His head turned slightly to the side, the wounds of her teeth visible on his pale neck. Reaching out, she touched the raw skin and his head twitched slightly. He could feel her. She knew he could when she fed; she felt him, too. Now the touch was more like the slight give of a soap bubble, too much and it would pop and her fingers would sink through his flesh. Her fingers trailed lower, across his bare chest. A drawn breath showed he could feel her, but he wasn't shying away from it—as if he accepted it.
Lucy's frown deepened. The horrible things he said to her, the incessant and hateful stares. When it came down to it, he wasn't quite so distant when they were touching, as if he craved it. Maybe he just craved anyone's touch. That woman had come. He hadn't been pleased to see her. He chose to be here with a ghost than with that woman. Lucy couldn't understand it.
Her fingers pushed into him; he didn't seem to notice. It was only his skin that was sensitive to her touch. She felt the heart beat slowly, ran her fingers over its surface. She'd forgotten the beat of her heart and now noticed how silent everything was without it. For the first time, she actually missed her life. Death had taken so much, and now memories were now slowly returning. The rage had masked everything—masked the love and the sadness, but they were also returning.
She wanted to hear her heart again, but there was only one beating heart in this room. Laying down, she shifted back, immersing herself in him. He was larger than her, but the heart seemed to click into place and suddenly she felt blood flowing, her skin lighting up. She felt her lips move and the flow of the air over her skin. No, it wasn't her skin; it was his. She was in his body and she had clicked into place, taking over his systems. She felt the weight of his flesh, even the movement of his fingers when she urged them to.
With a gasp, she pushed herself out. She hadn't realized she could do that. She had taken him over while he slept. Standing by the bed, she stared down at him. She had pried herself into his body and taken over. It wasn't his mind though; she hadn't felt anything of him—it was a physical absorption.
*
Castran ate the breakfast the servants had provided, the sound of the cutlery on the plate the only noise in the room. She was watching from across the room, standing there stubborn and mute. He didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to push her into a reaction, into doing something, but he also wanted for her not to chase him out of the house.
"Any plans today?" he asked with a grin. Alright, he couldn't quite help himself, because he also wanted to know what was going on in her mind.
"I entered you last night."
"Sounds dirty. Too shy to do it while I'm awake?"
"I took you over. I moved your limbs. Your heart beat for me."
Castran sobered, even more so when there was a knock on the door. He hadn't been aware that was on the cards—possession.
Tarquin stood at the entrance, absently adjusting one of his cufflinks. "We have some business to take care of," he said. "I'll see you downstairs." Tarquin left, walking silently on the soft carpet of the hall.
With a sigh, Castran put his breakfast tray aside, feeling a rush of something he couldn't identity. In the past, it had been anticipation for the fight, but this was something else.
"Off to do evil things," she said in a lilting voice. She was definitely becoming more human-like, he noticed. She'd just smiled. It was malicious, but definitely more than the blank staring she'd done when she'd first turned up. The old woman had said to bring her to life and he was certainly succeeding on that account—but then what? That was also a question that kept slipping through his mind, like sand through his fingers. It wasn't a question he wanted to answer.
Tension twisted in his gut. He didn't normally mind this, but her accusation burned in his mind. Evil, he was doing evil. This was necessary; he had always seen that. Before, he had considered it as a source of their strength, the necessary actions to keep peace.
Castran moved to his wardrobe and undressed.
"Who will you kill this time?" she asked, almost with glee. "Someone innocent?"
"This isn't something I enjoy."
"Are you sure?" she asked, having moved very close now. He could feel her, although he could be imagining that, wondering if he actually would feel her if he brushed into her.
He turned away, biting his teeth together until his jaw clenched, because he used to enjoy it, saw it as part of his strength and invincibility, their superiority. "It isn't like that," he said, knowing he wasn't entirely truthful. He had seen it as their right, proof of their legitimacy—perhaps through the eyes of youth, he now conceded. He'd never thought of the consequences, blaming them for being stupid enough to stand against the Chartrice powerhouse.
"Are you sure? Because I was there once," she teased, the tone of her voice communicating exactly what she thought, that he was a monster—who loved killing.
"It's not true, what you are insinuating," he said tersely, pulling his clothes on, the black coat, designed to intimidate. It felt like he was pulling on the vestiges of the person she expected him to be. "It's not true," he repeated. "You may never understand, but this is necessary."
It's what he'd always believed, and been told. The balance had to be kept. It was a valuable service they provided—sure they profited from it, but chaos was in no one's interest, except the people who were trying to achieve it. "Have you ever considered what it would really be like if you achieved your aims? If you toppled the power structure, it would be mayhem. Or were you expecting bunnies and sunshine? Revolutions are always bloody affairs, more so than any damage we cause. You rush in like fools without a realistic thought of what you're doing, and then you expect me to feel guilt about it?" He stared into her not quite solid eyes. They had been blue, he remembered. The milkiness in her eyes had gone, but the color wasn't as real as it had been when she’d been alive. A twinge of guilt coursed through him. She had been so beautiful and he'd killed her, hadn't even considered another option, but what was he supposed to have done—reason with her?
