Chapter 25:

I don't own anything

I can't actually believe I'm writing this…

For Alice [watching stiricide]

Oliver's POV:

She nods slowly, her eyes clear from emotion and anything that could distract her from her mission. There's nothing in them other than the colour of her irises and her pupils, contracted with the relative light in the room. My hands grip onto her arms, feeling her heartbeat pumping blood through her circulatory system; however, now is no time to be thirsty. This is the biggest thing she has had to do so far.

It will be the penultimate step in the entire sequence of events which have been planned for months.

"Which Glass?" she asks slowly, no emotion in her voice, and I hesitate for a second; I have forgotten that there are two Glass vampires in town. She could have gone and killed the wrong one if she didn't ask, something which wouldn't have been an issue, but for the fact, that I have no other scapegoat on which to pin his death on.

At least she's perceptive.

"Samuel Glass." His name means nothing to me; he is merely a man who has fallen in love with the wrong woman and defended her so many times that it is obvious to me that they are in the deepest love that any couple can be in. Amelie and Sam, Sam and Amelie; their names are interchangeable and to hurt one, you need only hurt the other. Therefore, ridding the world of Sam will rid the world of Amelie's heart, leaving her colder, more vulnerable…fragile.

And that is when Claire will strike. She will rid the world of Amelie as well, when she is weak and defenceless, with no control because everything she does is for Sam. Everything she does, it is obvious that she merely wants Sam at the end of it –and this is, ultimately, her downfall. Of course it is his downfall also, for he is the first to die, yet that is the price to pay for falling irrevocably in love with the Founder of Morganville, someone who hides all emotions better than I kill.

Again, Claire nods, her eyes focusing slightly, yet on the thoughts slipping into her head. There is no recognition that this is wrong, that she shouldn't be killing the Grandfather of her best friend – her only friend, who is walking and talking in Morganville, at least. She merely wants to please me, to ensure that she follows my orders…or, at least this is how I assume she thinks, for I have never been mind controlled, so I cannot particularly say anything about it.

"Good," I say softly, taking a step away from the girl and releasing her. No matter what I want, she has no further purpose here, not today, at least. She has a mission to complete, something which will be harder to complete than the others for it is a vampire she is to kill. And also, she cannot be caught when she does it; how she plans to ensure that she is not linked to the murder will be difficult, yet that is for her to work out. If I loose her here, it is a travesty, yet I cannot say that I would not be able to destroy Amelie myself. Somehow. It is always possible; yet I would much rather have Claire as part of the plan, for it would make everything so much easier.

And I've spent weeks training her now, so it would be a shame for it to all go to waste.

"You have been here to be told that you must work harder in finding the perpetrator of the school attack," I remind her urgently. "You will not remember anything else, other than the mission you have been given, something you cannot say to any other person. The mission must be completed in the next three nights. By Sunday, Samuel Glass must be dead."

She nods again, slowly and coolly, no emotion in the movement whatsoever. I feel she is ready to be released from my control, for she has all the knowledge she needs to be able to carry out this as successfully as she can. It's a worry, because perhaps she won't be stealthy enough, yet I can only hope that Sam's trust in this girl will win over his suspicion.

Perhaps she may even utilise the time slot I have put in place for her to kill him, what with him driving her to and from the lesson he teaches at night…at the university…where the students are not studying.

My fingers snap and her eyes become more like their normal selves, full of wit and brains and everything that makes this girl just who she is. There's confusion as to why she's leaning against the wall, yet I merely roll my eyes and try and act more and more like the grumpy vampire coffee shop owner I pretend to be.

She just doesn't know how much she has touched on my heart.

"W-was there anything else?" she asks me quietly, not making eye contact as she stands there. She's scared; I can feel the fear radiating off her in huge waves, something which would have once made me thirstier and want to attack her. Now, it merely leaves me trying to keep myself away from her, because I don't want to hurt her, to take her blood outside of reasons such as necessity or lust or anything that could be a description of the complex situation that surrounds us.

"No, that's all," I roll my eyes, moving to sit down in the chair behind my desk. "You may leave, Claire. I have nothing further to say to you, other than to remind you that Amelie expects results. And if Amelie doesn't get those results, it is not just you who will suffer."

She gulps as she leaves the office and mutters something as she leaves the office; it's not words that can be distinguished, even to a vampire – mumbling distorts messages and even someone as old as I cannot always make out every single word in such a garbled sentence. She doesn't realise what she's doing; she is going to, for a few hours, go about her normal, daily business. She'll think that she has to do something important, yet not entirely remember what it is. Then…then it'll strike. Sometime this evening, she will begin preparations for ending the life of Samuel Glass – if this existence as a vampire can be called a life, that is. She will become as she did when she was plotting for the events in the school, yet I worry that this will not be achievable without something more than before – a greater connection between us. I will analyse her tonight, yet it could be that something I had planned to save until she was at the final stage in the plan may have to be brought forwards, merely for the reassurance that she will do this.

