Chapter 22: Don't Kill Him!
Dreamer's knees hit the ground, followed by her palms and face. She shuddered. Tears of rage splashed on her knuckles.
"How could you?!" She screamed up at Midnight, who had already put his hand back on his hip. He leaned casually back, never once looking at her. "She trusted you! I trusted you!"
The thug tripped backward. His face displayed utter terror.
"W-What the hell are you?! That was just a kid! Y-You're a monster!"
"A monster?" Midnight threw his head back and laughed. "Monster is an understatement. Do you want to see the true face of horror?"
The man fell backward and crushed his body as close to the wall of the roof as possible. He even glanced over, like he was considering the jump.
A strange sound bellowed in the night air—like the heavy chime of a bell or clock.
"W-What is that?!" The man put his hands over his ears. Dreamer did the same, as the ear-splitting sound ricocheted in her skull.
"That's the toll of midnight—the moment when your worst fears become reality!" He spread his arms wide and his body began to change shape—growing, twisting, distorting.
The sky went blood red, as evil as the glowing red eyes that now shone from a massive demon towering over them. A hellish, distorted laugh resounded. Dreamer watched in frozen horror as this monstrous form of Midnight reached down and picked the balloonish man up with a massive clawed hand.
"Pig!" The voice roared. "Cowardly swine!"
The air exploded with the sound of pigs squealing. A herd of them ran below the man's thrashing feet, before blood spurted from their necks one by one, and they piled on top of each other. The man screamed in terror. "What is this?! Is this hell?!"
"This is worse than hell," the voice roared. "This is your worst nightmare!"
Dreamer couldn't move. Her body was paralyzed. She couldn't feel anything, not even her own lungs taking in air. She only had control of her eyes, which were fixated on the grotesque head of the giant creature—of Midnight.
So this is what he really is. This is his true form… I was so wrong. He's pure evil.
"You failed, Jacque," the demon laughed mockingly at the man, and tightened its grip. The man cried out in agony. "You're a failure, like always."
A beautiful woman walked by and scowled at the man. "You disgust me, Jacque. You can't do anything right." Her hair blew in the wind as she faded into the blood red sky, the sound of her voice drowned out by the squealing of pigs.
The man sobbed at the sight of her. "No, don't leave…" He reached for her, but Midnight's twisted claws clamped down harder around his balloon-like body, which looked ready to rupture.
"She's gone, pig! Gone because of you!" The laughter throbbed and echoed. "Oh no… What's this? It looks like she's not the only one disappointed in you!"
A crowd of faces surrounded the man, taunting him, mocking him.
"Loser."
"Failure."
"Why don't you just jump off a bridge, already?"
Even the pigs rose, throats sliced, gurgling laughter as they pointed at him. Until, suddenly, the air went deathly silent. The squealing stopped. The sound of wind, and Midnight's demonic laughter, all stopped.
A new image appeared. A man approaching from the shadows. His face was shrouded in darkness, but…
His hair. Charcoal black, flowing behind him as he soundlessly neared. The lightning-bolt streak of yellow. And the molten gold eyes…
Dreamer wanted to scream but she had no voice. It was him. It was the man who haunted her nightmares. The man who took everything from her. The one she feared more than death itself. It was those molten eyes that her magic could never touch—that stalked her in every moment of uncertainty; the burning, electric eyes. It was his sharp features, a face too handsome to match the grotesque evil lurking under the surface—the man whose visage was etched forever in the darkest recesses of her memory, whose name she yearned to forget. If only she'd never heard it. If only that name had never invaded the hope and future she once had.
Resmond.
"Hey there, Jacque." A voice that often played on repeat in Dreamer's own mind called out to the fat man. "You wouldn't happen to have gotten the girl, would you?"
That voice… The charming lull. The innocent smile. The drawl that only barely suggested the imminent threat. She'd never wanted to hear that voice again. She'd prayed day and night that this day would never come. And there he was, standing tall and proud before this lowlife thug, his yellow eyes gleaming like cat eyes in the dark. His hands clasped behind his back as he stood patiently, ever so patiently…
"B-Boss! He killed her! I couldn't—"
"Oh…" Resmond sighed.
Run! You have to get away! He'll kill you! Fight to get out of Midnight's hand and run, Jacque, run! Dreamer willed him to flee. Willed him to somehow escape the fate that awaited him. Death by Midnight's hand could not compare to what Resmond would do to him—to them. They all needed to flee. Anywhere but here. Anyone but him.
"You know, Jacque, it was a simple task. I don't ask for much but… I don't have any use for a failure." The distorted man held out a hand and Jacque screamed in agony. Dreamer watched in horror as black diamonds began to protrude from his chest, spraying blood.
No!
She couldn't do anything to save him. She couldn't do anything to stop him. Again powerless. Again watching as the source of all her pain slowly smothered the light of another soul.
She could only watch. Like a thirteen-year-old girl from the doorway, too late to stop him. Too weak. His predatory eyes hooked on his prey.
The eyes...