Suddenly, he needed to defend his action, but he didn't have time, and didn't quite know what to say that he hadn't already. She was only seeing her own side and Tarquin was waiting downstairs. He had to go. "Maybe you should actually have considered the reality of what it was you were fighting for, because you take no responsibility for the bloodshed you cause."
Without looking back, he left his apartments. Would she rage when he returned, rile against him for the things he did? He drew a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. This was necessary, and it wasn't going to be pleasant, even if in the past he had done this without a twinge of concern, only seeing his own victory.
She had succeeded in that regard, he thought as he sat down in the car and it started speeding away. She had managed to take the carelessness away from this, so he supposed her aims had now been achieved, even if she didn't quite feel it was enough.
*
Staring out of the windows, he watched Paris quickly move by. "Where are we going?"
"Remnant of a cell. They are apparently planning on disrupting manufacturing operations if the intelligence is right," Tarquin said, impassive as always. Did it bother him, what they did? It never seemed like it. Tarquin did these things without any discernible emotions. There had never been the pride that Castran had felt, but today, Castran felt much older than he had a few weeks ago. Pride seemed such a childish thing now.
"Is your ghost still there?" Tarquin asked after a moment of silence.
Castran felt like snorting. "Yes." And she is getting to me, he wanted to admit, but wouldn't allow himself. His brother had little sympathy for weakness.
"This has gone on long enough," Tarquin said, continuing to watch out the window. "I will see if we can find someone else to assist."
Castran looked over at his brother then back away. A twinge of panic shot through him, because on some level, he didn't want her gone. He certainly couldn't admit that, because for him, her feedings had turned into these twiste
d pseudo sexual affairs that he didn't feel he was done exploring. But it wasn't the feedings that held him captivated, if he were honest.
For as much as she despised him and only saw him in the worst possible light, she did see him, which turned out to be an addictive quality so strong he couldn't turn away from it. His own insight now amazed him. Claudine and his friends all revered him, looked up to and respected him, but they didn't really see him. Neither did his brother. Adaeus did perhaps, but wouldn't accept any remorse or weakness. Adaeus only saw the necessary. Feelings were points of leverage to get what you wanted, used to manipulate.
Lucy wasn't distracted by any superficial things, like power and influence. Maybe she didn't really see him either, only reflecting him in the worst possible version, but she was seeing deeper than anyone else—a ghost. How pathetic was that? And now she'd been in his body, taking him over. That should freak him the hell out, but it didn't for some reason. He even wished to know what that had felt like.
Chapter 13:
* * *
The car stopped in a grimy part of Paris, covered in half-wit tags and stinking of something rotting. Castran felt lethargic, unwilling to get out of the car, but he forced himself. The air was icy and a burst of activity down the alley signified that some scout had seen them coming. They had to move quickly before the cretins sorted their defenses.
"This way," Tarquin said. Tarquin always had an instinct for where the enemy was. He really was the consummate fighter.
They didn't hurry, instead strolled down the alley toward a door, tagged with a symbol. "They have started using these to communicate," Tarquin said. "Hiding in plain sight is not always the best strategy." He wrenched the door open and they immediately met with gunfire, which Tarquin easily stepped aside.
The door led to a narrow set of stairs, which was clever on the rebel's part. The rebels had the higher position looking down on a confined space.
Using unnatural strength, Tarquin flew up the stairs, and the blood immediately started splattering. It was a trick Castran hadn't been taught yet, those leaps, and maybe it was about time he was, but it was intensely distracting and humans noticed things like that. Instead, he had to wait for Tarquin to clear the immediate threat, which happened quickly and brutally, usually in more or less silence as Tarquin's victims rarely had a chance to scream. Tarquin was efficient, and as soon as the firing ceased coming down the stairs, Castran walked up. Adrenaline was now coursing through his blood and he felt the call of battle nipping at him. He'd loved this in the past, the heightened senses, the feeling of invincibility.
The rebels had retreated further into the warehouse, which had nooks and crannies everywhere. It was a good choice for a fight, and Castran wondered if this confrontation had been more planned than expected, which meant that they could have laid all sorts of traps—most likely still rudimentary to the point where Castran felt his intelligence insulted.
They split up and Castran took a hallway leading down to the left. It was dark and somewhere the coarse sound of electrical sparks tortured the air. A shot flew his way, but he had time to shield himself. "Just not fast enough," he said. "You're not going to be able to take me."
"You're not as clever as you think, fascist," a man said. The adrenaline made his voice shaky. The days of those extreme reactions were gone for Castran, although he still felt the energy of a fight, the urge to extend and persevere, be victorious.
"Yeah, I really am," Castran said. "This was a mistake."
"You're a mistake."
"That may be so, but I'm still here and this is our town."
"Not anymore." Another shot came and Castran ducked out of its way. So predictable. This was like taking candy from a baby. Castran threw a blade hard through the wall and was rewarded with an expected cry of pain. He heard the man scamper off, limping away.
