The world is such a stubborn horse. Sorry about the disgustingly late update—I really am appalled. You should be too. Give me a talking-to, will you? Anyway, I'm hoping you'll enjoy this chapter, and please do drop a comment in the blue box…
Tamashii: Hullo…! The plot'll become even twistier soon…you'll see. About Ruan, he's supposed to have something missing, something most other creatures have: compassion and humanity. Because of that, he's not quite right in the way he relates with other people. Please tell me if I've accomplished that characterization at all—he should be empty, but he should also be real. Muchisimas gracias for the review, and do read on…
brigit: How do? Glad you think the story's not too reminiscent of "frosting and Molly Ringwald movies"—certainly elements I think it could do without. Yeah, Winn's a pretty miserable wretch. Hopefully she'll grow a bit more backbone with which she can deal with Ruan better. Winn doesn't know much at all about the Nightworld. She had no knowledge of it before being changed, and the Marquéd are a tight-lipped bunch. All she knows about the Nightworld is based on what Mara told her—she knows that shapeshifters, werewolves and witches exist, but she knows very little of Nightworld lore and law. Four thousand thank you's for your review, and please read on…
galaktis: Hallo, hallo! Glad you're liking the minor character development. There isn't much—at all—in this chapter, but there'll be much more interaction in the next. Read on…
OnKloudNyne: Hiya. Delighted that you've been enjoying the story, and I hope you'll keep reading. Thanks a ton for the lovely review, and do read on…
SpooK: Hello! Most happy that you're liking the pairing…I do enjoy the bad-boy/sorta-good-girl madness myself…it'll get a bit more interesting in this chapter, I think. Thanks so much for reviewing, and do read on…
crystalfire: Hullo. Sorry about the confusion! Yeah, the relationship between Winn and Ruan is a real bed of thorns. About the pairing up and happy ending business, we'll see. :) Thanks for reviewing, and do read on…
angelphire: Man-o-man. Ramen in your blood? Madness. Absolutely scrumptious madness. You know, I'm glad you told me about the restlessness—I was feeling the same way, I just needed some prompting to get going. Anyway, I hope this chapter provides a bit more action. Next chapter'll give more direction to the story, I think. Thanks so much for reviewing, and do read on…
Chapter 12: Marquéd
Three weeks of training flew by in a blur, during which each of the newcomers' strengths were pinpointed and developed with guidance from Morteflame regulars. During that time none of the new members—except, of course, for Myr—caught even a glimpse of Faolán, the elusive Morteflame leader, not that they expected to, really, since nearly every Morteflame member they had encountered since their induction had told them all about Faolán's elusive habits.
Winn supposed Ruan had kept up contact with Lif, though he had never mentioned anything of the sort to her. In fact, during the past three weeks Ruan hadn't really seemed to notice her or anyone—he had climbed back into his ice-encrusted shell, aloof and perfectly unconcerned with everyone around him. Consequently, she and Ruan had spoken scarcely ten words to each other throughout the past few weeks, and the only times she saw him were during their daily training sessions.
Their Morteflame trainers—a tall young man called Bjorn and a slightly older woman named Ophelia—had, upon first meeting Winn and Ruan, immediately pinpointed Winn as the more burdensome of the two. Her lips tightened as she recollecting the cold scrutiny the two assassins had put her through. First, they had cut her hair, as all of the other girls in the new group had been ordered to do, and she could no longer hide behind her tangled fall of curls. In fact, her whole damn face was bared, including the faded scars bordering her hairline, and her head was now topped off with a strange-looking shock of short, sooty curls. Cowlicks protruded erratically, springing wild and fey-like from a delicate skull.
Second, Ophelia had very unceremoniously plunged straight into her brain, pawing through half-forgotten memories, secrets, and nightmares best left in obscurity, storing away the ones she deemed most useful, though she had not gone so deep as to discover Winn and Ruan's true objectives. Winn was not sure if Ruan had undergone similar treatment—somehow, she doubted it. He was far too menacing and far too advanced even for these two highly trained professionals.
Finally, both Bjorn and Ophelia had conducted ruthless, unending physical and psychological exercises and tests, trying to get Winn into shape as quickly as possible.
Not that it worked. And she didn't think she liked them very much, either.
* * *
Ruan sat up with a movement so boneless he appeared, in the stark early morning light, to be something not flesh but fluid—something primal and pure. His hair was shocking, blood-dark, against the creamy paleness of his throat and jaw.
