Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Isabelle is being followed by a certain vampire. But when her stalker saves her life will she learn to be grateful, or will the consequences lead her into a world of dark desire?
A/N: Please excuse this sorry excuse for a chapter. Sigh . . .
. . .
Haunted
"You say too late to start
Got your heart in a headlock
I don't believe any of it . . ."
- Headlock by Imogen Heap -
Chapter 9 | Heart in a Headlock
December 8th
I need normalcy; hence why I'm writing this stupid letter to myself in the first place.
Last week Clary came to me and asked if I needed to talk. I said no. After which she proceeded to tell me, in very lengthy detail, that whenever she feels she can't talk to someone about a problem that's bugging her she draws about it and that if I can't draw – runes and stick people don't count – that maybe I could write about it.
So I am.
Life lately has been . . . hectic: the term "hectic" here amounting from, hearing voices, pissing off parents and drinking vampire blood.
But, we won't go into that, because things are about to change.
From this day forth, there will be absolutely no mention of vampires, vampire blood or of anything relating to the unfortunate events that have occurred in the last exhausting 3 months.
And as for certain nameless people who– well, let's just say that I will grow particularly violent at the mention of a certain vam- man with the initials RS and that I hope never to see, talk to, nor hear from him again!
Well, that's all for now,
Love Isabelle XO
. . .
Isabelle is very aware that she is dreaming.
She is in a ballroom, surrounded by men in tails, women in ball gowns, crystal chandeliers and marble archways. The room is bright – too bright – almost ethereal. She is surrounded by people and under normal circumstances Isabelle would find it funny (considering the attention she usually receives) how no one stops to talk to her – how they seem to look through her, as if she isn't there – but in this moment, for some reason, all she feels is petrified.
She is dancing – no, spinning; twirling round and round, head held high towards the ornate ceiling.
Stop now, she thinks, because if she doesn't stop soon she is positive that she will lose her balance and fall flat on her face.
But she cannot stop. She cannot stop spinning, even when her legs grow tired, even when she feels blood pooling in her high heeled shoes, she cannot stop spinning.
Warm hands grip the tops of her arms and, like someone has flicked a switch, she stops dead.
Isabelle is not dizzy.
This is what makes her realise that she is dreaming, the feeling that she is somehow disconnected from her own body; like she is being controlled. (Not the fact that Raphael is standing in front of her, his all red tuxedo – the exact shade of her knee-high dress – perfectly complimenting his dark hair and tan skin.)
He takes her hand in one of his own, resting her other on his right shoulder and, using his free hand, he takes her waist, using it to draw her closer to him.
With one step forward on his part they are moving, roaming gracefully around the room, perfectly in sync (another indicator that this is a dream – though she has no doubt in her mind that Raphael can, Isabelle cannot waltz).
"I want to stop," the words burst forth from her mouth, because despite their proximity, despite how gorgeous Raphael looks in that tux and despite how Isabelle is sure that none of this is real, she wants to get away from it as fast as possible.
Her feet hurt; she is so tired.
"I want to stop," Isabelle repeats when he doesn't answer her. Her words have little effect on him. They keeping moving, keep spinning, keep dancing around each other – just like they always do.
Finally he answers her "Oh, Isabelle, why would you want to do that?" (or gives her as much of an answer as he ever does).
He smirks down at her; Isabelle is certain that he has never looked so sinister.
"Please," she struggles, trying to get away from him, but he is too strong, "I need to stop!"
"Isabelle!" there is a warning beneath his silken tones now, "We cannot stop," and something in his voice tells her that he is not talking about dancing anymore.
Raphael stops spinning and takes her arms roughly in his hands, forcing her to look into his dark eyes – fire blazes in their depths.
"We can't stop. Don't you get that?" his hands move from her arms to her face, roughly caressing the skin of her cheeks – she feels sick with herself when she realises that some part of her likes the action, a feeling only intensified with his next words.
"You cannot escape me, Isabelle."
And she wakes with a jolt, shocked to find that there are tears in her eyes. She cannot remember what she was dreaming about.
. . .
No-one speaks when she enters the kitchen that morning – her parents barely notice her and her brothers pretend not to. Isabelle briefly considers clearing her throat before deciding that it is best not to draw attention to herself.
"Coffee, Isabelle?" her mother's voice rings out and Isabelle is momentarily stunned.
For the most part Maryse has been acting as if nothing has changed this past week. She talks to her daughter as little as possible and when talking is unavoidable she treats Isabelle no different than usual.
Rapha- You-Know-Who is taboo in this house – no one mentions him, no one talks about him, no one thinks about him.
(Isabelle has thought about him a lot more than she would care to admit.)
Maryse is looking at her now, eyebrows raised inquiringly and Isabelle decides not to question her new change in attitude, simply answering her with a "yes, thank you". Perhaps they are finally making progress.
When she sits down opposite her brothers Alec throws her an encouraging smile; guilt clenches in her stomach. He is being awfully nice lately and Isabelle still hates herself for lying to him about meeting Raphael for the last time.
