Clara was rusty—that much was evident, very early on. Though there were a few moments within which the blonde managed to hold her own, they did not last long. Back several years, before Clara had decided to hang up her gun, (quite literally, considering all of her weapons were now locked up in the basement of the house she shared with Klaus in Washington) the petite Saltzman could have easily taken out half of the Romanov household. Blindfolded. With one hand tied behind her back. But now… Clara was out of practice; sure, it wasn’t hard—like riding a bike, all she had to do was get back up onto the seat—but Clara was weaker. And she was no longer reckless; she no longer did things without thinking. She couldn’t simply take the blade of a knife in her shoulder without worrying of the repercussions. Now, Clara had to think for two—and that meant she had to always protect not only herself, but someone else. Someone smaller, more fragile.
And, of course, there was the added wrench that Miranda’s appearance had sent through Clara’s calm façade. As soon as she heard that smooth voice, and looked over to see those deeply familiar brown eyes, Clara’s entire being had frozen; it had taken months for the blonde to build the wall that kept Miranda from her thoughts. Months. For the very first year after not having heard from her best friend—her sister, for all intensive purposes—Clara had been a wreck. Her hands had shaken whenever a short haired brunette girl had walked past, or whenever someone made a joke that Clara would normally have mocked with Miranda. There were so many reminders around Mystic Falls, so many things that had her thinking hey, Miranda, remember that time… but Miranda was never there to reminisce with her. And now, there she was, everything about her having changed and yet remained the same. If Miranda had been human, Clara knew her face would have changed much more than it had—there would have been lines creasing her forehead, there would have been some sort of age playing at the edges of her lips and her eyes. But, instead, Miranda was just as beautiful, just as youthful, as she had been that first day when they had met, all those years ago. And it sent the air from Clara’s lungs, as if Miranda had just reached out and socked her directly in the gut—truthfully, that would have been less painful. That would have been preferred.
But Miranda seemed less than fazed, by Clara’s position on Aleksander’s front doorstep. Instead she said not a single word to the girl who had once claimed the spot of her best friend, choosing rather to turn towards the father of the man she had—and likely still—loved. Miranda’s voice sent a pang of familiarity somewhere towards Clara’s heart, a feeling she had not experienced in years. But now was not the time, nor the place; and Clara knew that, just as well as she knew that she and Miranda were not the same people they had once. She could not look at the brunette now, and think to herself, there she is. There’s my best friend. Because, in all honesty, the two were now as good as strangers. And so the blonde had simply nodded her head once, turning towards the man who looked just like someone else Clara had once known. “Yes, sir, we’d much appreciate it if you could go on in and fetch Aleksander for us. Uh… пожалуйста? Он здесь?”
But from there, it had all begun to spiral downwards. Mr. Romanov had put on a smile that, even to Clara, had appeared fake—and as soon as he had stepped aside and gestured for them to come inside, Clara had felt that telling feeling in her gut, the one that she always got before something bad was about to happen. And so Clara had stepped inside, but as her foot had moved across the doorframe, she had reached behind her and retrieved the pistol that was tucked into the back of her jeans. Pointing the barrel of the gun directly at Mr. Romanov’s forehead, she met his gaze, and narrowed her eyes. “Invite her in,” Clara snapped, her tone just as dangerous as she had hoped. And, unsurprisingly, Mr. Romanov seemed unfazed by this sudden turn of events—as a matter of fact, the glimmer of amusement in his crystal blue eyes (the ones that so much reminded Clara of Aleks) giving Clara the sickening suspicion that he had been expecting this. “Do it, or I’m going to put a bullet right between your fucking eyes. ты понимаешь меня?”
“Come on in, вампир.” Mr. Romanov hissed the final word of that sentence, his eyes narrowing into slits as his gaze followed Miranda’s movements as she entered his home. It wasn’t hard for Clara to understand the word that Mr. Romanov had used so angrily, despite his heavily accented voice and the way within which he chose to speak. And then, just as Clara was beginning to turn her head in Miranda’s direction, she heard Mr. Romanov clear his throat. Twisting her head back to him just as he opened his mouth, Clara was unable to stop him from letting out one single word, one that she knew would send nothing but trouble their way; “мальчики!”
