Author: Jas
E-mail: abrilliantanarchist@hotmail.com
Title: Heart in Exile
Rating: 18 + (for sex, drug use, swearing, violence)
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimers: The general concept of the NW, unfortunately, does not belong to me but instead to L.J. Smith. I'm just borrowing it for the purposes of this story. No profit is being made. The characters within, however, are of my own twisted creation. Please don't steal… Not that you would… J
Summary: It should have been a perfect murder: kill the spoiled sister of a powerful gang leader and reap the monetary rewards. Kieran Grey had killed lots of little girls...but this one, this one was different. Samaire Morgan used to be a shape-shifter. But an act of revenge against her brother left her changed forever, and not in a rosy, Oprah-esque. It should have been simple; Samaire should have been dead... But they hadn't counted on Kieran falling in love. And Samaire being so damn hard to kill.
Commentary: Vastly differing from my other feel-good fics, I got the idea for this one after watching Pulp Fiction, if that gives you any indication. Feedback is highly appreciated and flames are laughed at and deleted summarily.
Chapter One: Drowning by Numbers
~ Tell me your secrets, and ask me
your questions,
Oh, let's go back to the start. ~
Her death had been brilliant.
Always, upon rememberance, she thought of it in terms of bold colors: the quick flashing spurts of red, the cold, sweet black of pain, the slippery green of ecstasy. Her heart would pound in the memory, and her breath would fall short, with her chest poised in perfect mid-motion.
All those violent, beautiful colors. They haunted her dreams, day and night.
Her brother would never approve. She felt guilty for even feeling this, for even assigning emotions and thought to her death. She would wake up at night in a sweaty, tangled mess and feel like a child with her hand in the cookie jar. Would she get caught? Had he heard her screams?
Nicholas said she wasn't supposed to think on it. Never again. It was behind them now.
Except it wasn't. She thought about it all the time. Dying, screaming, bleeding. She couldn't help herself. She loved her death, the way her blood didn't run through her veins and her heart was cold and stone quiet in her chest.
Her death consumed her, like a moth too close to the flame.
She couldn't help herself.
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"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
Samaire Morgan poured creamer into her coffee. Not that it would help. She could no longer distinguish the bitter tang of caffeine from water or Kool-Aid or, sweet Jesus, a hobo's piss.
"You don't look fine."
"Well, I am."
"Well, you don't lo-"
"Well, I *bleeding* am FINE, all right? Is this some sort of fucking interrogation? Am I on trial, Nicholas? What're you going to do? Burn me at the stake?"
She snapped. She hadn't meant to, not when it was so trivial a matter. Her control, a tenuous thing at the very best of times, tended to be an issue.
Nicholas didn't miss a beat, though, hardly batting an eyelash at his sister's explosive outburst. "You're over tired, Mari. What did I tell you about the nightmares?"
A sigh, short and punctuated with annoyance at her as if she had control over such things. "They're to stop, do you hear?"
She stared down at her over-buttered toast and her cheeks flamed a bright, hot red. "I guess my sub-conscious didn't get the memo. Don't worry, I'll re-fax at the first oppurtunity."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers tighten around the edge of The Wall Street Journal. And when he looked at her, that I'm warning you for the last fucking time look stole over his face.
"Don't take the tone, Samaire." His voice was deceptively soft. "They're to stop. Do you hear?"
A flash. Him staring down at her- a young, sweetly pretty her with pink ribbons in her pig tails. She was looking up at him in absolute, perfect devotion, a small smile curling on her rosebud mouth; he had his hand on the top of her head.
"I'll try." Her nails dug into her palm under the table, hard enough to draw blood. "I will try harder, Nicholas."
"Right." The word dug itself into Samaire's head. Right. So perfectly dismissive. So fucking insensitve. What had happened to the days when he used to take care of her, used to bandage her cuts and dry her tears?
Your parents died. And then you died, sweetness. Now everything's different.
"I…am sorry." She absently scratched her bandaged arms and wished, just fucking wished, for a sharp splinter of wood… Just one cut, just one last time…
Nicholas didn't notice. "Well, let's not fight, Samaire, not right now, okay?" His fingers went marginally lax again and his face adopted a semblance of concern, perfect for all occasions when she had, in his estimation, utterly fucked up.
