Path of the Vampire forum

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Anton Verrais: Overtime. Again. For the fifth time this week. Needless to say, Anton was getting a tad fed up with the workload. He worked as an intern at a magazine. At best, he got to enter his own articles and columns. At worst (which was quite often what he wound up with)... he was the man to call for the grunt work. Filing, researching, getting the senior journalists and writers their morning coffees. Yes. He was the coffee-run guy. But in the end, it was all worth it to him. Continuing to work there meant having his tuition paid, and guaranteed him a real position as a full time columnist once he graduated. What more could he ask for? At this rate… he had it made.

The past week, however, had been a nightmare. Every year, the magazine did ‘toplists’ of their greatest moments. Top ten funniest articles, top ten articles that made your mind numb, that sort of thing. Readers seemed to enjoy it, so it had become a tradition. While fun to read… it was not so fun to prepare. Most of the journalists working there were already busy organizing and prepping the anniversary edition of the magazine, leaving the lower-downs to grind through the past year of issues, down to every last word, to compile them all for the toplists. If, of course, they made it at all. It was a near herculean task, and even with the help of four or five other interns, they were still kept into the night every single day of the week. Today was the due date for all of the articles, and, though it was getting on six hours past when he was supposed to be off work… they got it done. Now, however, it was nearing ten at night, and he was barely halfway home. The sun had fallen, the streets had quieted, some. Normally, it took him about an hour to walk home from work. On that route, he took all of the main streets, sticking to the more populated and lighted areas. No city was completely safe at night, and when he had to come home late, he was not too keen on passing through the… shadier parts of town.

Still, this week had been different. Every night, he had been kept so late, that he just wanted to be home as quickly as he could. Taking his chances, he had chosen the shorter route back to his apartment - cutting through alleys, side streets, even one back yard of an abandoned house. He was lucky he knew the streets well enough to do so. It shaved off a good fifteen or twenty minutes from his usual trek. Nothing bad had happened to him, which, in truth, eased his nerves some about taking this route more often. Perhaps he merely had it in his head that it was a sketchy area. Perhaps it really was merely lacking the light of the main streets, but little else. Ironically, however, it could not have been five seconds after thinking those thoughts, that he slowed his pace, slightly. A group of men, four in total, were gathered in the shadow of a stairwell. They did not seem to notice him, yet, but… they did not seem like the friendliest bunch. Two of them were smoking, one of the cigarettes being passed back and forth between a second man. They were all clad in hoodies black as pitch, with jeans and sweatpants of matching color to their tops. Were the ashes at the end of the butts not glowing amber, Anton might not have noticed them at all. With that in mind… he wondered if it would truly matter if he walked right by. Maybe they were just a couple of teenagers, sneaking out at night. He did it, himself, back home. Not to do exactly what they were doing, but he loved getting out at night with his friends. Keeping that fresh in his mind, he took a deep breath, and began to silently walk along the opposite side of the street from them.

The street he needed to turn onto was immediately next to the group, but there was a way around. If he walked further down the block, there was an alleyway that he could cut through, before finally reconvening on his path another black or two down. It was a bit of a detour, but… it would avoid the unknown band. Even with his thoughts being kept positive, Anton had no desire to find out if he was wrong. Taking one last look back, he-- his head quickly jerked back around, in front of him. His eyes widened, and his pace quickened, just slightly.

One of them was looking back at him, when he tried to glance over.

Don’t panic, he thought to himself. They were probably just looking around. Just like me. Regardless of what they might have been doing, the eye contact sent a chill through Anton’s spine. Had they noticed he was watching them? What if they did? Now at a fairly brisk pace, he was closing the distance between himself and the alley rather quickly. Good. Anything to be out of sight of those men. He crossed the street as he drew nearer and nearer, not even thinking to look back. He was not going to risk it. He might be simply paranoid, but right now, he didn’t care. His mind was playing far too many possibilities through, too many potential dangers he could have been getting himself into. Finally, he reached the alley, slipping swiftly out of sight. Only at that point did he let his tensed breath slip away from his lips, let his posture relax just slightly. He still wanted to move more quickly than usual, but he could at least enjoy a brief reprieve from his fear.

The end of the alley was drawing close. Soon, he would be back on his path, and forget about what lay behind him. A light chuckle even escaped his lips, at that thought. People made eye contact all the time. What was he so afraid of? They probably didn’t even flinch. The night does some crazy things to people. That was all this was. Just a little paranoid episode. With a smile on his face from those thoughts.., shaking his head in amusement… He almost walked face first into the man in front of him. A man clad in black hoodie and jeans, arms crossed, staring him down.

Anton’s heart must have skipped two or three beats, as his eyes reflexively widened, and he took a step back. His mouth opened, trying to stammer out a reply. “O-oh, sorry sir! I-I wasn’t watching where I was going, sorry. I’ll just… s-squeeze by you here…” ****. This was them, no doubt about it. But where were the others? There were four, he knew there were. He hardly had time to think about that, however, as his attempt to slip by the man was blocked by a second rounding the corner. Well then. There was thug number two. As his mind began piecing it together… he figured he knew where the other two were. Now taking steps back again, he turned his head over his shoulder. Sure enough… there they were. Stalking up the path from whence he had come. They had him flanked. Cornered. Trapped. Doubtless… exactly where they wanted him to be.

The man who had initially stopped him took a step forward, as the others spread out to block any paths past him. The first man’s gaze slipped down to the grey messenger bag Anton had slung over one shoulder, and his raspy, smoker’s voice rumbled out.

“What’s in the bag?” He asked, simply. Anton knew better than to think he was truly merely curious about the contents. He raised his hands as though to indicate he meant no trouble, but instead replied with,

“It’s just some stuff from work, man. Nothing really interesting.” God, he hoped that would be enough. Somehow, he doubted it.

“Show me,” came the reply. “Open the bag, pour it on the ground, and step away.” The men behind Anton had drawn closer, now, only a few strides away.

“Look, I told you, it’s nothing important, okay? Just… let me go, and we’ll forget this ever--” Anton was interrupted by the man pulling the hem of his hoodie up, revealing the silver glint of the edge of a blade. The guy had a knife!

“I said… open it.” He did not seem in the mood to take a single ounce of **** from him.

“Y-yeah, okay,” Anton stuttered back. “Don’t worry, I’m opening it right now, see?” Trying to keep his hands from shaking, he reached to the strap of the bag, and slowly started to pull it over his shoulder, off of his body. Would they really let him go, after this? What if they didn’t want anything from the bag? Would they get annoyed, and take it out on him? They wouldn’t want him calling the cops on them or anything… so why let him go? ****. **** **** ****. Anton was trying, truly trying not freak out, but he could feel the panic rising within him. He had to do something. He couldn’t let this be the way he goes out. Not on some stupid back alley mugging that went south. Trying to think on his feet, his pupils rapidly scanned the men in front of him, and more briefly, behind him. Backtracking was never going to happen. By the time he turned, they would be all over him. Going dead ahead didn’t seem overly promising, either… but at least only one of the men were actually guarding the exit. The one talking to him was getting ready to examine the contents. At least, it looked that way. It seemed he didn’t honestly have much other choice, however. It was either this or leave his fate in their hands. He liked the first option substantially more.

Before even taking the time to consider just what his plan was… his body started to move. It was too late to stop it. The plan was stupid, and would probably fail, but he had to do something. As he begun to make it appear as though he was lowering the bag from his shoulder, he suddenly grunted hard, and swung it at hard as he could. The bag itself was soft, but the books and writing utensils were… not so much. He was aimed straight for the head of the man waiting on him. Luckily for him, the man chose to reach for his knife first. By the time he had slipped it from his belt, the bag connected. It hit him clean in the jaw, knocking him to the side, and making him stumble up against the wall. It did not bring him down, but it at least gave Anton a moment’s headstart. Releasing the bag on impact, he began to sprint forward, trying to clear the other man before he could truly do anything about it. He was fast, it was possible. He just had to hope the guy didn’t have the strength to stop him in his tracks. Hopefully momentum would take care of that.

