15THE VAMPIRE GIRLFRIEND DIARIES
Chapter Ten: Every You and Every Me
Carve your name into my arm,
Instead of stressed I lie here charmed
I serve my head up on a plate
It's only comfort calling late
Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind
The Present Day.
"What does she look like? And be fair."
Michael has such a calming quality in his voice when he wants to. His words bloom like nightflowers in the crisp night air. Cassian has opened both windows and let the moonlight creep into his bedroom, that along with the sounds of the city that ventures out for entertainment, alcohol, sex and, why hide it, love. He sits back down and turns towards Michael at the other side of the bed. Propped up by a few of the crimson pillows, his brother's chest is rising and falling and his hair, those silk strands of midnight black frame his thin face beautifully. His eyes are closed and his arms crossed and even though he just spoke, his perfect stillness makes Cassian wonder whether he's even awake. The fact that Michael's not looking at him makes him feel more at ease. He observes him with a bizarre mixture of feelings. There are times when he feels like he's staring at a part of him that is separated from the rest of his body. Until he turned Michael, he never understood that feeling, that odd connection that crosses the boundaries of body or soul. Catherine didn't feel that for him, he is sure. To her, it was a matter of possession, of confinement. She used to say he was part of her, meaning that he belonged to her. But Cassian, he knows… Michael isn't his, Michael is him. He has noticed that it's not like that with most vampires and their makers. Some have the slave and master relationship, others the link between parent and infant. Many are lovers, just like him and Celine, others are enemies, just like him and Catherine. But he hasn't met anything equal to his bond with Michael. Perhaps it's all the blood they've exchanged over the centuries. He isn't sure how much of the blood that runs in his veins is his anymore.
But except for those weird moments, most of the time Michael is nothing more than his stubborn brother that never does what he's told. The one that thinks he knows better and defies Cassian at every chance.
"She looks like Catherine."
Michael hadn't spoken after his question, but Cassian knew he was waiting for an answer. His brother hums quietly, processing the poor reply. A reply drenched in ambiguity. Was that a praise to the girl, or a declaration of his irrational hatred towards her? Cassian himself isn't sure. Perhaps a little of both. Michael's eyes open and Cassian isn't surprised that the moment they do they are pinned on his. "I don't even remember her anymore," Michael whispers, some sort of shock in his voice.
"Do you?"
What a stupid thing to ask. As if he would ever forget her. Cassian sits up and supports his back on the headboard, he hates having to speak about Catherine again. Even the sound of her name brings waves of stale anger and sorrow crashing on him. After he killed her, no, more accurately after he regained his sanity and made Michael a vampire, he wished to never hear her name again-either one of her names. He wished, and still, always, forever, wishes to forget it and forget her along with it. If Michael has managed to erase her, then he's much stronger than him because after all, she cut him up as well. "All I remember is that red, red hair."
Cassian feels his face involuntarily contract at the mere words. Catherine's hair was like a waterfall of fires. It tumbled down her back, covered her breast, caressed her delicate shoulders as she moved naked around rich rooms of countless hotels, as she waltzed across white halls in deep blue dresses and deep blue eyes. A curl of flames always bounced next to her eyes whenever she looked at him over her shoulder and let her scarlet lips form that feminine smile she saved only for him, the one that made him forgive and forget the fact that she was dancing with somebody else.
"Well, she doesn't have that. Her hair is rather plain."
While Catherine's was crimson gold.
A small laugh reaches his ears, and he interprets it as Michael's way of telling him to stop this pointless comparison. He can tell what's going on inside him. "How can someone's hair be plain?" Cassian glares at him, annoyed, and innocent-looking blind eyes stare back. What is it with those questions? What does it matter what the girl looks like anyway? "Her hair is dull and brown and it's neither straight nor curly, it's just a mess, caught somewhere in between." Michael laughs again and supporting his weight on his elbows, sits up next to Cassian. "You've spent too long near perfection, Cassian. There are no Celines out there brother, all of them will seem plain to you if you judge them by your standards."
Cassian doesn't know if that is a reprimand or a simple remark and Michael's unreadable face offers no help on solving the mystery. "I don't understand you anymore," he growls and looks away, fixing his eyes on the mirror across the room. He can see them both reflected on its slightly blackened surface –it's an antique from their years in South Italy- he can see his perfect face, clouded with a childish frown. Why should they meet her, why should they explain? She is just a human with healing abilities…and that is the understatement of the century. The truth is that the girl is a treasure, and whichever side gets to her first wins. A Healer… He thought that all the Healers had died with his sister, and now… Fuck, he was being pulled by all directions. His brother demanded something, his enemy demanded something, the Fathers demanded something and he was caught in the middle. As if he had the clarity of mind to resolve this. There is so much at stake, he thinks, cursing himself for not killing her when he still had the chance.
