Chapter Twenty-Four
Obsession
Two days later, they found themselves across the border, staying in a hotel much nicer than the inn. Lena suspected Alistair only booked the room to appease her. She liked this part of playing human - hot showers, cable TV, and having a space that was only theirs.
She had thought Alistair would like that last part too, but he didn't seem to. Possessing something was a simple concept to him and, for the most part, meaningless. Anything was his if he occupied it. A field of grass could belong to him just as much as the clothes on his back, if he found himself standing in it.
She could see from the way he surveyed the room that he was unimpressed. It didn't matter that he was in a three-star hotel. He thought all of this was far more troublesome than it needed to be.
The room was pretty. The walls were painted a crisp white, with the exception of one, which was bluish-green. There was only one bed, the headboard pressed up against the feature wall. The sheets were pristine white, the faint smell of laundry detergent clinging to their fibres. On either side of the bed was a nightstand, but no lamps - the lights turned on and off when she clapped her hands. Instead, they held a landline which connected them to the front desk, where someone would always answer no matter how late it was.
A single large window next to the bed overlooked the entertainment district of the city. Vancouver, Alistair called it. The word was meaningless to her, but she understood they were no longer in America.
"You need to eat."
Lena looked away from the sprawling nightlife just below them, and at Alistair. Despite the shift in attention, she still heard it - the music, the voices, the clumsy stumbling of a few dozen drunks. It wouldn't be so hard for her to lure one away, would it? Just one…
He stared at her from across the room, his gaze hawk-like as he looked her over.
"Can't I go out and pick one?" she asked, glancing back at the swarm of people outside.
He moved closer and stood beside her. His hands rested on her shoulders, and he twisted her body to face him. He looked deep into her eyes, as if discerning whether they were black or just very, very dark red was important.
"I think we both know that's not a good idea."
She sighed.
"Grown women ought not to pout." Alistair's hands ran down her arms, and he took her hands in his. He brought them to his mouth, and kissed the knuckles of each.
"I'm not pouting."
He smiled and kissed her forehead. "I'll fetch you something tasty. Stay here and behave, yes?"
He slipped out the door, and Lena was left alone.
She missed not being able to chase her own meals - that was half the fun - but she understood why she couldn't. Being in such a densely populated area, she couldn't trust herself not to lose control and expose their kind. It was a necessary sacrifice in order to survive.
That didn't mean she liked it.
She forced herself to close the curtains. She knew standing there watching the humans run around below would only tempt her. Besides, there were better things she could be doing.
She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She tried to focus, tried to clear her mind of all distractions. It was harder, with the burning in her throat, but she pushed it aside and tried to ignore it. The sensation came back to her awareness every so often, and each time she quietly dismissed it.
She pictured a face, one so familiar she couldn't fathom forgetting it. Her brother, Nik, with his big round eyes and lopsided smile. She had to see him, just once, just one last time. She imagined his curly black hair, the sparse beard lining his jaw. He ran towards her in his mind's eye, loping clumsily, still not used to his gangly limbs.
She felt nothing.
Frustration bit at her skin. It had been weeks since she last tried to use her gift, and she was beginning to worry she had lost it.
She drew a deep breath, but it was a mistake. The burning in her throat worsened as the sweet smell of blood mingled with the sharp stench of alcohol. Her gums ached in anticipation, urging her to bite down. She clenched her jaw, but there was no give, no euphoria washing over her. She needed flesh.
Not yet.
She redirected her thoughts to her brother, and tried to will him into existence. She imagined him as she remembered him, pictured him standing at the foot of the bed. His brown skin, darker on his face and arms from too much time outdoors. He wore shorts, and his boots. A button shirt with the collar popped up to protect his neck from the sun. Lena could feel the fabric between her fingers, the material stiff.
A light breeze stirred around her, and she thought she felt her hair move, slide over her shoulder. She didn't open her eyes. She wasn't sure. She didn't want to see that she had failed, that she had been right, that she was getting weaker.
She dared to suck in a steadying breath. The smell of sweat and apple juice greeted her, blended into the ever-present and ever-tempting scent of blood.
Even in death, he smelt like a child.
It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. Anger rolled over her, and she clenched her fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. There was no pain, but she felt her flesh crack open at the pressure, felt her talons deep in her flesh somewhere they shouldn't be. She could tear herself apart.
She opened her eyes.
"Lena?"
He was there, standing at the foot of her bed. Nik looked real, nothing like her previous monsters. There were no awkward lines, no unblended curves to his features. Everything was crisp, perfect, just as he was when he was alive, as if he never died at all.
She sat up on her knees and stared at him.
"Lena, you look like an idiot," he said in Greek.
He spoke. He spoke. The others had talked, but not like this, not as if they were conscious or aware or alive. Something was different about him, something separated him from the others.
She shuffled towards him on her knees, and peered at his face.
Even from up close, the illusion didn't stutter. His face twisted into an expression of deep confusion, the skin around his eyes creasing when he squinted at her, almost as if she confused him just as much as he did her. When he tipped his head to the side, the movement was fluid. He folded his arms, the fabric of his shirt creasing.
She heard it crinkle.
All of it was seamless. It almost seemed real.
She reached out to touch his cheek, though she feared the feeling of his skin under her palm. If it were warm, if it were soft and squishy, then none of this mattered. If he were alive, she was a monster, blindly chasing after some notion of vengeance that wasn't even justified. Then what would she do? What was she left with?
He ducked away from her hand and stepped back. He looked annoyed, as he always did when she coddled him. He was fifteen and convinced he was a man.
"Stop," he whined.
Her eyes flickered to his throat, where a gaping wound should have been. His neck was bare, not a scar in sight. Somehow this was more distressing to Lena than if he appeared to her as she had left him in that house.
"Stop," he repeated, but his voice was different. The playfully irritated tone was gone, replaced with fear.
Her eyes darted back to his face.
He stared at her, brown eyes wide. He didn't look away from her, didn't break eye contact. His jaw was slack, his mouth agape.
"Nik?"
He shook his head. His eyes filled with tears. "Don't."
Lena hadn't seen her brother like this for years. Afraid. He was never afraid. He adored horror stories. He went slinking through abandoned farmhouses with his friends for fun. There was not a single instance Lena could recall since he was about eleven when he cried out of fear.
She stood and moved towards him. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, to pull him into her arms, but she knew he hated it. He hated when she babied him.
"Please, Lena."
"Nik, it's alright," she said gently. "It's okay. I'm here."
Tears streamed down his cheeks and he sobbed, his entire body shaking.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he screamed. His voice broke.
Unable to stand seeing him like this for a minute longer, she reached out for him.
He snatched her hand from the air before she could set it upon his cheek. His grip was tight, enough to keep her still. His eyes snapped to her, clearer now, and full of hatred.
"Nik, what-"
He squeezed, and her skin cracked under his fingers. His face detached from his body and lurched towards her, monstrous. His eyes were black and bottomless, and she glimpsed some place dark and horrid when she looked into them. Tortured screams filled her ears, and the pitch made her ears ring. He snarled at her, as if he were a beast. He had more teeth than he should have had - three rows of them, all sharp and pointy and glistening with spit.
Guilty. The word echoed, twisting and wrapping around her until she was cocooned in it. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Blood bubbled from his throat. It coated his skin, stained his shirt. It was on her skin, too. Her hands were covered in it. She looked down, turned her free hand over again and again and again. His blood was everywhere, in every crack and crevice and line of her palm. In the bed of her nails. Under them, up to the quick.
Everywhere.
She reached out with her free hand and touched his cheek.
Blood smeared over his face. He stopped moving and stared at her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
He crumbled, fragmented into a hundred pieces of himself. Disintegrated further, until he was little more than a pile of dust on the hotel floor. A murmur of a memory. His ashes were all that was left of Nik, the only proof of her brother's existence.
He was dead. He was gone, and there was nothing she could do. No way she could bring him back.
Tears clouded her vision as she crouched on the floor beside his remains. This wasn't all of him, she rationalised. His body was somewhere in Greece. Maybe still in that house, maybe in a cemetery beside his brother and mother. But she cried over that pile of ash as if it was the last thing that tied Nik to the planet, as if it were his real body.
Her grief left her, eventually. Her tears dried, and all she was left with was rage.
Nik wasn't coming back. He couldn't. There was nothing Lena could do to take back what she did, but he didn't have to die for no reason. She could give purpose to his death.
She could kill the man who had destroyed them both.
The door opened, and Lena startled. She turned her head to see Alistair by the door, hauling a drunk man inside their room by the neck of his shirt. He stopped when he saw her sitting on the floor, but only for a second. In the next, he closed and latched the door behind him.
His eyes drifted from her face to the pile of dust beside her. "I left you for five minutes."
She swallowed, and searched for something to say. Nothing would come to mind. How could she explain her past, what she did to her family? How could she tell him that this pile of ash was her brother?
Alistair made a sound of frustration and looked away from her. "We'll talk about it later."
Lena swallowed, and the fire in her throat returned. Her attention drifted from Alistair to the man writhing in his grip.
He was short and round, with a receding hairline. His eyes were large but unfocused. He reeked of alcohol, but seemingly still had enough wit to be fearful in this situation. Beneath the stench of beer soaking his shirt lingered an impossibly sweet smell. Her gums ached, and the burning in her throat grew worse and worse by the second.
Just as she was about to seize him from Alistair, he moved.