Yeah, and that visit had gone so well.
She tries not to think about that. (Unsuccessfully).
Jace on the other hand has been . . . difficult.
For the most part he acts like nothing is different and if Isabelle didn't know any better she would guess that no-one had bothered to tell him about her and Raphael. But then she'll catch him looking at her warily, as if he is looking at a different person than the one he has known for 8 years. Isabelle hates that.
He is looking at her like that now but when she raises her eyebrows questioningly he looks away without a word.
"So, Isabelle," her father begins, a hesitant smile on his face.
Again, surprising. If Isabelle had thought before the . . . incident, that her father barely paid her any mind she was dead wrong. This past week he has been looking through her as if she wasn't there, as if she wasn't his daughter. Why the sudden change of heart?
"What are your plans for today?" he continues now as her mother sets a mug of coffee in front of her.
Isabelle's eyes tighten into a slight frown at that. She can't recall a day in her life when her father had asked what her plans were: he usually just lets her do her thing, no questions asked. She briefly considers if she is on some kind of probation – maybe her untrusting parents are about to starting logging what she does every minute of every day or keep her quarantined to the Institute – but then she catches Robert's eyes not-so-subtly flicker over to her mother and she understands.
Isabelle wonders what it is they're planning.
"Hmmmm," she faux considers, "I hadn't thought about it yet."
"Well," Maryse is quick to jump in, "how about shopping? You like that, right?" she sounds almost uncertain.
"I guess, not really in the mood though."
"Jace and Alec are heading out," Robert pipes up, (to visit their better halves Isabelle assumes: Ack!) "You could go with one of them."
"Well-"
"Yeah!" And it is her brother who speaks this time, "Me, you and Magnus, we'll all . . . hang out."
Isabelle quirks an eyebrow at her eldest brother. So he's in on it too.
"No offence, Alec," she quips, "But I don't really want to "hang out" while you two suck face."
There is a bout of silence while the others in the room digest this: Alec flushes pink, her parents stay silent whilst Jace snickers into his hand.
"Fine, bad idea," she tosses her brother a smile to let him know that she is joking.
"Go with Jace and Clary then?" Maryse presses and Jace is already speaking before she has a chance to decline.
"I'd say "that's a great idea!" but you've already expressed your disliking for sucking face," he addresses her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Isabelle rolls her eyes before speaking.
"Perhaps I'll just go and see Simon."
Again she is met with silence and Isabelle notices from the slight widening of her mother's eyes that she has said something wrong.
Simon, vampire. Vampire, Rapha-
Well . . . you know.
Ever Shadowhunters, everyone in the room notices the lapse of quiet, all eyes turning towards Maryse to inspect her reaction.
"Well . . ." she begins hesitantly, "that's . . . okay too."
Huh.
Isabelle isn't sure what it was she had expected her mother to say. Anything but that.
"Wow," she says flippantly, "whatever it is you plan on doing when I'm out must be pretty damn important."
And with her parents shocked looks trailing her wake, Isabelle takes her coffee and leaves the room.
. . .
"So, you're not seeing him anymore?"
"No," she answers simply.
They are sitting in Simon's living room, a mug of very fowl tasting tea warming up Isabelle's cold hands.
"Well," Simon begins after a pause, "thank G- you know what I mean. Seriously, I was worried for you there, thought Crazy Raphael was getting to you."
Isabelle takes that last part in with a sour expression. He still is.
Simon stops dead at the look on her face. Shocking; He isn't exactly known for being observant.
"Erm, the look on your face is kind of disconcerting. I take it you don't agree then?"
"No!" she is quick to protest, "I mean, yes, I do agree. Raphael is crazy and sadistic," and gorgeous, "but he did save my life. I feel . . . indebted to him," and I hate that.
Simon ponders this, "He did turn me into a vampire. I'd say I know what you mean but . . . I really don't!"
Isabelle tuts, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Of course I do. Handsome, if slightly stalker-ish, Spaniard saves your life. That must be pretty hard for a girl to forget," he says, looking at her pointedly.
And despite the thousand other factors in this, he's not far off.
"But listen," Simon leans forward in the chair opposite her, catching Isabelle's eye, "I know that one of your favourite past times is dating Downworlders to piss off your parents," Insert scoff here, "but Raphael goes a wee bit beyond that-"
"Oh My God!" she snaps, "What is wrong with everyone? I have absolutely no intention of dating him!"
"Okay, but all I'm saying is-"
"Simon!" he stops talking at her exclaim and Isabelle breathes a tortured sigh before continuing, in a small voice, "Can we just . . . talk about something else?"
"Sure," he says, leaning back in his chair. Simon purses his lips thoughtfully and after a pause, "Wanna prank call Jace pretending to be the Naughty Nymphos hotline?" he asks, bright eyed.
Isabelle thinks that she could say many things to that – "Not particularly", "How do you even know what that is?" – but all she settles on is, "You read my mind."
. . .
When Isabelle returns home hours later something is different. And it's not just the sleek, official looking black car parked outside of the Institute; she can sense it, a feeling churning deep in her stomach. She doesn't like that feeling very much.
It doesn't take long to locate the rest of her family once she is out of the elevator in the Institute; she can hear her mother's sharp tones loud and clear coming from her office down the hall. Isabelle follows the sound.
The oak door gives a creak of protest when she pushes it open, but no-one turns in her direction.
Maryse stands by her desk, expression stern, caught in deep conversation with the two strangers sitting in front of her.
The first, the younger of the two, is talking at her mother. Isabelle need only take one look at his sharp, tailored grey suit to know who the fancy car outside belongs to. He looks to be about the same age as Robert – younger than his quicksilver hair suggests – with a taut jaw and a tight lipped mouth. Isabelle thinks that he might have been handsome once, but something about his dark eyes unsettles her.
The second is also a man – mid-seventies at a guess – with thinning, white hair and blank, ageless eyes. Isabelle's eyes curiously follow the hood of his red cloak down to where it disappears under her mother's desk.
Her father and Alec stand off to the side, sporting their usual stance of crossed arms and concentrated facial expressions as they watch the trio.
Isabelle takes a further step into the room and, like hawks stalking their prey, the strangers turn to study her.
After a glance in her direction the older guy looks away, but the other continues to stare at her, his beady, black eyes wondering a little south of her face. Pervert.
"What's going on?" she asks in a monotone.
"Isabelle," Maryse acknowledges her daughter with a small smile. Her father and Alec remain silent, but she thinks she sees a flash of guilt in her brothers blue eyes.
Huh.
"You remember Martin Verlac?" Maryse is saying, her tone unusually friendly. Verlac? Like I'll be forgetting that name anytime soon, "Co-Head of the Clave stationed in New York," she gestures to the younger man, the one nearest her (the sleaze). He spares Isabelle a brief nod before his gaze returns to her chest.
"And Brother César," she looks to the older man, but still he doesn't say a word.
Brother. That explains it. Isabelle never had inquired about what had happened to the Silent Brothers after they had all been killed – she'd assumed that they'd just . . . well, gotten new ones.
Brother César gives her a silent nod as Isabelle studies him. She's always known that the Silent Brothers were Shadowhunters once, but she's never seen one like this – before they've had their runes.
She doesn't remember them – either of them. In fact she'd pretty positive that she's never seen them before in her life, but Isabelle nods anyway.
"What are they doing here?" she asks Maryse, not caring if she sounds rude.
Maryse doesn't seem to notice.
"I was . . . consulting them, on an . . . important matter," the two men nod their agreement.
"What kind of matter?"
"Well, if Martin and Brother César agree, I can tell you," her mother looks to the two strangers inquiringly.
"Certainly," Martin Verlac speaks for the first time, tearing his eyes away from Isabelle long enough to answer Maryse in a soft, British accent.
Brother César merely nods.
"Excellent," her mother announces, though looking considerably less excited than the word suggests, "that's settled."
"So, what is it?" Isabelle asks after a pause, when Maryse gives no indication that she is going to tell her.
Maryse frowns at her daughter, but answers her anyway.
"We've decided to give you one of mine and your father's cases."
Isabelle wonders if she heard her correctly.
"What? Seriously?" she asks excitedly, "Like, to investigate by myself? On my own?"
"Yes," is all Maryse says, and Isabelle smiles brightly.
"Which one?" she questions eagerly and her mother sighs, the first indicator that something isn't quite right.
"I believe it concerns a missing Shadowhunter and-" it is Martin Verlac who speaks, his quiet voice a monotone at first, "and vampire," but disgust shadows his tone on the last word.
Isabelle's brow furrows as something clicks into place and she turns to her mother.
"Wait, is- isn't that the case you're working on with . . ." she trails off, because Maryse is already nodding, her expression grave.
"Yes," she says, "Raphael . . ."
End Chapter.
. . .
A/N: Yeahhh . . . sometimes I have no idea where the fuck I'm going with this. Ahem . . . excuse me . . .
So, I'm making some (minor) adjustments to the first chapters. Nothing major, no need to read them again, it's just that I'm 1000 words into the next chapter and Raphael's a lot lighter than he usually is. Still a crazy sadist, but a happier crazy sadist. Ya get me? ;)
Also, please excuse Martin Verlac (I don't even know if it's possible for him to be a Verlac) for being such a pervert. I don't think all British men are perverts, ha-ha – although I am British myself and I've known a few of them in my time – but he just opened his mouth and it came out British. It's also very doubtful that he'll be in this fic again. Ahem, shame . . .
I've been reading a lot lately and I've found some truly fantastic books. Here are some that I'd recommend.
Delirium, by Lauren Oliver.
Bloodlines, by Richelle Mead.
Divergent, by Veronica Roth (EPIC).
And both Hex Hall books, by Rachel Hawkins.
If you haven't read them, do so, IMMEDIATELY!
Hope you enjoyed ;) and revieeeww . . .