Dark Chocolate [Open]

[Myk]

Sweat beaded and dripped off his brow; it made him sick to feel it slip into the faint trickle of blood etched into the side of his cheek. Pewter eyes narrowed instinctively as another blow came his way. He couldn’t see it, but he felt the fist of iron tear into his chest. Flesh met with flesh, the impact pushing through to the bone, pressuring the materials into a bloody mess. Myk lunged forward from the impact, snapping together like a faulty deck chair. The chatter of metal shackles rattled amidst the sound of creaking bone, cracking skin and the pounding of fists against a bag of meat. His arms were purposely parted from his body, restrained by tools of torture trailing from the ceiling like a slaughterhouse – though Myk had it in his mind that he’d somehow wound up in the Hellraiser movie. His body was open to attack; the pain of the assault blinding. Myk was unable to keep his feet on the ground, the limp stumps dangled lifelessly below him, weighing his mass upon sore and bleeding wrists. His fingers impulsively twitched – a shimmer of life remained in them; like the simple flicker of hope in a fish attempting to outlast its predator.

Once the iron fists had grown weary of the futile pounding and finally withdrew, Myk forced himself to fill his lungs. Even breathing was agony. As his chest rose and filled out, the ribs sizzled like firecrackers. Pinching his eyes shut as he wished he’d go numb, he hesitated, but then exhaled deeply. Perhaps Myk didn’t need the oxygen, but the action was habitual – beyond the point of logic to a mind so heavily sedated. The exhaled breath tugged at the damp strands of white hair which hung like a bridal veil over his features. His head dropped suddenly, chin met collar bones. White hair snaked over his bruised and battered body to his elbows, masking cuts and lesions, covering him like a worthless shield. His clothes were torn and ruptured too; the black material no defence from pain and no defence to pride. Myk thought he remembered the flash of silver in the dark, how it had drawn so much red from white skin before everything turned black, but he couldn’t remember why.

“Wake up,” came a raspy voice from the darkness. “Don’t you sleep on me, faggot.”

The deep voice quickly blistered into a laugh. The man with the iron fists was still laughing as he found a seat some distance away from the chained Telepath. Myk still couldn’t see. Everything was blurry and black. Everything he had experienced and could experience was through sound, scent and – most apparently – sensation. Myk lifted his head as if inspecting the room, pewter eyes filtering the darkness for something stable, something identifiable. Surrounding him were walls of concrete; that cold, musky scent in the air was representative of somewhere underground. Were they in the sewers perhaps? Myk allowed his head to slump back over his chest, and for his heavy lids to fall closed. It was pointless to keep them open when he couldn’t see a thing. His mind felt as slow and thick as molasses, and trying to think was like wading in the black stuff. Maybe that was why he couldn’t see… That or he was as high as a kite. Considering the beating he’d received from a man who was clearly not Human, Myk didn’t feel the pain resonate. He’d felt it on impact, but then the pain slithered out of his mind as if caught by a breeze. That should have been surprising.

“I said wake up.”

Myk growled into the stagnant space, baring fangs, but was about as threatening as a day-old kitten. The man just smirked to himself, and Myk heard the slide and slap of skin across skin again. Pewter eyes glimpsed at the darkness, but to no avail. Sighing, those ribs crunching once more, the Telepath began to struggle.

“You won’t break free, not even a creature like you could break those shackles.”

Myk bared his teeth again, those wolfish incisors glinting in the dull light. There was no point hiding what he was when this potential Paladin had probably drugged him and dragged him here specifically because of the whole Vampire thing.

“I… don’t have… to… break them.”

The man’s pulse staggered into a sprint and Myk heard the scratch of metal before footsteps slowly started coming toward him.

“Are we alone… perchance? It’s easier… if it’s just the two of us.”

The footsteps continued to draw closer.

“I… don’t mind a crowd… but it’s more intimate if it’s just… the two of us.”

The footsteps stopped. Two feet away.

“Ever been to the Shadow Realm?” the man asked, growling in return.

Myk felt heat in the air between them, not the kind produced by a body, but like fire. It was held so close to his heart and then dropped down to his stomach that Myk felt like he’d just consumed something hot and thick. There was no light still and no sense of clarity; pewter eyes glared into the darkness, into the outline of a man’s face, but could see nothing but blurry greyness and streaks of orange. Myk blinked repeatedly, clenched his eyes shut, groaned and turned his head away.

“I hear it’s like Vampire hell,” the man continued. “I hear your kind are terrified to go there.”

“You can’t intimidate me…” Myk hissed, his face pressed into the side of his bicep, muffling his velvet voice. “Kill me… don’t kill me… I don’t care.”

A hand fisted in Myk’s long white hair, dragging his face closer to that heat. Myk thought he could smell and hear his own flesh burning. That acrid smell of scorched rubber, the sizzle of seared meat, but he couldn’t feel much more than warmth across his skin. Myk tried to breathe slowly, clenching and unclenching his hands trapped in the metal binds. The man might have thought this was an effort to bear the pain since he was pressing a red hot poker to the Telepath’s face, but Myk’s efforts were actually an attempt at trying to see again, trying to remember just how he’d come here, trying to reboot his internal computer. He was so distracted by these trivial things that it never really occurred to him that he could quickly and easily get out of this mess if he focused. It took the sound of his own name being called in the darkness, to the tune of a proper Englishman’s voice, to make Myk see sense.

First it came to him like a dizzy dream, the sound buzzing into his ears, warped by his consciousness. Slipping in and out of clarity; the lights, the shadows, the sounds and the silence all throbbed in his vision like a night club – waxing and waning, slowing time like a stroboscopic lamp. And then everything became still and normal again. Myk could see: the man’s grizzly face, his undressed torso wrapped in Paladin tattoos, his bloodied fists – he was vivid and real. Myk could see, hear, smell and worst of all, he could feel – in full clarity. The Telepath snarled as the pain overtook him suddenly. He was baptised in flames, his blood and energy pulling out of him in searing tendrils. Myk arched away from the poker that was pressed to his cheek, but the fist in his hair refused to let him leave.

“You’re… not… being very… co-operative,” Myk grimaced.

Pewter eyes pressed into those grey-green orbs with a ferocious energy; the Paladin glared back. At first, their intensity was equal, but the longer they engaged in this staring contest, the drearier the Paladin became, until his eyes were glassy, doll-like.

“Let go,” Myk demanded.

The Paladin didn’t hesitate to comply. That bloodied hand untangled from the Telepath’s white hair and the man stepped back, drawing the poker away. Myk breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s… better. Now… get me out of these ******* shackles.”

Once again, the Paladin could not refuse. He pulled the keys out of his pockets and did as instructed, moving with all the life and urgency of a robot. As Myk’s right hand was released, the Telepath lost his stability and fell onto the tips of his toes – barely able to sustain the pressure acting on his left wrist. He growled a command to hurry and the Paladin did just that, releasing the final arm. Myk fell to the floor as one lump of stringy limbs and tangled hair and aching muscles. The blood was like ice on his already cool skin and Myk shuddered, taking a moment as he tried to breathe through the agony.

“Myk… You should get up. This man will not stay bewitched for long.”

The Englishman’s voice was whispered into his ear again. This was the voice of the Wraith, Rutherford. His presence alone was a source of curious comfort; his voice was a purifying force. It cleared the smog in Myk’s head, once again allowing the Telepath to see clearly.

“Are… they… edible?” Myk questioned.

He couldn’t see the shadowy spectre that stood beside him – few could – but Myk could feel the air shift as the Wraith moved around the Paladin to inspect him.

“I would imagine so. You best hurry, young one.”

The last thing Myk wanted to do was move in that moment. He wanted to lie back in a hot bath, close his eyes and let the pain and blood melt away from him. At the very least he just wanted to stay crumpled on the cold, wet ground of this room. As it happened, he couldn’t deny the logic of the Wraith. Paladins were not like other Humans, after all. They were imbued with supernatural energy that repelled creatures of the darkness – creatures like Myk. The thought of feeding from this Paladin didn’t fill Myk with hunger, but in fact, made him feel nervous and sick. He couldn’t risk any further injury right now, still, he had to move and dispose of his opponent before the small spell of hypnosis wore off. If Myk wasn’t going to eat him, he would have to immobilise him in other ways. In one movement, Myk stood, took the poker from out of the Paladin’s weak grasp and drove the smoking tip through his eye-socket until he felt the resistance of bone – the back of the man’s skull. It was over so quickly, with so little force, and the man dropped to the floor like a sack of apples when Myk released him.

