Title: Guided By

Author: Edana setsuna84

Rating: PG-13 (for violence, possibly strong, non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters)

Summary: Because of his psychic ability, Laine unwillingly offered himself to a dark creature that won't stop until it claims him. Can Brennan, a descendant of higher beings, protect the boy from the darkness and his own powers?

Disclaimer: All owned by me

Warnings: Shounen ai, yaoi, male/male relationships but also male/female

Guided By

Chapter Eight – Holy Blood

"Where d'you think you're going?"

And then there was more shuffling, more movement; so many dark, near-shapeless figures stepped out of the shadows and exposed themselves, seemed to materialise out of the nothingness, and with every passing moment the adrenaline rush grew worse and Laine felt his stomach twisting and sinking a little more until the realisation that flooded his veins was unbearable.

They were surrounded.

All words stuck stubbornly in his throat, caught behind the large, panic-tight knot that made it suddenly so hard to breathe, that made his head rush, lungs burning and light, ragged breaths ghosting over his lips into the cold darkness. He'd been trapped before, cornered and held against his will, wrapped up in strong, possessive arms, pushed hard against the ground, broken and bloodied, his fragile body completely at the mercy of another person.

But this . . . this was so much worse. This was terrifying, horrific; it wasn't one person to fight him, to try and knock him down, to tear into his body and pull whatever it wanted out of him, to feed on him like an unfeeling, savage animal. No, this was a group, a pack of merciless, bloodthirsty, immortal predators, all of them surrounding, closing in, trapping them completely, eyes glowing eerily like unearthly bright lights in the blackness, unblinking, threatening. And all it would take was one word or silent signal from their leader and the whole pack would be on them without a moment's hesitation, tearing and crushing and ripping for the earthy-copper taste of blood and the feel of life energy pouring in against their tongues, past their teeth and down their throats of rotting flesh to fuel and satiate them, and no matter how hard they fought, Laine knew that he and Brennan could never win against that. Right now they were too weak.

"Oh God," he breathed in realisation. It was all his fear-numbed brain could think to say.

His heart was fluttering like a desperate bird trapped within his throat, the adrenaline sickening and all-engulfing, and as much as Laine hated to admit it, to terrifyingly know it, Brennan was nothing more than deadweight in that moment. The sheer dark aura of the place, the heavy pressure of the suffering of the long dead, the echoes of their slow and agonising, fiery pain, reverberated in the air around them, and with Brennan they had found release after so long. He was a descendant of higher beings, his veins were spun from sacred power that most people couldn't even comprehend, and now they were flooded with poisonous dark memories of anguish, pushing inside of him, pulsing, swallowing down his mind, wearing him down, replacing everything with pain.

Even as Laine thought it, he felt Brennan's hands clawing desperately into his shoulders, trying to keep himself standing, trying to show them that he wasn't vulnerable, that he was ready to defend himself, but the truth was much more sickening. The fingers were digging into Laine desperately, the weight was almost too much to bear, his tired muscles trembling slightly as he fought to keep standing, to support Brennan's weight as well as his own when the panic and fatigue were both so strong, to try and keep up the pretence that they were ready when they weren't, but Laine said nothing. Instead he clenched his teeth and bore the weight and the pressure, and he stared back at the figures as defiantly as he could when he knew that everything was coming apart.

"What do we have here then?"

Silence. The dark creature in front of them, the man who had sensed them through the shadows and blocked their way, trapping them there, watched them both in dreadful stillness, unmoving, only those familiar luminescent eyes burning in the darkness before them, watching, coldly assessing the prey and searching for the weakness that would bring them down. They were glowing eyes set in the darkness, bodiless, otherworldly, and Laine felt his breath trap in his throat, his chest aching.

He wanted to say something to Brennan, to ask him what to do, to be reassured by him and his unnatural but comforting power, to feel something other than the fear and the crushing pain of Brennan's fingers digging into his shoulders and straining against bone, but from the corner of his eye he saw that Brennan was staring back at the man before them just as confidently despite his overwhelming pain, jaw set and eyes cold, no longer a man but a predator too. Laine inhaled sharply and felt as though his stomach had solidified into lead and sunk down to his very toes when Brennan quietly breathed, "You're in the way."

