“Just not like before.” His ghostly features twisted into a frown. “Just not by force. You know I don’t like killing.”
I didn’t answer and looked away. He couldn’t get full control of a body without me killing the person.
“I promise.”
~3 MONTHS AGO~
“All right! I’ll go to your party...shindig-thing.” I sighed and looked over at Devon, laughing. “What exactly is this for?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled, shaking his head. “It’s a surprise.”
I sat and stared down at the long, purple dress he had laid in front of me. It was beautiful and looked expensive. I sighed and lingered on it before looking over at him.
“You sure this is okay to wear?” I asked, “I might ruin it.”
“It’ll be perfect on you. Now, meet me there at 7PM. I told them I’d be there a bit early to help out.” He leaned down and kissed me before heading out.
I sighed, looking back at the dress and smiled. “Be gentle, it’s my first time.”
As I prepared, I continued to wonder what this was for. He’d explained that his parents set this up for his birthday. I frowned, chewing my lip for a moment, would his parents like me?
It was the first time I’d ever cared about making an impression.
Though I’d never admit it, Devon had been right; the dress fit me perfectly.
I headed out of the cabin, seeing a limo waiting for me and I gasped.
“Living in a cabin all this time, I’d have expected a pumpkin.”
Spotting no fairy godmothers, I ducked into the limo and we set off; my nerves beginning to get the better of me.
His birthday must have been very important and I was worried that I wasn’t fit for the part.
We reached a massive, elaborately lit ballroom in the middle of the city and the limo eased to a stop. Wow, his parents spared no expense to this one. I was ready to turn and head back to the cabin as the door opened and I was lead out. The driver handed me a black-lace mask and I nervously nodded my thanks before slipping it on.
It made me feel more comfortable at least.
As I entered the ballroom, I couldn’t help but gape. It was lit up and an orchestra played up at the stage. In the center, a large chandelier dimmed as I walked through the room. The music slowed and the crowd parted before me and created a natural path to Devon under the chandelier. I saw Devon; his hair tied back and wearing a finely tailored suit that fit him like a second skin.
As I joined him by his side, the guests spread out for us as they watched him take my hand and lead me into a slow dance. I clumsily stepped on his foot.
“Sorry...” I pouted; maybe dance lessons should have been in order.
“Never waltzed before?” He asked.
“Does it show?” I blushed.
He smiled and pulled me in closer as he waltzed me around the dance floor, I felt like I was floating as he led me to the stage.
He stood in front of me, his dazzling smile making me feel that same warm comfort as we stood in front of the crowd. He pulled a small box out of his pocket and I held back the gasp as he dropped himself onto one knee in front of me and placed the ring on my finger.
“Serena, I love you. Will you—“
And then the room went bright.
The light overwhelmed me a moment before the sound knocked me back. The panicked survivors began to clamor out the door. I turned away from the exit to find Devon several feet away, sprawled on the floor, dazed from the chaos.
“Let’s go!” I cried out as a large, burning pillar began to collapse towards us.
Devon shot forward and shoved me off the stage as the pillar crashed down on him and pinned him to the stage. The meticulous suit that I had been admiring a moment earlier quickly took to the flames and his body was engulfed in the fire.
I heard his cries and at that moment, I realized I was sobbing.
Somewhere between clutching my eyes from the horrific scene and daring to peak at the horror, I found myself outside.
Sirens and cries filled my ears as I froze, sensing something familiar. Kristine! I felt my rage match the building’s blaze and I tore the hem of my skirt to free my legs and rushed through the crowd in overdrive.
I caught up to her quickly and slammed her against the brick building, shaking a few of the weaker bricks loose.
“You!” I growled and drove my fist into her cheek, the shattering of her jaw and her pained shrieks fueling me further. “YOU KILLED HIM!”
“You will feel his pain!” I cried out as my aura wrapped around her body and squeezed her. She screamed and tried to struggle against my hold and I laughed through my tears. “And you will feel my pain!” I cried as my aura grew.
“Serena!” Devon’s voice called to me.
My eyes widened and I spun to meet his voice, hearing Kristine hit the ground as I released my grip. I cried out, watching as my aura warped and twisted against my will and began to take his shape.
He floated forward and the same warmth engulfed me as his hand reached out and stroked my cheek. “Rage is so unbecoming to you.”
Despite everything, I felt my body calm and I dropped to my knees.
“Serena, it’ll be okay.” Devon’s ghostly figure shifted to meet me at my level. His familiar warmth filled me. “Let’s go to the cabin...”
“B-b-but...how? What happened?” I whimpered, looking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he smiled his same reassuring smile and the calming warmth rippled through me once more, “I just knew I needed to be with you.”
I sighed and shook my head pushing away the memories and turned my attention to Devon donning the mask of confidence.
“I’m starving. Let’s head to the city.” I stood up and stretched, heading towards the door of the cabin, I could already sense that we had a visitor. I looked down at the ring on my finger and sighed, before returning my attention to the door.
“What the?”
The Fighter
Zane’s Prequel to Scarlet Night
Drinking.
Somehow it always comes back to the drinking.
