Greeting readers! Sorry this took longer than I intended…again. Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. I'm glad you like Rory so far!
I actually finished reading The Silmarillion recently, so his reading of it was a little inspired. I also found out that the second of September, just before I posted that chapter, was the 40th anniversary of Tolkien's death. So I guess all the way around, that little nod was appropriate.
AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT THIS CHAPTER: So, I'll TRY to keep this rant to a minimum, but I need to explain something of my vampire canon that is relevant to a scene in this chapter. As you all are probably aware, in the series Mitchell had no reflection and his image could not be captured on film and they made kind of a big deal about it, especially later in the series. I AM HERE TO SAY I AM CHUCKING THAT CANON OUT THE WINDOW. I have ALWAYS hated that version of vampire lore because, to me, it makes absolutely no sense and it's completely impractical. ALSO on the show, Mitchell did in fact wear an ID badge when he worked at the hospital AND IT HAD A PICTURE ON IT. Point being, they couldn't even pull it off on the show, so I'm not even going there! If you care to hear my full rant on the subject, let me know, and I'll be happy to oblige. ;)
But, for now, long AN is long, so on to the story!
Chapter 2: Burn
So let me know just how to take this
'Cause you're way too cold
Now show me how before it breaks me
Did you come here to watch me, watch me burn?
I'll let it show that I'm not always hiding
Come all the way down
And watch me burn
I won't let it show that I'm not always flying
So on the way down
I'll watch you burn
- Burn by Three Days Grace
Mitchell stalks down the quiet empty street, brown eyes piercing the darkness. The night is more brisk than usual as summer begins to fade into autumn and a light drizzle of rain has begun to fall. He turns up the collar of his jacket against the damp and the chill wind and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets as he rounds the corner towards his destination.
He shifts his gaze upward, taking in the image of the old warehouse looming up ahead. Mitchell can't help it as his thoughts wander to another night little more than a month ago that found his feet treading this same path. Tonight he can feel some of the same sense of descending into the unknown and he forces down his feelings of apprehension, focusing instead on the task at hand.
The past few weeks have been filled with tension. Much of the clan was scattered after Herrick's demise, and Mitchell has spent much of that time just doing damage control. He has tried to root out as many of Herrick's remaining supporters as he could, but the random killings continued.
He knows that if he doesn't take control soon, the whole city could well descend into chaos. Tonight will be the first time the whole clan has been together in one room since the incident and he has no idea what to expect.
As he approaches the door, Mitchell can hear voices on the other side rising to a din as he draws closer. It seems the meeting has started without him. He pauses just outside and takes a steadying breath to regain his focus. There is too much riding on this. Squaring his shoulders, he turns the door handle and steps inside.
A hush falls over the crowd as he enters the room as whatever conversations they had been having abruptly cease. He can feel all of their eyes on him and he holds his head up, staring right back into their eyes as he makes his way through the crowd. The whispering begins as he passes, hushed voices building in volume as he moves toward the front of the room. When he reaches it he stops, turning to address the gathered vampires.
"Alright, listen up," he begins as the buzzing through the crowd threatens to build to the point of drowning out his words. "Listen to me!"
His voice echoes loudly over the space and the murmurings finally cease. The vampires turn their attention to the speaker, some eyeing him curiously, others coldly. He continues.
"The killings have to stop. That was never our way to begin with and the laws haven't changed. There's a reason for this. We have never needed to kill humans to survive and we sure as hell aren't going to do it for sport. Taking human lives risks the exposure of us all. You may have gotten away with it before now, but those days are done. There is no one left to cover it up, do you understand?"
"And we've got you to thank for that, haven't we?"
Mitchell recognizes the voice before he even turns his head, jaw clenched in agitation. It's hard to believe Cara used to serve coffee and hot chocolate to overnight staff and the families of patients at the hospital, yet here she was. He had noticed her absence little more than a week before his initial run in with Herrick, but he hadn't found out she had been Turned until after his death. She has been a thorn in his side ever since. Just one more of Herrick's messes for him to clean up.
"Since you killed our brave captain," she continues, "undoing all of his hard work."
Before Mitchell has a chance to respond, they are interrupted by the lilting voice of another figure approaching from the back. "Oh, I don't think we should give him that much credit," she says.
He narrows his eyes as he recognizes the newcomer.
"What proof do we have that he killed Herrick? Seeing as the only other witness to his death is nowhere to be found at the moment." She addresses Mitchell directly, standing close to him now. "No, I'd be willing to bet you let Lucian Harcourt kill him for you. You'd never have had the balls to kill your own Sire."
Mitchell glares down at her, clenching his jaw. "What are you doing here, Daisy?"
"Oh, I couldn't resist this." She flashes a predatory grin. "John Mitchell attempting to take control of William Herrick's clan. Should be quite a show." She backs away from him and goes to lean against a nearby pillar, her eyes catlike as she regards him from her new perch.
"The old regime is dead," Mitchell booms, addressing the crowd once more. "Believe whatever you like, but I will not stand for the behavior that has been exhibited by this clan for the past few months. There will be no uprising, no revolution. We go back to the way things were." He paces the room like a prowling panther, challenging each of them with his gaze. "We have sufficient supply of blood for our current numbers, and if that fails, we hunt as the Old Ones once did."
This earns a few groans from the group. "What, you mean in the woods? Like, deer and shit?" Interjects one who has the appearance of a young man in his early twenties at most.
Mitchell rounds on the speaker, though he speaks for all to hear. "We will do what needs to be done. The only reason we have survived this long is by keeping our existence a secret. The recent killings have risked our exposure enough as it is. We need to be especially careful now."
He turns back, studying the faces before him and his voice softens slightly. "Look, I know some of you are still new to all this, and I understand from experience what it's like to have nothing but Herrick's word to go by, but that excuse runs out now. This is the way it has always been. You will not kill humans." The command is final, his voice echoing over the open space. "This is the last warning I will give you. If anybody steps out of line, I'll kill you myself."
Mitchell makes his way down the street, grateful that the rain has let up, but eager to get home out of the chill it left behind. He isn't happy about the way the meeting went. Already he has come up with about a dozen things he feels he should have said and done differently, but it's no use now. He's just hoping that the point was made and he can stop tensing up every time they bring a body into the hospital. Something tells him he's not going to get that luxury any time soon.
Mitchell is entirely absorbed in his thoughts, trusting his feet to carry him to his destination without any conscious effort. As he reaches the corner where he will make the last turn onto his street, he realizes his mistake too late. He's been followed.
He turns around as the tall, lean figure approaches him lazily, hands in his pockets. Before Mitchell can react, the man strikes out at him, hitting him hard across the face. The blow leaves him reeling and he tastes blood in his mouth. He swings back, but the man gets him in a choke hold, pulling him back into a side alley.
Mitchell claws at the arm crushing his windpipe as the edges of his vision begin to darken. Just as he feels he is about to lose himself to the blackness, the man releases him abruptly, sending him to the ground. Mitchell scrambles to sit up, pressing his back against the wall as he catches his breath. He spits blood on the pavement, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth as he stares up at the man coldly.
"I should have known it was you," he says. "With Daisy around, I should've known you wouldn't be far behind."
The man straightens his suit jacket, regarding him with mild interest. "You look like shit, Mitchell."
"You just smacked me in the face!"
The man shrugs. "I was just proving a point."
Mitchell glares as he gets to his feet. "What do you want, Ivan?"
He grins. "I wanted to see how Lucian's protégé was handling this little situation. I must confess, I find myself rather disappointed."
Something flashes behind Mitchell's eyes and he glances away, clenching his jaw.
Ivan takes no notice as he continues. "That was some big talk back there. Though, I doubt very many of them took your threat seriously."
Mitchell's head snaps up and he bores into the older man with his gaze. "Well, I meant it. I won't stand for any more killings. Enough damage has already been done."
Ivan narrows his eyes, giving him a hard look. "And you could really go through with that, executing your own clan members?"
