Yeah… Hiya? Okay, Okay before you start getting out the pitch-forks and torches I just wanted to apologise.
That's not going to cut it, is it?
No? … I'm so sorry for not updating before Christmas like I said I would! Although I said I couldn't make any promises… That's still not an excuse.
I've had this chapter half written on my computer since before I even posted chapter 4. Originally I wanted to put another chapter in before this one but then it's take time to finish that one and I just didn't want you to have to wait.
So cherish this because, due to my lazy habits, you won't get another one for a few months. On a totally unrelated note – to all those UNITED fans out there – I'm in the process of writing chapter 5 so don't think I've forgotten about it. I haven't!
Quinn's POV
"Come on, guys. The passage can't go on for much longer." Duncan looks doubtful. We've been walking for miles. Despite what Nicholas had said about us trying to find a way out, none of us were trying. We just simply know there is no way out of this hell.
Lucy's dragging her feet, leaning heavily on Nicholas, whose standing as far from her as possible. He himself looks about ready to drop, only supporting himself by the roots coming from the walls. Solange, who is deeply out of it, is being carried by Marcus, her arm hanging limply. It must be day-time.
Although I'm not the youngest, I'm the most tired out of all of us.
And then I must be dreaming, but somehow I know I'm not.
How…?
Hasn't anybody seen this?
Everything else melts away and the tunnel transforms into a totally different scene. What used to be the roof twists into sky; grey and cloudy. It's raining. Roots snake and disappear, turning into a green, flickering sign that says BAR. Puddles form on the street and a mysterious white gas bellows from grates in the road. A yellow car is sitting by me, looking lonely and abandoned, illuminated only by a flickering street light.
Suddenly I can't remember where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing. The bar looks inviting. I feel like I need a drink but I don't know why. A heavy sense of foreboding knifes through me but I find myself already inside, unable to act upon it.
Inside looks how I imagined it to be. It's softly lit, filled with dark corners. Several men in cravats are joking at a table, beckoning a waitress in a black dress. There's a bar with empty stools. There's a girl sitting there suddenly, and I swear she wasn't there before. I'm standing by the door so nobody could have come in.
I need to find my brothers—
Twisting on her stool, the girl looks at me. Instantly I forget what I was thinking. Why do I need to find my brothers? Her eyes hold me; a deep blue. They're hypnotizing, intoxicating. She smiles seductively and beckons me. Her teeth look to pointy—why are pointy teeth important? It doesn't matter. There's a pretty girl wanting to talk to you and you've got a whole bar full of drinks, why are you wasting the time worrying about how you got here?
I smile back and take my place in the stool next to hers, pushing my thoughts away. She beckons to a bar-tender and orders two shots and the bar-tender places them down in front of us and walks to serve somebody else. We're left alone, in our own little dark corner.
"Bottoms up," she purrs and we both down our drinks. I almost splutter.
There's a ring on her finger. It looks almost like Lucy's—I get flashes of a knife flying toward Lucy's heart. A Hel-Blar becomes dust when it hits her in the chest instead.
What the hell?
"Are you OK?" She purrs again. She lays one dainty hand on my arm.
"Fine." Although I feel as if I should remember something.
"So what brings you down here?" She looks a little to forced to make conversation. She hides it behind another flirtatious smile.
"I… don't know. I guess I'm just here," I say pathetically. My mind's still plagued by the heavy sense of dread and the images of Lucy almost dying.
"Oh…" It doesn't look as if I was supposed to say that. She looks so strained; as if she's supposed to follow a script and I'm getting all the lines wrong. I get another glimpse of her eyes and I forget about her slip-up. "That happens to the best of us, doesn't it?"
"What does?"
"Nothing." Another smile. "Forget I said anything."
I'm confused. I can't remember sitting down with the girl. I don't know who she is. "How did….?"