Those yellow-green lights blinked slowly in shock, but only a moment later it seemed to be amusement that washed through him instead. Laine chewed on his bottom lip as he heard the soft rumbling sound, the deep, eerie and horribly satisfied laughter that broke through the silence and filled the void with unease that scratched away inside of him. He was achingly aware of the motionless figures still around them like statues, trapping them, waiting for the moment of attack when they would tear into their flesh like Haden had torn into his, eating away, searching and ripping out the last untainted part and finally all of his running would have been in vain.

He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Brennan's waist, could feel the sweat-damp material beneath his fingers, the shallow breathing that left the man's lips in soft, white puffs, the cold creeping in and tightening his jaw. And still he laughed.

"What did you say to me?" he choked, wild disbelief in his voice.

"You're in the way," Brennan repeated coldly, emotionless. "So are you gonna move, or do you want me to make you?"

The man laughed again, loudly this time, piercing the silence, such a maniacal sound – all sanity had long since been sucked out of him with his mortality and left behind nothing but empty rot.

"Brennan," Laine murmured, a quiet warning masked by the sound of the solitary laughter, unable to take his wary eyes away from the creatures around them, dreadfully aware that they might attack at any moment and end it all. He had known down to his very bones, down to his soul, that they weren't going to escape, but now, with that wild eccentricity echoing around them, the familiar lunacy, he feared something much, much worse. Death was something that he had almost come to accept over the last year with Haden hunting him down, with the growing, ripping darkness inside of him, but these things were much too bloodthirsty to be satiated by a quick kill. They wanted pleasure and amusement, and Brennan was only digging them both in deeper with his defiance. "Bren, please."

"It's okay," Brennan said, gasping for breath. "Trust me."

Laine wanted to trust him. Talking to the man before them, Brennan had sounded so confident, so secure and bold, but something in his voice right then was so pitiful that Laine felt a strong pang tighten his heart. Mouth suddenly dry, he lowered his eyes and through the darkness saw that Brennan's hand was shaking badly, skin unbearably pale, fingers clenched, his whole body tight with the desperate grip on control that was quickly slipping and leaving him unnaturally and painfully exposed, the truth slamming into him. "It's bad, isn't it?" Laine managed to whisper, to breathe, barely even aware of how physically close they were, his words ghosting over Brennan's cheek, so close to his skin and his warmth and that heartbeat, wanting to close his eyes and sink into it.

"Yes."

"Okay." It was strange how Laine could somehow accept that, the panic and fear still there, still fuelling him, but now calmed by some foreign numbness, by the truth. Maybe they were already condemned, but what was the point of going down without a fight? How could he ever forgive himself if he didn't?

"I can't . . . I can't do it alone," Brennan choked, struggling to keep himself conscious when the dark energy around him wanted only to drag him down, down, deeper down until everything was black and the screams echoed inside.

Swallowing hard, Laine said, "I know, Bren. I . . . I think I understand."

"What are you two planning now?" that harsh voice interrupted, still laced with amusement and venom though the slightest hint of suspicion had crept through into his words. Around them Laine could sense the restlessness of the others, the impatient movement, the quiet sounds of soft shuffling as they prepared to move, to attack, fuelled by the words and their barely repressed desires, drawn to Brennan's power like sharks to blood and wanting to taste it, wanting the mockery to stop so that they could feed. Suddenly self-preservation and Brennan's quiet pleads made him know what to do and his fingers slipped beneath Brennan's damp sweater, brushed against heated skin, searching, hidden under cover of darkness, eyes fixed onto the bright ones before him to draw away all attention from his hands.

"Do you have any idea of the danger you're in?" the man drawled, suddenly unimpressed, bored with their lack of cowering fear. "Don't you know what we are, what we can do to you? You should be down on your knees pleading and begging for your pathetic, miserable lives, grovelling for mercy like the worms that you are!"

Brennan scoffed at the words and slowly grinned despite the gnawing agony inside. Minute by minute his guard was being shattered, the intense feelings seeping inside, sinking into his body, tightening his chest and throat with dying grief and the agony of suffering people as though it was his own, crushing him inside, twisting him apart, making him feel, dragging him down. The overwhelming darkness of the place was drawn to him, pushing hard against his skin, trying to find its way in through flesh and the effort it took to shield himself was wavering, completely exposing him to every last ounce of pain that those people had gone through. There was only so long he could hold on, and now Brennan was painfully aware that whatever strength he had left was about to run out.

"You think that we should be scared?" he laughed, sneering. "Of you? I know what you are – parasites. Nothing but filthy, disgusting, rotting parasites too afraid to be alive, nothing but murderous cowards."