But… he didn’t even lunge for Anton. What was he doing? The man lunged to the ground, instead, and… oh, ****. Not good. The knife that was knocked out of the first man’s hand slid within grabbing distance of the second, and he already had it secured in his palm. Adrenaline surged almost thicker than the blood itself in his veins, as his legs begun to burn from the sheer force of each pump, driving him ever forward. Doubtless the men behind him were trying to catch up, now. It looked as though Anton was going to be in the clear without so much as a scratch! The second man was still straightening up. There was no way he could be tackled from that position. not effectively, anyway. He sprinted by him, letting a shock-induced laugh roll from his gut as he made it by without so much as a touch! Then again, had he been touched? His brain was so hopped up on adrenaline that he likely would not feel if he was punched in the face. His body burned with terrified excitement, as he bolted out into the street. He had run track back in highschool, and god was he ever thankful for it now. Zooming into the next alley, he was progressively putting more and more distance between himself and the muggers. His bag was left back there, but he honestly did not care, at this point. He was alive, he was home free, and he could explain what happened when next he returned to work. He did it! His plan actually worked! His sheer ecstasy kept him running for a few more blocks, before he finally began to slow down.

As he slowed, he realized that… he truly had not taken the time to identify which path he was taking. He had been running, that was all he could focus on. Now, however, he found himself in an unfamiliar area of the city. He felt like he was in a network of alleyways, all tied up between apartment buildings. The buildings themselves were a good sign. It meant he was close to the district his own home was in. But where exactly that was… he was not so sure of. Now with some time to think… He began to notice a burning feeling starting to grow on his side. Like… a cramp, maybe? No, it certainly hurt more than a cramp. The pain was sharper. Wait.. was his shirt getting wet? Was it raining? He looked down at last, wondering what could possibly be wrong, when… oh, no. His white shirt was soaked red along the side of his body, just below his ribcage. There was a tear in the fabric, not that it was truly noticeable beneath all the blood.

The man had clipped him as he ran by.

Admittedly, he was afraid to remove his shirt to see just how bad it was. Judging by the blood, it was not exactly a shallow cut. He must still have had some adrenaline in him, because he could barely feel any pain beyond the burning sensation, but he knew it would arrive soon enough. No, he needed to examine it BEFORE that time came. Trying to swallow his own fear, he hobbled closer to the shadows of the alleyway, wanting to stay out of sight as he started to gingerly remove his shirt. He had to be very careful, as the pain he was worried about kicked up any time he begun to so much as touch the cloth around the wound. Eventually, however, he got it off, and looked down. The cut was clean enough, at least. The skin was certainly sliced, rather than torn, which… if he remembered correctly, made stitching it much easier. Stitching it, yes, that was what he was forgetting. He needed to call someone about this! He certainly did not have the knowledge to mend this, himself. And besides, he didn’t know how much blood loss would be too much. He wasn’t sure how fast he was losing it, or how urgent this was. He needed to call an ambulance. As he began patting his pockets for his phone, he cursed under his breath. He left it in his bag, that night. The one time he chose not to keep it in a pocket. Of course. Irony is a cruel mistress.

Now feeling the waves of weariness starting to wash over him as more adrenaline left his system, he let his head gently touch back against the stonework of the apartment base. He needed to get home, but… he just needed a minute. He was out of breath, tired, and injured. He would sit here for a minute or two, recover, and then finish the job. The worst, after all, was out of the way, right? He closed his eyes at that, and let himself laugh a little more. Laughing would keep his spirits up, even if it was half hearted and quiet.


Clover: One. Two. Three. One: They stood with their feet shoulder-width apart. Two: They raised both arms in the air, making a sweeping motion like a delicate flourish, and slowly lowered themselves so they could wrap both hands around their right ankles. Three: They regained their composure and repeated the flourish with their arms, but then they bent down to wrap their hands around their left ankles. Clover led the class in their daily exercises. Every other member of the class had already taken a turn, so she had no choice in the matter. She stood in front of the other dancers, her back to them, and focused on inhaling and exhaling in time with her movements.

Contemporary dance had become the most important thing in her life. She relied on the practices to keep time. She relied on the practices to keep sane. Outside of her dance classes, she spent her free time dancing. The instructors had taken notice and they had complimented her on her dramatic improvement, but their praise meant absolutely nothing. No one understood how much dancing meant to her; no one understood how much depended on her newfound hobbies.

Clover had two other dances classes and a yoga class, but contemporary dancing held her attention and wormed its way into her heart. The class required movements borrowed from other specialties and pure imagination. When Clover danced, she wanted to look and feel as fluid as possible. She wanted to let go of everything, every outside stressor and responsibility placed upon her shoulders. She needed some way to release, and dancing gave her that opportunity.

Several of the girls had a presentation, Clover included. While the first girl stepped to the center of the floor, Clover followed the rest of the girls to the edges of the room. The others watched the presentation, but Clo chose to overlook the display to dig through her duffel bag. She had a water bottle, a towel, her cell phone--she had normal things that any other girl would have carried in her bag. She took the water bottle out and sprinkled some drops into her palms so that she could spread the liquid over her brow. When it was her turn, she wanted to look as if she’d exerted herself to the point of sweating.

One by one, the girls performed their dances. Some of them chose to dance to classical music, while others chose to perform to more modern music. Clover watched them dip and glide across the length of the room, but she wasn’t as impressed. Their dances meant absolutely nothing to her. She went to the Ballet Company for herself, not for the rest of them. She had no team spirit and no team spirit was required. She had to wonder if being in Fforde had hardened her to the idea of getting along with others. While she had trouble with other vampires, she also had trouble with other humans. She had trouble with the world, or so it seemed.

“And next is Clover. It’s your turn, dear.” The instructor had a way of using terms of endearments, nicknames that had Clover wanting to claw at her own face. Instead of making a snide remark or scowling at the woman, Clo simply pushed her duffel bag aside, removed one of her socks, and made her way to the center of the floor.

Up until that point, she had never been the center of attention. True, she’d just led the class in stretches, but stretches paled in comparison to an actual display of talent. She had helped to choreograph the dance, though the dance had to include the moves that they’d all been taught in the past week-and-a-half. She’d put time and effort into her performance, probably more time and effort than all of the girls combined. The rest of the girls, ranging in age from between eighteen to thirty, either had prior experience or lacked any sort of commitment. Clover really wanted to show some part of herself through the defined movements of her body. She wanted to prove that she took the class seriously, that she took contemporary dance seriously.

The music started and she swore she felt her heartbeat in every part of her body. She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and spreading outward to her limbs. She felt flushed with the sudden surge of music. The instrumental portion of the song lasted less than ten seconds, but it felt like it lasted for an eternity. She began with her arms in fourth position, which had her right arm curled as if she were wrapping it around someone and her left arm curved in the air. As soon as a voice broke through the instrumentals, Clover twirled to her right and brought her left leg up, bending down as she did so.

Most of her dance consisted of smooth movements. They’d been taught different ways to pull imaginary items to themselves and thrust those same imaginary items away, which she did include at various points, but she liked spinning more than anything. She loved the way the world looked as she turned around and around. The colors blurred together. The faces blurred together. The song went on for just short of three minutes, one of the shortest songs of the night’s presentations, but she’d made up for the length of the song by including more motions.

Since she was the last performer of the night, the girls began to trickle out of the studio. They had other plans. They had other destinations. Clover saw them leaving and she didn’t care one way or another. The instructor remained and seemed rather interested in her performance, so Clo continued up until the last note. She pivoted on the ball of her right foot and brought her arms around in a sweeping motion so reminiscent of their recent stretching exercises. When she finally stopped, she stopped with her arms in third position, as if she were set to start all over again.

“Very nice,” the elderly instruction clapped. “You’ve been paying attention. I see promise. Why are you here, Clover?”

Clover let her arms fall to her sides. Her chest rose and fell with such an intensity that she felt as if she needed the oxygen in her lungs to survive. She wanted to hold onto the pressure in her chest. She wanted to feel as if her heart were pounding away, threatening to split her body in two. But there was nothing. Her breathing was a charade: The only rush she felt was the steady stream of air flowing up through her nostrils and down toward her lungs. Her chest felt empty. She felt heartless. She lacked life.

“I like this class,” Clover replied, shrugging her shoulders. “I needed something to fill my time and this works. I’m good at it. I’d rather be here than out there causing trouble. Making stupid decisions.”

Clover walked toward her duffel bag, her sock-covered foot absolutely silent on the wooden floor. When she got to her belongings, she bent down and unzipped the main compartment. She’d tucked her water bottle away and had her phone in its smaller section of the bag. She only had to put her other sock on her left foot and tug on her Converse. She could have walked out into the night with her cropped compression leggings and her white sports bra. Nothing would have bothered her. She didn’t even need the socks or shoes, if she were perfectly honest.

“I think you should come to another one of my classes. We have a few other students here that attend more than one class. They’ve been dancing for longer, but I think you can handle it, with some hard work.” The instructor didn’t have much else to say, so she gave Clover a flier to tuck away and said to think about it.

Clo took a moment to look over the paper the woman had handed her, if only just to check the days and times of the classes. Most of them coincided with another dance class, her hip-hop class, but Clover would have dropped that class in a heartbeat if it meant more time with contemporary dance. Frowning, she stuffed the paper deep into her duffel bag. She slipped a white racerback tank on over her sports bra and then grabbed the strap on her bag. As usual, she was the last student to leave the building. She almost felt like a latchkey kid.

When the doors of the studio swung shut behind her, she immediately noticed the change in temperature. She noticed the darkness brought on by the lack of streetlamps. Nothing in the night scared her, nothing other than hunters of her own kind. Vampires that hunted other vampires set her teeth on edge. She hadn’t been pursued by any of the sort, but she knew it happened. She knew that there were individuals, and at least one group, that felt some responsibility to uphold the masquerade, and that meant making sure others upheld the masquerade. Needless to say, Clover wasn’t one to sing praises for the masquerade; she had to really work to keep herself off the radar. So when she walked out into the night and felt the sort of uneasiness that clung to her flesh, she gripped the strap on her duffel bag and stuck to the shadows.

Her sneakers crunched along the rocks scattered across the pavement. Despite the fact that it wasn’t that late in the evening, she felt alone on the streets. She entered the River Rock station and got a prime seat on the metro. The rest of the people in the first car looked exhausted, whether they wore business attire or street attire. Of the other people in the car, she was the only one that wore exercise apparel. She rested her duffel bag across her lap and stared straight ahead, watching the platform as it disappeared from view. She could have stayed that way for the duration of the ride, but she had a wandering eye. She just had to study everyone else in the car.

A woman sat in the back of the car. She had a tight grip on two bags of groceries, one of which held fresh fruit; the other bag looked like it held random boxes and cans. Clover couldn’t really tell what was in the second bag, and she wasn’t that interested anyway. She could have focused on the two businessmen reading newspapers or the mother and child whispering in Spanish, but she focused on a group of men clad all in black. Even though there was no smoking on the metro, one of them had a cigarette lit. All four of them were looking at her in some manner. Two of them looked interested in her duffel bag and one of them looked interested in her shirt. The last man, the one smoking the cigarette, looked her right in the eyes.

Clover dubbed the man the leader of the group. While his other companions found amusement amongst themselves, moving on to pick on the businessmen or the woman and her groceries, the leader continued eyeing her and her bag. Sometimes, she swore he saw right into her soul. He had a piercing look, a threatening look. If she weren’t a vampire, she might have pissed herself. As it was, she had to remind herself that he lacked her strength and stood no chance against her. Her thoughts allowed her to lock eyes with him, silently challenging him. One by one, the other people in the car left. Right when Clover thought the four men were leaving, they moved to seats directly across from her.

“That’s a nice bag,” one of them spoke. The leader didn’t say anything to her, but she continued looking at him. What his three friends said made absolutely no difference. Clover understood how it worked because she existed in a family with a central figure. None of the limbs operated without the head. “Hey! You hear me?” The same one leaned across the aisle and snapped his fingers at her.

“You put your hand near my face again and I’m stabbing you,” she threatened. She spoke those words because she always had her weapons on hand, but she’d left them at home that night. She didn’t have a place to keep them, not on her person, and she couldn’t very well stuff them into her duffel bag. She knew that if someone were to get into her bag by mistake, she would have to explain why she carried guns around. Still, she stood by her threat, even after she realized her weaponless state. “I mean it.”

The three guys laughed, but the leader just smirked at her. He finished off his cigarette and ground the cherry tip against the edge of the plastic seat. When he leaned forward, his friends quieted their laughter. They looked ready to pounce on her and she felt ready to attack.

“You look nice tonight,” he spoke, his voice deep and throaty, as if he knew years of smoking. “What’s someone like you doing out alone at this time of night?” He had his hands resting on his knees, looking quite comfortable with the way he pried at her for answers.

“You look like ****,” she countered. Immediately, his three friends stood up, but he motioned for them to sit down. They listened to their leader, but none of them looked happy. “I like to work on my cardio.” She figured a lie would suffice, but he kept staring at her with his piercing eyes.

“Now my friends and I,” he smiled, looking to either side so he could see his friends’ faces, “we saw you leave that dance studio.”

Red flag. Warning bells. Clover lost all control and just stared at him. She looked at him as if he’d just uncovered the greatest treasure the world had ever seen. They’d followed her. He made it known that they’d followed her. She told herself she wasn’t afraid, but his words sent chills rushing down her spine. She’d been so focused on the sound of her shoes and the road ahead that she’d ignored every other part of her surroundings. She’d prioritized in the worst possible way.

“Why don’t you tell us your name, pretty lady?” One of the others cooed, reaching out as if he were going to touch her hair. Before his fingertips could reach her brown hair, she’d reached up and smacked his hand away. “That’s it!” He was reaching for his belt as if he had a weapon, but she hadn’t seen one there. No, he’d pulled up his black hooded sweatshirt to rip off his belt. He intended to beat her with his belt.

The train slowly came to stop and a bell sounded. An electronic voice announced their most recent stop just before the doors parted to reveal the station platform. Clover stood up and ducked to her right; she left the men scrambling to get out of their seats and through the closing doors. She moved faster, but they took longer strides. She couldn’t tome back to Larch. She could run, but they weren’t in a position that would benefit her running. She couldn’t lose them on a main road. As soon as she came to a system of side streets that connected into smaller alleys, she went for them. She took a right and then a left; she went in whatever direction necessary to lose them.

She could have killed them. She could have ripped them apart. She could have sunk her fangs into them and drank every last drop of blood from their pathetic bodies. Instead, she chose to cling to her recovery process. Clo chose to forgo killing and feeding from humans. When she could no longer hear their footsteps, she stopped running. She stopped in the middle of an alley and doubled over. Her duffel bag slipped from over her shoulder and landed with a thud just next to her feet. For a while, she reveled in the silence. She used the time to forget their faces and the sound of their voices. She focused on lifting the stench of cigarette smoke from her sensory memory. She inhaled and held the oxygen until her lungs burned, and then she released, exhaling the stale air back into the night. Halfway between her second deep-breathing exercise, she heard the sound of nearing footsteps.

Clover scrambled to collect her duffel bag and tucked herself into the shadows. She told herself that if one of the four men from the transit had found her, she would break her promise to herself and kill him. The murder would be bloodless. She would simply snap his neck and toss his body aside. As she waited for the person to show his or her face, Clo went through all the possible scenarios for a clean death and body disposal. It was when she caught the scent of blood that she realized her attackers probably weren’t in pursuit. Someone else emerged from the dark alleyway, someone she hadn’t seen before. Someone that was bleeding.

She stopped breathing and slapped a palm over her nose and mouth. She couldn’t stop her eyes, but she worked to stop her other senses. The smell of blood still lingered. Clover could almost taste the blood. She could taste the blood. When had she last been able to taste anything at all? She imagined the way it would feel as it slid over her tongue and coated the back of her throat.

She didn’t know when she’d loosened her grip on her duffel bag, leaving it on the ground as if it were someone else’s problem, but she knew when she took those first steps toward him. She’d given up shielding her nose and mouth, as if doing so had done any real good. Clover crept toward him, using the shadows like a second skin; she stood back and watched as he lifted his shirt. When he laughed, he startled her. He forced her to acknowledge just how close she stood to him. She could have closed the distance between them without issue.

Instead, she maintained the distance. She used the lighting to get a good look at his wound, at the way the weapon--it looked like it might have been a knife--had cut through his flesh. Clean. Not perfect, but clean. She wanted to close her arms around him and drag him into shadows deep enough that he would never surface again. Clover imagined digging her fingers into his wound and watching the way the flow of blood increased. Her mouth seemed too dry. Her thoughts moved too fast. Finally, she moved toward him. She reached out to touch his arm.

“It looks like you’re bleeding.”


Anton Verrais: First the burning. Oh, that burning. It rose like wildfire. When he had first noticed, it was but a tingle on his side. He felt funny, nothing more than that. But with every second that passed since then, the flame had grown hotter. He felt like the entire side of his body was burning to a crisp. But that was not the worst of it. Second, came the stinging. The sharpness of an agony he had never had the twisted pleasure of knowing. If he did not remember the feeling of being cut by the blade, he did now. It felt like he was being slashed open with every waking moment that passed. The wound was fresh, it still bled his crimson fluids. The cold night air was in stark contrast to the feelings it wrought on the man. He was a fighter. He had taken martial arts classes since he was a little kid. Even here, in Harpor Rock, he found a new dojo to continue his training. He was no professional, by any means, but he knew how to take a hit. But no training could have prepared him for this. They never taught you how to tough out a stab wound. Was it even a stab wound, or just a slash? God, Anton didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care. He just wanted the pain to stop.