A sudden burst of laughter distracts me. Looking over my shoulder, I see the men in cravats again. There's a spilled beer dripping onto the floor which the waitress is trying to mop up with a rag. The laughter's too loud. Nothing like the laughter at other bars when a drink is spilled. More like the laugh of a really bad actor trying to seem real. I can't think when it's booming in my ear drums. It's made especially loud by the fact that I have vampire sensitive hearing.
Wait a minute! Vampire. Vampire. Vampire! The pointy teeth, the mysterious eyes… She has to be a vampire! How had I forgotten something as important as that?
Darting round to face the vampire girl again, I plan to confront her. But when I see the stool, it's empty. No girl in sight. The bar is small; I can see everywhere inside but she's not here. Feeling more than a little shaken, I shout to the bar-tender that I need a beer. Maybe I imagined her? I think as I guzzle my drink.
Not moving, with the bottle lip touching my chin, I quietly say to the cravat-wearing men – now that I think about it, isn't wearing cravats in this day and age… well… a little strange? – "Was there a girl sitting next to me?—"I incline my head to the stool. "—on that stool?"
Clinking glasses and sniggering. Muted words being exchanged. "No," says a low voice. "There wasn't a girl sitting there. However much we all may dream there to be."
I imagined her. Great. Add crazy to my list of problems. "Thanks, man—"
"Unless," he interrupts. "You mean that girl. She's here, alright."
"What?—"
The room flickers. Instead of there being a cute little bar nestled where I'm sitting, there's a grubby, run-down wreck. I jump from my seat, startled. My beer bottle smashes. The booming laugh of the man becomes warped and twisted. Broken. As quickly as it came, what I'm seeing is replaced again. Not the duel scenes of the bar, but a tunnel. Then a desert. A street. Park. Seafront. They're changing like a bored child is switching TV shows. Finally, it settles back to the bar, but it's not inviting any more. I want to get back to my brothers but I don't were they, or myself, are.
If it could, my heart would be hammering against my chest. I stumble back, crashing into a disused table. I'm gasping for breath even though I don't need it. Looking menacing, the thug slowly rises from his chair. His companions are watching, eager.
"You shouldn't 'av seen that, me boy," he says, mouth stretching into a horrible smile. He's missing some vital teeth. "I guess we'll 'av to sort that out, won't we?"
Suddenly I know that if he decides to use me a punching bag, I won't stand a chance. I'm a vampire, yes. I've got speed and strength. But he's got brawn and muscle. He's tough and can probably last a lot longer under pressure. My fangs and stakes don't reassure me now. Instead they just make me feel frustrated.
Distantly, I can see the bar has changed again. On the walls the paint is chipped. The wood making up the bar is grey and rotting. There are broken glasses under my feet and the crack when I shift my weight. The stool I was previously sitting on is overturned and the leg has snapped off, lying at its side. The thug – who is almost at arms distance from me – gasps and looks startled. His eyes meet mine and I see fear in them. His friends have disappeared; in their place are a mixture of barrels and one raven, whose eyes are beady and black. The thug tries to say something to me. Instead of words there's only air and a wheezing sound. /He explodes into dust and ash and floats down to land on my boots.
Alright, I tell myself after the shock of what's just happened has wore off. Move! Get out of here!
Just as I'm about to start moving on unsteady legs, there's a sound. After a moment it's there again.
A light flickers on. Underneath, in its spotlight, is the girl. Her skin is blue and mottled and her hair is falling over her face - which is bowed - in greasy strands. Her once beautiful clothes are now ripped and spoiled, hanging off her body. Though she's Hel-Blar she seems to have control of herself. Nothing I've seen before, but neither is this bar. Her stench is even gone. I hold my breath, waiting for her to move, to speak, to do something. Her standing motionless is starting to creep me out.
Scarily slow her eyes meet mine. I can't see them because of all the hair, but I imagine their intensity.
"I wanted to finish you off myself, Quinn Drake," she murmurs, her voice carrying.
I laugh with little humour. "It was hardly fair though, was it? That man wanted to have a go. You should have let him try."
"Not man." Her torn dress billows around her feet. "Projection."
"What?"
