URBAN NOSGOTHIC
Chapter 3
Legacy of Kain created by and belonging to Eidos Interactive, Crystal Dynamics, Silicon Knights.
Thank you all so much for your reviews. *takes plushies and adds them to her collection* I'm really glad you're liking the story so far. My other half would like to point out that I'm NOT writing from personal experience, at least not with him *chuckles* Aww. He's such a sweetie. I promise to try and do a proper review response soon…*sits down to wait for her Lt Raziel toy to arrive...winks at Lilith…Yep. Still waiting!*
I can barely bring myself to walk past him.
He retreats, kindly enough, to the kitchen at the foot of the stairs, and waits as I shudder my way down and pad quickly past him into the lounge. I think shock is setting in. I feel as if I've been swaddled in wool and an odd warm feeling is spreading upwards from the pit of my stomach.
I pick up the upset beer can with rubbery fingers and almost drop it again by falling over the broken controller. I am aware that Raziel is standing, more or less patiently, in the doorway, but I'm not ready to look at him again yet. Instead I am tidying, reflexively gathering abandoned glasses, magazines, sweaters - "I'm, I'm sorry about the mess," my voice quavers, following it up with a panicked little giggle at how stupid I'm being.
Raziel sighs - what's left of my brain screams at me how!?! How is he sighing? Why the hell is he even breathing? He's dead! - and says, "You know, you're really not doing so badly. Considering that if you were like other human women I've encountered, you'd be standing in a corner with your arms over your head whimpering like a three-day-old wolf pup."
He moves. I manage to force myself to watch his hooves as he walks over to the sofa and sits down. "And you ran away," he adds, sounding almost impressed.
I almost drop the magazines with a sob of indrawn breath. For some reason, the thought of running away touches a well of fear inside me. My memory flashes moments of pain at me, running, being caught, being punished. Bad girl. You don't run away. Running away's something that naughty girls do…
Through my tears I hear his voice again, quieter this time. "Who are you?" he asks.
Much to my shame, because I know it's a question he really needs the answer to right now, I can't answer him. I'm only surprised that he hasn't asked more questions, salient ones like where the hell am I? and you mean my life is a game to you?, reinforcing them perhaps with interrogative blows. Surely claws like that can only be meant to cause pain to soft skin like mine. Such fine weapons of cruelty are meant to be used.
I must be keening like a baby by this time, because he adds, brusquely, almost as an after thought, "Come on, woman…I'm not going to hurt you…"
Fission is reached. Blindly, I hurl everything in my arms at him, beer can, copies of Playboy, my old green sweater. When everything is thrown I actually strike at him with my fists. His skin feels like slate under my blows.
"Don't lie to me, you bastard!" I screech, barely recognising my own voice. "Just let's do this! Let's skip right to the part where you kill me! Just stop…stop pretending…" My voice cracks under the strain. "…stop pretending to be nice…."
My knees hit the carpet, my forehead hits something hard and bony that has to be one of his knees. I feel his talons come to rest on the exposed back of my neck, cold and smooth.
And actually, I'm relieved. I wonder how much it will hurt when they slice to the bone?
Raziel's voice sounds from just above me, sounding astonished, "You -" he pauses as if groping for clarity, "You think I'm being nice?"
I turn my cheek against the cold skin of his leg, not caring what happens. The tough, ruined leather of his (boots? Or is it some form of leg armour?) digs into my chin. This close to, he smells like death, but not new death. There's something cold and clinical about the scent of him, as if he's been frozen and wind-blasted until nothing remains but sterility, the sense of thousands of years gone by…
"Gods," he continues. "What has happened to you?"
From the bathroom, the sound of my boyfriend breaking the tiny window with the toilet brush can be heard. I look up, sharply, and something of the fear in my eyes must have got through to him because he whips to his feet angrily and strides out into the kitchen. Thumping from above, a big man trying to lever himself through a tiny gap, and then steps on the stairs.
Stupidly, my first impulse is to call after Raziel, tell him not to go, that my boyfriend is dangerous when he's drunk. Then I hear the familiar refrain of: "Where are you, bitch?" and I fall back, crouching low beside the sofa arm.
After all, I know someone more dangerous now.
There is a scuffle, a clatter as Raziel's hooves skid a little on the vinyl, then the ring of steel as my boyfriend draws the carving knife from its block. I marvel a little at his resilience. Raziel is frightening enough to encounter once. To meet him head-on twice without resorting to mad panic is astounding.
But then I was always more than half-convinced that the man was insane, anyway.
"Come on, then! Come on!" he is currently bellowing. "You're not so big! You're not so damn scary! Come on! Come on! Come -"
The Reaver hums delightedly as it comes to life. My boyfriend's words die on his lips in a pained gurgle, and suddenly I'm on my feet, running to Raziel's side and scrabbling at his arm with my fingers.
The Reaver's blade has shot right through my boyfriend's shoulder. He has been skewered with ruthless efficiency, and is making short, gasping noises like a fish out of water. Raziel is calmly holding him there, making no move to either retract or change the position of the blade. Blood drools from the wound and starts gathering darkly on the floor.
I dig my nails into Raziel's blue skin, and he looks down at me with those dreadful, empty eyes.
"Don't kill him! Please!"