The last words were spat furiously and all twisted humour was quickly sucked out of the air, all amusement faded to pure disbelief, the anger burning away beneath the surface. Breathing hard, lungs aching, Brennan stared hard at the seemingly bodiless figure standing there, almost unable to believe the sheer fury that flooded his veins and pounded in red waves behind his eyes, made him clench his teeth together hard.

The truth of Tarin's death, of every descendant's death before him, was suddenly overwhelming: they had all died like this, hunted down by their own dark prey and mercilessly slaughtered, and now an intense feeling of hatred had swallowed him down, tensed every muscle and squeezed his pounding heart. Their feelings, their deaths, were buried in the very soul that those bodies and lives had shared between them, and the need for vengeance exploded inside, a hot, molten ball of pain and fury that enveloped him.

"You're disgusting. You sicken me, killing to feed your rotting corpses, clinging onto some twisted belief that you deserve to be alive. It's sick," he spat. "I'm not scared of you; I can't even pity you. You're nothing."

The words died, sunk in and twisted, and then everything exploded at once.

With every moment, every insult, fury and rage had slowly built up; now it swallowed everything down in a huge, crashing wave, low, guttural growls of seething anger passing from unseen lips. Laine swallowed hard, every muscle in his body tense as he waited for what he knew would happen, and only moments later, almost too quickly to comprehend, the man with the flashing eyes leapt forward with a furious, violent scream, ready to tear into them, and Laine didn't know how he did it, didn't know what possessed him in that split second of panic, but his fingers beneath Brennan's sweater wrapped determinedly and tightly around cold metal and with his own terrified scream he brought his arm back and somehow . . . somehow . . .

Somehow Laine moved with unpractised swiftness, twisting himself away from Brennan in the unnatural darkness, everything detached, removed, so achingly calm as his heartbeat echoed in his ears, not comprehending what he was about to do, all logic swept away by cold but passionate terror. Somehow, with instinctive ease, he brought his arm back and the descendant dagger caught the dimmest of lights only a moment before he slammed it firmly into the attacker's chest with a soft grunt of exertion, adrenaline fizzling inside, the sound of the blade slicing into skin, so solidly thudding into hard flesh, muscle and bone, enhanced inside his head, so unbelievably loud and seeping down into his throat to choke him.

His hold on the dagger was a death grip and, even now, with the hot blood spray against his frozen skin and the stillness and the disbelief and shock and slow realisation in those dimming eyes, he couldn't find himself letting go of the hilt, as though it was some kind of lifeline he could use to pull himself back.

"Oh God," he choked as the awareness dawned. "Oh God, oh God."

"Laine," Brennan murmured, trying to sound soothing, calming, wanting only to push back the disgust that had tightened his chest and throat the moment that he saw the boy thrusting the knife so deeply into the man's chest with his own dagger, staining them both. "Laine."

As soon as he heard his name, the blonde's fingers fell away from the knife, mouth opening and closing slowly as the man before him, the seemingly bodiless man who was now so achingly solid and real, fell away from him. Inside his chest the man's heart split apart around the blade and the blood stopped pumping, became stagnant in his veins, and with nothing to fuel the immortal body the age and decay crept in and ate away at long dead flesh, decomposing before Laine's very eyes. It was like some kind of twisted dream, so slow when in reality only mere seconds had passed as the lifeless body hit the ground with a soft thud.

And then there was no time to think because as soon as the sound reached their ears the figures around them reacted, screaming angrily, fury and bloodlust burning inside, venomous, vengeful, hungry and like animals ready to rip into flesh now that nothing was holding them back.

Laine's breath caught in his throat as the dreadful stillness was punctuated by deafening screams and hurried movement and he turned quickly, still splattered with drying, putrid, dead blood, watched in horror as they poured out of the darkness like an unnatural swarm towards him . . . towards Brennan.

"Bren, watch out!" he cried out in horror. There were so many of them, too many of them, and the sorrow and pain of the dead were still smothering Brennan inside and wearing him down. It wasn't a fair fight. Even with Brennan being a descendant it wasn't a fair fight, his body drained by the dark aura of the place, exhausted and barely conscious, his dagger embedded in the decaying chest of the corpse by the boy's feet, and Laine hated feeling so helpless. And then they sensed the man's power, they must have, because suddenly all the things seemed interested in was Brennan and the pure sacredness that rolled off his body in huge waves, crashing through the darkness and drawing them in, and they wanted so badly to taste it. "Stop it!" Laine shouted, throat sore and feeling unbelievably useless. "Don't! Stop it! Get away from him!"

