “I'll
feel anyone truly dangerous coming,” he said as he twisted the key
around. “Anyone else I figure I can probably handle.”
“True,” I agreed. Though, if it wasn't by some fluke that he could
sense me, then I would have been able to sneak in, and he wouldn't
have been able to handle me.
Actually, no, I amended mentally. I wouldn't have been able to
sneak in.
As I had just been forcefully reminded.
Adam opened the door and walked inside without a glance back
over his shoulder or a word. I was left standing on the outside of his
threshold, a barrier of invisible porridge between me and his home.
I couldn't get in.
Most people nod at you, or give a vague gesture with their hands, or
say “c'mon in,” or “make yourself at home.” All of which is good
enough to count as a formal invitation, according to my Vampire
nature.
Methos said none of these, did nothing. He walked in and shucked
his coat and turned to where he thought I should be.
“Marie?”
I waved from the door way, wiggling my fingers sheepishly.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“Gonna invite me in?”
He blinked. The colour drained from his face slightly, and his eyes
looked momentarily like ... well, like prey. Like he was scared. He
had been thinking about the nooky to come, I suppose. And not
about the meal.
He had forgotten that I was not Immortal. I was undead.
“Uh ... enter and welcome?” he said slowly.
I grinned, and made a show of stepping though the doorway. The
invisible porridge dissolved. “Thanks,” I said. “But why does
everyone insist on quoting Stoker when they realize I want in?”
His face went a little paler. “You've read Dracula, then?”
“Of course. Had to for school.”
“...oh. I... can I take your coat? Cloak?”
I handed over my cloak and he hung them both up. He had some
wire hangers dangling from a metal stairway by the door. I
wondered where the stairs went - up to a bathroom or something, I
supposed. A loft?
Maybe a kitchen, because there didn't seem to be one on this main
level.
I wandered into his 'living room'. The whole place was open concept,
so there was really no living room, per say, just a place with chairs,
a TV, a table, and a desk. A laptop hummed on the desk, its screen
blinking through a false starscape screensaver.
His apartment was clean and painted all white. It seemed rather
large for his “Adam Pierson” identity to afford, but it was balanced
by how sparsely it furnished. Several large pieces of heavy, oldlooking things collected dust on bookshelves and propped things up,
but other than that there was no evidence visible that Methos was
Methos.
I don't know what I had been expected - his old armour from his
days as a Horseman mounted in the corner? A wall of black and
white early photos on metal plates?
Methos was into hiding. His apartment looked like any other
nondescript apartment filled with Ikea-inspired second hand
furniture and the odd archaeological find. There was nothing to
betray who or what he was. Though I suspected a few historians
would go into fits if they saw some of the stuff lying around.
I wondered if he had a hoard somewhere - a pile of his own things
tucked away in a warehouse somewhere. Old weapons and scrolls
and Ming vases. He didn't seem the sentimental type, but he did
seem like the sort who never threw anything out, in case he needed
it later.
Hm. I wondered how many times he had re-used the same sheath or
breastplate or helmet over the centuries.
Methos walked past me, to the floor-to-ceiling windows that filled
the far wall. I sat at the computer and touched the mouse, and the
screensaver vanished.
“Oh, my,” I said under my breath, eyes wide.
I hear the metallic rasp of the curtains being drawn and turned to
Methos.
“So you don't fry in the morning,” he offered lamely.
“Aw, that's sweet,” I said, and meant it. “But I won't.”
“Be here in the morning?”
“Fry. I can walk out in the daylight, you know. Dracula could, since
we're talking about the book. I just can't get fangy.”
He blinked and walked over to me. “ 'Fangy' ?”
“I mean, I don't have my powers during the day.”
“So... ever meet Dracula?”
“You're assuming he's real,” I said, trying to keep the tone light.
Just the mention of that dirtbag's name made me want to scream
and throw things. But Methos was talking about Stoker's Dracula,
who was not the same person as my Lucard.
Methos came over and perched a butt-cheek on the armrest of the
chair I was in. “Isn't he?”
“Real enough to give me this,” I said, and pointed to the scar on the
left side of my neck. The tissue was white and slightly raised, and in
the shape of an adult man's upper teeth. Two prominent, circular
scars marked where his fangs had gone in.
Methos touched my cheek and jaw gently, carefully angling my head
so he could see the scars better by the light of the computer screen.
I closed my eyes - I didn't want to see the pitying expression on his
face.
“Ouch,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“What's this long line, here?” One blunt finger softly traced a wide
scar that bisected the teeth marks. It was a ghost of a touch. “Here
and here, that's the fangs... here's the bicuspids... but I don't know
what that is.”
My voice caught, croaking in my throat, and I forced the whispered
words around it. “His tongue.”
He let go, fingers twitching.
“My God, Marie.”
I pushed him away then, because I couldn't stand the sympathy in
his voice. It made me feel ashamed. Dirty.
Used.
He smelled like melancholy.
“It was a long time ago. I've had worse since,” I said, trying to get
away from the topic. “Though, it was all after, so I healed up
completely.”
A slender hand rested over my left breast. Not sexual, but gentle.
“Like an arm through your chest?”
“Among other things.”
“Ah.” Then his eyes fell on the computer screen. All the blood that
had drained from his face earlier seemed to rush back into his
cheeks. “...ah.”
I gestured to the flashing screen, glad for the distraction. I didn't
want to talk about Lucard, especially when I was about to do
something to this man beside me that was a painful, throbbing
reminder of what I had become.
“The world's oldest Immortal is into net porn?” I asked smugly,
following his gaze back to the screen. “I think I may be impressed.”
Methos snapped the laptop shut. I had to move my fingers quickly to
keep from getting pinched.
I laughed and he looked mortified.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “We're all only human.”
The blush got hotter. “I was... ah... researching,” he offered lamely.
“Researching what?”
“The guy on the left is Immortal,” he said. “Wanted to see if I
recognized him. He's heading towards Paris next month, for a shoot.
I mean, that's what his Watcher says.”
“On the left?”
“You know - with the piercing.”
“Suuuuure,” I said, and stood.
I reached out and undid the button of the dress shirt peeking out of
the top of his oversized sweater. The blood in his body moved out
of his face and to somewhere lower. He swallowed hard.
“So, this research. Care to show me what you've learned?”
The sly, self-confident grin returned. He lifted his hands and let
them rest gently on my hips.
“Do I even get a kiss? Or are you going to skip straight to the
bloodsucking?”
“Oh, kisses I can do,” I said, went up on my toes, and proved it.
It was a slow, languorous kiss, all tongues and promises.
I pulled away when he was nearly out of breath. I had kept my
mouth sealed against his, slowly suffocating him. Adam sucked in a
breath and sighed, and it was a contented sound.
“Is that a promise of kink to come?” he murmured against my hair.
His fingers tightened on my hips.
“Only if you want it to be.”
He chuckled. “Anywhere but the neck is fine.”
“Good,” I said, and gently pushed him towards the bed. He
unbuckled my belt as we sashayed, and dropped it onto the
nightstand.
As I had noted earlier, Methos' apartment was open concept - no
partitions between the areas. The bed was a raised mattress and
pillows with no headboard in the middle of the back rectangle. It
was at least three good feet away from any wall. I wondered if he
ever fell out.
The sheets were a crisp white, and his duvet black with gold leaf
and flowers. It looked like a tapestry. Maybe it was.
Methos let me back him towards it. When his calves hit the bed, he
sat down heavily, hands now on my elbows. He pulled me down for
another kiss and I leaned forward. While I was thoroughly distracted,
he yanked once, twisted his body, and I was suddenly under him on
the bed.
“Smooth,” I said.
He smiled. Then he reached behind him. There was a hissing sound
and suddenly his sword was levelled at my throat.
I swallowed.
“... what are you doing?” I asked in a small voice.
“Are you scared?” he asked. His eyes were serious, but there was an
empty grin on his face.
“Don't, Methos,” I said.
“You're dangerous,” he said. “You could kill us all. You could kill
me.”
I levelled a glare on him.
He turned the blade and lifted the sword away. He looked away,
baring his neck deliberately. Here was the test - would I lunge up
and bite? I didn't. He leaned away from me, tucked the sword under
the bed.
He came back and looked down at me, arms on either side of my
head.
“I'm not impressed,” I said.
“And I'm not stupid,” he countered. “I had to be sure.”
“Did I pass?” I snapped.
He sighed and settled himself a little more firmly over me. His
knees were hot on either side of my hips. He leaned down and
pressed another kiss on my lips, and I frowned. I didn't kiss back.
“Ruined the mood, have I?” he said. “Suppose we should just forget
about this.”
I raised an eyebrow. So that was his game.
“You sly bastard,” I said.
He sat up, a look of false innocence pasted on his face. “Moi?”
“You tried to scare me so I wouldn't drink from you!”
The blush threatened again, and I found it delectable and endearing.
To think, a five thousand year old man could blush.
I sat up too; touched the side of his face with what I knew was, for
him, a cold hand. “If you're really uncomfortable with this,” I said,
“we can forget it.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out of his nose. “No. I lost the
bet.”
I lay back down and looked at the wall. “That's all? It's just... the
bet?”
He looked suitably contrite. “Well, you're damn sexy, too. I just...
well, I'm scared. I don't want it to hurt.”
“It won't.”
“What if you don't stop? What if it kills me?”
I pushed him off of me. I stood up and began to walk towards the
door.
“Marie!” he said.
“If you don't trust me, then there's not point in doing this,” I called
back over my shoulder. “I'll go find a rapist. There's always plenty
of those around.”
“Marie.”
“FYI: If I had really wanted to kill you, I'd have done it by now, you
know.”
“Marie.”
I stopped and turned to look at him. He was sitting on the edge of
the bed. He had removed his shirt and his sweater.
“Come back,” he said softly.
“You don't trust me.”
“I never said I didn't trust you,” he said.
“But you're scared.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Well, it'll be the first time anyone's drunk
my blood.”
I snorted. “Scared about getting your Vampiric cherry popped?”
He went red again. “It’s the first time I’ve had any sort of cherry
popped in centuries.”
“You sure you want this?” I whispered, all seriousness now.
“Can you make it not hurt?” he asked softly.
“I can make it feel like the ninth layer of hell,” I said truthfully.
“Or I could make it feel like the highest peak of heaven.”
“I vote heaven. Come back.”
I came back.
I kissed him again, softly, on the lips. “I can disguise it,” I said. “We
could make love. I could bite down when you're caught up.
Distracted.”
“No,” he said, and his voice had dropped to a husky whisper. “I
don't want to be surprised. Do it now, where I can see it.”
I knelt down, in the vee of his thighs, and ran my fingers up his
stomach.
“Uh...” he said.
“You said not the neck.”
“Yeah, but there is worse!”
I giggled. “I was aiming for above your nipple,” I said. I dropped my
hands to his fly. “But if you're really curious about--”
“--no!” he yelped.
I laughed again.
“Bitch,” he said, but there was a warmth in his tone.
“Fair revenge,” I said.
Then I sat up on my knees, kissed first one nipple, then the other,
tugging playfully with my teeth. He groaned, threw his head back
and let his eyes slide closed. I ran my hands up the outside of his
thighs and even though he still had his jeans on, I could feel his
heat.
“Hold still,” I whispered, cold breath against his wet skin.
Goosebumps jumped out under my mouth.
He raised his head, looked down his nose to watch me, ran a hand
trough my hair, cradled the back of my neck. Made me feel wanted
again. And it had been so hard to not be wanted.
“Do it,” he panted.
I closed my eyes, let the beast out. Felt my eyes burning yellow
against my eyelids, felt my teeth descend. I turned my head to the
side slightly, ran the tip of one fang over the skin over his heart, a
quick, clean cut, but deep.
He hissed, stiffened all over. His fingers curled in my hair. The
other hand was grabbing fistfuls of his duvet.
I sealed my lips around the wound and pulled.
“Fffffffuck,” he hissed.
I smiled. I ran my tongue over the wound and swallowed. I sucked
again.
“You ... you weren't lying,” he said. “This...is damn good.”
I swallowed, pushed against his shoulders, shoved him down onto his
back and crawled on top of him, of our legs dangling over the edge
of the mattress.
I lifted my bloody lips from the cut and pressed them against his ear.
“Toldjaso,” I couldn't resist saying.
“Take ... get your shirt off....” he panted, tugging at the hem,
trying to push it off my shoulders.
“Why?”
“Wanna return the favour.”
“Ha.”
=====
“So, you have magic,” he clarified, whispering warmly in my ear.
I squirmed a little and rolled over to face Methos. “Yeah - Harry
Potter style, mostly.”
“Who's Harry Potter?”
I laughed. “Never mind. It's mostly, you know, wand work.” I
reached over him and retrieved my wand from my holster, which
had somehow ended up draped over the headboard. Methos took
advantage of my reaching and kissed the tops of my breasts.
“Stop that,” I said.
“Why?”
“Cause I was gonna show you magic.”
“This can be magic.”
I laughed again. “You're arrogant.”
“I'm five thousand years old. I know a few 'tricks' of my own.”
I snorted.
“Well, you gonna show me?” I settled back down beside him, and he
turned to watch my hand. “Turn something into a frog.”
“I'm not that skilled in Transfiguration. All I know is duelling
charms.”
“Okay - duel something.”
I pointed at the front door. “Swish and flick and Alohamora.”
The lock, which Methos had set, clicked open of its own volition and
the door swung inwards quietly. Methos went pale and sat up.
“Wow,” he said. “That would be useful.”
“I'm sure Amanda would kill for it.”
“Cheerfully.”
“Can you close it again?”
“Sayanohamora.” The door swung closed with a tiny rusty squeal
and the lock re-engaged.
“Wow,” he said again. He rolled to the side, trapping me under him,
a wily grin spread over his aquiline face. He settled his forearms on
either side of my head. “Got anything else?”
I leaned up and lapped at a cold smear of blood I had left above his
right nipple. The wound was long-healed. Inside me his Quickening
danced and arched, and I felt the electricity prickling though my
skin everywhere he was touching me, slowly zapping back into him
through my pores. I wondered if Methos could feel it.
Probably not, or he would have said something by now.
“Sure, what do you want?”
“Can you grant wishes?”
“Yeah,” I said. It sounded irritated, even though I really wasn't.
Well, maybe a little. “I'm a fucking dijiin, alright? I'm a wish
granting genie. Let me wiggle my nose and get right on that.”
“That was Samantha.” Methos pointed out. “Jeanie nodded.”
I rolled my eyes.
There was a short silence.
He rolled off me. “You're angry.”
“No, no,” I said, and took a deep breath. “I was just ... suddenly
reminded of all the other times people had just wanted something
from me. I'm fine.”
There was another silence.
“Could you though?” Methos asked slowly. “Grant a wish?”
I shrugged. “Depends on what it was.”
He thought about it seriously for a moment. For a second, Adam
Pierson, grad student and understudy Watcher slid away. Methos,
Death on a Horse, who'd lived five thousand years and lost 69 wives,
sat before me.
“I want out of The Game,” he whispered. “Can you do that?”
I blinked. I sat up, forcing him to do the same, and met his eyes. I
had expected Adam 'I'm Just Another Guy' Pierson to want
something like a really smooth beer or another Queen album.
Instead he had gone and asked for something heavy.
I blew out a sigh and ran a hand through my not-sleep mussed hair.
“Outta the Game?” I repeated. He nodded.
“You know what that is, right?”
“Doi. I know what that is.” I thought. The surest way to get him out
was to get him away. “Yeah, I could do it,” I said after a pause. “I
could do it easy.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “That was too simple. Catch?”
“Nothing serious.”
His eyes narrowed further. “I won't let you take my head. I don't
want out that way.”
“Doi again.”
He shifted back a bit to rest back on his arms, his legs sneaking into
the space under the knees of my own.
“And I'd still be myself? And Immortal?”
“Well, yeah,” I said.
I nodded.
“So what is the catch?”
“You would leave this place,” I said honestly. “You would leave and
never be able to see your friends ever again. No more Boy Scout, no
more Blues Man, no more Our Lady of Lightfingers. You could never
come back.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
He touched his fingers to his lips gently. “That is a catch. But I'd be
out of the Game, no one would know I was Immortal? No one would
go after my head?”
I felt a smile pulling at my lips and let it bloom. “Well, I never said
that. It depends on who you piss off. Obviously, if the place is
unsuited to you, you could move on with me again. Travel until you
found a place to your liking. But you may never be able to return.”
He blinked. “Never?”
“Maybe once,” I said. “But once you came back here, you'd never
be able to leave a second time.”
“Come? Leave?”
I reached out and ran my hand over his knees. “You'd come with
me.”
“To an alternate reality?”
“Yeah.”
“...can I choose which one?”
“No,” I said. “Wherever we end up next. There's no direction to it,
far as I can tell. Well, unless you wanted to go to one of the place
I've been already. But trust me; most of them are fraught with their
own kind of conflicts.”
“But I would still be Immortal and out of the Game.”
“Yeah. You'd travel with me.”
“Travel.”
“I travel a lot. You could come with me until you find a place that
works. But once I left you somewhere, it would be highly likely that
you'd never see me again.”
“What, so you're Doctor Who?”
I blinked at him.
“So I could never change my mind back,” he clarified.
I could brew him six phials keyed for home, but I didn't dare leave
him the recipe. Methos was intelligent and savvy, but I didn't trust
him to use them with any sort of responsibility.
He was silent for a long time. “Can I think about this?”
“Of course,” I said. “I won't be going anywhere any time soon.”
One eyebrow ratcheted up a few notches. “Oh? Why's that.”
I let the hand on his knees slide higher. “Because this is the first
reality in a while where no one has tried to actively kill me, cure
me, or capture me, and I'm sort of liking the vacation.”
He made a face when my hands got high enough. “That...ah... that
all?”
“Well, and I have an excellent pomme du sang here.”
His eyes closed and his smile got lazy. “Blood apple? I kinda like
that. Where's that from?”
“A place you never want to visit, trust me,” I said, and leaned
forward and kissed him.
Books Fourteen/ Fifteen: Highlander: The
Series / Inu Yasha
Chapter Thirty-Eight: “Will You Bear My Child?”
“So you weren't shitting me when you said that the porn star was
Immortal?” I said, reaching across the table to pour Methos another
beer from the pitcher.
Mac lifted his glass and his eyebrows, wiggling both a bit, and I
refilled his glass too. I had a red wine in front of me, because I
didn't want to offend Joe, the owner of the bar we were in, and I
didn't want to get annoyed by the serving staff.
As long as there was something in front of me, they wouldn't keep
asking me if I wanted anything. I wasn't drinking the wine, but I
enjoyed the complicated, gentle scent that wafted up from the
ruby beverage.
“Porn star?” Mac echoed and Methos turned a delectable shade of
red.
“He left his computer on a naughty website,” I said with a wicked
grin. “Called it 'research'.”
Duncan MacLeod snorted. ”Smooth, Old Man,” Mac said. “Who is
he?”
Methos, who had been chugging his beer to hide his embarrassment,
stopped and said, “Tristan Korvir. About two hundred - coming to
town for a 'shoot'.”
“Thinking of looking him up?” Mac asked, unable to resist teasing.
“For old time's sake? Maybe get a few pointers?”
“Sod off,” Methos said brightly. “I'm thinking of going on a nice,
quiet little vacation to a monastery while he's here. Never met him,
and I don't much care too.”
“Oh,” I said softly. “A monastery?”
People who were shacking up with Vampires only went to
monasteries to get away from said Vampires. Maybe Methos didn't
know that I couldn't go with him? Maybe he had forgotten about
Notre-Dame?
Or maybe he had decided that last night was not good after all, and
that he didn't want to be around me any more and he was running
away. Maybe I had scared him. Maybe he didn't trust me after all. I
guess I didn't blame him for wanting to run away from me. I mean,
he didn't get to be five thousand years old by doing stupid things.
Methos shrugged. “Immortals can't fight on Holy Ground.”
“Oh,” I said again.
“Why?” he asked. “What's wrong with wanting to vanish for a bit?”
“Well... I hope you enjoy it,” I said.
“Well, you're coming too, aren't you?” Methos asked in a 'duh' voice.
“Who else would be willing to feed you?” He waggled his eyebrows
in what he probably thought was a smug way.
It just bugged me.
Anger suddenly flared, hot and shameful. I was insulted.
“Feed me?”
“Yeah - I don't know many people willing to lay passive for a
creature of the night.” He grinned and I got even angrier.
Mac laughed, then he caught sight of my face and shut up quickly.
I slammed my palms down onto the table top and stood, furious.
“I'm not such a hideous monster that I can't get someone alone long
enough to feed!” I snarled, “And I don't need your pity fucks
either!”
Fuck him anyway!
I stormed out of the room, out onto the street.
“What the hell was that?” I heard Methos say as the heavy door
swung closed slowly behind me.
“Vampires can't go into monasteries,” Mac hissed back. “And you
made her sound like some sort of ugly demon that you pity. It was
condescending, Old Man.”
“Oh. Oh, crap.”
I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms under my breasts,
and scowled up at the sky. I was radiating fury. A few early evening
walkers crossed the street to avoid me. It probably had something
to do with the glowing yellow eyes. I could hear Methos' heartbeat,
smelled his by-now familiar scent coming towards the door.
I didn't want to talk to him. But, short of turning into a bat and
taking off into the night, I couldn't keep him from saying what he
was going to say. And I didn't want to tuck tail and run. I was no
coward.
The heavy door to La Blues Bar opened cautiously beside my elbow.
Methos peeked his head out.
“Marie?” he said in a low voice. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean
it. Come back inside.”
I turned my face to him and he gasped.
“You're really angry,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “Your eyes
are... are... burning.”
I frowned, then blinked. They were blue again.
“Better,” he said. “Come inside.” He held out his hand to me.
“Marie, please. I said I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”
“No,” I hissed, and I could hear the Vampire in my voice. “You
weren't.”
He flinched but kept his hand out. “C'mon, Marie. You know what
kind of fumblemouth I can be, sometimes. I think you're a wonderful
girl and I'm not letting you feed out of some sneering pity. I enjoyed
it, you know that. We won't go to a monastery. We'll go to Bora
Bora, how's that? Tonight.”
My reply was cut off by a migraine.
“Oh, damn,” Methos cussed. We both swivelled our heads, looking
for someone who would also be looking for us.
The porn star Immortal was standing on the opposite side of the
street, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face. At least, I
thought it was the porn star - he was hard to recognize with his
clothes on. I couldn’t see his piercing.
He crossed the street towards us in swift, ground eating strides, and
came to a stop on the kerb. Obviously he didn't want to get too
close.
“I came here for MacLeod,” the man said, “And I find two other
mousies instead. Wonderful.”
“Mice,” I replied.
He frowned.
I grinned, feeling the anger I'd had for Methos being redirected for
this guy. I very much didn't like him, just because he was such a
prat, and I did more or less still like Methos, so it was better to be
angry at the porn star.
“The plural for mouse,” I said with a condescending sigh, “is mice,
numbnuts. You're two hundred years old and you never figured that
out?”
Methos tugged my sleeve and hissed, “Quiet.”
The porn star flicked aside his coat and I caught a glimpse of his
sword hiding in its sheath. He put his palm over the pommel,
gripping it with knuckles that were slowly turning white.
“What do you want with MacLeod?” Methos asked cautiously. He
was fiercely protective of his friends, because he had so few. And
had lost so many. If the grip on my arm was proof of anything, he
was beginning to consider me one of those friends.
It was a sort of a possessive grip though, and I resented it.
What, Methos didn't think I couldn't take care of myself?
Pffft. I'm a Vampire, practically indestructible and had magics and
strength beyond the normal. This Korvin guy couldn't hurt me.
“Needed a pick-me-up before I start filming,” Korvin said, the cocky
smile trying to break past his glower of annoyance. “But either of
you will do.”
I stepped forward. Methos tried to haul me back, but even against
his five thousand years' worth of sword training, I was stronger.
“I'll do it,” I said.
“Marie.”
I flashed Methos a fanged smile. “I'm in the mood to kill
something.”
=====
“You're pretty cocky for a young 'un,” Tristan-Korvin-The-Porn-Star
said back over his shoulder. I shrugged and kept following him to
the empty park. The sun was just a few hours past setting, but the
stars and moon provided enough light for me.
Korvin tripped slightly on a tree root and I smiled. The night was
pitch to him, and the park had no illumination. This was going to be
easier than I thought. I could melt into the shadows, get behind him
easily...
“Saw your pictures,” I said, instead of answering his verbal
challenge, “Did it hurt?”
“What?”