But none of that mattered, right now. The pain was there, and it was there to stay. He would just have to find a way to cope with it, at least until he could get to a hospital. His mind was beginning to clear, thankfully, letting him try to think things through. He was tired, extremely tired. He must have sprinted further than he thought, because he was clueless as to which part of the city he was in. Did that matter, either? Not really. Not yet. Not right now. All that mattered was the next step. And then the next one. And the next one after that, until he made it where he needed to go. So, the first step. He needed to get up. It seemed like a good place to start. His body, however, screamed it’s unspoken plea not to move. Even shifting on the ground made him feel like his flesh was being torn open all over again. Damn it, the wound must have been deeper than he thought. He took a slow, controlled breath, letting his gaze drift down to his wound once more. He could see beyond the red, this time, now observing with a more level head. It was deep, there was no doubt about that. But for all he could remember, there was nothing too vital in that area. His lungs were fine, his heart, his stomach. He would survive this, thank god.

All that left for him, was to muster up the will to stand. It wasn’t going to kill him. He underwent endurance training in his classes before. This would just be another one of those, right? A very… bloody… version of an endurance test. The thought was not exactly a pleasing one, but it was motivational. Sugar-coating his own thoughts was hardly what he needed, after all. His hands, slightly shaking both out of blood loss, leftover adrenaline, and sheer exhaustion, clutched his legs in preparation. The first step was standing, that was all that mattered. Just… do it!

Just as he was about to make the agonizing push to get to his feet… he felt a hand on his shoulder. A voice. It said something, but his nerves were too high-strung to hear it properly. With subconscious reflexes that only training could bring (albeit still nothing phenomenal, merely above average), he started, one hand bolted up to bat the assailant’s limb away from his body. he tried to scoot away in the same motion, but it was perhaps his greatest mistake to do so. Clover might have noticed a new wave of blood roll from his wound with the action, further complimented by the anguished groan from Anton’s lips.

“****!” he growled out, having put himself in too much pain to recognize pleasantries. Still, unless the hand came in for a second assumed strike… he would finally look up. Behind him was hardly the picture he had projected within his mind. It… was a woman. She looked like she had just been out for a run, or something of the sort. Hardly another robber.

“I… sorry, I’m just… high strung.” He mumbled out, clenching his eyes shut and focusing almost all of his strength on ignoring the pain. When he opened his eyes again, he did his best to begin explaining his situation, assuming the woman would likely be wondering just what happened (regardless of whether or not she truly cared). “I got jumped a… a ways back. I don’t know how far. It uhh… well, you see what happened.” He wearily nodded downward, at his side.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you? I think I need an ambulance… hehe…” There was so much relief shooting through his rattled brain, now seeing (hoping) that the stranger was not here to do exactly what the others did. He could not help but laugh again. It was like ecstasy to him, however brief, to feel that relief after such a drastic spike of fear and adrenaline. He wished it would last more than a few mere moments. He could use some more laughter, right about now.


Clover: Blood. So much blood. A human would have been worried about the wound. A medic would have administered some sort of first aid. He needed to apply pressure. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed stitches. Anton needed anything but what Clover had to offer him. She could have been the type to apply pressure, to stop the bleeding, to apply any sort of first aid that he so desperately needed, but she wasn’t that type; she wasn’t the person she could have been. She was a predator and she saw nothing but prey.

When he jerked away, she focused her attention on the fresh blood dribbling down his side. She didn’t know what his face looked like. She knew nothing other than his wound and the blood that called her name. His wound whispered to her in a language she understood. Drink me. Lick me. Devour me. Her fists were clenched so tight that her nails had begun digging into her own flesh. They left deep, dark, half-moon shapes on her pale skin. She felt like a spring, like a coil, like something ready to snap. She felt like a rubberband in the midst of a tension-filled extension.

He’d cursed and she slowly dragged her eyes from the gash on his side to his face. He didn’t look well. He looked weak. The way he spoke left her hanging on his every word. “It’s fine,” she replied, shaking her head from side to side, “you have a right to be high strung. You’re in a delicate position.” Clover emphasized the word ‘delicate,’ as if she were trying to soothe him. Maybe she had expected him to find some comfort in the fact that she recognized his weakness, his vulnerability brought on by his injury.

He started telling her about what had happened and she listened. She tried to listen. Had she been curious about the origin of his injury? Perhaps. Yes. No. She didn’t care about him at all. She wanted to rescind her self-imposed sobriety. She wanted a better experience than the last hunt she’d had, the hunt that had ending in panic and fear and regret. Swallowing hard, she relaxed her hands and stretched out her fingers, flexing them a few times. In front of her, she had another opportunity. Clover saw Anton has an opportunity to right a wrong.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a phone,” she lied, her voice deeper than it had been only moments before. She felt a familiar burning in her eyes and she knew her pupils had lengthened. Clover jerked her head to the right and kept her focus on the ground. She had to look away from him. Her pupils had gone from circular to vertical, like perfect slits in the center of her eyes; the color in her eyes, the whites of her eyes, both had bled together and shifted to a golden brown. Eyes of the beast.

She didn’t want him to look at her. Her own frustration mixed with the draw of his blood. She lashed out at him in the only way she knew how: She swung at him. Her palm was open, her fingers extended. She never intended to kill him with the blow. Clover stumbled away from him and went for her bag. She forced herself to withdraw just enough to ease the tension in her limbs. Nothing could have taken the scent of blood from the air. By that point, she found more than his blood appealing. She’d found something appealing about his overall scent.

Her phone went off from within her bag. She raised her head, her eyes still the eyes of a predator, and looked directly into his eyes. By then, he should have realized she’d lied to him. Her ringtone played through three times, the annoying song filling the silence around them. The noise echoed off the buildings surrounding them and disappeared into the night; beyond their brick and asphalt maze, no one would have noticed the noise. To Clo, the ringtone was deafening. She had the choice to comment or not to comment, to tell the truth or to lie. If it were anyone else, she might have lied.

“Please don’t run,” she frowned. She slid her left foot back and kicked her bag further back into the alley. The action signified that while she had retreated, she had no intention of leaving. She’d moved back to survey him, to take in everything about him. Her tongue darted out of her mouth, wetting her lips. “I really don’t want to chase you,” she had to stop, to narrow her eyes. She wanted his name, just as she had wanted Declan’s name. “Give me your name.”

Even if he chose to run, even if he chose to defy her words, her requests, her demands, she knew she would follow through with giving chase. She’d latched onto him. She’d marked him, in her own way. The scent of his blood would never really leave her memory. She’d stalked prey for days; she’d stalked prey for weeks. Clover had no problem following him around for a length of time. She had that sort of patience buried deep within her body, deep within her soul. Sometimes feeding took time. Sometimes feeding turned into a sport, an actual hunt.

Her head ached. Her throat ached. Her very bones ached.


Anton Verrais: ’Delicate’. That single word sent a chill up his spine. What did she mean by that? She was right, he was nowhere near fighting condition, but… it did not comfort him. In fact, it did the opposite. That single word, something about the way it slithered from her lips… it made him want to shiver. Something was not right. Perhaps it was him, however. Perhaps he was simply too high strung to tell safety from danger. She would have offered him her phone, if she had one. She wanted to help. She did want to help, right? His thoughts were not helping him calm down. Shut them down. Blot them out, and focus on the present. There was nothing else to be done.

He must have been zoning out for longer than he anticipated, because the first thing he felt when he was brought back… was a slap. Hard. Sharp. Cold. Nothing about it felt right. Then again, why would it? He was just hit, and what’s worse, he had no idea why. The growing burn on his cheek was almost unnoticeable, paled fully in comparison to his gash on his abdomen. But he knew who did it. The woman across from him had slapped him. Why? What did he do?

He was about to protest her actions… and then he heard a ringing. Not the ringing you hear after a loud noise, or a hefty blow to the head. No, it was… a tune. Electronic. It was a cellphone, it had to be. Did she have a cellphone? His gaze shifted to her bag. It was the source of the sound. No, no no no. She was lying about the phone… which meant she did not want to help. Just what was she here for?