This felt a little like déjà vu, not entirely dissimilar to how he'd claimed Lucy. Castran sighed. Maybe he'd have another ghost at the end of today—a boyfriend for Lucy perhaps. He could hear by the sound of the guy's voice that he was young. A flash of concern shot through him. Another deluded boy, fighting for a cause they didn't quite understand.
"This doesn't need to be," Castran said, surprising even himself. "Just slip away. No one will know."
"I'll know," the guy said. Obviously still there.
Another shot came and Castran sidestepped it. They were in closer quarters now and the sounds of firing were more powerful. Castran threw another blade as soon as he walked around the corner and the guy fell to the ground, scrambling up as quickly as he could to keep firing.
"There is no point in dying for this," Castran said, trying again, but the guy continued shooting. It took a bit more effort to avoid the shots this close up. The guy was sliding back toward the wall. Castran wondered how many times he would have to do this exact same thing. They had gotten to this confrontation point so very easily and the kid was running out of options. He knew it, too. "It's not worth fighting."
The kid threw the empty gun, a desperate action which zinged past Castran's ear. He didn’t bother to defend himself against that one. The kid's energies were draining. They were about the same age, and above the scowl, he had light brown hair and freckles. There was blood on his teeth. Truthfully, Castran didn't want to kill him, watch the life fleet from his eyes, but there was really no other way to go. Even if the guy begged for forgiveness, Tarquin would never accept any prisoners. They never accepted prisoners.
"You don't get it, do you?" the guy said. "You can only suppress people for so long. All the energy you spend trying to control everything; it will never work. You might force people to dance to your tune, but no one wants you here—no one accepts you." That wasn't true at all. Their kind thrived in this new order, gaining unimaginable wealth—other's had to comply. "We'll never stop. Sooner or later, you will fall."
"The cost isn't worth it."
"I'm never selling my conscience to you. That's what I would do if I stood by and did nothing." He prepared to rise to charge, and Castran withdrew his sword and extended it. Again, so predictable, Castran had known it was coming and was fully ready, and stronger.
"Just stop," Castran said, even though he knew it was useless. The kid didn’t and Castran had no choice but to strike. The kid sealed his own fate; still breathing for a few more moments. Castran's cut was deep and the kid's energy or will faded, throwing a last defiant look at Castran before his eyes unfocused and he stilled. Everything stilled, replaced by utter silence. The kid's eyes were wide and glassy, staring emptily down at the floor.
Fuck, Castran swore silently. This didn't have to be; they just had to stop. Why wouldn't they just stop?
Gunfire sounding somewhere else in the building garnered Castran's attention. His brother was still fighting somewhere and Castran had to go help. As torn as he felt about this, he couldn't ignore his brother. Tarquin being injured or even dying was unfathomable. Tarquin's mortality wasn't something that had ever really entered his consciousness before. Tarquin had always been too strong, too cunning. But was he? An unlucky day and Castran could lose his brother. There only were two people that actually cared for him; he wasn't ready to lose one of them.
Castran ran to where the fighting was, swinging away as soon as he could find someone to fight. It was impersonal again, just enemies without faces or thoughts. He did what he was good at and they soon cleared the building, wary of stragglers hiding for a last shot.
Nausea nipped at his gut when they walked outside. He'd never reacted like this before. "Why do they do it?" he asked when the car pulled up.
"Because they must," Tarquin said, looking as unflustered as always.
"They're dying for nothing."
"They're dying for principle."
"A stupid reason to die."
"Or the only reason to die," Tarquin said, getting into the car.
Castran didn't understand. Or maybe he did and didn't want to. These kids—Lucy—would rather die than to li
ve under their rule. The weak insisted on having their say, at peril. Lucy wasn't weak, just on the wrong side.
The car sped home, the blur of scenery passing unnoticed. He'd never seen any of this, but it was dawning on him that Tarquin had, Tarquin knew. Castran had been too caught up in the privileges of their position, always assuming that it was as it was always meant to be. But their success was at the expense of others, through the control and alienation of those who threatened them. Someone had to be in control. Someone was always stronger. That was the way things were.
His apartments were quiet, but he felt her rage. There was an air of anticipation, as if he'd just proved her right, and maybe he had. She stood on the far side. He could see the outline of her body. The A-line dress under a thin cardigan. She looked so innocent, like a student returning from class.
"I could have saved you if you'd let me," he said. It flowed out of his mouth like a thought that refused to be held back—a hope that had never been rational to begin with.
She raised an eyebrow. "You killed me without a second thought, like a stray dog, a passing nuisance."
It was true, but it hurt to hear it. His thoughts had not been on her or what she meant. He'd just been forcing an enemy out of their miserable existence. "I'm not a bad person." He knew it was a lie even as he said it.
"Who'd you kill today?"
"He forced me."
"Like I did?" she said as she came closer. "Forced you to kill me as I was trying to run away."
"You should never have been there."
"There wasn't anywhere I should have been, according to you."
"That's not true."
"No, that's right, exist in sheer subjugation, while you roll straight over us in your greed."
"It isn't like that."
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