He refuses to look back at his brother, even though the mirror tells him that Michael's face is turned towards him. But then something blocks his vision. Michael's palms have softly set themselves on his face. Cassian freezes. It has been years, maybe even decades since he last did that. At the beginning, it had been his way of reading Cassian's expression because…well, because he couldn't see it. After a while he had stopped, and Cassian now for the first time wondered why, was it because he had lost interest in his facial expressions or because he was able to guess what they were based on the way Cassian colored his voice as he spoke?
"What are you hiding?" The whisper creeps like white smoke between Michael's fingers and slowly makes its way through to Cassian's train of thought.
"What?" he asks abruptly, fingers tightly encircling Michael's wrists and pulling his hands away from his face. "What are you talking about?" he asks, the volume of his voice raised, as though trying to shake off his brother's question with its intensity. In reality all it does is strengthen Michael's certainty that there is something he doesn't know. A secret. Michael hates secrets. He has never kept any from Cassian, not for 400 years.
"Your voice and your FUCKING words can lie, Cassian, but your face tells me you are hiding something."
Cassian hasn't crossed paths with this side of Michael for a very long time. It is frightening and dominant, it makes Cassian feel like a child with his brother's shadow falling over him. This side of Michael utters terrible truths and dead-end ultimatums. It's the side that took Heather's hand and stood tall against Cassian and his white, sharp fangs and said, oh God, it hurts to just remember, "If this is what you are, I don't want to lay eyes on you anymore." And his voice didn't even falter back then.
It doesn't falter now.
"Tell me the truth or I swear to God…"
London, 1660
He remembered the white, torn and tired string he used to tie his hair up. The sound of his footsteps on tiled floors, the way they echoed around the house and rang in his head before sleep took over him. He remembered the books he used to read, he remembered his violin that was almost as old as he, the shiny red wood it was made of. He remembered his hunting technique, the way his fangs and his eyes shone and how he handled his daggers and the hungry way in which he drank.
But he didn't remember much else.
Only details were what was left of him.
The only other vampire Cassian had met before Celine had been Marcus, but he had left them soon after, he didn't last more than two years. Where he was now, Cassian neither knew nor cared. What had made him remember the lost vampire now was just one of the things he had once said. For the two years spent in their company, Marcus had harbored an obsession with Heather, Cassian's younger sister, a fixation that wasn't so much passion as it was a near scientific fascination with the way she stayed forever young and beautiful without being a vampire. The fact that she was a Healer just didn't seem like explanation enough for him. They had an odd relationship, she wasn't in the least afraid of him and he had absolutely no intention of hurting her, so they spent hours and hours together. Cassian had gotten territorial at first, (Heather was his little sister after all and no other bloody vampire had the right to place his undead hands on her) and Michael had feared for her safety, but they both trusted the girl and her ability to take care of herself. After all, the other vampire was as harmless as a puppy. Marcus would watch her as she slept, wasting his hunting hours just to play with her hair and observe her eyes as they moved under her pale eyelids. It was…disturbing, but she didn't seem to mind. He wouldn't say much to her when she was awake, but he would stay beside her, if there was no sunlight where she was. He was in love.
"I wish I were still human." Cassian didn't remember exactly where or when Marcus had told him that, but he could recall his own reaction. He had laughed and asked why in the world would he wish for something so absurd. Cassian himself had abandoned this state of mind a long time ago and for centuries now he was feeling absolutely satisfied with what he was-a superior being. "Have you ever loved, Cassian?" After some thought, he had answered that he loved Heather and Michael, he loved the dark and loved drinking blood. So yes, he had. The other vampire had sighed and pointed at the people passing in the street below them. "Do you think she would love me if I were one of them?" Cassian had turned his attention towards the sea of hats, bonnets and bare heads for a few seconds, deciding to be merciful on the poor guy. "No, I don't. She is a Healer, and a mere human would be too plain for her." Yes, that was mercy in Cassian's book. He was giving him false hope, he was giving him a chance. He had omitted from his sentence the part that said that if Heather didn't love Marcus now, she never would. Him being a vampire had nothing to do with it. "I wish I were one of them so I could love like they do." At that Cassian had finally stopped listening and focused on more important matters, such as finding a satisfying prey for the night.
