Chapter 1:
She wiped her hand across the back of her mouth, staring down at the unconscious form of her now-ex-boyfriend. She ran her teeth along her fangs, cleaning any leftover blood from them. No, she hadn't bit him, but after they'd had one of their more violent fights, she hadn't been able to resist taking advantage of the fact that he had an open wound. Hell, he'd been unconscious, so he'd probably never know. Still, the taste, oh, the taste. Nothing could compare to it, even if it had only been lukewarm.
She shook her head and turned away to grab her coat and the bag she'd had the foresight to pack earlier in the day. "Just a taste" had been a very bad idea, because she was craving more. She didn't trust herself to stay there any longer near his prone form, and instead, she jogged out into the hall of the rundown apartment building, not bothering to even close the door behind her as she trotted down the stairs. She walked casually for the thirteen blocks it took her to get to the hole-in-the-wall bar that let her use their phone from time to time. She'd given up on cell phones years ago, not wanting to be tracked or found. Just wanting to be left alone.
She laid two fifties down on the bar. In return, she got what was left of the open bottle of whiskey and the bartender's cell. Her hands shook as she dialed the number. She didn't bother to even take the spout off of the bottle, just bit it clean off with her fangs. She drank deeply from the bottle while the phone rang. The burn of the liquor felt good and reminded her for just a few seconds of her human side. That side was getting harder and harder to stay connected with.
"Hello?" Came the gruff response. She realized it was the middle of the night. He had been asleep.
"Are you alone?"
There was a moment's silence before the response said, "No one here that can't be gone."
"Two days," she said before she closed the phone, deleted the history, and left it on the bar, turning and walking out with the bottle still in her hand.
She started up the road, her bag slung over her back, the bottle in her hand occasionally traveling toward her lips. She looked young; any thugs or thieves would assume she was easy pickings, but any who came near felt an unnerving sense of dread and avoided her. That was a skill she'd learned later not only to protect herself, but to protect those who would approach her uninvited. As she walked toward the next town, she was unmolested. Her free hand curled into a fist as she fought the urge to walk into any of the busy little restaurants or shops, to grab up an innocent passerby, to drink. She had waited too long. She drained what was left in the bottle, not even able to fully enjoy the effects of the alcohol. Unable to fight the fierce anger and panic that was tearing her apart, she gave into the beast and threw down the bottle and ran.
He leaned back in the chair, balancing it on its back legs as he stared into the fire. This was the fourth night since she had called. She had sounded bad, hadn't bothered with any pleasantries, had only said five words. Sighing, Logan looked at the end of the cigar he had been smoking, watching the red cherry glow while the smoke stung his eyes. Not enjoying it, he tossed the whole thing into the fireplace to watch it burn there. He hated this part of her visits the worst: the waiting. At first, she had just popped in to see him without calling, but after she'd run into a few former X Men and interrupted him with a lady friend, those had stopped. She came here for the same reason he did: to get away. Glancing at the clock, he told himself that there were plenty of reasons she could be late, but unfortunately, none that he could think of were good.
He let the chair drop back down to the floor and stood, feeling suddenly caged in his small, two-room cabin in northern Canada. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans because he didn't know what else to do with them. He moved to one of the windows to push the thick curtains back so he could stare out into the night. He pushed the sash up and leaned out into the chilly air. It was winter, and he was miles away from anyone else. He closed his eyes and just let the night sounds and smells invade his senses.
He'd left the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning about five years earlier, knowing Kitty and her family could easily handle things without him. He was growing older, even if his body didn't age. He had begun to feel disconnected from the students who seemed younger and younger to him with each new class. He'd watched his friends and his darlin' girls age, marry, and have families of their own. Well, all of them except one. Jubilee had taken off on her own years before he'd left. It had hurt, to be cut out, but he'd understood, perhaps better than most, what it was like to fight the animal instinct that threatened to take over your thoughts, your body, and your every desire. He knew she had to get the monkey off her back some way, so he'd never criticized her choices: the drugs, the string of shady love affairs, her short stint in crime, and who knew what else. She had tried so hard to be a "good girl" early in life that doing all the things she shouldn't must have felt like an outlet. Or maybe she had just wanted to punish herself for who or what she was. He had understood. He hadn't judged. When she had called, he had always opened his arms to her without asking any questions.
