Thierry Astor wasn’t afraid of very much. Not loss or pain, not hard work, not danger, not other people. Not even death. Most certainly not death. She was, as she admitted freely, not aching to lose her life any time soon. But she wasn’t afraid. Not of death.
As the days began to blur into their nights, a cloud of blood lust and weakness and frenzy that she could barely get her head around, Thierry focused on only that. That she wasn’t afraid of death. That this didn’t scare her.
But more than anything, Thierry Astor was afraid of failure. Her whole plan, from the day it had begun was about making things better. And no, she wasn’t some kind of paragon of goodness. She wasn’t a charitable benefactor or a righteous do-gooder. Thierry was a provider, someone who saw a gaping hole in the people the world cared for and wanted to fix it. Someone who saw an avenue toward her own success and took it. Without fear. Without looking back.
She headed with that same determination down the halls of the manor. Though to anyone else she may have run into, it wouldn’t appear determined at all. She was shaky on her feet at best, wobbly, weak, wrapped in a robe and paler than usual. But she knew the way and she knew that at the end of that hall lay a room, a room with a witch who had magical blood, who kept to herself, who likely wasn’t even sick. A witch who would be the secret to Thierry’s success. To deterring failure just one more day.
She threw the door open, gracelessly despite her attempts at composure. Thierry wasn’t composed anymore. She was rabid, feral, dark eyed and fractured. Her movements were as rigid as her thoughts jumping erratically from one to the next. From blood lust to the gentle touch against a frightened girls cheek, from nurture to death grip, from restraint to devouring. It took only seconds. She’d promised herself one bite but it had taken only seconds.
Faster than usual. That’s what Thierry said. Something was wrong. It had happened to quickly for her to control it. But by the time her strength was regained, the girl’s body lay limp and cold in her arms. With enough momentary strength now, Thierry set it down. Backed slowly away from the corpse. “Fuck,” she whispered. To no one in particular. Ancestors she didn’t believe in, her own conscience that didn’t care too much what she had to do to win, whatever spies inevitably listened in the walls of this old house.
But she said nothing more. She backed away, locked the door with magic and moved with much faster, more steady speed now back to her own wing, silk robe billowing behind her. She wiped the blood form her chin, certain there was more if she took the time to look at it. Her determined movements didn’t scream fear. They screamed woman on a mission. But deep down, Thierry was afraid. This time, not of death, not of failure; but of the monster she herself had created.