Love like they do.
What had brought this back now?
He shook his head, hoping to shake off the annoying sentence from it. The way he moved caught Celine's attention and she placed her hand on his shoulder. Her flesh was as cool as always, but the brief contact warmed him up inside. He turned to face her and was overwhelmed by how close their faces were, even though they had been closer in the past, much closer, now he could see all her features perfectly and it took his breath away. "Do you love me?" he whispered in a heartbeat, not being able to hold the words in. He felt embarrassed instantly, what self-respecting man asks a woman if she loves him? It is an admittance of defeat. But Celine wasn't any woman, and he wanted to know, hell, he was dying to know and she answered before he could take back the question. "Of course I do. You are my life." He couldn't help but let a laugh escape his lips. God, it was so ridiculous, how a few words could paralyze a body. Celine misinterpreted his laughter, taking it as an expression of disbelief instead of the outlet of relief that it was. She took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her, even though he didn't need to be forced, he could look at her all day without getting tired. "Don't laugh," she insisted in a serious tone "You are my life. You are a part of me, and you can never leave me. You will never leave me." Her voice rang strange in his ears, like she was trying to put him under a spell, like she was trying to glamour him. But before he could really tell what she was doing, her face broke out in a smile and she pecked him on the lips. "That's why I'm taking you with me to Paris. You and me."
Paris. Cassian's mouth watered at the thought of it. A town where he would be free to walk the streets without fear, a place where he would dare to unveil his true self, where he would meet others like him and Celine. She spoke of a family, of true siblings that would understand what was going on under his skin, that would accept his hunger and not try to repress it. She had told him about the Fathers and their fine leadership, she had made him anxious to meet them. Paris. The smile on her face made him wonder why he wasn't there already. What kept him in London anyway? The dreary daily life in the shadows, the horrid weather that made his skin feel like it was rotting, the drunken men in the streets, the fake smiles of the upper classes? Would he miss the rain, the rats, the sickening smells, the lack of freedom? Would he miss the two people sharing his house? The ones that had spent so long living with him but had never truly comprehended his nature? The ones that had done nothing else than try to change him over the years? The ones that had caged him? No, he wouldn't miss any of it. He wouldn't miss Heather or Michael because he finally saw them for what they were; he knew that they hated him. And if they didn't hate him –it was hard to believe that an angel like Heather would ever hate anyone- they didn't love him, not like Celine did. He could see how Michael looked at him when he walked in, blood stains on his shirt. He sensed the disgust and the worry in his gaze. Who did he think he was? He was nothing more than a mortal, kept alive and young thanks to Cassian's blood. Why did he look at him like he was so superior? Why did he worry about him like he was a child that had lost its way? Damn, maybe Michael didn't hate him, but Cassian had started loathing him.
"Let's go to Paris, Celine. Let's leave this place."
And in all honesty, he wanted nothing more than that.
You and me.
"…two weeks."
"I know."
"We haven't seen so much as his shadow in two weeks!"
"I KNOW Heather, I know! I live here too, remember?"
The girl left the book on the table with a trembling hand. Her brother was looking out the window, a storm roaring outside. From where she was standing she could only see the outline of his back, clad in a crisp white shirt, his ebony hair tied back loosely and the hand that he had placed open on the glass. She could guess the expression on his face though. He probably had those icy narrowed eyes that made her feel uneasy, there probably was a deep line between his brows and a hint of quiet anger in the curve of his lips. "I am simply worried. He might be hurt. Or dead." She plopped herself on her favorite armchair and placed her hand on her stomach, breathing heavily. She was exhausted and disappointed. It was no use lying about it anymore. Cassian was no longer who he used to be.
After a few seconds, she heard Michael sigh deeply. She watched his palm slide down the glass as he began to speak. "Maybe we should make our lives less about him." When he turned around and she could finally see his expression, there wasn't so much anger to it than there was mild sadness, the kind of sadness one feels when faced with something that can't be changed. It simply confirmed her own estimation of what was going on. It's over, isn't it? "We could…we could go to Paris with him."
Michael gave her a tired smile, dragged a footstool near the armchair and sat down. "You should stop sacrificing yourself for others one of these days, little one." She opened her mouth to protest, but a raised hand silenced her. "No, Heather. It really has to stop. It was different when we were united, when there was trust among us. I would give my life for him back then, but now I know that no matter what we sacrifice he will not change. No matter what we do."