He took a deep breath of the frigid air. It had to be close to five below tonight. Looking up, he could see that the moon was almost full, its light reflecting easily off of the snow and the frozen sections of the small pond just outside of the cabin. It had been ten months since he'd heard from her last. Sometimes, especially early on, she'd call just to let him know she was alive. Then her visits had become more sporadic, not even revolving around holidays anymore. The calls had become fewer and fewer, and he'd noted a decline in her willingness to talk. Then she would visit, and he would help her. She would get better, and when she left, while she still didn't resemble the girl he'd once thought of as a daughter, she was better. The air of hopelessness, of anger and frustration, had ebbed. There had been about seven visits in the five years he'd been at this cabin. When he had purchased it, his plan had been to enjoy the solitude and to take the opportunity to commune with nature, to be away from humanity and the hatred and poison of prejudice. He leaned back inside and shut the window, letting the heavy curtain fall back into place. He hadn't thought he'd be up here for this long, but he didn't have any plans to leave since he wasn't yet ready to face the human race again in any long-term capacity.
She was on a road to self-destruction, but maybe he was as well. He just hoped that she arrived soon and that they saved each other in time. He walked to the fridge and pulled out a beer, popping the top with one claw. He took a long swallow and then turned back to put another two logs on the fire. He'd prepared for her coming, covering all of the windows to keep the sun out with the heavy curtains and blankets he'd purchased for that very reason. He knew she'd be cold and tired after having climbed up the mountain to his cabin, so even though he already thought it warm enough, he continued to build up the fire. He rubbed his hand over his face and fell back on the oversized couch and laid his head back. It was eleven o'clock. He normally was asleep by now, but he'd barely slept since her call. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off, trying to revive the image of a laughing teenager in a bright yellow coat, but she was elusive, and, he admitted to himself, imaginary now.
When all of the animals in the woods suddenly went quiet, Logan was jerked back into awareness. The sudden and complete silence was eerie, but he knew what it meant. Nature had sensed a predator was near. He tossed back the rest of the beer, now piss warm, and glanced at the clock again. One a.m. He went to the door and pulled it open, his eyes scanning the tree line, his nostrils flaring as he searched for a scent. There it was, there she was. He watched as she came slowly out of the woods toward him.
He felt his heart squeeze in his chest. She still looked so young and vulnerable, but he knew how deceiving looks were. She'd likely killed more people in her lifetime than he could imagine, and had only cared about those deaths about half the time. As she came closer, he could see that her hair, shoulder length, was hanging loosely around her face. The jeans she was wearing were riddled with holes and long, jagged rips, and she wore nothing but a black wife beater tee shirt. At least she wore good, sturdy boots, even if they showed heavy wear.
She lifted her head and made eye contact with him, and he had to push aside the shock of seeing those red eyes. He should have become used to them years ago, but he always seemed to be expecting something else, the old her perhaps. The girl who didn't exist. Still, she was his, so he opened his arms, and she stumbled into them. He led her to the fire and let her kneel before it, turning back around to close and bolt the door as she warmed herself. Neither of them spoke as he moved a wooden, straight-backed chair closer to where she knelt and sat down.
The fingers she held up to the flames were shaking, and he could tell from the paleness of her skin, the way her entire body appeared skeletal, that the shaking wasn't from the cold. She would never ask, and if she weren't in such a state, he knew she would refuse. He released one claw with a ringing SNKT sound, which brought her eyes to him. He dragged it up his forearm, which made her look away and fist her hands in her lap. But the smell and the sound, he knew, that was what did it. He watched his own blood run in a stream down his arm and smelled the metallic odor. He could hear the loud drip of the blood onto the wood floor. Within seconds, she was grasping his arm, her teeth buried deep into his wrist, her entire body cradled around his arm so that he had to slide off the chair to kneel on the floor beside her. She was quiet as she drank, her body bent over double, and he took the opportunity to run his hand along the dark, dirty hair. It was matted, and she was a mess, worse than he had ever seen her.
He was patient, ignoring the dizziness that washed over him as his healing factor worked overtime to fight the vampire's poison and to produce even more blood cells to replenish what was being taken. He wasn't sure how long it took her to stop, but when she did, she fell back against his chest in a sluggish stupor.
Carefully, he lifted her into his arms and headed toward the bedroom and the small bath that was connected to it. He turned the water on and removed her boots while she leaned in a daze against the wall. He pushed her into the shower fully clothed, stepping back when she lashed out in surprise and anger. She snarled at him, but he just turned and walked out, knowing she wasn't herself. He leaned against the door when he stepped out of the small space and took a moment to lean his head back against it. The first day is always the worst, he reminded himself. She'll be more human tomorrow. She'd be the woman he was still learning to understand. He rifled through some drawers and then opened the door again to set a towel and a pair of sweats on the sink, not even glancing at the shower. Then, he went out to the living room, sank onto the sofa, and slept for the first time in days, just relieved to know she was alive and safe.
Author's Note: I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter. I know it's starting out dark, but I really wanted to establish just how far Jubilee has fallen into her vampiric state over the years. Updates may be a little slow, perhaps once a week. Please let me know your reactions so far. I appreciate any reviews.
