Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100
Warnings for murder, arson, torture, dismemberment, decapitation, threats of rape, possible dubious consent, drug use, verbal and mental abuse, abduction, talk of the black market, child neglect and gore.
And warnings for spoilers of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.
Creatures of the moon
Clarke was glad that she had decided to secure the lock on her door to her bedroom. The entire household where she was living, was just an unsafe residence to live in.
Her father, Jake Griffin, had died years ago when she was eight. Cancer.
And her mother? Abby Griffin?
Had decided to spurn her own daughter, by adopting several other children, after her husband's death.
The children in question who she had adopted, a bunch of assholes that liked to throw their weight around, made sure Clarke never felt safe in her own house.
Now, not all of the adopted children were thugs. Some of them were okay. But most of them? Well, let's just say that Clarke had gotten used to locking her door at night. And during most of the day.
The children were named Bellamy and Octavia Blake, Jasper Jordan, John Murphy, Nathan Miller, John Mbege, Raven Reyes, Dax Summers and Atom Worth.
Clarke hated them.
She had gotten used to locking her door for years now.
She was almost nineteen years old now, and she still had to make sure that no one discovered that she was trying to get into a college. Really, any college would do, as long as she didn't have to deal with this nightmare of a household.
She would go to her school, and save up what lunch money she had, even if it was only a little bit.
She would grab some food from the fridge, happy to see that not all of it would be taken for the day by the adopted assholes, and store them in her room as her food for the day, before leaving for school.
She had a safe place to put her many cans of money. Many cans now, because she had saved up a lot of money. A lot. She knew it wouldn't be enough to get her into college for four years. But it was a start.
None of the fuckers that her mother had adopted knew about this, but she had also started working at the library at her school. And it wasn't unpaid labor either. The librarians there; a married couple, Callie Cartwig and Claire Temple, the two of them clearly liked Clarke and didn't stand in her way when she went to the library, and offered to pay her to help them go through the books.
Clarke knew that anyone else would have been down on the two women because of the whole "child labor" thing.
But Clarke? She was just plain fucking grateful for it.
She had a safe place to go. She was paid. And the two women didn't treat her like a burden like everyone else did.
Callie had brought a safety deposit box and they had stored Clarke's money there.
When Clarke at last had turned eighteen? Callie and Claire had helped Clarke take the money out of the safety deposit box, and had gone with her to the nearest and most trustworthy bank, to create a bank account for Clarke, and they had put all that money into the bank account.
Clarke then went back to her home, had grabbed several cans and made many trips, while her mother was away at work and while the fuckers were out tormenting kids in their neighborhood.
Clarke took all the cans to the bank eventually, and Callie and Claire had helped put the money away there.
Between all of Clarke's lunch money that she'd saved up and all the money Callie and Claire had given her? She'd had up to over a million dollars. That might not be much nowadays, but for Clarke? It was huge.
Callie and Claire, both had made it clear that they'd like to adopt Clarke after that. Yes, they knew that Clarke was an adult now, but it didn't change that they knew that Clarke hadn't gotten the parental care that she had needed.
And they pointed out that Clarke would have siblings that actually cared about her, since Callie and Claire had adopted several other kids; Monroe, Sterling, Fox, Harper, Charlotte Finn and Wells-and all of them actually liked Clarke!
Clarke acted like it was ridiculous that the two women would want to adopt her, since she was a full-grown adult now, but the truth was? She desperately wanted to be loved and taken care of.
As soon as her father had died, her mother had done everything in her power to make Clarke feel unwanted.
If there were two women who wanted to be Clarke's mothers? Clarke wasn't sure she had it in her to say no.
Save for one thing-she didn't want either woman getting into trouble.
She knew that her biological mother was a fucked up person, as were the fuckers she had adopted.
They tormented Clarke regularly, but as soon as they got the feeling that Clarke might try to leave them, they went all up in arms.
For them, she existed as their punching bag and when it started to become clear that she wouldn't be that for them anymore, they started acting like she had betrayed them somehow.
But she wasn't going to be their scapegoat anymore.
The next time Callie and Claire asked her that same question they did before; if she wished for them to take her in? She would say yes.
The relationship which she had cultivated with the two women who wished to be her mothers, she kept secret well.
And when she went back to the house that she didn't consider her home, she stayed quiet about her interactions with Callie and Claire per usual.
She ignored all of the comments thrown at her by her "siblings." About how "ungrateful" she was. About how "lazy" she was. About how they and everyone else would be better off if she were dead. About how her father would probably be happy that he was dead so that he didn't have to see her anymore.
And that one? That was the one that finally got a reaction.
And a violent reaction, at that.
Clarke honestly hadn't predicted that Raven would say anything so cruel-that was extreme, even for her, so, Clarke hadn't expected it. And if she hadn't been expecting it, how could she have expected how she'd react?
And how she reacted? Was fast and aggressive.
Raven had wanted to get a rise out of her, sure. And she had succeeded.
But Raven hadn't looked satisfied or smug when she saw Clarke lunge for her. When Clarke turned, hands balled into fists and she catapulted herself at the other young woman, Clarke was the one satisfied.
Because when she lunged, the look on Raven's usually arrogant and spiteful face, was an expression of fear.
Raven's brown eyes widened and her mouth parted.
Clearly, she hadn't expected Clarke to have it in her to outright attack her.
Clarke felt a near snarl of a grin cross her face as she attacked the other young woman, raising her right fist so that Raven's eyes would be on that arm, only for Clarke to then swing her left fist lower down, aiming for the bitch's solar plexus.
Since Raven was close and didn't move that fast, and her eyes were still fixated on Clarke's oncoming right fist, she didn't have a hope of seeing Clarke's left fist.
So, she could do nothing, when Clarke rammed that left fist into her solar plexus.
Raven's eyes became huge and she gasped in absolute pain, doubling over, coughing.
"How do you like that, bitch?!" Clark screamed at Raven.
She then, as Raven doubled over, squeezing her eyes shut, grabbed Raven's cane and pulled it away from the other woman.
She knew that it was a lowlife thing to do, since Raven was disabled and needed that cane.
But you know what was also a lowlife thing to do? Insulting someone who you've been verbally abusing for years and then insulting that person's dead father.
And given all the years Raven had made Clarke feel like garbage, deliberately? Clarke was just going to say that she was all out of sympathy.
If it had been any other sort of disabled person, Clarke would have shown sympathy.
But it wasn't. It was Raven. The same reaction Clarke would have shown, were it one of her other wretched "siblings."
Clarke pulled Raven's cane away, and watched with joy as Raven toppled over.
Clarke laughed at the other young woman, when Raven hit the floor on her left side.
She grinned, feeling joy run through her.
She wanted to do worse. But she knew that any worse, would probably lead to something worse for her, too.
So, when she heard footsteps running down the stairs, she dropped Raven's cane on the kitchen floor next to Raven; the cane hitting the tiles with a metallic clattering, Clarke turned around, scoffing at Raven's groaning and walked away, to the stairs.
As Clarke began to ascend the stairs, she saw Jasper, who looked at her suspiciously as he asked, "What the hell happened, Griffin?"
"Nothing, Jordan," Clarke sneered, "Raven just can't seem to hold on real well to her cane," she answered this with a smirk and felt a thrill of pleasure, when she saw Jasper look unsettled by Clarke's amusement.
Clark liked this. She liked getting fear out of the people who had hurt her.
Jasper ran down the stairs faster, clearly wanting to get away from Clarke.
Clarke smirked. She was happier than she should be. But here she was, enjoying the pain she was causing Raven and Jasper both.
