fic: darkcity, breathe, and it comes

I'm going to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness for not using quotations with dialogue in this one. Except, well, not.

1692 is a reference to the Salem Witch Trials, which was a mess that resulted in a lot of innocents killed or imprisoned because of false accusations, or grudges, or paranoia.

So. This is... Sam adding another member to his harem coven. I have no idea who she is. 834 words, unedited and unbeta'd--I didn't even look through it lawl.

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breathe, and it comes

They have tied her to a stake. It is a scene from 1692, except that she is not a witch, and they are not killing her based on any wild accusation. They know what she is; and she knows what they are. They are the people gathered around her in a fair number, though there isn't enough to call it a crowd. They are dressed in jeans, sweatpants--dark-colored clothes, so that the stains from previous hunts don't show.

They are annoyed. They want to go home. She is going to die tonight, and they are discussing what show they missed that evening, what they should buy for their kids' birthdays, when can we leave forfuck's sakes, it's past midnight.

Midnight.

She tilts her head up and imagines she can feel the moon, although she knows that, even if they were outside, it would be hidden from her. She would call it neglect, or abandonment, but. But.

But.

She is not trying to free herself from her bonds. As a predator, her foremost attributes are cunning and intelligence. If she attempts escape, the hunters around her will strike, and....

Well. Kill her, perhaps. Disable her. It is a fate that is near-certain; she would rather prevent her impatience from hastening it.

They are going to burn her alive. It is not so bad. She has suffered through worse--berserker rages in the sun, burning outside and inside. Childbirth, long and hard, only to find the child had long been dead inside her.

She is waiting for an opportunity, although it is increasingly likely that there isn't any opportunity to wait for.

Hurry up, one of them says.

Another one, this a bare two meters away, shakes a tired head. No, we're waiting for another one. It makes more sense to burn them together.

What? Another? --Really?

It was a good hunt tonight, comes the reply.

She does not move a single muscle, in the single, expressive way of someone trying very hard not to react. She wants to believe none of them notice, because they are tired.

Another one. They are bringing another one, another one like her. It is, if not a good opportunity, at least an opportunity. Her fingers are curling slightly. Her claws unsheathe themselves. Around her, tension coils thick in the air, waiting and expectant. They fall quiet. They are all waiting, together, she and them, prey and predator.

Then the other one arrives, only it is not the other she expects at all.

It is a human, not a vampire, who steps into the warehouse.

He is looking around. He is not scared. He has a knife, and the blade is dark. His gaze tilts up, and she is startled to find him staring at her. He is ignoring them, the hunters, but perhaps he can because he is human. Perhaps he is one of them.

No. He isn't. He is walking towards her, and although they are parting, creating a path through negative space, it is not a gesture of submission. They are drawing guns, the glint of metal dull in the vacant light of the warehouse. She can sense the tilt of their thoughts, although they are unvoiced: What the fuck is he doing here, and who is he, and is he a complete nutcase?

Sorry I came so late.

He is speaking to her. Or at least, he is looking at her, and his mouth moves while he looks, and words come out. There is intent directed at her. But the words die out, and make no sense.

She is curling her fingers again, slowly, and she realizes the true reason she has not acted: She is injured.

She does not feel injured. She feels no pain. But she is injured. The thought is unfolding itself in her mind, new and wondrous, and she thinks, ah.

Sorry I came so late. But I'm going to rescue you now.

Coupled with the extra sentence, his words are making more sense. But. She is still confused. And now, she is watching; the blade of the knife presses against her bonds, and then stops, because the human has a gun pointed at his skull, pressing into his hair.

I'm sure none of us want the mess of your brains blown out all over the floor, says one of them, and then, like an afterthought: Motherfucker.

And then, smooth like silk, a voice she knows, because it is the voice all of them have: I wouldn't touch him if I were you.

Her gaze is moving, from the human to the door, and standing there are two others.

And then the human says, Well, actually, I have a condition. As if there is no gun pressing itself against the back of his head, as if they are not surrounded by them, by hunters, all of them palming guns.

He is smiling.

She says, I accept, because she does not care to wait for an explanation. She was expecting an opportunity; this is an opportunity.

They are not going to burn her alive, because the human says, Okay, and his knife slides through her bonds, and then everything erupts into motion.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity