Death Before Dawn -- Chapter Two

         Cassandra had seen him before. She had been watching him. Observing him from afar, you could say. His raven black silky hair and supple, warm flesh caused her senses to heighten and her mouth to moisten. She could practically taste his hot salty skin between her lips already, could feel the teeth slipping into that flesh and bringing that stream of tangy blood to her hungering tongue.

         
         He wasn't British, of course - that she'd picked up immediately after merely listening to one conversation he'd held with another - he had an accent, a delicious foreign ring that he placed to each English word that so clearly wasn't his native language. And she'd wanted him, more than she'd ever wanted a mortal before.          

         And so, she'd followed him. Night after night, she'd watched him make a fool of himself amongst the whores and the peasants and the idiots. Biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike and bring him down out of that air of drunkenness he now shrouded himself in.

         Tonight wasn't any different than the last. As she'd observed countless nights before, he was submerging himself into the filth, was brushing shoulders with people better left in the gutter. Needless to say, he had travelled somewhere lacking in class, something with less grace than the better, more well-clad of buildings that housed its heaving drinking occupants night after night. She, thankful to say, had never been there before.

         After watching him meander through and slam his palm down flat onto the wooden door, before sliding inside, no doubt to gorge himself on the female flesh and suffer his body to alcohol, she waited. Few people were outside, as it were - having been far too early in the night for the men to be unconscious or simply swaying in the gutters, squabbling with the women that tried to rouse them for more drink, beating their chests with tightened fists and proclaiming that they needed it, no better than a rabble of hairy gorillas.

         Two, maybe three hours passed as he smothered himself in that filth; the sweat and stink of all the people around him, and, from what she'd observed from the windows, of that wretched woman, one who claimed herself to be hot property, when really she was nothing more than the rest of the whores, no matter how much jewellery or expensive perfume she swanned around herself.

         It sickened Cassandra - that endless procession of people, the men and the women cavorting around one another, gulping down their putrid liquids before moving on to ravage one anothers' bodies.

         She curled her upper lip in distaste as the men began pouring out, and slinking their disgusting bodies down against the wall, with the wenches rushing to their sides; small, feminine hands clutching at their arms to try tugging them up, only to be brushed off with an angered gesture from the men.

         Two of the females gave up, and instead turned to converse with one another, giggling and murmuring things into each others' ears.

         Cassandra turned her head as subtly as she could manage, tilting her jaw so that her ears could attempt at picking up the womens' conversation.

         
         "He is so handsome," one of them said.

         "I know! It's no surprise he went for Lizzie. She's a looker, isn't she? I bet she's making him say all types of foreign words right now," the other replied.

         More laughter followed, and Cassandra scoffed under her breath, using her arms to draw the cloak tighter around her form, concealing the corset and the skirt that she wore with the long black cloth.

         "So," she thought to herself, "He makes a fool of himself yet another time this week."

         She stood with her back up against one of the cobblestone walls, one thigh lifted up so she could press her shoe down flat against the stone, arms folded loosely over her chest. She was grateful, finally, that she was able to keep her patience.

         Just as the night stretched on and the chorus of the drunkards got louder as they clattered their ale mugs against the walls, the man himself made an appearance, as he staggered back out of the grand wooden doors and began to make his way through the dimly lit streets.

         Cassandra leapt at the opportunity. Lifting herself back from the wall she had laid against, she loosened her cloak around herself, letting it flay out like a mattress sheet being tossed in the air by the two maids who sought to fold it amongst themselves. Slipping a plain expression on her face, she moved to walk right in front of him, and 'accidently' crash into his already swaying body.

                   *                    *                    *                    *

         Emil awoke suddenly, eyelids scraping back in against his skull as his icyblues arose to the world around him. The room smelt different; stale and damp scents shrieked past his nostrils, tainting his already poor view of what he could see.

         Eyes darting to and fro, he strained to take in whatever snippets of imagery he could, but all around him was blackness - a never-ending procession of bleak nothingness.