Then again, they deserved way worse than that.
She went up to her room and slammed the door closed angrily.
She didn't care how angry she was or how stupid her actions were.
She wanted to go into the garage, grab a hammer and bash out Raven and Jasper and the others' brains.
They deserved it. And worse.
Wasn't that the truth of it?
Clarke wasn't a self-centered person. She knew she probably wasn't the easiest person to live with.
But she admitted it, at least.
That was more than she could say for Jasper, Raven, Murphy, Bellamy, Octavia, Miller, Atom and the others. Not to mention her own mother, Abby.
Clarke glowered, going to her nearest window, looking out of it.
Her eyebrows narrowed when she saw a large white moving truck right along the sidewalk across the street.
She blinked a few times, processing what she was seeing through the open, plastic blinds.
That was one big moving truck.
She saw multiple people walking around outside of the truck and outside of the large house that it was parked alongside.
This block was dedicated specifically to large houses.
Houses where people who wanted to start big families lived.
Clarke squinted as she looked across the street at the large group of people near the moving truck.
All of them looked like adults. None of them children.
Maybe whatever couple that had just purchased the house, hadn't yet had children but were planning on having children, now that they owned the house?
Clarke shrugged as several of the group, made up of men and women alike, a large portion of them white and a number of them black, went inside the house.
Not her business why there was no children with them.
She also tried to ignore the weird feeling she was getting.
She'd been feeling it for a while, ever since the moving truck with the people inside, first pulled up.
It was sort of like a warm pull. But she didn't know how to describe it or what it meant.
This neighborhood attracted hypocrites. Which were the same thing as suburban people starting families.
Maybe that was judgmental, but from her experience? She had no reason to believe otherwise.
That was her experience with her mother.
And she loathed her mother.
Clarke went to her bed and dropped down onto it, sitting on the edge of it as she smiled sadly, looking at the stack of books on top of her bookshelf.
All of the books stacked up on top of the bookshelf, were books on reptiles and amphibians.
Clarke wanted a bunch of pet reptiles and amphibians. Reptiles especially.
Not like her mother would have ever bought her shit.
After her father had died, her mother had stopped buying anything for her daughter besides the most basic food.
Everything Clarke had now? Was stuff she owned thanks to putting together her own lunch money, or the things given to her by Callie and Claire.
Just one of the many reasons why Clarke wanted to hug Callie, Claire and their kids and never let go.
Clarke loved reptiles. Wanted loads of terrariums with her respective animals all over the room.
Each terrarium holding something different.
But above all else, she wanted one of those "dog reptiles." A large, friendly reptile.
There was no way she could get any of these while living with her mother and with the pieces of garbage that were Abby's adopted children.
She didn't even want to think what would happen to a helpless living thing being under the same roof as these horrid people.
So, until she had her own place, as far away from these people that as far as Clarke were concerned, were just diseases? She would have to wait.
She could fantasize, though. Maybe get herself a savannah monitor. Or some other large lizard.
Until she got away from the repulsive people that lived in this house with her, people she'd never see as her family, she would have to just wait.
She reached to her left and pulled a very old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo out of the actual bookshelf itself.
It was one of the first "adult books," that she had ever actually liked reading. It was a long book. Her copy, at least, was literally over a thousand pages long, for fuck's sake.
She had found it in the library, when she was thirteen years old, and had come to hate her mother and the children she'd adopted and she had come to see it as a type of betrayal.
So, when she had read the back of The Count of Monte Cristo? She had instantly felt intrigued by the story.
The problem? It was a large and bloated book.
It had taken her forever to finally get all the way through it.
But she had and while she felt somewhat like her brain had almost melted while trying to absorb everything in the novel, it moved her. She didn't agree with the ending, however. She would do anything for revenge. Consequences be damned.
If someone has earned your trust and then betrayed it-tattered it to pieces? Then did that person deserve any pity?
Not to Clarke, they didn't.
Clarke had bookmarked this copy.
It was from the library. But after seeing Clarke with the book so many times, Callie and Claire of course, couldn't help but spoil Clarke and let her take the book home with her permanently.
Clarke, as a result, had put several bookmarks of different colors into the tome. She opened up the book where she had placed the dark blue bookmark, opening it to the page where Edmond Dantes/the Count, takes down Fernand Mondego.
She smiled, reading the many lines.
She liked to imagine she was the count-Edmond Dantes.
And she often alternated who took the role of Fernand Mondego.
Sometimes it was her mother. Sometimes it was Bellamy. Sometimes it was Octavia. Sometimes it was Raven. Sometimes Murphy. Sometimes Jasper. And sometimes Miller or Atom or Dax.
It depended on which of them was best at making her feel like a piece of trash most days.
And that was most of them all most all the time.
So, it wasn't that hard for her to picture each of them in Fernand Mondego's place or in the place of one of Dantes's other enemies.
The only difference was, she'd do worse than just beat them in a sword fight. She'd want to cut some pieces of their bodies off as well.
One of Dantes's enemies; a greedy bastard by the name of Danglers, was actually forgiven by the count. Clarke had almost thrown the large book across the floor, when she had read that.
To forgive someone who could hurt you in such a way? Never.
Then there was the character, Gerard de Villefort.
He goes insane after Dantes is done with him. After he exposes Villefort's father's secrets.
That being an illegitimate child.
An illegitimate child, by the way, that in the book? Reminded Clarke a lot of Murphy.
A disgusting piece of shit that tortured his own adoptive mother to death.
But in any case? Gerard de Villefort went insane after his father's literal fucking around, was exposed.
To leave someone like that? Now, that was revenge!
Clarke smirked as she thought of that.
Thought of keeping them locked up in some sort of cells, listening to them scream and agony, pleading for her forgiveness, but she chooses to walk away, not listening to them.
Such a nice image.
She closed the book up and put it away, when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, knowing that she was about to get yelled at for giving Raven and Jasper just a quarter of what they deserved.
She faced the door to her room, fighting a snort.
Time to face the hypocrites in all their glorious bullshit.
Across the street from the house belonging to one Abby Griffin, was a house that had been void of owners for at least four years.
The current owners of the house, numbering up to thirty of them, had explained their reasons for buying the property, and for there being thirty of them.
They claimed that it was for business reasons. And those that they bought the house from, the realtors, asked no questions. It didn't matter how skeptical they were.
After thanking the realtors and watching them leave, a few of the thirty looked out their windows at the house across the street from them.
They had tracked her scent. For years now.
The place where the girl had used to live, had been in another state. But scents, while they faded, were potent to the thirty of them.
They had heard the girl's name be called a while ago while first driving up to the driveway.
Clarke. Clarke Griffin.
Six of the thirty, Carol Danvers, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Elektra Natchios, Peggy Carter and Jessica Jones, all shared a smirk together.
It would be only a matter of time until Clarke Griffin was theirs.
Unlike what Clarke likely had grown up being told? Clarke was not a normal human. And she wasn't the biological daughter of Abby Griffin.
Clarke was adopted.
Or rather, stolen.
But that was a story for another day. The thirty of them? They would need to begin their plan of luring Clarke into their fold.
The thirty of them were very literal wolves in sheep's clothing. And when the time arrived? They would show Clarke that fact.
And show her that she was more like them than she was like any human being on this block.
The thirty of them got settled in, putting their things away, each of them carving out a specific are for themselves.
This house supposedly, was built by an architect as a gift to his wife. They had hoped to have multiple children.
Sadly, the wife died of some disease before they could so much as have one child. And the architect committed suicide.
In any case? The house had several bathrooms, several bedrooms, several staircases and several studies.
