THIS STORY IS RATED "T" FOR SOME OF THE THINGS I MENTION. I SAY "DAMN" "HELL" AND "RAPE" A FEW TIMES. FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE THINKING "HOLY SHIT STEVE GETS RAPED," NO HE DOES NOT! YOU'LL FIND OUT WHY I MENTION "RAPE" IF YOU READ THE STORY. THANK YOU FOR LISTENING TO MY LITTLE RANT.
-takes a deep breath- This story came to my mind as I was walking downstairs to get a soda (wtf) on September thirtieth and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. I began writing it on October first and I finished it today and I'm rather pleased with the results, even if it's just a fanfiction. -dies-
Well, as I mentioned, I was going to get a soda and I began to think, "How did Steve become a vampaneze? Did he beg and plead the vampaneze, or were the vampaneze redused to picking random humans off the street and throwing them into their coffin?" Naturally, being the weirdo I am, I started to torture myself with the possibilities. "How did Steve change?" "Why is he so bitter towards Darren?" "Did Steve really deserve the horrible role he is given in CDF--the one that he is some sort of bastard in disguse?" And, the more I thought about his actions, and how he must have felt, I began to realize that Steve's a lot deeper than "the tricky bitch that totally tortured Vancha, Harkat, Darren, and Crepsley." So, this story is dedicated to one of my newest favorite characters, Steve Leonard! Don't say "oh, since you make Steve out as a good guy I'm not going to read this," because I do put a lot of what Darren Shan origionally said about him in this--even though it's more towards the end. I think you guys will enjoy this.
I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this as a series. If I do, it'll probably lead up to his inevitable death and I can guarentee you'll feel sorry for him. But it's all up to what you guys want--should I continue or not?
Disclaimer: I am not Darren Shan. I'm just a major fangirl of his that likes to figure out what goes on behind the story he chose to tell. I am Toasteh, and I love his books, so I would never claim to own him. -nods-
Okay, no flaming, just tell me what you guy think. -nods and looks away dejectedly-
Here you go...Sewers--Steve's Story.
Steve Leonard stretched his hands over his head and sneezed. He flinched—his sneezes were always so violent, and he had been sneezing like a maniac since he was young. In fact, to be precise, he had had a major sneezing problem since his last trip to the hospital. Also, unfortunately, that meant that he caught colds much quicker and much easier than the average human.
"Steve? Did you finish your homework?" his mother called to him from somewhere. Lifting his eyes away from his book, he let himself glare at the door. Ever since the…accident, Steve's mother had gone from a loose-fitting shirt to a shirt that nearly suffocated him. And that was putting it lightly.
"Yes, mother," Steve called through clenched teeth. He pushed his hair away from his face (he normally let it hang absently in front of his right eye) and looked back down at his book. It was a book he had gotten years ago, with his old best friend. It was all on vampires and vampire myths, and Steve had read it more times than he could count.
"Are you sure?" his mother asked again. It was a daily ritual for them; Steve to come home, play around on his computer—mainly looking for vampire information—then he would do his homework, and read the rest of the night. But his mother never failed to ask him numerous times if he had completed his homework.
"Yes, I am positive," he snapped in an exasperated manner. His eyes danced around the page as he re-read the page he had memorized so long ago; the one on Vur Horston.
The dim light cascaded into his room as the blood-red sun slowly sank beneath three skyline. Steve sat in a tiny chair by the window, not bothering to stand up and walk towards the other side of the room to turn on the light. Besides, he kind of liked the faint shadow the lighting gave to his book; it was interesting.
He murmured the words that he knew by heart under his breath. When he got stressed he would sometimes recite the page.
Needless to say, it scared people that were standing near him shitless.
Finally the bright pink lighting slowly turned to deep fuchsia, and then a dark blue. He was no longer able to read in the dim lighting. He sighed and gently pulled himself out of the chair, rubbing his nose slightly, and went to turn on the light.
