100% Freshie Chapter 13 --PG-13

[librarian_7]

Disclaimer: The characters from Moonlight are copyrighted by CBS, and no infringement is intended.

Special note: This work takes place in the world of Moonlight, but your favorite vamps are not the main focus. Sorry about that; try to enjoy the story anyway. You might be surprised.

100% Freshie

Chapter 13


1.

The city street appeared to be empty at this late hour, but Mick St. John knew that looks were often deceiving, especially when there were vampires involved. From his vantage point across the street, he could survey the front and side of the small apartment building Josef had asked him to surveil. One of the advantages of being undead—one of the few, he thought—was that the hyper-alertness of his senses coupled with his ability to remain intensely still and focused for long stretches of time made him uniquely suited for stakeout work.

He’d recognized the address, of course, although he hadn’t shared his own connection with Danni’s troubles with his friend. Josef had chosen to explain this to him as making sure that Javier’s impetuous passion for this hapless freshie didn’t create difficulties for the vampire community as a whole, and Mick had nodded and looked thoughtful as though he accepted what Josef was saying at face value. Friends though they were, however, it was an article of faith with Mick that whatever story Josef told him first was either incomplete, or completely fabricated. He was well aware that Josef was more interested in Danni than he’d said, but felt no need to make this known to Josef. And besides, it was immaterial. The point was pretty simple, regardless of anyone’s motivations: keep Javier from attacking and very possibly killing a freshie who had caught his eye.

Ah, well, he thought, at least if Javier made a move, Mick would have the element of surprise on his side. Josef had been adamant in his own inimitable fashion that no one was to know that Mick was watching. If possible, Danni should never know herself that her life was in danger, or that she’d been protected.

Mick hunched his shoulders, moving deeper into his black jacket. Cold didn’t bother him, but the night was turning foggy, and he still disliked the dankness of the atmosphere created when cold met humidity. His turned-up jacket collar seemed inadequate to the task of keeping the night from trickling coldly down his back. While not one to seek out fights, he thought he’d just as soon have this one over with so he could get back to his office and take care of a pile of correspondence that had appeared recently. He hadn’t thought so many people still used snail mail, but there it was.

Maybe he’d let his mind wander, maybe it was the fog, or maybe Javier simply moved through the night that well, but Mick almost missed the liquid shadows slipping through the darkness. One second the night was still, the next he sensed two predators hot on the scent of prey, and closing in rapidly. Whatever security Danni’s building had, it wouldn’t be enough to stop one determined vampire, and Mick knew at once that Javier had indeed invited a friend along to share dinner. Mick sighed. These things couldn’t ever be easy, could they?

He was on the pavement in front of the building with preternatural speed, but he approached Javier slowly, arms outspread in his best “I come in peace” stance.

“Hey, buddy,” he said quietly, knowing it was more than sufficiently loud for the other vamps to hear. “You want to stand down?”

Javier’s answer was a snarl, and Mick sighed mentally. Josef had characterized Javier as a melodramatic asshole, and while he knew this was an area in which Josef was something of an expert, he’d hoped not to have to deal with something quite so predictable.

“Do you think you can stand between me and my chosen victim?” Javier said.

Mick was paying far more attention to Javier’s body language than his words, and he was ready when the other vamp, the one that wasn’t mouthing off, launched an attack from the side. As fast as it happened, Mick still thought it was almost too easy. Mick saw Javier’s eyes flick almost imperceptibly to the left but his senses told him the attack was coming from the other direction. At the last second he feinted left, then struck back to his right with a heavily shod foot and felt a satisfyingly solid thump as Javier’s henchman made hard contact with Mick’s boot, even as he whirled to aim his next kick where Javier had been standing.

Catching the barest glimpse of movement, he was able to dodge back and avoid a clumsy punch. Despite their speed and power, Mick had often thought most vamps were lousy fighters. Maybe they’d been chosen for their looks, not their actual potential ability to stay alive throughout what the centuries might throw at them. If he’d had time to think about it, he might have spared a wry smile for the idea of a pretty boy musician turning into a competent brawler. Then again, he’d been a soldier; he was not without experience even before he was Turned. And since—

No time for that now. The shorter vamp, and Mick could tell from his scent, from the whiff of decay, that he was no newbie, waded in with a flurry of blows that had Mick ducking, weaving, snarling, his dark hair falling in lank strings across his eyes. He had no chance to plant a foot and brace himself for a good kick, although he managed to catch Javier a hard enough blow—or perhaps it was simply delivered at right angle—to send the older vamp sprawling back awkwardly into a tangle of trash in the alley, and fetching a hard, stunning blow to the back of his head against the brick of the wall. Mick knew Javier was out of the action, at least for a while, but he had no opportunity to admire his handiwork; he had barely time to set up and strike out again at his other opponent. He caught a momentary impression of a metallic flash in the muted glow of the streetlight, and realized that the ante had just been upped. The other vamp held an evil-looking knife expertly in his right hand, the eight-inch blade shining like water in moonlight. Mick fluidly arched back out of reach of the blade slashing in his direction. He knew he needed to close in; it was the best thing in a knife fight, to get inside his attacker’s guard, too close for him to wield his weapon. He could hear Javier behind him, still struggling out of the trash, dazed, and knew he didn’t have much time.

Then he caught an echo of a racing, agitated human heart, and glanced momentarily in the direction of the dark second floor window across the street. Just a glance, but long enough for the shorter vamp to bury the knife deep into his upper thigh. Mick bit back a scream. The pain of such injuries was always briefly intense before it began to heal, but this was a bright consuming fire, spreading from the wound and numbing his leg almost instantly. He ripped the blade from his flesh and focused on it with eyes gone as silver as the weapon, snarling. Silver. The blade was not steel, as he’d assumed, but a silver-washed alloy. The vicious object was stained black now with his blood, and its poison was in him. That son of a bitch had tried to cut him open with a silver knife.

Anger and pain spurred him to attack, a blur of dark blood and gleaming metal. He flipped the knife in his hand, expertly, delivering a forehand blow that laid open the other vamp’s throat open to the spine. Even before the vamp could raise hands to his almost mortal wound, the return backhand stroke, delivered with every ounce of strength Mick could call up, completed the job, and the vampire’s head rolled grotesquely free even as his body collapsed bonelessly to the pavement.

Mick continued his spin, the arc of the blade and the power of his stroke pulling him around, and the blade buried itself to the hilt in Javier’s chest, scraping in jarringly past his ribs. Javier’s scream as the silver poison hit his bloodstream echoed in the empty street, and he fell, cursing incoherently. Only Mick’s long training and practice kept his grip unbroken on the knife hilt, even as he fell to his hands and knees, the agony overtaking him now that the danger was neutralized. This wound would not heal without help, not completely. The fangs that had extended in his upper jaw in the face of combat now ached with a need for blood. There were steps that had to be taken, but first he needed to rest for a few minutes, to regroup.

He heard the muffled roar of an engine dimly through the fog, and had enough sense of self-preservation to roll back into the mouth of the alley as a large sedan pulled up. Two men—no—two vamps—jumped out to lift Javier, his head lolling limply, into the back of the car, and more unceremoniously gather up the headless corpse of his accomplice. One of the strangers cast around, sniffing, and stepping toward the alley, stooped to grasp the severed head by its hair and sling it into the trunk with the body.

Mick, even through his pain, was under no illusion that he was hidden from these newcomers, but they spared not a glance in his direction. As his vision grayed out, and the night took on a vague silver cast, they were gone, and only a smear of black blood on the pavement remained, washing slowly away as the heavy moisture in the night slowly turned to rain.


2.

Shaking his head, Mick tried to clear it, tried to bring himself back to reason and full consciousness. He was injured. Wounded, and it wasn’t healing. He clutched at his thigh, feeling the blood from the deep gash ooze through his fingers. In his other hand, the surface of knife, dappled with the stains of three bleeding wounds, still glistened in the cold glow of the streetlight.

