Chapter Seventeen

Hallucination

Lena tipped her head back. The leather of the seat pressed against the back of her neck. She might have savoured the feeling, once upon a time, might have welcomed the cool touch on some warm summer day. Now, she couldn't quite decide which was colder - the chair or herself.

Above her, Alistair lurked. She heard his boots scuff over the floor a moment ago, and then silence. She imagined him perched in the rafters, perfectly content with sitting there - unmoving and undiscovered - until the end of time.

He was a confusing man. The men she knew back home were simple.

Lena stood, and slipped into the hallway. She looked up at the attic hatch. It was only small. Alistair, slender as he was, had broad shoulders. How he ever managed to slink up there was beyond her.

She pulled down the ladder, climbed the first few steps, and ducked her head into the dark and dusty space.

Alistair was crouched by the hatch, arms folded. His face was right in front of hers, two garnet eyes sparkling before her. She felt his cool breath stir her baby hairs. "Boo."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and pushed his shoulder.

He stumbled back a step or two. He didn't laugh, but he smiled. Lena thought it might be the most she ever got.

She climbed into the attic, and pulled the hatch shut behind her.

"Why are you here?" she asked, turning to face him.

He frowned, and rocked back on his heels. "Last time I checked, this was my room."

She narrowed her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" he asked. "You really should learn to speak more efficiently, Lena."

Irritation flooded her system. Was it logical to be so annoyed over something so small? Of course not, but she was no longer a creature of rational thought.

She stepped forward, closing the space between them. She meant to intimidate him, but it wasn't quite effective.

He stood straight, proud, chest puffed. He tipped his chin to look down at her, only emphasising the reality that she could never frighten him. She lacked the height and experience needed to truly terrify him.

Her only success in scaring the Cullens was her perceived unpredictability, but it was something Alistair welcomed. He, too, was wild.

"Why did you come back?"

"Oh, that," he said. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, something akin to mischief. It was tucked away into the corners of his mouth when he smirked. "Any other woman would think it was romantic."

He was toying with her. A cat batting around a mouse in interest, waiting for it to die.

"Besides, you're lucky I did. You would be dead if I hadn't stopped you."

"I wouldn't."

"If you truly believe that, then you are far more deluded than I ever thought you to be," he said. "What were you thinking, going after Aro of all people?"

She ground her teeth. "He murdered me."

"All of us have been killed," he said. "Not all of us seek a second death."

He didn't understand. How could he?

He hadn't been tricked, hadn't been attacked just metres from the safety of his home. He wasn't left for dead on his own property, praying to be found before the end so that someone could help him. He didn't slaughter his family.

She imagined his transformation fit into the Cullens' version of vampiric life, where they were all family. A sickeningly compassionate man, not unlike Carlisle, offered to bite him. He consented to it - he had a choice when she had not.

As a human, she had always hoped she would pass in her sleep. The rest she was promised by Aro - her last chance to sleep - was not the painless slip into death she hoped for, but an agonising experience she never wanted.

Her death was far from a pleasant memory. A scar, now.

"You still want to kill him," he said.

Lena looked at him.

Alistair's eyes were wide, his pink lips parted. If he were human, he might have paled, but as a vampire it was impossible for him to get any whiter.

His hands were on her shoulders in an instant, gripping her. He pulled her closer to him, and her chest pressed against his, but Alistair seemed to have no interest in her flesh. His eyes remained glued to her face.

"Leave it be," he said. His fingers dug into her skin, calling for her attention, and they did not relent until she lifted her gaze. "You will be executed without question."

She said nothing. She had already died once.

"Foolish woman!" he hissed. "Don't let the past haunt you. If he wanted to make you miserable, he would have dragged you to Volterra himself."

"Why do you care?"

He stood silently, jaw set, his eyes flickering between hers. There was some emotion there, settling at the bottom of the pools of blood, too deep for her to extract it and analyse it herself. She wished she were Jasper, wished she could identify it.

It fizzled away in another second, disappeared as if it was never there at all.

"I risked my life coming back. Demetri wants nothing more than to see me burn," he said. "And here you stand, daring to question my intentions. What does it matter, when I did you a favour?"

She lowered her head.

His anger was false. Even Lena could see that. He was using it to mask another emotion, something heavier that made him feel uncomfortable. Rage was easy. Lena chose it too, over feeling - truly feeling - her pain.

"I am a man," he said, "who does not tolerate disrespect. The least you could do is thank me."

She sucked in a breath, and stared straight ahead, at his chest. "Thank you," she whispered.

It was the first time she said those words as a vampire.

The two stood in silence. Neither spoke, or moved, or dared to breathe. The air was tense, not because of anger, but uncertainty.