“That piercing?”
He laughed. “Yup. And I gotta get it re-done every few weeks so it
doesn't close up.”
“Youch,” I said, wincing.
Korvin turned to me and drew his sword. I stopped and drew mine.
We looked at each other. “So you didn't answer me. You're pretty
sure of yourself, Miss Marie. Why'd you come out here?”
“I'm pissed off. I need to get rid of this aggression.”
He drew his sword and swung it in a wide arc, practicing, trying to
intimidate me. I was too far away to hit, but it hadn't been
intended as a strike. “By having your head taken?”
I shrugged, “That would solve it, wouldn't it?”
He twirled his sword in his hands. “Think you're good enough to take
my head?”
“Dunno,” I said. “We'll see.”
He bent his knees, got lower to the ground, gripped the hilt in two
hands. Prepared to fight. “Your Quickening feels... young. Strange.”
I smiled. “Maybe there's a reason I feel strange.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I grinned, let the power tingle over me, let my eyes burn yellow,
my fangs spring out.
“Yeah,” I said.
He swallowed hard.
=====
Methos found me about twenty minutes later, licking the blood off
my wrists.
“What the hell did you do?” he whispered, walking out of the
shadows. I had heard him coming, so he didn't startle me. I didn't
turn around to watch him approach either.
He walked right past me towards Korvin. What was left of Korvin, at
any rate. It was very bloody, hard to tell that it had once been
human-shaped. My inherited sword was stick straight up out of
where his heart might have been, if I hadn't moved it around by
mistake.
I felt much, much better.
“Think he's still alive,” I offered. He probably was, as I hadn't taken
his Quickening.
Methos turned back to look at me, and his face was white, his hazel
eyes wide. “He'll hurt like hell if he is.”
“Serves him right,” I said. “He tried to chop my head off.”
“You answered his Challenge. That's what Immortals do when they
fight.”
“Well, not Vampires.” I finished cleaning one hand and moved onto
the other, stroking my pink tongue over my knuckles like a cat. I
spat out the tiny pieces of flesh that still clung to them.
Methos ran a hand though his hair. “Jesus, you're psycho.”
“I'm not psycho.” I said calmly.
“Marie, you beat him into a bloody pulp. Literally, I may add!”
I dropped my hands to my sides. “... Fuck you.”
He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “Now don't get tetchy. You
take things too personally.”
“Tetchy?!”
“Marie, listen, this anger, this aggressiveness.” He took a step
forward, grabbed my hands, folded them between his own, rubbed
his thumbs over the backs of my hands as if it would soothe me. It
only made my short hairs rise. “This is classic textbook post
traumatic stress - someone hurt you so you want to hurt everyone
else to make yourself feel better. To make yourself stop feeling
alone.”
“I don't feel alone.”
“Why do you think you slept with me last night? You were scared.
Someone put their hand through your chest - that would terrify
anyone. It's the same reason all those kids were conceived during
the bombing of London. People wanted to affirm that they were
alive.”
“I'm not alive,” I spat.
“Same concept.” He tightened his grip slightly, took a step towards
me, “Marie, you're hurting. Let me help.”
I wrenched my hands away. There was a soft popping sound, and I
think I had dislocated his fingers. He winced and prodded a few
back into place.
“I repeat: Fuck. And: You, Doctor Adams.”
He reached for me again, and I dodged. “Marie.” He sounded
almost condescending, and even a little bit worried.
“I don't need your help because I'm not hurting! I'm not weak! I can't
afford to be!”
“Marie, please, listen to yourself.”
I'd had enough. I wasn't a headcase and I certainly wasn't going to
be his pet project.
I decided suddenly that I didn't want to stay here any more. Not
with his condescending, not with his judging, not with his headpicking.
“I'm leaving now,” I announced. “If you still want your wish from
your bed-warming genie, here's your last chance. Coming?”
Methos looked at me long and hard. “...no.”
“Fine,” I said.
He opened his mouth, licked his top lip thoughtfully. “Will you ever
come back?”
I ripped out a handful of his hair and he yipped. I wrapped them in
a tissue from my pocket and jammed it into my pouch.
“Maybe,” I said.
“We'll talk then,” Methos promised. “When I see you again. When
you're... calmer. We'll talk, okay? When you come back. When, not
if.”
I snorted. Then I slid.
=====
I was sitting under the shade of a primordial, virgin forest, enjoying
the solitude and the chance to nap and trying very hard not to think
about what Methos had said. The distinctive sound of clunking
armour and heavy footsteps jostled me out of sleep and to my feet.
“Who's there?” I called out, hand on the hilt of my knife at the
small of my back.
“Kanojo wa doko?” the other voice called back.
I buttoned my trap and followed the sound of the heartbeat and the
direction the voice had come from. I picked my way carefully over
the huge roots, through the tall grass, trying to stay as quiet as
possible. Which could be pretty damn quiet.
I came on the clearing behind them. There were two, dressed in
some sort of exotic armour I didn't recognize until they turned
around. More dark eyes, high cheekbones, caramel skin.
“Back in Japan,” I said softly.
They heard and turned to face me.
“Aii!” one shouted. “Kami!”
“Baka,” said the other. “Kanojo wa youkai, desu yo!”
They raised their swords at me.
“Hello, dinner,” I said back.
=====
I left them dazed but alive by their own campfire, and struck off in
a direction that seemed to be west. I don't know why I chose west.
Seemed as good a direction as any.
I walked through the night, tasting the lingering flavour of their
blood and keeping my ears peeled. I wanted to know if I could
understand Japanese, the way I had understood French, just from
the blood.
If I could, it would be invaluable, as I seemed to be making a habit
of showing up in Anime. Understanding Japanese might keep me out
of messes like the one with Seishirou.
The scent of wood smoke drifted to my nose, and I stopped. Lifting
my head into the air, I located the direction it was coming from and
crept through the underbrush towards it. I was full now, but I
wanted to test my theory.
I stopped at the edge of a clearing, well out of the circle of light
the fire cast. Around the fire sat four adults and one red-haired
child. One of the men was dressed all in swirling robes of indigo and
black, and the other in an old-fashioned style hakama and haori in
violent red. His hair was ridiculously long and completely white. His
face, however, was youthful, so his hair was not white because he
was old.
The other two were women, one in a set of twentieth century style
pajamas, sitting on an unrolled sleeping back, and the other in a
green and magenta kimono.
The man with white hair had two pointed dog ears on the top of his
head, and eyes as yellow as mine, fangs that were just as long. He
flicked one of the ears in my direction. I sank further into the brush
and stopped moving. Luckily I had not heartbeat and no breathing
to give me away.
“What is it, Inu Yasha?” the girl in the pyjamas asked when he
flicked his yellow eyes at me.
And I could understand her. Yippee. I did a little mental dance.
“Nothin',” Inu Yasha lied.
I retreated into the night and left them in peace.
For now.
=====
In the morning, I returned to the clearing only find the fire cold and
dead and the company of travelers gone. The gurgling of a river
caught my attention and I thought how nice it would be to try to
scrub off before looking for them again.
I recognized them - the anime I was in, because it was an anime,
was called “Inu Yasha”. It would be interesting, I thought, to spend
the day following them, to see what they were doing.
To make it easier, I shouldn’t smell like dead porn star.
The last shower I'd had had been in Duncan's barge. I frowned. So
much for my promise to never slide into a realm with no running
water. Hot running water.
The stream in question turned out to not be a stream, but a fullblown natural-occurring onsen. A hot spring. Japan was peppered
with them, but in my time they were all enclosed in wooden
structures and lined with marble and cement, and you had to pay a
fee for the right to bathe.
Here, it was all free game and there were lots of big boulders to sit
on.
I shivered all over, relishing the thought of sinking into the steaming
water and soaking there until the meat fell off my bones. With a
surreptitious look around, I stripped and folded my clothing into a
neat pile on the bank. I wound my hair up in a bun and stuck my
wand in it - this would keep my hair off my neck and a weapon
nearby.
I didn't want the knife to rust, so I left it behind.
Dipping a toe into the water, I sucked in a breath. It was hot. It was
lovely.
I put my foot down, followed with the other, and waded out to the
side of the hot spring where a wall of rocks offered a nice shelf for
sitting. I relaxed back as far as the stone seat would allow and
closed my eyes.
“Mmmmm,” I sighed.
“Mmmm,” another voice echoed. High, female. Not an echo of my
own voice. Someone else. I opened my eyes, strained my ears.
“Indeed, Kagome-sama,” said a male voice.
I inhaled and recognized the mixed scents of the travelers from last
night.
“I'm glad we got Inu Yasha to stop,” Kagome said. “I'm covered in
bug-demon guts.”
“Did you know, Kagome-sama, that this was the very hot spring
where I first laid eyes on you?”
The woman sucked in a breath. “I thought we met on the mountain
path, when you stole my bike.”
The man chuckled, and I realized he must be the one who had been
in the indigo. I had heard the one in red speak, and it wasn't the
same voice. “Oh, no, I saw you with your Shikon Shard here first.”
“Miroku,” she said, her voice suddenly steely. It held a promise of
pain. “I was naked. And it was around my neck.”
“Heh heh,” he chuckled uncomfortably.
“Pervert,” she said.
“Now, now, Kagome-sama,” he started, and there was a note of
pleading in his voice. “I am just a man. How was I to resist looking
at a lovely bathing water nymph like yourself?”
There was a resounding crack, like a palm striking a cheek.
“Keep your hands to yourself!” Kagome snapped.
“I'll, uh... I'll just go around the corner here for my bath, shall I?”
the man said, his voice getting closer.
I sank low in the water.
Shit.
I was too far away from my clothes and it was mid-morning and I
couldn't transform into a bat. All I could do was sit there and wait
for Miroku the Pervert to come around the corner.
He was concentrating on his footsteps, so he didn't see me at first.
“Um,” I said, and he looked up, eyes snapping wide.
“Hello,” he said. He did a very good job of covering his surprise. He
slipped immediately into Casanova instead.
“Hello,” I said back.
“I'm terribly sorry,” he said. He had a bright red spot on his face,
where Kagome had slapped him. “I did not know you were here.”
“That's fine,” I said. “Close your eyes.”
He closed his eyes obediently. I waded over to the shore and
jumped out quickly. I snatched my clothing into a pile and ducked
behind a dense bush.
“May I look?” he called out.
“Yeah,” I said, struggling into my pants while my skin was still damp.
I heard the slosh of water and Miroku came up to the bank,
unabashed by his nakedness, and folded his arms over the grass and
rested his chin on them. He was looking up at me with a smile.
“You're beautiful,” he said.
“Uh, thanks?”
“Are you a youkai?” he asked. “I don't sense any yoki, but you could
be very high or very low level. Or maybe you're a hanyou?”
“Me? A half demon?” I came out of the bush holding my belt, my
pants and shirt on but not the over shirt or my socks or boots. I sat
down beside him, admiring the sculpted lines of his bare shoulders,
the long line of his back, the rounded buttocks made swirly by the
water. Hell, if he was going to display, I was going to look. “No.”
“But your hair, your blue eyes,” he said.
“I'm gaikokujinn,” I said.
“A foreigner, ah.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, flexing his pecs
slightly. “I've never met a foreigner. You cannot tell because I am
not wearing my proper clothing, but I am a monk. I am very
trustworthy.”
I snorted.
“It's true,” he said, looking mock affronted. “I've never met a
foreigner.”
I had snorted at the part about being trustworthy. “No?”
He reached out and took my hands in his. “I think you are the most
lovely woman I have ever met. Can you imagine how adorable the
child of a Gaijin and a Nihon-jinn would be?”
I winced, knowing what was coming next.
“Miss, will you bare my child?”
He yelped when I smacked him firmly across the face.
Then the monk grinned.
=====
“I'm Miroku,” he introduced himself later, when we were all sitting
around another campfire, our hair drip-drying. “And I'm sorry for
what I said earlier.”
Ri-ight.
Kagome had heard his little cry and come barging around the corner
to try to come to his rescue, only to find me standing over him and
scowling. She had immediately switched to apology mode and
invited me to join them for a late lunch.
Miroku had then stood up and proclaimed it an excellent idea and
Kagome turned away and covered her eyes with a scream. I got
myself a good eyeful, 'cause obviously he wouldn't have stood up if
he didn't want me to.
People want to affirm that they are alive.
Miroku slept with any woman he could. He was dying, slowly, of a
demon's curse. And me - I was taking comfort where I could.
Because I needed it.
He then caught me looking and flashed a mischievous grin. I
returned it. Because it was better than feeling alone.
“Would you like to help me catch the fish, Miss...?”
“Marie,” I had supplied
“Marie-sama,” he had repeated.
“Will you be naked?” I had asked.
“Do you want me to be?”
“Might be a little cold, in that stream,” I had pointed out.
Thoughts of shrinkage had skittered across his face, easy to read,
and he had said, “I will dress first.”
And he had.
And we had gone to the stream and I had batted fish out onto the
bank where he had cracked them swiftly over the head with the
butt of his staff and said a prayer for their souls.
And then grabbed my ass.
I smacked him again.
We went back to the camp and I was introduced all around Kagome, Inu Yasha, Sango, the other woman, and Shippou the little
kid who was really a baby fox demon. I was offered a seat and my
share of the fish and rice and took both to be polite.
I had seen this anime, “Inu Yasha”, about this and of demon hunters
up to about episode forty before it had become redundant and
annoying and I had stopped. I knew these people fairly well, but as
Seishirou and Legolas had taught me, the characters from the movie
or book weren't always exactly the same in “real life.”
Miroku made as many passes at me as he could possibly squeeze in,
and Sango looked more and more furious with each one. Well, what
did she have to complain about? She kept saying no.
As the band was heading home after successfully exterminating a
demon that morning, they were free to sit around all afternoon to
talk. It was a pleasant enough pass-time to me, though Inu Yasha
seemed itching to go.
“If we're gonna make camp here tonight,” he'd spat, springing to his
feet, “I'll go find some boar or something.”
He bolted out into the forest.
I wondered if it was my proximity that was making him
uncomfortable.
The rest of us stayed and traded stories until Inu Yasha came back
just before dark. By then Sango had made another meal of rice and
berries that Shippou had scavenged.
I pretended to eat again, listening with rapt wonder at Sango's tales
of demon extermination and Miroku's stories of the women he had
chased. I told my own fabricated tales, tales about weeks at sea on
the ship, being wrecked on a beach and wandering Japan for the
past few years on my own.
“Your Japanese is very good,” Kagome said.
“It's had to be,” I replied.
Then she leaned over. “Don't stick your chopsticks straight up in the
rice,” Kagome whispered in my ear. I blinked down at what I'd done.
I had only wanted somewhere to put the utensils to keep them from
touching the ground and sticking them in the rice had seemed like
the best way.
“Why not?” I whispered back. I let my gaze flick around the circle of
faces, and took in the horrified look on Miroku's face especially. The
others were startled but understood that as a foreigner I probably
didn't know any better. The monk was furious and sickened all at
once.
What the hell had I done?
“Doing that makes your rice an offering to the dead,” Kagome
explained. “It makes it unfit to eat.”
“Unfit to eat?”
“Only the dead can eat that rice now. It would be blasphemy
otherwise.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding my head in understanding. And then I got a
wicked little idea.
Carefully, making sure that everyone was watching, I removed the
chopsticks. Sango sighed a breath of relief, obviously thinking I was
about to set the bowl of rice aside. Instead I carefully picked up a
small ball of the sticky white grains and, balancing between the two
sticks, popped it into my mouth. I grinned at them, chewing with a
relish.
Kagome sat back. Inu Yasha's ears flattened against his head and
Sango let out a little gasp of horror. Miroku's reaction was best of
all. He shot to his feet, his own meal tumbled and forgotten in the
dirt, and turned on his heel.
He put his back to me, so I couldn't see his face, but I could tell by
the furious beating of his heart and his heavy breathing that he was
angered beyond belief.
“Why did you just do that?!” Kagome hissed.
I put the chopsticks back into the rice, point-up, and set the bowl
aside.
“You said my rice had become an offering for the dead,” I said
softly. I could hear an audible growl from Miroku and the entire line
of his body tensed up, as if he was ready to turn around and flatten
me with his fist.
“Yeah!” Inu Yasha snarled. “What part'a that didn'tcha catch?”
I turned my biggest and best smile on the half-demon. “The part
that says anything about me being alive.”
There, I thought at Miroku, now hit on me, you pervert.
=====
It was several hours before Miroku would let me near enough to him
to apologize.
It retrospect, it had been a cruel thing to do. Miroku hadn't
deserved to find out that I was just an animated corpse that way,
and the others had had enough problems with animated corpses to
make my little stunt not-funny.
The minute I had mentioned the 'not alive', Miroku had taken off
into the darkness of the forest around us. The Japanese forests of
old were think and ancient, filled with whispering trees and myths
that wound themselves around every branch as if the Gods of
Nippon were here and watching us.
Knowing this reality, they probably were.
The others all looked at me as if I had spontaneously turned my skin
inside out and Inu Yasha had let out a not-so-inaudible 'tch'
accompanied by an irritated ear-flick.
“I knew you reeked like blood,” he snarled, crossing his arms and
turning head away. “You were the one I smelled last night.”
Shippou had crawled up into Kagome's arms and looked at me with
wide bright eyes, scared and shaking a little but trying to be brave.
He said nothing and he didn't need to - I understood well enough.
Sango actually reached for her weapon but before she could take a
slice at me, I backed up to the edge of the firelight where it would
be hard to aim at me in the darkness. “What are you?” Sango
snarled, “Another of Naraku's sick puppets, brought to life with the
Shikon Shards?”
Oops. I had forgotten about Sango's little brother. Kohaku, his name
was, had been killed a little over a year earlier by Naraku, the
villain of this tale. Naraku was a semi-demon himself who sought to
use the power of the scattered shards of the Shikon no Tama, a
powerful gem, to make himself a full blooded demon and rule Japan.
This was Inu Yasha's wish as well, save for the part of ruling Japan.
Well, it used to be his goal - now that he was falling in love with
Kagome, I wondered if he wouldn't choose to remain a half demon.
He would offer to become fully human for her, but I knew Kagome
wouldn't have it. She loved him in spite of his furry ears - or maybe
because of them.
Kohaku and Sango were both from a very powerful family of
warriors, and when Naraku had killed Kohaku, he had inserted a
Shikon shard into the boy's still wet wound and brought his body
back to life. But this new Kohaku had no memory of his old self. His
body was there, but his mind was gone.
Naraku, the bastard, regularly pitted Sango against this corpse of
her little brother.
On top of that, Inu Yasha's former lover Kikyou was also regular
trouble for this not-so-merry band, and once a very powerful demon
prince had brought Inu Yasha's mother back from the dead in order
to lure Inu Yasha into a trap. The Demon Prince had then killed Inu
Yasha's mother all over again, right before his eyes.
So, yeah, I guess I could understand how my little joke could rub
the wrong way.
I stood just outside the circle of firelight and said, “I'm sorry. That
was really tasteless of me.”
“Are you really dead?” Kagome whispered.
“Do you hear my heart beating, Shippou-san?”
The little fox demon shook his head slowly, his eyes growing, if
possible, wider.
“Are you here from Naraku?” Sango insisted, climbing slowly to her
feet, her stance wide and ready to lunge at me. She held her sword
tightly in her hand, ready to draw it from it's sheath in a quick,
deadly movement.
“No, I'm not,” I said. “And I'm not a reanimated corpse either. I'm
a…” I trailed off here, uncertain how to continue. Did I dare tell the
truth? Would they trust me if they knew that I was a vampire? “I
don't know what I am,” I lied. Inu Yasha's ears twitched, but if he
detected the falsehood, he said nothing. “I got sick one day, and
fell asleep. I was told I died. When I woke up, I was as I am. My
heart doesn't beat, I don't breathe save to speak, and I haven't been
ill or aged a day since.”
No one said a thing. They just stared at me.
“Right.” I rocked back on my heels and rubbed my hands together.
“Well, I know a 'fuck off' when I see one. I'll just go apologize to
Miroku-dono, and then I'll… vanish.”
I didn't really need to apologize to Miroku. But I decided to follow
through with it just because... well, just because I felt a little
funny about this whole encounter. Something tugged in my chest,
and I realized belatedly that I was feeling slightly guilty.
Hm.
I turned my back to the firelight and walked into the thick forest,
vanishing just as I said I would.
Well that certainly hadn't ended the way I had hoped.
Oh, well. Can't win 'em all, can you?
=====
I found Miroku standing on the bank of a deep, swift river. He was
throwing leaves one by one into the water and watching as they
were swept away. His staff was leaning against a nearby tree trunk.
The tree was so close to the river that its branches dipped down to
drink.
I moved up behind him silently. The monk had tremendous spiritual
powers and although I knew I had not made a sound, he tensed and
said, “Stay away from me.”
Now that he knew what I was, I'm sure he had no problem sensing
me.
“I just came to apologize,” I said softly. I stood a few paces behind
his shoulder, staring at the back of his head, at that cute little
gravity-defying ponytail. “What I did was cruel and tasteless.”
He let another dried leaf flutter into the water. Together we
watched it touch the water, and be swept down stream. As it
rounded a corner and floated out of sight, Miroku finally said,
“Actually, if I had been prepared for it, it would have been kind of
funny.”
“It's sorta what I was aiming for.” I snorted. “Glad you think so, at
least. You seem to be the only one.”
“I could imagine how my companions would be…unimpressed.”
I snorted again. “That's a nice way of putting it.”
Finally he turned to me, letting the dried leaves in his hands fall to
the forest floor. The brown streaks of soil peeking out from under
the foliage showed that he had probably picked them up from there.
He took a small step forward, a serious expression in his brown eyes.
“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked, and his voice was soft and
sincere.
“Tell you what?” I asked, “My life story? Jeeze, Miroku, I just met
you…” I stuck my hands in my pockets, made uncomfortable by the
serious expression in his eyes.
He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Well, no
but… I mean… I'm a monk, so I thought maybe you came to me to…I
don't know…”
“Find a cure?” I supplied. “Get blessed? Be purified?”
He bit his lip and nodded. I had never seen him look so… humble
and abashed before.
“I mean, I know what I said earlier, everything about the… the child,
and all, but you know… most women don't take me seriously when I
say that. At best I get a slap on the cheek, at worst…” he trailed off
and scratched the back of his head nervously. “But you didn't slap
me. I ...” he stepped forward again and gingerly lifted my hand out
of my pocket so he could twine his fingers around mine. “I thought,
maybe that… at first I mean… you genuinely seemed to… but, it was
just this, wasn't it? This… cold.”
I shook my head. “Okay, rewind and play again, this time without
hitting the mute button every five words.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“Totally what I feel. I have no idea what you're getting at.”
He sighed heavily and released my hand. He took a step back and
made a small bow from the waist, his hands firmly at his sides.
“I'm sorry I misinterpreted you actions earlier,” he said to his feet.
“My most humble apologies. You have sought me out as a Man of
God so that I may help you find peace, and I have been… making
unwanted advances.”
I shook my head, smiling, and allowed a small chuckle to escape.
The little laugh broke through, bubbling up to the surface and out
of my mouth and Miroku looked up, confused and more than a little
hurt.
What now? His expression seemed to say. As if you haven't hurt me
enough, now you laugh at me.
“First,” I said, holding up one finger under his nose. “If you were
such a holy man, I wouldn't be able to touch your skin.” I touched
the tip of his nose to prove my point and then held the unburnt
digit up to his eyes. “I don't doubt that you're powerful, but it's
strong blind faith that burns me and hey, look, no burnt flesh. You
travel with a youkai and a hanyou - you're anything but blind.
Second, I haven't come for you to 'gain peace'. I've tried that once
already and it damn near killed me all the way. The only way to do
that is to kill me once and for all, and I'm not ready for that yet. I
have to get home first. Third…”
I reached out and grabbed his shoulders and kissed him hard on the
mouth. When we parted, there was a funny glazed look in his eyes
and a blithe smile playing across his lips. “No one said anything
about unwanted advances.”
Miroku shook his head gently as if to clear away a haze as I took a
step back and felt my heart beat a few times with the thrilled
feeling of what I'd just done. Rarely was I ever emboldened enough
to do what I had just done without intending the receiver to be my
evening meal.
“But, you…ah…” he muttered, trying to make sense of what had
just happened. “I ...um….”
“Articulate, aren't you.”
“You're only dead if you think you're dead,” Miroku suddenly
whispered in my ear.
“I can't bare you children,” I whispered to him, “and my body is
dead, but… my heart is still very much alive, Miroku.”