There's a slam as the door is shut harshly, yet I do not jump: my attention is focused on thinking of the plans I have for the coming days and just what she will be like.

By next Sunday, I am confident everything shall be over.

By next Sunday, I will be ruler.

Claire's POV:

I head out of the café and want to rave and scream and shout because he expects me to be able to find some way to find out who caused the gas attack at the schools! Surely it would make more sense for the trained professionals to come in – even, possibly, ones from outside of Morganville – and find out just who killed so many children! But no: apparently, Amelie doesn't want any person coming in from outside of Morganville, for fear that they will find out about the vampires, yet the staff in the police department are already stretched to the max finding out who planted the bomb.

Morganville is a dangerous place right now, especially since it seems someone is targeting the humans.

"Hello?" I call out as soon as I walk into the house, having almost ran home. I have to start planning something that almost wants to destroy me, yet I'm not going to tell anyone. It doesn't matter. It's all business. Nobody needs to know; it's not even the focus of my thoughts right now. "Michael, are you in?"

There's no reply and, for one horrendous moment, I'm fearful that he's gone, that he…that he wasn't ready to come home and that he's dying or something that can only happen to vampires is happening.

Then I walk into the living room and realise, through all the panicking, that I missed the sound of his guitar. I would have thought that it would stand out, hearing it again after so long, yet evidently not; I must have subconsciously reverted back to a state of normal near instantly. But I seem to be missing out on a lot recently; time seems to skip by and I get the feeling that I'm missing entire hours from my life – I don't remember what I do in them. It's even more worrying given what's happening in the town at the minute…but, no, I can't be anything to do with it, can I? I could never hurt my best friend the way she has been hurt…it wouldn't be possible. I just don't see how I could; after all, Jason did that. He tried to kill Eve, not me.

"…Claire!" Michael is standing in front of me and I realise that, for an undeterminable amount of time, I've just been standing here, unresponsive; he's managed to realise I'm here, set down his guitar and have said my name enough times for him to have gotten concerned. "Are you ok?" he asks me gently now I'm looking at him.

"Yeah…I…I just blanked out," I shut my eyes and try to remember what I've done in the past few minutes. Thinking, I suppose, and wondering where my life has gone in the past few weeks…actions which seem to have taken up more time in which I can't rely on what time has passed.

He smiles slightly and releases me, moving back around to his sofa to cradle his guitar. "I guessed that," he retorts in his usual manner, beginning to strum as he sits down again. "Wanna just sit down for a bit?" he motions to the seat in front of him and I'm so tempted to just go sit and just relax for the afternoon, not worry about anything that's going on in Morganville. To be able to forget about the worries in the town would be a godsend, yet it is impossible.

So, regretfully, I shake my head and any traces of a smile slides off my face. "I can't, Michael, I have to do more research into whoever killed all those kids," I reply slowly. "Amelie wants it and I have a feeling that when Amelie doesn't get something, she gets mad."

The smile slides off his face and he sighs slightly, though there's a sort of understanding in his expression. "I get it, Claire. It's dangerous to oppose authority in this town. Everyone knows that. Just be careful, ok? If they've not been found yet, I sincerely doubt they want to be found."

There's nothing to say in response to this. Anything possible to be said would just be either supporting or contradicting his statements – which are true – and would serve no purpose other than to possibly ignite an argument I don't want.

So, without another word, I head upstairs, wondering just how we all got to this stage, where we're all separate. The four of us haven't been together long, yet Eve is already in the hospital, Shane is on the run and whilst Michael and I are physically together, he's dealing with scars from his near death experience and I don't even know what is up with me. Probably something to do with the fact that I've been ordered to find out which sadistic prat killed so many children after a little girl died in my arms.

And, for the next three hours, I try and work out who did it. I try and follow every lead that there is to come to a conclusion as to which person in Morganville – or people – have the greatest motive for committing such a heinous crime.

I come up empty.

Claire's POV (3rd person):

At almost nine pm, there's almost a change in Claire. It's not something you would notice in a physical manner, nor something that changes her actions, yet the thoughts inside her head…adjust. No longer is the focus of her thoughts and attention solely on finding the gasser; no, now, she's more preoccupied with just how to kill Sam Glass without being discovered. It's something that troubles a large part of her because that's the part that, in a way, loves Sam; when nobody else has been there for her, he has.

And yet this larger, powerful part is obscured by the fact that Oliver has commanded her to do this…and he's more powerful than any resistance in her. There may be moments when she just can't focus because she's striving with all her heart to avoid this action she has to take, yet she's always going to end up focusing back on the planning because, well, Oliver told her to do it.

The smaller part of her is dominant, as though it has leeched itself into her skin and whenever she even attempts to do anything opposing it, it's like it launches into action to prevent her: she's got no mind of her own, not really, especially since he's manipulating his control of her.

The cover of working out who caused the gas attack is good enough for Michael, so he doesn't disturb Claire as she works on plans to destroy his grandfather; it's a dangerous route that she must take, for destroying someone as well liked as Sam Glass – amongst humans and vampires alike – will not only be fraught with difficulty, finding someone to blame will be even harder.

It's then when she realises that it must be framed as an accident; it can't seem as if he's been murdered, for then she would never get away with her scent being all over him. All she can do is orchestrate a situation which seems like an accident, yet has actually been prepared for days prior to it.

The mental block within her mind as to how she can do this seems to be in accordance to her feelings that she doesn't want to kill Sam, someone who is almost like family to her now; he's helped her through times that she can't describe and even though Claire is controlled by the part of her which was ordered by Oliver to commit this attack, there's more of her putting up a fight to prevent it.

The part of her that can think at least semi-logically, even for a short period of time, realises that to do this would be akin to destroying everything good in the world: this part of Claire may not be able to do anything, for it is out of control of her, but it's the moral part of her that tries to make her stop, to do anything it can to prevent this heinous crime. Unfortunately, this moral high-ground isn't aware of anything else that Claire has done, so it's under the illusion that she's thus far moral…

Still, Claire continues to write down idea after idea as to just how she can destroy Sam Glass; it's her mission, and she's not going to drop out on it, is she? However, each idea that follows the last is more ludicrous, farfetched and entirely impossible to orchestrate; all forty seven minutes has to show is the decision that it must be an accident, nothing further.

Her self control is slipping – with each newly idiotic idea comes another surge of 'resistance' from the other part of her, the part that Oliver failed to subdue, because all his effort seemed focused on making Claire do this monstrous crime. He forgot about making her entirely his…or maybe he didn't have enough power to.

Either way, she doesn't know – or care.

~x~

Midnight rolls around and she's nowhere closer to getting even a timeframe for when she could kill Sam, as her heart isn't in it, not really. Oliver's control, the thing that was once completely controlling of her, is weakening as the missions he gives her grow greater, so what was once enough no longer is.

She can resist.

Oliver's POV:

She's not fully focused; I can feel it inside of me, in the part which I'm aware of all her movements. Due to the resenting, resisting part of her, she's not fully focused and she's got no idea whatsoever as to what she can do. The furthest place she's advanced to is that she needs to make it seem like an accident, which isn't enough in the past few hours since she started planning this.

I need to go there, find a way to increase my control over her; I had to do that before, when she was setting up the gas attacks, and evidently it will require more than just my forcing my control on her – there needs to be a bond between us that's internal as well. To be controlled enough by me to carry this out without raising suspicion or getting herself captured, Claire must be more under my thumb, have no dissenting parts to her merely because they're what will cause her to be caught.

My thoughts are jumbled, an array of continuous dilemma as to just what I can do to ensure she remains solely mine throughout the next three days. It's almost an obsidian colour in my mind, one of darkness…and yet a shining clarity beneath the surface, for I know what I can do. It is something I deigned to leave as merely a last resort, for it is dangerous and could, if done wrong, result in something irreversibly appalling for my using of Claire.

After ensuring the door is securely locked so that no prying eyes can enter, as well as turning the phones onto a silent mode so if they ring they shall not disturb the people in the area – I am nothing but considerate for these peasants, as they would have been deemed in my day – I close my eyes and summon this portal within the corner of the room. Whilst still sceptical about its reliability and security, there is no other way to enter the Glass House, even with the owner being a vampire, due to reasons which continue to be unknown. It is not relevant, however, to focusing on being as strong as possible, merely to confirm one hundred percent that she will do as required, that there is no dissenting part of her that could ruin the plans to destroy Amelie once and for all.

And so, opening the cracked wooden door, I walk through into the Glass House so anticlimactically, it's almost as though I have been invited to join the pair of them here. However, I haven't, and my eyes feel the need to roam around the room to ensure that there are no predators in here and nobody is here to contemplate attacking me, even though I can sense that there is nobody here in the room but Claire.

She's tapping her pencil on her desk, balls of scrunched up paper littering the floor, and I can see that the title on all of them is the same: mission. Evidently, it's obvious what she's trying to work on…and it's even clearer that there are issues with what she's to do; Claire doesn't have any ideas on how to kill Sam Glass. Because there is a part of her that can object to something as 'immoral' as killing the nicest vampire in town, something which doesn't particularly make sense to me, platonic emotions between a human and a vampire she barely knows.

Not making a sound, I move quickly behind her chair, not entirely confirmed as to how she will react. It's impossible to tell as to whether or not the control I have her under will cause her to not react to my presence, or if her return to 'normal' will confuse her as to why I'm here, in her bedroom.

There's no time to waste; contemplating how she is going to react isn't particularly beneficial to the already tight time constraints upon us in this current situation – the greater period of time in which she's not solely under my control means that there is less time for her to fully focus on getting this plan completed, and the action undertook, before Sunday night is over.

She doesn't realise that I'm here, standing behind her; she's engrossed in tapping her pencil in a slow, rhythmic pattern that irritates me after a few more seconds. There's no way that I can stand this much longer, so I reach out and grasp her by the shoulders with one hand, the other reaching her mouth before—

The scream she releases is muffled by my covering of her mouth, ensuring that she's not able to be heard by the young vampire downstairs. The only thing I can hope is that she's screaming as a natural, primitive response, one that is buried deep within her and rises when there is the possibility of danger, of someone attacking her. There's more than just the concern for my control over her, however; there's something inside of me that is hurt that she's fearful of me, even though she ought to be. That part of me that doesn't know how to control itself when she's around becomes stronger and there's the worry within me that I will relinquish all control when she's close to me. And all that would result in would be death for Claire, something which would benefit nobody in this damned town, except perhaps Amelie.

Her eyes shoot hurriedly to the mirror in front of her to lock in on my face, panic evident in their hasty movements, as well as the emotions held within the brown circles. Then she seems to recognise me, a realisation seeming slower than I would have expected since she is supposed to be controlled by myself at this current moment in time, her features modifying into more of a blank expression, though fear continues to linger in the very backs of her eyes.

"Claire." I simply state her name, not inflicting any emotion into my voice whatsoever as I continue to keep eye contact with her.

She doesn't speak, merely nods an infinitesimally small amount, as though waiting for me to add something to my dialogue further than merely her name.

"Turn around," I whisper slowly, relinquishing my hold on her mouth and shoulder. I trust her not to scream, given there's the almost zombie-like edge to her, one that gives me confidence that she is almost completely controlled by myself. She does as I ask, turning to face me with those same, expressionless eyes gazing up at me.

Slowly, I force myself to take a breath of her scent and force myself not to react to it, instead reaching down and taking one of her wrists and lifting it upwards, at the same time as lifting my other wrist to my own mouth. Wincing slightly, I bite into my wrist, allowing just a steady trickle of blood to stream out from it, before passing this hand into Claire's wrist and lifting it to her mouth.

It is a strange feeling, for a human to be drinking my blood, for it is normally the other way round, yet there is a clear purpose for this: if my blood is in her system, controlling her will be absolute. There shall be no dissenting part of her, mainly because I will have complete control; she will merely be a puppet acting out her master's orders. However, though my reasons are absolutely clear, it continues to be a strange feeling, my own blood being removed from my body; normally, the stench of blood in the air suggests that my own thirst is being sated, yet, in this instance, it merely makes me thirstier, as the loss of the blood from my own system begins to take its toll on me.

Finally, I realise that any further quantities of blood into Claire's system shall be dangerous; the process of becoming a vampire is coveted information by myself, though I am extremely certain I know the process, and I am confident it involves the sharing of blood between a vampire and a human. With any more blood of mine in her body, I fear that it would be irreversible…she wouldn't become a normal vampire, oh no, she would be a combination between the two races for she was not drained before she consumed my blood – and I have no time for a hybrid creature, or whatever would be the product of such experimenting. Though I'm not entirely positive if Myrnin continues to reside in this town – or if, indeed, he deigned to come at all – I would leave this experimental work to him.

As she looks at me now, my hand moving from her grasp at lightning quick speeds to allow the wound to heal, I see nothing in her eyes; there is nothing there but an emotionless void of brown, as she waits for me to do something. There is no need to draw her back under my control for she is already here; she has her instructions and shall not do anything but these instructions until I order her otherwise.

"You know your mission." Is all I say slowly, my eyes boring into her's. "Don't forget it. Don't get distracted. And, for the love of God, don't tell the Glass boy."

She doesn't react, even to confirm she knows this, and I snap my fingers, as though it will bring her out of this slightly. It does, makes her seem slightly more normal than before, though there are still residues of the part of her that does nothing other than follow my commands.

There's too much temptation if I remain here much longer; her blood tempts me more than most, and the way I gave her my blood has left me with a deficiency.