Something was wrong.
Her brain writhed with fear, but clarity began to shine through, somehow. It was his eyes… They weren't right. Her magic was rooted in charming through someone's gaze. She knew eyes… And these didn't feel right. They were the right color. They were the molten gold—the electric knives, but…
The look in them wasn't Resmond's, it was Midnight's. How was that possible?
The black diamonds began to prick through the man's skin, escaping in tiny, ripping shards through his pores. An indescribable pain. Torturous, endless death.
No screaming.
Syllest hadn't screamed when she was dropped off the roof. There had been no screaming from the streets below when she would have hit the ground. No slamming on the metal doors from guards come to check the commotion. There had been no screaming.
Suddenly, the illusion broke. Dreamer was back on the rooftop, on her hands and knees, staring up at Midnight. He was frozen, hand outstretched, eyes glazed over as he controlled the nightmare happening in the man's mind. The man was completely frozen, as she had been.
It all made sense now.
She tried to stand but wind blew through her hair, reminding her of the height. She fell to her knees instantly. If she couldn't stand, she would crawl. Forward, eyes closed, toward Midnight and Jacque.
The man's hands were climbing up to his own throat, clasping around it as some unseen horror wracked him. She understood now. Midnight would torment his mind so much, that he would kill himself. That's how Midnight's magic worked. He killed from afar, allowing his enemies to do the work for him.
"No! Midnight, don't kill him!" She shouted, but he couldn't hear her. His eyes were distant, almost like he was actually sleeping.
The man climbed backward onto the wall, a single move away from the drop. And if he fell, there would be screaming.
She crawled forward, in between Midnight and his opponent. Still unable to stand through her fear of heights, she clutched his coat and hoisted herself up to lean against his chest. Then looked into his eyes.
As when he slept, those eyes didn't see her. They were glassy—red rubies instead of swirling pools of blood. He wasn't aware of her touching him. Occasionally, his lip twitched in fear. His shoulders trembled. The nightmare he was forcing onto the man before him was born from his own fear.
"Macbeth…" She cupped his face in her hands and stared at his unseeing red eyes. She drew her magic forward and focused. Pink to red. Praying that this would work, even though he wasn't conscious of her looking at him. She'd never used her magic like this before…
Calm. Peace. Trust.
She conjured the words, imprinted them with power, willed them through the magic circles—willed them to transfer to him somehow—for the connection to be complete.
He blinked once. He was confused, like he could only partially see her. So, she tried again.
Calm. Peace. Trust. Trust.
Magical energy grew in her chest, creating pressure as she forced it to her eyes.
He blinked again. Now he was looking at her. Disoriented. Afraid.
Trust. Trust. Love.
Once more, she pushed. The pressure built, throbbing in her veins, pounding in her chest. She was expelling so much magic—so much emotion.
The fear in his eyes dissipated. He could see her clearly now. She smiled warmly at him, still holding his face in her hands.
"Don't kill him, Macbeth. You're better than that."
He stared, eyes flickering back and forth between hers—lost in swirling pink. The wind blew through their hair, whipping white and cream together—fluttering the tail of his coat around her. Tears fell silently from the corners of his red eyes, falling to trace the curve of her thumbs. And the rain began to fall, as if the sky was breaking along with his illusion. As if the clouds could no longer bear the weight of the fear and sorrow. The weeping, broken sky. The weeping, broken man. Neither able to bear the weight any longer.
Behind her, the thug collapsed onto the ground. His breaths were raspy. He was unconscious, but alive.
Dreamer breathed out a shaking sigh of relief and leaned her body weight against Midnight. Her hands fell to weakly clutch his collar.
"You didn't kill Syllest," she whispered. She looked at his lips, parted just slightly. His lipstick, a dark shade of purple. A comforting hue, like the sky just after dusk, when the pinks and oranges fade away. "Pops was waiting to catch her, wasn't he?"
Her knees buckled and he instinctively caught her, stabilizing her with his arms. Holding her against his chest.
There was no reply. He simply stared into her eyes. But all ill intent was gone. The sadism absent from his face, to be replaced with the childish fear that lurked below the surface. A trembling lip. Silent tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. A scared, innocent… lonely child.
"I knew you weren't a bad person," she said. "I knew all along…"
The exhaustion from expelling her magic and having her emotions completely wrung dry finally overtook her. The night sky spun, rain falling like tears upon her. But she was safe. She was steadied by his arms around her—by his fingertips clutching her shirt… by his chamomile scent, and the sound of his broken whimpers. By the knowledge that Midnight protected Syllestra by dropping her into Jezran's waiting arms. By the fact that this assassin chose to protect one life, and spare another.
You're not evil, Macbeth… You're a good man. One day, you'll see that too.
The world spun faster.
Her eyes closed.
A/N: Well, hopefully this chapter reaffirmed your faith in Midnight. ;)
I love your reviews, guys. Seriously. I'm sorry I put you through a week of emotional torture waiting to know if he really dropped her off a building, but hey. I think you can forgive me now. xD