3:16AM
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<Clover> I think I need to remove this armlet.OOC: Backdated to January 6th
Sunset had occurred almost thirty minutes ago. Even though she’d slept peacefully, she felt as if she’d tossed and turned for hours on end. Her body seemed heavier and awkward to move, from her head to her toes. While she might have remained still, allowing the dark room to slowly coax her from her dreamless slumber, she forced movements. As soon as she’d opened her eyes, she’d gone for her journal. Clo had lifted up the top corner of her side of the mattress, raising it just enough to slip her journal free. She’d reclaimed it and tucked it away, not that she’d hid it very well. No, she hadn’t meant to hide it at all.
Her entry had revolved around her depression, yet again, but the most important part came at the end of the four-page entry. Clover wasn’t even sure if she wanted to end it there, on such a foreboding note. Blood. How much she needed blood. How much she depended on blood. Clo still had the book open. She still had the pen in her hand. Her dark brown eyes never strayed from the blue-lined paper, from the gentle curves and sharp lines of her fair handwriting. Even looking at her small letters and the shrinking distance between words, she sensed detachment. Clo felt as if the armlet had some connection to her problem, and blood represented a cure.
Clo dropped the pen between the pages and flipped the front of the notebook closed. She sat there, with the notebook in her lap, and looked over at Jesse. Had her movements woken him? Had the incessant sound of the pen scratching against the paper drawn him from his slumber? He could have been pretending. The thought struck her that he might have been awake the whole time, that he might have been the first to open his eyes. Perhaps he’d fallen into her typical routine, where she allowed herself time to adjust to a new night. The bedside table had an open spot for her journal, so Clover picked her book up by the corner and deposited it there. She ignored the fact that the pen rolled from between the pages and clattered to the floor.
Turning onto her side, she slid down farther beneath the sheets and moved closer to Jesse. She pressed her bare body against his and wrapped an arm around him. Even then, her armlet made its presence known. The white-gold snake wound its way around the upper portion of her arm, its sightless eyes facing up toward her head. The simple piece of jewelry was actually a powerful relic, a relic that left her stomach empty and her throat aflame.
“Jesse,” she tested, still unsure if he’d awoken or not. She leaned in and brushed her lips over his. The kiss was chaste, too light and too quick for her usual taste, but her goal wasn’t to lose herself to his lips. “Jesse,” she repeated, “come hunting with me.”
<Jesse> Sleep was not something that Jesse should enjoy. At least, not so soon after his illness within which time he had spent days in bed. He didn’t think it compared, however. Those days had not been restful. If that had been rest, it was the most exhausting rest he had ever experienced. Even his dreams had been exhausting; a never-ending cycle of darkness and negativity. These days, however? He slept as if he hadn’t slept for a year. Whenever it was close to sunrise sleep would take him, swift and fast. And he wasted no energy making himself comfortable - whether he had the bed to himself or not. These days, he rarely had the bed to himself, which was not something that he would complain about.
As soon as the sun set below the horizon, Jesse was awake. Whether he got out of bed straight away or not was another question. The restfulness one feels between sleep and consciousness was a precious thing that should not be taken for granted. There was nowhere special he had to be, and he was still enjoying the fact that he could lay there without feeling any kind of pain. Without wanting to throw up. Without feeling as if thorns were growing in his bloodstream. Without being overwhelmed by thoughts of suicide.
It was the most satisfying thing in the world to be able to lay there, awake, but with his eyes closed. To doze as he felt Clover stir; as he heard her pen as it made its mark on the lined paged. Of course he was curious. The woman had given him the book to read and there was rarely a frivolous entry; she wasn’t wont to write down things that made her happy. Not often. So what was going on with her, now? Would he be whacked over the head with it as a wake-up call?
But he didn’t move. Not yet. Sleep still clung to him like broken cobwebs drifting in a breeze - still holding tight to the leaves they’d been secured to. He should get up, he told himself. His sketch book was around, somewhere. While she wrote, he could sketch. Get some work done, while the night was still young. In that half asleep state, he imagined that he was sketching. Believed that he had actually got up and was doing what he had thought of doing, except he hadn’t moved at all. His body was a dead weight in the bed, and it was only as he felt Clover’s smooth, tantalizing skin slide so easily against his that he realised he was dreaming. He didn’t have a sketchbook. He had lips against his, and eyes blinking open to dim light.
Hunting, she said, and he swallowed. Yes, there it was. That familiar thirst, that ever-present hunger. Hunting, she said. Not for rabbits or deer, but for dinner. He hummed under his breath, pressing his lips lazily to Clover’s. Better than chaste, but not urgent, either.
“Yes,” he said, the word touching her lips. Except with his arm now thrown over her body, and his own body still a dead weight, it didn’t seem as if he were prone to much movement.
<Clover> His lack of movement made her reconsider her desire to hunt. For a moment, Clover seemed content to linger, to enjoy their close proximity; however, her journal entry hung heavy on her mind. She’d only just attributed a great portion of her depression on the fact that she couldn’t feed, as if blood would knock some sense into her and force her away from the proverbial edge. To feed, she had to leave the comfortable bed and abandon such their position.
“We actually have to move,” she whispered, her voice weak from hours without use. Even she heard the underlying amusement in her tone. Instead of trying to whisper words of encouragement, Clo brushed her fingers over his thigh and trailed them up over his hip. She pressed her palm flat against his side, pausing in her motions, and then rubbed at his lower back. Her hand dipped down, and she delivered a sound slap to his bottom.
With a grin on her face, she slipped away from him. The only indication that she’d left the bed was the quick dip from her side of the mattress, and then she went to gather some of her clothing. Hunting meant dressing nicely. She had to abandon her usual attire in favor of something more appropriate, something with a little more color. First, she put on a bra and panties, but she hesitated on selecting a dress or going with jeans. In the end, she went with the dress. The colder temperatures made no difference. People were more likely to approach her, or less likely to run from her, if she wore a dress. The dress, all black and falling just above the knee, should have been worn for something other than hunting. At one time, she might have worn it for a special occasion, but she chose to repurpose the garment.
She had to switch out to a strapless bra, but the dress looked nice. Clover stood there and looked down at herself. In the back of her mind, she heard Jesse calling her vain. Was it vain to appreciate the fact that she looked nice, that she looked better than presentable? Clo wanted to turn around and force Jesse to comment on the dress, just to drag a long string of compliments from him. She really wanted to make him think she needed his approval, that she needed each and every compliment. If he thought he vain, then she could play the game. But she decided against poking fun at him. She went back to searching for a jacket, one to play along with the other humans and avoid suspicion.
“Do you want to watch?” Clover knew her question was vague. She didn’t try to clarify until after she’d located her green military jacket. The coat still smelled brand new, almost like she’d just purchased the item. “I mean, do you want to feed, or do you want to slaughter? Do you want to watch? I don’t have to. I mean...you want me to tell you when I’ve written something troubling. Well, I’ve written something troubling.” She turned toward him, her lower back pressed against the side of the dresser, and focused on his body language. After a long moment, she turned her gaze to her journal, the journal that she’d left on the bedside table.
<Jesse> Jesse was of two minds. The way her hand travelled over his bare skin, he would have been quite happy to stay in bed. Just a little while longer. They didn’t even have to do anything. He liked the weight of her there, beside him. The presence of her. The scent of her. He was about to curl into her, to tuck his face down against her neck; to nibble and nip, but before he could even move he felt the sting of a slap against his backside and the dip of the mattress. The sudden coldness of an empty bed, even if the two of them had no body heat to begin with.
Ice-blues opened to watch Clover as she moved backwards and forwards, getting dressed. He watched her play of indecision, before she finally decided what to wear. He knew he should get up and out of bed to start getting dressed himself, but for the moment, he enjoyed watching her. It wasn’t a normal start for them. Normally they didn’t linger so much in bed; they were up and about and doing things. It was nice, sometimes, to linger. To linger and to watch. Jesse didn’t have the ability to remember everything without trouble. He had to realise when he was within a moment he wanted to remember, and he had to focus in order to make it happen. These small moments of ordinariness - of waking up slowly and getting dressed, these were the things he liked to remember.
When Clover was mostly ready, she offered him the choices. The uncertain questions that had him wanting to laugh, until she finished. A tiny glance was spared for the journal he knew so well; should he read it now, or should he just go? Go, and do, and support. It was better, he decided, to go in blind. The ready smile was replaced with consternation, and he finally pulled himself up and out of bed. There were no wounds and no broken bones. There was nothing but health, dexterity. Eternal youth.
The smile that he offered now was indulgent. Standing, he sauntered over to Clover, his hand curling behind her neck as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. She was ready to go and he was still naked. It seemed far too awkward to slip into silence, to read her journal while she waited. Jesse thought he could guess. She had the relic that she’d given to him for a while. She didn’t need to hunt, but she wanted to. It was something that she suggested. He understood her reaction to blood; it was something that they shared.
“You can watch me all you like. I want to watch you…” he said, leaning away only to open one of the drawers to find a pair of jeans.
“You remember when… when you said I needed chaos but I wouldn’t let myself?” he said. He couldn’t remember the words exactly, but he figured the gist was there. “Am I right in assuming that you need a little chaos? We can go to the slums...” he said, quietly, as he buttoned his jeans and fished out a belt to thread through the loops.
“Is it wrong that I’m excited when you’re feeling troubled…?” he asked, tightening the buckle of his belt though he waited for Clover’s response before he fished for a t-shirt.
<Clover> He moved, and Clo felt the beginnings of a smile. His movements were always so smooth, as if every step were calculated. Her eyes followed him, tracing his steps as if she were the one drawing him closer, luring him. While she’d wanted his lips on hers, she reveled in the feel of the kiss on her forehead. Soft. Rough. Fast. Slow. His kisses were just as intoxicating as his movements, and she had the sudden urge to tell him, to reward him with yet another truth, yet another admission. Instead, she bit her tongue and allowed the moment to pass.
Clover closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the drawer opening. The wood grinding against wood soothed her and reassured her that they were leaving the comfortable confines of the bedroom. They were one step closer to a release. “Mhm,” she hummed, the noise one of agreement. Yes, she meant to watch him, just as much as he meant to watch her, or so it seemed. And yes, she recalled her comments revolving around his repressed urges, his needs for complete and utter chaos. “I remember.”
When her eyes opened, she looked at him and watched him as he dressed. She’d eyed him as he put on his jeans and as he buttoned them, but she remained silent. Had she truly meant to cause such a mess, to escalate things to a level worthy of chaos? One word immediately surfaced: Yes. Of course she meant to cause a mess. She meant to cause such a mess, an absolute slaughter. Just the thought had her fingers twitching. The armlet warmed against her flesh, almost as if it were reminding her that she had no need to feed. Her body required no more blood, but the armlet knew nothing about her. The inanimate object lacked any sort of understanding.
“I need more than a little chaos.” As she spoke, she recalled the times she’d had Jersey by her side. Jersey had said she could handle Clover and all of the baggage that came along with the dark-haired woman, but what about Jesse? Clo, once again, let her eyes roam over his form. She’d seem him in a number of positions, so the odds were in her favor. They both deserved some fun; they both deserved the freedom associated with taking human lives, and murder was so freeing.
Clo finally moved away from the dresser and grabbed a pair of combat boots. Seated on the edge of the bed, she slid her sock-covered feet into the boots and began to tighten the laces. “I want you to enjoy yourself too. I want you to be excited. I can’t wait to get this armlet off. All I want to do,” she stopped and licked her lips. Clover looked as if she could already taste the blood. To keep her fangs from appearing, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The exhale had such an emphasis that she counted the beats from the moment her chest stopped rising to the moment her chest finally fell.
When they were both ready, when Clo had regained some semblance of control, she led the way out of the room and to the fadeportal that transported them to the slums. The number of times she’d been to the slums rivaled infinity, but her past trips had been for specific items. The slums promised gun parts and used needles; the rundown crack dens offered drugs and money. But bloodshed. Jesse had gone to the slums in search of bloodshed, but not Clover. Clo had gone in other directions. To show her commitment to the chaos, she’d left her gun behind. Clover had a short blade and her bare hands, and she meant to use her bare hands for some of the killings. Nothing screamed intimacy more than a weaponless killing.
<Jesse> Clover may or may not have noticed the way Jesse watched her. Every single movement was lodged in his brain and examined, compared to the last and to the next. Without having read the journal, he had to try to piece together the bits and pieces by himself. If there was something that Clover needed that she wasn’t telling him about, he would find out the old fashioned way. By watching. She had done the same for him, hadn’t she? Those months ago, she never had to ask. He never had to tell. She knew what was going on without having to read any journal. The least he could do was try to do the same.
As soon as they landed in the slums, Jesse stretched and took a deep breath, as if he could smell the blood from here. Before they could get very far, Jesse stopped Clover, stepping in front of her with a hand against her torso. “Wait,” he said, before his fingers slid up beneath her jacket, slipping the one sleeve off a bare arm. Beneath, against her inked skin he could see the gleaming relic. It was so familiar to him now, that metal object that was both a blessing and a curse. Calloused fingers pushed and nudged at the armlet until it slid neatly from her skin, down past her elbow and over her wrist. It gleamed in the light of the streetlights as he held it up between them.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. If he wasn’t wearing it, it wouldn’t affect him. At least, he didn’t think it would. He didn’t think it mattered. Even if he was technically full he was always hungry. Always. He helped Clover tug her jacket back into place, before he started wandering down the street again, hand resting against the small of Clover’s back.
“These houses… some have families,” he said with a mild shrug of his shoulders. “But some are just… dens. Drug cartels. That’s what we’re looking for…” he said. A house full of men and women interested only in peddling drugs. They could be picked off one at a time, or in a mass slaughter. It was always a challenge to get them all, to disallow any to slip away. No witnesses.
“It’s my favourite kind of chaos. The panic,” he said with a sideways glance. He was following Clover’s lead, even if he was now trying to overtake her, to take a lead of his own. He wanted to help. He wanted to be there for her, just as she had been there for him. He wanted to provide.
<Clover> The armlet stood for absolute mastery over her bloodlust. The gold jewelry had wound its way around her flesh in the way that it wound its way around her hunger. Clover should have welcomed such an easy solution to her problems, but the armlet never truly solved her problems at all. The relic became a band-aid, one that pinched and pulled at her flesh. If it weren’t for Jesse’s overwhelming depression, Clo might never have realized her own predicament and the importance of a vampire’s nightly feedings. But was she truly thankful? Had she really solved any of her problems?
After knowing the ache in her gums and in the pit of her stomach, Clover didn’t want Jesse touching the armlet. He’d worn the relic once, but he’d worn it out of absolute necessity. The stopping and starting, the messy cycle associated with wearing and removing the armlet sent her body into shock. Every single time, she felt as if she were reintroducing herself to her immeasurable thirst all over again. To watch him slide the gold coil down along her tattooed flesh, to hear him reassure her that he’d keep it safe, left her feeling as if she were stepping back into her body for the first time in weeks.
Heartbeats seemed louder. Voices seemed clearer. She tried her best to focus on his voice, but she could hardly separate it from the rest of the sounds and their surroundings. If it weren’t for his hand on her back, she might have lost contact with her own body. Her steps were slowed, the bottoms of her boots dragging along the pavement. A few times, she almost tripped. Too preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other, she only caught bits and pieces of Jesse’s words, the words that surfaced from the white noise of the rest of the world.
“Families,” she echoed. Admittedly, her voice was softer, so much smaller than she’d anticipated. He spoke of dealers and crack dens, but his first words ignited something inside of her. Images of happy families. Images of children. Images of endless possibilities. “Sometimes, I like to sneak up on my prey,” she spoke, turning her head to look at him, “but sometimes I like them to know I’m coming. I want them to look at me and know me.”
