Dodo's Conundrum

[Charlie]

[ C H A R L I E ]

“Bloody hell…”

The sheer size of it had Charlie craning her head backwards to get a better look. Her eyes widened, bloodshot and teary from the grime that’d gotten into them. The sewers were a ghastly place to be, but she’d returned anyway. Verin had warned her of the dangers that lurked in the city’s underbelly, and up until this very moment, she had underestimated what those dangers were.

What unfurled before her was not, and had never been, human.

She steadied the assault rifle as best she could, trying to keep the tactical light focused on the beast before her. The scope of her flashlight was too small to illuminate the monster in its full form. It bellowed aggressively, making her jump backwards and the field of vision shift unstably. When she refocused her aim, the corporal shadow coiled into itself, swallowing all the light as if it were made out of living vantablack.

Charlie fired five shots into it as she stepped backwards, away from it.

The monstrous sound it made in return had her hands shaking. Before she could empty the rest of the clip into it, a deformed arm with three fingers the size of her forearm struck down upon the barrel of the weapon, disarming her. The rifle clattered to the ground, flashlight flickering from the impact. The area brightened by the light was empty, and Charlie’s widened gaze flickered from one point of darkness to another in search of the creature.

The lightbulb faded until she was bathed completely in darkness.

“****. ****, ****. ****!”

Her phone clattered from her pocket as she reached for it, hand shaking uncontrollably.

“****!”

The fadebeast shrieked in return.
Landing hard on her knees, Charlie swept her hands across the grimy concrete. What if the phone had landed in water? What if the rifle had jammed upon impact? Where was it? What was it? Was she going to die?

Tears fell freely from her eyes as she searched the darkness, frantic for a point of reference. The weather overhead had been far from sunny, and the few storm drains above filtered little to no light.

Finally her fingers grasped the device. The screen responded to her pressing the home button, but her dirty, damp fingerpads were unreadable. As she wiped her hand across her lap, a sharp pain ripped through her shoulder.
Claws dug above her collarbone, piercing skin and muscle. Its grip was gigantic, enveloping her shoulder whole. Crying out, Charlie struggled to turn the flashlight of her phone on while trying to crawl away. Her immediate surrounds became bathed in bright white light, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. It had gripped her from behind.

It all happened too fast.

The fadebeast skipped her like a rock across the water, sending her body flying forwards. Her chin slammed into the concrete, filling her mouth with blood. When her body skidded to a stop, collarbone and wrist broken from impact, the phone remained firmly grasped in her uninjured hand.

Though her vision was blurred, the flashlight gave away the fadebeast’s approach.
She held her finger down on the home button to activate Siri.

“Call Jesse!”

“I’m sorry, I did not get that.”

Death by Scottish accent.
******* brilliant.

“Call Jesse!”

“Which phone number for Jesse Fforde?”

How many bloody numbers did he have?

As she struggled to get to her feet, Charlie squinted at the screen. The fadebeast swung its arm at her legs to knock her back down, but missed. It shrieked, luckily before she hit the home button once again to speak.

“Mobile!”

She all but screamed at the phone, her voice hoarse and nose stuffy. Her eyes stung from the tears and grime, but it was nothing compared to the pain of broken bones and pierced flesh. Stumbling over the fallen weapon, Charlie shrieked in pain as she tried to catch herself on the wall with her injured arm. Instead she collided with full force, knocking the side of her head--hard.

“Calling Jesse Fforde…”

Spitting blood to clear her mouth, she tucked the rifle under the uninjured arm and tried, as best as she could, to hold the phone and press down on the trigger. The shot she fired clipped the opposite wall, diverting the fade beast’s attention for just a second before it screeched at her, indignant and angered.

Charlie bolted, rifle tucked to her uninjured arm. Her hand shook as she pressed the phone to her ear.
The line rang and rang and rang, until it finally picked up.

“Jesse, I--!!”
The voicemail greeting played, luring a violent sob from her gut as the sinking realisation that she would die here settled like lead. The fadebeast was on her heels, and there was no way to shoot at it and keep the flashlight on it and stay on the phone and run away all at once.

Charlie ran faster.

“Jesse I nee--lp. Je----sew-rs---” the line crackled, words fading in and out. Her accent was thick, and there was no mistaking the sheer panic and ugly crying from her voice. This was no practical joke, no overreaction. “--help m--m-me.”

The fadebeast bellowed deafeningly, moving faster than it had any right to given the deformity of the limbs it did possess. It swiped at her legs once again, this time landing a hard blow with its claws just above her knee. Charlie was sent sprawling forward with a surprised scream. She landed on the rifle, phone slipping from her grasp and skidding many, many metres away. The light from the screen and the flashlight shining flush against the concrete were like a unattainable beacon.

Three claws twisted into her lower back as the beast grasped her hip, pinning her down. Charlie cried out, but was startled into silence as she felt she meat from her shoulder and neck be torn into. The sound she made then was inhuman.

The bite was short-lived. The taste of her blood putting off the beast. It crawled further above her and pressed its ugly face to the bleeding muscle. It sniffed at the fresh wound on her temple. If her mind hadn’t been twisted by the pain and fear of imminent death, she might have realised it was smelling her.

Like a shark mistaking human for seal, the monster had believed her his preferred meal.
Shaking her off its claws like an inconvenient mess, it shrieked and retreated.

Charlie coughed up more blood than she could afford to lose.
It was hard to breathe when there was blood in her throat and snot clogging her nose.

The injuries she’d sustained compromised both sides of her body, and roused a wail as she strained to look up at the phone. Her collarbone moved unnaturally beneath her gashed skin. The screen went dark just then, leaving only the flashlight to overheat against the concrete. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she rested her head back down. Never in her life had she experienced pain like this before.

Maybe if she rested a little while, she could gather enough energy to crawl towards her phone for help. Or maybe just enough to reach for the rifle and end things on her terms.



[ J E S S E ]

Time passed as it was wont to do, and calm had once more settled upon the Necromancer. Drama had a way of coming in waves, large waves that threatened to decimate the tender, fragile threads of the web that Jesse continue to rebuild, or try to. He was stubborn, and that web was all that he had -- regardless of how often he himself burned it from its corner. Family. It was a strange word to try to apply to what he had tried to create, and it had never really applied. So many times he had given up, and in doing so he had been enlightened. There were those who stayed, who got angry at him, who quietly worked like busy bees in the background, rebuilding while he was not looking. And then there were those who believed him, who fucked off to their own separate group, those who disenthralled and threw away every care that Jesse had given, stomped on his good graces and ground them into the dirt with their heels.

At least Jesse knew who stood by him, and who did not.

And regardless of how many times he felt that knife in his back, or how many times the rug was ripped from beneath his feet, he still couldn’t stop. Hadn’t Clover said it? He didn’t think about himself much, which came as a surprise to Jesse. He’d not realised it until she mentioned it. There was still someone after his blood and he didn’t know who it was. There was still some group -- scientists or hunters or the government -- and he had to find them before they found him again. And he wanted to take the fight to them, to keep them from the Circle, from the family. He didn’t want them involved. He didn’t want something that he had done to inadvertently bring enemies to their gate. Again.

Even if he died in the process, even if he were taken. He did not think that it would matter.

So when he woke just after twilight had drifted from the sky to see his phone had skittered off the dresser and to the floor, he wondered what could be wrong. The bed dipped beside him, the familiar weight of Clover, still asleep. It wasn’t her leaving messages -- and she was the only one who did leave him messages, unless something dire went wrong at Serpentine that needed his attention. Which, he assumed must be the case when he collected the phone to see the missed call and the message from Charlie.

He slid his legs from the bed, feet firmly on the ground as he dialled the message bank number and lifted the phone to his ear. He expected to hear something about stock, or a thief, or some other staff member who’d failed to show up for a shift, and could we please hire another? But what he instead was greeted with was… well, he had to repeat the message three or four times before he thought he got the gist of it. By the time he’d listened for the fourth time, he was out in the middle of Limbo, the floor quiet, no one else awake yet -- or if they were, they were elsewhere.

Rolling his head on his shoulders, the Necromancer closed his eyes and focused; he thought about Charlie, the essence of her. Her face flashed behind his eyes, bright blues coupled with that toothy grin -- cute toothy, like a baby rabbit. Mentally, he reached out for her, wrapped telepathic tentacles around her. But there was resistance, in the end he was left wanting. Nothing. No Charlie, landing at his feet. But there was still a Charlie to fail to summon, of that much he was certain.

Cursing under his breath, Jesse stalked back to the apartment where he swept clothes up off the floor, pulling on whatever he found first. Jeans, a t-shirt of a random design, a leather jacket, boots without socks. Back out in Limbo he collected his weapons and his keys, his phone and his wallet (though what in the world he thought he would buy, he did not know).

(To be continued...)

[Jesse Fforde]

[ J E S S E ]

(Continued)

When he tried to call Charlie, all he got was her message bank. By the elevator, he slipped through the portal to Larch Court, where he stood still. Sewers. That part had been almost unmistakable. Sewers. They were a sprawling maze, under the city. She could be anywhere! Goddamnit, Charlie.

And so Jesse started at the nearest entrance; he walked out the door of his house and through the Larch court Estate, slipped around behind Swansdale station so he could disappear into the sewers, doused in shadows so as not to be seen. Humans may be aware of vampires, these days, but that didn’t mean they’d take kindly to a man equipped with sword and very large gun just wandering the streets.

The Necromancer was systematic in his search. He was not a tracker, and it was not an easy task. It had to be an hour before he rounded the corner of the corridor that led beneath the wall that separated the city from the Quarantine Zone. Somewhere, there was a draught. Carried on that draught was the scent of blood. Human blood. Charlie. Jesse picked up the pace, feet splashing through dirty water as he searched the shadows, every odd shape and lumb, every nook and cranny. The scent of blood grew stronger, and he followed it.

It was only because he knew Charlie that he could resist, once he found her. The scent of blood was to Jesse like catnip to a cat -- but with significantly more violent outcomes. He dropped to his haunches beside her, eyes closed as he listened for the heartbeat, waiting until he heard it to place his hand gently against her shoulder. The touch was feather-like, a subtle reassurance that there was still heat left in her body, though the weather hardly condoned it.