He stared at me, flabbergast. Then he blinked, shook his head again,
and then ran the fingers of one hand through his fringe while he put
his other hand on his hip. “And here I make fun of Inu Yasha for
being in the exact same predicament.”
“What predicament?”
“How do you love a dead woman?”
I smiled sadly. “Gently, and just for one night.”
“One night?” he repeated softly.
“I have to go in the morning, and before you ask, you'll probably
never see me again.”
“Ever?”
I shook my head. “But. Tonight. I just need to be... touched.”
“Loved?”
My smile got sadder. “I don't believe in love any more. There's no
such thing.”
That roguish smile played at the corner of his lips again. He reached
out for me, and I didn't shy away. “Then I guess I better not waste
any more time…”
I just wanted to be touched. In a way that didn't hurt.
I wanted it so badly...
Book Sixteen: StarGate: SG-1
Chapter Thirty-Nine: “Human”
Days passed. I found a dark hostel and curled up in the corner and
didn't know where I was and certainly didn't care.
My night with Miroku had been wonderful, but I was now feeling
terrible for what I had done to his friends. Guilty. And he made me
feel worse by asking me to go back with him to see them in the
morning - to talk to them, to make up. To become a member of the
band.
And just like that the Mary Sue is accepted into the main character's
innermost circle.
Fuck that.
I wasn't going to stay in medieval Japan and hunt demons for the
rest of my unlife. I told him I had to go and he got angry and asked
if our night together had meant nothing.
I'd touched the puncture marks on his neck and lied when I said
“Yes.”
But I had to go.
Something else was nagging me too, something that I hadn't realized
before.
I'd slept with him. And Methos. And Legolas.
I could feed without screwing around. Why was I doing it?
What the hell was wrong with me? I never used to be such a slut. In
fact, I had never really slept with anyone before Legolas... unless,
Lucard had... No.
Was this because I was a Vampire? Was this something I'd had done
to me?
Or was it the Mary Sueism wearing off?
Or was it that I was just so goddamned lonely and I just wanted to
be held, to be told that I was special and beautiful and... and for a
few moments ... to feel loved?
Touched in a way that didn't cause pain.
For once.
I did, with Miroku. He treated me with nothing but gentleness. He
could give me the warmth I needed.
And that scared me.
Because I couldn't let myself be seduced into staying somewhere.
I couldn't depend on anyone but myself.
I had to get home. The people who really loved me, not because I
was a Mary Sue but because they loved me, must have been frantic
with worry. I had to get back to them. For them. And for me.
I had to.
I left Miroku alone, and in my mind his words echoed - you're only
dead if you think you're dead.
What, so all of this was my fault? All these hurt feelings and pain
were just because I wasn't thinking positively any more?
Yeah, right!
So I shoved the thoughts away, down into the box, and fortified my
mental walls by recalling all the people who had wronged me. The
people who had annoyed me. The goddamn men who I thought I
could connect with and never did.
Fuck Methos. Fuck Miroku. Fuck Legolas. Fuck Jareth. Fuck Spike.
Fuck Jean-Claude. And double-fuck Lucard.
Goddamn mother fucking men.
I slid, and, slid, and slid.
“Going home,” I told myself each time I closed my eyes against the
white flash of light. “Going home,” I told myself each time I
patiently waited in a park or in a cheap hotel room for a day.
Checked a newspaper to see if I was there yet. “Going home,” I
told myself. “Don't need anyone.”
“I don't need anyone.” The mugger I was stalking was startled to
hear my voice in the blackness.
“Who's there?” he called, fear escalating his voice an octave.
“Nobody, not any more,” I said as I sank my teeth into him. “Going
home,” I whispered wetly against his torn flesh, “It'll all be fine
when I get there. It'll be all over. Going home. Not a psycho. Not a
monster. Not desperate to not be alone.”
And I left him alive to prove it to myself.
=====
One day, I woke up in a hotel room that I didn't recognize and
reached for my knife. It was under my pillow.
I don't know what woke me up. It wasn't the nightmares.
Hadn't had those in a while. Not since I'd stopped... caring.
I was half poised in a stance ready to jab or cut whoever it was that
was in my room. My eyes stabbed around in the darkness, I stilled
all breathing, waiting, listening to see who was there.
After a few long, tense moments, I realized nobody was.
I sat up in the bed and stared at my hands. What that hell had that
been? One little groan from the building and I was ready to murder
someone. Was I that on edge? Was I that… unbalanced?
Sure, I had isolated myself this past little while - slipped as fast as I
could, avoided people, avoided sunlight and warmth and.... humans.
In that moment I realized that I had become someone…different.
I wasn't who I was any more.
I wasn't who I had been when I had started this whole mess.
How long ago had that been - a year? Two years? Maybe longer? I
couldn't tell any more. I should have kept a note pad and ticked off
days.
How long was my hair now? Past my shoulders, at least. I wanted a
haircut, but worried that if I did I would loose the one thing I had
reminding me of the passage of time. I no longer aged. I'd lost
weight. My hair was all I had.
I was lost.
I was cold.
I was alone.
I was a monster.
I had beaten a man to a bloody pulp, hunted people in alleyways,
robbed muggers, cut of a head, and slept with a monk.
I needed to find me again. Me, Marie Susan Brooke. Not the Mary
Sue.
I had a scalding shower and dressed and decided to go for a walk. I
didn't even know the name of the town I was in. I didn't know the
reality. I didn't even know the time.
It was the afternoon, I think. Maybe it was morning. I'd been
ghosting in and out of realities without caring to look around me. I
was so focused on getting home that I was forgetting to live.
I was forgetting who I was.
Why I was even trying to get home.
So focused.
Too focused.
I was going to be here for a month. I needed to brew more potion. I
couldn't stay holed up, paranoid and solitary, for a whole month,
could I?
No.
I resolved to discover the name of the town, to find a good coffee
shop and spend the day there people watching.
I would play human for a day and maybe it would help me get my
humanity back.
When had been the last time I had spoken to someone? Touched
someone?
Miroku, maybe, but surely that had been no more than a week ago.
Or two? Or had it been a month? Ten worlds? Twenty?
Too damn long.
=====
I didn't find the name of the town before I found the café, so I
figured I'd get the name later.
I walked up to the bar and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu,
inquiring about free re-fills. They didn't do them, so I would just
have to nurse. I mean, I was just going to puke it all back up come
sunset anyway, right? No point it spending the meagre cash I had on
something I couldn't ingest.
Would have to rob someone soon, if I wanted any more money. If I
wanted a nice hotel room in the next world. Unless I skipped out
without paying my tab. Hm. I could start staying in the pricey
places that didn't make you pay until after, but to do that I may
need valid ID and credit cards.
Didn't have either.
I picked a seat at a table that faced the door and the large window
that looked over the sidewalk. I sat back and pretended to sip. My
attention wandered for an hour or so. I organized my pouch for
another twenty minutes. I eavesdropped on a lover's quarrel for ten,
and then a friend comforting another over another friend who had
said horrible things about her needlessly.
The only other occupied table in the café with a silent occupant
was filled by a skinny guy with darkish hair and round glasses. He
was hunched over and ungodly amount of textbooks so I assumed he
was a student. He was muttering to himself in Latin. Probably
translating.
“Semper ubi sub ubi. No, that can't possibly be right...”
He had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face.
Every time the waitress walked past, he looked up just slowly
enough to miss catching her eye. The fifth time this happened I
started thinking about flagging her down just to tell her to go serve
him. I heard him mutter, “Waitress kree, dammit.”
I blinked.
Kree?
No. No way.
I had been in this realm for three days already and I hadn't… of
course. I shook my head, called myself an idiot, and stood. I
grabbed my cup and walked past the main counter. I picked up the
waitress' coffee pot and shot her a glare when she protested.
“One of us has to do your job,” I snarked.
Then I walked over to the man and poured him a fresh cup.
“Thank god,” he said, “Didn't think it'd work.”
I smiled, set down the pot on a bit of space I cleared on his table
after filling my own cup. I sat down in the chair directly across from
him and smiled. “It didn't.”
He frowned. “Oh. Ah. Oh. Um… thank you.”
“You're welcome, Doctor Jackson.”
He blinked at me through his glasses. “Do I… know you?”
I shook my head. “No. But I know you.”
“You do?”
“Your work, I mean.” I smiled my most charming smile.
“Questioning when the pyramids were built, and by whom.
Dissertations on dead civilizations. I've read lots by you. Recognized
you from the pictures on your dust-jackets.”
I could see the gears working in his head. Doctor Daniel Jackson was
currently employed by the US Air Forces, working on a top-secret
project known as “StarGate Command.” (of course, I wondered why
he had top secret documents like the passages he was so obviously
trying to translate outside of the base or his apartment, but maybe
he had just been feeling cooped up. I could sympathize. Daniel was
trying to re-humanize himself this afternoon too.)
“StarGate Command” was a secret military institution, along the
lines of Area-51, which strictly speaking didn't exist. They dealt in
alien technology, war-lords from other galaxies, and the Fate of All
Mankind.
Not exactly the type to employ archaeologists? Said aliens seemed
like to pretend to be ancient Gods, and their languages were what
we would call the dead ones - Sanskrit, Mesopotamian, Babylonian,
Ancient Greek, and Egyptian.
Dr. Daniel Jackson worked for the government as a translator,
anthropologist, and general “explain-stuff” guy.
Right now, I could guess fairly accurately that Daniel was wondering
if I was with a counter-intelligence operation known as the NID, or
if I was an alien spy, or if I really was just a fan of his pre-military
work like I said I was.
Well, I was a fan of his character on the television series “StarGate
SG-1”. That counts. Right?
He decided that I was the latter, and smiled and shook my hand. I
giggled, trying to sound like the university student I looked like. Am.
Was. Whatever. “I'd ask for your autograph, but I have no book with
me.”
He blushed. “I… uh… I can sign something else… a napkin?”
I shook my head. “S'cool. What are you doing here Doctor? On
Sabbatical?”
He leapt at my offered excuse. “Extended,” he said. “Got… friends
here. Just… you know…”
I gestured to the piles of paper around me. “Personal Research
Project.” The university student in me automatically capitalized the
words. Something deep in my gut twisted when I realized that I
hadn't been a student in more than two years. Longer than that,
maybe.
Didn't I have an essay due?
I shoved down the imminent panic attack and pasted on a fake
smile.
“Yeah.”
I continued to smile and used my feigned curiosity in the subject to
peruse some of the papers. It was all in languages I didn't speak.
Thanks to the Slipping, I'd learned more than a handful.
Daniel set aside his work, carefully folding his papers into a
briefcase before turning his attention to me. Top secret, and all
that. “So, you're an… archaeology student.”
I shook my head. “Dramatic Literature, actually. But I love dabbling
in Classical History and Languages. I'm a nutter for mythology.”
He laughed. “If you only knew.”
If you only knew.
“You know, I've always wondered about your pyramid theories,” I
ventured.
Yes, I was feeling reckless and dangerous. But I had come to this
café resolving to get my humanity back. The best way to do it
seemed to be to play with fire a little. The last half dozen worlds
had been boring, I'd made myself numb, detached. I hadn't done
anything fun since my little romp with Miroku the Pervert Monk and
that had been... what... weeks ago? Longer?
I was going to have an adventure.
It was about damn time I looked up at what was going on around me.
Besides, I wanted to see the StarGate.
“Wondered what about the theories?” Daniel asked, flattered by my
attention.
“Well,” I grinned and leaned across the table to whisper to him,
“Did you hear about the 1928 Giza excavation?”
Outwardly, his expression didn't change. But I heard his heart speed
up, his breaths come a little faster. Of course he had heard of them
- they had excavated the StarGate at those digs. A doorway that he
himself had figured out how to open. A door way to the stars.
“Off and on,” he said softly. “Nothing tangible.”
“I heard a great story about it. A myth. About what was supposed to
be buried there, I mean.”
“Something was supposed to be buried there?” He was growing
paler now, his hands shaking slightly. Oh, I was cruel. I was toying
with him. I was playing cat and mouse and being a total Vampiric
bitch and loving every second of it.
“According to the stories, the Old Gods of Egypt were … cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“Yeah - bad gods. Not fit for ruling. It's said that a rebellion
happened and they humans kicked out the Old Gods and somehow
shoved them into heaven.”
“Heaven?”
“Well, they used this doorway called the Gate to Heaven. I don't
think the translation of the word is correct - he must have been
using the bad book.” I smiled and he swallowed hard. He had said
much the same thing himself in the movie. “I don't know enough of
the glyphs to know the right word, though. Then the people buried
it and in an attempt to consecrate the ground, built the Sphinx and
pyramids there.” I smiled my most winning smile and he was
frowning slightly. Probably trying to figure out if he'd ever read the
story somewhere and just missed it. “Of course, if you want to be a
kook, you can say that the Old Gods were aliens and the Heaven's
Gate was some sort of… interplanetary travel thingy. But then you'd
be proving those nutters who believed Aliens built the pyramids
true.”
In this reality it was true.
Daniel knew that as well as I.
He was uncomfortable and anxious looking and I feigned checking
my watch. “Ah! Lookit the time,” I said, and stood. I pulled the pen
from his hand and wrote down the name of my hotel and room
number on a spare napkin, along with my name. “I'd love to have
coffee again with you sometime, Doctor,” I said, knowing full well
that he would run to StarGate Command immediately and try to
figure out who the hell I was and how the hell I knew about the
‘gate. “Call me.”
He studied the napkin, “Marie Sparrow?” I nodded. What? So I liked
to play with last names when I checked into the motels and inns.
Don't judge me.
He folded it and carefully put it in his jeans pocket.
I bid him good afternoon and left the café smiling.
Oh, and by the way, the name of the town was Colorado Springs.
=====
I was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of footsteps
outside of my door.
I figured they belonged to someone who was staying down the hall,
turned over, and tried to get back to sleep. Sleeping at night had
the advantage and disadvantage of providing me with a lighter sleep
than if I'd kept regular Vampire hours.
Advantage because I could wake easier if there was a nightmare or
a problem.
Disadvantage because everything else woke me, too.
I'd been dreaming about the man in the black leather with the
sword again, and I wanted to recapture the dream. We hadn't said
anything to each other yet, and I wanted to see if he would speak
to me this time.
I let a yawn curl my tongue and jammed my shoulder under the flat
hotel pillow and tried to settle again. The footsteps had stopped
outside of my door, and made a slight scuffling sound on the carpet.
I frowned.
I sat up and looked at the door. Concentrating, I counted three
heartbeats outside, and the controlled breathing of three someones
waiting for something. I swivelled my head, turning my ears to the
windows - yes, there were three folks there, too.
Hm.
The tiny scrape of metal on metal jarred my ears. The door handle
jiggled.
Picking the lock. Hm.
I considered laying down and faking sleep, but the people at the
window probably saw that I was awake already. I considered
reaching for my knife and my wand. If the people outside had radios,
then the people inside would probably already know I was up. If I
armed myself, they would be more aggressive in their entrance.
Maybe shoot me.
Hm.
I made a show of stretching, stood, and walked into the bathroom. I
had left my day clothing in there, sleeping in the complimentary
bathrobe. I flushed the toilet to mask any sounds and erase any
doubts as to why I got up, and quickly slipped on my street wear.
My knife was under the pillow, my wand and phials in the belt on
the bed stand. The bathroom door was beside the bed. They were
still picking the lock. I was confident I could reach at least one of
my weapons before they managed to fire theirs.
Timing it, I opened the door to the bathroom and stepped into the
room right about the same time as three guys in Black Ops gear. I
put my hand on the handle of my wand casually, as if just leaning
on the bed stand.
“Don't move!” one of the men hissed. All three guns jumped up and
aimed at my chest.
Hm.
One man hung back and closed the door. Ah - this was supposed to
be secret. If it hadn't, the order to stay still would have been
shouted and they would have asked the management to let them in.
“You could have just knocked,” I said conversationally, not moving.
The men blinked. Clearly, I had been waiting for them - I was
dressed, and awake. They were not prepared for this, and it threw
them for a tiny loop.
“You... you're under arrest,” one of the men said, hauling his brain
back onto the script. “Please come with us.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Classified.”
I rolled my eyes. “C'mon guys. You don't honestly expect me to be
all cooperative if you don't at least hint at what I've done wrong.”
They exchanged another glance. One of them pressed two fingers to
his ear and listened. I could hear the tinny voice over his radio clear
as day - “Tell her a little. Security breach.”
The man nodded, dropped his hand back to his M-90 and said,
“Possible security breach. Please come with us.”
I smiled. “You know, just a thought but - if I hadn't actually
breached any kind of national security, don't you think this stunt
might have provoked me into it?”
The voice on the other end of the radio barked out a laugh, then
clipped it off.
Something made a high-pitched ringing sound and I couldn't resist
adding, “And you may want to answer your cell, sir.”
On the other end of the wire, the man sucked in a breath and hissed
out, “Fuck.”
“Swearing is naughty, too,” I said. “Didn't your mama ever tell you
that?”
The Black Ops guys looked about ready to piss themselves. They
were scared now. I could hear what their CO was saying and I
shouldn't be able to. They knew I was something beyond what they
could probably handle.
But I wanted them to arrest me.
I still wanted adventure. I wanted to use its thrill and it's danger to
remember who I was.
“Right,” I said. “Can I put on my belt before we go? Don't want my
pants to fall down. Its very undignified, you know. Hardly fitting of
a prisoner of the United States of America's Black Ops.”
The ops guys exchanged a glance, then the guy closest to me
nodded and said, “Slowly.”
I looped the leather through my belt loops and buckled it at a snail's
pace.
“I have a knife,” I said. They stiffened as one. “It's under my pillow.
I suspect you don't want me to keep it, but I'm rather attached to it
and loath to leave it behind. I don't mind someone else carrying it.”
I pointed at the pillow, where my knife lay, and stepped aside.
Carefully, one of the ops guys stepped forward and poked at the
pillow as if he expected a bomb underneath. When the pillow didn't
go kablewie in his face, he prodded it aside with the barrel of his
weapon.
“Confirmed, sir,” he said.
“Take it,” the leader said. The Ops guy did. The leader gestured
with his M-90. “This way, Miss Sparrow,” he said, pointing towards
the door. “Walk slowly. If you run, we shoot. If you scream, we
have chloroform. We're taking the stairs to the basement level.”
“Joy,” I said, and walked out of the room ahead of him with my
hands empty and at my sides. “Guess I get my exercise for the
night.”
I let them direct me silently up the hall, watching with wary eyes. I
noticed that the red lights on the security cameras were off. Once
we were in the narrow stairwell, I could have turned around and
socked the guy behind me. I could have taken a few bullets in the
effort to wrest my knife from the man holding it in his black glove.
I could have changed into a bat, flown upwards to the roof. I could
have escaped.
I didn't want to.
I wanted to go to Cheyenne Mountain, the nearest military base,
where they would undoubtedly take me.
I wanted to go where the StarGate was.
Book Sixteen: StarGate: SG1
Chapter Forty: “Lies and Truths”
“You can take off the blindfold now.”
I lifted my hands to the swath of dark fabric covering my eyes and
pushed it up over my head. I dropped it into my lap and tried to
smooth down my bed- and bandana-head hair. I also used the
motion to look around the room.
It was smallish - just big enough for three or four to sit comfortably
with a wide table separating them. Close enough to be intimate and
far enough away that I couldn't reach out and punch the person
opposite me.
The walls were concrete, painted what I suppose they thought was
a soothing grey, but I had always associated with cheap dorm rooms.
The floor was painted too, bare and cool. There was a white-shaded
yellowish light bulb hanging from a solitary cord too far up to reach,
and a darkly mirrored window to my right. I turned and stuck my
tongue out at it.
There was a well-scuffed stainless steel table before me, bolted to
the ground so it couldn't be tossed around by irate prisoners. There
were also two matching chairs, also bolted down. I was in one.
A fit looking man in his late forties or early fifties was in the other.
He was wearing the drab olive ensemble of military personnel with
no particular place to go. A black tee-shirt was under the open shirt,
stretched just enough to betray that although this man may have
deep smile lines around his mouth and deeper squint-lines around
his eyes, he was by no means a senior citizen.
He had another earpiece in, the flesh-toned wire threading down
the side of his neck and into the collar of his shirt. If I hadn't been
looking for it, I wouldn't have seen it.
His hair was cropped short, but not drastically so, and was a light
blondy brown which may or may not have been going grey. His dark
eyes reminded me of a dog's - deep, thoughtful, playful, perhaps,
but wont to bite if provoked.
I have seen those eyes sparkle with laughter, and burn with fury.
I knew this man. This was Colonel Jonathan “Jack” O'Neill, the
Commanding Officer of the StarGate 1 team. The team was
comprised of Major Samantha Carter, an Air force officer who
specialized in Astrophysics and mechanical doohickies. The third
member was Teal'c, an enemy alien-turned-ally with a large
physique and a child-like fascination with Tau'ri (Earth) popular
culture.
The fourth and last member was Doctor Daniel Jackson.
Colonel Jack O'Neill looked at me over the top of the clip board he
held in his hand. He finished scanning what was written on it,
obviously stalling in order to make me twitchy. It didn't make me
twitchy, it just gave me a few seconds longer to admire the fact
that I had guessed right - they had brought me to the StarGate
Command Centre in Cheyenne Mountain, just as I'd hoped they
would.
“Would you care to explain why you were making… soup… in your
hotel room?” O'Neill asked archly, once I had returned my gaze to
his face.
Oh, goody. Straight to the interrogation!
I wondered who my Good Cop would be, or if O'Neill thought it was
supposed to be him.
I smiled as winningly as possible and said, hands folded neatly on
my knees, “Room service sucked?”
He levelled an unimpressed glare at me over the bare, stainless
steel table. “With Dandelion and butterfly wings?”
My smile thinned. “It's a delicacy?”
O'Neill snorted.
“Who was on the phone?” I asked.
His heartbeat sped up slightly, but his face didn't change.
I leaned across the table. “If I were you, Colonel,” I said in a stagewhisper, “I'd be less worried about the soup and more worried
about how exactly it is that I knew that the Black Ops guys were
coming.”
O'Neill set aside the clipboard, face-down, and folded his arms on
the table, leaning forward to match my posture. “And how did you
know that they were coming, Miss Sparrow?”
“Brooke,” I corrected. “Marie Susan Brooke.”
O'Neill blinked. “The name you gave to Doctor Jackson was
Sparrow.”
“Yeah, that's the name I checked into the hotel under,” I said, “how
else was he supposed to find me? Or, you know, you guys. Either
was fine, I guess.” I scratched the side of my nose. “Gonna ask me
why I did that?”
“I figure you're about to tell me.” O'Neill snorted again. “I'm
starting to sense a pattern here.”
“See, now that's why you're all in charge and stuff,” I said. “Being
smart and all.”
His grin grew. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Clearly, you made
a point of telling Doctor Jackson where you were staying in order to
make it easy for us. You also told him just enough to make it clear
that you know more than you should, but not enough that we may
shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Which wouldn't really work on anyone but me,” I pointed out. I
saw O'Neill's face tighten and added, hastily, “Don't worry, not a
snake.” I lifted my shirt just enough to expose a smooth expanse of
stomach. “No x scar.”
“Ri-ight,” he said. He turned his head towards the mirror on the
wall and barked, “Carter?”
In his earpiece a woman's voice said, “Not sensing anything. Teal'c
either, sir.”
“Toldjaso,” I said before he could relay the message to me.
He lifted a hand and tapped the earpiece with one blunt finger.
“You can hear her?”
“Every word.”
“Huh.” He narrowed his fathomless eyes at me. “So what are you
and why did you want in here so bad?”
I shrugged. “Who said I wanted in here?”
“You freaked out Doctor Jackson and all but drew us a map and
handed out invitations.” He waved at me in a 'there ya go' gesture.
“You wanted to be captured. Why?”
I sat back, took a deep breath. I let it out slowly, then took in
another. “Well, it worked easier than just walking in, didn't it?
Nobody pointed guns at me at the security checkpoints and
demanded mountains of ID.”
“Fer cryin' out loud,” O'Neill said under his breath.
I'm afraid and ashamed to report that I made a tiny, teeny, fangirly
'squeeee' of glee at hearing his signature catchphrase.
“What was that?” he asked, eyebrows galloping up into his fair hair.
“Sorry,” I apologized hastily. “A little fangirl got out. Listen,
Colonel, how about this. I'll tell you everything you want, all of it.
In return, you just let me do what I wanted into the base to do.”
He sat back as well, and crossed his hands across his stomach, a
hard gesture of reluctance that physically closed himself off from
me. “And what's that?”