He matches his stare. "It's not like I haven't killed other vampires before."
"What, hunting rogues with Lucian?" Ivan shakes his head. "That is the problem with you, Mitchell. You have accomplished so little on your own."
He folds his hands behind his back, pacing the alley as he continues. "People respect Lucian, they fear him, as they should and not just because he's one of the Old Ones. It's more than that; he is a man of action who has proven that he will stand by his word. But you," he steps forward, standing close to him now. "They're not sure what to make of you. The ones who would be swayed to your cause have not seen you exercise enough control to follow you just yet. Then there are the others; Herrick's supporters, and believe me there are still plenty of them out there. They do not want to see you take control of the clan, but they won't strike out at you, not yet, because they are afraid. They fear to go after the one who is so loved by Lucian Harcourt at the risk of invoking his wrath. But that won't last forever. That threat will pass from their minds the longer he stays away, and they will come after you."
"So, what's your point, Ivan," Mitchell says angrily. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"I'm warning you, Mitchell," he answers earnestly. "They are all going to test you and you had best be able to stand up to it. You removed a powerful leader from the head of this clan, the transition is not going to be clean."
"You didn't even like Herrick."
Ivan shakes his head. "You're missing the point. Whatever either of us may have felt, Herrick was a solid figure head. You have created a power vacuum, and you had better be able to rectify it. There are plenty of people waiting to watch you fail."
"Yeah, well, thanks for that," Mitchell responds bitterly. He has had enough. He moves to walk past the taller man and out of the alley, but Ivan catches his arm.
"Mitchell," he begins, "believe it or not, I am trying to help you. You're right, I hated Herrick and I'm glad that he's gone. Now, you have been handed an opportunity here. Don't screw it up."
Mitchell narrows his eyes at him. "Well, I appreciate your support," he answers, voice dripping with sarcasm. He wrenches his arm out of Ivan's grasp, stepping back out onto the street.
"Is it true that you killed Herrick?"
Mitchell stops, taking a steadying breath before turning to face him once more. "Yes," he says, boring into the older man with his gaze. "I did."
Ivan studies him for a moment before giving a nod that seems to suggest he knows more than he's letting on. "Try and get some sleep, Mitchell," is all he says. "You look like shit."
George sits across from Nina at the kitchen table, stirring his tea absently as she prattles on. The next full moon is weeks away, yet it is still at the forefront of his mind. This last one passed without incident; especially compared to the time before that. Still, ever since that night in the warehouse it seems like a constant threat; the Wolf prowling in his mind. He knows it's completely ridiculous, but he has almost begun to fear that he could Change at any moment. Like all semblance of control he thought he possessed has been taken from him. The thought plagues him constantly. He emerges from his thoughts to find Nina staring at him, looking fairly agitated. He wonders how long ago she stopped speaking.
"You haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you?" She accuses.
"Sorry," George answers sheepishly. "I've been feeling a bit… distracted."
"'Distracted?'" Nina looks exasperated. "George, look. I don't know what has been going on with you over these past few weeks, but you are 'distracted' every time I talk to you anymore. You act like you don't even want to see me, let alone spend time with me. You never invite me over-"
"What do you call this?" He gestures around the kitchen, looking affronted.
"As I recall, I asked you if you wanted to get take away and I suggested your place since you never seem to want to venture out anymore. Then you only said 'yes' because Mitchell had something to do tonight."
"Well," George defends, "I didn't think you'd want to come over with my flat mate at the house."
"What about the time you didn't want to go to the cinema because Mitchell's aunt was ill?"
"She was very ill, I couldn't expect him to manage on his own."
"Or the time you cancelled our dinner plans because you and Mitchell were going tobogganing in Liverpool?"
"Yeah, I had gotten the dates switched round. He'd been planning it for ages."
Nina narrows her eyes at him. "Right. Listen, George," she says, rising from her seat. "Let me be frank. You would rather spend an evening with your flat mate than you would with me. Now, if I didn't know any better, I'd say that you and Mitchell were a little more than just flat mates."
