Louisa Whittock was convinced, from the moment of her second daughter's birth, that the infant would be followed by Death.

June Ivory Whittock was a still-born with an above average body temperature and love for fire.

She gave the girl up to many religious practices, praying like any good mother that her child would lead a carefree life.

Such, unfortunately, was not the case.

June remembered all those white-clad priests and exorcists kneeling before her with false kindly expressions before they would speak in the ancient language, screaming at her chair-bound, cowering form and roughly yanking her hair and pushing her.

Sadly for the priests, she did not show any signs of screaming in random languages at them or start bleeding from her eyes.

"Look at her. Yes, that one with the blue eyes and bite marks. She's the anti-Christ, that thing."

"You know, those Whittock girls were cursed by their own mother. She wanted to sacrifice them to Satan, my friend tells me."

"Can you believe it? June Whittock tried to accuse her mother of infidelity! The nerve of that creature. I'd lock mine up and never let her out."

For sixteen years, June watched the people around her murmur and cast fearful sideways glances; not-so-subtlety sneering and keeping their distance from the 'creature' that she was.

She watched as her mother, the woman who'd begun the cycle, succumb to society's glares and flinch every time June entered the room.

She felt her elder sister's warm hand on her back and felt the love and reassurance behind the warm smiles.

She heard the rumors.

She saw her life as if it had already happened. She'd be a disgrace, unmarried, penniless and weak. No laughter and gay parties, loving man to wake up beside every morning, tight corset dresses, no love.

For a fifteen year old young lady in the eighteenth century, nothing could be much worse than June's condition.

Ruled out by society, disregarded by her mother, feared by the rest. Only her father and sister loved her.

She doubted that, sometimes.

"Darrell?" the dark haired-child peeked up from under her covers.

"Yes?" Darrell replied, eyes on her book.

"Why does mummy hate me so?" the girl's voice shook and her lower lip trembled piteously.

Darrell gave June a sad little smile, saying, "Oh, she loves you, Junie. She's just- afraid of you, that's all."

"But why?" the little girl was adamant to find out why their mother had started crying when June accidentally dropped her doll into the fireplace.

Darrell seemed at loss for words.

"Perhaps you had make her a card tomorrow, Junie. I'm sure she'd like that."

June nodded, a bright smile replacing the frown. She didn't know what was wrong with her beloved mother to treat her so, but she wanted to fix it.

She hadn't died from all those 'exorcisms', but from her own father's hand.

"Father? What's wrong?" fifteen year old June cried, rushing over to her father's limp form on the study chair.

He shocked her with his tears.

"I-I'm so sorry, Junie, I am. It-it is all my fault," He whispered, tears soaking her dying daughter's gown.

At suppertime, the two sisters were the only ones at the table.

"What's wrong with Father, Darrell?"

Darrell glanced up, looking pained.

"He's upset, June."

"Well, of course." June said impatiently, "But why?"

"Your test results came back today, June."

"The ones with Dr. Peyton?"

"Yes."

"And? Don't be such a drag, Darrell, spit it out already," She said with an un-ladylike eye roll.

"You've got lung cancer, June!" Darrell screeched, causing June to flinch as she pushed the chair back. "I knew I should have told Father to stop smoking so; you're going to die," she said, falling back down with a sob.

Darrell didn't see June's relieved expression before she hurried to try and comfort her older sister.

June had died many deaths before the news of her cancer.

Second-hand smoking.

Two hundred years later, June Ivory Volturi smiled as she looked out of her bedroom window.

She'd beaten all those foolish priests and her pathetic mother. She'd out-lived them all.

And now she stepped out on the balcony, gazing through the mist at the life streaking by her, her grin grew wider.

She laughed a low bell-like sound, the black and golden pendant swinging lazily between her nimble fingers.

Life was good for the aged vampire. Very good indeed.


Hallo! We are the Angels and Mercenaries, and we present to you *stomach drum roll please* our very first story! :) We usually prefer one-shots, but this seemed an interesting plot to do. Tell us your thoughts, yeah? Danke!