Note: In all honesty, I fervently wanted to release this story as a one-shot fic, however it's length has surprised me, and so I have had to release it in two parts, as the second part was nowhere near finished! This story is pure horror fantasy, as I wondered if you could blend those themes with Hannibal, for All Souls Day. This story contains some strong language, and scenes of a violent and bloody nature.
T O U R N I Q U E T
a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir
"I tried to kill the pain,
But only brought more,
I lay dying,
And I'm pouring crimson regret…"
Tourniquet by Evanescence"I know thee, I know thy name, I know the names of the Forty-two Gods who live with thee in this Hall of Maati, who live by keeping ward over sinners, and who feed upon their blood on the day when the consciences of men are reckoned up in the presence of the god Un-Nefer."
The Book of the Dead30TH OCTOBER
When the serial murderer Doctor Hannibal Lecter, told his companion of three years, Former Special Agent Clarice Starling, that she should try new things, Clarice wasn't entirely sure that he had meant rock music.
Light flooded every pore of her body, gently caressing her as she settled back; a wine glass filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, brushing her lips. She inhaled the citric aroma gently, smiling at its sharpness, and savouring its sweetness.
It had been a month since Clarice had left Hannibal in Vienna, not permanently, but she needed some space…some time to herself.
She was in London, one of her favourite cities in the world, away from beautiful Austria, with only a chaste kiss to remember her love by.
She was safe here – still listed as missing-in-action, but her aliases were damn near perfect, and she found comfort in that.
Her eyes flickered as a bird flew past her chair, placed haphazardly on the apartment's balcony, which in turn, brought her back to the music. Evanescence's Tourniquet was blasting out of the rented speakers. It's dark melody, and dark lyrics seemed strangely apt, cradling her in the moment of reality – no crossbow string required.
When she thought about the music, she almost burst into tears. Hannibal was so old-fashioned, unwilling to try more modern amenities. Sometimes he could be very hypocritical. Old music was beautiful, but sometimes so was new. You could have both, and not just settle for one.
Glancing at the clock, she smiled. Almost time for dinner, and she was hungry. The diversity of London was refreshing; she went to a new restaurant each night,
Walking to the bedroom, she considered what she might wear.
Perhaps a black dress.
Dark colours for dark music.
--
How apt.
Clarice smiled softly as she strode boldly towards The Nightingale Moon, her chosen restaurant this evening. There was a small queue standing in the street, but she knew the procedure.
When she walked into the restaurant, past the people there were loud cries and squeals of indignation, but Clarice ignored them all sweetly.
"Laura Forbes," she smiled as elegantly as the Cheshire Cat, while the boy at the entrance (poor thing couldn't have been over seventeen) glanced nervously down the reservations list; until his lips formed a perfect circle.
"Oh!" he murmured, seeing her as the only name in the Take EXTREME Care section. Roughly translated: Don't screw up!
Gossips in London are rampart and The Nightingale Moon had heard of the wealthy Ms Forbes (despite Clarice's yearning for anonymity), and quiet waves were spoken about her stunning dress sense, immaculate tastes in cuisine, and, of course, deep (metaphorical) pockets. Every maitre'd liked to boast about how he had served Ms Forbes's oysters…
I'm sure you get the picture.
When she was seated, and has ordered a light wine to begin with, she looked around the restaurant. She was attracting some dirty looks from the men and women outside, and more than a few admiring ones from inside, but Clarice ignored them. They weren't worth her precious time. The restaurant was small, and artfully lit, subtly implying an air of intimacy. The candles flickered deliciously on people's faces, and shadows shone, alternately hiding and revealing everything. Emotions were stripped bare in The Nightingale Moon, secrets and memories, intertwined in flesh and bone and blood.
--
Delicately brushing a napkin over her lips, and smiling slightly as she pushed back the plate holding half a dozen empty oyster shells back, Clarice considered what she would choose for her next course. Apparently the sweetbreads were to die for…
"Excuse me madam, but is this seat taken?"
Clarice looked up, startled at being interrupted, at the man standing across the table. She hadn't heard him approach.
Despite her irritation – or perhaps because of it – she took a slow and deliberate sip of wine…for it never hurt to keep him waiting…swallowed, looked up, and smiled sweetly:
"Yes, it is."