Hell, it even had a few lounges and lobbies.
This house wouldn't be around much longer after they got ahold of Clarke. They would burn this house down. The house where Clarke currently lived, as well.
They'd retrieve her, kill all the people who were currently making her life miserable, then burn the house down.
They had listened in on the house where Clarke was living, for months now. And they knew what sort of relationship Clarke had with her not-biological mother, and the teenagers and young adults that Abby clearly chose over Clarke, so, they were indeed planning on killing all of those in that house, that weren't Clarke Griffin.
They didn't know what Clarke's original name was.
They knew that she was their mate. And that she had been stolen from her blood mother and blood father.
The girl had been sold on the black market by hunters, who had tried to kill her mother and father and sisters.
And Jake Griffin, Abby's late father, had found Clarke, and had adopted her.
But they didn't know what Clarke's original name was. Clarke's mother and father hadn't told them, when Clarke's biological parents had sent them to find Clarke and to retrieve her.
They recalled what Roscoe and Delilah had said. They hadn't cared what happened to Clarke's mates, just that they found the couple's youngest child and brought her back to them.
That was fine.
They knew who she was to them, because they had been near where she was, a few months before she'd been kidnapped, at the age of two.
They had felt her all the way from where they had stood.
And they could feel that same connection now.
Process of elimination; what was the natural conclusion?
Clarke was their soulmate.
They were Clarke's soulmates.
Which ultimately meant that they'd protect her from all that had hurt her, either currently or in the past.
They wanted to.
They wanted to tear those that Abby had chosen over Clarke, limb from limb.
And they would, as well.
This part of New Jersey, meters and meters away from most towns, it would be easy, too.
Few people around to witness the many murders that were to occur.
A handful of the group; Peggy, Bruce, Natasha, Sam, Jessica, Carol, Elektra, Pepper, Yelena, Melina, Wanda, Pietro and Brunnhilde, sat down around one of the large tables, regarding each other.
"Who should we dispose of first?" Yelena asked, snickering at the thought of being able to tear the people who had hurt Clarke, apart.
"I vote we go after Jasper first," Jessica sneered, "People won't miss him easily. He's always going off and getting high as fuck."
"Speaking from experience?" Elektra teased, getting a middle finger from Jessica.
It didn't matter that they had endlessly fast metabolism. Jessica always tried to challenge that metabolism by drinking herself into an endless stupor.
It never worked, but it certainly gave her a reputation amongst their pack.
But what Jessica said made sense.
If Jasper almost always was going off and getting high? It certainly would be easy to grab him without notice.
He would be the first to die.
And they went through with their plans.
Four days later.
Before then, they came across Clarke whenever she was outside, near their house.
They would greet her, smiling and being friendly-knowing that Clarke could feel the connection, but wouldn't understand what it was she was feeling, even if they did.
They watched Clarke watch them with uncertainty, walking around the neighborhood in her hoodie, clearly moody at having to live with the people that cut her down emotionally, every chance they got.
But they treated her very sweetly. Smiling at her, always being gentle and caring as they regarded her and assured her that she could always come to them if she ever needed anything, including just to talk.
Clarke looked startled, then moved by the reassurance. But nodded, keeping a cautious look on her face.
They couldn't blame her for her caution, not after all she had been subjected to by her so-called "family."
Then when it came time to be done with Jasper Jordan? They struck.
Bruce pushed down one of the slats of the closed blinds, seeing Jasper walking out of the house across the street from them, carrying what the group presumed to be drugs for the self-centered young man to get high on.
And they slowly crept out of the back of the house, following Jasper to the woods, ready for the kill.
As Jasper lay down on the soil, body already twitching from the effects of the drugs he was putting into his body, they crept closer.
As Jasper closed his eyes, that was when they pounced.
Jasper didn't even have time to scream in the agony that he felt when his body was sliced apart.
They sliced his body up, ate it, but preserved his head so Clarke could see it.
The next was Nathan Miller.
Miller was coming back from a date with his respective other-some young man named Bryan, and before Miller even reached the street where the house was where he lived, he was grabbed off of the street, and claws dug into him, his tongue which had wagged at Clarke so many times, torn right out before he could scream.
His body was torn apart slowly, then eaten.
And his head preserved for Clarke to see it.
Then it was Murphy's turn.
He and his girlfriend, Emori, both got it.
The group ate Emori in front of Murphy, while a gagged Murphy screamed in agony. They ten disemboweled Murphy while he was still alive, ate his body, also while he still had some life left in him, and preserved his head for Clarke to see it.
Then they got Atom and Dax, tore both of them apart and ate them and preserved the heads.
Then Raven came walking along the side of the neighborhood, near the woods.
Jasper had been easy enough to take without anyone worrying where he'd gone. He was known to wander off with drugs in hand to get himself high.
Miller had also been somewhat easy. The group just forged an email, hacking Bryan's account, saying that Miller was staying with him for a few nights.
And Murphy? Well, everyone knew that Murphy tended to wander off to various different places with Emori.
So, no one questioned it.
And Atom and Dax were the same way.
But Raven? Raven tended to stay around the house's neighborhood.
So, killing her would bring some complications, and they knew it.
But no matter.
They moved fast, bolting out of the woods, and Raven caught a glimpse of their forms, their fur, their muzzles full of sharp, flashing teeth, their curved claws, their glowing hateful red eyes as the grabbed her, and tore their claws into her guts, pulling her intestines out and stuffing them into her hateful mouth.
Raven thankfully died slowly.
They then tore her head off and ate her body, and preserved her head.
When at last, people at the house started asking questions as to why all these people were disappearing, the werewolves who had come to claim their mate, knew it was time to make more aggressive action.
When it was nightfall, they moved around the block, through backyards, in their werewolf forms, eventually, creeping into the basement of the house across the street from them.
In the upstairs bedroom, Clarke laid along her bed, her headphones on, listening to her metal music, trying to block out anything that she might hear from downstairs from the people that treated her like garbage.
She didn't want to have to hear anything from those cunts.
So, she didn't hear it, when the crashes started, when the screaming started.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, Octavia and Bellamy both scrambled away, trying to get away from where Kane's decapitated body lay.
One of the furry creatures-there was no way around it, they were werewolves, was carrying a large, tan, cloth sack, full of round objects.
And there was dark blood dried up in patches all along the sack.
The hulking, muscled werewolves, several of them male, with clear lengths dangling between their legs, and while other, clearly female, with multiple nipples running down their chests and stomachs, and a slit between their legs, with more hair down there than in most parts of their bodies.
Octavia probably wouldn't have paid particular attention to those details, except for the fact that she was dealing with a bunch of literal fucking werewolves!
Octavia was gaping the whole time, as one werewolf, loped over, walking on both feet over, mouth wide in a fang filled grin, as its massive right arm slung forward, raking its claws through Octavia's face, tearing four claw marks across Octavia's face, tearing her skin open, cutting through Octavia's left cheek bone, and the bone beneath the skin of Octavia's temple.
Octavia's scream was piercing as she dropped down onto her rear on the floor, up against the kitchen cabinets, shaking in agony.
Bellamy looked at her, horrified, blood draining from his face, as he turned back to the werewolves, feeling pee leaving his system and soaking his pants.
The werewolves obviously smelled it because several of them shook with an unsettling deep sound that Bellamy realized had to be laughter.
Another werewolf walked up, swinging its arm, its backhand hitting Bellamy right in the face, sending him flying through the air, over the kitchen table, into the opposite wall, the sounds of his bones cracking on impact filling the air as he groaned in pain, dropping down onto his back on the floor.