But as he was flicking the switch upwards, he began to wonder why, on a Friday night, he was reading. Sure, he read more than most of the juniors in his class, but…there was really no point. He could read all day Saturday if he had to, or all day Sunday; it didn't matter, as long as he read a little bit.
So why didn't he go out and explore like all the other sixteen year olds in the world? It made no sense, really. His mom wouldn't mind (or if she did, Steve didn't care), and as long as he was back by midnight everything would be okay. So why didn't he go and have fun? He may not have had friends, or a girlfriend (or any girl he had an eye on, for that matter), but there was no law that unsocial people couldn't have fun by themselves.
Deciding, he flicked the switch back off, bathing the room in an eerie glow from the windows. He briskly walked out the door and closed it shut behind him, and ran down the steps.
He slipped on his shoes as well as pulling on his jacket. His mother rounded a corner, looking startled that her son was looking as if he were going somewhere. "Where are you going?" she asked, rather suspiciously. She hoped it wasn't to egg someone's house…but, Steve hadn't been that way since his friend Darren had died.
"I'm going out," Steve replied rather absently, not wanting to attract attention to himself. He forced himself not to catch his mother's eye, which was trying it's very hardest to catch his. He tied his laces absently before looking into her face. He let a smile dance across his lips to reassure her, and he watched as magically the stress and worry disappeared with the appearance of a smile.
"Be back soon," his mother ordered. Steve nodded and ran his fingers absently through his hair.
"Promise," he lied, as he opened the front door. He walked quickly out and shut it before his mother could interfere more. He breathed deeply, letting the crisp night air swirl around his face and sting his cheeks slightly. His hands were shoved deeply into his pockets as he jumped down the stoop and ran down the street.
He had gotten his drivers license, but his mother refused to buy him a car until he was seventeen. He didn't really mind that; what did it matter? They lived so close to everything that he could walk just about anywhere.
After he got away from his street, he began to walk again. Teenagers drove by, some he recognized, and some he didn't. The ones he recognized either waved or jeered. Steve didn't pay any attention, however. He didn't care what they said. High school was just a school, like middle school or elementary. After senior year they'd all jet off to different colleges, and they'd all forget about the people they made fun of in high school. And then at their reunion they'd hug the people they once called nerds and geeks, and say how sorry they were and ask how their life as adults was going. It was a never ending cycle; it happened to everyone.
He let his feet carry him; he didn't care where he went. All he really knew was that he had to get out. It was as if some sort of hand were pushing him forward. He decided to just let it push him instead of fight it. He had always believed in listening to those little thoughts.
Before he knew it, he saw that his feet had carried him to the old and crumbling building that had once held the traveling Cirque Du Freak. He felt his heart hammer in his chest uncomfortably as his imagination showed him to young boys pointing to the dying building and staring at each other in awe. Pressure built in his eyes slightly as he held his head in his hands.
He had forced all thoughts of Darren and the Cirque Du Freak from his mind after that fateful night after Darren's funeral. He had been too nervous to run the stake through Darren's spoiled heart; something he dreaded very much. He wished to every God he could think of that he had had the strength to finish him off right then, but no amount of wishing would change the past. All he could do was hope that all the tedious hours of working out would pay off eventually.
Vur Horston (or Larten Crepsley, Steve thought with a slight smirk) was one of the only vampires he would let his mind dwindle on. He had sworn to kill both Vur and Darren. Thinking about his ex-best friend caused his heart to hammer uncomfortably, his palms to sweat, and his nails to dig crescents of blood into his sweaty palms. And, always after his palms started to sweat, he would invariably sneeze. So thinking about Darren, the friend that had betrayed him, was normally out of the question.
But thinking about Darren now, in front of the very building that had caused their friendship to crumble just like its walls, seemed almost natural. He followed the mirage of the two boys into the building, letting his feet and his kerthumping heart lead him.
