Path of the Vampire forum

[against_peace][/against_peace]

Tonight, we have no secrets. Everything I know, you know. I shouldn't regret telling you, but some part of me does. I hated the look on your face. I hated the way your hands withdrew from mine. Sitting. Standing.

Clover stared down at the entry and slowly let the cover of the book fall shut, concealing the page and every word written upon it. She left the pen inside, just to mark her place, but she knew she'd never finish the paragraph, never finish the work, not when she felt the way she felt. Baring herself to him had put a sudden strain on their relationship. Even if he thought they'd come out swinging, she felt as if they were stumbling, grasping at anything just to keep from falling. Love should have been simple. Love given. Love returned. But nothing ever seemed simple, not with either of them. In the end, after sitting on the couch for another ten minutes, unmoving, Clo decided to leave her journal under one of the cushions. She got to her feet and walked the distance between the living room and their bedroom. As sad as it was, she stared at his side of the bed and contemplated his words, his actions, even more. What if she continued her ways? What would it hurt if she told a little white lie? What harm would her hunting do to them? Nothing, she answered herself. No one. But she stopped, physically stopped, and sat down on his side of the bed. She took his pillow, wrapped her arms around it, and held it to her chest.

Nine days had passed and she had yet to fall back into her old ways; she had yet to claim another life. And she didn't resent Jesse. She didn't hate Jesse. She'd seen a need to change, the opportunity to change. Simply put, she'd been unwilling to share him; she’d been a hypocrite. Clo pulled a sacrificial move, practically a divine move. She had to sacrifice one piece to save another, to save multiple ones. Had it not been for him, she wouldn't have made such a decision. No other piece on the board meant as much as his, not even her own. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that had always been the problem. She put him first, even above herself, and it screamed of a type of dedication that bordered on the unhealthy spectrum. A line existed in the sand, one separating healthy from unhealthy behaviors and she toed that line like a master of the craft. In the background, the fan overhead began to make a tapping sound, a sound that worked in perfect rhythm with her breaths. She raised her head to look up at the fan and saw that the little cord dangling from the fan kept connecting with the base.

Tap. Inhale.

Tap. Exhale.

The fan acted like a perfect metronome, the taps like ticks, and her breaths like pauses. The noise drove her to the brink of insanity. Clo relinquished her hold on the pillow and placed it back where it belonged, right on his side of the bed. She didn’t know why she chose to cling to it, to cling to it as if he were suddenly going to waltz in, collect his things, and storm out. They were fine. Their discussion -- their disagreement -- had ended. They weren’t in a cold war, no nuclear standoff. But sometimes her relationship with Jesse, and her relationships with others, felt like a nuclear standoff. The only person she’d opened up to rarely spoke to her. They both had their own lives, and Clo had grown to excuse Athena’s silence, along with the woman’s absence. Jesse might have seen her with multiple people, he might have seen her as some sort of social butterfly, but those days were long gone. Dead, just like Victor. Instead, Clover used the written word to communicate with sheets of paper; she used emails to communicate with someone who rarely responded. She’d become reclusive in the most awful of ways. And after nine days of lingering around the apartment, she felt as if she were slowly slipping away, pieces drifting on a brisk breeze. But she didn’t resent Jesse. She didn’t hate Jesse. How she felt the need to stress such facts. She hated herself. Normal people didn’t go around slaughtering others. Normal people dreamed of settling down and starting families. Clover had wondered, for some time, if something truly did go wrong during her turning, if some wiring had been pinched or plucked, two strands just snipped right at the base of her skull. Nine days had passed since her last kill, and she felt as if she were short circuiting, like a toaster tossed, unceremoniously, into the bath.

Something snapped, something very important, and she felt as if she would suffocate unless she left the confines of the apartment, the confines of the building itself. Clover needed air. She couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she ******* breathe? Her lungs were failing, slowly but surely. She’d wither and die. No one needed to tell her the obvious. She would fade, as she had times before, and blossom on the other side, in the shadow realm, where she’d rot for days on end. Driven by those thoughts, Clo began to tug at her clothes, throwing her loungewear aside and scrambling to the closet for other clothes. Skinny jeans. A sleeveless t-shirt. She assumed the weather had turned, so she grabbed a sweater as well. She needed to blend in. For once, she just wanted to blend in. She needed to sit underneath the tall trees and think back over where her life had gone. Every so often, she needed that grounding. And she needed it then. God, she needed it then.