"Al," she whined.
"In the tub," he said. "The staff won't overlook blood-soaked sheets."
His words seemed to upset the man, who began to fight harder against Alistair's hold. It was a fruitless effort, of course, but he couldn't have known that.
Alistair dragged him into the bathroom, and Lena swept inside after him.
Much like the main room, the bathroom was a small but clean space. There was enough room for a sink, a toilet, and a shower. White tiles were stacked from floor to ceiling, not a sliver of drywall or wallpaper in sight.
As she entered, she glimpsed herself in the reflection of the mirror. Her black eyes were harrowing, even to her, and yet a thrill zipped up her spine as she realised that predator was her.
Her attention shifted back to Alistair. He picked the man up with ease, and set him in the bathtub.
"Please, please! My kidneys are no good, man. Do you know how many fucking vodka shots I've had this week? I'm telling you, I'm no good. I'm no good!"
He shook, sobbed, begged. When Alistair released him, he rushed to his feet, only to be knocked back with an open palm.
"Stay," he said.
His glare must have been terrifying enough, because the man shrunk into himself. He curled into a ball at the end of the tub, as far away from them as he could be, and whimpered.
Lena dabbed at her bloody lips with a wet tissue. Alistair leaned against the doorframe behind her, arms folded as he watched her reflection in the mirror.
Blood was splattered over the tiles and smeared along the edges of the tub - the only evidence of the man's attempts at escape. He laid there now, dead. Neither of them commented on it. A shame, though, that he made it messier than it had to be.
"I suppose I should be grateful that you aren't cheating on me, at the very least."
Lena paused and looked at Alistair. It was a poor attempt at a joke. Even he was unable to muster a tight-lipped smile.
She turned her attention back to her face. Her eyes sparkled, two glistening garnets. Her lips matched her eyes, blood smeared over her mouth and chin. She swiped at what she wasted with a tissue.
Alistair sighed. He shifted his stance, boots scuffing over the tiles, and stood taller. "How long has this been going on?"
"Which part?"
"Don't test me, woman," he hissed. "You've been summoning demons behind my back."
"It was the first time since we left," she said.
"The Cullens, or Forks?"
"Both."
"Carlisle warned you not to practice your witchcraft. I know you don't respect his lifestyle, but he is not a man lacking intelligence."
"It isn't witchcraft," she said.
"It might as well be. Even he thinks it is ungodly, and he is no stranger to oddities of the occult."
She tossed her tissue in the trash, and whirled around to face him. "Are you upset that I did it, or that I didn't ask for permission?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Can't I be upset about both?"
She took a measured step towards him. "You don't own me. I don't answer to you."
He twisted his mouth into something akin to a smile, but it was much more vicious. His lip curled, revealing his sharp teeth.
"You may think of yourself as some sort of superior being since your transformation, but you are a newborn. You're considered a child in this world. Most your age don't last the year. So let me explain something to you, Lena, as I understand you are much younger than me: if you want to survive, you should obey those who have outlived the others."
"Obey?" she scoffed. "I'm not your pet."
"You lack the rational thought to make your own choices," he said. "You throw yourself into hazardous situations without a second thought."
"I-"
"How many times did you try to kill Renesmee, knowing she would be avenged? How many times did you anger the Cullens, drive them to the precipice of violence? You risked your own life chasing after Aro, knowing the chances of execution. Alice was taken because of your thoughtlessness."
"That-"
"You think like a child. You lack forethought. It is not something that can be taught. I've charged myself with being responsible for your wellbeing until you are able to consider the consequences of your actions for yourself. When I command you, I assure you that I only have your best interests at heart."
Lena swung at him without a second thought. Her open hand never connected with his cheek.
Alistair caught her arm. It didn't matter that she was faster than him, it seemed he was anticipating an act of violence.
She only realised then that she had proved everything he just said was true.
He brought her hand to his mouth. Stubble pricked her palm when he kissed it.
Lena sneered, angry that he was right, angry that he spoke about her as if he controlled her. She snatched her hand away from him. "I think of you as an equal, Alistair, but you should be careful not to become my enemy."
"I dread the day," he said. "But if I can't tell you the truth, who can?"
She said nothing.
"It's clear you don't offer me the same courtesy," he said. "Would it have been so difficult to be honest with me? To mention your intentions?"
To him, her silence was a sign of betrayal. Secrets only bred distrust. Why was she plotting behind his back? Why didn't she tell him?
She had her reasons. She knew Alistair wouldn't like it. Her intentions were selfish, as they always were. She wanted to see her brother, and she wanted to master her ability. How much time was left until she would be like Alistair? How many days, hours, before she outgrew her newborn traits?
Alistair tutted, and looked away from her. "I see. You won't even entertain a discussion about it."