He quickly slapped his hand across his face as he let out a raucous sneeze. But, as he guessed, the younger versions of him and Darren continued on their way to the Cirque. They stumbled and looked around, worried expressions plastered onto their faces. Steve let himself smile blithely as he watched the two walk up to an invisible Mr. Tall and talk to him.
They walked into the empty auditorium and sat in the middle rows. Steve watched as the boys faces lit up and fell with fear. It was funny, really; every time he thought of that night he imagined it so long, yet here he was, watching only himself and Darren. But Steve realized that they were now at the part where Larten Crepsley, with his amazing tarantula. Darren's face lit up with awe as he watched a tarantula as invisible as Mr. Tall perform. Steve watched as his face turned chalk white, and his small fingers trembled against his shirt.
And then Steve was mouthing towards Darren that Darren should go home. Well, now I can see where Darren hid, Steve thought. But that wasn't the case; as soon as the younger Steve began to head off towards the opposite direction that Darren was heading, both boys faded into a sweet oblivion.
Steve blinked; he hadn't been expecting that to happen. But he watched as both boys slowly dissolved into air, almost as if the faint traces of life Steve had been watching were non existent.
Standing still for a few moments, Steve tried to collect his thoughts. Something had led him into the building that tore apart his and Darren's friendship. And he had seen Darren and his younger self roaming the halls. That…that wasn't normal, was it? Steve's palms began to sweat again as he moved his fingers by his side. He was trying to dry off his palms (he hated the feeling of sweaty palms), but it wasn't working. As predicted, he began to sneeze maniacally.
He looked upwards towards the high and lofty ceiling. The brick was more crumbly than it had been the last time he was in the building. The room smelled as if it had not been inhabited by humans for a long time; he even doubted gangly teenagers dared to walk down the moist and moldy hallways.
Thinking that, Steve found it rather funny that two boys braved the building—to see a freak show. Did that mean Steve and Darren had been brave?
No, Steve thought rather sickly. It means we were stupid.
Steve began to think of when he had asked Mr. Crepsley to blood him. Mr. Crepsley had said he was evil, and had had bad blood; Steve wondered if he still had bad blood. He had been embarrassed, naturally, and was even more upset when Darren had begun to avoid him after that night. Two weeks later he braved Darren's house and asked him why he was avoiding him.
Then Darren showed him Madam Octa, the tarantula Darren had stolen from Mr. Crepsley. Steve had gotten upset at Darren, but Darren soothed him with calming thoughts that the vampire would not return.
Yeah, and I'm not a vampire hunter, Steve snorted inwardly as he slowly folded his legs and sat upon the floor.
But then Madam Octa had bitten Steve. Steve flinched and ran his index finger across the puncture wounds that had stayed after the years passed. He didn't remember much; only that he knew he had seen Mr. Crepsley and Darren when he had recovered. The sight of the vampire and his friend had scared him senseless; it was creepy.
Creepy…yes, Crepsley is creepy…Creepy Crepsley, Steve thought in a sleepy and hyper manner, deciding to call Mr. Crepsley 'Creepy Crepsley' from then on after.
When the two returned to school, he had watched Darren closely. Who wouldn't have? After seeing a freaking vampire by your best friend, you would observe your friend closely also. And that was what Steve had done. He noticed nothing particularly wrong with Darren, other than the fact that he often looked at the wall strangely. Once or twice Steve could have sworn he watched Darren chew through the bone on their chicken legs once at lunch. Then they played soccer and Darren began to drink poor Alan's blood.
That was when Steve had finally decided Darren had taken his dream. The one thing Steve had wanted more than life itself. To become a vampire. True, no one had known that he wanted to become one (very, very dearly), but still—that didn't give Darren a right. He had, after all, watched Steve's disastrous attempt to become a vampire. So why did he track Creepy Crepsley down and ask him to change him? It wasn't fair, in Steve's opinion.
When he found out Darren was 'dead,' he immediately knew he was faking. He had figured out every way to test that Darren was indeed alive, and he was. But Steve couldn't tell anyone that. They'd just say he had messed with a corpse and express how disgusted they were with him. So Steve kept the knowledge to himself, and the night Darren was buried, snuck out of the house with a stake.