Another werewolf walked in, its hand fixed around Abby's throat as it dragged Abby into the kitchen. On the floor, at the werewolves' feet, were the many sliced open bodies of Kane, Monty, Drew and a few of the other orphans.
Abby, Octavia and Bellamy, were the only other three in this house alive, besides the werewolves and Clarke.
It caused Abby to wonder where Clarke was. Most likely being useless as usual, up in her room just reading or listening to her music.
Clarke always was busy wasting her money on things she didn't need, rather than helping her family out.
She could be helping them now, but Clarke was useless as always.
Abby choked as she thought, (Why did Jake bring that wretched girl in?) But the thought was drained out of her when she felt her throat being squeezed violently.
One of the other werewolves stomped over to where Bellamy Blake lay, hovering over him, observing the condition he was in.
Bellamy had multiple broken bones, and he was bleeding from his head.
But the werewolf looking him over, deemed the man as ugly as always.
The werewolf looked up at the others and nodded to them, signaling to them that they could proceed to torture Bellamy more.
The werewolves moved forward.
They always had found Bellamy completely repellent.
Really, just his face was so grotesque that it was difficult to see how even his mother could have loved him.
Bellamy was like one of those buckets of literal shit you had to get rid of and dump into the sewer to be disposed of, but the horrid stink just kept being present.
One female werewolf leaned down, grabbing Bellamy's right arm by its wrist, rammed her clawed foot down on his chest and pulled upwards, tearing Bellamy's right arm from his socket, the bone sticking out now and blood flowing all out in a large puddle under his right side.
Bellamy screamed in agony.
Another werewolf, a male one, laughed, jumped forward and swiping his right arm down, grabbing onto Bellamy's lower jaw and tearing hard.
Bellamy's lower jaw, was torn right off. Blood poured out of Bellamy's mouth as the werewolf let out a haggard laugh and threw the dismembered lower jaw across the room, next to all the other bodies.
The other werewolves watched, grinning with their huge fangs, as Bellamy twitched, his eyes squeezing shut in absolute pain.
Octavia watched her brother being treated like this, and let out a broken scream, but the werewolves barely moved.
From upstairs?
When Clarke removed her headphones to get something, she at last, heard something from downstairs.
But it wasn't loud music that wasn't hers, or bickering or laughter or crashing.
What she heard, was a scream. A woman's scream.
Clarke stiffened.
That sounded like Octavia.
And she didn't sound angry like she almost always did.
She sounded scared. She sounded like she was in pain.
Clarke paused. Now, Clarke didn't care about anyone in this house besides herself-why should she? Given the way she'd been treated by the other denizens of this house.
But if the people in this house were being attacked? If there was an intruder in the house, killing people?
Shouldn't she get out of the house, fast?
Clarke dropped her headphones onto the bed and got up, looking to her windows, but instantly dismissed that thought.
There was no way down to the ground from her bedroom window, except for a straight down drop.
Clarke was actually impressed by this invented form of Abby prioritizing the adopted kids over Clarke.
All of the other bedrooms? The other bedrooms were either on the ground floor, or had windows that were close to tree branches or even had wooden lattices that could be climbed down.
There was no way for Clarke to get out, in case of an emergency, unless she wanted to risk a few broken limbs.
Clarke hadn't been allowed to choose her room. Everyone else had gotten their first choice. Then Abby had insisted on Clarke taking the bedroom without any way down from her window, in case someone broke in or in case there was a fire.
Clarke honestly was actually a bit impressed by this form of Abby making sure that Clarke knew that she was unimportant in Abby's eyes, when put next to the disgusting abusive children that were under this roof that treated Clarke badly.
Clarke tried to think.
Maybe she could make a run for one of the other bedrooms, where there were tree branches nearby or lattices to climb down?
It sounded like Octavia's scream came from the ground floor. So, if she was being attacked? Then Clarke just had to stick to the upper floor of the house.
Clarke looked to her bookcase, where her most treasured possessions were.
She knew she couldn't take them all with her, unfortunately.
She couldn't lug all that around, unless she wanted to be slowed down and caught by whoever was attacking the house.
So, against what she wanted to do?
She only grabbed what she could carry, and valued the most. She grabbed firstly, her essentials.
Her wallet, her keys-more by this point, for protection, than for getting into this abuse party of a house, grabbed her cell phone, her cell phone charger, and stuffed all of that into her pockets.
She then grabbed her father's watch and stuck it around her left wrist.
Finally, she reached out and grabbed two things from the shelf.
One was of course, the large, fat book with the many bookmarks in it, of The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas.
The other, was the keys that Claire Temple and Callie Cartwig had given to her. The keys to their house, should Clarke ever want to come by.
Clarke stuffed those keys into her right-hand pocket and zipped the pocket closed, hoping against hope that she wouldn't lose them.
She then got off of the bed, went to her dresser where she had her metal baseball bat leaning against the wall, right between the tan, rickety, wooden dresser and the painted white closet door.
Clarke kept the book of The Count of Monte Cristo tightly held in her left hand by its big, blocky spine, and reached out and grabbed the neck of the baseball bat with her right hand.
She hoped not to have any confrontation with any of the people attacking the house, if in fact there was anyone attacking the house, and if there was more than one person.
But if she in fact, did have an encounter with them? She wanted to be able to defend herself.
Clarke had bought this baseball bat a few years ago, after Bellamy had pushed her one too many times and made allusions to wanting to rape her.
Nothing would make her feel safe living under the same roof as Bellamy, Murphy, Raven, Octavia, Jasper or Miller.
But having the baseball bat made her feel somewhat better, if only for a while.
She went to the door to her room, opened it slowly and carefully snuck out into the hallway.
She looked down the hallway, seeing no one.
She made her way to the next room, down the hall. Jasper's room.
There was a massive black gum tree that had grown up, right alongside Jasper's window. The branches were big and sturdy and could be climbed up or down.
She slipped into Jasper's room, going past the various metal tools used to make drugs, and the desk where his goggles lay and aimed for the window.
She reached the window, when she heard extremely heavy footsteps reach the top of the stairs.
She shivered, reaching down for the window and tried to push it up, only to feel it not budge an inch.
She fought a curse, not even trusting herself to whisper that quietly.
She reached up and pulled the latch, unlocking the window, then reached down for the window's opening again, pushing up and at last, getting a successful result.
Clarke felt dread fill her chest, when she heard the loud groan the window's metal frame made, as she pushed the window up.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
There was no fucking way that whoever was on this floor with her now, hadn't heard that.
And sure enough? Clarke heard the door to Jasper's room, the door she had carefully closed when coming in here, slowly moving open.
Clarke felt cold fear clog her throat as she moved the window all the way up. It was open and the only thing separating her and the branches of the black gum tree, was the screen, which would easily be pushed out if she tried hard enough, but she knew that whoever had just entered the room, wouldn't give her that time.
Gripping onto the handle of the baseball bat, Clarke sucked in a breath and whirled around, ready to swing the bat…only to feel the bat fall from her hands and drop onto the wooden floor with a clank, when she saw what was standing there in the room with her, in the doorway, staring at her.
Standing at what had to be literally almost seven feet, with extremely wide and muscled shoulders and body filled with muscles as well, covered in smooth looking, light gold fur, with an elongated but thick snout, pointed ears, huge hands and feet, and glowing red eyes, was…well, there wasn't any other way to put it…it was a werewolf.
And there seemed to be…well, nipples running down the figure's chest and stomach.
And Clarke could vaguely in the dark, make out that there was nothing dangling, and make out a slight slit between the figure's legs.
Clarke didn't know any other word that could be applied to what was standing right in front of her.
It was just a fucking werewolf. And a female one.
If someone tried to come up with some other word for what was standing in front of Clarke right now and tried to tell her it wasn't a werewolf? Clarke would call them full of shit.
What was in front of her? Inexplicably, was a fucking werewolf.
The lights were out in Jasper's room, Jasper had left them out-and where the hell had that little fucker gone? Clarke had no idea, but Clarke could see the details of this creature well enough from the lights in the hallway, to make out that yes, this in fact, was a fucking werewolf.
How? Clarke also had no idea about that.
But it was.
Clarke's mouth dropped, taking in the sight of this thing.
Any thoughts of the baseball bat, instantly went out the window. She'd never be able to stop this thing with a measly baseball bat.
Clarke wasn't even sure if there was even any silver in the house.
Then again, maybe silver didn't even work. Who knew?
Clarke sure as hell didn't.
Then something happened that Clarke definitely didn't expect.
The fucking werewolf began to fucking talk!
Clarke gasped, backing up into Jasper's desk when she heard the voice emerge from that maw.
The voice was low and guttural, but Clarke understood every single word that was thrown out.
The voice growled out, the voice gravelly, "Don't be frightened, sweet Clarke. We would never do anything to hurt you."
Clarke felt her heart hammer in her chest and she shivered.
This thing could talk, and it knew her name?
And what did it mean by "we?"
There were more of these things?!
Sure enough, Clarke heard heavy footsteps begin to ascend the wooden staircase, heading up to this upper floor of the house.
Clarke felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end.
Shit-what was she going to do?!
"Wh-what do you want?" Clarke demanded of the werewolf.
The werewolf tilted its head slightly to the right and its lips peeled back and Clarke felt herself grow cold at the fangs sticking out in a wide grin.
"You will not be pleased by the answer, sweet Clarke," the werewolf informed Clarke, "What we want, is for you to come with us."
Clarke shook her head, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. While also trying to figure out why she felt this strange pulling sensation the moment this thing stood in front of her, and why something about this werewolf seemed…familiar.
The thing held its right arm out, said arm as long as a sword blade and roped in thick muscles, its palm up, as the werewolf spoke again, "Come with us, sweet Clarke. You will be safe with us."
Clarke stared at that outstretched hand, and even though she couldn't care less about anyone but herself in this house, she asked the question, "What did you do to Octavia? And the others?"
Another looming shape appeared in the doorway, behind the first werewolf.
It was another one.
This one slimmer than the werewolf with light gold fur. Clarke noticed a large length between the creature's legs, marking it biologically male.
The fur covering this one, was dark with patches of gray.
The male werewolf answered, its voice just as guttural as the first, "What do you think we did to them? We gave them what they deserved. Would you like to see?"
The first werewolf flapped its hand from being outstretched, to the light switch next to the door, flipping the lights on in the room.
A third werewolf came by the hallway, this one carrying a huge cloth sack with multiple dried blood stains dotting its fabric. There were several round bulges in the cloth.
The werewolf carrying the sack was slim, but muscled, covered with black or nearly black fur, and biologically female.
The male werewolf turned to the black or nearly black fur-covered one and said, "Open the sack, Jessica."
Clarke would have laughed if the situation were any different.
A werewolf named "Jessica?"
There was nothing wrong with the name, no. But it just seemed so normal, that…well, it just didn't seem fitting.
Clarke had never given much thought to werewolves in general, always assuming that they didn't exist and that they were simply things of movies.
But she had figured that if any werewolf came along, said werewolf would probably have a longer and more intense name than "Jessica."
Then again, Clarke hadn't known that werewolves actually existed until just fucking now.
So, what the hell did she know?
The dark-haired female werewolf, Jessica, picked up the sack higher, then grabbed the bottom of it with her other hand and turned the sack upside down, spilling the contents of the bag out.
Now, Clarke, she knew she should have predicted what was inside that sack.
But she hadn't.
So, when the contents of the sack spilled out onto the floor, rolling along the wood, Clarke actually cried out and backed up further against the desk, hands going over her mouth in shock and horror.
Heads.
Multiple disembodied heads.
And what was more? All physical damage done to the victims who the heads had belonged to, aside? Clarke recognized the faces on those heads.
Murphy.
Raven.
Jasper.
Dax.
Atom.
Miller.
Drew.
And now? Octavia and Kane's heads had joined those other heads.
Clarke shook her head, feeling cold, as she raised her head to stare at the werewolves, now unable to even articulate how afraid she was, certain that she was next.
"Wh-why?" She asked weakly.
The gold-haired werewolf tilted her head again and answered, "Why? For you, sweet Clarke. Because we wished to make you happy. Did these people not hurt you? Have they not in the past, made you feel as if you were inferior to them?"
Clarke's eyes grew wide.
This was for her? Them killing the people that had hurt her in the past, specifically had been for her? Not just a random act of violence?
"We did it for you, Clarke," Jessica growled out, "Because we wish to protect you. To make you happy."
"I don't…," Clarke began uncomprehending, shaking her head, not understanding any of this. Because why the hell did a bunch of werewolves care if she was happy or not?
"Why?" She asked again, her voice strained, unable to think of anything else to say.
The gold-haired werewolf let loose a small chuckle that sent shivers down Clarke's spine. The gold-haired werewolf then moved her arm in a gesturing manner that indicated not that she wanted Clarke to take her murderous hand, but she wanted Clarke to follow her downstairs.
The golden-haired werewolf emphasized this as she, Jessica and the male werewolf, made their way back down the stairs.
Clarke knew she shouldn't.
But she knew that there was nothing else she could do. She most certainly couldn't make a run for it, could she?
If she made a run for it, the werewolves would surely catch her.
And she doubted they'd be so soft and merciful to her then.
Clarke swallowed and trying to retain her disgust, slowly made her way around the many severed heads littered around the room.
She wished she could say that she felt repulsed at the sight, because she felt some sort of sympathy for them at the end of their lives.
But she didn't.
She felt like they had gotten exactly what was coming to them.
She was just scared that the werewolves would do the same thing to her-or worse, to Claire, Callie, Finn, Wells, Sterling, Monroe, Fox, Harper or Charlotte.
Clarke moved between the last two severed heads; those of Octavia and Jasper's and moved to the top of the stairs, cautiously and hesitantly, walking down them.
When she reached the downstairs area, it didn't surprise her that there was a werewolf-the male werewolf with the gray patches, guarding the front door, to make sure she couldn't try to make an escape.
She sighed as the werewolf watched her and made a cautious turn, walking to the kitchen-only to find a heart-stopping scene.
Werewolves.
A multitude of them.
Varying in body size, biological sex, fur color and likely fang size, as well, these creatures were all over the kitchen and living room.
And they all had their attention on Clarke at this very moment.
"Hello, Clarke," one chestnut brown furred werewolf said, and Clarke's eyes widened when she saw what the brown, biologically female werewolf had clenched in her right set of claws.
Abby Griffin. Abby Griffin was caught by the throat of the brown, female werewolf.
Clarke swallowed.
"Wh-what are you gonna do with Abby?" She asked, feeling that cold dread through her, but it was pale in comparison to that warm tug inside her that seemed to be ever-persistent around these creatures.
It occurred to Clarke just then, that she felt the same warm tug whenever she was around her neighbors across the street, too.
And that tug was accompanied by arousal, and even? Clarke was somewhat ashamed to say it, to feel some wetness even between her legs. She was most certainly embarrassed, as who the hell instantly got aroused at the sight of their neighbors? Really, now.
Before Clarke could ponder on that, the brown werewolf who had just spoken, talked again.
She said, "Here is Abby Griffin, Clarke. The woman who claims you owe her, yet never shows you any love of any sort. But she isn't just an abuser. She is also a liar. She is not your biological mother, contrary to what she has told you, to keep you feeling like you should be grateful to her."
This caught Clarke's attention. She stared at the werewolf that had just talked, startled. She then looked at Abby.
The brown werewolf snorted and threw Abby onto the floor, Abby landing on her stomach painfully.
Abby coughed several times, recovering slowly.
"Tell her," the brown werewolf spat, "Or I will."
Abby gasped, getting up onto her knees and facing Clarke as the older woman gagged for breath.
Again, were this any other situation? Clarke might actually have enjoyed the sight.
But her brain had more or less frozen, as she thought of what she'd just been told.
Abby wasn't her biological mother. Or so these werewolves said.
"Abby?" Clarke asked. Clarke hadn't called Abby, "mom," in years.
Abby always regarded Clarke as ungrateful for that. But Clarke refused to call Abby, "mom," when Abby refused to treat Clarke as anything except a second-class citizen.
Abby's face had turned red when her throat had been gripped by the brown werewolf. And she looked at Clarke weakly.
"Is it true?" Clarke asked carefully, not sure what else she could ask, while being surrounded by a pack of literal werewolves, "Are you not my biological mother?"
As Abby looked ready to chew out Clarke again, the brown werewolf sneered, "Tell her, bitch, or I will."
The irony wasn't lost on Clarke that a female werewolf had just called a human woman, "bitch," but then, Clarke had a feeling that these werewolves appreciated dark humor and irony.
Just a suspicion, yah know? Severed heads and all…
Abby glared at Clarke, though knowing that she was most likely going to be killed horribly, caused the kneeling woman to glance back at the werewolf behind her in fear, as she said, nodding, "Yes. I'm not your biological mother. Your father found you with some criminals when you were almost three years old. You had been stolen and sold from some town in Missouri. I don't know where specifically. I just know that you were taken. And Jake more or less rescued you and I was saddled with you."
Clarke's eyes widened.
She had long since accepted that Abby would never love her. Or give her the love that she needed or wanted.
It was the revelation that hit Clarke like a ton of bricks.
Clarke had been stolen from her original home? Which had been in Missouri?
And Jake Griffin had taken her from some sort of black market?
Clarke swallowed a clog in her throat, feeling like she might need to keep some disgusting thing in check.
"Did dad know?" She asked, never having any problem with calling Jake Griffin "dad," as he always had acted like a parent to her properly.
Abby snorted, "Of course, he knew that you were taken. But did he have anything to do with you being stolen in the first place?" Abby almost scoffed, "No. That man couldn't even have the spine to discipline you when you were acting like a worthless brat. He'd never have the spine to steal someone from their home and sell them."
Clarke was relieved by this piece of information, but almost laughed at Abby's words.
It would figure that Abby thought of anyone being abhorred at the thought of stealing someone from their home and selling that person on the black market, as a "spineless person."
It just was so, so Abby to hear something like that from her.
Clarke then asked the next question, "All the other kids you adopted-were they also from the black market?"
Abby glared at Clarke, and Clarke already knew the answer, before Abby even opened her mouth.
"No," Abby snorted out again, "The black market you were from? I don't know what the circumstances were, but they were after something in particular. They said they specialized in selling "special children." That's how they put it, according to Jake, when he grabbed you and called the police on them, "special children.""
Clarke frowned at this, considering.
What was so special about her?
She then raised her head and looked at the werewolves, the answer slowly dawning on her.
She knew that she felt like she knew these creatures from somewhere.
And she felt a strange tug to them.
But…that couldn't be, right?
Wouldn't she have known if she was a werewolf?
Then, another thought entered her mind.
"I've touched silver before," Clarke pointed out, almost staring defiantly at the brown werewolf, "And it never burned me or anything."
"Silver doesn't work on werewolves," said another werewolf, a red female one near one of the sofas, "That's just movie rumors. We are immune to silver. And to any herbs. So, don't try grabbing any mistletoe."
Clarke had no idea what mistletoe had to do with anything. But good to know. Silver and herbs didn't do anything.
Which meant that any time she had held silver, few as those times had been? Her having grabbed it and not been affected by it, was because werewolves were immune to silver.
"So," Abby continued, glaring at Clarke as if she found the girl to be repulsive just by Clarke existing, "Those precious children I adopted? Octavia, Raven, Jasper, Bellamy, Miller, Murphy-all of them? My sweet babies? They were normal. And of course, it was ruined because of you. I don't know how these creatures are connected to you. But they have to be. They haven't tried to kill you yet."
Clarke tried not to shiver, glancing to her right, noticing what she'd missed before. Several decapitated bodies.
Bodies, she realized, that belonged to Drew, Monty, Kane and Octavia.
That brought her another question. One she directed at the werewolves.
She looked past Abby as she asked, "What happened to the bodies of all the others?"
"Oh, those?" the brown werewolf asked, a chuckling sound leaving her, "We ate those."
Clarke almost gasped, shaking.
She knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but…
"You what?!" Abby demanded, looking back at the werewolves, horror all over her paling face.
"Yes, yes," one male werewolf covered in black fur said, peeling his lips back as he grinned, his mouth full of sharp fangs, "We ate the children you favor. How does it feel? Now, Clarke, do you see what we're willing to do? That everything you were taught by her," the werewolf that had talked, pointed an accusing claw at Abby, "Were lies?"
Clarke's breath was caught in her throat as she asked, "I'm a werewolf? But why…why haven't I changed yet?"
She wasn't going to ask why she never changed on a full moon, because currently, there was no full moon outside. She had caught sight of the moon tonight before going inside. It wasn't even a half moon yet.
So, obviously, the whole "full moon" thing, was bullshit too.
And thinking back, Clarke honestly couldn't entirely explain some things. Like why she had never gotten sick so much as one time in her life, as far as she could remember.
Or why whenever she fell down or accidently bumped into something hard or cut herself accidentally when making food for herself, she always seemed to heal more quickly.
She would never heal superfast, but if she had a cut on her finger? The cut would be there a couple of days, then be gone on the third day.
Or even the second day.
She had seen cuts like those on peoples' fingers before, and they took many more days to heal than that. Sometimes even weeks.
And there were other times, when Clarke realized that her sense of smell was a bit more enhanced than a lot of other peoples'. Clarke recalled smelling the coppery scent of blood from that sack that Jessica had been holding, as soon as Jessica had started up the stairs.
As Clarke thought about this, the brown werewolf answered Clarke's question.
"You haven't transformed yet," the werewolf said, "Because you're too young. But you will transform soon. In about a year or so."
Clarke's mouth dropped, thinking on that.
So, it took time. Okay, that sort of made sense.
All of this was occurring as Abby spat, glaring at Clarke, "I knew it! You were a freak! A mistake! I should have bashed your skull in as soon as Jake brought you home!"
The brown werewolf snarled and slashed her right claw forward, the strength from it tearing four bloody slashes into the right side of Abby's neck.
Clarke gasped, stepping back, watching as Abby's neck was nearly decimated.
Abby spitted out and choked on her own blood. Blood flowed out of the wounds onto her right shoulder.
The brown werewolf grinned, looking at Clarke.
"Say what you want to say, Clarke," the werewolf said, "Say what you want us to do to the vile bitch that has mistreated you since the day she met you."
Clarke stared at Abby, cold still enflaming her chest.
She knew that legally and probably morally, that this was wrong.
