Gaara leaned forward against the railing. A heavy bassline pumped through the soles of his shoes and into the pit of his stomach, where it sloshed with alcohol he had not asked for and a keen sense of disconnect. His back faced the din of the house party from which he had retreated. He stared instead at the view which stretched beyond the patio: a thousand city rowhomes jutting up from the cracked pavement like broken teeth, plaquelike strips of yellowed grass from abandoned alleys and walkways, its immenseness, its ethereal mystique lent only by the chilled winter dusk, merging together into a gaping maw which threatened to swallow him whole. He had stood there for some time, palms pressed into the cold wrought-iron, the breeze a blissful sting on his cheeks, until the door behind him creaked open.
He turned his head just enough to identify a stranger.
For a moment, he hesitates. It is obvious that the girl does not want to be perceived, if by the world or just by him. Why then, though, had she not simply grabbed a bottle from the store to drown her pain in solitude?
"...Yeah. I think so, too."
Then he is gone, for a minute only just behind the bar, before returning with a full glass in hand. His shift is almost over, given maybe half an hour. Things had already grown a little more quiet, and whoever was left trying to forget about their early morning the next weekday, Xavier can surely take care of by himself. Lux presses the glass into the woman's hands with a frown and waits for her to drink. Plain water, no more.
"I think what you need is to go to bed and sleep, love. Do you want me to call somebody? Anyone who can come pick you up?"
Sullivan Knoth had left his mark on her. It was a dark thing, a bruise that never healed and grew purple, deeper and deeper until it was black. A hole in her chest she couldn't seem to fill. Where justice once resided, used to guide her toward uncover truth, was now a gaping hole where only dark thoughts could survive. She often thought of revenge. Fantasizing what it would've been like to plunge a hot iron rod into Knoth's "all seeing" eye. He wouldn't be able to touch her then. He wouldn't be able to see the so-called harlot / whore before him. And she'd watch as he screamed.
The man and his wretched flock was not all to blame. It was Murkoff who really pulled the strings. They simply watched as the Langermanns were pulled deeper and deeper into their torturous experiment. Simon Peacock had claimed as much. And Lynn listened. Every fiber of her being wanting nothing more than to rip Murkoff apart for what they did to her. This dark thing inside her shoved away rational thought. It drew her deeper into Simon's plotting. She would see it through to the end if it meant that Murkoff would burn.
It was what brought her to Nevada. Simon believed Murkoff had their hands in another religious experiment and monitoring them may provide answers. At first, Lynn found herself hesitating. Too many awful memories of Temple Gate kept her from accepting. And yet, after some deliberation, she was texting Simon and accepting the job. It would be safe, he assured her.
Doubt turned to panic when she tried to start her car. She'd parked it far away, hidden in the trees, so she could continue the rest of her venture on foot. There was not supposed to be confrontation. All she had to do was watch from a safe distance, record her findings and report back to Simon. For three days, she continued her surveillance, seemingly unnoticed. Until she returned to her car and the engine sputtered to silence. Again, she turned the key in the ignition. Her car gave a weak wheeze and refused to start. Panic swelled in her chest as she got out and gathered her bag from the passenger seat. She had to move. Now.
It felt as though he would die in the dark, denied the light of her gaze. Robbed of honeyed kisses, those soft little sounds sweet enough to make a man sick with desire. All those nights in the back seat, his hand an eager cradle for her head, her panties bunched below her knees. No marital vows passed their lips, but they made holy promises all the same. Beneath dark canopies and star-strung skies, with their shining bodies damp and sticking, they planned their future. He was going places, and Miriam was coming with him.
Until she wasnāt. Until she knew that before love she had been the punchline of an unfinished joke, a dare easily won.
āMiriam, please.ā
Desperation clawed its way up Royceās throat, his whispered voice raised in an animal sound. Eyes were raw, red-rimmed, turned upward, blind to the heavens. One cupped hand was home to a collection of irregular pebbles, his other making projectiles out of them. They bounced and rattled against the dark window of the preacherās daughter. No lights were on, but he knew she must be awake, sleepless, suffering with the same heartsickness as he.
All those times she had let him in. Through the window, into her bed, into her arms, into her heart. Times enough that he had mapped the floorboards of her bedroom, knew precisely which ones would creak their protest as they swayed and spun towards her that narrow mattress, lost in each otherās mouth, her soft hands climbing beneath the hem of his t-shirt.
Now, all doors were closed, and his world was colder for it. The future they had built together burned without warm.
Cutting through the resinous scent of pine needles, through the earthy notes of rotting mulch and fungus, came the reek of blood. Its coppery, metallic tang filled Farkasā nose, strong enough to coat the back of his throat, to lie thick on his tongue. A red ribbon was what pulled him through the fringes of woodland, deeper into the forestās feathered heart.
Mankind could not help but leave a mark. A desolation of tree stumps, like coarse stubble, greeted him as he approached the isolated homestead. Pens that had once housed livestock now guarded their remains. Putrid and bloated, the stiff-legged, round-bellied creatures lay in their own filth, oozing from every orifice. The cool light of Farkasā pewter gaze traced the rims of crow-picked eye sockets, quick to focus on the door which hung open in dark promise. Blood formed a lacquer ā so dark it was almost black ā that drip-dried down the front steps, staining the grain and soaking into the pores of the wood.
This scene of humble domesticity had been the site of a slaughter. Farkas was no stranger to horror, but still he felt a kernel of dread sprout in his chest. Boots creaked and dove-tail joists whined as he mounted the steps, congealed pools crackling beneath his heavy footfall. Being both a monster and a monster of a man, he was too big for homely spaces; he was forced to duck his head to enter the cabin, the ruin inside reflected dully in his steel breastplate. Sparse furniture had been reduced to splintered kindling, and all was dusted by the ash and cinders that spewed from the cold fireplace. Shutters were closed, the only light that entered the space pushed in behind him, casting his shadow tall and broad.
A massacre. Bodies pulled apart. Two ā Farkas counted ā identifying them by the ribcages that yawned open like bear traps, vomiting their innards. Maggots writhed ecstatic in gnawed flesh while their blue-sheen parents buzzed black and fat, rubbing their hands together in filthy glee, feasting on the splatters of gore that painted the vaulted ceiling. At the stink, he closed a hand over his nose and mouth, that cloying decay softened by the leather that covered his palm. No lives to save here, no murderer to apprehend, not even an unspoiled larder to raid. He turned as if to leave.
And then he heard it. The softest of whimpers, the rapid tick of a frantic heartbeat. Heaped in a corner, gore-flecked sheets heaved and mewled. Farkas thought of a she-catās nest, of the helplessness of newborn kittens, all milky breath and dandelion-fluff fur. Through the tangle of torn linen, he glimpsed birch-pale limbs and wild brown hair. The shroud slipped lower, revealing impossibly wide and round blue eyes, glassy in terror, red-rimmed from long-spent tears. A girl.
Farkas approached, looming over her before he thought to make himself small, to settle onto one knee. He reached out a gauntleted hand, proffering it to her as though she were a kicked stray, a hag-ridden mare.
In her mortal life Mary lived only within the confines of London. She traversed the city, going where she pleased and always returning to the West End to the safety of her home. A familiar routine. But beneath that structure was the heart of adventure. At night, a young Mary poured over the pages of books her parents would supply her - each filled with descriptions of the wondrous world outside of London. One day, she promised herself, she would see the world.
She had not envisioned seeing it through the eyes of the pale, wretched woman she'd become.
London was far behind her. The boat she took to America would serve as her escape, and she was intent on leaving the memory of her brother in the grave where her name was still carved into the cross. The greater the distance, the less his voice rung in her ear. So in the years to follow Mary kept going, travelling further and further west until the earth was so dry it cracked at its surface and the sky knew no bounds.
London and New York were cramped, buildings stacked on top of buildings and shaped by metal-studded teeth of industrialization. Here, the land stretched so far even Mary's keen eyes could not see its end. She reveled in it. Her fascination did not extend to the poor upkeep of aging infrastructure. Each town she drifted through, a pale shadow in the dark, was more deplorable than the last. The hotel room of the latest was not where she ever envisioned she'd be, but it would have to serve until the sun slipped behind the horizon.
Thick blinds are drawn back after she rises from a long slumber. The day was gone and the dark ink of the night was beginning to bleed into the sky. Hunger stirred in her, a ravenous urge that infected every part of her being. It only grew as she readied herself for the hunt - tying her raven hair back and slipping into jeans and a plain t-shirt. The clothes were far from her usual choice - always one to opt for high fashion - but she was not intent on standing out. A predator must conceal herself if she were to corner the prey.
The locks on the door were removed and she stepped into the cool evening air. Though faint, the smell of that which she craved, blood so red, reached her and she darted off into the night towards it, moving too fast for the human eye to see.