He was so surprised at how human Darren had sounded. He had expected his voice to become hoarse, or, at least, more evil. He hadn't expected him to sound just as he had before the whole ordeal started.
He hadn't been able to kill Darren for that simple reason. He had sounded so much like the kid that had stood by his side so thoroughly; he just couldn't ram a stake through Darren's heart and watch him die.
The older Steve gritted his teeth as he thought of this and wrapped his arms around his legs. He began to bang his head against his arms in a very human gesture, biting his lip and wondering why he hadn't just killed him then. Within two years of his hatred and his fury building up, he had decided that he was an idiot for not killing Darren right then and there. He desperately wished that he had just sucked up the fact that he didn't want to kill his 'best friend' and killed him.
Steve was so wrapped up in his confused and muddled thoughts that he didn't notice when shadows began to dance around him. Not that it was strange shadows were appearing; the sky was now black, and no light was to be seen besides the flashlight Steve had remembered was stuffed into one of his many pockets in his cargo pants. But the shadows were larger than the norm, and he normally would have noticed them. But he continued to be concealed in his world of angst and anger, wondering and fretting about all the opportunities he would have to kill Darren.
The shadows continued to lick across Steve's back and around him. Finally Steve began to notice them. He lifted his head from his arms and slowly picked up the flashlight he had placed beside him. The shadows began to shrink back, but Steve was intrigued. He stood up slowly and ran the flashlight across the wall, but with each brush of the flashlight the shadows eluded him.
"Is anyone there?" Steve asked edgily. Steve knew any normal person would run out of the building screaming, but Steve had never been 'normal—' not since his best friend had become a vampire. His eyes narrowed into slits as he slowly slid his hand into his pocket and made sure his pocket knife was still in it.
"Show yourself," Steve growled, hoping that if it was some couple that wanted privacy they'd show themselves so his overactive mind could be put to rest. Also, if it were a group of teenagers that wanted to vandalize the building, he hoped they'd also show themselves so he could just run out. Not like he'd tell the authorities when he was also trespassing onto private property or what ever.
Still, no one—or no thing—answered his questions. He slowly began to walk forward, running the flashlight across the whole darkened theater. His heart thumped wildly in his chest; it seemed that no one—or nothing—was in the room with him. Could it be that his mind was playing a trick on him? That there was, in fact, nothing in the auditorium with him? But, no; Steve wasn't superstitious, and he was not a paranoid person. He knew he had seen shadows; and they were human sized shadows. Something was in the room with him, and he was hell bent to find out.
"I know you're in here," Steve called out, his voice strong and firm. "Show yourself now or I'll find you on my own!"
Steve stalked towards the huge stage in which the Cirque performers had played upon so many years ago. He ran his flashlight across the stage, checking each crevice for any sign of life. He found none, but double checked anyway. As he ran his flashlight lazily over one crevice, he saw something purple flit away from him.
His hand stopped cold as he stared at the place where he would have sworn he had seen a purple hand. He blinked dumbly a few times before looking further into the depths of the darkness, his flashlight held aloft.
Squeezing himself into the tiny gap, he realized that it led to the back of the stage. His eyes became wide as he saw the door in the back slowly close. He raced towards it, the tiny beam of light reverberating off the bare walls, and opened the door again.
He saw an open manhole in the middle of the alleyway.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and hugged the flashlight tightly. He jumped downwards and into the dark and dampness of the sewers.
When he landed he heard a soft squish as his feet sank into the water. Fighting the urge to gag, he released the flashlight from his death-grip and waved it around. There were two ways he could go; left or right. Going to the left was the way that smelled the most, but to the right it seemed it never ended.
Deciding to go to the right to get away from the smell, he ran down the wet sewer and ignored the sounds and feelings as water slowly soaked into his shoes. It didn't smell as he was sure the left way would have smelled, but it still did smell horribly. He sneezed absently, but didn't bring his hands to cover his face—he was sure his hands stunk and would just make him dirtier and smellier than he already was.