It was only a minor distraction, but it was all that Brennan needed. It felt like his arms and legs were being weighed down, but as the eyes turned away for a moment he seized his chance, bent down impossibly quickly and unsheathed the second dagger that was hidden away against his calf, the dagger that he had given to Kyrie, the one that his former friend had left behind with a blinded Brennan after everything had been torn apart. Now he wrapped his fingers firmly around the hilt, breathed out and drew upon whatever strength he had left, kicked out quickly with one booted foot and knocked down the nearest figure and somehow managed to lash out twice more again and grinned in small satisfaction as he heard the loud thuds and soft moans that followed.

Now that he was fighting every instinct kicked in, movements unbelievably fast, brain assessing every weak spot, every next move, eyes scanning over each figure as he threw back his elbow and sharply connected with ribs, turned, thrust the dagger hard and pierced another heart into nothing but mush. He managed to land punch after punch, blow after blow, but his body was quickly tiring and the screams were drowning out all instincts, and they just seemed to keep coming, more and more of them materialising out the blackness, snarling and punching and kicking and lunging for him, never-ending.

He fought as hard and as fast as he could, swiping the dagger blade across an exposed throat, sprayed with dead blood, vaguely seeing from the corner of his eye that, despite being outnumbered, Laine was somehow fighting back too, and the knowledge fuelled him, his body crunching bone, the knife slicing into flesh despite how worthless it would all probably be in the end.

Hurt. Pain. Terror. Agony.

Oh God.

Desperate clawing, slow suffering: hot, crushing pain.

It was over. What little resistance he had left suddenly gave way all at once, violently torn down, his body completely flooded and overwhelmed, something seeming to physically slam into him and he cried out in pain, sharing their agony as everything tensed inside, hit by the impact, strained, twisted, burning – heart and lungs and stomach, muscles stretching, ripping.

Gasping for breath he tasted blood in his mouth, muscles weak, hot electricity-like pain shooting through him, frying his veins, burning the back of his throat and dragging him slowly down into unconsciousness. Now he was completely exposed, utterly helpless, and he saw flashes of fire before his eyes, felt it hot against his skin and slowly he was reliving the deaths of those who had perished on the ground under his feet all those years ago.

Brennan heard the triumphant laughter unbearably loud all around him as he fell to his knees, muscles useless, so, so weak, the sound dulled by the roaring of blood in his ears, and then he felt the next blows, a knee to his chest, a kick to his spine, a fist smashing into his head as they took their revenge on his motionless form, and he groaned lowly in pain and slowly his mind slipped away from his body and its pain into darkness.

Laine, down on his hands and knees, scuffed and bruised, ribs aching and panting white breaths with dark figures looming behind him, watched in horror through strands of sweat-damp hair as Brennan was overcome by the agony he had been so desperately fighting off, his body tensing, collapsing. "No," he murmured, somehow managed to choke out. It was like some kind of horrific nightmare playing out before his eyes as Brennan succumbed to the clawing darkness, as they smashed fists and feet into him with powerful, crushing blows as if knowing what it did to Laine inside and wanting to torture him.

"No!" he cried again, somehow finding the strength to shout. "Stop it! No! Stop it!" And then one of the men behind him laughed in amusement, and Laine found himself held down by a hand gripping the back of his neck, tightening, slowly crushing his trachea and spine, eyes wide as he struggled. "No! Let go of me! Let go . . ." He struggled as hard as he could, but moments later his protests died off, voice weak as everything began to spin dangerously before his eyes and Laine found himself murmuring, "Brennan," before the whiteness exploded before his eyes in a shower of powerful blinding light.

Hidden by the darkness, Kyrie watched on in silence.

He didn't know if he was awake or unconscious, or drifting in some unknown place between. All Laine was vaguely aware of was the warmth and the dim sounds and the panic inside of him that fluttered desperately and wouldn't go away, as though some part of him remembered where he should have been, what he should have been feeling.

And then all at once he felt it – their pain. The grass, the shattered trees, the scorched earth, the disused railway lines had all soaked it up like water and now, pressed hard to the ground, mouth and nose smothered by the grass and soil, hardly able to breathe, eyes glazed over, Laine could feel it; he was connected, and he absorbed it too. Years ago a train had crashed and killed so many people; now Laine was a part of them, a part of their pain, another person suffering in the same place, against the same earth, and he exhaled gently in something like content because for a strange moment he belonged.

Faintly, very lightly, he could feel them reaching out and brushing against him in something like wonder and acceptance, formless touches, and there were no visions before his eyes but Laine felt a part of them because he understood and he knew what he had to do.

The panic and horror that had clawed at Brennan's throat were gone and somehow Laine gathered the raw, nameless power inside of him, wrapped it up almost lovingly and it felt so, so familiar despite how foreign it was, and Laine let it go, let it seep out of him, let it soak up the pain and the agony and the suffering, the shadows and echoes of a tragedy that was long over now. With his power he somehow embraced them, absorbed the heavy, dark feelings, pushed it all away and cleansed the air of their poison, and it was so effortless, so natural, so warm. He'd done this before, he knew he had – he'd watched over people like this and healed them of hurt. How could he have forgotten that?

Moments later, when it was over, they faintly brushed against him again. Heart aching, Laine smiled sweetly before succumbing completely to the soft whiteness.

Down on the ground, Brennan's eyes shot open. Kyrie scowled in confusion.

The thickness of the air, the pulsating dark energy were gone as though brushed aside, the crushing weight on his chest lifted, the screams and all of their reaching tendrils pulled out of his mind. For a moment of bewilderment Brennan simply inhaled sharply and wondered what had happened, tasting the fresh blood on his lip, feeling the strength slipping quickly back into his muscles and he could barely believe the sweet relief that exploded inside and filled him.

For so long it had felt like he was running through sand or water, struggling against a constant weight that exhausted him, and now it was gone and he knew with a certainty that was centuries old that he could fight again. The next blow that came was easily blocked by his arm, and Brennan rolled to his feet, grasped his dagger, grinning as he sensed the sudden panic of the creatures around him, his body alive and flooded with adrenaline and energy.

"Miss me?" he mocked, and only a moment later he lunged.

Laine lay sprawled out on the ground, breathing softly, and Kyrie watched him emotionlessly, drawn to the gentle rise and fall of the boy's chest and the pale white breaths that left his lips on winter air. It was strange – he had hunted down so many slight, fair people like this one, searching for a substitute because he couldn't have Laine, ripping into their pale necks, staining their blonde hair, like desecrating angels. He had killed them ruthlessly, savagely, all the time imagining Laine beneath him, begging him for mercy that was ultimately denied, and now . . .

Now that the boy was here, stretched out before him enticingly, unconscious, vulnerable, completely exposed in each and every way, Kyrie's raging bloodlust had strangely faded. He didn't want to kill Laine; he didn't exactly know what he wanted to do with the boy, but it wasn't death that he was here to deliver, not anymore.

A short distance behind them, hidden by the shadows and the abandoned, rundown building that he had taken shelter in, the worthless, mongrel creatures that had been drawn to this place, that Kyrie had so easily manipulated with promises, were still attacking Brennan. Now that the overwhelming sorrow of the place had been lifted – and Kyrie narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the thought as he looked at Laine – the descendant was back to his full strength and fighting them with abandon despite how much of a beating he had received in return. Watching him, seeing the familiar, desperate, primitive grace of the descendant, some part of Kyrie, some human part, had wanted to help him, seemed to recognise that Brennan had once been his friend, but all human emotion had been swallowed down by the dark knowledge of what would ultimately happen in the end.

Kyrie belonged to Haden now, his living puppet, and Haden wanted Brennan, and maybe being quickly killed by these mongrels would be a more merciful end for the descendant than becoming Haden's possession and object of his twisted lust. Once Kyrie had only been able to imagine the kinds of horrific things that Haden would do to Brennan with all his dangerously insane obsessive love, but now he didn't have to imagine. Now all he had to do was close his eyes and remember and he could relive it all over again, every agonising moment, second by second.

He shook the thoughts away quickly, jaw clenched, the disgust and fury rising in his throat and sour against his tongue, still staring down at Laine as though trying to find the answers written on his body. But then, in a way they were. He smiled bitterly at the thought.

No one seemed to have questioned when he'd knocked back the boy's attacker and scooped up Laine in his arms, not the creatures around him who were drawn to a waking Brennan, still intoxicated by Kyrie's false promises and willing to suffer for just a taste of them. And not even Brennan himself had noticed, his attention focused on protecting himself from the onslaught, his vision blurred by the thick darkness. Kyrie wondered vaguely what the man would think when he noticed Laine's absence, what desperate thoughts would rush through his mind and clench his heart. What exactly had blossomed between the two of them?