A very beautiful creature, indeed. But if ever one were to peer into the vivid blue of his eyes, one would surely freeze—or burn,—caught unawares and utterly vulnerable by the unadulterated coldness and caustic heat residing there. Closed off as he was, Ruan still radiated a frigid emptiness so distinctly laced with his signature blend of fire and ice that no person in his or her right mind would consciously approach him without caution. His very being screamed danger, and cried out for intruders to be very, very wary.
Naturally, Ophelia and Bjorn just *loved* him. He was a younger, more beautiful version of Faolán, and thus elicited unconscious homage from them. With no effort at all Ruan had taken control of their minds, preventing them from becoming suspicious of his and Winn's origins.
And now, he knew, it was just about time for him and Winn to get ready for their first mission with Morteflame. He wasn't supposed to know this, of course, but he had simply plucked the information out of Bjorn's head and learned that their debut would take place in just two hours.
Shrugging on a fitted, very worn grey t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, Ruan stepped quietly out of the dormitory he shared with the other guys and strode at a quick but leisurely pace through the hall. Winn was not in her room, he knew. He sensed that she was at that little knoll again, the one she had discovered their first or second day at "the Hole." His lips curved in a tiny smile at the knowledge that she thought he didn't know about her little hiding place.
He strode through the surrounding forest, easily making no sound, and was soon climbing up the tiny, dew-stippled hill. There she was. Her back was turned to him as she faced the awe-inspiring view of the forests and Melas near completely swallowed by heavy mist and clouds. Stripped early on of all her old clothes, she wore a thick, grey wool sweater in place of the grey-green jacket, and thanks to her strange haircut, the back of her neck was pale, bared.
Stepping silently close, Ruan let his icy breath trail along the white flesh of her neck. He heard her suck in a sharp, ragged breath as she whirled around, dark eyes wide and flushed with alarm.
* * *
*SMACK.*
Flinching at the distinct sound of her hand colliding with Ruan's cheek, Winn automatically tried to jerk back, jump away. But she couldn't move—Ruan had gripped her wrist in one unyielding fist that felt like cold iron against her skin.
Immediately, both she and Ruan were plunged into a whirl of frenzied color, the soulmate link flaring up wildly after being repressed for weeks. In her panic and immediate desperation to get free, Winn inadvertently raised her eyes and met Ruan's burning gaze. If she didn't know better, she would say they seemed slightly *unnerved.* She suppressed a bitter laugh. Nothing—in her experience—had ever truly unnerved Ruan and she doubted that she had broken his record. The familiar rush of hot anger that she unfailingly experienced whenever Ruan was near filled her chest, sending telepathic tendrils of molten fury directly into Ruan's brain.
Before she could say a thing, though, Ruan tightened his already bone-crushing grip on her wrist and jerked her closer to him. Meeting his blistering gaze, Winn felt all of the courage she might have had before suddenly shrink and shrivel and slink away.
He was very, very angry.
Bending close so that his face was only inches from hers, Ruan said, in a voice inflected with the barest touch of harshness, "If you ever touch me like that again, I will kill you. Soulmate fucking principal or no, I will kill you. Do you understand?"
A shudder wracked Winn's body. For a second all she could feel was an achingly deep sense of despair—she realized that short of dying, she would never truly be free of Ruan Ferrin, of this unfeeling, *empty* creature. *Why?* she wanted to scream at him, at his perfect face.
And then, moments later, she just felt drained. She was barren, and lost. Turning her gaze away from those piercing orbs, Winn just nodded wearily, barely able to keep herself from collapsing on the dew-covered grass in a comatose heap.
Ruan let go of her wrist, drawing his hand back as though from fire or holy water, and stepped away. Winn's knees trembled; she felt feverish, and each gentle gust of wind that trailed across her body felt like sharp knives digging deep into her highly sensitized flesh.
"We have our first assignment today," Ruan said quietly, his smooth, uninflected voice oddly piercing in the early morning quiet. Winn flicked an indifferent glance at Ruan, and wasn't surprised to find him staring at the city of Melas with his face unconcerned and cold once again. "We'll be summoned in an hour."
"Seven o'clock, then?"
He didn't answer, instead turning away from the view of the city and starting down the hill. Unsurprised, Winn shot one last, longing glance at the fog-engulfed city, wrapped her arms around herself, and trudged down after him.
* * *
Promptly at seven o'clock Willem came for them, and then led them down several longish corridors until they had reached a white-walled, utterly sterile changing room flanked on each end by rows of brushed-steel lockers.
"552 is yours, Winn, and 553 is Ruan's," Willem announced brusquely, and handed them each a slip of paper with their combinations. "You will find your assignment materials there. I will be back in ten minutes." With that, Willem turned on his heel and left the room. Winn squinted at him…he looked so dark against the brilliance of fluorescent lights… But Ruan was already striding toward his locker, rousing Winn from her odd reverie.
25…15…5—there. The locker door swung open, revealing its unusual contents. On the top shelf lay a pile of neatly folded matte-black clothing; the middle shelf held two small knives and a standard automatic, as well as a holster and sheaths; a pair of steel-toed boots sat on the bottom shelf. Assassin wear, huh? Winn thought, biting back a reckless laugh.
When Willem returned, they were already dressed—entirely in black. Winn wore a narrow, fitted jacket that fell to her hips, and a pair of tailored trousers; though all of the clothing was strangely easy to move in, she still felt uncomfortable in such—form-fitting—garments. She noted with envy that Ruan, though dressed similarly, appeared completely comfortable and utterly elegant.
Willem surveyed them covertly. "Ruan and Winnen. You will be taking care of two shapeshifters—one a lynx, the other a hawk. Do you understand?"
Winn nodded, while Ruan just stared back at Willem's slightly down-tilted face. Willem beckoned to both, saying, "Come. I will give you your instructions." They walked up to him, faintly perplexed. "Morteflame details its assignments through telepathy. In this way we can avoid unfortunate lapses of memory, reason, judgment, et cetera." With a sudden movement, Willem touched two fingers to Winn and Ruan's foreheads; Winn could feel her mind being invaded by brand-new, distinctly alien knowledge. A moment later, she knew exactly who it was they were assigned to "take care of", and she knew their expected procedure exactly, as though she had come up with it herself.
And she knew Ruan was just as sure in his mind about all this as she was.
Not surprisingly, though, Willem had neglected to imbue her with knowledge of *why* there was a hit on these two shifties. Not my *place*, I suppose, she thought with an ironic smile threatening to twist her mouth.
Willem drew his hands away with a movement just as silent and sudden as the first, and though his head was, as usual, tilted downwards, Winn thought she saw a tiny, complacent smile curve his lips. "I will take you to your designated vehicle, now. Follow me," he stated, and led them out of the white room, through a few halls, and outside through a back door. He gestured toward the smallish, nondescript sedan sitting before them. "There you are. You have all you need for your first assignment, Ruan and Winnen. Have…fun." With that, the strange young man turned on his heel and strode away.
Some moments later, Winn sat stiffly, nervously in the passenger's seat, while Ruan drove them away from the Hole. Glancing warily over, she furtively studied Ruan's profile; granted, it was every bit as perfect as the rest of him, but strangely, the sharp dip of cheekbone, the line of jaw and throat, the curve of his ear all gave his face a delicacy she would never have thought he could possess.
"See anything interesting, Winnen-little?"
Winn jerked, startled. Mouth suddenly dry, and a flush staining her cheeks, Winn leaned away from the boy next to her and mumbled, "Interesting isn't the word for it, I don't think."
A tiny smile curved that perfect mouth. "Are you nervous, partridge?"
"No, Ruan Ferrin," she replied.
"I think you're lying, partridge. I can *feel* it through our…connection," Ruan murmured.
Winn felt her cheeks flush with anger; a rush of heat coursed through her body, and she muttered, "And our 'connection' is a fucking joke."
Did Ruan's eyes widen, ever so slightly? "Indeed it is. But you're still nervous, partridge, and the connection doesn't lie."
Winn didn't answer, choosing instead to rest her cheek on the icy window and wait for them to arrive at their destination.
The rest of the trip was spent in silence, then the car finally pulled to a stop, and Winn sat up in her seat, a fine trembling taking over her body. They were there. Or, they were a block away from their destination, 1533 East Sherling Drive, city of Brierley, where the two shifties were lingering, unsuspecting, vulnerable, dead and walking.
Ruan had parked a block or so down the street behind an empty, soon-to-be-demolished apartment building. Needless to say, the neighborhood was not a particularly nice one; the tenement buildings were old and run-down, and the sidewalks were lined with litter and indigents.
Winn knew her part, and strangely, she felt confident. At the same time, though, she felt sick at that same confidence—she hated what she perceived to be her heartlessness.