The man smiled in return, and sat down anyway. Clarice's smile dropped instantly.
"Ms Starling," the man coughed politely, "excuse me, Ms Forbes, although I know that not to be the truth."
"So? You're still not welcome. Kindly leave this table."
"Ah," he said, "but I am afraid I must impose." He had a slight accent she couldn't place. European defiantly. Eastern European?
"And why pray is that?"
"Well! It just happens I have a certain interest in you Ms Forbes!"
"Really? Do tell, Mister…"
"Ms Forbes, you do not want to hear my name."
"I believe I will be the judge of that."
The man snarled slightly, a gasp of bitterness escaping:
"Do you promise not to react?"
"I so promise,"
"My given name is…Vampyr."
"What?" exploded Clarice, somewhere between choking and laughing, "I'm surprised you don't use Lestat! I have never heard a more pathetic joke in all my life!"
"Is this gentleman disturbing you madam?" the maitre'd inquired. He too had seeming appeared from nowhere.
"Yes," said Clarice, smiling victoriously, "would you kindly remove him?"
"No I am not," said the man Vampyr, gazing deeply into the maitre'd's eyes.
"Of course sir," the maitre'd smiled, "and what would you like to order."
Clarice leaned over the table and hissed at the maitre'd: "Traitor!"
The man's eyes flickered over the menu:
"Steak Tartare, si vous plait," he may have spoken a little French, but that wasn't the correct accent. Definitely further east.
"And you, madam?" the maitre'd asked.
Sighing resignedly, Clarice ordered the sweetbreads.
--
They say in silence, locked in a silent battle of wills. A droplet of blood fell from the man's fork, and with a long serpent-like tongue, he gently licked it off. While his mouth was open, Clarice caught a glimpse of two elongated canines.
"So what am I to call you?" asked Clarice.
"My friends call me Vamp. You may do the same."
"The implication being, of course, that I am not your friend. Well at least we got that minor detail cleared. And so, here I am, a beautiful evening, and I'm sitting across a table from one of the walking dead. Woo…it's so exciting," her tone was flat and bored. Vamp smiled.
"You don't believe me?"
"Am I that obvious?"
"Dearest Laura, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."
"That may be so, but it sure as hell is the funniest."
"Oh, how droll! We have quite the little comedian!"
"Patronising ones dinner companions, after forcing themselves on them isn't far above sarcasm, you know."
"Forcing?" Vamp slowly licked his lips. Clarice just glared:
"So how do you think we are going to solve this little dilemma?"
"Dessert?" asked Vamp.
--
Clarice Starling lifted the final piece of chocolate cake, and delicately placed the fork into her mouth. It melted instantly on her tongue, flooding her mouth with sweetness. Closing her eyes, she pushed back her plate, contented, and smiled. The fork clattered as she laid it across the plate, and that noise made her open her eyes.
Seeing he dinner companion made her smile drop for the second time that night.
"You really are putting a dampener on my evening, Monsieur le Vampyr. What is it exactly do you want?"
"Some company," said Vamp, "for it can get very lonely."
"And I'm the first women you've seen in hundred's of years? Do I have to sit here and endure you telling me the story of your life?"
"No. My life, or rather lack of it, is none of your concern. And furthermore, it is thirty."
"Excuse me?" said Clarice.
"Thirty. Thirty years since I became what I am."
"And you wanted some company."
"Yes."
"And I should believe that, why exactly?"
"It is the truth."
"Well then, Vamp, as I seem unlikely to be rid of you, would you like a walk."
"Outside in the London fog? With pleasure."
"So…are you paying, or am I?" asked Clarice.
--
The back room of the restaurant. Two people stood silently, brother and sister, gazing horrified at each other. Mr Nightingale Red, and Miss Moon Red…the two young proprietors of The Nightingale Moon.
"It's him!" whispered Moon, "The bastard who murdered our father! What are we to do?"
"We go after him," said Nightingale, "and his pretty young friend. We find out if the legends are true. And if demons can truly die!"
"We cannot delay," said Moon, "can we?"
"Hurry," said Nightingale, "we must find him before the moon sets."