When she got outside, Clo could have kissed the asphalt of the road. They were far enough from the main part of the city that she took her time walking there. She didn’t want to rush; she didn’t need to rush. That’s what happens when you have nowhere to go and nothing to do, she thought, rather bitter about the whole ordeal. Nine days felt like forever. She’d grown used to killing every night, sometimes multiple times a night, and to go cold turkey, to hit such a rough patch, felt as if she’d flipped over the handlebars of a racing bike. Her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her sweater, Clo ducked her head and entered the main part of the city. She’d left the wilderness behind to wander the streets of River Rock. The soldiers that were present remained near one another, always close enough to offer assistance, and Clo hated that about them. Where one walked, another surely followed. Soldiers. They were jokes. They shot without discrimination. They asked no pertinent questions. They’d devolved beyond the level of common thugs, which took a great deal of effort, and claimed a whole other level.

Clo wondered what it would be like to simply walk into a circle of them, to spill her black blood all over the pretty concrete. And then murder them, one by one, to erase any and all evidence. That’s what she wanted. Clover wanted to be as she was before. She wanted to be that insane little demon, the monster that had never been tamed. But something kept her walking. She turned onto a side street and then peered around the corner of a building. One soldier stepped off the curb and crossed the street, while the other remained. They patrolled in different directions, one going left and one going right, which made her job that much easier. She waited until the soldier stepped out of the protective light pouring from the overhead lamp, and then she grabbed him by his throat and dragged him into the shadows, their little jaunt taking them to a tiny alleyway. Her shadows snaked around them, creating a world just for the two of them. She had all the privacy she needed, at least for a few moments.

“If you scream, I’ll rip your throat out.” She spoke so calmly that she even surprised herself. The man had opened his mouth, but he quickly shut it then. “Tell me where the soldiers are stationed around the city. I want coordinates. I want names.”

“I’m a new guy! I was just shipped here two days ago--,” Clover cut him off by grasping his right arm between her hands and simultaneously pushing and pulling. The bone gave way under her strength and tore through the layers of skin and the military jacket the man wore. He went to cry out in pain, but she shoved the butt of his gun between his teeth. Nothing he said after that made sense.

“That’s unfortunate for you. I’ll let you go,” she lied, slowly removing the butt of the gun from his mouth. He blinked at her through his tears, and then she reeled back and punched him. She kept hitting him, over and over again, until his face became a bloody mess. He’d cried out and began sobbing, and that’s when Clo began to pick up the sound of approaching footsteps. “You’re a screamer, aren’t you? Let’s see how loud you can get.” Clo swiped the knife from the man’s thigh and drove the blade directly into his upper thigh. “It’s extremely painful,” she spoke over his screaming, “but the shock sets in and everything’s okay again. I’m going to cut off your legs. It makes it easier for transport. Don’t worry. Don’t cry.” She shushed him, stroking his face with her bloody left hand. His blood already coated her palms and fingers. She angled the blade and began to saw at his leg, her own force driving the momentum. Blood welled to the surface and covered his right leg, slowly increasing with every movement of the blade. “We’ve got an artery. I think I’m going to lose you. I forgot to apply the tourniquet again, didn’t I? Damn. I’m always so ******* forgetful.” She severed one leg and blood spurted from the large wound, spilling out over the concrete and running toward one of the storm drains.

“Bedford? Bedford, answer me!” The footsteps stopped at the end of the little alley, just outside the realm of Clover’s shadows. The dying soldier tried to call out, but he gurgled in response. Bedford, his name was Bedford. Clo looked down at Bedford and then smoothed her bloodied hand out over his cheek. “Oh God,” the second soldier whispered, having penetrated the shadows and seen the mess. He took several steps backward, and Clo let him go. She took one look at the shivering soldier before her and then she bent down, clamped her fanged teeth around his throat, and ripped his throat out. She slurped at his blood as if she’d never partaken of blood before. Fresh. Warm. Thick. And it coated her tongue. And it poured down her throat. Bedford. His name had been Bedford.

Clover drank until no more blood pumped through his body, until his heart eventually fluttered and ceased. Her white, sleeveless shirt was stained red. Her black skinny jeans were soaked with blood. She didn’t attempt to cleanse herself as she lifted her shadows and moved from the alley.

[against_peace][/against_peace]


‘This is entirely your fault.’

She had lost track of how many nights she had been trapped within the four walls of her prison. The mornings had bled together until the sun had disappeared, leaving her drowning within a perpetual darkness that she thought she would never escape. Sweat coated her skin as she clutched at the blankets beneath her, the thick cotton tearing beneath the assault of her nails as she writhed on the stained mattress. The memory of his violence played on in her mind, a broken record that she would forever be burdened with. The tempo of his fists, the tearing of her flesh and the harsh agony of her bones shattering beneath the hefty weight of his boot played on repeat.

That should have been the worst of it – but this, this was a literal hell.

‘I don’t want to do this to you, baby. Why do you keep making me hurt you?’

Hatred like she never knew burned from within at the menace in his words, and as she kicked her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet barely dodging the splatter of bloodied vomit, her throat vibrated with a pained growl. Misery, anger, and suffering flooded her system and sent her spiraling out of control. ‘Cristof!’ His name tore from her throat in a agonized choke, the scream stolen by another attack of pure pain. With a gasp, she curled her slender arm over her stomach as she doubled at the waist, free hand blindly reaching for her phone. Just as her pale, bloodied fingers touched the cracked device; it spun from the table and clattered to the floor, before disappearing beneath the bed to be lost in the shadows.

‘Cristof! Let me the **** out of here!’


Pushing herself to stand, she placed her hand on one of the walls, her nails scraping against the peeling paint as she breathed unsteadily. Her lungs ached from her continued attempts to keep them working, and as her swollen eyes adjusted to the darkness that surrounded her, she cocked her head. Her ears strained to pick up the faintest hint of feet against the floor, and as they grew near, she stumbled back. He was coming for her. With each thud of his boots against the floor, she felt her anger ebb, fear rapidly taking its place. By the time they stopped outside the heavy metal door, she was back in bed, her knees unable to hold her weight. ‘You can come out when you learn your lesson, *****. This is all your ******* fault, you did this to me! You did this! This is your fault!’ The words grew in octave until the walls started pulsating with the violence from within, and as she cowered back against the wall, she watched the knob to her dungeon turn, his voice still shouting, still rising – until it was all she knew.


The memory came as they all did; sudden and violent.

There was no warning, no shift in the air, no chill against the nape of her neck. He never chose to whisper in her ear, to raise the alarm that he was about to **** up her world. No, that would be far too kind, and he had made it his mission to destroy her. Even in death, he found a way to continue his torment. Pressing her hand through her hair, she curled her fingers until her nails bit into her scalp, wild eyes coming into focus – only to stare at the blank canvas that loomed in front of her. She didn’t remember making it this far, she hardly remembered leaving the comfort of the family lair. When had she put on her shoes, grabbed her coat, and escaped into the night? Had it been before the memory?

With a low growl, she dropped her hands to her side and shook them out, as if she could shake away the violence that darkened her veins. The memory still clung to her like a web. She could recall the taste of blood on her tongue, the way her flesh had bruised beneath his fists. That had been one of the worse of his attacks, but even still, the memory had been… different. There had been no dungeon, no barred windows, and certainly no maddening shouts of how everything was her fault. No, there was something fucked up about how her mind had chosen to change that evening, to morph it into something… else.

“You have no one to blame but yourself.” She didn’t know why she chose to answer the lingering memory, or why she had chosen that particular sentence. Everything about the night was completely fucked up, and as she pressed the heel of her palms to her eyes, she groaned. She swore she could still feel him pressed against her, the scent of his cologne permeating the chilled October air. He was there – he was always ******* there. No one believed her. They all thought she had gone ******* insane, that the wiring in her brain had shorted when the Beast killed her. Instead of making her strong, he had made her a ******* starving, blood thirsty lunatic. Or that’s just you.

Running her tongue along a sharpened fang, she forced herself to take a step back, the fading light of a flickering street-lamp catching the maddening blue of her eyes as she glared at the empty brick. She had come here for a reason, and now she couldn’t ******* remember what it was. She was beginning to lose track of time or… her life. Was it her life she was losing grip on? Focus, Raegan! Snapping her teeth together, she dropped into a crouch to rummage through her bag [when had she grabbed that?] until her pale fingers curled around a can of vibrant blue paint. She had come here to do something, and as she used her thumb to snap off the cap, she began to remember. This wall had meant something to her at one point in time; it had held promise, sadness to it that had drawn her in. It sat away from all of the rest, its brick cracked from age and abuse, and it was so familiar, so… comforting.

She wanted to bring it to life.

It took her no time at all to begin her art, the blue spraying across the rust with ease, covering the cracks, the mold, and the dirt. Soon, the can was empty, tossed to the side, and she was reaching for another. Orange, red, purple, black; the colors started to meld together, the picture taking form. She worked without mercy, without hesitation, without fear. Hours passed, the air grew colder, and still she worked. The hair took form, the bruise on the lip, the bloodied tears. There was anger, grief, fear, insanity – and then, she moved to the left, another can in her grasp. Suddenly, the feeling changed. There was suddenly strength, promise, hope. The picture spoke the words she could never say, the emotions she refused to name. For hours, she worked on her canvas, her arm never tiring, and her mind calm. Finally, she dropped the can, the empty metal clinging against the asphalt and rolling to land with the rest. Lifting her hand, she wiped across a stained brow. There was no sweat on her skin, no outward sign other than the rainbow of stains against her flesh that she had worked as long as she had.

It was the one good thing about her death.

When she gazed up at the building this time, she was met with her memory. It had been brought to life, and yet, she didn’t stare at it with fear. She didn’t tremble beneath it. She stared in awe, her lips parted as she laughed. He thought to beat her into submission, even in death. She had a new weapon, and this was it. This was… everything. Shaking her head, she bent to gather up the cans, each one dropped into bag, each one empty, used until utter depletion. It had taken everything she had to paint her story on the wall, and yet, it didn’t bother her like it used to. She would get more; Beast would get her more, or Marisol; even Clover or Ysmir. If she just opened up to them, told them the truth, talked to them…

Yeah, no ******* way.

Lifting the case, she tossed the strap over her shoulder, paint stained fingers clasping the leather tight. It was getting late and she was ******* starving. She could feel the monster wake within her, the teeth gnawing her stomach, demanding sustenance. She had thought she learned to control it, to keep it under wraps, but it was only getting worse. With each memory, it seemed the curse grew worse. The blood bags no longer sustained her, and as she ran her tongue over an elongated fang, she swore. Gathering the violet of her hair into a fist, she peeled the tie from her wrist and secured the curls as she made her way down the abandoned alley, her sneakers kicking aside broken bottles and trash. On this side of town, finding something to eat wouldn’t be difficult. A smile, a crook of her finger, and the drunk would stumble into her arms. They would whisper something about the beautiful, unique, dirty girl of their dreams, and she would sink her fangs into their throat, taste the warmth of their intoxicated blood – and feast to the melody of their screams. It was her little secret, her thrill, and she loved it.

When she stepped from the mouth of the alley and into the deserted street, she tilted her head. Something about the night was dark with malice, a faint chill in the air that had nothing to do with the shifting seasons. It crept along her skin, danced through her hair, and caused her to hesitate. She knew she should turn and head in the other direction, back the way she came, but something had her following that sinister thread. She moved around empty cars, stepped over overthrown chairs, danced through alleys, until she found it. A faint scream, the sound of a growl, and the scent of blood lead her straight into the center of hell. The shadows danced greedily, and she dropped her bag as she heard that voice. Familiar, throaty, angered – Clover. It was unmistakable. Somehow, she had found her.