George opens and closes his mouth, doing a rather comical impression of a fish. "I- that's- you're not suggesting-"
She throws up her hands in a placating gesture just as they hear the tell-tale sound of a key turning in the lock. "Speak of the devil," says Nina as Mitchell steps in the front door.
He stops dead, glancing between the two of them in confusion. "Evening," he ventures. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I wasn't aware we had company." He gives George a pointed look.
"Oh, I was just leaving," Nina replies. She grabs her handbag and exits the kitchen, barely sparing Mitchell a glance as she moves past him toward the door. Before she turns the handle, she turns to face George once more. "If you get the urge to ditch your boyfriend," she says mockingly, "give me a call." And with that, she walks out, leaving the pair in stunned silence in her wake.
Mitchell stares at the closed door in confusion before rounding on George. "What the hell was that all about?"
"I thought you had that meeting tonight?"
"I did," Mitchell says irritably, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. "I wasn't aware you wanted me out of the house for the evening."
George sighs. "I just wanted to have an evening. Now Nina thinks I'm ignoring her and that you have something to do with it."
He shakes his head. "You've got to stop giving her lame excuses, George. And you especially need to stop involving me in it. You need to talk to her."
"And tell her what?" George looks exasperated. "Tell her that I'm a werewolf? That's brilliant, Mitchell. While I'm at it, why don't I throw in that my best friend is also a vampire, and that we share our residence with a ghost? It's not like she'll think I've gone completely mental!"
"What do you want me to say?" Mitchell is rapidly losing his patience. "If you keep pushing her away there's gonna come a time when you push her too far, and she won't come back."
"Well, thanks for your support," George says sarcastically. "I really appreciate it."
Before Mitchell can give a response, the two are interrupted as Annie pops down from upstairs, standing between them.
"Did Nina leave already?" She looks at Mitchell and her curious expression changes to one of concern. "Are you alright, Mitchell? You look awful."
He glances from her to George who is studying him critically now, as though actually seeing him for the first time since he walked in the door. Mitchell is exasperated.
"Why do people keep saying that?" He doesn't wait for a response. Without another word, Mitchell stalks off up the stairs, leaving a bewildered George and Annie in his wake.
Mitchell walks down a dark and empty corridor, his whole body tense. As he picks his way along, he feels almost as if he is descending deeper underground the farther he goes. He comes to a door at the end of the hall and he knows he has reached his destination. For a moment he stands still, focusing his senses, but he can detect no sign of movement on the other side. He reaches for the handle and, as quietly as he can, pulls the door open and slips inside.
He finds himself in a large open space lit only by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling in the center of the room. He pushes the door closed behind him and steps further in.
As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he spots a single hard-backed chair in the center of the room. His insides twist at the sight of the empty seat. Lucian should have been here, he was sure of it somehow. Shouldn't he?
A coldness seems to spread through his veins as he moves through the room. If he still had a pulse, it would be racing right now. His mind is screaming at him, I've been here before, but it's all wrong.
The sense of dread keeps building; threatening to suffocate him. Everything inside is telling him to run, to leave this place. He shouldn't be here. But he cannot obey the voice, he feels completely paralyzed.
This sense of fear reaches its peak as he suddenly feels a presence behind him. All of his senses are saying don't turn around, but he feels like he has lost all control of his movements. He turns around slowly.
Mitchell sucks in a breath as he takes in the hauntingly familiar sight before him. He tries to speak, but his vocal chords refuse to cooperate. Herrick is dead, his mind attempts to reason. He's dead. He can't be here. I killed him in this room… didn't I?
He takes a step backward as Herrick moves towards him, but he backs into the wall. There is nowhere for him to go.
Herrick grins toothily at him, his eyes gleaming as they catch the light. Then in one swift motion, he takes him by the throat.
Mitchell's vision begins to darken as he tries desperately to free himself from the iron grip crushing his windpipe, but it's no use. He feels as though his limbs have turned to lead.
"No one to bail you out this time," says Herrick. And with his free hand, he raises the stake.