"In fact, why don't skip your school today? You must be quite exhausted, darling. Gisele can take you to the museum. You can bring your sketchbook, have a nice drawing session, perhaps. Then, maybe later, she can take you to see a movie if you like. I don't know what's out now, but I'm sure you two will come up with something. Some romantic comedy, perhaps, give your mind a rest."
It was the very last thing Samaire needed: her brother's current, over-endowed concubine, a flaming idiot by the way, escorting her around town like she was some lunatic that had to be watched twenty-four hours a day lest she break out into a homicidal and/or suicidal rage.
"I'm fine. I'd like to go to school, if that's all right."
And, oh, how she hated begging him like a dog to do what she wanted.
"You sure?"
He smiled, in what Samaire could see he considered victory.
"I'm fine."
Mercifully, he left it at that. She watched the worry vanish, as if it never had been, and his face return to its normal state of cautious wariness, mixed now with the faint hint of irratitation. Reading the finace papers again, she thought. Mad that your stocks aren't doing as well as you hoped? Mad that I'm crazy and have put a wrinkle in your sunshine life?
She grabbed her backpack and left the toast untouched upon the pretty little china plate and the tea still piping hot in its delicate cup. She stared across at Nicholas, always so handsome and strong and straight, even though she suspected that most of the time he was a right bastard deserving more of jail time than of their parents' vast assets and sprawling mansion.
"Are you leaving for Hong Kong today?"
"I'd like to leave at eight-thirty. The mechanics are working on the plane right now and, the gods willing, it'll ready on or about then." He ran a hand through thick, short, black curls and glanced idly at the watch on his left wrist. "Gisele will be staying on, if you require a companion or any attention."
He put down the paper and turned his head towards her, staring at her suddenly. She didn't mind, but there was a candidness about his gaze that made her curiously uncomfortable, as if he wanted to pull her face, as it was right now, down into himself and burn its impression in his heart, there for later rememberance.
"So you're leaving, then?" His green eyes, the same large, doe-eyed shape and color as her own, lingered over her scarred neck.
"Yes."
Her fingers clenched the strap of her Jansport and her black Mary Janes were rooted to the carpet, unable to move.
"Well, little sister. Have a good day."
So many unspoken words. She could tell he was saying two very different things, but she hadn't the slightest clue as to what either was. Samaire looked on at him, a little desperately, and tried for a smile. It didn't, she knew, fit quite right on her face- a grimace instead of a grin.
"Yes. And you."
"I'll see you next week."
Samaire nodded and backed out of the dining room, her shoes finally regaining the power to walk. Nicholas's last words hung like little angels over her head; there was a strange and disquieting finality in his farewell.
It was like goodbye. A final, last goodbye in which he didn't expect to see her again at all, let alone next week.
She was lying in the grass, crying. Young, god's yes, she must've been no more than five and her wrists were bleeding. A gash, an accidental cut. Her hiccuping screams were echoing for miles and when she called, she called for Nicholas, not her parents or her nanny. Nicholas would take care of her.
She looked back. He was still staring at her; he had neither moved hair nor hide since she walked away. His eyes were fixed exlcusively upon her, as if devouring the last remanants of her presence.
Well, little sister.
"Goodbye."
Her voice seemed to echo between them, for a long and desert-filled eternity.
"Goodbye, Samaire."
Her mouth twitched, just slightly, and... She knew. And that knowing, while his eyes were still locked with hers… They told her stories and sung songs she couldn't have heard before: the whole, horrible sum of Nicholas Morgan's intentions.
They were in the woods at night and he was holding her hand. There were people after them, bad people, and her heart was beating like a lonely little war drum. But Nicholas, he kept telling her:' It's all right. You're safe with me; here let me carry you, love. Yes, I'm here. You're safe.' She believed him.
One, two heartbeats and she walked into the hall. Her numb fingers somehow managed to find her Burberry raincoat and favorite polka-dot umbrella from the coat rack. And, then, with the secret movements of someone used to being evasive, Samaire moved towards a shelf near the door. Her fingers searched, upending a row of books into a small, hidden panel in the wall that opened to reveal…a nickel-plated gun. Fully loaded, ready for use.
Outside, in the cold grayness of London, it was raining.
And inside, in the warmth and coziness of the Morgan home, her brother was planning her murder.
~ Questions of science, science and progress,
Do not speak as loud as my heart,
And tell me you love me, come back and haunt me,
Oh and I rush to the start,
Running in circles, chasing tails,
Coming back as we are.
Nobody said it was easy,
Oh, it's such a shame for us to part. ~
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