But because of the way Abby had treated her over the years and because she treasured people like Murphy, Bellamy, Octavia, Jasper, Raven and Miller? People that were clearly unfeeling narcissists at best? There probably wasn't much worth that Abby's life had.
The words came out quickly, "Kill her."
Abby's eyes widened. They were wide and pain evident in them, but she still had enough of her senses to process what Clarke had just said. And clearly, she had thought Clarke was ungrateful for what the young woman had just said.
Because that was just how Abby was. Clarke was supposed to do everything for Abby, and when she didn't, she was ungrateful.
And when Abby treated Clarke badly? Clarke was still a horrible brat.
That was just how Abby and the people she had adopted, were.
They were trash.
Guttural laughter filled the room, and the brown werewolf lunged, her right set of claws slamming down into Abby's skull, penetrating the skull, and her left set of claws landed onto Abby's shoulder, anchoring her there, as the werewolf's right arm pulled.
Clarke gasped, stepping back, eyes going wide as she understood what was about to happen.
Yes, she had more or less given the "kill order." But was she really going to watch Abby getting half of her head ripped from her lower jaw?
Clarke got her answer a few seconds later.
The answer was yes, Clarke was about to watch such a thing.
Clarke yelped when Abby's head, or half of her head, was sliced off of her body, only Abby's lower jaw and neck remaining.
The brown werewolf wrinkled her snout and flung her right hand, the half of Abby's head flying across the room, rolling onto the floor, into the leg of one of the closest sofas.
Clarke felt like she should feel sick.
But she wasn't.
If anything, she felt a sickening thrill at the sight of all this.
Finally, they got what they deserved.
She then had another question.
She shivered at the sight of Abby's body dropping to the floor.
The female werewolf turned to Clarke and reached its blood-stained paw out to Clarke.
"Does this please you, my love?" The werewolf asked, her huge paw pressing its palm against Clarke's chin, Abby's blood coating Clarke's mouth.
Clarke shuddered at the scent, knowing she should be repulsed, but only felt one thing.
Elation.
And she felt warmth pool between her legs as she saw those deadly eyes staring at her, the ferocity and love in those eyes, compelling Clarke, making her hips jut slightly, feeling that warmth increase between her legs.
But she tried to ignore it, because it was wrong, wasn't it?
So, pushing down what she wanted, pushing down what she wanted, repressing herself, like she always did, ignoring her arousal, she asked the small question she couldn't help but ask, "Where's Bellamy?"
All of the dead bodies or severed heads were accounted for. Except for Bellamy's severed head or decapitated body.
"Ah, him," one brown-furred female werewolf near the kitchen doorway chuckled, going further into the kitchen, "We have something special saved up for him. Come into the kitchen, won't you, sweet girl?"
Clarke followed the werewolf in, stepping around the four decapitated bodies of Monty, Drew, Octavia and Kane, feeling like the werewolf's statement was phrased like a trap.
But she had a feeling she didn't have a choice but to go into the kitchen.
Clarke then noticed something else. Something lying next to Monty.
A torn off lower jaw.
Clarke's eyes widened, wondering who it belonged to.
She saw where the werewolf was looking and her eyes widened.
There was Bellamy.
His right arm had been torn off. And so had his lower jaw.
But he was still alive. Twitching and he looked very much to be in pain. But he was still alive.
Clarke eyed Bellamy. Well, at least, now she knew where that severed lower jaw came from.
"What are you gonna do to him?" Clarke asked, not looking at any of the werewolves.
Clarke heard heavy footsteps get close to where she was standing, till Clarke realized that one of the werewolves was standing directly behind her. She felt hot breath on the back of her.
"What do you want us to do to him?" The werewolf at her back asked.
Clarke shuddered as she considered this.
She knew the answer already.
Amongst all of her tormentors, Abby had been the worst, because Abby had been supposed to actually love her and treat her right.
But Bellamy and the others had sure tried to compete for the worst people in her life.
Clarke was happy that all of them were dead and that Bellamy was about to join them.
But what should she have done to him? Have him just killed quickly? Or have his pain last for hours and hours?
She knew she wanted him to die slowly.
But she knew that she was about to descend into a much darker corner of herself, if she chose to do this.
But even as she realized this, she knew that she was giving Bellamy what he deserved. What he always had deserved.
"Torture him to death," she said, feeling like the words belonged to someone else.
Clarke heard several guttural chuckles around her, and felt movement past her, watching as several dark, gold and red and one white blurs moved away from her and jumped on Bellamy.
Clarke winced, covering her ears as Bellamy's screams filled the room.
Flesh was torn, bones were cracked and broken, teeth were torn out, and Clarke saw a few limbs flying into the next room to the right of the kitchen.
Clarke tried not to feel sick.
She had wanted this to happen. She had ordered it to happen!
But…wasn't this wrong?
It felt like forever.
When at last, the werewolves finished and Bellamy was just a grunting and bloody twitching mass, only then did one of the werewolves-the red one that had spoken before, acted.
The red female werewolf lunged and gouged Bellamy's eyes out with her claws, making him grunt in agony-grunt, because one of the werewolves had torn out Bellamy's tongue before.
Then another werewolf; a gold male werewolf, wrapped his long fingers around Bellamy's head and pulled hard.
Bellamy's head was torn right off!
Clarke cried out, eyes clenching when she heard the noise that the head made when it was snapped off of its neck.
Bellamy was at last dead.
Clarke shivered, knowing she was happy that he was dead, but also disturbed by her own decision.
One of the male werewolves, covered in dark fur, rose up from the floor, spattered with Bellamy's repulsive, hideous blood, and turned to Clarke.
"Clarke," the werewolf said, his voice sounding more husky than the others, "There's nothing to be ashamed of. You've done nothing wrong."
Clarke wished she could believe that.
But she tried to distract herself. She pushed out the question, finding herself whimpering practically, "Why are you here? Why did you come to get me?"
"Because, Clarke," one of the female werewolves who had spoken before, said turning to Clarke, "We promised your biological mother and father that we would. And you are very important to us. You are our mate. We are all your soulmates. Mated to you."
Clarke's eyes widened.
Wait, what?
She had actual biological parents that were still alive and wanted her?
And these werewolves were…what, her mates? Her romantic mates?
Clarke's shock must have been clear, because a werewolf that hadn't spoken yet, a brown female werewolf, said, "I understand why this might be difficult to accept, Clarke. But we are doing all of this for you."
"Don't worry," An orange male werewolf said, chuckling as he got up from a pool of Bellamy's blood, "If you want? We can bring Callie, Claire and their kids with us."
Clarke felt her heart stop at that.
They knew about Callie, Claire and their kids?!
Clarke now was afraid.
Seeing Clarke's expression, or perhaps smelling her fear, a brown female werewolf, one that hadn't spoken, said gently, "No, Clarke, they will be safe, we promise you. We'd never hurt anyone that you love. They would live in our community. There are many humans in our community who know about werewolves. Your dear Claire and Callie and their adoptive children, can live amongst them."
Clarke gasped, thinking about that.
She saw no sign of deceit. Then again, if the werewolves were deceiving her, would she have any way of knowing?
But something inside her knew they were telling the truth.
They wouldn't hurt Callie or Claire or Wells, or any of their adopted children.
They would have a place in that community-a town in Missouri, with the werewolf pack where Clarke was from.
"I…," Clarke began, looking at the bodies around her and all the spilled blood, "What about all this? And the house?"
"Don't worry about it," another werewolf commented, "We came prepared for that."
The werewolf that had spoken, a male one covered in white fur, went past her and went to the far end of the living room, leaning down and picking up a couple of plastic gasoline cans from the living room.