“Oh, Charlie. What have you done?” he said, his voice a whispered husk in the darkness, barely there. His bright eyes swept her body from head to toe and back again, trying to assess the injuries. He couldn’t tell EXACTLY what they were, but he knew they weren’t good. He knew it wasn’t good at all. He knew that it was probably a miracle that she was still fighting for her life. Now a little more forceful, Jesse’s fingers curled lightly around Charlie’s neck.

“Charlie, I need you to hear me. Can you hear me?” he asked. Was she conscious? How easy or hard was this going to be? And if he took her to the hospital, would she survive?

Somehow, he doubted it.



[ C H A R L I E ]

Much like skipping stones across a body of water, every wound radiated immeasurable pain and its rippling nature did nothing to alleviate the bone-deep agony she felt. The muting of one wound over another only accentuated the other, creating a vicious cycle that was exhausting. Unable to think clearly, the concussion and overstimulation of frayed nerves lulling her in and out of darkness, Charlie remained where the fadebeast left her. Eyes unmoving beneath closed lids, there was nothing to do but to simply be.

To simply, die.

Her breaths were raspy and shallow, the dirty water beneath her tear-streaked cheek slipping in and out over bloodied lips. If she hazarded too deep a breath, the entirety of her torso rioted, every nerve and severed sinew rattling in protest. Numbness was taking over, for she could no longer focus enough on reality to become any further distraught by her bleak chances of survival.

The blonde—now turned redhead from the blood matting the side of her skull—was on the homestretch. Darkness offered respite from the torturous thrum that possessed her body. Time was of no consequence when she was torn between the veil—death pulling on one hand as her grasp on life with the other weakened. To consider a way of surviving this was a fool’s errand she had neither the will nor energy to embark upon. A lapse in reason had lured her to the city’s underbelly, the dangerous maze Verin had explicitly warned her not to explore on her own. Perhaps she should’ve kept her promise to stay out. How odd, that she think of him now. He reminded her of a coworker back in Australia, one whose name completely evaded her. Behind closed lids, memories bubbled to the surface of her slowed mind and flitted unsteadily like a movie from a broken reel.

The cold seeped through her bloodied clothes, sharpening the pain as her body sought to protect itself. Too weak to conjure much of a fever, she remained as she was, occasionally rattled by a bone-deep shiver.

The images that filtered through her mind lacked vibrancy, but they provided the distraction she needed. Only unexpected touch could lure her off the narrowing memory lane. Her brow furrowed at the first intrusion, touch barely there. The second, however, roused from her a cracked cry. The vampire’s words went unheard, though the sound of his voice was reassuring. If she’d been able to, she’d laugh at her expense, for he almost felt…real.

A raspy breath died in her throat. The itch it caused made her cough, and the full-body nature of it set off every injury like timed bombs. Charlie cried out, long and hollow. The last supply of adrenaline her body could produce was dispensed through her bloodstream, quickening her heart rate. This was it. This was the moment she died. How fitting that the reaper took form of the only person she’d met who’d evaded the scythe time and time again.


[ J E S S E ]

Jesse got absolutely nothing from the Scot but a guttural cry, and the Necromancer was forced to rearrange his body, his boots hissing and grinding into the brick floor of the sewer. The scent of blood was overpowering; canines were sharp within the vampire’s maw, his irises wide with predatory bloodlust. Despite it all, he kept his head. He’d been dealing with this bloodlust for far too long to allow it to get the better of him now.

“Charlie, I’m not a doctor but I can tell you this isn’t great. I’m not sure I can even move you,” he said. No answer had been given to his previous question but the cry had at least alerted him to some vague lucidity. She wasn’t unconscious. If she was capable of making decisions, then now was the time to ask the questions.

“Hey,” he said, slipping inked fingers through blood-slicked hair to shift it from her face. “I can save you or I can let you go,” he said, tongue wetting his lips. This wasn’t a hard decision. Spontaneous as the situation was, this wasn’t a whim. This wasn’t the same as his past sirings. Charlie was known to him. She wasn’t a stranger. She was, for all intents and purposes, a friend. The notion that he could save her was not abstract or alien. It wasn’t hard to offer. It slipped from his tongue like oil, slick and easy.

“You know what I am. You know the good and bad. You know the consequences and I can give it to you, but it’s your choice, Charlie. You have to give me an indication. Yes or no?” he said. If she was too out of it to give him an answer, he would give it to her regardless -- and just hope for the best. This way, however, he could at least say that he’d given her the choice.



[ C H A R L I E ]

Adrenaline muted the pain just enough for a taste of clarity. Swallowing was difficult, her position cumbersome. Speaking was too ambitious an endeavour, and she merely exhaled through chapped lips, dirty water bubbling beneath.

Charlie peered through crusty eyelashes, though nothing but the darkness greeted her.
The weight of his hand on her skull was too uncomfortable not to be real.

If this was to be it, she didn’t want to do it alone. Clarity afforded her a better understanding of what lay--or rather, didn’t--before her. She didn’t want to die. She was afraid to die. This couldn’t be it, and she certainly didn’t want for it to be.

In the absence of words, actions would have to count.
Action would hurt.