The Telepath didn’t waste any time moving on from this place. He quickly located a staircase that led him up and out of the underground room, into an empty house. The first thing Myk noticed was the dark, the dust and the boarded windows of the tiny building, but he didn’t pause for thought even then. The short corridor introduced him to a kitchen where Myk found running water and a clean dish cloth. He didn’t have a reflection, so he examined the wounds the old fashioned way; lifting his torn black shirt to examine heavy bruising, smears of rich blood, and what certainly looked – and felt – like a few broken ribs. The seared flesh on his right cheek would be there a while and he didn’t mind all that much. It wasn’t bleeding; the blood vessels had been fused shut and the throb under his skin – the dark pulsing of heat – was actually somewhat pleasurable in an intense, stinging kind of way. Myk had already wasted his energy in hypnotising a Human and couldn’t waste any further effort in treating a wound for aesthetic purposes. It was one or the other – heal the broken ribs, which made moving about as fun as walking barefoot on a carpet of broken glass, or heal the slightly ugly char mark on the side of his face.

The Telepath sighed as he loomed over the sink, the crimson water dribbling off his skin and over the basin more so than in it. With the blood washed away, the Telepath’s porcelain skin started to shine through once more. The gashes and scrapes across his torso were washing away as easily as the blood; the bruises were more stubborn – like blueberry jam smeared into white cotton. Myk had chosen the former to heal, casting a spell that was like pumping time straight into his veins, speeding up his supernatural healing abilities to an extreme degree. The charred mark on his face would probably be gone in a matter of hours as well, simply because of how Vampires heal, but the body would remember the pain far longer than the wounds were visible.

“What is the matter, young one?”

“It’s nothing,” Myk replied curtly, dragging his shirt back into place around his hips. “I… could have handled that better.”

“Hmm. Perhaps. Though you will need to feed sooner rather than later,” the Wraith murmured scathingly. “To the streets then?”

Myk didn’t reply to the Wraith, nor was he paying any particular attention to what he had to say. The Telepath’s focus was set to critiquing how he could have performed better under the circumstances. There were more ways than one to get out of those shackles… did he really have to kill the Paladin? He wasn’t angry – not even close. The man could have torn Myk’s skin from his entire body and it wouldn’t have pissed him off. Myk tried to convince himself that the Paladin’s death was for necessity’s sake, but, that wasn’t true either. He could have fled, he could have disappeared from sight, he could have done anything other than kill the man. The way he’d dispatched him too – it was ruthless, cold. He’d killed rabbits with the same emptiness – snatching them from the grass and snapping their necks with a quick twist. He hadn’t eaten them either. It was an act of pointless destruction – nothing that could be explained away or justified. Myk sighed once more and turned to wash the bloody handprints from his hair.

“Are you… upset with me?” Rutherford asked, a hint of caution in his arrogant voice.

Myk shook his head.

“Are you curious as to why I did not seek help on your behalf, perhaps?”

“No,” Myk snapped, and as he continued to speak, his anomalous accent shifted toward British lilts as if inspired by the Wraith. “Quit asking stupid questions. I’m not in the mood for your games. We know why you didn’t look for help. It’s… better you didn’t. Stop seeking praise. Just… shut up. Go away.”

The reason why Myk was stood over a kitchen sink in an abandoned house rather than using his tome to teleport back into the safety of his family’s home, was the same reason why Rutherford had not requested aid. Myk resolved to handle his own mess, his way – he didn’t want the family involved in his dirty work. For all they knew, he was a delightful clown without a smudge to his name, and he was happy to facilitate that delusion for as long as he could. He meant DC no harm and wanted no harm to come to them, thus, he kept them out of his business. He still couldn’t remember what had happened to him this night, how he’d wound up a prisoner of some sadistic Paladin… and wasn’t that just part of the problem! He had experienced strange black-outs throughout all of his life, but they were becoming more and more frequent and there didn’t appear to be a cause. Like his many other issues and troubles, Myk could not determine whether or not he was simply sick in the head or he was cursed by some supernatural ailment. If he could figure out what the problem was, maybe he would be able to fix it. A long-term solution would have been ideal, but there was no time to investigate, analyse, implement, measure, and start the cycle up again. A short-term solution would have to take precedence, and the first thing he had to do was find sustenance.

To the streets then, as the Wraith had put it.

Outside in the calm, crisp air, Myk felt his wits return to him. The streets were spectacularly beautiful tonight. The sky was so black, so clear, so empty, and against this end-of-existence setting, the lit-up buildings, street signs, artful advertising and streetlamps shone ever more brightly and more colourful. There was so much stimulation – light, colour, sound, smell – it didn’t take much for the Telepath to feel overwhelmed. Pressure was building in his ears, confusing his sense of balance while pain was building in his shoulder, side, along his cheek, his nose, his stomach and his abdomen. Basically everything above the hips was throbbing and stinging as he walked, reminding him with a fury that he had to feed. For once, the Telepath’s conspicuousness felt harmful. White hair hung down into his face and across his shoulders like thin, dripping icicles; his skin was not beautifully white, but cadaverous in its appearance; his black, ripped shirt, jeans and boots looked like he’d had a hard time digging his way out of a tomb too. Maybe he was breaking the Masquerade simply by walking the streets tonight.

Brushing bone-white tendrils behind his left ear, the Telepath ducked his head and decided to make for the shadows. As Myk crossed the open street, a certain aroma caught his attention. The indulgent, bitter-sweet scent heated his nostrils, coating the back of his throat. He could almost taste it and drink it in; the smoky, rich liquid slipping smoothly down and warming his insides. Coffee. He had to be near a café of some kind, but what did it matter? Now was not the time to enter public places, yet his legs seemed to be listening to the subconscious, indulgent, and wicked part of Myk’s brain that told him to ignore logic and sniff out that café. Keeping to the fringes, to the buildings overhung by spectral shade, Myk soon found what he’d been looking for. His pace slowed only to stop seconds later. He could see through the glass front that there were people inside of all marks and creeds – Humans and Vampires mingling like worms and maggots in a desiccated corpse. Myk had lost his appetite all of a sudden.

Winding his arms around his aching torso, the Telepath bowed his head and resolved to walk away. Not two steps later, however, he was compelled to change his mind. A Human – frantic, afraid, overweight, and balding – pushed his way past the Telepath, fleeing the café like a flock of birds. The hunger returned with vengeance; it slipped over him, under his clothes, into his core like an intrusive chill and made him feel insubstantial, like mist. Myk could feel himself withering away, his outer shell stripping back, as though he were slowly being transformed by the beastly instincts within. With knitted brows and pewter eyes shining like the dull embers of a sleeping fire, the Vampire pursued. The world was drowned out by a single thumping heart; all colours burnt out and turned to ash around the scurrying morsel; the scent of skin and stress and… food… had him salivating as Myk followed. When the well-dressed package of meat took a sharp left down an empty lane, the Vampire felt his stomach leap into his throat, trying to bypass his own fangs to meet its meal. He would act now or he would lose his chance.

Rubber soles made light work of the pavement, barely making a sound under the regular bustle of the city. Nevertheless, ears tuned into the man’s movements, carrying dark and hungry eyes over. The Human had no idea that he was being watched or indeed being followed; he was oblivious to the shadow which had drifted over to the path behind him. The man’s head was down to reduce the buffer of wind as he worked his mobile phone, sparing a glance up into the world ahead of him to confirm he was heading in the right direction. As time passed, the gap between the shadow and the overweight man got shorter, and as soon as darkness takes over light, Myk took over him. Without any warning, the man was dragged from behind and slammed into the wall. A heavy, cold hand was clasped over his mouth to stifle any screams of surprise or terror, but the Human barely had time to yelp or breathe as this shroud – thick as tar – washed over him and numbed his senses.

There was no pain as teeth settled on the taught muscle between neck and shoulder, just a sharp scratch of pressure. The smoothing lick to the throbbing vein was not sensed either, and even the scrape of fingernails on his wrists and the brickwork against his back was beyond a dream that the mortal saw with his waking eyes. With the last efforts of his consciousness – and unbeknownst to the Vampire – the Human had hit the Call button, dialling the very last number he’d rang. The person on the other end – if they’d answered the call – would be able to hear the struggle of bodies, the grunt of effort, and the dying whimpers of a beaten man. Those weren’t the type of sounds that could be mistaken for something arbitrary – something very wrong was happening to this Human.

As the mortal dreamt of darkness and emptiness, Myk sank his fangs into his throat. Every tooth was a scalpel. The skin broke effortlessly, blood pushed out willingly, traitorously, into the Telepath’s mouth. The Vampire was overwhelmed with the taste of it, the taste of fresh, warm blood. It was the flavour of something deep, perhaps the most pure and bitter dark chocolate; the kind that makes one wince when it hits the back of the tongue yet causes taste buds to tingle. Barely a single drop was spilt; Myk drank with the savagery of a starving wolf, refilling what he had lost and more – even to this one’s end. He didn’t care. He couldn’t think, couldn’t chastise his actions, even. Hunger had made prey of them both.

[Jack Flynn (DELETED 7737)]

When it came down to it, doing the right thing sucked. Pun intended.

Everything had started out so great too. The band had just gotten to their new holdup - a chilly little place called Harper Rock. Surrounded by green and rumors, it was just the right place for the childhood friends to set up a new life. At least that’s what the map on the dartboard and blind shots had promised. Their new apartment (or at least new to them) wasn’t exactly poster material, but they didn’t mind the packed quarters and dingy neighborhood. For Jack it was a breath of fresh air, and for the others it was just another home. They’d scored their first gig for that night, with a few dozen calls and a bit of begging. It wasn’t exactly anything big for funds, since it was more the kind of event that would prove whether or not they had the right sound to be a regular thing, but that didn’t matter much. It wasn’t like they hadn’t planned and saved up for at least a few months, and then some. Planning since the group was still just jamming out on string guitars and pots in the attic, they hadn’t wasted a penny.

The gig itself had gone great, too. After settling in with their things (mostly by tossing the bags on beds and fishing out the dinged up playstation 2) they’d taken a small gaming break and set off for the cafe. It wasn’t much of a place, with half a house on tax-free days, but the small gathering was enough to get them giddy. Jack looked out from behind the moth-eaten curtain only for a few minutes before checking back on the others, who were still setting up, and enjoyed the moment. They’d striven so hard to get to this point, and now they were finally out on their own. Just last month they’d celebrated the birthday of the youngest member. Nicknamed ‘Miss Frizzle’ for his crazy curls and techno-know-how that resembled the classic cartoon teacher, he was the last one to turn eighteen. With all the members of legal age to care for themselves, the band had finally been free to take their lives on their own path. Even if the path wasn’t always logical or easy.

Speak of the devil, it was the Friz-lord himself that shocked Jack out of his happy thoughts with a light bump to the shoulder. “Hey, you nervous much?” the redhead joked. Jack grinned back, rubbing his shoulder. “Nah, why should I be? First gig of the city, no biggie,” he shrugged. It was great, the way the five of them were so close. Even with all that Jack was, and had been through, none of the guys ever treated him odd. Hell, they were more family than his grandfather, may the greedy ******** choke on his new land. Though Jacks father had passed away many years ago, the ache had lessened only when he’d grown close to a group of four orphans. Likewise, as they always reminded Jack, it was him who’d brought them together into such a tight-knit gang. To Jack, their friendship was irreplaceable. It was time for the event. Frizzle gave Jack a healthy shoulder squeeze and set off, to go do his technical thing. Though he was never one stage with the rest of him, it was his lights and sound magic that pulled the whole thing together. He’d tried to explain how he did what he did to Jack once, but the minute he’d started mentioning circuits, Jack was sure he’d felt himself grow a brain tumor and said as much. All that mattered was that he could do it, and did do it, and he was as great a member as any of the others. Jack always made sure everyone knew that, and as a tradition they’d started up, he always started every show with the same words.

“Before we give yall a real show, we need to shed a little light on the guy who pulls it all together. The man with the plan, Dowser Reed!” Jack stood over the mic, gesturing to their techno-guru who’d locked himself up in a little side-booth, and shot a thumbs up in return. The applause was practically zombie-like from the minimal crowd, but Jack didn’t let that dampen his mood. Just being up on a stage with the other guys always filled him with too much energy, and there was only one place it could go. At Jacks cue, the twins cranked up the guitars and let loose, and soon the back-beat of the drums was thrumming through his chest. Filled with the rough, perfect sound of punk-metal riffs, he yanked the mic close and lowered his lids, slipping out a smooth, almost eerie tune.

“This life has ended suddenly. The ground is vanishing. Crushed! And, falling down. This so called fate is the ultimate PAIN-” he ground out the final word in a rough, near scream, which picked up in a perfect sort of echo that he owed to their tech-wiz in the booth. Without skipping a beat, he continued. “-killer! Indefinite! I can’t escape this reality. Locked, drowned in chains forever. Is this to be the final show? The crown I’ve been dying for. The cost we’re paying with our so-called pride. Is this the end of the line?” He trailed off, letting the rising drum beat build them up into the chorus before he threw up his hand in a fist. The rest of the song flew by, as well as two others. Another original they’d written, and a cover of Perfect Circle’s movie track. The Outsider. It cleared Jack’s mind when he sang, and enjoyed the way he felt one with the rest of the members. It had taken so long to get to this point, and so many times they’d thought ’this is it. This is where we fail.’ Yet they’d finally found their way onto a stage, and from the look of the crowd they’d succeeded once again. The earlier zombie-like state had been cleared by fresh coffee and exciting music, and by the time they’d reached an end they were getting another invite and a few drinks on the house. Not to mention, to celebrate Drowser, or Friz as they all preferred to call him (short for Ms. Frizzle) had promised fireworks which they planned to set off at a mall parking lot a small drive away.

That was about the time things went south. The others were packing up, and Jack was enjoying a good bottle of Jones soda, since he always had the least to pack and the others were picky about their own packing, which didn’t leave much room to help. Despite being in a coffee shop, Jack was never one for caffeine. Aside from giving him the runs, it also made him pretty dizzy, so he tended to pass the stuff up. Something he attributed to low blood pressure or something. It was while doing so that a man who’d entered a little while ago approached. Balding and anxious looking, he’d grinned down at Jack, and already he hated the guy. Something about that smile made his hair stand on end, and Jack never ignored his bad feelings. Well, almost never.

“Hey, hey kid, great show. Listen, I’m part of this company and I-” “You got a business card?” Taking a small sip of his soda, Jack watched the guy sweat. Literally. It was pretty gross. “Y-yeah, not with me I mean, who keeps their cards with them right?” Jack looked him up and down. The guy had sleazebag written all over him, and had obviously had a few drinks. Not the kind from this shop, that was for sure. “No card, no business,” Jack answered smoothly, but inside he was starting to get uneasy. Especially when he saw how red the guys face was getting. “Now you listen here you little punk-” “There a problem here?” The woman who owned the shop, and who’d given them a second job, approached with an obvious frown. Seeing the woman’s uniform, the man spluttered and looked at Jack briefly. “No, no problem at all,” he snapped, and was out the door the next minute. “What a rat,” she sniffed, lowering her gaze. “And he forgot his wallet.” She picked it up, smiling at Jack. “Karma, don’t you think?” He should have left it there. Just smiled and nodded and let it go, but he could never do it. Sometimes doing the right thing was like a rope around his neck, pulling him until he either did it or stopped breathing. Hence why he stood up, plucking the wallet from the girls grasp with a tired smile. “Worse Karma to use it at as excuse,” he sighed, and the woman laughed. “You’re probably right,” she agreed, sauntering off. Jack stared at the wallet in hand for about a minute and shook his head, cursing. “I’m going to regret this,” he grumbled, tearing out of the cafe after the man. It took a minute of searching around, before he saw the man sauntering off at a pretty quick pace. Worse off, the guy wasn’t alone. Again, Jack cursed himself and followed as quick as he could, but he was never much of a sprinter.

By the time he’d turned the alley corner, it was too late. He could only blink a few times at what first looked like a seedy sort of scene, until he realized a few things. First, he could smell blood, and second, that was not the face one made when they were enjoying themselves. The wallet dropped from Jacks hand as he stood, motionless with horror, staring at Myk and the man. ’See?’ nagged the little voice in the back of his head. ’Doing the right thing sucks.’

[Myk]

Feeding is never as elegant and romantic as those Vampire novels make it seem. Cutting into skin and tearing through muscles to get at the rich veins was a tasking process – like mining for gold. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t pretty and it most certainly wasn’t something to dream about or long for – certainly not when you were on the wrong end of those teeth. The only blessing was the hypnotic state that the prey fell into when they were being fed upon. Fortunately, this man wouldn’t feel the attack itself or remember it – given he’d survive at any rate. Even so, the Telepath was rarely happy about the exchange, and the only thing that had him committed to drinking this mortal’s blood at all was the fact that he was not in his right mind. Myk’s wounds had worn him down, his mood was low from the consequences of his actions, and so his inner demons had taken over unopposed and unchallenged. No thoughts about this man’s safety, about how if Myk drank too much he might be leaving behind a woman widowed and children orphaned, preyed upon his conscience. There was no glimmer of a thought given for what might happen if there were intruders either, if witnesses arrived as Myk fed. It was all about the feeling, all about the strength he found in the seductive heat of life, and how he had to continue to drink in order to feel this high.

At first the blood flowing freely into his mouth like a drinking fountain had been enough, but all that warmth, all that intoxicating power that he felt charging through him like electricity created a greed in him unlike any other. Quickly, the Telepath became impatient with the steady, tolerant pulse of heat ebbing through him, and his jaws extended. Like a creature of the wild, he cut deep into the man’s throat, tearing away a large proportion of the skin and tendons. With no support, the man’s head sagged away from him, falling onto his own shoulder and obscuring the world beyond the alleyway to the Telepath. Myk didn’t see the other mortal coming and it was only when the thump of the leather wallet hit the ground that he was aware that anyone might be there at all. They both froze, and all that carnal, basic want fled Myk’s waking mind to leave him confronting his mistake alone. Myk wanted to disappear in that moment and he could have, if not for his other sins. Curiosity had him withdrawing slightly from his initial bite; the blood spurted ferociously from the wound and doused the Telepath’s neck and chest with red. Myk let the piece of meat that had been clinging to his jowls drop, and he lifted his head to spy on the company. Amongst a showering of white hair and blood, one pewter eye spotted the petrified mortal at the mouth of the alleyway.

“Change your face.”

The soft voice of the Wraith filled his mind.

“He has not seen you in this dim of light. Change your face, young one, and flee.”

Myk continued to watch the young man as the colour began to drain from his already white complexion. Panic, fear, regret, anger and sadness; these were the emotions that plagued him and turned him to stone despite all instincts – and the Wraith – telling him that he must flee. Still, the words of the Wraith had confused him and this was the worst moment for the Telepath to succumb to lapses of mental perception. Myk could not knowingly change his face as the Wraith had suggested. At most the Telepath might be able to confuse the mortal and implant suggestions into his mind – though only if he was weak-willed. That was not necessarily the same thing as altering the characteristics of one’s face, and Myk might have flagged that up as an error on Rutherford’s behalf had he the time to quarrel with an unseen spectre. Myk could almost feel the air prickling with the Wraith’s impatience the longer he stalled, and so the Telepath hugged the corpse of the man like a shield from them both.

“Fly, you fool,” the Wraith growled.

This remarkably realistic impression of Gandalf reminded Myk just how he could change his face, but more than that – change his entire form. Just like the old grey wizard, the Telepath could make use of moths – it was his animal form. While others were busy choosing battle beasts like lions and tigers and bears, Myk had taken the unusual approach, giving him the form of a white ermine moth. There was unlikely to be a greater reason behind the choice other than because the little bug had the same hair style as the Telepath. The moth was cute, white, fluffy and inconspicuous when they wanted to be, what with being only 5cm across; it seemed like the perfect choice for any vain, crazy clown save for turning into a monkey or a rabbit. Transforming into a tiny moth and escaping would have been the perfect antidote, but something was wrong.

There was this gentle buzzing in the back of Myk’s brain as though a rogue wasp had crawled in through his ear to nibble on the grey matter. It was most likely his conscience trying to get the better of him, trying to convince him that running away was the worst possible thing he could do. He’d just killed a man and this was how he was going to behave? Running away like a scolded cat would not resolve a thing; he had to be punished for his crime. With that angelic voice of judgement in his head, Myk could no longer consider anything Rutherford was saying. No advice about saving his own skin would breach the pious barriers that had flung up in defence of justice. Myk dropped the corpse from his grasp, allowing its body to slide down the height of the wall and into a slump. Myk was stood out in the open now, no shield to hide his identity from the mortal, nothing to protect him from any sort of assault; the testament to his crime sitting at his feet. Pewter eyes shone from the dim light like discs of silver, white hair hanging off him like a ghastly veil, and whatever patches of his skin that weren’t dyed crimson or concealed by black clothing, appeared milky white in contrast. Myk took a step forward rather than a step back, his sight unflinchingly set on the mortal, but this ghoulish predator did nothing more than stare for the moment.

“I wonder… what will you do now…” the Telepath thought to himself.

The options were slim and Myk imagined what he might have done if he had been in this one’s footsteps. Only, Myk had always been strange and if he had come across such a spectacle as a mortal, he likely would have interrogated the poor Vampire. Myk didn’t scare easily because death was nothing to be frightened of and quite frankly, the white-haired psycho had often welcomed it in his youth. The scars on the inside of forearms, running vertically up from wrist to elbow, were enough proof for anyone to recognise his suicidal tendencies, but inciting death was not always performed to plain clichés. Yes, Myk had done those shameful things people do when they are desperate – he’d sunk into the bottom of a bottle, he’d injected escape straight into his veins, he’d openly provoked the anger of monsters, and he’d found quiet and peaceful emptiness at the base of a long drop – but it was meeting a woman on a quiet street corner that had brought Myk closer to death than anything else. It must have been some cruel joke of fate to pull that sweet release away from him right then, and curse him with eternal life – some cosmic suffering to punish him for all of his crimes…

Although the Telepath was fatally optimistic when it came to people, he was not expecting anything good to come of this experience. Myk wanted so much for people to surprise him, for them to do something that was not expected, but so few ever strayed from the path. Most people were perfectly predictable – like flies glued to a chord, they danced to the right tune when the right notes were played. This young man did not have the look of conformity like so many others did, but when faced with fear – real, mortal danger – political motivations and cultural difference amounted to nothing. Most Humans were savagely basic in their response to danger; this one would run away, just like the rest, so Myk needn’t flee immediately.

[Jack Flynn (DELETED 7737)]

At first, Jack couldn’t move. Fear was the most obvious response, and even an oddball like him couldn’t tear away from such an autonomous reaction. There was blood, there was death, and he was being stared at by blood and death itself, and not a light stare neither. It was a stare that cemented his feet even more, and left him weak in the knees with terror.

Blood and death. Two magic words that transformed fear into fascination, and like that Jack broke away from two things. Normalcy and the strangers stare. Instead of continuing to watch the silver haired ghoul, his eyes followed the sliding body with a mix of fear and wonder. He couldn’t help it. Jack had never had a really bad childhood. True, he’d lost his father when he was young, but he’d known the man for twelve years first, and it hadn’t been a sudden death. True, his grandfather, the man who took him in, was an uptight dollar-sign eyed ********, but he’d had the guys as family either way. True, he’d had a pretty weird issue with gender identification from birth, but his father had always been supportive, even without a mother in the picture. All in all, from a back-story standpoint Jack’s was hardly even worthy of some crappy hundred-dollar Bollywood flick.

When it came down to it, there was no historical reason for his morbid fascination with studying corpses. Why he’d once dreamed of being a mortician or funeral director, and had asked for a dissection kit when he was six to use on the rats that kept trying to take over the barn. It was just a part of who he was, the thing that made him Jack. He’d never actually seen a dead human in person aside from his fathers funeral, of course, and that hardly counted since his father had looked like a wax statue ready to come to life at the time (and smelled just as chemically-consumed). That didn’t stop him from being fascinated right now. Actually, if anything, he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to go over and study the probable corpse like it was his key to the Nobel Prize.

That is, until the stranger started to move forward. Unintentionally he flinched as he looked back at tall, blond and grisly. Minus the blond part of course. His foot slid back out of reflex, and then he stiffened in place. Reminded of some story about facing wild animals, he held his ground. He should have run. He could have probably made it back to the cafe no problem, not that the guys would be looking for him too soon. Yet he found himself staring down the stranger, all silver locks and crimson coating like some ethereal being. Meanwhile his heart raced like it was trying to tear a hole through his rib cage and escape, since the rest of his body wasn’t about to bolt anytime soon. Picturing a little bleeding heart running on tiny feet made him question his sanity in a comical sense. It really wasn’t the best time for weird mental images, not that that ever stopped him.

Beautiful. He almost physically slapped a hand over his face, but it was true. In a morbid, horror movie fashion, the figure was stunning. It was oddly difficult to place a gender, and Jack didn’t even try. It felt too hypocritical to do so. His thoughts bounced around, yet they felt so distant as the figure took one step after another, closing the distance until he could have reached out to touch them. Or the other way around.

He should have left. Or stayed silent. Of course, he wouldn’t be himself if he did. As much as he knew it would be wise to run, something about the sureness of the figures stance made him think that he could play along with the moment, and maybe get out of this both in piece and smarter. Probably not, though. Instead of bolting like a smart person would have done, he slowly raised a hand, gesturing carefully to his mouth just short of stroking the small goatee he was quite proud of. His voice trembled faintly, and he was proud when it didn’t crack, at least. “You got a little something uh...everywhere...” His joke fell sort of flat, and his lips twitched in the kind of humor one felt when they were actually not in the mood for laughing, but there face was going to do it anyway because faces were traitors like that. Hand lowering again, he looked down at the wallet, then back at the corpse, partially wondering why he himself wasn’t dead yet. Idly, he nudged the leather with his foot. “Guess he doesn’t need this back after-all,” he added.

Why? he internally chastised himself. Why can’t you just take the silence and run. And then suddenly a line of song was running through his brain, looping a single line of ’go on take the money and run’ over and over again. And, because he could never handle prolonged silence, he added after a few minutes of staring: “Nice uh.. Hair by the way.” Having a patch of dyed white hair himself, could he really be shamed for admiring? Even as he accompanied it with an awkward cough, he had to wonder how the person got theirs so bright, when his always felt like some off shade of beige. At least he wasn’t dead.

Yet.

[Myk]

When the mortal didn’t turn to flee, Myk was drawn ever nearer; quiet, purposeful footsteps crossed the distance between them. The point was not to be intimidating, however, and such curiosity and study showed on his features as Myk came close enough that he could reach out a hand and touch his company. Of course, he wouldn’t. Not now. Not while this weird thing was happening and Myk needed to know why. The once warm and pleasant pelt of blood had gone cold with time, and instead of feeling smothering in a way that a nice fleece does, it felt wet and sticky and suffocating. Myk felt a deathly chill sitting on his chest – the weight of ice of his guilt – but ignored the sensation as pewter eyes – alive and alert – swallowed up the young man before him. Every inch was explored; from the silver tips of his hair that reminded the Telepath of snow-bleached pine trees to the very base of his sneakers that could allow this mortal to run far, far away from this nightmare. There was a simple kind of deviance floating in this mortal’s aura, in his appearance, which just begged the question why exactly he had not been compelled to flee when standing eye-to-eye with a murderer. Myk wanted to know why he had resisted the natural urge of self-preservation, why the horror scene before him had not inspired him crawl away on his belly. It was a pleasant surprise, undoubtedly for the Telepath, and it allowed Myk to escape from his crimes and strip away the guilt to focus on this wonderful puzzle. It was liberating and terrible that this mortal hadn’t run.

Unlike the Telepath, the Wraith, Rutherford, had not been pleased at all by this exchange between the mortal and the psychopath. When the mortal made an effort of motion with his hand, the Wraith rushed in to Myk’s side like a cold snap of wind. There wasn’t much he could do to prevent any kind of physical harm from coming to his charge, but Rutherford felt compelled to stand by Myk’s side, and if needed, compel the Vampire to flee once more even if he had to slap the white-haired idiot out of his trance. The Telepath had indeed shuddered with the chill, and pewter eyes searched the blank space where he’d felt the presence, only to find nothing and return his sights to the mortal again – unconsciously dismissing the servant and the protector. Surprisingly enough, the mortal was making a sound that wasn’t a scream or an accusation, gesturing to his own mouth. Myk watched the man’s lips twitch into the briefest smile, some nervous gesture and a glint of compliance. Consumed by bewilderment, the Telepath’s brow quivered into a frown and his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. As he studied the man before him, he got the queerest impression that the man was joking with him; as if the Vampire before him was not a threat, and had pasta sauce smeared over his face and neck and chest instead of blood. The Telepath’s sharp eyes softened and those red lips crept into a wry grin. “I like this one,” he purred to himself.

With the mention of the wallet, pewter eyes felt like they were falling for the taunt as they searched the ground. In one fluid motion, the Telepath had crouched to collect the leather pad before he straightened again. Myk wasn’t expecting to see the man still standing there when he looked up again, but sure enough he found those nervous pupils staring back at him. A part of Myk wanted to coddle the mortal, tell him that it was ok, that he wasn’t going to rip his throat out in the same manner that he’d torn the other man’s, but that small thought had Myk studying the wallet. He let it fall open between deft hands before examining the man’s driver’s licence. Perhaps if he had a name, if there was an identity to this man, Myk could work on some kind of reparation. If there was a widow to comfort, some children in the picture to please, Myk felt he needed to know this. So many of his kind were cruel, vicious and selfish – murdering simply because they could do so, and they did so without any guilt because to them, these people were cattle. If you name a cow, if you know it bore two calves that were depending on it, was it so easy to kill it then? Ignorance was bliss, after all, and Myk felt he deserved nothing of the sort. Upon studying the man’s driving licence, however, Myk couldn’t say that he had learned anything new about the man – well, other than that he was a thief and con-artist.

“I rather doubt you are Gregory Charles,” Myk murmured, his low voice a baseline chord as pewter eyes looked to his victim.

He was comparing the thin, wiry grey gentleman in the picture to the squat, fat and balding man who was lying dead on the ground. Myk returned the licence to its place and moved on to analyse the credit cards and various other forms of identification – each one either fake or stolen. There were half a dozen secreted inside, and Myk was wise enough to recognise the false florescence of microchips from the real kind; even the money looked circumspect to those keen eyes. A true thief knows when he is being played, after all, and Myk sighed as he released his grip on the wallet. The thud when it hit the floor snapped the Telepath out of his lethargic daze, almost as if it was the cue to reminding him where he was and what he was doing. In the silence, when analysing this dead man’s identity, Myk had practically forgotten this other one’s existence – just one of Myk’s many, many quirks. The Telepath hadn’t even realised that he’d missed the compliment about his hair having talked right over the mortal, so when pewter eyes focused their steely gaze on the mortal again, he felt compelled to apologise.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice wavering slightly. “I mean, for all of… this.”

The gesture Myk made toward the bloody mess behind him was as blasé as one could get. The wave over his shoulder, where two of his fingers ended up stroking the shell of his ear, was certainly more indicative for spilling salt perhaps than spilling blood, for an accidental shoulder bump rather than purposefully driving his fangs through the throat of a mortal. The only sign that suggested Myk was at all sincere about his apology was the bleating tone within which he spoke, not to mention how his eyes had sunk into the very depths of their sockets. Of course the Telepath felt genuinely regretful, but there was nothing he could do about it now. This man was well past the point where Myk could help him – even his immortal blood would not be able to sever the grip that death had taken hold. The only thoughts stemming within the Telepath were of protecting himself by disposing of the body and letting all his laundry hang out to dry in the open. Myk felt he deserved punishment for his crimes – not that it made him any better a person to welcome judgement and penalty, but because that was the way things worked. That was how society and civility worked – if you did something wrong, you paid the price. Yet, Myk wanted to squirrel all these secrets away and hide them in the same instance. He hadn’t meant to hurt or kill the mortal, so should he really have to pay for it? For all Myk knew, he could have killed a killer, and what justice did that suffice exactly?

“Did you… err… know him?” Myk asked, finding that a French accent was steadily conquering his ordinarily anomalous one, but just as quickly as he’d asked, he was pushing the question aside. “No… I shouldn’t ask that.” Myk shook his head, still keeping his eyes low. “I should just… go.”

“Finally,” the Wraith growled.

“We should go.” It wasn’t clear who Myk was talking to in that instant, since his eyes were on the ground, but soon enough, pewter eyes were giving the mortal a hard stare. “And… don’t follow me. Please? My shadow is crowded enough.”

Instead of leaving promptly, as both the Wraith and the mortal might have suspected, Myk waited for acknowledgement and agreement to pass over the young man. He wouldn’t leave until he received a promise from the mortal, and once he’d had that, he would have to sneak away from the scene. It would be best to avoid the open streets and since Myk would not be toming to the Ivory Tower – his crimes forcing him into independence – he would have to return to his own residence; a house boat in River Rock. Fortunately, he wasn’t that far away from the pier, but the Telepath was certainly imagining the scent of salt water wafting in the air rather than actually smelling it.

[Jack Flynn (DELETED 7737)]

The last thing Jack needed right now was to feel self-conscious. So, of course, that’s exactly what emotion his mind decided to produce. Perhaps in a better situation, the roaming eyes of the wiry figure might have made him more... Flustered. Right now, though, it just made him increasingly uncomfortable. Not to mention the added bonus of his failed attempt at humor (three, actually) falling flat like a drunk drag queen in ten inch heels. Self-conscious in front of a still blood-covered murderer, who either thought they were some blood-feasting demon or actually was one. This was not what Jack needed right now. Even the sudden chill in the air that made him tug his sleeves over his delicate fingers seemed to scream at him that he was already pushing his luck. Idly he looked at his hands as he did so, entertaining yet another random thought. This one about how much he’d always disliked the feminine quality of his hands, so unlike his fathers strong, earth-element, square palmed fists. Working hands, his father had called them, but no matter how hard Jack had worked on the farm his fingers had never ended up any thicker.

And now the mentally dubbed ‘Bloody Mary’ was grinning at him. At least they weren’t looking at him like he was the next meal on the menu, but it didn’t help him feel any more comfortable. On the stage, being stared at wasn’t such a big deal. With the music and his friends, he always forgot about the numerous eyes and the judging minds behind them. The high of being up there was always strong, and usually held him up long after the last song was sung. Even after that, there was usually his friends to hold him up, keep him cool. Here in some alley with death, worn out by the show and a whole jumble of recently cleared nerves, Jack was starting to feel the drain pulling on his confidence, and fast. If it weren’t for the chill in the air clearing his head, he might have even felt a wall of drowsiness and just left it there.

Hell, this guy was even offering him an out. At first, he thought silver-locks was talking about him, but as the figure studied the wallet, their eyes drifted over to the corpse instead. He couldn’t resist picking up the wallet after the stranger had dropped it again, looking through it the same way they had. It made sense, and he couldn’t help a small snort. Trust his gut feeling, sure enough this guy had been some kind of identity thief or something. Well, at least karma had been both swift and stunning. Jack wasn’t nearly as morally straight as Myk, and couldn’t resist peeking through to see if there was a few loose bills. Suddenly a thought crossed his mind, and he cringed. He’d touched the wallet. Sure as hell couldn’t have left it there, not with his fingerprints all over it. He couldn’t take it back either, not with the killer’s fingerprints over it. Swearing slightly, he tossed the wallet in his pocket and thought about burning it later or something. At least he hadn’t pulled a stupid move like, say, touching the corpse.

Though he was tempted for a moment.

Then the killer apologized. Jack could only stare, a little open mouthed, at the figure before him. The worst part is the guy actually looked awkwardly sincere. More in the sense that he seemed to be apologizing for Jacks sake, not the corpses. For a second Jack felt surprisingly touched. The following question made him snort, but suddenly the moment was passing too quickly for Jacks tastes. He felt a bit guilty though, at how soft and pleading the stranger was to be left alone, but burning curiosity coupled with the strangest need to offer comfort. “W-wait!” he yelped a little louder than necissary, holding out his hands even though the killer had made no move to leave just yet. “Look- you uh.. You don’t need to apologize, I mean, uh.” He faltered. He wasn’t trying to condone the whole thing. Killing was bad and all, but when it came to sympathizing with someone who’d almost screwed him over, he couldn’t dredge up much of anything. Rather he could only feel sorry for the stranger in front of him, whether they really were some blood-drinking demon, or just crazy.

The strangers hard stare made him only increasingly uneasy. He probably was wearing out his welcome already, but he couldn’t help but dig in his pockets until he found a small towel, holding it out lamely. “Uh, I mean.. You should probably uh.. Clean up first..” He always carried one of them in his nicknamed ‘Narnia pockets’ for after show use, though this one was fortunately unused. Stage lights and sweat. Enough said. And, of course typical to his fashion, he added: “You know, deaths a good color and all but uh... Not everybody appreciates that...” Here he faltered, intending to add ‘style’ if his voice hadn’t cracked under pressure. Still, he squared his shoulders and held out the towel, looking up at the stranger. As he did, words popped into his mind, and then a tune. The next thing he knew he had half a verse already, the scene dashing words into his mind like a painters brush. His stare grew unfocused as he repeated the words in his head before he would risk forgetting them, free hand tapping his thigh.

He didn’t get good inspiration often. The muse of music hit him rarely, part of why the band only hand a few songs of their own despite the years. When it did hit him, though, it hit hard and like a trance. It hit him now, in this dingy alley face to face with a killer, and lit his face up in a grin. The towel, whether it was accepted or not, was forgotten as he began mouthing a few of the words, then paused with a frown. “****, what’s a three syllable rhyme for lying... Dis...despairing! Self-despairing... Pit? No...” He moved a palm to his forehead, then swore again. “Damn! I lost it!” As if suddenly realizing how crazy he must have looked (to a potentially already crazy person) he suddenly made an apologetic face. “Ah-ha... Sorry, uh... Artist Syndrome?” he offered up as a half-assed explanation. The ‘AS’ joke had been something one of the twins had come up with just the year prior, when they’d witnessed Jack suffer a hard hit of muse once before. Right in the middle of a Borderlands marathon too. The jokes about being clobbered by claptrap still hadn’t worn out their welcome.

[Myk]

The warning should have been enough, hell, the whole experience should have been more than adequate in striking some sense of self-preservation into the mortal, convincing him to flee or at least allow Myk to escape. Yet, they remained, watching one another; both tense and unsure and vaguely hopeful. Myk may have been the one to ruthlessly dispatch a mortal directly in front of another – unintentionally, but, he had – and yet he was so afraid of how this mortal would respond. Would he call Myk a monster? Would he scream and yell and summon the authorities? Would he do the unthinkable and offer up his blood like the creature before him was deserving of being worshipped? Hearing the young man cry out and almost beg him to stay was therefore startling, curious. The Telepath blinked at the mortal repeatedly, fascinated by the wanton act of friendliness. Paranoia might have convinced him that this was some sort of trick, but for the delusion to take hold, it required the Telepath to fear for his life or health. Myk convinced himself that he wouldn’t care if they found him and killed him for his crimes, and yet secretly – hidden even from his conscious mind – the Telepath was confident that he could run away from this pain too.

The mortal moved suddenly, preparing to offer the monster a handkerchief for his face. Myk went very still, like a hunting wolf trying not to spook a rabbit. Pewter eyes regarded the cloth carefully, scrutinising it like it might explode if he touched it. The man continued to talk, explaining away the mysteries of his innocuous gift like he was coaxing some small, timid animal out of its hidey hole. Myk moved slowly forward with the top half of his body, reaching for the clean white material. His slender fingers twitched with desire, his body convulsing quietly with the pressures of fancy and caution. Myk looked past the small towel as he reached for it, almost as though his intentions had changed and he wanted to touch the man in front of him instead – maybe convince himself that he was real and this was not a hallucination. Commitment closed the pale hand around the handkerchief and whipped it away – not with strength, but with speed – just in case the mortal had had a change of heart, or felt suddenly threatened by that look Myk had given him. With his new possession, Myk stepped back and away – his movements stiff and filled with caution, imitating the wild, distrusting nature of an animal. In the silence, the Telepath took the moment to clean his face and neck, but one eye at least was trained on the mortal all the while.

“What are you doing?”

The voice of the Wraith seared his ears, but Myk didn’t answer.

“Whatever spell this one is under is temporary, young master. We should leave now before he comes to his senses or…”

Pewter eyes lost their hold on the mortal to inspect the thin air beside him. “Or?” Myk whispered back.

“Or you know what will have to be done. You cannot expect him to keep a secret like this.”

The Telepath considered the advice with a derisive snort and dismissed Rutherford once again. Pewter eyes found their way back to the young man who did, indeed, remind him so much of himself. That anarchistic recklessness was so terrifying to so many people because in their eyes it was fire. They didn’t understand how to handle it, how fire was life as well as death, and instead thought only about extinguishing the flames in case they might get out of hand and scorch the entire planet. Myk was an act of nature that couldn’t be controlled without the proper knowledge or approach. You cannot plunge your hand into fire and expect not to be burned. Rutherford’s advice fell on deaf ears because Myk was tired of the same old story being read out to their kind. It was becoming a religion for all its piety and unceasing control. Humans were the enemy because you could not reason with them, because they are not worth reasoning with, like none of these Vampires had ever been mortal themselves! It was insecurity and fear that drove the Vampires into a blood rage in the name of the Masquerade. The offering of a holocaust by Vampire hands to prevent a holocaust by the hands of man made no sense to the Telepath. He would not fear mankind or lash out against anyone that didn’t agree with him, so even if he was in the minority – not something new to him in the slightest – that didn’t mean he would just give up.

As Myk was smearing away the fresh blood from his features, slowly uncovering the milky complexion of his skin, he noticed that the mortal was off in his own little world. The fact that he was daydreaming in the presence of a reckless animal spoke volumes about his sanity or confidence – Myk honestly couldn’t determine which it was. Really, there was nothing to stop the Vampire from closing the distance, snapping the boy’s neck and disappearing into the night. It would do him well, they say, to remove the witnesses, remove the evidence. Yet, Myk couldn’t do any of that. He was never proud of losing control and taking lives, so he certainly wouldn’t do it purposely, but that didn’t mean this mortal knew that. The Telepath had never considered himself to be easily readable; even his father, who had several PHDs in psychology and had brought the boy up for twenty-four years, had barely even begun to scratch the surface of Myk’s psyche. There was no way that the man could even begin to do it now, however. How do you determine what’s real and physical and flesh from what’s fantasy when you witness a man walking across water, leaping buildings, disappearing from sight and feeding off of other people? The world was a crazy place now, and Myk supposed that it didn’t matter if the mortal before him was a bit nuts either. He grinned at the other spoke about rhymes and art, and Myk decided he could help.

“Undying,” Myk offered, his tone unreadable save for its softness. “It… rhymes with lying…”

There was an exaggerated pause there where Myk expected the Wraith to kill him and for the mortal to assume that Myk was threatening him in a cryptic kind of way. The Telepath held still for a second, waiting to see which would happen, but when nothing did immediately, Myk wiped his hands clean with the towel, deposited it in his pocket, and continued to help the boy rhyme.

“Complying… Defying… Applying… Though, it doesn’t necessarily have to be three syllables, does it? Trying… Flying… Buying… To be so high in… Touch the sky with…” Myk giggled. “I like this game.”

Myk’s vocabulary was pretty extensive as it was. He loved word games, spelling challenges, and even had a flair for music. Music was cathartic for the soul, especially those souls that had been stained and spoiled with grief and sin. Myk saw little difference between poetry and music; they had rhythm, structure, and each pulled on the heart strings. Myk wasn’t entirely sure whether the man before him was poet or musician, or whether it mattered at all, but since the mortal had begun to speak aloud his thought process, Myk couldn’t help but to get involved. The psychopath indulged a little too deeply in the mortal’s word game, when he should have fled this scene the moment he’d been spotted. That was the right thing to do, that was what was expected and would be best for everyone. He shouldn’t have shown his face and he most certainly shouldn’t have stopped to converse and – for heaven’s sake – even play games with the young man. Rutherford had just about had enough of this. The more time they spent in this alleyway chatting with strange men in the night, the more likely it was that they would be discovered – that Myk’s crime would be discovered. The Wraith concluded that he had to put a stop to this.

“Young master, honestly,” he began, sounding exasperated. “If we stay here conversing, we are likely to be caught. We must distance ourselves from this place immediately.”

Myk cringed as the voice hit his ears, turning to address the dead air beside him (and forgetting that the mortal could only hear half of the exchange). “Alright, alright. You made your point. Sweet Jesus, Rutherford, you don’t half go on!”

“I would not have to go on, if the young one would listen in the first instance.”

Being the childish sort, it did seem appropriate that the Telepath stick his tongue out toward the Wraith. He was repeatedly being referred to as young after all, and what else do children do when they are being scolded by stuffy old men? Myk removed his attention from the invisible bane of his existence and looked back to the mortal like all this was somehow natural and not weird in the slightest.

“Well… I really should be going. I mean, really. This time. If I stay any longer… someone will notice the… eh… dead guy.” Myk made another gesture to the corpse, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re best not sticking around here either, young one. The authorities approach with the kind of shoot first, ask later ideology that is just staggering! I could survive a bullet or twenty. Not sure you could.”

“Young master, please.”

Myk made a shushing action, waving his hand in the air beside him before reaching into his pocket for a trusty black marker. “Do you have anything I can write on?”

If the mortal didn’t have paper, Myk would use the man’s hand instead. He wasn’t picky. Rutherford, if he wasn’t already dead and had any organs, might have had a heart attack by now from the stress his charge was causing him. He knew what Myk’s plan was. He’d known the Telepath for long enough to interpret his actions and anticipate his future ones. Myk would give this mortal his contact details so he could debrief the mortal on everything that had happened tonight. It was completely ludicrous!

[Jack Flynn (DELETED 7737)]

The look the stranger had given him finally struck a nerve of fear, though only in the sense of uneasiness one felt at being singled out. It was a very precise, physical stare, and for a moment he thought the stranger might reach for him, and flinched instinctively. He knew he stood on the edge of dangerous waters, he wasn’t that dense. Yet when the figure simply took the towel - albeit at a speed Jack couldn’t match in his dreams - he felt a touch of guilt for even the moment of doubt. This stranger could have killed him ten times over, yet hadn’t. It let Jack believe, despite how foolish, that he was in less danger than others would think.

For the moment that passed after his little.. Expulsion, he’d expected the stranger to walk away. Surely he’d proven his strangeness, enough to chase away normal people. And yet the figure surprised him in the greatest way. The moment of tense air that had stretched from the beginning of their meeting till now was shattered. Unconsciously he felt a grin spread across his lips, fully engaged by the strangers list of rhymes. He couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Damn, you’re good. Where were you when I was OCDing over a rhyme for ‘calluses’?” Seriously, he added to himself. That was at least three weeks of migraines right there, and he’d ripped at least half a forests worth of paper, as if the sheet of white was purposefully mocking him and he could intimidate it into revealing it’s secret lyrics.

The thought made him cringe for future days ahead. Considering this silver haired figure had just spurned his muse, he knew he couldn’t let the potential song go anytime soon. Which meant as soon as they parted - assumable to be in one piece - he’d be in for another nightmare trying to finish it. And.. Now the guy was talking to the air. Awkwardly, Jack looked at the air, then shrugged to himself. Normal people would have backed away, or probably played along. Backing away seemed rude, though, and talking to the air even ruder. He settled for just a curious glance, and then a mimic of Myk’s expression when he called Jack old. By that, of course, he meant a tongue sticking out. “Hey, I'm not that young,” he shot back, although he could wager the silver haired figure had at least a few years on the twenty-one year old artist. Looking over at the corpse, though, he had to agree. “Yeah, I should proooobably avoid the whole ‘getting shot’ thing.”

Feeling surprisingly lax, he shrugged. “Skin’s good as paper and better for the environment,” he replied, offering out his hand. This time he didn’t flinch, though it was hard not to. The mans skin was cold as winter, and Jack’s thin frame had never been good with the cold. Leaning over slightly, he watched the stranger ink his hand. He could have just pulled out his crap-tastic Nokia (a joke gift from his friends, meant to poke fun at the lanky mans clumsiness) but there was something about the feeling of a pen on the skin that he loved. Plus, it drew out the moment, and gave him a chance to really study the stranger. Having no skill when it came to facial recognition, he had to really concentrate to absorb details. Besides, he was pretty sure this girl, guy, whatever, wouldn’t be too happy if Jack asked for a photograph. “I mean, if you need a place to clean up..” he paused, feeling like slapping himself. Oh yeah, Jack, invite the blood covered killer to spread their DNA all over your place. Still, the offer was out there, and so he kept his expression calm and inviting. If they took him up on the offer, he’d just cope and deal. The place was due for a top to bottom bleaching anyways.

[Myk]

It was a good thing the mortal had left little time for Myk’s capricious grey matter to get fully into the compulsion of rhyming anything with calluses, or else they would be there all night. The Telepath never tired of games, especially those that required a degree of intelligence and innovative thinking. He’d had a few thoughts already – phalluses, taluses, and loosely, balusters – by the time the subject had changed, but Myk wasn’t about to say any of those words out loud. Instead, the Telepath held steady with a pen in his hand waiting for something to sign his name and contact details on. The young man’s shrug and offer of his hand caused one slender brow to rise on that stoic, beautiful face. It was the suggestion of intimacy that had caught Myk off-guard, but he wouldn’t reject the proposal. Myk closed the distance between them with one step, taking the mortal’s warm hand within a wintry, yet tender grasp and signing his details with a cursive scrawl. Up until now, Myk had conveniently kept much of his features hidden in the haze of the shadows. As he’d stepped toward the mortal, however, he’d found that he’d stepped into the light. The streetlamps highlighted the cashmere complexion of his skin, those high cheek bones, a delicate button nose, pewter eyes which disappeared under heavy black lashes, the feminine curves of his lips still mottled with crimson, and the gruesome burn mark that scored a hideous red line across his cheek.

Once the Telepath was done signing his name, he didn’t let go of the hand immediately. The warmth was strangely pleasing and Myk felt a curious sway of affection penetrate his heart, like he might want for more than just a quiet handshake in an alleyway. Myk allowed the mysterious sensation to linger, his pewter gaze lifting and holding to the man’s hazel eyes; something within them looking familiar, comfortable and quite possibly painful. Myk hadn’t needed the light to reveal this one’s features, but he was happier to be closer in order to properly inspect the butter-like texture of his skin, the colour of his hair – gold and white and faun like the fur of a wolf – and the charm of his physical attributes. The question of gender never came into Myk’s head when he found attraction. More often than not it was painfully obvious as to which box a person stood in, but even so, Myk never cared much. The Telepath judged each individual on their personal merits – it didn’t bother him what genitals they had or didn’t have. Ironically, not many people could tell just what Myk was – male, female, something in the middle, or something else entirely. He had that kind of soft masculine beauty that could effortlessly leak into femininity if he applied just the right amount of make-up, and Myk just so happened to like sitting on the borders of those gender lines (and confusing people).

None of that was on Myk’s mind, however, because as the mortal talked, Myk was fondly considering the sound of his voice rather than what was being said. If he had been paying attention, he might have blushed, for the offer of going back to the mortal’s abode most certainly would have had its meaning twisted by his salacious thoughts. Myk sighed when nervous silence overwhelmed the sweet, lulling sound of the other’s voice, and he promptly released his grip on the mortal’s hand. The Telepath rarely touched others as it was, but the fact that he’d been invited to do so was most surprising to him. In fact, everything this one did was pretty much unheard of for your average Human. Granted, not every mortal who had ever learned his identity as a Vampire went running away in terror, but even he could be subject to the horror stories. The propaganda was as infectious as Malaria: “Don’t reveal yourself to Humans because they will treat you like they treated Frankenstein’s monster!” Only it wasn’t the eighteenth century any more, and surely Humanity had evolved to the point where their first reaction to something new wasn’t to set fire to it. This one’s first reaction, it seemed, was to make jokes and offer the man a place to clean up…

“Tell him no,” came the angry voice of the Wraith – another reminder of the eighteenth century. “You will not be going to his home.”

“What? When was that offered?” Myk spoke – telepathically – into the mind of the Wraith.

“Does the young one ever pay attention?” Rutherford huffed. “This buffoon just proposed of retreat. You shall not accept.”

“Huh… How interesting. Thanks, Roothy. I could do with a bath.”

“You are absolutely detestable. Good luck.”

Simply because the Wraith had made the mention of excusing himself from this scene did not necessarily mean that he was being genuine. With Myk being unable to sense him, Rutherford found that it was a pleasure to lie about where he was and what he was doing without reproach. Myk would never be able to prove a thing and Rutherford had a century or two’s worth of experience in the art of embellishing on the truth. Myk couldn’t withhold the chuckle that tumbled out of him, this coltish sound that murmured freely like a woodland brook, when Rutherford disappeared into velvet darkness with all the vehemence of a cat whose tail was trodden on. It took a few moments before Myk realised that his laughter had come out of the blue and the mortal was likely staring at him like he’d lost another screw and was probably about to murder him. Myk turned his laughter into a cough, swiping a paw across his lips as if he could whisk away any evidence of his spontaneous giggling fit, then looked back to the mortal with nervous eyes.

“So…” Myk drawled, lacing his fingers together in front of him and swaying slightly. “You were saying something about a place to… clean up?”

[Jack Flynn (DELETED 7737)]

As much as Jack stared, he soon realized that he was being stared at in return. It was a sharp sort of stare that made his breath fail him, and only after the stranger released him from that stare did he remember how to breathe. They really were breathtaking, literally it seemed, in their ethereal nature. Jack had to resist the urge to pinch himself, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Then again the last time he’d pinched himself had seriously hurt, and so he was resolved to not do so now. He didn’t like any sort of pinching, and especially hated when nurses said ‘oh it’ll just pinch a little’ when they brought out the giant cartoon needles. Or worse, they’d tell you it was just like a bee sting. Yeah, that’s a cheery thought. Not like anyone ever hated a bee sting, right? Ha!

And... Now the stranger was laughing at him. At least that was Jacks initial assumption, even as they tried to cover the noise politely. He’d thought they would decline for sure, and was thrown off kilter when they reminded Jack of his offer. Not unpleasantly either. It took a full minute of wide-eyed blinking before his brain caught up with the situation. Once he had, he shook his head like a dog snapping out of a peanut-butter mouth induced trance. “O-oh yeah, totally. Uh, just let me give the guys a call and tell them I’ll be late.” He of course neglected to explain just who ‘the guys’ were, but that was something he could make amends to later. He didn’t even turn away as he punched the number to one of the twins cells, because that felt like he was trying to hide something, and that was certainly not the case.

The phone rang a few times, then finally there was a click on the other end. “Hey flapjack, where’d you ninja off to?” The phone’s volume was up a fair bit, no doubt easy to hear even to non-vampiric ears. Jack couldn’t help but pull a face, even though the man on the other side had no way of seeing it. “Oh, I just magikarp’d my way to Narnia. I just got caught up in some stuff, so I’ll have to ditch out on Frizzle’s flashworks.” He ran a free hand over his neck, knowing he couldn’t fill in the guys over the phone fully. Not that they wouldn’t believe him, of course. The group had a certain tight-knit bond, where they’d believe each-other even if one said that chocolate now gave people superpowers. It was more the fact that trying to explain he was taking a murderer over to the place to clean up over the phone, in front of said murderer, really wasn’t a great idea. It was awkward, at best. The dreadlock-proud asian on the other hand made a sound similar to blowing a raspberry mixed with a dramatic scoff. “Seriously? He’s got something called a ‘dragonfly’ though!”

Jack rolled his eyes, unable to suppress a grin. “Yeah, sounds as boss as the ‘bugs bunny’ last year. Listen, it’s a thing, okay?” There was a pause, then an overly dramatic sigh. The code rung true, at least, and the figure on the other side seemed to catch on that it was something they’d talk about later, in person. “Yeah yeah, alright, but you owe me.” Jack scoffed back. “Oh yeah, cause a mic and a bit of scrap music paper is soooo much more to pack then your bass and amp, right? ” “You kidding? That mic is-” “Already packed,” a third, much calmer voice cut in, somewhat distant. “Thanks Thing 2,” Jack called back, shaking his head. “Maaaan, I was gonna squeeze out some good payback, bro,” complained the original phone owner. “Mhm, well, catch you later.” “Yeah, you too. Stay safe flapjack.” “Thanks man.”

With a light click, he hung up and slid the beast of an old fashioned device into his pocket. “Sorry ‘bout that. The place should be clear for at least three or four hours, so um.. Yeah.” He shrugged, grinning a little easier. Talking with his non-blood-related family always put him at ease, knowing they had his back and all that. Enough so he even offered a cheesy bow. “This way.” He straightened and turned on his heel, whistling under his breath as he made his way down a different street. Crossing back towards the cafe again would be a bad idea before he explained things to the crew, especially with the silver haired demon in tow. Besides, he knew a shorter route, albeit still long enough for the inevitable questions that probably included the slew of nicknames and conversation. Not that he really minded those sort of questions. They kept him from asking awkward questions of his own. ‘What’s with the blood fest’ was just one terrible example burning on the tip of his tongue.