She and Ruan were to make a fast, clean job of it; Willem had emphasized the need for stealth and efficiency. Without glancing at Ruan for confirmation, Winn opened the door and stepped out into the alley. Out of habit scanning her surroundings, she stepped around the sedan and began walking down the alley toward the building a block away. According to Willem's very explicit instructions, she and Ruan would not be working together, exactly. While she would take care of the man, the hawk shapeshifter,—Willem had subtly but clearly implied that he was the weaker of the two—Ruan would deal with the woman, both maintaining telepathic contact with each other throughout the operation. Thanks to an image Willem had imparted to her, she even knew what this man looked like: he was five or six years older than her, thin, and of medium height with short, dirty-blond hair. The guy looked completely normal and unassuming—someone she might see on the street.
Peering around the edge of the building, Winn felt no less confident of *how* she was to complete her assignment, but at the same time, she felt increasingly disconcerted at her final objective. I'm a murderer, she thought, biting back a choked laugh. Not good, not good. She knew what she was supposed to do, but she could feel the hysteria begin to bubble up inside of her. Sucking in a deep breath, she began walking rapidly through the alley to 1533 East Sherling.
Moments later, she stood just around the corner from the building's back door. Handgun first, she thought, face blanched completely white. Her hands shook as she reached into her jacket and pulled out the weapon. Willem said to use the gun first…silver bullets…put the silencer on, he said. Be fast, he said. Holding the cold piece of metal tightly against her chest, Winn finally reached out with her mind to connect with Ruan's.
~~Ruan Ferrin.~~ The soulmate link burst open, disconcerting Winn even further. Shit. Before he responded, Winn could feel Ruan's mind meshing so disturbingly with her own. It was odd…the link felt almost…stronger, this time…
~~Winnen-little. On location behind the building, I assume.~~ He sounded…he didn't sound like anything. His voice was so perfectly empty—so devoid of feeling. He was—off.
Winn narrowed her eyes. ~~Yes. I'm opening the door.~~
He didn't answer.
The door swung open easily. As she crept up the dark, iron staircase, her eyes feverishly searched her environment, all of her nerves wound tight and wary. All right, she thought nervously. Almost there… She was now slinking as quietly as possible down a wide, empty corridor on the fourth floor, looking for room number 431. Her breathing was loud, piercing the eerie stillness of the hallway. 429…430…431—*there*.
For a moment she just stared at the tarnished metal numbers tacked onto the noticeably worn door. Her legs refused to move and her arms hung, heavy as lead, by her sides, the handgun dangling from her fingers. Four. Thirty. One. Four…No. With a slight shake of her head, Winn aimed the gun at the lock, and without further adieu pulled the trigger.
The bullet left the barrel of the gun with a stifled buzz and ripped the lock apart with a sharp, popping sound. Taking a sharp breath and holding it, she pushed the door open and slipped in, eyes wide and searching. Okay…there's the kitchen…living room…Wait. Stepping into the living room, she ignored the clothes strewn across the floor, but noticed with interest that the far corner of the room was packed with humming laptops and PCs, wires, disks, software and hardware. So this guy is what, some kind of hacker? And hackers are dangerous because…they can break into databases…does the Marquéd have a database then? Must…
Her thoughts came to an abrupt stop. Because there, just a few feet away, her target was lying, sprawled, on the scruffy couch. That's him, then, she thought, fingers tightening on the gun in her hands.
The man—she didn't even know his name—looked exhausted; his dirty blonde hair was unkempt, his clothes rumpled, and his chin covered in several days' worth of stubble.
~~Shoot him now, partridge.~~
Winn almost jumped at Ruan's sudden intrusion into her thoughts. ~~I will—I'm going to, right now,~~ she replied sharply, feeling Ruan retreat back to whatever it was he was doing.
Leaning slightly away from the man lying on the sofa, she forced her elbows to unlock, and slowly leveled the gun at his forehead. Fast, Willem said. Fast and clean and quiet as a cat. Just shoot him, Winn, she told herself harshly. Just do it. Do it! Fucking do it, *now*. Her fingers, so cold and tight, tensed against the trigger—
And his eyes snapped open. "What the fuck?" she heard him mutter, as though from a great distance. "Shit!"
