Something Wicked This Way Comes

"I am the Abomination."

His panic is sweet in the small space between us, and I unconsciously drop my head to his neck where the sweat lingers in the blackened hollows and lines of his flesh. The burn of magic against my tongue is bitter and familiar, bringing with it dark memories of rituals and degradation beyond even my immortal imagination.

"Did you know, I was often strapped down upon a cross of silver while unspeakable atrocities were visited upon my body with less feeling than a scientist for a rat? At least the scientist believes the rat will somehow prove a theory, while my experimentation was merely for the enjoyment of your perversions."

He shook his head frantically, tears leaking from the sides of his eyes, though I am unsure if in denial of my comment or knowledge of my torture. I was the coven's prisoner for nigh on seventy years, long enough to be paraded in different territories and before a fuck-all of witches. I am presently unable to determine his exact age - witches and warlocks can live upwards of three hundred years - so he may or may not have been present at my humiliations, yet either way I have no problem exacting revenge upon his flesh.

My fangs grows to hunting length and I pierce the skin so close to my mouth; the tang of magic swirls through his blood, ash thick in my throat, and I nearly gag with revulsion. I ignore my instinctive response and press on, demanding his mind to open to me so I can rifle through his memories and find the answers to whatever questions Eric might pose.

He thrashes beneath me, his screams muffled by the gag, and my fangs rip out of his neck and slide across slick skin.

"Shhh, shhh, easy easy," I caress his head, seeing a handful of blond hairs glowing among the dark strands. A shaper's focus can hold only as long as the subject is able to keep the magic firmly implanted; his terror of me, and the unexpected piercing of virgin flesh, is undoing the base structure of the spell.

He gradually settles against me, his eyes wide upon mine as my glamour finally catches his vulnerable mind. I pet him for long moments, timing each stroke to the slowing heartbeat loud in my ears until he is completely enthralled by me. Gently I bring him back to my fangs and slide back into my initial entry points; the sludge he calls blood fills my mouth again and I draw deeply, so deeply, I can feel his heart pulsating within me.

Images explode in my mind's eye: a young tow-headed blond boy running around naked with a laughing woman following behind while another blond boy watching enviously through a slit in the gate, his small fist clenching into a fist. A flash, and then the same envious boy is older, standing over the burning bodies of the mother and son with dull blue flame filling his hand. He cannot be older than twelve, a Hand come early into his power through sacrificing his family. Fucking witches.

I push through his earliest memories, searching for more recent ones, trying to find when he infiltrated Eric's retinue; it had to be within the past year or so, because assuming someone's identity, even with magic, takes time. Unfortunately the shaper was a good one because there is a fog walling that part of his mind off and I cannot pierce it.

Disgusted with him and myself, I retract my fangs and allow him to fall to the ground with a thump, blood running in thin rivulets from the holes in his throat. His eyes blindly follow me when I rise and pace, silently cursing my ineffectuality. I am not used to failure, and he represents failure. I have suspicions but no actual data, nothing I can give Eric when he arrives, and he will arrive.

Soon.

I return to the warlock and take out the gag, using the cloth to wipe his bleeding throat. There is little personality behind those eyes now, his mind caught between my glamour and the spell's compulsions. I may have pushed too hard in my quest for answers, but I find no pity in my heart for him. His kind is a truly alien race more horrific than any bug-eyed, big-headed, gray-skinned being mortals picture descending upon the planet in saucer-shaped silver ships. Witches are insidious creatures who are able to blend into the populace with little problem because, though not human, they share many of the same physical characteristics.

How his kind entered this plane of existence is unknown, though there are enough accounts of human encounters with god-like beings throughout the ages to know they arrived a very, very long time ago. For obvious reasons, there is little research and first-hand knowledge of their race, so most of our information on them is vague, problematic, and spotty. I could be considered the foremost expert on Witches by virtue of surviving decades of torture at their hands, yet I am still mystified by so many of their actions.

Why now? Why the fuck now, after nearly a century of peace, are they breaking the Covenant between us and moving against the Southern Kings and Queens? What do they hope to gain?

My train of thought is broken by a slight disturbance in the air; the displaced molecules are bending contrary to their nature. I blur to the warlock's side and bring him back to my chest before I look up.

