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Speed.

One word, so small and simple, described something so elegant, powerful, and complex that the stark contrast of the word itself and the reality that it conveyed was beautiful and awe-inspiring. That single word encompassed Tigra LeChànce’s entire life. Her entire being, the very core of what made her a woman was built upon the heart-hammering, adrenaline-pumping rush that surged through her each and every time she was behind the wheel of a car. Her car was an exceptionally powerful monster, rearing its head to sneeze at six hundred horsepower, it could power through most of the lineups that Q5 had ever offered her. She sought brighter horizons, harsher challenges. She had hoped to find that here, in this new place.

Harper Rock.

She had never heard of the place before Jacques, her eldest child and the only born of her flesh, had told her that he would be transferring to HRU for the Winter Quarter. She was excited for him. Finding a new place, setting out to see at least some of the vast world that had been largely ignored for his twenty one years. He had insisted that she and Chasity both come, that there would be ample opportunity to find a new crew in Harper Rock. It was the exciting prospect of something so new, so foreign that had enticed her. The challenge set forth by the unknown had motivated her. This was an adventure she couldn’t afford to miss.

She was already thirty-five. Already a mother, putting her son through college. The thought was ridiculous. Insane even. She had been fortunate, her son was a fast learner and a brilliant mind. One look at her life would tell anyone that she was far from the best decision maker. Pregnant and homeless at fourteen, barely scraping by for years of their lives, she was the least stunning role model a child could have growing up. It wasn’t until she had turned illegal, racing the streets for her income that she had begun to make any headway with her monetary situation. That reality was behind her, now. Her take at any successful night was several times what she would make in a year at the club, and the take was the most fun she’d had in her entire life.

Racing was everything for her. It had given her everything that she had, including the wonderful, strong relationship with her son. Together, they had driven the streets of Quebec, knew its ins and outs, every pothole, every crack, every subtle dip and swell of asphalt committed to memory. They were inseparable. Speed was the bond that held them so tightly. Racing had even given Tigra the beautiful, stunning woman that bared her name. Each time she looked at Chasity when someone would call her Mrs. LeChànce, the shine in her eye, filled with pride and adoration, nearly brought the small Canadian woman to tears.

She was a kind heart and a sweet soul. She had volunteered to drive the moving truck to Harper Rock, so that Tigra could explore the new streets with her son. The expedition had turned into a sort of challenge, first finding themselves fighting to find the fastest routes from one location to another, then doing what they could in the way of finding shortcuts. It didn’t take long before they were tearing down the long, narrow stretches of asphalt lined so neatly with the crowded buildings this town was so fond of, each trying to surpass the other.

With a bone-jarring impact, her Supra leaped the shallow arch of the bridge that spanned the river dividing Harper Rock into two coasts. Rubber wailed against the pavement, the lightweight supercar gliding across the cement like it was skating on glass. She was around the corner as the heavy GT-R her son piloted crashed its frame back to earth. He was falling behind.

Glancing into her rearview mirror, Tigra saw no sign of the wide-bodied powerhouse and a laugh bubbled from deep in her chest, genuine amusement rolling from her form as she relaxed into her leather seat. Suddenly, light erupted in the reflective glass of her mirror as Jacques’s GT-R surged into the street, cutting through a narrow alley and slicing the distance between them into scant feet. He was so close, she could hear the low rumble of his engine. She laughed again, shaking her head as she hit the gas, putting another several inches between herself and the massive frame of her opponent.

As they rounded the next corner, she went wide, opting to keep her speed as he went sharp, cutting distance. As he did, the front end of his heavy car pushed at the rear panel of the Supra. The light car began to cut sharp, tires almost silent. It was then that she knew the nature of the peril she was in.

Black ice coated the intersection and the car, pushed by the heavy behemoth on her left, was almost entirely out of her control. All she could do was wait for traction, and hope that she had time to correct. When the ice met asphalt, she could feel the tires grip the street, a sharp bark splitting the night air before all hell was unleashed.

Fractions of a second passed. One, she was laughing, carefree and wild with her wonder and excitement at the new and undiscovered life set before them, the next, her eyes were wide, her hands gripping the wheel tighter than Death. Her knuckles went white as the color drained from her face. She could feel herself scream, but never heard it. She wasn’t sure it was even real, or just her mind, telling her to scream before she lost the chance.

The hood of her car splintered into shards of deep purple, littered with the bits of glass from the shattered windshield causing the air to shimmer with the violence of the impact. Her body was thrust forward with the violence of the impact, the buckle of her safety belt ripped apart as she was tossed into the windshield. Before she could so much as gasp in shock, her face smashed into the glass. Her nose snapped with the sickening crunch of cartilage just a blink before the ear-splitting crack erupted from her neck, and all feeling in her body went dark. All she could feel was cold as her body slammed into the light post, another sickening crack of bone against metal as her shoulder was shattered and her body ejected into the street.

She was thankful for the lack of feeling as she tumbled across the asphalt, glass and shards of the plastic body embedding themselves into her soft flesh and broken limbs scattered about her torso in a contorted and unnatural sort of way. She blinked her eyes, she thought, as she fought to breathe. Nothing she did could fill her lungs, and she wheezed, blood frothing from her mouth as she did. She put every ounce of her will into moving her body, into sitting up to see the damage, but no matter how hard she pushed, she couldn’t so much as lift a finger.

Tears stung her eyes as blood from the gash in her forehead swept over her gaze, her son moving to kneel next to her.

Help me… she screamed, her eyes wide as she stared up at him, another frothy wave of pink spilling past her lips as she fought to speak. She tried to hear, but everything sounded like rushing water, blood slowly filling her head. When his face moved from her vision, she could feel every part of her reaching out to him, fighting to find him, to bring him back to her.

Don’t leave me here!

Not like this, I don’t want to die like this… I don’t want to be alone.

As she slowly broke down, locked inside her own head in her final moments, her eyes clouded with tears. This couldn’t be the end of it. Fighting for reasoning, bargaining for just a little more time, a boot fell to the street just an inch from her shattered face. Her eyes tried to lift, but she was just so… tired. She closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. Maybe she would just rest for a while, now that somebody was there with her.

She wasn’t alone anymore, and that was all she could really expect to receive.

It wasn’t often that Judas left the crypt. It was home to him and he felt more comfortable there than anywhere else. He liked the dark, dank walls. The skeletons that lay in the main chamber were friends to him. His altar was attached to him and very, very rarely did he leave it. Or at least, thats how it used to be. For so long it had been just a few of them. His beloved Mora and her childe Olive, and then there was himself and Fried Deliciousness, aka Tate. Then his beloved began to expand her family and ever so slowly new faces appeared within the dank space of his cherished home. Judas didn’t really mind but he wasn’t used to being around so many people at once. So the usually retreated to another room and hid, just until he adjusted to each new face.

Look at you Mordecai. Still such a sniveling little freak. All alone even when you’re surrounded by others. That’s the devil in you! He’s making you repulsive. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times to repent but you refuse. Mother ALWAYS knows best and do you ever forget that you wicked, sinful boy!

Judas scowled. He hadn’t heard much from the annoying hag lately and he had hoped that maybe she had gone quiet. Cai’s mother was just as hateful in death as she had been in life, and she absolutely refused to see that he wasn’t Cai. That one was locked away so deeply within his mind that the necromancer doubted he would ever resurface. And that was fine. Judas was more than happy to take over and leave Cai to sulk in the corner. “Shut up you bitter old cow and leave me alone,” he muttered as he pulled his coat on. Thankfully she didn’t respond. It was truly annoying to have someone like her all up in his head telling him how evil he was.

The cold night air hit him in the face when he stepped through the portal that would lead him to Honeymead. Judas hadn’t told anyone he was leaving. Mora knew he was having a hard time adjusting and he’d always been prone to disappearing. That was one of Cai’s habits that Judas hadn’t been able to shake. Sometimes, he craved the quiet. It shut the bitter old hag up because he was able to concentrate on other things, things that she didn’t approve of mostly, It was always fun to hear her screeching in fury for a few minutes before he was able to effectively shut her out. Good times, those were.

He wasn’t sure where he was going just that he needed to get some air. Just as was about to step out onto the street a blur of color flew past him going way too fast for the current street conditions causing him to jump backwards before he became a vampire pancake. “Asshole!” He shouted after the vehicle but he regretted it as soon as the car seemed to explode in a shower of glass and purple shards as it hit the unforgiving surface.

It was loud. The impact combined with the obnoxious sound of shattering glass filled the quiet space around him. His feet were moving before he realized what was happening. Fresh human blood filled his senses and even from where he was he could see the small form fly through the air as the body was ejected from the destroyed vehicle. He actually winced as her body hit the light post and his steps quickened as she hit the ground.

When he got to her side Judas realized just how bad it was. This woman had no chance of survival. Even now he could hear her heart starting to falter and skip beats, and he could see the light fading from her eyes. But he could also see the fear, that gut wrenching feeling of knowing you aren’t going to make it. She was feeling the life drain out of her. But he could change that. She could live, but did he dare? It had been so long since he’d made another. Could he push this life on someone else? Judas didn’t even need to think. His pale fingers reached out to brush a few strands of blood soaked hair out of her face. “You’re going to be fine. But you have to trust me. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.” All he needed was a nod, a blink - something to tell him that she understood he was there to save her.

At least I can’t feel the pain.

It was a small comfort, she knew. Death was upon her, his shadow cast over her shattered form. She could smell the rotten flesh of his grip as it rested so gently, so tenderly across her brow. The lids of her eyes, though heavy as lead, shot open when she felt the hair brush gently from her face. Once, her eyes had been beautiful. Sharp, intelligent, stunning pools of swimming greens and blues and copper, her intense stare never seemed to rest on a single shade. Now, as she lay broken against the asphalt, surrounded by bits of the one possession she had ever prized, they were a dull, glazed brown, blood seeping into the irises. As she used all of her strength to lift them, they held none of their natural beauty. Vessels burst along the whites of her eyes, staining them a cruel, wicked red. The usual authority they exuded all but gone. The eyes that stared up at this stranger were frightened; terrified. She was no leader. Her crew would have laughed at her, if they knew.

She tried to beg. Tigra was a proud woman, and anyone that had ever known her would tell. She wasn’t one to so much as ask for anything. With those weak, frail moments, she begged. The fading light in her eyes were pleading for another chance. If she could move, she would be on her knees, offering anything, everything just for more time. Her mind was frantic, fighting to keep the darkness that seeped into the fringes of her mind at bay. She had to think. She had to fight.

Help me!

Her voice was a resounding roar in her own mind, powerful and commanding, but the sound that left her broken throat was a choke, blood gushing from between her lips. She tried to move, and couldn’t feel her legs. Her arms were just as useless, her entire body numb and unfeeling. She wanted to cry. Her spirit was fighting to hold tight to her dignity, to keep herself together, but the mounting desperation, the long string of grim realizations just made her want to weep. Tears for all the things she felt undone. Tears for her wife, for her crew, for her friends. Most of all, she wanted to weep for her son. What would he do without her?

She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was pathetic, that the sudden shattering of her proud, iron will was inexcusable. The way that the entire strength she had spent a lifetime tempering crumbled at the ultimate moment, told her a truth about herself that she had only feared as a shadow, a wraith in ill-timed nightmares. She was afraid to die. Slowly, she settled back into silence, her eyes subtly sliding shut again.

Begging with the Reaper. How pointless.

She wanted to sigh, but she couldn’t feel her lungs. She wasn’t sure if she took the breath or no, but another thin, filmy red bubble formed on her lips, and she could see it in the puddle that had formed beneath her cheek. She took that as one last, small victory before she closed her eyes again.

She could hear his voice, flowing smoothly through the rushing water that she was sure, now, was the blood rushing through her head, trailing a thin, crimson rivulet from her ear. She looked to him, and tried to nod. She doubted he realized how ridiculous the notion was that he would hurt her. She was completely aware of what it was that he was there to do. She was dead, and he was there to take her from this world. Her broken lips twitched, the ghost of a smile on her face as she felt his hand move across her brow. At least he was gentler than she had expected.

Somewhere, deep in the creeping darkness that was slowly advancing against her consciousness, she knew that he was real. He wasn’t some spirit, some fairytale guide to shove her soul in the right direction. He was a real person, trying to help someone beyond any hope. It was a sweet notion, she thought. She wanted to thank him, but could only vomit blood on his shoes. So much for dying with her dignity intact.

She closed her eyes one last time. She couldn’t bear to shame herself further. She closed her eyes, and hoped that the rest would pass quickly.

What do you think you’re doing Mordecai Judas?? How dare you try and play God?? You leave that poor woman alone to die in peace. It’s her time. She’s being called home to a wonderful place and you want to damn her to an eternity of hell? Selfish, selfish boy how dare you!

Judas ignored her, or did his best to. She was making him stop and think about his decision. Normally it was easy to ignore Addison but something she said struck a cord in him. What right did he have to bring another into this life? The answer to that was simple. He really didn’t have the right to. But he was a selfish man. Even as the woman lay there broken and bleeding he was selfishly allowing himself to see to potential in her. She would make a spectacular vampire. Why should he let that go to waste? Simple. He wasn’t.

I know what you’re thinking. I know you Mordecai! You’re going to be selfish aren’t you? Where did I go wrong with you? I tried to force the devil out of you but you wouldn’t allow me to! You are a stain on my soul that I will NEVER be rid of do you hear me??

“Shut UP Addison!” Judas finally lost his patience and hissed at the voice that only he could hear. He didn’t have time to sit there and argue with the miserable *****. His attention turned to the dying woman. Her eyes opened and the horror she was feeling was something he could relate to. Judas was no stranger to death. In fact he thrived on it. He always had and this was no different. She looked beautiful to him. Never had he been close enough to look death in the face like this, and it was everything that he thought it would be and more. But this time, instead of allowing death to take this one the necromancer was going to deny it this one. “Yes….” he murmured to himself. “This one is mine.”