She was frozen, and she knew she must be gaping. With a movement fluid and swift, he wrenched the gun out of her hands, snapping her out of her trance. Suddenly springing into motion, she jerked away, feeling his fist glance off her cheekbone with a painful *crack*. "Dammit," she mumbled, backing clumsily away. As she pawed through her jacket, searching for something to defend herself with, her back hit a wall, her head thumping painfully against it. She looked up at the target, and realized that he was now pointing the gun at her; didn't he know what she was? That silver bullets would not kill her?
The knives! "Winn, you are a stupid, stupid, stupid girl," she mumbled under her breath, snatching at the two smallish knives at her hips.
Hawk-man's grey eyes widened triumphantly as he advanced on her. "Winn? Is that your name, then, Winn?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, speaking rapidly, "Who's behind all this, Winn? You must know. You know! Who was it? Who paid for—for *you*?" he spat, only a few feet away. "Did they tell you what they're really doing, Winn? Huh? Did they? Do you know who *they* is? Do you? Do you have any fucking clue what they do to people like me? People who don't follow their fucking rules—their goddamn *laws*? Wait—of course you do. You know *exactly* what they do, don't you, Winn?" He had stopped advancing on her, seeming intent on studying her, taking in her odd haircut, her mouth, which was set in a straight, expressionless line.
"You won't answer me, then? You know, Winn, you don't seem very experienced at this sort of thing. No, you seem a bit…edgy…" The man's tone had become reflective, as though he was puzzling something out. "…Why send someone so inexperienced, then? To kill…Oh, shit. Shit! Where's the other one, Winn?" he snarled, suddenly very close.
That's it, hawk-boy, just a little closer… Her fingers closed around the hilts of her knives, and she edged them out bit by bit.
"Where's your partner?" he barked. His eyes widened. "Your partner…Oh my god, Deirdre! Shit!" His eyes narrowed, and his arms came up, quivering only slightly, aiming the gun at her forehead, fingers tensing on the trigger. With a movement so natural and so rapid she could hardly believe it was hers, Winn pulled the knives from her sheathes, and sprang away from the wall, slashing with her knives at the same time, hoping to at least make him back away.
It worked. The man leapt backwards and into the couch, tumbling over the side and onto the floor. Astonishingly, he had managed not to inadvertently pull the trigger; instead, upon colliding with the floor, the gun was wrenched out of his grasp to slide across the tile, just a few feet away from Winn. For a second, their gazes met, his filled with sudden fear, and hers with…nothing. At that moment, Winn felt no pang of shock, or guilt, or confusion—all she felt was a cold, logical desire to retrieve the gun and finish her job.
Without a word, she ripped her gaze away from him and darted over to the gun. Bringing her arms up with a sharp jerk, she crept toward the figure lying on the ground, and aimed the gun at his forehead. Her face and mind was still blank as her fingers tightened on the trigger; she took a step forward…
"Get it over with. Just—do it," the man muttered, still staring straight at her with eyes filled with fear, and resignation. "Do it!"
Winn was seized with an overwhelming sense of unease. Glancing at her hands wrapped so tightly around the gun, she noticed that she was shaking—not trembling, either; she was *shaking*. "Why?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
The man's eyes widened; he seemed surprised. Shaking his head slowly from side to side, he murmured, "Because I'm dead already. Without Deirdre…I'm finished."
"Who's Deirdre?" Winn asked softly, though she had already deduced that Deirdre must have been the woman Ruan was assigned to deal with.
"She's—wait…no. I won't tell you a fucking thing—I won't!" he cried, eyes locked on the barrel of the gun trained on him. He smiled fiercely. "You don't have a clue, do you, *Winn*? Not a goddamn clue…" Letting out a short bark of laughter, he went on, "Do you even know why you're here? Why you were sent? You don't. You're just some stupid drone following orders." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me tell you why you're here, then, Winn. You and whoever you're with were sent to kill Deirdre and me because we don't follow *their* rules—and I know you know who *they* are. The Marquéd, right? You don't have any idea what they're like! Let me tell you why they sent you. You must have noticed my humble set-up in the corner, there. The Marquéd have a database—highly classified, of course—that no outsider has ever gotten into…except for Deirdre and me. We did it and we saw—" the man's eyes looked almost haunted for a second "—we saw things no outsider was ever meant to see. We know what they do. We know... But we're dead, anyway, so I won't bore you with the details. So that's it, Winn. That's why you're here." His mouth tightened. "Now finish it."