At the thought he felt a suspicious pang inside of him that he brushed away just as easily as his painful, stained memories. And then, suddenly, for a moment Kyrie wondered if killing Laine would be the best way to end it all, to make everything normal again, to stop all the obsession, to erase the thoughts of Haden's hands on him, around his throat, fingers digging into his skin, of Haden's body forcing its way inside of him, of suffering through it all only to hear Laine's name panted desperately into his ear over and over again like some kind of sick, disgusting mantra.

The revulsion welled up again and tightened his bruised throat, and Kyrie wanted only to lash out and destroy what had happened, to erase his memories, and breaking Laine seemed like the easiest way to do that as the fury flooded him. Smothering Laine, smothering his memories . . . it was the same thing really. It felt the same. The desire for destruction exploded inside, but only a moment before Kyrie moved to strike he realised that beneath long, pale lashes the boy's eyes were open and staring up at him, wide and innocent, washed-out lilac that was almost blue but not quite watching him in confusion and pain.

Kyrie froze for a long moment as their eyes met, as something unspoken travelled between them, Laine sprawled out like some kind of willing sacrifice beneath a dark god, Kyrie kneeling over him with a raised hand ready to crash down and finish what it had started days ago and end everything. Time seemed to stretch into an agonising eternity, gazes unmoving, silent, and then, swallowing hard and cursing himself, his body threatening to tremble with each resurfaced memory, Kyrie opened his fist and lowered his hand to his side in quiet defeat.

"Kyrie," Laine choked in disbelief, understanding what had happened.

"Quiet," Kyrie ordered coldly, still bitter inside. "Haden may want you alive, but I'm not so fussy. One word and I'll rip your tongue out of your mouth. Got it?"

The panic that had faded in his moment of unconsciousness was back again, and Laine nodded slowly in compliance, clamping his mouth physically shut and hiding his tongue behind his teeth as he continued to stare at Kyrie with wide eyes. And then the truth and the memories washed through him in a sickening wave and he pulled himself up slowly, warily, his stomach unbearably twisted as the fears gripped him. What was going on? Why was Kyrie here? Where was Brennan? Was he all right? The words, the desperate questions, sprang into his mind but he couldn't speak them out of fear, because he knew despite Kyrie's recent mercy that he was entirely capable of hurting him, killing him, and it was so damn frustrating.

He looked at his surroundings from the corner of his eyes, fully aware that Kyrie was still watching him silently with some strange emotion on his face but unable to contemplate it, not now. Brennan wasn't here; they were alone together in a dark building too shabby and neglected to be occupied by anyone, and the fear bubbled up in his throat in realisation. From the start, even before his 'turning,' Kyrie had wanted to kill him, and now they were alone here in the middle of nowhere with no one to see, no one to hear, no one to even find.

"I know what you are."

Laine tensed, jerked out of his panicked reverie by the sound of Kyrie's soft voice, heart hammering in his chest. He looked up at the man, the shadows staining his hair and skin, a layer of protection that somehow couldn't mask the vulnerability that pounded fiercely behind his cold, emotionless façade. Their eyes met, Laine's silently questioning.

"You have no idea, do you?" Kyrie breathed harshly. "Do you honestly think it's normal to feel what you do? To be drawn to us, to Haden, as much as he's drawn to you? Do you think it's normal to physically push people away without even touching them, to wash away the pain of the dead like it's nothing? Well?" he spat, voice rising in anger, eyes blazing. "Is it? Is it normal, Laine?"

"No," he cried, heat rising as Kyrie's words sunk in. "No, it's not! I know it's not."

Kyrie scoffed, the anger still tensing his body, hot in his veins. "How can you be so naïve?" he asked harshly. "Why is everyone so blind to what you are?"

Laine felt as though he had been smashed in the chest with a hammer, his lungs burning, the pressure unbearable, his head racing with so much confusion – so many questions and fears. In only seconds Kyrie had stripped everything away and left him reeling. He wasn't normal, he knew that and he thought he had accepted it, but now that the truth was scraping away at his mind he felt sick inside, his body cold and trembling lightly. Kyrie was staring at him hard with those haunting luminescent eyes and the constant adrenaline rush was unbearable, the fatigue overwhelming.

"What are you talking about?" he choked, no longer caring about the other's threat.

Smirking, Kyrie said, "I know what you are."

"Stop it."

"I know why you get under Haden's skin the same way Tarin did. I know why he wants you like he wants him, why Brennan wants you, craves you, why they're both drawn to you, obsessed." He spat the word as though unwilling to keep it in his mouth, painful memories flashing behind his eyes; those hands, those rough touches, the slow suffocation of his body and his mind. "Because you and Tarin and Brennan are all the same, aren't you?"

"No."

"You all dig your way into our dirtied bodies with your power."

"No."

"You all share the same holy blood."

"Guided by higher beings."

"No!" Laine shouted violently, voice hoarse, eyes stinging so badly he couldn't believe how weak he was being. His chest was so tight it was hard to breathe, throat closing, eyes wild and panicked even in the dimness, and he struggled hard to push down the feelings that were clawing away inside as though responding to Kyrie's words, awakening in some hidden part of him. His tired body fell subconsciously against the wall behind him, breaths harsh in the coldness. Kyrie was staring at him hard, unmoving and silent, waiting.

"What are you talking about? What are you trying to say?" Laine choked. "You're wrong. You've got it all wrong. You have no idea . . . "

The words trailed off into silence and Kyrie's emotionless face was broken by a small, triumphant smirk. "You're the one who has no idea," he said. "You've forgotten who you are, what you're here for." And then, laughing softly under his breath, "Actually, so have I. There's no time for this. I wanted to see you again, but he's waiting for me now."

Laine barely had time to register the words before Kyrie disappeared. One moment he was there, standing before him, and the next the man had somehow slipped into the shadows and moved away with inhuman swiftness, footfalls completely silent, and Laine's heart leapt into his throat in panic. He'd forgotten what he was really here for? What did that mean? And then only seconds later the missing sounds seemed to penetrate the room as though some barrier had been broken with Kyrie's disappearance, flooding his senses.

Down on the ground, body shaking from the cold and something else, something he didn't want to comprehend, Laine heard the sound of fighting. Frozen, he listened to the grunts of exertion, the sound of exchanged blows, the soft thuds of bodies thrown to the ground and the muttered threats and taunts, the shuffling and movement, and it was all so close by, and Laine's eyes widened in slow realisation – Brennan was just behind the wall he was leaning against, and he was still fighting, all alone.

A soft cry escaped his lips and the boy leapt to his feet quickly despite the dizzy rush, stumbled forward through the shadows, fingers against the cold walls, scraping skin, searching for a way out. Every heart beat was achingly loud but the realisation that Brennan was so close by, that he was in danger, fuelled his every move and minutes later, after stumbling over a loose brick and almost falling, he found his way out. The cold winter air smashed into him in one huge wave of iciness, but he pushed the thought away as he stumbled towards the field where they had been ambushed, not comprehending that the sounds were muted, that heavy, deathly silence had descended, not until . . .

Breath caught dangerously in his throat, Laine froze.

He was back, standing in the place where they had been attacked, the adrenaline racing through him, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't believe what was happening, he couldn't understand how so much had been wiped away in mere seconds, but it had. Now he stood in the darkness, completely alone, not a figure or flash of movement in sight, not a single person there. Nothing. It was a haunting word, an even worse realisation, but Laine swallowed it down.

It was gone. Everything was gone.

"No," he murmured, feeling something building inside, some horrific and twisted desperation. But then it was no, not everything was gone. Stepping forward almost uncertainly, wondering vaguely if he was in the wrong place but knowing that he wasn't, smothered by the eerie silence, Laine saw the crumpled figure shrouded by shadow, the man that he had killed, the body and the memory of slaughter the only thing he had left, and it was his poison.

Laine swallowed hard as the wind enveloped him, unable to take his eyes away from the corpse with its accusing, glassy eyes, unable to forget Kyrie's words, unable to escape the emptiness. The gold and silver dagger was still embedded in the man's chest, the only thing Laine had left to hold onto.

Brennan was gone. He was the person that Kyrie had come for.

"Not long now, my love," Tarin whispered tenderly into Haden's ear, embracing the dark man with his ethereal body. Wrapped up in the warm and familiar arms of his lover, Haden smiled. He was almost content like this, but his heart and his body urged for flesh, for a warm and solid body, for the feel of soft skin and hair beneath his searching fingers. Tarin was and always would be his in spirit and soul, but after twenty-two years of torment Haden wanted to finally give that mouth its second lover's kiss.