With one hand he rummaged through his pocket the extract a ritual knife that Mora had given him to use in his rituals. He had plenty back in the crypt, enough that he wouldn’t need this one once he was finished with it. It was wicked sharp which was exactly what he needed. Placing the handle between his teeth he brought his wrist up and drug it across the edge of the blade, ripping a rather deep wound into the flesh. As soon as the metallic scent filled his senses he heard her yet again.

LEAVE HER ALONE! LET HER DIE!! For once in your miserable life Mordecai Judas do the right thing!

Judas ignored her and held his bleeding wrist over the woman’s mouth, applying gentle pressure to her jaw to get her mouth open. He didn’t know why he was being so gentle. With all of her other injuries what was a small bit of force going to do to her? Nothing. But for some reason he wanted to spare her the worst of it. Using his free hand he massaged her throat to encourage her to swallow. Hopefully he wasn’t too late. Hopefully, it would be enough to save her.

Pain washed through every nerve in her body. It was the first thing that came to her in the darkness.

Agony.

It was so sweet, it made her weep. She could feel the heat of her tears on her face.

She could feel.

The relief was intense, so all-consuming that it became her. She was nothing, but the intense, pure warmth of relief. She could feel it envelope her, reassuring her that she was still alive. Somehow, she was still holding on to life. She could feel it, the thin thread that bound her essence within her flesh. It was frayed, but unbroken. She could have screamed in an eruption of joy. She parted her lips, but all she managed was a choked, broken gush of sound and blood as she coughed. Her stomach knotted itself in an intense pain that felt like famine.

Daring to test that thin thread of hope, she let her eyes slowly ease open.

What met her was a world of blood and fire. It was Armageddon, and she had survived.

The gate of hell had been opened to her and she had refused them.

No.

She could feel the brush of fingers against her throat, then, and the fuzzy, bleary image of the flickering flame of her world slowly came into focus. The man that had come to keep her company… that kind, gracious man. He was still with her. She swallowed back what felt like bile as her stomach knotted tighter. She could feel the white-hot stabs of pain throughout her entire body begin to ebb, the searing fury of the agony began to become a manageable ache. It was still there, the hurt, the pain, but she welcomed that.

It reassured her that she was really alive. This was not a dream.

It couldn’t be a dream. The pain made this real. It was real, and she was alive.

She almost forgot her injury in her rapture, and she lifted an arm to push herself onto her side.

She could move.

Seconds ago, she couldn’t so much as feel her face. She could barely manage to blink. This… messiah had saved her. He had done so much as to bring her back from the dead.

She could feel the tears on her face again as she reached for his hand, and placed a single kiss to the pale, cool flesh.

“Merci… oh, mon Dieu, merci…” she whispered in manic French. Her eyes were wide as she looked to him from her place on her knees. She was in awe of this man. This… god. She had no inkling of what it was that was happening, but that the person before her had done nothing short of a miracle. She had prayed a prayer that no one could have heard, and he had reached low to answer her.

A part of her mind told her that she was being frantic, trying to piece together something that should not… could not have happened. She didn’t subscribe to this kind of superstition, but it was there, weighing on her shoulders like the weight of her entire world. Everything had been ripped away from her in the bat of an eye, and just like that… it had been returned to her.

Pain twisted her stomach again and her features twisted from adoration to agony as she doubled over, hands dropping his to clutch at her stomach. She said nothing, and instead shook her head as she shut her eyes tight.

Her body had been broken beyond repair. Every nerve in her entire form had been fried. This biting, gnawing hunger that ripped through her now was unlike any of it. It was so much more.

It crippled her.

It dominated her.

It owned her.

One hand rising to push the bloody heel of her palm across her face, she wiped away the tears from her tanned, flawless skin as she frowned up at the man, worrying on her lower lip like she was afraid to speak. Finally, she shifted herself to her feet, only then noticing that one of her DC’s was missing, tossed aside in the impact of her body against the lamp post.

She winced at the memory as she lifted lightly trembling hands, thin fingers pushing the pink hood of her sweatshirt over her head before she tipped her chin back to look up at the man, her tiny, 5’3” frame dwarfed by most people she met. She managed a pained, twisted smile of thanks before she spoke through the ripping pain in her abdomen.

“Merci, monsieur,” she could see the confusion on his face and she cleared her throat, her hoarse, broken voice trying to repair itself as she swapped from a smooth, fluid French to a soft, wispy English. “Thank you, sir… what… I do not mean to sound… what… happened?”