This is a semi-dark fic. Now, if you read most of my stories, you'll know I tend to lean towards this sort of thing. However, this deals with killing, murder, death. All that great stuff. It's not implied, but very bluntly put out there.

Disclaimer: Not my characters

Spoilers: Beautiful Creatures, Darkness, and Chaos

His hands slipping through Caster blood. Something akin to fear seeding deep in his soul, a coldness that spread sharply through him. A frenzied melody of thick gasps escaped the Caster beneath him, heat surging between his fingers. Fogginess clouding his mind as he repressed the urge brought up from the dying man. Murmured words Macon bit out in an attempt to quell not only the man's terror but his own. And the smell, the bitter metallic tang that permeated the air with such accuracy. The sharp ache that started his gums, and seared towards his eyes. The final choked sigh of the Caster.

He remembered everything.

Blood staining his hands. The emptiness in the Caster's eyes. The heaviness in his heart and singing of his mind. Instincts against morals. A trembling just below his skin, deeper than the sting of cold, radiating a soft absence. His hands tightening ever slightly on the man's open throat, still attempting to staunch the wound. His thoughts slipping slowly into a more provocative center. The scrabbling of feet as Macon hastily pushed himself against the wall.

Macon allowed his eyes to close. His hands still held the heaviness of blood, although he had scrubbed them raw. The thoughts hadn't stopped.

His mind was not a violent clamor, a menagerie of overlapping memories, but clinically swift. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember it ever being so clear. He also couldn't remember being so terrified.

The chaos of his characteristic turmoil left him weak, physically and emotionally worn. If pressed to harm, with the thoughts raging over each other, he would need to have an awfully potent motive to act upon it.

Now, however, his thoughts were singular. In his mind, he saw Mortal faces flashing by, cross-examining them as how to kill them. Had he come across the fancy, the smallest whim, he knew...he knew he would kill someone. Even the heavy horror the thought invoked was faint. To throw everything he had worked for away had seemed folly. Hours before this fit, he had been secure of his place. He had been satisfied.

Oh, but the sheer pleasure of it. The belief of not worrying about losing control and violently murdering someone, the absolute emptiness and clarity it would invoke to his mind. He didn't deceive himself; the barest figment of it was a dream. When his body rebelled nightly for even the slightest implication of prey, the idea of giving in was almost too sweet. Those were times when even Jane's voice couldn't bring him back.

This, this, was the reason he pushed Jane away. Lila, he corrected himself. Not the idea of himself hurting her; eventually he understood he could control himself. Not because of himself, but for the others of his family, those who were far darker. Those who were not strong enough to fight what they were. Originally, he used them as a reason to leave her behind.

As time progressed, Macon mused, his thoughts had changed. What was once a fluttering aim had grown over the years into a maddening anticipation. His visits outside became less frequent; in the evening, he took to walking around town. The urge was too much, though, soon after the first year. The anticipations had moved from killing for necessity to a more recreational matter.

He remembered Lena asking if killing somebody, even if one had to, felt terrible.

He had answered as any parent would have; he regretted ever touching the Caster. He had lied; a part of him rebelled at the thought of forfeiting himself to the Caster. He was a fugitive- Which, he concluded, was not a crime deserving of this. Briefly, he allowed himself to wonder if someone would treat him the same way, now.

Macon pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes gently. It was too much. The contradiction between his morals and his instincts, the tearing of his mind in a frenzied flurry. However, now with even that quelled, he allowed the thought to form. It's the ugliest thing in the world.

Lightly calloused hands pressing insistingly against his gaping wound. The whispered cursed that barely overshadowed sobs. Long hair brushing against his cheek. Don't go. Damn it, Macon. His thoughts dull and slow, as though coated in thick wool. His breath faltering. His sister's face falling to shadow. His mind slipping. Her mantra breaking. No. No no no! Don't do this!-

Leah's fingers carded through his hair. He was startled from his reverie. "Where'd you run to this time?" Macon leaned his head back, thankful the flashback had overtaken him while he sat.

"I believe I was dragged, rather forcefully, to His Garden of Perpetual Peace." His tone leaned more towards wistful humor. Leah's hand tightened.

"I thought you left." Macon scoffed.

"Leave you? Leah, you, of all people, understand the ludicrous nature of that comment." Leah moved from behind him to sit in the chair opposite of him, the hearth light glittering in her eyes.

"That's not true, Macon. We both know that." Macon allowed himself a slow exhale. "You have nothing to live for. It would have been so easy-"

"To give up?"

"To end it." Leah's lip quivered gently. "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to."

Macon's gaze froze. "This is my burden, Leah. I can't fathom it being someone else. Whatever this curse wants, I will not allow it to harm anyone."

Leah's fingers tensed. "No one but yourself. Tell me, brother dear, where did you find a noble streak?"

"In that cemetery." Macon's masked, ebony stare didn't shift.

"That Caster threw himself at you as an escape." Leah's voice quieted.

"Which is precisely what I am against, Leah. That man had everything; children, a wife, he was completely domestic. He gave it away in the chance I would kill him, so he would not have to face the challenge of a debt unpaid." Macon's tone had barely changed. It still held the casualty of a well-known friend. "It was cowardice. He committed suicide to hide from his past."

Leah tilted her head. "He killed himself, Macon. Slit his own throat." For a brief moment, an emptiness claimed his eyes.

"I couldn't save him." He blinked once. "I should have been able to save him. I was capable. There was time." He chuckled, although the sound wasn't altogether humorous. "I couldn't move." He smiled slightly. "I murdered him."

Heavy smoke and fire. Blood. So much blood. His thick, struggling breathing. Cold. He was cold. Freezing with flames not twenty feet away. Heavy eyelids. Shaking hands. The Wate boy seeing him. Pity. His last request. Find Lena. The boy's eyes conveying a sadness Macon understood. It was his end. Emmaline holding his hand, whispering softly spoken words that meant nothing. Words couldn't bring him back. His thoughts dragging. His throat constricting. His eyes closing. The cold fading. Finally letting go.

Macon took care not to look in mirrors. He had expected many things that never happened. He anticipated the thoughts would end with the end of his Incubus life, as would his urges. Currently, he was breaking his habit, and what he saw was nothing he could have aimed for.

Hands around another's neck. Sharp agony biting into him as Hunting faded. Brother. Memories fluttering behind his eyes. The detachment. The fear. Weakness ebbing on his mind. The crumbling of flesh. The fear and betrayal in Hunting's eyes. The scream echoing in his ear. Ashes.

He had the mindset he would look different. His green eyes would hold a harshness, the rugged emptiness of his mind conveyed into them. His eyes hadn't changed in the slightest. His thoughts were, again, clinical. They tended to take that turn after. However, this surge was weaker. The remorse was softer, more tender, but still weak.

Hunting attacked you first. A low chuckle escaped him. The excuse was overused, undernourished and sounded as worn as he felt. Hunting may have attacked him first, but to kill his own brother, well, it seemed folly. A part of him knew he should have felt horrible, should have been beside himself. He had made more of an emotional attachment to a stranger than his own younger brother. The former had impacted his life irrevocably. The latter was simply another tally.

Lena had asked him if killing, even if you had to, was that bad. He had responded as any parent would have. It's the ugliest thing in the world. Oh, but the truth of it. He was no better than Abraham. He liked killing Hunting.