Shivering, Winn felt as though an immense hole was unfolding inside of her. The Marquéd…she knew it wasn't what it seemed. That *Lif* was much, much more than what he appeared to be. But that there were *things*, as the shapeshifter said, the Marquéd was doing…or planning—that was a whole different world. A very frightening world. And Winn couldn't help but wonder what was really going on…what the Marquéd was planning…
She couldn't do this. She couldn't kill someone in cold blood—
~~What are you doing, Winn?~~
Ruan's sudden intrusion into her thoughts almost made her jump. His voice was still just as closed-off and cold as it had been earlier. She sensed with a growing feeling of revulsion that he had already completed his assignment. Deirdre, whoever she was, was most definitely dead.
And he was closer now, and drawing nearer.
~~You haven't finished him. Do it, Winn. Now.~~
"Just do it, Winn," the shapeshifter muttered again. "Do it."
~~Now, Winn. Finish it. Or I'll do it for you.~~
"Shoot me, already! Pull the fucking trigger!"
Winn sensed that Ruan was now running down the stairs from the eighth floor. No. I won't do this—I can't. She whipped her gaze back to the near-desperate man on the floor and said loudly, "No." Ruan was very near now. She bent down to him and pushed the gun into his hands. "Get out," she muttered, feeling nauseous. "Go! Get off the floor and get out. Now!" Confusion written all over his face, the shapeshifter pushed himself off the ground and lurched toward the fire escape.
Ruan was down the hall now…twenty feet away…ten… Face gone completely white, Winn cried out, "Run!" The shapeshifter began running toward the escape and was almost there…
Hearing the front door bang against the wall, Winn whirled around just in time to see a tall, dark blur rush across the living room towards the shapeshifter—she saw a flash of bright silver—she heard the whir of metal slashing through the air—
And then everything was silent. Except for the achingly slow sound of something sliding down the wall.
Something…something…the shapeshifter…was…was... Winn shook her head, not quite comprehending, and mumbled, "No."
"Yes."
At the painfully cold sound of Ruan's voice, she raised her head and stared at the sight before her: Ruan stood, tall, slim and elegant in black, with a long, red-streaked knife in each hand, over a prone body—the shapeshifter. The body's chest was cleaved virtually open by two diagonal slashes perpendicular to each other. A pool of dark blood was forming rapidly under the body.
She noticed vaguely that Ruan was walking slowly, almost warily towards her, letting the two knives fall from his hands.
Ruan stood directly before her, less than a foot away. With a gesture graceful but detached, he cupped her face in his hands, bringing the soulmate link violently to life. Yes, the contact was undeniably more intense now.
His eyes were so blue…and so devoid of human emotion. He was like some Greek god carved out of ice—wonderfully beautiful, but ultimately inhuman. His fingers tightened on her jaw and throat, digging into the skin, and her skin flamed, burning like fire, at every point of contact.
Despite her presently muddled state, one thing lay clear and bright in her mind: Ruan's touch hurt, and was unwelcome. Any touch of his was unwelcome, and every touch of his hurt.
Her body tensed as she prepared to jerk out of his vice-like grip, but before she could even move, he sent one deafening, caustic thought deep into her mind:
~~Sleep now, Winnen-little. Sleep and be dead to the world.~~
I don't know his name…the shapeshifter…I never even learned his name, she thought before tumbling into thick, liquid night.
* * *
The clouds still hung heavy and dark as Ruan pulled up to the back door at the Hole two hours later. He glanced over at the passenger seat, where Winn still slumped, unconscious, against the door.
Letting his mind go blank, he brushed over her thoughts and once again received the sensation that she was deeply troubled about something, aside from the usual anxiety that seemed to constantly plague the deeper recesses of her mind.
She was such an anxious little thing… Nothing at all like Myr. Myr was always so strong, so manipulative, so completely self-assured. So powerful. But Winn, she was different story altogether, constantly nervous, perpetually uneasy and restless, always so fearful of what the future might bring.
And that was what he got. A depressed, neurotic bundle of nerves.
He reached out a hand and touched the tip of his forefinger to her temple, feeling the electricity erupt with an intensity that made him feel almost…apprehensive.
He was beginning to understand that his plans for Winnen Fallou would be more difficult to realize than he had previously thought. Even just barely skimming her thoughts, he could see and feel traces of her potential for power…a power that might someday eclipse his own.
However anxiety-ridden she was, Winnen Fallou was different, and as much as he would have liked to deny it, she was a threat.