Luckily, Charlie wasn’t afraid of the pain.
Contrary to death, pain was known.

Closing her eyes, she heaved a wheezing breath and moved her arm. It couldn’t have been more than a few inches, but it felt like a marathon. Every fibre of her being burned as she shifted, every shredded layer of skin sizzled with agony. The back of her hand came to rest against something relatively soft. Her fingers shook as she curled them around the welting of his boot.

Charlie had every intention of hanging on.



[ J E S S E ]

There were no words, and Jesse was no mind reader. The fingers curled around his boot could have been a search for comfort and company, solidarity as she slipped away into death. Or it could have been the positive answer he had been waiting for. His lips pressed tight together, Jesse closed his eyes and recalled Charlie’s bright smile and mischievous eyes, the burning curiosity that she had grilled him with. Would she have asked all those questions if she was the kind of person to accept death? What use were the answers now? What would it make Jesse, if he were to let her die after he’d turned so many whom he did not know, who did not know what he had done, or what they were getting into?

The Necromancer lifted his wrist to his lips and tore through the skin. Bright red blood bubbled to the surface, a rivulet sliding over inked skin as he stuck a finger in to make the wound bigger, to keep it from healing. Boots ground against grime as he shifted and, regardless of Charlie’s state and her obvious agony, he hauled her from her position, managing to roll her over as he himself slid into a seated position. The blonde’s inert body was rested against his leg, and arm behind her shoulders to keep her balanced.

“Drink,” he said, clean and terse. His wrist bent back, the bloodied wound held over Charlie’s lips. Reassuring fingers dug into the flesh of Charlie’s torso as he held her aloft, power primed and ready to be unleashed -- he could not heal the missing blood of the living, but he could heal the missing blood of the damned. He could at least give Charlie that one boost, before her descent into a week of misery.



[ C H A R L I E ]

It was a testament to Charlie’s will to survive that the excruciating pain he subjected her to was not her undoing. Every tear and fracture shifting simultaneously was agony, chipping away at her will to live as he manhandled unnecessarily. Through the pain she heard his voice however, the weight of his wrist at her lips a sign for her to follow he only command he’d uttered. Sluggish as her mind was, it did not take long for her to process the situation, his blood copiously staining her lips. Wishing for the world to stop spinning, for the pain to end, she exerted one last bout of effort in opening her mouth and welcoming the second chance he was offering her.

[Charlie]

[JESSE]
Jesse wondered whether the day would come that those he attempted to turn would not make it. Once upon a time the change would only take a couple of hours, a night at most. Now, it didn’t matter who or how the process started, they took a week to survive or to die. Most of the time, it was the former. There were only a couple who had not survived the process, or who had not survived long afterwards. It was now no longer a loss to Jesse, but Charlie was different.

Charlie was someone he’d got to know, someone he would not admit that he cared about (even if he truly did). The notion had him pacing in and out of the hidden room on the second floor of Third Circle; where, with many of the others he’d come to visit only once a night and only for half an hour at a time, with Charlie he was more attentive. It had only been a night and a half, two at most, and he shouldn’t have expected her to be any better by now. But still.

After checking in at Serpentine, Jesse made his way back to Third Circle to set himself up in the corner of the room Charlie now occupied. He’d dressed casually to go out, and now that he was home he was shoeless and jacketless, wearing only jeans and a one of his random black t-shirts, death as a design on the front. On his lap balanced a sketchbook, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the fireplace and the scratch of lead on thick paper.

[CHARLIE]
“Are you immortalising my death?” It was her way of announcing she was, for the most part, awake. Charlie had no recollection of how long it had been since the attack, and though she’d ask him every night what night it was, she never quite remembered whether it had been recent or a while ago already. She fell in and out of consciousness, her body a ticking time bomb that she could only seek respite from when asleep. Her brow felt too warm, her hands too moist, and that was the only feedback she got when pain wasn’t rippling through her.

Swallowing thickly, the blonde tilted her head to better glance at her long-time boss, recent friend, and now sire. She regarded him from under heavy eyelids for a moment before glancing towards the fireplace. There was something about fire that was mesmerising, and she’d spent many of her waking hours staring at the flames. The world was both grainy chaos and smooth edges, her perception of it depending on just how much she managed to concentrate.

[JESSE]
The voice that reached him between the crackles of the fire did not startle Jesse. Although he was focused on his work, the reason he was in the room to begin with was the woman in the bed. She was bound to wake eventually, and even if she didn’t he’d have to try to force her awake. His blood might be the only thing keeping her alive, and like a constant drip she needed to have it, whether she wanted it or not.

“Not quite,” he said, twisting the book to show Charlie. He wasn’t working on anything specific, even if he did have commissions. It was just a bunch of doodles -- snakes and ladders, to be exact.

“Unless you’re a snake. Or a ladder,” he said, tossing the book aside so he could pull the chair forward, closer to the fire and closer to Charlie.

“I’m not going to ask you how you are. How are the wounds, though?” he asked. He wouldn’t come in here and take liberties. He wasn’t a nurse. It could be an invasion of privacy to come in and lift the sheets to check on dressings.

[CHARLIE]
Charlie managed a tired smile, but didn’t have the energy to conjure a witty reply. She definitely was not a ladder, though she wasn’t sure she was a snake--in the metaphorical sense--either. A seed of a question planted itself at the forefront of her scrambled mind, but she wasn’t ready to ask it quite yet.

Furrowing her brow, she attempted to shift her body a little further up the pillows. The wounds were primarily on her back and lower torso, making most movement difficult and painful. Hissing through clenched teeth, Charlie settled back. The shifting weight against her lungs caused her to cough, and it was the most painful thing she’d experienced in quite a few hours. “I’d shrug if it didn’t hurt to,” she replied, attempting to clear the frog from her throat in between words. “But since you didn’t ask, I feel like ****, cheers.” Like ****, but alive. Alive because of him, though she’d expected this kind of death to be far swifter.

[JESSE]
It was a given that Charlie should feel like ****. This was why Jesse hadn’t asked. The Necromancer would not coddle; he would not immediately stand and fuss over the Scot in the bed, though he did watch her with eagle eye. It wouldn’t only be the wounds bothering her, he knew. There were those he’d brought in here with zero wounds, and yet they’d still suffer excruciating illness for a week. It was always a week. Never more, never less. It was curious.

Silence pervaded the space between them as Jesse lost himself in his thoughts. If he’d succeeded in becoming who he wanted to be, he’d feel nothing. A bleeding wrist would be offered -- the night’s medicine -- and he’d leave Charlie be until the next night. And yet, one cannot quash one’s feelings so easily. They were incessant, and could not be dismissed. Charlie was a friend. She’d nearly perished. There was a requisite amount of feeling that should accompany such a close shave. Jesse finally managed a smile.

“Think of it as a weeklong hangover. Without the fun beforehand,” he said. “Instead, you get a reward after the hangover’s done. And you gotta keep drinking through the hangover,” he said, twisting his wrist in preparation.

[CHARLIE]
Even though she’d come to realise that there was more to benefit from not breathing, Charlie was all too quick to resume the habit without a second thought. It crept her out not to do so. The tickle in her throat remained a constant nuisance regardless of what she did, and so she tried to distract herself from it by testing her enhanced smell each time she inhaled.

The world had taken on a very different turn since her skip into immortality (a geographically-bound one at that). While there was definite progression in her physical and mental state since the first night, she still saw the world with a fuzziness akin to watching a 3D film without the proper glasses. In due time, she hoped, Jesse’s words would ring true, and the picture would be clearer. There was no denying she could physically feel inner mechanisms rearranging themselves to this new high-definition reality; her head was killing her and her skin’s sensitivity was dialled beyond tolerable.

“Been too long since ye’ve been fuckult, mate,” Charlie replied, tone light. How many years since he’d had any drink? He had explained to her his limitations in regards to ingestion, and she supposed that she too would be as restricted as he was. Furrowing her brow, she stared thoughtfully at the fire... “I suppose if get through this week, it’ll be celebrated with the blood of a thousand virgins instead of champagne.” She cast a glance at him before adding, tongue darting to moisten chapped lips, “You never did say what the deal with blood is. Are there limitations?”

[JESSE]
Jesse couldn’t help the sinister grin; had she seem him steal only the virgin blood from the stash of Arbor Vitae bloods that they sold? On slow nights he’d take whole bottles of the stuff back to the parlour while he worked on his designs. Even when he went out hunting for fresh blood, it was the blood of virgins that he preferred. Had he been honest with Charlie about his habits? About his lack of remorse when killing others for the blood they provided him? Had that question been asked? He couldn’t recall.

“Limitations? A thousand might be going a little too far. One or two might do you for a night,” he said. To begin with, the thirst would be greater for Charlie. Over time, she’d only need that one pint per night unless wounded.

“Unfortunately you’ll probably end up like everyone else I’ve sired. Most vampires can feed and leave their prey alive and said prey would be none the wiser. They’d wake up with a headache and a fuzzy memory. Those we Fforde feed on, however, remember our faces. Limitations? Be careful. Feed only on the willing. Or from blood bags. You’ll only need a bag’s worth a night,” he said with a shrug. “Until hell week is over, though, you’ll only need a bag’s worth of mine a night. Ready?” he asked. He wouldn’t be able to deny it if asked, and it was no doubt something that infuriated Clover. But this bit, he liked. He liked the bite and the draw, the allure of giving his blood to others. Even if his urge to ‘procreate’ had abated, his addiction to the bite had not.

[CHARLIE]
Innocent people died every day, Charlie mused. Most were collateral damage—the unfortunate victims of fate, and others were rendered perfect targets by their naivety. She hummed at the mention of the curse, for it was not the first time he’d spoken of it. She now stood on a very different side than she had the previous occasion they’d delved into this topic; the curse was of greater concern to her. It also brought back unpleasant memories of waking up in strange places with no recollection of how she’d gotten there. For months she’d thought herself a victim to Rohypnol, but there was never any evidence of assault. No, it had always been her neck that’d been made tender by the events she could not recall. The thought of being taken advantage of made her yearn for retaliation. It wasn’t their need for her blood which slighted her the most, but the violation of her person.

Charlie wondered, within the privacy of her fractured mind, whether Jesse was limited in his actions by his own curse, or whether he trudged through regardless of the consequences. Glancing curiously up at him, she lost the train of thought as the beast rearranging her insides was called to attention at the mention of feeding. Instinct had her teeth shifting downwards, the pressure in her gums too foreign to ignore. The promise of blood had her sitting up in spite of the pain, her pupils dilating and a newfound shine heightening the depth of her blue irises. Her mouth fell open as she ran her tongue across the unfamiliar ridge of her upper teeth, visibly excited.

And yet—through the ferocity shone through her characteristic curiosity: “What happens if I drank from a vampire other than you though? What if I recycle and bite myself?”

[JESSE]
Jesse stared at Charlie in that way that he had, as if he were trying to get through her skull and figure out what she was thinking. It was a habit he’d had since childhood. Even through high school -- which he rarely attended -- when all the other boys got shy as hormones bombarded their bodies and stared at the ground or anywhere else when someone was talking to them, Jesse always looked a person in the eye.

The signs were there, the way Charlie came to attention as soon as the temptation of blood was provided. There it was, the predator she would soon become. Jesse doubted he’d have to press a knife to the vein; her teeth would do it all for her. She’d have to learn how to use them, eventually. Why not start now?

“No no, that wouldn’t be a good idea. If you regularly drink from vampires -- even yourself -- you can become a Necurat. Human blood will no longer sustain you. And… well it’s taboo. Was taboo? People don’t like it. Vampires don’t like it. It’s just for now, while you’re sick. For about a week. Don’t ask me why…” he said. He still didn’t know why, his only theory being that he’d tried to turn too many and his blood wasn’t as potent anymore. Not a great theory, not one he liked to share. Like any man, impotence wasn’t a word to be proud of.

[CHARLIE]
“I’d have once thought you full ****, but it’s full surprises you are,” the blonde said with a chuckle, hardly shaking her head in disbelief. The lingo would take some time to get used to, but Charlie would worry about terminology only once she’d assimilated the dos and don'ts of vampirism. It was a brave new world and she was lucky enough to have someone willing to give her the rundown of it; she was keen on listening to avoid problems (no matter what Jesse had told her about being able to come back from death over and over again.)

“--Bunch of hypocrites though,” she added with raise of her brow, interested gaze trailing his tattooed arm. It would no doubt be the same as the night prior, though it wasn’t cerebral memory which provided that knowledge, but something ingrained deeper within her. Her gaze reached his face until it met his, and she jutted her chin out expectantly. If vampirism was meant to enhance one’s traits, then there’d be no shortage of candor in her demeanour.

The promise of relief from the bone-deep heartburn that plagued her was secondary to the body’s instinctual craving for nourishment. Blinking slowly, Charlie’s gaze dropped to his inked neck. He had no pulse, she noticed. Surely if she could hear the murmured sizzle of the flaming logs across the room, she could have heard his heart beating. She wondered whether that was a Jesse-thing or another Fforde thing. If she focused passed the radiating ache and sharp ripples of pain every movement elicited, she could feel her own beating steady and slow.

[JESSE]
Hypocrites, yes. Jesse had lived much of his unlife following the orders of hypocrites. If they were not hypocrites, they weren’t exactly leaders, either. In his naivety he hadn’t known any better. He’d thought that his sire lacked empathy, and so he’d taken shelter under the wings of those he’d thought were better. In the end, they’d tossed him to the curb as soon as he got too hard to handle. As soon as he’d planted his feet and talked back, he’d but cut down.

He’d disentangled himself from that mess, however, and now he made up his own mind. Everything he’d previously been taught was thrown out the window; every rule he previously followed was now questioned and weighed.

“Yes, well. Vampire blood doesn’t particularly appeal to me. If it’s something you end up preferring, then so be it. I can only warn you that it won’t be easy,” he said. He’d support Charlie. In the end he wasn’t so sure why necuratism was not supported. Tytonidae had enforced the Masquerade. If vampires fed from other vampires, surely it would lead to less breaks of masquerade, less feedings gone wrong. It didn’t matter; he bowed down to no man, now.

He saw the way Charlie’s gaze shifted and lingered. He’d been about ready to offer his wrist, but the neck appeared to be more appealing. He tugged at his shirt to pull the collar further from the skin of his neck, rolling his head on his shoulders.

“C’mon, then. Dinner time,” he said, standing from the chair and plonking himself down on the bed beside Charlie, back pressed against the headboard.

[Jesse Fforde]

[CHARLIE]
Charlie had never been averse to trying new things, and there would be plenty of opportunities to sample her options once she regained control over this dying body of hers. If anything, metamorphosis further peaked her natural curiosity. Jesse had once mentioned that nutrition played a vital role in how human blood tasted, and the allurist was keen to test the theory for herself once the occasion to arose.

Perhaps she wouldn’t find human blood as appealing as his, but that would be a bridge to cross when (and if) she ever got to it. Until then, the fledgling was happy to take what was offered. She couldn’t remember their encounter in the sewers or the night that followed it, but instinct manifested itself; her body seemed pressed for another draught of her sire’s blood. As he sat next to her, she glanced sideways at him.