         He lifted an arm - or, rather, he tried to, only to find that a resistance prevented him, a sort of force that thrust his limb back in place and provoked a clatter of metal to sound out each time he tried to shift his wrist.

         He tried the same with his other, only to find the same thing happened again. Panic raced in his mind, as well as a churning feeling in his gut that screamed vomit, no doubt from all the alcohol he had consumed earlier.

         Cutting through his mind, a sharp voice called out; "Ah, so you have awoken, my darling. That's good. Now we can begin."

         Emil flinched from this sudden sound, the muscles in his legs tensing, as if he meant to fling them out by means of defence, until he realised that the same resistance was placed around his ankles, too.

         A chilled hand brushed over his inner thigh, and his head wrenched from side to side, eyelids peeled back as far as they could administer, the iced-blue colour of his irises scurrying back and forth as he struggled so hard to see through the darkness.
Laughter, feminine yet sinister cackled through the bleakness, and the cold, clammy hand swept back from his flesh.

         "Oh, did I forget to take that off? I'm awfully sorry, sweet, but I couldn't have you waking up and seeing me when I wasn't prepared for it," the voice said.

         A sudden soft, scraping sensation was felt against the skin of his face, and soon everything around him fell into view, inch by precious inch.

         Emil breathed a sigh of relief; though a face loomed over his without warning, causing him to uncontrollably gasp at how quick this creature had been to present itself to him.

         He studied its face - undoubtedly female, with pale flesh and womanly, yet sharpened, and hardened features. Red hair spilled across her cheeks and accentuated her slender throat, vibrant spiralling tendrils that seemed to flow like ripples in water. Yet, behind all the beauty, something was terribly off. A certain unnatural light in her eyes, perhaps, or maybe even a subconscious glow to her white skin.

         "How do you like me?" She cooed, one hand lifting to gesture to herself, before her lips split into a grin and she laughed aloud. Despite this need for extra oxygen, her chest didn't move at all - as if she took the breaths into her body invisibly.

         "Who are you?" He spluttered, clearing his throat immediately afterwards, the lack of liquid in his system apparently paying off. His tongue felt like sandpaper, the insides of his cheeks like dry, unpolished wood.

         Relaxing her face, she slipped her features into a more serious expression. She kept her gaze unnervingly on his.

         "I'm your worst nightmare, sweetheart. I'm going to make all your fears come true," she said, her voice like gentle chiming bells that should've come from an angel - so utterly contradicting to what she had just spoken. She hadn't even bothered to narrow her eyes in a terrifying glare - quite like he would've imagined any potential murderer or torturer to do.

         "Vhat do you me--" He started, before he was quickly cut off by the cold hand again, which snaked back in towards his thigh.

         "Hush," she soothed, stroking her fingers over his warm flesh. He shivered, his skin crawling against her touch.

         Instantly silenced, he pulled his lips firmly shut over his mouth, eyes staring at her in apparant disbelief. What was this woman who toyed with him? He tossed his gaze down to his arms, head wrenching to the side to allow this, only for his eyes to widen when he realized the obvious - she had him chained down. His line of vision shot straight back up to her.

         "I know what you're thinking. What sort of maniac must I be? And strong, too. You're heavy, and it was difficult bringing you down into my domain. I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I told you I had your unconcious body tossed over my shoulder. But no matter. You're here now, and I intend to do with you what I will."

         Emil's eyebrows drew into a deep frown across his face - provoking a strong line to come between them as the flesh pushed together, like a deep valley between the two sloping cliffs. How this apparantly frail woman could possibly have summoned up the strength to carry his impressively masculine body was beyond him, but he knew better than to dare question her. He was her prisoner now, for however long she desired to keep him that way. For all he knew, she intended to kill him.