Alistair was the first to break. His hands moved from her shoulders, calloused palms running over her skin, to her hands. His movements were slow, calculated, and his touch impossibly gentle, controlled.

"What are you-"

He held her hands, and turned one of them over. His hard stare burnt her skin, attentive to the point of suffocating her.

This was the wrist he twisted, squeezed in his large hand. The flesh had knitted itself back together hours ago. The cracks filled in, leaving no trace of their presence on her flawless skin. She was a perfect statue once more.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," she said.

His eyes darted to her face, seeking out indicators that she was lying. He dropped her other hand, and held her wrist gently. He ran his thumb lightly over the skin, soothing her as if she told him she was in unbearable pain.

She melted under the attention. Worrying.

"I'm sorry, Lena."

She understood him. He wasn't only saying sorry for her arm.

"I'm sorry, too." She wouldn't have said it unless he did.

He took her other hand once more, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He dared to look at her, but his gaze was hesitant when he asked, "Do you want to leave?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you're more like me than the Cullens," he said.

She understood, then. He wanted her to become a nomad, wandering the earth for the rest of time. He wanted her to forget about Aro, as if it were possible. He thought it was safer, thought running was less dangerous than killing, the one thing they had both been designed to do.

She could see only one benefit. His way of life promised her blood. Real human blood. She could taste it now, on the very tip of her tongue, sweet and warm and delicious.

But it came at the cost of uncertainty. She would be forced to run until she died. She would never have a home, never have a place she could return to when she was weary. She would spend her life constantly looking over her shoulder, searching for a cloaked guard, or one of the Cullens seeking vengeance for ruining their way of life. She would never get closure, would never kill Aro, would never feel like she or her family's mattered at all.

They were dead. Everybody would forget, and nobody would ever be punished. The thought would haunt her until the end of time.

Even human blood was not worth that torture.

"Why are you a nomad?"

He dropped her hands. A dark look came over his expression. His jaw hardened, and he drew a steadying breath.

"Our last moments as humans determine how we live in this life," he said. "And, in my final moments as a human, I was betrayed by the people I should have been able to trust the most."

"I don't understand."

"In short," he said, "I was to be the next king of England."

King? Alistair didn't look particularly regal, with his worn leather boots and scruffy coat.

"I lived during the reign of King Edward II."

Lena looked at him blankly.

The corners of his mouth tipped up, though only a fraction. "He ruled in the early 1300s, and was particularly interested in minimising the power of the British Peerage."

She frowned now. "Peerage?"

"Nobles," he said simply. "My father was power-hungry, and he did not approve of the King's views. He and my older brother became obsessed with protecting the rights which came with being aristocrats. They threw themselves into conspiracies and ploys to surpass their peers."

"And you?"

"I didn't care for it." He hesitated, as if divulging this next piece of information riddled him with anxiety. "I wanted a simple life in the countryside, hunting, and training my birds."

She couldn't imagine why he was so frightened of confessing to such a thing.

"Anyhow, another nobleman claimed my brother was planning to overthrow the King. He was executed for treason. My family was forced to withdraw from society, and I was content with that. If my sisters, for fault of our brother, were unable to wed, I had it in my mind that I would care for them. They were devastated, of course, as was my mother. But still, my father could not let it be. He was consumed with thoughts of vengeance.

"I was twenty when he dragged me out to London. He told me it was a political meeting, the type of thing I should develop an interest in with my brother gone. I realised he had lied when he pulled me into the London tunnels."

Cold air bit at Lena's skin. The smell of a closed-up space tormented her - stale air and mold. The stone walls were rough and wet under her fingertips. A furry rodent scurried past her feet, squeaking, and disappeared into the maze of tunnels.

Echoes of conversation bounced from the walls. A soft yellow glow lit the end of the long corridor, casting dancing shadows onto the walls. A crowd was gathered deep in the underground of the capital city. This was a secret nobody else knew.

"There was a horde of low-ranking nobles present for the meeting, where my father delivered a wonderful speech about how I was to be the next Charlemagne," he said bitterly. "Then, a man arrived."

Lena continued down the corridor, footsteps echoing, into an open space. It was a place where three tunnels met, creating an area suitable for an illegal meeting such as this. A sea of men were gathered, all dressed in clothing from another era. Some held candles. Torches were hung on the walls, burning brighter. Half a dozen times she counted a moment when someone stepped too close, and she was certain they would catch fire.

In the middle of the crowd stood two men. One, she recognised immediately as Alistair. The other, with his sun-freckled hand planted on his shoulder, she could only assume was his father.

He spoke in long rambling sentences. Something was peculiar about his voice, like he would burst into tears at any moment, but he didn't look sad. Rather, it was the sort of sound which makes one anticipate something amazing.

In another instant, the crowd erupted into cheers, applauding him, shouting in agreeance. Their eyes sparkled in the candlelight, joyous.

There was hope.

Then, they stopped, and they all turned to face her. Lena's heart dropped as the mob set their eyes on her, but she realised quickly they weren't looking at her, but rather beyond her.

She, too, turned.

A man stood by the entrance of the tunnel. He was shockingly handsome. His face was angelic, all soft lines that God must have contemplated for some time. Short as he was, he made up for it in presence.

"He introduced himself as Astaroth, Prince of Hell," Alistair said. "I thought it was a joke, but his description was accurate enough. He was the closest thing to the Devil I ever encountered."

He stepped into the room with a smile. He held out his arms, palms up, declaring his arrival.

Gentlemen, he said, your prayers have been answered.

The crowd broke into cheers, though what it was they cried for, they were not certain. The men lost their individuality in that mob. The sea of people rose up, became one, cried and cheered without knowledge as to why. A thoughtless creature of two dozen minds, and not one could find an answer.

He moved closer to the edge of the crowd, and stopped by Lena. He did not look at her. It was as if she was not there at all, and yet she could see him, could reach out and feel the fabric of his shirt as if he were right there in front of her.

From so close, she could make out details she could not before - the creases by his mouth from smiling too much, the few light hairs above his upper lip, and his crimson eyes peeking out from beneath strands of pale blond hair.

He continued forwards, and the sea of people parted to let him into the centre of the room. He stopped in front of Alistair and his father, and looked at them carefully, both in turn.

This is him, then.

"My father had turned to the occult to get what he wanted. He made a deal with Astaroth. He would make me like him - ancient, powerful, greater than any living man."

Don't cause trouble for me after I leave, Astaroth said.

He leaned forwards, and flicked Alistair's hair away from his neck.

He stepped back, and frowned. What are you-

His father grabbed him by the back of the neck, and thrust him towards the newcomer.

He caught him by the shoulders. Swept towards him, body liquid, and buried his face in his neck.

He bit him.

Alistair screamed.

Something about the sound, so primal and pained, affected Lena. She gasped, and had to force herself to keep from moving towards him. Strong as she was, fast as she was, there was nothing she could do. His teeth were already in his neck, his venom already circulating through his bloodstream.

Besides, this wasn't real. It was something she dreamt up. Imagination, a mindless dream and nothing more.

Alistair thrashed in his arms, screaming until his voice was raw. He looked to his father, his glare lethal.

The older man did nothing. He stood and watched as his son endured agony. This was only part of a plan much bigger than either of them, a stepping stone to greatness. His son would be king. A little sacrifice was necessary.

Alistair stilled, slumped over. His gaze became meaningless and unfocused, and his eyes rolled back into his skull.

Green.

His eyes were green.

"Not once did he mention his plan to me, or ask for my consent. I was furious. They locked me in a cellar with countless peasants, who were to satiate my thirst when I woke. I killed them all.

"After, my father came to see me, undoubtedly to convince me of the next steps of his genius plan. I knew it couldn't be to apologise. He was far too proud of a man for that. But I was so angry, I shoved him. He hit the wall so hard his skull cracked, and he died. My strength was foreign, as was my bloodlust. I escaped the tunnels and ran home.

"But my family was gone. He had promised Astaroth the lives of my younger sisters and mother. At some point, he decided it was a necessary sacrifice in his pursuit for power. Even the birds left me, terrified, able to sense what I was. There was not a single thing my father did not take from me. I hated him. I hated myself more for what I was."

She heard his words, but she wasn't listening. Not really. Something was in the room with them. She could sense it, could feel it on her skin like dust. Her eyes drifted from Alistair's. She blinked, searching the attic for someone who shouldn't have been there.

"But, I never decided I wanted revenge. I could have tracked Astaroth down, but my rage was with my father, not him. I know he is dead now, anyway. I stopped feeling the tug towards him some centuries ago when I thought about him. It is enough closure for me."

She sniffed the air, and searched for a scent that was out of place. There was nothing. The stale air of the attic. Alistair, who smelt of rain and grass.

"Lena?" He touched her hand.

"Something's in here," she whispered.

He breathed in, and shook his head. "There's nothing. I'd smell it."

Lena ignored him. Her eyes swept over the room. She knew it was here. She wasn't going crazy. Surely her brain, like her body, was static.

Alistair glanced over the room, if only to satisfy her that he wasn't dismissing her concerns. Then, his hawkish gaze returned to her face.

"Lena, there's nothing." His eyes flickered over her. "Why don't we go downstairs?"

She ignored him. Pulled away from him when he took her hand. He was touching her too much. She didn't need him to hold her hand and tell her she was scared of nothing but shadows. She needed him to listen to her.