“This initiation into the Scooby Gang sure merits all the originality points it gets...” she said, shifting closer. Her features twisted as the movement exacerbated her state, and she all but coughed the rest of her sentence: “—but Christ does it have to hurt so ******* much?”

Charlie wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Definitive death might have spared her this incessant pain, but the reaper still lingered expectantly on the periphery of the room. She would not stand for her torment to have been furthered to no avail. She’d been warned it would get worse before it got any better, and so she prevailed. It was easier to avoid thinking about possible (permanent) death if she didn’t accept how agonising her current state was.

The pain was a reminder of her frailty, and so she pushed harder in order to prove herself she capable of overcoming it. In the end, it was as much her determination as his blood that would seal her fate. And so, without much preamble, she hooked her index finger into his collar and tugged the fabric down.

[JESSE]
The collar was tugged and Jesse went along with it. He even managed a laugh, which came as a short breath of air expelled from his lungs. And then a near inaudible gasp as sharp teeth pierced the skin. He wouldn’t do Charlie the disservice of a moaning; she didn’t have to know that he enjoyed this kind of ****. And Jesse -- Jesse who knew what it was to read other people, to sit quietly in a room to watch and observe and learn -- was reading Charlie. The jokes were normal for her, but in this situation, when she even admitted to her own pain, was it her way of coping?

It wasn’t in any way awkward to Jesse. His arm draped over Charlie’s shoulder, his head resting against the headboard. This wasn’t his first rodeo, and there’d been plenty of ways his current childer had taken the blood that they needed to survive. Sometimes he played with them, he made them come and take it. Sometimes he didn’t give it as freely as he was doing now.

Was it better to turn slowly, like this, or to die watching one’s blood swirl thickly down a drain? Jesse has asked for it, though. And nothing could beat having one’s *** kicked by a fadebeast and left for dead in the muck of the sewers. His eyes rolled back in his head, darkness descending as he relaxed. Charlie would take what she needed, and he would wait until she was done.

“Sorry, that’s my fault,” he muttered. The pain, thing. It hadn’t always been that way. “Somehow…” he added. He never did figure it out. He lived only with his assumptions, and that one of these days it would just stop working full stop -- regardless of how many ‘fertility’ rituals he did.

[CHARLIE]
There was something undeniable sensual about the act that followed, but there were no embers for a fire to be stoked. Until very recently, Jesse had been little more than her employer, and their friendship was still in its infancy. Perhaps this would bring them closer, but there was no denying that the occasion didn’t lend itself to any newfound tension.

Charlie took what she needed without beating around the bush. Her fingers splayed across his chest for leverage as her teeth broke the skin along his artery, the angle somewhat awkward but not altogether impossible. She’d consumed enough media to have some measure of understanding about what she was to do.

The fangs did not retract as quickly as she wanted them too, but the need for blood eventually overrode her lack of control, all but keeping her from yanking them out. In comparison to the discomfort she felt everywhere else, the altering dentition was the least of her concerns. When the fangs finally shifted, blood surfaced at the puncture wounds. Her attention diverted from scrambled thoughts to sucking in earnest when the initial trickle proved not enough to scratch at the itch in her throat. Would a beating heart make this any easier?

Her brows furrowed at the tannic taste in her mouth, but she continued to pull on his skin for more. It tasted just as she remembered blood tasting, if not colder and thicker. There was something in his veins that she wanted for she continued to purposely drain, but it wasn’t altogether pleasant. The buzz elicited was a welcome distraction from the pain, but it didn’t quite quell the creature’s craving. On the contrary, the experience only seemed to activate unprecedented appetite. In spite of this, Charlie somehow knew she’d had enough.

Using the hand on his chest to push herself away, the allurist settled back against the headboard, turning his shoulder into a makeshift headrest. The blood she’d consumed felt like lead as it moved through her digestive tract, dense from all the goodness it packed. Wiping at her mouth with the back of her wrist, Charlie grimaced as the whole of it pooled in her stomach. There it sat unsteadily, and an unfamiliar sensation unlike heartburn made itself known. Her hand dropped from her mouth to her abdomen, and she hunched forward.

“Is there the equivalent of lactose intolerance with blood, because I think I have that,” she mumbled quietly. There was an amusing wheeze and gurgle courtesy of her gastrointestinal tract, and without missing a beat she added good naturedly, “This joy ride come with a bucket by any--”

The hand on her stomach immediately clasped over her mouth while the other shot out for something--anything--to vomit into.

[JESSE]
Charlie pulled away and Jesse pulled himself from the mild daze that he had fallen into. When the Scot leaned against his shoulder he was satisfied; this was what he expected. He had hoped that the blood would go down like a treat and it might offer her some reprieve, and some rest from the pain.

“I should hope n--” he started to reply, sluggishly, before Charlie suddenly darted forward, reaching for the aforementioned bucket. Jesse, who’d expected some vomit eventually and who’d prepared by placing said bucket beside the bed, rolled sideways and collected the receptacle, thrusting it into Charlie’s grasp. He could have rolled from the bed, then, but he was not squeamish. His ankles remained crossed and his demeanour somewhat relaxed, but he was not as amused as Charlie’s attempted jokes tried to elicit.