--
In the end, they split the bill, which both parties thought was only fair.
It was icy cold outside, and Clarice's Gucci shoes crackled loudly on the dry leaves scattered on the pavement. Clarice noted that Vamp's feet were completely silent, even though his movement matched hers exactly.
"So…why are you here, Clarice?" asked Vamp.
"To get away. To spend time to myself. Away from others. Solitude."
"I know about solitude," said Vamp, "but tonight I feel like dancing!" Grabbing Clarice's hands he began to twist, and against her better nature, she felt herself being swept away.
"It take two to Tango!" said Vamp.
"It take two to kill each other!" said Clarice.
Vamp's hands were warm, very warm and Clarice started to feel tired. Whirling like spinning dervishes; past people who were so self-absorbed, it seemed like they were blind.
Dancing to a rhythm and music that was silent, Clarice suddenly felt wrong. They were turning into an alley, a genuine cliché; but Vamp's eyes were hypnotic in their beauty, and Clarice found herself behind dragged – kicking and screaming – into two infinite pools of eternity.The silence of the alley was shattered when she cried out in pain; feeling twin needles shooting into her neck, and Vamps mouth breathing and sucking. It wasn't a joke. This was…real! Clarice tried to hit Vamp away, but he was too strong, impossible strong, and her arms couldn't quite reach his face.
Gasping furiously, she fought for consciousness, at the monster's mercy.
And then he was gone.
--
Howard Carter was a quiet man, who did not put much stock in heroics. But when a young pretty woman stumbled numbly out of the alley, with two thick streams of blood pumping out of her neck, he couldn't just stand by.
'They've hit the jugular,' Howard thought as he rushed his portly form forward. He cought the woman and lowered her to the floor. His eyes widening as he saw how pale her face was, he simultaneously pulled a thick cotton handkerchief out of his pocket, and pressed it firmly against her neck. With the other, he pulled out a mobile phone, and dialled: 999.
"Hello, emergency services."
"Hurry!" cried Howard, "I have a young woman, bleeding to death! I'm at –"
--
Clarice awoke to rocking and sirens, as the ambulance – which had arrived within minutes – sped her to hospital, as they fought to stabilise her.
--
St. Mary's Hospital"We got a bleeder!" yelled the paramedic, as Doctor Heather Wolf ran out of her office. Her white coat fluttering, she pushed back a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes, and stopped at her patient.
"Severe Hypovolemia!" she cried, "Is this some kind of sick joke? Two puncture marks, some kind of thin knife, or needle…made to look like a vampire."
"The wounds won't clot," said the desperate paramedic, "she just keeps on bleeding!"
Indeed, the blood kept spluttering out of Clarice's neck.
"Any ID?" asked Heather, "And let's get her into surgery."
"Laura Forbes, blood type A."
"Get me six pints of A type blood, and an emergency transfusion kit." The orderly scurried off.
"Get me a tourniquet!" yelled Heather to the orderly's back.
--
Clarice was in surgery for three hours after Heather had scrubbed up. She had lost fifty percent of her blood during the attack, and in the time between Howard Carter's swift, life saving, action, and her surgery with Dr Wolf, Clarice lost another thirteen percent.
In the file, Dr Wolf wrote it was the worst case of Hypovolemia she had ever seen, due to an attack of a wanton and sadistic nature.
--
Some hours later.
Clarice was awake, and standing. Holding a warm, thick blanket around her dress, her porcelain white skin glowed with the light in the private room. She looked out of the window, out onto the city spread out below and before her.
"I'll find you," she whispered, "oh, I'll find you, and I will kill you. On that I swear."
On the green-painted wall behind her, the second hand on the clock slowly ticked its way up to midnight.
--
The shadows are lengthening
and we are betrayed.
Our God's weep petty tears
to glorify our descent
but they do not laugh
and we must be grateful
for miserable small mercies.
What will we be denied?
in our frantic search
for the Garden of Heaven.
To Be Concluded
in the final part of
T O U R N I Q U E T
Note: This has been especially written for Penelope S Cartwright (for recommending Bram Stoker's Dracula!), Doctor Katy (a fan of horror films!), and Beatrice Portinari (may our quest for the Savage Garden be long, fun, and fruitful!).
Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir