F R E N Z I E D

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

DAY THREE

“Where is the girl I fell in love with? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know what you mean! I am still the same – “

The connection of his fist to her cheek had her head snapping back, her bone cracking beneath the strength of the blow. One moment, she had been standing, the next, she was sprawled on the floor, her hand pressed to her face. She was too shocked to cry, too scared to move. His violence had always been emotional or mental. To have him fall over the line, to have him hit her…

“Get the **** up. Get up and tell me the truth, Raegan, or so help me God…”

The warning in his voice had her struggling to her feet, but she didn’t move fast enough for him. She felt his fingers twist into her hair, felt her neck strain when he snapped her head back and hauled her to her feet. When she turned to face him, she expected to see the rage, the way his skin tinted red. What she didn’t expect was the peeling flesh and the soulless eyes. The crooked grin he gave her was wrong, and when he opened his mouth to laugh…

… she screamed.

Bolting upright in bed, she fought the sheets from her legs and fell to the side, her hands connecting with something soft, something… cold. Half-asleep, she barely noticed the man she had fallen onto. She was too wrapped up in the sudden need to run, to find a place to hide, to escape whatever monster had taken hold of her mind and sunk into her thoughts. The memory had been real enough, but the way he had turned, the shift in his appearance…

And just like that, it all came rushing back.

The fight, the flashing lights, and the screams as the beast that had come to finish her off devoured her fiancé instead. It all played out within her mind, and by the time it was finished, the man beneath her heated form became clear. The inked skin was the first sign, but it was the lines of his face – even sleeping – that gave it away. His power hummed in her veins, but even sprawled across his lap as she was, with the sheets tangled around her ankles, she felt nothing more than… repulsion. It wasn’t him that repulsed her, but the taste of bile on her tongue, and the remnants of her nightmare.

Shoving from him, she fell back against the mattress and bounced, the motion causing her teeth to snap together. The fever still clung to her, and her skin was migrating between pale and flushed, but the nausea was gone. She didn’t feel the need to curl into bed and beg for forgiveness, but she was still weak. When she tried to stand, she stumbled, her leg slamming into the bedside table. A wave of vertigo hit her, and as her world tilted on its axis, she fell back into the comfort of the pillows and groaned. It was clear, she wanted to fight it, this disease that coursed through her veins, but she couldn’t. She would have to let it take its course, she would have to give into it – and then, then she would thrive.

“Tell… me it’s almost… over,” she whispered, her voice hoarse as she wiped her damp palm against her soaked forehead. Her skin was heated, but her teeth chattered. Stretching her arm out, she tried to find the blanket, but her fingers met nothing but air. Turning on her side, she curled into herself, and watched the man across from her through hooded lids. She could feel the darkness creeping in, but this time, she fought it. She fought it, just to hear his voice – just to hear him tell her she was surviving. She had to survive. She ******* had to.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse woke with a start.

There were hands on him, maybe a knee somewhere. Someone had fallen on him. It took him a nanosecond to remember where he was, the warmth of the room embracing him, the subtle scent of sick still permeating the air. But though his eyes were open and gazing at the smaller women curiously, he made no move to grab her, even if she may have needed the balance. She’d had the **** beaten out of her by her now-dead boyfriend. Jesse had an inkling she might not appreciate the hands of another man on her, even if they were gentle and it was only done out of care.

Only once she had fallen back into the bed and curled up – he’d have had to drag her all the way back anyway, if she’d decided to try and run – did he stand up. He stretched even though he didn’t need to, shoulders rolled back and arms over his head. There was still a pleasant ache in his muscles though it was only their joy in movement; fatigue didn’t hit him the way it had when he’d been mortal. Now, his muscled didn’t ache if they were used too much. They ached when they were not used enough.

His lips set into a thin line as the words came clear, drifting to him across the room. He dragged the chair closer and tried for a cheerful expression.

”Nearly halfway,” he said. He didn’t loom. He was at her level, almost, his elbows on his knees and his shoulders slouched. Though Raegan looked every bit as sick as she should be, she didn’t look timid, or even frightened of Jesse himself. She didn’t scream or curse or try to run away, as some had in the past. Still, he tried his best to appear non-threatening. Soon, that repulsion that humans often feel around him, that terror that they couldn’t explain, would dissipate completely. He would be just another person to Reagan, not some monster that she should be terrified of.

”The human instinct to survive is nothing to be trifled with – though soon you won’t be human anymore. You're stronger than you think. I have faith you'll make it through,” he said. He was already bringing his wrist to his mouth, using his own sharpened canines to open that familiar wound. Blood. She needed more of it – something to soothe the ache, even if it wouldn’t be for too long.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

“Of course I fucked her! She knows how to **** like a real woman.”

She should have been floored by the admittance, but she wasn’t. She should have been hurt, but the pain never came. Instead, she remained kneeled in the broken glass, her blood staining the floor, as he screamed overhead. He screamed of all of the things he did to Brittany – and then he screamed about all of the things he would do to her. He screamed, and he kicked, and he punched.

He raved like a lunatic, and his shadow grew and morphed, until all she saw was a monster…

“I’m cold,” she whispered, the words forced from her throat as she pushed the memory away. She didn’t want to ask him for anything, she didn’t want to feel weak, when she was fighting so hard to be strong. She wanted to survive, she didn’t want her body to tremble and ache. Uncurling her arm from where it was tucked beneath her head, she reached down again, once more trying to claim the blanket that had disappeared into the shadows. She couldn’t find her, and as her fingers brushed across her thigh, she made a sound of frustration. She was weak – this was weakness. The sickness that was eating her alive from the inside, the rot and decay that was taking hold in her body, was a sickness.

She was dying.
No.
Nearly halfway.
She was almost dead.

When she shook her head, a few soaked violet curls fell into her eyes, the strands stuck to her skin, but she made no move to push them back. She was too exhausted, her body too focused on other things – namely, the way he lifted his wrist to his lips and the glint of his fang. She watched as he bit into his skin, the scent of his blood wafting through the air until it reached her. Suddenly, the dull in her eyes ebbed away, replaced instead with a subtle hunger. She found herself parting her lips, the darkness threatening to overcome her, even as her glare remained locked on his wrist. When had she begun to crave his blood? Would it always just be his blood – or would it be others? The questions ran rampant through her mind, but none of them touched her tongue and fell from her lips.

Instead, she focused on what he had said, his words of wisdom nearly lost beneath the hunger that burned her throat. "I will make it through. I will survive this." She hadn't meant to speak the words that had been in her mind since the moment she woke, but she didn't care. Perhaps she wanted him to believe in her, to believe that she wouldn't throw away the mercy he had shown her. In the end, none of the reasons mattered. In the end, all that mattered was she survived. She survived, while he rotted away, his skin peeling from his bone and his heart ripped from his chest as she became the monster.

[Jesse Fforde]

There was something about the turning process that affected Jesse. Jesse, who always wore a mask of carelessness, as if no one could get through to his core. As if he didn’t have a heart, as if he never had one to begin with. Maybe it had something to do with the curse he’d rid himself of, that need to sire. The bond was still there, regardless of how addicted he was to forging it. It existed regardless of whether he needed it or not. And it was there with Reagan, though not yet fully formed. It was a spark of a thing, flickering in and out of existence. And every move that Jesse made was like a breath slowly encouraging the flame, feeding it kindling.

”I’ll build up the fire,” he said. ”Drink this, first,” he said, holding the wrist up for Reagan. If he left it too long, the wound would heal and he’d have to tear it open again.

”I don’t know what your life was like before, though given how I found you…” he trailed off. He didn’t have to finish that thought. Even while Reagan drank, Jesse talked. He talked because it would be too easy to fall into a swoon, to want to crawl into that bed beside Reagan and let her drink from him whenever she wanted, like medicine on tap. If there was something he still was addicted to, it was that feeling of blood being taken from him. Though it wasn’t something he craved anymore. It wasn’t something that kept him awake during the day, pacing, itching for release.

”Once you get through this, you’ve got somewhere to stay. You can stay here. There are others, too. And I’ll help you find your feet,” he said. He didn’t call it a home or a family because those words were taboo. He’d used them too much in the past, and they’d only caused grief. These days, if he pretended they didn’t exist… well, things were better if he didn’t try to force them, if he didn’t paint a picture that wasn’t there.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

He offered himself up to her like a lamb to the slaughter, his skin as pale as the moon, though his veins leaked the sustenance she knew that she needed. As the blood dripped steadily against the comforter, she listened for the soft thud as it made it impact. She could barely hear it over the scratching in her skull, the dull whine that warned her something was changing. If she let his poison touch her tongue, she would be one step closer to becoming a monster. Slowly lifting her dull glare from the pinpricks in his skin, she traveled her gaze up the length of his arm, until she finally met his eyes. Eyes that spoke a story she didn’t fully understand yet. They danced with darkness, and even if she hadn’t witnessed him use her as if she were the finest meal he’d had in years, she would have been able to tell that he had a violent tendency about him from his glare alone. Drink, he spoke, let me help you, he hinted at – and she shook her head.

His eyes warred with his words, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Her mouth had begun to water, the pain in her stomach growing until she wanted to lash out. The burn – ****, the burn – she was one fire. She was burning alive, and she needed what he offered. She had already sealed her fate. Without another second wasted, she reached out, her trembling, clammy fingers curling around his arm. Dipping her head, she fastened her mouth to the offered wound, her eyes falling closed as the blood traveled along her tongue. A quiet sound was made – it was hungry, needful, like a starving wolf that had finally captured a doe. The growl vibrated her throat, and she tightened her grip. In her mind, she imagined that she was strong enough to keep him still. In her mind, she would finish what he had started – she would take the blood, until there was nothing left.

Above her, he continued to speak, as if there wasn’t a volatile time-bomb attached to him. He spoke of helping her find her footing, he spoke of a place to stay. He spoke of others. Others like her. Others that he had created, that he had killed and tortured with this curse. She wanted to pull back, she wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but the blood… it had gripped her. It held her in place, her tangled hair falling to shield her pale face from his view as she continued to drink. Each mouthful eased the pain a little more; each swallow beat back the ghosts and the memories. Finally, though, finally – she was able to pull back, though her tongue did a quick sweep to catch whatever blood might have escaped. Slowly, she fell back, her gaze finding his in the dark.

“Help me burn away my past.”

[Jesse Fforde]

As per usual, Jesse had to try not to enjoy himself too much as Reagan’s lips closed around the wound and she pulled the blood from his body. He did his best not to ease into the sensation, to give in to the high. His fingers curled into a tight fist, features rigid. When finally she pulled away, Jesse pressed his wrist against his torso to stem the flow. It would only take a few minutes for the wound to fully heal.

Fire was more than just a burning agent. It was more than just flames used to light cigarettes and cook food. It was symbolic of passion and rage; it was, supposedly, given to humanity by the Gods. Prometheus was punished for an eon for the transgression, his liver plucked out by a ravenous eagle only so that he could heal and become a feast again the next day. Over and over and over and over again. Did he ever regret what he had done? Would he take the fire back if he could? What would the Earth look like had he never given the fire to begin with?

Jesse loved fire. Ever since he’d read the story of Prometheus as a boy—or maybe the story only justified Jesse’s love—he’d considered the flame a gift to him alone from a god who watched over him, egging him on. Asking him to burn the whole world down as revenge for the punishment he had to endure. Perhaps the flames would catch that Eagle’s tail alight and it would no longer torment the Titan.

Bushfires were not generally considered good things, but the trees and the foliage were razed to the ground and through the ash, new life could grow. The phoenix, too, was born again from ash. Jesse had once loathed his sire and wished that she would burn in the depths of metaphorical hell, but time, distance, and experience had helped him to realise where he had gone wrong. There were regrets. Phoenix, she called herself, and though their relationship had burned to the ground perhaps it could be reborn. Symbolic, really, that Jesse’s love should be fire. Symbolic, that he should have such an aptly named sire.

”We’ll burn away your past. We can go back to your house. We can burn it to the ground. And you’ll be reborn from the ashes,” he said. ”For now, you should rest,” he said. He reached across Reagan and tugged at the blanket, pulling it up over her, tucking her in. ”I’ll be around. You just need to call out if you need anything…”