The tattooed Necromancer played the part of an uncanny nurse. So often he was cold and sarcastic, so often he tried to appear merciless and careless, but as his friend puked her guts into the bucket provided his hand rubbed soothing circles between her shoulders, his sharp eyes watching and waiting to see the contents of the bucket. He was concerned. If she should throw up all the blood she had just taken, then there would be cause to worry.

“I think I should be insulted,” he said, trying for a smirk and a joke to cover his concern.

[CHARLIE]
As soon as the plastic made contact with her skin, Charlie hauled the bucket to her lap. When her lips parted, the most foul smell hit her nose. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes as she winced, retching between ill-timed gasps.
Partially digested food from two nights prior gushed violently out of her and into the receptacle. The allurist could not remember what she’d eaten, but it was chunky and pale and tinted red from the freshly consumed blood. If she stared at it long enough perhaps she could make sense of what it’d been, but she decided the experience needn’t be taken to that level. The texture and taste were abominable enough as it were; a closer look was unwelcome.

Jesse’s touch was soothing, and she remained hunched over long enough to determine no more was heading up. Whatever had happened, it was now over with. Relieved, but still in considerable pain, Charlie steadily lifted her torso. Her shoulders remained slouched forward, the whole incident taking far more out of her than she’d had to give initially.

“Don’t be insulted, I think I’m in the clear,” she said after spitting as much of the taste out. Glancing over at him, she tipped the bucket towards him with an apologetic grimace. Whatever concern she felt, she did not show. He’d done this enough times to know better than she did what any of this meant.

[JESSE]
If someone, years ago, had told Jesse that he’d be inspecting the vomit of near strangers and friends to make sure it was all clear, he’d have laughed. But here he was, taking the bucket from Charlie and tilting it toward the light, the acrid liquid inside sloshing around. There was blood in it, but not much. Remnants, even. Jesse relaxed, though it would not have shown.

“You’re in the clear,” he said, patting Charlie on the back one more time before he slid from the bed. He’d take the bucket with him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said before slipping out the door. The bucket was taken to the laundry where it was emptied and cleaned -- hastily, in case she needed it again in a hurry. With the bucket’s handle looped over his arm, he then went to the bathroom and collected a glass and a bowl. All three he took back to the room, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste.

“Here,” he said, putting the glass, bowl, toothpaste and water on the bedside table, and the bucket back on the floor. The aftertaste of vomit was never a pleasant one.

“I wouldn’t recommend swallowing the water. This process… your body is rejecting everything it doesn’t need anymore,” he said. Had he explained this at any point before? If so, he would do so again. “You’re okay,” he added, nodding.

[CHARLIE]
In most cases, a prompt exit wouldn’t be the most reassuring of things to do. However, Charlie knew Jesse was not one to mince his words. He wouldn’t leave her with false hopes. If he believed her to be in the clear, why would she question it? She was keen on remaining amongst the living -- well, the living dead-- and had no reason to dwell on the alternative.

Plus, the contents of the bucket smelled rank.

Leaning back into the headboard, the Scot tilted her head back and stared at the doorway. Curious, she cast out her senses to try and make sense of the world that lay beyond the threshold. There was much for her to learn about her current circumstance. Though he’d told her where she was being put up, she’d yet to see anything but the room she was currently in.

It was just as well Jesse walked in when he did. The lingering taste of vomit was more prominent what with her senses heightened by curiosity. Perhaps she’d learn of a way to only heighten one rather than all. Fine tuning would likely take time, and unless she crossed the city’s limits and died (again), there was plenty of it to go round.

Toothbrush in hand and minty suds in mouth, Charlie glanced back up at her sire.

“Who swallows the water? You’ve--” She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and accusingly pointed the toothbrush at him, “--been a vampire far too long if you’ve forgotten how this works.” With a sassy grin (and the foamy dribble to match), the allurist stuck the toothbrush back into her mouth. This was the most normal thing she’d done in days, and there was some measure of comfort to be found in it.

[JESSE]
Jesse took Charlie’s humour with a grain of salt. Yes, he knew how brushing one’s teeth worked. He understood the concept. He just knew that if she were to swallow any of the water after washing her mouth out, it probably wouldn’t do her much good.

The week followed in a similar fashion; the Scot’s health ebbed and waned but never enough to fully douse her sharp wit. By day five Jesse had a strong feeling she would make it through; she had a fighter’s spirit. It didn’t take long for her to empty the contents of her stomach; for her body to expunge everything that it did not need.

Jesse himself came and went, though he was never too far away. He checked in on the businesses and made sure he kept himself fed (so that he might in turn be able to give Charlie the required blood to keep her alive). He talked to Clover about the turn of events and, he was happy enough to admit to the woman that Charlie was a friend, rather than just an employee. He wanted to see her safe.

Throughout, he answered whatever questions Charlie was well enough to ask; at the end, he gave himself a couple of nights off work so that he might be able to show Charlie more of the things that he might have only just mentioned. He made sure that she had a tome that would bring her straight back to the lair and, though Jesse was aware she had a place to stay of her own, he told her that the lair was always open, there’d always be a bed somewhere, if she needed it. Could move in, if she so desired.

And somehow, Jesse knew that this was one he would never regret.