Mitchell sits bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. His vampire eyes penetrate the darkness as he struggles to get his bearings. My room, he realizes, I'm still in my room. He reaches a hand up, rubbing at his throat absently. It had felt so real, he had almost expected to find bruises there. He releases a shaky breath, running both hands over his face tiredly. This has got to stop.
Glancing sideways at the clock on the bedside table, he lets out an exasperated sigh at the little red numbers glaring at him through the darkness. It's just after 3:00AM.
This isn't the first time Mitchell has woken up in the middle of the night like this, and he's becoming accustomed to the fact that it likely won't be the last. The nightmares started nearly three weeks ago. He hadn't put too much thought into them at first, but lately they are becoming more frequent- and more violent.
So far he's managed to keep his nocturnal disturbances a secret. George and Annie have yet to notice any change in his sleeping habits and Lucian left for the Council before these occurrences began. It isn't something Mitchell is willing to confide to anyone at this point. No, now is not the time to let his guard down, there is too much at stake. He needs to deal with this on his own. Besides, the others have enough of their own issues to deal with right now.
Mitchell swings his legs over the side of the bed, dropping his bare feet on the floor. He rises slowly, stretching his neck out before padding out of the room and down the hall as quietly as he can.
At the end of the hall, he ducks into the bathroom, flicking on the light switch as he closes the door behind him. When he catches sight of himself in the mirror above the sink, he is taken aback by his own reflection. Ivan and Annie were right, he thinks miserably. I do look like shit.
Mitchell's normally tan complexion is almost deathly pale. There are dark circles under his eyes as the constant lack of sleep seems to finally be catching up with him. He looks older, worn out, and there are lines beginning to appear around his eyes.
He turns the faucet on cold and leans over the sink, splashing water on his face. For a while he just stands there with his hands braced against the counter, the only sound his own breathing.
He feels that familiar pull at his veins telling him his body is going dry, and he tightens his grip on the counter as he starts to feel dizzy. He squeezes his eyes shut until the feeling passes, wincing when he feels a sharp pain in his lower lip as his fangs come out. He's gone too long.
Once he finally regains his composure, Mitchell walks unsteadily back to his room. He closes the door behind him as he enters and makes his way to the corner of the room where a mini-fridge sits on the floor against the wall. He kneels in front of it and pulls open the door, reaching in to remove one of the bags inside.
Ever since he moved in with George and consequentially Annie, Mitchell has always tried to keep his feedings separate. It isn't exactly appealing, even to him in some ways. Besides, it is best not to store his blood supply in the kitchen if they ever have non-supernatural guests come over. They would be hard pressed to explain the bags of blood in their refrigerator.
Then there is the matter of making the blood more appetizing, because, even to a vampire, drinking the stuff straight out of the refrigerator is pretty disgusting. On more than one occasion, Annie had threatened Mitchell's well being if he ever decided to try heating the stuff in one of the saucepans as George often liked to joke about. Not that Mitchell has ever felt the inclination. The whole idea has always seemed a bit too vulgar somehow. Occasionally, he'll boil some water and then toss one of the bags in, letting it heat that way. But when he doesn't feel like fussing with it, like tonight for instance, he'll settle for the microwave. He keeps one on top of the fridge in his room for this exact purpose.
Mostly, Mitchell sees the feedings as sheer necessity. He doesn't enjoy it, nor does he really try to. Call it penance for past sins. He feels it's better this way.
Once he's finished the bag and taken care of any necessary clean up, Mitchell sits on the floor, leaning against the wall and staring out into the darkness of his bedroom. He can already feel his body responding. His muscles don't feel so stiff anymore and the cuts and bruises he acquired from his run in with Ivan earlier begin to heal properly. He closes his eyes with a sigh. He can't keep going this long between feedings.
Mitchell chalks it up to stress. Because that's what people do when they're stressed, isn't it? Skip meals, lose sleep. Except, when you're a vampire, skipping meals can be a dangerous thing. Not only to others, but to yourself. Vampires don't produce their own blood anymore. It's the nature of basically being the walking dead. They need to replenish their blood supply by feeding. There's no way around it.