Mick looked up and down the dark street, fading into the shadows to avoid innocent passersby. He couldn’t risk someone seeing him, and in this state he wouldn’t risk getting too near anyone. He was close to losing control and sinking into bloodlust. It was hard to think, it was hard to focus. He had to have blood, and he had to have it soon. It was too far to make it home, and he wasn’t sure he had time to call for help.

He looked at the building across the street. He could sense the lives within. Behind the second story window, the life he had promised to protect.

The silver from the blade was a fire in his veins, poison. Blood would counteract it. Only blood would heal him.

He braced against the alley wall at his back, his hands flat against the brick. She had offered him blood once before. She was a freshie, she would understand his need.

All he had to do was make it across the street and up the stairs. And across that chasm that made it so very difficult for him to accept living blood.

He took a step forward, then another. The pain was a red fog clouding his vision. At the door of the building, he fell, unable to stand the searing pain, and hauled himself up the stairs with agonizing slowness.

Outside her door, he rested for a few minutes. He could do this, he could force himself to stand, to bear weight on his wounded leg. He might have to take her blood, but he was not going to crawl to do it.

He slapped her door with his open hand, leaning heavily against the frame. He could hear her on the other side, felt her heart speed with fear. The fear tore at him. He hated it, hated what he might see in her face. If he could have turned away, found another way, he would have. “Danni,” he said, as quietly as he could. “Open up. It’s Mick St. John. Please don’t—don’t be afraid.”

Her heartbeat calmed. Mick could hear it, just as he heard the chain being moved, the lock clicking. What he saw in her face was fear, but not fear of him. It was, he realized, fear for him. He almost fell through the door, into the sanctuary she offered.

Danni watched as he paced the room, limping, every step painful. She could see the dark shine of his blood where it soaked the fabric of his jeans around the wound in his thigh. His head was thrust forward, moving quickly from side to side, the motion somehow bestial, feral. He seemed to be relying on senses beyond sight. The harsh glare of the street light through the blinds fell across his face and body in bars of brightness and shadow and he seemed like nothing so much as a caged animal. Danni had seen transformed vamps before, their fangs, their ice crystal silver eyes colder than death, but Mick—Mick looked like a man who had fought the hardest fight he could against his darker nature—and lost.

With other vampires, the ones who had seduced her, she had often trembled in anticipation of their bite. She had shivered with pleasure. Mick wasn’t trying to scare her, she knew. She’d never heard that any of his regular freshies found his feeding anything less than satisfying to both parties, even if it might not be the delight she’d felt in the arms of Will, the hedonistic ecstasy of Josef’s attention.

And yet, she was afraid. Of all the vamps she’d met, she’d have said he was the one least likely to harm her unnecessarily, the least likely to do anything to upset her. Yet she could see him now, losing his way in the bloodlust, being so unwilling to give in to his appetite, having to reach so deep to overcome the shame he felt in his need for her blood, that he was becoming in fact the monster he so loathed.

She swallowed once, nervously. And again. He was muttering to himself, and she couldn’t make out anything he said, but his agitation was clear. Danni stood, holding out her wrist, shaking with a fear she knew he could feel. “Mick,” she said, “please. Feed.”

With a growl he was across the room before she registered his movement, his face leaning down to hers, lips parted, head tilting at odd angles. His hair fell in damp, lank strings around his face, but nothing could obscure the silver crystal gleam of his eyes. Eyes that glistened, Danni saw with shock, glistened with unshed tears.

She was shaking harder now, but she held out her wrist resolutely. He would steady it—and her—when he took it, she thought. She knew, too, that in some strange way, when she saw the blood on her arm, felt the warmth of it sliding over her skin, that she would be comforted, calmed.

“Are you afraid of me, Danni?” Mick asked, his voice thick, different.

“No.”

He made a complicated movement with his head, smelling her, analyzing everything about her. “You’re lying,” he said.

