Despair
© 2002 Thistle
It had always been a good hunting ground for the drakthos, during
these winter months. This abandoned lot with its gathering of burning
barrels, with New York's forgotten huddled around the flames for their
meager warmth against the season's chill. Winos, old bag ladies-runaways.
It was the runaways Mark was truly interested in. These poor little
lambs who had been so sure of themselves when they stepped foot outside
of their homes, but it was satisfying to see how the necessities of
life chased away all morals and any personal integrity they might have
had. Many of them became so starved and cold that they would leap at any
chance for a bit of food and warmth in relative safety.
How did he look to them, when he appeared from the darkness with an
offer of a meal and a warm place to sleep unmolested by the street's
denizens? With his wings hidden by glamour, surely he must look like an
angel sent from above, ready to bless their poor dampened spirits.
And then later only to see him for the demon he could be-but too
late...far too late.
A smug little smile crept across his features. Humans were so damn
easy at times.
He moved between the fires, hidden from mortal eyes by his glamour,
taking his time to look at the faces huddled around. Most of these were
winos, it seemed-there was a sad lack of youthful faces. It didn't
necessarily have to be a pretty young girl-Mark would have accepted a
good-looking boy as well. Sometimes they were better meals. Boys have
lessons of machismo hammered into them from birth, and the despair they
gave off as they abandoned their fathers' principles and let the pretty
demon have his horrible, humiliating way with them was so delicious.
But unfortunately, there seemed to be a lack of both. Dammit, the
shelters must be hiding all his prey tonight.
And then, like a ray of light from above, he saw her.
She stood unmoving by one of the barrels, staring into its flame with
dead, unseeing eyes, surrounded by jeering predators.
"Hey baby, I can warm you up."
"Maybe you'll be warmer in my pants. 'Course, you gotta share."
"Bet your tits are like lil' rocks under that shirt."
Snort. "What tits? What are you, chick, like eight?"
"Naw, I've seen eight-year-olds with way better tits than that!"
But their taunts seemed to fall on deaf ears. She paid their inane
chatter no mind at all as she gazed into the flames, and then suddenly
she raised one hand-
--and drove it into the fire.
The men around her fell back with gasps and curses as she held it
steady in the flames, her eyes narrowed in her pointed face. Then one by
one they wandered off to other fires, muttering as they went.
"Damn psycho bitch."
"Shit, she musta run away from one of them freakshows or sumthin'."
But even with their absence, she kept her hand in the fire, staring at
what should have been blackening flesh until another hand wrapped
gently around her wrist, drawing it back.
"There are better ways to warm yourself," murmured a silky voice by
her ear.
She turned slowly, as if the world would gladly stop in the time it
took her to finally look at the figure behind her. She looked dully at
the beautiful creature, with his hair like shining silk and eyes like
sapphire flames in the sculpted porcelain face. And he in turn studied a
face that would have well suited any pixie, surrounded by a flowing
mane of red that fell past her shoulders well to her hips. She noted the
lean, strong body beneath expensive, tailor-made shirt and slacks with
a disinterested glance. He looked at a female body almost completely
untouched by puberty, even though she had to be at least 16.
Some sort of wild blood in the girl's veins, no doubt. The female
wild fae tended towards underdeveloped bodies that allowed them greater
agility, and to a human descendant of their kind, it wasn't considered a
kind inheritance. The girl seemed not to care one way or another. She
was dressed in a faded t-shirt that was at least 3 sizes too big for
her, and a pair of ragged, hole-ridden jeans that suffered the same
complaint. She wore no coat, and a pair of thick-soled leather sandals on
her feet: both totally inappropriate for the weather. But even in the
icy wind, she made no shudder. It was as if she was beyond all feeling
in that small, prepubescent body.
If anything, Mark was even more intrigued. He wondered just what
action might make some sort of life flare in those dulled green orbs.
He glanced down at the hand he still held loosely in his and noted
with interest that the skin wasn't even reddened. How odd. The girl looked
human. She even smelled human. What was in her bloodline to give her
such resistance to this element? And what force would it take to make
that slight little body feel the pain he so loved to give?
"You poor thing," he murmured sympathetically, rubbing his thumb over
her wrist. Even through the leather gloves he wore in concession to
the frigid weather, he could feel the pulse of the blood in her veins.
"You look so hungry and cold. Wouldn't you like to get a hot meal into
you?"
She kept staring at him.