So, without another word, I leave the room through the portal, travelling through space to return to my office. As the door slams shut, I catch a glimpse of Claire sitting down to feverishly start writing something down on the paper in front of her, a plan evidently forming in her mind.

Claire's POV: (3rd person once again)

The next day

"Claire, you look knackered," Michael tells her straight, pouring her a coffee as soon as she walks into the kitchen. "Did you not sleep or something?" he continues, as though he doesn't recognise her vacant expression. Inside her head, she's barely able to hear him, thoughts whizzing around her head as she tries to get the intricate details as to just how her plan will play out. She hasn't slept a wink during the night, instead utilising the time to get a logistical plan scraped together that can have the desired result within a much too short time period.

"What?" she doesn't process what he's said at first, taking a few moments to jolt back into the room with Michael. "Oh…uh…yeah, I guess I didn't sleep very much. I don't really remember. It was just…tossing and turning, but sort of half awake and half asleep."

He doesn't look convinced for a moment, before then walking over to Claire and giving her a hug, even with the mug in her hand. "Go back to bed," he orders her, more authoritative than Claire ever remembers him speaking to her, yet she doesn't dwell on it.

"What are you doing today?" she asks him, wondering if he's going to go out and leave her in peace and quiet to carry on planning the finale of this mission, or if he's going to hinder her to the point where she can't do anything.

"Going to work…in about three minutes," he turns to look at the clock and narrows his eyes before then turning back to look at Claire. "You go back to bed, ok? It's not good to be tired in this town, not when you need to be on your toes all the time."

She nods slowly, yet isn't particularly bothered, and takes another sip of coffee, trying to clear the fog of lethargy from her mind. Michael doesn't seem to notice that there's anything different about her, even though she would normally be chatting away like a chimpanzee; a random thought that passes through her mind theorises that he presumes she's still shocked by everything that's happening.

"Claire?" he repeats her name as he stands by the door, and Claire's left wondering just when he moved over there. "Don't kill yourself over what Amelie wants you to do. It's not worth it; if there's nothing left to find, you can't do anything further. Just relax. And sleep, ok?"

"I will," she promises, though, as she did when she was a child, she crosses her fingers behind her back. The small motion of resistance reminds her of childhood, when everything was so simple, until the band of restriction around her mind, the one controlled by Oliver, and Oliver only, retracts and leaves her focusing on the mission at hand.

"Good," he smiles, but she doesn't feel any of the usual pull towards his attractiveness; she's disengaged once again and barely hears him. "See you later, Claire."

She doesn't respond.

~x~

The day passes in a blur of running around the house to try and source things she knows are here, because she's seen them since she's been here, and trying to confirm parts of the plan that can definitely happen. Now it's just the sorting of the timetables and ensuring that there's nobody around where she wants to kill Sam, because it wouldn't be as easy as murdering someone if there were witnesses, right?

Lethargy comes in great, sweeping waves, yet she manages to ensure that she stays awake and fights through it, giving every ounce of focus to the tasks she's doing, her eyes sometimes being forced open. She goes down for a coffee every hour or so, taking it black to give her even more chance of staying awake, and she's confident that she's going to finish before her lesson on Sunday and be able to take out Sam without an ounce of suspicion landing on her.

When Michael returns later this evening, she pretends she's just woken up, though she doesn't think he's convinced; the circles around her eyes are deep, haunting, illuminated by the extreme pallor of her face. If anyone knew that she had been given Oliver's blood, they'd link it to this, but they don't because even she barely remembers seeing Oliver last night, let alone his blood trickling down her throat.

"Food, Claire?" Michael asks her as she runs back into the kitchen, looking for a bottle of oil, of all things. She pauses for a moment to see a plate of chicken and chips waiting for her on the side, Michael's face almost expectant, as though he wants her company.

"Sure," she manages to smile and slips down into the chair opposite him, somehow managing to suppress a yawn so he can't accuse her of not sleeping. "Hey, did you use all the oil?" she asks him, frowning as she spots an empty bottle of it in the bin to the side of them.

"Yeah. I came across the old chip pan from God knows when, so I decided to use it," he smiles, as though it's only his genius that caused him to spy the pan Claire had dug out hours before. "Did you need it for something, or…?"

She manages to concentrate for longer, her brain whirring to try and find a solution to her desiring oil. "No, I…I was going to go shopping tomorrow, so I was just going to add it to the list," she makes up off the top of her head, deciding this is a foolproof enough plan.

"Oh, in that case, there's these things as well that we need," Michael smiles and it's all Claire can manage to do to ensure that she's continuing to concentrate…something she doesn't succeed with.

.

As she falls into a deep sleep, her brain becomes confused, flying between what she's done and what she's going to do; the hasty, crudely drawn diagrams of the sequence of events that shall unfold in the course of the next couple of days seem to come to life before her eyes, 2D images taking on substance to torment her for what her plans are.

She tosses and turns, never waking from the dream that frightens her more with every second longer that it continues on. There's no respite from it, no ceasing of the torturous images running through her mind, and it's almost enough to make her fight back from Oliver's control so absolutely that she almost – almost – is close to overcoming it. Perhaps if she had another night to sleep through before she has to kill Sam, it would succeed, the absolute horror of doing this stronger than even Oliver's blood, when her subconscious takes over.

Then her eyes snap open.

Oliver's control is back.

She's doing this; she's killing Sam and there's nothing she can do to stop it.

Not even if she wants to.

~x~

"Claire, are you absolutely sure you're going to be fine if I go here?" Michael confirms for the three hundredth time with the girl who could barely concentrate enough to protest the first time he asked her, let alone now.

"I'm sure. You can go away with your little buddies across town for one night; it's not like I'm going to blow the place up, since you've already cooked me dinner." She raises an eyebrow in protest and waits for him to move back closer to the door, wondering if this time will be the final protest on his behalf. "Seriously, Michael, go. Sam already said he'd pick me up to take me to class," she reminds him, as he opens his mouth to inform her that he has to drive her to lessons this evening.

"You've got my mobile number on speed dial and every door is locked, right?" he confirms with her again, and she nods, stretching her arms out. "Right. I'll ring you later, ok? And answer the phone, Claire, or I'll have to come home and make sure you're ok, agreed?"

She nods without speaking, simply looks at him with a smile on her lips. Even as he walks over across towards the door, bag in hand, she doesn't say anything to him, and turns away before he's even out the door.

"Bye!" Michael calls before he shuts the door, yet, once again, she doesn't respond. All she does is count down the seconds in her head until he's gone: three, two, one…he's gone.

As soon as the door is shut, Claire jumps into action. Everything that she's been storing in her room for the last couple of days, lined up by her door for easy access this morning, is suddenly moved into the places where they're required to be, ranging from the secret room to the kitchen. She barely thinks as she ties knots, places seemingly random pieces together on the gas rings on the cooker, or even as she grasps the Taser in her hand as she runs up the stairs to the secret room.

Then she sits down, everything in place for when Sam comes at eleven pm.

And she waits.

~x~

She sits on the Glass House sofa, tapping her fingers on the soft sofa cushion, waiting for the clock to tick around to the time when Sam said he'd be coming; when he called yesterday to ask her if she would like a lift to class, she asked him if he'd mind coming round beforehand – "to discuss Michael," she said as her cover story – and he agreed willingly, so now all she has to do is wait.

She waits.

And she waits.

And then she waits some more.

By the time the doorbell rings, she's almost forgotten why she's waiting, barely thinking as her fingers drum the seat; she's got no self control, nothing to think of other than the mission for there is nothing other than this in her mind at the minute.

"Hi, Claire," Sam says as she lets him in without a word, managing to muster up a smile. His hair is ruffled and windswept, strands of copper coloured proteins pointing in all directions as he walks in. "Are you ok? Where's Michael?"

She turns back around to face him as she locks the door, leaving it on the latch for later, so it's easier to leave. "I'm fine," she replies, trying to get as much emotion into her voice as she can. "Michael…he's at the shop. I think he's coming back soon; is it ok if we go up to the secret room to talk?" she finds her way to get him up there, as, if she doesn't, things could go heads up.

"Sure. I don't really want him coming back and hearing us discussing him, anyway." Sam's easy to go up to the room at the top of the stairs, leading the way with an ease that startles Claire, until she recalls that he used to live here.

Live and die here.

They walk into the secret room and she's careful to sit in the exact place she needs to be, for the Taser to be in easy reach. She's aware that, once he's stunned, she'll have maybe four or five minutes to get out and set up the rest of the plan to finish him off.

Sitting here, part of her begins to shake, as though the hold Oliver has over her is disintegrating; it's not – of course, his blood overrides the part of her that wants to scream and shout and do anything other than kill sweet, innocent Sam Glass – but there's a feeling that doing this is not only wrong, it's morally destructive. There's nothing worse than killing someone you know you as well as this, yet it's her entire mission, so why would she dispute it?

"What do you want to discuss about Michael?" Sam doesn't have a clue that there's anything wrong, that there should be anything that he needs to be worried about – why should he be suspicious of little Claire?

"He…he doesn't seem right," she replies slowly, her hand reaching behind the cushion surreptitiously to just be touching the Taser. "I don't know…he just doesn't seem like he was before," she stalls for time, needing him to look away so she can move more and grasp the weapon within her hand.