She didn’t move as the shadows lingered. She didn’t follow, even as the woman left a mess behind. Instead, she watched the scene unfold like she was at the theatre. The second soldier was forgotten, the first dead, his veins bled dry, eyes glassed. There was no final twitch, no plea for help. His face was a mask of horror, and the scent of his blood… ****. Curling her fingers into her palms, she tried to fight it, to swallow down the need inside of her, but she couldn’t. It was there, it was begging to be heard – it was… ****. When Clover disappeared down the alley, Raegan moved. There was still one left, one that was staring at her friend’s retreating back, as if committing her to memory.

Threat.

He never saw her coming.

One second, she had been crouched behind an overturned dumpster, the next she was one him. Her fingers were in his hair, her lips against his throat. She didn’t torture him. She didn’t grill him for answers. She couldn’t. Her mind was locked on one thing, one need. Blood. His lips parted on a scream, and her hand clamped down on his mouth as she pulled him back against her chest. As he thrashed, she fed. As he bit into her palm, she tightened her jaws. His blood splashed across her tongue, flooded her throat, and her eyes closed. The warmth was all she knew, the copper all she cared for. When he finally stopped moving, his chest no longer rising, his heart no longer beating, she dropped him. His blood stained her lips and the front of her shirt, the scent tantalizing her. She wasn’t done.

Despite the hunger that beat at her, she needed to clean up the mess, she needed to find Clover. She needed… she couldn’t ******* think. The scent of blood filled her senses, and she pulled her sword from its hilt. She didn’t think. She didn’t even blink as she brought the weapon down, severing his head from his shoulders – and then the one that Clover had left behind. Thump, thud, thump. The sounds of the blade hitting the asphalt filled the air as she cut them into pieces before tossing them into the dumpster. It was messy, it was weak, but it would buy them some time. Snatching their dog tags from the ground, she wrapped the metal chains around her neck and picked up her bag before taking off in a run after the woman, careful to jump over the bloodied puddles as to not leave a single footprint behind.

When she rounded the corner and passed onto a deserted patch of roadway, Clo first noticed her. She stood off to the side of the street, her back pressed against the side of a building. She tried to make herself smaller, to make herself less noticeable, but the woman had such hair, such beautiful, loud hair, that hiding became impossible. Clo stared at her; she stared at Clo. And then she took off down the side street. Out of sight and out of mind. Something about the woman triggered recognition, but the feeling fell to the back of Clo’s mind, overwhelmed by the urge, the desire, to give chase. If it weren’t for the sound of footsteps echoing off the buildings, she might have given into the urge. One. Two. Three. Clo continued to count the steps. The approaching person sounded as if he, or she, were running. Had the soldier finally recovered enough to give chase? Had he reported her to superior officers, to cops, or both? Did it even really matter? She’d gotten what she wanted.

Killing made her feel alive, as if her heart soared, as if she felt the heat, the cold, wash over her skin. Killing gave her a high she craved. Every dead body took her one step closer to the euphoria. Killing became a drug. She needed it. She craved it. She withered without it. And then she moved on -- she always moved on -- to something bigger, to something better. Usually, she moved on to sex.

When Clo walked away, she walked away knowing she'd left a witness. She dared the man to gather his wits, to take aim at her, to blow her head clean off. But he didn't. He’d disappointed her, as most people disappointed her. He'd stumbled backwards. He'd abandoned his comrade. He'd been a coward, right when his friend needed a hero. Clover couldn't blame the man though. She couldn't blame him for wanting to cling to life. Fight or flight, and that man had chosen flight. He'd chosen to see another sunrise, to experience another sunset; he'd sacrificed his friend's life to save his own. That had been the unspoken deal:

Leave me alone, and I won't kill you too.

A hazard. No, a threat. No, a witness. She welcomed him to identify her to superiors, to police officers, to anyone willing to listen. Sloppy. Be so ******* sloppy. Make mistakes. The thrill of the moment mattered more than the consequences of her actions. But when she didn't hear the subtle sound of the safety on his gun, didn't hear his labored breathing as he came up behind her, Clo paused. She hadn't even heard him running away. Had fear immobilized him? The sound of metal scraping against asphalt made her spine tingle. Had someone else thought the same thing? Had someone else come to fight the soldiers, killing them one by one? She kept walking. Her curiosity hadn’t gotten the best of her. Not yet, at least. Who knew what kind of person shared her thoughts. Who knew if the person mimicked her actions. Yes, Clo kept walking.