         Her fingers glided over his warm, soft skin, and she smiled again - the gesture causing her considerable lips to contort into a delicious curve, little lines appearing on her face from where the sides curled. "Now, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Cassandra, widower and mother of none. You, from what I gather, my precious, are Emil, and you aren't from these parts." She tapped his thigh with her fingers, watching as the skin refused to ripple; studying, almost, the tautness of his physique. Raising her eyes back up, she continued. "And now that you are, officially, missing, no one will be looking for you. You don't have family here, do you? Your family don't even care that you are here. You've been disowned, Emil. Your father hates you. Your mother never loved you. You're all alone."

         Flabbergasted, his eyes widened in disbelief, and immediately he stammered, "Vitchcraft." She couldn't have known all of what she said - Emil had been very careful in who he chose his company with, and, above all, of how much about himself he divulged to those chosen people.

         Another spurt of cackling laughter exploded from her chest, and she nodded quickly. "I suppose you could call it that, my dear sweet prince. You could call on your God to save you, if you want, but I daresay even He isn't listening. Thieves don't get into Heaven. Even the great Father has disowned you as his son."

         Emil began to realize just what he had gotten himself into. This woman, this image of beauty betrayed by a vengeful and potentially sinister nature, was not human. She was different, mutated, wrong. He didn't have a chance.

         He broke out in a cold sweat.

         "Do I scare you?" She asked in what he presumed was a supposed attempt at retaining an innocent voice - but from the expression of malice on her face, he saw it as anything but.

         He said nothing.

         She curled the fingers of the hand on his thigh inwards, grating her nails threateningly against his skin. "I'll ask you one more time," she said, voice slipping with its assumed 'innocence'. "Do I scare you?"

         Again he said nothing, and this time he turned his head away, taking his gaze off her face.

         Fury flashed in her features, and, whipping the hand back from his thigh, she moved to grind her thumb and index finger in tight against his chin, pinching the skin in her haste; forcing his head back to stare up at her.

         "You're being a difficult little bastard, Emil. I don't take kindly to bastards." She paused a moment, though her expression didn't falter. She kept her eyes hard, like two glass stones glaring back at him from the spread of light skin. She slackened her grip. "But perhaps I am being too hasty. Perhaps you don't deserve what I'm going to do to you." Her face lit up, and a small smirk slid onto her mouth. "Beg me, Emil. Give me a reason not to do this to you."

         Outrage, momentarily, caught him offguard, and before he could stop himself he scoffed at her words. Afterwards, though, he refreshed his face, swallowing slowly. He looked up at her again.

         "I can give you money, vhatever you vant," he began.

         "I don't need your money, especially from where you've gotten it from. Go on," she snapped back with, the amusement not quite gone from her face.

         He faltered, his voice dying in his throat, all potential thoughts of how to 'save' himself from her wrath disappearing from his brain. She noticed this, noticed his pause, and laughed aloud.

         "You can't think of anything, can you? You have nothing to give - at least nothing that I can't already take." Her voice softened for a moment, and she took her fingers from his chin, instead shifting her hand upwards and curling her wrist, letting her knuckles brush over his cheek. "Oh, my darling. You are utterly hopeless, aren't you? But I won't show you mercy. You're perfect for my plans. So perfect."

         Emil said nothing - he laid stiff and still against her touch, though he didn't take his eyes from hers. He stared back at her in silence, too frightened to say anything lest it send her into a rage, too terrified to dare question her words.

         She straightened her back and sat up once more, her arms pulling back and lifting to let her digits shake and ruffle her hair, causing it to fly down her back and behind her shoulders. Smiling at him, perhaps almost in pity, she dove one hand down to the front of her dress, and jerked her wrist - apparantly grasping something beneath the copious silken folds. Tugging that limb back up, her hand slipped out of her cloth, and with it she retrieved a small glint of metal - a dagger, unmistakingly, in a small enough size so that it would've gone unknown where she concealed it. She fingered along the blade.

         Finally Emil spoke up, tilting his jaw upwards to offer her an almost defiant gaze. "You intend to kill me," he said, speaking it more as a statement, rather than an actual question.

         Flashing him another smile, she lifted her small shoulders in a shrug. "Something like that."