"He wasn't man. He wasn't real." He voice sounds childish and innocent, though the menacing smile suggests otherwise.
I need to keep her talking. I need to have the advantage. Though having the advantage is starting to look a little hard.
"How do you make a man talk, walk, if he isn't real?"
Slowly I edge my hand inside my jacket, fumbling to find a stake.
She growls, sounding annoyed. "No time for chatter. You're going to die."
I try to keep humour in my smile, instead of the dread I'm feeling. "If I'm going to die, like you say then shouldn't the last words I here be a secret I'm not supposed to know?"
She growls again, sounding like a rabid dog. "No."
"Ah, please?" I find the stake and grip it tightly. I try not to let the relief show on my face. She must have seen the minute movement inside of my jacket because she runs at me. She's fast, blurring round the edges. Strapped to her back is a Brokken and she draws it and aims it at me while she's running. Next to the curved, wooden blade my stake looks stupid. Like something a child would play with. I aim it at her all the same because it's the only weapon I have. As she nears me, I flip and land behind her. I smile and thrust the stake at her heart. She disappears like smoke, leaving the smell of Sulphur behind.
"Shit," I mutter as I whirl in a tight circle. "Not fair."
Then she's in front of me, face inches from mine. Her hair has fallen from in front of her and I can see her clearly. Her features are ugly, mangled as if somebody had stirred them around with a spoon and forgotten to put them back. I jolt and scream, stumbling over a chair leg. I right myself before I fall and see her round-house kick coming for my nose. It smashes into me. And almost immediately I feel the bruising along my cheekbone. I think my nose may be broken too.
I'm fighting one powerful chick.
The brokken comes down on me. I have no time to move, just brace for the hit. It slashes me in the shoulder, but not the heart. Again in the torso and arm.
This chick wants me hurt before she kills me.
"Come on, Drake," She screams. "This is supposed to be a challenge! That's what they promised me!"
"Who promised you?" I grunt.
"Never mind," she says sweetly, withdrawing her weapon to take another hit. She's smiling; the movement twists her face even more and makes me want to gag.
Pushing the feeling away, I get to my feet. Blood is dribbling from my nose, feeling warm on my palm when I swipe it away. She doesn't look bothered by the blood. In fact, she looks repulsed by it. By my feet I see a discarded chair leg, its end splintered. So fast I blur around the edges, I duck and swipe it up. It blocks her brokken, pushing it away.
Much more of a match than a stake.
She grunts and tries to punch me. I lean away from it and kick her in the chest. She doesn't fall like I want but she looks slightly distracted by trying to keep her balance. It's probably the only chance I'm going to get. Quickly, I snatch her Brokken from her; it's heavy and it takes a lot for me to hold it up. She screams; a sound of pure fury. Her nails are sharp and jagged. I see that when she tries to claw out my eyes. Her nails dig into my skin, drawing blood and they don't heal. Instead they just keep bleeding, the red liquid staining my shirt.
She's going to die.
With a battle yell – combat is never complete without one – I shove the Brokken into her chest. She whimpers and looks so sad I feel tears pricking my eyes.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. I gently pull the weapon out of her chest. It's stained with her blood.
"I can't die," She says quietly, triumphantly. "I'll be back for you, Quinn Drake."
The last I hear from her is mad chuckling before she turns into smoke. Not dust. She's not dead. I can still see the outline of her eyes and the shape of her mouth as she laughs and vanishes through a grate in the ceiling.
She's gone and I'm alone. With just a raven and broken glass for company. I blink as memories flood my mind: of the tunnel and the house and of mum and dad.
I have no idea where I am. Somewhere below the house, I think. I need to find my brothers and hope that they've not fallen for the temptations that I have, and that they're OK.
God I hope they're OK.
Do you like it?
I hope you did. If you didn't then feel free to poke me with a pitch-fork.
I'm open to constructive criticism and just general reviewing. They make me write better and help me improve so it's a better story for you guys.
Lucy.
P.S. That is my real name!