Clo still had the knife. She hadn’t relinquished ownership over the blade. It was a nice knife, and she felt as if she’d grown attached. Of course she’d grown attached, she defended. The partially serrated edge drew in her attention, held her attention. Clo noticed the blood that remained on the blade. She raised the knife to her lips and carefully ran her tongue along it, cleaning it in the way she hadn’t before. Bedford had been a good snack, but she wanted more. Clover needed more. The footsteps became louder then, the echoes more defined. Clo pressed her body against the building, concealing herself in shadows. The blade held tightly in her hand, she waited. She meant to surprise her attacker, not kill him or her. She meant to take a swing. She meant for the blade to dig so deep into the flesh that the person cried out in pain, that the person relinquished his or her hold on the gun soldiers wielded. But as she swung, as the knife went down, she noticed something very familiar about the person. She knew her. The blade stopped. Her arm froze. The shadows dissipated. Had she stabbed the woman? Clo didn’t even know. She’d tried to stop in time. She never meant any harm.

“Raegan?” Clo stared at the woman, both with disbelief and irritation. The woman could have been killed. The woman could have been seriously injured. Clo played through dozens of scenarios, each one worse than the last. And yet everything was okay. But the woman smelled of blood, just as Clover smelled of blood. “It was you following me.” It wasn’t a question. “Did you want something?” No, that wasn’t the right question. “Did you need something?” She sounded confused then, wondering if something had happened to Raegan, wondering if something had happened to another family member.

[against_peace][/against_peace]
She felt as if she were going insane.

The scent of blood clung to her skin, followed her every move. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape the hunger. It rolled over her lithe form like a toxic wind, burning away every sense of sanity she had left. While her earlier thought had only been to reach Clover – now, she couldn’t remember why. Why was it so important to find the dark haired woman, when she could just as easily pivot on her heel and head into the city? There was blood there. Innocent victims, screaming victims, crazed victims – there was more. No.

Focus, Khaos.
******* focus.

There was a reason that she had left the comfort of their lair. There was a reason she had been drawn to this part of town, a reason she had found herself stumbling into Clover’s path. It shouldn’t be that hard to remember. She just had to fight. Running her tongue along a sharpened fang, she picked up the pace as she ran after her, senses alive with adrenaline. It was easy to pick up on the scent of blood, the thick, sweet copper luring her like a moth to the flame. Again, she felt the monster within her rear its head, it’s roar loud enough to distract her. For a moment, she almost forgot what she was doing. For a second, she almost gave in.

CLOVER.

Snapping her jaw closed, she stumbled to a stop when the scent overwhelmed her. She was close. She could feel it, taste it, smell it. With wild eyes, she searched the shadows before stepping into the mouth of the alley – where she found her. Or, rather, Clover found her. She barely had time to move as the blade was airborne, serrated teeth poised to do damage. Her mind seemed to slow as she watched the steel dance in the moonlight, and for a second, the only memory she had was that of the first few nights she was turned. The hunter who had taken her leg, the soldier who had shot her in the heart; the pain had been unbearable then. It had driven her mad – and that was when the hunger had started. Within those few precious seconds before Clover managed to stall her attack, Raegan was transported back to the time she was weak.

Not again.

She hadn’t known that Clover was going to come to her senses. How could she have known? She had only precious seconds before the blade made contact, and she used them. It was her moving, though, that had caused the bite of the blade against her cheek. When Clover had halted the attack – she had stepped into it, the sharp, dangerous teeth dragging across the smooth skin of her cheek. The pain was minimal to what she had endured before, to what the monster inside was doing to her now. As the scent of her blood filled the air, a few crimson drops decorating her flesh, she gave a slow, almost sloth-like blink of her eyes. For a second, she felt nothing.

The pain had silenced the beast inside of her, and with a deliberate slowness, she lifted her fingers to brush them against the jagged line of separated flesh. It wasn’t deep. Hell, even as a human, it would have been considered nothing more than a severe paper-cut. Pulling her hand away, she brought her fingers to her lips, tongue dancing across the coated skin as she watched the woman before her with amusement. “Clover,” she greeted, before her nose crinkled in utter disgust at the toxic, bitter taste that had assaulted her taste-buds.

“No, I didn’t need something. I was… out painting, and I found you. I saw you. I… couldn’t help but finish up what you left behind. You know, sloppy seconds and all that.” Laughing quietly, she brushed her hand across her shirt, the wound on her cheek already healing – and already forgotten – as she gave the woman before her a once over.

“Are you doing alright?”

No.

The word was on the tip of her tongue, but she silenced herself. Clo settled for nodding. Yes, everything was okay. Yes, everything was fine. But, having ignored her serial killer tendencies, she'd fallen victim to her own merciless behavior. Or rather, her prey fell victim to her merciless behavior. Clo had wondered if Jesse had noticed her change, but she scolded herself for even considering the possibility that he'd overlooked her sudden desire to remain at home, a renewed interest in television shows. And yet, during the days she’d surrendered her serial killer ways, she did love spending time with him; she did love the life they brought to their apartment. Clo almost forgot that Raegan stood before her, most likely waiting for a verbal response. And she lied, the easiest thing she'd had to do. “Yes,” she said, a partial smile on her face. It probably looked forced, especially with the blood drying on her lips and around her mouth. She probably looked a sight. “It probably doesn't seem that way.” Clo rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, scrubbing away some of the damp blood. The dried blood remained, a red smear against a pale canvas.

For a second, she felt as if she were flipping a switch, one that took her back to her former self, the one so deprived of blood and gore that she’d slaughtered the first man she touched. But she couldn’t go back in time. The evidence of her failed attempt being the blood around her mouth and on the back of her left hand. Things just didn’t work that way. But did she even need to pretend with Raegan? At one point, Clover had thought the woman no different than any other pathetic woman Jesse brought home. But she’d been wrong, of course. Clo actually tolerated Raegan. No, she actually liked Raegan, despite insecurities, despite well-toned jealousy. Clover pushed through her immediate reactions and found something likeable about the woman. They shared the same drive. They shared the same outlook. Clover saw herself in Raegan. Maybe that’s what drew her in. Her mouth closed, Clo ran her tongue along the front of her teeth. She tried her best to resurrect the feel and the taste of the meal she’d consumed, but she couldn’t. She needed fresh blood. She needed a new meal. Staring at the woman in front of her, Clo let her eyes wander over the woman’s bright hair. Raegan really was a looker. All those nights ago, Clover had wanted to stifle the light, to simply erase her from existence.

“I haven’t killed in days. I trapped myself in my apartment,” Clo started, deciding at the last moment to allow herself to speak the truth. “I can’t,” she tried, stopping only to lick her lips, “I won’t hunt the same way again.” Clo didn’t know if she meant to continue or not. Her attention had strayed, momentarily, and she shined the knife on a clean portion of her t-shirt. The grey-and-black skull emblazoned on the front of her sleeveless shirt had been stained a deep red, flecks of blood adorning the portions that hadn’t been drenched. “No luring them in. No false pretenses. Nothing. Just torturing and killing,” she rambled, saying things she’d thought to herself over and over again. Maybe she did resent him. Maybe she had a little bit of hatred thrown in. As she thought those words, she felt ugly inside. Sacrifice -- the word she wasn’t supposed to use -- seemed about right.

Clover stood there for another few moments before she simply turned and began walking away. She moved down the darkened street with a purpose. Street lights flickered in and out of existence, only succeeding in adding an eerie feel to the road. With no strong light source, Clo owned the road; shadows owned the road. Though she hadn’t said anything, Clo expected Raegan to follow. Once, and only once, she looked back at the woman, an expectant look in place. Follow me, Clo wanted to say. Instead, she said something entirely different. “Let’s play with some soldiers.”

They were headed toward a busier part of town. Like that made any difference.