A threat, however, that he would have to live with, unless he preferred madness over lucidity. But living with a threat didn't necessarily mean he had to be afraid of it…no…this was a threat he would have to blunt and blur until it was void and no longer a danger to him and his plans.
Ruan drew his hand away, welcoming the sudden relief from that electric pulse, and leaned down toward her. Voice dry and distant as usual, he said loudly, "Get up, Winn." He grasped her upper arm tightly and jerked her upright. "Get up. Now."
Her arm felt so frail in his grip…as though she were still vermin… He gave her arm another sharp tug.
With a shudder, Winn woke up, her ink-dark eyes at once violet-shadowed and alert and filled with a confusing mixture of hot anger, growing coldness, and something too tangled for him to recognize. Her gaze darted around the car for a moment before settling on his face, her face filled with revulsion.
"You killed him," she mumbled, flattening herself against the car door.
A rush of anger filled his chest—it was strange…uncharacteristic for him. He had almost always had perfect control over his emotions. Eyes flashing with electricity, he looked away from the sharp little face a few feet away; he turned back a moment later, though, his face once again expressionless except for a hint of contempt. "Yes, I did kill him, because that is what we do now. Think back, Winnen. The sooner we gain the insurgents' trust, the sooner we get back to the Marquéd—" He had been about to say that the sooner they got back to the Marquéd the sooner he could deal with Lif and move on with his plans, but then realized who he was talking to. He doubted Winn would approve of them, on account of what he was planning for her, and he couldn't have her undermining them. After a moment's pause, he continued, "Learn now, partridge, that we are going to kill every person we have to in order to accomplish our objective. He and his soulmate are dead. Forget about them."
Blanching, Winn gave her head a small shake, closing her eyes for a moment. She looked nauseous. "Deirdre…was his soulmate…" She sounded as though she were talking to herself, trying to absorb and deny at the same time whatever it was she was thinking about.
Ruan's eyes narrowed fractionally, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. She hadn't known…
"He said...he was finished…that was what he meant—" She sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly bit down hard on her bottom lip; her fingers clenching even more tightly around each other.
As though she had reached a sudden, revelatory conclusion, she met his gaze again, burning holes into his skull, and said loudly and with utter conviction, "You are a monster."
Ruan stared, intrigued, at the ruby-colored drops of blood welling up in the self-inflicted cuts on her bottom lip. They glistened alluringly, beads of crimson wine, in the dim, grayish light filtering through the heavy clouds. Only vaguely aware of what he was saying, he murmured, "Monsters are relative, partridge. The world hates what it does not, cannot, and refuses to comprehend—but are these things true monsters?"
"By any definition, Ruan Ferrin, you are monstrous. You kill without passion, you live but are dead inside—"
"Dead inside?" Ruan interrupted, eyes still glued to her scarlet-slick lip. "Do you remember what you told me, Winnen, about lacking…compassion? I think you were right about that. But I am still very much alive." He found himself leaning closer to her, causing her to press even harder against the car door. "Very alive…"
Reaching out with a hand, he very lightly brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, smearing the blood across her mouth, along the curve of her cheek, until his hand reached the corner of her eye.
He noticed that Winn had suddenly tensed up; she was blinking rapidly, her breath coming fast and thin.
Her body seemed to wind up even tighter, and go still for a moment—realizing that she was about to shove him or jerk away, Ruan closed the remaining inches between them with a movement too swift for Winn to intercept, and pressed his mouth to hers.
He tasted blood; he felt the friction caused by the dryness of both their lips; he smelled the mingled scents of Chapstick and pure, unadulterated panic. Her panic.
Caught up in the whirlwind of raw sensation, of roughness and drying blood, Ruan was only vaguely aware of Winn fumbling clumsily with the car door; his fingers dug deeper into the skin of her jaw and cheekbone.
All he could think of was the blood and the power and the fear…something had broken inside of him.
Then, suddenly, the car door swung open, and Winn wrenched her mouth away and scrambled out of the car. Snapping back to reality, Ruan touched a hand to his mouth, noticing that the tips of his fingers were splotched with red, and was filled with a surge of disgust.
Watching Winn clamber up from the pavement, his eyes, face, and chest empty and cold once again, Ruan slowly slid back into his seat.
The plans would soon begin.
* * *
Thanks a two-thousand-pound-unit-of-measurement, my loves, and please, please, please drop me a line! I love feedback…'deed I do. Happy fortune cookies to all who review, then!
Much love and all things spicy,
Mogget ::happy smile::