No, he scolds himself, he needs to be more careful. His dreams may keep him from sleeping, but he is in control of this. He won't let it happen again.
Eventually, Mitchell drags himself off the floor and crawls back into bed. Maybe his dead Sire has had enough of haunting his dreams for one night.
Mitchell is awoken from a fitful sleep by the ringing of his cell phone on the bedside table. He reaches over groggily, attempting to put an end to the incessant noise as his sleepy brain tries to identify the sound. He finally gets a hold of it and regains consciousness enough to answer before it goes to voicemail.
"H'lo?"
A deep voice chuckles on the other line. "Did I wake you?"
The ghost of a smile graces his lips as Mitchell recognizes the voice. "S'okay."
"Time zones, I'm all turned around. What time is it there?"
He glances at the clock beside the bed and his grin widens. "It's after eleven," he admits a bit sheepishly.
Lucian laughs. "So you were having a lie-in then."
"I suppose," Mitchell answers, stifling a yawn as he sits up to stretch.
The truth is, he really didn't sleep much. After he went back to bed, he tossed and turned mostly. If he fell asleep, he was awake again within a couple of hours. But he's not about to tell Lucian that.
"Well, listen," Lucian is saying. "I haven't got much time to talk right now, but I wanted to let you know I got in touch with my friend."
Mitchell sits up a little straighter at the news. "You mean, your werewolf friend?"
"Yes," he answers. "He's still in Scotland at the moment, but he should be there sometime during the week. Tell George and Annie, will you? I'm not sure exactly when you can expect him, so you guys will have to keep an eye out."
"That's brilliant," Mitchell says with relief. "Best news I've had in weeks." He immediately regrets the last comment as it slips out, especially when Lucian pauses a bit longer than normal before he replies.
"It will be good for George to have someone to relate to in all this. I think the two of them will get along just fine."
"Glad to hear it."
"So, how are things with you," comes the inevitable question. "Are you doing alright?"
"Grand," is the simple response.
There is a pause, and Mitchell catches an almost inaudible sigh. "Good," Lucian answers, though he doesn't sound convinced.
Now it's Mitchell's turn to sigh, though he tries not to let it be heard. "Look, don't worry about me, alright? I'm sure you've got enough on your plate as it is. I can manage things here."
"It's my job, you know that," he answers lightly.
"I know."
Another pause. "Listen, I have to go now, but you know where to find me. Don't hesitate to call. And let me know when Rory gets there, I'm looking forward to hearing how things go."
"I will."
"Look after yourself. George and Annie too."
Mitchell smiles. "You too."
So there you have it! I hope you enjoyed this latest.
As some of you probably picked up on, there were quite a few canon references and borrowed lines from the show in this chapter. So, just in case there is any question, I am not affiliated with the BBC and I OWN NOTHING. ((Except Lucian and Rory. They are mine. *squishes*)) I try not to do that too much, but sometimes I feel it is an appropriate nod to the original canon and certain things can't be said better.
As far as the whole bagged blood thing, admittedly I sort of skirted the issue in the last story and I felt that that wasn't gonna fly anymore. Most of the inspiration for what I ended up going with came from The Mortal Instruments verse. I also sort of bounced ideas off of my sister in that regard. (Nothing like the blood-drinking habits of domesticated vampires for a topic of family conversation. That was fun. ;P) It just made sense to me, so I hope that didn't come out weird.
Just as a heads up, I will likely be updating this slightly less frequently than the last story. (I think I may have spoiled you guys a bit. :P) I'm going to try my best to not go more than a couple weeks between updates, but I am sort of trying to take my time on this one. Being the central story in the trilogy, there are a lot of details I have to work out in order for all of the pieces to fit together, so it's taking more time to work things out. Plus, I really feel like I'm getting to the point where I'm pleased with the writing itself and I'm working really hard to make sure this is as good as I can make it. So thanks for your patience with me! I'll try not to keep you guys waiting too long. ;)
As always, I love to hear from my readers, so please share your thoughts!
