It was similar to someone stepping on a crisp twig in a silent forest.
Like a fish hitting the water after a particularly impressive beat. The gun shot post-firing. The drumstick hitting a snare. An acorn hitting the roof.
Stu was flung back like a ragdoll, then yanked forward, reeled in by the power Darcey dealt so fast all apologies were left behind with his stomach and nerves, his body careening toward the cobblestones. His hands flung themselves out, but not quite fast enough to prevent the inevitable. White-hot agony flashed across his eyes as his head and cheek struck the uneven rocks that lined the road, the paint-splattered vagabond colliding with the cobbles with a limp smack of motion.
It was difficult to pinpoint the actual trigger. Hard to say what started it all, but down the rabbit hole he began to descend, dragged backwards; the rabbit outsmarted by a fox who’d lain in wait and made Stu’s home his grave.
Like a series of jittering images being rewound on a shaky film, he could see bits and fragments of what had transpired. He saw Darcey hovering over him, expressionless, haloed by chemicals that shone wickedly pale and sterile in the hanging lights, a needle in one hand and a timer in the other, posed like a saint fixated in a mosaic of medical supplies and watchful eyes. Her unholy lack of humor leaving her face gaunt in life as it was in death, her head slightly bowed as she looked down at him (and what a strange out-of-body experience that was) strapped to the table, forced to strain his eyes against the unforgiving, endless tunnel of light to see her. The shadow at the end that loomed like Death herself, monotonously counting his pulse, checking his vitals, and–
Stu didn’t want to remember anymore.
The world twisted worse than his stomach did as Darcey started to feed. It was like the weakness that came from laying a long day in the sun at the shore; but colder. Much colder. He could feel the energy being drained out of him, a viral, horrible sensation of being bitten and sucked on; as if he was just a ripened fruit for her to sink her teeth into. As if he was fodder for her still, even now, beyond the grave and post-mortem. He remained…hers, somehow. Property of Verbena and their tests even now, not his own person, just the thing Darcey could order at the window if she had a hankering for nervous energy flavored with disorder…
One hand shot out following the observation of steadying fingers against the cut on his brow. Blood painted his face in streaks of crimson, dancing down toward his chin like streaks of lightning. Under wild ginger hair, it looked like his colors were running. Bloodied and painted digits twitched and twisted in the air–then pushed. They pushed against Darcey, they hummed and snapped and lanced around her efforts, choking the wraith’s hunger, strangling her efforts, dragging HER in, trying to either break her hold or her; herself, whichever came first…
“Ow,” breathed the man who picked his head up following the nasty spill he’d taken on the cobbles. Where Stuart was all avoiding glances and shaky limbs, this–whoever he was–was calm. Calculated. Secure. His eyes were steady, boring into Darcey’s own as he smoothly shifted from his knees to his feet in one fluid gesture that was as inhuman as it was serpentine; or perhaps avian–but the predatory, focused aspect of the personality peeking through cerulean-green windows spoke more to the qualities of a raptor than a songbird. It lacked the fragility and dependence, making up for each with ferocity and singularity.
“That was REALLY rude, Frankenstein,” said the thing which called itself Lucas, wiping blood from his brow and flashing Darcey a gash of a smile. With one final push, Stu’s self-proclaimed “better half” lunged forward, harnessing powers he himself was still getting used to in an effort to force her back, cut her off, and, with any luck, banish her back whence she came.
But Lucas had a feeling Hell had kicked this one out for a reason.
“Then again, etiquette isn’t mandatory to receive one’s PhD…!”
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