I thought I'd been free of it--thought I'd gotten a grip of chasing the bottom of a glass only to demand a refill--when Gregori had saved me from the barstool a few years back after that whole mess with Raith had put me there in the first place.
Raith…
My eyes shift towards my left shoulder, my gaze slipping past the shadowed image cast from the reflective lenses of my aviators and taking in the pitch-black tendrils of the tribal pattern breaking past the sleeve of my shirt. The echo of Raith's name and his last fleeting calls roar in the still-sober part of my mind and I see the tattoo begin to shimmer and grow luminous like a branding iron preparing for a kiss.
I growl and tug my sleeve down to cover the rest of the accursed thing before slamming the shot glass on the table and giving the bartender a look that he knows all-too-well to be a call for another. He's quick to oblige, stepping away from the slutty Chinese broad he's been eyeing for the past hour--the SAME Chinese broad that he's neglected to notice stealing glances at my ass every time I lean over the bar to snatch a fistful of peanuts from the puke-colored bowl that's now almost entirely greasy fingerprints and dust. On any other day I might've given a shit; on any other day I might've told that fat, lazy fuck behind the bar to stop watering-down his scotch long enough to wash the damn bowl and not condemn his patrons to a week of singing into their toilet bowls. On any other day I might've seen point in being decent.
On any other day, though, I'd probably be interested in seeing the next day come.
However, on this day, all I want to do is carry off as much of the bastard's booze in my churning guts and maybe fuck the Oriental apple of his crusty, old eye in his bathroom and make damn sure he hears every second of it before strolling out with a reminder of the mess I've left for him to mop up.
And then…
Fuck.
He's barely done pouring the fr
esh shot before I'm bringing it to my mouth, and before he has a chance to bitch at me in his creaky German grunts I snatch the bottle from his hand and tell him to fuck off.
It's going to take a lot more rot-gut than the old Nazi's got to help me forget, and a lot more than some well-used pussy to distract me from what needs to be done.
I abandon the shot glass and take a long pull from the bottle. The Chinese girl doesn't even pretend to not be impressed and I can all-but smell her flood her own panties.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
Fuck this night and fuck Gregori. Fuck him for saving me. Fuck him for helping me. Fuck him for making me give a shit.
And, most of all, fuck him and his death for this god-forsaken night!
Fuck…
The last of the liquor spirals down the mouth of the bottle and bleeds down my throat as easy as tap water, and the patrons of the bar--some who've been sucking down shots of whisky for years and can't shake their own grimace--stare disbelief at my tolerance to the stuff as I toss the dried-up bottle back over the bar and let it smash through a display case.
"ANOTHER!"
If the crowd hadn't been hushed before they certainly are now. Though nobody says a word I can tell they're chalking the event as a heated fit from a raging drunk and hoping that the old bartender can peacefully herd me out before an encore performance erupts. The Chinese broad's lustful gaze has been replaced by one of sheer terror as she maneuvers from her barstool and hides behind the first man--in this case, a well-built biker-type with the beginning of a healthy beer-gut forming--that looks like he might fare well against me.
I can't help but laugh.
Thought they were supposed to be good at calculating.
Behind the bar, the old man takes a step back and slowly reaches blindly for the silent alarm. His eyes--sickly or not--are wide and receptive, and whatever he sees in front of him is more than he's willing to try and deal with on his own without a few cops to back up his efforts.
"Don't bother, Adolf!" I offer as I climb off my stool. "I'm done here, anyway!"
The deathly-quiet bar seems to part for me as I turn and head for the door; the patrons taking no chances and moving table and body alike to make room for their current monster to make his way out.
Fuckers don't know monsters!
Fuckers can't FATHOM monsters!
They ain't seen NOTHING yet!
Every eye--wide and ready as dinner-plates--traces my methodic journey for the exit. Several paces from the door, I reach out my hand and scoop up a half-empty stein of what I hope isn't juice from the table of a small man who wasn't fast enough in his retreat and glance back at the skeptical bartender.
"One for the road, mein fuhrer!" I call, raising the drink and taking a loud sip.
Molson.
Thank the gods and all their mercy for small fucking favors!
Before anybody can say anything concerning a bar serving take-out I kick open the door and welcome the night air as I step into its dark embrace.
After all is said and done, after all the trim and all the fucking and all the soaked bedsheets are but a sweat-soaked memory, the mistress that is the night is the only bitch I find my way back to.
Maybe it's the silver strands of moonlight.
Maybe it's all the stars held within its gaze.
Or maybe--just god-damned maybe--it's that she's the ONLY bitch I give a damn enough about to stumble into time-and-time-and-time again.
Whatever the fuck the night holds over me, its touch is refreshing and I let out a heavy breath as the energy burning under my cursed tattoos and they go black once again. Daring another glance, I watch as the string of bizarre symbols hugging the top of my forearm just below my elbow--what I'm sure-as-shit is the source for the wretched things' power--go from a dull-orange light to a shade darker than the night. I growl at the sight; even in darkness I can't ignore the fucking things!