Lena blinked at him. Anger fizzled deep within her, a little dark spot in her stomach that twisted and fluttered and churned. She didn't want to talk to him now. She didn't want to even look at him.
"Who was it, at least? Who did you summon?" he asked.
She owed him this much, didn't she? He talked about his family, and his past. It was only fair.
She tried her best to swallow back her feelings, to starve them. She would deal with them at another time. Now, she had to stand up and prove to Alistair that she was not the thoughtless emotional creature he thought she was. She was like him. She could act maturely. She could use her words and tell the truth.
"My brother," she said. "I killed him."
She thought it might have sounded too blunt. She didn't know how to soften her words in English. She didn't know how to soften that statement at all.
For a moment, Alistair was quiet, though she knew a hundred thoughts were cycling through his mind. She saw them in his expression, in the way his brow slightly furrowed and his eyes narrowed.
"Why?" His voice was level. Bland, even.
"I lived on a farm in Greece with my mother and two little brothers," she said. "Aro killed me in the fields. I don't remember waking up, or going back home, or killing them. It was like I was possessed. But when I was myself again, I was covered in blood and they were all dead."
"That's not your fault, Lena," he said.
"I know," she said. "Aro killed all of us."
"I wish you would let go of your anger. You can't live like this."
"How could I forget the man who murdered me?" she asked. "The man who took everything from me?"
His eyes widened. "Your gift. You weren't training to control it, but to master it."
"Is it so bad?" she asked. "You know I could never kill him without it."
He shook his head and reached for her. He gripped her arms and stooped down to look her in the eye.
"I tire of repeating the same things to you, but I won't stop until you hear me," he said. His voice was serious, a hint of desperation seeping into his tone. "Aro is not worth the time nor the risk. He would not hesitate to destroy you. He has done it thousands of times before to others far more capable."
She stared at his face. It was all harsh lines, sharp and tense. His eyes darted between hers, a weakness lurking somewhere in his stare that a particularly cruel part of her longed to exploit.
When she said nothing, he tightened his grip on her. His fingers dug into her skin, as if to urge her to speak, to promise she would forget about it all in an instant, as if she could.
She thought he understood her. She thought he was the only man in the world who understood her, but she was wrong. Didn't he love her? Neither of them ever said it, but she thought she felt it. Thought he did, too.
"Why can't you just let me have this?" she whispered.
"What do you plan to do, storm the castle? Fling yourself at him clumsily as you did last time? He has a hundred men waiting for someone just like you. They'll tear you apart, torture you, make you suffer. They revel in such things."
Truthfully, she hadn't thought about the particulars. She didn't know the extent of her power yet. Didn't know if she could summon a ghost capable of destroying a man.
"Or do you imagine it to be more civil than that? Would you play a trick on them, and try to appear diplomatic? He'll see your intentions the second he touches you."
"Then I'll just have to kill him before he does."
Alistair looked at her incredulously. "Did you forget about the hundred guards, each with hundreds of years of experience?"
"I guess I'll have to kill them, too."
He tutted, and rolled his head away from her. "By God, woman, you're the most frustrating person I've ever known."
At least she was the most something. She would take it, take whatever place she could. A part of her wanted to be cherished, remembered, and adored, but it was clear that Alistair's affections for her were finite. Measured and controlled, as all things were for him. He didn't love her enough, didn't care for her enough to consider her happiness and peace of mind.
"Your obsession is unhealthy," he said, "but you will outgrow it."
She wouldn't. Even if she could, she didn't want to. She refused. There was only one thing left in the world that could grant her true joy, true peace, and that was Aro's life. Only when she watched it drain from him - watched his eyes grow hazy and unfocused as death crept over his body - would she feel like she had done what was needed.
Then, and only then, could she stand to live.
"Forget about it," he demanded.
As if she could.
"Promise me you will cast these thoughts from your mind," he said. "Abandon your plans. Never think of this again."
Lena didn't respond.
His eyes grew more desperate. "Promise me!"
"I won't," she said.
His chest rose and fell rapidly with air he didn't need. He swallowed thickly, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously low. "Then at least promise me you won't charge off without telling me."
She could promise that, couldn't she? She could grant him that small favour. It would be easy to agree to it, but when it came time, would she follow through with it?
He released her, as if her skin pained him to touch. Stared at her, his gaze hard and bitter. A muscle in his jaw fluttered as he clenched his teeth.
"Damn you, woman," he hissed.
He turned and disappeared, the door to their room slamming behind him.
Her eyes drifted from the space he occupied just seconds ago to the bath. Blood coated the tiled wall, the remnants of her supper reclined in the tub, curled into itself still. It was just like Alistair to run off in a fit and leave her with the heavy labour.
What was she supposed to do with a body?
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