Just the thought of touching Tarin, of finally being able to claim all of him in every way, of openly expressing his love and desire and obsession with a slow exploration of the man's body, sent a thrill of exhilaration through him, mixed with arousal. He closed his eyes and shuddered in Tarin's ghostly arms.

In all the years since Tarin's death, nothing and no one had come even close to giving him this feeling, this excitement, this hot and primal rush inside that had made him suffer almost gladly for half of his immortal lifetime. He had lusted and he had even needed, and even now he needed Laine, wanted to break him, taste him, feel him moving beneath and against him, but this was a feeling far removed and now the wait was almost over and the adrenaline was coursing through him, reawakening every sleeping emotion from deep inside: the passion, the lust, and the hungry bloodthirstiness that wanted to rip it all apart.

"Not long now," Tarin said again as though sensing his thoughts.

It felt like only moments later when a soft knocking on the door broke through Haden's peaceful stupor and all his dark but pleasant daydreams. With a low growl of disapproval he moved away from Tarin and opened the door, coming face to face with Kyrie, and all anger quickly faded in realisation. "Yes?" he said, hiding the hope behind stoicism.

Kyrie fought hard against the rush of emotions that came with seeing that face again, the disgust and the filthiness and the fear that now, somehow, were slowly becoming absorbed by some kind of twisted desire that exploded inside and washed lust and confusion and revulsion through him. He detested Haden so much that it was almost unbelievable, but some part of him couldn't accept that repulsion, couldn't leave, wanted to serve this man blindingly, hoping for . . . what? For what? He swallowed hard and crammed all feeling down as hard as he could, buried it just as effectively as Haden had behind a porcelain face.

"It's done," was all he said before turning and walking away, expecting Haden to follow. A second later he heard the footsteps and some twisted pleasure-pain rose up and smothered his chest. It sickened him.

Haden followed him, pleased with how his 'lesson' had made Kyrie so obedient, like a whipped animal forced into submission, almost all of his fiery spirit broken. The boy had always been attractive, but now with the black-purple bruises on his neck, around his mouth, the large cut and dried, scabbed blood across his bottom lip, he was brokenly beautiful and overly seductive. But Haden's mind wandered away from the thought the instant that he found himself standing in front of a familiar, motionless body that was stretched out before him enticingly.

His heart skipped a beat.

That same impossibly dark hair, that same peaceful, loving face; twenty-two years of suffering disappeared in an instant and Haden felt everything rushing inside of him, heart pounding, drawn to the figure that was so, so close, motionless, silent and achingly beautiful and his. The descendant was finally here, solid beneath his fingers, real, alive, and he reached out slowly in wonder and quiet awe and ran his fingers over the skin and the excitement rushed through him as he actually felt the body and all of its warmth. "Raven," he whispered to the unconscious man, the desire and the disbelief both strong in his voice, making Kyrie cringe behind him.

Somehow he managed to stay, somehow he watched as Haden ran his fingers wonderingly over his ex-friend's unconscious body, slipping beneath the damp sweater, softly touching strands of dark hair, pushing them back from the man's forehead almost tenderly. It was strange to watch, so desperate and loving and obsessive and almost hesitant as Haden claimed him like an animal marking his territory. He watched with a slow burning in his stomach as Brennan's body was slowly and gently explored, and then . . .

Then Haden leant down and finally kissed him, pressed his mouth to Brennan's, softly pushed apart the unresponsive, unresisting lips and delved deeply into the mouth that he hadn't tasted for years, that he had patiently waited for. It was warm and still but glorious, exhilarating, everything inside of him suddenly ablaze with unbelievable passion as his torture ended, the second kiss even more breathtaking than the first.

Moments later he pulled back, eyes darkened by desire, and the sight that Haden saw was beautifully, achingly familiar: that boyish face, that unruly dark hair, those long eyelashes and sensual mouth that he had almost forgotten the taste of. Grinning madly, Haden leant down again and claimed Tarin's mouth in another fierce kiss, and all trace of Brennan was lost.

~TBC~

A/N: Thanks to Autumn Dreamer, NotEnough, KoaruFan, Tsuyuno, ola, ddz008, centi the yaoi hime, Rainy Diamond12, Trickster Kitsune and AngelxRose for reading and reviewing the next chapter. And now, finally, this story is drawing to a close!