Anton Verrais: “Look, whoever you are, I don’t have anything left to take…” his words trailed off as she spoke. Don’t run? Is that what she had just said? She was so friendly about it… was it an honest mistake? Maybe she--- his own thoughts were cut off as he saw her eyes. Oh, those eyes. They were far from human, even more so when placed on a human body. What the hell was going on? Who was she? A million questions were running through his head, but he was too frightened to ask any of them. One thing was for certain, in his mind. She was not human. Er.. not fully. He did not have a clue what she was. But those eyes…

He heard every word that came out of her mouth, every last sound she made. His knobs were cranked to fifteen, some of them had the damn things broken off. Sight, sound, smell, it was all over amplified. And yet, the almost ethereal level of sensory overload was all for naught, because he could not move his body. He was frozen, out of pain, out of fear, out of downright shock. She did not want to chase him… What an odd thing to say. Then again, that was hardly the strangest event of the night.

”Give me your name”.

Her words cut through him like a heated knife on butter. The simple request felt like a death threat, to him, in his state. One false move, and whatever the hell she was would give up the facade. He had to play along. There was no choice.

“Anton,” He croaked out, voice leaving him far more quietly than he had intended. “Anton Verrais.” No other words escaped him; he could think of none if he tried. No, he would sit, and he would wait, for whatever she wanted. He was not ready to die. People always joked about a fabled sixth sense, the one that sensed that which could not be detected by any other, seeing the unseen, hearing the unheard. Feeling the unfelt. And right now, he felt a fear he had not felt before, but he knew all the same. He feared for his life. He feared for his survival. This was not a robbery. This was a hunt. And he was more than simply being hunted.

He was caught.


Clover: Clover hadn’t missed his words. She hadn’t missed him saying that he had nothing left to take, yet he had something left that she desperately wanted to claim as her own. She wanted his blood. She wanted his life. Clo wanted to play with him until he died, like a cat playing with a mouse. The way he looked at her and the way he spoke to her signaled that he had no chance. He looked frozen and he sounded afraid. The most important thing he said to her, his name, sounded as if he’d pulled the words from deep within his belly. Though she’d only slapped him and warned him not to run away, she enjoyed her brief time with him.

Anton. Anton Verrais. Clo had no intention of returning the favor and supplying him with her own name. She told herself that over and over again. The only problem with her internal monologue was the fact that she wanted him to know her name. She wanted him to know exactly who held some level of control over him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Anton,” she mumbled. She’d raised her nose and parted her lips, taking in the smell of him. Her sire’s warnings faded to the back of her mind, covered by the basic need to feed. Her promises to herself and the memories of her blood-soaked meltdown left her body and disappeared into the night sky. “My name’s Clover.”

No weapons. She had no swords, no knives, no guns--she had nothing on her person to dispose of him. She had her bare hands. Slowly, she took shaky steps toward him. Everything told her to pounce, but she fought against that urge. Patience, she reminded herself. Patience. “You don’t have material possessions, but you have something else I want,” she practically cooed, making the final move to stand before him. She stooped down to be at eye level. She let her serpentine eyes take in every facial feature, from his hairline to his jawline.

Her hands shook as she reached out to touch his cheeks. She had to stop halfway. Her hands moved as if she were simply going to rest her forearms against her bent knees. But no. No, she went for his side instead. She went to jab her fingers into his open wound. Clover wanted to force more blood from the cut; she wanted to paint herself with his blood. She wanted the ritualistic killing she’d had before she’d fallen apart. Clover thrust her fingers into his wound and hooked them around the edge of the torn flesh. She looked as if she wanted to lead him along by the injury or separate the skin from his body.

Anton wasn’t Declan. Anton wasn’t a human she would regret. His eyes be damned. His hair be damned. His name was Anton. Despite her thoughts, she saw little things about him that reminded her of her last prey. His eyes were very similar to Declan’s. She saw the same fear in them that had left her disgusted with herself and the situation. She just couldn’t stop exploring Anton’s side; more specifically, she couldn’t stop pulling and pushing at his sensitive injury. She wanted to thrust her whole hand into his side and reach up until she could crack his ribs, but her eyes were on his face. Her concentration was on his face.


Anton Verrais: Aaaagh! What the hell was she doing? His side screamed louder than his brain did. All hope of thinking was cut off as sheer agony coursed through every fiber of his being. He did not even know what she had stuck into his wound, but it... it was moving. Stretching. Tugging at the already torn flesh. He moaned loudly in pain, an extremely weak, and more than fearful noise. It cut off with a choked noise, like he was trying to hold back tears. At least, sobbing. Tears were there the moment the pain hit. He took a shaky breath, but it would only be expended with another groan. Was she torturing him? What was going on? His very vision was beginning to blur, from the utter amount of pain he was in.

"W-why are you-- uuuhhnnng--" He had to pause his words, to make way for another cry of pain. "...Doing this... to me? What... what do you want?" He did his best to keep his voice level, but he was simply too afraid. Too pained. Too miserable. It came out weak, terrified... and helpless. His wide, sky-blue gaze made a stark contrast to the growing pools of blood beneath him, the ominous crimson that painted his body, lifeblood spilling anywhere and everywhere it can. It looked far too innocent for the rest of the grizzly scene, those eyes. They were the eyes of one who had never lived in fear. They were happy eyes, friendly eyes. But now... they were quickly being filled with nothing but terror.


Clover: He was loud, louder than she had anticipated. He kept trying to speak to her and she couldn’t decipher his words. The noises he made and the tone of his voice made everything more difficult. She pulled her hand back from his side and gently smeared some of his blood across his cheeks. She painted the crimson onto his skin as if she were painting a portrait. Clover had to admit to herself that she felt more alive. She hadn’t felt so good in weeks, maybe months.

His last question had come through clearer. Maybe he had steeled himself just long enough to free the words from his throat, or maybe she had finally focused on his voice instead of trying to pry him open like an amateur surgeon. She tried justifying her actions by telling herself that she fit the role of a surgeon. She had spent time as a patient when she should have spent that time cutting people open for a living; she should have been torturing people since she’d first made contact with the supernatural. She’d wasted time holding back, just as he wasted time turning her thoughts over in her mind.

“Anton,” she finally spoke, as if they were the oldest of friends, “I like playing with my food.” Slowly, she pressed a bloody finger to her lips and licked it clean. She repeated the action until she’d cleaned every ounce from her hand. “I’m not going to actually eat you. It’s just a saying. I don’t think I could eat you,” she joked, “but I could try. I have been considering it. What do you think?”


Anton Verrais: Oh, god. How could this night get any worse? The morbid part of his mind reminded him that... it just might get there if he lived through this hell. Because he would then have to live with it, day after day. Something inside him hoped that he would not have to. No. No! What is he thinking? He had to fight! He had to... do something. Anything! Anything but lay back and accept this torment!

When her fingers left his wound, he immediately began trying to crawl away. Of course, bloodied, weak, tired, and in excruciating pain, he can only move a few inches at a time. He quickly gives up on his attempted escape, as his helplessness begins to truly wash over him for the first time, he tries to choke back a new wave of sobbing. He knew he was in a bad spot, but... perhaps the shock was fading. He was FUCKED. He was done for. There was nothing he could do. He was at the mercy of this... this... maniac, psychopathic cannibal, or whatever the hell she was, and there was not a god damned thing he could do about it. He wanted to be angry, but... all he could find was an overwhelming sense of panic, of depression... and of course, unimaginable pain.

"Please, I'm begging you, just..." he swallows hard, forcing down both more tears, and another cry of pain. Terror laces every one of his words. "Please let me go... I won't say a thing to anyone, I... please... I don't want to die..." Begging the woman who literally asked if he thought she should eat him. He truly was in a despicably humiliating position. But right now, he did not care. He would clean this bloody alley with his tongue if it meant being freed from whatever sick, twisted hell she had planned for him.

Clover: Maybe something in her had finally snapped. Maybe whatever had made her Clover had gone away. As she watched his vain attempts at crawling away, she smiled; she wondered what went through his mind as he moved, inch by inch, away from her. Did he really believe he could escape? Did he honestly think she would let him escape?

She didn’t move after him. She wanted him to realize, to finally admit to himself, that he had absolutely no chance of survival. No, he had no chance of survival unless she let him survive. She was in control. Anton started talking again and she forced herself to listen to his words instead of the beat of his heart. He probably heard the erratic thumping of his heart. The noise sounded much sweeter than his voice. If she chose to open his chest cavity, she knew she could watch as the organ slowed to a stop. She had to be fast enough; she had to be accurate enough.

Months ago, Clover had been in a similar position, though she’d encountered someone more willing to show restraint. She’d cried until her eyes ached and lied right to his face; she’d said that she hadn’t seen a thing. “Stop begging,” she sighed, her eyes narrowed and showing her irritation. “I didn’t want to die either, but look at me. I’m dead. I’m ******* dead.”