To stop himself from sneezing rapid fire Steve held his breath. He wasn't sure how long he had been running (and walking) down the sewer, but he knew it must have been more than an hour. He slowed and began to walk again. His shoes were soaked through, and it felt unpleasant and damp. Steve gritted his teeth against how uncomfortable wet socks always made him feel and began to wave his flashlight around again. He wasn't entirely sure if he was looking for an escape route or for where the purple-handed thing had gone.
He refused to believe the purple hand had been his imagination. Besides, he saw the door close and he had jumped down an open manhole. Manholes weren't normally left open, and Steve noticed that the door wasn't one that was able to be swayed open by the wind.
Squinting into the light, Steve began to notice…that this part of the sewer looked inhabited. He stopped, shocked, and stared at the empty soda cans and candy wrappers. What scared him most was that there were what seemed to be unopened boxes of cereal around; and the place where he was standing was much cleaner and less damp than the rest of the sewer he had been traveling in.
Could it be that some rather messed up teenagers had decided this would be their new hideout?
Or was someone actually living in the sewers?
He continued to walk forward, stepping carefully. The ground didn't seem wet any longer; it was relatively dry. And there were no gutters in this section, Steve realized. Food was still lying absently around, but so were magazines (A/N: Not porn, perverts, like People magazine's and stuff with interesting articles in it. God. xD) and some random books. Steve picked one of the larger ones up; it was the very same book that he had lying on his couch in his room. He carefully leafed through the pages and noticed that there were messy scrawls across many of the pages. Steve held his flashlight upwards and tried to make sense of the almost illegible handwriting.
"Vampires drink any human victim they find dry," stated one sentence. But, next to it was this; "No, vampaneze do." Steve stared at the word 'vampaneze' and wondered what on earth that meant.
Steve flipped the pages until he found the page on Vur Horston (page one hundred and sixty nine). But Vur Horston's name was crossed out, replaced with a "Larten Crepsley" tag. Steve already knew that Vur Horston went by Larten Crepsley often; but why did the…vampanerize thingamajigs think Larten Crepsley was his real name? Also, added as a little foot note, were the words "Murlough's killer." Wondering who Murlough was, Steve closed the book and placed it back on the dry ground.
Continuing down the sewer, he began to notice sleeping bags and blankets as well as pillows lying around. There were a lot, too; at least ten sleeping bags and fourteen pairs of blankets and pillows.
He wasn't expecting a voice to loom towards him, which caused him to jump and turn around franticly, waving his flashlight around.
The figure that stood before him had its hands raised to cover its—his?—eyes. "Lower the damn flashlight," he mumbled. Steve blinked and held it steady.
"No!" Steve responded rather boldly.
"We're not going to hurt you," he hissed angrily, turning his head away from the light. "Just lower the damn flashlight and we'll talk to you."
"But I don't want to lower my flashlight," Steve growled back. But before he knew what was happening, a pale dark hand reached out across the darkness and snatched the flashlight away from Steve. The light flicked off, bathing the two (three?) in darkness.
"That's better," the other guy sighed. "Thanks, Sean."
"No problem," the other guy, probably Sean, mumbled. Steve heard his feet skittering across the sewer floor.
Steve stared blankly into the darkness where he could just barely make out the outline of the man with purple skin in front of him.
"If it makes you feel any better," the man said after a few minutes, "I can't see shit either."
"Oh," was all Steve could easily manage.
"Are you wondering why I lead you down here?"
"Yes…," Steve said skeptically. The figure's outline shifted slightly as it switched its weight from foot to foot.
"Well, it's quite a long story. But, well, lets just say you're apart of a prophesy that was told a long time ago."
"I'm apart of a what?" Steve yelped.
"Do you remember your friend Darren Shan?" the figure asked. Steve froze and stared at the outline.
"How do you know about Darren?" Steve asked in something that was barely above a whisper.
"I told you, it's all apart of the prophesy." The figure paused while Steve wondered franticly what the hell he was talking about. "Of course, it doesn't say in the prophesy who you were…Mr. Tiny told us that—" Steve noticed that the figure shivered as he said the name 'Mr. Tiny' "—but all the same. You and your friend Darren are supposed to help either side win the War of the Scars."
"What the hell is the 'War of the Scars?'" Steve asked, his face contorted slightly as he tried to figure out what it was.
The figure shifted almost uncomfortably. "I'm not making any sense, am I?" he sighed. "Okay, well, what ever. I'll start from the beginning. I'm what you humans would call a 'vampire,' but our term is 'vampaneze.' There are vampires in the world, as I'm sure you know—" Steve could hear the smirk in his voice—"but they don't actually kill humans when they drink blood. However, we vampaneze do. We believe it's disrespectful to our kind to not kill a human when we drink from them. We split off from the vampires about six hundred years ago and have been nomads since.
"Well, about the time we split off, we started a war. We call it the 'War of the Scars.' Mr. Tiny is…well, he's a lot of things, but most of all he's a man that seemingly can tell the future. He came to us and told us about how one of us would rise up and defeat all the vampires. He gave us a coffin that was on fire to test who the supposed 'Vampaneze Lord' was. A lot of our kind have gotten into the coffin, and have failed." Steve saw the figure's head shake as if it were disgusted.
"Anyway, Mr. Tiny came to us recently and told us—meaning me and a few others—to come to this town and wait for someone to come into the building we were just in. So I did, and here we are."
The two were silent for a moment, before Steve responded. "What the hell?"
The figure's shoulders slumped. "You know vampires are real?"
"Yes?"
"Then we're basically another branch of vampires."
"I got that part," Steve said, confused. "But what the hell are you talking about when you start talking about 'wars' and 'Mr. Tiny' and 'prophecy's?' You're making me out to be much more informed on the subject than I am. I mean…what the hell?"
Steve began to wonder if the figure in front of him was some sort of molester of men, and whether or not he should run away. Steve may have believed in vampires, and maybe even vampaneze, but this guy was freaking the shit out of him, and quite frankly, he didn't want to get raped or anything by a person who painted their skin purple.
"I'm just going to go, now," Steve stammered, cursing the fact that he had stayed long enough to hear anything from the strange man.
"No." The figure was behind him in the blink of an eye, or at least according to Steve. It held firmly onto his arm.
"HELP! HELP! RAPE! RAPE!" Steve screeched, but knew no one would hear him.
"Shut up! We're not going to do anything you don't want us to do to you."
"RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!" He drew out each screaming 'rape' for extra emphasis. He heard the man behind him sigh exasperatedly.
"Do you want to have a way to get back at that kid Darren?"
Steve paused, unable to stop himself from being curious. The figure realized he had caught Steve's attention and smirked. "I can help you get revenge on Darren if you want me to. But you'll just have to…become a vampaneze. It's not that bad, really."
Steve's eyes squinted as he looked at the purple hand on his forearm. "Explain, please."
Pleased that he had Steve eating out of his palm (or at least the man had thought that), he elaborated. "If you become a vampaneze, you'll only be half. You won't become a full vampaneze until we decide you're ready or until your vampaneze cells attack your human cells. Anyway, you will be my assistant. You'll be able to go out during the day and function as a normal human, and you'll most likely have to help the full vampaneze get food. You'll have to drink blood, but not as much as we full vampaneze have to. Oh, and we still need to eat food. You'll age at a fifth of the human rate—that's one year for every five—so you'll look like a teenager for a little bit. What else am I forgetting? You'll have to kill humans, but we also drink from animals—you'll have to kill them also, even vampires do that. But lets just say we kill one human every month or so, you'll only need to kill one human every two months or so. Make sense?"
"A little." Steve was only concerned about the part on getting revenge on Darren. So what if he was a relative of Darren and he killed him? From the sounds of it, vampires and vampaneze hated each other. And Steve would be getting his ultimate dream, even if it was a little bit twisted.
The thing sighed. "Oh, I forgot about this also—you won't bite your victims. You'll cut them with your nails—which will lengthen over time—and drink their blood through the cut. You'll have heightened senses and will be much, much stronger than you've ever dreamt of being. What don't you understand?"
"How do I…uhm…become a vampaneze?" Steve had decided; he was going to become a vampaneze and get his ultimate revenge on Darren. It was what he wanted most, and it was what he was going to do. Darren would have to fight another of his kind (even if it was a blood-brother)—that was much better odds on Steve's end. If he were to fight Darren as a human, he just realized, he would probably die. But, as a vampaneze…
"I'll cut each of you're fingers, and I'll cut each of mine, and we'll place each wound-to-wound. After a few moments our blood will circulate, and you'll have the blood of a vampaneze."
"Okay. And after that?"
"I'll teach you the ways of the vampaneze, and we'll test to see if you will be the Lord of the Vampaneze. We'll explain everything on the way to the coffin."
Steve nodded, his mind still focused on the fact that he was about to get revenge on Darren—or, if not about, he would definitely have it sooner than he had hoped.
The figure let go of Steve's forearm and moved forward in front of Steve. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'm Gannen Harst."
"Steve Leonard," Steve replied as Gannen took Steve's hands. Without warning Steve, Steve saw Gannen's fingers press against Steve's and then he felt the searing pain. Gannen quickly moved on to the second hand as Steve yelped in pain.
"It hurts me, too," Gannen informed Steve as he punctured his own fingers. Gannen grabbed Steve's injured fingers and placed the wounds against his own. The two stayed still for a few moments. Steve could feel Gannen's blood coursing through his hand, all the way to his heart (where it hurt almost unbearably), and then back down his other arm. When he was sure Gannen's blood was out of his veins (or it was so thick with his blood that Steve couldn't even notice the difference), Gannen pulled his fingers away from Steve. Steve fell back, his hands smarting angrily.
"Gimme your hands," Gannen growled, sucking on his fingers. Steve blinked and held his hands, not sure what Gannen planned to do. Gannen took his fingers out of his mouth and stared exasperatedly at Steve. "If you don't give me your fingers," Gannen replied calmly, "you'll bleed to death."
Steve looked down and noticed that his fingers were dripping blood. A little perturbed, he reached across towards Gannen and let Gannen run his tongue over his wounds. When Steve pulled his hands back towards him, he noticed that the cuts were practically non existent.
"Now to figure out what to do about your parents," Gannen muttered, looking away thoughtfully.
"It's just my mom, and I can have her sign some papers that make me legally an adult. She knows I've wanted it for a while."
Gannen nodded, still not looking at Steve. "Will she miss you if you disappear?"
"I doubt it," Steve responded. "She and I don't have the tightest relationship."
Gannen nodded again, his red eyes meeting Steve's dark ones. "Okay. You do that. I'll meet you down here next Friday night. Can you do all that by then?"
"I think so," Steve hesitated. "If not, I'll tell you."
"Okay," said the other in a calm voice. "Go home. Live your last week as a human. Don't kill anyone. I will see you soon."
A little surprised that all of this had happened so quickly, Steve nodded. He walked away from Gannen, wondering half-heartedly if Gannen would call back to him. Steve was kind of confused, after all. He didn't feel any different; his fingers merely hurt. He looked down at his fingers but couldn't see them well. He then realized he had forgotten his flashlight.
He turned around, attempting to call back towards Gannen—he hadn't walked far enough away to not be able to see him—but there was no one standing where Gannen and him had just been moments before.
Steve sneezed (he was surprised he hadn't sneezed through that entire ordeal), and headed home, thinking of one thing;
How happy he was to finally be getting somewhere in his quest to get even with Darren.