Eric's landing is quiet and surefooted, a lithe grace I cannot help but admire, though I ensure no emotions cross my face. I may have to account for my presence in his Area, but I will proceed with caution: my instincts tell me I can trust him, yet I haven't survived this long in my second life without protecting myself at all times. The warlock stirs restively against me when my fingers unintentionally tighten on his shoulders, causing his bones to creak onimously.

"Florica," the syllables knock together like stones overcome by rushing water. "Pam said you sent for me."

I gingerly lay the warlock on the ground again and slowly rise to my feet with hands outstretched. Vampires are faster and stronger than humans, but among our own kind, it varies depending on age and blood-lines. By showing him my hands and keeping my eyes downcast, I am telling Eric I come in peace and with no ill intentions. It is a greeting only the older vampires still know and occasionally adhere to; if they're not in blood lust, that is.

"You were schooled."

His words are chilled and precise, the flawless diction a precursor to darker intentions, I am sure.

"I've studied so I may serve the elders with distinction." I speak both truth and lie.

Apparently he could hear the ambivalence in my voice. "Bullshit." He wraps a hand around my throat and forces me to raise my eyes. Burning cobalt ensnares me as he tries to force his will upon me and crack my mind open so he can control me. It is an incredibly difficult thing to do and shows the tremendous power Eric wields.

I surrender to him and sag in his grip. There is no point in fighting him on a physical way, and resisting him mentally it will gain me nothing as well. I have come into his territory with every intention of asking for asylum, so I must submit to this indignity.

"I knew when you walked through my doors you weren't a fucking Court Flower. I didn't know who or what you were, just knew you weren't a dancer."

"Well, I could be."

"Not with that attitude. You don't think I didn't notice how Rasul deferred to you? Or how you went into a fighting stance when you thought he was threatened? Did you really think I wouldn't recognize's Satine's scent? She was one of the most prized Flowers in decades, if not centuries before Rasul stole her away. I may be blonde, but I'm not a fool."

His words fly at me with the speed of bullets as I reassess the direction of this conversation. I ignored the possibility of him knowing Satine, despite his words to Rasul earlier in the evening; I had based my expectations on faulty observations, instead of relying on the intelligence revealing him as a canny leader who survived insurmountable odds at various points in his long-lived life, and still managed to come out on top.

He was Appius' get after all, and that one was infamous for swathes of destruction through much of Europe when he was in a pissy mood.

"So you're more than a pretty face?"

His fangs snap down at the challenging tone I adopt, and I immediately drop my eyes and turn my face to the left, baring my pulse point to him. The line between submission and insolence is very thin and I must tread cautiously. I want him to think me weaker than him, therefore controllable, but at the same time, I do not wish to become indentured.

"Who are you?" Each word is punctuated with a shake as if I were a rag doll.

"I am called many things, but for now you can call me Violet."

"Violet? Not Florica?"

I shrug and drop my chin. He has not tasted me yet, so I have appeased him for now.

"I figured the name fit the dance."

"Why did Rasul bring you? What is his true aim in coming here?"

"I am being...punished...by Queen Sophie-Anne and I convinced Rasul to smuggle me out. Rasul was coming here anyway on business of the Court as he said." Of course, now I suspect he was sent to his death, because for some reason, our illustrious queen wanted to dispose of her Royal Guard and newest Emissary. Baseless speculation for now.

"And why would he agree?"

A wholly feminine smile stretches my lips upward and I flutter my eyelashes slightly as I peer up at him.

Disgust mars the cold perfection of his features and his hand loosens. "Done in by a fucking cunt. You get kicked out of Sophie's bed and now you're taking your revenge on her by leaving?"

"I wish it were that easy," I mutter.

A blond brow arches in interest and silent question.

"I have valuable information that the queen doesn't want anyone to have for some fucked up reason I can't fathom. What I'm about to reveal is treasonous, but she's being unreasonable." I throw a hand in the direction of the prone warlock. "That's one of the many signs something is certainly rotten in the state of Denmark!"

Eric cranes his neck around me and stares down. "Who is that?"

I cautiously turn my head to see the disguise has melted away revealing a decidedly non-Asian non-vampire: the blond hair is nearly the same color as Eric's, while his skin has taken on a ruddy freckled cast, and he grew at least three inches, so Chow's clothes are bulging at the seams.

"That, my dear Sheriff, is Chow."

"Bullshit."

"Well, technically he was Chow through the miracles of modern magic."

I daringly put my fingers over his and open his hand so I may slip from his grasp. Eric ignores my actions as he walks away to crouch down next to the warlock. He prods the male, and leans down to sniff him.

"You bit him?"

"I tried to get information for you; find out when he became Chow. Unfortunately, whomever cast the spell is fucking good."

"You bit a warlock?"

I smile weakly. "Hand, really." Not that makes it any better since Hands are the martial aspect of the coven.

His eyes blacken as his fangs burst from his gums, and he is upon me again, pinning me against the unforgiving ground.

"You will tell me who the fuck you are, or I will end you right here, right now. No vampire could drink a Hand without consequences."

The threat of the final death is very real, yet I have walked the cusp of it so many times, at the hands of so many different beings, it no longer terrifies me any more than physical pain. Everything has an end, even immortals, despite what he may think.

"I am Vampire."

My cheek splits beneath the force of his blow and I cringe from his anger even as I feel the embers of my banked temper beginning to flare.

"Fucking lying whore. No vampire can drink the blood of Witches."

His fangs are fully extended and lethally sharp as they scrape against my throat.

"They can if they were held captive and forced to drink the blood to survive."

He freezes over me, his substantial weight mashing me even further into the dirt. I can feel every inch of his long body, from the muscled contours of his chest and abdomen, to the thick ridge of his cock lying turgid against his left thigh. Violence and blood is interchangeable with sex for Vampires, so I am not flattered by his erection.

"You were part of the exchange?"

"No," not a lie, but not the whole truth. "I was released before the Covenant was struck."

Eric moves then, settling deeper between my splayed thighs, his cock as much a weapon as his fangs; the moon is higher now and I can see his eyes are still black with blood lust. If I do not proceed cautiously, he will let slip the dogs of war and we will fight.

"So tell me," he purrs into my ear, his breath stirring the baby hairs curling around my temples, "how does an abomination become royal bed sport?"

I break his grasp immobilizing my arm, and my hand is a pale blur as I slap him with my considerable strength. There is relief in not holding back and his head rockets to the side with a snap.

"I am Violet Crow, Royal Assassin of Queen Sophie-Anne's Court, and I was sent here to destroy you."

He cocks his head at me and huffs a little in my face. "Are you aware of how melodramatic you sound?"

"Yes," I admit sheepishly, "It sounded a lot less pretentious in my head."

"The Queen's Crow, huh?"

There is no surprise in his voice or eyes; in fact, I can see icy blue bleeding through the black, which meant his blood lust is finally receding.

"You've heard of me?"

"You're a fucking urban legend. I believe you believe you are the Crow."

Great. I reveal a closely held secret and he disbelieves me. I squirm under his body and grunt when he just adjusts and settles heavier on me.

"Eric are you done playing with her or can we get the fuck on with this?"

Apparently Pam has returned. Goody.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, staring down at me with a considering look. "I don't know how you escaped the demon, but you will tell us the truth of you."

"Uh, about him."

The blue has almost completely conquered the black, but at my hesitation, his pupils begin expanding again.

"Yes, what about him?"

"He's indisposed right now."

"Indisposed how?"

"I dislocated his jaw and ripped out his tongue."

"Tell me you're fucking kidding right now."

"I'm fucking kidding you right now."

"Pam, go check on Furtur."

"But..."

"Pam!"

Surprisingly his harsh tone does not quell her rebellion because instead of hastening to his bidding, she argues. "Jag har sagt er att hon var trubbel!"

"Är det verkligen tid?"

I sigh. "Jeg kan forstå dig."

Trust me when I say, you really have not lived until you see a thousand year old Viking Vampire and his child gaping in stunned incomprehension.

A/N: This chapter gave me a lot of trouble because I was having issues finding Eric's voice. I'm so used to being in Violet's head now, it's weird trying to write Eric, but it's important I find my balance since he will now become an important part of her life. Hopefully he's not too much of a disappointment and I will have an easier time writing him. *crosses fingers* Here's hoping! Also, ten points (not that they're redeemable for anything good) for knowing the three Shakespearean plays I referenced throughout this chapter.

Language lesson:

Jag har sagt er att hon var trubbel: I told you she was trouble (Swedish)

Är det verkligen tid? : Is this really the time? (Swedish)

Jeg kan forstå dig : I can understand you. (Danish)