"He just needs time. She is his maker, I don't know… I don't believe he can think straight now. If we just waited-" Because back then he would give his life for us too. He really would.
"He is not a child! He will continue killing and we will continue to suffer. Every life he takes weighs on my conscience, and I cannot live like that anymore! It's suffocating me."
"If we went to Paris…"
"You know as well as I do that if we go to Paris something bad is going to happen to one of us, perhaps both. Don't you?"
"I do." She had been the one to voice that fear first, after all. She could feel how difficult it was for Michael to utter those words, and it strangely comforted her. She didn't want to go to that place, she didn't want to follow that woman. But she was willing to do it if it meant helping Cassian, if it meant dragging him out of the dark. "So we just…walk away?"
"Is there anything else we can do? Something we haven't already tried?"
Heather shook her head. No-one could say they hadn't tried. They had shouted and fought and pleaded and talked and yes, they had tried. But that didn't make her feel any better. She leaned forward and placed one of her tiny hands on Michael's knees, earning another heartbreaking smile from his lips. "This isn't your fault," she whispered softly, smoothing her brother's hair with her other hand. "It is not your burden to carry." Because she knew that this was what he felt. All the guilt that Cassian failed to experience was piling on Michael's shoulders, weighing him to the ground, breaking him down day by day. But it wasn't right. The blood on Cassian's hands was his responsibility alone. No one else should have to suffer for it, no one else should have to break. What about Celine? Perhaps Michael was right. They should make their lives less about him, now that he didn't care about anyone other himself and Celine. She suddenly felt angry at Cassian, angry at him for giving up and letting the wretched girl with the red hair and blue eyes drag him away. Angry at his carelessness, at his stupidity, at his heartlessness. Angry at his betrayal.
She was jerked out of her thoughts by Michael's hand closing over hers. It brought her back to reality. "I am so angry at him, Michael." He nodded and kissed her knuckles- he used to do that a lot when they were younger. "I know. I am too."
They remained silent for a few moments, both deep in contemplation. Heather then squeezed her brother's hand and grinned-it was a forced grin, but it was better than the depressed face she had on before. "On the bright side we will start growing older now. You will marry a nice girl with a fortune and I will school your children. Or I could get married to a wealthy man and you to his older sister, and we would both live happily ever after. Or we can become outlaws!"
"I think we've already done that." Michael's small smile was genuine for the first time in weeks, and it gave some more life to hers as well.
"Alright then, maybe you could try for parliament and I-"
But then the door was flung open and Cassian leaped inside.
At first he just stood there, staring at them. They stared back, unable to speak or move. He was soaked from the rain, water dripping from the ends of his blond locks and the tips of his fingers. The white shirt he was wearing was glued to his skin, almost transparent now that it was wet. It revealed his naked body underneath it, the perfect muscles of his stomach and torso. He was like a human statue of a demigod, a motionless, wet Apollo. There was confusion in his eyes, a question of sorts. Who are you, why are you here? Michael wondered why he was staring at them like that, wide-eyed and surprised, like they rang a bell, but he just couldn't place them.
Heather was the first one to speak. "Cassian are you-" before she could finish her question, he fell to his knees with a soft thud that was followed by a loud shriek coming from the girl. His back was covered in blood. Michael automatically darted forward, his hands instantly finding themselves at Cassian's sides, then pushing his face upwards so that they could see eye to eye.
"What happened?" Michael shouted "Was it silver?" Cassian made no sound. "Cassian! Answer me, is it silver?" The vampire's blond head dropped, but he did mumble something unintelligible that Michael decided was a yes. He quickly motioned to Heather and she ran towards them, kneeling on the floor as well. She pressed her hands open on her brother's back but drew them back scared when she heard him wince in pain. She shot a helpless look at Michael, he seemed determined. Tugging onto the hole the bullet had already opened in the expensive fabric, he tore the shirt from Cassian's body and exposed the injured flesh. "Damn," he breathed, rolling his eyes, and turned to Heather "Get me a knife. The bullet's still inside." Using his shoulder to hoist herself up, she ran to the door and disappeared without a word. She knew the drill.
Cassian and Michael were left alone in the room, and everything fell suddenly silent. Even the injured boy made no sound. Michael shut his eyes so that he wouldn't see the wound or his brother anymore, and that made the silence even more tangible. God, Cassian. When did we run out of words? As if he had read his mind, Cassian shivered, creating in Michael the strong urge to put his arms around him. He didn't, however. He moved away from his brother instead, willing himself not to get too emotionally involved in this. "Hurry! Before they heal into his skin!" He heard shuffled footsteps in the corridor.
"Here."
Heather and the dagger came at the right moment, pulling him away from all his thoughts. He took the knife from her, and quite simply, did what he had to do. Ignoring Cassian's screams, he dug the bullets out of his body. The flesh around the wound had started turning black, but they had caught the it before it spread too far. Michael let his body fall back and supported his weight on his elbows. Heather took over from there, covering the large, dark hole with her palms. He was healed in less than two minutes.
Slowly regaining his senses, Cassian sat up.
It took a while for Heather to regain her strength however, since the wound had been hard to fix and had absorbed a lot of her energy. When her breath resumed its natural rhythm and she had the strength to lift her head, she smiled and softly stroked the spot where the wound had been before. "It's over," she murmured.
Something in Michael told him that she was right, it really was over. Just not in the way she meant it.
He was laughing.
Hell, he was laughing.
"Celine lured him into the alley," he said, lying down on the carpet that was still wet from his blood and the water he had brought in. "She made him think that something was going to happen between them and," laughter chocked by hand pressed against mouth "oh, you should have seen the look on his face! The fool was in Heaven!"
Michael kept staring at the floor. It was the safest thing to do. He wanted to keep quiet for as long as he could, he didn't want to say a word if he could help it. "So you attacked him." Michael didn't think he had ever heard Heather's voice so dark and serious in the past. "Yes," Cassian's intoxicated smile replied. "We attacked him and we fed on him. That's what vampires do, sister. He died, sadly." Heather clenched her fists, but Cassian didn't seem to notice.
"And the bullet wound?"
"They saw us. And they shot at Celine."
"You covered her..."
"Yes, I protected my maker. I love her; I couldn't let her get hurt."
"Of course. And what does that marking on your wrist stand for, Cassian?"
That made Michael look up. What was she talking about? His eyes searched his brother's wrists. There really was something there, a red mark red, like a letter. The letter C. "It's nothing," Cassian mumbled, but to Michael's surprise, he didn't try to cover the letter up, or hide it. He wasn't ashamed, he was accepting it. For all they knew, he had even asked for it.
"No, little brother, don't be shy! Tell us what it is!" he heard himself hiss to Cassian, who looked at him with nothing but pure poison in his light blue eyes. It dawned on him right then. You hate me. He felt his heart sink at the realization of it. He had sensed it for a long time, but he hadn't really known until then. The pain in his chest didn't keep him from speaking, no, it made his voice grow louder and his hand grab the vampire's wrist. He got a closer look. The letter C. A sound of disgust escaped his lips as he let go of Cassian's hand. "This is a beauty, really. Her initials. I'm surprised she didn't print them on your forehead like cattle." Michael knew he was taking it a bit too far and that he was doing it out of spite. At that moment, he had no plan. He had long ago lost the ability to get through to Cassian, for a year now he had been pulling all the wrong strings. And now that heinous branding, that mark of ownership… He just wanted his brother to hurt. In case pain would shock him out of his lethargy.
"Shut up."
"But that would honestly be too obvious, wouldn't it? A simple stamp on your wrist is enough. How did she do it, really? Did she use a silver dagger?"
"Michael, shut up."
"A poisoned needle?"
"I'm warning you."
"No, I know, I know! It was hot iron, wasn't it? She burnt her name on your arm, didn't she?"
Cassian jumped up and grabbed his brother by the collar of his shirt. He brought their faces so close so fast, their foreheads almost collided. "And what if she did? What is it to you?" It was an honest question for him. He honestly wanted to know why it mattered to Michael since he was convinced that genuine concern had nothing to do with it. "Just answer me this, Cassian." Michael's eyes shone feverishly, they were suddenly so bright that they became all Cassian could see of his face. Everything else was out of focus. "Did you enjoy it?"
He was sent flying across the room and crashed into a glass cabinet.
Cassian laughed one more time, but this time it was different. It was very dry and humorless.
"Celine is my maker, you ignorant fool! She is the reason I exist, she is one of my kind, she is a vampire!" he screamed, and the sound of his voice startled him as well. It was almost unrecognizable. "You tried to tie me up all those years, all those decades you kept me imprisoned, making me feel guilty and tainted and wrong! She knows me, Michael! She loves me, she loves the monster inside me, she understands the hunger crawling under my skin!" If he were more lucid, he would have wondered whether that accusation was fair or not. But he had replayed it over and over in his head so many times that by now it seemed just. They had kept him from drinking blood. Michael had become his personal donor. For centuries Michael's blood had been the one thing keeping him alive. And what at first had seemed like kindness, Celine had shown him, she had proved to him that it was actually cruelty. Because that wasn't his nature. Man wasn't his nature. He was born to be a beautiful beast.