Not one to give up, he took an experimental step backwards, keeping a
hold on her wrist. She followed the step. He took another, and
another, and she followed them all. He tucked her small hand into the crook
of his elbow and began to lead her away from the fires, and she
followed him quite docile into the shadows.
*** *** ***
He thought it might take some doing getting the girl to eat, but she
sat at the table tucking away every bite that was laid before her. It
was amazing. She was eating enough for three pregnant ogresses. If the
food was put before her, she ate it. It was almost turning into a game
to see which would happen first: either she would fill up...or she
would explode.
But after about five six helpings of the meal set before her, she laid
down her fork and sighed, then curled up into the chair and laid her
head on her drawn up knees. She didn't look sleepy exactly...just tired
to the death.
He finally rose up from the chair beside her, where he had sat and
watched her eat with some amusement and awe, and gently helped her up.
"Perhaps you'd feel better after a hot bath?" he asked, the very soul
of courtesy.
She gave a little shrug of her thin shoulders, her eyes wandering off.
Oookay, he thought to himself. Well, that's the closest thing to a
reaction I've gotten all night. That meal just perked her right up, now
didn't it?
"Come along," he half sang, leading her towards the dining room door.
"I'll draw you a nice bath. You'll feel much better after that."
*** *** ***
And here I thought I was through bathing other people when Davy got
old enough to take his own damn baths, Mark grumbled to himself silently.
He'd gotten the girl into the bathroom, where she had just stood there,
staring through the huge tiled bath and the gently steaming water. So
Mark had moved to start undressing her, thinking perhaps losing the
shield of clothing that humans held so dear might wake her up from
whatever nightmare held her captive behind those eyes.
But she had stood there as passively as a doll; letting him move
whatever appendage was needed to get the T-shirt and jeans stripped. And
then she had just stood there naked and quiet until Mark finally picked
her up and sat her down in the water.
Which led her to simply sit there naked and quiet.
Sighing, Mark knelt by the tub and picked up a washcloth and a bar of
expensive imported soap (as in across two worlds, from Faerie Herself)
and slowly worked up a lather into the pricey cotton cloth. Then he
picked up one of the girl's arms from the water and began to wash her.
The girl wasn't that dirty. Perhaps she hadn't been on the streets
that long. Or perhaps she had already fallen into the role of whore as
so many young girls did, and managed to grab a shower in whatever dingy
motel room her benefactor would spring for. Yet...the girl didn't have
a used look about her-simply dead.
What an odd child. Mark was intrigued.
She stayed silent and impassive beneath his washing, even when the
washcloth slid between her legs. She stayed completely limp in the water,
not even a twitching thigh muscle to show she was unnerved by his slow
movements against her.
Intrigued, yes. But also getting a touch angry.
He washed her clean, including that shining mass of fiery hair, then
pulled her from the tub and dried her while the water drained. He did
so slowly, taking in the sight of her as the towel soaked away the
droplets clinging to her pale skin.
Definitely some Wild blood in her. Her chest was completely flat,
like that of a child's, the nipples small and pink and perked from the
towel's friction. Her waist did dip a little, but she was already such a
slender thing it was hard to tell. Arms and legs were long and lithe,
with a toned look to them that spoke of some acrobatics or other nimble
skill. Her hair fell over her like a cloak, the wet strands clinging
to her skin.
An idea blazed in Mark's mind as he searched for a hairdryer.
"Such a little doll," he murmured, combing out the long locks. "Don't
worry, lovely. We'll soon have you all sweet and pretty. You'll like
that, won't you?"
Silence. Not even a flicker of response from her eyes.
Frowning, Mark flipped on the dryer and began the arduous task of
getting the thick mane dry.
*** *** ***
"There!" Mark proclaimed, grinning none too nicely as he stood back to
take in his creation. "Perfection."
The girl faced the mirror of the vanity, still naked, completely
unfazed by the reflection. Mark had pulled her long locks up into two high
dog ears, but he left her bangs to tumble heavily over her. He wasn't
skilled at applying make-up, but for this he didn't need to be. He had
painted her face as white as porcelain, adding two spots of red on her
cheeks and drawing a pair of red, heart-shaped lips over hers. He
lined her eyes in black, added mascara until her lashes were dark frames
for those lovely green eyes.
He smiled over her head, eyes glittering with a malicious glee at his
creation. "Oh, but what is a pretty marionette without her strings?
Come along, little doll, and we'll find you some nice ones."
He pulled her up from the vanity and led her to the middle of the
room, then stepped back and eyed his creation thoughtfully. Then, with a
wave of one hand, a few of the shadows disengaged from the ceiling and
floor, snaking around her wrists and ankles and taking on the appearance
of slender black ribbons. She stood passively in her captivity,
staring a few inches past his right ear.
He moved one hand, and the ribbon around her right wrist tugged it
upwards. Another flick of the hand, and both of her arms were held over
her head. Her hands were limp over her wrists, her head leaning against
one arm. Another flick, and one foot was pulled up slightly. Now she
looked like a ballerina puppet. A naked ballerina puppet. Mark tried
not to giggle. It would ruin the whole effect.
Another gesture and the ribbons began to pull her about the room in a
grotesque dance. She was as limp as a fresh corpse, sagging against
the bonds, her arms and legs being pulled into whatever pose or gesture
he desired. He even found a bit of lively music to accompany her
twisted movements, and he sat and watched as she twirled about the room,
clapping gaily as if to encourage her.
Finally, he grew bored with the game and raised his hand. The ribbons
suddenly pulled the girl's arms high above her head until she was
beginning to be lifted from the ground. Mark stood up and stalked over to
her, shrugging his wings in a large dramatic gesture as he removed the
small dagger pendant that he constantly wore from around his neck. One
moment it was a simple small pendant, and the next it was an actual
dagger as long as his forearm.
"So cold, little doll," he said sadly, laying the blade between her
flat little breasts. "Won't you even give me one word?"
Quiet. The stillness of the dead. Mark hissed between his fangs,
fanning out his great wings.
"No? Then will you give me a scream?"
The blade flashed, and a line of red appeared above one pale nipple.
He smiled icily and bent his head, pressing hot lips to the wound.
Then, with practiced cruelty, he dragged his tongue along the edges,
tasting the sweet blood that flowed there.
And she gasped.
His control was good. He pulled his tongue along the gash in a few
more measured licks before raising his head to stare triumphantly into
her eyes. He expected fear. He received...
...surprise.
It wasn't surprise born of the shock that he had cut her. It was
almost as if she was surprised to find herself alive. It was the surprise
of an accident victim waking up to find himself in a hospital rather
than the gates of Hell. She stared at him with a sense of wonderment
shining in those green eyes, then angled her head to stare at the red
slash along her breast.
"Pain."
Her voice was hoarse with disuse. She raised her eyes once more,
holding his gaze easily with emotion concealed there. She wasn't
frightened, or angry-she was almost joyful.
"I felt it," she said, blinking. "Oh, sweet gods...do it again."
Mark stood frozen at the spot, just staring at her. Then, slowly, he
felt himself begin to thaw as a surge of fiery anger spread along his
nerves. Dammit! He wanted her pain, her screams, her fear! He wanted
to hear her beg, cry and curse. He did not want the pathetic gratitude
of a submissive masochist. Fuck! Of all the girls on the streets, he
had to pick one that would give him no pleasure.
No. She was still human, no matter what other blood lay in her veins.
And every human had its breaking point, no matter how much they might
like a little show of pain. Before the night was over, he would hear her
scream. He would smell her fear and revel in her curses. She would
give him what he wanted, damn her, if he had to flay her alive to get it!
A slow smile spread across his face as he raised the dagger and
stepped towards her.
*** *** ***
Mark stared blearily at the clock from where he sat slumped in a
chair, naked and bloody. None of it was his, of course. He glanced at the
body suspended limply from the Chaos-born ribbons and snorted. Damn
girl. Oh, he'd torn many a pained scream from her throat over the past
few hours, but...
She had wanted it. She had begged, but not for it to stop. Her cries
had been of thanks-not pleasure, but gratitude, as if every cut he gave
her was a gift rather than another slice closer to her death.
Had she been suicidal? Had she been grateful that he was taking the
responsibility of her death out of her hands?
No...her soul had been so dead that an actual death would have gone
unnoticed. The girl had been a walking corpse, briefly stirred back to
life by a touch of pain.
He briefly wondered what had happened to her to have such a
soul-shattering effect, then shrugged off his curiosity. Too late now. He
slumped in the chair and replayed her last few moments of life, remembering
the feel of her torn artery pumping her life into his greedy mouth.
And hadn't her slender body felt marvelous around him as he fucked her
while she died, held in place against him by those Chaos-spawned ribbons?