It might have been the bravest thing she’d ever done, or possibly the stupidest, but she looked him straight in the eye, extended her left arm to him, and said slowly “Mick. Take my blood. Eat. Drink.”

He moved closer, slipped his left arm around her waist, and gripped her wrist with his other hand. He staggered a little, just as he moved, and it was enough to send them both sliding to their knees. His head bowed over her arm as though in prayer, and she could feel him go down to defeat in the last stand of his internal struggle.

Faintly she heard him whisper, “I’m sorry, Danni, I’m so sorry,” and felt the unnatural heat of his breath against her skin, before his teeth sank in, striking through the flesh to the vein, to the blood that was life to him.

As he drank, Danni felt again the transfiguring peace come over her, the deep and quiet fulfillment of pouring the heart of her being into this vampire—this man—who so needed it. She moved her right arm across his shoulders to steady him. He was the one who was shaking now, and when he had taken just so much as he needed to anneal his pain, he forced himself to stop. As he licked the wounds to start their healing, he could feel her shudder, but whether in horror or surrender he could not tell. All he knew was that once again he had fallen, once again he had succumbed to the lure of this dark sacrament, and he was unable to lift his head and look at his victim. The comforting arm at his back, the hand that cradled his head, only made it worse, but he laid his forehead against her violated, damaged skin, hiding for a few moments within the shelter of her compassion.

Mick thought that was the worst of it with these freshies. Their pity, their understanding, their caring forgiveness for the wrong he did them. In the early years, Coraline had subtly manipulated him into killing humans—women—prey as she called them, and those victims could never forgive him. He could never atone. It made drinking from the living now, accepting their willingness and trust, into a bitter mockery. He felt sick, he felt as though he could no longer bear to be touched. He didn’t deserve it.

He pulled away gracelessly, and rose. The wound in his leg had closed; the blood—her sweet blood—had renewed his body, even if the taking of it had torn at his soul.

Danni remained kneeling on the floor, staring not so much at the small, clean wounds on her arm as inside herself, attempting to absorb this moment into her memory, into her heart.

Mick was obscurely glad that Danni found herself unable to look at him. He could see the dark print of blood, his borrowed blood, staining her pale skin where their thighs had pressed together as they knelt. He stood over her for a few moments, head bowed, fighting for composure, then dropped the hand that had shielded his eyes to her head in a silent gesture, whether penitence or benediction he was unsure.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softly, “but—Danni—thank you.” She did not reply, and he turned away, for this brief moment blind to the glories of the night.

[francis]

Mick hasn’t told Josef about his connection to Danni, but I guess he told him about Danni’s predicament in chapter10, or he wouldn’t have sent Lucky. Or did he find out somehow else?
Josef is great. Protecting Danni, protecting the community, staking a claim on Danni somehow and yet noone is the wiser. Except for Mick, who as his friends knows a lot more than he is told. Wonderful.
Javier is behaving like a villain out of a B-movie, and that’s not because your writing sucks but because Javier sucks. And Mick isn’t one to be patient with fools. But fighting two fools which have a knife, and being distracted, is not good. I love this action scene, love Mick’s almost voice-over thoughts. And it shows the wisdom of never attacking with a knife and losing it. Might come back at you.
Who are those mysterious guys picking the bodies up? No cleaners, they wouldn’t have left the mess, and Mick.

And yet, she was afraid. Of all the vamps she’d met, she’d have said he was the one least likely to harm her unnecessarily, the least likely to do anything to upset her. Yet she could see him now, losing his way in the bloodlust, being so unwilling to give in to his appetite, having to reach so deep to overcome the shame he felt in his need for her blood, that he was becoming in fact the monster he so loathed.

This is brilliant. Of course, not giving in makes it so much worse, but you write this so well.
Mick so doesn’t understand why they have compassion for him. He sees himself as a monster still.
Asking Danni for blood is what he needs to do, but how will it affect Danni, and their friendship?