Behind me I can hear the din of the patrons begin to rise as their gossip closes in on the subject of their combined interest and the hollow assurances to themselves and others that I'm somehow lucky I didn't stick around. Stepping out of the parking lot, I bring the stein to my lips and do my best not to spill all the beer on myself as I blindly navigate down the sidewalk.
For the most part, I fail miserably.
Something I've grown increasingly used to.
Failure to Gregori.
Failure to his clan.
Failure to my duties.
And, as usual, a fucking failure to myself.
Draining the contents of the stein and gulping down the booze that I'm not already wearing all over my shirt, I decide that the only direction worth heading now is the one I've absentmindedly set myself in, figuring that it's easier than turning and more-than-likely every bit as pointless as any other location. Though every step I take puts me that much further from the bar, I cling to the barren glass stein--several lingering traces of fluid escaping the rim and gracing the pavement in my wake--and worship it as a memory of what was probably the only place I could go that made sense.
Besides, after losing everything else in my life I wasn't about to let the only thing left that meant something slip from my fingers.
And so, with my once faithful source of purpose growing cold and forgotten, I made my way deeper into the bowels of the city. Through the haze of my stupor a fragment of realization dawns upon me as I cross the street and find myself by the old theater. Though the place is probably older than time itself, it's been kept standing by the constant need for humans to reinforce a sense of dignity and fashion by abandoning Michael Bay's latest two-hour explosion and immerse themselves in the tasteful brilliance of a whiney douchebag that's willing to die for an underage piece of tale he's known all-but three days.
Ah, the theater! So classy!
Though, as the kids are saying: "still a better love-story than Twilight".
I glance back at the tribal patterns on my arm and scowl with the realization that I'm actually thankful that they glow.
Any self-respecting vampire that sparkles should give the nearest handgun a blowjob and save themselves the torture of The Council making an example out of them for making our kind a joke.
The dull and muted sound of the theater's audience picks up, and the rise of their applause is met with the setting of my ass as I take a seat on the sidewalk, setting the stein on my knee, and lean against the building. Trying to relax, I lean my head back and knock it against the bottom of a case displaying a poster for Les Miserables --the doe-eyed twat with Technicolor dreadlocks behind the glass gazing judgmentally down at me--and, though it's uncomfortable and awkward, I don't feel up to shifting the three feet to the left to free myself of the burden.
"Guess we'll just be miserable together, bitch!" I mumble, bringing the stein down on my knee with greater-and-greater force with every other word.
The sound of the theater doors bursting open and the chorus of the crowd's combined banter make me jump and knock my skull against the case again, this time with enough force for something to break. As I examine the top of my head, hoping that perhaps it wasn't the display case, a group of older women well-over their fifties but still wearing enough youth for me to forgive that fact pause to look me over and squawk
I begin to wonder if my inadvertent begging might earn me enough for one of the cheaper hookers by the docks as a lingering couple cast a collective sneer in my direction before dropping a ten-spot in the glass. There's a swell of anger and I feel the cursed ink in my neck begin to draw from the rage as I eyeball the money and realize what it represents. The old birds stroll off, squawking and clucking at their generosity, and I'm tempted to stand to my full height and let it be known that I'm neither a beggar nor am I in need of their charity; that I've got more money than the four of them and three of their future generations combined. The temptation rocks me, and I feel the muscles in my legs spring to attention with the hope that they'll be called upon rather than rotting beneath the wasted
torso of a lost cause, but--still looking at the bill in the stein and the ever-darkening corner that's eagerly soaking in the residual fluid that, like me, can't get out--I'm unable to take any pride in my Swiss account and the hundreds-of-millions of dollars that working for Gregori and The Clan of Vail has earned me.
And so I sit.
And stare into the bottom of an empty beer stein holding a crisp ten-dollar bill.
And I see within the vacant depths and past the meager currency what I've become. I see that I, a once proud and revered warrior for a mythos clan that hunted and executed worthless, non-human wretches that threatened the secrecy of our kind and preyed on the lives of humans.
The types of non-human wretches occupying space and air that they didn't deserve and had no intention of earning.
Non-human wretches like me…
As another clot of the theater-goers emerged more-and-more of their charity found its way into my stein.
Every dollar added to the last draws from me what little pride I had left. That I've found myself in a position of such humiliation as to be accepting the scraps of these upper-class fuckers reflects back at me like a mirror I can't turn away from. A mirror that shows the filthy and worthless stain I've become.
A mirror that shows me exactly what I've become…
And I can't bring myself to care.
Can't bring myself to defend an honor I once cherished that I now see no merit or worth in.
Eventually the crowd thins out and dies away and the lights in front of the theater are extinguished and I find myself staring into the partially back-list poster of the condescending girl housed within the cracked glass case and clutching a stolen glass filled with over a hundred-bucks worth of donated money carrying the pungent stench of humans and shame.
"God-fucking-dammit, Gregori!" I growl at the stein, "What the hell did you see me doing? Where the hell did you see me going?" The money-filled glass offers no response and I slam my head against the glass case again.
Scarlet Night: The Complete Trilogy Page 2