Deciding on the first option, she pressed her index finger to her lips, leaving it there for a moment, just long enough to indicate that they needed silence. She turned away from him and motioned to one of the rundown houses, one with light from a television drifting through a large picture window. There was the shadow of a recliner and the shadow of a pine tree, a Christmas tree that had been forgotten, left up for too long. Clo made out the outline of a person, a man, sitting in the recliner. Whether asleep or awake, he’d slumped in the chair, his head leaning to one side. If she listened closely, she heard the faint sounds of heartbeats coming through the thin walls of the home. Five of them.
“This one.” Clover closed a hand around one of Jesse’s and gave a small tug, encouraging him to move with her, to follow her, toward the home.
<Jesse> Although Jesse was merciless, he’d never been intentionally cruel. He didn’t kill to instil fear; it wasn’t the process that he enjoyed, but the outcome. The walls painted in blood, the taste of blood. The gluttonous feeling of being too full, but wanting more. Always wanting more. He liked to feel his blade sink into flesh; to see limbs severed. But what he liked best was to rip throats out with his teeth, to feel the life eke from his victim one large gulp at a time.
He had met people who had other preferences. Some vampires liked to play with their food; they liked to torture them for a little while before finally moving in for the kill. In that moment, Jesse realised there was something about Clover that he did not know; something that he was about to learn. Although he was aware that she, too, enjoyed a bit of a blood bath, that she too enjoyed chaos, he was not aware of the extent. He was not aware of the how. He was not aware of the who.
The house that they moved toward was not a den. There were no drug dealers in this house. There was a bike in the front yard, and it didn’t belong to an adult. It belonged to a child. There were children in this house. She wanted the children to know that she was coming. She wanted them to see her and know her, to fear her, before she killed them.
Jesse had never killed a child before. They were innocent. Adults were corrupt. Just like he wasn’t ever cruel to animals, he’d never be cruel to a child. Clover had wanted help; she’d wanted chaos but Jesse had never imagined this. She wanted to watch him, but he wasn’t sure he could do it. Could he?
And yet he didn’t pull away. He overtook Clover, letting them both into the house with shadow abilities. When the door was quietly closed behind them, he moved around the hall table that was right beside it. He pushed at the furniture until it barred the exit; this was what he liked to do, before he alerted anyone to his presence. He made sure they couldn’t escape. This scenario would be no different. A nod of his head was shown to Clover, to indicate that he was going to find the back door; his blue eyes would be unreadable, shadowed - bereft of their previous gleam as he tried to figure out whether this was something he wanted to be party to.
<Clover> From the moment she stepped through the front door, Clover knew she couldn’t turn back. She didn’t want to turn back. Five heartbeats drew her in several different directions, each one punctuated with the promise of fresh blood. The easiest kill lay in the living room, but she wanted something more than a deadbeat slumped in a recliner. Clo wanted the second floor of the household. She took her first steps toward the staircase, but she didn’t want to wander off and leave Jesse to wander around the house on his own. She’d invited him, and she wanted to share with him, even if that meant making him watch her do what she did best. Destroy.
From the living room, a late-night commercial encouraged viewers to give a woman named Veronica a call, because she knew how to show them a good time. When the commercial ended, the television went to a mixture of black-and-white spots. The loud noise that followed stirred the man. He jerked and the recliner snapped shut, sending chips and beer right onto the floor. He jumped out of the chair and grabbed the can off of the floor, but most of the beer had already soaked into the carpet. Even from the front hall, Clover smelled the warm beer. She heard his swearing and the crunching of potato chips.
“Goddamit! ******* TV!” He stomped over to the old television and slapped the side of the box. He repeated the action a few times, distracted by the change in the picture. While he fought with the television, Clover slowly made her way into the room. The flashing Christmas lights, the white, red, and green, created small designs on Clo’s body. She moved up behind him, taking in the smell of stale cologne and beer, and then she moved back. Careful not to step on the spilled potato chips, she fell back to his chair and just watched. She admired the way he created such a scene over such a trivial matter.
“Maybe you should turn it off,” Clover offered. By then, she had her short blade out, and she wanted to jam the blade right into his gut. She ran her tongue over her parched lips and watched as he stumbled forward. He hit his side off of the television and the screen cleared, revealing the same commercial as before. A beautiful brunette winked and blew a kiss at the both of them: Veronica promised to show them a good time. “Have you ever called one of these?” Clo took slow steps toward him, blocking him between herself, the television, and the Christmas tree. “Tell me the truth,” Clo teased, prodding a finger at his side, “have you called one of those lines?”
He stuttered and then opened his mouth to yell, but she pressed the sharpened side of her blade against the crotch of his sweatpants. His mouth snapped shut and he began to sweat profusely. Neither of them needed to know what he had to say. They understood. What did she want? What did he have that she could possibly want? Take everything. Let him live. The words were so familiar. “I normally look for couples,” Clover sighed, “but I saw this place, and I saw your Christmas tree.” There was a long pause. She’d let the blade drift up toward his midsection. “Don’t you know what day it is? You should have taken your ******* Christmas tree down.” It had nothing to do with the tree, and maybe he knew that too.
<Jesse> Stealth was part of Jesse’s make-up. He made no sound as he went through the house - past the staircase, down the hall, into a kitchen where the back door was already locked. Crouching down, he made note of the door handle, the design of it. It was easy enough to remove with a bend and crack of metal, to twist and render useless. The door remained locked, with no handle with which to unlock it, or open it. Standing still, he closed his eyes; he heard the dulcet tones of Clover’s voice in the front room, but only because his hearing was superior to that of a human’s. There four more people upstairs; one more adult, Jesse assumed, and three children. Children. Really, Clover? Still, knowing they were all upstairs and the father was the only one downstairs, Jesse was free to scout the remainder of the lower floor, assuring that there was no other way out.