And trouble had come, just as Clara had predicted. Sure, she had managed to knick one of the men with a bullet to the shoulder and knock one of the smaller ones out with the butt of her pistol, but, in the end, both she and Miranda were rendered unconscious against the army of large, Russian men.
Awaking what felt like decades later, Clara’s head lolled from one side to the other before her eyes managed to wrench themselves open. Blinking several times to clear the clouds from her vision, the retired huntress tried desperately to figure out where she was—a basement, by the looks of it, with no windows and only a single door leading into what would most likely be some sort of hallway. Moving on from this, Clara chose to survey her body—and just then, she began to feet the fear start seeping through her veins. Klaus had warned her about this; he had warned her, begged her even, to allow him to accompany her on this trip.
“Russia isn’t a friendly place, Clara,” He had said, his tone just as serious as it always was, when the two were discussing Clara’s safety. “It’s dangerous. The people there will not be welcoming to you.” And what had been Clara’s defence? She was going there for Aleksander; she was going there to find her best friend, someone who would never, not in a million years, let something bad happen to her. And yet, there she was, tied up in his basement. By his father, and his friends, most likely.
Looking up from where the rope was tied around her abdomen, Clara heard the sloshing of water. Across the dank, dimly lightened room, Clara’s eyes landed upon Miranda. But she was not alone—there was a man there, not one that had originally attacked them; but he was bad, this much Clara could tell from the smirk upon his lips and the hand of his that was half emerged in the water of the bathtub, holding Miranda’s shoulder underwater. And then, as Clara turned her gaze to Miranda’s face, she saw her open her eyes—so wide, in fact, that Clara knew what was coming before the scream met her ears. Wincing at the sound of her best friend scream, Clara immediately met the sound with a deep groan, one that began in her chest and rose upwards, clawing its way past her lips before she even registered the noise at all; it was almost animalistic, savage in the way it filled the room, surprising Clara as much as it seemed to surprise the others in the room. It was Clara’s nature; nothing shy of it. If Miranda Donovan was in pain, Clara Saltzman was angry.
Eyes wide with angry tears, Clara tried to ignore the screams escaping from Miranda’s lips. But with each shriek came another bubble of white hot rage from somewhere within Clara, somewhere deep down, that she had buried all those years ago. It had been only Miranda and Aleksander who were capable of letting that rage free; and in the past five years, it had been left dormant. Until now. Until Miranda was sitting across the room, screaming and writhing with a pain so true that it had tears forming in not only her own eyes, but Clara’s as well. There was only one thing that could do that to a vampire; vervain.
The sound of a metal door swinging open drowned out Miranda’s screams, momentarily, before all sounds were completely cut off. Miranda had stopped screaming, and the door had been firmly shut once more. Looking away from the brunette across the room, Clara took in Mr. Romanov—Aleksander’s father. And before he could open his mouth or utter a single syllable, Clara was speaking, her words filled with venom that had been long forgotten. “You sick bastard, let us go. Let us go right now! Let her out of that fucking tub, you asshole!” Clara didn’t bother with the Russian; she knew Mr. Romanov understood her English just as well as his son would have, if Aleks had been there.
“Now, now, принцесса,” Mr. Romanov teased, his toned filled with nothing but amusement. It sent a sickening shiver down Clara’s spine, and she turned her face away, disgusted with even the sight of him. “Why would I do that? You and your вампир friend here have decided to barge into my home, looking for my son, so why should I not have myself a little fun?” The other man in the room laughed along with Mr. Romanov then, shoving down on Miranda’s shoulder to dunk her under the water once more. Clara winced again, her entire body beginning to quiver with not only the fear, but the anger, and the anticipation of what was to come. As the man allowed Miranda up from the water, her screams once again filled the air—and Clara squeezed her eyes shut.
“C’mon, Miranda,” warned Mr. Romanov, his voice rising to a shout as he tried to speak over Miranda’s screams. Opening her eyes and turning to Miranda just as she locked her jaw shut, Clara tried not to grow angry; her entire face was filled with burns, proof that there was, in fact, vervain within that bathtub. And a lot of it. Mr. Romanov seemed unperturbed, however, as he continued on. “Do you not care for your lovely friend Clara here?” Mr. Romanov then gestured to Clara, as he walked over to a table that was on the opposite end of the room. Twisting her neck to watch, Clara’s gaze followed Aleksander’s father as he picked up a long, incredibly sharpened blade, and began walking towards Clara.
“What are you talking about?” Clara demanded, her eyes narrowing as she watched Mr. Romanov tread closer to her. And in this state, tied up with no weapons hidden beneath her jeans or her t-shirt, Clara was useless. She could do nothing to help herself, nor Miranda. All she could do was watch, and silently take what she knew was about to come. But then there it was; the tiniest of bulges at her stomach, the reminder of what she had just recently discovered. The pregnancy had come out of nowhere—impossible, according to everyone she had spoken to. And yet… there was no other option. She had slept with no one, not a single person, in the last five years—no one except an immortal vampire-werewolf hybrid. Who, up until last week, Clara had believed to be infertile.
“With each screams of hers, my blade will find another spot upon your lovely little body.” Mr. Romanov said, his voice nothing if not excited. He twirled the blade between his hands, holding it so carelessly and yet so expertly, in a way that had Clara’s stomach dropping to her knees; this was where Aleksander had learnt to hunt. This was where he had learnt to torture. “And if my count is correct, we’ve already listened to two shouts, yes? Let us begun, then!”
And begin, they did. First, Mr. Romanov’s blade oh-so-happily found itself carving an R into the back of her left shoulder. Blood was seeping through the thin, white fabric of Clara’s t-shirt, yet she still managed to keep her lips clasped together. No screams would escape Clara; at least not for that first punishment. Instead, the blonde kept her eyes locked onto Miranda’s, trying to ignore all the self-hatred and guilt that her best friend seemed to be holding. Clara gave the brunette the smallest of smiles, as if to say, what kind of reunion were you expecting? before the knife was able to find its second spot of impact; Clara’s thigh. Rather than carving something out or slicing down her leg, Mr. Romanov simply lifted his arm and plunged the knife into the thickest spot on her thigh, sending a bloodcurdling scream from Clara’s throat. And just as her shrieks of pain filled the room, the door was once again thrown open, but Clara could not find it in herself to look up.
Not until that voice filled the room. The one Clara had been holding onto for the last five years; the one she had come here, in search of. Aleksander. Though his voice had changed—the pitch had deepened, and so had the strength of his accent. And the tone… Clara didn’t even want to think about that; not for a second longer than necessary. Aleksander sounded… cold. Detached. Indifferent. Even as his eyes fell upon not only Clara, but Miranda, he seemed all but fazed. Instead his eyes drifted back to his father, and he commanded his senior from the room. The other man followed after him, leaving Miranda to sink deeper within the water, though this was followed by another scream. She seemed too weak to climb from the water, however, and Clara leaned into the ropes—all she wanted was to pull Miranda from the water. But she couldn’t; not with this knife in her leg, and these ropes keeping her attached securely to the chair.
“Aleksander! So help me god, Aleks, get her out of there! Get her out, Aleks, now! She’s going to die!” Clara shrieked, straining more so against the ropes. The knife was still lodged painfully in her leg, but Clara was biting at the inside of her cheek, ignoring that pain to instead focus on the pain of her best friend. Miranda’s eyes were drifting shut, her body sagging with unconsciousness as she sank further into the tub. “Да поможет мне Бог , Александр, я убью тебя , если вы не получаете ее оттуда!”
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vaporwave
ellievsbear