"You go," she said, and took half a step forward.

There was something in the corner, she thought. She couldn't quite make it out, which was concerning in itself, considering her superior eyesight.

More concerning was the fact that the space around it was crystal clear. She could see the grain in the wood of the chair next to it. She could see strands of honey hair on a sheet behind it, covering what appeared to be a number of canvases, leaning against the wall. She could see dust particles whirring around, disturbed by her movement.

A white milky blur was pressed into the corner, against old rolled-up carpets and side tables and cardboard boxes. She might have thought it was a problem with her vision, if it followed her when she turned her head and looked either side of it. But it remained there, unmoving, unclear.

It was large. So large, she wondered how she and Alistair had missed it at all.

"Don't you see it?" She looked at him, and then quickly back at the white stripe, fearful it may vanish if her eyes left it for too long.

He squinted, and said nothing.

Then, slowly, so slowly Lena thought she truly was just hallucinating, it reshaped itself. Carved its sides, skewed itself lengthways, and sculpted itself into something resembling a human form.

"You really don't see it?"

Alistair, still, said nothing.

The white statue morphed, twisted into a man with delicately etched features. Clothes appeared from seemingly nowhere, pushing out from his chest and legs as if his own body birthed them. Hair sprouted too, and brushed against his shoulders.

Lena moved closer, until she was in front of it. Alistair didn't stop her - it was only further proof that he did not see it. Maybe Lena was losing her mind. Maybe she was capable of insanity.

The man was handsome. Devilishly handsome. She leaned close to his face, admired the curved line of his chin, and the roundness of his cheeks. His eyelashes rested upon them, long and blond. An angel, handcrafted by some master in Europe. It was not an odd thing for the Cullens to be in possession of, was it? No, far stranger was the fact that he was dressed just as Astaroth had been in her daydream…

She lifted her hand, and reached out to touch the sculpture. Undoubtedly, it was old and fragile, and worth more money than she could comprehend, but she longed to feel the smooth marble beneath her fingertips-

Its eyes opened. The statue - the man - snatched her hand from where it floated in front of his face, and squeezed her arm. She grimaced, dropped her weight as she tried to escape, but this man - this thing - was even stronger than her.

His face twisted into something demonic, something far less angelic. It appeared in front of her suddenly, so quickly that her eyes couldn't track its movement, and it was as if his face was not at all attached to his body to begin with, as if he wasn't limited to the standard rules of reality.

Yellow teeth snapped in her face. Two black eyes leered at her. His mouth wrapped around a word, a sentence, but he produced no sound. Lena couldn't make sense of the movement of his lips.

A gust of wind, and Alistair was beside her. He reached for the man's neck, but the second his hand wrapped around his throat, the man crumbled into dust. Larger pieces of stone clattered onto the ground and into a pile of white powder, the only sign any of it had happened at all.

Lena swallowed, and looked to her arm. Nothing was there, but she could still feel his fingers on her, could still feel the pressure of his grip. It was the first time since she died that she felt weak.

She hated it.

"Are you alright?"

She looked up at Alistair.

His eyes were on her again, two garnets she clung to desperately. His gaze darted between her eyes, sickeningly attentive, only serving to remind her of what just happened.

What had just happened?

"What…"

"Are you alright?" he repeated sternly.

She nodded, but she felt numb. When she closed her eyes to steady herself, all she saw was two black bottomless pits staring back at her, melded into the face of a man deceivingly sweet-looking. Immediately, she opened them again. Alistair's face was blurry now. She blinked rapidly, willing the tears to leave.

She drew a deep breath, and convinced herself it was merely a habit from her human life. She was not like the Cullens, especially not in a moment like this.

She glanced down at her arm once more. Her skin was smooth and flawless, untouched.

Her hands trembled.

Odd. How very… human.

Repulsed, she clenched her fists.

She looked at Alistair. "What was that?"

Something in his face broke. He shook his head, only slightly, and pulled her into his arms.

She froze. It was the first time someone hugged her since she died. She stood awkwardly for a moment, unable to decide if she liked the feeling.

Alistair encased her easily in his arms, his hand rubbing slow circles into her back.

Tears, once more, welled in her eyes. With her face buried in his chest, it was easier to hide them. She wished them away, still, and willed herself not to sob.

"There's nothing here," he said. "It's just us."

His voice was nice enough on its own, husky and deep, but feeling it vibrate in his chest was entirely different. Comforting, oddly enough. Lena suppressed the urge to burrow further into his coat.

It was uncharacteristic of both of them. How much pity must Alistair have felt to act like this? How terrified-

No.

How rageful must Lena have been to accept it?

things are getting weird lol

thank u so much for reading x