His pleading had her upon him once more and she yanked at his arm. She never meant to apply such force. She never meant to tug at him or squeeze down on his arm. Everything about him frustrated her; everything about him amused her. Without thinking, Clo parted her lips and allowed him a glimpse of two rows of razor-sharp fangs. She snarled at him.

Anton Verrais: Every moment that passed brought more and more despair to him. He was going to die in this god forsaken alley. Alone. Helpless. Humiliated. He wished she would just hurry it up. He could not run, he could not fight back. He was going to die, whether he liked it or not.

The waves of realization washing over him flooded his body with a crushing depression. She did not just want him to die. She had made that much clear. She would not let him run, she would not even make it quick for him. She wanted to hear him scream, and cry. To beg and be shot down time and time again. He had heard of horror stories like this before, but... only on internet sites, or in novels. Fiction. But this was real. All too real.

"Please..." he whispered, unable to fully hold back his tears, now. His pleads were interrupted, however, as she yanked his arm. Jesus christ, that was hard! A splitting pain coursed through his arm and shoulder, not a moment later. It hung limp at his side, useless to him, now. Had... had she dislocated his arm? Oh, gods... this was only the beginning, wasn't it?

He was tired. He wanted this night to be over. He wanted everything to be over. He remained silent until the moment she made her next move. Baring those fangs. But rather than begging, rather than crying out... he could only choke out a few words, too distraught to truly make any further impact.

"Please... whatever you are going to do... make it quick. Please don't torture me... what did I do to deserve any of this? No, it... it doesn't matter, you don't care, do you... just... if there's any part of you that can even begin to care about me... just make it quick..."

Clover: He wanted to die. He’d gone from begging her to spare his life to begging her to end his life. He took the fun out of her plans and forced the smallest bits of joy from the moment. He wouldn’t play with her. Clover slowly kneeled next to him and rested a hand against his cheek, gently brushed her thumb over his skin. The tattoos on the palm of her hand were flesh against him then, hiding the word werewolf and the outline of an animal skull.

“Shh,” she whispered, continuing to stroke his cheek. She tried soothing him so that she could feed on him, something she’d never really done before, not with effort. Before she’d met Anton, she’d never had to focus on lulling humans into a peaceful state. The ability seemed almost ingrained in her black blood. “No torture,” she spoke softly, drawing ever nearer to him, “I promise.”

Before that night, she’d promised plenty of things; she’d broken many promises. She was so close to him that it looked as if she were joining him on the ground, as if they weren’t in such a difficult situation. Her leggings had the beginnings of holes in the knees from when she’d kneeled on the ground. She leaned in toward him and inhaled his scent, breathing him as if she could feed from the air itself. Clover pressed her lips against his bare throat and held them there. She reveled in the change in temperature between their two bodies. He held a heat she could only recall in memories.

Clo felt the pulse of his carotid artery just beneath her lips. Absolutely still, her eyes closed, she swore she felt the individual blood cells as they moved along his artery. She couldn’t see the way the shadows began to radiate around her, the darkness like a blanket built to soothe him. As the shadows expanded outward, she parted her lips and extended her fangs.

Anton Verrais: Anton's mind could not keep up with the pace of their meeting. One moment she was forcibly gouging his wound with her fingers for the sole purpose of pleasure, the next... her hand was caressing his cheek. His entire body was shivering, and she could doubtlessly feel it, now. Blood loss, fear, temperature. The list went on and on, possible reasons for the symptom. He stared with blue eyes frightened to a near block of ice, watching her every movement. He wanted to look away. He wanted to run. He wanted to do anything, besides sit and watch as his demise tried to soothe him.

Her words of promise made him inhale sharply, albeit shakily. No torture? A little late for that, he thought. But still... was she telling the truth? Oh, god, he hoped so. With her hand being both his only solace and his greatest fear, for the moment, his body could not decide between trying to cling to the gentle, caring touch like a lifeline, or scream and kick and claw away from it. He wanted both, in that moment. He wanted to be held, he wanted to be told everything would be alright. But he wanted it from anyone but her. Anything but her.

He could hear the sound of her inhaling through her nose. She was... she was smelling him.The predator, savoring her prey. She was indulging in the smell of victory. Of dominance. And it made his very spine freeze in terror and defeat. Then, her lips. Oh, those lips. They touched against his skin, just beyond the vital bloodline within his neck. She wanted it. He knew it all too well. And... as much as he hated to... he knew she already had it. She had him. Until she chose otherwise, he was hers.

At least he expected the bite. The sharp puncture made him gasp softly, almost breathlessly, but he expected the sharp, quick pain. But before he could truly register what it was he felt... everything started to fade. To mingle together. Shadows crept off of the walls, surrounding the two of them. Hugging them. Embracing their union, marked with blood. Blood. He saw it everywhere. It mingled with the shadows. Danced with them. Obsidian and crimson colliding in an ominous ballet of splotches, swirls, and lines. It should have frightened him, but... it only made him look on in wonder. It was morbid, it was dark, it was... beautiful. More. He wanted to see more! But just as he realized how badly he wanted to watch the pretty colors dance with him, they begun to fade away. No. No! Come back! But they were already gone. All that remained was complete darkness... and Clover's lithe frame, still feeding from the crimson fluid that flowed so freely within his neck.

Then, just as before, everything began to change. He felt his head start to spin. No... his world. Everything was spinning. He grew dizzy, he lost track of his sight, could not focus on anything. And then, suddenly, he was... home? Not his home in Harper Rock. He was home , with his parents, his sister. But... why was she a baby? She was fourteen this year... wasn't she? Wait.. how old was he? Twenty-one? Fifteen? No... he was eight. And... he remembered this. This had all happened before. His little sister, his old room... and in a moment...

"...Sweetie? Anton?" The soft voice of a woman rung through the halls, echoed in the air. It was his mother. She always had such a beautiful voice. It could soothe him in the blink of an eye, ever since he was a baby.

"There you are!" She exclaimed as her face came into view through the now-cracked open door to his room. "I was looking for you ever since I got home! Having some brother-sister time, are we?"

Anton wanted to reply. He wanted to ask what was happening. He knew this was a memory, but... it felt so real. Like... like he was living it all over again. And yet, he could only remain silent. He knew he spoke, on that day. But no words came, this time, from his lips.

"I got you something while I was out, dear!" His mother exclaimed, an excited lit to her tone. "You have always been such a creative little boy, and I know how much you love creating your own little worlds, so..." she removed a hand from behind her back, and in it's grip, was a single leather-bound book. Black, crisp, red thread lining on the spine and edges. It was beautiful. "I got you this! It's a blank book, one that you can write anything you like in! A story, a diary, anything! Think of it like... a whole continent to start fresh on, and write whatever you want into it!"

Anton was excited. Back then, he was ecstatic. That was the first time he had ever decided to try writing his own stories. It hooked him for life. Even now, looking back, it rekindled a fire within him, a passion to write. It never truly left, but he could feel it, brighter than ever, in that moment.

He heard his sister laughing, behind him. Though he could not hear himself, this time, he knew it was because of how excited he was. She always loved it whenever he got excited. Every time, she would laugh and giggle and clap her hands. He truly did miss her. Hopefully he would get to see her again soon.

He could have stayed in that memory for ever. It was one of the happiest moments of his young life. It was what set him on the path he was on now. But, much to his anguish, the memory, too, begun to fade. Blackness was returning once more, and his dazed observation was dissipating. No! Please! Memories of what was truly happening to him right this moment, in the present, flooded his mind. A woman, a stab wound, torture... feeding. He remembered it all. He could feel her, at his neck. Was she finishing up? He could not tell. But it hardly mattered. He was in pain. This was all real. The brief life within his memory was gone. He was back to the hell of the present.

Clover: The moment her fangs punctured the skin on his throat, she lost herself. She’d reveled in the sound of his skin tearing and the sound of his blood pumping. Although she had tasted his blood before, although she’d enjoyed the conflicting sweet and savory and metallic taste of his blood, Clover found herself entranced. The liquid flowed over her tongue and down her throat, moving with all the grace of a waterfall. She’d wanted to rip into his neck, but she held back. She’d spent time and energy soothing him. She’d drawn him into her and strung him along like a puppet. To give in to base desires meant to ruin everything she had built. Her fangs craved his artery, but she used every ounce of her willpower to keep herself from shredding him, ruining him. He was hers. She took care of what was hers.

At first, she lost herself in the taste of him. There were so many adjectives to describe how she felt. Blood made her feel alive again. Blood made her happy. The color, the texture, and the smell brought out the best and worst in her, and then she took those emotions and projected them. Sometimes, she felt angry. Sometimes, she felt blissful. Her mind felt as if there were shorts, little electrical impulses that had, all at once, failed to communicate with one another. There were sparks. There were transfers. And then nothing. Her thoughts came in loops. Her feelings came full circle.

Behind closed eyes, Clover saw a new world. Colors and sounds and feelings blossomed out of the darkness and swept her away. She felt as if she’d taken a step away from Anton, but she knew she hadn’t. She still felt the steady movement of his blood as it slid over her delicate palate. Her sensual fog had retreated to allow more and more of the foreign sights and sounds. The darkness lingered on the edges of her vision to remind her that she had a small hold on the truth, a gentle, and yet firm, grip on reality.

Sweetie.

The spoken word had her tightening her grip around Anton, cradling him to her. Her eyes twitched behind her eyelids. She couldn’t stop the scene. She just couldn’t open her eyes. Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Clover dug her fingertips into his arms and she pressed her fangs further into his neck. The artery was so close that she felt the hum against her lips. Puncture it. Kill him. Take him. If it weren’t for the images she saw, she might have given in to the steady thoughts that urged her to end Anton’s life.

Clover saw a woman and heard a woman, but she knew that she and Anton were alone. The confusion had her clinging to everything, even the dark, wavering edges that framed the unnatural scene. No, there was Anton. Clover saw the man in the vision, yet she knew she had her fangs pressed to his warm throat. What was she seeing? What was happening? There was a notebook, one that reminded her of her own notebook. They were both writers. They both formed worlds out of words and shaped stories out of consecutive sentences. She couldn’t kill him. She couldn’t torture him. She had to let him go. Clo had to relinquish her hold on Anton and let him go. She had to stop. God, what was she doing? What had she become?

Even after the darkness had swallowed the vision, Clover lingered. She toyed with the idea of a higher power, one that would have granted her serenity and forgiven her sins. When she finally wrenched away, she had tears streaming down her face. Blood dribbled from her lips and joined the coating of red along her chin. She couldn’t stand the taste. She couldn’t stand the taste! She practically threw herself away from Anton, unconcerned if he crumpled to the ground, unconcerned if he had died. No, she cared. Yes, she cared if she’d killed him.

“That was you, wasn’t it? That was your family?” Her voice was hoarse, even though her throat was still coated in his fresh blood. “Are they still alive? Do you have people that care about you?” Clover didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know what to do. She toyed with the idea of calling her sire and demanding he help her, to be her mind when she’d clearly lost her own. “Do you have people that care about you?” Her voice had risen, yet it sounded more like a hiss.

Anton Verrais: He had never felt anything even remotely similar to the feeling he was enduring, in this very moment. He felt terrified, anguished, scarred, empty, any number of words to describe the horrible pit not only in his gut, but within his very soul. And yet… the truly confusing, chilling revelation that stemmed from it all… was the longing. He felt a longing for those fangs to return, a twisted, incomprehensible desire for some unknown task to be completed. It was as though the fangs had left him cold and empty, with nothing to fill the void that remained. Was this what death felt like? Was he dead? He had heard that death was nothing but a vast expanse of emptiness, in the past, but… he had no idea if that was what he felt, right in this very moment. Would he ever know? Was he doomed to continue like this, in his personal limbo, waiting to decide whether or not he had passed, but being unable to come to any decision? He could not tell if he felt amazed… or horrified.

It hardly mattered, in the end, as reality came swirling back to him. The emptiness was not the cold, lingering embrace of death. Perhaps not so far from, but not it, just yet. Gradually, he found himself able to see through the vast expanses of blank darkness. He saw the alley, once more. He saw his bloodied body, the blood that belonged inside of him, not spattered over his skin, his clothes, the earth on which he rested. He needed that blood back. That was surely what felt empty, inside of him. He was, in some sense, physically empty. The emptiness chilled him to the bone, body lacking the blood he needed to keep himself warm. Warmth… he longed for warmth.

His vision cleared further, and before he had time to process all that he had only just seen (or thought he had seen)... he saw the woman. She was… crying? She had pulled away, now, though she was still close. Too close. He knew what she had done. He knew every second of what had happened to him. It was not like the dreams one could hear of, where the nightmare ends, and the viewer awakens in their bed. No, his nightmare was real. And it was nearly cowered in front of him, tears coming from her eyes. Suffice to say… he was confused.

The aforementioned nightmare began to speak, then. It spoke to him. She spoke to him. What was she asking? His senses had not all cleared, yet. No, wait, he did know. She was asking about what he saw. Apparently, what they had seen. So she experienced his ‘vision’, just as he did. Peculiar. Then again, what wasn’t peculiar, on this night? Peculiar was perhaps too friendly a word to describe it. Haunting. Disturbing. Terrifying.

She asked if he had those who cared for him. If he had family. She asked him so many questions. His mind felt as though it was trekking along at half-pace, unable to keep up with any of her words. In what little conscience he still had, he assumed it was his lack of blood. He was bleeding out, and fast. Unsure of how long he would last, but remembering in chilling detail just what she was capable of, he decided that his best chances for survival were to play her game, answer her questions. To obey. Whatever that might have entailed, he had to obey.

“Y-yes…” He whispered, his lips physically struggling to churn out words, throat catching on his own breath. He felt tired… a rapidly growing part of him wanted to close his eyes, and simply go to sleep. Sleep… sleep sounded comforting. Just a little nap, that was all. Suddenly, as though being shocked by electricity, his eyes shot wide open, his body stiffened. It sent another wave of pain through him, but he did not care. That sleep held absolutely nothing for him. That sleep was exactly what he was fighting against. That sleep would never end, if he let himself take it. Yet again, he felt adrenaline in his veins. He knew exactly what that feeling was. His will to survive was at last burning again, and he had no intention to let the flame be extinguished again. Refusing to so much as blink, he forced himself to sit up straight, and look his tormentor in the eye.

“I have a family,” He slowly articulated his words to her. His pace was measured, slow. Every word had to be focused on, thought of first, spoken second. In fact, every one of his actions required the same method. Think, do, think, do. It gave him something to cling to. Something to grip, refuse to let go of. It was a lifeline.

“I have a mother, who loves me dearly,” He continued, that same pattern flowing in his words. If Clover knew anything of death, she should have known by then, why he was speaking as he was. His voice carried weariness, an intense struggle, and yet… such determination. He knew he could have given up, in that moment, allowed the blood loss to sweep over his mind, just as it had his body, and to fall into an eternal slumber that very second. But he refused. He fought. He willed his way out of the pit, and though it perhaps did not show in the surface, they likely both knew that he was dragging himself tooth and nail further and further away from it. Perhaps he might even survive without immediate attention, if he could simply hold on to his will. “I have a sister, who has spent most of her life trying to find my approval at every turn. My father… left when I was little. I never had the chance to remember anything more about him. Don’t even know his name..”

He at long last let his gaze slip away from her. He was too tired to feel fear, in that moment. He knew what she had done to him, but he could not provide the necessary energy to fear her. Talking was about as much as he could force himself to do, beyond simply fighting against himself. “You saw my family, too, I take it… That was around the time of my eighth birthday. My…” Even now, he had to smile softly, “my first journal.”

Clover: Her tears had slowed. Clover lifted her right hand and swiped her fingers over her cheeks, removing the excess moisture from her cheeks and smearing the blood from her mouth blood over her skin. The red that had stained her white tanktop and her white sports bra looked like a part of her clothing, like a funky new tie-dye pattern. As he spoke, she closed her fingers over the bottom hem of her shirt and wrenched it over her head. She bent over to use her thighs as a place to support her shirt and her clumsy folding techniques, but the shirt ended up crumpled into a ball. He spoke to her about his mother and his sister, yet she turned her back on him and went to retrieve her duffelbag. Her eyes still shone amber, though they were a deeper shade than they were at the beginning of her attack; her fangs remained extended, as if they were still waiting for her to resume her feeding.

“Your father’s name doesn’t matter,” she grunted out, unzipping her duffelbag and thrusting her bloody shirt into the dark interior. She pulled out her towel and her water bottle. Clo glanced over her shoulder at Anton and then opened the water bottle and dumped all the contents over the fluffy towel. When she raised the towel to her face, she had another assault on her mind. She heard Anton’s mother and saw him presented with the journal. Clover dug her fingernails into her palms until they broke the skin, digging into the meat beneath.