“You let me see the StarGate.”
His eye bugged out and he managed to catch himself before his jaw
dropped to the table top. I heard the people in the next room make
various sounds, and then the echo of their noises followed a few
seconds after in O'Neill's ear.
“Well?” I said, when everyone simmered down a bit. “I just want to
see it. I don't even want to go through it.”
“How do you know about it?” O'Neill growled.
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “Show me first, then I'll tell you.”
O'Neill stared at me. Then he got up and left the room, taking the
clipboard with him. The doors and walls were heavy enough that
although I could hear the muffled murmurs of him talking with
people in the hall, I didn't know who or what was said.
At length, a fit, pretty woman with short shaggy blonde hair
entered the room. She was holding my knife and one of my phials.
This made me less happy. They had made me give up my belt,
though I had managed to stuff my wand up my sleeve, when we had
arrived at the base.
“This is a very strange knife,” she said.
“Yes, it is, Major,” I agreed. She blanched. No where on her
uniform was her rank written, so how could I have known it? I
smiled in what I hoped was a disarming way. “It was a gift, too, so
please treat it nicely. I don't want to get it back with any chips.”
She frowned. “What makes you think we'll give it back? It's illegal
for any citizen to carry a sharpened blade longer than six inches.”
“Once I've seen the StarGate and you ask your questions and I've
answered them, you'll give me my knife back,” I said.
“You're confident, aren't you?” she said. “Not afraid of anything.”
The smile wavered. “I wouldn't say anything, but... not a lot.”
She lifted the phial and I tensed.
“You're afraid of this,” she said softly. “I can see it in your eyes.”
I was watching the phial carefully. It was a keyed one, and the word
“Lab” was written across it in thick ink. I'm sure Major Samantha
Carter had no desire to meet the Goblin King so I said, slowly,
“What I fear, Major, is what will happen if you drop that.”
“So it is an explosive?” she said.
“No,” I corrected. “It's a phase shifter. Drop that and you'll end up
in an alternate reality. And not the one where you have long hair
and were married to O'Neill.”
Her whole face went white and for a moment I thought she actually
would drop the phial, her hand was shaking so bad. Then she got a
hold of herself, turned on her heel, and left the room.
There was more talking. I grabbed a handful of my own hair and
began to pick at the split ends. There was an embarrassing amount,
and I thought I'd better try to find a salon and at least get a trim. I
still wanted to keep the long hair, but the dead ends had to go.
At length, Doctor Jackson stuck his head into the room.
“He-hello,” he said, shutting the heavy metal door behind him. It
made a clicking sound. He rubbed his palms on his pants.
“Hi Doctor Jackson,” I said, dropping my hair. “Guess this makes
you the Good Cop, eh? I'm Sorry.”
“Sorry?” he echoed, pushing up his glasses. “What for?”
“For using you to get in here.”
He shrugged. “Not the first time it's happened,” he said with a
small laugh.
“I daresay not.”
“You, ah... you want coffee?” he asked, making a short, jerking
gesture towards the door with his thumb.
“Nah, don't drink...coffee,” I said. I'd always wanted to use that
pastiche line. It made me grin and made him furrow his brow.
If it had been Teal'c I had said that in front of, he would probably
have raised his eyebrows. That was Tealc's version of a shriek of
surprise. He was very... un-emotive.
Not to say that he didn't have a sense of humour. I'm sure he would
have snagged the Vampire joke in a second.
Daniel sat in the chair that O'Neill had vacated and intertwined his
fingers in a small ball. “So, who are you, Ms. Brooke?”
I chuckled. “I like how they've sent in each of you to try to get
something out of me. It's kinda neat. Will Teal'c be next?”
Daniel frowned and pushed up his glasses. “How do you know about
Teal'c?”
“How could I not? He's a little hard to miss. Look, Doctor Jackson,
I'm enjoying the one-on-one time, but seriously... I meant what I
said to O'Neill. I want to see the StarGate, and then I'll answer
anything you want.”
“And you'll explain what you were making in your hotel room, and
where the knife came from, and how you knew about the Black Ops
guys and can hear things normal people never could, and know so
much about the SGC?”
“All of it,” I swore.
He shifted his fingers a bit. “And why you claim to possess little
glass tubes that are actually phase shifters?”
“Yup.”
“And all you want to do is see the 'Gate?”
“Yup.”
“...really?”
I let one corner of my mouth curl up. “Is that really so hard to
believe, Doctor? I know about it. I want to see it. Can you fault
me?”
He matched the little smirk. “No, I guess not. Right.” He stood, “I
guess I'll... I'll go talk to General Hammond.”
“Thanks, Doctor. Just so you know, I really am a fan,” I said as he
walked towards the door. He paused.
“Really?”
“Really. And I don't think semper ubi sub ubi was in fact the correct
translation.”
He coloured and chuckled again. “Actually, I think it was. It was a
list of things that a mother was told to advise her daughter on the
occasion of the daughter's first public outing in ancient
Novidunum.”
I chuckled too.
He left the room.
There was more talk in the hall.
All told, I figured about an hour passed. I was far underground - 27
stories or so, if I remembered correctly - and I couldn't feel the
passage of the sun as keenly as I usually did. It was probably about
dawn, give or take. I wasn't about to extend my fangs or turn into a
bat just to find out. I certainly wouldn't be able to do so without
the people in the mirror-room next door seeing, and if I did it too
close to day, then I may be stuck like that until the next nightfall.
A queer thought struck me and I lifted my face to the security
camera and winked at it.
I wondered if they could see me or not.
All four members of SG-1 and General Hammond entered the room.
No one was carrying anything. I stayed where I was.
“Right,” the General said. “Give me one good reason to trust you.”
I sat up straight. “Because I am a traveler from a separate reality
where you and all you do is a television show called 'StarGate: SG-1'
which is immensely popular, and, may I add, way freakin' better
than 'Wormhole X-treme'.”
There was a five second vacuum of utter, shocked silence.
Then O'Neill threw up his hands and snarled, “Oh, yer kidding me!”
Sam's mouth was opening and closing, but she said nothing.
Hammond looked like I had just smacked him in the face and Daniel
had somehow pulled a pen and notepad out of thin air and was
frantically scribbling.
Teal'c raised just one eyebrow - not too alarmed - and took a small
step forward.
“You watch this television program?” he inquired stoically.
“Yes,” I said. “Every Wednesday night at eight o'clock. Or, rather I
did.”
“Did?” Daniel asked without looking up from his notes.
“Before I started sliding into alternate realities by mistake.”
Sam and Daniel exchanged a glance.
“Tell us about it,” Sam said.
“Show me the 'Gate,” I said, standing firm.
They exchanged another glance. “Tell us enough to give us reason
to trust you,” Hammond amended.
“Fine, okay,” I said.
Then I did.
For ten minutes they were silent as I recounted my first encounter
with Lucard, leaving out the part about what may or may not have
happened to cause my nightmares. I also left out the Vampire bit. I
told them that I had escaped into Harry Potter. I pulled my wand
out of my sleeve and did a few simple spells to prove it.
I levitated Hammond's ID from his pocket and unlocked to door
without touching it.
I pointed to the camera above us and asked Colonel O'Neill to ask a
techie to count how many people were in the room. “Five,” he said.
I closed my eyes, willed my reflection to appear. O'Neill made a
strangled sound and said, “Six.”
I pointed to the mirrored wall. No one had thought to check my
reflection there yet. They looked, I waved, and then willed my
reflection away. It blobbed off the mirror, like it had been sucked
back like oil bubbles.
Sam ran a hand through her hair, stole three sheets of Daniel's note
book, and produced her own pen from a pocket and began to
scribble.
I told them about Jean-Claude and Jareth and breezed through
everything else until the present with a simple, “And I keep
searching for home, staying where I can in the shadows, and
interacting as little as possible. You'll get the full story, like how I
can do the mirror thing, when I see the 'Gate.”
Hammond's cheeks had gone red, but the rest of his face was pale
and beaded with sweat. O'Neill was frowning, resting one hip on the
table. Teal'c was listening silently, as still as a sentinel.
Daniel and Sam looked up, startled by the sudden silence.
“So, if you don't usually tell people,” Daniel said at length. He
sketched a rough circle in the air between us with his hand, “Why
tell us?”
“I like you guys,” I said. “You're stand-up folks. And you know, you
have experience with this whole phase-shifting thing. Thought you
may be able to give me a hand.”
“That's all?” O'Neill said. “All of this mystery and manoeuvring for a
simple 'gimmie a hand'?”
“Would you have believed me if I had just waltzed up to the
mountain and started screaming over the security cameras?”
“Well... no,” he said, voice disgruntled. “But what makes you think
we actually believe this whole bit about being able to shift into
books and movies and stuff?”
I grinned. “Gee, lemmie think. You've all visited a separate reality,
had a TV show made about you, were cloned, swapped bodies, met
clone kid Jack, fight aliens on a daily bases, and have had your
minds transferred into robots. I'd venture a guess that you're fairly
used to dealing with weird shit and coping with bizarre situations.
And I was pretty sure one of you would figure out at least that I
wasn't human eventually.” My grin got wider at their gobsmacked
expressions, “Besides... I really wanted to meet you guys and talk
and stuff, and I didn't want to have to be all guarded and un-blunt
about it. Oh, and for the record--” I turned to O'Neill, “Maybourne
is an asshole and Anise is a raging bitch.”
Jack grinned.
“My kinda gal,” he said. “I'm convinced.”
=====
Ten minutes later I was standing in the StarGate Command Briefing
Room, waiting with the rest of the base for SG-7 to make their
reappearance on the metal ramp below. The everything-proof
window of the room looked down onto the StarGate, three floors
below, perched rather unceremoniously on it's side on the concrete
with a single ramp leading up to the circle.
The klaxons blared, the lights turned red, and a voice announced
over a PA system, “GDO code confirmed, it's SG-7.”
On the right of me, General Hammond, the rotund bald man in
charge of the SGC spoke into a phone, “Open the iris.”
Down below me, on the cement floor of a supposedly abandoned
missile silo, a large flat disc of titanium slid back to reveal an
ancient metal ring six times as tall as me, and covered all over with
glyphs so old the Ancient Egyptians' had had no idea what they'd
meant.
The centre section of the ring spun from left to right, like an
oversized combination lock, pausing to click the correct sequence
of symbols into the seven spiky bits that stuck out the side.
There was a flash of white, then a swirling, watery vortex appeared
in the middle of the ring, suspended magically in a vertical position.
A long plume of spray shot out from the centre, swelled, and shrunk
back into the surface of the 'water'. Tiny ripples bounced away from
the impact point, and the 'water' became a smooth pool of glowing,
refracting, sparkling liquid.
“Da-yam, that's cool,” I said, appreciatively. Beside me Jack raised
a sardonic eyebrow every-so-slightly. The unspoken What is? was
loud and clear. I gestured vaguely at the StarGate with my palms.
“Just the whole, whirly, spinney, vertical water.... thingy.”
He snorted.
Ri-ight.
“So,” Jack said, rubbing his hands together. “We have vats of
coffee, a mountain of donuts, and piles of notepads and tape
recorders. Ready to spill your guts?”
He gestured at the long wooden briefing table behind us, and I saw
that he wasn't exaggerating. Daniel was already sitting, his hand
eagerly on the 'record' button of a tape player.
I walked over to the coffee pot and peered in.
“What's wrong?” Sam asked. “Prefer tea? Coffee's the vice of choice
around here, but I think someone may have some chamomile
stashed away.”
I turned and said, “Actually, I hate to be a bother, but I haven't had
anything to ...um... 'eat'... since about this time yesterday.”
Jack grinned and sat down, grabbing a powdery sugar donut off the
plate. His gestures were loose, friendly, but I could still see that his
guard was up.
As much as I was being treated more or less like a guest, I knew I
was still a prisoner. Now that the sun had rose, I wouldn't be able to
leave without a lot of fuss, bullets, and not a little amount of
bleeding.
Not that I wanted to leave.
For now I was content to be the prisoner of the SGC. There were
two guards posted at each door and SG1 were all armed, so it's not
like I had a lot of a choice, anyway.
Jack licked the sugar off his top lip and said, “Anything you want,
ask. It's the Air Force's tab. Pizza, Chinese?”
“Blood,” I said.
He choked. Teal'c pounded his back with a blank face.
“B-blood?” Daniel asked.
“I prefer it hot,” I said. “But right out of the bag is good, too.”
“Bag?” Sam echoed.
I mimed holding something in front of my mouth, “Yeah, with a
straw. Like a juice box.”
“This is going to be a long day, isn't it?” Jack said, finally breathing
again. He set down the rest of his donut.
“Yeah,” I agreed, sitting down in the plush black chair beside him,
“Yeah, it is.”
Book Sixteen: StarGate: SG1
Chapter Forty-One: “Drafted”
Several long hours later found us all staring at each other around
the long briefing room table.
The large, brushed steel coffee pot was empty, the last of it
congealing in Daniel's stained cup. All that was left of the donuts
was a few crumbs and a liberal dusting of confectioner's sugar.
There were two pizza boxes - one was empty, and one held one last
slice that Teal'c was trying to eye without looking like he was
eyeing it.
Two completely filled cassette tapes sat beside Daniel's elbow,
carefully labelled and snapped into protective cases. The third and
last was whirring with a faint electrical whine in the tape recorder
in the centre of the table.
Sam's notepad was filled with black and red squiggles, swirls, and
combinations of numbers three lines long. Daniel's was stuffed past
the margins with cultural questions, notes in at least three different
languages, and sketches of buildings I had described. Jack's was
filled with doodles of ray guns and flying saucers. Teal'c and
Hammond's were bare.
Beside my elbow were two empty plastic bags, the kind they keep
in emergency room refrigerators for 'just-in-case'. They had been
cold, which had been refreshing, but had killed the taste a bit. I
still preferred it hot.
And they had indeed arrived with a straw from the base canteen.
And a Private who was rivalling Kermit in shade.
“...and then I heard Daniel say 'kree' at the waitress,” I wound
down, “and the rest, as they say, is history.”
General Hammond sat back in his chair and put a hand on his
forehead, as if trying to keep all the startling information I had just
imparted from spilling down his face. It was the first move anyone
had made in about an hour and it snapped the others out of their
trances.
Jack arched his back, stretching, and winced when it made a
popping sound. Daniel cracked his neck, picked up his coffee cup,
looked at what was inside, and set it back down again. Teal'c
blinked. Sam ran her hands through her hair and scrubbed at her
eyes.
I folded my arms on the table.
“So. Do you think you'll be able to help me out?”
Daniel cleared his throat with a light cough, and said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“After I've had time to digest this.”
“And I've reviewed these notes and the tape, and maybe could I
have one of your phials?” Sam said, and the light was lit in her eyes
again, eager and ready to solve a new puzzle.
“After you've slept,” General Hammond corrected. “After we've all
had some rest. Miss Marie, we'll assign you some guest quarters.
Understand that we'll still have to post a guard outside of your
room.”
“That's fine,” I said. “I understand. Big Bad Vampire who knows too
much. It's all good.”
We all stood.
I turned to Sam. “So. Can I have my knife back now?”
She grinned. “Yeah. Sure.”
=====
“I think this counts, O'Neill!”
The shout startled me.
About seven hours and a nap later, I had been on my way from the
showers to the small, bare room I had been given for my quarters.
There was no one else around, so it wasn't anyone shouting at me. I
zeroed in on the sound - it was coming from a closed door to my left.
I couldn't scent who the people were, but I thought I recognized the
voice that was screaming.
I paused, and looked around surreptitiously. There were no other
people heading in my direction, so I sidled up to the metal door and
pressed my ear against the crack.
“We should have been informed,” the shouter went on.
“And apparently you were,” Jack snarked back. “We don't bother
telling the NID anything anymore - your spies do all the work for us.
No point wasting the paper and getting the writer's cramps.”
The other man made a wordless, frustrated sound in reply.
“Look, right now we got nuthin', Maybourne,” Jack said. Just the
confirmation that the shouter was the man I thought he was made
my hackles rise. “She's been here all of a day. When we have
something to report, we would have.”
“I want to speak to her,” Maybourne insisted, cutting Jack off. He
said the word 'speak' as if it was a code. Which is was.
For Colonel Maybourne and the NID, “speak to” usually amounted to
“lay out and vivisect”.
“She doesn't want to 'speak' to you,” Jack shot back.
This could go on forever, I knew, and would probably climax in
some NID spy trying to haul me off in the middle of the night. To
by-pass the whole cloak and dagger thing, I thought it may be best
to just talk to Maybourne.
It wasn't the wisest of ideas, and he would know what I looked like,
but it seemed better to be able to speak with him head on, first.
Maybe threaten or scare him into staying away.
Not that it would work.
If the NID was determined to get their mitts on what I had, then
they would. Period.
It was just a question of whether it would be before Jack and SG-1
finished analyzing the potion. And I had finished brewing it. The
batch I'd had going in my hotel room was effectively ruined. I'd
missed adding the dew at a vital stage, and now it was just as Jack
had accused it of being - soup. I wasn't too concerned. The old one
had only been three days old.
After my shower I had planned on changing back into my civvies and,
with Daniel and Teal'c (one to take notes and one to make sure I
didn't run away), we were go into Colorado Springs and collect what
I needed to start a new batch. Well, batch and a half, cause I was
going to give three phials to Sam for study.
I wanted to key one for Inu Yasha with some of the dried blood that
I had gently scraped from Miroku's shoulder after our lovemaking,
which would leave me with five blanks.
If I had the time, that is.
If I was going to head of the NID and their inevitable attempt to
kidnap me and turn me into Fox's next “Alien Autopsy” star, the
best way to do it was to converse with Maybourne and either a)
convince him I was too normal to bother or b) convince him I was
too damn scary to tangle with.
I wasn't quite sure which way I was going to go, but I decided now
was as good a time as any to interrupt. I opened the door, and
poked my head in. “Actually,” I amended, and both men jumped.
Jack's hand shot down to his gun and it was out of its holster before
he recognized me. Maybourne looked by turns startled, breathless,
annoyed, then pleased. “I'm free now. I don't have to meet Daniel
and Teal'c until two.”
Jack made a face. I winked. The face became a smile.
I sidled into the room, and shut the door behind me. Maybourne's
expression turned oily. A smile as false as my appearance of
breathing bloomed on his face, looking strange and uncomfortable
to be there.
“You must be the SGC's guest,” Maybourne said, taking a step
forward and extending his hand.
I didn't take it. Instead I let my face take on the blank, china-doll
look that I had learned from Jean-Claude and cocked my head to
the side. I regarded his hand as if it were a mouse, and tried to look
like a snake that was hungry.
Maybourne shivered and his arm recoiled.
Behind Maybourne, Jack made a funny choking sound.
“I'm Colonel Maybourne,” he tried again.
I let my eyes rake up his body from his hand, lingered at the jugular,
and then met his eyes.
“I'm Marie,” I said, in what I hoped was a silken, Bride of Dracula
tone.
Jack started to turn white. I could hear his fingers twitch on the gun,
the patter of his heart speeding up slightly. But Maybourne was
worse. He had just realized that there was something very off about
me, and I tried to press the supernatural advantage. I didn't go so
far as to lick my lips, but thought really hard about how little and
easy to kill he would be for a Vampire like me, gifted with Elfblood
and werewolf's magic, and hoped it translated to my face.
Maybourne's heart started jackhammering and the sweet, slightly
acrid scent of fear rolled off him like a bank of fog from a dry ice
machine. Sweat beads popped up on his upper lip and forehead and
this time I did flick my tongue out a bit, tasting the new, enticing
saltiness on the air.
It made something inside me quicken and though my heart did not
beat, blood was suddenly pounding, throbbing in my ears. Itching,
aching want pulled at my veins and I longed to scratch. Though I
had consumed a pack of blood before my shower, I was suddenly
empty, a hollow dark thing wanting to be filled with Maybourne's
heat and fear and vulnerability.
The blood had been blood, but it had been dead, cold - there had
been no scent to it, no personality, no life. No heat.
My teeth itched. I felt my eyes burning and closed my lips against
the faint rasp of fangs descending. My vision changed, and he was
person no more. He was blood in a bag of skin, easy to rupture. I
wanted to chase him. I wanted him to run, to wobble and slosh, and
I wanted to run after him, sleek and silent.
How nice it would be to chase him through these twisting halls, like
running down a rabbit in Jareth's Labyrinth. Desire was hot inside of
me. I could catch him when I wanted to, let him run, the pounce
from around a blind corner. Tear at him, lick the gobbets of blood
from under my fingernails with a long, pink, content tongue.
Slaked and satisfied in the exertion.
Yes, a silken, golden-grey voice said inside of me. It made my skin
stiffen - goosebumps and hairs jumping rigid. Yes, take him. Don't
deny what you are. He' s yours, if you want him. They all are.
Humans are things to take, to collect, to enslave, to kill.
The voice sounded like Alexander Lucard.
No. I whispered to the voice. No, never, not like you, not a monster,
never, never, never.
“No,” I said out loud, so quietly that perhaps they didn't hear it.
There was a clicking sound.
My game of predator-prey was becoming a little too real and I
blinked, cutting Maybourne out of my field of vision.
Maybourne let out a little, strangled sound of sucking breath and
took a small step backwards, the hold of my eyes no longer pinning
him to the floor. I looked up at Jack, and saw that he was sighting
down his upraised gun at me, over Maybourne's shoulder. The click
had been Jack snapping the safety to the side.
I took a deep, shaking breath and pushed it back out through my
nose.
“You... wanted to speak to me?” I said.
“I... y-yes,” Maybourne said softly, trying to clamp down on the
jittery feelings invading him.
I strode purposefully away from the door, and sat in a metal chair
facing a desk - there was a little 'O'Neill' name plate on it and I
realized I was in Jack's office. The move deliberately unblocked
Maybourne's escape route, which served to bring the tension level
of the room down a bit, and also put me physically below him,
lower and at a disadvantage because he was standing and I was not.
Had I been human, this would have been a real advantage. As it was,
the false comfort of the illusion was enough for Maybourne, but
Jack knew that I could lash out and rip off his face before either
man could squeeze off a shot.
Jack's gun wavered, his arm following me from behind the other
Colonel. Maybourne couldn't see what he was doing, and that was
probably a good thing. No need to broadcast to the enemy that your
'guest' and hopefully new ally actually scared the living shit out of
you.
I blinked, swallowed hard, and felt the gold, the predatory vision,
drain away.
With it went all my adrenaline and I suddenly felt weary, exhausted,
and far, far older than my twenty-something years. I slumped in the
chair, turned tired blue eyes to Maybourne, and waited.
He swallowed heavily, opting to stay where he was.
Jack lowered his gun, but didn't put it away.
“So what did you want to say?” I prompted Maybourne.
“I... uh... ah...” he fumbled verbally. I watched and waited as he
tugged at his uniform, putting it to rights, simultaneously
straightening his scrambled, prey-thoughts as well. When he looked
back up at me, he was calm, his mind as crisply pressed as his suit.
“That was entirely unnecessary,” he said with the oily smile. “I'm
your friend.”
“The people who are my friends are the people who earn my trust.
So far, Colonel,” I said, enjoying the look on his face when I threw
his script out the window, “you haven't done anything to endear me
to you. Let alone trust you.”
“But you trust Colonel O'Neill?” Maybourne asked, and a little bit of
ice was crusting over the oil in his tone. “Who pointed a gun at
you.”
Guess he had noticed after all.
“Yes,” I said quickly and immediately. Which startled both men.
They didn't expect me to be so ready to accept Jack as one of my
most trusted confidents. Jack had known me a little over twentyfour hours and I had actually done little to prove myself trustworthy.
But I had known Jack for years. I had watched him go from the
sullen, angry, suicidal man who had lost his son and sabotaged his
own marriage, to a wise-cracking, intelligent, adjusted and reliable
soldier and dear friend to the rest of his team. Jack was
compassionate and he could be counted on.
“I trust Jack with my life,” I said softly and meant every word of it.
“And the lives of those around me. Jack knows that he has to do
what he has to do, and if it includes hurting me to protect others,
then I can't fault him for it. In fact,” I lifted my eyes to meet Jack's.
His face was closed off, a steely unreadable look, “if ever a time
comes when I endanger anyone, I hope he does shoot me.”
He nodded once, slowly, sagely.
Maybourne looked annoyed. “That would be a waste,” Maybourne
said.
“Hardly,” I said. “But I guess our definitions of what is and isn't a
waste are wildly different.”
