Chapter One
How did it come to this? Mick thought to himself. How did I let this happen?
The grime of the alley was being ground into the knees of Mick's pants, but he didn't care. The stench of the nearby dumpster pervaded his nose, but that was of no consequence. The surrounding darkeness and the penetrating silence would have been ominous to anyone else, but not so to one of Mick St. John's nature.
Mick stared down in torment at the tiny figure. It seemed obscene, the elfin little face, the fragile body, laid out on the filth of the trash-strewn, stinking alley.
God, oh, God, Mick half chanted, half prayed, don't let this happen! How could this happen?
Mick's hands were trembling, and he clenched them. Not for control, but for strength. They were slick with blood, growing sticky, and for the first time ever the smell of blood was revolting to him. Instead, it made him nauseated, to see his hands covered with the life-force of the little one, the scent of it was heavy in his nose and in his head; it was different somehow, and he knew he'd never forget it.
The small person that was laid out in the alley let out a sound, an ungodly sound that Mick was familiar with, as was any of his nature, but it was a sound that didn't belong. It wasn't right that the child should make such a sound.
It was a gruesome gurgle, a telling bubbling in the throat, and the small throat worked convulsively, the little body writhing a little.
Mick forced himself to meet the expressive eyes, the eyes that showed so much pain, but no blame. The boy's mouth opened to speak but no words emerged, only a small trickle of his life-blood, from the corner of his lips and down his cheek, somehow dainty, as if in respect for the tiny body it was flowing from.
Mick's sticky hands grabbed the small ones, also growing sticky with the boy's own scarlet fluid, pulled the weak hands from their clutch against the blood-soaked t-shirt. The shirt had been blue, before the blood, with white words that spelled out COURAGE across the front; if only the strong word could be infused into their souls. Had it been a sign, perhaps? A sign gone unrecognized and now mocking? Mick squeezed the little hands tight, but not too tight; he was so fragile, after all.
“No,” Mick whispered gently. His tears fell freely and he didn't try to stop them. This was not the time to fight tears. These tears needed to be shed. “Don't talk. Don't try to talk. It'll be okay. I'm so sorry. It'll be okay.”
The little head bobbed slowly side to side, the eyes with an intelligence that seemed to exceed the few years lived. Mick didn't know if the child was rejecting the suggestion not to talk, or the idea that it would be okay, but it didn't really matter.
What mattered was that life inside him was fading fast. Too fast.
Mick knew it was his own fault. He would remember that for eternity, no matter what happened from that moment on.
Yes. It was Mick's fault. But he had the power to reverse it. He couldn't let the boy die, he just couldn't. This little life, the precocious, mischevious little creature deserved so much more, he deserved to live, he deserved to continue on.
Just as the thought formulated, a figure stepped from from the shadows, detaching from the darkness slowly, his eyes on the scene before him.
Mick looked up at his friend as he emerged. Josef's eyes were shining with moisture, with grief, and he made no attempt at concealing either. Josef's mouth and chin were slicked with blood, the front of his shirt saturated in it, blood of a different source than that coating Mick's hands, and Josef's coloring and aura was that of a freshly fed vampire. But his countenance was that of one greatly saddened, and it had not been a measured and controlled feeding that had bloodied him so. It had been enraged vengeance.
“Mick?” Josef questioned solemnly.
Josef could be asking after the condition of the boy, but he would clearly hear the stuttering and slowing heartbeat, the shallowing of the breaths. He would clearly smell the blood lost, and know it was too much. More likely, Josef was asking after Mick's own state.
Mick's desperate eyes returned to the boy without answering his friend. Mick released the little hands and reached under the child's body, gathering the small form to himself. The boy whimpered at being moved, but he didn't cry out. So brave, so dignified, even so close to the end. His eyes stayed on Mick's face, and there was no fear, and still no blame, only a resignation and bravery of what was to come, both out of place in one so small and young. Courage, indeed.
Mick paid no heed to the blood now soaking into his clothing as he cradled the boy to his chest. The boy's temperature was too cool, and he was alarmingly limp, though his eyes still retained some recognition as he stared at Mick's face. Surrealy, a small smile turned up the corners of the angelic little mouth.
Perhaps the boy didn't blame Mick, but Mick knew it was his fault. He had to fix it, and his grief overpowered the knowledge that it was a selfish compulsion, that it was for him, and not the child. He couldn't lose him.
He said the words, his eyes moving up to look at his watching friend.
“I can save him, Josef.”
Josef's eyes widened a moment in a way that would be comical under other circumstances; he'd clearly not expected such words from Mick. But then his eyes narrowed and he gave one small shake of his head.
“No. Mick, no. You can't, and you'd know that if you weren't hurting.”
“Yes. I can. I can, Josef, and I have to. I'm going to. I can save him.”
Mick looked down at the boy. Yes. He could save him, but it had to be quick. It had to be now.
Mick let himself change, taking no time at all, and his fangs bared themselves. Mick looked at Josef once more, quickly, barely noting the older vampire's sudden alarm.
Then Mick threw his head back in a hiss, his fangs gleaming under the moon, his eyes dilated to the darkness as any night predator, and his head lowered quickly, almost of it's own accord, and his arms held the child closer, tighter, as he aimed for the barely pulsing artery in the child's pale neck.
“No! Mick, no!” Josef ordered, perhaps begged, desperately, and he lunged for Mick's crouched form on the alley floor, and the dying child in Mick's arms.