"She EXPLOITS it!"
He didn't expect to hear his sister's voice at that point; he thought that the argument was between him and his fool of a brother. "She exploits your weakness." But this time there was different pair of fiery eyes staring straight at him. "She carved her name onto your flesh, and you think this is love?" Heather didn't shout this time. She spoke with narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks, but there was something very composed about her voice. "Are you that far gone?" She was trying to fight the crisis with logic, because she knew that her brothers were driven by sentiment in this war. Whoever used more hurtful words would win.
"I don't need you," Cassian stated calmly and watched as Michael slowly got up, shards of glass shattering under his palms, knees and feet. "You are the ones who need me. You only need me because I'm keeping you alive and young." When Celine had first suggested that, he had denied it with all his power, he had argued with her, he had walked out of her bedroom. It made no sense back then. But now he knew better. She was right, after all. She was right because they didn't contradict him. They stayed silent. Why didn't they just say no? Why didn't they shout it wasn't true?
The previous silence flooded the room again and Michael's footsteps heading towards the vampire were the only sound to be heard. He stood in front of Cassian, almost as tall as he, definitely as resolute as his brother. "A fool branded like sheep. Believing every word his maker spews out." His voice wasn't louder than a whisper, but it was enough. "Is this who you are? If this is who you are, I don't want to lay eyes on you anymore." There was so much disgust in his words.
What followed was a moment of absolute stillness. Cassian felt like everything and everyone had stopped moving. He was the only thing thinking and breathing in the living room of their shared apartment, all else had frozen, time had frozen. Heather and Michael were motionless in front of him. He observed them for those few seconds, he passed his eyes over and over their pale faces. She looked scared and he looked revolted. Disappointed. Sad, even. There were tears in his eyes. Why?
Branded.
The word made his brain short-circuit and rage flooded his whole system. Branded like sheep. For the few seconds that the stillness around him lasted, he felt nothing. Nothing but raw hatred towards the pale-faced, green-eyed traitor standing tall and proud in front of him. The vermin that under the pretense of brotherly love had decided that he was God and thought he could judge. The truth was that Cassian could no longer live like that, he couldn't survive.
When the pause ended and life came back in the dimly lit room, he raised his arm.
Branded.
When he brought it down, blood was splattered all over the wall behind Michael; it looked like a painter's careless brush stroke. Michael's shredded shirt fell to the floor and a large gash swiftly appeared on his white flesh, from his right shoulder down to his abdomen. Cassian looked down at his hand. He didn't even know he had been holding the dagger. His eyes moved back to the bleeding wound and the brother that was staring at him in disbelief. Heather's voice had died in her throat and only her wide eyes revealed her horror. The cut was so deep, it was so long, so terribly vulgar.
Branded.
It would be a lie to say that something in his mind didn't howl what have I done? right then, that a part of him didn't go up in flames.
But there was this other voice in his mind that silenced all others. Celine.
"Who's branded now?" she laughed in his head, and he found himself out of the room, out of the apartment and out of his human life without even knowing.
The Present Day
"Don't act like a child Michael. I am not hiding anything."
But he is.
"God, don't give me that look! Just trust me in this."
He has to trust him. Has to. It's the only way this will work.
"You should have just let me finish her when I still could."
Because now things have gotten a lot more complicated.
"I didn't do anything."
He has just made a deal with the devil.
A/N: So, as you see, no Maxxie speaking in this one. If you hate the parts about Cassian's past (which I hope you don't) then you must have HATED this chapter (which I hope you didn't). It's a bit long, I know, but I had to write it to its full length, anything shorter wouldn't feel right. I hope it didn't confuse you, and it seems that hoping my writing doesn't confuse you has become common practice in all my stories. But you still stick with them. Thank you!
I just wanted to say that I hope that Cassian didn't come off too evil or too, I dunno, stupid in this chapter.I was just trying to portray the dead-end he was in. You know, vampire meets maker, human siblings don't understand him, he gets a chance to feel non-doomed, brother says the wrong thing at the wrong time, vampire slices brother in half… Did it work?
The next one will have Maxxie in it. And her demented friend Shar. And Cody. I think. Wee.
Please leave a review!