“Come with me,” Maybourne said, and I knew he was only
requesting now because he didn't have the power to demand. Yet.
“You don't belong here, cooped up underground. Something like you
should have space.” I think he was trying to make it sound
appealing.
“Something like me?” I echoed. “What am I? A free range chicken?”
Jack snorted.
“Besides,” I licked my lips slowly, eyes lingering on Maybourne's
neck again, “I like the base. Full of dead ends and blind turns. Like
a rabbit's warren. Probably great fun to hunt in.”
Maybourne went a single shade paler.
Then he got angry.
He saw, now, that I was playing with him. Trying to scare him, and
he flushed with embarrassment at being caught in it.
Maybourne scowled. “Watch your manners,” he hissed.
I gave him my best shit-eating grin. “I am, ducks.”
His scowl got deeper, and he turned on his heel and stalked out. He
paused at the door. “You will be seeing me again.”
“My heart would be broken if I didn't.”
He looked about to flip me the bird, and instead stalked out into
the hallway.
As he was going out, General Hammond came in. “Colonel,” he said.
“I just heard that Maybourne was here and - what is Marie doing
here?”
“Entertaining me,” Jack said, grinning. He turned to me. “That was
your best behaviour?” Jack said, and it was evident that he found
the thought that I had being good hilarious. “What constitutes bad
behaviour?”
I shrugged and sat back in the chair, sprawling bonelessly, satisfied
with my little victory. “Fireballs up asses?”
Jack's eyes began to twinkle. He glowed. “You could do that to
Maybourne? Really?”
“Colonel!” General Hammond scolded.
Jack matched my grin. “I'm just asking,” he said.
=====
“It only looks like magic,” Sam insisted as I used a wingardium spell
to levitate Doctor Janet Frasier's stethoscope off the side table and
into her hand. “It's really technology.”
Frasier studied the stethoscope, decided she had seen weirder, and
put it on. I had fetched it for her because the medical assistant
(what did you call a male nurse, anyway?) had been on the other
side of the room when Frasier had asked for it. She settled the
plastic buds into her ears, and I obligingly rolled up my shirt and let
her press the cool metal disk of the listening device against my
chest. It was cold but so was I, so it wasn't much of a shock.
I snorted. “Sure, and it only looks like I turn into a bat.”
Frasier's face, which had looked extremely puzzled when she
couldn't find my heartbeat, raised to meet mine. “Can you do
that?”
“Yup.”
“Just like in 'Dracula'?”
I winced and tried to make it look like I hadn't.
“What's wrong?” Frasier asked. “Did I poke something?”
“Nothing physical,” I assured her. “I just really dislike the 'D' word.”
She made a funny face. “The 'D' word.”
“We have a history,” I said. “A not nice history. And to answer your
question, yes, just like that.”
She took a step back. “Could you do it now?”
I closed my eyes and tried to search inside myself for the power.
“Nope,” I said. “Still daylight.” I opened my eyes and looked at Sam.
“What time is it?”
She checked her watch. “About five twenty.”
“What time does the sun usually set nowadays?”
Frasier and Sam exchanged a glance. “Seven, maybe?” Frasier
offered.
“And I assume this medical investigation will take longer than an
hour and a half?”
Frasier shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Possibly.”
“Okay. I'll do it at the end, then,” I said. “The bat thing.”
Sam's grin got wider. “Can I watch?”
“Sure,” I said, “I don't see why not. But I don't think you'll find any
scientific explanation for a lot of what I do. I'm a creature of
darkness,” I said bluntly, without any of the Lugosi melodrama that
such a pronouncement was often made with. “I am what I am and
even I don't know how it is that I can do what I can do.”
“Great - I'll be back in an hour,” Sam said, and shot towards the
door. Probably to make more notes.
I shook my head, “That girl,” I said. “She has no romance in her.
Doesn't believe in a spec of magic, does she?”
Frasier shared a lingering smile with me. “My daughter, Cassie, says
the same thing. Says Sam doesn't believe in unicorns.”
I let Frasier roll up my sleeve and wipe a cotton ball of rubbing
alcohol over the inside of my elbow. I thought that was hilarious.
Like a few germs could kill the likes of me.
“It's a shame,” I replied, watching her press the tip of the needle
against my skin. “They do exist. Don't take too much or I'll get
hungry again.”
Frasier blinked, then laughed. “Right, okay. So, unicorns?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “I know they're real.”
“How do you know that?” Frasier asked, eyes on my arm, intent on
drawing the blood steadily and painlessly. I barely felt it.
“I exist, don't I?”
She made a wordless sound of agreement as she withdrew the
needle.
“If Vampires exist, then Unicorns should too,” I said. “It's
practically a rule. And I know one hundred percent that they were
in the forest outside of the place where I learned how to cast
charms.”
Frasier came at me with a fresh needle. “Cassie will be glad to hear
that. Have you ever seen a unicorn?”
Her question made me stiffen slightly.
“Sorry,” she said, absentmindedly assuming that her pricking me
had been the cause.
“No, it' okay,” I said softly.
There was a long, quiet pause as Frasier filled and withdrew the
second needle.
“So, have you?” she asked as she capped the two phials of my blood
and labelled them for study.
I crossed my arms over my stomach, suddenly chilled in a way that
had nothing to do with my recent blood loss. “No,” I said softly.
“They only appear to the innocent.”
=====
After I had turned into a bat and back again, repeatedly, for first
Frasier, then Frasier and Sam, then Frasier and Sam and Daniel,
then Frasier and Sam and Daniel and Teal'c and Jack and Hammond,
I called a halt to the whole kafuffle and told them I was bloody
exhausted and hungry to boot.
I wanted to rest for the night. I wanted to have a full stomach, so to
speak, and I wanted it hot. Mostly, I wanted them to stop poking,
prying, and prising. I was okay with being a guinea pig but enough
was enough.
“Right, out!” Frasier said amiably, but in a tone that brooked no
argument.
Everyone grumbled and made their way to the door, but Daniel
lingered. “We were going to out to dinner, if you wanted to come,”
he said. “Place in the city. We passed it this afternoon, the
steakhouse?”
“Sounds nice,” I said. “If you don't mind swinging by the bad side of
town first.”
“What do you want there?” he asked, pushing up his glasses.
“A rapist, if I can find one,” I said, with a wicked little smile. “I like
the irony of preying upon a man who preys on women. But any old
thug will do.”
Daniel smiled nervously. “To kill?”
“To feed from,” I corrected. “I don't kill.”
“Ah, okay,” he said. “I'll, uh... run it by Jack.”
=====
We reached the bad part of town, and Jack stopped the car. “You
have the map to the restaurant?” he asked as I climbed out.
I patted my pocket.
“If you take off now, the General will have my balls,” he added, for
colour.
“I'll meet you there, I swear,” I said. “I won't take off.”
“I'd still feel better if Teal'c was with you.”
“No offence, Teal'c,” I said, craning my head around the passenger
seat of the truck which I had just vacated, to the back seat which
the Jaffa in question filled like a silent mountain. “But you'd scare
off the sort I'm looking to attract.”
“No offence taken, MarieSusan,” he said, one eyebrow traveling up
to hide behind the hat pulled low on his forehead.
“And what sort's that?” Jack asked.
“The kind that would like to rob and possibly molest a sweet,
innocent, helpless, nubile thing like me.” I batted my eyelashes at
Jack and pouted sexily.
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Helpless. Yeah. Right. I'm sure
that's what Maybourne thinks, too.”
“Maybe,” I said, and turned away from the truck. “See you in an
hour.”
=====
“The Nox!” Sam said and slammed the handle of her steak-knife
into the table with such force that it created a dent.
From behind the bar, a waitress frowned.
“The whosis?” I said, looking up from the glass of wine I had been
sipping slowly, enjoying thoroughly. “Wait, the guy from the lab
back at Wolfram & Hart?”
“Where?” Jack asked.
“Never mind,” I mumbled.
“Of course, the Nox,” Daniel chimed in, babbling excitedly. “Their
technology looks like magic, too. That could be it. They could
maybe tell us how you were pulled from your reality. Maybe they
know the sigil Lucard's zombies used. Maybe they could send you
home. Maybe they could even cure you. They can raise the dead,
you know.”
Jack made a 'lets not talk about top-secret stuff at the dinner table'
face and Daniel and Sam both looked suitably chastised.
“Trust me when I tell you there's not technology involved,” I said. I
pulled my wand out of its sheath and poked Daniel's shoulder with it.
It sputtered once of its own volition, a small spark of red, like a
firecracker. “It's just cherry wood, with a core made of a kitsune
tail hair.”
“Kitsune?” Jack asked around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Japanese Fox spirit,” Daniel supplied, rubbing his shoulder, “and
watch where you point that thing.”
=====
It took nearly a full month for the clearance to come from the
President of the United States. Without it, I wasn't allowed to travel
through the StarGate. I don't know what they told him, only that
they promised it wasn't the truth.
They also contacted the Asgard, but as usual, no one was replying
right away. We decided that the Tokra didn't need to know about
me or what I could do just yet. Save that for after the visit with the
Nox.
I used that month to relax, to re-start the potion with Sam and
Daniel hovering over my shoulders, bottle the first batch and show
them how to do it for the next, and to get in a little sparring with
Teal'c and Jack. Between Legolas, Miroku, and the nameless
Immortal I had beheaded, I was fairly efficient with my knife,
though lacking in finesse, and I wasn't bad and beating someone
with my fists either.
I was keen to try a Bo, and Teal'c knocked me flat enough times to
realize that although Miroku had been very proficient with it, it
didn't mean I automatically was, too. I had the knowledge, but not
the skill, and certainly not the practice. It took years of repeating
the same motions for the body to remember it, for the muscles to
slide smoothly and automatically.
Practice that I hadn't put in.
Yet.
I had all eternity ahead of me to do it, I thought as I worked my way
awkwardly and clumsily through a kata that I had gleaned from
Miroku's blood. I wasn't sure if that was a comforting thought or not.
Beside me, Jack was holding a punching bag still and Teal'c was
knocking him backwards half an inch every time he hit it.
“I don't think I want a cure,” I said suddenly. I didn't stop my kata,
but Jack looked over at me. Teal'c was halfway through a punch,
and couldn't stop in time and clocked Jack in the side of the face.
Jack hit the mats and Teal'c and I both rushed over to see if he was
dead. He wasn't. He was sitting up slowly, holding his jaw and
scowling mightily at his friend.
“My apologies, O'Neill,” Teal'c said with a bit of a grin teasing the
corners of his mouth. “I did not intend to hurt you.”
“Accident, Teal'c, its fine,” O'Neill said, the scowl fading a bit. He
turned to me. “What do you mean, you don't want a cure?”
I held out my hand and levered Jack to his feet. He swayed once
and put out my arms just in case, but he blinked, shook his head,
and seemed to be fine. “Daniel said that the Nox may be able to
cure me.”
“Do you not want this cure, MarieSusan?” Teal'c asked.
I shrugged. “The last person to try to cure me nearly killed me all
the way. And she was an Elf Queen. She had real magic and your
Nox only have technology that looks like magic.”
“Perhaps technology will succeed where magic alone has failed,”
Teal'c suggested diplomatically.
“Perhaps,” I said, but it was clear that I wasn't convinced.
“What's the big deal?” Jack said, “So if you die, they bring you
back.” He started to stagger towards the gym door.
“You ever die, Jack?” I asked waspishly.
He paused and looked back over his shoulder at me. “Yeah, I have,”
he said.
“So you can see how I'm not to keen to do it again.”
He frowned. “Yeah.”
I walked over him and grabbed his arm, and put it over my
shoulders to balance him. “Let's get you a big bag of frozen peas for
that face,” I said.
“Subtle topic change,” Jack said.
“I know. I'm a master.”
=====
The next day I was standing at the bottom of the ramp, staring up
at the swirling water mass in the centre of the StarGate that was
the event horizon of a wormhole.
Jack patted my shoulder with more force than was strictly
necessary. I glowered at him and he answered it with a brilliant
smile. A livid purple mark the same shape as Teal'c fist stained his
jaw.
“Aren't scared, are you?” he said.
“I've never been reduced to atoms and transported across the
galaxy before,” I shot back.
“Tingles a little!” he said, and ran up the ramp.
I rolled my eyes and followed.
It did tingle.
=====
In the middle of the wormhole, something happened that shouldn't
have.
I stopped.
I don't know how I knew that I had stopped, only that I knew that I
was not longer going forward. I was hanging, unbreathing in an
airless place, suspended on nothing. The nothing was thick and felt
like jelly or porridge, or the force that kept me out of churches.
I was staring at something. It was a silver blob.
The bob pulsed, as if breathing, then stretched thin. It grew, up
and sideways, until it was the same size as me.
It was a mirror.
I stood there, staring gap-mouthed at my reflection. It was me, but
not me. She was not as skinny as I had become, her cheeks rosier
and fuller, like mine had been back when I was human.
Her eyes were still the painfully bright blue-violet that the elf-blood
had turned them, but they were not the same wide rounds of shock
mine were. She looked as if she had been expecting to see me. Her
hair was shorter, slightly curled from humidity or damp or just a
style I had never thought to try before.
The not-me was dressed like something out of a fairy-tale; high
boots and hose and a jerkin over a doublet tight enough to squash
her breasts and give her a boyish shape. Not me was wearing my
belt, our wand held defensively in one hand.
There was a girl behind her, a girl I'd never seen before in my life.
She was slightly pale, her hair a dark curtain that fell forward and
sort of hid her quick hazel eyes. She raised a hand and pushed a
shining lank behind her ear. She too was dressed from a fairy-tale a kirtle and skirt and bloused sleeves. It pushed her bosom high and
flattered her long neck.
“Marie?” she mouthed, though I could hear no sound.
Not-me narrowed her eyes, but did not turn around.
“Marie?” the girl mouthed again.
“Wrong mirror,” Not-me mouthed.
I snorted.
“You're telling me,” I said.
A smile quirked at the side of her mouth, and I saw Not-me's fang
flash for a brief second before she stepped out of view of the glass.
With my reflection gone, the connection snapped, and I was sent
spinning into the blackness of the wormhole.
=====
I woke, I don't know how much later, with a throbbing headache.
“Ow,” I said, and sat up. It was followed quietly by a small “fuck,”
then another “ow,” as I probed the swollen lump at the back of my
head.
Then I looked down.
There was a long piece of metal protruding from my chest.
“Oh, oh, ow,” I said.
“I'd say,” Jack said from behind me. “How'd you do that?”
“Fell,” I said, and my voice sounded bubbly.
“Don't move!” Sam shouted and tried to shove me down onto my
back. Above me Daniel looked anxious and Teal'c, expressionless.
“You fell into a discarded pile of scrap metal,” she said. “It was left
by the gate.”
“Better than a discarded pile of firewood,” I said, staring down my
nose at the gruesome wound. “Then I'd just be poofed.”
“Stop talking!” Sam snapped. “We have to go get Janet.”
“I'm fine,” I said. “Just take it out.”
“What?” Daniel asked, looking suddenly five shades too pale.
“Get it out,” I said. “And I'll be fine. Now please, it's
uncomfortable.”
Teal'c stepped forward.
“Now, wait,” Sam said.
“Shyaddup, Carter,” Jack said amiably, watching with wide eyes.
I lay back down and Teal'c braced his foot against my shoulder. He
wrapped his big hands around the end of the metal and yanked.
I shrieked because it hurt.
Sam was immediately on me, wadding up her shirt and jamming it
into the wound. I shoved her away and growled, “Get the fuck off
me, I don't want the cloth healing into my skin.”
She stumbled and landed on her rump, looking affronted.
I sat up and looked down at my chest. I pulled aside the torn ends
of my black shirt for their benefit and watched their faces as I
healed instead of my wound. When it was all over and I felt myself
again, Jack took a step back and whistled.
No one said anything as I pushed myself onto my feet and buttoned
up my olive over shirt to hide my exposed bra.
“Well, that was fun and amusing,” I said. “Shall we go see Quark
now?”
Sam stood and jammed her bloody over shirt into her pack. “Who's
Quark?”
“Never mind,” I said.
=====
“You know,” Jack said conversationally as we wound ourselves
through a forest that looked suspiciously like British Columbia. We
were on our way to the village of the Nox, hidden deep in the brush
of the woods. “It's always been my prerogative to add a fifth
member to the team if I chose too.”
Oh, I certainly didn't like where this was going.
“You don't say, Jack,” I said cautiously. “And why haven't you?”
“So far I've had no reason. Now I do. I choose you.”
I snorted, hands on my hips. “What am I? A pickachu?”
Jack looked confused. Teal'c's lips twitched in what may or may not
have been a grin.
“Never mind,” I amended. “Why me?”
“Who wouldn't want a team member who can't die?”
“Fabulous - so I'd be the one getting shot all the time to save your
asses. No thanks. Besides, I'm not in the Air Force. You can't recruit
me.”
Jack grinned back, knowing he had me in a corner here. “The Air
Force has the legal right to draft any American citizen with the
specific skills required for a particular situation.”
I grinned back. “I'm Canadian.” His expression fell. “People make
that mistake often - the accent is similar.” Jack's face started to
turn purple. “Besides, I'm dead. Doesn't that technically make me a
non-citizen?”
“Undead,” Daniel corrected with a polite cough.
“Quiet, Angel-Boy,” I snapped at him.
“Angel-boy?” Sam repeated with uncertainty.
“He Ascended. Went in the general direction of Up.”
Now Daniel began to turn funny colours.
“I... I never,” he sputtered, “I never had wings.”
I turned my evil grin on him. “Sure? You lost your memory. Never
had a halo or a harp?”
“I'm sure!”
“Must have been boring, then,” I said. “Ever have poker nights?”
Daniel's shade of purple almost matched Jack's. I wondered how
many more quips it would take to get him there.
“Sure,” I ploughed forward, “Ascended Poker nights. I bet you owe
Yoda and Cordelia money.”
Books Sixteen: StarGate: SG1
Chapter Forty-Two: “Unforgivable”
Planet P3X-774 was covered entirely by a thick, almost primeval,
deciduous forest. The trees were straight and tall, building a
canopy of green over our heads. The tiniest sound echoed like a pen
dropped in an empty cathedral.
I itched.
The dried blood on my skin itched. The mosquito bites I kept getting
itched.
And something inside of me itched.
Something that could smell the other creatures around us, even as
they scented me and ran; knew me for a predator; knew me for
something unnatural.
They ran and I wanted to give chase.
It felt so liberating to be out in the open air for the first time in
almost a month.
The first, faint tuggings of hunger, the feeling of my veins being too
tight under my skin, were starting to nag me. I had fed well and
heavily from Doctor Fraiser's refrigerated emergency plasma before
I had donned the drab olive off-duty uniform of the SGC and
tumbled through the 'Gate.
But when I had come out the other side, I mysteriously had been
the only one to be injured when I landed. I had lost some blood in
the accident - not enough to be unlife-threatening, but enough to
make me slightly peckish again.
And how was it that I had been the only one to shoot out of the
event horizon, tumble down the stairs, and land in the Sharp Things
set off to one side?
Curse of the Mary Sue, I supposed. Kept things interesting. Everyone
else had just walked out of the 'Gate, but whatever I had seen,
whatever had made the “you're-not-invited-porridge-sensation”
happen to block me from the world had been, when it had vanished
all of my denied momentum had acted, I supposed, like a sling shot.
Now, there was a scary thought.
I was denied access to churches.
What if the StarGate had been placed in a temple or some other
such place and I couldn't get in? Or worse, in someone's residence?
Would the 'Gate have allowed me through?
I could have been stuck in deep space. And the wormhole is only
one way - you can't turn around and go back if you find a locked
door. The 'Gate could only establish a stable wormhole for about
half an hour. If I couldn't have gotten out and couldn't have gotten
back, when the wormhole dissipated I'd have been left somewhere
out in the universe to implode.
Suddenly the thought of staying in this fandom and traveling with
SG1 was getting less and less appealing.
Then there was the mirror in the wormhole itself. What had that
been? I had never seen anything like it on the show.
Well, no, I guess I had, just never in the wormhole.
The SGC had in its possession a mirror. Daniel had touched it during
a mission and had been transported to a parallel reality. Sam and I
had already discussed the possibility that this mirror could get me
home and had concluded that although this mirror could send
someone to alternate realities, they were all realities within this
particular fandom.
The mirror would never lead to Anita Blake's world, or Inu Yasha's.
Only to variants of StarGate.
So what had that mirror been doing in the midst of the wormhole?
It had sort of looked like something from Gaiman's MirrorMask. I
shuddered at the thought - could there be an anti-Marie out there
somewhere? Was she, perhaps, back in my home reality, living my
life and screwing it up?
I didn't like that thought, and so I stopped thinking it.
“What's the frown for?” Sam asked, to my left.
I jumped a little, because I hadn't heard her switch places with Jack.
“Just thinking,” I said. It was true, but I didn't bring up the topic
that disturbed me most, and instead went back to the first. “My
nature doesn't allow me to enter any church at all, or any domicile
without an explicit invitation from the one who resides there.”
Sam cocked her head and scratched behind her ear. “You sure
about that? It may just be a psychosis, you know.”
“Pretty sure,” I said. “It feels like walking through porridge.
Somewhere around the doorjamb, the porridge just gets too thick
to struggle through.”
“You've tried?”
“Yup - at a few people's places, and at Notre-Dame Cathedral.”
The notepad and pen appeared in her hands again and she was
squinting at it as she walked. “What about the SGC?”
“I think dragging someone in blindfolded and in cuffs is a pretty
clear invitation.”
“So it doesn't have to be verbal?”
“No.” I reached out and grabbed Sam's elbow just as her boot
connected with a root and she stumbled.
“Ah, thanks,” she said, flushing slightly with embarrassment.
“Watch the road, Carter,” Jack snapped, but there was amusement
in his voice.
Abashed, Sam put away the notepad.
=====
About twenty minutes later, I was staring at what looked like Armin
Shimmerman in a bad hippie wig. He looked like a sloth - moss and
flowers had twined themselves into his long white hair, living,
making him look part nature-child, part-woodsprite.
He stood solemnly in a glade, his hands folded in front of him
passively, but with a note of quiet strength.
“Why have you returned here?” he asked. His tone was gentle but
firm, like a parent not-quite-scolding a child. Very different from
the obnoxious Quark or the hateful Principal Snyder, the two roles I
was most familiar with this actor in. It gave me a bit of a turn.
Jack, who had been standing in front of me, protectively, stepped
aside.
“Our new friend here needs some help,” he said.
Anteaus, Armin, looked at me with narrowed eyes. They flicked up
and down, lighting briefly on my pouch, lingering longer on the
wand clutched in my hand. I didn't hold it up, like I was about to
shoot anyone, but I liked having my fingers around it just in case.
“You are not Tau'ri,” he said softly. “And yet are.”
I bristled. The hell I wasn't. Q himself had told me I still had my
human heart, and I was inclined to believe the shallow, comforting
sneer of an omnipotent alien over the gentle negative appraisal of
an almost-omnipotent one.
“If you mean 'human',” I said with a bit more force than I had
intended, “then yeah, I am, sort of. Only dead. Ish.”
“Y'see,” Daniel jumped in hastily, to maintain diplomacy. “She's
been changed. Something about her DNA structure has been altered
and we thought, you know, maybe you knew how to fix her? Or-or,
you know, help us fix her.”
Anteaus blinked at him. “You know we will not share our technology
with the Tau'ri until you have grown.”
Daniel tried not to look affronted. “Yeah, no, we know that. We
don't want you to give us anything, we just want you to point us in
the right direction, more or less. Or, you know, just give it a whirl
yourselves.”
“And why should we cure her ailment?”
I was about to jump in with well, you know Daniel, I'm not so sure I
want a cure anymore, but Jack put his hand on my shoulder and
shook his head minutely. I got the message and swallowed my
protest and let Daniel go on.
“We thought it would be, you know...a nice favour,” he finished
lamely.
“Why come to the Nox?” Anteaus asked. “Why not the Asgard? They
are more versed in biological ailments.”
Jack grinned sideways. “Well, you know, my buddy Thor is always
so hard to get on the phone.”
“Besides,” Sam pointed out, “she has magic.”
Now Anteaus looked interested. “Magic? True magic?”
Sam made a dismissive gesture. “Technology like yours, technology
that looks like magic.”
“It is magic,” I insisted.
Sam said nothing.
“Show me,” Anteaus said.
I pointed my wand at a pile of brush beside him and said,
“Inflamare.” The wood caught fire in a flashing spark, the flame
swelling upwards in the shock of oxygen. Anteaus stared at it and it
was just as suddenly doused.
“Something else,” he said.
I pointed up. “Lumos solem.”
A flare of bright light popped into existence, like a firecracker,
dazzled the sky, and dissipated.
“More,” Anteaus insisted.
“Wingardium Leviosa.” A satchel attached to Anteaus' belt floated
towards me, and would have landed in my hand had it not been tied
firmly. I plucked Daniel's glasses off his face, and ignoring his 'hey!'
of protest, smashed them against the ground. “Occulus repairo.”
I put them back on Daniel's nose.
“Hey, you fixed the scratch in the left lens,” he whispered,
surprised.
“More,” Anteaus said.
“Anything else I have,” I said, “are meant to be duelling jinxes. I
could put someone under a full body bind, or make them start to
vomit slugs, or turn their knees into jelly, but I don't think anyone
would appreciate that.”
Anteaus smiled softly. “Can you kill with your spells? Can you cause
pain?”
SG1 looked slightly shocked by the question, but I understood why
he asked it. He knew it was magic. I could see it in his eyes. He
knew it wasn't technology; that this wasn't something he could
replicate, and he wanted to know how dangerous it was.
How dangerous I was.
If I were to be captured by the Gua'ould, be made into a weapon, or
if I choose to attack the Nox on my own, Anteaus and the others
would have no defence save to kill me. He was testing the water,
now. How honest would I be? How honourable?
Would I tell him the truth? Would I show him my worst? Would I
trust him?
“Yes,” I said flatly.
Daniel made a soft choking sound, and both of Teal'c's eyebrows
shot up.
“With the three Unforgiveables. The Crutacious Curse, the Imperius
Curse, and the Killing Curse.”
Anteaus met my eyes and I knew what he was going to ask me.
“I don't want to,” I said, before he could ask.
“I must see it.”
In the thicket behind Carter I could smell a small, white rodent that
I assumed was P3X-774's version of a mouse or a rabbit. I whirled
around and shouted “Stupefy!” Carter squealed and jumped out of
the way of my wand and the rodent froze. There was a small crash
of leaves and twigs as it fell onto its side.
“What the hell do you think you--!” Carter and Jack both began in
unison.
“I wasn't aiming at Sam,” I said, and went over to the brush. I dug
around the foliage, and came up holding the critter by its ears. I
brought it back to the semi-circle SG1 and Anteaus had created.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Finite Incantatum.” The rabbit-mouse squealed in horror and
jerked around, able to move again. It bunched its muscles, ready to
bound back into the forest, and I said, “Crucio.”
It screamed.
Have you ever heard an animal scream?
It's a primal, heart-wrenching sound. Like a baby wailing. It sounds
human and that makes your soul scream in unison. Sam went
deathly pale. Daniel went green. Jack's fingers clutched his P90 so
tightly that his knuckles were bright white. Even Teal'c looked
queasy.
“Enough,” Anteaus said.
“Finite Incantatum.”
The poor creature collapsed on the ground, exhausted and panting.
“The next one,” Anteaus ordered.
“Imperio.” The rodent stood up on its hind legs, curtsied like a
ballet dancer, and proceeded to tap-dance like the WB frog. Smiles
threatened at the comical sight, and it just made the humans feel
sicker when they realized that the creature was scared shitless.
“I can make it do anything you like,” I said. “I can make it climb a
tree. I can make it stand on it's head and recite Shakespeare. I can
make it drown itself. I can make it go home and rape and murder its
own children.”
“Enough.”
“Finite Incantatum.”
The critter collapsed again.
“The last one,” Anteaus said.
“No.” Daniel's voice was horse with horror. “No. I don't want to see
it.”
“We've seen enough,” Jack agreed. “That's it. Let it go.”
Anteaus looked at me and the message was clear. I had to do it, or
he wouldn't help me. I had to kill it so he knew what it looked like.
So they could see it and know it and try to find a way to stop it if I
ever went against them, willingly or not.
So I did the one thing I had never done.
I used my magic to kill.
“Avada Kedavra!”
Green light flashed. SG1 covered their eyes. When they opened
them again, the creature was stiff and cold. Daniel turned around
and puked into the bushes.
Anteaus hadn't moved. “Now bring it back,” he said.
I stared at him, hard and long. “You know I can't.”
Anteaus cocked his head to the side. “Yet you live. You walk and
talk. You have died, I see it in you. Yet you are not dead. Animate
it as you are animated.”
“I can't,” I said. “Not after death. It only works while it's still
alive.”
Anteaus knelt by the creature, waved his hand over it. It twitched
once, squealing in terror, then shot off into the brush, warm and
alive and terrified. He stood up, brushed the globules of dry clay
from his knees and said, “I cannot help you. This problem is beyond
what I know.”
“Thought so,” I said, re-sheathing my wand. “Thanks anyway.”
Anteaus bobbed his head gently, as if bowing. I turned around and
started to head back the way I came.
“That's it?” Jack asked, his voice low and unhappy.
“That's it,” I called back over my shoulder. “You guys coming?”
=====
The walk back to the StarGate was silent and filled with brooding
thoughtfulness.
Nobody seemed inclined to talk. Not to me, not to each other.
At the bottom of the stairs, I picked up the piece of metal that had
impaled me. My blood was still on it, partially dried.
“Don't want to leave this behind,” I said. “Something could lick it
and then we'd be in a whole universe of annoying.”
“Why did you do that?” Sam said.
Everyone knew she wasn’t talking about me retrieving my
temporary impalement buddy.
I smiled sadly. “He needed to see it. You wouldn't understand.”
Daniel snorted. “If it makes you feel any better, that's the first time
I've ever cast the Killing curse.”
Jack didn't miss a beat. “But you've cast the other two before.”
“Yes,” I replied truthfully.
Teal'c pressed the sequence of chevrons that would lead back to
Earth in a thick, strained silence.
The 'Gate whirled and the event horizon flashed into existence.
Jack pressed the button on a device in his hand to let SGC know
that it was us and not hostile aliens returning, and then SG1 went
through.
I walked up to the surface, and took a breath.
“Please let me not see that mirror again,” I said. I closed my eyes
and stepped forward.
There was no mirror, only the feel of my booted feet on the meshmetal of the ramp at the SGC.
When I opened my eyes again on the other side of the StarGate, my
world was still dark.
“Hey - what's going on?” I asked. “I can't see. Jack?”
Something sharp and long jabbed into the back of my neck. There
was the hiss of a hypo. I had just enough time to mutter, “Aw,
you're fucking kidding me,” before I hit the floor and the darkness
slipped over my consciousness too.
=====
I woke with a throbbing headache and a parched throat.
The hunger pangs alone told me that I had been out for at least
three or four hours. I struggled to raise my head, and it felt like
trying to lift a hundred-pound anvil with just my neck.
I cracked open one gummy eye, which watered as if I'd gotten sand
in it, and looked around.
I was tied to a metal chair that was bolted to the ground. The ropes
were thick, and bound me completely to the chair, looping over and
over again from shoulder to waist. My arms were pulled back behind
me, almost painfully, and under the thick ropes I could feel a pair
of too-tight handcuffs cutting into my flesh.
My legs were cuffed to the legs of the chair.
On a table beside me I saw, laid out carefully, almost with artistic
care, my knife, my wand, and my pouch. The pouch had been
emptied, all the phials lined up neatly with their labels facing out,
the items in the tissues sorted through and put in little piles,
arranged in plastic baggies with zip locks. The recipe list was laid
flat, smoothed out against the table.
There was also a gun, a tranquilizer gun with darts the size of my
finger, and several needles that were wide, meant for taking blood.
There was also a tray with an assortment of implements that looked
like an award jumble of tools alone - a metal nail file, a pair of
needle-nosed pliers, a small metal hammer, a number of different
sized wicked sharp scalpels - but together made an impressive array
of torture devices.
I swallowed heavily.
“You're awake,” said an electronically disguised voice from speakers
high above me. The sound echoed through the room and I got an
idea of the size - small. Big enough for me, and the table, and for
another person to move around me comfortably with out brushing
the walls.
I assumed they were watching me through a window, because I was
consciously not projecting a reflection, so as to be invisible to
whatever recording devices they had. I wondered vaguely if I could
make my shadow vanish too, like the legends said. Make the light go
right through me instead of refracting back.
That was probably the first step towards being able to transform
into dust in the moonlight, the way Stoker said Dracula could, but
the thought unnerved me. I didn't want to be insubstantial. When I
was a bat, at least my mind and heart and soul were all still inside
my body.
But if I had no body, what would keep my spirit from slipping
away...?
A piercing light blinked on, distracting me from my thoughts,
stabbing into my eyes to try to blind me, make me uncomfortable
and unable to follow the movements of anyone in the room. That's
okay, I could track anyone who came in by smell and sound, so I
closed my eyes and shut out the light.
“Don't go back to sleep,” the voice said
“M'not,” I mumbled, my tongue feeling fuzzy and heavy. “Light
hurts. Feel hungover. C'n I brush m'teeth?”
The voice laughed. “Miss Brooke, really,” said the man. “We are
trying to torture you, here.”
“Figured,” I said. “Though if I have bad breath, it's not me that'll
suffer.”
There was an aborted snort of laughter. “This will be interesting.”
“Sure will,” I agreed. “Though, you're gonna have to do better been through worse than a light ‘n a chair.”
“You're not a morning person, are you?” the voice asked. “You're
very sullen when you wake up.”
“I'm a night-owl,” I said. “Is it morning?”
“I'm not telling you the time, Miss Brooke,” the voice said. “What's
the point of sensory deprivation and isolation if I tell you the time?”
“Don't matter,” I said. “Feels about late afternoon to me.” Indeed
it did, with the irresistible tug of sunset pulling closer, and the dry
tightness of my hungry body.
They had known their stuff, I'd give them that much. Even a
Vampire would have trouble breaking out of these bonds given the
lack of leverage and the draining effect of the tranquilizer.
On the other hand, I could change my shape. Hopefully they didn't
know that. The only people who had seen it had been Hammond,
Frasier, and SG1, and I knew they weren't NID spies. I would just
have to hinge my escape on the bet that the NID didn't know I could
change into a bat.
Of course, if any of them had read 'Dracula', then they might have
guessed. Perhaps that's why the room was so tightly sealed and so
small. It'd make it easy for them to come at me with a net.
“Look,” I said, “I know how these things tend to go. I've watched
spy movies. You want me to spill my deepest, darkest secrets, tell
you anything and everything, or you're going to do lots of nasty,
humiliating things to me. I get that. It's cool. All I ask is a drink
before we start. I'm parched and your dart didn't help. I feel like
shit, and when I feel like shit I get cranky and insolent. When I'm
unhappy, everyone is unhappy.”
There was a pause. Someone opened a slim, low door behind me.
They came around to the front holding a water bottle. It was
opened, with a straw inside. The person was wearing a dark suit,
buttoned up all the way, and a pair of dark glasses that I guess they
assumed was supposed to mask the man's identity.
Like I cared who he was.
“I don't drink water and you know it, Maybourne,” I said, glaring at
the man. “I want him.”
The hand holding the water started to shake. I smiled toothily.
“Give me him and I'll cooperate.”
There was a low buzz, like voices discussing while I hand was
cupped over the microphone. Then the electronic voice said, “Do as
she asks.”
“What!?” the man yelped.
“Do it.”
He scowled, set down the water bottle, and looked at me with
apprehension. I couldn't see it in his eyes, but it radiated from his
tight posture like nuclear glow.
“Come here,” I said. He took a step closer. “Don't be shy.” I grinned
and he balked at my teeth. “Come on, if I have to be uncomfortable,
so do you. Straddle my knees.” The man went white. “What, your
wife won't approve?” I sneered. “Come on, buddy, you won't crush
me.”
Nervously the man sat on my knees, holding himself up on his toes.
“Scootch closer,” I said. “Pretend as if you actually like me.”
He moved forward until his chest was pressed against the ropes. I
shifted deliberately, pressing my thigh up against the inside of his
and he made a small sound, like a whimper. The sharp sent of
desire spiked then faded slowly.
“Now,” I said huskily. “Kiss me.”
“Wh-what...?” he said.
“Come on, Romeo,” I chided. “What's wrong? No one ever let you
play with the female prisoners before? Kiss me. Take advantage of
me. I can't fight back.”
He lifted his hands slowly, brushed the tips of his fingers across my
shoulders and up my neck. I shivered at the feel of his burning skin
against my own, and he shivered because I was so cold. He leaned
down slowly, as if to give me plenty of time to jerk back. When I
didn't, he softly, gently pressed a chaste kiss to my lips.
“That,” I said when he withdrew slightly, “sucked. If you are
married, your wife must be a very lonely woman. Unless she's
screwing the milkman.”
He scowled, and my insult had the intended effect. He grabbed a
painful handful of my hair, mashed his mouth against my own, and
thrust his tongue halfway down my throat.
Much better, I thought.
Then I snapped my teeth down.
He shrieked in surprise and I held on. He wiggled, trying to break
free, and the muscles tore more in my relentless grip. He stopped
trying to pull away, realizing that I would take his tongue right off if
he fought any more, and stilled.
I let go.
He tried to withdraw and I tightened my jaw and sucked.
The blood that had pooled in my mouth burned its way down into
my chilly pit of my stomach, and exploded outwards into my body in
a tingly feverish rush. I groaned and ran my tongue over his, licking
and sucking and swallowing the gush of red.
I took my fill and let him go.
The man sprang off my, clamping his hand over his mouth,
screaming wordlessly.
A slow trickle made a hot path over my bloody lips and down my
pale chin, like any Vampire from the movies. I flicked my crimsoncoated tongue out to try to catch it and failed, leaving a small
smear in the corner of my lips.
“Yummy,” I said.
And I didn't feel the least bit guilty. Served the NID fucker right.
The man ran out of the room, knocking over the water bottle in his
haste. The clear contents spilled all over my feet and I frowned. I
hated having wet, cold, feet.
Another man came in, dressed identically but without the blood
running down his face, and picked up one of the thick needles off
the table.
“Fine,” the electronic voice said. “If that's the way you want to do
this, then let's do it.”
The man jammed the needle into my neck and I screamed.
=====
Three very very painful and long hours passed.
I was hanging limply in the chair, letting the ropes support me,
because I certainly couldn't sit up on my own.
I was ravenous. They had taken all the blood I have stolen from the
man, and more besides. There were long cuts on my cheeks that
were healing slowly because I was so literally drained. At first they
had healed fast, the precise, deep gashes the man had cut. He had
pulled out a stop watch.
He timed how long each cut took to heal, making notes on a
clipboard. Then he cut, and cut, and cut.
When he was finished with the scalpel, he moved onto a cigarette.
He blew the smoke deliberately in my face and I stopped breathing
to block out the stench. Then he put it out on my forehead. He
timed the burn's healing process, then did it again, and again.
When the cigarette was finished, he jammed his fingers into the
hinge of my jaw and forced my mouth open. With the pliers he
tugged at my fangs, forcing them to extend. It hurt, the muscle
wasn't squeezing. It felt strange and violating. He pulled at them,
tugged to test their strength, and then put a block of dental clay in
my mouth and told me to bite down. When I didn't comply, he
kneed me in the jaw hard enough to make me see stars and leave
tooth marks on the clay.
He did the same with a piece of plastic, which I snapped in half,
and a sheet of steel, which my razor fangs tore through.
“C'mon,” I taunted, “Stick your dick in there, and I'll show you how
sharp my teeth are.”
He picked up one of the guns and slammed the butt hard against my
cheek.
I felt the bone shatter, skin tearing off in a flap, muscle ripping,
and screamed.
Then he aimed the gun at my heart and pulled the trigger.
=====
I woke when the sun set.
The tingling rush of my powers returning to me was accompanied by
the feverish heat accelerated healing.
“Welcome back,” the voice said.
“Fuck you, Maybourne,” I returned.
I rolled my eyes to the side. Yes, my belt and phials and knife and
wand were still there. I counted the phials, and none were missing.
What luck.
“Where's my friend?” I asked.
“Which one?” the voice asked.
“Either.”
“One is still getting stitches. The other went for a coffee.”
“Lovely,” I said. “I'm hungry again.”
“Oh, no,” the voice said. “I don't think we'll let you do that again.”
“Worth a try.” I grinned, hoping he could see it.
“Ah, here is your second friend now. He's having fun, you know. He
rarely gets to have this much fun. He says that his playmates break
too easily.”
I heard the footsteps outside the door. “Joy,” I said, and took a
deep breath.
The rattle of the handle turning was my cue. I concentrated, felt
the hunger burn as I used up the last of my strength for this stunt,
and slipped into the shape of a bat. It was fast, barely a flicker. I
was a bat, and I shoved myself into the air, twisted, and landed on
human feet.
With a move too fast for them to catch I seized my pouch, swept
everything from the table into it including the gun and torture tools,
snatched my wand and knife both in the other hand, and was a bat
again.
“Get her, get her!” the electronic voice screeched.
I darted out the door, over the head of my torturer, through his
grasping fingers. I burst into the hall, winging desperately above the
hands grasping for me, sticking as close to the ceiling as possible.
Someone got wise and a bullet whizzed past my sensitive ear.
The passage of the bullet stirred the air and I faltered.
I found a window and aimed for it. It was closed, but that wasn't
about to stop me.
I smashed through the glass, sending shards flying into the sky like a
gruesome parody of a splash, and was in the blessedly clear air of
early evening. Up, up, up I flew, far above where human hands
could reach me and human eyes could see.
And far, far below I could hear a loud and resounding, “Fuck!”
=====
The van was made conspicuous by its very inconspicuousness.
It was driving slowly, without its lights on, towards the house in the
woods I had just escaped. There was only one road, so it was easy
to tell where they were headed.
I dropped down and flapped along side the van. It was going just a
touch faster than I could fly, so I hooked one of my finger claws into
the sill, the one that I knew would hold my knife and wand when I
transformed back, and dug in.
My claws became fingers, curled around the hilt of my knife, the
handle of my wand, and the open window of the van. There was a
loud bump as my now much larger body banged against the side of
the van.
“Hi Jack,” I said to the driver.
Jack screamed.
Then he slammed on the brakes so hard I was sent tumbling into the
road, rolling with the momentum that the van had transferred to
me. I stopped after a few head-over-ass cartwheels and lay splayed
on the road, seeing birdies fly around my head.
“Fer cryin' out loud!” Jack snarled at me, climbing out of the van
and slamming the door behind him.
A dozen black ops guys swept out of the back like shadows and were
all around me, pointing their guns in my face.
“Hello,” I said.
“Marie?” Daniel called out, pushing past the soldiers. He paused
when he saw my face. “Jesus Christ, what did they do to you?”
I lifted a hand, touched the still-healing wound from the brutal
pistol whip, the thin, skinny cuts, then the burned pocks on my
forehead.
“Experiments,” I said. “And by the way, better point those things
that way,” I said to the soldiers. I could see Teal'c behind them,
already raising his staff weapon in the direction I was pointing.
“Cause here they come.”
=====
The resulting firefight was hasty and messy and had the NID
crouched in the trees on the left side of the van, and the SGC guys
ducking behind either the van or the trees to the right of it. Jack
and I got pinned beside a wheel.
“Listen, Jack,” I said, between popping my head under the carriage
of the vehicle to fire off a few 'stupefy's where I could. “I think I'm
gonna take off. This is all about me, so you know - if I'm not here,
it'll stop.”
“Naw,” Jack said with a smile. “I still really, really want to shoot
Maybourne. You being here is just extra incentive.”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh. Something heavy and pained inside
me, something that had been growing since the first slice on my
face, shattered in the face of the laughter. It felt good. Really good.
“I'll come back,” I said. “You guys have the second batch of potion,
some of my blood and stuff. For research. I'll just be in the way if I
stay.”
“I meant what I said when about wanting you on the team,” Jack
said, squeezing off another few rounds.
“I know,” I replied. I slid my knife and wand back into their
sheathes to free up my hands. I opened the pouch and withdrew
one of the unkeyed phials. “Another time, maybe.” I promised.
“Keep an eye out for Trieze?”
“I will, and you better!” Jack snarled. “You gotta teach me the
fireball thing!”
“Definitely. Bye!”
“Bye!” he shouted back and sketched a quick salute.
I snapped one back, then threw the phial down at my feet.
And, oh, to see the look on Maybourne's face when he realized I was
gone, and he had no way to follow me. I'd have to ask Jack what
colours it had turned when I came back for a visit.
Book Seventeen: Nightwalker: Midnight
Detective
Chapter Forty-Three: “Exterminated”
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in the midst of a park
in a metropolitan centre. It was just after sunset, I guessed. Maybe
half an hour. That was nice, I wanted the darkness right now.
Meant I could go for a stroll, find a mugger. Feed.
Carefully I checked around me, to make sure no one had seen me
arrive, and that I had not left anything behind. All my pieces were
where they should be. I pulled the back down on my olive jacket to
make sure that the knife sheath was hidden, then sorted through
my pouch to put all the phials back in their little leather holders,
and keep them form jostling around. The new weapons - the scalpel,
the pliers, the file, and the gun - I wasn't sure what to do, so I put
them at the bottom and padded them with strips torn off my
already-ruined black shirt so they wouldn't break a phial by mistake
if I ran. The little plastic baggies were wonderful, kept all my
collection of things separate and secure, and I wondered why I
hadn’t thought of it myself earlier.
I touched the wooden comb through the plastic softly, then shoved
it away, under the gun.
I wished I didn't look so much like a military officer gone AWOL, but
there was no helping it, so I strolled out of the shadows of the scrub
I had been standing in and jammed my hands into my pockets.
I was only a few steps before I recognized the parkland around me.
Oh.
Oh, no.
This was Ueno Park. I was back in Tokyo.
But how was this possible? I began to pelt it towards the nearest
park exit, weaving between the late-evening amblers with the grace
of a mogul-runner. I had to get out of the park, before Seishirou and
his bloody Tree sensed me.
How, how, how had I ended up back in the world of “Tokyo
Babylon”? Never before I had doubled up on a reality. And I'd made
a point of not keying a phial for here!
The thought that this proved that I could double realities made my
stomach drop - I may never get home if I had to keep repeating all
the same worlds.
There was a loud shrieking sound behind me, undercut with a
vicious animal snarl and I paused. It sounded like someone was
being attacked. I hesitated. I could abandon the person to their fate
and escape. Maybe Tree-san was feeding. If Seishirou was distracted,
then I could run.
But could I really let someone just die?
I hesitated. There was no point in me sticking my neck out for
someone else, was there? What good would barging into the middle
of whatever it was bring? Trouble, that's what it would bring. Big
Mary Sue trouble. All it ever brought me was trouble.
I was indecisive just long enough for the person to scream again.
It sounded high, terrified.
The sound of someone scared so badly that their whole world
fractures. Someone faced with the impossible to comprehend.
Someone who had probably been a lot like me a few years ago.
Aw, fuck.
I was still on an adrenaline rush from the firefight, my face itching
with the healing and my stomach empty and burning. I was jittery
and felt pretty damn invulnerable.
I had survived being tortured by the NID. I could take on the
Sakurazukamori.
I made for the sound of screaming, drawing my knife and my wand
from their sheaths as I sprang over low concrete walls and park
benches.
I skidded to a halt in a thick part of the woods, far from where
Tree-san was but right were the terrified cries had originated. The
person screeched again and I was able to pinpoint their location.
Plunging recklessly into the shadows - not like there was anything
around that could really hurt me - I dodged a tree and stumbled
over something solid and hot.
The something solid roared as I bashed into it and flung me to the
side with a swipe of its… talons? I sprawled onto the forest floor, all
elbows and knees.
I shook my head, throwing off the momentary fuzziness, and looked
up.
A woman was pinned to the ground by a big, blackish, red-eyed,
gargoyle…thingy. Well, that was new. The woman was struggling
madly, and I sprang up.
“EXPELLERAMUS!” I snarled and with a flick of my wand the
gargoyle was off her and halfway across the wood.
I ran forward and helped the woman up. She seemed scratched and
bruised, bleeding a bit, but all in one piece. “Run!” I told her and
stepped between her and the gargoyle. It was struggling back to its
feet, and trying at the same time to avoid any patches of strong
sunlight that cut between the foliage. But it was a huge heavy thing
with a strange centre of gravity and it couldn't quite get upright.
I watched it warily and tracked the progress of the woman by
listening to her footfalls. When I could no longer hear her, the
Gargoyle howled in frustration and with a final kicking squirm
levered itself to it's feet.
“You've lost me my body!” it screamed at me through its beak-like
mouth. Its voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard and I cringed.
It plunged towards me faster than I had expected it to, and I tried
to wave my wand again. There was a loud snapping sound as it
batted away the weapon. My wand skittered away into the woods
and I curled at the waist and cradled my wrist. The snap had been
my bones breaking.
The Gargoyle lifted its claws to strike the final blow and I reared up
with the knife firmly clenched in my other hand, and aimed for its
ribcage. The blade slid into the skin and skidded against stone-like
bone. Normally pure force would have been enough for me to snap
a rib with my strength. This was not 'normally'.
The knife slid and grazed the bone and I was shook with the teethrattling jar of the vibration. The creature roared again and broke
my other hand with a solid thump. I fell to my knees before it, both
hands useless, my head swimming from the pain and my vision
dotted with stars.
I felt the talons wind into my hair and give a yelp-inspiring tug.
“Like to play with knives, little girl?” it hissed, and I felt the cool
metal of my own blade press against the flesh under my chin.
“Not with silver!” I shrieked.
The gargoyle gouged deep and jerked hard. I felt the skin split. I
felt the blood boil forth. I coughed and there was a wheezing sound
and the air that had been in my lungs seeped out of the wound
instead of making it up to my mouth.
I tried to scream.
I tried to suck in the air.
The blood was leaving fast, too fast. My fingers and toes were numb
and the numbness was spreading rapidly. My wrists and then my
ankles were cold, oh god, I was so cold. If it reached my heart, this
frigid coldness, I knew that would be it.
Something hit me hard in the side of my face and I blinked a few
times in confusion before I realized that the something was the
ground.
Fragile suddenly, when I had been so sure of my invincibility.
Arrogant fathead.
I could see the curled toenails of the blackened creature, feel its
hot breath on my shoulder. It was laughing. I struggled to move, to
take back the knife, to hit, to beg, to scream. I flopped like a fish
on the ground, frustrated and helpless.
Dirt and the fragments of last year's leaves and twigs ground into
the cut and I made another wheezing sound that had started as a
scream and finished a pathetic mewl.
I could feel my blood pooling under my cheek, hot, burningly hot,
but getting cold fast, oh so fast.
And then there were other voices, howls, the ringing sound of
gunshots far too close to my sensitive ears. I sobbed at the sound.
Oh, it hurt! I watched a pair of white-booted feet bound over me
and scurry after the gargoyle. It was trying to flee but it was
wounded too, bleeding it great black pools, gushing acid that ate at
the leaves and made them smoulder.
Something red and phosphorescent hit it between the eyes and it
fell. It fell to the ground mere inches from where I lay. For a
moment we locked eyes, this thing of shadow and I, and it laughed.
“I will see you in the Darkness,” it said, and then it ceased to exist.
It melted into an oozing puddle. All that was left was the red spear
that had impaled it. That too dissolved and I could smell the blood
as it evaporated. It had been made out of crystallized blood. I
moaned as it vanished into the air, groaned for the loss of it.
My insides were churning, gnawing, my body was eating itself in its
sudden starvation.
Stupid, stupid, I told myself. Should have kept your nose out of it.
Better her than you.
A man with brown shoes and dark Windsor blue pants came and
stood beside me.
“She won't survive those wounds,” said White Boots. She was the
one with the gun, I could smell the oil and the powder. Her voice
was hard, brooked no argument. A cop, she sounded like, or career
military.
“She dropped these,” said Brown Shoes. “Look at this. Is it a magic
wand? And this… this is a beautiful knife… I think it may be made
out of—ouch!” There was a low hissing sound and the unmistakable
reek of burnt flesh.
“Shido, you idiot!” screeched White Boots.
“It's made out of Silver!” said Brown Shoes/ Shido the idiot. I could
hear the capitalization of the words. “Why the hell would someone
like her be stupid enough to carry around a knife made of Silver?”
“What do you mean?” White Boots said, sounding as confused as I
felt. “Someone like 'her'?”
My head was getting too heavy to stay attached any more, and my
vision was growing dark. I wanted to scream. I wished I could
scream. I didn't want to go into the darkness forever! I didn't want
to go to a place where I couldn't wake up from my nightmares!
“She's a Vampire,” Shido said. “To carry around a knife like this… it
looks like the Nightbreed used that to cut her throat. The wound
won't heal right unless we get it cleaned out and get some blood
into her fast.”
White Boots hesitated. “Remind me why we should help a
Vampire?”
Shido made an exasperated sound. “She rescued the woman, didn't
she? We're not all horrible denizens of evil.”
“Alright,” White Boots said. I felt hands turn me over and I whined,
the closest I could come to a scream. Fingers pried back my lips,
only I couldn't see anything anymore.
Something hot and rich and wonderful hit the back of my throat and
I swallowed. It oozed out of the gash in my throat before it could
get all the way down. A burningly hot mortal hand jammed itself
against the cut and I screamed for real this time. The hand didn't
move, and when I swallowed again, this time it made it to my
stomach. The heat spread like molten lava into my extremities,
making the ragged torn ends of the gash tingle, and I swallowed
more.
I wanted to glut myself on it and strained upwards.
I wound the hot, writhing thing in my arms and tore into its flesh
with my sharp, sharp teeth.
“Get her off me, Shido!” White Boots screamed and I felt someone
tugging at my shoulders. I wasn't going to let go. I wasn't going to
die.
I didn't care. I wanted it. I wanted all of it.
I was going to make myself sick on it.
And then something hit the back of my head hard and the world
plunged into darkness.
Don't let the Sakurazukamori find me, I thought desperately before
I could think no more.
=====
I woke on a worn green couch with a thin cotton blanket covering
me. It smelled vaguely of stale tobacco and old coffee.
It was stuck in the dried blood on my hands and face. I opened my
eyes slowly and tried to take in the bleak, sparse office around me.
I gasped as the movement of turning my head ripped the fabric
from my skin. The sound drew people close and I heard White Boots
say, “Easy, now. Take it easy. You've had a rough few days.”
“Few days?” I croaked. I sat up slowly and raised my hand to my
throat. The skin there was intact and smooth, as if I hadn't just had
my throat slit. It scared the bejezus out of me and I took my hand
away.
When I looked at the hand it was clean, and shaking.
Vulnerable, pale, too thin.
I felt like glass, a vase cracked and glued back together by an
unskilled, though well meaning toddler.
I should be dead. Dead.
Goddamn you Alexander Lucard! I thought and choked back my
tears. Goddamn you to Hell.
And goddamn the Nightbreed for reminding me what it feels like to
be scared, to be prey.
The people who belonged to the voices and the heartbeats I could
hear came around to the front of the couch where I could see them.
White Boots had a look of concern on her pretty, late twentysomething face. She had a phenomenal curtain of dark blue hair
that fell to her waist. I took in her dark slanted eyes and her
caramel coloured skin and realized that she was Japanese.
Luckily I could still speak it.
“What do you mean, a few days?” I demanded in the difficult
language.
To one side of her stood a nervous school girl with shockingly red
hair, also down to her waist. On the shoulder of this school girl was
a tiny, Barbie-doll sized woman wearing nothing but her own green
skin. She had chartreuse hair and the wings of a bat, and she was
frowning at me.
Hell, she was a mini-demon and she was looking at me like I was a
freak of nature?
I blinked and turned to the man to White Boot's other side. He was
still dressed in the dark Windsor blue suit, with a tan vest and a red
lace tie. He had a startlingly long ponytail of bright lavender hair
and wide emerald eyes. He was not Japanese, but when he
answered my question, it was in the language:
“You've been recovering for the last few days. That Nightbreed got
you pretty bad with your Silver knife. Are you alright?”
I thought about nodding my head, and then thought better of it.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I said, and it chilled me to the pit of my stomach
to know that I was telling the truth.
I was perfectly and physically intact.
But I’d had my throat slit.
Something ugly and dark reared up inside of me and I pressed my
hands over my mouth in an effort to keep it in. Something from
deep inside me. Something that I had been shoving down and
ignoring for so long that even remembering it was there hurt. I bent
double and moaned, making the keening sound of a wounded animal.
My god, what was wrong with me?
I was healed. I shouldn't be so sick.
Shido touched my shoulders gently. “Are you sure?”
“Just… a bit… nauseous,” I stuttered from between tight lips. I was
afraid that if I opened my mouth too wide the darkness would come
screaming out of me.
I hurt.
Real hurt.
Inside hurt.
And I hadn't hurt in so long...
=====
I passed the rest of the night in contemplative silence on Shido-san's
couch. The woman, White Boots, went away to her job, and the
young girl puttered about in the kitchen ensuite.
I was in Shido-san's office. He was a private detective (what was it
with Vampires and crime fighting?) who specialized in taking cases
that involved 'The Night Breed'. Essentially, the Night Breed were
demons, boogies, and other things that go bump-splat-screech in
the night.
The gargoyle I had fended off the woman had been one of these
Night Breeds, bent on capturing a human body and soul to act as his
own host.
Shido and Yayoi, White Boots, had been chasing it through the
forest. They'd heard the mortal woman screaming, then had seen
me streak out of the foliage, leaping over the benches and roots
faster than a human could. At first they feared I was another Night
Breed, seeking to join the kill.
A few moments later, the woman had dashed past them, going in
the opposite direction. Riho, the young girl, had doubled back and
gone to protect her. Apparently she was a Vampire, too.
When they had arrived in the clearing and realized that I was
fighting against the Breed, they had taken it upon themselves to
save my unlife. They had explained all this to me and I had sat
silently and said nothing, taking it all in with blank eyes and a
china-doll face that would have done Jean-Claude proud.
Yayoi, he had explained, worked for the Night Officers Division, the
NOD, a special department of the Tokyo Police Force that dealt
specifically with the Unexplained happenings of the dark. Shido the
Vampire Private Detective was her secret weapon.
When I didn't say anything else to them, or rather, anything at all,
Riho had put the blanket around my shoulders and everyone had
scattered to their own tasks.
I wasn't being rude. I was just too... shattered to speak just yet.
I contemplated what they told me silently.
I had been killed. By a demon. By something I thought I could easily
squash. I had overestimated my own abilities, my own
invulnerability. Both physically and emotionally and mentally.
All the strength that I thought I had, that I thought I had cultivated,
had crumbled. It was a candy coating, thin and brittle and fake, and
not a real kind of strength at all.
Inside was still mushy and human and scared.
Yayoi bid the company good-bye, put on her jacket, and moved to
the door. When she touched the doorknob, I felt compelled to call
out to her. I said, “Have you heard any reports of a semi-sentient
Sakura tree in Ueno Park that consumes the souls of the dead buried
underneath it and transfers that in the way of magical powers to
the dark onmiyouji that protects it?”
She blinked at me, obviously shocked by my sudden decision to
speak and gobsmacked by the apparent randomness of my question.
“Uh. No,” she said hesitantly. “But, I'll... uh... look into it.”
“Don't,” I said emphatically. “Stay away from the Sakurazukamori,
if you find him. He's definitely news of the bad kind. If you kill him,
the Tree will take you and make you take his place.”
She frowned at me, but nodded and left.
The remaining three occupants of the office waited for me to say or
do something else, and when I didn't, they went about their
business, leaving me alone with the waking nightmares in my head.
That had been several hours ago. I was still sitting on Shido-san's
couch in his office, watching him to his paperwork. It was more
interesting than thinking. And more sanity-inducing.
One of the things I'd been thinking about over the past several hours
was where I thought I was. I came to the conclusion that Yayoi
would not find any evidence of the Sakurazukamori. I was in a
different Anime.
And how did I know it was Anime?
Well, the purple hair of the bishonen hero, for one.
Said bishonen was currently peering at me over his file folders. He
caught me looking at him and cleared his throat. He set down the
folders.
“Are you really okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” chimed in the green Barbie, who had introduced herself as
an Urban Fairy named Guni. “You sure don't look it!”
Indeed, I didn't. I was huddled in the cheap blanket on the couch,
not breathing. My neck hurt - not from the cut, but from the
phantom memory of having my throat slit. I was thinking of Wesley
Wyndam-Price and his smiling scar. I was thinking about being
beheaded by an Immortal.
I was trying damn hard not to think at all.
Riho poked her head out of the kitchenette and eavesdropped.
What she was still doing in there I had no idea - it's not like any of
us actually drank coffee.
They were all waiting for my answer. Well, what the Hell was I
supposed to say? I'd had my throat slit!
I squeezed my eyes shut and hid my face in my knees. A took a deep
and sucking breath, expecting it to make a burbling sound, shocked
and scared when it didn't. I felt like I was choking, which was
impossible.
And with every single, shivering, furious cell of my body I was
hating, hating hating Alexander Lucard for doing this to me.
Riho and Guni exchanged a glance. Then Guni and Shido did. Guni
sighed and flew into the kitchenette and Riho closed the door
behind her. I could hear their muted whispering through the door,
but not their words.
Shido set aside his papers and came around his desk to sit on the
couch on the opposite side of the coffee table from me. My pouch,
wand, and knife had been laid carefully on the table between us.
The gun was there, too, but the clip was missing. He reached out
and picked up the knife gingerly. He turned it in the light of the
overhead lamp, watching the glint travel up the blade.
I always made a point of keeping it sharp.
“This is quite a knife,” he said softly. “Silver?”
I didn't look up. “High-quality mix of iron, steel and silver.”
Shido whistled. “Good for Fey, Breeds, and Vampires. I'm impressed.
Where did you get it?”
“A werewolf gave it to me.”
I could feel his incredulous stare burning into the top of my head.
“Uh, okay,” he said. I heard him set down the knife and shift
forward in his seat. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
I didn't have to ask what he meant by 'it'.
“No,” I croaked. “I'm just... angry.”
“What for?”
Now I did look up at him. Shido was sitting forward, resting his
elbows on his knees, a look of concerned interest on his face. I'm
sure he thought it made him look sympathetic. To me, it made him
look like my errant childe Trieze and I pulled back with a sharp
intake of breath.
He blinked. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said hastily. “Can you just... not sit like that? Gives me
the willies.”
He shifted back a bit reluctantly, obviously confused but willing to
comply. He crossed his knees and rested his arm on the back of the
worn green couch. “Better?”
“Yeah, thanks. You just... it made you look like... someone I
know.”
He nodded. He waited a respectful length of time, then asked, “So,
why are you angry?”
Mentioning it made the emotion flare hot again, like a puffed
breath on embers, and I felt my face flush. “It's nothing, really. It's
just... well, I don't know what kind of relationship you have with
the person who made you a Vampire, but right now I really, strongly
dislike the man who did this to me.”
Shido nodded knowingly. “That's a very polite way of saying you
hate someone so much you want to kill them. You really hate him
for what he did. Without your permission. Having your throat cut is
a painful reminder of what he did to you, and what he took away.”
I nodded miserably.
He chuckled. “Sounds like you and your maker get along about as
well as my maker and I.”
“Oh, you try to kill him every chance you get too?” I snarked,
hoping to shock him or hurt him or... I don't know, make him be not
so nice.
He only laughed louder. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Oh.” And then I felt miserable again for being such a bitch.
“Listen,” Shido said amiably. “Obviously this was distressing for you.
We don't have to talk about it if you don't want. You don't have to
talk at all, if you like. You're welcome to just chill out here for a bit,
okay? I'm gonna be here until dawn, trying to finish up some
casework, so you can hang out until then. If you want company, I
know Riho will be happy to provide it, and if you don't, we'll leave
you alone.”
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it. Let me know how you feel in a few hours, and we
can talk again. Figure out what to do with you for the day.”
“Thanks.”
Shido went back to his desk, and feeling thoroughly exhausted from
the emotional exertion of just holding a conversation with the
lavender-locked cutie, I decided to try to have a nap.
If the nightmares got to bad, I'm sure Shido would wake me.
I didn't expect Shido-san to suffer from nightmares of his own.
I expected even less to awaken in the middle of one of his.
Goddamned Elf Blood.
Book Seventeen: Nightwalker: Midnight
Detective
Chapter Forty-Four: “Dreamwalker”
When I opened my eyes, the room was entirely dark. At first, I
thought that Shido-san had closed all the shutters and turned off
the lights. Then I remembered that the shutters had been wooden
slats and wouldn't have shut out the light of the street lamps so
completely.
I sat up slowly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
I looked down at myself. The couch I was on, the table, everything
had vanished into a swirling pool of black. Well, this is fucked up, I
thought. I watched in fascinated horror while the blanket slipped
off me, sliding into darkness.
I tried to grope for the table. I wanted my wand, and a lumos light.
The table was gone.
I frowned and stood. The minute I lost contact with the couch, it
ceased to exist, too. I leaned down and waved my hand around, but
all I felt was empty air where it should have been.
Definitely fucked up, I decided.
Had I gone insane, finally?
It had taken long enough.
I heard a keening moan from behind me, and turned to find the
source.
Nope, not insane, I thought, taking in the odd scene playing out
before my wide eyes. But pretty darned close.
There were only two other people in this dark void. One was Shidosan. The other was a man that I did not recognize. He was taller
than Shido by half a head, or at least I thought he was. It was hard
to tell, with the way he was bent over Shido.
One of his arms was wrapped around Shido's waist, and he had his
chest pressed against Shido's in an unmistakable lover's embrace.
What didn't look so much like a lover was the glowing crimson whip
- the man had its handle gripped tightly in his gloved fist, the lash
wrapped tightly around Shido's neck, bending his head back in such
a way as to render him vulnerable and reliant on the man's embrace
to remain upright.
Shido's hands were fisted in the shoulders of the man's trench coat,
in a grip I was certain had started as an attempt to shove him off,
but had quickly moved into fists clenched in pain. The man had his
fangs set in Shido's throat. His long, wavy blond hair spilled around
the two of them like an angel's halo, but I knew that this man was
no angel.
Shido was the one making the keening sound, a noise caught
between pleasure and fury.
A long, thin line of blood so red it nearly glowed dripped slowly
down Shido's pale, slender throat and I caught myself before I could
lick my lips. The man with the blond hair ducked to lap a smear up
the side of Shido's neck, not allowing the precious, delicious drop to
escape down the open vee of his shirt.
Slowly, carefully, I tiptoed towards the man in the trench coat. I
laced my fingers together, and raised my hands above my head. In
the absence of both my wand and my knife, I still had my brute
Vampiric strength. I slammed down my fists with as much force as I
could muster.
The blow buckled the attacker's knees and slammed his chest into
Shido's. Shido let out a whining grunt accompanied by what sounded
like the snap of his ribs. Oops. Too hard.
The man with the blond hair pushed Shido away, letting his victim
fall to the ground, and whirled to face me, hair swirling around him
like a cloak. His normally handsome, aquiline face was contorted
with fury, his eyes a deep gold to rival my own. His fangs were
impressively long and dipped in gore.
“How did you enter this dream?!” he snarled, and I could hear the
faint trace of Transylvania in his accent.
Shido coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “She ...w-wa...sss....
in...in the room,” he hacked. “Get out, C-Caine...”
The man, Caine, straightened slightly, interest replacing fury on his
face. “You must be a Breed, then,” he said slowly.
“No,” I said. “Now get the hell out of Shido-san's dream, you
bastard.”
Caine stood up all of the way and had the nerve to laugh in my face.
“My, my,” he said gently. “What makes you think this is not your
dream?”
I let the colour of my eyes match his. “You're not the man in black,
and you're not my regular nightmare.”
Caine smiled. I very much did not like his smile.
“Regular nightmare?” he echoed.
“No!” Shido-san cried, and then suddenly he, too, enveloped in the
black.
“Hush, love,” Caine said to the vanishing Shido.
I took an aborted step forward, then stopped. Shido was gone and
there was nothing I could have done. “Where did he go?” I asked.
“Into a deeper sleep,” Caine said simply. His eye narrowed, tried to
catch mine, and I hastily looked away, and down at my feet. No way
was I going to be careless enough to let him into my mind. “He has
come to no harm,” Caine assured me, but I still wouldn't look at him.
“Get out of my head, then,” I snapped.
A sudden, cool touch on my cheek startled me. Caine was right
there, brushing the pads of his fingers down the side of my face.
“Look at me, lovely,” he crooned and this time I could not look
away fast enough.
My skin was suddenly too hot, too tight. I wanted to itch. I wanted
to scratch it off, but I could not move. I wanted to scream and run,
but I could not even draw breath. Not out of some sort of paralysis
that Caine's gaze had induced, nor out of mind control...
No, it was pure, irrational fear that kept me rooted to the spot.
Behind Caine's left shoulder stood Alexander Lucard.
“No!” I shrieked, and the piercing echo of my own cry drove me
into action.
Had to get away.
Lucard was grinning at me, a vicious, smeared slice of white and
red. His grey eyes pierced the back of my skull, brought screaming
panic bubbling up from the depths of my nightmare box.
The box burst open and everything came rushing out of my mouth in
a wild, shattering screech of animal panic.
I dug my heels into the floor, pulled back. Caine's hand on my wrist
held me, would not let me go let me go letmegoletmego!
“Peace!” Caine commanded. “Peace! He is not real!”
Not real?
I took another breath to scream, swallowed it, sucked on it, looked,
really looked.
Lucard was not moving.
He was standing there, all his weight on one slender hip, his dress
shirt open but immobile. The beads of blood from a cut over his left
nipple should have succumbed to gravity, but had not. The fly of his
pants was also partially open, as if it had been carelessly and hastily
zipped.
This was not Lucard.
This was an image of Lucard.
This was Lucard as I remembered him.
As I feared him.
The roiling, sudden panic transmuted swiftly into a nausea so
violent, I turned my head to the side and vomited.
=====
Wondering is the single most distracting, stress-inducing habit of
the human animal.
Wondering keeps humans up at night. It causes nightmares, tossing
and turning, and mumbling in sleep. It causes sleep apnoea and
insomnia.
Wondering is a disease whose symptoms include excessive listmaking, absent-mindedness, pacing, car accidents, frustration,
waspishness, tension headaches, knotted muscles, high massagetherapy bills, and ulcers.
Wondering breaks up couples, destroys marriages, and lines the
pockets of many a private investigator.
Wondering is, perhaps, the most disastrous infection to affect
humans. The flu, perhaps, is the most contagious, cancer and AIDS
the most deadly, and the common cold the most annoying, but it is
the wondering that is the most persistent and in the end, negatively
affects the most aspects of a person's life.
The undead were no different.
Wondering is what had kept me dashing, kept me hiding, kept me
moving, kept me awake at night.
I have been running.
For years.
And I wasn't running home.
And I wasn't running after Trieze.
I was running from Lucard.
I was running from what he might have done to me.
I was running from my own wondering.
I was a Vampire. I was lost. These things I could accept. These
things I understood. These things I had tangible proof of. These
things were a concrete part of my reality. But the other things, the
things he had done while I had been unconscious, the things I didn't
remember because I couldn't or because I didn't want to.
The things that were intimate and violating, things that involved
blood, kisses, and an act so intimate I shuddered to think on it - my
own murder.
To kill someone was terribly intimate, and violently violating. To
hold a person in your arms and be the reason that their eyes dim
slowly before fluttering shut in a last, rattling gasp...
And, then, to force one's own will, one's own blood, one's soul into
another... it was a worse crime than rape.
With rape, only the body is violated, is invaded and used. It was like
using a person as a living dildo or vibrator with no care for their
emotions or feelings. The emotions are hurt, raw and betrayed and
open and scoured, but in time the wound heals over. Reminders can
sting like salt under the scab, but the victim can learn to forgive
themselves for what they could not help, for what they had no
control over.
What Lucard had done to me surpassed rape.
It went beyond my body and emotions - he violated my mind, thrust
his fingers into my brain and pawed, and poked, and took what he
wanted. He touched my most intimate places, my thoughts and
fears and hopes, with soiled, uncaring, unkind hands. Thoughts I
only shared with those I trusted. With those I loved.
Thoughts he took and turned over roughly and scoffed at and tossed
aside. He made me feel small and worthless. And that was a worse
violation than what his hands and tongue may have done, because
he had used me as a person, as a brain, and not just a body.
Secondly, he violated my soul, laid hands on my essence and
dragged down, forced it back into my cold body.
He defiled my corpse and denied me my death.
These were the things that fed my nightmares, my insecurities, my
wonderings.
And until I saw Caine with his teeth set in Shido's flesh, until I had
watched someone else suffering as I had suffered, as I was still
suffering, the physical aspect of Lucard's intrusion had not bothered
me so much.
It had always been about the blood, about my mind and my soul and
my end that had caused my nightmares.
Lucard may have used my body in order to firm the connection that
his teeth and tongue and blood had begun, to act as another bridge
for his soul to gain access to mine. He had threatened rape,
touched me in ways that were unwelcome in order to dominate me,
to scare me, to wedge himself firmly in a superior position.
For Lucard it hadn't been about sex. It hadn't been about lust. It
hadn't been about using me to satisfy himself.
It had been about making me obey. Making him the master and I the
slave.
So you can imagine my reaction to seeing Lucard standing right in
front of me.
=====
The problem with Vampires is that the simple act of merely
attaining nourishment is such an intimate act. It is far more
intimate than sex because of what we touch, and take, and feel.
Like death.
A Vampire dominates their prey, sweeps through their mind, ghosts
into their soul and manipulates pain into pleasure even as they steal
from a body.
Thieves of blood.
Thieves of pleasure.
Thieves of lives.
Feeding is far more profound than sex can ever be. Bodies part once
sex is over, but the blood remains a part of the Vampire forever,
and the human from whom it was taken can never get it back. At
least, not as it was.
To feed was also to touch. To hold and to caress and kiss. A
Vampire's lips have to touch skin. Their breath has to waft over the
wound. Their chests have to crush against the chest of their victim,
and any squirming done inevitably becomes a sort of slow sexual
writhe.
Thus, Vampires become creatures who become accustomed to
expressing themselves with tangible, affectionate touches, even
outside of feeding. Vampires come to rely upon physicality to
communicate, especially since their bodies are dead and it takes so
much to actually feel anything.
They become very touchy-feely, desperate for the warmth of
another body, for the press of another. Sex for Vampires is
affirming. It is proof that they are not trapped, alone, in their own
corpse. That they are needed and wanted. Touching becomes their
primary means of understanding relationships.
I, on the other hand, was the antithesis of this.
I didn't like to be touched.
I may have been raped.
I certainly had not welcomed anything done by Jean-Claude.
The first time I'd had sex, I had been rejected.
I'd had my throat slit.
I didn't want to be touched.
I hated it.
I disliked any touch I hadn't initiated.
I hated now, more than I had before, because of what the Breed
had done to me. Even Legolas' gentle caresses or Methos’
playfulness would be unwelcome now.
This caused a slight problem.
I, by my conditioning, disliked touching.
Caine, by his, felt naturally inclined to gently stroke, to sit closely,
to feel.
I was bent over, the sour taste of bloody sick fumes ghosting in my
throat, gasping like a fish. Sucking in the air, shaking all over,
shoving, shoving everything back away away back in the box now.
Caine's fingers were gently resting on my heaving shoulder, and my
skin was crawling like Sam's pony's.
“Don't touch me,” I snarled, stepping away from the patch of
darkness where I had been ill. It vanished into the gloom.
Caine chuckled, but removed his hands.
“It is just an image,” he said.
I frowned, and wiped the back of my hand across my lips. I wanted
to use the fist to punch him, but didn't dare get to close for fear he
may pull something or someone else out of my head.
“And how about you get out of my head, you bastard.”
He laughed.
“Seriously,” I said, hands on my hips to keep the twitching of an
anxious fist from decking him. “What fucking right have you got to
come into my mind and conjure that?” I pointed to the frozen
Lucard. “And while we're on the topic, what right have you got to
just take a jaunt through Shido's mind, either?”
Caine's smile sank slightly, but the glimmer stayed in his eyes. Not
angry - yet. But slightly annoyed.
“I made Shido what his is,” Caine rumbled, and his voice, though
lacking the magic of Jean-Claude's or the affection of Legolas', still
made my short hairs jump to attention. “Shido is therefore mine.
Mine to watch over. Mine to protect. Mine to guide. Mine to
command.”
“Yours to rape?”
This time the smile sank all the way.
“To seduce.” He lifted his shoulders slightly, a sensual, dismissive
gesture. “Once ... yes, once Shido enjoyed my caresses. Once he
panted for me. Once he yearned for my hands on his flesh, my teeth
inside of him, his blood on my tongue. I am merely reminding him
that all of our time together. Enticing him to return.”
I raised an eyebrow. I licked my lips and wished I'd had some gum.
“By strangling him with a whip and forcing yourself on him?”
Cain scratched his cheek absently. “Shido is stubborn. But he only
resists for a short time.”
I shuddered all over.
It sounded depressingly familiar. Vampires were indeed creatures
addicted to touch, and even I, I had realized, was not immune. I
had let Jean-Claude, and Captain Jack Sparrow, and any number of
others touch me in ways, and for a longer time, than I ever would
have before.
I had craved it.
Perhaps this had also been the reason I had slept with so many men,
when before I had been early terrified of any boy touching me at all.
Though now, my nature was at odds with the mental repulsion of
any touch.
Caine sensed my repulsion. “Do you resist?” he asked, his voice low
and slightly husky, vibrating in his chest. “Are you like my dear
Shido? Or do you behave? Do you do as your Master, your lover,
orders?”
He reached out and touched Lucard's shoulder. The fabric of his
shirt depressed, rumpled under Caine's fingers, but Lucard did not
move.
“He is handsome,” Caine pressed softly, “is he not? Is he kind? Does
he guide you gently?”
My teeth were clenched so tightly my jaw hurt. I forced myself to
take a seething, hissing breath. “He stole me from my home, stole
my sanity, stole my thoughts, and then stole my death. I want to
kill him.”
“Tsk,” Caine said. “What we are should not be a punishment.”
“And yet,” I spat.
Caine chuckled again. “So you hate it, this life?”
“Yes,” I said, but my voice trembled. I had hated it, that much I
knew. I had hated it when I had asked Arwen to take it away. But I
think I was afraid to die, now. I had done some terrible things, and
if there was some sort of final judgment...
Even if there wasn't, dying hadn't been so pleasant the first, or
second time around.
What I had told Jack had been true—I didn't want to be cured.
I was scared.
If I were to become human now, I may never be able to survive
Slipping. Dumbledore had been correct: what I am was a blessing
for a Slipper. The man who had invented the potion I used probably
had died very quickly, if he had entered any of the situations I had.
So, I didn't want to be human again. Not yet.
But I, at the same time, refused to embrace the carnality, the
lethality of my other side.
I was not human.
But I was not a Vampire, either. Not really.
Did I hate what I was? Not particularly. But did I hate what was
associated with it, what came with it? Yes.
The back of Caine's fingers were cool and gentle when they brushed
over my cheek, slowly bringing my out of my thoughts. His skin was
cold, but a warmth blossomed in my chest. A warmth born of need
to touch. A warmth I hadn't felt in a long time. Not since Legolas,
surely, and before that, not since I was alive.
And it hurt.
Oh, god, did it hurt.
The phantom pain of my slit throat, my nightmare-box in my gut,
the tear of Lucard's tongue in the flesh of my neck, and the hot
wrench of my heart breaking.
“So closed up,” Caine whispered, lowering his face slightly to meet
my gaze with his amber eyes. “It must hurt. We are not creatures to
live in isolation, my sweet. We need each other. Lovers. Masters.
Children.”
“...no.”
“Yes. Just as I long for Shido, so he longs for me, deep inside, and
just as you will not deny me because you, too, yearn for affection,
for warmth.” He tilted his head to the side, tucking a single, soft
finger under my chin, tilting my head up. “For a touch.”
He kissed me.
Wet, open mouth, but slow and warm and kind.
It was nice.
It was better than nice.
Caine was right. I was lonely. I was so empty inside. I wanted to be
touched. I wanted to be loved. To be accepted.
God, I wanted to rest.
I wanted to sleep in the arms of someone who cared, who could
protect me but not smother me. I wanted to know that I could stay.
Like the blood warmed me from the stomach out when I fed, so
Caine's kiss blazed a trail of heat from my lips down, rivulets of fire
and sensation.
I desired Caine. Not because of who we was, or what he looked like,
or even how he spoke. Because he desired me. Because he touched
me.
And it was nice. And it wasn't the most comfortable, but right now I
didn't care.
The small, quick, jagged prick of his fang on the inside of my
bottom lip shattered the illusion of mutual desire sharply.
Caine did not want me.
He did not care.
He was using my insecurity to stop me, distract me, to get at Shido
by getting me gone.
I jerked back. My lip was bleeding freely. I raised my left hand to
the cut, touching the cold blood. It froze my fingertips, and any
ardent passions that may have been flaring froze as well.
“Bastard,” I said softly.
Caine smiled and licked my blood off of his own bottom lip.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But if you give into it, you'll suffer less,” he
chided. “Enjoy it. Enjoy me.”
“What?” I snapped. “Become your lover? That what you offering?”
Caine shrugged slightly, a sensual ripple of his torso. “Is that what
you want?” His grin widened. “Shido is a generous soul. I'm sure we
can come to some mutually beneficial... arrangement.”
“No thanks,” I hissed. “Shido doesn't want you and neither do I.
You're too damn arrogant.”
Caine laughed. “And that, my dear, is what you prefer.”
He tried to step forward again, hand up to touch me, and I bared
my fangs at him, hissing warningly.
He stopped, frowning mightily. He dropped his hand. “Very well,”
he said. He gestured at me. “Fall into a deeper sleep and I will take
my time with Shido.”
I felt the tug of the darkness, the sweet nothingness where no
nightmares plagued me and no thoughts swirled. And I wanted to go
there. I wanted to make it stop hurting. But the heavy crush of cold
and flickering, licking heat in my chest flared and I pushed back.
“No,” I said.
I had gotten very good at waking myself up from nightmares.
I woke.
I was on the ratty green couch in Shido's office. The table was there.
So was my knife. And my wand.
Shido was asleep in his chair, whining and writhing. His top hat had
been knocked aside and lay askew on the ground. Caine was on the
desk, Shido's wrist in his mouth and his knees on either side of
Shido's hips.
I stood slowly, gently picked up my wand, and aimed at Caine's back.
“Lumos Solem!”
Caine shrieked, releasing Shido instantly and bowed backwards,
hands scrabbling at the wide patch of burnt clothing and bubbling
skin that splashed across his back.
Served him right.
He turned, kneeling on the desk, the gentleman façade crumbling
under the vicious, visceral reaction of a wounded animal. He lunged
for me, his hands bent into talons, his teeth bared.
I raised my wand and he hesitated.
“Want another one?”
He cut a look between me and Shido. Then he faded out of
existence.
The last sound I heard was the slow hiss of the beginning of a laugh.
=====
“Are you saying that I should just... get over it?” I repeated, aghast.
Shido shrugged. “If you don't, it'll eat at you for the rest of
eternity.”
I grabbed my head, which had just started to throb, and groaned.
“Let me get this straight. I should just... forget what Lucard did to
me and just smile or some other shit?”
Shido shook his head. “No, of course not. Don't forget. But don't let
it control you. So bad things happened. Bad things always happen.
The problem is that you are letting bad things continue to happen.”
“Bad things continue to happen to you, too,” I pointed out sourly.
Shido sat forward on the couch opposite me and settled his hands
on his knees. “I am past Caine. I am angry that he stole my
memories, but in same ways I am also grateful. I don't remember
anything of my life before becoming a Vampire - at least, not much
- so it has made it easier for me to move on. There are things I
regret and things I am ashamed off, yes. And yes, Caine does come
around and... ahem... bother me when it suits him.”
“That's a nice way of putting it.”
He smiled softly. “But I have my own life. And despite the
occasional 'blast from the past', Caine and what he did to me plays
no part in it. I have my job, I have Guni and Yayoi and Riho. This is
my city and my life and I am comfortable here. I have found a
place.”
I frowned and crumpled lower into my chair. “And I've been letting
Lucard control me, my thoughts and my actions, and he's not even
here.”
Shido only smiled sadly. “You changed your sleeping habits because
of him. How many Vampires do you know that sleep during the
night?”
I chuckled, but it was a weak, sad sound.
“Stop letting him dictate your actions. That is why you're sitting
here, moping, isn't it? Instead of out there, trying to get home.
Trying to find Trieze?”
Shido stood, picked up his top hat from the table between us, and
put it on. “Feel free to say here for a while. I have to go out - Yayoi
called me about a body she wants me to see. Just... don't brood,
okay?”
I frowned, looked at my feet, and didn't answer.
=====
I hated to admit it, but I think Shido was right.
Counting my phials carefully, I tried to decide whether or not I
wanted to slide just yet. I agreed with Shido that perhaps it was
time I stopped running from what Lucard had done to me, and start
accepting it.
I needed a break. I needed to sit and think about things. Maybe
write things down.
Maybe find a place where I could be safe for a while.
Now I had to decide if I wanted to do it here, or move on and hope
that wherever I went would be calm enough for what I needed. In
the end it was the memory of Caine's touch on my face that made
me decide to slide.
I would never have a peacefully day's sleep knowing that he could
take a stroll through my head any old time he wished. And the point
of the coming exercise was to get rid of nightmares. In the next
world, I could find a nice anonymous hotel room and brew more
potion, and think in peace.
Open up my nightmare box and see what was inside.
When that was done... I wasn't sure where I would go then.
Would I still try to get home? Was there even a point anymore?
I had been to more worlds than I could remember - I had been
traveling like this for years.
I was sick to death of looking over my shoulder every time I walked
outside. I was sick of being constantly on my guard. I was sick of
running, sick of hiding, sick of lying. I was sick to death of
everything.
If I did stop Sliding... if I just chose one world and stayed there...
Could I ever be happy like that? Could I truly make a choice like
that without regret?
I decided that was a decision for another day.
I would do my musing about Lucard. Then I would think about my
life.
=====
I bid my goodbyes to Shido, my most gracious host, at dawn.
Yayoi put the clip back in my gun, but this time it was filled with
silver shot. Shido handed me a small ink bottle filled with his own
blood. “In case you ever want to visit again,” he said with a soft,
gentle smile. “We'll complain about our Masters and I'll teach you
how to manipulate your blood into weapons.”
“Sounds useful,” I said. “I promise, I'll be back.”
“After you find your home.” He touched my chest gently, palm over
my heart.
“After I find home,” I agreed and we both knew that neither of us
meant the place where my parents lived.
=====
The place I landed would have been idyllic if it hadn't have been so
run down.
The chicken coop looked new, rough-hewn in a way that told me
that this place had no machines and only the rudest of hand tools.
So was the fence, and there were patches of fresh reeds on the
thatched roof that told me someone had been up there doing repair
work recently.
It was a farm.
Or rather, it was trying very hard to be a farm.
Hand-made furniture dotted a dusty but still serviceable porch out
in front of a squat fat house of timbers and thrushes. The barn, to
the left of the farm house, had succumbed to time and fallen to
ruin, most of the roof caved in, and the laneway was overrun with
weeds and muddy ruts from a cart.
A cow, a crude bronze hoop through its nose and its horns unshorn,
looked up at me from its own pen, completely unconcerned with my
sudden entrance.
From within the house I heard a yelping bark of a small dog, so I
wasn't surprised when a Welsh Corgi mutt with one grey eye and
one blue eye came pelting out of the door and at me, yipping it's
head off.
“Horse!” I heard a rumbling voice shout from inside the house. The
pounding of feet followed it. “Horse, come back here, dammit!”
The dog stopped at my feet and yipped and yapped and generally
thought it was being intimidating. I bent down and touched its head
and the dog immediately changed from threatening to welcoming. It
licked my hand and fawned. It tried to wag its stubby tail, and the
whole back end of the critter swung back and forth.
A tall man with darkly tanned skin came to the door. He was
wearing home-spun slacks, loose and dirty, and juxtapostically fine
black leather boots. He had no shirt on, but a flashing silver earring
dangled from his left lobe. Not that he needed a shirt. Mrrrowrr.
His hair was shorter, shot through with grey at the temples, and he
wore no sword, but I recognized him immediately.
He recognized me, too.
He leaned arrogantly against the doorjamb and hooked his ankles
together. He stared at me in an altogether too leering way. I slowly
stood up from the crouch in the laneway, to Horse's dismay, and
stared at him back.
“Took you long enough,” the man from my dream said.
Book Eighteen: Xena: Warrior Princess
Chapter Forty-Five: “Dead Like Me”
“Well, are you coming in?” he asked from the doorway. “Or would
you rather stand there all night? Horse would love it, he's very
needy.”
I looked down dumbly at the corgi jumping up and down by my thigh.
He was turning circles mid-air in his ecstatic welcome. Then I
looked at myself. Not exactly the best state to be meeting someone
I've been dreaming of off and on about for the past few months.
The bottom of my shirt was torn in strips. The gun and scalpels
weighed heavily in the bottom of my pouch. Pulling, as if to
announce their alien presence in this technologically limited world.
There were leaves in my hair still. The knees of my BDUs were
stained with soil and crushed grass and my own gore.
I was more than acutely aware that there was blood all the way
down the front of my shirt. I had zipped up my olive-coloured
jacket to cover the stains from the Breed slitting my throat, but I
had a feeling that this man would know anyway.
It made me acutely uncomfortable, and I rubbed the smooth,
scarless skin of my throat.
He watched my hand move with narrowed, predatory chocolate
eyes. His look was hungry, dangerously sexy, the way I remembered
it from the handful of dreams that had been scattered throughout
the last few months. I never remembered what we said to each
other, outside of that first dream in Middle-Earth, but I always woke
the feeling of his eyes on me. Still on me, even though I was awake.
He saw more than what his eyes could show him.
But that's because, like me, he wasn't human. Or, hadn't been. Also
like me, he was now changed.
The last time I had seen him, he had been Ares, God of War.
Now he was Ares, the Mortal Farmer.
There was a single straw in his hair, butter yellow against the same
fly-away black almost-curls, evidence of mortal toil. But now his
hair was streaking elegantly with grey. It had been cropped short
but was gaining back its length. His chest was bare, still well
sculpted and temptingly tanned, but he held himself slightly off
kilter, nursing an ache that he would never have known before.
I felt like whacking myself in the forehead. How could I have missed
who he was? How had I seen him so many times, conversed with him,
and not recognized him?
The black leather, the flashing sword-shaped earring, the goatee.
They were iconic.
Hell, this man was an icon in and of himself.
Perhaps that was the logic of dreams; you didn't know what you
thought you didn't know. What you didn't expect to know. I
expected to not know him, so I hadn't.
You really don't know who I am? he had asked.
But I did. I mean, I did now. Now that I was standing in his laneway.
He was Ares. Kevin Smith. The late. And this was season six of Xena:
Warrior Princess.
“Well?” he prompted again. “I've got a fire going, and there's fresh
wine and bread. Greta brought over cheese last night. I can kill a
chicken, if you want.”
“You were expecting me?” I asked softly.
He chuckled softly. “Marie, I'm a God.”
“Were,” I corrected without thinking, then wished the words back.
He winced once and then shrugged the offence away. “You know my
name?”
“You told me.”
“I did? But I didn't tell you that I don't eat bread or cheese or...
chickens.”
He chuckled again, then slapped his broad thigh. Horse yipped
excitedly and ran towards the house, skidding into it through the
vee of Ares' legs.
Shaking, I followed.
=====
The fire was high and welcoming. Though it wasn't cold yet, the sun
was setting and a chill was spreading over Ancient Greece. I
declined everything but the wine and stared around me at the old
farmhouse, clutching the crude wooden cup of Dionysian blood.
Appropriate, that the nick-name for the potent drink was the very
substance that I thrived on.
Once, long ago, Xena and her brothers had lived in this house with
their mother and grandparents. That had been almost thirty years
ago. When her brothers had all died in battle and Xena left to
become the blood-thirsty Warrior Princess, the farm fell to ruin.
The barn collapsed and the roof sprung holes in the thatch. The
table disintegrated, the mice ventilated the plaster walls, and the
floorboards sank.
Their mother abandoned it, bought a taverna in town, and lived
there.
The farm died slowly, but those were glorious days for Ares, God of
War. Xena, his half-mortal daughter (supposed), and sometime
lover, was a spitfire of anger and passion. She was a skilled and
dangerous warrior, both in combat and in scheming.
She could kill or paralyze or maim as she chose, with a single blow,
with a swift cut of her arm and a high pitched, devil's shriek. The
whistle of her deadly chakram was the last thing many a man heard,
and the sound that rung in their ears as they crossed the river in
Charon's boat.
And Ares had loved her. Loved her ruthlessness, loved her anger,
loved her insanity, loved her skill. Possibly he had loved the woman,
but who's to say?
Then something happened.
Xena fell in love. She had a son. She slaughtered a town and met
the accusing eyes of a blonde, orphaned child.
She gave it up.
Xena: Warrior Princess, wanted to be warrior no more. She divested
herself of her amour and weapons, was ready to return to her
mother and the farm. She couldn't. Her town did not want her, her
mother disowned her. So Xena took up her chakram and her sword
again and vowed instead to protect, rather than kill. To make
amends for what she had done. To stand by the sides of her newforged friends.
She abandoned Ares and his worship, and the God of War and
Insanity never forgave her. Until her dying day and into her
reincarnations, he badgered her. He tried to seduce her back to the
side of violence, to trick her or blackmail her. He did all that he
could to make her his again - his Princess, his warrior, his devotee.
His wife and lover if he could.
And when that failed, he stood by and watched her slaughter the
other Olympians. He saved her daughter's life by giving up his own
Godhood, proved his love for her tenfold, and she walked away
from him because he had hurt her too much.
And then he was mortal, alone in the world and unable to take care
of himself, and a target. Xena relented and brought him here, to
her old farm, where she disguised him as a farmer and helped him
find a new life. Together they repaired the roof, the fallen timbers,
the sunken floor. But they could not repair what they had once had.
He asked her one last time to stay and she could not, for she loved
another, and so he was left alone.
Alone. Cold.
Waiting.
Waiting for the only other person in the world who knew who he
truly was; the only other person who had ever conversed with him
civilly, who was on par with his own intelligence. Whose powers and
abilities did not frighten him, and whom his own Godhood had not
frightened or cowed. The only other person who understood what it
was like to be ripped from the only home you had ever known, the
only life, and be forcefully changed.
Me.
=====
I rolled the wine around in my mouth, tasting the sunlight, the rain,
the soil and the toil, relishing it as I always did. Ares was beside me
on a fur on the floor. I was sitting cross-legged and staring into the
fire. The part of me that was Miroku was tempted to meditate.
I assumed the fur had once been a bear and wondered if Ares had
slain it himself or if he'd simply bought it. Either way, it was very
comfortable. He'd put some sort of padding under it - a few
blankets or pillows.
“I'm sorry I have no chairs,” he said. He was stretched on his side
out beside me on the fur, resting his head on one hand, propped up
on his elbow, and didn’t look all that sorry at all. He rather seemed
to be enjoying showing off his physique. He had toed off his boots
and his feet were bare, and for some strange reason that seemed a
terribly intimate thing to me. Perhaps too intimate for someone I
had just met in person for the first time ten minutes ago. “They
were all so broken I just used them as firewood. Haven't gotten
around to getting more.”
“I like this,” I said, trying to keep the strange nervousness out of my
voice. What had I to be worried about? It's not like he was a God
anymore. I ran the fingers of my free hand over the soft fur. “It's
comfortable.”
He smiled out of the side of his mouth. Horse, who was laying in
front of Ares' stomach enjoying a prolonged scratch between the
ears, whined once to agree with me.
“You sure just the wine is enough for you?” Ares asked.
I looked sideways at him. “You sure the whole time we spoke I
never told you that I can't eat anything?”
Ares grinned. “I was always busy discussing other things.”
I rolled my eyes. Since entering his house, Ares had told me a whole
string of things to try to get me to sleep with him immediately. How
it was destiny, how he had been waiting, how he was lonely, and
he'd made dinner and a fire and everything, and shouldn't I get out
of those strange stained men's trousers?
This wasn't the magic of Suedom that was turning him horny - this
was just Ares. He had been born a God, the ultimate symbol of
ancient Greek masculinity: strong, skilled in battle, hairy, chiselled,
and virile.
As a mortal he still possessed the physical features, and the
matching sex drive.
Also as a God, he had understood most relationships in very simple
terms - mortals were either something to ignore, something to be
worshipped by, something to control, something to kill, or
something to screw.
Seeing as I was not to be ignored, couldn't be controlled, didn't
worship him, and was a bad idea to kill, that only left one option.
I shifted away from Ares slightly, putting myself deliberately beyond
arm's reach. He may know me from my dreams, but I didn't know
him. I didn't trust him either. Ares could be selfish. He looked out
for number one, and number one was Ares. The only other person
he truly loved, in my opinion, had been Xena.
Look what he had done to her.
And as much as I had become rather prolific with my bed partners in
the past few months, I wasn't going to sleep with him either. Shido
had pointed it out to me, and even Caine had men