"He's just adjusting to being back in the real world, Claire," Sam says, standing up and walking away to look at the place where, Claire presumes, the window was once positioned. There's a section of wood a shade lighter than the rest, suggesting it has been replaced, and as Sam looks at this, she takes advantage.

There are no emotions involved as she rapidly thinks through everything that's going to happen in the next few minutes. Things are going to change forever, and yet she doesn't care; she is merely cool-headed, clinically minded as she considers how easy this will be.

"Sam?" she says his name, the Taser clenched tightly in her hand, and she's prepared.

"Yes?" he turns around, slightly confused – this shows on his face, the slight narrowing of his sapphire blue eyes as he tries to understand what she could want.

That is, however, until the Taser comes out. Even he, as a vampire, has no time to react, his eyes just following as she pulls her arm out from behind the cushion, her finger poised on the button.

"Sorry." There's nothing emotional in her tone as she says this one word, five letters long, and she doesn't sound as if she means it: even as she presses the button, sending an electric shock out from the tiny black box, she doesn't react; even as he writhes and thrashes, ultimately falling to the floor, she doesn't react; even as he lets out a grunt, his eyes rolling backwards into his head, his body immobile, she doesn't react.

Not until there's not a movement from his body does she move; and then, it's in the opposite direction from Sam, taking the Taser in her hand with her as she dashes across to the sofa to release the catch so she can escape and continue with her plan.

This is too easy; she can't just leave him here, Tasered, and expect him to die; there has to be something so big, so dangerous, so apparently unpredictable, that she's never even contemplated as being able to do something as big as this. So she runs down the stairs, eyes roaming around as though there's someone here that she needs to watch out for, and darts into the kitchen, on a countdown to complete the mission in a way that will never be forgotten. An indelible mark will be left on Morganville to mark where Sam fell, and she had better ensure that she gets out before she joins him.

In the kitchen, the set up around the chip pan she assured Michael would be safe is already nearly complete; there's perhaps thirty seconds before the oil in the pan that appears to be nearing the red hot stage where it's almost ready to boil over…and there are plenty of flammable items around it.

"Here goes," she mutters to herself, dropping the Taser in a pile of wax and backing away towards the door.

It doesn't take long to go up.

There's a tremendous shaking, the entire cooker rattling as the pan begins to almost convulse, if it were human…there's thick clouds of smoke rising from the lid that seems almost as if it's going to fly off before…

BANG

It's louder than anything bar the bomb at the City Hall, a enormous torrent of oil rising from the pan, flooding the areas near to the cooker. The actual cooker ring is doused with hot, sizzling oil that, when it comes into contact, bursts into flames. They spread quickly, consuming all in their path, leaving intricate, dancing patterns of yellow and orange, red and flashes of white, in their path through the kitchen. As they reach the curtains, on the side further from Claire, they don't bother to creep up; one second the flames are twisting their way around the work surfaces, igniting the coffee in the pot, and then they're springing up onto the curtain rail, winding themselves around as they advance forwards.

The smoke density begins to thicken as the flames begin to lick their way much too close to Claire for her liking; as soon as she can see that the Taser sits in molten ruins, sparking slightly as the final remains of electrical charge combine with the flames.

Then the fire turns more purple, as though there's a tad of electrical fire in there as well, the flames mixing with potassium and iodine and other substances that Claire found and placed in the path to fuel the fire.

So she runs.

.

Outside, the air is fresh and cool as she stands gasping; the smoke got too close to her for liking, and she regrets hanging around in there. Yet she can't focus on herself, or even the sounds of people in the neighbouring Founder's Square, because her eyes are focused on the house.

Almost all of the downstairs is ablaze now, those scorching yellow flames tearing through the living room and consuming all flammable items; she can see the circling of the flames around the sofa and knows that if the fire has reached there, it's already climbing up the stairs.

Then Sam appears.

Her heart drops and she's almost about to collapse as she sees the vampire who ought to have perished in the fire struggle towards the exit, his hands clinging to the doorframe tightly. She can hear him coughing – she's never known vampires can cough – and his head emerges slowly, covered in black soot, his hair singed on the ends.

His eyes don't see her as he struggles forwards, trying desperately to beat the fire to the door and therefore the outside world. Claire's eyes follow him desperately, her brain wracking for the possibility of a weapon or something she could use to finish him off before dragging him back inside. It's too late, however; he's out and breathing in the air that is now making her feel slightly light-headed, his arms shining red as though he's a vampiric lobster.

And he still doesn't see her.

Rage and fear begin to shoot through her that he's still here, that he hasn't died! It was supposed to be foolproof; she never considered that he would be able to escape the room or even then to navigate through those almost pretty flames, because he's supposed to be more flammable than anything else!

"You weren't supposed to come out!" she shrieks suddenly, unable to keep quiet any longer as she stands looking at him. They're fifteen metres apart and only now does he notice her, his eyes rising up to look at her face as she looks around desperately for anything to be deemed a weapon. "It was supposed to be easy, fool proof! You're supposed to be dead!" she continues, flailing her arms in the air as he continues to stand by the porch, seeming as if he's unable to move.

"Claire," he says her name without emotion, none of the usual Sam in there; he's gone, replaced by someone betrayed and confused, angry and injured to near death. "Why do you want to kill me?" he almost sounds hurt as he looks at her, his eyes narrowed with the effort it takes to speak, all the sparkling nature of them gone. He sees the reflection of the fire in her eyes, the proximity the eager, consuming flames are to his back, and he worries that she's going to push him in.

There's nothing for her to use as a weapon; she's ripping herself apart inside, screaming internally because she can't do it; she's shown herself to be a traitor because Sam's going to tell someone that she tried to kill him, isn't he? She tried and she failed because she can't…

The fire bursts through the roof, sending sparks high into the air, and everything gets a stage realer for Claire; the destruction of the Glass House is near complete and yet Sam is not dead. He's alive – barely, but he is – and he's staggering as he tries to relinquish his hold on the house to prevent his burning to a crisp.

"Claire," he says her name, trying to break through the barrier of shining resentment and anger evident in her eyes, trying to make Claire see him. "Claire…I…"

But he doesn't finish the sentence.

A burning ember on the roof ignites the brickwork beneath the roof tiles, causing one of the tiles to fragment into three pieces, all three razor sharp.

One falls.

It comes at an angle, a piece of terracotta pot tile, relatively thick and shaped like an isosceles triangle: lethal.

And it falls towards Sam.

All he can do is look up; as before, with the Taser, he can only watch as his impending doom – this time, most likely assured permanent – arcs towards him, its tip positioned almost perfectly in line with his heart, as though Claire has planned this.

At the last, final second, he turns his head towards Claire, to see if she's somehow been able to orchestrate this, that her power within her is so absolute she's invincible; he recognises that this isn't the Claire he knows; she's polite and kind, conscientious and proud, someone he would want as his daughter…and she's destroyed him.

He can tell, however, that it's as much a shock to her as it is to him: her eyes are transfixed on the tile fragment falling through the air, a look of absolute shock on her face, her state allowing her subconscious through and therefore allowing horror to shine.

As the tile pierces Sam's chest, he grunts before falling sideways, away from the fire. The fire engines are on their way; Claire can hear their engines sounding relatively loud – nothing is far away from anything in this town. But Sam's body is safe from destruction, the dewy grass cooling his burns; yet it's not enough to stop his internal destruction from the makeshift stake.

As her "Oliver controlled" section recovers from the shock, Claire stands upright and merely looks at Sam, her eyes narrowing as she watches his pants become more and more shallow.

Finally, his head manages to turn and look at her, his eyes pleading. "Please," he begs her, his voice near gone. "I wouldn't tell anyone. I don't care. Whatever I've done, I'm sorry. Help me, Claire. Please."

She doesn't move.

Her eyes are unwavering as she watches him, his chest cavity pouring with the blood of others that's been adopted into his blood stream. As he lies on the ground, dying, the controlled part of her begins to shift; she's finished her mission, Sam isn't ever coming back, so why should Oliver's control need to stay? That was one of the conditions, after all.

And so the spell lifts: the girl is released from the confinements of her own body, yet with no knowledge of anything that's happened. She's left standing before the body of a man who she thinks she may love as an uncle figure or something like that, someone whose eyes seem almost ready to close.

Claire's own chest is tight but she doesn't know why as she tries to draw in a deep breath, a piercing scream gushing out of her mouth anyway. "No!" she shrieks, beginning to stagger forwards towards Sam. "No! Sam! No! What happened? No! don't die, Sam, please don't die!" she screams this as she tries to run closer to him, to help him.

His sapphire eyes are near closed, a sea of darkened blue near still in comparison to their liquidated nature before; the spark within him is receding, the thing that made him so great, so loved, so utterly desired by all, nearly gone as he breathes his final breaths.

And before she can get there, her own head gives in: the smoke she inhaled is affecting her now, constricting her airways – and it's made worse by her running towards Sam.

He breathes in.

She collapses besides him, her arms and legs splayed out as her head comes to rest just metres from his own.

His eyes close.

They don't reopen.

He's dead.

This was the hardest chapter I have written, even harder than the school murder ones.

AND I KILLED MY FAVOURITE CHARACTER.

/wipes tears.

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10 reviews to update – and I mean it, even though reviews have been down of late. It was hard to write, and I have other stories to update...

Vicky xx