Clarke's eyes widened.
Where the hell did those gasoline tanks come from?
Clarke stepped back and watched in fascinated horror as the caps of the gasoline tanks were taken off and the gasoline spilled out all over the floors and out all over the bodies and out all over what exactly ever was left over of Bellamy's form-which was barely anything.
And the werewolves spilling out the gasoline went up the stairs to the other rooms.
One of them called down, "We won't go near your room. Whatever you want to take with you? Grab it now."
Clarke's eyes widened as she understood.
She ran up the stairs to her room.
This would be the last time she was ever in this house.
Clarke tried not to laugh.
She had always hated this house, specifically, because of Abby, Bellamy and the others.
She always had wished Abby, Bellamy and the others dead, and had always wished for this house to burn down.
It was like she had made some twisted wish and a bunch of twisted genies with fur, tails, claws and fangs, had answered.
Clarke grabbed her books on reptiles and amphibians and a few other fantasy and science fiction books. And her headphones and iPod with all of her songs on it. She kept holding her copy of The Count of Monte Cristo close-and yes, she'd been holding onto that book this whole time.
The ridiculousness of that hadn't gone over her head.
When Clarke had everything she wanted with her and she ran back down the stairs, a couple of the werewolves helping carrying some of the things she wanted, which she knew she shouldn't feel touched by, the werewolf who had been guarding the door, began opening the door up.
The werewolves who had gone upstairs with the gasoline tanks, came back down the stairs, this time empty-handed.
Another werewolf emerged from the kitchen, a booklet of matches in her paw.
"Wait," Clarke said, "Shouldn't you all change back into your human forms? If someone is around and sees you-"
"Understood," one of the male werewolves said, "We have a few cars parked by and there are clothes in them. You just might be surprised when you see who we are."
Clarke snorted, shaking her head, "No surprise. You're my neighbors from across the street, right?"
When she saw a few of the werewolves' eyes widen, she said, shrugging, "I mean, it's not that hard to figure out. I feel the same feeling around you that I feel around my neighbors. They're nicer to me than anyone who I've lived with in this house. And so are you. And there are a bunch of you and there are a bunch of my neighbors across the street. And besides? There aren't that many houses up here, but if you weren't the neighbors across the street from us? Then by now we would have had a bunch of police cars pulled up nearby, because our neighbors would have heard all the screaming and called the police."
Several of the werewolves chuckled.
"Well, not wrong," one of the male werewolves answered.
Clarke watched, eyes fixated as they changed.
Their bodies shrank, the fur receding, and the claws receded and so did the fangs.
The ears became rounder.
The snouts shortened and flattened.
Several now very naked people in human form stood before her.
Her neighbors from across the street.
Clarke stared at them. She had known it to be true, but it was still a shocker for her.
Werewolves were real. She was one of them. Her neighbors were a bunch of werewolves too.
And they all were after her, because according to them, they were her mates.
Did any of this make sense? No.
But this was what she was watching in front of her.
She was going to need something for the headache she was likely going to get after all this.
"Ready, Clarke?" One of them, the one that had been guarding the door, who Clarke recalled was named Bruce Banner, asked, smiling at Clarke.
Clarke nodded.
She supposed she was. She had always hated this house and everyone who was in it.
The only reason why she didn't hate herself more than she did, was because she didn't want to give any of her tormentors the satisfaction.
So, yeah, she was more than ready to say goodbye to this shit place.
Clarke nodded to them.
They opened the door and made sure she went out first, then they walked after her, Maria Hill, who was holding the match in her bloody hands, struck the match, then threw it out onto the gasoline.
When they were outside, and had gone down the cars, the house was up in flames soon.
She asked as they moved their way out, "So, werewolves, all of you?"
"Yep," Carol said, smiling, nodding to the sky where the moon which was barely even a half moon, "As you can see, the moon doesn't need to be full for us to become werewolves. But we're referred to as 'Creatures of the moon.' A bit overwrought, you know?"
Clarke actually felt herself smirking at that.
They opened up the car doors and pulled out the clothes, dressing themselves quickly.
Clarke tossed the things she took with her into the car, at Natasha Romanoff and Melina Vostokoff's gesturing.
When the fire moved to the upstairs and smoke began billowing out of the windows, all of the werewolves were now fully dressed and started jamming their shoes onto their feet.
"Where in Missouri is where the community lives?" Clarke asked cautiously, not entirely sure she still wasn't curious as to what these people being her mates, entailed.
"Near Mark Twain National Forest," Clint Barton informed Clarke, lacing his boots up, "Our pack and the community there fill up the entirety of that forest and the area around it. We are not a small community."
Clarke nodded.
Good to know.
"Now, then," Melina said, smiling at Clarke, "Shall we stop by Callie and Claire's home and you can tell them that you would like them to come with you?"
Clarke bit her lower lip, but nodded.
She still had so many questions.
As the fire still moved and Clarke suspected that by now, people were seeing the smoke up high in the air, she couldn't help but ask, "What exactly does all of you being my mates, mean?"
"Clarke," Laura Barton said, smirking playfully at Clarke, "We know you're smart, baby. We're your soulmates. For 'mates,' that word means only one thing to a werewolf. It means that you're tied to us by soul and our relationship is romantic. Not to mention sexual."
Clarke shifted cautiously and nodded to Clint. "Aren't you married to Clint?" She asked Laura.
"Yes," Laura snorted, "And what of it? You have multiple soulmates. I have two. You and Clint. And Clint has two. Me. And you. It's the same for Pepper and Tony and for Barney and Simone."
Clarke looked over them, the shining from the orange flames engulfing the house she used to live in, illuminating the werewolves' faces.
She nodded.
She supposed this was no more insane than anything else she had learned recently.
"Okay," she said, "We should probably leave now. Before the fire trucks and gossipers get here."
Pepper Potts chuckled, nodding, "Yes, probably."
They began to all pile up into the various cars.
Jessica Jones herded Clarke into the car that Frank Castle was going to drive.
Clarke sat in the middle seat in the back, with Jessica to her right-hand side and Natasha to her left-hand side.
Jessica and Natasha both closed their doors and locked them, keeping Clarke in.
"Put your seatbelt on, Clarke," Frank said, and Clarke got the sense he wanted to call her "baby girl," but held himself back.
Clarke did as was instructed.
If these werewolves really were going to follow through on their promises, then what reason was there to be upset about?
Yelena Belova got into the front seat of the car, next to Frank's driver's side seat.
Frank started up the car, as Clarke put on her seatbelt and so did the others in the car.
In one of the other cars, driven by Bruce, Bruce started the car up and drove away, with all of the people he had with him in the car.
And the other loaded up cars drove off, following Bruce's car.
Then Frank drove the car after those cars, with cars behind him.
They all left the burning building behind them.
Clarke wondered at the complacency she felt the whole time.
Was this normal for a werewolf? To just be so calm around their mates?
Clarke knew she probably should question more, but didn't care.
She leaned her head against Jessica's left shoulder and rested it there, earning a pleased chuckle from Jessica.
Clarke then asked quietly, "Are we gonna go to Claire and Callie's place so I can ask about them coming with us?"
"That's right, devushka," Natasha answered, "And we'll take them with us."
Clarke nodded against Jessica's shoulder, startled when she pressed her tongue against her teeth, finding sharp points there.
It looked like her "big girl" werewolf fangs, were starting to grow in.
Author's note:
I put where the Barton family live in the movies as where the community of the werewolves live.
In case it wasn't extremely obvious, this was inspired a lot by Wheelhouse101's werewolf fics.