The grime of the alley was being ground into the knees of Mick's pants, but he didn't care. The stench of the nearby dumpster pervaded his nose, but that was of no consequence. The surrounding darkeness and the penetrating silence would have been ominous to anyone else, but not so to one of Mick St. John's nature.
Mick stared down in torment at the tiny figure. It seemed obscene, the elfin little face, the fragile body, laid out on the filth of the trash-strewn, stinking alley.
God, oh, God, Mick half chanted, half prayed, don't let this happen! How could this happen?
Mick's hands were trembling, and he clenched them. Not for control, but for strength. They were slick with blood, growing sticky, and for the first time ever the smell of blood was revolting to him. Instead, it made him nauseated, to see his hands covered with the life-force of the little one, the scent of it was heavy in his nose and in his head; it was different somehow, and he knew he'd never forget it.
The small person that was laid out in the alley let out a sound, an ungodly sound that Mick was familiar with, as was any of his nature, but it was a sound that didn't belong. It wasn't right that the child should make such a sound.
It was a gruesome gurgle, a telling bubbling in the throat, and the small throat worked convulsively, the little body writhing a little.
Mick forced himself to meet the expressive eyes, the eyes that showed so much pain, but no blame. The boy's mouth opened to speak but no words emerged, only a small trickle of his life-blood, from the corner of his lips and down his cheek, somehow dainty, as if in respect for the tiny body it was flowing from.
Mick's sticky hands grabbed the small ones, also growing sticky with the boy's own scarlet fluid, pulled the weak hands from their clutch against the blood-soaked t-shirt. The shirt had been blue, before the blood, with white words that spelled out COURAGE across the front; if only the strong word could be infused into their souls. Had it been a sign, perhaps? A sign gone unrecognized and now mocking? Mick squeezed the little hands tight, but not too tight; he was so fragile, after all.
“No,” Mick whispered gently. His tears fell freely and he didn't try to stop them. This was not the time to fight tears. These tears needed to be shed. “Don't talk. Don't try to talk. It'll be okay. I'm so sorry. It'll be okay.”
The little head bobbed slowly side to side, the eyes with an intelligence that seemed to exceed the few years lived. Mick didn't know if the child was rejecting the suggestion not to talk, or the idea that it would be okay, but it didn't really matter.
What mattered was that life inside him was fading fast. Too fast.
Mick knew it was his own fault. He would remember that for eternity, no matter what happened from that moment on.
Yes. It was Mick's fault. But he had the power to reverse it. He couldn't let the boy die, he just couldn't. This little life, the precocious, mischevious little creature deserved so much more, he deserved to live, he deserved to continue on.
Just as the thought formulated, a figure stepped from from the shadows, detaching from the darkness slowly, his eyes on the scene before him.
Mick looked up at his friend as he emerged. Josef's eyes were shining with moisture, with grief, and he made no attempt at concealing either. Josef's mouth and chin were slicked with blood, the front of his shirt saturated in it, blood of a different source than that coating Mick's hands, and Josef's coloring and aura was that of a freshly fed vampire. But his countenance was that of one greatly saddened, and it had not been a measured and controlled feeding that had bloodied him so. It had been enraged vengeance.
“Mick?” Josef questioned solemnly.
Josef could be asking after the condition of the boy, but he would clearly hear the stuttering and slowing heartbeat, the shallowing of the breaths. He would clearly smell the blood lost, and know it was too much. More likely, Josef was asking after Mick's own state.
Mick's desperate eyes returned to the boy without answering his friend. Mick released the little hands and reached under the child's body, gathering the small form to himself. The boy whimpered at being moved, but he didn't cry out. So brave, so dignified, even so close to the end. His eyes stayed on Mick's face, and there was no fear, and still no blame, only a resignation and bravery of what was to come, both out of place in one so small and young. Courage, indeed.
Mick paid no heed to the blood now soaking into his clothing as he cradled the boy to his chest. The boy's temperature was too cool, and he was alarmingly limp, though his eyes still retained some recognition as he stared at Mick's face. Surrealy, a small smile turned up the corners of the angelic little mouth.
Perhaps the boy didn't blame Mick, but Mick knew it was his fault. He had to fix it, and his grief overpowered the knowledge that it was a selfish compulsion, that it was for him, and not the child. He couldn't lose him.
He said the words, his eyes moving up to look at his watching friend.
“I can save him, Josef.”
Josef's eyes widened a moment in a way that would be comical under other circumstances; he'd clearly not expected such words from Mick. But then his eyes narrowed and he gave one small shake of his head.
“No. Mick, no. You can't, and you'd know that if you weren't hurting.”
“Yes. I can. I can, Josef, and I have to. I'm going to. I can save him.”
Mick looked down at the boy. Yes. He could save him, but it had to be quick. It had to be now.
Mick let himself change, taking no time at all, and his fangs bared themselves. Mick looked at Josef once more, quickly, barely noting the older vampire's sudden alarm.
Then Mick threw his head back in a hiss, his fangs gleaming under the moon, his eyes dilated to the darkness as any night predator, and his head lowered quickly, almost of it's own accord, and his arms held the child closer, tighter, as he aimed for the barely pulsing artery in the child's pale neck.
“No! Mick, no!” Josef ordered, perhaps begged, desperately, and he lunged for Mick's crouched form on the alley floor, and the dying child in Mick's arms.