He turned his attention back to the body, which was no little more
than a bloody mess. He'd left her face untouched, however, wanting her to
keep that doll-like beauty. He steepled his fingers and stared for a
long moment at his little marionette-
--then moved one hand in a chopping motion, cutting her strings.
She landed in a limp bundle on the floor.
"Well," Mark said to himself, quietly seething. "This has been a
totally wasted night."
He let out a deep, heartfelt sigh and got to his feet, raising one
hand, preparing to burn the evidence with a dose of Chaos flame. He
gathered the power and flung it towards the body...and watched in puzzlement
as it fizzled two inches from his hand.
"What the--?" He looked at his hand, shook it, then, shrugging, tried
again.
Fizzle.
"Fuck!" he howled. "What the hell is going on?"
He spun on one heel and left the room, his temper eroding more and
more by the moment. He was on the other side of the house when the girl's
body gave a convulsive shake and gasped loudly as air was drawn into
dormant lungs.
She rose shakily onto her hands and knees, smearing more blood into an
already soaked carpet. Staring blindly at the mess around her, she
stood up, swaying until she found her balance. Then she padded mutely to
the window, pulling aside the drapes and up the glass. Out she crawled
into the cold, her blood her only clothing.
Mark returned a few moments later, carrying a blanket that he meant to
roll the girl's body in. Since his powers had decided to be less than
cooperative, he would simply have to take the body to a ghoul in order
to get rid of her. He hated leaving that sort of trail, though. Loose
ends were annoying.
But as he stared in horror at the empty spot where the body should
have laid, he realized he had a worse loose end than he thought.
*** *** ***
There was one bad moment when the vampire stood where the tracks of
blood ended, staring up into the copse of trees where she hid in the
branches of one large oak. But the magic held, shielding her from his
night vision, and with a muttered curse he moved off, searching for her
still.
Bonnie leaned back against the strong trunk of the tree, closing her
eyes. Ye gods, it was weird to be a living, thinking individual again.
The grief over losing poor Summer had completely undone her. How long
had she wandered in her guilt-induced daze? It had been early autumn
when the redcap had gutted the young girl...it was well into the winter
months now.
She gave a little jump as something landed on her shoulder and jerked
her head around. It was only a small turquoise-haired pixie, lost far
from his normal Faerie habitat. It stared back at her passively, then,
holding her gaze, it leaned forward a little and ran a quick, pointed
tongue over her cheek, lapping at the blood that covered it. She relaxed
and gave a small laugh, startling it.
"No, go ahead," she said wearily, leaning back against the tree again
and shutting her eyes. "Waste not, want not."
She felt it resume its meal with laps as delicate as a hummingbird's
tongue while she considered her course of action from here on in. Well,
her guilt over Summer's death had given her a death wish of her
own-which she'd just gotten granted. Fine. She had died. Damn trickster
blood wouldn't let her stay dead, of course. But guilt had demanded she
join Summer in death. All right. Fine. Guilt didn't say for how long.
Ten minutes seemed long enough. Now she needed to get on with her
life.
Bonnie braced herself against the branch and launched herself out of
the tree, landing lightly ten feet below with a trickster's
gravity-defying grace. The pixie followed her down, gossamer wings humming as it
hovered nearby. She gave it a small smile and hunched one shoulder
invitingly. It settled down and started to lap up a bit more blood, then
hesitated.
"Fang find," it said in broken English. It-no, his eyes were solemn
in his pointed face. "Fang kill."
"Fang already did that," Bonnie muttered distractedly, glaring up at
the stars. It was a nice clear night to start living again. Gee, if
she were a sailor, she could find her position easily. But no, she was
just a puck with delusions of humanity. She finally just picked a
direction and started walking.
A truck driving down the road a few miles away from the vampire's
house suddenly stopped, the driver not quite sure why. He drove off again
with a shrug, not realizing he now had two additional passengers in the
back. Bonnie huddled up in the corner of the truck bed, grimacing at
the blood turning sticky. Hopefully she would be able to find friends
in New York-preferably some with a shower. The pixie-whose name she now
knew to be Hopper-was curled up in the crook of her neck, fast asleep
under the blanket of her hair. Lucky little bastard.
She glanced up at the sky, noting a dark moving splotch against the
starry sky. It was a shame she hadn't gotten the name of the man who
brought her back to life.
It would have been nice to be able to return the favor someday.