The moment took a few minutes to pass. Until she could collect herself, Clover relished the feel of her own blood on her nails and on her skin. By that time she gathered her senses, she’d heard everything Anton had to say about his family and the memory they’d both witnessed. He had a mother and a sister. His father had never really entered the picture, having disappeared too soon to truly mean anything at all. Clo wanted his story to strike a deeper chord within herself, but she had no sudden rush of emotions. She continued to compare their lives and where they were at the time; she continued to follow the parallels.

He had people that cared about him, and she had no one. He had the seeds of opportunity, and she had nothing. He had a pulse, albeit a weak one, and she had nothing. Thinking those thoughts made her growl, the sound deep and low in her throat. The sound seemed as if it originated in her core. She sounded as if she wanted to whip around and pounce on him all over again, to finish the job she’d only just relinquished.

“I asked if it were you. I asked if they were family. I asked if they were still alive,” she spoke. “I asked if you had people that cared about you. I asked you simple, direct questions. And you give me a short story about yourself.” Clover roughly tugged at the zipper on her bag, nearly sending the zipper off track and ripping the fabric of her bag. When she stood back up, she slowly turned to face Anton. “Answer me directly and stop going off on your little tangents.”

Clo bent down once more to collect her bag. She slung the strap over her shoulder, but she wore it like a cross-body bag. The bag itself weighed almost nothing. And then, with her concentration elsewhere, she felt as if she weren’t carrying the bag at all. Anton looked incredibly weak. He looked as if he would die in that alley. He looked as if he were going to be yet another nameless, faceless victim. She knew she’d eventually bring him up again, likely with her sire. She knew she would remember Anton’s name and remember Anton’s face. She’d taken bits and pieces of him and twisted them into pure mistrust and paranoia, but he’d buried a fraction of himself right into her mind.

“Do you want to die here?”

Simple. Direct. She could have walked away. She would have chalked him up as yet another loss. He would have joined an exclusive club, a club that only Declan had joined. If he asked her nicely, Clover knew she would grant him a mercy kill. She’d never actually offered anyone a mercy kill, had she? Anton would have been a member of yet another exclusive club.

“I can crack your head open. I can mutilate you,” she offered, her voice soft and almost melodic. “Or I can give you a quick and painless death. I can do these things for you. I’ll do these things for you. If you want to die, Anton.”

She had her bag. She had her shirt, her towel, her water bottle, and her cell phone. Clover looked ready to walk away and leave him to suffer until he eventually died. Even though her exposed flesh still had flecks and streaks of blood, she looked better than he looked. Clover could have strolled out of the dark alleyway and right back into her life, right back into the rut.

Anton Verrais: Anton (Mae, for when you read this: I posted from mobile, and for sake of ease I didnt add in the technical stuff like color and whatnot. Ill add it tomorrow.)

His gaze weakly followed her, just barely managing to keep up with her movements, and yet, she was barely moving at all. He was simply growing too tired to keep up with much of anything, save speech. He had a rising feeling of dread within him that, even if she let him live through this… he might not make it, regardless. He had lost far too much blood, more than any man ever should. Hopefully she would at least give him something, anything, to stay afloat. If, of course, she even wished to leave without draining the rest of him.

Her words, however, stung like a hornet with each syllable she spat. He did not realize how much the tears had dampened her tone… how greatly he feared her, now that she went without. He wanted to shrink away as much as he could, but could not find the strength to move himself. Instead, he strained a little to maintain an even gaze with her. However… figuring it wise to obey this… whatever she was, he only nodded his head once, in understanding.

“Do you want to die here?”

It was a question he had never expected to hear. Not… in the context, not in the tone in which it was provided. It did not sound like a threat. No… it sounded like… a choice. A question. A legitimate inquiry. She wanted to know if he truly desired for her to end his life, as he had told her to do not long before she had bitten into his neck. Did he want to die? A part of him, a part he wished would simply shut up, said yes. His mind could not properly cope with all that he had seen, tonight. It was too much to bear. And aside from that, he was already on the brink. One final shove simply meant ending it more quickly.

Her explanation of how she could twist, mutilate, cripple him until his very last breath before practically strangling the last whispers of life from his broken body… it haunted him to his very core. She spoke of it as though it was some twisted sanctuary in which he could indulge. A shattered paradise to revel in his last miserable moments on earth. Those words reminded him, all of him, that he absolutely did not want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to survive, recover, and return to the life he had. He wanted to forget this entire night, and carry on as though it had never happened. He knew he would never be able to do so, but… it did not change the fact that he wanted to see the light of day, again. Even a painless, quick death… it was still death. No, he was a fighter. He would fight, and he would make it through this.

“Life,” He finally managed to croak out. “I want… to live…” in spite of the weariness in his words, the glimmer of determination… no. The glimmer in his eye was not quite determination. It was hope. In spite of everything, he still apparently carried some spark of faith in the woman across from him. His tormentor, his abuser. Some part of him still believed that she could… perhaps even that she would help him, in some way or another. It was almost admirable, the way that little part of his mind still clung to that hope. A lifeline, a buoy in the middle of an ocean of doubt, that refused to believe she was a being of pure malice. No matter what happened to him, it seemed he refused to fully let go of that hope.

He said not another word to her, still obeying her prior commands. She wanted short, direct answers. He did not want to find out what she had in mind to do to him, should he so decide to go against her orders. He simply watched her and waited for a reply… if any would come at all. The way she stood, with all her things in hand… he half expected her to simply leave him there, a bleeding, fading mess. Left to the elements, to finish what she had started. He hoped it would not be the case.

Clover: He wanted to live. Some part of her approved of his choice, but some part of her mourned the loss. He hadn’t taken her offer; he hadn’t wanted her mercy kill. He hadn’t wanted the escape she associated with a human death. As she stared at him, Clover lowered her hands to her duffelbag and unzipped it once again.

“I didn’t have the choice I’m giving you right now. I wasn’t given the choice to be what it is that I am or to walk away,” she spoke clearly. Her hands had yet to leave her bag, but she’d stopped rooting through the dark interior. She didn’t have to search to find what it was she was looking for, what it was that she wanted. “Do you understand me?”

She hadn’t expected him to answer. That much was clear. As she moved toward him, she showed no hesitation. She kept her attention on his eyes and leveled her breathing until it eventually stopped. The blood didn’t exist. Only his eyes existed. She’d formed a little mantra to remind her of the fact.

Don’t look at the blood.

Don’t look at the blood.

Over and over again, she repeated those words, that single sentence. Her eyes had slowly faded back to their normal dark brown. In the darkness, the deep brown color of her eyes truly made no difference. Her eyes looked black, and her face had fallen into shadows. When she reached him, she stood before him and studied the way his brow looked and the way his eyes looked.

“You chose to live and I admire your decision. But let me make one thing clear. You belong to me now, Anton. You’re mine. And wherever you go, I’ll find you,” she smiled, her lips barely curved at the corners. Her smile held no warmth for him, even though her words had solidified the bond that they’d only just woven. Anton was hers. He belonged to her. “Your life belongs to me.”

Clover finally let her open duffelbag swing back to its resting position at her hip. She had her cell phone in her right hand. The screen lit up and cast an eerie glow on her blank expression. For a second, she seemed as if she weren’t going to do anything at all, but that changed. She pressed the emergency button on her phone and held it to her ear. She waited until someone picked up and she waited until someone spoke.

“I need help. I found a man and he’s bleeding out,” she began, a new sound of panic slipping into her voice. She didn’t care that Anton saw her feigning the emotion. She didn’t care that while her tone had changed, her expression had not. “No, I don’t know what to do! I can’t handle all the blood. He looks like he’s going to fall asleep!” Clover had to pause and wait for another block of conversation, and all the while, she looked right into Anton’s eyes. “I-I don’t know where we are. Yes! Please calculate it. Just please hurry! Yes, I’ll stay on the line!”

Clover pulled the phone away from her ear and set it on the ground. The quiet voice of the emergency-service person echoed from the speaker. She’d turned the volume up just enough for the noise to penetrate the quiet surrounding them.

“If I find out that you’ve gone back on this arrangement and opened your filthy little mouth,” she whispered, leaning in so that her lips were nearly flesh against Anton’s left ear, “I’ll make sure to finish what I started, whether or not I’ve claimed you as my own.” When she’d finished speaking, she pressed her lips to the outer shell of his ear. The kiss was short, a chaste reminder of how close they were standing.

The sirens erupted onto the scene, the noise starting out as a soft intrusion and growing into a harsh attack on her senses. She left herself time to turn away from Anton, time to make her way down the alley and back toward her home. She’d given Anton a choice she hadn’t had, a choice she might have adored. And in doing so, she tied his life to her life, his existence to her existence. When she’d told him that he belonged to her, she meant the words. She meant every single word. Clover owned his life.