Sound of Gunfire, See My Tears

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: Sighs Why do I bother? You all know that I don't own Blade I, II, or III. But just to make sure. . . I don't own Blade I, II, or III.

Note: My second Blade fic. This one is an Abby/King story, and includes A LOT of King angst. I'm not really sure of everything that will happen in this story.

Note the Second: Chapters will vary in length. One may be twelve pages; one may be half a page. There will be quite a bit of time-jumping at seemingly random places, but I promise you that there is a rhyme and reason to it. Be prepared for flashbacks, as well. But fear not, I will make certain you know what is a flashback and what is not.

Also, I'd like to take this moment to say that Ryan Reynolds is raging fine.

Rated R for language and gore, and probably some very strong innuendo, but we'll see what happens in that department as we go.

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Gunfire.

Screams.

Ash.

Darkness. Light. Darkness.

Blood.

So much blood.

Danica Talos.

--

Hannibal King sat up in bed with a start, drenched in cold sweat. He ran a hand through his light brown hair and tried to slow his breathing. Tears, a product of his dream, ran down his face and caught in his beard.

The Honeycomb hideout was quiet tonight, but for the sound of Hedges snoring down the hall and the thunder that shook the structure with its power.

King lay back down and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes Danica's face flashed in his mind. Eyes laughing cruelly. Fangs glistening crimson with his blood.

Blood. Always blood.

He opened his eyes and resigned himself to the fact that tonight he would not sleep. He stood up and moved to the window, stopping only briefly to pull on a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. The floor was freezing. He rested his forehead against the cold glass and stared out at the world. For a moment the sky lit up. It was day. For a moment.

And then there was darkness again.

He turned to the dresser and rested his palms heavily on it, letting the sturdy structure support most of his weight. He glanced up at the mirror that stood on top of the dresser. He caught sight of his reflection and stopped to look more closely.

Christ, was that him?

At first glance he looked like the perfect specimen of man. Strong, bronze, and unscarred. But there was something else there, too. His face betrayed him.

There were deep shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his eyes themselves. . .

So tired. So. . . old.

His eyes skimmed down his reflection to his abdomen, just above his pajama pants. There, in vivid contrast to his tan skin, was a blue-ish-black tattoo.

In the end, it all came back to Danica Talos.

"Fuck you, bitch," King muttered vindictively.

He looked at the glyph a moment more and then, disgusted with himself and with his past, he pulled his pants just high enough to cover it. He returned to his bed and rested on his back with his hands behind his head as he stared moodily at this ceiling, hating Danica Talos.

In the end, she would get hers.

He vowed it. He vowed it on every drop of blood she'd forced down his unwilling throat. . . that he might live a little longer for her to play with.

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