I normally look for couples, he heard Clover say as he reappeared in the doorway to the lounge room. He crossed his arms over his chest, one ankle over the other, as he leaned against the doorframe. If he were a cat, his ears would be twitching; they’d be angled toward the staircase, toward upstairs. Waiting for movement. For recognition that their house had been invaded.
As he watched, he was fascinated. He’d never had the patience for this kind of game. His hunger was a beast, a devil living inside of him, insatiable and, once let off the leash, uncontrollable. If it were him in Clover’s place he’d never have initiated conversation. He’d have attacked without provocation. He didn’t care for the fear, he just wanted the blood. Even now as he wondered at Clover’s tactics, he resisted the urge to stride forward and take the knife even as Clover held it; to close his fingers around her grip and thrust upward, right through the underside of the loafer’s jaw. Or even straight into the neck. Straight through the vein. Though, Jesse didn’t particularly like to see the blood wasted.
Although it was possible that Clover’s questions were asked only to inspire fear in her prey, Jesse half wondered if she herself was seeking justification. Did she hope that he was evil? That he had crude thoughts about women who were not his wife? That he did these things while his children were still in the house? If that was the case, what would she do once they got to the children? Would she find reasons for them, too?
For now, he just watched. He didn’t try to interfere; she had asked if he wanted to watch. He took that to mean that she wanted him to. And so he would - because he was curious. Because this was another step toward knowing each other completely. Without fault. Without barriers. Jesse would do anything, would watch anything, to achieve that goal. He wanted to skin Clover of all her layers, all her masks, to see what was at her core.
<Clover> Clover recognized Jesse’s presence. She knew then, as soon as he reappeared, that she expected him to participate in the killings on the second floor. No, she expected him to show his talents on the other adult. She didn’t know whether or not he had it in him to kill the children. Of course he had it in him to kill the wife. Her attention had strayed from the husband to Jesse, and the husband attempted to duck to the side and run. It was a good move, one that Clover admired, but he didn’t get far. She grabbed him by the back of his neck and dragged him back. When he opened his mouth to scream, probably a scream meant to alert his wife and children, Clo ran the sharpened edge of her blade along his delicate flesh. She slit his throat and he choked on his own blood.
Because of his sudden act of bravery, or his rush of cowardice, he’d ruined Clover’s fun. Before he went limp, Clover tightened her hold on his body. She moved around him, locked an arm around his waist, and closed any distance between them. She ducked her head and pressed her lips to the wound on his neck. The blood coated her lips and rushed into her mouth. She imagined how he would have tasted. She pretended she were drinking fine wine, a glass of a wine so wonderful that she wanted to taste it all on its own. When the flow of blood began to slow, she lengthened her fangs and tore into his throat. She searched for more of the same. She sucked and tore at his throat until she knew that he had nothing left to offer, and then she let his body crumple to the floor.
As if to add insult to injury, Clo turned toward the Christmas tree and ripped the plug from the outlet. The lights flicked and went off, ending the colorful show. The television followed. And even though she knew she’d taken all the blood she could, Clover looked down at the man. The blood that she’d missed had gathering on the floor. There were still flecks and droplets on his skin, not to the mention the wide red stain on the man’s shirt and sweatpants. The air told her a lie, promising more blood where none remained. When Clo heard the familiar creak and pop of bedsprings, she jerked her head up and looked toward Jesse. He’d heard the same noise. He had to have heard the same noise. He must have.
The wife was awake. She called out quietly, saying a name that must have belonged to her husband. When soft footsteps reached the top of the stairs, Clover felt as if her heart were beating out of her chest. Not with fear, but excitement. Her next prey approached. Or maybe Jesse’s. Clover slowly shook her head from side to side. She lifted a hand to point toward the staircase. No, she wasn’t going to get the wife. She wanted to watch him then. She wanted to see him. It wasn’t a choice. She almost demanded. And yet, if Jesse chose not to act, Clover had every intention of picking up the slack. Her tongue, her throat, her stomach, already begged for more.
<Jesse> As soon as the blood gurgled from the man’s neck, as soon as Jesse caught sight of it, caught a whiff of the heat of it, he was lost to his blood lust. They were in a locked house, their prey easy to pick off, one by one. The frenzy was something he allowed himself to give in to. And yet, when he took a hungry step forward, his way was blocked by Clover. She swung herself around, the buffet offered to Jesse stolen from him as she turned her back to him, as she closed her lips around the gushing wound and fed until the heart gave out.
Jesse had lurked nearby - but he didn’t take what was hers. It took a few seconds but his urges abated just a little, just enough to help him understand that she had claimed this man. This human was hers - her meal. And it was her need that had brought them here. Besides which, she was Jesse’s. She was his progeny; she was his other half. She was someone he cared for. Even his instinct told him that he should allow her to go first; he had to take care of what was his.
And yet, his pupils had dilated; his canines were sharp. The moment the blood had hit the air, he had become more predatory than what he had been previously. Now, the remaining heartbeats in the house did not belong to children. They did not belong to humans, women, mothers, fathers, or grandparents. They belonged to prey. When the floor creaked, when the voice called out, his head snapped in the direction of the wife. His nostrils flared, as if he could smell her from here. Turning back to Clover, he held a finger to his lips indicating quiet; he waited. Five seconds. Ten. The wife called out again, before muttering something to herself and beginning to descend. The footsteps were getting closer. The room was bathed in darkness, now without the lights of the tree or the flickering play of the television. Jesse quickly moved to the window and pulled the curtains across, the light from the street snuffed so that the bloody scene of her dead husband would not be immediately obvious to the wife.
He then went to the doorway; the entrance through which the wife would come in search of her husband. Jesse flattened himself against the wall, waiting for her. When her soft, sleepy footsteps crossed the threshold, he struck. Like a viper, his hand whipped out to grab the woman’s throat. Before she even knew what was happening she’d taken Jesse’s place against the wall. His hand shifted from throat to mouth, pressing palm against lips to keep the scream from surfacing. With the same grip he wrenched her head to the side, the other hand pinning her flailing arm to the wall, his body trapping hers to keep her from struggling.
Not that she could struggle for long. Jesse didn’t play with his prey. Maybe Clover would think it was boring, but his bloodlust was far too demanding to wait. His teeth ripped into her neck, jaw clamping down, biting through muscle and sinew. Once upon a time he’d been able to be gentle; he seduced the women. He made them think they were getting lucky. His bite was a kiss and they didn’t realise what was happening until it was too late - sometimes they didn’t realise at all. He used to take his time; used to let the blood pump down his throat at the whim of the heartbeat. Now, he sucked and pulled impatiently, the woman’s screams of anguish and pain muffled against his palm.
She was not a virgin. But blood was blood. It can’t have been more than two minutes later when the body slumped, held up by Jesse’s weight pinning it to the wall. He took hold of either side of the corpse’s head to give it a sharp twist until there was a satisfactory snap of bone. He couldn’t risk any accidental turnings.
<Clover> She saw Jesse lift his finger to his lips to signal her silence. Her turn at play had come to an end. Clover wanted to focus on the snap of the curtains or the creak of the stairs, but she found herself looking down at the corpse. Before the wife had the opportunity to reach the bottom of the staircase and discover the dark room, Clover brought the heel of her boot down on the man’s head. She repeated the action over and over until she heard a satisfying crunch. She’d crushed his skull, the brain matter staining the bottom of her boot. Her reasons were many, ranging from the fact that she wanted to clear the pained expression on his face to the fact that she wanted to let out some more of her frustration. Bloodlust never seemed to stop with blood; bloodlust transformed into something greater, something more violent and more demanding. Maybe that was why she treasured the unique smell offered by the man’s newest injury, the wound that served as the icing on the cake.
The air still stunk of blood, but the wife had no idea. The woman had no idea what she approached, what she had the misfortune of stumbling across, and Clover felt a great deal of amusement. The woman was walking right into the snake’s den, so to speak. Again, Clover felt a rush, a rush that she attributed to the upcoming scene. She could just imagine Jesse’s motions; she could imagine the quick movement and the slaughter. She wanted him to seduce his prey, or at least to tease, but he played with stealth. He remained quiet. While he hid, Clover claimed the recliner for herself. She turned the chair, angling it more toward the doorway, and sat down. One leg folded over the other, she watched the slow approach of the wife as if she were watching a weakened animal stumbling upon the apex predator.
The moment he pinned the woman to the wall, Clover knew she wasn’t going to see the show she expected, but she continued watching. She tipped her head back and breathed in the scent of blood. The air had been thick, but the scent was fresh then, the introduction of new blood like the introduction of a fresh ingredient. Clover wanted to get up and punish the corpse of the husband. She wanted to continue ruining the man’s body. Her prey had been drained, but Jesse’s prey was still very much alive. The muffled screams seduced Clover in the way that she’d wanted Jesse to play with his prey. She wanted to punish the woman for being alive. She wanted more.
Without the armlet, Clo remembered her insatiable thirst. Some might have described the thirst as a steady burn at the back of their throats, but she recognized the thirst as more of an ache, like the dull ache of a painful wound. Her stomach felt empty, as if she were starving. She felt as if she were weaker, and blood represented the cure. Clo was jealous of Jesse, jealous of the way he fed, jealous of his prey, and jealous of the snap of the woman’s neck. If Clo were alone, she might have sunk to her knees on the floor and licked at the pool of blood, but she refrained. Clo had to use every ounce of restraint to keep from sinking to such a low level, not wanting him to see her in such a light.
When she got to her feet, she moved over to Jesse and ran her fingers along the length of his spine. He might have hunted in a different way, but she still enjoyed the show. She’d found someone that hadn’t run away, someone that hadn’t scolded her or ruined her fun. Clo kissed the corner of his lips, her tongue darting out in an attempt to taste the woman’s blood, and then she moved. She couldn’t wait for more, more than remnants of blood. Where there had been five heartbeats, only three remained. Clover waited for Jesse, or she tried to, but she took the stairs two at a time. She moved with such haste, driven only by the promise of more blood. She followed the strongest heartbeat to a door just to the left of the staircase. If Clo had to guess, she guessed that the inhabitant was awake, probably by the wife’s quiet calls of the man’s name.
It was Clover’s turn again. Clover wanted every remaining member of the household. Clover wanted every pint of blood, every muffled scream. Placing one palm flat against the door, she turned the doorknob and let herself into the room. The darkness of the hall and the darkness in the room provided all the cover she needed. Adjusted eyes or not, the child stood no chance. And that was when Clover realized she was dealing with a teenager. The fact made everything much easier. The girl stared, her mouth open, and let out the beginnings of a scream. Clo crossed the room, grabbed the girl by the neck, and lifted her from the bed.
“I don’t understand how you can’t talk to them. Just a little. You’re going to kill them. You might as well have a little fun. Like this one. She’s probably sixteen? Are you sixteen?” The last question was directed at the girl, but the girl just started crying, the noise cut off by Clover’s chokehold. “Seventeen?” There were more tears. “You’re eighteen. Am I hot or cold?” Clover laughed, the sound quiet, just as quiet as she wanted the girl. There was a slight nod, and Clo grinned. “Jesse, I won.”
<Jesse> Jesse was quick on Clover’s heels.
He didn’t ruin the bodies as much as she did - not until he let the fire lick at their skin. He liked to watch them cook; liked to watch their eyeballs burst, boiling beneath the heat. He liked to see their skin peel back and turn to ash - to see the body reduced to something mangled and unrecognisable. There’d be time for that later. There were still three heartbeats to take care of, and somehow it was easier, now. It was easier to deal with the children now that he had the taste of their mother’s blood on his tongue, coating the back of his throat, barely satisfying his thirst. He didn’t swallow it all down immediately. He allowed the thick cruor to linger between his teeth and beneath his tongue. So long as there was a drop of the taste of it on his tongue, he felt somewhat sated. But only as much as a man who still had a feast in front of him, and delicious, juicy feast that could not go to waste.
Clover went into the teenager’s room and Jesse followed. There were two other children who could wake up at any moment, and he knew he ought to do something about it. He ought to close their doors and try to lock them in, but he was far too interested in the pretty thing that Clover had held tight in her grasp.
The room was a typical teenage girl’s room. The kind of teenage girl that Jesse had never known; there’d always been a great divide between the miscreants and the well-off. Not that this girl was well off, per se, but she still had both parents under one roof, and still had dinner waiting for her every night. She still had stuff; a dresser against the wall beside an open closet brimming with colourful clothes. Was that a hockey stick? A sporting girl, rather than a cheerleader. But there was still a mirror bordered by haphazard photos. Friends and family. There were posters on the walls and a chair covered in stuffed toys - things she’d probably get rid of as soon as she went to college somewhere. As soon as she got a job. Maybe a scholarship. Not anymore, though. She wouldn’t live past tonight.
Jesse easily slid onto the bed beside Clover. The girl’s mother’s blood coated his lips and chin. The girl could see the blood - on both Jesse and Clover. The whole bed shook with her fear. It was as if a waiter had brought out dessert on a gleaming silver platter - crisp, golden waffles overflowing with strawberries and rich chocolate sauce, or a lava cake split open to reveal red-velvet innards. Something so decadent that he could not help the rumbling, needy moan. His hand slipped behind Clover’s back, fingers finding her skin so that he could caress the curve of her hip.
“Please… can we share this one?” He asked. He hadn’t answered Clover’s question - he couldn’t think of an answer. He couldn’t focus on why he hunted the way he did. He was far too thirsty. It was an answer in and of itself. He grabbed the girl’s hand, bringing her wrist to his lips, parting them only so that a sharp canine could scrape across the tender skin. Just a scratch, but deep enough to cause a welling of blood to the surface. He caught a taste of her blood on the tip of his tongue before he hummed, and offered the morsel to Clover. The girl was frozen with shock and fear; it was a rare delicacy.
“...she’s a virgin. She’s so completely untainted, Clo…” he said. He was almost pleading.
<Clover> No. The answer started at the pit of her stomach and traveled upward, stopping at the back of her throat. Word vomit. Just like word vomit. She wanted to tell him no, to shove him away from her and rip into the girl’s throat. Clo wanted to shove her hand into the girl’s stomach and slowly tug out her insides. She was jealous again. Jealous of the fact that Jesse seemed too interested. She should have left him downstairs; she should have gone to the room with two heartbeats, the one with younger siblings, or so she assumed. Instead of blurting out a response, she growled, the noise low and threatening. No, she wanted to snap at him.
But his touch softened her exterior and warmed her from the inside out. Clover wanted to believe that his touch cured her of her jealousy and dismissed all of her possessiveness, but she would have been lying. She wasn’t a virgin. She hadn’t been untainted. He hadn’t enjoyed her as much as he would enjoy the girl in her grasp. Unknowingly, she tightened her hold on the girl’s neck, squeezing until she felt the bones threatening to shatter. Virgins. He liked virgins. Clo loosened her hold on the girl until she’d completely released the girl, and then it was Clover’s turn to slap a hand over the girl’s mouth, Clover’s turn to muffle noises.
Clo took the offered wrist, but she purposely exposed her fangs. All of her teeth sharpened, she glared at the girl. The silence turned to screams, screams muffled by the hand planted so firmly over her mouth. Clover kept glaring at the girl. The fangs had been a silent threat. No, the fangs had been a promise. How dare the girl be anything less than a whore. Of course they would stumble upon such a delicacy. Clo ran her tongue over the blood that bubbled to the surface of the girl’s open wound, and she closed her eyes and savored the taste. There really was a difference, however slight, but Clover maintained that jealousy outweighed purity.
“I’m torturing this one,” Clover declared. She reached out with her free hand and brushed her fingers through the girl’s hair. “Don’t you want to be tortured?” There were muffled pleas, which Clover listened to and nodded to, but the petting continued. Fingers traced along the girl’s cheek and along her jawline. Clo realized then that jealousy even outweighed the thirst. “You can go first. When I’m done with her, she won’t be recognizable.”
Did he know that it was jealousy driving her words and her desires? She had never elicited such a reaction. She’d been a blip on his radar, just a case of being in the wrong place at just the right time. Virgins. What a waste of time. Couldn’t he have found something equally as tempting in women with piercings? Clover could have lived with such an addiction. But no. He chose something that she could never be, that she hadn’t been when they’d first met. “So completely untainted,” she repeated his words.
Clo moved her free hand to her blade and she brandished it for the girl to see. She already had imaginary lines drawn across the girl’s body. She meant to sever limbs first, and then she meant to go for the gut. Clover had every right to take her frustrations out on the girl. They could share.
<Jesse> Jesse’s soothing touch wasn’t initiated on a whim. He knew that there was a possibility of unhappiness. Had she shown disdain before at his preference for virgin blood? Ariadne sold the stuff - he had no idea how she procured it, but it didn’t taste quite the same from the bottle as from the source. This blood was laced with fear and adrenaline, too, making it that much sweeter.
No, Jesse’s touch had been a reassurance. It wasn’t as if he felt anything for the girl; he just liked the way her blood tasted. He didn’t want to sleep with her. He didn’t find her attractive. And he wanted to share her with Clover. He didn’t want her to be jealous. He wanted her to enjoy this as much as he could. The Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed and took a deep breath in. He released his hold on the girl’s hand seeing as Clover had such a tight grip on her, and instead trailed fingers along Clover’s cheek, down over the line of her jaw, clawing at her chin to turn her lips to his. When he kissed her, it was with a rabid, passionate kind of hunger. He could taste the blood of the husband still lingering in the cracks of her lips, just as she would taste the blood of the wife still lingering on his.
“No turns,” he said when he broke free, breathless even though he didn’t have to breathe. “At the same time,” he demanded. “I’ll hold her while you cut…” he said. He wanted Clover to agree, to concur. If she let it go, it could be glorious. “If you want to play, let’s play. Slowly,” he said as he slipped behind the girl, tugging at both her arms until he had her wrists secured behind her back; two thin wrists grinding together in the grip of one larger hand. With the other, he curled her hair into his fist so that he could pull her head back, exposing the slender length of her neck. He let go only so that his hand could replace Clover’s over the girl’s mouth, primed for a ragged scream. It would free both Clover’s hands. She could do what she wanted. Jesse was happy where he was, the girl’s neck within biting distance.
As he moved, as he held the girl tight, he didn’t take his eyes from Clover. Bright blues held her fast, the depths burning with an avid frenzy - he could feel it, too. Coupled with his insatiable thirst it often meant he could only tear the necks from his victims, one after the other until they were all dried husks. His body thrummed with it, now - but he was happy to watch. Yes, Clover could help him with his frenzy, just as he could help her with hers.
<Clover> The kiss served to soothe her, far more than Jesse’s touch. His touch only made her want to lash out at him. The blood had her on a high, one fueled by a basic need for more. And yet when they’d introduced an element that stirred her insecurities and ignited her envy, she felt the need shift from a need for blood to a need for unadulterated violence. Before his lips met hers, she felt as if she’d wanted to lump him in with the girl and punish him in the same way; after the kiss, he was forgiven. He’d disarmed her with the feel of his lips against hers.
She’d tasted the blood on his lips, her tongue darting out as if to capture more of the captivating substance. If it weren’t for the girl in the room, Clover might have allowed her focus to shift from blood to body parts. But the kiss ended, as all kisses do, and he offered her something she hadn’t been expecting. He wanted more than his turn at playing with their food. Usually, Clover taped the person’s mouth, stuffing in a rag or some other cloth beforehand. To have someone--to have Jesse--offering to help made things different. She didn’t have to worry about choking her victim. She didn’t have to worry about tape. He kept surprising her.
“Fine,” she answered slowly, her voice laced with suspicion. He seemed more than eager to help, but no one had been so eager before. Clover wondered if he had some hidden agenda, or if he truly found something wonderful, something so freeing, in dismemberment. “I used to like it slow, but now,” Clo began, running the tip of her blade down along the girl’s right leg, “now I don’t see the point.” The blade went up into the air and came down on the girl’s leg. It took another swing to completely sever the lower portion of the leg.
Clo moved quickly to rip a section of the topsheet apart. She made one long strip and applied a tourniquet to the right leg, just above where the knee should have been. Her hands coated in blood, she licked at her fingers and her palms as if she were a cat cleaning up after a feast. One leg down. The girl’s screams had started out high-pitched, as if she were trying to wake the two children just down the hall, but the noise died down, replaced by a series of quick inhales. One leg and the girl was going into shock. She wasn’t as much fun as she seemed.
“She’s not going to last long. So much for drawing it out,” Clover frowned, talking as if the girl weren’t present. Clover lifted the blade again and brought it down on the other leg, the wound mirroring the previous one. And again, Clover created a quick tourniquet, trying to draw out the fun for as long as possible. “I hate it when they die before I’m done.” The words were muttered to herself, her lips then pressed tightly together.
